Category Archives: Yeah, I play WoW

Some stuff I enjoy the hell out of.

I am not reworking that title. It’s just staying like that.

There’s some stuff that I just really, really enjoy. And now I will tell you about them.

Playing board games with Phil

I wonder if people consider board games to be a nerdy hobby, but then I think, how could they possibly? Doesn’t everyone love board games?

In particular, like the rest of the world, our favorite is Settlers of Catan. Have you played this game? You should play this game, if you haven’t yet. We love this game. When we lived on opposite sides of the country, we would get on Skype and play a version of the game online. We’d always play best out of three and whoever one got to declare herself Champion of the Night.

What a great game. Seriously. We love the shit out of that game. It’s an awesome entry game for people who tend to automatically thing of unending games of Monopoly when they think of board games, and an introduction to the idea that “board game” doesn’t necessarily have to mean roll the dice, move your little hat, maybe turn over a card, race to the end type thing. And for people who are already  into board games, I think Settlers of Catan is the gold standard of awesomeness. The game is different every time, there’s a great balance of strategy and luck, and it takes less than an hour to play a full game. Plus, it’s not obnoxious to explain to new players. Big bonus.

We’ve also got this game called Forbidden Island, which we need to take out on several more test runs. We’ve played it a couple of times, I think, and don’t know it well enough yet to not have to consult the rules continually, so it’s hard to rank it among our favorites, but it’s definitely got a hook that makes it worth keeping around. Forbidden Island is a cooperative game, with each player taking on a specific role with specific abilities, all working toward the same goal, which is getting off this island before it sinks into the ocean. The board changes as you play, and each person’s “turn” is really more of a group turn, because you have to plot two, three, four or more moves ahead, taking advantage of each player’s abilities.

It kind of rules.

So. I like playing board games.

Reading reviews of things I just bought

Like other people with access to the Internet, Phil and I research every $30+ purchase to death. I usually do at least a cursory search before buying, while Phil seems to enjoy to research and review reading almost as much as he enjoys the actual item. I think he was actually, in some small way, kind of disappointed when he brought the monster television into the house, because the searching for the perfect monster TV was over.

The difference between Phil and I, though, is that once he has done his research and purchased the whatever, he moves on to the next whatever. Not me, though. I go and read reviews. Not instructions on how to get the best results from the whatever, not reviews on accessories and add-ons for the whatever.

Nope. I like to read reviews for things I have already bought and use. Whether I like the whatever or hate the whatever. I read reviews about it. Actually, I think I’m even more likely to search them out if I like the product. Then I get to scoff at people who write negative reviews, and say, “Yes, me too!” at positive reviews.

Related: When I see a new infomercial or “As Seen on TV” product, I immediately take to the Internet to find out if it actually works, even if it’s something I’d never use. I just need to know if it works.

Playing World of Warcraft


And I’m almost 30, Kathie Lee.

Listening to Smodcasts/SIR

Kevin Smith has had this podcast – Smodcast – for a long time now. When Phil and I drove across the country from Maryland to Arizona a couple of years ago, we listened to Smodcast almost the whole way. Not only was it hilarious, it made the time pass much more quickly. Even now, I look back on driving ACROSS THE COUNTRY, for DAYS ON END to be “not that bad.” We still reference and repeat lines from the podcasts we listened to on that trip.


So, he did this podcast with his friend/often business partner Scott Mosier for a long time, and then a couple of other related podcasts popped with his friends as well, with a different one each day of the week. Then he started doing live podcasts, selling tickets and all of that, and NOW? He’s launched an entire Internet radio network.

If you’re not into Kevin Smith, it’s definitely not for you, because it’s super Kevin Smithy. If that could be an adjective, that’s exactly how I’d describe it. Super Kevin Smithy. Not all the shows on the network are Kevin Smith shows, but I like his best. In particular, the standard Smodcast and Plus One, which is the morning show with Kevin Smith and his wife Jen Schwalbach.

In addition to the live radio, there are PILES are archived shows, so. If you’re into things that are Kevin Smithy, WHICH I AM – not just the movies, but the GUY (smart, funny, and you know what, I’ll say it – super hot. That’s right.), you should be passing some of your day with Smodcast Internet Radio (SIR).

Reading about the outrageous behavior of other people’s in laws

I’ve already written about this in the past, so I’m not going to do it again now, but rest assured, I am still passing late night feedings by indulging in this hobby.

AND if you haven’t read that post and the comments, go back and do it. Because, holy shit. And if you have any stories of your own, you should add them. But add them to THIS post, even though they don’t seem to fit with the THEME, so that we can all read them without having to go back in the archives. This is my blog, so I can allow that.

So, Internet. What do you enjoy the hell out of? How do you feel about things that are Kevin Smithy? Have you seen Red State? I haven’t. Also, outrageous in law/family behaviors ALWAYS welcome. ALWAYS.


Chocolate Chewbacca credit, my mom on Facebook, and the only picture of me and Penny you’ve ever seen.

My mom sent Phil a chocolate Chewbacca on a stick for Easter and it’s sitting in a bowl on our kitchen counter.

I’ve been over and over it in my mind, and the only way I can think to demonstrate to Phil just how LONG I’ve refrained from eating HIS chocolate Chewbacca is to eat it and then, when he notices, demand credit for holding out as long as I did. I’m not getting any praise with it just sitting there.

You’re not getting any praise for this outfit, either.


Last night, Penny and I went to bed, as we do, and waited for Phil to join us. It got later and later and eventually I realized that he was going to be REALLY annoyed in the morning if he didn’t come to bed soon, so I went to find him. He was sacked out on half of the couch (because baby stuff takes up the other half), and it took a ridiculous amount of convincing to get him up and moving to bed. He just kept looking at me and going, “I quit!” and falling back asleep. Totally out of it.

