Naked Cupcakes

Where are you?

2016-07-05T08:24:00.003-04:00

I am here: http://write2sarah.com

So, it's not funny-ha-ha but it's who I am now as a writer. I just wrote my first post. I moved my old posts over there but haven't made any public. Who's still here? Anyone else move?

Helloooo

Hippie come-ons

2015-06-24T19:29:00.001-04:00

Hi.

Last weekend, I went to a music festival with one of my besties. It was 400 degrees, so he was surly. We had some beers when arrived. On the way there, a young bride with a full skirt caught my friend's attention. "Look at this goddamn bride getting her picture taken on the bridge. Fucking asshole."

Admittedly, it's not a pretty bridge. I heart him.

After some beers in the heat, we ran into a friend from college and her beau. They ran into some more people. We watched some middle schoolers rocking Talking Heads and Nirvana. No joke. They drew a crowd.

Among the friends our friend brought to the mix was a hippie who had also had some beers. Hacky Sack and I struck up a conversation about the arts. He asked what I wrote. I said mostly essays and memoir about the uncomfortable. Like what, he wanted to know. Religion, relationships, sex - you know, life.

At this, he lit up. He talked a bit about his romance experience and said he was very interested in talking about relationships. He gave me his card. I tried some back-and-forth until he said, "Yeah! I'm most interested in talking about things in the physical realm, you know?"

Yeah, pumpkin. I know. That's when I texted my friend, who was standing to my right. "Help!" And he did.

A couple days later, I had a thing published about relationships. But not the kind that interested Hacky Sack.

If you're interested, please check it out here (and stick around because there is some great writing going on there).

Cheers.

A New Person

2015-02-16T15:52:00.001-05:00

It's been years since I've posted here. It seems like just yesterday, and it seems like a long time ago.

I am a different person.

I got a master's degree, and then I got a divorce. Not a conscious uncoupling. A traditional, horrible, mean divorce. The kind your parents had in '76 or '82. Before Ivanna told us, "Don't get mad. Get everything."

This is not the right venue for me to share intimate details of my divorce, and really, it's fresh enough to be self-centered and not of value to the greater good. Yet.

I'm working on a website ... slowly, as I have a full time job and I'm a single-parent of two hilarious, brilliant, and remarkably weird kids. I might move this stuff over there. Or move some of it. Or none of it.

I thought I would want a fresh notebook because my writing style has changed with my life.

But I just logged in to poke around the blogs I've missed and felt like I reconnected to old friends.

I'm going to sit here the rest of the afternoon with a cup of coffee and the leftover chocolate-covered strawberries from Valentine's Day and visit old friends. I don't know that anyone will see this, but if you do, I've missed you and I'm happy to see you again.

I leave you with an old toast ...

Here's to you, and here's to me,
Friends, friends we'll always be,
But should we ever disagree,
The fuck with you and here's to me!

Cheers,
S.E.

How to Feed the Children

2013-01-01T20:45:00.001-05:00

UNICEF commercial with Alyssa Milano comes on TV. An overwrought cover of John Lennon's "Imagine" plays over faces of beautiful, sad-faced children.

Me: Sometimes she fake-cries like Sallie Struthers. I wish she would just take her shirt off.

PHubby: Seriously! If she charged 50 cents a tit shot, she could feeds lots of kids. Her shaved muff could feed a village.

Happy New Year

Where does he get it?

2012-11-10T21:57:00.000-05:00

My five-year-old son's artwork:

(I'm the furry one with the side-ass. His twin sister is the victim.)

I found this on the coffee table one morning, before my first cup of coffee.

(that's his name I blocked out up there.)

He should probably just be my illustrator.

Things that are not sneakers

2012-11-08T16:27:00.001-05:00

This morning, I asked my five-year-old daughter to put on sneakers. She was home sick, and I had a lot of driving to do early for work. I told her to keep her snuggly, warm pajamas on, but to add underwear, socks and sneakers.

For future reference, a list of things that are not sneakers:

Sparkly blue Mary Janes
Pink snow boots
Two pink child-size purses - one sparkly, one not
A backpack containing ginger ale and goldfish.
Two teddy bears, a "lovey" (a stuffed bunny head attached to a mini blanket), and a miniature lavender hippopotamus Pillow Pet
One paperback copy of Matilda by Roald Dahl
A journal with Curious George on the cover

For future reference, a list of things I did not say:

"PUT YOUR GODDAMN SNEAKERS ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FEET."
"Have you been taking any hallucinogenic drugs?"
"Seriously?"
"I swear to all that you hold dear that if you do not find SNEAKERS, put them on your feet, and get in the fucking car, I will throw away every other pair of shoes you own."

I consider this a victory, because last week, I did actually throw my five-year-old son's shoe in the trash can before school. He had to fish it out of there before getting on the bus, and I cried all the way to work.

I graduated and stuff

2012-11-06T18:04:00.001-05:00

Hi Internet!

I missed you more than you missed me. What? What's that? You don't remember me? Yeah, I wouldn't remember me either.

I'm a little gloomy and grumpy and spending the evening in my sweatpants on my couch, watching election results roll in and drinking wine until I fall asleep. How YOU doin'?

And we're getting a Nor'Easter tomorrow. Thbpbp. Just hand me a bucket of ice cream and pants with better elastic. I quit.

Anyway, I graduated from my master's program. I'm now a master. Master writer. Perverts.

A tiny little excerpt of an excerpt from my manuscript was published on this really lovely online literary magazine for nonfiction, BraidedBrook.com. Really, most of the stuff they publish is gorgeous and poignant and lyrical. And mine was, well, mine.

If you care to read, I would love your good and bad feedback.

