Days of Whine and Roses

Over Thanksgiving Weekend, after I finished the book I'd been reading and was reduced to leafing through my mother's back issues of "Better Home and Gardens" and studying their suggestions for how to build a better cheese ball (hint: half a cup of butter for every pound and a half to two pounds of cheese), mama asked me if my daughter ever asked me anything about alcohol.
"Like what?" I asked.
"She told me that she thinks that you're an alcoholic," she said.
"Really?" I put the magazine down, but only after turning down the corner of the cheese ball page.

I have been super sensitive about drinking lately because I read an article in a magazine about whether it's ok to drink in front of the kids or whether it's best not to. The article said that while it's ok to have an occasional glass of wine, the kids should also see you not having wine so that they can see that mom and dad can have fun without alcohol. I am really hoping that the first few hours of the morning count towards this alcohol-free fun time.

But I've been following the magazine's advice, because I need all the help I can get and God knows they wouldn't steer me wrong. Unfortunately, I chose Thanksgiving dinner as the time to show to my kids that I can have fun without alcohol. Looking back on it, I should have chosen a less stressful time to demonstrate this wine-less happiness to my kids, like for example, Armageddon. (Just kidding, our Thanksgiving was lovely and delicious.)

But I'm not sure that the kids noticed that I wasn't drinking.
What the fuck? What is the purpose of my doing Thanksgiving sober if I'm not getting credit for it.
"Ask me if I want some wine," I whispered to Husbandrinka.
"I know you're not having any," he said.
"Just.ask.me," I spoke through my teeth.
"What for?" He asked.
"For the sake of our children!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he ended our conversation. As a matter of fact, that's frequently how he ends our conversations. (Note to self: future blog post about better conversation enders).

I was on my own.
"I'm so happy to spend this Thanksgiving with all of you!" I raised my water glass in a toast. "Although it is customary to toast with wine, today I am toasting you with water. Because water is very delicious too and very...hydrating. And I am having fun! A lot of fun!"
Everyone was busy chewing but I think someone nodded. Or maybe they were gnawing at a bone or something.
Clearly I paid my non-wine drinking dues.

So when mama mentioned that my daughter was concerned about my drinking, my ears perked up.
"What did she say?" I asked.
"Oh, just that you have wine with dinner sometimes," she said. "But I know she's worried about alcoholism."
"Really? She just came out and said that?"
"Yes, she's worried."
"What were you talking about before she said that?"
"I don't remember."
"You remember everything, like an elephant."
"Oh, I think I asked her if you ever have wine and she said, 'yes, at dinner sometimes.'"

Sometimes I think that I don't drink enough.

E=mc2 (you know what I mean, squared. But I can't do the little 2)

Sometimes God gives you a sign.

A few days ago I got my second ever solicitation to do a review on my blog. Of sex toys. I don't know what it is about my blog that would make someone think that I would do something like that--I mean, I don't even blog about sex, with the possible exception of Porn Sunday, Orgy Tuesday and Bestiality Friday. I emailed the person back to ask how it would work, hoping that they would appreciate a mildly amusing post about the "fleshlight", but apparently, they want me to test out something from the stock and then review it and would I also consider something from the couple's section. You know, because by reading my blog they know that Husbandrinka is an avid fan and wants to have as much of his life broadcast on the internet as possible.

So, I was sort of toying with it. But it's just not me. And I don't think that I could ever look you guys in the eye again if I did a lot of "I give this three moans out of five". So I was leaning against it until I got a real sign.

At Thanksgiving dinner, I figured out that my father reads my blog. My first clue was that he said, "I read your blog. I don't like it, it's very superficial."

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a father who doesn't appreciate lighthearted blog banter. So I did what any normal person would do. I told him that I was banning him from my blog.
He wanted to know what that even meant. Remember, he lived in the former Soviet Union until he was in his 30s, so I had a lot of Gulog inspired images in my corner.
"It means that you are not welcome to read it anymore," I declared.
"I can read it if I want to," he said. "It's on the internet."
"Not if you have honor!" I may have jutted my index finger out in the international "honor" symbol.
He agreed. Because, well, wine was involved.

Then my mother chimed in. "I don't understand why you would post a blog where everyone could see your deepest thoughts."
"I don't really have deep thoughts," I reassured her.
"Still, aren't you worried that people are reading it and masturbating? The internet is so anonymous."

I can't decide whether my mother assumes that I write a lot of erotica or that she just thinks that most of the people reading blogs keep their hand in their pants for most of the day, but I think that signs against reviewing sex toys don't get much clearer, do you?

I'm a Moody Blogger

Today is Thanksgiving and the list of the things that I am thankful for goes on and on and is a real snooze to read. You know, the usual. Tivo, potato chips, the Brangelina-Anniston drama.

I'm not good at the topical holiday posts. I'm a moody blogger and today I'm in the mood to tell you something really important about marriage. This advice is especially useful if you're not yet married. If you made the mistake of getting married before consulting this post, you'll probably want to get an annulment and try again. Of course it'll be hard to get an annulment on Thanksgiving Day, but I don't see how you can possibly blame me for that one.

Ok, here it goes. You know how when you're a kid, and you and your siblings were going somewhere, one of you would call "firsties!" and that created this binding contract that can only be terminated upon death? Well, when you get married, it's really important to call "insanies!" as soon as possible after you're pronounced husband and wife, because if you don't, terrible things will happen.

For example. Last month I had a dream that my husband was looking at some woman (for argument's sake, let's call her a whore) in a way that I didn't like. No, I did not like it one bit. I woke up enraged. I didn't understand how he could betray me like that and the fact that it was a dream and didn't happen in real life was an inconsequential detail.  Sort of like saying "but she was a blonde, and you know I prefer redheads, honey" is a ridiculous defense.  Like now I'm responsible for your bad taste in dreamland?  Don't think so.  

So, I woke up, fuming, and feeling like at the very least, Husbandrinka owed me a huge apology because everyone knows that dreams have meaning and I am a very sensitive person and if he wasn't interested in this dreamgirl, why would I have dreamt it? Or is he trying to say that everyone's dreams have meaning except mine because I'm not as important as other people? Because that doesn't make me feel great, either.    

After a few (dozen) minutes of back and forth on this, Husbandrinka still didn't see why he had to apologize, and was acting all like I'm the crazy one here.  Unbelievable. It's almost like the whole feminist revolution was a huge waste of time or something and I'm a second class citizen. And then he says, "what if I had a dream that you did something?" And I'm all, "Uh-uh.  I called insanies!"  Which means that I get to be the insane one in the relationship and rage about dreams and he has to be the reasonable and practical one.  Because opposites attract and we can't both be getting mad at each other for dreams, it doesn't work like that.  Because that leaves very little time for other things, like doing the dishes.  Which reminds me, after you call "insanies", don't forget to call "not doing dishesies!"

