meet the son

It’s been a long week.

As a lot of you know, it’s either feast or famine when it comes to freelance work, and this week was the first time in a while that I found myself with multiple projects and back-to-back deadlines. Not that I’m complaining because *cha-ching* but the extra work did make the days seem to go on forever. And being stuck indoors with my son for two days certainly didn’t help the work get done faster or the time go quicker. *shakes fist* Damn you, snow daaaaays!

Anyway, the short of the long is I’m sad to say I don’t have much blog material on offer this week. I’m going to try and write something of “quality” in the next couple of days, but in the meantime I’ll throw you a bone. A half-ass post to get you through at least a few sips of coffee. A McDonald’s breakfast sandwich. Maybe three quarters of a poop.

And not really a surprise! It’s going to be one of those posts. Where I just list a bunch of “hilarious” things my son has said and then expect you to laugh at them. WELL, THEY ARE HILARIOUS. AND I DO EXPECT YOU TO LAUGH AT THEM. Because my son is basically just a 6 year old version of me, and I am an absolute stitch.

Here we go!


6yo: “These Legos won’t go together.”
Me: “It’s because you have tiny fingers.”

Me: “Do you want to go look in the mirror and see how you look?”
6yo: “I already know how I look. Fabulous.”

Me: “It wouldn’t be too fun to be a cow in the winter.”
6yo: “Yeah, they have to stay outside in the cold.”
Me: “Yeah.”
6yo: “If I were a cow, I would stay in the barn.”
Me: “Me too.”
6yo: “I would just sit there and lay eggs all day.”
Me: “…”

6yo: “Why do you type so fast?”
Me: “I just learned when I was little.”
6yo: (tries to type fast) (writes “ksjdfskdjhfskjd”): “See?! I don’t even know what that means.”

Me: “You know you don’t have to talk ALL the time.”
6yo: “Of course I do.”

6yo: “I want to be a saint and live in a church.”
Me: “Oh? What three miracles would you perform?”
6yo: “One: I would bring a dead person back to life. Two: I would make a blind person able to see again. Three: If someone’s ice cream fell off their cone, I would magically make it go back on the cone.”

6yo: “How big is a king’s poop?”
Me: “I don’t know…?”
6yo: “Then we better go to a castle and find out.”

6yo farts.
Me: “Excuse you.”
6yo: “Excuse YOU.”
Me: “Why? That fart didn’t come out of my butt.”
6yo: “It DID come out of your butt.” (walks away)

6yo: “Look, it’s Serena Williams!”
Me: “Oh, I think she’s just beautiful.”
6yo: “I know why you think she’s beautiful.”
Me: “Uh… why?”
6yo: “Because she has big boobs.”

Me: “Do you have to pee?”
6yo: “Nah. Just checkin’ my balls.”
Me: “…”

Me: “Why are your underpants on backwards?”
6yo: “I like them like this.”
Me: “Let’s turn them around.”
6yo: “No, I want them like this!”
Me: “But…”
6yo (runs out of room): “Sorry, I already left.”

6yo (drinking some milk): “I’m pretending this is Miller.”

6yo: “I’m sorry I called you ugly.”
Me: “Thank you. But why did you say that? Do you really think I’m ugly?”
6yo: “No.”
Me: “Good.”
6yo: “But you ARE fat.”

6yo: “I had to take a booger out of my nose. It was getting in the way of my sniff.”

Me: “I don’t want you opening that big wooden chest by yourself, you could hurt your fingers.”
6yo: “Why don’t you hurt *your* fingers?”
Me: “Because I’m a little bit bigger and it’s easier for me to open.”
6yo: “Because you have a lot of toenails?”
Me: “…”

6yo: “Why are you putting lotion on your face?”
Me: “So I don’t look like an old woman.”
6yo: “HA HA HA! Very very funny. Ha ha ha!”

And he just dropped this casually racist gem about two hours ago”

Playmobil Figure #1: “Hello there. Are you an Indian?”
Playmobil Figure #2: “I am an *American* Indian.”
Playmobil Figure #1: “You’re not going to throw a spear at me, are you?”


