Bizarre Love Triangle

A snippet of today's conversation.

Mama:  (softly, adoringly at her cherubic only child)  Livy, I love you so much.

Livy:  (shrieking, with a glint of cruel ardor in her eyes)  I LOVE BROBEE!!!!!



And, with friends and skillz like these can you blame her?  Sigh.  First runner-up is first loser, Mama.

(p.s. - Remember the time I lived with 2 girls in college who listened to this every damn day? 

I didn't until today, and now I'm confident that this song will be as stuck in my head as Angie Hart's haircut is stuck on it.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

What's up, peeps, or should I say disciples?  It's my Jesus year, so bring me some water, and I will turn it into pink champagne, drink it, and then burp so loudly that your eardrums burst and you bleed from the ears.

I said nothing about being a benevolent deity.

Also I'm going to treat myself to this, a mug featuring this image,

because I am also a Goddamn liar.

Happy birthday to me!  May my 33rd be the best and holiest yet!

Getting Out Of Hand

I have a problem of extraordinarily geeky proportions.  As a multiple English major (nothing quite screams WINNER! like typing that phrase), I love books.  As an uncontrollably materialistic nerd, I like expressing this love through commerce.  But when I showed up at the gym last week wearing this

Available from Out of Print Clothing

and carrying this

What?  Doesn't everyone have a Walt Whitman water bottle?

I realized that I was starting to become a caricature of an overzealous former English teacher instead of just being an overzealous former English teacher.  This realization is only further proven by the existence in my dresser of this

To Kill a Mockingbird shirt II

and this

F. Scott Fitzgerald shirt

At some point when I wasn't looking, it stopped being clever and just got sad.  And so I promise to stop buying lit-related souvenirs, as soon as I finish my collection with this.

Papa's thirsty, and so is Mama.

Mother's Day II: Red Dawn

O.K., people.  An admission before I begin smugly reporting my Mother's Day indulgences.

I dyed my hair red.  Bad red.  Shitty, fake-looking, clown red.  It made sense in theory, is awful in practice, and, should the appointment-making gods smile on me, will be gone by this time next week.  We will not speak of this again.  Dammit.

O.K.!  Mother's Day!

Slept in.  Family snuggles.  Breakfast.  Massage.  Wine.  Tacos.  Presents.  Mariner's game.  Sad toddler.  Happy toddler.  Home.  Wine.  Take out Chinese.  Wine.  Black Swan.  Wine.  Books.  Bed.

I was happy because I couldn't see myself.  She was quietly freaking out at the crowds, noise, and Mama's hair.

Liv hadn't mooshed abrasions into my face in a long time.  She did today.  Plus, she's strong now, and my neck still hurts from counterbalancing against the pressure of her desperate, burrowing snuggles.

So we plied her with french fries with lots of tipsip (catsup) and her first diet Pepsi...

... then took her to the playground, bought her a Mariners bear, and found her smile.  She spent the rest of the game screaming, clapping, dancing, and randomly spouting "YAY, MARNERRS!" and "ICHIWO!"

Ergo = (forced snuggles - face abrasions) = AWESOME!

Happy Mother's Day!  Love, Little Biscuit and Big Red

But Bald Eagles Don't Wear Boots?

If Osama Bin Laden's body is actually recovered with a boot in its ass, I'm totally going to apologize to Toby Keith for all the times I called him a douchebag.  Pinky swear.