“Sometimes You Wanna Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name”

Its not really a secret to those who know me…but I like the sauce. Devil’s brew. Firewater. You get the picture. And surprisingly enough I didn’t start really drinking until I was 21 (gasp…whaaat??) It’s true. But by then I was on a rugby team and my days of sobriety faded into the sunset. One of the benefits of not drinking until I was legally allowed was that I didn’t get an underage intox in college and I didn’t have to hide in a dorm room playing beer pong on a closet door. I got to saunter right up to the bar and stagger out 4 hours later. Bars hold a special place in my heart, most likely because I’ve been to quite a few and I try to find the beauty in each. I enjoy a fancy martini bar where the drinks are served by tenders in all black attire. I like the douchey sports bars where beefy frat guys shout at the flat screens and order wings and loaded potato skins with their pitchers. I adore gay bars where I’m referred to as “girl” or “sweetie” and am complimented on my “gorgeous pashmina scarf.” And I also love Irish Bars where it’s imperative you know the proper way to pour a Guinness and to give the toast “Slainte.” (It don’t rhyme with “ain’t”). But of all my bar boyfriends whom I’ve loved, I have given my heart to my one and only. The Dive Bar. In memory of my hometown’s dive bar which recently closed, I dedicate this post to “The Red Owl Inn.”

My first exposure to what I would come to think of as a Dive Bar was from my one of my parent’s favorite shows “Cheers.” You could argue that Cheers is not a Dive Bar…and you may be right. But I classify it such because of the feeling I get from it. Like the theme song says “Wouldn’t you like to get away…sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.” Who wouldn’t want to go to a place like that? When I got a little older my dad would take my sister and I to a Dive Bar after work with him (it was a restaurant too…don’t shit your pants). It was called Dewey’s and they had pizza and video games. Like a Chuckie Cheese…with beer. (Sounds like heaven huh?) These bars began to ironically feel safe to me. The sounds of laughter and classic rock. The gentle yet sarcastic jabs from the bartenders to their clientele. These were working class people sitting down for a beer, enjoying time with friends. What could be better?

When I got to college, the Dive Bars were significantly scaled back with preferences towards the clubby type atmosphere where dancing resembled sex and over-priced drinks were served by scantily clad women. There were a few bars I enjoyed more than others and they generally involved cozy venues where the restrooms weren’t filled with sweaty cry-barfing girls, with well-meaning friends saying “He’s an ASS-hole Stephanie. You’re too good for him!”
When I got to graduate school, after a long exhaustive search I found my favorite Dive Bar, which has still not been surpassed. Its name: The Bier Stube. The Bier Stube was a Dive Bar at its finest. The floor was perpetually sticky. They had two dart boards. The juke box specialized in classic rock. You left your tips in a bucket. There was shag carpet stapled to the table legs. And the piece de resistance…they sold beer to go. Yes. The night doesn’t have to end at 2:30 suckas! All in all the Bier Stube was pretty disgusting, and amazing. And ironically enough, when I went to Germany there was a bar in Dresden called the Stube which was amazing as well. (Germany /Beer/Stubes deserve their own post…mostly because of Beer Gardens and liter drinks…and French fries served with mayonnaise dressing. I’m tearing up right now thinking of it.)

So to really understand what a Dive Bar is (in my opinion only mind you), I believe that a bar must have at minimum 5 of these characteristics. Well at least these are the reasons I like Dive Bars.

1) It has to have a cool name
Case in point: The Library in Columbus, Ohio. When someone asks where you’re going, you say “The Library.” You aren’t lying. And you don’t look like an alcoholic by going to a bar at 2 pm on a Tuesday. It has to be a welcoming name that makes you feel like you belong. Sure it’s fun to go to a bar named Club Morocco or Stratosphere Lounge or whatnot…but that is not a Dive Bar name. Some of my favorites over the years: Lottie Moons, Mac and Joe’s, The Thirsty Scholar, Lucky’s, Out R Inn, Surly Girl, Brat Haus, Nate and Wally’s, Zamakazi’s. You get the picture.

