Tag Archives: holidays

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.

I miss telephone booths.


Oh, darling web dwellers. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. The day of, “What did that mean?” and “Look at my ring.” The day of, “Shoulda Woulda Coulda,” and “Let’s take a cab; I’m too sore to walk.” Whichever kind of day it is for y’all, I raise my Diet Coke to you in salute. We made it through another Valentine’s Day, and I sort of got laid. Almost.

You know who I'm talking about.

Wait? What?! No shit. I made you wait almost a whole paragraph before dropping that one on you, didn’t I? Yeah, I’m a bitch like that. I could write a few more lines of drivel before getting to the good stuff, but you know, then it would be all built up and nothing I said would sound awesome enough to merit the long buildup. See what I did there? I did it anyway. That’s what y’all get for overloading social media with pictures of your damn flowers yesterday, bitches.

Anyway, so as I wrote yesterday, my new BFF the FedEx man dropped off a box ‘o dirty sexies on my doorstep yesterday and I had some new toys to try out. Ladies, if you don’t own any sex toys, you are fucking missing out. Vibrators, dildos, and their many, many XXX brethren are not only outstanding for solo relaxation activities, but they also enhance couples’ activities too. Unless your particular brand of guy is needy and easily intimidated, in which case, what the fuck are you doing with him?

Plus, if you’re tormented by occasional insomnia like me but hate taking drugs to sleep and can’t drink enough hard alcohol to make you sleepy without first vomiting at length, I gotta tell ya, masturbation is the best fucking sleep aid out there. If you’re lucky enough to be able to get from A to OOOOooooo without any mechanical assistance, it’s actually free, and I hate you. If you’re like me and can only get from A to GeeeeeeThatCouldBeBetter without some batteries or a partner, then fine, it costs a little money, but damn, y’all. I’ll spend $50 on a new vibrator over the same amount in sleeping pills or liquor any day of the year. Any day.

So last weekend I told Northman my new toys were coming this Tuesday and we made a date to break them in last night. Before we got down to business, we chatted for easily an hour about life, family, minions, work, and friends. We showed one another what our minions made us for Valentine’s Day and discussed the merits of foam-sticker-based art projects with regard to both cuteness and longevity. And yes, we talked about the blog.

Web dwellers, Northman is fascinated by you. He loves being my writing muse (thank goodness) and I’m grateful he doesn’t mind being blog fodder. But he finds it fascinating when I tell him which articles are well received and which aren’t, which ones are shared the most via social media and which are largely ignored. And he is absolutely stunned that what I call “his” posts are by far the most popular. And therein lies exactly what I adore about Northman. He is unassuming with a self-deprecating humor and modesty I adore, all while being so insanely sexy that I am often rendered speechless (or at least incapable of comprehensible speech) at the sight of his naked body, and that’s quite something for me.

I wonder how many vibrators are in the average FedEx truck daily.

So last night, not because it was Valentine’s Day, but because it was FedEx Delivered My Toys Day, I had phenomenal Skype sex with Northman. He wanted me to um … how to put this one … give an oral report on the methods of stimulation I’d use on him if we were within licking distance, and with my recently acquired visual aids, I did. So, I wasn’t speechless, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to speak. Despite my inability to say anything dirty, or anything at all, he liked it. A lot. And he even gave me an extra credit point if I could demonstrate an ability to do different activities with each of my hands at once. This involved some contortion and further rendered me incapable of coherent speech, but damn if it didn’t push him over the edge, which I just fucking love to watch. Of course, he then reciprocated. I’d say his presentation was more of an oral report designed to facilitate a demonstration of how earthquakes can be followed by multiple aftershocks, and that sometimes the aftershocks are as powerful as the originating earthquake itself. In short, I thought my fucking head was going to spin around. And as if that weren’t good enough, the look on his face, watching me endure the last of those aftershocks, well, being satisfied is great. But being smug and satisfied is way better.

If Lego® Jesus had feet, he'd wear Birks.