Call me Poop Dollar

2012-07-15T20:00:00.002-04:00

Being a relatively creepy person who regularly makes strangers uncomfortable, I am also very understanding when people act inappropriately. A caveat: I am a judgmental asshole about what types of impropriety are acceptable. For example, I recently picked up a poop dollar.

Are you familiar with the game?

In poop dollar, a person wipes a one-dollar bill in poop and leaves it somewhere where others might pick it up. Then, the person who created the poop dollar yells "poop dollar" from a hiding spot.

Well, dear readers, I was the passerby. I was on vacation, walking down to the beach, when I saw a dollar on the ground in the sand. I thought a kid must have dropped it on his way to meet the ice cream truck. I picked it up. Then, I heard some teenage boys yelling "poop dollar" from their condo deck nearby. I pretended not to hear them, threw the poop dollar beyond the fence of the restricted dunes, walked down to the water, and washed my hands in the ocean where millions of people pee every day.

A few minutes later, I walked back up to the street, ignoring the "poop dollar" cries, took note of the condo's address and called the police to report teenagers smoking marijuana on the deck of that condo.

In another circumstance, I probably wouldn't have done that. But, it was senior week, and they'd been loud and partying on their deck late into the wee hours each day. Never would I have wanted to bust them for partying during their senior week, until they played poop dollar on me. I hope they had to pour out all their beer.

How was your vacation?

Pluses and Minuses of Pink Eye

2012-05-22T12:41:00.002-04:00

MOM: Just stop reading this blog altogether. It will be better for both of us.

Good things about having pink eye
1. No one wants to share your popcorn.
2. Staying in sweatpants all day.
3. When you're home alone all day, you can masturbate, like, nonstop, until you get all sweaty and frustrated because you've been masturbating too much. Actually, this might be a negative.
3. Bed all to yourself.
4. No dish washing.
5. No one comes close enough to know you sharted, like, three hours ago and haven't changed your clothes. Again, this is possibly a negative.

Bad things about having pink eye
1. No one wants to be in the same room as you.
2. Your loneliness leads you to watch a lot of TV.
3. You start crying about things you see on TV. Like missing children, war, and the kid on the cookie dough commercial who had a really tough day at school.
4. Also, why can't Kelly Ripa find a host? She's so perky.
5. Obsessively editing your manuscript, convincing yourself that you are a terrible writer and should stop trying altogether. This involves lots of pacing and talking to yourself.

Hi Internet!!

2012-04-05T19:40:00.002-04:00

I am oh-so-busy and don't have time for more than feminist rage and finishing grad school right now, but I do waste a lot of time on my real-life Facebook page. It is has been and will be all of my social life until May. I eat lots of candy. Ass is gigantic.

So, although I'm livin' the dream in my bleach-stained yoga pants and grown-out dye job, I'm taking two minutes out of my fabulous life to link to the blog of a friend-of-a-friend. Please go to her blog, because if five of you comment in the next week, I'm certain I can get her to stop asking people to "clickety-click" on her damn links already. I mean, really. Clickety-click? It's SO new blogger. Like when we mature, reverent bloggers ~~used to cross stuff out and replace it with something that was slightly less offensive than what we first wrote in order to demonstrate that underneath it all we are cutesy assholes~~ were just finding our Internet voices and making our way in this crazy medium.

Oh, and I won her Wednesday caption contest, which awards me exactly nothing and which I entered after taking her to task for the clickety-click thing. Whatever you do, PLEASE ONLY CLICK her link. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES CLICKETY-CLICK ANYTHING. (I warned you.)

EDIT: ON RE-READ THIS SOUNDS LIKE I DON'T LIKE HER BLOG!! That is NOT THE CASE. She's really witty and thoughtful, and I was just assuming that you people would know that I only link to blogs I like. And by "you people," I mean the people I knew who used to read here and who may or may not have since had their Internet shut off and are now offering handies for rides to their dealers' houses. I just was assuming that you people would understand my ethics. When I tell you to read someone, and it sounds like I hate them, you know it means I like them ... for the simple fact that I even linked in the first place! Shit. This is going wrong. What I mean is that I don't and won't link to blogs to make fun of them or be mean. I link to writers I respect. Period.

I'll be back around in Mayish, looking for new funny people to read and old funny people to read - chicks, mostly. No offense to the men I already adore, but ... feminist rage. And sometimes, maybe, I'll still illustrate blow jobs and make vagina jokes, if I'm not too responsible and educated for all of that now. (Have you TRIED clinical-strength Dove deodorant? It allows you to skip showering for like six days, if used in conjunction with Always feminine wipes-to-go. Beauty tips from me to you.)

Cunnilingus for Peace.

TASSELS!

2012-01-05T16:22:00.000-05:00

Hi, Anonymous! Thanks for all the rad comments yesterday. I see you're quite productive during the work day. As requested, a post.

Nearly a month later, we at Naked Cupcakes (just me, really) are still enjoying the death of Kim Jong Il.

Many people were talking about the death of Kim Jong-il on Twitter, but a lot of people thought Lil Kim died.

Kim Jong-il = sociopathic dictator who let his people starve.
Lil Kim = Only female hip hop artist other than Missy Elliot to have three platinum records, also rapper of "How Many Licks," featuring Sisqo.

The best tweet about the confusion was #4 on Buzzfeed's list of 25 people who made the mistake.

For a limited time only, Naked Cupcakes is offering Kim Jong-il Titty Stickers just for that special someone who has an amazing life. For the woman who has everything! Or for, like, your Dad, because you never know what to get him, and why is it so hard to buy for men anyway? There are only so many Christmases you can shove new drill bits and a JFK book under his nose, under the guise that you put a lot of thought into this Christmas. I'm just waiting for my parents to get a BluRay, so I have another chance to give my Dad another updated copy of PBS's man-gift of last milenium, "The Civil War."