2) Beer, Beer, Beer
You’ve gotta serve beer. If you have liquor based drinks as well, all the better. But beer should and must be the center of your drink menu or you cannot be a Dive Bar. It’s best if you offer pitcher specials and if your bartenders know how to do a proper pour, either from the tap or other container. If there’s anything I hate more it’s waiting for 2 inches of head to dissipate (That’s what she said). Also. You are no friend of mine if you don’t have Pilsner glasses. You know, the thick glasses that don’t (normally) shatter if you drop them off the bar (or karaoke stage). Which brings me to….

3) Music
I’ll admit I love techno, fabulous electronic dance music. I already said I like gay bars didn’t I? But to really feel comfortable and enjoy my drinking experience I want to hear some classic rock. Eighties hits are ok too. I mean tell me you wouldn’t enjoy hearing somebody butcher “Wake me up before you Go-Go.” Wham! on a karaoke machine=nothing better. But I love hearing the Stones (Beast of Burden!) or Led Zeppelin (Street Corner Girl!). And everybody has a great time with Piano Man, Sweet Caroline, and Don’t Stop Believin’.

4) Sports and Entertainment
One of my good friends is pretty antsy…or maybe just ADD I dunno. But one of the requirements when bar choosing , and of a good bar, is “What is our drinking activity?” I personally enjoy drinking while watching sports or movies or just talking. But this friend had to be doing something, which soon wore off on me. Our favorite pastime is darts and my dad goes ape for a pool table. We would often move onto those bar-top video games, most notably Erotic Photohunt. (“Is his ass cheek different in the left picture?”) I’ve also seen a drunken friend dominate at Pac Man. It was pretty epic. In the warmer months we would play Cornhole and Hillbilly Golf (lovingly called “Testical Toss”) and we always had a great time with classic drinking games like Flip Cup and the quintessential Beer Pong.

5) Bartenders
I don’t want to be hatey, but a lot of bartenders are lacking in their barside manner. Maybe it’s because they’re busy or don’t really have a love for the craft but I just don’t like if you’re bitchy or flat out ignore me. I understand it can be a rough job, especially when annoying drunks can’t pronounce the beer they want or sign their credit card receipt. But if you show a little grace and spunk when bartending I will, guaranteed, leave you a huge tip for facilitating my drinking.

6) Dress Code
You aren’t allowed to have one. Except the blatantly obvious No Shirt No Shoes No Service (my grandpa used to add “No Shit” at the end of that phrase just to show its “Duh” factor). But I don’t want to have to dress up in my finest attire to go have a beer. Anyplace that embraces me in tennis shoes and a hoodie is perfect in my book. Every time I go out with friends it doesn’t mean I’m looking to impress a guy…so don’t give me that look biatch. I’m just here to have fun.

7)Restrooms
I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to hand washing and cleanliness. But I’ll make a smallish exception for a Dive Bar. Your bathrooms have to verge on gross. I shouldn’t want to sit directly on the toilet (and I never do). And if your men’s urinals resemble a latrine trough…all the better. Guys like peeing in odd places anyway. But under no circumstances should you forgo soap. I draw the line there. Especially since the onslaught of the Swine. Gag. Moving on.

8) Décor
What can I say…you can’t have padded couches with throw pillows at a Dive Bar. No sir. Booths, tables, chairs, and barstools are allowed. I also enjoy old beer posters and neon lights. For some reason St. Pauli Girl and Pabst Blue Ribbon signs seem to fit in dive bars. Anything vintage that has to do with sports is also cool. And if you let your clientele write on the walls…BONUS! My friend and I once wrote “Jew vs. Gentile” on a dart scoring chalk board just to see how long it would stay up there.