He did get up, though, and let the dogs out and came to bed. I said to him, “Did you remember to let the dogs in?” He said he did, just as Brinkley came lumbering into the room. I’m obviously including that detail for a reason.

Three or so hours later, Penny woke up to eat. I got up to go to the bathroom and realized I only stepped over Brinkley. I scanned the rest of the bedroom – no Sheldon. Came out to the living room, hoping he’d be asleep on the love seat – no Sheldon.

At that point, I immediately freaked out, because Sheldon is known to jump our fence and he’s a black dog and it was night time – a combination for awful disaster. I saw that the back light was still on and ran towards the back door. I spotted a big black lump leaning against the sliding door and was so relieved. I opened the door and was hit in the face with the still almost 100 degree heat and let him in. He almost knocked me over getting to the dog water fountain (yes) and completely drained it, then flopped down on his stomach on the floor while I refilled it for him to drain again.

I stormed into the bedroom and starting railing at Phil, because COME ON. You KNOW he escapes. You KNOW it’s hot out there. He was too asleep to respond in a way that I felt was appropriate, though, so I waited until this morning to demand that he apologize to Sheldon and check on him.

Phil says, “It was an accident. Oops.”

And I say, “It was hot! He could have escaped! He was SO THIRSTY.”

Phil says, “He seems fine.”

And I say, “He was almost dehydrated! He could have gotten VERY SICK. Or? Escaped and gotten hit by a car! There was a TERRIBLE thunderstorm after I let him in.”

Phil says, “Accidents happen, and he’s fine.”

I get that he’s fine and I get that accidents happen, and I kind of get that there’s no reason to dwell, but I feel like I need Phil to mull over each and every possible disaster scenario that could have occurred before I can get over the situation.

Kind of like how when I’m showering, I think about being negligent in my soap removal and then accidentally not drying my soapy arms well and picking up Penny and she slips right out of my slippery arms. I feel like these things need to be acknowledged. As stuff that COULD HAVE HAPPENED.

Basically, Phil is not fretting over things that didn’t happen enough for my comfort.

This is awful! I hate this! Pick me up, you assholes!


I can always tell when my mom has made her once weekly visit to Facebook by the two page list of notifications alerting me to the fact that she has “liked” everything I’ve posted in the last 7 days. Except for the status updates that contain foul language, and a complete refusal to acknowledge any captions on pictures of Penny that contain the F-bomb or the asshole-bomb.

Example: Picture of Penny, captioned: “I hate you, get the fuck out of my face!”

My mom’s comment: She looks so happy! She must be looking at her mama!

She also comments on old status updates, which is especially funny in the case of my brother, who would post something like, “Tired” during his college finals. There’d be a little back and forth between his friends in the comments, then three days of nothing, then my mom posts, “Why?”

It’s weird, because my mom has a completely fine grasp of technology (except for prevention of the ass dial – you have NEVER been pocket dialed as many times as this woman is capable of. If you get a call Saturday morning and hear the inside of my mom’s purse, prepare to spend the next 45 minutes picking up the phone nearly constantly, bellowing, “MOM! MOOOOOOOM! STOOOOOOOP” and hoping she hears the disembodied voice of her child coming from inside of her purse. Things, admittedly, did get a little better when she got a touch screen phone, but mindbogglingly, it STILL HAPPENS reasonably regularly.)

AS I WAS SAYING, she has a completely fine grasp of technology, she just puts her own mom twist on it. Like replying to Facebook statuses as if she’s in a personal conversation with the poster. Or? OR? When I text her pictures of Penny? She calls me to discuss the picture.


Penny, right after that whole tummy time business:

Not cool, guys. Not cool.


I wanted to roll a new toon in WoW last weekend, but whenever I try to do it myself, no combination of class and race really appeals to me. While I was feeding Penny, I told Phil to just go ahead and create something for me.

I came back to find a warlock named Lwaxana. Er, no. Delete. I should have known he’d make a warlock, considering he has 75 warlocks himself, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Plus, Lwaxana? No.

He asked for another chance, though, so, fine. I was out of the room for a bit and came back to find myself standing in the human starting area as a paladin named Sumki.

“What the shit is a Sumki?”

“I used Google Translate! I thought you’d get it…”

(Years of Russian come back to me.)

“Sumki? As in, the plural of sumka? Like, purse? Purses?”

“It’s supposed to be bags.”

… you’re an asshole!


You know what is a serious boner killer? When you’re in the car and the Proclaimers come on, and you’re listening to I’m Gonna Be, and you think that you and the other person in the car are on the same page.

You think that, at least, until you bellow out the first “DA DA DA!” at the top of your lungs, and he DOES NOT DO the echo back “DA DA DA!”

I swear, nothing has ever made me question my marriage more.


These are your parents, Penny.

Too bad.

A jingle, an irrational fear overcome, a confession and I’m unaware of when my boobs are out.

There are no pictures of Penny in this post, so if you are here solely for the Penny, you should just move on before you’re suckered into reading actual WORDS. From ME.


This may just be a north east thing, but I am reasonably certain that my life – and the lives of most people who grew up in the same general area of the country as I did – can be divided into two equal parts. Times when the Van Scoy Diamond Mine jingle was stuck in my head, and times it wasn’t.


AN UPDATE! On my thing that broke? Well, it was my My Brest Friend pillow, which I have heartily recommended to many people.