You're welcome.

Other People's Children

Ok, I know that many of us here are parents, but can I just get something off my chest?

Other people's children? Fucking annoying. Except for yours, of course. I adore your kids.

I have an acquaintance and every time we speak on the phone she lets me "talk" to her howevermanymonthold. I have no clue. Sixteen months? Please reduce it to a number that normal people can understand. Anyway, the kid is under two years old and I have to be honest here--I don't enjoy our telephone conversations. Mostly because I have no idea what the hell she's talking about, and when she'll shut up. Never asks a word about me, it's just some kind of monologue with absolutely no punch lines.

"Put your mommy back on," I say. Nothing. She keeps blathering as though I had not just issued a direct command.

Eventually the mom reaches a commercial break on her soap or something and picks up the phone.

"Isn't she adorable?" she asks.

"O.K." I tell her.

"What were you talking about?" she is dying to know. Seriously, what does she think we were talking about? About how Big was a piece of shit and Carrie had the self esteem of a Jerry Springer guest?

"Oh, she was just babbling."

"Babbling? She speaks in sentences now."

"Oh."

"So,what did she say?"

So, you can't say that you have no clue because if she was talking in sentences, they certainly weren't in English, unless you count Middle English.

"You know, girlie stuff."

Seriously, please spare me.

I mean, I love my kids, but I'm not going to impose them on people.  Can you imagine if I started writing blog posts about them?! Oh, hold on a second, they want to tell you something.

Friendship

Many of you know about my friend John. We met at work, but I also love him. As a matter of fact, I think that if I were single, and he were heterosexual, and earned more money, and had a better personality, I would marry him. The marriage would really be helped along if he were the last man on earth. And if there were a law making it absolutely mandatory for everyone to marry. And if Proposition 8 were federal law, so I couldn't marry another woman. Or an animal. But only if he asked really nicely because I don't want to seem too eager or anything.

A few weeks ago, John and I had a mini argument, I don't even remember about what and I threatened him with Blog Death.

"I can kill you off on my blog, get lots of posting material out of it and people would probably even send me money for your funeral," I blurted out. What? It was the first thing that came to mind, don't tell me that you haven't thought the same thing.

"Oh, please," he said. "I have my own cult following on your blog." He may have mentioned that I was nothing without him, that he made me and could destroy me and uttered something mildly anti-semitic as well, I don't know. I'm not the type to dwell on the negative.

But it did give me an idea about how I could exploit John.

I decided that I would put up a poll to see who people wanted to ask questions of more--Husbandrinka or John. In no time at all, John was leading by a sizable margin. Insane.

"John is getting more votes that Husbandrinka on my blog," I told Husbandrinka.

"Who is 'Husbandrinka'? Is that me?" Husbandrinka asked. It's almost like he wants me to think that he doesn't give a shit.

So John won.

"Great," John said, when I told him on the phone over the weekend. I detected sarcasm.

"You know, you could be more loving and supportive of my blog," I accused him.

"Listen, if I were any more loving, you'd be pregnant and if I were any more supportive, you wouldn't need a bra."

He just comes up with this stuff. No wonder I transcribe his every word.

So, if you've been saving up questions for John, please let me hear them. I will do my best to get him to answer them, with only the slightest editing from me. A little tweaking here and taking in there, if you will.

Post your questions in comments or email me MarinkaNYC@Gmail.com
And remember, an opportunity like this does not come every day!  You're welcome.

Guess What?

Today I am guest blogging at The Norwindians because apparently it's been like twelve minutes since Kirsten's last break and she's on another vacation. Nice, right?

You may know Kirsten as Mama Ginger Tree, but she started a new blog, The Norwindians, which is a combination of her Norwegian heritage and her husband's East Indian one. I don't suppose that it will enhance anyone's admiration of me to let you know that until I read her explanation I thought that Norwindian was a way of saying "Norwegian" with a California accent, right?

Anyway, I love Kirsten and her blog, so if you haven't already, check it out. And take a look at her picture and tell me if you believe for one second that she wasn't one of the beautiful-popular kids in high school.

I'm closing comments here, so please leave a comment over there. Otherwise I'll know that you hate me.

Parenting advice

Is it me, or does most advice for parents in today's magazines come from a parallel universe? Because I can't relate to it at all and I'm sick of feeling like I'm the freak here.

When my kids were younger, I read a horrifying "Q&A" about what to do if your kids walk into your room while you're having sex.  My first reaction was "foster care for the children", but the advice, I swear on all that is holy, was "finish what you were doing and then calmly lead the child out of the room and explain the concept of privacy."  Really?  Because the way I see it, it's going to be hard for me to explain the concept of privacy with my head stuck in the oven.

More recently, I read this in Time Out New York Kids's Antonia Kidd's BackTalk column:

My five-year-old recently asked, “What will happen to us when Daddy runs off with his girlfriend and you go to jail?” I don’t know where she gets such ideas. Does she need a therapist?

Possibly. That is over-the-top, even for the most imaginative of kindergartners. But before shelling out $200 for a shrink, you need to do some investigating and figure out who and/or what is planting that sort of nutty scenario in your daughter’s little pigtailed head. It’s not that the stuff five-year-olds are typically exposed to is entirely innocent (that princess crap is full of evil stepsisters and people turning into inanimate objects), but as far as I know it doesn’t overtly discuss extramarital affairs and incarceration. It could be she’s picking it up from a clueless babysitter or teacher. 

Whatever. I think that this is a perfect opportunity to discuss how the whole fucking world doesn't revolve around the kid and how does she think that mommy would feel if she were in prison, stuck in one of those hideous orange jumpsuits, when everyone with eyesight knows that orange is not mommy's color and she looks much better in blue and red and even black?

This is also a wonderful moment to explore our legal justice system with the youngster and expand her education beyond "it's nice to share."  Like, why do we think that mommy is in prison?  Is it because she was mad at daddy for running off with his girlfriend? (And, by the way, shouldn't we be cross-examining the child along the lines of WHAT GIRLFRIEND? WHAT DO YOU KNOW? THERE'S ICE CREAM AND WEBKINZ IN IT FOR YOU.)  Anyway, back to the educational aspect of this whole thing, because I value education above all,--do we think that being mad for not wanting to "share" daddy is a good thing or a bad thing?  And what does the fact that twelve of mommy's peers thought that her being "mad" was "not ok" tell us about whether they were impartial or not?  Is it possible that instead of "peers" they were "hags"?