9) Emotional Attachments
This may seem silly and girlish (Well…I am a girl), but if a place is a Dive Bar to you, you should have some sort of emotional attachment to it. All the Dive Bars I like have that quirky, special feeling to them, the feeling that if someone insults it I’ll fight them to the death. “Did I just hear you diss on Spanky’s? Oh no you did-int!” And most important of all you should feel at home when you enter your favorite Dive Bar. Just like the Cheers theme song says “Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn't you like to get away? Sometimes you want to go, Where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same. You wanna go where everybody knows your name.”

How Many Quilts Have You Killed Today Vera?

Dear Ms. Vera Bradley,
Hello. You don’t know me (and after you read this letter you won’t want to know me), but I’m an unemployed 25 year old female living in Ohio. I wanted to write you today to express my extreme displeasure/outrage involving your manufacturing process. It is blatantly clear that you are the (decidedly loaded) evil tsarina in charge of a handbag regime in which countless quilts are abused and more often than you’d probably like to admit, murdered. Yes…I’m aware of your heinous secret…you are a patchwork-loving homicidal maniac and I want you to know that I am whole-heartedly against your practices. It’s bad enough that you destroy the very quilted fabric that this country was built upon, but to parade it around in the form of handbags, totes, suitcases and other various zippered receptacles is inexcusable. From this day forward I am starting a one-woman crusade entitled SOQ:VB=M (Save Our Quilts: Vera Bradley=Murder). Consider yourself warned Ms. Bradley.
With sincere contempt,
An employed 25 year old female living in Ohio

If I were to compose a letter to Vera Bradley (is she even a real person? am I focusing my anger on a figment of imagination?) that is most likely how it would look. Why such hate you may wonder. Such anger for a person you do not even know. Don’t fool yourselves. Vera has brainwashed you too, brainwashed you into thinking you need her fancy quilted bags to be fashionable in 2009. Right now, hundreds and hundreds of Vera-crazed ladies are lining up to wreak havoc on mind-numbingly patterned, quilted bags. Oh yes, there is a massive Vera sale going on in Fort Wayne, Indiana…the birthplace of the regime. You know, I’m an advocate of personal safety in the form of pepper spray…but I fear that these Vera Nuts (otherwise known as our normally docile mothers, aunts, grandmas) will use it on one another to get to that paisley-patterned makeup case. I feel like I can hear it now. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones are talking pleasantly in line about their favorite size and model of Vera bag.

“You know Joan, I just go crazy for that flowered mid-sized pocketbook!” to which Joan replies

“Phyllis I couldn’t agree more. Vera’s latest fabric patterns have been precious! Did you even see that gorgeous plaid one with the cardinals and robins on the trim?”

These are nice sentiments from two gals I’m sure we could venture to call Granny Joan and Auntie Phyllis. But just you wait. They open those doors to the bag wholesale and it becomes a quilted massacre. Joan and Phyllis (and all the other nice gals) become blood-thirsty Vera fanatics.

“I saw that pink striped glasses case first Joan! You nasty slut!”
“Shut the fuck up Phyllis. It’s mine. I’m gonna pummel your fat ass.”
“Oh really? You lay a finger on it and you’re gonna see my fist comin’ at your dome!”
“Don’t test me bitch! It’s a limited edition. I’ve killed for less.”

Alright, alright. That was really dramatic. But honestly, even if they don’t actually act out that violent scene you know they’re thinking it. Somehow the quilted bags of Vera Bradley have become something of a pop-culture phenomenon. What you’d think would just be a small faction of middle aged to elderly ladies with a love for these bags has manifested itself into an all-age fashion accessory binge.

If you are a fan I apologize for the following assessment, but again, it’s just my own opinion. I personally (if you can’t tell) am not a fan of them…aesthetically speaking. Quite frankly I think they’re ugly. But what bothers me most about this quilted-mess is that someone thought up the idea to hack apart and sew together bags (which look like blankets) and is now a bajallionaire. And people actually pay shit-tons of money for something my grandma could make in a half hour! (I’m probably just jealous that I didn’t think of it first. You know…if I’d thought up gaucho pants or scrunchies or some other putrid fashion, I wouldn’t be so damn hoity-toity about hating them so much because I’d be a tanning in Barbados right now outside my luxury villa. So go ahead and hold that against me. Rightly so.)

