Out of stock

I am beginning to suspect that Giant Eagle is using my Advantage Card to track my purchases and systematically eliminate all the things I buy on a regular basis.

First, it was just little things, things that could be chalked up to coincidence. Maybe they just stopped making Sweet BBQ Sun Chips? I mean, I guess it makes sense that I might have been the only person buying chicken jerky? Even though it’s delicious and way better for you than regular jerky, but whatever, I digress, it does sound sort of gross when you think about it.

But more and more, I find that the items that I needed to survive everyday life were disappearing off shelves. Oscar Mayer turkey bacon– gone. Stonyfield Farms blueberry yogurt– never to be seen again. My grocery store now sells no less than sixty varieties of nut butter, including powdered, cocoa pretzel, and bacon (which is probably pretty good, TBH), but you will never again be able to purchase prepared chicken or shelled pistachio nuts. (And yes, I know I can just man up and shell my own pistachios and prepare my own chicken, but THIS IS AMERICA AND I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO.)

At first, I tried to adjust. Fine, no more Oscar Mayer turkey bacon? I will eat this equally acceptable Jennie-O turkey bacon. I suppose this coconut creamer is an adequate replacement for my Almond Joy creamer. (It’s not.) But then Giant Eagle fought back, and eliminated those things, too.

The worst is when they take away something that my children like, because it’s really not possible to explain to a five-year-old that she’s never again going to taste the delectable goodness of FarmRich pepperoni pizza bites (and God help you if you attempt to replace them with Tostino’s Pizza Rolls, because she will KNOW, and her wrath will be fierce). Occasionally, I’ll find my old food comrades in another store, and when I do, I return home with a cart full of it, hoarding it like the apocalypse is at hand. I will most likely die almost immediately at the hands of zombies, but by God, I will do so with a jar of Mid’s meat sauce clutched against my chest.

I wonder if I could use this to my advantage. If I buy nothing but mayonnaise for the next few months, will they take all the mayonnaise off the shelves? Can I buy out the stock of the olive bar and get that shut down, too? I don’t really know what I’d do with gallons of mayonnaise and olives– probably barf uncontrollably until they’re removed from the premises– but there must be some benefit to this misfortune. And an antipasto-free shopping experience just might be worth it.


Quite the Week

Without going into details, I have been having what can only be described as Quite the Week.

It’s weeks like this that make me lay in bed awake at night, thinking of weeks past that I thought had gone poorly, and just laugh and laugh and laugh at my former self that thought her worst week was the week that she felt left out at a putt-putt golf outing, or the week she accidentally befriended a homeless person and then accidentally helped him commit a crime. (That actually happened. That week was also very intense.)

But the problem now is that, as I believe I have mentioned before but am too lazy to go back into my archives and link to, I have completely and totally lost the ability to relax. Never exactly a laid-back person to begin with, having children and a stressful job has pretty much rid me of all vestiges of the ability to just chill the fuck out.

I mean, I know what I am supposed to do, in theory– lay down! Read a book! Take a bath! Drink too much beer and stalk old friends on Facebook! But when I try to do those things, a very loud and persistent alarm immediately begins sounding in my head: WARNING! WARNING! LAUNDRY IS GOING UNFOLDED AND I GUESS YOU FORGOT YOUR EMPLOYEE REVIEWS WERE DUE TODAY WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM WHY ARE YOU LYING DOWN ARE YOU DYING BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER LAY DOWN AGAIN UNTIL YOU DIE!

(I just now remembered when writing that review that my employee reviews really are due today. That’s distressing.)

I’m assuming I can’t be the only person who lost the ability to chillax upon entering adulthood. Otherwise, there would be no bitter, Type-A women to unthaw with ukulele music in romantic comedies. Is there anyone among you who found your way back to relaxation? Can you tell me the path? Do they sell wine on the path? Is wine the path?

The rolling garbage heap

I came to grips a long time ago with the fact that I’m not the kind of person who takes good care of her things. I don’t waterproof my boots or Scotchguard my furniture; the Dry Clean Only tag inside my shirts might as well just read “Wear Until Too Smelly Then Bury In Closet In Shame Forever.” For this reason, I never really spring for the expensive stuff—I had a Coach purse once that gave me extreme anxiety whenever I carried it, terrified that if I breathed on it the wrong way it would spontaneously disintegrate leaving behind a sad pile of sunglasses and Chick-Fil-A receipts that I would have to carry home in a Giant Eagle bag.

