A little of this, a little of that...

"Kraft Singles: The *American* Cheese." Yeah, I think I can agree with that ad campaign. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this commercial personifies the American legacy. Pasteurized prepared cheese product - now if that isn't the American dream, I don't know what is.

My kids were squealing with unrestrained glee and I was loathe to walk into the living room lest I spoil their fun. Ok, let's be honest: I didn't want to go in there because I knew something gnarly was going down. True to form, they were playing leap-frog with two ottomans as the lily pads. Baby brother also happened to be lying dangerously close to the fracas and I attempted to ward off a cardiac episode as I growled "This better not be what I think it is." Tuesday throws me an exasperated look over her shoulder and without missing a beat says "Go back in the kitchen, Ma. Make dinner." Sweet girl, huh? What a lovely bunch of people I'm bringing up. I'm so proud.

I love Flipping Out with Jeff Lewis but I spend every episode with sweaty palms and nervous bowels, as if I'm next on the list for an ass-chewing that leaves me sobbing off my mascara in his immaculate bathroom. I love you, Jeffrey, but you make me nervous.

It's a very satisfying feeling to complete an at-home waxing. Particularly because every time I attempt a session there is no certainty that I'll finish. There are no two ways around it: waxing effing hurts. Like, a lot. Like, I get irrationally angry (at myself?) because it hurts like a mother. And if you quit in the middle, the joke's on you. Try explaining that to someone who gets close enough to your half-waxed bits. "Oh, haha, it just grows like that." Awwwkward...

I've been thinking about joining an online dating site. But on further examination, I'm pretty sure I would spend a good deal of any date with my lip curled up in disgust and my brow furrowed, full of judgment. What do you mean, you don't have a fully vested 401k? I'd also have to make it a dry date because no way am I going to let a stranger come to my house. I mean really... And then I'd have to pay for parking. And a babysitter. I think I'm too broke to date. And too out-of-practice to hide the unimpressed look that is my new normal. A fancy dinner and expensive wine? Not so much. How about a foot rub and a venti dark-roast from Starbucks while I read a magazine and you don't talk. Now that sounds lovely.