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I am in serious need of some levity today (is that a contradiction?), so in honor of the 50 greatest conservative rock songs and the subsequent hilarious responses, I give you my top 15 conservative songs:

1. The Beatles “Norwegian Wood” - The line “Isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?” refers to the glorious benefits of a global market and the commercial opportunities afforded to us by imports and free trade. Look for Ringo Starr’s follow-up anthem for Ikea, “Swedish Particleboard.”

2. The Rolling Stones “Start Me Up” - This song was written to celebrate the release of Windows 95 and the overall capitalist success of Microsoft. Only in America!

3. The Beach Boys “God Only Knows” - “God only knows what I’d be without you,” is a sweet ode to The Creator’s omnipotence and psychic powers.

4. U2 “Sunday Bloody Sunday” - In the line, “How long? How long must we sing this song?” Bono expresses his exasperation with singing such liberal anthems.

5. The Sex Pistols “Anarchy in the U.K.” - The call for anarchy is obviously sarcasm. This song is actually just a call for an end to big government.

6. Metallica “One” - “Fed through the tube that sticks in me/Just like a wartime novelty/Tied to machines that make me be/Cut this life off from me” speaks to the glory of dying on the battlefield…er, well, almost dying on the battlefield.

7. The Kinks “Lola” - “I pushed her away/I walked to the door/I fell to the floor/I got down on my knees
Then I looked at her and she at me” refers to the physical altercation that always ensues when a manly man realizes that the chick he’s been macking on is actually a dude. It happens to the best of us.

8. Bob Dylan “Masters of War” - In the line, “You fasten the triggers/For the others to fire/Then you set back and watch/When the death count gets higher” Dylan acknowledges the fact that those who are drawn to politics aren’t that great with all of the killing and stuff and that it’s better left to people who are more predisposed to rage…like pissy broke people.

9. The Pretenders “Brass in Pocket” - The title line is an homage to how it’s better to have money than to not have money and those who do not have money should get some so that they won’t be poor anymore and then they can stop whining about being hungry all the time.

10. David Bowie “Suffragette City” - A plaintive song about how women gaining the right to vote directly led to men refusing to help their buddies in favor of shagging.

11. Ben Folds Five “Song for the Dumped” - Folds rails against welfare queens when he screams, “Give me my money back, you bitch!”

12. Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven” - Proof that God is a capitalist: “And she’s buying a stairway to heaven/And when she gets there she knows if the stores are closed/With a word she can get what she came for.” THERE ARE STORES IN HEAVEN! We can shop ’til we die and then just keep shopping!

13. Pussycat Dolls “Don’t Cha” - The obvious lesson from this song is that good ol’, healthy American competition gives us all character…and results in hotter chicks who will fight and/or make out to attract men with five brain cells. Everyone wins!

14. Chumbawamba “Tubthumping” - Sure, the band members are all anarchists and anti-corporate, but you can’t miss the Horatio Alger pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps of “I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.”

15. Jimi Hendrix “Purple Haze” - When he sings (I think), “‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy!” Hendrix is apologizing for his homosexuality because he knows it threatens my marriage.

Bonus: Heidi Montag “Higher” - The song is being considered as the new theme for No Child Left Behind.

So, this morning, I was fixing some breakfast for the baby and while we were waiting for the toaster, I said, “Hey, come here!” He immediately jumped into my arms and we hugged and hugged and hugged. I gave him some kisses and he started giggling and peppering my face and neck with kisses. I laughed and tried to hide my neck and it was such a gag-worthy, cute moment.

Until the baby said, “You bastard!”

Sigh. I mean, obviously, he has no idea what that means. At least, I don’t think so. I just told him not to say it again and we moved on with our lives. I did NOT get super immature and snot, “Yeah, well, at least my parents were married when I was born.” Because that would be mean and stupid and a tad messed up.

First, the lulz:

And now, the baking hubris.

