He Sings in Those Truck Commercials

This is my favorite news story of the day. I have many questions:

1. What the hell did this woman’s friends and family – who I assume had been waiting patiently for her to wake up – think when her first words were, “I want to go to a Bob Seger concert.” Maybe they are all better people than me (I mean, odds are good), but I would be PISSED. “Hey, grandma, you know who came to check on you and worried about you constantly during your half-decade long coma? Let me give you a hint: it was NOT BOB SEGER. So how about a little shout out when you wake up.”

2. What the hell did Bob Seger think when a nursing home called him and said, “Bob, you’ll never believe this, a 69-year-old woman who was in a coma for five years has one request: to see you in concert.” I could see him thinking (a) “Oh my god, the only people who want to see my shows are in comas.” OR (b) “That is one bad ass grandma and I want her to be my oldest groupie.” Because all musicians think about groupies constantly, right? I would. Anyways, the correct answer: (c) “If only I still had my long, flowing hair and blunt bangs from my youth, I bet I’d be getting phone calls from ladies who are not in nursing homes and/or comas right about now.”


3. Who the hell is Bob Seger. I am sorry, but white male musicians from the 70s and 80s kind of blur together for me. For example, when I found some pictures of Bob Seger, I thought he could be Kenny Rogers, Jerry Garcia, that Metallica dude, any of the Allman Brothers, or the Unabomber. (I know the Unabomber was probably not a musician but one of the pictures of Bob Seger looked a little angry and militant.) Because I am not exactly sure who Bob Seger is, when I first read the headline for this story I thought the woman had requested to see Bob SAGET, which I would totally get, because I was obsessed with America’s Funniest Home Videos when I was younger. Here is a clip of Bob Saget with his flowing, feathered hair and elephant-sized shoulder pads doing his best prop jokes and hosting magic:

I am not sure, but I think he could kick Bob Seger’s ass, or at least run away from him. And if I was in a coma and could choose between seeing Bob Saget host America’s Funniest Home Videos from the early ‘90s or seeing Bob Seger do…whatever he does in concert, clearly, Saget wins.

4. Also, America’s Funniest Videos still makes me fall off the couch laughing, because look at this.

Something about that girl running mummy-style in her fancy little dress and screaming her curly-haired head off just kills me. Interesting sidenote: when I showed my kids this video, they did not think it was funny. Like, at all. My son said, “Why are you laughing at that girl crying? She wants her mom! Where is her mom?” I mean, I guess that’s another way to look at it.

Anyways, I hope that woman enjoyed her Bob Seger concert and that she got her family members some awesome souvenirs. Because if she wants anyone by her bedside the next time she (heaven forbid) slips into a coma, she better start buttering them up now.

Rip-off Artist

Now that we have recovered from Land Beaver Day and Beyonce Bowl, it is time to turn my house into a child labor factory and crank out some lovingly homemade valentines. My kids are really looking forward to it because they have no idea what is in store for them.

My mom is a retired art teacher (and by “retired” I mean “not teaching anymore but got her Ed.D. for fun, whee”). When she was visiting over the holidays we went shopping at Paper Source, the store where I could almost justify destroying my children’s financial future for some beautiful paper products. Somehow, as I was hypnotized by the sturdy cardstock and loopy fonts, my crafty mom convinced me that I could make the valentines that were on display in the store. And not just make them, but that I could make them better than Paper Source, and get my kids to help. Please note that I had not been drinking. Much.

So we stole a Paper Source catalog (OK, they were free, but I felt so Thelma and Louise, ripping off someone’s idea!) and went to Michael’s with a long list of supplies. Approximately six days later we emerged, tired and dehydrated, with piles of red paper and glue sticks and stickers. Which all cost more than the pre-made kits at Paper Source. Um.

After talking up the projects for weeks to the kids, I finally made some examples this weekend. They really are adorable, and look like only slightly crappier versions of the Paper Source valentines:

But they are kind of hard to make, and I predict my kids will make two before they are bored and things devolve into bribery and threats. Each one took me a good 15 minutes, and I am a really good cutter and gluer. Seriously, that’s on my resume, right next to my law school honors (which are totes going to be put to good use over the next week as I spend 20 hours cutting out hedgehogs and heart-shaped guitars).

My daughter is going to give out the hedgehogs in honor of her beloved Piney Porky McHedgypants. To complete our Paper Source rip-off, we’re writing “Hedgehugs and Kisses” on the back. All of her pre-school friends who cannot read will love it: “Oh, L is so clever with her thoughtful play on words – ‘hedgehugs’! Now can someone help me get this crayon out of my nose.” My son is giving out the guitars, and I’m going to force ask him to write “You rock!” on all of them. He will be pissed off about it probably after the sixth valentine, and will try to convince me that he just has to sign his name because, in fact, some of the kids in his class do not rock at all. Happy Valentine’s Day! Love is in the air.

And even though my mom got me in to all of this, there is something kind of magical about having a grandma who was an art teacher. She can talk me in to trying any art project, and in between the moments of negotiating and complaining, I’m sure the kids and I will have fun. As great as our grandma is, though, this is the kind of bad ass grandma I would want on a road trip. Except for all of the stopping for tickets, it would be amazing. But why didn’t the cops stop her sooner? And how did she not make it to her granddaughter’s dance after all that trouble? Well, at least they all have a good story to tell.

I hope I can say that after we make our valentines this week.

Keeping It Realz

Today I am writing at the library because I needed a change of scenery and wanted to get away from my husband blasting Taylor Swift while he works. (Apparently that is who you turn to when you realize that Ke$ha sucks.) Also, writing at a study carrel next to older men wearing sunglasses and cowboy hats while they try to discretely look at porn reminds me of college, when I was particularly creative.

