Anne Nahm

I’ve woken up with a moderate to severe case of crankypants the last two days. Symptoms of Suck include me wearing muffin pants from Monday’s picture.  Not because they fit, but because they smell like retail*, and every third word people say to me lately feels like they reached out and cut me.

When that happens, I close my eyes, sniff, and transport myself to a fantasy world where I am shopping, far, far away.  Escapism trumps fashion.  God help us all if I ever run across a chicken suit covered in airplane glue.

On a brighter note, I about fell off my chair laughing at this NSFW post, and by the time I got done reading all the comments, I was completely sold on purchasing 1) that item (Edward the vampire’s sparkly, refridgeratable dong) and 2) a pair of disguise glasses

and going for a whole series of pictures concerning Where Edward’s Disembodied Member Might Hang Out (pardon the pun).  I raced into my husband’s office to relay the idea, but the gist must have gotten lost in translation, because he only sat back with his eyebrow raised and speculated that perhaps I was just a little too interested in procuring that particular item.  Which, ew.  My mental age doesn’t allow for sex with vampires.  It only allows for scaring the crap out of my friends by surprise smacking them with an undead dildo.

Goals for this week: Do everything on this list, including two hour piggy back ride. Giddy up, Gene.

*I bought them at one of those consignment stores where they serve tea in real teacups and they never ever call you ‘Mommmmmy’ or ask you to make lunch.

Oh stop making that face.  I thought you liked baked goods.  Anyway, maybe your comments box wouldn’t take a photo and I wanted to let you know I missed you.

Other Things I’ve Been Up To This Week

A few nights ago, my three year old woke up in the middle of the night, screaming.  She’s been kind of fragile with the combo of 1) new baby and 2) big sister going off to school full time.  I hear middle kid is a rough place to be born into.  I’ve been trying to call her the Center Kid, but I think she’s wise to my wordsmithing.

Anyway, she woke me up with that panicky scream that makes you bolt ass out of bed before you’re even all the way awake.  I got to her room and threw on the light and I could see right away she was still mostly asleep, because her eyes were all unfocused and glazy, and she was digging around halfheartedly in her covers.  Then my super-cool, adorable, Center Kid screamed, “It’s too dark and I can’t find the body!”

Which was hella creepy.  Like cute-little-kid-in-a-horror-movie creepy, and it took all my awesome mothering skillz not to jump backwards off the bed and make the sign of the cross.

I tried to talk myself down by recalling all the dreams I’ve had where I kill people and then have anxiety about the location of their corpse.  Which, actually, is quite a lot.  Particularly frequent is the nightmare in which I’m mugged by a little old lady, whose 90 year old neck I break while trying to retrieve my stolen purse, and then I am forced to stow her in the nearby storm drain/dumpster/back alley because I realize no one will believe my story.  And of course in my dream, I am caught, every single time, usually ala Fargo woodchipper scene (NSFWish).

And I wake up all cold sweaty, just like Center Kid was on the bed, caught in a three-way tie between But!  She was stealing! My! Stuff!  Justified! and OMIGODKILLEDSOMEONE and YikesCaught.  And in that moment, I realized that I have totally passed down to this child of mine a lifetime of anxiety dreams.

I felt so bad that I hugged her tight to my bosom.  And when I did that, she screamed even more panicky and ran out of the room.

And that’s right about when I heard what she had actually been saying that whole time:  “It’s too dark and I can’t find the potty.”

So!  I used to get really pissed at a couple of bloggers I liked when they didn’t post for a while.  I’d think: I know you are doing something all week.  Just write it down, dummy. But of course, they wouldn’t.  Because I dunno, they had lives or whatever, that didn’t include letting me know what they were up to when they weren’t blogging.