So, I was all impressed with myself (and the sister-in-law) after the success of our cupcakes and decided to tackle a baking project that I’ve had my eye on for awhile: homemade English Muffins. I’ve had the tab for that recipe open in my browser for like two months and last night I finally decided to go for it, since I actually had all of the ingredients and some time to mess around.

It’s probably obvious to many of you smart folks that baking yeasty products on a humid June night in Pittsburgh is a Dumb Idea, but I’ve always turned my nose up at conventional wisdom.

See, everything was pretty much fine until I got to the kneading part. I’m sure that I’ve bitched about my tiny kitchen on here before, but let me reiterate that I do NOT have counters. Like, there just aren’t any. I have a patch of space next to the sink that houses the dish rack (er, well, a towel that I rest pots and pans on to dry), an apartment dishwasher with a few feet of space on top, and the stove. That’s it. Those are my working surfaces. I’ve moved prep operations out to the dining room table before but it’s obviously kind of a pain. So last night I decided to just clean the six or seven inches of space between the burners of the stove and do the kneading there.

So, not only did the dough start touching the gross burners almost immediately, since it was hot, the dough just got stickier and stickier…and I could not extract my hands from it. I spent about 15 minutes going, “Oh my god. Oh my god. I don’t believe this shit. Oh, shit. Where’s my wedding ring?”

Sigh. I let the dough rise in the fridge overnight and haven’t had a chance to actually cook the suckers, so whether or not the whole project is a failure remains to be seen.

However, I am happy to report that the baby and I went to the dentist today and neither of us has cavities! Woohoo! I was pretty concerned about the state of my teeth since it’s been about a year since I had them cleaned and I had a very sensitive spot in between two of my bottom teeth. I braced myself for them to say things like “root canal” or “fuck this, you’re getting dentures,” but it turns out that one of my gums is receding a little and I just need to be a little more vigilant with my brushing and flossing.

The hygienist lectured me on letting the baby brush his own teeth and I was starting to feel a little irritated since she kept saying stuff like, “And MOMMY is going to brush your teeth, right?” and “Yes, Dr. Dentist, and the baby’s mom agreed to pay more attention to his brushing habits.” God, lady, back off. She reminded me of the Wii balance board which, if you didn’t know, is a snarky little asshole. The last time I got on that thing it asked me if the baby had improved any and I said no because I’ve pretty much accepted that he’s going to be in the -15th percentile for weight until puberty. And you know what that thing said to me? It said, “Maybe you should pay more attention to the baby.” So I “accidentally” jumped on it during the ski jump game. I don’t like passive aggressive electronics.

Of course, it’s been like two weeks since I’ve done the Wii Fit and I can just imagine the earful I’m going to hear from that thing now.

I’m just going to live my life believing that the $12 of tomatoes that I bought from you just the other day and that were destined to become delicious homemade salsa tonight (well, half of them were, the other half were intended for my salad pleasure) were absolutely riddled with salmonella. This way, when I think back to the moment that I looked in the bag to find mush and mold and…I don’t know, what were those, cobwebs?…I’ll see it as the universe or His Noodly Appendage steering me away from a week of The Poops. I am choosing not to see it as you selling me what were probably frozen tomatoes that were grown during, like, the Clinton administration or some shit.

I don’t like patronizing you and you don’t like my shitty Commie attitude, but things being what they are, we’re stuck with each for the time being. Except for the fact that your prices are going up and up and up and you need to STOP WITH THAT SHIT. Rolling back prices ring a bell?

Ahem.

Anyway, besides the tomato nonsense, I’m having one of those days when I absolutely hate writing. I hate talking to people about stuff that I’m writing and/or shit that they’re doing. I hate interviews, I hate deadlines, I hate nouns. All of it. Fuck all that shit.

Sigh. This morning the baby crawled into bed needing some comfort after a nightmare and the cat soon followed after. So, all four of us were crammed into our little full-sized bed. Must have been a sight.

I don’t know why you needed to know that, but I feel better for sharing it.

Oh and I don’t know why some of you are hitting the “awaiting approval” area when you comment. Let’s just ignore it and hope it goes away, kay?

