Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

I’m Cheating…

If you’ve read my blog, you know I love ice cream. If you haven‘t read my blog, you totally should. This shit’s hilarious. Moving on…

I love ice cream. Also pizza, and sometimes chocolate almond milk, but now we’re getting a little personal, and I like to get to know you before we’re sharing cups of chocolate almond milk in our IKEA bedroom set. ANYway, last week was Passover, and so our poor kitchen is still recovering from the cleansing of wheat and delicious bread-y products. As such, Chocolate Brownie Ice Cream was purged from our home, because Jews and suffering and something else that means that I can’t enjoy my life. But now all of that is over and we’re out of Egypt or something, so I get my motherfucking ice cream again.


Except, when Passover ended and the final matzah was eaten, in my doorway stood a box from Brooklyn. It had arrived early, and so neither my husband nor I had opened it. We knew what was inside. It sung to us in the night like a siren, begging us to open it up and inspect the contents…. which, I don’t think Sirens actually did. I don’t think they were all about the exploratory surgery, but pretend that metaphor made sense, because I’m a little tired right now and totally half assing this post.

When Passover ended, we celebrated the return of gluten to our lives, not with ice cream, as we had initially thought, but with this tasty business right here:


*This is not a picture of my table… but it totally could be.*


I used to be a girl scout, so these cookies hold a very special place in my heart. Also, interesting story, that shit makes you fat as hell. I learned that one year, when my dad decided that the “competition” to see who could sell the most boxes was really a personal attack on his honor, and as such had to be met with strategic planning and a balls-to-the-wall attitude. My dad bought a folding table, and set me up right outside of our subway stop one hour before rush hour in the mornings and in the evenings. Do you know how many people will buy cookies from a little girl, especially when they’re hungry as hell because they haven’t eaten breakfast? People make a lot of bad choices early in the morning, y’all. Not the least of which was buying from ME.

I don’t know how many boxes I sold. It was a SERIOUS number though.

But just like that one time you took a piece of strange home from the bar, and didn’t realize what you had done until morning, I ended up with a lot of people who never actually picked up their boxes. I guess they forgot that in the wee hours of the morning, two months ago, they had purchased four boxes of Thin Mints from some small Jewish child in green…. like a magical leprechaun of deliciousness.

Guess where that leaves a young girl with almost zero will power and a legit sweet tooth…


*I will fucking CAGE-MATCH fight you for that Tagalong, bitch!*

When I tell you that we had boxes lining the wall in my living room…. it was a sight. How I managed to NOT develop diabetes is still beyond me.

And so, it is with no small amount of nostalgia that I recall those halcyon days of refined sugar and peanut butter-topped awesome, via consuming the ever loving SHIT outta two boxes of tagalongs and a sleeve of thin mints. The saddest thing about Girl Scout Cookie Season, is that it doesn’t last long enough.

……………………I need to start ordering enough to get me through the summer!!


You’re Making Me Uncomfy in My Uh-Oh Place, and Other Workplace Tales

First off, I’ve been sick. So to all the lovely people who have commented and not had a response/ stalked me and didn’t think my heart was in it this time when I turned the sprinklers on you: my apologies. I have, what I can only surmise to be, Ebola-Strep-Plague-Cold-Influenzitis. It is very rare. I blame Max.

Anywho, if you haven’t been following me on twitter because, for some reason, you actually WORK during normal business hours, allow me to catch you up on all the glory you have missed…

Dear Workplace Colleagues,

I get it. When working in a high-stress, faced-paced environment, we tend to make close friends, have inside jokes, and sometimes say things that seem a bit off-color, until you know the reference (then they REALLY get inappropriate!). That’s cool. It’s all in good fun! But I think it’s time we put together a list of things you can and cannot say to me while I’m being paid to spend time with you. I really didn’t think this had to be spelled out, but okee dokee, here we go!:

1) STFU about your hysterectomy. I’m sorry (maybe?) that you had one. Yes, that DOES suck. But I don’t know you that well, and I DON’T want to hear the details. Are you buying me drinks? I amend this rule: You are allowed to discuss the removal/ black market sale of your internal organs ONLY when purchasing me copious quantities of alcohol. Like Bailey’s. I love that stuff.

2) You are never, EVER allowed to say “We work hard, and we play hard” to me EVER again, unless by “work hard” you mean you put in over 18 hours a day, and by “play hard” you mean you run marathons in Mongolia. I’m from New York, I know Wall Street people. Your two-Cosmo evening doesn’t impress me. Keep it pushing, playa. 

3) “I’m not a micro-manager” – Every micro-manager, EVER. 

4) “You know what’s so funny, Hannah?”


“I have the HARDEST time not getting a little spray on the toilet seat when I sit down to pee.”


That sounds like A) a medical condition; get your junk checked, and B) None of my business! I don’t want to look at you during a meeting and think, “I wonder if she managed to hit the target today!” No. Just…. just NO!

