I know I've had too much to drink when TLC gets me in the feels.

I was watching Sister Wives on TLC, and these women were, to represent their relationship(s), physically positioning themselves in reference to their husband- and essentially only in reference to him, and it's all awkward and some of them don't know where they should be, and there's a moment where one woman uses herself to link their husband to another wife (which is more than telling in itself), and another ends up behind him, and they wonk themselves into place, both so to speak and literally...

And then the husband says something along the lines of, "Well, fine, but... this is a family. And how does this work if I were to die? Because this is about all of you in relation to each other."

And then I teared up because, seriously, what the hell, ladies? Don't you get that the goal is a cohesive family, not you all as satellites to this (supposedly) reluctant planet? And shouldn't you, as the polygamists, grasp this better than I, the one who is pretty sure to cut a bitch, given the right ratio of "skank-flirting-with-my-husband" to "level-of-my-drunkenness-plus-proper-girlfriend-who'd-have-my-back-depending-on-how-many-friends-skank-has"? Math is only sometimes my strong-suit, but I'm pretty sure it's sound, here.

It's much like pointing out that a child does not ethnically resemble his parent.

The first time you tell someone that they look too young to have had whatever child they have, it's a compliment... or, at least, can be meant as one.
The second time you make the comment, it becomes mildly uncomfortable to the target. Target is the appropriate word here because the statement has become pointed.
The third and every following occurrence, you are simply begging for an awkward conversation about teen pregnancy and what it feels like to be a statistic.
Are you looking for some sort of confession?
Are you my priest?
Did my Catholicism unlapse without my noticing?
Have some couth.

Haha, get it? "Face" the facts? I kill me.

Dear Sarah,

The line under your eye is not eyeliner. It's a wrinkle. Please stop trying to remove it with a q-tip.

Face the facts,

Your Raw Skin

...so I booted his ass into the ditch.

Connor has to run a trivia game in one of his classes tomorrow. I insisted that he take candy for the winners because how can a game that ends in candy be anything less than kickass? So I picked up some Jolly Ranchers for him, Nerds for me, on the way home from his hockey practice. By the way, convenience store? You're welcome for his stinky self not coming in with me.

I tossed them into his lap when I got into the car:

Me: I got a whole ton of them. Might as well give them to everyone... You can make it raiiinnn. *rainy fingers*

He: Should I stand up on top of one of the desks?

Me: Duck and cover, bitches!

He: You're gonna get a call from my teacher if I do that.

Me: I'll just tell him, "It was funny at the time!"

And then after we giggled over this conversation, he had the nerve to try to hold my Nerds hostage...

Work retail? Me? How'd you guess.

Floating around the internet for a while- always reappearing at about this time each year- is a photo of a sign at Nordstrom. There's actually multiple versions of this photo, taken in different years. It essentially says... well, here:

(Courtesy A Little Ditty and Apartment Therapy, respectively. I know nothing of either of these sites, except they are, as it were, pro Nordstrom signage.)

At first, I was all for this. And then I thought, hang on... the reason stores put up Christmas stuff early is to get your bucks before you give them elsewhere, by reminding you that 'tis the season, bitches!

This, I think falls into the same line of thinking as car manufacturers who keep putting their vehicles out earlier and earlier. These days, you buy a 2013 vehicle in February of 2012. Same with magazines. Weekly magazines can be pulled from the rack a week before the date on the cover. Monthly magazines come out two months before their date.

So, sure, Nordstrom isn't putting up decorations. They're just putting a goddamn sign in your face. "Look at us! We're better! See how we're not mentioning Christmas to you? We're not mentioning Christmas! (Or Black Friday!)"

Back-handed bitch slap, that is. You don't know you've been hit until after the forehand is already on trajectory back to you.

So, yeah, my first objection was my slow realization that I had just been psychologized. And then it hit me. How in the hell do they go from day-before-Thanksgiving-NOT-Christmas to day-after-Thanksgiving-CHRISTMAS? And they prep for Black Friday? Because, I will tell you, Christmasing a store takes hella long. It's an intense process... Please, someone correct me; I want to be wrong on this. I want there to be a way that this store magically converts itself- without making their employees work crazy hours the day before Thanksgiving, or, worse, on Thanksgiving itself.

I'd rather see decorations too early.

