Category Archives: Letters from Nancy

Nancy Pelosi is extremely disappointed in me for destroying the Democratic Party. In my defense, I can’t even load the dishwasher properly so maybe it was a mistake to give me that much responsibility.

Yesterday my friend Laura and I decided we needed a break so we went camping (fine, glamping) and it was very relaxing until we checked our phones in front of the camp fire and realized that we’d gotten tons of frantic, distraught emails from the DCCC (Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee) who was using some fairly odd tactics to get us to donate cash to fund ads battling the ads that the Republicans were seeking donations for.  I’m not into politics so I’m sure I explained that wrong, but what I do know is that all night we were flooded with so many doom-filled emails that if the DCCC was a person I would have called the police to have them do a well-check.  I realize this is partially our fault, as Laura and I have each donated before, and that we could have unsubscribed if we wanted to, but at a certain point it became so insane that it crossed over into baffling entertainment.

Just a few of most terrifying:

From: Nancy Pelosi <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014
Subject: we. will. fail.

We will fail to hit our goal tonight

Laura, we’ve tried everything.

— President Obama has emailed you.
— Hillary Clinton has emailed you.
— I’ve emailed you more than I can count.

But with this new Republican outside spending, we’ll still need 28,OOO more online donations to be able to compete.

It’s hard to see that happening with just 4 hours until the deadline.

We have a meeting set to figure out how we’ll slash our campaign plan. But for right now, we have to ask one more time:

Can you please donate to President Obama’s call-to-action, and help us limit the damage?

MIDNIGHT DEADLINE: All Gifts Triple-Matched!

Thanks, Nancy

Nancy’s disappointment in us was palpable and we suspected we would soon be grounded.  Then more letters flooded in from equally frantic DCCC members asking for donations and saying things like:

“We’ll be blunt:  We need help.  And we don’t know where else to turn”

“It’s just awful.”

“We’ve got nothing left, Laura.”

“YOU ARE ON NOTICE.”

“If we fall behind now, we will be past the point of no return. We will lose.”

 

The subject lines alone made me need xanax: “no time. just read.”  “PUMMELED.” “BEGGING.”  “we. will. fail.” “Please help!”  “TRAGIC Conclusion.”  You could almost hear them pulling their hair out and tearing at their clothes.  Honestly though, the “BEGGING” one did push me into action.  Here it is:

From: James Carville <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014
Subject: BEGGING

I’m not going to sit by and let the Republicans buy this election.

Will you chip in $5 or whatever you can right now to turn this election around?

(If it helps, I’ll beg too.)

We’re still coming up short.

When we say we’re begging, we’re REALLY begging.

Control of Congress is at stake. President Obama’s agenda is on the line. And we’re in serious danger of falling short here.

If we can’t pull it together TODAY, we’re going to get demolished.

We’re begging, Laura. We need 13 donors from your zip code to answer President Obama’s call-to-action. Can you step up today?

MIDNIGHT DEADLINE: All Gifts Triple-Matched!

Sure, it was a little unsettling that our own party was sending us emails that made us feel like we’d all spontaneously explode that night, but in their defense, that terrifying email shamelessly entitled “BEGGING” was the one that spurred me into action.  Sure, I could donate the $5 they were asking for, but I’d already done that before and it obviously wasn’t enough to stem the hysteria so Laura and I decided to use some good ol’ DCCC tactics to raise morale and money:  Apocalyptic-sounding emails.

We replied directly to James Carville’s email:

Date: September 30, 2014
To: “dccc@dccc.org”
Subject: Re: BEGGING 

Dear James Carville:

I am begging you right back.

Please, please, please, for the love of God, send me a photo of yourself holding a Popsicle or other frozen confectionary by midnight tonight and I will not only donate five dollars, I will match that five dollars.

If the frozen dessert is an ice cream sandwich I will triple match it.

And I’ll use that photo to raise money for our party. Your gift can make or break us.

DON’T LET US DOWN, JAMES CARVILLE.

Unsurprisingly, the DCCC recognized the power of vaguely threatening emails and responded immediately.  They must have been confused though, because their email read like a form letter and began like this:

From: <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014

Thanks for emailing us at the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC)!

If you have a question or request, we want to get you what you need as quickly as possible:

1. Want to donate online to our campaign to elect Democrats?  CLICK HERE TO ACCESS OUR SECURE DONATION FORM…

We stopped reading at that point because they seem to have misread our initial email.  Suddenly I understood how frustrated they probably were.  It is awful when people ignore your histrionic emails.  But we took a deep breath and (following standard DCCC procedures) we decided to send another email explaining the severity of the issue and the level of shame they need to feel:

Date: September 30, 2014
To: DCCC
Subject: Re: Thanks for emailing the DCCC Membership Team!