But this year, for Valentine's Day, I'm making titty stickers for everyone - PHubby, Dad, Mom, my BFF, the pitbull nursing puppies next door, and the trash guys I forgot to tip for Christmas. It's perfect for everyone on my list.

Art.

But then I was thinking it might not be demure enough for everyone on my list. Some of my friends are classy, or at least classics, and the Kim Jong Il-inspired Titty Stickers might be better for them - more of a representation of Kim Jong Il, without banging you over the head with it.

But you still get some nip with this one. Nicely framed.

Some of you might want something more exciting, something a little sexy for Valentine's Day. Although it suited KJI, the ever-trendy, sumptuous, collarless greige button-down isn't provocative enough for some V-days. So, ladies, if you're searching for sexy, for wild, for "wow," do a little prep work and surprise your lover with ...

The North Korean.

(with labels for those who can't appreciate fine art and understand what those lines are)

Ask for it next time you're at the salon getting your nips waxed.

Why I blog.

2012-01-02T20:26:00.000-05:00

Around this time of year, bloggers get nostalgic, thinking of their ten most poignant moments of last year, writing about the joy, the immense clarity and amazing community they get from blogging. What they get from blogging is so much more than they give.

I probably would do that too, if I were poignant. Or if my readers weren't also emotionally stunted adults obsessed with all things genitalia and laser pointers. (Genitalia and laser pointers: the original chocolate and peanut butter, friends.)

Blogging does fill a crucial need in my life, and not blogging is no longer an option. New Year's Eve was an opportunity to see old friends. A good friend was having a party, and PHubby and I would see people we haven't seen in years. Fun, right!?

Until I opened conversation by asking if it was too early to tell everyone about the time I tried to make PHubby look like an ass sex fiend in front of the surgeon who was about to give me a colonoscopy (cute anecdote), and then went right into the Dr. TwoFingers story. That's when my cheeks burned and I backed myself into the corner next to the bar and drank a full cup of beer before engaging more than one person at a time in conversation.

The next morning, driving home, PHubby and I were talking about how great it was to see everyone and how we should see these people more often. I told him how I'd embarrassed myself and how, if I had been blogging, I would have gotten all impropriety out pre-party, so as not to spark a night of conversation with details about my birth canal and asshole.

PHubby said he came up with a great new sex move no one had ever heard of -- and when he had the idea, he couldn't express it well enough in person. It needed a blog post. "Oh, yeah? Let's hear it," I said, and rolled my eyes, bracing myself for another generic football-testicle-man-humor joke every man thinks is original and that has never once made someone laugh.

"OK," he said. "You know the Dirty Sanchez?"

"Of course," I replied, because I have self respect.

"How about the Amish Sanchez?"

"Ummm, no."

"Right. So. It's like a Dirty Sanchez, but instead of drawing a mustache, you run your dirty dick along the length of the jaw line."

And with that one sentence, he both reaffirmed my love for him and drove me into the arms of Naked Cupcakes.

New Year's Resolution: return to the blog.

Sorr-EE, I'm writing a motherfucking book, OK?

2011-11-16T13:50:00.001-05:00

Don't get excited. I don't have a publisher or any prospects really. I'm writing it for grad school.

It's about being Catholic and not Catholic, about converting to a religion that pisses me off. It's partially about doing that before I got married, to honor my grandparents, who fell asleep during the wedding anyway. It's partially about not knowing how to decorate with saints and apostles.

It's also about premarital sex and some about marital sex. And feminism. And equal rights. And not knowing when to stand up or sit down or break out the kneeler. About talking back to my priest. About being friends with a bona fide recipient of a medical miracle (ha! bona.). And how that influenced my decision, and how her handling of her secular ideals helps me to handle mine. How, you ask? Liquor.

So, it's like this blog, only with more blasphemy and extra honesty.

NOW, how are y'all? Since I've been gone, Elly Lou had a baby! Congratulations, lady! When I was mother to newborns, the nurses told me that every time George Costanza got sucked off, my uterus contracted a little bit. Suck by suck, it's now down to the size of your nana's purse. No worries, Elly, you'll still have plenty of room to store your hanky and chalky mints. (For those of you who don't understand that, follow the motherfucking link and catch up.)

I have two new posts coming, but I wanted to say hi and apologize to you, dear readers, and reintroduce myself to the Internet before posting about sex toys and awkward conversations with my mother. As usual, you're fucking welcome.

What should I read first? Tell me!

Cynicism 101 with Dr. Fingerbanging

2011-09-06T22:37:00.001-04:00

Y'all read Doc Cynicism, right? If not, you should. Cynicism 101 has been the Shrimpanzee Site of Awesomeness for a long time. I'm about to switch that up to highlight another site. One of these days. Eventually, I'll do it. I'm also going to paint my toenails tonight. Like I said I was going to do every night for the past week.

Today, Professor Cyn posted a guest blog I wrote for him. It's about fingerbanging and parenting. In a normal way. But, you shouldn't just read him today. You should read him every six weeks. Because that's how often he posts. (You see why I like him so much.)

Some examples of the good doctor's work from our most recent emails:

"I knew something was 'just not right' with Cynicism101 for the longest time - and you made me realize that I had a severe lack of fingerbanging posts. Thank you so much for correcting my blog, and my life."

Of course, after I read that, I asked if I could quote his email, and I received the following response.

"Sure thing - quote whatever you like. And entirely unrelated, yes I'm jealous that your emails end in 'Sent from my iPad.'
Best, Dr. C

Sent from my broken piece of shit circa 2002 Dell laptop"

So, check out True Life: Sarah P Didn't Get Fingerbanged over at Cynicism 101 and stick around for other crap he posts, now that you know he'll post anything. (He's of a whore.)

Oh! And he's even more anonymous than I am, so make sure you don't tell his coke dealer about the blog. Happy trails, motherfuckers.