Children appreciate it when you are honest with them and don't talk down to them.  And there's nothing freaky about that.

Back to the Future

Yesterday, I went to see a doctor.  He was very nice, but I'm still blogging about it. Because of what he said. 

I went to see the doctor because the day before I hurt my back by sitting at my desk and blinking, apparently. Or maybe thinking. I don't know. Whatever it was, one moment I was fine and the next moment I was in excruciating pain. Fortunately, John was nearby to provide words of comfort. I believe his exact words were "God rewards the good and punishes the bad". Really, who needs a heating pad when he's around?

I felt fine whenever I was totally still, but if I had to do something extraneous, like, say, breathe, I was in agony.  Adding to the agony was the total lack of ecstasy, since my husband left that day for a five day business trip, so I couldn't even milk this ailment by sitting in bed surrounded by fluffy pillows, the remote control, my favorite magazines and a bell, to be used whenever I needed a grape peeled or or a page turned.  Seriously, what is the point of not feeling well if your partner is not around? I don't know why people even bother, it's totally not worth it.

Fortunately, I have many family members who are in the medical field, which generally works out well for me because I am in the hypochondria field.  Within an hour, I had the following advice, from my nearest and dearest:

Mama: "You need to go to the gym."

Papa: "You need to wash the kitchen floor, the motion will be good for your back."

Some random guy: "Complete bed rest."

Husbandrinka: "You will need to change your lifestyle and exercise more."

John: "Dance with me. It'll be like Dancing with the Tsars." 

So given this mixed advice, I decided to seek professional help.  The doctor was nice and asked me if I was worried about the economy and the state of our country.  Always a good sign when they try to make small talk by terrorizing the shit out of you, so that you're begging for a quick death.  He xrayed me and said that everything looked fine and when I pointed to the alarming jagged lines that I saw on the film, reassured me that it was my pants' zipper.  Apparently that's a very common condition and not as dangerous as it looks.

He told me that I needed pain medication. I was 100% on board.  

"Have you taken any painkillers that were effective before?" he asked.

"Yes, morphine," I told him.  What?  What did you take after your C-section, Tums?

Well, he prescribed percocet.  And he told me that I should rest.

"Complete rest?" my tail started wagging.

"You can still cook and do the laundry," he said.  "I wouldn't carry heavy grocery bags."

Seriously, what the fuck?

Did I make the appointment in the mid-50s?  Last weekend, a guard at the museum made a passing reference implying that I cleaned a lot.

Is there something about me that screams domesticity? Because if there is, I'd like to have that something's vocal cords cut.  And not share the percocet.

 

 

Guest Posting

Guess what? Heather of Fergiesims  asked me to do a guest post on her blog about whether living in NYC was like it was depicted on Sex and the City.  Please.  I was born to write that post.  And now my destiny has been fulfilled.  Please check out my guest post at Heather's! 

To Be in NYC or Not to Be in NYC, That is the Question

Update: I'm featured on Neurotic Mom!

Recently, I found out that the lovely Kelcey from The Mama Bird Diaries is considering leaving NYC. Something about kids needing trees to climb, but I suspect that she hates me and wants to be as far away from me as possible. Whatever. Not to be one-upped by her, I can now reveal that every once in a while, Husbandrinka and I have conversations about possibly leaving New York City and moving to the suburbs.

I immediately start hyperventilating and then we agree to make a "pro/con" list, and approach it like adults. Like adults who make "pro/con" lists while breathing into a brown paper bag. If "breathing into a brown paper bag" is another way of saying "guzzling vodka."

Invariably, Husbandrinka provides the "pros", I provide the "cons" and our list looks something like this:

Pro: We can live in a house instead of an apartment.

Con: I will instantly become an alcoholic.

Pro: We can have a backyard.

Con: I will dabble in pills, as well.

Pro: We will save a lot of money.

Con: Not with all the booze and dolls that I'll be buying.

Pro: We will have more space--a basement, a cellar!

Con: I will fashion a noose in the basement. Or maybe in the cellar. Probably both.

Pro: Our children will ride their bikes up and down our tree-lined street as our neighbors look on and wave.

Con: Look! My wrists are practically slashing themselves!

Pro: We will get away from the noise of NYC.

Con: What about the noise that is coming from the voices inside my head? You know, the ones chanting ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?

Pro: We don't take advantage of what NYC has to offer.

Con: Exactly! That's how we save money!

Pro: Our kids can have a traditional American childhood.

Con: Shouldn't that go into the "con" column?

Pro: There are a lot of teenagers in the suburbs, so there's plenty of cheap babysitting.
Con: Why are you sitting there instead of packing?!?

Fucked Up Catalogs

You know how sometimes you'll be on an airplane (usually when you're flying somewhere) and suddenly there will be turbulence and you'll think "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, ESPECIALLY ME!" and then you sort of calm down and realize that a trained professional is flying the plane, and not the Madagascar II penguins and feel all better? And then you remember that the trained professionals have to submit to mandatory drug testing and feel even better about the whole thing?

Well, wouldn't it be great if other professionals had to submit to mandatory drug testing as well? For example, those people who set up catalog shots.  

Seriously, if you're used to getting catalogs, especially this time of year, take a look at them. And then let's try to guess what drugs these people are taking.

Exhibit 1:



What were the directions for this shot? 

"Ok, Miss, you thread the popcorn, because that's fun and you, big guy, look at the dog. But not like you're thinking of sodomizing him or anything, just like you're all-American and like dogs. Yes! This is the scene we need to sell long underwear to people who like to spend the most boring weekend together in the history of boredom."

Exhibit 2:

Ok, so I've been to FAO Schwartz and they really have all these huge stuffed toys in their store. I always assumed that they were purchased either by Ricky Schroeder's character on "Silver Spoons" or by the Home for the Mentally Insane for some kind of Jungle Therapy, but never in my wildest dreams (get it? WILD?) did I think that these enormous animals were all going to be staged outside in an evolutionary incorrect manner. Hello? A unicorn? And on what planet are the dinosaurs romping around with zebras? On planet LSD, I say.

Exhibit 3:


I don't know what to say. 

"Can I get a stuffed zebra, daddy?" 

"No, we're in the middle of a recession." 

"Why can't I get a stuffed unicorn?" 

" Because you're a whiny bitch, just like your mother, that's why!" shoves head through newspaper. 

