Details, Schmeetails

I’m a deadbeat bride.

I thought I was being girly enough. Doesn’t drinking champagne in my pajamas and reading bridal magazines count for anything anymore?

I thoroughly enjoy thinking about the wedding. But if you think I’m gonna get off my ass and go shopping for centerpieces, clearly we haven’t met.

I went dress shopping that one time and I’m still experiencing PTSD from claustrophobic dressing rooms and bedazzled tulle sausage casings.

I considered making the invitations myself, with sepia-toned photos and hand-punched rivets and beautiful cardstock. But then I realized I could order some shit with the click of a mouse from the comfort of my chair. Done.

Mama Bird contacts me twelve times daily to consult me about critical decisions regarding centerpieces and favors and I think my lackadaisical response frustrates her. My laziness should not be confused with ingratitude – when The Big Day rolls around, I will squeal delightedly like a piglet in a mud puddle.

Hi. 1985 called and invited these chairs to the prom.

Until then, though, I just can’t muster the appropriate reverence for table arrangements and flower selections. I like tables and I like flowers, and that’s really all I have to say about that.

I’m not the girl who will have a breakdown because the bows on the chair covers are the wrong shade of lilac. In fact, I think anyone who ties bows on chairs should be kicked in the kneecap.

It’s a good thing I’m not planning the details of this shindig or it would be a half-assed potluck washed down with a communal bottle of vodka after we mutter “I do…”

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Memorial Day - Monday, May 30th

10. I'm thankful to live in a country where I'm not forced to cover my face because I'm a woman.

9. I'm grateful to live in a country where I'm given the right to vote.

8. I'm blessed to sleep in a comfortable bed every night, to have never had to cram myself into a fox hole and try to sleep with one eye open.

7. I'm lucky to have reaped the benefits of our military defense without ever having known the sorrow of losing someone I love in service.

6. I'm fortunate live in a part of a world in which I'm afforded opportunities that people in some repressed nations might never know.

5. I've never had to tuck in a baby at night whose father is serving overseas and hasn't ever been able to kiss her chubby little cheeks.

4. I'm able-bodied and independent, and have never had to face the physical challenges some of our vets are forced to learn to live with for life.

3. I'm thankful that I've never had to share a holiday over Skype while my partner was sweating in battle fatigues for our freedom.

2. I'm proud to say I've never turned away from a homeless vet on the street.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 30th?

1. I'm thankful for the chance to share this song with you in honor of Memorial Day. I dare you to not get teary.

Fire Crotch

Sweet baby Jesus, she broke my vagina!

I had my third laser treatment today, with a different tech. You know how some nurses can draw blood without sensation while others dig violently in your arm with the needle?

Yeah.

It looks like I’m packin’ an heirloom tomato between my legs.

I assumed the position, prepared for a mid-level stinging as in sessions past. Then she busted out the flamethrower.

She may or may not have laughed maniacally.

Some cops join the force so they can peacock about with a badge and a gun, and they let the power go to their heads. Apparently, some laser technicians do, too.

I squealed like a pig being slaughtered. The smell of burnt flesh hit me like a freight train, and a puff of smoke drifted upward from my poor little vag.

When Mistress Mayhem instructed me to flip over, the crocodile tears began.

I only wish I were kidding.

This Memorial Day weekend, I’ll be honoring the death of my kitty. She’s served me well, she was a good little solder. May she rest in peace.

Hearts Hurt

This is my friend’s son, Josh, and he’s a horribly oppressed teenager who is abused and neglected. His evil parents burden him with crushing expectations such as attending school and coming home at night. They must’ve learned these cruel rules from my parents.

Josh is nowhere to be found.

I hesitate to use the word missing, because of the scenarios it brings to mind, but he hasn’t come home in three days.

The part of me that can vividly recall being a terribly persecuted teen knows deep down in my heart that he’s OK and probably holed up somewhere with a bong and a pack of Marlboros.

But the grown-uppity part of me who can see my friend’s heart being torn out through her throat is fearful of that small chance that something happened.

