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It started with half-eaten dinners left cold, sitting at the table, waiting for the work crisis to pass. It never did.


Movies partially watched together, while a pressing work need called.


Dueling mortgages with a pressure to sell our former house while waiting to sell our condo.


A pregnancy that made me so ill that I could no longer go into work, for fear that I would vomit all over myself while driving.


A baby so needy that I didn’t sleep for nearly a year, during which point, I had a minor nervous breakdown.


An unexpected string of miscarriages that left me in a puddle of hormone soup.


A precarious pregnancy that seemed doomed from the get-go, hallmarked by severe, crippling prepartum depression.


A baby born with a severe neural tube defect requiring neurosurgery within a few days of her entry into the world.


A debilitating case of PTSD coupled with chronic, daily migraines.


Work that can never be enough, never is enough, requiring total dedication to that, and that alone.


Years spent overcoming my past only to have it wallop me upside my face.


Realizing that what had once been a marriage, something so strong that I’d never doubted it, had turned into a yawning chasm between two very different people.


Figuring out where to go from here. Unsure if that chasm can ever be crossed.


There are traditions that are bullshit and traditions that are not bullshit. The whole groom removing the bride’s garter with his teeth? Kinda bullshit. It’s just too skeevy for me.

Decorating the Christmas tree while listening to Britney Spears croon, “My Only Wish?” Totally awesome.

One of my favorite traditions – besides drinking gallons of coffee and diet Coke – is to make something so ridiculous, so heinous, and so morally reprehensible as to embarrass as many people as possible. Namely my uber-conservative in-laws.

That’s right, Pranksters, I took a bit from a Saturday Night Live Skit and made my own.

What, I can hear you ask, could you possibly have taken? The weird cheerleader bit? The Church Lady? The Ambiguously Gay Duo?


Schweddy Balls.

I know I’ve spoken of it before, but when I was a child, my parents listened almost exclusively to NPR and the local classical radio station. Don’t get me wrong, hearing about how 3000 children in Afghanistan by some horrible disease is pretty much UN-scarring for a kid (also: positive and uplifting), but I spent most of those years, stuck in the living room listening to the announcers drone on and on, praying, hoping, praying that one of them would slip up and swear.

They never did.

So when SNL put together a skit about Alec Baldwin’s Schweddy Balls, it was like a childhood dream come true. FINALLY, those announcers were talking about dirty shit WITHOUT skipping a beat!

Here’s the video for those of you who live in a cave and haven’t seen it.

I’ll wait here while you compose yourself; perhaps get a new chair or keyboard.

So I decided when Alex was a wee babe that what I needed to do was to make Schweddy Balls and put them out for Christmas. If I could successfully dead-pan the delivery of Schweddy Balls to my family, I would win.

(what would I win? Maybe a Mr. Peanut medal or something)

Each year, I’ve diligently made something with a dirty name (Meat Sticks, anyone?), and my own family has laughed uproariously, whereas my in-laws don’t even blink when I say, “Here, try my Schweddy Balls.” Perhaps it’s lost on them.

Either way, it may be September, but I’m already pondering what to make this year for “Schweddy Balls.” I’m thinking Rum Balls, but you know, it’s a Schweddy family recipe, so we’ll see.

Then, this morning, my sister-in-law sent me something on The Facebook. I’m not sure whether to be thrilled or furious at Ben and Jerry’s.


No, the more I think about this, the more I feel Furious George.

Also: hungry.

There are very few things I love as much as I love waffles. Even better than regular boring waffles are the ones I can order from Room Service, but really, what doesn’t taste better when delivered by a small man in a tuxedo? NOTHING.

Alas, this is not an ode to room service.

It is unfortunate that my children have also decided that waffles = full of the awesome. Not because they are wrong or anything (which is fairly common while dealing with small people who poop their pants), but because with waffles come condiments.

While I’m thankful that these condiments do not include ketchup, which, knowing my crotch parasites, could easily be the case, I sorta wish they’d decide to use something like WD-40 or super glue to top those delicious mounds of goodness.

Every morning, I wake up, blearily stumble down the stairs and pour myself a cup of coffee and, upon rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I realize that I’ve been victim of a minor terrorist attack. Sprinkled everywhere from the highest counter-top to the floor, is anthrax.

So, because I am still half-asleep, I begin yelling (to no one, as I am alone), “THE TERRORISTS DONE GOTTED ME! IMMA DIE OF ANTHRAX!“as I run around the house looking for expired antibiotics prescribed to my dog like eight years ago.

It takes me a couple minutes, a lick of the counter-top and a few laps around my house to realize that no, in fact, this was decidedly not a terrorist attack. I am in no more danger of catching anthrax in my kitchen than I am when I visit Urgent Care. In fact, Urgent Care is MORE likely to give me anthrax or polio or something.

No, what has now coated my kitchen in a deliciously sweet dust is powdered sugar. From the waffles that my kids eat.

For some reason, my benevolent children believe that the coffee maker, the dishwasher and the toaster oven like the taste of powdered sugar as much as they do. Or at least, that’s my suspicion as to why the powdered sugar is miles away from the kitchen table. I like to believe that my children are practicing kindness, not being lazy assbags, while they decorate my kitchen every motherfucking morning, trying to look out for the betterment of the appliances rather than opting out of using a spoon to scoop the stuff onto their waffles.

That is how I comfort myself each day as I scrub powdered sugar out of the most bizarre nooks of my kitchen.

If only the same could be said for their roaming sock colonies.

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