Mother:  "You're so funny! I'm falling in love with you all over again!"

I want to know who thought that this image was going to sell pajamas, unless they were going for that subliminal "buy our shit or we'll bash your head in, too" thing.

So, please join me in insisting that these people be tested for drugs. Because we, and our children, deserve less fucked up catalogs.
Thank you and God Bless America.

Popular Extinction

Here is my advice: If you ever come up with an award-winning theory, contact the Nobel committee directly, and don't run it by your spouse first. Especially if you're married to my husband. Because he will make you doubt yourself which in turn will diminish your bliss. Trust me on this.

Recently I came up with a theory that people who were popular in high school are now extinct, like dinosaurs and ...some other things that are extinct. None of the friends that I have now were popular in high school, moreover none of us knows anyone who was popular in high school. I was so excited by my theory that I started preparing the deposit slip for the advance on my award-winning book on the subject and wondering what I was going to wear when I appeared on Oprah.

But then I decided to share the good news.

"Guess what?" I asked Husbandrinka. "I came up with a whole new theory of social relations. Want to hear it?"

"No," he mumbled.

"Haha," I said. "how about after you're awake?"

"No," he said.

Fortunately I'm one of those people who never bought into the whole "no means no" crap that swept college campuses in the 80s. I always look into the person's eyes to see if they really mean "no" or if they are playing hard to get and mean "ok, if you want". Unfortunately, because my husband was sleeping with his soul windows shut closed, I didn't get any special insight into his eyes and was forced to go by what I call my seventh sense. My seventh sense is a gift that allows me to know what people want, despite any visual or verbal cues that they give. I am hoping that New York soon will codify it as a defense, along with insanity, to most crimes.

"Ok, here it is. The people who are popular in high school burn out and are no longer around after college, if they make it that far. That's why we don't know anyone who was popular in high school and none of our friends do either."

"That's stupid," he said. I assume that he was sleep talking.

"You think that I'm wrong?" I challenged.

"I was best friends with Monica and she was the head cheerleader, popular and she's still around."

"How come I haven't seen her in years?"

"Because she's living in Milan."

Oh.

Well, that doesn't mean that she's not extinct. I mean, I haven't been to Milan in years, so maybe it's just code for "a total loser" or something.

"Besides," he is suddenly Mr. Chatty, "have you ever considered that maybe you and all your friends were unpopular kids and now you're unpopular adults so that's why the popular people don't hang out with you?"

"No."

"Something to think about, huh?"

"I guess."

And this is how a dream dies. Or more specifically, gets murdered. I'm thinking of starting a support group.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

Sometimes, I just want my kids to fake it.

I don't know if it's called "manners" in other families or what, but yesterday, when the guard at the Cloisters asked my son not to touch a 900 year old fountain from France because it will not withstand many cleanings and said, "I know your mom cleans all the time at home, but we have to be careful with things that are very old," I would have liked my son to nod thoughtfully, reflecting his understanding rather than blink rapidly and cock his head to the side a la the RCA dog mascot.

Of course, perhaps the guard thought that he had stunned my son with the antiquity and history of the piece he was pawing, but I know better. Because I am not a mom who cleans.  And that's ok with me, as long as my kids don't announce it to the world.

Many years ago, before I saw the light in the shape of Husbandrinka, I dated a man who had the world's most fantastic mother.  She was glamorous, talented and interesting.  I desperately wanted  her to like me and I decided that the best way to endear myself to her was to lie as much as possible so as not to reveal my true personality.  

Sometimes my boyfriend and I took weekend trips with his parents and his mom and I shared the back seat.  She would ask me questions,  like did I want to be rich and famous?  "No," I lied, "I want to do something meaningful."  She laughed.  For a long time.

One time she asked me if I liked to clean.  "Like it?" I shrieked in a way that I assume cult members are trained to when a new convert appears.  "It gives me a deep sense of satisfaction. I especially love ironing." That addition was especially precious since I did not then, nor do I now, own an iron.

"That's good," she said. "Because I never cared for it and find it a waste of time.  But you're lucky if you actually enjoy it."

You would think that it would be easy to say, "I hate it, too!  We're practically soul mates!" at that point and not sound out of your fucking mind, but you would be wrong.

But I did learn not to be ashamed about hating to clean and to pay someone to do it, just as soon as I could afford to.  And although I never regretted one cent that I paid towards freeing myself from housework, there are times when I feel like I'm not domestic enough, and that my very femininity is at stake.  Generally, I shrug it off, but the confusion in my son's eyes this weekend when the guard said "your mother cleans all the time" gave me pause.  Not enough to take over the cleaning, of course, I'm not completely out of my mind.  But pause.  

And seriously, Cloister guy?  Whatever happened to, "don't touch that thing, you rotten kid!"?  No further explanation necessary.

I'm not here today

I'm guest posting here instead.  Come say 'hi!'

And they're all dignified there, so put on some lipstick and zip up your pants, ok?

Spoiler Saturday

I don't mean to ruin this for anyone, but yesterday when I was on my way to work, I noticed that the Christmas tree was at Rockefeller Center already. But looking slightly more horizontal that usual.

Also, the Saks Fifth Avenue windows have been under wraps for a week, so I am expecting something spectacular. Also, they have put up those amazing snowflakes on the building, although I don't think that they will light them up for a few weeks.  That will give me enough time to figure out how to use the flash on my camera.  




Because now I don't know how to do it.  So my pictures in the dark look like this:

Fancy, right? And doesn't it make you suspect that I work as Batman?

I Don't Just Link You, I Love You!

One of the best things about blogging for me is reading other people's blogs and figuring out how I can steal their material without them noticing. Obviously, I'm kidding. I perfected the technique already and they don't suspect a thing. It involves liquor and Jedi mind tricks.

But every day, there are posts that make me laugh so much that I can't believe that these people aren't going to bill me. (That's an expression. I'm not paying you people a cent. Fucking capitalists.)

So now, for absolutely no charge, I am going to share the funniest things that I read this week.

You're welcome. And no, there is no way that you can ever repay me. Although if you could change your child/pet/beloved's name to Marinka, that would be a good start.

Disclaimer: I'm not listing everyone that I love and who makes me laugh because (a) it's Thursday night when I'm writing this and I want to watch The Office and Sarah Silverman and maybe say hello to my husband at some point; (b) I don't want to shoot my entire blog-love wad in one post. So, I'm holding back.

