From now on I think the only way I am going to communicate is through tweets. They’re fast, efficient and effective. If you can’t express what you want to say in 140 characters or less, I don’t want to hear it.
My husband and I have already contained all our communications to email. It works for us. He doesn’t have to talk to me, and I’m guaranteed acknowledgement. Everybody’s happy.
Email just may have saved our marriage since Kevin’s not really into talking or any other form of communication but can usually muster a “yes” or “no” or “OK” to whatever question, comment, observation, tirade, lament, dilema, or emotional anguish I happent to be undergoing at any given moment.
I have to say, though, he can pick out a card with the best of them, and that carries a lot of weight in my book. Not only did he express his love and gratitude through a beautifully written sentiment in a card, but he also converted an old VHS tape of our kids to a DVD for me. That’s love.
I’ve lived in my house for over 12 years now, and for that entire time nothing has worked. Ok, maybe not nothing, but a lot. My house is nearly a hundred years old and basically it’s slowly crumbling to the ground with each passing day. It’s almost like ancient ruins only we live here. And we can’t get back on our tour bus and return to our luxury hotel with all the amenities like heat and electricity.
My house is a bungalow dating to the 1920’s, and when we bought it 7 months after the birth of our first child, it looked fairly similar to a condemned building. In fact, shortly after we moved in but before we had a chance to do any work other than what was required by law to bring it up to code, I interviewed babysitters at the house as I was, at that point, still gainfully employed and desperate to find childcare after having just moved from one state to another and given a week in which to arrange for the safe and secure care of my infant with virtual strangers. One of the babysitters, a grandmaish, Jamaican woman who didn’t drive and was instead chauffeur by her husband in a rusting, old jalopy, approached the house and remarked, “Oh, I wasn’t sure this was the right place. It didn’t look like anyone lived here.”
I’m not typically one to like new, made-up words. I’m no fan of amazeballs, awesome sauce or asshat. I’m more of a traditionalist. I think we should bring back henceforth, fortnight and hither. But every now and then, where appropriate, I revise my stance. Now is such a time and suckily such a word.
I understand suckily is not a real word, but it should be, and that’s the difference. Many, many other words have made it into the modern day lexicon without my consent or approval, and they are all wrong. Take “favorited,” for example. I deeply despise this word mostly because there’s no such thing. Favorite is not a verb and therefore cannot be favorited. Then there’s “friended.” Again, no such thing. Please allow me, if you would, Mr. Zuckerberg, to illuminate something for you and the 90 billion twenty-year-olds who currently believe “friended” is a valid part of the English language. The word is “befriended.” Could you please change that on Facebook? Thanks! That would make me feel so much better.
Thank you, Jen. At least somebody has the sense to say it. I mean Christmas was only three months ago. Do we really need another holiday?
I remember when my first child was two, and my friend whose daughter was the same age started talking about having another. I was like, “I just had a baby. I’m not ready for another. In fact, I won’t be ready until this one is out of the house.”
That’s why I’m declaring all holidays and babies bullshit!
Welcome to paradise. That’s what it said on the card. And it came with what looked like Tahiti on the front. At first I thought I was being invited to a destination wedding in Tahiti, and I was so onboard. I almost started packing my bags right there and then because I’ve always wanted to rent a little thatched hut at the end of a long, private pier with tropical fish swimming directly underneath me in the clear, serene, celestial waters of the South Pacific. Is that too much to ask?
I was super excited because I actually thought I might have a chance this time. I happen to have a cousin who is getting married in several months, and I’ve never seen anybody more into their own wedding than this couple. Most people are pretty excited about their weddings, but this couple’s enthusiasm and zeal over party planning, pre-party planning, post-party planning, post pre-party planning and pre-party post planning may even exceed the pomp and circumstance of Kate Middleton’s and Prince William’s royal wedding. If anybody was going to throw a destination wedding in the South Pacific it would be them.
Why did no one tell me how much crap two little, tiny kitties could produce beforeI decided to adopt them? I’ve given this some thought, and the input to output ratio for those two is scientifically impossible. I don’t know what’s going on – whether they’re feasting on a whole colony of mice at night or hitting the kitty snacks when I’m not looking – but Kitty 1 and Kitty 2 must poop at least three times a day. Each. We clean out the litter box every other day but 3 times 2 cats times 2 days equals a lot of piled-up poop. It’s crazy, and we can’t keep up with the rapid-fire pace of their GI tract.
They may look cute, but those two little kitties are poop machines. It’s a mind-boggling site to behold. I didn’t quite believe it myself until I actually bore witness. These two kitties just may have produced the eighth wonder of the world.
I’m thinking about starting my own wine commune. Seriously, what could be better than earning your living by making and tasting wine with your friends (or at least people with whom you’re vaguely familiar with on Twitter)? It’s genius. It’s a legitimate way of having a perpetual party. How has no one come up with this idea before?
It’s that time of year again. The time when millions of parents get ready to shell out thousands of dollars for personal size, backyard jungle gyms for their beloved children.
For years I’d managed to successfully avert this requirement of suburban family life. And, then, one day something happened.
I can’t even blame my kids. They never badgered me or complained. I’m not even sure they wanted a playset. I wanted one.
Whenever we were outside in the backyard my kids wandered around aimlessly, invariably returning inside to the couch. I wanted to shoo them back outside and shout, “Go play!” But with what? We didn’t have a pool or swings or even a paved driveway to draw on. I decided for my own sanity and their survival we needed a playset.
Visions of summer days whiled away on a swingset or in the attached fort with children’s laughter floating by on a balmy breeze, danced in my head. But I wanted one thing to be perfectly clear. If I was going to take out a second mortgage to finance a playset, my kids were going to have to live on it. Literally.
The playset we eyed up had a house-like enclosure and a picnic table and was practically as big as my house. It was certainly a suitable dwelling for two smallish people. They could come in for the winter but not until then. And if we ran some electric wire and plumbing to the fort, I might not ever have to see them again.
But as with most fantasies, once realized, the facts on the ground don’t quite match the vision, and so it was with the playset.