So, that was my non-Valentine’s-Day “date.” And it was great. But as I type this for you, I’m thinking, not about Quinn, who was in tip top form last nightsweet Jesus in Birks was he in top form — nor about how Northman himself stripped down to nothing but his ridiculously lick-able tattoos and a necklace, but about Northman’s questions regarding the blog. He wanted to know what y’all ask me. What you wonder about. Who you web dwellers are and what you like or think or say about all the craziness that is my life here on the blog. Because that’s him. That’s Northman. He’s inquisitive and involved in my life. And as much as I may occasionally portray him here as little more than a virtual sex toy, he is a man. And despite some web claims to the contrary, yes, a real, not-made-up, not-even-exaggerated-upon, actual man. He’s a truly wonderful man I completely adore and have for ages, and not just because I cannot possibly be within three counties of him without finding the closest semi-private spot to fuck him. No. I adore him because he’s always quick to laughter and listens instead of waiting to speak. I adore him because he’s a devoted father, my dear friend, a wholly decent person, my favorite muse, and because I can’t be within three counties of him without fucking him in any private space larger than a telephone booth. I miss telephone booths. Such potential. But I digress. So this one’s for Northman. He wants to know about you, web dwellers. So have at it, please. Email, Facebook, comment, go nuts. Northman is listening.

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?

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


I’ve been trying to write some kind of inspiring New Year’s Resolution post for you people, and I gotta say, I suck at that. The truth is, I think New Year’s Resolutions are kind of pointless and stupid. They set us up for failure:

  • Go to the gym every week.
    • What if you get sick? What if the gym burns down?
  • Lose two pounds a week.
    • So you bust your ass at the gym [after it’s rebuilt from the fire] but you also have PMS, so you gain a pound and feel like a failure?
  • Quit drinking, smoking, double parking, letting your dog crap on the neighbor’s grass, dropping acid, or returning library books late.
    • Yeah, because any of these are feasible.

New Year’s Resolutions are just lame, and they feel kind of arbitrary. You eat two (boxes of) doughnut holes and smoke one cigarette, and suddenly your whole year is a waste? By January 2nd? Fuck that.

I’m more for setting New Year’s GOALS. This makes me a lot happier, and we all know I’m all about HAPPY. So here are some of my goals for 2012. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you’re planning to do this year, and yeah, smartasses, go ahead and tell me what you think I should do, too, unless it involves finding Jesus, because I seriously only found my own G-spot like two years ago and I can’t even find all the pieces to the toys my minions just got over the holidays, much less a whole person, so the odds of me getting in on that are pretty fucking slim.

Goal Numero Uno: Fuck Mr. Northman. Yes, in the good way. Oh, yeah. This is a goal I can get behind. Or in front of. Or on top of. Or, you know, inverted with. Or, or…wait…wait…um, what was I saying?

Have you still not rented Dogma? Get with it, web dwellers!

Second Goal: Blog a lot. This one is easy as doughnut holes. I dig blogging. Apparently some people dig reading it. A whole lotta diggin’ and I get to curse in cyber-public. Rock on. I’m on it like Birks on Buddy Christ.

#3: Be nicer to myself. Ok, this one’s a bit closer to a resolution because if I fuck up and I’m mean to myself then I feel like a failure, and then I beat myself up for it, and then I’m being mean to myself some more, and then I’m pissed. So I gotta spell this one out goal-style: Being nicer to myself does not mean never engaging in self-bitchery. It means, “work on that.” It means, “Try hard not to say shit to yourself that you’d punch other people in the nads for saying to you.”

Quatro: Watch every episode of True Blood when Season 5 comes out because there has got to be some Eric Northman sex in there somewhere and I vow to see it. On DVR. So I can rewind and stuff. Every list has to have a “gimme.”

And Then There Were Five: As much as possible, do your best to be, feel, speak, work, listen, love, live, sleep, parent, try, dream, do, have, lust, eat, and laugh better.

The deliciously fucked up mind behind True Blood

Well, shit. I just realized I could have skipped 1 through 4 because #5 pretty much sums it up, but then you’d have had less to read, and I’m all about customer service here, web dwellers.

Bonus point of the day: Did you know men frequently experience wrist and forearm sprains from over-jacking? And I don’t mean working on cars, people. I swear to Alan Ball, I hurt my thumb preventing kid #2 from hurting a lot more than a thumb, and I was telling Mr. Northman we needed to video chat instead of typing because my thumb hurt, when he said, “What? Did you hurt it masturbating?” My initial reaction was something like, “What is the fucking matter with you?” but I swear, the man let me in on some kind of man-code-protected secret and told me that he knows at least three guys who’ve had wrist or hand sprains in the past year from spending too much time…at mechanic school.