But no matter how frugal you are with your clothes and accessories, it’s basically impossible to cheap out on a car, so I have always tried to keep mine relatively tidy. I was never the type to spend hours detailing the inside with Q-Tips or anything, but I kept the dashboard clean, the carpets vacuumed. Sometimes I might have a dangly novelty air freshener in there to spruce the place up a bit. No one was ever super impressed by the inside of my car, but no one ever recoiled in horror.

Until I had kids.

Now, my car is basically a rolling garbage heap. There are gummies worked so deeply into the fibers of my floor mats that they have now officially logged more miles than the car’s previous owners. The floors are littered with French fries, Lego pieces, board books that literally no one ever wants to read until you dare to throw them away, at which point they are rescued from the donate pile and taken into the car to peruse once, and then you just escort them to and from your every destination for the rest of your life.  I tried adding a toy cubby between the car seats to hold it all, but that just served as a delightful dumping tool slash kooky hat.

To make matters worse, I made the rookie mistake of letting my children eat and drink in the car, leading to milk spills and the incorporeal funk that accompanies them after they inevitably spoil. In the summer months, my car routinely smells like the cow barn at the county fair, all earthy shit and rotten milk.

I try to fight back every few weeks, cleaning out all the old detritus and sadly wiping things down, but before I even manage to make it to the grocery store and back, a new unsharpened pencil, doll hat and copy of Ten Apples Up On Top materializes out of nowhere. Thankfully, the two car seats in the back mean I can basically never drive any other adults anywhere, but I live in fear of the impromptu work lunch where someone asks “can I just grab a ride with you?” NOT UNLESS YOU’RE WILLING TO SPEND TIME IN THE MOUTH OF HELL, LADY! Don’t mind the Goldfish crumbs.

When we finally get a new car, I’m thinking I’ll be smarter about it—no more food or drink, no more than one toy per rider. Or I may just ban the kids altogether and make them walk. I mean, we’re always getting on our kids to get more exercise, right? And besides, then maybe they’d finally stop wanting to bring that Rock Band drum set with them everywhere they went if they knew they had to carry it.

All snakes and no kittens

Because I am a sophisticated lady, one of my all-time favorite movies is Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. I learned a lot of valuable lessons from that movie—about bicycles, about perseverance, about the Alamo—but the one scene that has always stuck with me throughout my life is the scene in which Pee Wee encounters a pet store that’s on fire. One by one, he rescues each and every animal in the store, pausing momentarily in front of a tank full of snakes each time he exits. Finally, once all the cuter animals have been saved, he has no choice but to go back for the snakes.

pee wee

I no joke use this scene as a metaphor for my life at least once a week. And judging from the reaction I get every time, I am literally the only person on earth that has ever seen this movie, but trust me, guys, it is fucking hilarious, and it’s on Netflix right now, so go check it out and then come back.

I can wait.

Okay, you’re back? You loved it? You fully understand why a woman with a master’s degree would connect with this movie on such a deep level and use examples from it to relate to her every day life? I figured you would. You just get it.

Anyway, lately, I’ve been feeling like my life is all snakes and no kittens. It seems like I’ve done all the easy things already, and just left behind a squirming mass of bills to pay and birthday parties to plan and floors to somehow chisel dried raspberries off of and projects at work that require both dedication and a deadened soul.

And I know it all has to get done—snakes, kittens, all of it—and that it makes sense to just get the snakes out of the way first, but you guys, the pet store is burning down, and I do not want to waste time saving snakes if it means that a bunch of kittens are gonna die. So I go for kittens first every time, even though it means I inevitably fall prey to times like this, when all that’s left are the snakes.

How do you deal with situations like this? Are you the responsible type that will save the snakes first? If so, how do you feel knowing that there might be a bunch of dead kittens because of you? And fellow kitten-savers—how do you dig yourself out when all you have left is snakes?

Leave your responses in the comments—tell ‘em Large Marge sent you.

(You would get that joke if you had gone and watched the movie like I said. Liar.)

The Sleep Summit

While Ben was out of town last week, the girls evidently held a secret conference. I don’t know where I was—maybe on my 100th milk run of the evening, waylaid in the kitchen by an over-affectionate Coconut, who, unbeknownst to me, was acting under orders. The conference took place in Addie’s room. In attendance: Addie, Rosie, Chris and Martin Kratt, and seven thousand Shopkins.

Addie: I feel like maybe Mom has gotten a little too comfortable around here.

Rosie: I don’t know, I mean, I feel like we’ve done a good job slowly eroding her spirit, right, Chris?


