I have something to say about our Michele Bachmann.

I sometimes smile like that too:

So apparently Dooce readers are having a collective freakout because Mz. Dooce posted a picture of her alleged new man on the blog. So now my traffic is up, and I should really be writing more Dooce posts. Snarky, snarky, dooce snark!

Sadly,  I just don’t have the time or energy to write that much snark. I have the energy to read it but not to write it.

Time is just at a premium. I’m working on a story that I need to perform at the end of the month (yikes) and right now it’s still in the puzzle-I-need-to-solve stage. I don’t like that stage. It makes me cranky.

And then there are all of the little things for H Street Housewives – set pieces, press releases, costumes, Fringe preview, rehearsals…etcetera.

So why did I spend an hour of my time watching Game of Thrones? I don’t know. Just to remind myself what a piece of shit those books turned out to be.

Listen up, people. The books are just not that good. No, they are not. The HBO series was well done, more or less, but now it has entered the torture porn stage of the books, and I’m out. Again. It’s TORTURE PORN. That’s it! That’s all there is to it.

And while I’m on a roll, I also hate Life is Beautiful and Love, Actually. These are not good movies. If you think otherwise, you’re wrong. Please correct this mistake before we continue our relationship.

Come on. I don’t insist on many things. I’m an agnostic Jew — I’m sure of practically nothing! But I’m definitely sure that Life is Beautiful is so bad it’s offensive to my people (meaning people WHO CAN THINK) and that Game of Thrones episode was a colossal waste of time.

So. Never again. I’ll miss you, Tyrion Lannister. This time I mean it.

About two weeks ago I was running, and I fell on my knee and then braced my fall with my hands. I thought for sure something was broken but I didn’t want to go the emergency room for x-rays.

My two choices were (1) Washington Hospital Center and wait for hours in the waiting room or (2) haul myself over to Sibley to be seen right away. I couldn’t drive myself (and Allen had to stay with the baby), so pay all that money for a cab to Sibley? No. I don’t have time and it seemed wasteful to spend that much money on a cab ride to Sibley. I decided to tough it out. See if it got better.

It did, but I finally decided to see my primary care doctor anyway. Got some x-rays. No broken bones, so I was told to rest and take advil, but also to follow up with “Shoulder Guy,” a doctor who is also Austan Goolsbee’s doppelganger.

A week later, I finally go see Shoulder Guy at Georgetown and immediately the nurse tells me that I will need to take more x-rays because they don’t have the ones I took at my doctor’s office.

What? Oh no. I can’t possibly stay here for that long. I’m a stay at home mom and I have to get back to my daughter.

Nurse says, Okay, Okay, just come see the doctor. Shoulder Guy comes in (I note the Austan Goolsbee thing) and says, Okay, move here, move there. Right. Probably not a break but you HAVE to get x-rays before I can officially give you that advice.

I see. Shoulder Guy is also bad cop.

In my most THIS IS SERIOUS voice I say, well, maybe I can stay for x-rays, but I HAVE to check with my husband. I might NEED to go. He NEEDS to get back to work. I’m the stay at home mom! I can’t stay here all day!

Shoulder guy laughs at me because he obviously HATES MOMS. I want to say, no, no, I’m not the annoying kind of stay at home mom who has four nannies or something and doesn’t have shit to do. I really and truly HAVE to get back home! Like, REALLY! I mean it!

I call my husband and everything is apparently just fine. “I’ve got this. Just get the x-rays done,” he says. Okay, so I guess I am the annoying kind. Someone get me a latte.

I head off to the x-ray department, and no less than three people ask me if I’m wearing a bra. I really don’t know how to respond. I mean, are you looking at me? Bras are not optional.

For some reason the bra line of questioning makes me cranky. Like this is probably all a waste of time and the advice is going to be rest and stay off it. I had to haul my ass to Georgetown for this??

Then they call me back again. And Shoulder Guy looks serious. Actually, it’s a fracture. Doesn’t require surgery but — (SURGERY???) — had I come in originally I would be in a sling. Now it’s just wait, physical therapy, advil, but with a much longer recovery time.

Okay, but I need to exercise.

You can run, says Shoulder Guy.

Um, what about kung fu??? 

Shoulder Guy laughs at me again. No, you may not do kung fu. I know he wanted to add dumb ass but he held back. Harumph.

I don’t really know why I felt compelled to share this story. It’s not that I wanted to complain about my arm. It’s not that big of a deal. I just feel like the whole thing is very illustrative of my life right now.