You need to be watching The Big Bang Theory. That's no bazinga.

So, informal survey here, web dwellers. Is he just coitusing with me here? Is this a bazinga moment, or are men that stupid? I’m serious, people. If that’s true, I am definitely good to go on my Second Goal, because that’s good for at least four posts right there.

Remember to “like” Confessions of A Sexy Mom on Facebook. It makes me feel good. Also, you might win a new particle accelerator if you “follow” my blog. Bazinga!

You People Need Help. (This one actually IS a PMS-Driven Rant.)


After 18 days of winter vacation (not that anyone’s counting), I dropped the minions back off at school this morning, came home, praised Mr. Coffee at great length, and sat down to check Facebook while I had some Lucky Charms and lactose-free “milk.” I really gotta go grocery shopping because both of those things suck, but I was hungry and there wasn’t any cold pizza. Or warm pizza for that matter.

If it's crunchy, it's not a marshmallow. If it's lactose-free, it's not milk.

Anyway, I sat down with my bowl and almost spit magical dehydrated unicorn tail-shaped “marshmallows” all over my keyboard when I saw post after post of crap like this:

  • Janie McSpecialPants: “Can’t believe the kiddos are going back to school ALREADY! Where did vacation go?!? I want my little snuggle muffins home with Momma!”
  • Angie Smoochmuffin: “Only 96 days ‘til Easter! Can’t believe I haven’t stocked up on supplies for our annual three-county bike-race/egg hunt yet! Who’s up for making some decoupage Jesus figurines this afternoon to get things started?”
  • Gracie Loveykins: “Dear Summer Vacation: Could you please come super duper early this year? My kids have only been back at school an hour and I miss those little pumpkin-butts already!”

Here’s a little Public Service Announcement, Cathy-Style: If you wrote a Facebook status update, Tweet, blog post, article comment, or any other publicly visible bit of online material today that looked anything like the above, call your doctor to have your meds adjusted and then delete that shit right fucking now. No one wants to read that crap. It’s either not true, or something is really, really wrong with you. Also, don’t expect any responses from me on Facebook ever again, because I am hiding you in my newsfeed.

Next time someone tags me in a pic like this, I am going to upload a pic of a gigantic turd and tag them back.

Posts like that are right up there with entire photo albums of people’s dogs in various holiday-related outfits. You know what I’m talking about. We all have that friend who treats her dog like it’s a kid and then tags you in the dog picture to make absolutely sure you see it, so then your “Photos of Angie Smoochmuffin” include a fucking schnauzer in a leprechaun suit. I gotta say this once: Cut that shit out, people. Cut that out now. Dogs are not people, web dwellers. And I like dogs. But they’re dogs, and I am not, so don’t fucking tag me in your pooch-pic.

But as usual, I digress (But that digression was important, admit it.). It’s one thing to post pictures and updates about having a great time with your kids or even about feeling so lucky to have such great minions once in a while. Kids are great … when they’re not, oh, say, awake or talking to me (relax, it’s a joke, people), but really? Your kids go back to school, from which they will return TODAY, and you likely haven’t had a moment of quiet in almost three weeks, and you miss them so much you have to shout it from the modern proverbial rooftop that is Facebook? Or you need to get a head start on making every normal parent you know feel inadequate through your ludicrously over-achieving wastes of time? Don’t you people work? Shit. If I had a whole fucking morning to myself, I’d take a damn nap, not tweet about how sad I am that it’s quiet enough to do so.

So, that’s it. That’s all I have in me this morning, web dwellers. Who’s up for martinis? School is in session and I am fucking celebrating.

Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Day: AKA, The Reason I Need Unlimited Texting


Festivus For The RestOfUs!

Merry Christmas. Or happy Hanukkah. Or festive Kwanzaa. Or Cheery Celebration of Greatest Revenue Day For Chinese Food Restaurants in Jewish Areas. In my house, it’s Acknowledgment of The Grace of Mr. Coffee Day (Say it with me! “Praised Be!”). And with the multiple generations of estrogen-infused family upon us, it’s also Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Day (J.P.A.M.D.E.). This is preceded by Joyous Passive Aggression and Martyrdom Display Eve, which is preceded by a full J.P.A.M.D.E. (I say it “JayPamDee”) advent, known as the 30 Days of J.P.A.M.D.E. For Seinfeld fans, this is a lot like Festivus, complete with the airing of grievances, but without the weird pole thing, and because it’s led by women, it’s more like the airing of, “Reasons I Should Have Jewels Upon Jewels in My Crown in Heaven For All I Do For My Ungrateful Family – but not you, Dear, the other parts of the family, you know who I’m talking about.”

