Anne Nahm

We’re not talking about the weekend, because Oh. My. God. This is not a drama blog. At least, that’s what I keep trying to promise myself.

What I should promise you is that this is not (at least not this very second) a big, boring rant about the sucky suckitude of suckers. Suckers being me as well as the creature who wants to be hanging off one of my nipples At. All. Times. And, no that is not a reference to the husband. At least, not at this very second.

Call For Your Closet-Blog
So where was I? Oh yes. Once upon a time, when I was housebound with my first child, I discovered the wonder and awe of reading other people’s blogs for the very first time. I’m sure you all remember (vaguely) the joy of realizing you could cyber stalk total strangers with all of the pleasure (and hopefully) none of the guilt or lawbreaking or creepiness. Wonders of the modern world, folks. People’s secret lives revealed.

My personal Summer of Bloggy Love came when I got sucked into this totally lame and yet brainlessly fun game called ‘Haiku Smackdown’. It is too lame to explain unless you played it. If you did play it, then you’d know how cool it was (and that makes you a total nerd like me, I guess). Low and behold, I found that some of the cool bastards playing ‘Ku had web based diaries. Can I say again? Oh. My. God. So much better than lame assed soap operas. Especially some of those wacky blogs. The real life human drama, people – unfolding in front of my eyes. With absolutely no commercial interruption.

I must admit I kind of got sucked into a couple of blogs where the person would go crazier and crazier with each passing post. Then they wouldn’t post for a couple of days, and I’d start wondering if they were decomposing somewhere. Then they’d pop back up on the radar, talking up their new psychiatrist and the joys of better living through chemistry.

But the group that I really fell in love with stalking were some very funny and bright women struggling with infertility. Am I destined for the 7th circle of hell for avidly reading like 5 infertility blogs every day for 2 years while I have been popping out kids with no troubles? Probably. The question is, am I serving my time right this very moment? Mmmmmmmaybee.

But the dirty, shameful truth, is that while I was reading about the pain and the sorrow of not being able to conceive (even as I was juggling a newborn or hugely pregnant) was that I was living for the posts when the bloggers would talk about what they were doing *besides* trying to get knocked up. Oh, the stories of disposable income, new shoes, real jobs, going to dinner at fancy restaurants and being hung over the next morning. I couldn’t get enough. There is no way I could currently keep a friend like that in my *real friends* portfolio, but man, did I stalk them from afar. Also? Sometimes they’d post about vacations. *Sigh*

Then the crappiest thing happened: They all eventually got knocked up and had kids. Now they are doing the same damn thing I am: wading knee deep in diapers and breast pads while bitching about a lack of vacation. Also? They hardly ever blog about new shoes. Who wants to read that?

Don’t get me wrong, I love me the mommy blogs. Its just that I have lost my secret, shameful vicarious blogs. So it’s time for you to give it up and help me out – I know I’m not the only one who has some closet-blog I read despite some fundamental embarrassment. If you’ve got a shamefully good non-mommy blog, you gotta post an address. I don’t really care what it’s about – in fact, the weirder the better. I need to read about something besides How To Scrapbook Your Child’s Umbilical Cord Remnant.

Thanks,

Anne

3/4 a glass of “Two Buck Chuck”
+
Kanye West’s “Gold Digger”
+
On the earphones so I can’t hear if the kids scream
+
Husband on duty until 8:00 toddler bedtime
=
I ain’t feelin’ no pain.

EDITED TO ADD: Still drunk here (or as drunk as one can be on less than a full glass of cheap red wine), and really bummed I can’t go see Brokeback Mountain in the theaters. Have been embarrassingly curious about Jake and Heath. Rawr…They put the ‘grr’ in… well, they put it in something.

Sadly, will never see the movie in theaters, in the time that it is groundbreakingly, sexily shocking. Instead, will see it like a chump when it comes out on video. Also? Instead will watch “The Horse Whisperer” tonight and pretend Kristin Scott Thomas is a boy. With her haircut, I suspect it will not be hard. Also, will enjoy imagining one of them kills the other. Hmmm… fantasy-tastic.

