I haven’t slept in two weeks. I’m a little crazy. Not as crazy as when I posted my nudes, but close.

It’s 9 p.m.

I commence my trying-to-go-to-sleep rituals which include: a hot bath; sipping Ovaltine like an elderly, celibate cat rescue lady; and/or reading something way over my head, like Anna Karenina, Dante’s Inferno, the Bible (retaining only “Jesus wept.”)

It’s 11 p.m.

I clamber into bed with Henry. His head is buried under two pillows, one arm flung protectively over the entire mass so it can’t be dislodged thus keeping any sound, such as my voice, from entering.

Henry suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome. The sheets twitch as his legs move restlessly, occasionally waking him. Why can’t we sleep? We have food, a roof over our heads, we’re not living in a mud hut sporting thatches of gnarled leaves that barely cover our genitalia. I’m filled with middle-class self-loathing.

I toss, turn, thrash, get up to pee, turn my Itty Bitty book light off and on, off and on like a sniper strobe. I get up and meander into the guest room, sprawling out with my head at the base of the bed to throw the insomnia a curve with a new sleeping position. Then I decide just to rest, to try not to sleep.

It works. I don’t sleep.

It’s midnight.

I stalk into the living room to peruse my yoga-sutra tape. The women appear to be from 1972; they sport white-woman afros and saggy leotards. I try to do a few yoga stretches, the downward dog, the praying child thingy, the corpse pose. I listen to my Ouija breath. Now I’m eating something. An apple. A Fig Newton. I want chocolate, but it’s caffeinated!

I’ve made an appointment with a sleep specialist. I’m willing to sleep in a lab on a gurney with electrodes jutting out of my forehead, pectorals and wrists while perfect strangers survey me through a monitor as they play cards, get stoned and masturbate to alleviate the tedium of their job.

It’s 3 a.m.

I return to the guest room in a funereal manner, psychosis near. What if I never sleep again and start taking uppers and downers like Judy Garland? Who’ll raise my kids when I overdose on Lunestra?

It’s 4 a.m.

I sleep lightly. George Carlin walks into my room and stares at me. Why? I’ve never even seen George Carlin’s act. I barely know what he looks like. He’s not even funny. Also, he’s dead.

At 6:15 a.m. my girls come in to find me staring glaze-eyed at the ceiling like Colonel Kurtz at the end of Apocalypse Now. “The horror,” I mutter, “The horror.”

“Don’t worry, mom,” says Clare, poker-faced. “We can make our own breakfast.”

That’s it! Things have gone too far. Now my kids are crazy!

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YOU CAN! 

This looks and sounds much more complicated than it is. You just need to do it a time or two and then it’ll be easy peasy.  (I totally sound like your prom date, don’t I?)

STEP 1 - Have your list of “Top 10 whatever”

STEP 2 -To make a slideshow, you’ll need ten JPEG images to go with your list items (try PhotoPin)

STEP 3 - Name your pics 01-.jpg, 02-.jpg, 03-.jpg, etc. (don’t forget the “0”)

STEP 4 – Take a break, have a snack, look at this this

STEP 5- In your WordPress dashboard –> gallery –> add gallery

STEP 6 - Give your new gallery a name, add gallery

STEP 7 - upload images (this can be done in batch, and 430px is the optimal width)  into your new gallery

  TIP: If for any reason your pics didn’t upload in the right order go to “Manage Gallery” & “Sort Gallery”

STEP 8 -  Now go to “Manage Gallery” and find the id number associated with your gallery, you will need that later

STEP 9 –   Click the name of your gallery to create captions (default is file name) and then have your pithy saying that you’ll save as a “description” (Yes, these are two different slideshows. It still makes sense. Drink enough vodka and it it IS the same slideshow!)

DON’T FORGET TO SAVE 

STEP 10 –  gallery id + gallery descriptions = ready to insert gallery into post. Copy/paste this code  in the html view–>

PREVIEW THIS

Does it look awesome and perfect? Ta da! YOU DID IT! Have a drink.

