I Fought the Laundry

***The following is intended to be used for humor purposes only.  Any attempt to perform the acts stated within this blog could result in the loss of a finger… Or worse, your children taking over your home.***

I have recently come to the conclusion that doing housework with a beer in your hand is really the only way to do it.

Oh, don’t get all up in arms! I said a beer, not a bottle of gin. I promise I’m not chronicling the stages of alcoholism.

Anyway, I came by the beer organically. I made a marinade out of it for dinner and it only called for 1/2 cup of beer.  That left 3/4 of lonely Michelob Ultra in the bottle, sitting there looking sad on the counter. That is like, 88 cents down the drain, and nobody wants that. So after I got my chicken good and drunk, I snagged it on my way by and went to switch out the laundry. I took a little swig, sat it down on top of the washing machine, and happily started shuffling clothes from one dark metal cave to the other.

Wait!!! Um…  Happily?!? Only an insane person happily does laundry. An insane person, or maybe a person who is using the laundry room as a hide-out because her children won’t stop asking for stuff every three seconds. 

In that small “happily” moment, a glorious truth was revealed to me.

A podcast in the ears (and if you’re listening to a podcast, why not THE FIRNECAST? *shameful, shameful self promotion*) and a beer in the hand makes the dreaded “laundry day” seem like a mini-vacation.

Okay, it really doesn’t.  But it sorta helps. It’s like one of those relaxation techniques they teach you or something. Like a sort of 3-D visualization. 

Just looking at that cold beer sitting on top of the washing machine totally Calgon-ed me (kids, for those of you too young to have any idea what I’m talking about, that was a commercial we used to see back in the olden days in which a lady took a bath and declared “Calgon, take me away!” as she poured in her lovely Calgon bubble bath or whatever it was). It was heavenly. Much like the beer that helps you get through a dinner with your in-laws (I am of course speaking metaphorically, as my mother-in-law is nothing short of dazzling, seriously, you should be jealous). It’s shiny brown glass winked at me saucily, saying, “This isn’t work, this is party time, girl!!!” And then it did a z snap just for kicks.

Ya know what though? That shiny brown bottle had a point!  It’s science. You are tricking your brain into thinking that housework isn’t the most soul crushingly boring thing in the universe by packing around an adult beverage.

Sadly, I must attach a warning label to my so-called “glorious revelation.” This way of life could easily become addictive.  It’s one of those things you must relegate to the: “Ya know what? This is freaking amazing. But if I keep doing it, I’m never going to be able to stop. Pretty soon, every time I need to dig a nasty hairball out of the shower drain, I’ll be reaching for a cold one and that just won’t do.  I mean, there’s a reason they don’t let you drink on the job.  Plus, the kids could more easily outwit me, and I’m already outnumbered,” side of life.  

But from this day forth, I will hold onto the memory of that glorious 3/4 of a beer moment in the history of my house-wifery as the day I beat drudgery.

It’s constant presence has a way of constantly looming over me, saying, “Drudge, drudge, drudge. As soon as you think you’re done, someone will make a mess and you will have to start all over again. Your house can never all be clean at the same and have the laundry caught up too. Druuuuuuuuudge!!!”

But not today, friends!!! Not today!!! I used my beer as a light sabre of justice, slicing through the gray clouds of tediousness and showing the rays of hope beyond, “This will be over soon. There is an end in sight.”

Thank you, beer. Thank you for making this the least boring laundry day ever.

I hope you have a wonderful week, my friends!  And may the drudgeries of your life be crushed ‘neath the mighty beer in your hand!  Or, if you aren’t into that sort of thing, a nice cold glass of iced tea and a safe place to hide in your laundry room.

Ep. 6 Aliens w/ Allen pt. 2, with special guest The Viking Helmet

Look out, world, it’s Aliens w/ Allen part 2!!! Dry out your pants and get ready to wet them again as you listen to true tales of UFO encounters straight from the Wyoming plains!!! Also, we address the controversy surrounding the Firnecast 40, Dad wears a Viking helmet, we talk about the innocent Chinese and their buried s-e-x toys, and ever so much more. Join us on this audio adventure, won’t you?


Nipple Talk

I’ve been thinking a lot about nipples.  Not only because I was feverishly repeating the “nipple chunk” (as I like to call it) in my standup set over and over trying to memorize it last week, but also because I have two attached to the front of me.  They are a fascinating subject to be sure.  Thus, the following is a compilation of all of my “nipple thoughts” for the week, as a sort of companion piece to the video of my standup I posted last week.  I do hope you enjoy, and maybe read it with your nipples, and hopefully the three of you can commiserate and get a good laugh.

When you get right down to it, nipples are basically the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae known as your boob.  When you’re young, they’re perfectly perched atop like a happy little decoration.  As you age, they sort of slide down the side like they’ve been left out in the sun.

Areolas are alive, ever-changing creatures.  As you grow in life, so do they.  Exponentially.  With each child you have, they will start claiming more territory on your overall boob.  You may start out with a 90/10 boob to nipple ration, but I promise that’s not how you’ll end up. You’ve been warned, young ladies. 
If my body were an army, my nipples would be the recon guys because they go in first during every mission.  Only problem is, they’re terrible communicators. They have neither mouths nor hands, so even if they sense danger my body has to wait until the eyes reach the situation to find out about it.  By then it could be too late.  I’m thinking about trying to train them to communicate through a series of tingles.  That way, if the sh*t’s going down, I can quickly back out of the room before I get into an awkward encounter.  Yes, my life is such that the only “sh*t” that goes down is an awkward encounter.

 At one time in my life, my nipples sat at the front of my body proudly, like the prow on a ship, pointing my way through life and letting me know when it was cold.  Now they’re just sorta sad.  Like little arrows that can only point at my feet.

I’ve come to think of my areolas sort of like the rings inside a tree… Just as the rings of a tree store its entire history, so do my boob halos store mine. The older I get, the more of my rich history is played out in the seemingly never-ending expansion of my nipples.  Each year, I get to look in the mirror, and ask myself that age-old question, “What the hell??? Are they getting bigger???” and each year, the horrid, resounding answer is “Yes, yes they are.”

Well, my wonderful friends/readers, that is all for this week.  And may the areolas of your life never be described as “pepperonis.”