I come from a family of breeders. A group of people so f*&%ing fertile that pregnancy is the only successful form of contraception they know.
I come from a family of breeders. A group of people so f*&%ing fertile that pregnancy is the only successful form of contraception they know.
I use my chopsticks with as much skill as a walrus.
My last few days have been wrecked by a gruesome combination of the flu, bronchitis and insomnia. I can’t sleep. I can't sing. And I've taken to mainlining Diet Dr Pepper.
I was delusional in thinking having children meant nothing had to change short of giving up alcohol and my dream of wanting to take up smoking. No. Not, really. But I did think I could carry on as if my children might be of the Just Add Water and Watch Them Grow, no-help-needed kind.
Bad coffee is better than no coffee.
My imaginary cleaning lady is usually here every Saturday, but this weekend I was busy imagining a vacation in Cuacao with my cabana boy, Hans, so I didn't have time to imagine a tidy house.
I punished the world for making me work by wearing corduroys, sneakers, and NO MAKEUP. Oy, the blotchy skin tone and the red-rimmed eyes and middle-aged frumpiness. TAKE THAT, WORLD!
He just, you know, has the memory of a colander.
My favorite pastime: sleep. My favorite color: sleep. My favorite smell: sleep.
I am not a fan of shoes. I do not buy tons of shoes, collect them, pet them, and give them names. Manolo who? Gucci what? Isn't that what Charo used to say? Gucci Gucci!
I'm still upset that I never had a Snoopy Snowcone Maker.
It's amazing how much laundry can pile up and how odd my outfits become when we ignore washing our clothes for, say, 2 years.
My first car was a Yugo. Go ahead, I'll wait for you to stop laughing.
When I was twenty-five, I became a bit obsessive about showering a lot, so I held experiments in multi-tasking while in the shower. One day, when I was drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and reading a magazine through the clear shower curtain, it hit me that I might have a problem.
I like gummy bears, but don't you feel like we'll find out someday that they're really made of plastic and that they just sit in a ball in your stomach and you never really digest them? And that eventually we'll all give birth to an eight pound gummy baby?
Never agree to play strip poker if you are so drunk that you think you are about to play black jack.
One thing about losing that walking cane and limping along instead is that people no longer look me in the eye. They are afraid that I may have some sort of mangled, shriveled up appendage under the denim of my jeans and to stare would be rude. I feel like wearing a sign that says, "Accidental Owner of Plate and Six Screws. Don't Worry, It's Not Contagious!" but I can't bring myself to put the word "screw" and "contagious" on the same sign and wear it around my neck!
Everyone knows that, if you want to give a child an exciting horticultural experience, have them plant a bean seed—because they sprout in a week and are a hardy plant. Not here. My garden is the kiss of death to a seed which millions of kindergartners have successfully sprouted before they ever learned how to read.
Platitudes do not shoes on the baby put.
I chalk just about every physical symptom up to anxiety. I'm thinking my gravestone will read: "She thought it was a panic attack."