Get by with a little help from your friends...Snap, Crackle, and Pop.
Happy Thanksgiving from your Ann Abler!
Be sure to share your holiday questions, confessions, or conundrums with Dear Ann Abler on Facebook, Twitter, or in the comments section. As always, you can count on me for advanced avoidance techniques and expert excuses.
Each Saturday I give anAnn Abler of the WeekAward to a person that embodies the essence of your Dear Ann Abler's advice. In other words, someone that agrees:
Every plan is tentative until it is actually happening
The best part of a plan is planning it
Putting rum in your NutriBullet is going to make that juice fast more fun
This week we honor Tommmy Noble (@GeauxSaints79) as Ann Abler of the Week for outfitting his future fatter self. I'm usually pro-procrastination, but in this case, planning ahead sounds like more fun. No shame no gain, as they say. Isn't that what they say?
If you would like to be considered or nominate someone for this
very prestigious award, send me a message via this site (comment section or homepage email form), Facebook, or Twitter, and include #AnnAblerOfTheWeek.
My
son has a cold and has been attached to my boob for no less then 8 hours in the
past 24. When does the La Leche League come to my door with a prize (like
french fries or beer)? Also, at what point is it no longer milk coming out and
just particles of my sanity?
Sincerely,
Barnacled
Maid
Dear
Barnacled,
I
just did the emotional math...and 8 out
of 24 equals almost 100% of the time that you feel like you have a precious little parasite attached to your
teats. That is the emotional truth of the matter, and we may never know the
“real” answer because I grew up in the era when Barbie told me, “math class is tough” and “let’s go shopping,” and I wanted to follow in her footsteps
because she was an astronaut/nurse/doctor with a Dream House.
Back
to you and your baby boob barnacle. Am I right in saying that you feel you are
nothing more than udders? A 24 hour lactation station? An all boob banquet? The
milk-making MVP? These are all valid feelings, and you are right in wondering
where La Leche League is with your beer…or your fries…or your beer-battered
fries. Mmmm. If La Leche League included beer and french fry delivery in their
menu of services, imagine how much more powerful their political presence could
be. Until La Leche League jumps on this genius idea, you’ll have to rely on
friends and family for sustenance. You could also try wearing one of those
hydration hiking packs with a long straw, but that might make you feel like you’re
plugged into some sort of milk-making Matrix of mere survival. And what
is survival without sanity? Motherhood. Apparently.
So
let’s get back to solving your problem. I’ll start by giving you kudos for identifying
your nearly null neural activity on your slippery slope to total brain drain. At this point, your baby is much like one of
the skeksis from The Dark Crystal, sucking out your essence, and you must be
saved. Your grey matter matters to me.
My
usual approach of avoidance and denial don’t do the trick in this case, so
we’ll have to skip to shifting the blame – the other go-to skill in your dear
Ann Abler’s toolbox. It is imperative that you make sure everyone knows you should not be held
responsible for remembering anything or behaving normally at this time. If you forget to put the gas pump back in its place, you can blame the baby. If you tell
your family Thanksgiving is cancelled, no one can get mad; they should just
toss scraps of food at you from a safe distance. If you
don’t to do the dishes, no worries! You kept a baby human alive another day. You’re a goddess! If you accidentally serve your husband with divorce papers, he should take it in stride and have a hearty chuckle over it as he does those dishes you didn't do. You can do no wrong right now. All you need to do is use this post like
you would a doctor’s note. It will excuse you for everything. Promise.*
Now go say three Hail Mommies and attempt to unlatch and unwind...or if you can't, then call another breastfeeding mom and talk about how this is all
really gonna pay off once your babies are grown and ace those SATs.
Always right, Your Ann Abler
(*Promise like how 'literally' means 'not
literally' nowadays. Also, I am not a doctor.)
Why
does Facebook always suggest that I watch "I
Hope You Dance" after I click your link? I mean, I know you totally hope
your kids dance and all, but I'm confused as to what else your blog and an
overly emotional song have in common.