Since I could not imagine being without it, I got over my irrational fear of being told to fuck off by a company in email form and I sent a letter. I said how much I like the product, how I tell everyone about it, how surprised I was by the issue (holes had developed where the clip attaches to the cover), since it is otherwise such a quality product, and that I assumed I must have had the bad luck to get a faulty cover – something I truly believe. I attached pictures and explained how I’d only been using the pillow as intended for a couple of weeks, since Penny was totally anti-boob for so long. I asked if it was possible to get a replacement.

In less than 30 minutes, Jenny from the My Brest Friend… people… had responded and said they would certainly send another cover and had never seen an issue like I was having, confirming my suspicion that I just had the rotten luck to get a random bad seed. I was totally blown away by the awesome response. There was not even a hint of “screw you!” in the email and my new cover is on the way.

Now, you’d think that this experience would turn me from someone who silently stews over broken products to a letter writer, but you’d be wrong. I just REALLY LOVE THIS PILLOW SO HARD that I overcame my pathological and unreasonable fear of corporate customer service people telling me where I can shove my faulty item and laughing all the way to the bank with my reasonable amount of money for this ONE SPECIFIC INSTANCE ONLY.

Seriously. It’s a really good pillow, you guys.


I give Penny a pacifier every once in a while. Now and then. When she really seems like she needs it. A couple of times a week. I mean, maybe more like a couple of times a day. An hour. Okay, look, that baby needs a damn cork. If her mouth is open, I stuff it in there before any sounds can come out. I just felt like I needed to clear the air between us, Internet, and get that skeleton out of my closet.


I have been thinking, and I am pretty sure that the Internet – as a whole – is a dude. I don’t mean that everyone on the Internet is a guy, I just mean that the collective Internet as a whole is most definitely male. Here is my irrefutable evidence: sometimes, a person just wants to bitch about a problem or issue or something insignificant and easily solvable but still annoying, and the Internet never lets that happen. The Internet must suggest a solution, or the Internet will die from the effects of not suggesting a solution.

You know who else dies from having to just listen without trying to jump in and SOLVE when there’s been absolutely no indication that the speaker is looking for a solution?

Men. Men die from that.


The Internet also has an incredible capacity to make me feel like an asshole for WAY longer stretches of time than seems reasonable, given the size of the issues. I am pretty sure that no one who uses the Internet/social media on the regular can address every bid for their attention. Everyone – no matter how big or small the blog or how many Twitter followers or Facebook friends – can always answer every single thing. Obviously, this becomes harder as your numbers are bigger, but I am telling you from way down here on the tiny numbers end of thing – decimal point numbers, even – that it’s just not possible to read and respond to everything out there.  So you – everyone – miss things, and then you feel like an asshole.

And you (I) come up with elaborate plans to not feel like such an asshole – like trying to keep track of each person who comments and how many times you have recently responded to them, specifically, so that no one person is ignored all the time and — okay, you know what, I had a lot more to say about this, but I walked away to feed the baby and now I’m over it.

Basically, I’m an asshole is what the whole thing boiled down to.

You’d think that since I decided not to finish this part of the post, I’d delete it. You’d think that, but I’m not going to. It’s because I’m an asshole.


SPEAKING of feeding Penny! I dry her diapers on the line – sometimes it’s actually faster than the dryer, what with the negative humidity and all. The outdoors is actually SO DRY that it’s thirsty enough to drink diaper water. Clean diaper water, but diaper water nonetheless.

Anyway. I obviously have to go outside to hang up the diapers, and while our clothesline is kind of secluded, our back door faces the neighbors behind us, and we think that maybe she runs some kind of in home daycare.

It used to be that before going outside to the line, I just had to look to make sure the next door neighbor wasn’t outside smoking (because God forbid I have to politely nod to someone. I’m at the point of social hermitude that not only do I not want to have a conversation, I do not even WANT TO NOD at someone). Now, since Penny and also because of the herd of children across the way, I have to stop and check myself at the door, because apparently, I just walk around with my shirt all hiked up now, completely unaware of the fact that my shirt is all hiked up. I’ll be in the middle of something and discover my shirt all hiked up and have to stop and think back to how long it’s been since the last time I fed Penny and you know what? Sometimes it was a long time ago!

Also, kind of related, one time, just a little bit after we brought Penny home, I took out some trash and I came right back in and I said to Phil, “Hey, you know what would be good? Next time you see me heading to the front door, say this to me:

‘Self-check – are you wearing pants?’

That would be helpful. Because this time I wasn’t.”


Two things I DO NOT DO: “Deep Ocean, Vast Sea” and “Samophlange.” If you know what I’m talking about, you KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.


So I’ve had this question I’ve wanted to ask for a week or so, but I’ve avoided it because I kept getting pre-mad at the comments. I do that sometimes. I’m asking anyway, though.

When am I going to be able to do stuff, and how does it happen?

I mean, Penny will be two months old in just a couple of days. If I get anything done during the day, it’s maybe a load or two of laundry, which is basically getting negative things done, because all I wash is load after load of Penny’s clothes. She has more clothes than anyone and certainly doesn’t need her clothes laundered every day in order to avoid going naked like Phil and I do, but her clothes get dirty in a way that will fester. So I wash Penny’s clothes, over and over. When Phil gets home, I run around like a mad woman, taking a shower and making the gross tea I drink a skrillion times a day and sometimes cooking dinner and anything else I can cram in before it’s time to start my 30 minute long preparations for bed.

Anyway, a lot of things in the house are just going undone, or left for Phil to do when he is home, which isn’t terrible because the house is a shared responsibility, but it’s generally understood that the person who is home all day should at least be tackling most of it. And of course I have a pass because I have a new baby, but this kid isn’t exactly showroom fresh anymore, you know?

