An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Did this week just really happen?

Jon and I got home last night at about midnight after an endless day of navigating the avenues and streets of New York City. There has been quite an uproar over what happened (and didn’t happen) during my “Today” show segment, and I have a few things to say about it including some behind the scenes shots and commentary. Including the part where my husband and I suddenly and inexplicably switched roles, and he became the one in the room going HOW CAN I MAKE EVERYONE UNCOMFORTABLE and I was the one going PLEASE KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN, ALSO YOUR CLEAVAGE IS INAPPROPRIATE. I became the Victorian schoolmaster. He became the foul-mouthed pole dancer. I blame all that cocaine NBC forced us to snort before my segment.

But I’m barely able to sit up straight right now having developed a serious sinus infection and head cold that just this morning took away my voice. This is entirely my father’s fault, a result of his careless and cruel scheming, and I want to collect a small Tupperware container of my neon green phlegm, drive over to his house and then use it to paint MEANIE! on the rear window of his car.

Because when your daughter has had insomnia for two weeks and just this minute finished taping a live segment on national television that will forever brand her The Woman Who Made Kathy Lee Gifford Uneasy, you do not casually mention over the phone that yeah, things are going great with the granddaughter, except one tiny little thing, not a big deal, but you know how her long, gorgeous hair keeps falling into her eyes? Yeah, that became more of a problem than he wanted to deal with, so he just cut it. Just a little trim. Snip snip here, snip snip there. But it looks fine, don’t worry, when I get home I can even out the ends if I want to.

My heart stopped immediately, the room started turning flips, and right before I died I had a vision of my daughter reaching back to flip her hair with her hands only to be met with empty air, her face now framed by the jagged, sinister line of a hairdo my dad once saw on a mannequin at Sears just outside Louisville, Kentucky. In 1972. Something that screamed I’MMA FROM THE CITY! LEMME SHOW YOU MY INDOOR TOILET!

And then he started cackling. There was actual cackling erupting from my cell phone, and I can guarantee that if I had actually died from the shock of thinking my daughter had been given an impromptu mullet that my dad would have stood up at my funeral and beamed about how he had gotten me that time! No, of course he hadn’t cut my daughter’s hair, he just wanted to jar my heart enough that it would compromise my immune system. And here I am two days later, my heart still skipping a beat every other minute. I guess this means we’re even because this is probably what his gut feels like every time he pulls up my website. Will she or won’t she mention his name in the same sentence as the word poop? HE NEVER KNOWS.

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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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