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Dear Sasha;

The first in what might very well become a regular series on here, in which I dispense my own brand of sarcastic advice to the deserving masses. Have a question? Hit me up on the Twitter.


“Dear Sasha, 

When I drink three martinis, is it normal to want to dance on a table?”

No.  Possibly after five, or maybe six. But never just three. You must practice more. Come over and get drunk with me.


“Dear Sasha, 

What is the proper way to eat an olive from your martini glass on a first date?”

Well, that depends entirely on how the date is going, doesn’t it? If he’s hot and you like where this is headed, I’m a huge advocate of the slow suck off the toothpick.  Don’t forget to roll it over your tongue before closing your mouth to chew.

Of course, if he collects Star Wars action figures and lives at home with his mom, you should do the exact opposite of seductive.  I vote for pulling it off with your fingers and launching it across the table at him, paper football style.  Unless you think that would turn him on.

You know what? Just leave the fucking olive alone. Drink three or four more martinis to get you through this date and move on with your life.  Also, consider litigation against the friend who set you up on this disastrous date to begin with. What on earth was she thinking? She had to have known about the Star Wars figures, n’est-ce pas?

She’s a bitch and you should totally rethink your entire friendship based on this serious lapse in judgment.


I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s questions, both of which came from the same person, who likes martinis, in case you can’t tell.  Now it’s about 9am. Obviously time to start drinking.  Ta-ta, minions!


I love blogs. I have a blog; a few in fact. I love how anyone can start writing and write as much or as little as they please, about anything and everything that interests them and that it will find an audience.


Yes, there’s even someone out there who will read your blog about you goldfish who are all named after Meyer-pires. No doubt, someone will have lots to say in your comment section on the day you post that Edward ate all the baby goldfish, too.


So blogs make the interwebs go ’round, and I love them.  L.O.V.E.


That being said, most of them are not very high paying, yes?  Some find tremendous audiences and huge success and woohoo for those bloggers! But for the rest of us, our blogs are simply a labor of love and, while getting paid to write whatever you want whenever you want would be awesome, we’re content to just have a place to get it all out to whomever chooses to read it.


I’m a writer. It’s what I do for a living. (You know that old cliche about the “starving artist?” Totally fucking true, by the way. Especially when said artist is on a diet.)


As a writer, I do lots of different stuff, mostly copywriting, but one of the things I do that I love the best is a regular column on a hyperlocal news site. The reason that I love it so much is that, as a copywriter, I very rarely have a byline. Generally, I write anonymously (kinda like this blog, come to think of it. Hmmmm.)  But this is something I get paid for, and that I can show off on my Facebook and Twitter feeds so my parents know that their hard earned and easily spent money invested in my education is being used to feed my children.


You know what I hate? When someone tells me “I read your blog all the time!”  Well, no I don’t hate that, I actually love it. I hate it when they say that, but they’re talking about my column.  Not all writing on the interwebs is blogging. In fact, this particular interweb writing has deadlines and editors and even a protocol to follow to get articles approved.


In other words, I can’t just write whatever the fuck I want whenever I want to. And I can’t write four sentences and call it a column, like I sometimes do on my blogs.


Okay, so it’s a super picky distinction and I should just be happy to have an audience, yes?  True. And maybe the only reason it’s pissing me off so much right now is that the site I write for recently introduced (unpaid) blogs, and I’m starting to fear that they’re going to kill the freelance staff, and, by extension, me, and replace us with these blogs.


That would suck.


And that’s what’s pissing me off right now. Now I’ll quit bitching and go back to being grateful that anyone is reading my columns or my blogs. Next, I’ll try smoke signals.


How do you spell FUCK in smoke?

Friday Round-up

Here I am, on another Friday, trying to remember all the awesome (HA!) stuff that happened this week.  I need a drink.


Oh! That’s something! I’m SOBER!  This, because I’m on a diet. A super-fucking-strict diet that disallows alcohol. For, like, three freaking WEEKS!  The good news is, I’m down five-ish pounds, with something between 10 and 15 to go. I am considering putting a black sheet over the shelves behind my bar, though. Because, yeah.


Miss Poopie Pants sang “Cannibal” by Ke$ha for my brother at his birthday party in front of all his friends. And his inlaws. We are such an awesome family.


