I have a post-Mardi Gras party question and I hope you people can help me out.

Can you Febreeze your hair? Because, goddamn, mine smells like a bar.

P.S. I’m old. Bar smell bothers me now. Bad. I wanted to use my mittens as some sort of face mask so I wouldn’t smell the cigarette smoke. I tried to do it on the sly, holding my mittens up to my nose and breath deeply through them, but I think all the twenty-something guys at the bar noticed because no one tried to pick me up. I can’t imagine any other reason they wouldn’t try to pick me up. Except the crows feet. Or the stray gray hair. And possibly a wedding ring.

I took some great blog-worthy photos and I had really awesome and hilarious punchlines to go with them, but now I’m (mostly) sober and I totally can’t remember what they were. But let’s pretend anyway!

(IMAGINE DARK BAR PHOTO HERE)

Oh, bahahahahaha! Hahahaha! Watch out, I Can Haz a Cheeseburger, Heather is so funny with her photo captions!

I know! Good times, y’all, good times.

And look at this one!

(IMAGINARY PHOTO)

I can’t believe I did that!

Guess what? 14 years ago today Wally and I got engaged.

Also, my boss discovered some really deep philosophical writings in the woman’s bathroom in the one of the bars. I don’t remember exactly how it went? Something about dog poo and dandruff. It was MIND BLOWING.  She took a picture of it, and believe you me, you and I will have a serious discussion about this profound spiritual statement.

I know you can’t wait.

But for now, I’m going to bed. I’m not even spellchecking or editing this. (yaaawwnnnnn!) Tomorrow is Joe Cain Sunday, which is almost as big at Fat Tuesday around here. Drinking on a Sunday. I still can’t get over that.

Until next time! Which will probably be tomorrow. Because this Mardi Gras blogging has to be organic.

Judging by the number of comments on yesterday’s post, I think I can assume that many of you would rather not read about my sabotaging habits with food. To that I say too fucking bad.

I make that kind of strong statement, but then again I also promised drunk Mardi Gras blogging and haven’t done that either. It’s the strangest thing, now that I’m 36 I feel like I’m official grown up. Gah! We’ve already attended numerous parades, but I had only one drink at each. What in the hell is happening to me?!

I think this feeling also has something to do with the new living furniture. I’m not kidding, my living room looks like actual grown-ups live in it, it’s so pulled together and coordinated. No more mish-mash of furniture reminiscent of our college days.

I don’t even know who I am anymore. I have to check an entirely new age demographic box on surveys. Fuck.

But back to this food thing.

Before he dated me, Wally dated (mostly) chunky women. I’m convinced he did this so he would be the sexier one in the relationship. Then I came along and threw a monkey wrench in his usual plan, but he seemed to like the change because here I am, almost 17 years later.

On Tuesday, though, he took the remaining low-fat chicken soup I spent two hours making and left me with a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for lunch. I think this is a passive aggressive way of telling me he doesn’t want me to drop below 140 because he wants to be the prettier one in the relationship.

These are the things I’m up against, people. I don’t know how to retaliate.

And while we’re talking about husbands, if your husband would rather watch porn than have sex with you (his wife), is it your fault? Tell me over here.

By the way, the Mouthy Housewives are throwing a cocktail party in Manhattan during BlogHer this year. Wouldn’t you love to hear me speak Southernese in New York City? So go join our Facebook party page. The more who join, the more likely I’ll go to NYC this summer, and I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a great way to retaliate against my soup-stealing husband.

Even though I am 1.5 pounds and two days behind on my weight loss goal (139 by the time I turned 36, which was Monday. I was 140.5 instead. Woe is me, I know.), I’m sitting here eating the last piece of my 567 calorie per slice birthday cake.  Because, for whatever reason, baggy sweatshirts say I can eat another piece of cake. Exactly who is going to see my bloated belly at school dismissal?

NO ONE.

Because I’m wearing my husband’s sweatshirt.

I had this food/weight loss theory in my twenties and, man, it totally worked! My theory was eat the cake (or cookies or brownies or chips or nachos) as fast as you can, then you can get on with losing the weight even quicker.