Heather of Queen of Shake-Shake is one of my most favorite bloggers ever and every time she comments on one of my posts, I sit a little straighter in my chair. So, I really appreciate her commenting early in the day, and not in the evenings when I'm slumped over with a glass of wine. She cracked me up this week with some of her google searches. Which were awesome. I can't wait to read her book.

I am new to the Wild ARS Chase, but reading about how Andy met his ex's father I became a fan for life.

This post on Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder made me laugh so much, I've been returning to it on a daily basis. I basically start laughing in anticipation as the page is loading.

The lovely Vodka Mom is teaching a classroom of patriots.

The only reason not to read June Cleaver Nirvana is if you're one of those freaks who hates happiness and laughter. I loved this post about her husband reading her blog. Not that I'm bitter that mine refuses to read mine, or anything.

I know it's not polite to laugh at other people's fashion sense, but what the hell, I'm shallow.

So, please check out these blogs and laugh. Because it's Friday, and you deserve it.

Economization

There are times that I feel like Lucy Ricardo, but unfortunately it's never while I'm looking in the mirror.  Usually it's when I am sneaking shopping bags into the apartment, so as not to unnecessarily alarm my husband.  Last week it was when the Visa bill arrived in the mail and I remembered that I had become Suddenly Patriotic and single handedly gave our economy a huge boost, via Saks Fifth Avenue. In a way, I had no choice. I work near Saks and I have a lunch hour. Plus, they were having a sale. I don't need a burning bush to tell me what to do next.

This led to my husband and me having a conversation that I may or may not have passed out twelve seconds into, but not before hearing words like "budget" "recession" and "careful with discretionary spending".  Personally, I see no need for that kind of language between adults, but whatever.  Apparently, the economy is in bad shape and I am on a budget.  But not on a budget with numbers and balancing, but more of a spending freeze type of thing, where my credit cards and I are having a trial separation.  And I am totally on board and not just because I would have agreed to anything to make the conversation end.

I remind my husband that I am from the former Soviet Union, where people made a turnip stretch all winter during the war. Of course that was a few decades before I was born, but what am I, a historian now?  The point is that I am of good strong Russian stock that can withstand hardship and do it with bravery and a stiff upper lip (as soon as I get it Botoxed).  The only glitch is that the next morning I realize that I am totally out of my kazillion dollar an ounce perfume and momentarily feel like Anastasia when she faced the Bolsheviks.  

Then to make matters worse, I talk to a friend of mine who's one of those financial types and I'm not even sure what her job is.  My strong preference is for people around me to have job titles that I understand, like "doctor", "teacher," "prostitute", but she doesn't seem to care about my preferences.  She's a financial something or other and she tells me that she read a book, called The Financial Apocalypse which she suggests that I not read because it will give me nightmares, but which she will summarize for me, because that's relaxing. 

So, according to her, the book predicted many of the things that we've already seen, like major banks closing and the Fannie and Freddie collapse and that the other fun thing that the book predicts is that the United States government will default on its loans and that our currency will be worthless. Not worth less.  Worth nothing.  For some reason, this alarms me, so I ask her what the book suggests we do, because I am now convinced that The Book knows everything and will lead us out of the darkness and will probably get me a bottle of that perfume.  And she says that we need to buy gold bars which sounds good in theory, but I'm thinking that it's going to be really, really hard to justify to my husband, what with the spending freeze and all.  Can you imagine if he notices that I'm stockpiling gold in the closet?   But then it hits me, and this is where Warren Buffet may want to pay attention--if our currency is going to be worthless, shouldn't we all be charging the gold bars on our credit cards, because when the economy totally collapses, no one will care about credit card debt, but we'll have gold.  And with the gold, we'll be able to get perfume!  And that's the real silver lining.

My Husband Has the Worst Celebrity Sightings

Since Husbandrinka and I have been together, here is a partial list of the celebrities that I've spotted in NYC: Woody Allen, JFK, Jr., Yoko Ono, Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, Liv Tyler, Kelly Ripa, Isaac Mizrahi, John Waters, Eric Clapton, Isabella Rosselini and Beverly Sills.

This is a complete list of celebrity that Husbandrinka "thought he saw": Elvis and "the girl who I think was in a commercial once".

Clearly, I was winning. But all this changed on Friday:

My husband was in Los Angeles all last week and yesterday he told me, "I swear, this woman was the flight attendant on the flight back to Newark."

And possibly our children's new mommy, I'm guessing.

Victoria's Secret: They Hate You

Generally speaking, I consider myself a pretty laid back, agreeable person. I go into a store, I make a selection and I pay for it. I don't try to create a distraction so that my co-conspirators can come in and steal the merchandise, I don't present expired coupons and I don't tell the salespeople my dreams. And all I expect in return is to be rung up, and given the shit I just paid for in a bag, with my receipt and a "thank you." And the receipt is not strictly mandatory.

I hate shopping at Victoria's Secret because of their hard sell. The only way that I will ever set foot in Victoria's Secret again is if I'm dismembered and someone flings my foot into their store. Because to walk in there is to subject yourself to some kind of torture-mortification that most people flee continents to avoid. And are pretty much guaranteed to receive asylum in their new country.

"You need a new bra," a bra pusher told me as I was looking through the robe section.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"What you're wearing doesn't fit you."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"It's too small. It pushes your breasts up so that you look like you have three breasts."

Ok. I defy anyone to walk away from a salesperson who tells you that. It cannot be done. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure if stockbrokers called their customers and said "you look like you have three breasts, but some stock!" we could get the Dow up right now, financial crisis solved.

"What do you mean, I have three breasts?"

"Well, you're a C cup, but you're wearing a B. So the scrunched up part in the middle makes you look like you have a third breast. It's not a good look," she explained in case I was going to race directly to Vogue headquarters to start posing.

"I am not a C cup," I told her and returned to the robe selection. Unfortunately they were all embroidered with something like "Sexy!" and "Cutie Pie!" instead of "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, I DON'T HAVE THREE BREASTS" which I was in the market for.

"I'll measure you!" she volunteered and before I could reach for my personal mace container, lassoed me with her breast measurement.

Ten wrangling minutes later, I bought a new bra.

"You were right," I told her.

"I know," she said. "I'm a professional."

Victoria's Secret: 1

Marinka: 0

Breasts: >3

Welcome to Porn Sunday

DAMMIT!  I am suffering from Premature Posting Disorder!  Sorry!  Come back and read this tomorrow!  Otherwise it's Porn Sunday on Saturday.

Welcome to the second installment of Marinka's Porn Sunday series.