I want to find Josh and I want to slap him across his thoughtless little 15-year-old face. More than anything, I want his mama to know that he’s safe.

And...I get it. For the first time, I can really understand what I used to put my own parents through. The sleepless nights, the judgmental looks from neighbors, the worry and the fear. The helplessness.

So, for what it’s worth, I’m going to offer my parents the opportunity to slap my thoughtless 34-year-old face. Twenty years late is better than never, right?

In all seriousness, though, for those of you who live in the Minneapolis area, please keep an eye out for Josh. For those of you out of state, prayers never hurt.

And if there are any teenagers out there who read my blog, then for fuck’s sake give your parents a hug. You are their hearts.

Holy Shit-Balloon!

Never again will I complain

that I’m having a bad day...

OK, clearly that’s a lie, but the next time I complain that I’m having a bad day, I probably ought to reread this article about a New Zealand man who fell on an air pressure hose, punctured his ass and blew up like a balloon.

The media puts so much shit in our faces that it’s rare to be rendered horrified anymore. We are inundated with stories of terrible accidents and grisly deaths.

But the vivid description ‘the air pressure was so strong it separated his fat from his muscle’ pretty much concluded my breakfast. I had to step away from the granola bar before I hurled it all over my desk.

Suddenly that bloated, gassy feeling I bitch about every month? Just doesn't seem so bad.

Mama ME?

So, about this whole procreation thing…

The B word has come under consideration, at some point in the distant distance, and I have some concerns. I’m not certain I’m fit to be a mother, and there are some valid arguments in support of this theory:

- I like to sleep. A lot. I like it a lot when I sleep a lot. From what I hear, babies impede this.

- If I had an ugly child, my disgust would be tough to mask. This could potentially traumatize the kid, which would be unfortunate for him if he already had to struggle with being homely.

- I can’t even handle the smell of my own poop.

- If I were a mom who worked full-time outside the home, I’d be haggard and possibly bitter.

- If I were a mom who worked part-time outside the home, I’d be broke and possibly homeless.

- If I were a stay-at-home mom, I’d be lonely and possibly fired.

- My math tutoring abilities don't extend beyond a second grade level.

 - Any child of mine would have to go barefoot until kindergarten because I'm completely unable to stuff fat little feet into tiny little shoes. There must be a trick to it. Perhaps it's a secret the nurses pass along only after you've shoved a baby out your vag?

- I’ve been known to drop children on their heads. I mean, it only happened that one time, but there’s no definitive answer yet as to whether it caused permanent impairment to my cousin’s daughter. Luckily, she’s really cute so it won’t matter if she grows up to be intelligent.

- My breasts are purely ornamental.

 - If I have to sit through karate lessons or a band concert, I'll probably punch myself in the face.

 - If the kid grows up to be a mime, a criminal or a politician, I'll definitely punch him/her in the face.

Other than these qualms, I really feel I'm ready. And I'm super good with babies - just look at the expression of delight on this guy's face while I snuggle him. ---->

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, May 23rd

10. I'm grateful that when introducing Princess Gabby to her cousin kitties my bloodshed from her claws only yielded ounces of blood, not pints.

9. I'm pleased when franks are charred on the outside and cheesy in the middle. Nice work on the grill, bro, it was delish.

8. I'm thankful I don't live near the D-bag who won $2 million in the lottery, tucked it into the bank, and chooses to continue to live off food stamps...because I'd likely hunt him down and smash his face with a sock full of marbles.

7. I'm proud to announce that according to the scale at the gym, I'm down four pounds. Which either means that I'm a disciplined athlete...or that I took a large shit this weekend.

6. I'm grateful for the time I got to spend at McDonald's Playland. Er....I mean, it was fantastic to see my friend Amy, despite being inside a McShithole.

5. I'm excited to retrieve my belongings from storage tonight. Nothing makes a place feel like home like dust and mouse turds.

4. I'm thankful for the smell of lemon Lysol wipes. Is it wrong to huff them when I clean?

3. I'm glad I finally remembered to wax my caterpillars. I was resembling an unskilled Frida Kahlo.

2. I'm thankful that the world didn't end on Saturday, because when it does end, I'd prefer it to happen on a Monday or a Wednesday.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 23rd?