Aaaannnnnnddd there’s the beauty of the drunken post, folks: They are just chalk full of TMI that I can regret posting at my leisure tomorrow.

“…I was thinkin’ somethin’ along the lines of ‘no tv and no beer make Homer something-something’”

MARGE: “…go crazy?”

HOMER: “Don’t mind if I do!”
Except for me it would be ‘all nursing and no sleep’. The picture is pretty accurate, though. Right down to the hair loss and post-pregnancy spare tire.

Have no fear, though. As we speak, I am making myself a CD chalk full of tear jerking singles. And also? Those jammin’ rappers who would be no-where without unhip, un-ghetto, thirty-something women who closet-jam to them. Yeah, you heard me. Kanye? Em? Even later-day Snoop? You suckas would be nuthin’ without the silent army of housewives who horde your songs the way some women horde Vicodin – for a rainy day when the kids are driving you batshit. Word.

Heh-heh. Ok, back to reality, shall we? Anywhoo. Am making a CD. Then, in accordance with this story,

I am going to get on the treadmill and

(Sorry I couldn’t find the one K-fed was wearing, but he’s still the uber-gross mental image I get when this gets stuck in my head). I plan to emerge from said workout all teary-eyed sobby from *Landslide* and slightly bad assed from *Work It*. As you can clearly see, I am short bus riding when it comes to getting back to cool. Hell, short bus for even being coherent.

Wow. We left the house yesterday at 9:00 in the morning. We got back at 8:00 at night. Can more really be said about this trip?

Oh yes.

I can tell you that 8 hours of driving in a car with two kids is no effing fun.

I can tell you that waiting in a 9×12 foot cubical for 1 and a half hours for the doctor is not fun. Although the one battered copy of Ranger Rick did keep the older daughter entertained for… oh, 10 minutes of that time.

I can tell you that next time, I will remember to pack more than 2 diapers in the diaper bag (damnit, damnit, damnit!)

I can tell you that we get to do this all again the first week of February. Because? Although Dr. Supa-Dupa is cautiously optimistic about the Baby’s condition, there is always another test to be run. Yay test.

The highlight of the trip was sailing down the highway while both children were miraculously quiet. A cute little red Mustang zoomed by us with the license plate, HOTTACO. To our immense disappointment, we sped up to find that the driver was a geriatric Caucasian male. Hot taco indeed.

I am adoring reading all the blogs of you bacon loving bastards. I am selfishly using my non-nursing time to bitch, but I am reading you and loving you from afar,

Anne

Here are some dirty little secrets about me for your entertainment:

1) I make bacon about once a month for weekend breakfast. The husband, he likes well made bacon. And I like him. So I’ve been makin’ the bacon since we were married 5+ years ago.

2) This means that I have either burned bacon to the degree that it turns to dust when bitten into, or is so greasily undercooked that it oinks in pain. For the last 5+ years, people. Never, not even one time, has there been bacon cooked even to the standards of Denny’s night shift.

3) Be it ever so morally wrong or politically incorrect, I blame my inability to cook pork products on my fabled Jewish ancestry. This means that one great-great-great-great-grandsomething mixed in with all the other gentiles prevents me to this day from ever making nice with the bacon. Can I get an “Oy Vey” people? (Ok, probably not. Probably, you are closing up the browser right now in disgust at my insensitivity) And yet? Once a month, I must still attempt to overcome this hurdle. And once a month, I fail.

4) So, Sunday morning, over the greasy smell of burnt bacon, I asked the husband, “Do you think it’s too offensive to write a blog blaming my Jewish ancestry on my inability to cook bacon?”

The husband says, “No. It’s just not funny.”

“Why not?”

“Jewish ancestry shouldn’t prevent you from cooking bacon, just eating it.”

Damn it, damn it damn it.

Anyway, we are traveling to see Dr. Supa-Dupa today so maybe news tomorrow.

Also, I am missing some of your posts – I noticed a few never appeared on my friends page even though they were posted on your journals. Anyone else having this problem?