In about three days this baby is going to pop out and I am going to be so stressed out. I mean, how will I possibly have time to take Baby JSnooks to the tanning salon AND to get a tribal tattoo when I'm supposed to be feeding him every 2 hours?

To take inspiration from Gabe at Videogum, here's what I have to say about Jersey Shore: we're gonna need a bigger jail. Seriously, all of those garbage people need to go to garbage jail. And I will be the warden because I won't be able to stop watching them use garbage hair gel and punch each other in the garbage face. But I'm still going to need closed captioning to figure out what they're saying.

So basically what is going on here is that last Christmas he gave her his heart and some old-lady brooch and then she turned around and gave her heart to Andrew Ridgeley for some unexplainable reason but kept the brooch in case she needed to pin it on a blazer with shoulder pads and gently finger it while giving him the secret stare-down at a group dinner.

Laptop Steering Wheel Desk and
Three Wolf Moon Shirt- reading these comments will keep you entertained for at least 30 minutes.

Free advice: Do not buy prepackaged hardboiled eggs that come in those resealable bags.
A) They taste terrible
B) They are only meant for people 85 and older who can no longer boil water properly
C) If you microwave them and cut into them with a fork they will make a loud POP noise and then explode all over the wall and your clothes and in your hair and somehow in between the blinds and 4 feet away on some paper towels and inside a mug of pens

Best synchronized high kicks I've seen in a while, that's for sure.

Yesterday I threw up a cowboy sandwich (toast, mayo, scrambled eggs, sausage and tabasco sauce) and got a nosebleed simultaneously. But I didn't start crying until I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I was also topless, alone, and out of hand soap. Besides projectile vomiting while driving, this is the second most highly occuring instance in my life.

Note to self:

Self, when you’re alone in the house and turn on both TVs for background noise to pretend there are other people around, you need to quit inviting over the folks from Intervention and Tool Academy. Because you know what happens after they leave? The people from Hoarders and I Want to Work for Diddy come over. And then you can’t figure out why you feel anxious and annoyed when all you’ve been doing is eating microwaved hominy and trying to read that filthy Maurice Sachs novel.

I’m having to utilize all my 2nd grade science knowledge to use a combination of at least 2-3 of the six simple machines to figure out how to get myself out of bed in the morning. Currently, I am devising a rope and pulley system in tandem with an inclined plane to lift my body from a reclining position in order to have it roll down a slope and into the bathroom. Then I think I’ll work out something involving a lever and fulcrum to propel myself either onto the toilet or into the shower. But seeing as how I barely passed high school physics, the odds are I will just continue to struggle with rolling over toward the edge of the bed while crying and praying I don’t pee my pants.

I've always thought it was a crime that this movie wasn't run the entire month of October a la A Christmas Story in December. Or July.

My middle school had, like, 1500 kids in it (grades 6th-8th). This translates to about 20 popular kids per grade level, give or take a few rich girls that bought the right Dooney & Bourke purses or started giving handjobs early enough to elbow their way into the cool crowd that would have otherwise rejected them for flat bangs or basic unattractiveness. But this also means that no matter how terrible you felt about yourself, there were at least 1440 other kids who could make you feel better about yourself because at least you weren't them.

Middle school was a mess of rules, both school-imposed and social hierarchy-imposed, only adding to the anxiety of navigating a prison that not only banned the wearing of shorts of any length for at least one school year, but also painted over all the windows with brown paint to prevent distractions. Everything about it nearly gave me an ulcer. Add to it starting your period and having to figure out how to carry maxipads in your drawstring Guatemalan purse without anyone seeing them as you reach in to take out your lunch money or hairbrush or Sunripened Raspberry body spray and you have a recipe for disaster. The worst days were the Fridays your mom forgot to wash your favorite Friday outfit, the one you had been banking on wearing all week which was probably a sweater from Pasta with some tapered leg pants from Express and Bass slip-on loafers or maybe a paisley button down shirt from Gap tucked in to a denim mini skirt over leggings with lace at the ankles that you wore with Sam & Libby's.