For the elegant southern lady

2011-08-31T08:10:00.000-04:00

Some things are hard to figure out. I spent most of my brain power yesterday trying to figure out a vanity license plate I saw on the way to work.
Anyone have a good guess? It was: LITEWGT. The best I can come up with is "lightweight," but that's a stretch, right? I tried for a long time to turn it into something legal, but I can't. It would be interesting to have a vanity plate that said "litigious," though. You could be a complete dick on the roads, and no one would dare mess with you. I need to research if a bastardized spelling of it is available in my state.
So, yeah. Brain power, like I said.
In other cases, I feel my brain might too easily jump to conclusions, find entendre where perhaps none exists, and pervert otherwise innocent or classy things.
For instance, the other day, I was thumbing through one of the Responsible Lady Who Gardens, Decorates, and Practices Law in Coldwater Creek Suits magazines my parents gifted me for Christmas (as in: Maybe ditch the papasan chair, sweetheart. You're 32.)
I am kind of a magazine junkie, and this particular magazine is probably my favorite in its genre. (I know. Sorry. It's who I am.)
The changing of seasons always inspires the best issues of these magazines - seasonal recipes, decorating tips, what's happening in the garden, transitional wardrobe pieces to take you from this season to the next; from frumpy to fab; from overheated, 7 year old, dusty computer on a chipped, elementary school table you call your workspace to the dive bar where you drink a second-to-bottom-shelf beer to trick people into thinking you're of a higher economic class.
So, September is an exciting issue for the home-and-garden magazine. The editors throw some apples baked into something cinnamon-y and sugary, and I'm inspired. It's what's on the reader's mind.
This particular magazine does a lovely job with this:

Oh, this will be delicious! We should go apple picking this weekend.

Yes! I finally know how to dress like a proper southern lady-professional.

What a charming idea! I'm going to host the classiest tailgating party ever.

Ah, yes. Food porn.

Inspiring! Maybe my fall garden won't be a lot of sticks in the ground surrounded by crabgrass.

I hate these ads. Before I really start reading the articles, I'd better rip out all these order forms.

I'll just crease this card and rip it out.

Wait.

It's not just me, right? Because I'm starting to feel like a failure as a lady and an intellect.

Coming home

2011-08-14T01:47:00.000-04:00

Things I do when I come home after being gone for two weeks:

Get surprised by how clean the kitchen is.

Admire the cupcake-candle scent.

Realize each room is clean, not just the presenting kitchen.

See all magazines that came in while I was away, fanned out evenly on the coffee table.

Climax.

Learn the house is without wine.

Shrug. (See climax, above.)

Start watching John Waters movie.

Ask PHubby to pause it so I could catch up with him on life.

Talk for 45 solid minutes about neurotic writer things.

Marvel that someone actually missed me, while I am talking nonstop about things like "my project" and "truth" and "thematic conflict."

Realize I have a captive audience who has been alone in a house for a full week and without spouse for two.

Take care of that situation.

Blog.

Try really hard not to reign in my typical freedom here as more people I know in real life learn about the blog. Hi, all you people I really know. Sorry about my inner monologue. At least you know I won't write about you, unless I already have, in which case, you're fucked. (Hi Mom, PHubby, BFF, Shrimpanzee-lover, and dearfriend (we need a name for you - Greendrip?)

Dear PHubby

2011-07-24T10:32:00.002-04:00

MOM: Skip this one.

On the 13th anniversary of our first date, which you always remember and I always forget (except this time - 13's a charm!), reminisce with me about the little romantic laughs we've had ...

Our Love, in Memories:

- The night you scored impossibly on the 19th hole of the mini golf course, after I agreed to let you autograph a randomly selected part of my body if you made it. You were an average mini golf player until then. I still suspect you spent the summer hustling me.

- The time I put my butt in your cheese. (It's cute you stopped putting plates of port salut cheese on the bed after that.)

- Learning we would stay and hang out with our friends longer if we did it before the party. (Seven Habits of Highly Alcoholic People.) Had double-effect of eliminating post-sex snacking in bed, thereby saving your cheese from my butt.

- Drunk dialing our family and friends on our wedding night.

- When our Obstetrician told you never to give me more than two fingers.

- When I made you out to be an anal sex freak in front of my proctologist last week. Still sorry about that, by the way. And I love you, even if you are a dirty ass-pirate.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your perirectal/vulvar area

2011-07-14T22:45:00.001-04:00

Where to start.

Hi. I'm a blogger. And I have pain medication.

It's not as fun as people say, because the pain is still there. I'm just in a less pitiful mood about it.

Also, I got to drink a bunch of barium this morning before a CT scan, and the radiologist told me after the scan that I should drink extra water today to help flush it out and also that my poop would be white. I'm seriously considering taking a picture of it when it happens.

Would you guys want to see that?

Phubby says it will be like dropping the Partridge family off at the pool, and I still can't decide if that's (a) racist, (b) the funniest thing I've ever heard, or (c) both.

So, for years I've been ...

OK, I'm going to be real honest here. I wrote the first part of that sentence, and I know it had something to do with Cat Stevens, because I left this post to go research him for about 25 minutes, but then I came back to the post and I have no idea what I was going to write.

But I now know what inspired him to write the hit "Moonshadow." Spoiler for all you in the midst of your Cat Stevens research: He was dancing on some rocks in Spain at night.

Have you ever had to drink a vanilla barium shake? Because it's disgusting, by the way. I think the vanilla makes it worse. Like urinal cakes make bathrooms worse. My daughter was at work with me last week, and she asked what the pink thing was inside the toilet there. (It's a urinal-cake-type thing.)