Addie: Yeah, during waking hours. But then there are all those sweet, sweet hours after we go to bed when she has control of the house.

Rosie: I thought Mommy was a robot that turned off after we went to bed.

Addie: I used to think so, too, but then, one night, when I thought I could come to the kitchen and help myself to some mini-muffins, guess who was standing there, completely not a robot, and took the muffins from me?

Rosie: [Gasps audibly.]

Addie: So I’m telling you, we’ve gotta hit her where it hurts.

Rosie: The boobies?

Addie: No, her bed, moron. But also her boobies.

Shopkins: [Lay on floor, saying nothing, preparing to stab Mommy in the foot as soon as she dares enter the room after dark.]

And so it came to pass that every night for the past week, Addie and Rosie have come to sleep in bed with me at some point during the evening. Addie will generally wake me up to inform me that she has arrived; when questioned, she makes up an elaborate story about a bad dream involving a spider and glowing green eyes out her window and sometimes killer unicorns, which is pretty badass, because those guys would make amazing impaling machines. Rosie, on the other hand, sneaks in using ninja-like skills, wedging herself between Addie and me until we form a capital H.

I’m not really sure how I’m going to undo this—I assume there is some parenting book about how to get your children to sleep in their own beds, but I’ve gotta believe that their method involves me waking up repeatedly in the middle of the night, and I would really rather just end up relegated to eight inches of mattress at the very edge of the bed than deal with that noise. I just keep telling myself that eventually they would be caught dead than spend their evenings snuggled up with their mama.

Even if their idea of “snuggling” is really just “sleep-punching me in my boobies.”

Inside Edition: Bathtime

You know those adorable photos that every parent takes of their child or children in the bathtub, sporting a bubble beard and Cindy-Lou Who pointed hairdo? They give you the impression that bathtime is a time of great joy in any household, all golden light and laughter and cleanliness. But you know what? Those pictures perpetuate a pack of lies.

What the pictures don’t tell you is that immediately beforehand, the children in question spent ten minutes doing cannonballs into the cramped tub, threatening life, limb, and the integrity of your tile floor. They also fail to mention that one or both children will almost immediately pee into the bathwater as soon as they get in, a fact that they will proudly announce, and you will wish they hadn’t, because if you hadn’t physically known the pee was there, you wouldn’t have had any qualms about washing them with it. But instead, you have to drain the tub, leaving you with cold, angry, soapy, urine-dipped children who exact their revenge in the form of liberal pants-soakings as soon as you try to wash them.

I have tried everything to cut these things off at the pass. I have even gone so far as to bathe my children while basically naked, just to avoid the disgusting feeling of wet leggings and socks after my fifth consecutive tsunami of soapy bathtub cannonball water. But somehow, they always get me. Whether it’s a run-of-the-mill splashing, or the unceremonious dumping of an entire bottle of conditioner into the bathwater, or, once, a piece of installation art that required the use of every single one of my clean washcloths, pasted to the shower wall with toothpaste, bathtime never fails to serve as a harrowing reminder of my mortality.

Even the mere act of coercing my children into the bathtub must be on par with the talents of some of our nation’s top hostage negotiators. There is much begging, pleading, bargaining and threatening required to get them into the tub, and even more to get them out again. Generally, by the end of bath night, I find myself with a soaked bathroom floor, no towels to spare, and the enviable task of needing to arrange for Justin Bieber to play a concert in my backyard. With ponies.

Now, it’s true that when they finally emerge from the bathtub, smelling all good and looking so clean, they are basically at peak cuddliness, particularly when wrapped in their hooded owl or dinosaur towels. I love making little comb lines in their hair, and wrapping them up all tight in their towels and hustling them into their little pajamas. Maybe that’s the moment you’re trying to capture when you take that bathtime pic– that little bit of peace and comfort that comes with a clean kid. Which lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to slip on the giant puddle they leave on the bathroom floor, cursing society for requiring cleanliness and reminding yourself to invest in dry shampoo and baby wipes.

Farmer Kim

When I was a kid, I always wanted to live in a big city, like Harriet the Spy, or Eloise. Never mind that I would have made the single worst city dweller in the world at the time, as I was terrified of buses and unable to function in large crowds, but I just assumed that I would naturally adapt, navigating the subways with ease and learning the difference between puddles of rain and human urine.

