Thursday, August 30, 2012

The Fartiest Muffin: A Bedtime Story


Last night I came into the living room, where Jeff was feeding S. I picked him up (S., not Jeff--even though he’s lost some new-dad stress weight he’s still got 50 pounds on me) and hugged him.

“He’s been farting,” Jeff said.

“Oh,” I cooed. “Are you the fartiest muffin?”

Thus, the story below was inspired by true events.

[insert Law & Order chung-CHUNG]

"Muffin Fart," by Pirate Cookie Lady.
I am so happy this exists.
Once upon a time there were twelve muffins who lived in a muffin tin. Eleven of the muffins were right as rain, but one little muffin had irritable bowel syndrome.
“Oh my stars,” said the other muffins, who were very pretentious. “Are those your farts or did a cruller just die in here?”

“Leave me alone!” said the Fartiest Muffin defensively. “I have a spastic colon!”

Sometimes humans would come over and peer down at the muffins.

“Something smells good!” they would say, poking at them with their pointy fingers. “Are these just out of the oven?”

“A Dutch oven, maybe!” cracked a bitchy muffin named Gwyneth. All the other muffins laughed. The Fartiest Muffin just farted sadly.

But the next day, the muffins got taken to a bake sale. They were taken out of their tin and placed on a doily. But human after human passed them by. Nobody wanted the day-old muffins. After a few hours, they started getting paranoid.

“If no one buys us, we’ll get thrown away!” cried a pessimistic muffin named Tito. The muffins puffed up their tops and tried to look attractive.

“Move away from us,” they sneered at the Fartiest Muffin. “You’re bad for business.” The Fartiest Muffin farted at them defiantly.

Soon, the end of the day came and no one had bought any muffins. The bake sale was almost over. The muffins were beside themselves with anxiety. But then a little boy wandered over, holding a grimy dollar in his sticky hands.

“It’s our last chance!” the other muffins cried, preening. But the boy was already turning away, and moving towards the cupcakes. Just then, the Fartiest Muffin mustered up all of his courage and let out an audible toot.

The boy glanced over, eyes wide, as if seeing him for the first time. As if in slow-motion, while “Dream Weaver” played in the background, his hand moved through the air and plucked the Fartiest Muffin off of the doily.

“You smell delicious,” the boy said.

“I love you,” whispered the Fartiest Muffin.

That night, the little boy had uncontrollable gas.

And they all lived happily ever after.

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Friday, August 24, 2012

5 Questions I Ask My Son Which Taken Out of Context Make Me Seem Rude, or Just Really High

  1. Did you just poop?
  2. Is that your nose?
  3. Who has the most delicious tummy?
  4. Can I eat your feet?
  5. Where is your nipply ball?*
* I mean... what would you call this?


It's like a Rubik's Cube of Bart Simpson's scalp. But it's not as bad as the crazy little butt plug with the freckles and the dead eyes...


It's a "mushroom." Uh huh. Whatever, Amazon.

Are you sure you didn't just poop?

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Friday, August 17, 2012

Desperately Seeking Fake Latina Carrie Bradshaw

I'm back!

I know. I left you for a long time. Not that you're not used to that by now, since I do it every, oh, six days or so. But still. I feel abandon-y. Like the other day I was doing a Google search for "fake Latina Carrie Bradshaw" (don't ask*) and I thought, I could be blogging right now. But then the images loaded and my corneas burned away.

*Actually, this was in service of a blog post I haven't yet fully realized, in which I reveal that, as a 30-something, I now find Carrie unbearably obnoxious. Whereas when I was 23, I told anyone who would listen that I was totally a Carrie. Now I watch SATC and I'm like, wow... um, was it really okay to be a racist** with no pants on in the early aughts? Because somehow I missed that whole trend.

**If you were, HYPOTHETICALLY, to re-watch the entire series***, you, too, would notice that Carrie "pretends" to be a ghetto Latina/black girl WAY more often than is ever, ever recommended for a white girl who wears big vagina flowers and speaks only in puns.

***I'm still nursing, and its the only time I get to watch TV, so this is excused. Hypothetically.

Other things I've been up to aside from Google searches of shame:
  • Writing stuff. I swear. Just not here. Mostly here, and here. Also the big project I keep teasing you about. It's super secret and causes me to look at all times like Cathy from the Cathy comic (duh) when she sweats profusely while wearing a head scarf and screaming "ACK!!!", and NO, it is not a video of me finally nailing the Single Ladies choreography. I wish.
  • Competing in the Amateur Hurdles that are our new baby gates. Basically Jeff and I just re-enact those scenes from Funny Farm with Chevy Chase biting it over the Dutch door, over and over again. 
  • Drinking my special juice (wine), and wishing I had cable so I could watch Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo. (Don't judge me, ACK!!! I'm stressed out!!!!)

  • Experiencing Baby's First Beach Vacation, also known as Baby Eats Much More Sand Than Is Probably Medically Sound, later known as Baby Poops Sand and Cries. P.S. here is how big he is now: (<--Yeah, I read that sentence too and was like, hmmm... no. But then again, eh.)

(That's not an abnormally large baby, I'm just that short in real life. Also I still exclusively wear my maternity tops, so all of my shirts reach past my butt. I basically don't even require pants anymore. Sigh. I am such a Carrie. Why do I lie to myself?)

Oh, ALSO. I want to warn you that next week I'm going to be posting a review of conditioner. Which is kind of random, but hey, I need the money. Also, there is the fact of my hair and how it naturally looks like Fran Lebowitz caught in a wind tunnel. So don't hate. I'm just waiting on my Flowbee.

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