I just do not seem to be able to make good use of the time between naps and feedings, or at the moment, finding any way to predict when naps and feedings might occur or how long they might last, or what to do on the days that she JUST WILL NOT ALLOW HERSELF TO BE PUT DOWN for NO GOOD REASON that I can see.

I figure there’s got to be some combination of the baby settling into a predictable pattern and me getting the hang of navigating around her that will eventually come together, but should it have happened by now? I mean, when did it happen for you? When did you start feeling like some kind of competent adult again?

Don’t give me any of that “ho ho ho, aren’t you cute, you silly first time parent! Kids take all your time FOREVER!” I get it. I have a kid. She will continually require a large share of my attention. GOD I want to poke you in the eye so hard when you act like that, you know?

I figure the dishes eventually started getting done in your house without a background soundtrack of screaming and despair and a background smelltrack of stale milk and poop. I feel like that should have happened by now, though, you know? At least a little? Or is it still months away?

You can tell me if it’s still months away, as long as you’re not all CONDESCENDING about it, because let me tell you, my fuse is about THIS LONG (I’m making a tiny span with my fingers) and my well of creative insults is QUITE DEEP. By that I mean that I will probably call you sack of cat assholes if you so much as hint that my ignorance of the fact that my life will NEVER BE GOOD AGAIN is in any way adorable.

Seriously, though. When was it that you realized that, holy shit, I’ve actually been handling life and my adult responsibilities towards my household and personal hygiene quite well for a while now?


Also, all those people who left when they heard there wouldn’t be any Penny pictures are huge suckers.

“Get out of my shot, asshole.”

I rejected a lot of titles in favor of this one.

– One of the titles I rejected: “If I was a person who talked about farts on her blog, this blog post would be all about farts.”

– A sentence I said yesterday: “I’m sorry I ate your soup and drank your iced tea, oh, and I also ate that sleeve of Ritz you opened, but I left the other two for you, but I DID also eat some of the Eggos, and while I was waiting for my Lean Pockets to cook, I had a slice of ham… and also a knife full of Nutella… oh, yeah, and I ate the rest of that loaf of bread, too, and some of your horseradish chips but I could only eat two of those at a time, so there’s a lot left for you.”

– Another thing I said yesterday: “No, don’t pick up anything for me. I’m not hungry at all.”

– Something I said about 45 minutes after that: “OH MY GOD I AM SO HUNGRY WHERE IS ALL OUR FOOD?”

– And another thing I said, with a spoon halfway to my mouth: “Can I eat the rest of your ice cream thanks.”

– So I’ve caught a couple of episodes of this show, Animal Hoarders, and it really is just terrible and sad, and I know there’s a definite amount of mental illness, to a degree, that goes into extreme animal hoarding, but I’ve got to say, I place some of the blame squarely on the shoulders of Sarah McLaughlin, Wendy Malik and Willie Nelson. YOU KNOW WHY. You’ve seen the commercials. The ones with the songs are bad enough, Willie and Sarah, but have you seen the latest one with Ms. Malik, where there’s this tiny dog shaking and the overlaid text says, “Why won’t they stop beating me?”

OR HOW ABOUT THAT ONE with the kitten huddled under something and it says something like, “Fluffy… abandoned and NEVER LOVED?”

Look, I think I love my animals an average amount. Ok, well, maybe not the exact average, but I’m on the normal curve, at least. I have no compelling urge to hoard anything – the two dogs I have are handsome and wonderful, but also HUGE assholes and they make our backyard smell like a barn, no matter how often it is picked up, and Brinkley is emotionally fragile and needs constant care and reassurance, while Sheldon is just a dick, seriously, just awful. No more dogs.

And it’s not just that my two dogs are total wieners and I am at my absolute capacity of dog handling abilities. It’s that two is a reasonable number of dogs for us, and we know that, and we won’t have any more dogs, because this is the amount of dogs we can take care of. Not just take care of in terms of how far my sanity will stretch, but take care of in a way that we feel dogs should be taken care of. They’re not cheap, these dogs. I have said before – think of a container of the exact shape and size of the dog you would like to have, and then mentally CRAM that container full of cash. That’s how much they cost. The bigger the dog, the more true that is. By my estimation, our dog-care-cash-output is at LEAST equal to our grocery shopping bill, if not more. On average, at least. There are normal vet visits and illness/injury visits, then there’s grooming, and food – they eat good food, because they have sensitive tummies. Treats, too – both for behavior and because we like them (we like the dogs, not the treats. I mean, we like the treats we buy, in that the dogs like them and they don’t make them sick, but not LIKE them, like we EAT them and have declared them good). And their favorite toys are, of course, the expensive ones. Then there are just little things, like a FURminator and a ramp for Brinkley to get into the car, and replacements for the stuff they destroy and look, dogs are expensive.

So okay, I’m at the end of my sanity with taking care of dogs, and we’re also basically at the end of the dog allotment of our bank account, AND there is a wee baby coming, a wee baby who will quickly have to learn to stake her own territory against the competition of almost 200 lbs of dog combined (We’re betting her first words are going to be some combination of “Brinkley” and “Sheldon” and “NO!”). So I rationally know – no more dogs.

But these commercials come on, and I suddenly NEED ALL THE DOGS. They NEED to be with me. All those dogs. I can take care of them better than they’re being taken care of! Look at them! THEY NEED ME. Me, specifically. Sarah McLaughlin is all, “In the arms of the angel,” and I am shrieking, “I AM THE ANGEL COME BE IN MY ARMS!”