I told her it was there to make the potty smell a little fresher. So, before I could stop her, she grasped the toilet seat two-handed, leaned her head over the toilet, took a deep breath, and with a face of peaceful bliss let out a big "Aahhhhh." It was like a carpet powder commercial.

And I still let her kiss me on the mouth. Motherhood is all about having no dignity whatsoever. You will endure any disgusting task, including the monitoring of whatever crud is oozing out of your child at any given moment, just to make sure your kids are safe and healthy. It's pathetic. It would be a pathological problem in any other relationship.

Although pet owners do it, too. We used to have a dog who thought the litter box was full of chewy treats with crunchy coating. Whenever we caught her and called out her name, she'd wag her tail and come out half-snarling, like she was really happy we'd left her so many treats. And we let her kiss us on the mouth regularly.

Huh. Only now am I connecting the filthy life I live with whatever is going on with my body. Blogging = self-realization. I got to see Dr. TwoFingers, but it was a boringly appropriate visit. Still, it's nice to think of old times.

Filling the infinite void: your mom's vagina

2011-06-27T21:34:00.000-04:00

Well, school is almost back in session, so once again I will wear too many paisley pashminas and drink black coffee interestingly. I'll also edit your word choice and phrasing in my head while smiling dearly at you. I'm in writey grad school. It's how we do.

So, whatcha been up to?

Not much around here. Loafing a little; playing a little uke; reading an enormous book about the Shroud of Turin; saving my cat from certain death. You know, summer stuff.

Turns out what I thought was gelatinous, mucus-like pee coming out of my cat was actually gelatinous, mucus-like diarrhea, which cost me nearly a mortgage payment to cure. And now I'm looking for a new vet that does not have a state-of-the-art facility capable of curing an elephantiasis in an elephant (read: big exam rooms, weird equipment).

I am glad my cat's alive, but I'm sad about my bank account. I am now accepting bids on the following: Bienvenue!, a rare beginning French text book, circa 1982, discontinued; a video of drunk me deep throating a banana (boner-smashing); a half-full (the power of positive thinking!) tube of hemorrhoid cream; and the lamp my best friend said looks like anal beads, which I bought anyway because it reminds me she's sluttier than I am and that makes me feel good about being me. Actually, scratch the last one. The thrill of being electrocuted with giant anal beads is too good to let go.

I'm open to ideas, though, and I can always drug PHubby and take humiliating and possibly illegal photos of him with the kitchen equipment of your choice. Tweet me with inspiration @anthonyweinersholesofglory.

OH! And who's not watching the Casey Anthony trial and maniacally updating twitter on the #caseyanthony search for updates? Although there's nothing really funny about the case at all, this guy made a trial drinking game. I made my own. It's called If Casey Anthony Does Not Get a Mistrial on the Basis of Ineffective Counsel, I Will Drink a Keg. That Jose Baez objected to his own expert witness' testimony. Are you fame whores watching? Because that is how you get your own reality show, my friends.

Anyway, I'm back in the Internet game. No way I'm going to catch up on two months of posts, but if any of you readers who have blogs who have particularly awesome posts I missed, can you please link it? Because I hate to miss out.

Fitting it all in before the Armageddon

2011-05-19T22:20:00.000-04:00

Wii Swordplay is not only the best game since Donkey Kong, it's also the most fun thing to say with a straight face as an adult.

Being this awesome at Swordplay is how dudes must feel when they get rich while banging chicks on The Real World and then get their teeth bleached. (Why did this show turn from a '90s depressed melodrama to a casting tractor beam for the really hot girl in the retarded class who wasn't quite all-the-way retarded and but was all-the-way built like a 23-year-old underwear model?) The point is I got game. And the other point is that my abs are fantastic.

So, anyway, I've been loafing. I'm still working full time, but my semester ended a few weeks ago, and I've been dreamily tooling around with a few essays and generally being a spoiled writer with lots of time to dream instead of a neurotic writer who can't sleep because of all the writing she is thinking about and doing. And, when did spring happen?! As soon as I get out of work, I just want to play in the backyard and enjoy God's favorite season unironically.

And now I'm refreshed and ready to make you all think I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. As you roll your eyes and turn toward your devil-loving and false-prophet following, remind yourselves who will be the one laughing on Saturday when the world ends. God will be.

Some guy nobody except God and some cult-followers cares about says the world is going to end Saturday, May 21, so I've prepared myself by sewing on a new hymen for revirginification and making a detachable foreskin for PHubby in case God's into gentiles.

Then I wrote a list of things God might like and started checking off the items. I read my Bible literally and then I ironed my linen napkins and douched my cat's vagina with lavender water.

Those of us who get taken to heaven promise not to judge you while we're having an orgy with the big guy and each other. We would never do that. We're not perfect, we're just forgiven, as the bumper sticker of my best friend's nemesis says.

And by "we," we don't mean to include "you." In case you were wondering.

I'm saved! Bring on the Armageddon!

Coming soon: A practical guide to flora: a comprehensive list of scientific names of plants that smell like semen and other quality content. I'll try to squeeze it in before Saturday for you last-minute repenters.

Check it I give it to ya raw butt naked - Wu-Tang Clan

2011-04-12T22:25:00.001-04:00

Goddamn, I love Wu-Tang.

Can we talk about my chubby? Not boner-chubby. My chubby, chubby bod.

The Notorious Sar Ah Pea is watching her weight. Via Weight Watchers.

You might say, Why, Sarah? Why? You seem like such a down-to-earth person! You're not caught up with appearances or that extra bubble of cellulite just below your ass that, seriously, we've all noticed, but just haven't said anything about.

Indeed, I barely ever talk about that weird flap of fat-filled skin that flops over my Cesarean scar. Except when I'm trying to turn men on or when I'm doing bar tricks. Because I'm classy.

Sar Ah Pea has two weight thresholds, above which Sarah P's body reacts poorly - not counting the puffy double-chin and thick upper arms that belong on a person with much bigger boobs.