And by “as fast as you can” I don’t mean gobble it down in 3 nanoseconds, though if you don’t eat that fast, you certainly are rejecting your fundamental rights as an American. That’s how we eat in this country and to do otherwise, to chew and enjoy your food in a leisurely fashion, is to peg yourself an outsider, possibly as a Russian spy. Forget that “hiking in Iraq and, oops! we accidentally got lost in IRAN” bullshit. Just chew slowly in this country and we know you are up to no good.

(Please wait while I go lick the stray bits of icing off of the cake platter.)

(Uh oh. The cake platter was made in China and I just licked it. I’ll probably die of lead poisoning now and will be buried in a baggy Lands’ End sweatshirt.)

By eating the food fast, I mean in a matter of days, preferably just one, but two is okay. In genius Heather food theory, the hypothesis is you aren’t drawing the calorie intake out over several days but getting it over with all at once, and so can start burning it off sooner.

Let me break it down to a mathematical equation:

12 cookies + 1 day = less fat in the long run

Granted, some people find New Math confusing and have a hard time comprehending such a radical and complex theoretical equation. But trust me, I am a math whiz.  It worked for me.

Until I turned 33.

Of course, 33 is also the age I started blogging.

Evidently blogging throws a kink in the New Math metabolic force field, so I created New New Math, which I will now explain:

blogging + commenting ÷ twitter + facebook = more fat in the long run

I had more amazing insights into this New New Math to share with you, but when I stopped to dip a tortilla chip in a tub of sour cream (also known as the nectar of the Heather Gods), all my amazing ideas flew out of my head.

This probably sounds counterintuitive to New New Math, but I wonder if I blogged more about my food issues, like in a series, if it would actually help me solve the problems. It could be a type of quantum blogging physics for food – it works opposite of our classic understanding of how things should be.

I’ll have to fully ponder on this later. We’re going to McDonalds for dinner.

(We just got back from dinner, and shit, y’all! I think there is a Russian spy in our midst. Payton leisurely ate his food . Please alert the CIA.)

So did you catch a theme in the Superbowl Ads this year? I certainly did. I shall call it…

PROTECT YOUR BALLS, MENZ,
‘CUZ THE WIMMINZ WILL EAT THEM RAW IF YOU LET THEM!

What the hell was that all about, this throwback to the old definition of what it means to be a man?

This is because of the Great Recession, isn’t it?

I can see how it’s connected. Men are losing their jobs (not like they are the only ones) and this really puts a kink in their definition of self (understandably) and so of course the women are trying to steal our manhood!

Total rational leap.

Take this Super Bowl commercial in particular – the one for a Dodge Charger.

As a feminist, I admit this rubs my non-Brazilian waxed bottom the wrong way. Quite frankly, if I were a man, it would probably rubbed my hairy-I-don’t-really-have-to-do-manscaping-because-all-my-underwear-and-swimwear-covers-everything bottom the wrong way. But the last time I checked, I’m not a man. So as a woman, I have many things to say to this commercial and I will.

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30 am.

I will remind you that you wanted the fucking dog, not me.

I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast.

I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast too. Because neither of us revels in the idea of having sex with a fat ass, so you’re welcome too.

I will shave. I will clean the sink after I shave.

I will shave too! And I will clean up any mess I make, like a grown-up too!

I will be at work at 8 am. I will sit through two hour meetings.

I will wonder what the hell this has to do with me.

I will say yes when you want me to say yes. I will be quiet when you don’t want me to say no.

I will investigate what kind of shit drugs you are on, causing you to have delusional conversations with yourself. Fuck, you have a job (that you go to at EIGHT am!), we can afford better street drugs.

I will take your call.

I will take your call too. And all the calls from the school regarding our kids.  That’s my two to your one, you self-centered, pussy-ass whiner.

I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friend’s opinion of my friends.

And I will listen to you fart when you pee. We both hear shit we’d rather not hear.

I will be civil to your mother.

I will be civil to yours. We should prepare ourselves to be showered with honors for our great acts of humanity.

I will put the seat down.

I will think, hmm, you lifted it up.

I will separate the recycling.

I will cook the vast majority of your meals.

I will carry your lip balm.

I will carry your children. For forty-weeks. I will vomit for 16 of those weeks. Boy, you’re right, carrying my lip balm every now and then is a lot to ask!

I will watch your vampire TV shows with you.

I will watch your blow-shit-up-for-no-reason man shows with you. See how give and take works in a relationship?

I will take my socks off before getting into bed.