I’m mostly recovered from yesterday’s nonsense, though my feet still resemble raw meat loaf and are therefore still tender. It helps that it is absolutely gorgeous outside today. I walked over to the little La Prima stand on campus to buy a latte as a Friday treat and took my time getting back to the office so that I could enjoy the morning a little.

Jive Turkey commented on one of my wedding photos on flickr, and I just noticed two years after the fact that my eyes appear to be looking in two different directions. I’m looking a little “touched.”

And actually that might explain why I watched not one, but TWO episodes of My Big Redneck Wedding on fucking Country Music Television last night. I’m not sure what came over me. I guess I was just so pissy that I needed to gawk at some people who are too stupid to realize when they’re being mocked and Tom Arnold is quite possibly the most useless human being ever, so it worked out pretty well.

However, I’m still traumatized from seeing the “kiss” that this couple exchanged in which I saw two tongues flapping wildly at each other before disappearing into a sucking motion that could give my Dyson a run for its money. Ah, to be 18 and terrible at kissing.

But the bride was truly a model for thrifty weddings, since she decorated the reception venue entirely with quilts and bought all of the wedding party’s clothes in the hunting section of Wal-Mart. Hey, whatever, so long as those two crazy kids are married and happy at the end of the day that’s all that matters.

Ahem. Anyway. The sister-in-law is having her graduation party tomorrow and she and I came up with the idea of having a cupcake potluck. Her friends are making somewhere in the neighborhood of four dozen cupcakes and she and I are going to make about four dozen, as well. That equals…an assload of cupcakes.

And because it’s Friday:

I am so tired. So, so tired. I will have more substantial posts tomorrow, but for now I want to tell you what sucks about coming home in the middle of the week from your vacation in Detroit that included the ER at Henry Ford Hospital, alcohol, roller skating, British guys, and Moby.

What sucks is that I had to just drop back into life and, like, parent and shit. This morning, I pried my eyes open after a grand total of 3 hours of sleep and when I got downstairs and started packing the baby’s lunch, I realized that the bread was moldy. Of course it was; it’s got to be two weeks old at this point. For the past few weeks, the baby has been whining that he wants peanut butter crackers for lunch and I would argue that that isn’t a substantial lunch and blah blah blah I want you to thrive or some shit. So, this morning, I’m sure you can imagine me standing at the counter (read: the stove…we don’t have any counters and FUCK), eyes half-closed, hair all askew, toaster oven ticking away, and moldy bread poised to incite hallucinations to those brave enough to eat it, realizing that oh my god, I am going to have to send my child to school with peanut butter crackers for lunch.

I played it off pretty well, though. I went into the living room where the baby was and said, “Hey! Guess what’s for lunch today? PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS HOLY SHIT YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST KID ALIVE!” The baby was, in fact, pretty excited. However, he didn’t see me flailing at the heavens when I realized that the box of Saltines that I never pay attention to was two years old. But since I am Mom Bot 5000, I had a back-up box in the pantry. That box only expired in March so I declare myself officially On Top of Shit.

I sent him off with his peanut butter crackers, some applesauce, and a small bag of pumpernickel-and-onion pretzel sticks that I bought at a rest stop in Ohio yesterday. I think he had shoes on, but I can’t be sure.

I went back inside and realized that my brilliant idea to get started on the laundry last night was maybe not so brilliant since all of my bras were soaking in the wash tub, gleefully sopping wet. Also, did I mention that I put the baby on the bus sans brasserie? And the bus driver was blasting “Summertime” by Will Smith and I had to resist the urge to go, “Awwwwwwwwww shit, son!” I tossed the bras in the dryer and reveled in the fact that I had such a great excuse for showing up to work late.

The more I write down the details of my life, the more I find myself struggling to complete sentences.

Big Work Thing went…okay. There were a couple of snags that could have been prevented if I had been a little more vigilant during the planning process. Nothing life-ending, but embarrassing nonetheless. Yet another good thing about me cutting back to one class per semester in the fall. My brain is obviously revolting against me and trying to make me look foolish.