Instead, I lived in the suburbs with parents who had a secret love of all things farm. Every fall, we would go on farm tours, visiting everywhere from dairy farms (awesome) to chicken farms (deeply gross). Most of these tours involved me doing only two things, over and over again– happily inserting my arm up to the elbow into the mouth of a baby cow, and desperately searching for feral farm cats that I could attempt to persuade my parents to let me smuggle home in my gigantic denim purse.

Farm tours don’t seem to really be a thing anymore– maybe too many baby cows ended up gagging to death on the arms of overeager preteens– but luckily for me, I can still take my girls to the Lake County Farm Park, a working farm about ten minutes from my house.

We went today, and I can tell you, there is almost nothing better in this world than a working farm on a cold Saturday morning in April, for a number of reasons:

  1. Almost no one was there, allowing me to indulge in my favorite pastime– pretending that I am a celebrity and that venues have been closed to the public for my own amusement
  2. With little to no crowd, the staff becomes very lax, so you can basically do everything but ride the animals around the farm while screaming “I’M A COWGIRL!”
  3. All the animals are having babies right now, offering me a plethora of tiny, fluffy animals to manhandle and fantasize about taking home (I nearly lamb-napped this one guy, who kept closing his eyes and lamb-smiling every time I pet him under his chin, until I remembered that eventually he would grow into a gross giant sheep)

The girls are mostly into it because of the free tractor rides and the indoor playground that pops up around this time each year. Addie, in particular, has also developed an intense interest in what is probably the single most boring room on the farm, if not in the entire world– the Grain Room, which tells the harrowing story of the evolution of different grains over time, and also appears to be the employee break room, as it contains a coffee pot and mini-fridge that are decidedly un-grain-related.

But for me, it’s all about the animals. It’s all the best parts of every farm tour I’ve ever taken, only with way fewer chickens. Trust me, there is nothing you want to see at a chicken farm.

The Great Potato Fire

When Ben goes out of town, I generally eat only two things for dinner– Panera Thai chopped chicken salad, or Manwich sloppy joes. The Panera salad would be my number one choice at all times, as I love restaurants but hate buying gigantic pants, so the salad is a good compromise, but it is also fairly expensive, so I have to limit myself. Which leaves me with the Manwich, because I never learned how to cook, and sloppy joes push my culinary skills to the max.

My mother tried to teach me, but I just wasn’t interested. Why learn to cook, when food could just magically appear when someone else cooked it? And as a very anxious person, I tend to worry far too much about cooking to actually enjoy the process– what if I’m doing it wrong? What if this tastes disgusting? What if I poison someone with my inferiorly prepared chicken breast?

But I think the true reason I steer clear of cooking is The Great Potato Fire of 2001.

Allow me to set the scene– it was the end of my first semester in graduate school. My roommate had just moved out, taking with her all of the furniture and the means to pay the cable bill, so I was sitting on the floor in the living room in my pajamas at 3 pm on a Wednesday, sewing a sock monkey as a Christmas present and watching a video cassette of The Mikado that I had gotten from the library. You know, as one does from time to time. I was hungry, but I had no money– and not the “oh, I couldn’t possibly afford sushi and sake!” kind of no money, but the “it’s cool to use washcloths as toilet paper until I can afford to buy more as long as I wash them, right?” kind.

There was no money. But there was a potato.

One big, fat, perfect potato. The kind of potato that begs you to give its worthless existence some meaning by turning it into french fries.

Where I got the idea that I knew how to prepare french fries, I have no idea. I guess when you have no furniture and you’re watching light opera in your pajamas on a weekday afternoon, you develop a sort of hubris that you wouldn’t normally exhibit out in the world. But I went to work, carefully slicing the potato into fries, warming oil on the stove, sliding the potatoes into the pan. Yes, yes! This was all going according to plan! I can cook! Someone call my mom!

I had vague memories of my dad making fries in the Fry Daddy when I was growing up, and it didn’t seem like you needed to stand guard over the Fry Daddy at all times. So I went to check my e-mail.

This, in hindsight, may have been a mistake.

It only took a few minutes before I noticed that something seemed wrong. At first, it was almost imperceptible– the air just started to feel oily, as if I had chosen to skip eating the french fries and intended to inhale them in vapor form instead (a not altogether unpleasant experience– someone call the vape people and get them on this!). By the time I thought to investigate, the vapor had evolved into a white, voluminous smoke– a smoke that turned tornado gray and then erupted into flames before I even made it all the way to the stove.

I had finally done it. I had set my kitchen on fire.