I fall on my face (or other parts of my body), refuse to deal with it, complain and turn out to be a jackass (theme of my life, really) and then only when I completely fall apart or break into pieces, I face the problem.

Yep. Yes. The following is clear: I am wearing a bra, and I am a dumb ass.

One of my favorite guilty pleasures is the snark website GOMI – or Get Off My Internets, and one of GOMI’s favorite subjects (in the forums and on the site) happens to be the mommy blogger Dooce. I never used to be a big Dooce follower, but for some reason I’m now totally obsessed with reading the posts and comments about her on GOMI.

Sometimes I agree with what people have to say (example – yes, you should warn readers upfront about a sponsored post), but sometimes I don’t. I swear there were two pages of comments about Dooce and her leggings – Leggings aren’t pants, Dooce! Put on some real pants!

Stop the madness! Leggings may not be pants, but every girl and her mother lives in leggings tucked into a pair of boots in DC. And we’re clearly the fashion capital of the mid-Atlantic soooo you’re welcome.

Don’t worry. This is not a post about Dooce and her leggings. Because the leggings debacle was nothing compared to the news about Dooce’s new twitter boyfriend.

If you don’t know, last year Dooce and her husband Blurbomat (yes, he blogs too, just less famously) announced their separation and later their decision to divorce. Now, a bombshell in the internet famous world: Dooce introduced the world her Instagram followers to some guy named Matt Tuff.

First impressions on GOMI seemed to be that Dooce traded down from Blurbomat. A difficult call to make, for sure, but I’m going to go ahead and say it’s a lateral move.

Anyway, we can disagree about Tuff v. Blurb, but what I didn’t care for were the criticisms about her sex life — namely, that she has one. Now, in fairness, some commenters did defend Dooce’s right to get her groove back and lots of people were more upset by the possibility that she had been cheating on Blurb with Tuffy or just confused by why she couldn’t date someone a little more locally grown, but I feel like underneath it all there is this notion that a divorced mother can’t have a sex life.

If you’re a mom, you have to do divorce in a certain way. Preferably you are the one getting dumped or cheated on so that you can be brave while you enter a long period of mourning and nun-like solitude, and then finally, but certainly with much apprehension and mixed feelings, you can move on by joining eharmony, meeting a respectable gentleman, and eventually remarrying in a low key and tastefully appropriate celebration (No veil, ladies!).

The truth is that we really don’t know anything about the Dooce-Blurb partnership. Maybe it was over a long time before they announced it on their blogs. Maybe she did cheat. Maybe he cheated too! Maybe he sabotaged her Paleo diet by feeding her gluten intravenously while she slept. Who knows.

We don’t know the “real” truth about anyone else’s marriage – even if the couple liveblogged their every waking moment, even if they’re your neighbors, even if they’re your best friends. You’ll never know the full story.

Even in your own divorce, the only truth you know is your own skewed version.

Of course, there are well-intentioned posters who are only thinking of the children. Well, kudos to them, because we all know the best way to help a child is to post on the forums of a snark website. Hey, I obviously love snark too, but I don’t camouflage my love of snark in hand-wringing expressions of concern for children that I’ve never even met.

All I’m suggesting is that we let Dooce get her groove back without the slut shaming. After a few years and a few crazy gluten orgies, I’m sure she’ll figure her shit out and be just fine.

I wanted to get a post in for Mother’s Day this year, so that post about Dooce and her new boyfriend will have to wait.

I was all set to defend her on behalf of divorced mothers everywhere but is she really spending Mother’s Day in New York with her new twitter boyfriend? I don’t know because it’s 1 AM and I am not on Dooce’s instagram. And if you don’t know who Dooce is, don’t worry about it. Now is not the time to learn. In a few days, when I post the rant that’s brewing in my head about her, then you can learn.

Anyway. I’ve been feeling kind of “meh” about Mother’s Day this year.  Well, not “meh” since I don’t actually use that word, but it’s very popular on the internets. So, “meh.”

I just don’t need to be feted this year. It just feels like you should be celebrated when you’ve done some particularly difficult act of mothering, like giving birth or sending your kids off to college, but what have I done this year? Mostly just been tired and cranky.

I did dig a retainer out of the trash. That’s something. Other than that, just the tired and cranky thing.

So. Anyone want to celebrate Tired and Cranky Bitch Day?  Yes, you do still have to buy me brunch.