the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Featured community question that my father should just go ahead and skip

Today’s featured question comes yet again from user Brookelyn Bridge, mainly because it is so timely for me:

I’ve mentioned my friend Kate before (and no, this is not going to be a post about my lesbian fantasies, I gave those up when I realized that I really, really like penises), and she has this enormous garden in her backyard where she grows everything: lettuce, tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, asparagus, you name it. I think she may even grow cream cheese and birthday cakes.

I find this really inspiring for several reasons. I mean, it’s great for the environment to grow your own food, but there she is fixing entire meals from food she’s grown in her backyard. She gifted me a potted tomato plant for Mother’s Day, and I was all, dude, you have set me up! I can’t walk away from a challenge, and now I have to do all this work and research to become the valedictorian of potted tomato plants.

If that plant dies I can guarantee you that NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.

Anyway, to the point. There is one, I promise. The porn is in here. Sadly, it does not include lacy underwear or talk of anyone’s private bits. Which reminds me… okay. I lied. Private bits, here we come!

I can’t believe I’m going to write about this on this here Family Friendly Website, but the first penis I ever saw was on the small side. Like, tiny. And so going forward that was the benchmark: small and quaint. Hey, little buddy! What’s up, little guy? Here’s a stool you can use to reach the faucet to wash your hands!

And then the second penis I ever saw, wow. AWKWARD. It was supposed to be a special moment, but I thought maybe he was ill, or that something terrible was happening, because it was about ten times the size of the benchmark. And so instead of getting all romantic, I’m leaping backwards screaming ARE YOU OKAY?! THAT CANNOT BE COMFORTABLE. CALL 911! CALL 911!

Tangent!

Where was I? Tomato plant. Right. So, it turns out that our neighborhood is zoned in such a way that we could raise chickens in our backyard. I am not even kidding. Chickens. Like on a farm! COCKADOODLEDO! And since most of Kate’s yard is occupied by her garden, she doesn’t have room for a coop. BUT GUESS WHOSE BACKYARD DOES?

You guys, chickens. Can you imagine the content? I mean, Coco’s reaction alone would fill weeks and weeks of Internet Website Blogging. And I would name them all, and cuddle them, and love them. Fresh eggs every morning! Cluck, cluck, cluck! This is not an insane idea at all!

Except, Jon. He who is known as Armstrong, he actually threatened divorce if I put a chicken coop in our backyard, that’s how strongly he feels about this. Can you believe how unreasonable he’s being? It’s not like I’m asking for a pet pig that lives indoors! (He actually walked out of the room when I brought up that idea. Yesterday.)

All I’m asking for is three or four chickens to call my own. And now whenever I even start to say the word, when he hears the CHHH— he completely explodes and heads for the closet where we keep our luggage. And I find this totally hilarious. Because now I have leverage over his clogs: I have the chickens.

Really? No chickens? THEN NO CLOGS.

BOO-YAH!

And then yesterday morning there was some interaction in our office, and suddenly I get a notice on my phone that Armstrong has tweeted something:

I think that answers the question.

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.

read more

SaveSave