I also don’t really understand young women who carry them around. I can see how a more mature lady would dig them. That’s cool with me. Get on with your fancy-bag-carrying-bad-self mom. But I saw them daily at my undergraduate institution. I’ll admit that some patterns bordered on “cute” or “permissible.” But girlfriend, you’re 20 years old…do you really think that carrying a quilted purse with hens and roosters on it is the epitome of sexiness? I can’t imagine how deluded your mind is if you think so.

*Sidenote: I will make an exception for the breast cancer awareness Vera Bags. I won’t hate on anyone who has one of those because it’s for a great cause. I’ll admit I’m a sardonic bitch at times but I’ve certainly got a heart. During the LiveStrong uproar I owned so many of those multi-colored bracelets I looked like a damn Rainbow Brite doll. Hell, if someone made an IBS awareness Croc maybe I’d buy it. (Seriously, I have loved ones with IBS. Trust this, you don’t want the words “irritable” and “bowel” in the name of a disease YOU have.) *End of Sidenote

Anyhow…I think I’ve made I certainly clear that Vera ain’t my favorite gal. But you know what…go wit it’. If you love you some quilted bags…then be my guest. But then again…I might attack you on the street cause I’m on a mission to reconstruct the quilts of America. And your patterned paisley-shit cosmetics bag is just what I need to finish my blanket.

H-Ugg it out, Bitch

After my last assault on footwear you probably don’t want to even hear what I’ve got to say about Uggs. If that’s so…there’s a red button in the upper right corner of this screen that you’re welcome to click. Haha…that was uber-bitchy. Sorry. Please keep reading. It’s not all bad.

But anyways, Uggs aka the fall/winter Crocs. I think every season should have a token pair of intolerable shoes and Uggs shall be that for the colder ones. I’ll start again with the first time I came into contact with Uggs. And lemme tell you…this one is weird. I believe it was Christmas 1996 when these fuzzy, soft leather sexy thangs came into our household. My uncle bought them for each of his brothers (one of those bros being my dad) because he had heard about them from one of his clients and thought they were cool because they were made in Australia by sheep herders or something. Middle-aged men. What can you say? I had never heard of them before this point, but did my dad ever like them. He wore them, as I mentioned before, as “houseshoes.” So my first memory of this shoe staple was seeing my dad trudge out into the snow in Uggs, boxer shorts, and a robe to take out the trash. Real, real fashion forward.

I would randomly put them on as well because they were so soft inside (as Michael Ian Black says on I Love the New Millennium “It’s like sticking your foot into a lamb”). I didn’t really think much of these boots for some time until I went to that fashion obsessed university I mentioned before. To set the scene I’ll just say that this school, in terms of average parental wealth, was a bit out of my league. I got in just fine based upon ACT scores and my GPA…but if I had been trying to get in on Daddy’s good word/dollar (as I assume some did) I would not have made it. The way kids dressed baffled me from day one and never ceased to baffle me until I graduated four years later. I think Uggs crept in my first fall/winter there and didn’t stop (I’m sure it’s still happening now).

First off, based upon my past experiences with Uggs…they just weren’t cool. And I’d have to say that if you were to see your dad traipsing around in them you wouldn’t think they were all that hot either.