If you did not join us last week, it's not too late to catch up on the last post here.  As a result of last week's post, an obscene (I slay me) number of people found by blog by googling "Danke 4 the Panky" which makes me think that it is indeed some sort of a pornographic classic and that we all should watch it and then discuss.

But that was last week, before we got a new President-elect.  This week, to celebrate the fact that our future President was a constitutional law professor, I thought that it would be patriotic to review the definition of pornography.  But because that's too long and draining, I'll go with my favorite, which is actually a concurring opinion by Justice Stewart and can be boiled down to "I know it when I see it."

You know who doesn't know it when she sees it? Oprah.  Let me explain.

I watched Monday's Oprah show because the promo said that it was "for mature audiences only" and I am, at heart, a fourteen year old boy.

Yay, Oprah will teach us about sex! Maybe I could learn something.

Well, maybe I would have learned something if I were watching the show from the Victorian era.

She had two panels of women, girlfriends, casually sitting in their living rooms, watching Oprah live, advising her if she ever "crosses the line".  Because apparently Oprah can no longer afford a producer.  This is exactly the type of thing that has me rolling my eyes so much that I develop optic nerve muscles.

But I'm being too harsh--because I did take away some valuable lessons:

1.  The sex therapist that she had on the show looked like Paula Abdul.

2.  Oprah told us that the haven't-had-sex-in-years couple who allowed their sex therapy sessions to be taped and then broadcast on the show as they appeared on the same show to discuss it are "brave" as opposed to "insane."

3. Sex therapist lady explains to confused Oprah that sex therapy is talk therapy and that she doesn't watch the people actually have sex.  

4.  Sex therapist lady told us that couples are often afraid to share their sexual fantasies with each other.  

5. When sharing sexual fantasies, there are three rules:  (a) be open and don't say things like "wow, I never knew what a sick fuck you are" when your partner divulges a fantasy; (b) be honest and tell your partner "I'm not really into the pimp-ho fantasy that you have going on there, so that won't be happening" and (c) if your fantasy involves sex with a friend, neighbor or an in-law, keep it to yourself. 

6.  The way that I understand these "sexual fantasy rules" is that unless your fantasy is about making love to your partner while cleaning the kitchen, better not say a word.  Although big, fat ditto on sex with in-laws, unless you're married to a Baldwin brother or something.

7. The haven't-had-sex-in -years woman's fantasy was to "be dominated" by her man.

8.  The haven't-had-sex-in-years man's fantasy was to "have sex".

9.  The sex therapist gave the haven't had sex in years couple a homework assignment:  He is to plan their whole date and be totally in control of the whole thing!  Because normally the no sex wife is in control of everything!

10. If I were their sex therapist my assignment to them would have been, "have sex and call me in the morning, but not too early, because I want to have my grande Pike Roast first and hearing about your sex life may gag me."

11.  The haven't-had-sex-in-years man starts the date by picking out his wife's clothes for her to wear.

12.  If Husbandrinka ever showed an interest in picking out my clothes for me to wear, we'd be appearing on Oprah as the Will-Never-Have-Sex-Again couple.

13.  The haven't-had-sex-in-years man drives the-haven't-had-sex-in-years woman to a restaurant, but won't tell her which one!

14.  I think the "domination" aspect would be enhanced if he had her ride in the trunk of the car, instead of in the passenger seat.

15.  After dinner we find out that the haven't-had-sex-in-years woman of the couple didn't know that she had a clitoris and that it had nerve endings.  I guess because she was too busy pussy whipping her husband.

16. Oprah didn't know if you could say clitoris on TV.

17. For any new blog readers, why not check out a recent clitoris post?

18. Oprah say "va-jay-jay". Sex therapist lady tells her that the proper term is "vagina".

Seriously--TV is never going to get better than having a doctor telling Oprah that.

Happy Sunday!

Super Secret Topics That I Will Never Blog About, Ever

A few years ago I was having dinner at my favorite NYC restaurant. John makes fun of me because Husbandrinka and I always go there. And also because John makes fun of me always, for no good reason. It's very painful. The restaurant is a block away from our house, so it's convenient, it's where we had our first date, so it's romantical and it's where Husbadrinka looked into my eyes once, when I was sure that he was going to propose and said, "You know, I've been thinking, and it's really hard for me to understand The New York Times' attitude towards Israel," so it's chuck full of precious memories.

So, we were eating there and I see that Yoko Ono is sitting at the table next to us. She was there with her son and a younger woman who I guessed was the son's girlfriend, but the only reason that I recognized Yoko was that she was wearing those enormous sunglasses. At night. Indoors.

I'm assuming that she wears them for the sake of privacy, to go unnoticed, so if none of her minions have the balls to tell her, I will. Wearing those sunglasses at night and indoors is exactly what makes you get noticed. It's exactly what made me whisper to Husbadrinka "Yoko Ono, six o'clock" and he said, "What?" and I said "Ono, Yoko over there," motioning to her table with my right eyelash, and he said, "I have no idea what you're talking about," and I had to stand on top of our table, naked, and bellow, "YOKO ONO IS SITTING OVER THERE WEARING SUNGLASSES, JESUS CHRIST, HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE HEARD ME?!" Seriously, you try doing that and not spill that martini. And all this could have been avoided if she just wore normal glasses like a regular person or if Husbandrinka attended any one of those telepathy for couples classes that I'm always trying to enroll us in.

I mention this because as I keep blogging, I've been wondering if there are any topics that are really off limits for me. I mean, there's the usual, I won't blog about work, the intimate details of my friends' lives that I assume they wouldn't want publicized and I'm trying to be sensitive to the fact that Husbandrinka is a private person. But I also wonder if identifying an "off limits" list is sort of like donning those Yoko Ono glasses.

Oh, what the hell, she looks great in them. And besides, aren't we all attention whores?

So here is my list of Super Secret Topics That I Will Never Blog About, Ever, So Don't Even Ask.

1. Anyone's job. Except people who I don't know and who do their job badly. Hello, Starbucks cashiers!

2. Sex. Except if I have something interesting to say about it. This excludes Porn Sunday, of course.

3. My children's diaries. Because one doesn't keep one and the other one keeps it locked up. But I'd like to think that I have enough integrity to respect other people's privacy. (God, that looks pretty all written up like that).

4. Spanking. I'm talking about children, not perverts, here. Not that people who like to get spanked are perverts, mind you. I have had so many discussions about whether spanking is a good method of discipline and they never go well, so I'm not going there again. Unless I run out of stuff to blog about, and then I'm all over it.