I will put on attractive night gowns before getting into bed.

I will put my socks in the basket.

I will wash and dry them. See how team work is applied to real life?

And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive. MAN’S LAND STAND!

And because I do this, I will…..I will…..Shit, what  will I do? Buy the jewelry I want to buy?

I think if I need an expensive object to compensate for the way our lives meld together, for the way we dance in and out and around each other, day after day, sometimes leading, sometimes following, then the expensive object I need the most is probably a divorce attorney.

To further prove there was probably a mix-up in the hospital nursery when I was born, my sister came for a short visit this weekend and she didn’t even attempt to hump my Le Creuset pots. I had them out on display and everything. Not even a glint of lust in her eye as I showed her my entire collection. I offered to let her touch it. Nothing. She didn’t care.

Also, she thinks the F word is unnecessary.

What the fuck?

Could it be any clearer that we aren’t blood relatives? I should demand a DNA test.

When she announced this insane idea about the F word, I spoke up and said, “I don’t know, sometimes an good F bomb is completely necessary to make things better.”

I said this with much authority because my 17-year-old niece was in the room and, remember, I’m a role model. I take that responsibility seriously.

In other news, we purchased new living room furniture and Parker would like you to know this is a national tragedy. The calamity went down like this:

Me: Children, we are purchasing new living furniture. This is good because now we’ll all have somewhere to sit as we bond over Star Wars the Clone Wars and nachos on Friday nights.

Parker: We’re keeping this couch too, right?

Me: No, there is not enough room for that much furniture. We bought all new furniture! Won’t that be great?! You won’t be allowed to eat or jump on it, how fun!

Parker: But I love our old couch. LOVE IT! I want to marry it. For life. It is the only couch for me.

Me: I’m sorry, son, but the new furniture will be here this weekend.

Parker: Horror! Here is my heart, stomp on it, just stomp on it, woman! Our old couch is all things good and bright, like unicorns and rice krispy treats. Now my world will be filled with rock cakes and trolls.

Then Parker runs to his room where he constructs a wailing wall from Legos so that he can mourn our old couch properly. After all, the couch held such lovely memories, like when…

… his brother used the back of the couch as support as he whooped up on Parker and mother took the time to snap a picture before intervening.

Such good memories. Like unicorns!

And let’s not forget the other good times when…

…the same older brother whooped up on the same little brother in the recliner. Oh, such bittersweet memories. Especially when they broke it!

Yes, I can see why he is sad. But he shouldn’t be. We’ll make new memories with our new furniture.

Just as soon as they turn 25 and are allowed to sit on the furniture again.

_______________________________________________________

BlogHer ‘10 is coming to NYC this summer and some of my Mouthy Housewives cohorts (together with Aunt Becky!) have put together a proposal for a room, called Dear Abby 2.0: Giving Advice in the Blogosphere. It’s going to be fantastic, but we need your help. Just click here, log on to BlogHer and then click “I would attend this session” (it’s just above the title: Dear Abby 2.0). After you click it it will miraculously say “I would not attend this session.” This means that your vote for the session has been successfully registered. Thank you!

IT’S NOT ME!

Because I’m not.

It’s the seven-year-old. Parker looks drunk.

But he’s not either. Of course! God, should I even have to make that disclaimer?

We’re just unbelievably cold. In fact, it’s so cold that when Parker tried to pull the “pull my finger” joke on me, his face frozen in that awful half-laugh. That’s what happens when you try to pull a fart joke on your mother when it’s 185 degrees below zero.

Our Arctic weekend journey began at 1:30 pm Saturday when we headed out for the Senior Bowl and stood in line (outside!) for an hour just to get on the shuttle to get to the game. All so I could take this really bad picture of Tim Tebow.

I don’t know about you, but I think this Project 52 is off to an awesome start. I’ll probably end up winning an award. But damn, Tebow isn’t even on the field, y’all. That’s him, the blurry #15 standing on the sidelines. And that’s where he stayed the entire time we were there – the whole quarter.

We *almost* had fun at the game. They started the wave and everything! Except my ass was frozen to the metal bleachers so I couldn’t stand up for it. And I was almost on TV. Except my ass was frozen to the metal bleachers and I couldn’t stand up to be seen by the camera.