By the end of the commercial, I am writhing on the ground, clawing at my own face, while I am kindly informed that just a small donation to the Humane Society can help these animals BUT I KNOW THE TRUTH. My donation will help SOME animals, yes, but there is a dog out there RIGHT NOW who is being mistreated and is UNLOVED and someone is yelling mean things at him and he’s a DOG so he doesn’t understand WHY, which is just the WORST PART, and no matter how much money I give the Humane Society, they will not find THAT DOG in time, and I have to sit here and live with that! There’s this house around the corner, and they have a small white dog who is ALWAYS in the yard, never in the house, and sometimes she is just sadly flopped out on the ground, which is one thing, but other times, she is staring in the window at the family and I swear, I am two trips around the block away from reaching over the fence and taking her because CAN’T THEY SEE their dog JUST WANTS TO BE LOVED?

And that dog is fed and has a shelter and water, and I am a person of normal sanity, yet I am still driven to TAKE THAT DOG, so imagine what Sarah McLaughlin and Willie Nelson and Wendy Malik are contributing to in terms of people who are juuuuust on this side of the line between animal lover and animal hoarder. I am 35% continually internally tortured by the very IDEA that I may be assaulted by one of these commercials in the middle of the night, what if I was a person six shades closer to that line? It would be DOG BREATH CITY up in this house.

– You know what I’ve been up to lately? Buying diapers. It’s not that interesting to the general Internet public, but to a specific segment, diaper shopping is EXTREMELY interesting. I will mostly spare you. Today. However, in my recent “all the arguments” post, someone asked if I’d be willing to talk about how I came to the decision to use cloth diapers. I’d dedicate a whole post to that, but honestly, there’s not much to tell. I had some small experience with them from babysitting Mr. Noah and his young brother back when I lived in Maryland. That helped me to realize that the “ew, cloth!” factor that puts some people off really isn’t a worry. Other than that, I just couldn’t come up with a compelling reason not to. It’ll save money, it’s better for the environment, there’s significantly less diaper rash to worry about, children tend to potty train faster in cloth, they’re way cute, and (and I hesitate to say this part, because I don’t want anyone to take it wrong, and I am NOT BELITTLING OR LOOKING DOWN ON ANY NON-CLOTH CHOICE) while I am not a super hippy or anything even remotely close to a “crunchy” parent-to-be (I think that word is pretty stupid, to be honest), I just feel like if cloth is doable for our family, it’s a shade better than the parts and ingredients and components of disposables (note how I avoided using the word “chemicals” so as not to accuse anyone of irresponsible slathering of babies in chemicals).

I think if you can do cloth – couple extra loads of laundry a week, and if you can stay home, probably, because not a lot of day cares are taking cloth diapers yet – and it’s a good choice for your family, then why not? There are likely plenty of VERY GOOD REASONS not to use cloth diapers. It’s just that I couldn’t think of any that really applied to us. Us, as in me, Phil, Garlic Bread and our specific situation, which in no way reflects upon yours or your choices.

– Also, one more thing about cloth diapers and then that’s all (for today, about cloth diapers, anyway). When telling people who aren’t familiar with the changes in cloth diapers in recent years about them (awkward sentence, not fixing it), I’ve been quick to say, “It’s not like you think – folded cloth and pins. They’re different now.” While I have so far been stocking a variety of different options for the bigger baby, I just last night finished putting together the stash for the newborn – plain folded cloths, exactly like you’d think of if you weren’t familiar with cloth diapers.

(Well, prefolds and covers and maybe one or two fitteds, and probably not pins, but snappis and maybe some pins, and this parenthetical aside is for you people who know what I’m talking about, not the people who are still kind of squicked out by the idea of cloths and pins).

So, if you’re considering cloth, pay attention to what I said about how it’s nothing like you think instead of the fact that we’ve decided to go with exactly what you think. Especially if you’re thinking about switching to cloth for an older baby, one over 10 or 12 lbs or so. THERE’S SO MUCH CUTE STUFF. You can do it. I believe in you. If you want to be believed in. It’s up to you. Your choice is perfectly valid and acceptable either way. I don’t think you’re a baby-chemical-slatherer. I really don’t. Seriously. I don’t. I’m making a really sincere face right now, and telling you that makes it SOUND like I’m not sincere, but you’ve got to believe that it’s really tough to convey sincerity over the Internet, which is why I’m telling you about the face.

– So, Garlic Bread has reached a point where her kicks can be felt from the outside. She’s not an entirely consistent mover, and even when she does move, not everything can be felt from the outside. I assume it’s pretty cramped and boring in there, so she’s got to find entertainment where she can, but I speak for Phil and I when I say this super fun game of throwing a dance party until the EXACT SECOND Phil puts his hand on my belly and then freezing in place? We’re not amused.

– I realized I left a couple of things out of my argument post, and it wouldn’t really be fair to go back and add them, so I’m going to wait until after the kid is born, because they’re more parenting-related than baby-related, and just pull them out of nowhere and slap them down on the table and be like, HOW ABOUT THOSE APPLES? (I know it’s supposed to be “them apples,” but even thinking of saying it – of typing it – doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not a person who can pull off casual, colloquial poor grammar. Sorry.) And we’ll have a good old fashioned blog throw down in which I refuse to change my mind or agree that your way of doing things is also right, and we’ll get nice and irritated with each other. So we’ve all got that to look forward to.

– I have got to tell you, I have been playing so much WoW over the last maybe two weeks or so, after a four or six month break, and it’s been keeping me busy and relatively doom-spiral free (you know, where I hiccup and google “pregnant lady hiccups” and 15 minutes later am convinced Garlic Bread has grown a tail with spikeys on the end), but I am worried I am not going to be able to keep it up, because my desire to stay occupied is quickly being overcome by my inability to remain upright in a chair for too long. And I already TRIED dragging the recliner over to the computer, it didn’t help.

– I found a typo in some quest text, and Phil was telling me I should open a ticket because OF COURSE they want to know, but I didn’t, because there’s nerdy and then there’s NERDY, you know?

