Tag Archives: Elf on The Shelf

Behind The Scenes At COASM


Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.

And again…


Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

The Monthly Wrap Up: Because I’m too tired to come up with anything that original.


So, ok, end of our first month here at Confessions of a Sexy Mom, and I gotta tell you, web dwellers, you people are fucking awesome. I just love the heck out of you, and I’m in touch with my emotions enough to say so without having to go bench press or deep fry anything. Damn, I just love being a woman.

So, I figured I’d do a little monthly retrospective. A “confession-all” if you will (see how much lamer the jokes and puns are when I’m tired?), and I’ll toss in some random stuff I laughed at this month but, for whatever reason, didn’t post here earlier.

Heeeere we go.

Northman loves my drunken texts. Which is good, because with the blue-hairs around last month, there were plenty.

First, I saw this ( ←) yesterday and laughed my ass off. This is 100% a GREAT idea, and if you can keep your sense-of-humor hat on instead of going all, “Ooooh, that’s too ‘Big Brother’ if my phone knows I’m wasted,” then it’s pretty fucking funny.

Second, take a gander over yonder at the site hit numbers →. Oh, yeah. That’s more than 2,000 hits in a month. THAT is a blog-gasm. I’m super excited. Now let’s just get some more fans on the Facebook page so people will know when there’s something new here.

Numero Tres: Did you know if you go to the WordPress home page and select “topics” and then type in “fucking” that you’ll find some really freaky crap? Well, shit, searching for “sexy” or “Northman” wasn’t yielding great results, so I went the other direction. I thought maybe I’d find some blogs like mine with some random sexiness in there. Uh, no. Warning! If you don’t want to know what “fisting” is, DO NOT TRY THIS SEARCH. Wow. A lot has changed since I was last out there, people. A fucking lot has changed.

And Four: I found this neat site that lets you make graphic representations of relevant words on your site. I don’t know what people really use this for, but I thought it was neat, and here’s what I made. Didn’t even need to paint any macaroni!

Cinco de Awesome-o: Damn, that would have pissed my high school Spanish teacher off big time. No sense of humor. Anyway, this ↓ is what I posted this month in no particular order (and in kind of a mess because I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over the formatting here), not counting just little crap like a poll and letting y’all know I’m on Facebook. Which I am. And you should be too.

Six…more months until True Blood Season Five, so here’s one of my favorite scenes from Season Four, which I just rewatched because there’s so much Northman sex. Oh, Pam. I thank Mr. Coffee for whomever cast you and made your role so much bigger in the show than the books.

Also… A shout out to Karen B., Liesel B., Rebecca Z., Nicole S., and Tara C. for all your super funny posts on the Facebook wall!! Y’all are hilarious, ladies!! Keep it up, gals!!

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman

Taking One For The Team

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and MartinisThe 12 Hours of Christmas


The Versatile Blogger Award.

You People Need Help.

This Is Why Republicans Fear Me

I Sound My Barbaric Yawp Over The Roofs Of The World.

It's Always The Guy With The Panel Van

Did I Miss Something Here?


Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies

There Isn't Enough Purrell On The Planet For This Shit.

You're Just Coitusing With Me, Aren't You?

So, what now?


Let me know what you guys want to hear about. Take the poll, write comments here, or leave me a note on Facebook. Yeah, I’m giving you homework. Deal with it.

You don’t have to join PollDaddy to do this. Also, if I did it right (highly questionable), you should be able to pick as many answers as you want. You’re welcome.

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman.


So I’m all set to go to sleep last night. Kids tucked in, George — Our Elf on The Damn Shelf — posed as a school teacher in front of a bunch of Green Army Men (complete with white board strewn with kiddo equations, because I’m a nerd like that), eye cream applied, stove knobs checked (twice), and Mr. Northman texts me.

Last time I'll use this image, I promise. Maybe.

Northman: Nice blog.

Me: Did you read much?

Northman: Every bit. Loved it.

(Gotta love an encouraging man. Sexy.)

Me: Thanks! IDK who’s reading, but WTF? It’s fun.

Northman: What r u doing right now?

Me: Just in bed. Nothing. Reading. How are you?

Northman: So you’re going to sleep?

Me: Not if you keep texting me.

Northman: Sorry! Get some rest, Bunny.

(Yes, he calls me Bunny. No, I’m not ashamed to admit it. If a man that sexy gives you a nickname, especially one that has to do with how often he’d like to fuck you, you go with it, people.)

Me: LOL. Not giving you a hard time. I meant the more you text me the greater the odds are I’ll end up with my clothes off. But I do need to get some sleep.

Northman: Ok, Bunny. Go to sleep, love.

Me: Thanks, honey. Sleep well.

Northman, because he’s an asshole even if he’s the sexiest thing on two legs: And try not to think about how much I want to (BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Sorry, readers. This shit’s between me and Mr. Northman.) with my fingers and my incredibly (Insert Jeopardy music here.) and then take your (How ‘bout them Chargers?) before I kiss you goodnight.

Me: Aaaaaand now I’ll be up for another hour. I will get you for that.

Northman: I certainly hope so.

And that’s why I love that man. Or at least lust him like crazy.

So I slept fucking GREAT, and I got up, properly praised Mr. Coffee, and sat down to check my site stats all before my kids got up to find George. This was thanks to my neighbor and his fucking Harley. There are noise regs for a reason, asshole! Yes, you gotta get to work. No, you don’t have to rev it like that. But it’s my New Year’s resolution to not have the neighbors think I’m a crazy person (anymore), so I got a head start on that crap by not running out in my Tweety Bird slippers to yell at that inconsiderate asshole.