Secondly, I had much the same feelings about Uggs as I do with Crocs. There is a time and place for them. With a decent pant in cold weather they are perfectly acceptable in my eyes. But I’ll never forget when girls began wearing them with jean skirts and a skanky ribbed tank...in summer. I don’t even WANT to think what their foot sweat was doing to that poor lamb wool lining. But I’d have to say my favorite look (which I hear is being replicated on college campuses all over the nation) is what my sister and I call the “OMG…I just got outta bed in time for Stats.” A girl throws on a pair of tiny shorts with her respective university stamped across the ass. Then she chooses a Gamma Delta Tri Zeta Beta t-shirt which advertises some “A-mazing” activity she and her “sisters” participated in. Then said gal mashes her hair into a messy bun which is supposed to look like she just did it in 2 seconds (like I do), but in reality it took her 10 minutes to get the appropriate bed-head chic look. After the first layer is appropriately in place she finishes with a North Face fleece (black is preferred…although light pastel colors are a close second) and then our subject footwear, Uggs. She also probably takes along her Vera Bradley bag but I’ve got so much pent-up rage focused on those things that I can’t even go there right now (but don’t you worry…it’s so coming). I can’t even tell you how many girls I would see fitting the “OMG…I just got outta bed in time for Stats” look when I was at school. It was painfully obvious that these girls did not in fact “just get outta bed,” and that they should at least use that prep time for a more put together look. Personally I did indeed “just get outta bed” and it was blatantly clear. I perfected the sweat wear look…but hey I was in a collegiate sport (and valued my sleep more than impressing some douche bag guy in my Stats class) so lay off me k? Anyways back to Uggs.
As time went on this fad continued and continued and continued. I even fell somewhat prey to it when I borrowed a pair of my sister’s fuzzy boots (they weren’t Uggs and they were a lot cuter, but I guess it still is in the same genre). And you know what? They are comfortable and somewhat freeing. I felt like I was a young, svelte woman named Natasha living in cold, Communist Moscow who, although under such a strict regime, looked arctic-fabulous daily.

So what are my true thoughts? Again, in my opinion Uggs are acceptable with a) the proper pant and b) the proper cold season. It’s also important that people who wear them understand that you really aren’t “hot shit.” If you don’t believe me I cordially invite to you my parents quaint country home. You can go on our back porch and witness what a grown man’s 13 year-old Uggs look like…and then, if you can stomach it, you can watch him take out the trash in those boots and a plaid, old man robe. Enjoy.

Go Croc Yourself

I decided to start with this VERY controversial fashion piece for a myriad of reasons. One of my good friends hates Crocs so vehemently that she won’t touch them. I truly believe they make her physically ill. I think footwear that repulses someone that much really deserves a closer look. So I’ll start from the beginning. The first time I was introduced to Crocs (advertised as foot ergonomic, anti-microbial aka stank resistant, extremely comfortable, available in veritable rainbow of colors) was strange because they were the knock-off Payless Brand. One of my college roommates got a pair to wear around the dorm. I tried them on several times and found them to be like walking on that Nickelodeon Floam shit that my mom refused to buy me back in the 90’s. To me they looked like a bloated garden clog with holes to drain out sweat…or whatever other liquid your feet may happen to produce. I really had no qualms about them because I thought they were, for lack of a better term, what my grandma used to call “houseshoes.” You wear them around to do chores, maybe out in the garden, and to do various other household activities I generally avoid. I’d also heard that they were popular amongst medical staff because if you got blood or shit or vomit on them you could just spray them off. Nice thought.