– Another title I could have used: “I am warning you now, you are about to waste 2100+ words worth of time, no refunds.”

I am also convinced there is a pea under the mattress

For the last couple of days, I have found everything – literally everything – to be absolutely and totally irritating. My eyes have rolled so much over the past 72 hours that I’m surprised they’re still tethered into my head.

Now, I admit that there are times when my irritation might be a bit irrational, like when I am bellowing at Phil, “STOP SAYING WORDS!,” but I am pretty convinced that while the level of annoyance I have felt over the past few days may be a bit amplified for reasons that have yet to reveal themselves, everything that I was irritated (and continue to be irritated) by has been absolutely, 100% irritation-worthy.

1. I randomly decided I wanted to play WoW again and won’t play on the laptop, so I’ve been playing on Phil’s computer, and that alone could spawn a forty item list of irritations, but I’ll leave it as this one, overarching irritation.

2. Sheldon keeps licking my shirt and leaving LICK SPOTS.

3. Flies keep landing on me. Instant scream rage.

4. People on Twitter who decided that for one day, they’re just going to tweet inspirational quotes or some shit. I don’t get this or the motivation behind it. It feels preachy to me. Don’t preach on Twitter. That’s irritating.

5. This message board I used to read, they like to use the word “wise” for anyone and everyone. Like “so and so is wise.” And not just about one post, but in general. Like “so and so is a wise person.” I don’t think they know what that word actually means.

6. Same message board launched a “post secret” style site, in which people could create “postcards” online and send in their secrets. Which lead to a “post secret” style site dedicated to call outs – where you could send in a “secret” that was actually anonymous insults to another poster. Apparently, someone sent something in that said that one poster’s husband, who has been battling cancer, was better off dead than with her. Note that I said “message board I used to read,” because hot christ.

7. Phil keeps trying to hug me when I am VERY CLEARLY giving off “do not approach” vibes.


9. We have one diet soda left, which means I have to choose whether to just drink it now or ration it, which is irritating because I shouldn’t have to make such decisions and our poor soda planning skills need work.

10. Air conditioning.

11. I keep putting on weight like I don’t have a very specific dress waiting for me to fit into it in a month and a half.

12. Brinkley keeps licking my pants and leaving LICK MARKS.

13. I hate this stupid computer.

14. We have new eggs and old eggs in the fridge and I can never tell which is which.

15. No one has thrown out the old eggs.

16. I have an itch under the callous on my foot. UNDER it.

17. The shower head REFUSES to line up so that it hits me in the direct center of my back without me having to come in contact with the wall or the shower curtain. This is unacceptable.

18. Weddings are stupid.

19. When I rolled over in the night last night, Phil was laying in such a manner that we were face to face, as if he didn’t bother to anticipate the fact that I might roll over and then we’d be breathing on each other.

20. Sometimes it seems like some people only comment to give me a hard time.

21. This 800 number calls my cell phone EVERY SINGLE DAY and when I pick it up, there’s silence, and if I don’t pick it up, they leave a 2 second silent voice mail. EVERY DAY.

22. You know what else happened on Twitter a bunch of times recently? Someone will decided to make some kind of proclamation or lecture and it ends up being stretched across several Tweets. One, don’t preach on Twitter, because come on, you’re on Twitter. No one is taking you seriously. Two, if you need to say (cont.) or something like that – especially on a regular basis – you obviously do not fully grasp the concept of Twitter, and that is irritating.

23. People in their late teens or early 20s know absolutely everything there is to know and refuse to believe that they most certainly do not. Holy shit, is that irritating.

24. Sheldon fur.

25. I stopped biting my nails. So now what?

26. I was watching several episodes of a show on Hulu and accidentally closed the window with 5 minutes left to go in the season finale. I cannot be bothered to cue it back up.

27. A lot of people say “que” when they mean “cue,” and I think they mean to say “queue,” which means not only are they spelling it wrong, they’re using the completely wrong word. And you can’t say anything because then you’re that guy.

28. Also? “Weary” and “wary.” Two separate words.

29. Also? Using British spellings when you’re an American and claiming that they’re perfectly valid spellings? Not as cute as you think it is. I’m looking at you, Live Journal.

30. I hate this stupid keyboard.

31. My hair is too long.

32. My butt is too flat.

33. People keep leaving the “song” portion blank on the RSVPs.

34. Weddings are still stupid.

35. I hate having my picture taken, and I even MORE hate the people who think it’s fun or funny to sneak a picture or say, “Oh, just one,” and act like I’m a huge asshole when I again politely refuse. That’s not funny. Not at ALL. Especially the sneaking thing. So rude.

36. Also? ALSO? Super irritating? My name is Kelly. I prefer to be called Kelly, and I don’t care for Kel. Sometimes, when someone calls me Kel, I will VERY POLITELY say that I prefer Kelly. Said person either gets INCREDIBLY butt hurt and insulted, because OH MY GOD, why do I think it’s SUCH a big deal, or, from then on, they make a huge show of going, “Oh, hey, Kel —- LY!”

37. And people who know that a person doesn’t like to be crowded, but take great offense at someone stepping back for more room.

38. And grocery stores.

39. And parents who let their children flip around and harass the people in the next booth.

40. Phil lets his fingernails grow til they look like coke nails but won’t even let me paint one.

41. He also has long eyelashes, longer than any girl I know, and won’t let me put mascara on them, just to SEE.

42. I’m already pre-irritated at how many questions people are going to ask me leading up to the wedding.

43. I’m also pre-irritated at all of the people who will read this and feel an urge to comment about how negative I am, like they’ve never just been IRRITATED a goddamn day in their life, and trying to paint me as someone who complains constantly.

