Anne Nahm

Oh internet. You amuse me so.

Here’s the link to Jennifer Love Hewitt talking about her disco ball labia. I think it probably looks, and feels, like this shoe:

Bad Romance indeed.

I’ve been reading a lot of New Year’s Resolutions.  Deep, good, insightful, moving resolutions.  You guys are awesome thoughtful.

I’m going to be honest here and say my only resolution is to get my own Wikipedia page* in at least one of my aliases (aliaii?).  Realistically, I’ll probably have to actually do something to get it, damnit.  But it sounds so shiny and cool!  Want me some redunckulous ego gratification.

Back in December, for my birthday/Christmas gift, my mom bought me a pair of jeans.  Size 6!!!  I mention the size to balance out the first part of the story, in which I am 35 and my mommy still dresses me.  As I’ve gotten older, I have fallen into this horrible trap where my mom buys me stuff from places I don’t usually see people my age buying product, and I suspect she’s dressing me funny.  But crap if I know where the hip people buy clothes these days, so it’s not like I have the ammunition of knowledge to cry foul.  For all I know, she’s the hippest mofo out there.  Except more probably, not.

Straight up: These pants she bought me are from Coldwater Creek.  They are made of like 90% lycra, and their catalogue has models in it that don’t look anorexic or under 40.  So even for a fashionotsa, a blinky red light went off when I saw the pants.  PS:  Can you call them ‘jeans’ if they are not really made of jean material?  My ass looks like it is wearing one of those circa 1980’s car bras.  ‘Memba those things? Hahahhahahaha.  At least there is someone out there with more regrettable fashion sense than I.  Oh, you had one? Just kidding, then.

Anyway, I called my sister Middle in to the room where I was trying on said pants.  I asked her if she (4 years younger and no kids) would wear the pants I had on.  Middle nodded enthusiastically and said they were ‘totally in’, and ’skinny dress pants’ and ‘oooh, dark wash’ which made the red light blink even harder, because Middle kept cutting her eye over at my mom, who was standing there, mouthing the words like a stage mom.

But after 35 years of having my mom dress me, it was hard to shake the pants.  Plus, I needed pants.  Plus, lyrca clings like a bitch.  So I kept them.  But as I was folding them up to put in my closet, I noticed they smelled like old lady breath.  In the moment, I figured the old lady working in the shop had probably exerted herself folding them up and inserting them in a bag.

So like a fool, I washed the pants (thinking I could get rid of the smell), thus making them unreturnable.  The morning breath?  It remains.  I think it must be some chemical used in the lyrcra pants making process.  Anyway,  MY ASS SMELLS LIKE A BAG OF ASS.  Any suggestions?   Because I don’t want that kind of thing on my wiki page.

Also, I got a lot of comments that people could not find my nipple.  It actually gave me a sense of hope.  Here I am thinking I am one of the only breastfeeders out there, but maybe nobody actually sees nipples.  Maybe I am bumping into breastfeeders all day and don’t recognize them.

And since so many of you couldn’t find my nipple a couple of posts ago, I made this for you:  Enjoy!

*Damnit, Patri.  This is really all your fault.

Apparently it is the season to leave drunk-sounding, inappropriate commentary on blogs.  I know, because I’ve been doing it. ( example here, one of many*) Wheee!

Back when I used to drink and blog, this season would come around, and I’d leave a shitload of off-brand remarks Friday night, cringe the next morning, and the world seemed to have some sort of justness and order.  Shameful, shameful order.

It’s a little confusing to find myself partaking in the festivities sober, at noon on a Tuesday this year.  Why, self, why?  I mean, all the labor of crafting the comment, spellchecking,thinking myself clever, pressing SEND, and then possibly adding a little captcha code at the end.

And then, only then,  to re-read and realize the full implication of what I wrote, and how glaringly asshole it will probably be read as on the other end.  But!  It was OH SO FUNNY IN MY HEAD.  What happened?  Then a small voice in my head whispers: No comprendo, I am on a Mexican radio.

Then I laugh.  But then that song gets stuck in my head so I’m bummed again.

Usually, I get to spend the rest of the afternoon debating on some further comment sent out to apologize for the first. But lately, I just stare at the computer screen and wonder if I have a brain tumor.

PS:  I just made the monitor on the other computer turn all white.  I can’t get anything at all to come up.  WTF???  Does this mean I have a brain tumor?  Is it like the beginning of The Ring, and I have seven days to do something?  Or is my husband just going to be pissed when he gets home?

*and lest you should think that comment is appropriate, the post is about blanket related phobias, and although ax weilding maniacs was tangentially related, ax wounds were not.

Yeah, this whole post makes me feel like I’m in this Seinfeld Clip.  Enjoy!

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It is raining here, and we just got back from vacation, and my husband is working, so today I took the kids to the grocery store to pick up cake mix and sprinkles and such.  I figured I’d bake a cake, let them decorate it, and my birthday present would be (aside from a cake covered in Swedish fish, marshmallows, kid boogers and sprinkles) a half an hour on a rainy day in which the kids were entertaining themselves.  Also, since my hair is still falling out (postpartum) I picked up some drain-o for the bathroom sink.

You know where this is going, right?   I was with three monkey howler kids, looking tired, buying drain-o and birthday cake mix.  I’m not sure the situation warranted the extreme eyeball I got at the check out line.  Zomg, not taking kids out with poison birthday cake, check-out girl.  Also:  Not sure if I am more disturbed by highly raised Eyebrow of Concern, or the fact that they still let me make my purchases and go on my way.  Way to scorn and not protect.

Perhaps more on our superfantastic holiday vacation later, but the thing that sticks out most in my mind is that my husband went totally mad for taking pictures of me breastfeeding on this trip.

Perhaps it was because of the squeaky sofa bed we were sleeping on did not afford for any sex.  Well, truthfully, it afforded us sex the night we arrived in Anaheim, but the next morning I was a total no sex convert.  I mean, zealous, born-again, still-trying-to-pull-a-spring-out-of-my-ass style, despite my husband’s requests for debauchery.

Or maybe it is because I found myself nursing, standing up, in line to ride It’s a Small World on what turned out to be “A Very BUSY DAY” at Disneyland, at least according to the blinking traffic signs on the highway, and thus I found myself pretty much giving a breastfeeding demonstration to the wandering masses.

Anyway, for some reason, my husband thought it appropriate to shoot a Anne Nipple Photo Montage.  Am debating putting it up, but perhaps when I cut out my face, and the baby’s face, all you are left with is a nipple out on what turned out to be a rather cold day.  Oh, and some shocked looking tourists in line behind us.

But I’ve always kind of fantasized about joining the ranks of being naked on the internet, so now maybe it is my time to shine.  We’ll see.