I really didn’t think much about the real Crocs (which I saw soon after) or the knock-offs. I went to a relatively fashion-obsessed university (much, much more on that later) and they weren’t really cropping up. But during the summer of 04 my whole footwear world turned upside down. I visited France with a school group, tour-ish thing. *Side note: My four word sage advice on one of those all inclusive tour packages: DON’T FUCKING DO IT. Unless you too want to be involved in high school drama/whining and be drug kicking and screaming to every castle in Northern France without a piss break. The best part of our trip was dining, drinking, and dancing to techno at a winery. But even then they didn’t supply us with enough wine to do any damage. I know I probably sound like a spoiled little bitch right now. But for as much as I paid for the trip…I frankly expected a little more independence. But whatever. Moving on* Apparently, flip-flops are not really a casual footwear staple in France. So when we wore them our tour guide Claudio said “Dey all know dat you ahre A-mEHR-icans.” In our defense we were wearing very nice flips which verged on dressy sandal… whateves. We were fashion douche bags…dually noted. But after being berated for what I was wearing, I was HORRIFIED to see that one faction of our group, some very nice folk from Missourah (their pronunciation…not mine), were wearing fuckin’ Crocs. In fuckin’ Paris, France. These things, which I’d convinced myself to be houseshoes, were being worn in public. And not just any old public…Paris, fucking France…the capital of fashion and European-ness. And to make it worse, they wore them with white socks. Yeah…I’ll let you think about that for awhile. Get it good and ingrained in your memory.

This moment in time was the beginning of my hatred of Crocs. Like I said before…I could honestly care less if you are in the medical profession or are at home/in a botanical garden while wearing them. That’s an acceptable time and place. And if you are a child and you want to collect the little charm things to put in the sweat holes…be my guest. I wore jellies once upon a time so who am I to judge a kid who likes brightly colored plastic footwear. But honestly, if you are above 10 just give it up. I understand that they are comfortable, but so are sports bras and you don’t see me wearing those all over creation do you? I also hear that they are anti-microbial but let me tell you something. I’ve funked up my share of shoes by not wearing socks with them, my bad. But you know what, I did the honorable thing and threw them away. I didn’t elect to buy the shoe equivalent of an animal pen, and when things got a little murky, just spray them off with a high pressure hose.

In researching Crocs (yes I actually do research when I write this blog) I found that there are many sites whose sole mission (haha…sole mission) is to bad-mouth these shoes. Apparently too, the people who seek out these websites are Croc-lovers who leave messages like “Fuck u asshole…don’t u have ne thing better 2 do than bash Crocs? I <3>

But honestly let’s all have a heart to heart. I’ve pretty much made it clear when I feel Crocs are acceptable…and then in all other circumstances they make me kinda physically nauseous as well. If you like/love/want to give all your worldly possessions to the Crocs empire…that is fine. We live in America and along with the right to be fashion douche bags you have the right to your own opinion and the expression of that opinion. But so do I. And don’t be surprised if I (or my Crocs hatin’ friend) encounter you on the street and projectile vomit on your shoes. I’ll be kind and spray them off with a garden hose because…come on…that’s why you wear them right?

A big "I Don't" to Crocs

It’s been such a long time….it’s been such a loooong time

It has been quite awhile since I last posted on my blog. Blame it on my laziness (which is at astoundingly high levels as of late) or that the last month has been a drunken roller coaster of birthdays and spring break festivities. Whatever you choose to believe I am back and I will attempt to write more often because it really is a huge emotional and creative release for me. And because I hope you find my writing minutely entertaining (or at the very least not mind-numbingly dull), I’ll keep posting as many useless thoughts as I can muster.

I’ve decided that a new series of posts will revolve around fashion. This may seem like a curious direction for my blog to veer in, especially since previous posts have been decidedly more forcible in nature. Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon my penchant for foul language and snarky comments…these posts will concern fashion that I either hate, love, or am whole-heartedly confused about. And if you’re reading this and thinking “Girl…I’ve seen your closet. You aren’t an expert on fashion trends,” I invite you to shut the hell up and/or kiss my ass. Just kidding. But seriously plenty of people talk about things of which they have no clue (ex. Sarah Palin and foreign policy/geography/mainland America…just sayin’). So heretofore I will be the Sarah Palin of fashion. You can disagree with me and say my opinions are ludicrous, but honestly the last time I checked not THAT many people read my blog so I’m not going to be influencing the minds of the greater public.

Super Nanny

My most recent foray into the part-time working world involves three of my favorite past times: eating, drinking, and sleeping. Except that I don't really get to do any of those things. I facilitate those activities for a 4 month old. Its true...I am a nanny. (I guess what I really am is more of a baby sitter since it's only a few days a week...but nanny sounds cooler so I'm going with it k?)