Breaking news: The Drama Queen hates broccoli.  I knew that already.  I made it anyway.


Mr. Sasha has had a cold this week. The darling man soldiered through it, continuing to work his 12 hour days and even braving a wing joint with us for my father’s birthday last night. It was loud and he was achy and I just knew he was having an awful time. But, he said he’s feeling much better today and he’s even loading the dishwasher, so I bet he’s not lying.


Well, there you go, an update on every member of my family except you.  So, tell me about your week.

Wow, what a sucktastic summer.  Not all of it sucked, but enough of it sucked that it’s going down as one of the top three times of my life I never want to experience again. The other two are my senior year in high school and my twelve year long “awkward phase.”


So, what sucked so hard about it? Do you really wanna know?  Oh, okay, okay, I’ll rehash it all just for your amusement. You better be amused. I’ll probably be psychologically scarred after this.


1. My husband worked too much.  He has to work a lot, or we can’t eat out every night. Well, you know, there’s also gymnastics and dance and aside from that stuff, these kids seem to need clothes and stuff. Not to mention I had to get fancy shoes for my anniversary.  And he paid for a family vacation AND a parentcation to Vegas this summer. So, woohoo. I’m not bitching about the money. I’m bitching about being ALONE. I, apparently, need more friends. Aside from my dog and my kids and the people that live in my computer.  Speaking of the people who live in my computer….


2. I miss my friends. Well, they’re not gone, there was no tragic interstate accident that claimed them, but our relationships have shifted. It started in the late spring time and kept going till, well, now. The ickiness that was going on with me being alone with these munchkins all day every day, and just feeling lonely in general, started eeking into my everyday conversations. I totally see what I did. I made the entire universe into my very own personal pity party, and you know, I don’t blame them a BIT for pulling away from my toxic vortex of doom. But, I swear, I’m better now.


Huh. You know what? Seeing this typed out as two measly bullet points makes me realize that it maybe wasn’t as bad as it seemed at the time. I felt like I was drowning for majority of the summer, but looking back, I  just really needed to put my big girl panties on and get the fuck over it already. And, really, it was probably good for me that most of my friends pulled back from my swirling mist of sucking yuck, because it forced me to deal with my shit.  And I desperately needed to deal with my shit.


So I guess you can say that is what I was doing all summer, learning how to deal with my shit and then performing thusly.  Now, as the entire world dies around me (it’s autumn, I’m morbid.), I need to work on fixing the stuff I let slide all summer. Like those precious friendships and my blog and my Twitter account.


So,  moving right along, I thought about this blog out of the blue the other day. And then a friend asked me if I wrote on it anymore and I said “no” but how fucking weird that she asked me about it the same day I was thinking about it. And then two, not one, but TWO of my minions on the Twitter sent me messages that basically came down to “Where the fuck are you? Come back or face our wrath.”


Here I am. Because the wrath of those two? Do Not Want.

These shoes were my anniversary present from my wonderful, hardworking husband.

You know, Friday is actually not my favorite day of the week. When you work at home, and have two ankle biters, and your husband works 7 day shifts, pretty much all your days are about the same, thus rendering one not much better than any of the others.


Of course, Friday does have #wineparty, so…woohoo!


So, let’s see, what happened this week that’s worth reporting on?


1. Miss Poopie Pants (who is THREE, people) is fascinated with zombies. I originally blamed my brother who is also fairly fascinated with zombies, and who, as a somewhat grown man, should know better than to talk about them with my baby. That was totally shot down when my Mommy-dearest reminded me of the Spongebob episode where eating bad Crabby Patties turns everyone into zombies and Spongebob holes himself up inside the Crabby Patty, afraid that the zombies will eat his brains.


Now, the question is, do I encourage this zombie love and have the coolest toddler on the block, or do I try to squash it, like my Mommy-dearest did with my love of singing?


Yeah, I totally agree. I think we need a Fulci Film Festival this weekend. (Google him, nub.)


2. In other MPP news, the child sat on my lap, squeezed the air out of my slim frame and said “I love you, SASHA” the other night. I said, “What did you call me?” and she replied, with an eyeroll, “Your NAME.”  (She’s THREE, people. I’m pretty sure I mentioned that.)  I laughed a little and said, “Yeah, but you call me Mommy, right?’