Dear DCCC:

Thanks for emailing us at Laura’s laptop!

You said: “If you have a question or request, we want to get you what you need as quickly as possible” but the quickest way would have been to respond to my original response asking James Carville to send a photo of himself holding a popsicle (or similar) by midnight. Please see original email for details as it could be worth up to $15 to our party.

PULL IT TOGETHER, DCCC.

“1. Want to donate online to our campaign to elect Democrats?” Yes. Desperately. But I can’t help you until you help yourself. As Nancy Pelosi said to me moments ago, “I’ve emailed you more than I can count.”  (Twice, actually. So I guess I can count how many times. Sorry.  I’m bad at hyperbole.)  At first I thought Nancy was shaming me a bit much considering that we don’t know each other, but I understand her frustration now.

If we don’t get the photo of James Carville holding some sort of frozen dessert the Republicans will have already won. As you said to me a few hours ago, if we don’t have your cooperation “We. Will. Fail.”

YOU ARE NOW OFFICIALLY ON NOTICE. Your chance to get my donation TRIPLE-MATCHED will end at midnight tonight. Control of Congress is at stake. Please, don’t delay.

Also, that last paragraph was taken almost directly from the email you sent me moments ago but I don’t know how to do it in the flashing yellow warning letters like you did. Please know, however, that I am just as serious, regardless of font.

Shockingly, no popsicle pictures came.  Apparently the DCCC were just as immune to our threats as we were to theirs.

We checked on twitter to see if we were alone in getting these terrifying emails every few minutes.  We were not:  (You should see a box of tweets here that you can scroll down through when your mouse is inside it.  If not, just go to the link)

[View the story “I thought it was just me.” on Storify]

We waited for the whole hour(s?) for a follow-up after the midnight deadline passed, but all was quiet.  We had expected another email.  Possibly something with the subject: “WE. ARE. DOOMED. And it’s mostly your fault” with a picture of orphans and kittens and orphaned kittens being speared by gleeful Republicans making giant shish-ka-bobs.  Instead?  Silence.  They were serious.  It really had been our last chance to donate and be triple-matched.  We felt a bit bad and said a prayer for the people at the DCCC, who we hoped were being given sedatives by helpful nurses.

The next day this came from Nancy:

Date: Wed, Oct 1, 2014
Subject: we. fell. short. 
I was being dead serious when I said we’d miss our goal last night.

We fell short.

Despite emails from President Obama, Hillary Clinton, and myself…we just couldn’t get it done.

It was one of the most aggressive fundraising goals we’ve ever had. We even surpassed our initial goal of 1OO,OOO online donations in 5 days. But we were forced to raise our goal when we learned that Republican outside groups put in 12 million dollars at the very last-minute.

I’m not giving up. And you shouldn’t either, Laura.

We have one last chance to right this ship. To do it, we need 11 donors from your zip code to make a triple-matched donation by midnight.

TRIPLE-MATCH EXTENSION: (for donations made TODAY ONLY)

Chip in $5 immediately >>

Chip in $35 immediately >>

Chip in $50 immediately >>

Chip in $100 immediately >>

Chip in $250 immediately >>

Or click here to donate another amount.

Thanks,

Nancy

PS. For those of you who might be new here: This isn’t a political post.  It’s more about marketing.  Also, it’s a waste of your time to debate politics in the comments section because this community is fairly divided politically but united in the fact that you have the freedom to believe whatever you want no matter how wrong you are.  I’m a Democrat but I’m married to a Republican and we can both agree that there’s a lot of crazy bullshit on both sides.  If you can’t recognize that you probably need to seek help right now.  But first give me $5 immediately if you believe in America, or else all the American eagles will become so despondent that they’ll lay out in the middle of the road and just let you run over them.

PPS.  I wrote this yesterday but forgot to publish it.  This is exactly why I should never be trusted with deadlines, Democrats.

It’s like a visit from the ghost of Christmas past but with more cursing.

I was cleaning out my 8,000+ unread emails this morning and I stumbled upon an unread email from our late, great friend ~ Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal.  For those of you new to the blog you should know that Nancy was the greatest letter-writer in the history of ever, and everyone in my small world mourned for her last year when she died unexpectedly.  If she was here I suspect she’d point out that it was less unexpected that she died, and more unexpected that it didn’t involve heavy gunfire, a swat team and a briefcase of stolen heroin and Judy Garland Trail Mix.