5. Thermonuclear power. I have no idea what that is, so blogging about it would be awkward.

Other than that, I'm an open book. Which may not be the best news for the people that read this blog.

But I promise not to go all Yoko on you.

The Week's Rejected Blog Post Ideas

1. Why Obama Should Totally Grow an Afro in Time for the Inauguration.

2. Marinka's Guide To Commenting on Blog Posts: I Rate Comments.

3. Looking At Menopause: OMG, I forgot to have an abortion!

4. Save Your Marriage! Instead of Picking Celebrities for the People You Can Sleep With And Have Immunity List, Why Not Pick a Neighbor or a Co-Worker? Because, statistically, that's who it will be!

5. Kooky Pens: Fun New Kid Accessory or a Form of Torture Under The Geneva Convention?

6. Blog Contest! Win a Lap Dance from Marinka! (Second place: two lap dances from Marinka!)

7. I Haven't Seen Friend John All Week and I am Out of Blog Fodder.

8. Friend John called to suggest that we make a Martha Stewart Gingerbread House with the Kids. Step One: Look through favorite architectural books and magazines for favorite buildings.

9. Why a Mud Hut is My Favorite Building.

10. I'm Ready to be a Casting Director! Courtney Cox is Casey Anthony.

Marinka's Guide To Voting With The Kids

Night Before

Tell your kids that tomorrow, super early, we're all going to vote!

Chuckle at son and tussle his hair when he claims that he's "not old enough to vote!"

Reassure son that with you at his side, he will be able to vote.

Explain (patiently) to daughter that yes, although you did vote for Hillary in the primaries, now you will be voting for Obama.

No, you do not consider voting for Hillary a mistake and no, daddy was not "right all along."

No, you don't know what you'll do with your Hillary mug, but you don't think that exchanging it for an Obama mug is an option.

Of course you're not bitter. Why would she ask such a thing? Haha!  You're happy to vote for Obama. Really happy!

Refill wineglass.

With scotch.

Remind kids to get to bed early and that tomorrow, as soon as they wake up, we're going to vote!

Reassure son that yes, you meant as soon as they wake up and get dressed,  we're going to vote, because he's right, we're not voting in our pajamas, like it's a sleepover party.

No, we can't have another sleepover this week.

4:30 am

Clarify to son that when you said "when you wake up, get dressed and we'll go vote" you meant after 6 a.m.

6:30 a.m.

On the way to the polling place, become panic-stricken that someone from the media will ask kids who they are supporting and why.

Casually ask kids why they support Obama.

Hear Daughterella explain,"Because Sarah Palin kills polar bears for fun."

Hear Son say, "Because who wants a super old president?"

Feel satisfied with answers.

Stand in superlong line.

Resist telling fellow voters about breadlines.

Reminisce about standing in food lines in the Soviet Union.

Watch kids' eyes glaze over.

Be informed by son that he has to draw an "Emergency Pokemom" right now!

Supervise kids' negotiation that daughter will pull the Obama ticker and son will pull the lever that will register the vote.

Smile as they agree to switch those tasks in 4 years.

Become hysterical upon realization that in 8 years, daughter will be able to vote.

Become inconsolable upon realization that daughter may be voting for Sarah Palin in 8 years.

Ask son to stop asking, "Is that John McCain?" every time he sees a white man over 50.

Curse the line because while waiting, the kids remember that the dog is dead and ask  that he be"undeaded".

Get inside the voting booth.

Start giving kids the longest civics lessons in the history of the free world.

Fear revolution as line outside grows.

Daughter ticks the Obama flag.

Daughter and son alternate voting for various Judges.

Shed a symbolic tear at this precious moment, while keeping an eye on kids so that they don't go rogue and vote for Barr.

Son pulls huge red lever.

Go to breakfast.

Order eggs.

Beam as son, being a northeastern elitist, orders "frites."

Pretend you don't know son as he tells tortured waiter at the diner that "frites is fries" in French.

Become befuddled by son's doublespeak into allowing him to have Fries and Frosted Flakes for breakfast.

Collapse in nervous exhaustion. At 8 a.m.

Spend the rest of the day alternating wishing everyone would stop talking about how long they spent on line waiting to vote and telling everyone how long you spent on line waiting to vote.

Or Maybe He's on a Farm Somewhere. Playing.

On Sunday morning, this is what I posted on Twitter:

To Do List: Tell kids beloved dog is dead. Hint broadly that if they'd cleaned their room, things may have been different.

Of course I was joking about the room cleaning part, but please understand me.  My husband had just left for a business trip.  My son's 7 year old friends were over from a sleepover the night before.  My daughter was creating a Master Race on The Sims2.  My mother called to tell me that their dog died and I was tasked to let my children know.  Some days really suck.

Although my kids went through our dog Mavis' death, they were much younger then and I was worried that this would hit them harder.  I have been preparing them for weeks.  He is old. He is sick. He will die soon. I talked about it so much that at one point my daughter asked, "is he really still alive?"  And yet, apparently, I was too subtle.  Because when I told them that he died, my daughter dissolved into tears and my son said "I don't even know what that means," before he fell on me and sobbed.  It broke my heart.  

As my son sat sobbing, I tried to comfort him. "It's ok to feel sad and cry," I told him. "When Mavis died , I cried a lot."

He intensified the sobbing as my daughter scolded me. "You're going about this all wrong," she said. "First our grand-dog, and now Mavis? Who are you going to bring up next, your grandfather?" referring to my grandfather's death two years ago. Duly noted.

But they are children, and there was levity. Because I swear, kids make everything better. Except sleeping in on fall back Sundays.

So, here are the memorable things that my kids said, as they started sitting shiva:

"He was like a brother to me, except he was a dog and not annoying like my brother." (daughter)

"I wish he could become undead." (son)

"I always thought that if someone in your family died and went to heaven, they could control you from there, the way that I can control Sims characters." (daughter)

"When you're dead and are in heaven, it's all black.  You can't do anything and you can't eat ice cream." (son)

My son has also created something that I call the Wailing Wall--he has a whiteboard in his room, and he's been writing messages to the dog.

"I miss you."

"I loved you but now it's the end."

"Sorry to say this, but you're dead."

Every time he walks past that wall, he looks at it, sighs and weeps.  I know that it's a normal mourning process and it's healthy to go through it and I'm trying not be cynical when the kids tell me that having extra time with the video games is "the comfort" that they need right now. And that ice cream is the salve for their emotional wounds.

Beware of Paris

Last spring, my kids and husband and I went to Paris for a week, thinking, hey, Paris is a moveable feast, it'll be an amazing experience for the kids and it's Paris, what could be better?