Just don't play the music.

Do the right thing, New York Senate.

A little over a year and a half ago, I sort of ripped NYS a new one because of a defeated gay marriage bill. I swore and called names, threw in a minor threat or two...

Today, I am calmly calling for the Senate of New York State to simply look around, notice what the House has noticed. The majority of New York State residents are in favor of gay marriage. This is not a "gay" issue. This is a civil rights issue. This is not a religious issue. This is a civil rights issue.

Do not hide behind arguments of "forcing" churches to provide health care for the spouse of a gay employee. You can take all the semantics and bicker behind closed doors later. For now, recognize that his-and-her marriage is no more valid than his-and-his or her-and-her marriage.

Now's the time, New York.

It's not my least favorite question, but it's in the top ten.

All the damn time:

Me: Emily, can you please go find the XYZ?
Emily: *sigh* Where is it?
Me: Really?

We got dry ice packed in with a shipment at work today.

Apparently I'm rather odd, in that as soon as I saw it, I claimed it. "Oh, I am taking that home!" My coworker looked at me oddly. "You know, you can freeze fruit, shatter it. You can make a spooky cauldron. You can even make root beer!" He gave me that look; you know the one. It says, Okay, sweetie. I'm glad you're excited. You're weird for it, but hey, I'm happy that you're happy.

This is the same reaction I got from a second coworker.

Then, as I was walking out of the building, I passed Kevin. I do so adore Kevin. He gave me the curious look: You have a box. That's not one of our normal boxes. The box has frost on it. Tell me about the box!

I had just the slightest hesitation before telling him about it. Twice bitten, whatnot. But this was Kevin! He did not let me down.

"Ohmygod, dry ice is. so. cool! You can do so many things with it! Like a spooky cauldron. Do we get this in a lot? Where can you even buy dry ice?*"

I love Kevin. But he was not getting my dry ice. He can have the next batch, though, I swear.

I'm gonna stand on this side of the normal line, with Kevin. Life's always more fun over here.

Me, enjoying one of those cool things you can do with dry ice. This is kind of in real time because Sam is taking this photo while I'm writing this post. Also, my husband is a kick-ass bartender.

See the fog? See the frozen lemons? See the tequila?

*Dear those closer to the west coast (okay, mostly Utah). You cannot buy dry ice in supermarkets in the east. I know, this is odd to you. It is, nonetheless, a fact.

I did the friendly thing and did not post this without giving them ample opportunity to respond.

A copy of an email I sent to a company:

Dear Martin's,

What the heck.

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

And they did nothing! That's it, Martin's! I'm calling you out, for the entire internet to see! For shame! Writhe in the muck that shall now be your reputation!

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

When is the last time you got excited by mail delivery?

The answer is "not since bills started arriving with my name on them". Who gets excited by mail, past age 13? I'll tell you who- this girl, that's who.

I present to you what I got from one of my fabulous readers (my mom!):

That's right. An entire case of Spreeeeeees!

Of course, Mom is earning herself a reputation. Substitute "waffle maker" for "Sprees", and you get this post from my sister, Lindsey. We really lucked out with that mom of ours.

I had to eventually throw the roll into the back seat of the car.

I was going on a bit of a drive to pick up the kids- off visiting the grandparents. I don't know how it was when you were growing up, but for me, the drive was all about the snacks. As I have zero self-control when it comes to food that is in my vicinity, I knew I was going to stop at some point and stock up on goodies of some sort, so I went with a preemptive strike and stopped before I left town. I got baked chips and Sprite Zero (which is kinda feh, but so is Sprite, thus it's actually somewhat close to the original flavor and is not nearly as aspartamey as a lot of those "zero" or low cal drinks (I'm looking at you, Ocean Spray Sparkling Cranberry.)).

I also got some SweeTarts. What I really wanted were Sprees, which, when I was a kid, was a competing brand to SweeTarts, but apparently Wonka owns them both now? Either Wonka (which I think of as a "he" instead of an "it" or "they") (and the "he" is Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp) (much as I want to eat him normally) (Depp, not Wilder), is phasing out Sprees, or they are atrociously loathed in my small part of the world. They are not to be found anywhere. So, fine, I bought the SweeTarts. They were my absolute favorite as a child.

I categorically hated them.