44. I want to repeat 43 right here because I’m still pre-irritated.

45. Do anyone’s glasses stay right on their nose? I am shoving them back up all day long. Could I be any more stereotypically nerd-like?

46. If you claim you’re never reading Dooce again, you really lose a lot of credence when you make the same proclamation again a couple of days later.

47. People who start helping to kill mobs that you have perfectly in hand drive me insane because I feel guilty or obligated to group.

48. I cannot get the little edge where the sink meets the counter clean. It looks grimy and awful and it’s making me insane.

49. Hair. Of all sorts and locations.

50. Phil likes to tuck the sheets when he makes the bed and then gets all upset when I untuck. NO ONE CAN SLEEP TUCKED.

So, what completely petty and fleeting things have crawled right under your skin lately?

I declare the comments section a complaint free for all, with no justifications needed and no judgment passed.

Let me tell you about this passive-aggressive candy bar I met.

Internet, there are very few things in this world I truly dislike. I don’t like sausage. I don’t like Fiona Apple. I don’t like any movies with shooting, violence, explosions, fighting, running, jumping, car chases, bombs, harsh language, aliens, time travel, inter-breeding of species, special effects, animation blended with live action, sad parts, funny parts, dramatic parts, things that jump out at you, red herrings, false alarms, love triangles, or the part of the plot where the girl/guy loses their guy/girl forever except you know it’s not forever because there’s still 20 minutes of movie left, and I hate stubbing my toe.

So really, Internet, you know that I must be serious when I tell you HOW HARD I HATE SNICKERS BARS RIGHT NOW.

Phil is taking a course of steroids for a back injury right now, and I have a raging case of PMS combined with the fact that I’m going wedding dress shopping next week, so it only made sense that yesterday we hopped in our car to drive to the Shell station around the corner to find a whole bunch of fattening crap to stuff into our face holes.

Among other things (which were, of course, a salad and a delightful low-fat low-cal low-sodium low-taste protein bar to power me through my evening work outs-HAHAHAHAHAHA), I chose this:


Please pardon my chicken, it was conveniently sized for covering up a S’mores ice cream stain.

Are you judging me right now, Internet? Maybe for the fact that I bought a Snickers? Or because I have a cooler under my desk so that when Phil and I do actually play WoW together (I totally gave in this weekend, by the way – Fronks & Boones on Drenden, Alliance side), we don’t have to make the 45 second round trip downstairs for sodas? Or maybe you’re one of those assholes who thinks it’s ridiculous for me to drink diet soda with my candy bar, like people who drink diet soda are all universally so stupid that when we order a Big Mac and a Diet Coke, we actually believe the Diet Coke is somehow cancelling out the Big Mac? For that last one, if you are one of those assholes, seriously – have you ever even realized what an asshole you are?

Anyway, my point is – if you are judging me right now, you go right on ahead with your bad self. Because you’re a PERSON and it is your right to run around judging people all willy nilly for whatever you want! I mean, it’s possible to go overboard, of course, but I can’t stop you. Sometimes, when you’re having a really crappy day, judging someone else and finding yourself slightly superior is the one shining moment in the whole shitfest of a day. So you go on and do what you feel you need to do.

But you know who isn’t allowed to judge me?

Candy. Candy is not allowed to judge me. Not even a little. I don’t even want a HINT OF AN IDEA that candy MIGHT be judging me. And while the candy bar pictured above isn’t saying anything outright, I am PRETTY DAMN SURE it doesn’t even approve of me buying it in the first place.

Upon getting in the car and ripping open my Snickers bar before we even left the parking lot (again, judge me if you must, but I just want to say that Phil? He ended up paying for a hot dog WRAPPER because he ATE THE HOT DOG before we even got to the counter) (I’d also like to remind you that Phil is on steroids, so, you know), I pulled out my prize only to discover? IT WAS ONLY HALF A PRIZE.

At first I thought my King Size Snickers bar had broken in half, and I wondered how that was even possible, because have you ever seen a King Size Snickers bar? It’s like as big around as a baby’s arm (don’t even act like you’ve never eaten a Snickers, Internet. I mean, judge me if you want, but don’t LIE about it). And you know what I found on closer inspection? It hadn’t broken in half, because the part where it would have been broken was CLEARLY AND DELIBERATELY CHOCOLATED OVER.

So I took a closer look at the wrapper.


Ok, for some reason, they have taken a perfectly good ridiculously-sized candy bar and broken it into two pieces. I WOULD HAVE BEEN FINE WITH THIS, except for the added INSTRUCTIONS.


That’s right. Instructions. On how to SAVE one of my UNASKED FOR PIECES for later.

And? The two “CONVENIENT” pieces? They were both smaller than an actual, normal-sized Snickers.

Don’t you think, SNICKERS, that if I wanted a normal-sized Snickers, I would have bought a normal-sized Snickers? I WOULD HAVE. But I didn’t. I bought a KING SIZE SNICKERS because I had a KING SIZE NEED for chocolate. I needed CHOCOLATE, not your ATTITUDE, Snickers.

Don’t you see, Internet? Who buys a King Size Snickers without intending to shove the whole thing down their throat right then and there? Don’t tell me, “Well, sometimes people want some Snickers now, and some Snickers later,” because you know what, up until Snickers made this UNREQUESTED two-piecing of their candy bar, that’s what buying two Snickers was for. ESPECIALLY gas station Snickers. You don’t wander into a gas station looking to stock your pantry with snacks for later. You walk into a gas station to buy stuff that is going to be half-digested by the time you arrive at your destination.