As I pass the first threshold, my knees ache. They creak when I walk down the stairs in the morning, and as I push my luck four or five pounds past that threshold, pumps, kitten heels and platforms must be avoided. As the mom pants come out, so must the flats. Fanciness is eight pounds earlier.

It's Dockers-and-punchy-loafers time. Spring is in the air! It's an awkward wardrobe time. Always too hot or too cold. Lots of Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Sarah P. Likes: Cadbury Creme Eggs, sitting on the couch, pooping in the morning
Sarah P. Dislikes: Beets, hot lettuce, hemorrhoids

Putting too many pounds on this delicate frame produces a tender, fleshy venous area on my anus. Hemorrhoids turn calming, centering morning poops into painful, sweaty, scream-suppressing marathons.

So, I'm losing weight. I'll post my progress. Not like a health blogger. Like a chubby writer girl with four-year-old twins, a full-time job and a less-than-normal affinity for the video game Zelda. (True story: Saw a tall, out-of-shape, high-school nerd in an "I <3 Zelda" shirt a few years ago. Considered dry humping him.) Translation: Maybe I'll post something, but only if it's horrendously embarrassing. Because "Awkward" is my middle name.

Love,
Sarah Awkward P.
Fat Hemorrhoidal Blogger

Super P.S. Like the new digs? Me, too. Thank you, Sillygrrl, for being the raddest non-hemorrhoidal web designer EVZ.

Mommy needs her hurty bump pills

2011-03-14T22:16:00.001-04:00

Sorry I've been gone so long. Oh? You didn't notice? Cool! Then, HI! I've missed you!

But I was on some really groggy medication, and I literally slept for 12 hours the other night. It was glorious, and I could have done it again starting at midday. It's not even a painkiller or anything fun. It's an antiviral medication with a sleepy side effect that I deemed "worth it" because I really hate cold sores.

I'm not sure why God allows people to get cold sores INSIDE THEIR NOSES, and I've spent a lot of time contemplating the existence of such a cruel overlord. Think of all the people in Japan without access to a pharmacy right now! Not even for a little natural disaster makeup survival kit of lip gloss, clear polish, and Maybelline Great Lash. (Maybe it's natural disaster, maybe it's Maybelline.)

(Too soon? OK, well, if you chuckled, now you kind of have to help because of your crushing guilt. The American Red Cross says medical needs are high. Text REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation to help our friends in Japan. You remember them. They gave us technology. I think we can afford $10.)

Life is so hard.

For instance, the soul-piercing embarrassment I must face when getting my cold sore medication that is also used to treat genital herpes makes me doubt a loving God. If my cold sore was visible, like on my lip like a normal person, it wouldn't be so bad. My nostril cold sores are not always visible but they're also not on my crotch, and that's a distinction I would like everyone behind the pharmacy counter to understand - an especially difficult task because of the aforementioned not-obvious facial cold sore and also because the doctor who prescribes my Valtrex is my well-known local Ob/Gyn.

Maybe pharmacists think they have some sort of secret pharmacy code that laymen can't understand, but I understand it. So, I'm pretty sure, can all these people with walkers loitering around the pharmacy counter waiting for their prescription poop pills. So, even when she yells about the generic name for something, like, everyone knows what it is. Ends with -icillin? Bacterial infection, but nobody's judging even though it could be for the clap.

But everyone associates Valtrex with genital herpes commercials. Everyone. Even I do it, and I take it for a completely different reason. So, when the pharmacist starts yelling about my prescription using its scientific name, I get a little nervous about Oxygen Tank Hank snickering from the disabled person chair next to the counter.

Invariably, I walk up to the counter and wait a lengthy three full minutes for the pharmacy tech who looks strikingly similar to Lara Jill Miller as the adorable tomboy Samantha on the NBC series Gimme a Break! Even though she meets my eyes when I walk up to the counter, she must continue muttering with the pharmacist, who acknowledges nary a soul until that person is a problem and only then with a level of angst and contempt that should only be allowed sanitation workers who had to unjam the sewer pipe outside your house that one time you thought "what's the worst that could happen?" and spent the entire seven days of your period flushing nighttime absorbency feminine hygiene pads down the toilet.

So when Samantha from Gimme a Break! finally descends from the pharmacist's work space, I'm already on the edges of patience. Then, I have to wait while Samantha, who looked completely normal from afar, works her Narnia backward-knee legs down the side steps, whinnies and trots over to the cash register. I tell her my name, she stomps twice, breathes through her gap teeth and turns around to look through the alphabetical bins for my prescription.

It's never there, so she checks the Q and R bins in case it was misfiled and then asks the pharmacist, who then squints at me, drops her reading glasses which swing from her flowered eyeglass chain, and shouts, "I called Dr. TwoFingers [well-known local Ob/Gyn] to see if he wanted to prescribe something else because your insurance company doesn't want to pay for that valacyclovir. Insurance will pay for the acyclovir but not valacyclovir, so I called Dr. TwoFingers to see if he wanted to give you the other kind."

What I want to say is "Please, please say Dr. TwoFingers and valacyclovir one more time, because I'm pretty sure the 20-year-olds buying condoms and specialty lube three aisles away didn't hear you the first two times."

Instead, I embark on a lengthy, pointless monologue about how - hahaha - it's OKzies because I just have this super painful, miniscule cold sore inside my nose which, in case any of the senior citizens were curious, are absolutely not in or around my nether regions because I am a good, Christian woman who hasn't slept with anyone except her husband (you're welcome, Mom) since she got married (sorry, Mom), and anyhoozles, I have a very healthy vaginal life all-in-all, and just so you know, the only reason an Ob/Gyn prescribed it is because one time, when I delivered twins (in wedlock, and a-thank-you) I got a cold sore while he was checking on us in the hospital, and he just went ahead and wrote me a prescription, and ever since then I just call him. Oh, I'm so easy-breezy, aren't I? Certainly not like someone with an ongoing need for this medication.