Lest you think that my life is perfect, what with my proximity to porno cowboys and my public library workspace, I’d like to show you my closet.


I’m not going to surprise you now with an “After” picture where my closet looks like the cover of Real Simple. Those kinds of pictures, with their Instagram filters and perfect lighting, are the WORST. Instead of inspiring me, they make me feel awful and force me to go add a layer of clothes to my closet piles while eating fried food.

I read this article about how Facebook users’ perfect pictures of their vacations and thoughtful spouses and overachieving kids are making us all insanely jealous and filled with envy (did they really need two German universities to reach this conclusion?), so I am really doing a community service by showing you my closet. You are welcome. For an extra feeling of superiority, you may want to pay special attention to the half-torn-off Halloween stickers all over my mirror, the ripped garbage bag full of five year old maternity clothes sitting by the door, or the random sweaters hanging over the lower hangers. Also, please take a good look at the lonely boot sitting atop the mountain of crap and let me know if you’ve seen the other one. I miss it and am afraid it is at the bottom of the pile (i.e., gone forever).

This disaster has been brewing since November. My closet really was reasonably organized for a lovely two week period back then. But every time someone would come over (which was a lot during the holidays), I would throw any loose crap straight in my closet, because who was going to look in there? The house is clean, the kids’ closets are organized, who cares about my closet.

But when I pulled a muscle trying to find a t-shirt the other day it finally dawned on me that, as a semi-functioning adult, maybe I should not live like this. So over the next several weeks and months, I will be obtaining my commercial driver’s license to operate heavy machinery so that I can begin excavating. And I will not show you any pictures of how awesome it looks when I am done.

And this is the boring lawyer in me coming out, but seriously: as willing as I am to show you my embarrassing closet, please remember that there are some things you just should not put in writing.

Should we salute?

Now that I am no longer officially a “working” mom (oh my god, I know all moms are working, just calm down), I don’t really know what to write about. So for now, I will tell a funny story.

Once upon a time, before my husband and I knew about nap schedules and potty training, we went to Thailand for vacation. My husband has some long lost uncle or something (I still don’t know who he is) who lives in Bangkok, so once we were settled in our hotel, we called him. The first thing we learned about this “uncle”: he does not speak a word of English. And he wanted to take us around Bangkok for the day. We do not speak any Thai, but were psyched to have a native Bangkokian (that’s actually a word, I looked it up) take us around the city. Turns out the language barrier was no big deal – the “uncle” was the perfect tour guide, and drove us to some cool places we’d never heard of. And it allowed my husband and I to openly snark and make crass comments without worrying about offending anyone. It was really a win-win.

So it’s almost dinner time, and through a series of charades, “uncle” tells us we’re going to a nice restaurant. We pull up at a building with a large red sign with one word in English: “Abalone.” “Uncle” points at the sign and nods and says with enthusiasm, “Abalone!” So clearly, we’re going to eat abalone.

The restaurant has a formal, strangely Western feeling — white tablecloths, lots of silverware, American music playing, and lots of waiters and waitresses dressed in stiff white dress shirts and red tuxedo pants. My husband and I sit down and exchange glances to say: what the hell is abalone, why is 50 Cent playing on the radio, and why do the waiters look like they are in a marching band?

An older male waiter comes over to take our “uncle”‘s order. My husband notices the waiter’s nametag says nothing but “CAPTAIN.” He nudges me under the table to get my attention and we chuckle a little, wondering if his name is actually Captain, or if that’s the semi-cheesy title they came up with for waiters at this seafood restaurant. At least we think it’s a seafood restaurant – is abalone seafood? No idea. Still.

After an awkward silence at our table where “uncle,” husband, and I all stare at each other, Captain brings out our food. On my plate are several small, round slices of…something (meat?) that is pinkish and shiny, and covered in a clear, thick sauce. “Uncle” looks very proud and motions for us to eat. My husband and I are something other than proud. But not wanting to offend this man who has been lovely to us all day, we dive in. And it is not good. I mean, it’s not offensively bad, but it is rubbery and lukewarm and dense and kind of fishy. Wait, I think that’s the definition of offensively bad.

So my husband and I are trying to eat this new food without offending “uncle,” we’re jet lagged, 50 Cent is actually playing on a loop, and we’ve been sucking down tuk-tuk fumes for the past 6 hours. Then Captain’s helper, looking lovely and gracious in her dress shirt and red pants, comes to see if we need any water.

And her nametag says, “ASS CAPTAIN.”

For the rest of the meal, it was all my husband and I could do to keep abalone from flying out of our noses. I think the “uncle” took our stifled laughter as giddiness over our food, and everyone else probably just thought we were rude Americans. Which we totally were.

I can’t wait to travel internationally with the kids and expose them to other cultures. But maybe we should do it before they learn to read.


I was so happy to read this article today. I love the image of the dudes at the end of the article raising their hands all sheepishly when she asked who wants a sugar mama (OK, that wasn’t her question, but you know what I mean). I also forget that it wasn’t that long ago – like, my mom’s generation – that women couldn’t get a credit card without a man co-signing for it. What the what?!

Anyways. Today was a tough day at work, and I don’t feel great, and my dentist told me I have a cavity. I am feeling both old and crazy. These songs made me feel better, though. Enjoy.

When You Were Young (my god, LOOK AT THAT picture of Brandon Flowers):

Basket Case (Sara Bareilles, equal parts sweet and salty):