Anyway, I got home from the Big Work Thing and changed out of my dress clothes…and immediately got my period. It was rad. So I’m totally relaxed now, except for my uterus. That old girl is just cramping away. The bitch.

Despite my rather radical beliefs, I’m very conservative about some things. For example, when I cook, I MUST have a recipe and I will not deviate from that recipe unless there’s a very good reason, ie, I’m out of an ingredient or I’m drunk. Similarly, my clothes are my clothes and I will not alter them to suit whatever kooky mood I’m in. I may have once made a pair of jean shorts by cutting up an old pair of jeans, but that’s about it.

Last year, when we went to Detroit, I got a nice, very old-school-looking t-shirt from the roller skating rink we went to. The only problem with it was that the shirt itself was poorly made and the neck came up around my throat. This made the shoulder seams bunch up oddly. All of these things combined made me gag when I wore it.

But today I went a little crazy and actually took a pair of scissors to the shirt.

Please also note my hair. I spent a good 35 minutes with the flat iron. I’m wearing the shirt and the hair to AVA tonight, where Rick Wilhite of fair Detroit will be playing records. Not sure what I’m going to wear on the bottom. Maybe I’ll just stick with these boxer shorts I’m currently rocking.

Somewhat related, the baby and I made a video greeting for Tracey today for her birthday, but I didn’t send it to her. When I got a look at myself, my face, I was stunned. I look so…tired. And old. And swollen. And worn out. This past year aged me so much. I’m freaking out somewhat. Sure, I can definitely do things like eat better and do yoga and get more sleep and stress less now that the semester is almost totally over. But I feel like maybe I wasted the last year of my “youth” spreading myself too thin. What if I’m just “old” now?

Promises to keep, 1500 words before I sleep.

The baby’s tee ball practice was called today since it was all rainy and muddy. I was only slightly annoyed that I woke up at 7:30 for nothing because I drank about 3 gallons of coffee. Taking advantage of my vibrating state, I started cleaning the kitchen and the bathrooms. Inspired (!), the husband started cleaning, as well.

Since we’re so busy during the school year and since we’re also just generally lazy, cleaning isn’t really a priority around here, so things were a little dodgy to say the least.

I was motivated enough to address the clogged drain in the upstairs bathroom sink. I had been merciless with Drano in recent weeks, muttering a quick apology to the environment before pouring bottles and bottles of the pale yellow sludge down the drain. But after a few hours of mild improvement, the drain would revert to its slow-running state, making the bowl of the sink a constant, pasty reminder of all of the times that we brushed our teeth.

I tried some green, hippie trick for clogs that involve pouring 1/2 cup of salt down the drain and rinsing it with boiling water. That didn’t help, either. So I found a dusty old rubber glove and started tugging at the drain plug. When I finally got it loose, I found myself gawking in horror at the substance that coated the stem of the plug. It was dark grey, and slimy, and decorated with a few hairs of various lengths. I felt myself beginning to panic, so I grabbed a paper towel and just started wiping the badness into the garbage can. I then mustered up the courage to shine a flashlight into the drain.

I feel it is my duty to inform you that the gate to hell is located in my drain.

I did some more of the salt and boiling water and moved on with my life, satisfied but very, very queasy.

I watered our pathetic little Madagascar dragon plant and decided to put it on the front porch to give it some fresh air and sun. It was only when I opened the front door did I remember that I was wearing only underpants and a Barry White tshirt.

I can’t imagine why our neighbors don’t talk to me.

A late-20s admin-type with creative aspirations stands at her office’s microwave and fumes silently at the leftovers therein.

“I can’t believe it’s going to take two minutes and thirty fucking seconds for this shit to heat up. Does it not know that I’m BUSY? BitchCurry better RECOGNIZE!”

Whatever, shortly after that it was hot enough to eat. I, too, can command the wind, sir.