the smell of my desperation has become a stench

That bizarre woman and her rude blog

So I thought I should start this post with an email I got this morning from a Canadian reader named Tessa. Hi, Tessa!

Subject: Your Misrepresentation of Canadians Should Be Embarrassing

You are such a wonderful, wise, witty woman. And there you go making comment after comment about how backward and maladjusted Canadians are. How we need/want to catch up to our oh-so-stellar (read: arrogant) neighbors to the south. Canadians do not talk like hics, and if we do, then we are the only ones allowed to make fun of it. Stop being so rude. It makes you look ignorant.

Canada, I just want to take this opportunity to apologize for saying that you are the nicest people I have ever met. How terribly insensitive and ignorant of me. Do I think your accent is adorable? I confess, I do. I DO! Almost as adorable as my friend Carol’s midwestern accent, almost. I tell you, you cannot die happy until you have heard Carol ask for a Bacardi and coke. There’s something about the way she chews her vowels that drives me nuts, but not bad nuts. Good nuts. It’s exactly like the feeling I get when I see a chubby, bald baby, and my insides turn flips because no matter how badly I want to, I know it would be impolite to walk up to its mother and ask her if it would be okay if I ate her baby.

You want to know what’s at the top of my list of things I want to do before I die? Burping in front of the president. Some people want to hike the Himalayas or swim the English Channel, and those are noble and worthy, and they’re on my list toward the bottom behind other important things like STICKING MY TONGUE IN CHRIS MARTIN’S EAR, but one time I was in the car with Maggie when I accidentally let out a tiny, inaudible burp. And I don’t think anything is more offensive to her than actually talking out loud about feces or maybe picking your nose and showing her the booger. Whereas in my family, sometimes we can burp an entire conversation. My brother can even burp in all caps.

She shook her head and said, listen, I know you think that’s innocuous, but you keep doing that and thinking it’s not a big deal and next thing you know you’re doing it in front of the president. That’s when I knew. I knew my life would not be complete without accomplishing such a quintessentially me thing. I’m sure that when people ask Maggie what her friend Heather is like, she goes, you know, I think I could pretty much sum up Heather by saying that she is the type of person who would take great pride in burping in front of the president. The end.

And guess who was in town last night. No, just guess. And guess who wanted to drive up to Park City where this particular someone was holding a Republican fundraiser. I’d tap a secret service agent on the shoulder and say, hey! I need a HUUUUUUGE favor, k? I need 14 seconds with the president. 14. That’s it. I know this is totally out of the ordinary, but I’m slowly dying of old age, and the number one thing I want to do before I die is burp the alphabet in front of George Bush. HOW COULD HE REFUSE ME? Don’t you think he’d be all, BRING THAT WOMAN IN! And we’d bond despite our political differences. THIS IS WHAT AMERICA IS ALL ABOUT. OH-SO-STELLAR AMERICA.

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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