It was when Payton started crying from the pain of frozen toes that we knew we had to leave. To cheer ourselves up, we decided to go to Wally’s office and watch the Mardi Gras parade.

Don’t I look cheerful?

No, wait. That’s my “It’s Fucking Cold!” look, not my happy look.

Whoa, this post would have been a lot funnier if I had been drinking. Oh well.

Did you notice anything different in my picture? Let me pull up a Mardi Gras picture from last year to help you compare.

Did you notice that this year I actually have cheek definition? That’s because I’ve lost 8 pounds – THAT NO ONE HAS NOTICED I’VE LOST. Except for Wally. Because he likes to get laid and knows how to sweet talk me.

I guess more people would have noticed I’ve lost 8 pounds if it hadn’t taken me 8 months to do it. But that’s how it goes when you do the 30 Day Shred and still eat like a fucking asshole: You lose one pound a month.

I don’t know how to neatly close up this post. I’m short on time. I have to go up to the school because the question has been raised whether one of my sons has a writing learning disability. Like, my kid may be LD. In Writing. Seriously.

And so I’m going up there to teach my son how to write. As if I know what I’m doing. But hell, I’ve been fooling all you people for three years now! So, maybe.

The End.

I’m sure you’ve heard the buzz about Project 365. Where you take pictures every day for a year?

Every blogger who is any blogger is doing it. At least I think. I don’t know, Kelcey isn’t doing it, as far as I know. But that girl can keep a secret, seeing how she kept her pregnancy (with TWINS!) a secret from the blogosphere until she was 17 weeks along. Doesn’t she know most bloggers announce it as they are peeing on the stick?

So maybe not every blogger is doing it.

But Pauline is. Or she did. Last year. I can’t keep up with everyone, the blogosphere is a huge place. But she did, maybe still is, and it’s very inspiring.

I know Jennifer is doing it.

And Ali too.

Just to name three. It’s all so inspiring!

Except the every day part. For a year. 365 days. Gah!

Try as I might, I don’t always bathe every day. If I’m about to spend the entire day cleaning baseboards, what’s the point? I know myself and to do this picture thing every day is to set myself up to be disappointed in myself. Again.

See, Heather, yet another discipline you can’t master! Just like your love of nachos and pizza! And cleaning your kids plate for them! And putting your dirty jeans in the hamper!

I beat myself up over plenty of trivial things already without adding another whipping post.

But.

BUT.

I have a camera. And it’s a good camera. Just about as good of a camera you can get without going SLR, which I’m not ready for. And I’m feeling the itch to try something new.

Yet I can’t do this picture taking thing every day. For me, that would make the new feel old very quickly. (That’s sounds better than “I’m lazy.”) So instead, I’m making up my own project.

Project 52

For the lazier people with commitment issues. Instead of taking pictures every day, you do it once a week. More if you feel like it, but none of this “every day” pressure.

So I kicked this Project 52 off yesterday with a bang by taking my camera off auto and putting it on AV. I didn’t stop there, though. I actually opened the owner’s manual and finally understand the meaning of F stop and how to change it. Go me! And when I say I understand the meaning of F stop and how to change it, I mean I know how to spin my dial and when the number goes down, the background gets blurry, and when I go up, the background is crisp.

At least I *think* that’s how it goes, but honestly, I’m not entirely sure. Basically, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I just started this yesterday. I don’t know if 3.5 would be better than 4.5. I just turn the dial and take the damn picture 15 different times with dozens of different F stops.

What’s really funny is that my husband used to be a photographer. Like, professionally. He knows all of this stuff and has tried to teach me, but that was the time we almost divorced. That’s how thick I am about camera mechanics. This stuff just refuses to stick in my brain.

It’s sort of like how laundry mechanics refuse to stick in my husband’s brain.

We all have our shortcomings.

But I’m working to overcome mine, alone. Maybe it’s better that way. With Wally standing over my shoulder, huffing and puffing over my slow uptake, and rolling his eyes behind my back, forgetting I am a mother and now have eyes in the back of my head and see these things, I get flustered. I can’t learn when I’m flustered.

When it’s just me, there is no one to around. Duh, Captain Obvious, of course there is no one around when it’s just you! Appearances do not need to be maintained. I can be just as photo stupid as I want, and it’s okay.