I don't think they've changed since I was a child. I think this is my fault. No, wait. I take it back. It's Sam's fault. You see, those SweeTarts tasted oddly similar to those cheap, neon-colored, fruity drinks you get in restaurants that have a "bar". Mind you, I'm not talking about restaurants that have a bar, but a "bar". You know, cute young chick behind the taps who is excellent at twisting a cap off a beer bottle, but you order a martini, and she cocks her head to one side like a confused dog and asks, "Uhm, do you mean an appletini?" No, bitch, I do not.

So then she goes to pull the bartender's guide out from under the bar and you know you're up shit-creek. Here, sweetie, let me teach you an essential life skill. This is a jigger. No, seriously, even if you do find a bottle marked "martini mix", you just leave that where it is.

Now, I admit that there was a short time in my young life when I would have been, "Ooh, yummers! Appletini! Or maybe do you have something pink?"

And then Sam became deeply interested in all things alcohol- including how to mix virtually any cocktail, and stocked our cabinet with thegoodstuff, and now I'm known for returning improperly made margaritas, y'all. Also, there's the possibility that, sometimes, every once in a while, rarely, you might catch me instructing the waiter to have the bartender "taste this" with a sneer on my face.

This takes us back to my car drive and the disturbingly dissatisfying SweeTarts. I taste the first one. Ew, gross. I try a different flavor. Okay, gross, too. Hate blue, skip that. Nope, gross and gross. Okay, lesson learned. I don't like any of the SweeTarts. I know, let me have another one. Yuck. Let's have another. Ohmygod, what is wrong with me? I have no self-control!

Let's have one more.

That's my girl.

For the entirety of their lives, I have given my kids a hard time whenever they try to talk to me through the bathroom door. Sometimes I say, "Not when I'm in the bathroom!", "I'll talk to you when I come out!", or "I'm in the bathroom!" Because, dammit, those two minutes are my me-time, and I deserve it. Generally speaking, they don't need to be reprimanded much anymore: "Mom?" "Bathroom!" "Oh," and little (and now? notsolittle) feet patter away.

This was the conversation this evening:

Connor: Where did Mom go?
Emily: She's going to the bathroom! Is that okay with you?

Ah, grasshopper.

We interrupt this blog for a bit of fiction from Connor (a finish-the-story assignment):

Suddenly, he tripped and the men were on top of him, hitting him repeatedly. When he was bruised and bloodied, they dragged him back to the cottage. They tied him to a stake in the front yard by his hands and feet so tight he could not move an inch.
The old woman came out and cackled madly. "In the morning, boy, in the morning," spittle going down her chin and her eyes wide and quite mad. The boy stared at her for a moment, fear in his eyes, before he drifted into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was being dragged away by the men. By now he was barely conscious and when they dropped him, he could barely move at all, let alone get away. They looked at him for a moment, then, grinning evilly, they said, "Good bye, boy." They pushed him down, and soon he was suffocating on dirt.
He struggled for a second, then he lived no more.

No Beer This Time

Sam is testing Ethan on spelling. "Curl."
Ethan responds, "c-u-r-l."
Next Sam says, "Bitch."
Beat.
Beat.
I look at him, befuddled. Ethan starts giggling.
"Huh?" Sam says as if it had come from someone else. He rechecks the paper. "Oh. Birth."
I think Sam's cold meds are slowing his brain down a bit.

Dear Charlie Sheen: wtf

Trashing Chuck Lorre? I've never seen him do anything but state the obvious about you, no name calling, and then express amazement of your ability to be not dead. You were foul and nasty and one step away from the slurring anti-semitic Mel Gibson. If you're not on drugs, if you're just high on life, then you have lingering pot smoke and cocaine dust in the air, not to mention a build up of lsd in your spinal fluid- been cracking your back a lot lately? Is there some urban legend about crystal meth remnants, too? If so, then it also applies. That, or the syphilis has gotten all the way to your brain.

Also, make up your mind- will you be surrounding yourself with a porn paradise or the love of your ex-wives and children? One or the other, asshole, you can't have both.

Another also? You've created a suck show. It's gone down the crapper along with you. Lorre's done all he could to keep it afloat with your stupid anchor ass. You are not Nathan Fillion and your show is not Firefly. Ergo, you have no mighty band of followers. Get over yourself.