1. Go see the movie Bridesmaids immediately and report back to me how much popcorn comes out your nose when you're laughing. Yes, guys - you, too.

Will You Be My Gay Boyfriend?

I love me some flamboyant gay men.

My old friend Girard was always armed with the most random and lovely compliments.

“Your eyelashes look extra long and feathery today!”

“That freckle on your collarbone is adorable!”

I’ve decided it’s time to get a gay bestie, and Augusten Burroughs has been unresponsive to my advances. Incidentally, this really sucks because not only could he fulfill my greedy need for the obscure flattery that only gay men can provide, but he could introduce me to his publisher who would clearly lust after the opportunity to contract for my memoirs.

But, anyway…

I’m now accepting applications for a BFF.

The position doesn’t pay a salary, but I’ll feed you salacious bites of sexual information about my fiancé, who is hot, ripped and heavily tattooed. Pictures are a possibility.

In exchange, I’ll expect you to suggest I wear fishnet shirts and squeal with me when we gossip. If you wear plaid pants and a campy hat, that would be marvelous.

Interviews will take place over chocolate martinis and under a disco ball, and you get bonus points if we dance. We’ll have slumber parties in marabou trimmed pajamas and watch porn while cattily picking apart everyone’s bodies and eating popcorn.

We’ll shamelessly listen to 80s music, and you’ll confide in me about your one-night stands or your boyfriend.

And I?

Will politely pretend I have no interest in watching the two of you make out.

Pardon Me While I Talk About FEELINGS

My blog is always honest and I probably share more than you ever cared to know; but to do so without a shroud of humor or cynicism is rare for me.

It makes me feel like I’m standing on a stage naked, and really? Nobody wants that.

Yet, after yesterday’s post, I need to take a moment to just say thank you. I got such amazing, candid responses and I really appreciate that any of you would take the time out of your day to first read my blog, but then to also share your own personal stories with me.

I started blogging purely because I love to write. I never expected to be touched by so many people around the world.

From the Netherlands to Burkina Faso, from France to a blogger right down the street from me, I’ve gotten caught up in a spectacular web of people. The threads that join us began with our mutual joy in reading and writing and have evolved into friendships that stretch across oceans.

And now?

I’ll put my clothes back on and get off the damn stage.

(You’re welcome for that.)



Dear Readers

Dear Abby Readers,

I was a cutter.

Twenty years ago, I thought I was the only one in the world. I was certainly the only one at my high school walking around with arms slashed to ribbons.

As an adult, I’ve learned that it’s a classic sign of an adolescent working her way through sexual trauma, and I’ve learned to control the behavior. What I’ve never learned, though, is how to control the feelings of disgust with myself that sometimes swallow me from the inside out.

One of my ugliest character flaws is my inability to let criticism roll off my back. I internalize it and let it rot inside of me like cancer.

Of the thousands of comments people have left on my blog, less than a dozen were vicious, but guess which ones I remember?

A cruel word from a loved one stings for ages.

If a boss questions my ability, I fall to pieces.

How does one develop thicker skin? I’m not a fool; I realize that insecurity is a terribly unattractive quality. Nobody wants to spend their time coddling someone and trying to convince them of their worth.

So I'm asking you all for advice.

How do you keep hurt feelings from eating you alive? What gives you inner strength? How do you maintain belief in your worth when you come up against people or situations that tear it down?

I'm curious to hear what you have to say.

Sincerely,
Me

Let's Get Physical

I’m totally sleeping with my personal trainer.
(I’ve always wanted to say that.)

My man is a gym rat, so it seemed only logical that I consult him about a pre-wedding workout program. He suggested circuit training.

He took me to the gym and barked me around the weights area for forty-five minutes. By the end I was sweaty and trembling and on the verge of tears, at which point he proclaimed he’d gone easy on me.

Sheesh.

He even acts like a trainer, all sadistic and shit.

When I brag to him that I completed all my circuits, he tells me I should have done more reps.