Your Friday outfit was the one you wanted to wear because you heard from someone who heard from someone that this guy may or may not ask you to go with him and it would probably happen on Friday so you wanted to look your best. But instead your mom forgot to clean your Friday outfit and nothing was perfect enough on the day you thought that maybe you would get a boyfriend and someone to slow dance with for the rest of the year so you took alternate routes to classes all day and spent as much of passing period as you could in the bathroom, just on the off-chance that he was looking for you and would maybe ask you to go with him on the day you looked terrible in an outfit meant more for Tuesday or Wednesday or one of those days when you could slack off. And then he asked another girl to go with him anyway and you never knew if it was because you hid from him or he caught a glimpse of your courdoroy coulottes and had second thoughts.

A lot of middle school was based around timing. Not being too early and not being too late. It was always a delicate balance of surrounding yourself at all times with at least one other person because God forbid you ever be alone doing anything (except maybe changing your maxipad because God forbid anyone know about you having your period). You never wanted to be too early to anything because the most awkward thing is to sit at a lunch table alone or arrive at a school dance alone or get off the morning school bus before the other buses arrived or walk into Texas History alone. The only really advantageous alone time came with gym class where you could change into your gray t-shirt and black polyesther shorts (Umbros not allowed)without any other girls seeing your bra or boob size or lack of satin Victoria's Secret bikini panties because they were $12 apiece and your mom only let you buy 2 pairs and today they were both dirty so you were wearing those pink cotton Jockey ones. Being late could cost you dearly though too. If you were late then you probably lost a spot at the lunch table which meant you'd have to try to squeeze 4 inches out on the end and make an extra effort the whole time to get in on the conversation. Or being late meant you got a shitty seat on the bus, probably near the front with the kids that talked to the bus driver and the Romanian kids that lived in the apartments and whose moms waited with them at their stop in the morning and made them wear jackets even when it was 80 degrees outside.

But despite the constant threats of being excluded from the right lunch table based on poor timing and your choice to take too long getting cheese fries and a Hot Pocket, becoming accidentally involved in a gang fight because you knew you shouldn't make eye contact with that obese girl that always wore red t-shirts and talked about the Bloods, and being laughed at for reciting Janet Jackson's State of the World as your poetry choice in English class, the excitement of a school dance could wipe the slate clean. School dances meant hearing Bust A Move at least three times at maximum volume accompanied by a smoke machine and maybe getting to talk to one Drakkar-drenched boy who was only talking to you because he wanted to tell you to tell your friend that he was going to ask her to slow dance, but still. And even if you had a poor choice in outfit every year until 8th grade when you stopped listening to your mom and wearing things like a white turtleneck with hearts on it tucked into a red elastic waist Units skirt with white tights with hears on them and red Sam & Libby's and a long gold chain with a gold puffy heart pendant, you still had a good time.

There was always so much anticipation. Maybe you would finally get asked to slow dance by someone decent who had Guess jeans and gelled hair. Or maybe that short kid in your theater class would follow you around before the DJ played Stevie B's Because I Love You and you would have to hide out in the bathroom for at least one fast song before the slow song and for another song afterward, just on the off chance that the DJ played the extended version of Everything I Do, I Do It For You because you certainly didn't want to get stuck swaying to that mess for 8 minutes. Maybe a really popular couple would break up at the dance and you would say something you thought was really meaningful to the popular girl and then go home and write in your day planner that you had made plans to go to the mall with her the next day which was way better than slow dancing with any boy. Or maybe another couple would let everyone know they were going to french for the first time after the dance and you and everyone else couldn't wait to encircle them in front of the school carpool line to see if they really used tongue until your dad yelled your full name from the carpool lane and everyone quit watching the couple french each other to stare at you.

Should french have a capital "F"?

More from the police blotter in the tiny town where I work:

9/20, 10:20am
Caller reports nearly being attacked by a rabid skunk.

10:37am
Motorist snoozing in left turn lane found to be in possession of syringe with cocaine residue; the cocaine had apparently worn off.

12:02pm
Driver fails to exit car before entering building.

9/18, 11:34am
Caller suspects son may be poisoning him.

5:50pm
Caller reports her mother is preventing her from leaving with her child.

9/21, 5:21am
Caller reports wife is stressed out, distraught, possibly intoxicated. Wife responds that she just needed a break (from husband).

9/23, 8:00am
Report of unknown cow attempting to homestead caller's property.

6:16pm
Caller tattles on her 8 and 12 year old sons for swiping her cigarettes.