May lightening strike my Mommy-dearest if I’m lying (No, not me. Just in case. Don’t mind calling the wrath of God on her, but not me, minions), MPP looked up at me, narrowed her eyes like she was considering something carefully, shook her head, smiled and informed me, “I think I’m about done with calling you Mommy.”


I’ve been Sasha ever since. Just making sure this doesn’t go unnoticed… SHE IS THREE, MINIONS!


3. The government might shut down today, but in so much bigger, HUGER news… PIA got voted off American Idol last night!  I don’t watch that show, and I don’t know who Pia is, but EVERYONE is talking about it. So it must be SUPER important, right?


4. In an effort to encourage spring, I cleaned off my usual dark, dark, DARK (it matches my lipstick, folks) nailpolish and painted my nails a blinding pink, chosen by Drama Queen.  While she’s at school today, I’m totally painting black tips on these bad boys.


5. I read about a job at a newspaper a few towns over from me that piqued my interest.  It’s a job proofreading and editing obituaries.  It’s full time and it pays $700 a week.  That can’t be right, right? I mean, REALLY?  HOW MANY PEOPLE DIE IN THAT TOWN?!  I’m almost willing to be that the newspaper in question needs someone to proofread their craigslist postings as well.


6. I’m having a liquid lunch today.  That’s because I’m shoe shopping with my minion, Pebbles, from Boldly Mocking, and I think that it’s illegal to NOT have a martini when you hang with her. Of course, she’s three hours behind me, so does that means she’s going to be having a liquid breakfast? Oh my, she is way too hardcore for me.


7. In addition to my normal deadlines that I have over the weekend, I will also be doing all the work necessary to review THIS at some point this weekend. If I stop being mad at Mr. S for working all weekend, and FISHING when he’s not working. *insert petulant pout here*


The review will not be posted here, minions, but will be posted over at Kit’s site, Blogging Dangerously, so if you aren’t already subscribed to her over there (and why are you not? She is amazingly awesomely amazing. Almost as world-rocking as I am.), head over right now and subscribe so you don’t miss it.  Although, I doubt you could miss it, since I am so excited to guest blog over there, I’ll probably take an ad out in the NYTimes post it all over Twitter. And here, too. Just in case.


I’m fairly certain that’s all I have for you today. I reserve the right to post again when I think of other stuff, though. 😉

It’s been a good week over here in the Sasha house. Here are the reasons why, in no particular order.
  • The laundry is (almost) done. Like, the only dirty clothes in the house are those that are currently on our asses.
  • I got paid by TWO clients this week, one of whom I usually have to chase down and beat with a stick to get my money.
  • Rebecca Black is not my daughter. This makes me really, really happy, because her whiney voice would seriously make me stab myself in the ears with knitting needles. Unfortunately, Drama Queen thinks Miss Black is the greatest thing since Justin Beaver, and so…. someone hide my knitting needles.
  • My sister in anonymous blogging over at Blogging Dangerously held a little contest a couple of weeks ago that I WON!  That means I’m gonna get one of THESE!  Holy SHIT! I never win anything! But when I do win something, it’s a fucking doozy, ain’t it? Stay tuned for my review of my prize on Kit’s blog. I am the winningest winner since Charlie Sheen.
  • Miss Poopie Pants pooped in the potty yesterday. I wanted to throw a party, but Mr. Sasha thought it was a little preemptive. Turns out he was right, as she’s had three poosplosions right out the sides of her pull ups, since then.
  • I treated myself to Bordeaux cookies today. I’ve eaten almost the entire package. Yay me!
  • I scored the AWESOMEST pair of Fuck Me Shoes EVER at Kohl’s!  I’m thinking I need to find a mini skirt to pair them with. My legs are gonna look like they go up to my neck.

    The F-Me Shoes in question. Hawt, no?
    Happy Friday, ladies and gents. Catch me at #wineparty tonight (I hope. If I don’t put the new shoes to good use, that is 😉 )

    You know what I hate? Making my fucking bed.


    Now, understand, I LOVE my bed. I have a king sized tempurpedic with 600 thread count percale sheets.