When I tell him I increased my weights, he asks why I didn’t do cardio afterward, too.

I’m guessing that one of two things will end up happening. Either I’m gonna look smokin’ hot in my dress, or I’ll end up punching him in the mouth. Possibly both.

He’d better watch out, because these pipes are getting stronger ever day. I’ll beat that smirk right off his scruffy face, and I’ll look sexy as hell doing it.

And after I pummel him, I’ll give him a big fat sloppy kiss and thank him for pushing me to be stronger and healthier than I thought I could be. Then I’ll sleep with him again, because really – I’m a cliché.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, May 16th

10. I'm thankful for our new open air stadium, where I can enjoy the outdoors when it's 40 degrees and raining - as it seems to be every time we have tickets to a ball game.

9. I'm proud that I've done my new circuit training program three times in a row without finding an excuse not to go to the gym - this is a monumental step in the direction of physical fitness (or less fatness) for me.

8. I'm thankful for my mom's cooking. Pretty sure my innards are still working their way through Friday night's dinner.

7. I'm happy I've been able to refrain from stealing tulips from any of the neighbor's yards. They just look so pickable.

6. I'm grateful that some folks appreciate my big ass exactly as it is.

5. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I've been having an alarmingly good time talking wedding shit with my mom and my brother's fiance. Don't tell anyone.

4. I'm happy to feel sunshine on my face. It feels much better than frostbite.

3. I love lazy Sundays, with coffee delivery. I know this one is a repeat, but iced coffee presented bedside is the kind of church I like to worship at.

2. I'm thankful for hot showers on sore muscles.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 16th?

1. It's nearly Memorial Day, so the odds of a snowstorm at this point are less than 30%.

Fuck the Bucket

I fish like a girl. Everyone knows it's the boy's job to bait the hook and remove the fishies.

I camp like a girl, too.

Aside from the fact that I'm super high maintenance (indoor plumbing is a necessity, not a luxury), I don't like to be outside in the dark. I require the presence of a male escort to go to the bathroom while camping.

Which is why one of the buckets on my list was to camp for a weekend all by myself. Face the dragon, blah blah blah.

Until my depraved, abusive meanie of a man made me watch Friday the 13th.

You know what?

I'm pretty sure I can die happily without having crossed that one off the bucket list.

Not only does that decrease the chances of my getting slashed to ribbons by a psycho in the woods, but it opens up a slot on my bucket list. Now, here's to hoping I can get David Boreanaz and Clive Owen in the same room before I die of natural, non-murderer induced causes.

Water Sports

Our bedroom is tiny.

So small that it houses nothing but the double bed, which touches three walls.

No nightstand. No lamps.

No way to even climb in or out except from the one side.

The side, of course, that Mark sleeps on. Yep, he plays the ‘it was my bed first’ card, and I get stuck with the inside – apparently forever.

Did I mention that I drink over 100 ounces of water daily?

And also? I have a bladder the size of a peanut.

Last night, for example, I woke up to pee four (four!) times. Anyone who says I don’t work out has never tried to climb in and out of this bed four times without disturbing a snoring Mark.

It should be an Olympic sport.

Especially because the cat sleeps on top of the covers on the other side of me, effectively pinning me into place.

So basically I wriggle upward toward the headboard until I can free my legs from beneath the covers one by one. Then I swing one leg over my man, straddling him. I have to hop down on that leg while swinging my other upward so as not to kick him in the nutsack or awaken him from his beauty sleep.

The goal is to do this without overcompensating and flinging myself headfirst into the wall or tearing a groin muscle. (Do girls have groins?)

I really wish we had a bigger bedroom.

Or a catheter.

My Cash Cow

I've contemplated many ways of supplementing my income in the past. The economy is rough...salaries plummet, bills skyrocket, and frankly I'm nearing the point of asking for my fiver back from the homeless guy.

But my good friend Anonymous has saved the day - and quite possibly my finances! In his latest sweet talk, he offered me $2500 to never blog again...which got the wheels rollin' upstairs.

I've been going about this all wrong.