5) “Last night, my girlfriend/boyfriend/favorite farm animal…” if the rest of that sentence isn’t “tried this FABULOUS restaurant that you’re going to love. Here, let me give you the info!” then so help me, titty-fucking jesus, I will cough on you. Right. On. Your. Face. Which brings us to…

6) “Ew. Are you *sick*?! Why don’t you go home?!” No, I sneeze because periodically, during the day, my nose gets bored and I like for her to do some serious cardio. And I’m WORKING because if I try working from home, you’ll cut my hours. I get PAID by the hour. Mama isn’t nearly as cute when she’s POOR. Then, she ends up starting crazy ass blogs and shit, and forcing people to be her friends. WHO WANTS THAT, I ASK YOU?!?!

And now, onto the lighter side. Here is a list of things you absolutely CAN say to me at any point in the day:

1) You’re getting a raise.

2) I’m going to get you your favorite drink.

3) We’re going to toast to your raise with your favorite drink.

4) You look *so* pretty today.

5) Yes of COURSE you should blog at work! I can’t believe you even asked me that!

…I think you see where this is going, workplace colleagues. You have your guidance. Go forth and do great things!



I Will Devour Your Soul…. and make you clean it out of my diaper.

Max is teething. Hmmm… how do I explain what this is like to people who may not have children. Well, a baby, delightful, full of joy, is supposed to look like this:


My Max looks more like this:


*I will haunt your motherfucking DREAMS*

We, geniuses that my husband and I are, figured this out yesterday after Max spent an entire day screaming, sleeping, and then his fever spiked to 102. He wouldn’t eat, and as much as he wanted to play, all he could manage to do was nurse in between fitful bouts of sleeping in my arms.

It was really sad. My poor angel!

…and then, nighttime came.

On Thursday mornings, I have an 8:30am meeting, because the US government fucking HATES it when I sleep. So, naturally, last night Max was up until 3:30am SCREAMING. My husband tried to be the loving father and helpful husband, and took Max downstairs to soothe him, while I tried to get some rest.

I’ll give you a minute to ponder exactly how well that went.

And the WORST part is that you can’t even BITCH about it (that’s right… this isn’t even CLOSE to me in full-on bitch-mode!), because he’s SUFFERING…

Let me tell you a little something about suffering, ok? Sleep deprivation is a form of TORTURE; teething is NOT. Mama’s not cute when she’s a hot mess, all tired and can’t even fucking BLOG properly. And what kind of fucking evolution comes up with the idea of, “oh! I know! JUST as the baby starts sleeping through the night, JAGGED PIECES OF BONE WILL COME *BURSTING* THROUGH HIS GUMS! Yeah…. I’m so awesome right now…”

I hate you, evolution. Go fuck yourself.

So, he’s asleep now. I want to do some writing, I want to read other peoples’ blogs, and I want to eat the entire box of oreos my husband brought home as our “emergency supplies” prior to the Snow-Storm-We-Didn’t-Get.

………………………and in the middle of my meeting, I realized my sweater was on backwards.

Whatever. At least I had my pants on. 


These are my Whore-Pants

You know what’s nice about being a part of a sub-culture? You can kinda walk between the dominant culture, and still make fun of your own culture.

That’s the experience I had this past weekend when my husband and I took Max to visit my dad and step-mom. They’re orthodox Jews. From Brooklyn. That’s like, Heart of Darkness shit right there.

Now, as many know, moms actually use our kids as ice breakers (whatever! Don’t judge me! I’m socially awkward!), by basically taking our mute children up to each other and having pretend conversations.

“Awww, and what’s YOUR name? I’m Max, and I’m five months oooooold….”

“Hi! I’m Bobby-Jim, and I’m three months ooooooooold…”

Then someone throws up. D’awww.

But when we met my dad and step-mom for lunch in a kosher restaurant, I was treated to a reminder that I may be Jewish, but not as Jewish as…

There sat a woman, her (shot in the dark, here) husband, and three boys. The youngest looked to be about Max’s age, so I went over to do the customary “allow me to waggle my child in your child’s face.”

“D’awww! How old is your boy?” I asked, pretending to be interested, but let’s be fair, most kids kinda piss me off except for my own and a select few others.

“Eight months,” she said, without making eye contact.

“Oh. Uhhh. Cute! And what’s his name?”


“Um….. ok. Well, HI Yitz! This is Max!”


“Uhhh…. right.” And I walked away.

“What did you expect?” my husband asked. “She’s religious! She could be chastised for even associating with you.”

“But we’re both BREEDERS! We both have bebes! We should bond over that. FEEL THE LOVE!!!! I’M EVERY WOMAN!! DRINK COKE!!!”

“She didn’t like you because of your whore-pants,” my friend added, later.


“You were wearing pants, right? That’s enough for them!”

So there you have it. My whore-y pants came between me, and a possible friendship that will never get the chance to blossom. Max and Yitz will never play together because… I don’t know. Something about G-D and long skirts.


*Not pictured: all the whoring this woman does on her off-time*

Shit like that makes me want to ask her what her favorite brand of nipple clamps is. You know, just to break the ice.


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