I’d like to share with you the pictures I took yesterday. Not that they are that good, but I want to show them to all the moms of preschoolers who have DSLR cameras.

I want to scare them shitless.

Once your kids are in elementary school, these will be your subjects.

I hope you don’t have nightmares tonight.

P.S. Is it okay to let your abusive mother play Granny to your kids? I gave my opinion (which includes homicide as a possible solution) and you can give yours too.

I wonder if my readers think I’m exaggerating when I say I’m raising truthsayers, possibly the next Gandhi. Let me assure you, I am not.

As evidence, I offer this conversation I had yesterday with my oldest son, word for word. For you grown ups out there whose mind hasn’t atrophied from too many episodes of SpongeBob and Chowder, that means verbatim.

Really, I use the bigger word for those people whose minds have atrophied from Dora the Explorer and her Nick, Jr. comrades whose plot is to weaken the minds of stay-at-home parents across the world. I’m slowly clawing my way out of the two-syllable word darkness and invite you to do so with me.

Anyway, here’s the conversation. Verbatim.

“Girls are the craziest people on the planet.” he said

“Yes, this is true.” I reply, beaming quite brightly. We are crazy. I have prepared him well for his future dating years.

“And boys are the biggest nincompoops on the planet.”

“Oh yeah, that’s true too! Why do you think they are such nincompoops?” I ask.

“I dunno, they’re just that way by nature.”

I hope you are writing these down as quotes in your Golden Book of Life Wisdom. I’m sure you’ll want to refer to them often. I’m not sure even Gandhi spoke Truth with such clarity.

And since we’re speaking of quotes, here’s another one:

“To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass.” -Anne Lamott

So all those years my son was obsessed with lining up Hot Wheels, then Thomas the Train, and then marine science and now the breeding of cats weren’t signs of perseveration or fixation or any “-ation” at all. He was simply keeping his head out of his own ass.

Good to know, and I share this wise quote for all those other parents whose kids may appear to fixate or perseverate. I can’t tell you whether it’s a good or bad thing, but for me, just questioning the idea such a trait is somehow wrong or flawed is enough to keep me marching along this unbeaten path.

Now back to this idea that girls are crazy. In my last post, Texas Red wondered if my nieces were too young to know not to talk about v’ibrators, or if I’m the cool, crazy aunt and that’s why they told me the v’ibrator story. I’m crushed the answer is not obvious.

I’m the cool, crazy aunt.

You know, the non-Republican who brings goat cheese truffles appetizers and a new wine to taste, and doesn’t believe heaven or hell are actual places we go when we die.

The one who thinks gay marriage is fine. If homosexuals want to suffer with the rest of us crazy fuckers and line divorce attorney’s pockets, why not?

The one who doesn’t (gasp!) use double negatives.

So, yes, I’m the off-her-rocker aunt who maintains the “cool crazy” status only because I keep them in a state of confusion by occasionally reverting back to double negatives and incorrect subject/verb agreement, making them think I’m just like them. That probably don’t make no sense, but it was how it is.

See, I bet you’re confused now too. I can even get away with anti-Republican sentiments when I speak like that and they ain’t got no clue!

Before the v’ibrator conversation and thus my brain melting out of my cranial orifices, I had a different conversation with my 17-year-old niece. But not the one where we accused the 13-year-old of being a cougar in training. No, no, another one. The one where the 17-year-old said her math teacher reminds her of me.

I just had to know exactly what it was about this teacher that reminded her of me. Her devastating good looks? An Albert Einstein-esque quality? The ability to mesmerize a crowd of people every day?

Before my niece could explain, my mother (my mother) piped up and asked why my niece wanted to insult her math teacher like that. What the hell? I’m not changing her diaper when she’s in the old folks home.

My niece ignored her and went on to say that her math teacher is “just so crazy. She’s just, like, out there, I dunno. She’ll be talking about one thing, then all the sudden go off on something else, and then yell, ‘SQUIRREL!’ She’s just crazy.”

“Um, I don’t yell ‘Squirrel!’”

“Oh, I know, but you know what I mean. She’s just out there on the edge.”

“Well, hon, it’s the only place to live.”

“I know. I want to be that way too.”

Oh shit, y’all, I think this means I’m a ROLE MODEL.

Everyone hide.