If you aren’t a fan of Nancy then this will just confuse you and you should just come back later, but if you are, it’s a bit like a voice from the grave.  An awesome, confusing, vulgar, dearly-missed voice from the grave…

Yo, J-to-tha-N-to-the-Blogness,

Fuck me running (which is what I totally tried to do, but goddamn those punk-ass young cops are fast) so I had me a little Holiday at the Hamilton Handcuff County Hilton. BUT, on the plus side, you wouldn’t fucking believe how many people want to have sex with me.

So. Several things to catch up on. You need some human skin?  Fuckin-A, dude! My thank-you-god-former MIL had jowls the size of fucking Delaware and I always said she should be like The World’s First Skin Farm, where they harvested that shit, waited for the growing-back phase (couldn’t be that long), and BOOM! Harvest again!  Makin money just for havin a face! A face that is so goddamned scary, I used to put a photo of her on my patio door to scare burglars. It also worked on raccoons. Although we could still totally hear them in the woods behind our apartment. I mean, Christ! These motherfuckers were bigger than my car and you could hear them loud as shit in the night. One time, my Claire was sleeping with me [bed by the huge window overlooking said woods] and she was…ah, maybe 10 years old. We totally wake up to hear, [deep growl] “UH UH UH UH UH UH” interspersed with [high-pitched] “EE EE EE EE EE.”  After about 5 minutes of this bullshit, Claire screamed out the window, “Leave her alone already!”

In 7th grade history, I organized a cough-off where everyone would hack their fucking lungs out at exactly 1:15pm. Naturally, when it was over, the teacher just said, “Whitford—Principal’s office” which was a phrase I heard at least once a day. I mean, shit! What kid hasn’t spray-painted the school walls? On the inside.

Oh, and Jenns, if you need any dominatrix gear for your Speaking Engagement and Other Activities, lemme know. I got a truckload of that shit.  I also need to know if you have an allergy to latex before I send all that shit. Most of it is illegal in the US but fuck it.

Carry on, Motherfucker!

Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal

R.I.P Nancy W. Kappes

I don’t know where to begin.

If you’ve been reading my blog for long then you know Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal. She first started emailing me years ago and her correspondence was the most bizarre, amazing, roller-coaster of profanity and vodka-drenched awesomeness I could ever imagine.  She was like Hunter S. Thompson but with a vagina, and I sometimes suspected that I was actually emailing myself from the future.  Other people suspected that I had made her up entirely because surely the few emails I shared here seemed too unbelievable to be real.  But they were.  And one day she came to Chicago to meet me and so many of the men and women who’d become fans of her writing on my blog.  And I was amazed.  We all were.  She was kind, caring, hysterical, and completely out of her mind but in the most fabulous, endearing and sort of frightening kind of way.  Over the years we sent each other hundreds of emails which I kept in a special “Nancy W. Kappes” folder and when I felt down I’d only have to look at the headings to smile.

Yesterday I found out that Nancy had died unexpectedly on Friday night.

I was shocked.  And then I was mad.  I sent her an angry email demanding that she tell me this was some sort of awful joke.  But it wasn’t.  I called her phone and it went to voicemail.  I saw notes of condolences on her daughters’ facebook pages.  Then I cried when I realized that I’d never again get an email from her with subject lines like “Holy mother fucking balls” or “fisting with a kitten mitten” or her old standby “Oh fer chrissake, DON’T TAKE NO SHIT FROM NOBODY; TELL ‘EM ALL TO FUCK OFF”.  Her last email came a week ago and was filled with typically golden tips on how to entertain your kids on vacation using only duct-tape and teddy grahams and admonishments to stop working so much and take a damn vacation.  She closed with these lines: “Go with God, my child.  And if He won’t drive, fucking make Victor. Love on all y’alls little heads ~ Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal“.

She was part demi-God, part hell-cat, part warning-sign, part adopted-mother and completely unique.  I will never meet another person like her.  I don’t know how she died but I do know how she lived.  She lived with a ferocity that frightened grown men.  She lived dangerously but fully and without regret.  She was unapologetically flawed, perpetually cheerful and found humor in even the darkest moments, and she gave me hope that I’ll be able to face the pain of rheumatoid arthritis in the same way she did…with a wry joke and a rebellious laugh instead of a whimper.  She was my friend and the world is a bit darker today without her in it.