Praised Be.

Anyway, so I poured my coffee and sat on the back porch with my iPad and a really fucking heavy blanket because it’s freezing but I like it because I’m weird like that and it’s just so nice and quiet out back in the winter. And I checked my site stats. Can I just say this? Do you people sleep? Holy shit on a shingle, web dwellers. That’s some ego-boosting shit right there. I used to blog about parenting, and I was lucky to get 600 hits in 6 months. I guess a hell of a lot more people want to read about barking men, shaved (and not!) pussies, being propositioned for sex by your (I realized left this part out: young, hot) girlfriend for her husband’s benefit, or misusing Skype video conferencing for completely inappropriate (and awesome) purposes. Well, you know what? That’s freaking awesome, and I salute you with my coffee. Thanks.

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and Martinis



I went out to dinner with my girls last night, and now I can’t fucking sleep, so, thanks to the waitress for dosing me with caffeine instead of giving me the caffeine-free Diet Coke I asked for. Anyway, I woke up at 3 a.m. after only two hours of sleep only to realize that I forgot to move our damn Elf on The Shelf guy (ours is named George – we’re in a Curious George phase at the moment), so I guess maybe I should actually thank the waitress for keeping me up because now my kids won’t be freaking out that the elf didn’t move. God forbid that fucking thing isn’t parasailing from the ceiling fan when those two wake up at 5 a.m. What IS it with kids and waking up at ridiculously unholy hours on weekends and vacations but then needing to be dragged out of bed by their feet on school days?

If I wake up with this thing looking at me, I'm going to sue Santa.

I have to admit, I dig this whole Elf thing. Whoever came up with this idea: thanks, and also, fuck you. Like I don’t have enough to do without coming up with 30 ways to pose a creepy doll? Still, there’s something really pretty fun about the whole concept, and my kids think it’s as cool as having Santa come every night for a month, so overall, pretty awesome. Now if I could just pay someone to move the damn thing every night or at least come up with new places to put him that don’t require expertise in Scenic Design, that would be freaking fantastic.

But, of course, elves don’t come with instructions, and, much like men, they’re a lot of work for short little bursts of Happy. Worth it, but also kind of a pain in the ass. Case in point, I’m having martinis with the girls a couple weeks ago, and my recently divorced partner in crime, Anna, starts telling some dating horror stories. She’s been back in the single life a little longer than I have, and she’s managed to find time for dating because her kids are only with her half the time. Every story starts the same way, “So, I met this guy…” and then we all wait expectantly, because Anna pretty much never tells us about the fantastic guys who rock her world, just the whack jobs who freak her out.

Anna: “So, I met this guy.”

Us: *Anticipatory hush*

Anna: “And his name is Mark, but all his buddies call him ‘Big Dog’ for some reason.”

Me: “This is not a good sign.”

Anna: “So, first phone conversation, he’s like, ‘You can call me ‘Big Dog’ too, everyone does.”

Me: “Nope. Not a good sign.”

Anna: “Yeah, and I’m like, ‘Oh, that’s… fun,’ right? I mean, what kind of idiotic name is that? But you know, everyone’s got some little thing, so whatever.”

Friend A: “That’s not a little thing. That’s a stupid thing.”

Friend B: “Get to the good part.”

Friend C: “Another martini here!”

Anna: “You guys want to hear this shit or not?”

Me: “Proceed with the douche-baggery.”

Anna: “Ok, so we’re like, on the phone. Pre-first-date, ok? And the guy’s like, ‘Ruff ruff, Big Dog needs a bone.’”

Us: *Two beats of complete silence followed by martini-infused guffaws that turn every head within a 20-foot radius.*

Me: “I’m sorry, wait … he …. barked at you?” This is the part that stands out to me, not the lame-ass play on words he created with his nickname because anyone who goes by “Big Dog” probably didn’t come up with that crap himself.

Anna: “Yup. The man barked.”

Friend C: “Oh, fuck. I am so glad I’m married. You two girls are screwed. Where’s my martini?”

Friend B: “So did you give him a bone?”

Anna: “We were on the phone, you lush. No. Wait. It gets better.”

Me: “Not possible.”

Anna: “Shut up. So he’s like, ‘Ruff ruff, Big Dog needs a bone.’ And I have no fucking idea what to say, because there’s now no way I can go out with this moron, and so I say the first thing I think of. I go, ‘Oh, that’s funny. I think I saw that on a Big Dogs tee-shirt at the beach once.’”

That's Mr. Big Dog to You!


Us: *More alcohol-fueled cackling.*


Anna: “And he goes, no lie, ‘Woof.’”

Us: *All laughing hysterically like monkeys on nitrous, smacking the table and wiping mascara off our faces.*

This is the shit I have to look forward to? Men barking at me before the first date? I’d rather stay home and come up with places to put George the Elf every night for a year. Even if George doesn’t come with an instruction manual, at least I’m pretty freaking sure the elf won’t bark at me. I mean, really? What the hell, people? Is this normal now? When the hell did that become ok? Crap. Now I’m going to be thinking about barking men for the next hour while I try to get back to sleep. Whatever. If it gives me nightmares, at least I know I can count on my kids to wake me up early. It’s Sunday.