I found my pink wig!

Ouch. Can you hear that? It’s me trying say stuff on the internet, but my words are all garbled like a drunk person in a slow motion video. GARghhhhGrggblhhHHhhhaaaaa. That’s what happens when you don’t write for a while. Your brain gets all stiff and then afterwords you need an ibuprofen and tell people how old you feel, including that you have joint pain and can’t hear.

There have been all sort of moments that have passed recently, like when my oldest daughter started eating with a real fork (that’s one of those things you only care about with the first kid) because she feels like a big girl with her new haircut. Seriously, it’s like a different child. She chopped about a foot of her hair off and now she kind of looks like a tiny, blonde Anna Wintour. The devil wears Hanna Andersson.

But those moments have been passing. While I wanted to make some big life commentary about: girls, haircuts, babyhood, memories, packing, and the peace of no one fighting over the princess fork anymore (why do I only have one pink fork?), I had to pack. All my thoughts go through my head where there’s no internet audience to tell me, “your dumb” or “die bitch”. Life without blogging is so different!

What I’m trying to tell you is I’ve been busy doing other things. Like, finding these wigs:


I’m over 30 and have a costume box.

Since I can’t seem to put any words together that make sense. Ravioli! Ninjas! I’ll try to tell you what’s going on in my life in pictures. Maybe next week I can make you some drawrings and after that I’ll just try to make my drool into expressive art.

These are the things I found in my closet today while packing to move 2,000 miles on a plane that leaves next Tuesday. I can’t get rid of them. BUT WHY?

1. A pair of pants I ruined by keeping them in a closet that had a window – in my last house. That’s right, I’ve been lugging the same sun-damaged pants around for like seven years and they don’t even fit. Why? Because all my other pants are from Target and these are Prada. They were a gift. Probably a hand-me-down. Maybe they symbolize a time in my life when I had somewhere to wear fancy pants or when the person who gave them to me liked me. Perhaps for the weak-minded like myself, they are a symbol of escaping middle class. Whatever. You don’t throw Prada in the trash. May I use a hashtag? #curses



Closets are dark for two reasons. So your clothes don’t get bleached and axe murderers have a place to haunt your nightmares.

2. This ancient shirt crafted from pot smoke and the untamed pubic hair of the 70’s. Do you ever ask yourself if you’re too old for vintage? The answer is always no.


Actually, I wore this to the parent open house at my kid’s school like three weeks ago. In the words of 50 Cent, if they hate, then let ’em hate.

3. This ridiculous “is that delicious roofies I smell coming from that van!” clown shortall that I, an adult person, bought for myself with real dollars. Man, I thought I was going to be cute when I bought this online on clearance. Why might a nightmare circus frock sewn from the tears of the Lollipop Guild be ON SALE? I should have paid double for this full body diaper. I haven’t donated it because who would want it? Seriously. Who is going to wear this? Like a deranged woman child with nothing to wear to the pin-up fundraiser for Kill More Bunnies is going to stumble into Goodwill like, “I FOUND IT!”


Even more spectacular? I have a picture of me in this. A picture! That I posed for! I’m leaning against a tree with my big, doughy arms dangling like, “I BAKED YOU SOME CYANIDE COOKIES! THEY’RE REAL TASTY!!!!!!!!!”

4. Aw. My mother-in-law’s wedding veil. When my daughters get married and they’re all like, “No mom, we want a nude wedding in the middle of space that costs 3 million dollars and has a hired Instagram manager” I will only give my blessing if one of them tucks this in her outfit. It can be the groom. It can be his manties. No it can’t.


5. Shoes that make no sense for me to have. I’d like to tell you I wear flats, but the truth is I’m barefoot most of the time and haven’t left the house since Sunday. I don’t even need shoes. Shoes for me are like tampons for men. It’s just not part of my day. I should get rid of all my shoes and when I go anywhere, my husband can carry me like a baby. (Is it just me, or is this Polar Whoretex turning me into Jack Nicholson in The Shining?)


6. This faded old maternity t-shirt. That I still wear at least one day a week. I really need to start guarding my secrets better.


If you look carefully, you can trace my menu for the last day and a half.

7. My Cubs jersey. Throw it out? Over my cold, dead body.


People in L.A. wear stuff like this as a dress. Works for me!

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