I was asked by my cousin and her husband (news of my unemployment is hot gossip in my family) to watch their 4 month old baby a few times a week while they act like real grown ups and make money at their jobs. I jumped at the chance because a) It's consistent work at a decent salary, b) I could apply for jobs while the baby slept/bounced around in some random piece of baby entertainment furniture, and c) the baby is pretty freaking cute and not one of those monster infants. So far things have been going really well and the little lad (whom I've decided to call Stewie) and I get along swimmingly. But I have observed a few things which I find amusing.


-Babies should be spoken to like adults. Don't patronize them. If anyone saw the E*Trade baby commercial during the Super Bowl you'll know why I'm advocating this. In an effort to be entertained (and get him a commercial gig), I'm trying to teach Stewie to be a day trader with an adult vocubulary...so I always speak to him as though he were such. But don't worry...I watch my language. I don't want my little protegee to wreck his career with a sailor mouth like mine.


-Babies are complicated creatures who require complicated supplies. I can't remember being a baby...and I doubt you can either. But I have a sneaking suspicion our infancies were much simpler than a baby born in 2008. I have never in my life seen so many types of bottles, formulas, baby foods, diapers, and clothes. At one point during my first day on the job while making a bottle for little Stewie, I looked at him while measuring scoops of formula and said "Can you tell I have no idea what I'm doing ?" to which I'm positive I heard him mutter "Bitch please, mix my drink faster. I've got a nap and a crap to finish up by 3."


-Baby food/formula is revolting. I know that babies have a pretty easy life which is why I would like to be one again...but I have a lot of sympathy for them because their nourishment is absolutely gag-inducing. First, whoever invented formula was either a mad genius or a malicious asshole. I understand that it is great for babies because of the vitamins, etc. but it honestly tastes like rotten oatmeal-flavored chalkdust. And I cringe everytime I subject Stewie to it...although he doesn't seem to mind one bit. His reaction to formula and squash baby food is akin to mine with margaritas and loaded nachos: we both go ape-shit.


-Babies make me uber-cautious. I'll admit here and now that one day, yes I do want to be a mother (like after I get a job, home, husband, and Dyson vacuum cleaner). But practicing with Stewie has made me realize what kinds of things will change when I do have my own child. First of all, I'm will become a defensive driver instead of an offensive one (which I currently am). When Stewie rides in my car I find myself analyzing which roads would make for the safest route to our destination. And today I nearly shit myself when an 80 year old pulled out in front of me. Instead of my usual pissed off feelings of having to slow down for them I was geniunely scared and said "Heelllo!! I have a BABY in the car!!" (But remember...I didn't swear or use the finger because I'm teaching Stewie to be a gentleman).

Additionally, I'm really afraid I'm going to do something wrong to Stewie. I've nearly had a panic attack twice about the type and temperature of food I'm giving him (OMG...what if he's allergic to peas!) and was convinced that I was going to bruise him by burping him too hard. I also thought that I may have broken his femur while putting him into a onesie. In case you're wondering, I didn't.


Babies are funny...and you shouldn't lose your sense of humor around them. If there's one thing I've noticed...it's that Stewie cracks me up in the weirdest ways and I love him for it. Case in point: in one short day he spit an entire mouthful of (bleh!) squash baby food on me, he vomited without warning down my leg, and filled his diaper with the most horrendous toxic waste I have ever seen (I swear to God). But all I could do was laugh...and I don't know why.

