I can count on one (okay maybe two) hands the number of times I’ve made fun of someone (other than Larry) on this web site. But every once in awhile I’ll throw judgment to the wind and post something without asking myself one critical question: if the person I’m writing about reads this, will I be able to look them in the eye? In my last post I poked fun at some of the copy written by one of our freelancers, and I think this may have caused hurt feelings.
I hate that.
Hate hate hate it.
So, I deleted that post. And I apologize to the writer, who was just doing his or her job as instructed.
Also, WHAT KIND OF AN IDIOT WRITES ABOUT HER WORK ON THE INTERNET?
See: Me (N.)
No worries, though. I think that habit’s going to take some time to break.
On another note, would you like to smell my head? Because it smells like a dirty ashtray.
Larry played a gig at the Five Spot last night, and I am still twitching from the three hours of inhaling second hand smoke.
Five years ago, when I was still eating a bowl of Marlboros for breakfast every morning, I LOATHED people like me. Prissy people who were all, “Eeew, it’s too smoky in heeere. Eeew. I can’t breeeeathe. Eeew. You’re going to get cancer.” But this was me last night.
Good job. Loved that guitar solo. Let’s get the hell out of here before we all drop dead."
Oh, and speaking of cancer … Patrick gave me a mammogram this morning. WITH HIS FOOT. So that was comfortable. Do your kids do this? Crawl into bed with you every morning at the crack of dawn and then jump all over the place with a total disregard for the fact that you are a human being with feelings and NERVE ENDINGS? In stock photography, the “family bed” looks like so much fun! “Hello! Look at our typical American family in our typical crisp white pajamas and crisp white sheets and not-calloused feet just enjoying each other."
What you can't hear is the typical American mother growling under her breath, "OW. THAT WAS MY TIT."
--Patrick, what's another word that starts with the letter A?
So let me get this straight.
It's a blanket. With sleeves.
Kind of like ... a sweater?
I would have loved to be in the room when they wrote the ad copy for this
"Easier than a regular blanket!"
Because if there's one thing we all know about blankets, it's how complicated they can be. At Christmas I gave my parents a regular blanket from Restoration Hardware, and my mom was all, "HOW DO I WORK THIS THING?"
If only I'd known about the Snuggie.
According to the Snuggie web site, the Snuggie has "so many uses", including "Cuddle"
and "Watching Television."
You can't do that with a regular old blanket. No sir.
Watch the video clip and you'll see that the Snuggie not only saves you money on heating bills at home, it is also great for looking like an asshole at sporting events.
Why wrestle with a coat (buttons, zippers, pockets, hoods! What a MESS!) when you can wear a gigantic electric-blue blanket with arms?
Me: (Trying to sneeze more daintily than usual) heh-chew.
Larry: Working on your sneeze?
Larry: Sounded like you were trying something new.
The January issue of Her Nashville is in the pink bins now! Unless you live in East Nashville! Then you have to wait until the end of the month when the Her delivery person works up the cajones to enter our scary, scary neighborhood.
What up with that, Her deliverer?
Is it because someone scratched the word PUSSY into the side of the pink bin outside of Three Crow Bar? I'm sure they meant it in a nice way! We East Nashvillians are a loving people.
January's humor column is about crying. Specifically, my inability to stop crying:
For a humor writer I sure cry an awful lot. Ever since I gave birth to my first son, my eyes have been little brown geysers just waiting to blow ...
And then there's my ever-popular Her Humor Blog, where I share a mouth-watering recipe for Foot. Specifically mine:
Lesson One: Not Everyone Likes a Good Suicide Joke As Much As You Do ...
Happy New Year. Happy Reading. Let's stay in touch, okay?
One of my new year’s resolutions was to be more patient with the boys.
Not counting the six hours I was asleep, I made it 5.2 hours before reverting to my shrieky “GET YOUR DIRTY MITTS OUT OF MY MAKEUP BAG BEFORE I DONATE BOTH OF YOU TO GOODWILL” self.
They’re just so …. on me all the time. Like phantom limbs.
If I go to get myself a drink:
“Oooh, I’m thirsty! How come you didn’t get me a drink?”
Try to make myself breakfast:
“I want some! How come you didn’t think I wanted some?”
No sense reminding them they JUST finished breakfast. No sense pointing to the milk mustaches still dripping from their upper lips. It is their job to interrupt, interfere, and barf questions at me all day long.
I’m hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Fig Newtons:
“Are you POOPING, Mom? What’s that crinkling sound?”
I’m mopping the kitchen:
“Mom, we made a magic elf forest out of sprinkles under the coffee table! Come see!”
In the bathroom mirror, I discover a stray eyebrow. As soon as I reach for the tweezers, they're at my feet in a nanosecond.
“Can I see those chimpers? Why are you chimping yourself? Does that hurt to chimp yourself like that? Hey, Patrick let me chimp you!”
I go upstairs to do my 30-Day Shred video:
“Can we ride on your back while you’re doing the push-ups part?”
“Hey, those are my hand weights! I use those as a gas station for my fire trucks!”
I try to get dressed to go to a party:
“Can I wear your underwear on my head like a hero mask?”
“I didn’t mean wear them to the party. I just meant for right now.”
Oh. Well, in that case ...
BY ALL MEANS.
Amanda O'Brien is the author and sole proprietress of Blabbermouse, a blog she launched in February of 2005.