Unsure of how to proceed, but unwilling to die in my pajamas surrounded by sock monkey detritus, I sprinted into the parking lot and began screaming for help. As luck would have it, the maintenance man just happened to be out doing his rounds, and he trotted over, much more slowly than one would hope when one is standing in a parking lot screaming for help. Upon surveying the situation, he calmly opened the cabinet under my sink, removed the fire extinguisher that apparently had been there all along, and put the fire out, simultaneously saving my life and robbing me of the only opportunity I had ever had to use a fire extinguisher under legitimate circumstances.

“There you go,” he said. “Enjoy your day.”

After he departed, I surveyed the damage. The walls behind the stove were scorched black, and the stove itself was enveloped in the pinkish-white foam of the fire extinguisher. I looked forlornly at the cremains of my last potato, swimming in rapidly congealing grease and foam. I had no money. I had no potato. And now I had a giant mess. That I was going to have to clean up myself.

I thought for a moment of simply abandoning the apartment, allowing it to be annexed by the two angry pit bulls that lived next door. But, knowing that if I did so, I would never get my security deposit back (and blissfully unaware in the moment that setting your kitchen on fire pretty much automatically costs you your security deposit, anyway), I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. The pan containing the fries had warped, so rather than try to salvage it, I just carried the whole situation out to the dumpster and threw it in, grease, fries, foam and all. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the nooks and crannies of my stove, and scrubbing (futilely) at the scorch marks on the walls. And in those moments, I learned two very important things:

  1. I had just physically passed through the portal from childhood to adulthood
  2. I was never, ever, ever going to cook anything again if I didn’t absolutely have to

That night, my best friend Ashley took pity on me and bought me a Chick-Fil-A dinner. Soon after, I flew home for Christmas, and when I returned, flush with parent money, I found a second job to ensure that I would always have enough money to keep myself in cereal and restaurant food for the rest of my days.

Ben loves to cook and he is terrific at it, and he has tried to teach me several times, but nothing ever sticks. Maybe if I hadn’t left to check my e-mail the day of the Great Potato Fire, things would have turned out very differently, and I would be a world class cook by now. I like to think that’s true, but honestly, given my attention span, it was never really a question of if I would set the kitchen on fire. It was just a question of when. 

To the creature adventure!

After weeks of waiting (and repeatedly and increasingly hostilely asking if it was time yet), we finally got our chance to see the Wild Kratts live and in person on Sunday, and it was basically everything I’d hoped it be. Except that I had really hoped that they might have a sloth with them, and that they would call Addie onstage to hold it, and I would hip-check her out of the way and grab the sloth and run until my legs gave out. But other than that—perfection.

I will say that the big reveal of the fact that Addie was going to actually get to meet the Wild Kratts after the show was rather underwhelming, because it turns out five-year-olds always naturally assume that they will be meeting the stars of any show they see, so this just reaffirmed that belief. This is going to be problematic when she gets older and I start taking her to concerts and she doesn’t understand why we’re not just sauntering up to unabashedly kiss Justin Timberlake all over his face, but for now, it worked out fine.

Considering Wild Kratts is a cartoon, I really didn’t know what to expect from the live show. Would there be actual animals? Would the other characters from the show be there? Would Addie freak the fuck out and yell at me if I even attempted to sing along with the show’s theme song when it started playing? It turns out the answers, in order, were no, sort of, and unequivocally yes.

The stage show, it turns out, features live-action Martin and Chris demonstrating the awesome abilities they gain from donning their creature power suits. At this point, I have no choice but to point out that Martin seems to have gotten sorta fat since this tour began, as Chris’ power suit fit like one would assume a power suit would fit (I’m thinking everyone has an idea how a creature power suit fits, right? No? Just me?), while Martin’s fit very much like a piece of highly uncomfortable scuba gear.

“Your boyfriend got fat,” Addie told me.

Once their power suits were on, they were able to assume the powers of any animal for whom they had a creature power disc. Chris went first, demonstrating caracal powers (a caracal, for those not in the know, is a badass looking wild cat whose overall tough guy look is completely ruined by a pair of comically oversized novelty ears), while Martin followed up as a rhino:


Everything was grand, until Zach Varmitech showed up with his evil Zachbots and stole the brothers’ miniaturizer (trust me, this would all make sense if you would just go watch the show). After that, the race was on to find and defeat the Zachbots and regain control of the miniaturizer.

And what better way to do that than with more creature powers? Because it’s not like they were going to be like, “eff this, let’s leave behind all this creature power stuff and just go kill them with baseball bats.” It might have made a little more sense, logically, but it would have made the whole thing take a pretty dark turn, and besides, I paid for creature powers, god dammit.

