Racing ahead

Among the many, many helpful suggestions people have offered me about conquering this STU! PID! FUC! KING! headache—I’m actually quite humbled by your mass outpouring of concern and the sheer volume of suggestions and I’m sorry that I haven’t personally thanked you all—is trying a mega-dose of caffeine. I’m currently five and a half months pop-free and I’m not about to break my sobriety streak now and I’ve never been able to choke down coffee so I just chugged a 5 Hour Energy even though I don’t feel tired so I’m totally about to live that episode of Desperate Housewives where Felicity Huffman mainlines her kids’ Adderall and stays up all night organizing the toothpicks and doing her kids’ science projects for them—WHICH IN RETROSPECT WAS A SIGN WE ALL MISSED WAKE UP, PEOPLE!—and I still have to work a half day from home to make up for the negative-PTO deficit my NYC canceled flights caused and I really want to pull the weeds and fix the flappy visqueen and displaced pea gravel in our side hosta bed and find more things to clean with my awesome new happy-Mother’s-Day-to-me vacuum and paint my room and finish the build-out behind the house and fix the deficit before the sun goes down and hoo boy I’m off and running where did I put my running shoes oh there they are I’ll see you when we all get to Narnia look out toothpicks here I come!

Look what I got the Little Lady for Mother’s Day!

(And by “Little Lady” I mean Bitch Kitty because she tracks her damn Little Lady litter all over the basement family room and I’m too lazy to haul the vacuum cleaner down and back up the stairs so we now have a downstairs vacuum cleaner and I’m quite frankly all but giddy about it.)

The New Yorker + punctuation + mothers + education + gay stuff + manufactured holidays = THE PERFECT MOTHER’S (in my case) DAY POST!

This all sounds delightfully practical and wonderfully logical, except if it lasts a lifetime why does it have only a five-year guarantee?

Does YOUR mother have a floor-to-ceiling rack of shelving for organizing and storing an exhaustive collection of baskets in every shape and size imaginable to transport various selections of pies, picnic supplies, pies, potluck contributions and more pies to every event and occasion imaginable?

Because MY mother has a floor-to-ceiling rack of shelving for organizing and storing an exhaustive collection of baskets in every shape and size imaginable to transport various selections of pies, picnic supplies, pies, potluck contributions and more pies to every event and occasion imaginable.

I can’t tell if I should trust my mother’s unconditional love for politely enduring my 1980s sartorial choices or if I should doubt it for letting me leave the house looking like this

but I’m still wishing her a happy, grateful, respectful, always-loving-back Mother’s Day.

Six marriages. Under God.

Learn how to send a whore to the Vatican here

Thrice (so far!)-married serial-adulterer Donald Trump, who just yesterday bellowed "In America we don’t worship government, we worship God!" to thunderous, effusive cheering at his commencement address at Jerry Falwell Jr.'s "faith-based" Liberty University and who today played golf instead of spending Mother's Day with any of the three mothers of his five known children, is appointing the one-time mistress and now third (so far!) wife of fellow serial-adulterer Newt Gingrich as the United States ambassador to the "faith-based" Vatican.

There are more faith-based family values on the bottom of my shoe than in the entirety of that last sentence.

The great mothers indeed

Our puerile, inarticulate man-boy president is so beneath contempt that he thinks this meaningless garbage tweet brings value to the country, to "the great mothers out there," to the sentiment of the holiday and/or to his third marriage. 

Judging by the comments on his tweet, his base is so beneath contempt that it agrees with him.