P.S. If you’d like to try a slideshow for yourself, you’ll need NextGen Gallery and NextGen Jquery Carousel. If you have any questions, you can feel free to email me at Anissa.Mayhew@Gmail or contact me on Twitter.

The night of the event arrives and you get dressed up and head out with your friend and, when you arrive, you finally stop to wonder exactly what type of event you are attending.

Well, you might be at a GLBT fundraiser if…

• The event takes place in a funky space with a lot of exposed brick and track lighting. Pro Tip: You could be at a gallery opening. There is a lot of cross-over between these two types of events so you will have to gather more information.
• The catering has at least one of the following: couscous, quinoa, vegetarian sesame noodles. Pro Tip: If there is tempeh and/or hummus, you are probably not at a GLBT fundraiser but a lesbian potluck.
• Men are drinking Cosmopolitans without shame.
• The number of women in vests and ties equals or exceeds the number of men in vests and ties. Pro Tip: The wait staff must be excluded from your final counts.
• One of the live auction items is a gay cruise. This is a requirement for all GLBT fundraisers.
• There is at least one person who looks like Adam Lambert as evidenced by two of the following: hair gelled to a noticeable height, eyeliner, fitted black or gray suit (preferably with a sheen).
• The signature drink for the night is named after an actress. For example, this past weekend I went to a GLBT fundraiser and the signature drink was called a “Halle Berry” which meant that I got to say, “Mmmm… Halle Berry tastes just like I imagined” all night. She tastes fruity and delicious, by the way. And, for the record, I did not see a single man drink a Halle Berry because gay guys just don’t think of her that way.
• There is a live band that plays at least three of the following songs in succession: We Are Family, I Will Survive, Born This Way, YMCA or Dancing Queen. Pro Tip: You are most likely not at a GLBT party if they play Katy Perry’s “I Kissed A Girl”.

If you find that you are, in fact, at a GLBT fundraiser, throw back a perfectly crafted cocktail and lead the crowd in a rousing rendition of “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross. You are among friends.

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Be thankful I didn't use a picture of dog poop on the carpet. I have many.

We’ve all chuckled at that strawberry blond lady walking her Golden Retriever, and we’ve probably remarked on how so-and-so’s hyperactive Chihuahua is like a miniature version of her flibbertigibbet owner. There has even been actual research that shows that people with certain personality traits tend to end up with certain breeds. There are also plenty of people who maintain that, not only do people get dogs that they are compatible with, but that the owner’s personality actually rubs off on the dog. These are generally people who have cool dogs.

I’ve only had three dogs so far in my life. That doesn’t sound like very many, but it’s been over a long stretch: 32 years’ worth of canine companions. And with the first two, I could see how they might be, to varying extents, reflections of myself during different eras in my life.

Mac, who I got when I was 14, was an Old English Sheepdog. He was a cute, goofy, playful oaf. With a tendency to lash out at other dogs, a complete disregard for his own safety, and a habit of defying death several times a month. He was with me through my teens and into my twenties, and we had a lot in common. In his 14 years, he was hit by a car, hung out the side of a building by his leash, poisoned, engulfed in flames, caught in quicksand, and struck by lightning. There were parallels to all these events in my life.

I got Greta a couple months after Mac’s demise. She was a beautiful Rottweiler who lived up to all of that breed’s noble qualities, but none of the hype about their alleged viciousness. She was strong as a horse, loyal, affectionate, funny, smart enough. People would cross the street when they saw her coming because they thought she was such a badass; but she was really a cream puff. She reminded me of someone I knew.

The dog we’ve had for the last 5 years, Stella, a 125-lb Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, just shat on the last rug in our house.  We threw out all the others after she had destroyed them with her various excretions. Luckily (I guess), she was wearing her diaper, which she always wears in the house because of her leaky urethra. So, at least some of the shit was trapped in there and smeared all over her hind quarters. She’s perfectly potty trained–she’s just prone to stomach ailments that cause explosive diarrhea. She was traumatized by the bathing that followed her accident, so I gave her her nightly dose of anti-anxiety meds early.