All this time I've tried to think of services I can offer in exchange for cash. Babysitting, corporate sponsorship, picking up recycling on the side of the highway, back alley handjobs, writing marketing collateral.

What I ought to be doing is offering to refrain from doing things...for money. The possibilities are delicious.

For $40, I totally promise not to give you a lap dance.

For $100, I'll say no when your teenage kid asks me to buy beer.

For a mere $5/day - your morning latte - I promise to never, ever wear spandex.

For $1000, what happened in Vegas will stay in Vegas.

But sorry, folks - it's gonna cost you more than $2500 to shut down my blog. Although, for one day only, I'll offer you, my favorite reader, this valuable money-saving tip:

If you hate my terrible blog,

you don't actually

HAVE

to read it!

But, ssh... please don't tell anyone else.

The Dress

I wasn’t going to discuss dress shopping in detail, for two reasons:

     1) I don’t wanna be that girl

     2) It sucked ass

But…you asked.

Well, to be specific, a handful of you asked. The rest of you will now have to suffer for their sins.

So mama and I hit up several stores this weekend looking for The Dress. My expectations, I feel, are reasonable - Mark needs to pop a chubby when he sees me in it. That is all.

Beyond that, I figure I’ll know it when I see it. White, lavender, mint green, light blue, A-line, tea length, knee length, who cares? I’m not that picky.

Or so I thought.

Before I tried on 30 dresses and vetoed every…single…one…

Champagne? Is a drink, not a color. Champagne as a color is bullshit. Let’s just call it what it really is – pasty and naked.

Floaty billows of tulle? Not a good look on chubby girls with lots of tattoos.

Spaghetti straps? Have you seen my boobs? Show me some lasagna-noodle straps and you might not lose an eye.

And I don’t wanna hear any of you girls bitching about your muffin tops, because it turns out I’m growing muffins everywhere. I have armpit muffins and titty muffins and love handle muffins. I probably have muffins bulging forth from my ass cleavage. I never even knew about all these muffins until the lovely frocks smooshed them into place.

At this point I’m strongly considering a white velour tracksuit. Perhaps I’ll bedazzle it for the occasion.

Fan Mail

Why don’t you just get Knocked up???



At least you would have something funny to talk about


I have had a Girlfriend for 2 years


You don’t see me talking nonsence every day


Get funny or get a new hobbie


YOU EXPECT TO MAKE MONEY DOING THIS??

__________________________________________________________________

It seems my faithful reader Anonymous doesn’t enjoy my gratitude posts.

Well, Anonymous, I challenge you to try coming up with ten things to be grateful for every Monday without a repeat. I’ve been doing it for over a year, and it ain’t easy. So I apologize that you weren’t entertained.

That being said, I’m not so sure about your advice.

From what I hear, getting knocked up would give me bigger boobs, more gas and wild lust for pickles, but I’m not sure it would make me funny.

And no, I don’t expect to make money blogging, but it’s my dream to be paid to write someday – so thank you for taking time out of your busy day to piss on that dream. The world really doesn’t have enough mean people, so I appreciate your contribution to the cause.

Congratulations on your totally relevant two-year relationship. It’s too bad she snatched you up, because you sound like a catch.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get myself knocked up so that I have something to talk about.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, May 9th

10. I’m thankful that no seams were harmed during this weekend’s dress shopping pilgrimage.

9. I’m grateful for breezy nights curled up in bed with the windows open.

8. I love taking rambling walks with my man after work.

7. I’m thankful for Saturday night bonfires, even though my mean, abusive fiancé wouldn’t go buy marshmallows.

6. I’m grateful for neighbors who grow herb gardens on our porch and don’t call the police to report rosemary theft.

5. I love weekends. That is all.

4. I’m glad nobody had to hear me belting out the music while I drove around singing on Saturday.

3. I’m thankful for lazy mornings spent curled in a sunbeam napping with the cat. Yep, I’m that person.

2. I’m lucky to have a mama who can tolerate shopping with me while I sulk and refuse to try things on.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 9th?