This year’s J.P.A.M.D.E. celebration began with the J.P.A.M.D.E. advent the day after Thanksgiving (this has a lot to do with volunteering to go shopping and then complaining about how sore your feet are even though half of what you bought was for yourself) and is still in progress at the moment, which is why I haven’t had time to blog about it for you guys (Sorry, web dwellers!). In our multi-age, multi-generation, fractured, extended, slightly crazy, often surprising, incredibly well-intentioned yet annoying as an eyelash in your eye while you’re driving, clique-ish as a Long Island all-girls’ high school, made-for-cable-tv family, there are some pretty interesting characters. You know how people say, “There’s one in every family,”? Well, there are four in mine. So, for your reading amusement, and my own catharsis, here’s a little reverse-peephole into my house this week.

Don’t worry, Mr. Northman was around via text for encouragement and tension relief.

So, like I said the other day, the blue-hairs did descend on us, and it was just nuts from the get-go. The real joy of J.P.A.M.D.E. had already started last month with the advent, which makes me super grateful I have unlimited emailing and texting on my cell for two reasons:

  1. The blue-hairs (and would-be blue-hairs if they didn’t have their salons on speed dial) have been constantly asking, via email and many, many texts, for lists of presents to give my minions (Yes, the blue-hairs text. Impressive and yet so annoying.), and I’ve been emailing and texting them all back with lists of favorite characters and suggestions for things they’ve been jonesing for every time we pass Target like diabetics in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I just have two requests: No religious stuff, and no weapons or weapon-y toys. Other than that, knock your suspendered knee socks off. Then, while they’re at the mall, they text me again to ask what color/flavor/size/character/scent, and then they text me again to ask if it’s a good price, and then they text me again to complain that the “oriental fellow” at customer service wouldn’t let them use the coupon from Target at Macy’s even though they have all the same crap, and then they text me again to ask if they can just send me a check and have me go out and buy what they’re currently holding themselves and wrap it even though they’re arriving in two weeks by car, and then they text me again to make sure I know who the text was from. Oh, and then they showed up last week and gave my kids some phaser guns, pirate swords, and books about how Elmo learns the Joy of Knowing God.
  1. If I couldn’t text my girlfriends and Mr. Northman about this crap (and check my site stats here!), I’d lose my fucking mind. And if I couldn’t receive texts back from Mr. Northman including creative suggestions for how he’d like to help me relax, I’d be even more wired than I already am, and that’s really saying something.

So, J.P.A.M.D.E. advent had already been fairly crazy before a single relative arrived. But arrive, they did. My mother showed up, which is usually enough to make me gain five pounds of guilt weight before she gets off the plane (yeah, you Catholic, Greek, and Jewish gals know what I’m talking about – and if any of you are Catholic, Greek, AND Jewish and not on significant amounts of medication, I will buy you a drink because you fucking deserve it.). So my mom arrived, walked into my kitchen, and said, “Wow, Cathy! This is certainly the cleanest I’ve ever seen your kitchen!” My mother: Queen of the Backhanded Compliment and #1 Source of Job Security For My Therapist. Then she proceeded to inform me that Kid #1 was much too thin and Kid #2 was much too not-thin, and spent the next 6 days commenting on what each kid ate or didn’t eat while making sure to save some energy for evaluating my vegetable intake, wine consumption, and disinfecting methods.

Second only to Mr. Coffee

To be fair, if my only concept of a person’s average daily alcohol consumption were based on the amount of red wine I drink when my mother’s in town, I’d be considering an intervention, myself. But we don’t really do that namby-pamby shit in my family. We just pester the crap out of people about their drinking or overeating or occasional cigar or cigarette smoking and then guilt them into not drinking (when anyone’s looking), eating at all, or enjoying quarterly Cohibas.