Either Stella’s going to snap out of it one of these days, or my wife has some tough years ahead of her.

About the Writer
A.M. is a truly unique, versatile creature. Standing about five feet tall, she can be found roaming the wilderness or scouring the mall for a clearance rack. When at home, she procrastinates by writing her blog, anthropomorphity, which is about clothes, music, animals and life, or by posting meaningless but entertaining tweets on twitter.

An example of an Artist Trading Card

One great thing about crafting is being able to grab a few supplies and spend an hour by yourself or with your kid to create a small piece of art you can share. It’s not hard. Honest. If I can do it, so can you.

There’s a little piece of art you can share called an Artist Trading Card. They are 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches and can be designed around any theme.

What you’ll need:

• Glue or Mod Podge
• Scissors
• Colored pencils/crayons/markers
• Thick paper or card stock for base
• Fun tools for adding details, like stamps and ink pads, interesting pieces of paper, pages or images from books and magazines, playing cards from incomplete decks, or game pieces.

Tip: Thrift stores are great places to score supplies for these cards (or altered books) because they have tons of reading material for cheap. Add in some clearance supplies from your local art supply store and you’re more than ready to make a trading card.

Why would you want to make an Artist Trading Card?

Glad you asked! The number one reason would be so you can share a piece of yourself. Think about it like a greeting card.

Share one for happy or sad occasions. Share one just to let someone know you’re thinking of them. You don’t even have to know who you are making it for so feel free to be creative!

Directions:

There aren’t really any directions. Just cut your base paper to 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches and then draw or glue on whatever you want! The only real rule is that you sign each one–you know, just like a real artist!

Ready, set, go and create, yo! Share the love. And the card. Because it is a trading card after all.

I swore I'd never let my kid do gross stuff in public. Like pee in a lake. Or drink water from the same lake. Note to self: Do not drink lake water.

Before I was lucky enough to have children (SHUT UP) I thought I knew it all. I saw how my parents and other relatives parented and thought, “I’ve got this.” I also had lists of things I’d never, EVER do when I was a parent.

How completely stupid naive I was.

Look, I was a cocky twenty-something. I mean, my future kids would NEVER misbehave and they’d certainly NEVER do _____ (insert completely out-of-touch-with-reality parenting thing here). I had PLANS, PEOPLE. I read books! From parenting experts and stuff! I wasn’t going to mess this up.

Ha. HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Naturally, I have photographic of every EPIC PARENTING FAIL. I even polled my friends, and it turns out I’m not alone in the Worst Mommy of the Year Category. Without further ado, I bring you the top 11 things I SWORE a blood oath I’d never do as a parent:

Let them use computers, television, video games, etc.

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That lasted about five minutes. He's two here.

What have YOU done as a parent that would make your twenty-something self die of humiliation?

When I was nine, I knew what I wanted and what I was going to be.

When I was nine, my whole life lay before me, filled with adventure and laughter.

When I was nine, everything was simple.

When I was twenty-nine, I was small and plain and unsure. Everyone was better than I was.

When I was twenty-nine, I was lost and wandering, not know what to do next or what I should be.

When I was twenty-nine, I thought my life was almost over, that it would never be anything special.

When I was twenty-nine, life was so full of twists and turns that I couldn’t see the road ahead of me.

Now I am forty-four, and I am strong and beautiful. No one is better than me (although they are certainly just as good).

Now I am forty-four, and I know what I want and what I’m going to be (at least for today).

Now I am forty-four, and the rest of my life lies before me, filled with adventure and growth and lots of laughter (I think more about now than what’s to come).

Now I am forty-four, and everything is simple again (Knowing what’s important makes it so).

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