There is a reason other than the baseboard cleaning mutant swine flu virus that I’m not writing that much. It’s also that January is such a dull month and there is nothing going on. The entire month is a letdown after the holidays, it’s cold, it rains a lot.

February will be a much better month, what with my birthday where I can wring my hands over the fact that I’m now on the downhill side of my 30’s and still have no career direction, how awesome!

And Mardi Gras is in February, so, woohoo! Can’t wait for that drunk blogging. And on top of that, my boss/mentor/surrogate stepmother’s daughter is coming to Mardi Gras this year. This will add a new story element to my drunk blogging, I’m sure. I’ll have a partner in crime!

I think Carla will end up being a surrogate sister too. I mean my own sister is coming next weekend for the Senior Bowl game, but claims she can’t come to the parade Friday night because she has to work. WTF? You don’t let something like a job interfere with Mardi Gras parades. Doesn’t she understand the irresistible thrill of yelling for cheap plastic shit and beads and stuffed animals you don’t even need?

It’s like I wasn’t even born to the right family.

And let’s not forget Valentines in February too; the holiday where we long-term married people laugh at and mock the superficial romantic acts all the romantically immature couples do on that day and then secretly wonder if there is something wrong with us on in the inside.

You know what happens in January? Run-on sentences, that’s what.

I’ll tell you what else happens in January. Finding out your 17- and 13-year old nieces know what v’ibrators are.

This was revealed to me before I even had a party cocktail. In fact, there weren’t even cocktails at this party because it was a birthday party for Southern Baptists, which basically means you have to be around your family and enjoy it without the help of the Devil. As if.

And then they drop this v’ibrator bomb on me. Apparently my 11-year-old niece has been testing out her creativity and making up new names for things, like cell phones, which she began calling v’ibrators. Because they can v’ibrate!

I can see their dilemma.

“Mom, your vibrator is ringing!”

Do you really want your child to say that in the local small town hot spot? I know a lot of tacky, uncultivated things happen at Wal-Mart, but surely there is a line and loud conversations about ringing vibrators must cross it.

So I get it. 11-year-old had to be corrected. This understanding comes from the women whose 7-year-old yelled out in TJ Maxx “There’s nothing more important than peeing when you have to pee!”

(Such truthsayers I am raising. The next Ghandi, I swear!)

But what I don’t get is my 17-year-old niece telling me the story and when my eyes got big and I asked how she even knew what a v’ibrator was, she said, “Heather, even (name of 13-year-old niece) knows what they are!”

*thud*

They had to revive me with smelling vodka.

Maybe January isn’t that boring after all.

You know, bloggers can take those arbitrary web awards and place them on their special shelf of web awards. (I mean, these awarders do actually send an award to the winners and aren’t using virtual “awards” as a guise for link baiting and driving traffic to their own site, right? Certainly there is something tangible to show for it?)

I don’t really think I need those awards to say, hey, I’ve made it! While I’ve not been posting this week, readers have actually checked in on me to make sure I’m okay. That’s a first, and I’m pretty sure that is the definition of blogging success – having readers who care enough to want to know if you are okay if you disappear for several days. At least that’s how me and my unadorned shelf will define it.

Everything has been fine with me, just fine. If suffering from a mutant flu virus is fine.

I have this insane obsession about cleaning my baseboards right now and it’s very time consuming. I don’t exactly what that means except that it must be caused by some mutation of the swine flu that affects the brain. Why isn’t the CDC on that one? Millions of housewives could become infected! Surely there’s a vaccination? Like wine taken intravenously? Surely.

And speaking of housewives, I’m over at the Mouthy Housewives today discussing how to tell your sister she’s both fat and stupid. Solid gold advice, people. So golden, in fact, that the Executive Office of the President of the USA is reading our blog. We suspect the Massachusetts election upset has something to do with Obama turning to us for advice. Who wouldn’t? We’re fucking awesome.

You better get your questions to us now before all of our time is taken up saving our country through economic and health care advice to the President. If we can mediate our way through playgroups and teacher conferences, surely we can get Republicans and Democrats to play nice together? Then again, the children in the playgroups probably have more maturity than Congress, so…

Oh dear, I feel another onset of baseboard fever setting in. If anyone would like to ship the vaccine to me (you know that wine vaccine?), you can mail it to:

Heather Shake-Shake
123 Housewife Hell Road
Winter sucks, MF’ers 12345