"How much is it without insurance, then?" I ask, expecting it to be $400 if insurance won't cover it.

"It's 58.50," she says, and in the rage that follows immediately after the pause of shock, I somehow manage not to rip my shirt open, scramble over the stupid raised counter and rip that plush eyeglass chain right off her neck.

Because, really? Based on the assumed $30 copay for the tier-III prescriptions, I'm guessing the difference between her not shouting out my easily misunderstood prescription to half the senior population of our community and keeping it to herself is, like, $28.50.

Stab, stab. Stab.

"I'll take it," I say, and she rolls her eyes at me.

Half-Goat Samantha's mustache whiskers twitch as she fails to stifle her giggle-snorts. I've had enough.

If I were good at this sort of thing, I'd put that centaur in her motherfucking place.

"Listen here, Hot to Trot," I would say. "I wouldn't laugh at you if you got cold sores on your back hump, and I certainly wouldn't imply that you had them on your genitals. And not only because I find revolting the mental image of you having sex. I wouldn't imply it because I have empathy, something your kind should learn from we non-magical creatures. Good day, forest spirit. And the same to your chemical overlord up there behind the raised counter. A-good day."

Instead I pay my $58.50 at the register Nell Carter's cloven-hoofed afterbirth can't seem to manage, and avoid the prying eyes of all the old people.

This is why my occasional cold sore is more degrading than actual genital herpes. And that is how I spent my summer vacation. Love, Sarah P

Ass-burningly grown-up

2011-02-28T21:59:00.002-05:00

You know what burns my ass? Making one of those rubber-cement bouncy balls on my Trapper Keeper folder with my butt.

Did you ever do that? Not with your butt, I mean, but did you ever waste a lot of time making one of those disgusting balls that turn all gray because of your filthy child hands when you could have bought a bright, shiny red one for a quarter in the machine outside the grocery store?

Do you even remember playing with the gummy, gray rubber ball you made? No, of course you don't, because the fun was all in painting the folder with rubber cement and then rubbing it off repeatedly to form it into a big, lumpy ball.

You know what else was a stupid, childish thing to do? Not stepping on the green squares in the elementary school hallway because you might get Jimmy Germs. And then, when you did accidentally step on a square, it was also childish to touch the person next to you and say, "Jimmy Germs - no tradebacks." It would have been much smarter just to step on the squares every time, and then just wipe off all the germs on the library door at the end of the hallway.

Although, now that I think about it, you might have to check the rule books on that, because officially, that might not get rid of Jimmy Germs even though it makes sense. Does hand sanitizer kill Jimmy Germs? Could you use the librarian's?

You certainly don't want to be the kid who doesn't care if he gets Jimmy Germs. Because even though it sounds really grown-up and mature, everyone will know that you are just putting on airs because your mommy told you to be nice to the gross kid. You'll always revert, you'll always go back to caring about Jimmy Germs. There is not enough Lysol in the janitor's trash-can-on-wheels to disinfect the creepiness from those green tiles.

Unless you like it?
Do you?
Do you like those Jimmy Germs? You secretly step on them on purpose when you're in the hall by yourself after school or on your way to the bathroom, don't you?

What is it about those green squares? Is it your way of silently apologizing to Jimmy, cleansing your conscience for being so mean and so loud about being mean? Sure it is. Of course. It makes sense, you're a nice person, really, not someone who just goes around picking on other kids. Sometimes kids pick on you, too, and you know it feels bad. It's all about being a nice person who cares about other people's feelings.

But that's not really it, is it?

No, it's not. You love it. You roll around in those Jimmy Germs. You collect them, even putting your mouth over the water fountain because he does. You wish you could spray yourself with those slimy, booger balls of Jimmy Germs. You wipe them on your backpack, so you can save them for later when you're alone and you can lick the canvas. Do you save your Jimmy Germs with the boogers on the wall next to the bed where you sleep at Grandma's house?

I drew a picture of you. Want to see it?

Like it? I call it "Jimmy Germ Lover."

You can find it in the Guinness Book of World Records. It simply won "Awesomest ever," narrowly winning over the picture your ex best friend drew of your dog face after you decided Jimmy was your new best friend.

Ha!

...

Wonder what ever happened to ol' Germbag Jimmy? Wonder if he still eats his boogers. Wonder if he can still take constant abuse and never shed a tear.

Raising Catholic Children: A Parenting Guide

2011-02-22T12:47:00.000-05:00

As a convert to Roman Catholicism and the daughter of a lapsed Catholic daughter of Catholics (got that?), not all of this Catholic parenting comes easily to me. Some days, I feel I'm stumbling my way through this holy life, but just as anyone can learn to be Catholic, so too can anyone learn to be a Catholic parent.

So far, I've mastered giving up ideals like equality and hope and understanding, and replaced them with fear, guilt and hate. I'm on my way, and you can be, too!

To become a Catholic parent, it helps to fill your home with lots of creepy Catholic things. Start your parenting with something simple and sweet, a nighttime prayer and a couple rounds of "Jesus Loves Me." A picture book with a fuzzy, teddy-bear cover also helps to bond your tiny, unscrupulous, idol worshiper to God and the Church.

Once they love Jesus, it's good to make sure the children have a visible reminder of their faith:

See that guy right there? He died a bloody, rotten death while his mommy cried so that you could be forgiven for grabbing that toy from your brother. If you really believe you deserve your cookies tonight, you may have them, but I want you to really think about it.