Hope you at least chuckled. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming soon. I hope.

my weekend

I think these two quotes pretty accurately capture the gist of my weekend.

Me: “Why are you holding a gallon of milk up to my chest?”
Husband: “I’m comparing jugs.”

Son: *flings his dirty pajamas into my room*


pick a little pop a little

Confession time.

I, a grown woman on the edge of 39 years old, am a picker.

No, not an “exploited migrant worker” kind of picker. Not an “American Pickers” kind of picker. And certainly not an “I come from a family whose surname is Picker” kind of picker.

Nope. The other kind of picker.

The gross kind.

I think you know what I’m talking about. To salvage my last shred of self-esteem, I have to believe that EVERYONE knows what I’m talking about. Still. Just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, let me enlighten you.

Here is a short list of things that I scratch, peel, and most importantly, pick at:

  • zits
  • scabs
  • my scalp
  • my cuticles
  • dry skin
  • fingernail polish
  • sunburns
  • chapped lips
  • callouses

And before you tell me how disgusting this is, I can assure you that I ALREADY KNOW. Believe me, I know. But it’s a nervous habit and one that is very difficult to break. And I’m not sure I ever will break it. It may not be humanly possible.

So why am I telling you this?

I’m telling you this because I am currently trying out this product:

Needless to say, these are not my feet. Because a) my feet are much grosser than this, and b) I don’t usually hang around with lilies draped over my ankles like my feet are some kind of religious icons.

Before we go any further, I have to stipulate that this post is in no way an advertisement or an endorsement of the Baby Foot product. (I couldn’t in good faith recommend it even if I wanted to because I’m not done using it yet. According to the instructions, it takes 7 to 10 days to complete and I’m only about 4 days in. So I have neither a bad review nor a good review to give.)

Okay, now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on. We were talking about picking, remember?

Right. So what this product is, essentially, is a foot peel. It’s a pair of booties full of acid that you wear on your feet for an hour, and then over the course of 7 to 10 days the acid allegedly “exfoliates” (read: “burns off”) all of the gross dead skin from your feet.

This concept appeals to me, as I’m sure it appeals to many middle-aged women, because as we ladies get older OUR FEET BECOME NASTY AS SHIT. Like, nasty. Hard and crusty and calloused and ashy and no thank you. If you’re lucky you *might* dodge the additional bullets of bunions, corns, and/or plantar warts. But almost no mid-life ladies at all escape the curse of General Foot Grossness.

So when my girl N told me about the Baby Foot things I went immediately to Amazon and was all *click* *buy* *done*. I put on the booties this past Thursday and while they seem to be gradually doing their job, I nonetheless have a problem with the after-care instructions, which tell me:

You’re not supposed to pick the dead skin off of your feet.

WHAT?! Yes, you heard me right. The product recommends you just let the dead skin peel away and fall off naturally. This may not sound like such a big deal in theory, but seriously? LOOK AT WHAT THESE BABY FOOT THINGS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO:


Look at that shit. LOOK AT IT. Please tell me how I am supposed to go 7 to 10 days with cracked, disgusting, and peeling feet and not pick at them. HOW? It will be completely impossible. An impossible quest. And now I have songs from Man of La Mancha stuck in my head.

But in all seriousness. If I can actually manage to do this thing, it will perchance be the greatest thing I’ve ever done. The most monumental task I’ve ever accomplished. The defining point of my life. Dare we even say… the pinnacle?

Yes. The pinnacle.

Thinking about it now, I’ll probably have to add it to my CV. And eventually my autobiography. When they do the TV movie of my life, they’ll spend an inordinate time on my struggle to not pick at my *hork*-looking feet. There may even be statues erected in my honor, sculptures lovingly crafted and bestowed upon places of business and universities, and oil paintings donated to museums all over the world. All shall love me and appreciate the monument of what I have achieved.



i remember (TV edition)

Just in case people were starting to lose track of my born-on date, I decided I would introduce a new series of posts called “I Remember.” These posts will serve to a) alienate my younger readers and b) make my older readers feel bad about their age and therefore themselves.