To Claim the Meditation Was Unsuccessful Would be an Understatement

Dammit, is the sound still on on the television? No, ignore it. Need to learn to ignore sounds if I want to be able to meditate at work... Where would I? The break room? People will think I'm insane. The bathroom! No, no lids. Go to the car- it won't be freezing much longer... It might get too warm, not idling the car, I kill the environment too much anyway. Roll down the windows, open the sun roof. Freakin' traffic. Stop! No thinking... The refrigerator just kicked on. I guess I'm never around actual complete silence. Block that out... What time did I start? Stop thinking! Breathe, breathe, breathe. Now you're thinking about breathing! Now you're picturing the word BREATHE. Focus. The center of the A. Focus. Focused on that flower when I was in labor with Connor. Could I draw that flower now? Oh my god, stop thinking. I could blog how bad at this I am. Clear your head!... Am I really thinking about blogging about thinking about blogging?... God, how long has it been?

I'm mixing my beer and my sudafed tonight. Is this why they card me when I buy each of them?

I think the proof of this fact is that I published this post before I actually wrote it. Score one for the beerdafed. I've never had to retract a post and it took a few minutes to figure out how to do so.

I've got a cold. Whine, whine, bitch, moan. Normally, I just take a sickness like a woman. That is to say, I've got shit to do, I've got to keep moving. This time, I am whining like a total man. You know how they get when they're sick. Life must come to a sudden and painful halt. He is suffering, you must too.

Well, that's me right now. This sucks. I'm talking head-down-on-the-table-at-Connor's-hockey-practice, Ramen-noodles-for-dinner, please-don't-take-too-much-advantage-of-me-kids sick. And it's just a cold.

I did it to myself. Two days before this hell cold came on, I thought, "Gee, I've made it through most of this winter without being ill." I've told you before that I am Murphy's Law's bitch. I am fully aware of this fact. So I immediately followed up this thought with, "For which I am super grateful, god, or gods, or Murphy. Whomever. I am thankful. I am not thinking of this hoping for any sort of irony."

I am also fully aware that it is extraordinarily odd that I talk like this to myself. At least it wasn't out loud.

I've spent approximately 19% of my day at work, these last few days, wiping down things I've touched with lysol wipes. Phones, keyboards, mice, pens, door handles. I even considered anti-virusing customers' credit cards before handing them back. Then I decided that was a lot of work for little payoff. You should all probably avoid aisle 4, though. I had to rearrange that whole bitch today, it's probably all plaguey.

Did he really punch you in the face, or did you jump him and slam your face into his fist?

Emmy woke up sick today. Actually, I think she went to bed sick- at seven without dinner. It was hard to tell, last night, whether she was actually not feeling well or just didn't want the pork chops- and, to be fair, the smell disgusted me. I don't eat pork, but even if I did I would have drank my dinner anyway.

Emily is a bit dramatic and a bit hypochondriatic (yuh-huh it's a word), and she worries about everything and internalizes her stress, so much so that she gets stomach pains over upcoming events, even if it's something exciting like her birthday. And, yes, she has been through a whole range of tests, and there seems to be no physical cause for the pain- which has begun an annual appearance two weeks before Christmas and disappears miraculously the day after her birthday. I tend to monitor this pain by making her rate it numerically- 1 is it doesn't hurt, 10 is I can't move and I need to go to the emergency room. This really doesn't work as well as I'd like because it tends to be, "Oh, my stomach is on an eight!"... and then she'll throw out a leg to trip Connor as he's running past. So we go ahead and halvesies whatever she claims.

What all this means is I can't just dose her every time she complains about an ache. I have to be an uncaring, awful mom and offer her sympathy but essentially ignore her the first couple times she complains about something. It makes me feel like a real jerk. It makes her think that her feelings and pain don't matter, and that really sucks. But it's a little like "my brother hit me" or "he called me a bad word". Really? Did he actually hit you, or did he brush past you? Did he call you a name that has ruined your self-esteem, or did he say you were being a meany? Likewise, do you have a mild headache, or is your brain about to burst through your eye-holes?

The imagery? You're welcome.

