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  • The Change
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  • Ok but ALSO:
  • Midlife POV
  • Influence and Dooce
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  • You can’t go home again
  • Obsolescence
  • Before and after
  • A cringe confession on friendship

Archives from 2002-2006

Hooray for Sunday, day of rest. The end of the weekend, when you can lie in bed until sheer embarrassment finally drives you from your sheets, and the coffeepot stays warm all day long as you dawdle over the paper. What to do with the long, lazy hours stretching before you? Maybe make some french toast out of croissant bread, maybe take a little stroll around the neighborhood, maybe curl up on the couch and plow through a good book from beginning to end?

Go ahead and open your eyes from THAT pleasant little dream, dipshit, because you’ve got CHILDREN now. Hop to, because just like Lionel Ritchie those diapers have been partying all night long. Perhaps you should have spent more of your pre-parenthood Sundays reveling in the fact that your mornings never included pre-dawn scrotal fold poop-shrapnel mining duty, but NO, you were too busy ramming croissants in your french-hole to appreciate your sweet, sweet, feces-free freedom.

Ah well. Hindsight, 20/20, etc.

I did escape the House of Rugrats long enough to get a haircut yesterday, and while I’ve always enjoyed a good indulgent salon experience these days I feel like I go into something like a pleasure-triggered fugue state as soon as the stylist touches my head. My eyes roll back, my tongue lolls drunkenly, I have to consciously stop one leg from shooting straight out and jerking up and down like a dog from the pure bliss of it all. I mean, the humming, product-scented atmosphere, the sensation of my scalp being massaged, the complete absence of anyone shouting NOOK MOMMY MY HAS A BALL—dude. If it didn’t cost so damn much I’d make a standing appointment for every weekend from now until the kids are old enough to be sent to a nice Asian sweatshop.

(What? Oh, sorry, I meant “Montessori-themed Latin immersion preschool”.)

I got the same shortish A-line cut I’ve been getting over the last year, which initially looks a little like whatshername’s hair, Slutty Tyra from Friday Night Lights, before rapidly growing into a mass of split ends and exposed roots. I always think I’m going to get something drastically different but I never do, I suppose I just like the vicarious thrill of thinking about a wild new haircut but am ultimately too much of a pussy to make a big change.

My brain (stuck in 1992): “Fuck the man! Dye this shit fire-engine red! Shave the sides! Play the Circle Jerks on the way home because you just want some skank!”
My mouth: “Let’s trim up the ends, but keep the same overall shape. Thanks, I would like some chamomile.”

:::

In other news, the weather has gone batshit crazy around here. Behold the view from our backyard last night:

Is it not almost April? What the hell, Seattle.

Also, I noticed this while I was snapping photos:

I have told him and told him and TOLD HIM that chainsaws aren’t a particularly effective weapon against zombies, but does the man listen? Feh.

Lastly, I’ve really been enjoying Amazon’s grocery delivery service lately, but I wonder what kind of return policy they have?

Stop jumping on the couch. Stop jumping on the couch RIGHT NOW.

Daddy’s at work, remember? That’s where Daddy is. I believe we have discussed this before.

Could ONE of you stop pooping for five straight minutes?

Stop jumping on the couch or you’re going to your room. Okay, that’s it: you’re getting a time out in your room now, let’s go. (…) Stop jumping on YOUR BED.

Yes, you’re in a boat, I see. Oh, a boat on the water? Mm-hm. That’s very nice boat. Yes. Oh, a boat on the water, you say? Yes, I think you mentioned that. Ah, okay, so you’re in a boat? A boat on the water? Right, good. I think I’ve got it. Yes. Mm-hm. Sorry, was I not acknowledging that with enough vim and vigor? A BOAT ON THE WATER, HOLY FUCKING SHIT WOW.

Say ‘excuse me’ when you do that, please. Uh, no, you didn’t have to do it again twice as loud.

DADDY. IS. AT. WORK.

Please, allow me to replace that binky again. For the 35829th time.

Stop jumping on the couch. Stop jumping on the couch. No, jumping “just a lil’ bit” is not okay.

It puts the leftover plastic eggs in the Easter basket or it GETS THE HOSE. I am tired of having egg-circles tattooed to the bottom of my feet.

Let it be 5 PM let it be 5 PM let it be 5 PM let it be 5 PM oh look, 10:30.

No more juice right now. Did you want some water? Oh, you’d prefer juice? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear the details of that request, as my ears are now BLEEDING from all the SCREAMING.

Hey, did you know the couch is full of angry sharks? That will bite you if you jump on them? Yeah, it’s true. You’ll learn about couch-sharks in school.

My, what is that fascinating aroma? Whoever dropped a load THIS time, please raise your hand.

Daddy ran away because you asked too many questions. I mean, Daddy is at work, remember? Lucky bastard.

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