Whenever a Zachbot would show up on stage, Addie would lose her mind, standing up in her seat and screaming “THERE! HE’S RIGHT THERE! HURRY! HE’S GETTING AWAY!” Which was both really cute, and also sort of annoying, because she inevitably fails to tell me when her sister is about to do something life-threatening, but she’s right on top of it when a Zachbot shows up on the scene.



Finally the bros overcame the Zachbots (I am pleased to report that Chris failed in his endeavor as a woodpecker, but Martin totally saved the day as an orangutan), the miniaturizer was saved, and the show was over. Having never seen a live show for little kids before, I have to say, this one was honestly pretty fun– there were a few times I laughed out loud, and I think Addie would have rushed the stage and wrestled the Zachbot on her own if she could have, so she was definitely interested the whole time.

After everyone cleared out, it came time for us to meet the Kratt brothers, and tensions were high. Addie, having refused to pee during intermission, suddenly now had to go urgently, even if it meant sacrificing our place in line. Luckily, I forgot that all things involving small children move frighteningly slowly, so we were back in plenty of time to take our turn.

When she met Chris, who is her favorite, she was full of questions, mostly about Zoboomafoo, a live-action show the brothers had before Wild Kratts that Addie also loves and watches on Netflix. Did the brothers really live at Animal Junction? Was Zoboomafoo really their pet? Chris was super sweet and answered all of her questions– yes, they really lived there, no, Zoboomafoo was just their friend who happened to come visit them there, because all creatures should be living free and in the wild (way to stay on brand there, man!). You can see that Addie is absolutely besotted in her picture:


While we were waiting in line to meet Martin, she asked me, “What should I ask him?” I suggested finding out his favorite animal, or his favorite episode of the show, but she shooed me off, saying, “I got it.” When she got to him, he asked “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Nope!” she said with a satisfied grin. Defeated, Martin asked her to at least pose for a picture, which he got, grudgingly:


Poor Martin. You will always have the creature power disc to my heart, at least.

Back in business

You may have noticed that I’ve been away for the past three days. I mean, you probably didn’t, but there’s a small chance that you did. But fear not– I’m ready to get back in the saddle. A perfect storm of craziness hit here that sidelined me, including:

  • We went to see the Wild Kratts live, which deserves a post of its own, so I won’t elaborate much here, except to say that we didn’t get home until 10, and I was full of McDonald’s and the thrill of meeting Martin Kratt in person, and just couldn’t get it together enough to write anything.
  • My husband is out of town for the week, and I swear to God, my children have sensors inside them that detect the very second he leaves the Cleveland area for more than five minutes. Before he even would have been home from work that day normally, Addie and Rosie had entered MAXIMUM NEEDINESS MODE. After an evening in the park, two overly wrought bedtime routines, and Rosie’s furtive 3 a.m. visit to Netflix and Chill (which to her means “watch Daniel Tiger for three hours and eat gummies”), I was just spent.
  • Somehow, I ended up with food poisoning yesterday evening, leading to one of the most epic barfathons I have ever had the displeasure of participating in. Luckily, Addie and Rosie were able to suspend their utter disregard for my happiness or well-being for the night, but at the moment I still haven’t eaten anything in nearly 20 hours and am maintaining the absolute lowest limit of Gatorade in my stomach to keep me alive until this passes. I mean, I wanted a way to stay home and watch the new episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, but this wasn’t really what I was going for.
  • Quite frankly, I was starting to burn out. It turns out that after 90 days of blogging, it becomes really difficult to come up with new things to say that are still funny. By now, you probably get that my kids are both evil and hilarious, and that I am concerned about my weight, and that I was a giant dork until I turned 25 (at which point I remained a giant dork, but finally put some effort into my appearance and managed to shed my dork-like exterior). There are only so many times I can tell you that Rosie woke up in the middle of the night to get her Daniel Tiger fix (I’m referring to it as the DT’s), or that I don’t like sandwiches (although I’m probably never going to shut up about that, because you guys, sandwiches are an affront to humanity).

So as a result, I’m going to amend my original blog project as follows: I will blog every day no matter what, unless:

  1. I meet a celebrity, children’s or otherwise
  2. My children or my work prevent me from doing so
  3. I am hardcore barfing
  4. I just really, really don’t want to.

I’m hopeful that, having taken this little forced hiatus, you won’t see many more further interruptions, but going forward, I’m giving myself a little wiggle room, because no one wants to read a blog where every article is entitled “Time to write in this stupid fucking blog again”.