1. I’m thankful for love letters left to surprise me by the aforementioned mean, abusive fiancé.

Mama Bird

It's bullshit that moms just get a day.

I can't think of a harder, more important job with worse pay, lousier benefits and no strike options.

A mom has to be a teacher, a nurse, a janitor and a cook and is lucky to get an uninterrupted piss break. Shifts last for anywhere between 18-50 years.

I'm 34 and my mom is undoubtedly wondering when the hell her pension kicks in so she can retire.

My mama had a schizophrenic mother, so she was never lucky enough to have a mom like I do. All the things that make her an amazing mom? She figured them out on her own, with nobody to show her the ropes.

Never in my life have I doubted my mama's love. She is the most selfless, giving person I know and she's sacrificed things for herself as long as I can remember to make sure her family is well taken care of.

In return for this unconditional love, I've allowed her to clean up my piss, shit and vomit. She's held my hand, rubbed my back and wiped my tears. And this is just all in the past few years - you should've seen her when I was a kid.

I grew up with a mama who read me dozens of books a day, who baked homemade birthday cakes in the shapes of our favorite cartoon characters. A mama who sat with a cooler stuffed under her feet on road trips, pointing out landmarks and playing the alphabet game. A mama who sewed handmade Christmas stockings and then filled them to the brim every year.

A mama whose wild rice soup fixes everything.

A mama whose heart I've probably broken a hundred times, and she still loves me.

A mama I can't imagine my life without.

I love you, Mom.

Thumbs Up

So, I saw a hitchhiker.

On the Smith Road river bridge in St. Paul.

Seriously, dude?

Let’s review the facts:

1) This is 2011 – your thumbs are for texting, not soliciting a chauffeur.

2) You are creepy looking. This doesn’t help your cause.

3) You are trying to hitchhike on a bridge. Over a roiling river. You think I’m gonna pull over so you can push me off the bridge and jack my sweet, sweet orange Toyota?

4) You are in an urban area and cannot possibly be further than 10 blocks from a bus stop.

And also?

You are creepy. This bears repeating. Belly flab drooping out from below the hem of your pit-stained t-shirt and Albert Einsteinish hair dancing in the wind does not scream mental stability.

So I’m sure you’ll forgive me for not stopping.

Next time try kittens and candy.

Say Yes to the Dress

I’m going dress shopping this weekend, and I’m armed and dangerous.

This will not be the kind of wedding dress shopping you see on TLC – no designer boutiques and chippy saleswomen stuffing me into Vera Wang gowns and crowing about how stunning I look in the hopes of making a 20% commission.

I may not have much of a budget, but I do have the critical shopping accoutrements:

- Astroglide to squeeze my sausage bod into a tulle casing

- Kleenex, for the inevitable tears (of frustration, not joy – let’s be honest here)

- Valium, to staunch the flow of tears and put me in my zen I don’t give a shit place

- My mother - because (as we all know) she’ll tell me if I look fat in a dress

Salvation Army, look out. Here we come.

Fun with Fatties

My brother and I have been blessed cursed with sturdy frames. Even at our thinnest, we've been the people who could fool a weight barker at a fair. We've had people argue with us over how much we weigh, saying that we exaggerate.

(Side note: No woman will tell you she's heavier than she actually is. Trust me on this one.)

According to standardized charts, for example, I should lose around 90 lbs. Let me assure you that this could only be achieved through mass consumption of coke or meth, and the results (aside from rotting out my septum and brain matter) would not be pretty. At my lightest adult weight, I wore a size six and my ribs stuck out front and back, and still I was 25 pounds heavier than what doctors say is 'normal' for my height.

 I'm 5'8" and I wear a size 14* right now, so realistically I think if I lost even 50 pounds I'd have a pretty slammin' bod.

People with normal frames might not understand the humor here, but bear with me. My bro sent me a notification he received from Medica, stating that in order to insure him, he'll have to carry an upcharge for his weight. A fat tax, if you will. Without ever laying an eye on him, they determined based on his height and weight that he's an obese slob at risk for coronary disease and other ailments that might cost them money.