And as the time passed, I’d get more and more pissed, circling by their address, until I was all: Fine.  Eff you very much.  When you get back, I am totally giving you the cold shoulder just so you know what it feels like. Oh, I am so not kidding.  Actually, I still do this.  In fact, there is one girl that I love to read.  LOVE.  But she stopped posting for a while, and so now I won’t comment on her site anymore.  I’ve actually written a comment in her comment box and then deleted it.  Because I fear being hurt is why.  Will she leave again?  I’m already kind of overextended in the I-like-you-more-than-you-know-I-exist category.  And so I really just can’t send her a comment. Also, some part of my brain realizes:  Uhm, Better Left Unsaid, Anne.  Kind of like most of this post.

Anyway.  What usually happens is the blogger gets back eventually, and unless they post about some family emergency in which someone/thing nearly escapes death, I am still a little grudgy and weirded out by my ability to bond to someone’s blog page while still not caring a fig for having conversations with chicks in real life.

Totally unrelated, here’s what I’ve been up to this week:

I bought a pair of Juicy Couture jeans at a thrift shop, size 30.  I don’t know anything about style, except this is the brand that all the anorexic moms at my kid’s school wear with JUICY across the butt.  I always figured it was a Junior Department size and they were bragging about fitting into it or something.**

Anyway, the pair I got fit so as to be buttoned, but I have the most horrific muffin top.  I mean, it’s more of a mushroom top.  Actually, I kind of look like the Taco Bell penis from last post, which, kudos, is totally blue.

I bought the jeans as inspiration, but the last week, I have been trying them on and jiggling around with my rolls hanging out the top like some giant hypnotic lava lamp, fantasizing about what those pants could possibly look like when they fit.  So that’s been like three hours of the week right there, mostly because of all the picture taking and bending waaaaay over to see if I show coin slot.  I’m thinking about leaving the pictures in the comments of some of my non-posting reads.  Like Hope you are well, here’s a muffin from Anne! Or would that be weird?

**I would not want JUICY across my butt.  I mean, if you’re going to go there, might as well throw down for disgusting and have BEEFY or MOIST.

While I was on Saturday Morning Mommy Sabbatical last weekend, my husband cruised Taco Bell drive-thru with the kids, during which time the baby started crying.  The checker gave my husband this toy to pacify our infant.

My husband said it didn’t come in a plastic bag or anything, so we have no idea if it is a company sponsored toy.  I’m hoping it is.  Sponsored, that is.  Nothing makes me want a taco like looking at a two inch, angry, green penis.

The pictures hardly do it justice, and I considered poking it through my open fly to better illustrate how penisy it is.  But then as I was trying to  decide if it should be face up for the camera and thus erect, or face down in the urinating position,  I got squicked out by the whole concept and had to go wash my hands in really hot water for a long time.  But still, kinda hungry.  Tacos anyone?

*I can’t watch The ’70′s Show because it looks like it smells bad.

*I was watching the Travel Channel last night and heard Anthony Bourdain refer to a monkey as having nipples like buttplugs.  Closed caption would not comply with this commentary and simply called it an ugly monkey.

*Six days ago my husband and I made a pact to have sex every day.  Because I saw it on Oprah and thought it was a good idea.

Like the  Stages of Grief, there were many emotions that went through my head the last week as I crawled into bed.  Of course, most of those stages looked like Whooo-Hoooo! And Guess What, Honey, I Just Watched New Moon Previews in Slo-Mo for Ten Minutes*.  However, at least one of those nights included a stage called:  I spent all day with your children bouncing on my butt and sucking my nipples.  If you start up the same with me, I will scream. Subcategory:  Not in the good way.

But yesterday, my husband and I reached the stage called ‘acceptance’.  As in, we have three small children, we’re old, and rugburns aren’t as fun as they were when we were 25.  We just couldn’t do it any more. I mean, come on people: Five days.  In a row. It’s harder than it sounds.

Lying on the bed

ME: God, I’m tired.
HIM: Soooo much sex.
ME: It’s like some kind of crazy pie eating contest.
HIM (laughing): Like those hot dog eating contests.
HIM (not laughing so much anymore):…. Well, for me, I guess it is like one of those pie eating contests.

*With the sound turned completely down.  Enjoy!