Emmy and Ethan went sledding with friends right after school, and Emily came home achy and exhausted, said she was going to rest. She came down long enough to reject the dinner, went back upstairs, and actually went to sleep. Okay, so probably really not feeling well. She woke up still achy and exhausted, and decided to mix in a little "my belly hurts", just for flavor. I dosed her with tylenol and water, she fell back asleep. Normally when the kids are sick, I can't even get them to stay in bed with staples.

By 8:30 in the ay-em, I heard this pathetic, scratchy call, "Can I please have just some toast?"

"Sure," I called back, "or you could have a hard roll with cream cheese." Hard rolls (which are not hard, by the way) are the big treat in this house, probably because my kids have no idea what white bread is.

Much louder and clearer this time, "Well now I want a hard roll."

She'll be fine.

The Irishish Doesn't Suck

While I know it may not be technically true, in my book Irish Coffee simply refers to coffee that has become even more fun to drink by the addition of alcohol. Sure, Irish Whiskey is the traditional route, but that's not necessarily the most creative recipe ever. And I like creating new recipes! Sometimes that's a new blend for mashed potatoes, sometimes it's a new modification to a pie, but tonight! The coup de grace! A new whatever you call liquor in Irish Coffee!

Sam had a hockey game tonight, and what better way, short of a paper bag wrapped around a bottle, to drink in public than spiking coffee? Plus, it's damn cold in most ice arenas. Dual purpose beverage.

Of course, normally I brew up some coffee, and Sam Irishes it for me. Tonight, apparently, cleaning out his car somehow trumped my future beverage slash hockey game enjoyment.

He left it up to me.

Bad move.

I had about two minutes to choose my alky, and I honestly don't know the bottles all that well. Combine that with the fact that the bottles are distributed between the kitchen and multiple places in the dining room (we do it up right, y'all). It could have taken a disastrous turn. It did not. No, really!

At that point I just started pulling every bottle out of the assorted cabinets, snagging any that seemed vaguely coffee complementary.

And thus I grace you with my new recipe for Irishish Coffee! (Bear in mind that unnecessarily dirtying extra dishes in this house is a mortal sin. This is why all the measurements involve eyeballing, not because my motto is "the more alcohol, the better". I swear, that's not my motto.)

Brew up a whole bunch of coffee- whatever will fit in a thermos (or several), but with space to spare; into the thermos it goes. Find the Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka (Double Caffeine- says so on the label!). Pour a bunch of this into the same thermos. Find the Irish Whiskey because something has to put the "Irish" into "Irishish". Pour that into the thermos, too. Man up- pour some more in there. Coffee sometimes needs lightener, right? Know what will lighten this? Add a hugely healthy splash of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur. You don't need much because the alcohol content therein is notsomuch; don't waste too much space, but chocolate is chocolate, ladies and gents! Add some sugar because, yes, you manned-up with the Whiskey, but it's still got to be palatable. Use a straw to sip a bit of this still incredibly hot mix out of the thermos. Add a dash more sugar because you're still not that manned-up. Congratulate yourself on your ingenuity.

The final step is hearing your husband mention whipped cream, but not until the car has already left the driveway, and swearing under your breath at that obvious miss. Make a mental note- must reattempt recipe right after you get home from the game soon, but with addition of the heretofore neglected whipped cream.

Don't forget some sort of mug to drink out of at the game. Nothing says "lush" like falling ass over teakettle backwards off the bleachers trying to suck the bottom out of a thermos.

One of us is mature. The other is a mom.

Ethan: In a book in school, there's a picture of a boy completely naked.
Me: *shrug* You know what a naked boy looks like.
Ethan: Yeah, but I think that's completely inappropriate for school.

And this is where it would have ended, if it were up to me. But no.

Ethan: Some boys in my class were looking at it.
Me, trying to keep this conversation from turning into an interrogation: Where did this book come from?
Ethan: It came from Ms. {teacher's name redacted}'s room.
Me: And what was going on in the book?
Ethan: I don't know, I wasn't reading it. The boy was just standing there. Facing forward.

And before anyone asks, no, I did not complain/express concern to the school- for lots of reasons. For one, I am so not concerned- didn't want the conversation in the first place. For two, possibly Ethan misinterpreted it. For three, every kid is curious, it's no big deal.

For four? *At worst, I am not going to be the one outing little boys.

*Why, yes. Yes, that was a joke. Glad you recognized it.