This method has had a pretty good success rate in my family, as it usually just leads to smoking pot (but at least that’s done in private) or going to therapy. Of course, then the over-50 women in the family can complain about how their daughters waste their money telling all their private family business to strange therapists – who might be atheists for God’s sake! – when they’ve never done anything but just love their families and give up everylastthingever for their children and why does everyone blame the mother it’s just so unfair. Or, my favorite, we give up and join them so we’re a bunch of smelly, overeating drunks, but at least we’re together and reasonably happy (or so drunk, buzzed, or full that we can’t remember why we were annoyed). Unless you’re my mother, grandmother, or aunt, in which case you revert to this favorite method: making passive aggressive comments about how they have this girlfriend whose daughter is an alcoholic and now the grandmother (girlfriend) has to raise the grandkids while the daughter is in rehab and it’s such a shame on the family and such agita for the grandmother and what did that poor angel of a woman ever do to deserve such an ungrateful daughter who would burden her finally retired saint of a mother like that?

Yeah, so I went through about 6 bottles of merlot this week (oh, like you wouldn’t?) and partly I did it just to fuck with the blue-hairs and give them something to talk about, and no, I didn’t drink it all myself (just most of it). But it was all good, because it was only at night when the minions were in bed, and Mr. Northman loves it when I drunk text him (complete with typos because I have no patience for fixing typos on my stupid phone when I drink, so it reads like I’m really drunk when really I’ve only had two glasses of wine):

Me: Merry FestiKwanziChrissHanuSolstiCa! I dinimb bisy as hell. How r u?

Northman: You’re dinimb bisy? That’s great! Is that code for drunk as hell because ur mom’s there?

Me: Wine is good. You r so sexy. No it means I am BUSY. Old people r a lot of wirk.

Northman: LOL. What r u doing?

Me: Flinshined dinner. Family making fun of me for drinking but im the one getting our of dish detail because they think I’ll drop something. Oh yeah, suck it.

Northman: Awesome! Suck it, bitches! LOL!!

Me: Yeah suck it dish bitches! I get to watch football with the men and then I am going to bed and I wish youwere hereto tuckmein.

Northman: What r u wearing?

This Jesus would wear Birks. Go rent "Dogma" on Netflix, web dwellers. That's some funny shit.

Me: That red dress from that pic. Remember? And so sorry you’re not here to enjoy my pretty red lipstick. I know you like it.

Northman: I do like your pretty red lipstick. It would look even better all (HOLY SHIT YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH?!?!) and then I would (Sorry, web dwellers, you know the drill.) but your dress would probably (That’s all, folks!) my lap.

Me: Sweet Jesus in Birkenstocks. I need another glass of wine.

Whoooooo baby. What was I saying? Ummm…. ummmm…. Oh, yeah, this is why I need unlimited text: So the blue-hairs can drive me crazy and then Northman can give me sexy little presents like that one. Damn.

I hope all your holiday wishes came true, web dwellers. See you in the new year.

(P.S. Leave comments here ↓.)

P.P.S. How many of you noticed that J.P.A.M.D.E. should have been J.P.A.M.D.D.? Maybe I do need to lay off the merlot.

The 12 Hours of Christmas: Because I don’t have time to journal for 12 days, people. You get what you pay for, and this shit is free.


So I’m baking holiday cookies before all the blue-hairs descend on us. I’ve got my hands covered in raw-egg-infested dough (which just gives me the boo-hoo-jeebies), I just realized I’m out of powdered sugar, the oven is beeping incessantly, and I burned the shit out of my favorite kitchen towel with the little chickens on it. As I’m opening the oven to put in the next batch of job security for my aerobics instructor, my five-year-old comes tearing ass through the kitchen on a tricycle, buck naked, using one hand to drag along a broken doll stroller with a football strapped into it, singing “Snape, Snape, Seeeeeberus Snape, DUNGLEDORB!It’s 8 a.m.

Puppets rule.

I don’t even know why I bother with the whole cookie-making deal, and I said as much to the checker at the grocery store while I was getting powdered sugar and a bottle of Patron. Both of these purchases have to do with the cookies, but only one is strictly called for in the recipe my girlfriend put on Facebook to shame me into baking. “Oh,” said the perky checker, “It’s not about making cookies. It’s about making memories with your children!” Really? Which part? The part where I say, “That’s hot! Don’t touch!” sixty times a minute? Or maybe the part where my kids lose interest four minutes into the prep work and take off on me to play Super Mario so I drip egg goo all over the floor and yell at them to, “GET BACK IN HERE AND MAKE SOME FREAKING MEMORIES WITH YOUR MOTHER!”? Or the part where I give up on cookies and decide to make rum balls because then I can drink while I bake and it’s totally a necessary part of making sure I have the right ingredients? Fuck. It’s only 10 a.m.