I also had to keep my sense of humor today at the doctor's office with him. When we arrived the nurses asked me to take his clothes off so they could properly weight and measure and poke thermometers into him (more sympathy from me). So I did as I was told then waited maybe 2 minutes in the examining room with him. When I doctor came in he goes "Oh...you're the babysitter. Well my first bit of advice is that babies get cold very quickly and you need to have clothes on him." I dressed Stewie...again worrying that I was harming him. Then I soon realized this doctor was a certifiable nutjob asswipe because even after Stewie was in 3 layers the doctor continued to berate me for letting him get cold. When Stewie started to cry he said "See...he's cold." No dick...he's crying because you just jammed a tongue depressor down his throat that's why. And look...now he's sweating. Poor Stewie. I couldn't wait to get him out of there.

So, at any rate, lil' Stew and I are becoming fast friends and he always listens to my troubles with rapt attention. Someday (hopefully soon) when I procure full-time employment I'll look back with appreciation to that little guy and thank him for teaching me all he did...namely how to hold my breath for 3 straight minutes while changing a diaper.

GOP Granny

Today, because it is my grandma's 86th birthday, I dedicate this post to her. And since this post is about and in honor of my granny, I will whole-heartedly attempt to refrain from using the "colorful" language that so effortlessly imbues my writing. If she ever actually stumbled her way onto the internet and miraculously found this blog, I would hope she'd be proud of my restraint.

Before I actually start poking fun at the lady, I just want to say that I love her dearly. She's a spunky and spirited woman who has raised 5 children, one of those being my dad who (according to lore) was born backwards and upside down. Not cool Dad, not cool. She bakes a really swell (you'll notice I did not use the preferred adjective bad*ss) batch of sugar cookies and is fond of crafty projects. (She made me a needle point table runner last year for Christmas with prancing cats on it. I'll probably never in my life be caught using that thing, but I truly believe it is the thought that counts.) But most of all she's great because she really loves our family, and well, she's the last grandparent I have left.

With that caveat out of the way, I'll continue by saying that the lady is (God love her) a through and through Republican, and she'd love to familiarize you with the details if you ask. When I was younger I remember going to her house in the afternoon when she was listening to the Rush Limbaugh program on the radio while checking out CSPAN coverage. Then when cable news networks spread like the plague, Grandma began to experience a higher standard of political living in the form of the Fox News channel. She introduced me to Neil Cavuto, Sean Hannity, Brit Hume, Mort Kondrake and Fred Barnes (aka "The Beltway Boys") and that bastion of conservatism: Bill O'Reilly. She even videotaped Bill Clinton's impeachment trial and bought the Starr Report for a little light reading. She's waving her GOP freak flag for all to see and she's not a bit ashamed.

This all made it even more difficult when, at the age of 18, I decided to become a Democrat. Most of my family is (surprise, surprise) Republican, and views my political affiliation with a) bemused interest or b) all-knowing confidence that I will revert back to the righteous political path after I get all those liberal college ideas out of my head. I never actually spoke to my grandma about my political views until this election when I was politically "outed" by my dad. Not cool Dad, not cool. I volunteered for the Obama/Biden campaign (another time-filler in my days of unemployment) which my dad felt the need to bring up when we took Grandma out to dinner one night. I wanted to stab him with my "Yes We Can" pin. Grandma took it decently well and just said coldly, "That's nice." She was probably plotting how to lock me in her house with nothing but a book on Reaganomics and Sarah Palin's recorded thoughts on international relations, or worse, anything remotely related to Ann Coulter.

We didn't talk politics again until she brought up the inauguration at Christmas Dinner. She asked my sister and I if we planned on going to which I said "No Grandma, I'd like to, but I don't think I can afford to go." She laughed and said "Why don't you ask Oprah Winfrey to pick you up on the way from Chicago?" The whole family had a nice chuckle. "You know I really hope Obama (which she pronounces as oBAMa) and his family will be safe and happy in DC." I was slightly taken aback and my icy liberal heart warmed at her words. "And I hope he does everything he promised he would." Ok, Grandma. Stop while you're ahead. Please. "And that he doesn't drive us to socialism with all these government handouts. And let me tell you what I think about this situation in Iraq..." I just sighed. Oh well. I'll just tell people she's senile.