I remember when Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood were literally the only programs on television for kids. And they were all boring as shit. But WE WERE HAPPY TO HAVE THEM. Also, I think it’s worth mentioning that if we missed them, we were completely fucked. Because NO VCRs BACK THEN, BITCHES.

R.I.P. Fred Rogers. You were the sweetest and most boring man on Earth.

I remember when The Dukes of Hazzard’s balladeer/narrator was known as Waylon Jennings, not as “that one dead dude whose kid had that one song on Sons of Anarchy and also made an album with Stephen King or something.”

I remember when the “six million” in The Six Million Dollar Man actually sounded like a shitload of money. Today it just sounds half-ass and shoddy. “Oh, so you’re The Six Million Dollar Man? What did that six million dollars buy you, a cochlear implant? Not even? Go fuck yourself.”

A publicity still of Lee Majors as The Six Million Dollar Man. His eyelashes look weird.

I remember:




I remember thinking The Prisoner was the most bomb-ass thing on television even though I was way too young to understand it. And, in fact, did not understand it. But I watched it anyway. Because Patrick McGoohan reasons.

But… but… Patrick McGoohan.

I remember being absolutely scandalized by The Benny Hill Show. “OH MY GOD. THAT GUY JUST GRABBED THAT LADY’S BOOB. ON TELEVISION. DOOMSDAY APPROACHES.” Now I watch full-blown oral sex on shows like Six Feet Under and Banshee and I’m all: “Eh.”

I remember when The Golden Girls wasn’t cool, nobody wanted to watch it, and Betty White did not have one ounce of hipster street cred.


I remember when MTV began and the only artists you ever saw on it were The Buggles, Pat Benatar, Men at Work, and Human League. And yet, despite that, it was the coolest channel that ever existed. Ever.

Just in case you ever wanted to know the REAL reason behind the Apollo 11 moon landing.

Speaking of MTV, I remember pretending to go to bed on Sunday nights, then keeping myself awake so that I could sneak into the living room later and watch 120 Minutes. Sure, on Monday mornings I would look like zombie barf, but come on. Jesus and Mary Chain? The Cure? PiL? Worth it.

I remember when Alex P. Keaton revealed he wasn’t a virgin on Family Ties. I was all “OHMYGOD WHAAAAAAAAAT HEHADSEXXXX????” (Seriously, do you remember what Michael J. Fox used to look like? He probably lost his virginity as a fetus.)

Here’s Michael J. Fox at the 40th Emmy Awards, August 1988. And I was shocked his character on television HAD LOST HIS VIRGINITY. Man, I was dumb when I was 13.

I remember when Jem was truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous.

I remember when cable boxes looked like this:


Still, as ugly and bulky as they were, they granted you access to scrambled soft core porn, that sweet mistress of my adolescence. Oh, scrambled porn. Wherefore art thou now, scrambled porn? *kisses two fingers* *pours one out for scrambled porn* 

Well. I think that scrambled porn is a perfectly good note to end on, don’t you?



What? You’re going to have that stuck in your head all day? I am SO. SORRY.*

*Totally not sorry.

halfass makeup tips

Dear Readers of the Makeup Wearing Variety:

Do you find putting on a whole face of cake to be too much work? Do you wish you could cut your time at the vanity table in half? Do you wish you knew some helpful tips and tricks for those times when you’re hung over, running thirty minutes late, and/or incapable of pulling yourself out of the crippling abyss of depression?

In short — do you want to look good, but not actually that good?

Then you’ve come to the right place.

I’ve compiled a list of “helpful” makeup tips that you can use any time you need to be presentable but not particularly attractive. Consider the look you will achieve with these tips to be something along the lines of: “Yeah. I took a few minutes to put myself together. Not long enough to actually look that great, though. Because then it would seem like I care. Which I don’t. Enjoy.” 

Let’s get started!

TIP #1. Haven’t had the time to deal with your ladystache? No problem! Take your trusty tweezers and just pluck out the 3 really dark hairs at each corner of your lips. Then cover the rest up with 10 pounds of concealer. You’re welcome.