Yet, here we have the CANDY BAR ITSELF trying to pass judgement on me, and being pretty effing passive aggressive about it, if you ask me.

You know what, King Size Snickers? This is my you impression:

“Um, TJ, I’m not going to tell you what you should and shouldn’t eat, but you know what I am going to do? I’m going to go ahead and cut myself in half, and then? I’m going to suggest you go ahead and twist my wrapper right around. I’m not going to come right out and say it, but I think you understand that I’m not telling you to twist an empty wrapper here. You should leave half. For another time.”

THAT’S YOU, KING SIZE SNICKERS. THAT WAS ME, DOING YOU. And you know what? You sounded kind of like an ASSHOLE.

If I WANTED a smaller portion of Snickers, I would have bought a smaller portion of Snickers. I don’t need the “helpful” advice, King Size Snickers. I already KNOW I shouldn’t be eating a King Size Snickers. Do you know how I know? Because it’s called KING SIZE and I’m not a king. I’m not even like, 1/32 royalty. I shouldn’t be having ANYTHING meant for kings. Up until you decided to get all WRAPPER-UPPITY, King Size Snickers, your name alone was enough to warn people like, “Dude? Just so you know? I’m meant for kings, so I’m pretty huge. If you’re cool with that, go on ahead and eat me, but by my very name, you should know that I’m not really the best option for someone who isn’t a king.” And you know what? THAT WAS ENOUGH.

Seriously, Snickers people? If you read the Internet? You need to shut your candy the hell up because, rude!

JUST IN CASE IT WASN’T CLEAR: Snickers totally did not pay me to say this stuff about their passive-aggressive, judgmental, SHOULD-MIND-ITS-OWN-BUSINESS candy bar.

Please forward my mail to the Ramparts

I know WoW posts don’t make sense to most of my readers. I promise to post something comprehensible later today.


As you might know, Internet, I’ve never been a huge fan of a lot of the changes that have been made to WoW – the dumbing down of the game has been going on forever. You know, like how quest items didn’t used to sparkle, you certainly couldn’t ride your mount in the water, you don’t have to do ANYTHING for your Dreadsteed anymore… PHIL.

Phil often tries to talk to me about the different things that have happened in each patch, but either I don’t care because I play so sporadically, or I shriek over him because something has been changed so much as to make it criminally stupid. Like the new quest helper thing? Come on!

Of course, Phil did point out that I use an add on that essentially does the same thing, but shut up, people who agree with Phil, because that’s completely different. It is. I certainly didn’t use it, or any add ons, on my first character – not for a long while. I at least learned the mechanics of the game and how to find non-sparkling quest items before I started using add ons at all.

But anyway, one thing I guess I can get behind is the new cross server looking for group tool. I’m playing a priest on a server where I don’t know anyone, unguilded. Around level 55, seeing that Phil was getting some groups through the new tool, I decided to give it a try. The reason I wanted to give it a try was specifically because of the cross server thing – I’ve never ever healed before (I’ve leveled some healers, but have pretty much never done instances as I leveled – there’s a lot of them out there, at all levels, that I’ve never even seen, even after playing the game for a skrillion years).

Anyway, I’d never healed before, so I figured if I sucked at it, everyone else would be from another server and I’d never have to see them, you know, at the bank in Org or something, and be all embarassed at my suckitude. The first random I was sent to was old school BRD, and I actually got really lucky with the tank, who happened to be from my server. He was super easy to heal, and my first attempt at healing went so well that when he asked if I wanted to group up and queue up again, I said sure. I think he and I ended up doing BRD 3 or 4 times.

The next day or so, I had some not-so-good luck with the group finder, and leveled up to 60 in the process. Once I got out to Outland last night – which, by the way? AWFUL. Because on Saturday night, Headmaster’s Charge dropped in a group I was in for the first time in my life. Ok, so that may not sound like such a big deal now, but way back in super super old WoW, I seriously waited my entire life for that to drop. Not one time did I ever see it. Yet, on Saturday night, it finally did. And I was the only one who could use it. 24 hours later, I get to Outland and replace it. I had Headmaster’s Charge for 24 goddamn hours.

Anyway! When I stepped foot in Outland, that tank grabbed me again and asked if I wanted to queue up – so we did. We ended up in Ramparts and ran it. We queued up together and ran it again and ended up with a great group, and ran it once more with them. We lost one from that group, grabbed a random and ran again. Lost two, grabbed two and ran again. Dropped one and ran again. One of our members told us it takes 15 minutes or so to get a group as DPS, but when we queue up as tank and healer, we pretty much have a group instantly. I am pretty sure I live in Ramparts now

I’ve had no complaints with my healing at all, and of course it got easier and easier – both because I was getting more and more familiar with an instance I haven’t done in years and because on a couple of the runs, nothing but cloth dropped. By the third or fourth time through, I was actually able to look up and see what the instance looked like, rather than keep my eyes glued to the green bars (thank you to whoever suggested the VuhDo add on, by the way – love it).

This priest may actually be the first toon I level to 80, I’ve been enjoying healing so much. I definitely credit the new looking for group system with it if I do end up making it that far with this one (I have a habit of stopping at 70 and rolling something new). Once I get to 80, I’m not sure what I’ll do – possibly look for a guild I guess, and with all of the changes, I don’t have to limit that to my server or even my faction. As I learned from the venerable Ted and Marshall, however, that sounds like a decision that Future TJ would be happy to handle for me.

If you want to play with me, all you have to do is decipher the very complex clues in the image above and then continually join and leave random dungeons until I appear in yours. A second option is to roll on Zangarmarsh and level to 61 to catch up with me, before I hit 62. I recommend the first option, as the second is tedious and somewhat impossible. See you in Ramparts (because that’s where I live now).