Hello! HELLOOOOOOO!!!!

Heh.

In Which I Channel Georgia O’Keefe

Promoting

I’m on a small mom’s bulletin board. The owner of the site asked me how to go about promoting the board, to get more people on there who want to talk politics and current events in addition to talking about mom stuff.

Anyone know how I can help her? Given that I’m not in the big leagues of bloggers (or, going by yesterday’s stats, even in the bush leagues any more), it’s obvious that I don’t really know how to do this. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

I’m Voting Republican

Me And Kevin, Sitting In A Tree; Or…

.My Brain Is A Scary, Scary Place Sometimes. (I’ve already relayed this story to Kevin and he hasn’t called the police. Or the Secret Service. Or the insane asylum. So I’m sharing it with you, because I do love publicly embarrassing myself.)

I don't usually get into the "Dood, I have to tell you about this dream I had last night," posts,
but doods, I have to tell you about this dream I had last night.

Kevin Charnas and I decided to go to a conference, being held on a very Ivy League-ish
college campus. No idea what the conference was about, but we were going and rooming
together. While we were there, Kevin decided to run for President (it could happen). But
he also decided that he didn't want the whole world torealize he were gay - even though,
while at said conference, he was snogging men and not trying to hide anything. So, he
asked me to leave my husband and kids and marry him.

And I said sure.

And so we went thru this long, weird, vaguely American Gladiator-esque thing where we
had to bash people with foam bats (wearing matching cargo shorts and Grateful Dead t-shirts)
and perform our favourite songs from Broadway shows and give each other makeovers.

For that segment of the dream, I dressed like this:


(Which would be just fine with me – for years, I’ve had a bit of a girl crush on Donna Reed.)

And Kevin dressed like this:



(Although often sans jacket and tie, shirtsleeves rolled up, top button undone, to indicate his willingness to get to work. Or maybe he was just warm. But whatever. Cary Grant. Mmmmm.)

I fell over a lot.

Kevin, ever the considerate fellow, was always making sure we had food available. And
we both seemed to think that this was completely normal and what politicians did when
they were running for office. This dreamwent on all. night. long. We were followed by
paparazzi constantly, most of them taking pictures of me as I fell on my fat arse.


See? Am fucked up.




The Step-Monster Files

My father married this…woman a long time ago. For years, I’ve referred to her as the Step-Monster because she can be a complete and utter bitch at times and did her best to make most of my teens and twenties miserable.

I was summoned to the Manor for Father’s Day and we made the trip out there. My dad had this huge cut on his head and we all fell to talking about injuries. I was telling this story about how I fell over the winter, landing on an ice-covered rail road tie, giving myself a massive, black, blue, purple and green bruise that encompassed my entire ass cheek. Step-Monster said “Gee, I thought your ass would be too big to fit on a rail road tie.”

I just stood there gaping. My father said “That wasn’t very nice,” and everyone else found other things to look at.

This is the same woman who, every year for Christmas, has given me a light or low fat or Atkins cook book. Every year. For, like, 10 or 15 years. Because I need reminding that I need to lose weight. Because that’s what you say to someone after they tell you they’ve been going to the gym every day for the last few months. I needed to hear just how fat, exactly, my ass is. Again. Because I don’t have enough image problems. I’m not quite insecure enough. ‘

So this? This is for you, my darling Step-Monster.


And to think, I get to spend next weekend with this woman, too. Fanfuckingtastic.

Raisin’ ‘Em Up Right

Because every New England born-and-bred three year-old
should be able to sing along with the Dropkick Murphys. (Please note The Bug doing backup vocals. We don’t mess around here at Chez Bedhead.)

And know who this guy is:

Next up? Speech therapy.

Reason 8,792 Why I Love John Cusack

Want to see this on television? Go to MoveOn.org and donate a couple of bucks.

I’m Melting, I’m Mellllllllllllllting

  • It was 103 degrees today.
  • It’s too hot to hunt for the degree key code thingummy.
  • I’m starting to have fantasies that involve freeze pops.
  • I live in Massafuckingchusetts and it’s early JUNE. It’s not supposed to be this hot this early.
  • But there’s no such thing as global warming.
  • Fuckers.

In other news, I am a little in love with Bill Moyers. Have you seen this?

Pwned.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go lie on my bed, with the fan blowing on me, and dream of winter.

That Was Productive (and then, not so much)

I had my second therapy session today. My therapist? Has twins, boy and girl. Age? 3-1/2. The same age as Boo. Needless to say, she had a lot of advice on how to handle Boo and The Bug. I plan on putting it into effect tomorrow and if it works, I shall share the wealth.

Of course, I came home to an absolute clusterfuck of my eldest daughter and That Canadian Boy I Married having a tizzy. O lied about something, I was angry at her and at TCBIM because he’s never home and because he said “Well, if she can’t be trusted to tell the truth about the children then you’re just going to have to take them all with you when you go to therapy.” Yeah. Because that would be really constructive.

He calmed down, I calmed down (O, on the other hand, went weeping up to her room – thirteen year-olds are drama queens) and he apologized for the remark. We’re going to have to work out what happens on Thursdays, when I go to therapy, but one thing’s for sure, I am not taking anyone with me.

I was going to do this damned meme that Hotfessional had on her blog. I spent fortyfuckingfive minutes finding photos and then hit a fucking button and erased the whole goddamned thing. Son of a bitch.

I’m going to have a glass of wine and I’m going to bed.

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