TIP #2. Haven’t had the time to deal with your eyebrows? Not to worry! Take your trusty tweezers, look at them with disgust, toss them aside, and whip out some white or off-white eye shadow. Use this as a base on the area above your eyelids, and it will go a long way to conceal those revolting little eyebrow hairs that start worming their way out of your upper lid area .001 seconds after you’ve paid $30 for a wax.

TIP #3: Too much hassle to apply and reapply lipstick all day? Whatever. Just fill your whole lip in with lip liner. Then apply Chapstick over the top, or Carmex if you want to smell like a greasy hospital. Aaaand done!

TIP #4: Spending way too much time on your fancy, expensive eyeshadow palettes? Why bother spending 25 minutes creating the perfect “smoky eye” or “neutral eye” or “rosy butthole” (that’s a thing, right?) when you can just smash all the colors together in 20 seconds and call it good?

TIP #5: Drag queens are amazing with contouring, but it looks like it takes forever! Forget the queens. Just do this 15 second trick. Take an overly dark blush (I think the kids call them “bronzers” these days) and paint a “3” on the left edge of your face — from forehead to cheekbone to chin. Then do a reverse “3” on the right edge. Voila! Don’t forget to blend or else you really will look like a drag queen. Which, if you’re not a drag queen, isn’t cute.

TIP #6: I just don’t have the patience for primer, BB cream, concealer, highlighter, foundation, powder, and blush. Girl, nobody does. Just stick some concealer on your eye bags and biggest zits, then dust off your nose with powder. “Contour” as instructed in Tip #5 and then add a little blush to the apples of your cheeks. It won’t look fabulous, but it will look decent fine serviceable meh.

Now you’re done! You’ve saved so much time and energy! And you look… okay. Which can actually be a good thing. Liberating. Practical. Especially if you’re not looking for romantic attention, the approval of people prettier than you, a leg up at your job, the grudging respect of your sexual competition, the occasional flirtation with your barista, special treatment in restaurants, free drinks in bars and nightclubs, or, you know. Compliments.

Hope this helped!

Love, Sarah


My Christmas tree is dead and gone, and yet I am still finding ornament hooks and stabby, dessicated pine needles everywhere.

My two cats are dead and gone, and yet I am still finding urine stains and tumbleweeds of cat hair everywhere.

I wonder what I’ll leave behind when I’m dead and gone.


I’m leaning towards pubes and flakes of picked-off fingernail polish.

car line couture

So. Car line. Let’s talk about it.

For those not familiar with the lingo, “car line” is simply the short form of “the long ass line of cars that parents have to wait in for about a thousand hours in order to drop their children off at school.”

Even if you’re not a parent, you probably have at least peripheral knowledge of what I’m talking about. The sluggish procession of hybrids and minivans in front of the school. The snarls of traffic in the surrounding streets. The long, tedious march of headlights.

There’s certainly no question about it – car line can be slow. Car line can be boring. A minute spent in car line can seem like the longest minute that ever was. Still, in spite of all its many faults, I love car line and want to marry it. Why, you probably don’t ask? Because car line has three distinct advantages over the old days when you actually had to walk your kids in to school.

Advantage #1: You don’t have to get out of the car in bad weather.


Advantage #2: You get to sit around judging all of the other parents’ cars.


Advantage #3: YOU CAN LOOK A HOT MESS.

Look. I know a lot of moms out there take great pride in their appearance and that’s certainly their prerogative. I, however, do not count myself among their ranks. It’s not that I don’t care about looking good, necessarily — it’s just that I don’t care about looking good at seven in the morning. I don’t care about ANYTHING at seven in the morning. Except caffeine and lots of it.

Which is why car line is perfect for me. With car line, you don’t have to shower. You don’t have to wear makeup. You don’t even have to wear street clothes. You can just roll out of bed, throw on a coat, and go. You never have to set foot outside the car, so who’s gonna know? No one, that’s who. And I take full advantage of that fact.

Wanna see?

You DO?



And doesn’t it kind of look like I didn’t even brush my teeth?


And that’s why I love car line.