What's that you ask? What is that necklace hanging from the crucifix? That's only the Rosary, dear heathen child, something good people pray every day. The carvings on the stones are shamrocks, a symbol of our Irish heritage, which we celebrate because our ancestors nearly starved to death when a blight killed the potato crops, and then our great-great-great grandparents had to sail on a big, big boat to the United States where you now beg for McDonald's before you've finished your organic hot chocolate from Starbucks. How would you feel if you only had potatoes to eat? Hm? What about if the potatoes didn't grow? Still hungry? You want apple dippers or french fried potatoes?

Next, you'll want to reinforce those feelings of guilt and low self worth with a few reminders of people who are much better than your children. For example:

St. Francis of the Swiffer Wet Jet for Wood

Patron Saint of Hiding the Dead Spiders in the Corner the Vacuum Can't Reach

St. Francis of Assisi is the Patron Saint of Animals and the Environment. He died of an eye disease and stigmata, which is a condition in which really good people - really, only the best people - get bleeding, pus-filled wounds just like Jesus had when He was nailed by his wrists and ankles to a large wooden cross. He died while singing a Psalm.

I'm sorry you have the sniffles, honey, but don't you think you should recycle your orange juice carton? After all, St. Francis always loved the environment, even as he was dying a bloody, painful death while singing praise to Our Lord and Savior. You make your own decision, sweetie.

Another good example is St. Jude.

St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, which means even when God is sick of your shit, St. Jude will try to help. Lord knows why they gave him those cases instead of something better. The man was present at the Pentecost, the birthday of the Catholic Church, when the Holy Spirit gave all the apostles little flames on their heads because back then they didn't have sweat shops in China for tiny orphans to make those Lightning McQueen birthday party hats you like so much.. You know, some children have Holy birthday party themes. I'm sure someone could make you a Judas Iscariot pinata. You know, if you were interested. 'Sup to you.

I'm sure Jesus wants whatever makes you happy.

After the saints, introduce something sweet and cherubic: Angels! Everyone loves them, and they are available year round in the form of pins, wall hangings, bumper stickers and sweatshirts your Grandma buys God-knows-where.

Angels are special winged creatures of God who bring to our lives the music of Heaven and protect us in our times of need. Think of them as God's winged warriors.

Once upon a time, one angel fucked with God, sweetie, and things didn't go so well for that angel.

According to the Book of Charlie Daniels, that angel became the Devil, who went down to Georgia, where Johnny showed the devil how it was done. We are never to enter into conversation with the devil, but fiddle competitions are allowable.

All of the above will give you a good start as a Catholic parent, but there are some handy tools on the market to help keep your household Godly, guilt-ridden, and righteous. Maybe Baptists think it's idol-worship, but we Catholics say, "Phooey." Whatever keeps your children miserable is good enough for us!

My favorite is the Elf on the Shelf. He's a little Santa's elf who sits in your house year-round and watches your children and lets Santa know if your children have been naughty or nice.

Some holidays, especially those involving candy, can be difficult for children. It's important to motivate them not to become gluttons or thieves. Giving in to temptation is exactly like nailing Christ to a cross.

Place the elf in a place where children could get in trouble. For example, the candy-filled dining room.

The devil left you unattended candy.

No one can see you.

One little cherry-vanilla Nib wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Would it be exactly like jabbing the hanging Jesus in the side with a sharp stick? Maybe, maybe not.

In a situation like this, a kid sure could use something to help make the right decision.

Something that appeals to a child's natural evil - the greed, the gluttony that overrules the desire for candy.

Christmas presents.

Not a saint or an angel or a son of God, but pretty fucking scary nonetheless.

By now, you're well on your way to being an effective Catholic parent. Any day now, you'll start working off those minutes in purgatory. God speed.

Romance

2011-02-14T07:23:00.001-05:00

After Rapejoke Sunday (new regular feature? could be funzies!), we could use a palette cleanser.

Let's talk about romance. I thought I got PHubby the best Valentine ever (I can't tell you about it because I'm writing about it before I give it to him), but he made me three e-cards that are all even better than the one card that cost money.

Also, he never told me you can make free e-cards of your very own on someecards. Apparently, he did it for the first time for Mother's Day and told me about it. Somehow I wasn't listening, and I'm pretty sure that's because he's always trying to tell me stuff when I'm purposely tuning him out.

Lately, he's been texting more than he used to. His favorite text shtick is "I love you more than ..."

So far, he loves me more than fat kids love insulin, more than midgets love Baby Gap, and more than Todd Palin loves happy endings.

And now this ...

Click here for other PHubby-created cards. (Why didn't he tell me about this back when I was fiddling with the site that doesn't have free stuff?)

So, anyway, I recently told my mother about the blog. Again, sorry, mom. PHubby didn't want me to post his cards because he was worried about you reading them and thinking ill of him.

For readers, here's a little story about my mother's best friend:

When I was pregnant, my friends and family members threw one big baby shower, which was really convenient and it was in a nice little restaurant close to my parents' house. Everything was pretty and sweet. I mean, really, the salad had strawberries in it. How quaint, right?

One of my friends had two cakes made (one for each baby in my uterus) that looked like little knit baby sweaters, which was extra super cute because BFF's mom knitted baby sweaters for the twins. Just a sweet, classy day.

At the end of the shower, PHubby showed up to help us load the gifts and his gigantic wife into the car. Some guests had already left, but many were still mingling, enjoying drinks or oohing and aahing over the baby gifts.

PHubby quietly walked in the door to the room and was spotted by Mom's friend, who in front of PHubby's mother immediately said, "Hey! I know you! You're the one who left it in too long."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Go forth and multiply or, if you're alone, keep a lid on the weeping so the rest of us can enjoy our chocolates and sex. No matter what the singles say, or what the bitter ex-singles who still hate Valentine's Day say, Valentine's Day is super special except when you have your period.