    Okay, no, I’m a liar. It is a king sized tempurpedic. But it’s got sheets from Walmart. After springing for a king sized tempurpedic, I couldn’t really afford good sheets for it, too.


    Regardless, I love my bed; I’d spend all day there if I could. Okay, truth, sometimes I do spend all day in it. Only getting up to bring Drama Queen to school and pee occasionally. Working at home rocks.


    What I hate about my bed is that, because it is king sized, there is only one possible place I can stick it in my bedroom. Only one spot it fits. That spot is in a corner, against two walls.


    So when it comes time to make it, I have to crab crawl all around, sticking blankets and pillows where they belong.  I also have to JAB my poor hand down between the mattress and the wall to shove the blanket down on my side of the bed. I have broken nails this way, people.


    And none of this would be a huge deal, if it weren’t for my dog.  See, I spend a good twenty minutes every morning making the effing bed, and the dog spends four seconds throwing the pillows everywhere so he can burrow under the blanket.


    No, I’m not fucking kidding. And no, you’re not getting a cute picture of a cute doggie all bundled up under his blankie.  Because the next time he does it, I’m not taking a picture, I’m snapping his neck.

    My daughter is in love.  Wait, no, that’s not exactly right. It was more like “in LOOOOOVE”. Yeah, that’s better.


    She got a valentine from one of her friends in school, with a picture of a little boy who can kind of sing, smoldering at her from the inside. I walked into her room with laundry to put away and saw her trying to stand it up on her dresser.


    “Whatcha doin?”


    “Trying to get this stood up so I can SEE him.”


    “Ah. Well, you know, maybe I’ll give you a piece of tape and you can stick it to the wall.”




    “Yeah. That’s what you do with posters of hot dudes.”


    “Wow. Okay!”  She paused for a second, looking into his eyes, and then turned to look up at me, smiling.  “Mommy. I am in LOVE with JUSTIN BEAVER!”


    To my credit, I didn’t fall down laughing in her face.  Come on, that took a lot of effort, man.  “Well, let’s get Mr. Beaver up on your wall then.”  I ran out of the room, ostensibly to get tape, before I dissolved into giggles in the middle of the kitchen floor.

    Okay, no, I know. Not fair. Obviously, you don’t come read if there’s nothing here to read.  And it certainly doesn’t take long to read all the posts I have up here. So, I’ll let you slide. You get to live another day.


    Anyway, to answer your unasked question. I’ve been here, writing my ass off. Just not for my blog. You know what would be nice? If I made enough money on this blog to not have to write anything else. Except the novel. Someday, I’ll finish that damn novel.


    However, since I don’t see that happening any time soon, I’ve got other people’s blogs to produce and maintain, columns to write, and marketing pieces to conceive.


    Also? I’ve been watching The Vampire Diaries. Started at the first episode and got all caught up for this past week’s episode.  If you watch it and love Damon like I do…. drop dead. He’s mine.


    Also, also, I’ve had sick kids. This should have given me plenty of blog fodder, except that taking care of them sucks my will to live, and the days of vomit and shit are a blur.  Probably nothing anyone wants to read about anyway.


    If you are a person who wants to hear about my children puking all over the living room, stop reading my blog. Sicko.


    Tonight, my husband is sick. Mr. Sasha is usually a pretty stoic dude. But when he’s actually sick, he’s a big baby. I think this is pretty much true for all men.


    At least I’m pretty sure I won’t have to clean his yak up off the couch at 11pm. Probably.


    The Pupster has a lump in chest that turned out not to be cancer. Good thing, because if he had cancer, I’d snap his neck and save us a whole bunch of money and grief.


    That was  a blatant lie. I’d mortgage my house to save my dog.  Luckily, Mr. S is a little more practical than I am.


    I’ve been watching a lot of stand up comedy on Netflix lately, and I cannot recommend Daniel Tosh enough. Totally offensive to every single person on the planet. Awesome.


    Anyway, tomorrow, I have dinner plans at my mother’s house. That should make for a nice blog full of the EFF word.  Till then, stay rockstar. Smoochies!

    I'm studalicious

    Taken by Drama Queen

    P.S. Thank you to my minion over at Boldly Mocking for today’s blog suggestion.