It was wonderful trip, excluding that moment when the plane took off and my daughter said, "I have the worst feeling that we're going to crash!" and then described that feeling transatlantically for the next six hours. Paris is indeed beautiful (duh) and everything was delicious (double duh) and I felt really comfortable there despite the rumors that Americans are not widely adored there. I think part of my appeal to the Parisians that I met was that my limited vocabulary made me appear really easy going and fun loving, which, incidentally is pretty much the polar opposite of my natural personality. Whoever thought that "just be yourself" was sound advice for interpersonal relations has never had the good fortune of meeting me. Anyway, since my vocabulary consisted of "viola" and "c'est la vie" and "croissant", my popularity was secured. Yes, of course I know "ooh lala" but no one likes a show off.

One of the things that I loved about Paris was how child-friendly it was. I don't mean just the bistros, but the boulevards were made for kids to run around on. Or for Napoleon to march on, really, I fail to see the difference. And Husbandrinka had lived in Paris for years, so he was a fantastic tour guide, showing us the Obelisk that Napoleon swiped from Egypt, the Russian gold bridge and for some inexplicable reason, the bus stop where he first disembarked when he first arrived in Paris as a student. (I'm assuming that he didn't take the bus all the way from NYC, but I never asked).

The other thing that I loved about Paris is the Eiffel Tower.



I don't know who that person is in the picture, or why the hell she wouldn't get out of my otherwise postcard perfect shot. But it's not me, so you don't have to tell me how adorable I look or anything like that.

I also loved the views from the Eiffel Tower



And visiting Husbandrinka's friends whose apartment faced the Eiffel Tower. I can't tell you how amazing it was to drink champagne at their apartment, look out at the Eiffel Tower all lit up and smile broadly at them because they don't speak English and I already Viola'd them to death.  They told us that when they first moved there, they'd sit up all night and look at the Eiffel Tower all night. At least that's what Husbandrinka translated it as. For all I know, they could have been saying "she sure does like to drink, that one.  And from the looks of her, doesn't pass up on too many meals, either."

So imagine my surprise when, months later,  I came across this list that my daughter made, warning the general population not to go to Paris if they don't like certain things, many of them, incidentally, not generally or exclusively associated with Paris, but all of which we encountered. Ah, youth.  C'est la vie.

Porn! It Does a Body Good

I thought that since Sundays are traditionally the days that I have 3.4 readers on my blog (which includes my kids' stuffed animals that I position in front of the screen for half an hour) I would experiment and post my musings about porn. You know, the type of stuff that people with integrity and values don't post about, especially not on The Lord's Day. But before you judge me, please rest assured that I will not post anything erotic. At least not intentionally. Is it me, or is it hot in here?

I watch porn the way that I imagine that other people watch game shows--it's on in the background while I straighten up, I keep an ear out for it while I do the TV Guide crossword puzzle, in case something exciting happens. It's entirely possible that I have a different definition of "exciting" than the majority of the porn watching population. I don't want the money shot (seriously, who didn't have their fill of money shots by the time they were in their 30s?) I want to hear the dialogue. Because porn dialogue really is what makes me believe in the American Dream. No talent? No problem!

But this is not about porn dialogue-- I'm saving that for Easter Sunday, apparently. For now, I want to discuss porn titles that are available on demand from my local cable provider. Specifically the "foreign" selection.

Ready? Here we go!

Oh Miso Horny
AZN (too many to list..err, I'm referring to titles here)
Big Buns Barcelona
Big Butts of Brazil
Danke 4 the Panky
German Jugs Galore (can you just see the meetings they had on this one? "I think we can get away with German Gugs Galore!")
Icb Bin Ein Horny (doesn't specify if it's subtitled)
Lusty Loco Latinas
Outdoor Swede Sex
Star Whores (I am guessing that it's the intergalactic part that makes it foreign? At any rate, whoever came up with it deserves some kind of an award. Like the Pulitzer or maybe the Nobel Peace Prize, but more prestigious.)

But I noticed that not all countries are represented. And as a child of the world and a lover of the international community, I find this unfair.

Where are the Netherlands? Israel? Lebanon? Surely there are sexpots in all those countries and clever titles just begging to be made. Why are some nationalities more erotic than others? And who the hell would have thought that the Germans are so hot?

Plus, with the economy the way it is, you never know when I will have to look for work, so I thought that I would branch out into the porn title industry. Because I believe in it and I believe that I can contribute to it.

Here is my offering of international titles, if I were in charge of such things:

Hard On Haiti
Bulging Bulgaria
Succulent Cypress
Wanda Does Rwanda
All The Men in Yemen

I admit it, I'm a little stuck. Just like a painter who is sure that he can "pull of a Pollack," I am fumbling for words. Where is my Netherlands porn? Where is the Bosnia-Herzegovina teaser? Am I going to fail at this attempt at self-improvement? Or will you help me out?

Disclaimer: Please do not be alarmed. I'm not sure that this is going to be a regular blog feature.

The Joke's On You!

I survived Halloween.

The big news is that when I turned the TV on this morning I realized that Obama's daughter had on the same costume as my daughter, so clearly I'm destined to become a cabinet member. I really hope that it doesn't interfere with my blogging time, but since the country is in a pretty good shape, I'm not too worried.

The other news is that I cleaned out our freezer this morning.  I couldn't close it, and naturally let out a blood curdling scream which should have alerted Husbandrinka to abandon everything and rush to my aid, but for some reason he meandered over and said, "I'm trying to work and your screeching is really distracting."  Interesting choice of words, wouldn't you say?  Then he inspected the freezer, said a few words that I can't mention on this motherfucking parenting blog and then pronounced that the freezer won't close because I stuffed it too full of crap and I had to unload it and restuff it better. If ever Joe the Plumber isn't available, Husbandrinka is here to help!

The last time that I cleaned out the freezer, I came across a fish corpse, so this exercise wasn't without its trauma.  Nor was it without its rewards, as I found the frozen meatballs that my mother in law put in the freezer in the summer and alerted the kids that there was salvation from mommy's cooking.  

While I was chained to domesticity, I was thinking about my favorite jokes.  Here's one:

A man invites his friend over for dinner.  

"We're having matzoh ball soup!" he says.

His friend has never had matzoh ball soup before.  He's not sure he wants to have it.  But finally he tries it and loves it.  "This is delicious!" the friend says, "what other parts of the matzoh can you eat?"

Please share your favorite joke!  I tried not to set the bar too high so as not to intimidate anyone.