An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

A little R & R

Under the impression that all boobs work like his mom’s:

me and henry

Yesterday morning I flew out to San Francisco to spend the weekend with Maggie and several other lovely ladies. Maggie had a baby a few months ago, and this is the first time I have met him, Mr. Hank Mason, and to be honest, his pleasant demeanor is very troubling. I keep waiting for him to act like a proper baby, you know, with the endless screaming and fussing and general desire to peck away at your face with his disappointment at having been born. He is doing none of this. I think he may be broken.

Do babies actually come like this? Really? Because mine did not. I’m thinking we need to upgrade her software.

We’re going to spend the next few days up in wine country doing things we would not be able to do with our kids around. Like sleeping. And talking without spelling out words. Also, hot lesbian sex. I am so excited to be here, and not just because of the YUMMY WRINKLY BABY NECK that I had with a side of bacon this morning. I need the break so badly, and Jon stopped just short of kicking my butt out the door. Please, he said, go get some rest, because otherwise he might give in to the urge to suffocate me with a pillow.

When I return I have quite a bit of work to do, on the house, on this website, and I need to make some discernible progress on my book, the one I’m writing for an imprint of Simon and Schuster, the same imprint that publishes Dora the Explorer books. You know, me and Dora. Dora and me. We’re like this. In fact, she’s coming over for drinks next week and we’re totally going to bitch about our editors.

In the meantime I’m going to be posting pictures of our weekend to Flickr and a few more here. Maggie is making all these plans to buy party hats and birthday cakes and panties made out of ham, and I’m thinking that when I get home I am going to be so thoroughly relaxed that Jon will not recognize me. And will demand to know what I did with the body of that awful woman he used to live with. I do hope he misses me like I miss him, even though I know he’s staying up late playing quarters with the dog.

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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