So, the kids are off at playdates, and I can get some work done. And by work, I mean, I can sit here and type random crap for you people (you’re welcome) while procrastinating and trying to ignore the scent of the demise of my favorite jeans wafting from the oven. Why can’t cookies be thin-ening instead of fattening? Why can’t we get caloric credits for what we DON’T eat? Considering how much effort it takes not to eat a dozen snowman cookies an hour, you’d think it would at least count for something. If I got credited 10 calories for every 100 calories of ChrismaKwanziHanukkah treats I don’t eat, I’d be in my really-really favorite jeans by now, and it’s been so long since I wore those that they’re actually acid washed with ankle zippers, but if I could get into them I’d wear the shit out of those skinny fuckers. And you would too. It’s noon, and now I’m hungry.

Before I pick up my kids, I have to run to Target. Again. Last week the manager told me that if I increase my monthly average shopping time by just another 37 minutes, I’ll get my own designated parking spot and a pimped-out cart with my name vajazzled on the handle. Or that could have been a dream. But probably not. Anyway, I make the rounds through Target and get a good look at Middle America while I do so. If what I see at Target is any indication of where we’re going as a society, we are fucking doomed, people. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 2 p.m. and I really need to pee, but it will have to wait because I’m afraid to pee in Target in case my cell phone rings while I’m on the toilet and I have to answer it because it’s important but then the person in the next stall starts answering me like in a bad SNL skit and then I’d have to tell her to shut up and then I’d have to explain to my client/friend/grandma/lawyer that I’m peeing in public while talking on my cell. No thanks. I’ll hold it.

Back at home, my kids are quiet. Too quiet. I wash more heebie jeebie egg plasma off my hands. Twice. And then I go in search of mischief. It doesn’t take long to find it. Kid #1 has built a fort by completely disassembling the bed and is playing under the mattress. Kid #2 is naked. Again. And now the oven is beeping. Again. It’s 4 p.m., people. And I am fucking tired.

I spent some time reading in the mattress fort, which was actually pretty damn cool, and later I draped my naked kid in a big tee-shirt for finger painting. We cleaned up all our messes (and by “we” I mean “mostly I”), then bagged and boxed up dozens of cookies and brownies and all sorts of other crap “we” made today, and then started the evening routine: Wash hands. Eat dinner. Wash bodies. Eat cookies. Go potty. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Read a story. Read another story. Go to bed. Come out. Drink water. Go back to bed. Come out. Go potty. Wash hands. Go back to bed. Come out. Beg for snack like a stoner at Burning Man begs for special brownies. Go back to bed. Come out. Get told to go back to bed. Claim to just be coming out for a hug (they learn early). Get hug. And get kiss. And get another hug and kiss. And some Eskimo kisses and tummy raspberries. And some tickles. And another tucking in. Go to bed. Snore. It’s 8 p.m.

Bonus Hour 8-9 p.m. (Don’t say I never do anything nice for you people.)

Fuck you, Sue. You stole my Northman glee.

I texted Mr. Northman to see what he was up to, mostly because the only adult conversation I’d had all day was with the damn grocery checker, and anyone that cheerily stupid doesn’t count as an adult. He texted me that he was getting in the car, and I really love to fuck with him, so I started texting him this really fucking sexy story about what I’d do if I were sitting there in the front seat with him. I mean, I know he can’t read it while he’s driving, but he can hear the little “bloop!” every 20 seconds, and he knows exactly what that means. So, yeah, I’m fucking with him a little, but that’s only because I’m not actually fucking him, seeing as he lives so damn far away. Plus, he really likes it. So, I finished the story and laid down on the couch watching Glee. But it was mostly about Sue, and I can’t fucking stand her, so I fell asleep before Mr. Northman got home and responded (enthusiastically) to my sext-y story. Yeah. Nice for him and all, but all I got out of it was sore texting thumbs and a crick in my neck from sleeping on the damn couch.

Merry Christmas, web dwellers. I’m off to Target.