9/22, 2:59pm
Report of club-footed horse being neglected.

6:28pm
Caller reports that he hasn't heard from his mother in 15-16 months.

9/24, 5:37am
Caller inquires whether he is currently wanted by the police; is encouraged to make his inquiry in person.

8:31pm
Caller discovers a bag of marijuana in his office.

9/26, 12:26pm
5-year-old boy is left my mom at church garage sale. Mom is contacted and returns to fetch child marked "priceless".

9/27, 1:30pm
Renegade washing machine with eternal wash cycle holds washee's clothes hostage.

Like a lot of 80’s kids, a good portion of my childhood was spent begging for Units and Multiples clothing like tapered leg peg pants, tube belts, square-cut tops and elastic-waist coulottes. The Units brand was featured in its own stand-alone shop that I remember being filled with cubbyholes and stacks of plastic packages of modular clothing. Multiples you could buy in department stores and still came in the plastic bags but wasn’t as exciting of an experience as going in the Units store with those cubbyholes. I think my mom bought Units for herself and got us kids the Multiples but it didn’t matter because both brands had tube belts, the one piece of clothing a 10 year old could put on as a micro-miniskirt and pretend to be sexy Jody Watley in. I looked pretty terrible in all my Units/Multiples clothing, probably owing to the fact that the clothes were basically like workout wear and not too flattering on a budding adolescent with training bra lines and gangly limbs. And also owing to the fact that I usually complemented the ensemble with slouch socks and color-coordinated Keds, braces, a headband with a bow or some sort of 10in long barrette with a bunch of fabric scraps cut with pinking shears and tied to it that my mom and aunt made in the kitchen late at night (right next to the kerosene lamp and communal wash basin in our tenement building). Now that I am older and lazy and more strongly drawn toward wearing pajamas I can pass off as casual office wear at work, I really miss those Units and Multiples pieces but look! One can still purchase them! Straight from the original designer (Sandra Garratt)! And they are still fabulous! Now to buy the jumpsuit w/ zipper and wedge sleeves...

Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Myself Say But That I Have Said At Different Jobs In Varying Capacities:

"Yes, the bat workshop should set up in the auditorium."
"Just put those flyers on the table with all the animal skulls."
"Because when you leave the door open, the pigeon comes in and sits under my desk."
"I'm sorry, I just don't think your laundromat is a good fit for this station."
"It is safe for your 2 year old to drink the river water."
"If the lady is going to be topless and painted, we should probably have told the schools ahead of time.
"So, this United Nations conference call, do I say my name when they take roll or do I say your name?"
"Elaine Stritch is asking for a specific brand of aspirin. No, that one is not acceptable to her."

OHMYGOD the crazy dreams are neverending. Two things I learned about rearing children:

1. Don't let them get wet.
2. Never, ever, feed them after midnight.

Jessica Simpson emailed me about her special offer to purchase clip-on bangs. I feel like selling clip-on bangs is a pretty interesting way to make your fortune in the world. And I am 100% positive that a Baptist church somewhere in Texas is going to have a non-alcoholic, zero-tolerance policy for dancing less than an arm’s width apart reception hall built from the sales of those clip-on bangs.

Things I Remember That Nobody Else Does That I'm Pretty Sure I'm Not Making Up But That I've Remembered This Week For Various Reasons

Billie Joe Armstrong refusing to speak with anything other than a British accent
Patrick Swayze’s brother Don starring in Alamo: The Price of Freedom
This interview that Whitney Houston gave one time about how a baseball broke through the window of the recording studio where she was singing I will always love you and how they left the sound on the track

About 2 months ago I cried at the end credits of Fred Claus during Sinead O'Connor's version of Silent Night. This was in July. More recently, I cried during Stevie Nicks' Sleeping Angel when Jennifer Jason Leigh can't catch a ride to the abortion clinic. The hormones have got to get themselves under control.

Sometimes I just want to quit my regular job and run a Peace Frogs t-shirt kiosk at the mall.

Oh, HSN, stop Googling yourself. I know you have some pink ice* jewelry collection to sell (which my mom will undoubtedly buy via her time machine to 1991) so get back to work.

*I am totally wearing a gold band with 5 pink ice "stones" right now. Because it is my birthday and I wanted to be fancy at work. And also I am 13 years old.