the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Won’t you be my neighbor?

Everyone I know has had The Summer Cold, and up until last week I had managed to avoid that plague. Jon had it all week last week, and then I woke up Friday with my throat closed so tightly I couldn’t even drink bourbon for breakfast. And I was all, what will my cousins in Tennessee think of me now!?

Chad! Robert! I promise I can still cook me up some good roadkill!

And it hit me hard. So hard that I put my pajamas on Friday night and did not change out of them until, oh, five minutes ago. Now, I don’t own fancy pajamas. Mostly I just wear Jon’s discarded XXL t-shirts. And it just so happened that the one I grabbed on Friday night was his mustard yellow Webtard t-shirt from Mule Design (note, the shirt has been discontinued, probably because they got as much hatemail as I’m going to get for even agreeing to own such a shirt in the first place, don’t I know that some people have raised high-functioning webtards? And while you may see them as different they are just the most special beings in the world.)

Shit. I’m already a homophobe for suggesting that some gay men take a long time to get ready. And now I’m throwing around the word TARD. Next thing you know I’m going to be making fun of hill folk. Your unfollow finger is getting twitchy!

All of this to say, we have to take our garbage and recycling cans to the curb on Sunday nights, and Jon was in a rather untoward mood last night. So instead of asking him to do it and having him accuse me of nagging him to do it, I just up and done did it myself! In my pajamas. Barefoot. WEBTARD AND ALL.

Mind you, if I haven’t changed out of my pajamas in over two days, it’s pretty safe to say I haven’t brushed my hair in just as long, and as I was walking out the door I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the glass of the window. HOO! What was that band called in the eighties? Flock of Seagulls? One of them up and died on top of my head!

So I was wheeling out the garbage can that was full of Marlo’s poopy diapers when suddenly I saw a man in a suit rapidly approaching me, and since that can was so heavy I really couldn’t drop it and run. Otherwise that thing would probably have crushed me. So I kept my head low, thinking surely this man would not see the dead bird on top of my head or the mustard yellow t-shirt or the fact that I did not have on a bra. There are only so many ways to make it look like you’re not trying to cover up your bra-less boobs. I learned each of those ways last night. None of them are convincing.

Because it wasn’t just the man in the suit who approached me, it was two other neighbors. THREE STRANGERS IN TOTAL. All eager to meet the new family on the street. Except my nose was running, I had WEBTARD written across my shirt, I was grabbing my boobs in all sorts of awkward ways, and my hair was pretending it was an entire crowd at a football game trying to do the wave except the fans in the end zones were messing it up because they were so drunk.

Oh, shame. Heather B. Armstrong is thy illustration.

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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