I laughed my fool head off at this, because my brother is not fat. He's broad-shouldered and muscular, but by no stretch of the imagination is he going to cause a world Twinkie shortage.

Part two of this saga takes place when my mom calls me. She's worried about me because I had a bad day and received some pretty lousy news. Am I OK? She loves me and wants to make sure. We chat a bit and then talk turns to my brother's insurance drama, at which point she says to me, and I quote:

"This is ridiculous! Your brother isn't fat! I'm fat, and your dad is fat, and...you're fat - but your brother isn't."

"Um, excuse me - Mom? You just called me a fat-ass."

"Well, you know...I mean...well, c'mon. You are."

"You called to see if I was OK because you're worried about me? And now you're telling me I'm fat? I mean, I know I'm fat, I don't need my mother to call and tell me!"

Sheesh. Anyone else wanna get a shot in while I'm down?

*Fuck. I told you my pants size. Now I have to kill you.

Suck It, Alexander...

Any of you with children know about Alexander's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad book that was written all about it. He woke up with gum in his hair and that was just the beginning.

Well, Alexander, I'm here to tell you to suck it. It doesn't get any better when you grow up, so quit your bitching and enjoy nap time while you've still got it.

I'd like to allow a panel of working-class Americans to interview Alexander about his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

You got stuck in the middle seat? Poor kid.

Try the middle seat on the bus that you have to ride to work to your minimum-wage job after your car is repossessed after pay cuts render you financially paralyzed. Watch out for that homeless guy who pees in his sleep.

Your mama didn't pack any dessert in your lunch?

Well, you can order dessert when you're a grown-up but your ass will be fat and the cookie will taste like shame and regret. Enjoy.

You went to the dentist and he told you that you have a cavity?

Cavities can be filled. Herpes lasts forever. Remember that, kid.

Your sweater got wet?

I bet it's not as heavy as the soggy carpet we had to lug up the stairs after the basement flooded.

Your sneakers don't have stripes?

Well, neither does my race car. Oh wait, I can't afford a race car, because I have to buy shoes and cavity fillings for my kids.

Oh, you wanna move to Australia, huh? That's gonna fix everything?

Ah ha ha ha ha! Run away if you want, you ignorant little tard. The IRS will catch up with you eventually.

I'm shopping my own version of the Alexander book to my friends in the publishing world. I call it Reality Reading. Like Reality TV, but for those children whose parents know how to read to them.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, May 2nd

10. I’m thankful for the electric butt warmers in Mark’s new car - they came in handy yesterday while it SNOWED. In MAY.

9. I’m grateful for Sunday morning Starbucks delivery service, straight to my bed. Don’t have this service in your area? Sucks to be you…yeah, there’s a reason I’m marrying this man.

8. I’m happy that my new last name will have only four letters; I’ve always wanted to sign the checks for my bills with a four-letter word.

7. I’m pleased to announce I made it up and down the steep basement steps a minimum of three times this weekend without tripping and plummeting to the bottom of the stairwell.

6. I’m grateful for scalding hot showers on cold Saturday mornings.

5. I’m happy that I wasn’t rattled to death during the earthquake on Friday since it was only a 2.5. I think we Minnesotans might shake the earth harder in our rush to the deep-fried Snickers booth at the State Fair.

4. I’m relieved that I still have 16 weeks to morph into Megan Fox before the wedding. I figure if I lose three pounds a week until then, I’ll be just a thinner version of my same non-Megan-Fox-looking self close.

3. I’m happy that the royal wedding is over. The speculation over her dress nearly killed me with anticipation. Er, wait...that wasn't me. That was the estimated three billion people who were curious enough to get up at the asscrack of dawn to behold the spectacle.

2. I’m thankful for cheese. Fuck bananas, cheese is nature’s perfect food.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 2nd?

1. I’m grateful that a significant face of evil has been exterminated, and I hope everyone is holding the victims of 9/11 close to their hearts right now.

(And also, on a more selfish level, I’m relieved that I don’t have any flights scheduled this week – there is not enough Xanax in the world to get me on a plane in the wake of this news.)