Sincerely,
Not as Sappy as Facebook Seems to Think I Am
Dear Sans Sap,
I’m guessing that "I Hope You Dance" speaks
to some people in the same way that this video speaks to me:
I am a connoisseur of cheese in all its forms, whether it be
gouda, havarti, or Richard Simmons. The pleasure that cheese brings is distinct
from the satisfaction derived from sophisticated stuff like “the theater” and “speaking
French.” Something truly cheesy elicits emotions in the area of the brain that
stores memories of Air Supply songs and very special episodes of Growing Pains.
When these cheese centers are triggered, a wave of nostalgia washes over us.
Imagined memories of simpler times and sappy smiles make us feel downright
swell.
The video above helps us look back on a time when happiness
was achieved through high cut bikinis and bright white high tops all aerobicizing
in unison. (Side note: if you actually watched the video, you may want to read
this post on how to get rid of earworms). Isn’t it great to reflect on the 80s,
when life was all Care Bears and Kids being adopted from Cabbage Patches? When
Turbo, O-Zone, and Special K made sense as a dance team? When Aquanet and all
things aerosol made us think of awesome bangs and not climate change? I could
go on, but I’d rather finish up this post and dance. But before I do, let’s
consider for a moment…
All the problems
solved through dance in less than 2 hours:
·Racism
and interracial relations (Save the Last Dance, Breakin’)
·Classism
and homophobia (Billy Elliot)
·Sexism
(Flashdance)
·Irrational
anti-dance laws (Footloose)
·Putting
Baby in a corner (Dirty Dancing)
There is nothing quite like winning over a panel of snooty
judges or seeing your foe super frustrated, all while solving a societal ill.
This
takes us back to your question. In a world that can be so ridiculously
depressing, maybe it’s ok to craft a new world in which there is a 50% chance
that dancing is the right answer to any question. For any impasse or problem you
encounter throughout your day, just ask yourself:
Sit
it out or dance?
Do
the dishes or dance?
Fight
or dance fight?
So
while “I Hope You Dance” may not be your jam or mine, let’s take her advice and
dance, shall we?Now
share this post with someone who needs a serving of cheese, and show me your best
jazz hands.
Last year I took my Breaking Bad costume a little too far and almost ended up becoming a drug king-pin. How will I know if I've gone too far this Halloween?
W.W.
Dear Double Dubs,
Here arethe 10 signs you might have some 'splaining to do the day after Halloween:
Photo credit: Pia Schiavo-Campo
The last thing you remember was riding your HR Director around the reception area while singing Ginuwine's "My Pony."
You wanted a Frozen-inspired outfit, but you didn't think your solid block of ice costume all the way through. #Frozen #Blueballs #LetItGo
You woke up to find the karaoke DJ tied to your bed with a microphone cord, and you faintly recall requesting Monster Mash ad nauseum, and to no avail.
Your Fairy costume looked a lot cuter last night than it does this morning on your walk home, with smeared mascara and wings falling by your feet like a tore-up Tinkerbell. #HalloWalkOfShame
It's 10 am on November 1st and you're still drunkenly schooling strangers on the correct choreography of MJ's Thriller video. "It's stomp stomp stomp, then claw hands, claw hands, claw hands!"
You hear your sweet child's voice saying, "where did all my candy go?" as you roll around in wrappers clutching your stomach and cursing Reese's.
You remember thinking your girlfriend's Wonder Woman lasso of truth actually worked, and you confessed some pretty crazy crap.
Your new nick name is Pukey McBarfinhurl.
You toilet papered Kirk Cameron's house because he handed-out Bible quotes instead of candy, and you know he could have afforded that King-Sized sh*t.
You overheard some neighbors saying, "At least you didn't pull a Stacey". You are Stacey. There are no other Staceys in the neighborhood. "Pulling a Stacey" is now "a thing."
If any of these ring true, just remember that denial and avoidance go a long way. Shifting the blame should also be in your toolkit of "best practices" if you are a regular reader of Dear Ann Abler. Next Halloween, you may want to check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Now go get some bacon and laugh-cry into your bottomless mimosa. You've got to replenish and rally for that other Halloween party tonight.