If I was writing this about anyone else I’d stop right there, but I’m not writing about just anyone.  I’m writing about Nancy, who gloried in irreverence and pushing boundaries and I think that if she were to read this post she’d probably think it was very pretty but would be pissed that I ended it on such a horrifically respectable note, so instead I’m going to let Nancy end this in her own words.  A year ago she emailed me the obituary she wrote for herself and I laughed at it and sent her back my own, then tucked it into my Nancy file but I’m bringing it out today because, as always, no one could else could write this quite like Nancy…and no one should.

Dateline: Indianapolis, IN

Please remember in your prayers our sister, Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal, who was called Home to Jesus’ bosom recently when her fucking head blew up.  In life, she was a foul-mouthed, sarcastic, occasionally  funny mother, who loved her children unconditionally. She will be remembered for nothing.

Ms. Kappes died of natural causes while being beheaded by her cherished Firm who, apparently, had had just enough of her antics, thankyouverymuch.

She is survived by her sometimes [on their part] beloved grrlz, a grandson, and some ass-hat letters on her favorite website.  Everyone else in Ms. Kappes’ life has disowned her or disavowed knowing or being related to her. In fact, they are having a party in Chicago, to celebrate her demise. Donations in her name will be accepted by Pfizer, Merck, Eli Lilly and Watson.

Her daughters have planned a memorial service for the week in which her home will be open to [you know who you are] to participate in the last rites of a case of Gray Goose, 15 bottles of tequila, 2 cases of cheap bourbon, and unlimited access to the last 5 remaining barrels of the Judy Garland Trail Mix.

Ms. Kappes will be cremated and her ashes put in a Dixie cup. It is her final wish that she attend every party given and promises this time she will cause no trouble. Her parting words were, “Bite me.” “Pardon my dust.”

Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal

****************

Goodbye, Nancy. Not everyone will understand this memorial but I hope it would have made you proud. I miss you already, old friend.

Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is ALIVE.

You remember Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal), right?  If you don’t you need to go here and catch up. Back?  Awesome. Well, she was MIA for a long time due to I’ll-let-her-tell-it but she’s alive, and it feels selfish to keep that kind of news to myself.  The latest from Nancy (who I’m fairly certain wrote this in the hospital on morphine while recovering from surgery.  True story. That’s fucking dedication, y’all):

MEA MAXIMA CULPA. Yes, Jennikins, I fucked up once again. As a sage once said, “I want to go to the very bottom and come back and write about it.” Yes, I went that far and by all that is holy and Christ in a rowboat, sweetie, can I be forgiven? Jesus on a stick, I feel like fuck!

Could you somehow let it be known I am back and the reason is I have been waiting on my tickets to the “Maury Povich” show where I will represent Joseph [the Holy Spirit is using a pro bono attorney – dumb ass] in the case of Paternity of one Christ, Jesus. We are going to get this question the fact OVER cause goddamn! this Baby Daddy question needs an answer once and for fucking all. It will be the Ultimate Consummate Baby Daddy Show Ever. Jeez. And if you think getting a fucking dove to stick out his tongue for a swab is easy, lemme enlighten you.

Okay, well I am back on the methadone which is lovely with brandy, along with the regulars so if you have nothing else to do [like waxing your driveway] give me a shout. I’ll be here all week and try the shrimp scampi. Plus it’s only 12:30 here. Gawd in the good old days we’d be high as a kite and trying to properly dress for the night’s debauchery.

HA! Just read about the Cleavage Day, but, Jesus Christ, move to town and take the paper.

My Trail Mix runneth over.

Nancy W. Kappes  (Now known as…fuck, I don’t know…”Larry”?)

Happy NWK Week, motherfuckers.  And in entirely unrelated news…the weekly wrap-up of shit I was doing when I wasn’t here causing boobquakes, pointing out zombie furniture design flaws and being taken far too seriously.

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

    This week on the internets:

    • I was on front page of AVN for 10 minutes, which is apparently a big deal (link is so, so, so NSFW) and also got a small shout out on Woman’s Day Magazine and The Daily Beast.  I honestly don’t even know which one of these is more baffling.

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    This week’s wrap-up sponsored by…nobody.  Or possibly someone.  I can’t find my notes.  My God, I suck at this. Okay, wait.  This post sponsored by my friend Katherine Center who isn’t actually a sponsor in the slightest but who sits up with me late at night while I read her my convoluted diary and that’s kind of awesome.  Also, she just published “Get Lucky” which is my favorite of all her books.  You should totally buy it.  It smells like clean laundry.

    Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is real and I have witnesses

    So this weekend at the Blogher conference I co-hosted the People’s Party and it was very nice because everyone there had to apologize for accusing me of making up Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) because SHE FUCKING CAME.  This is where you should go read all the “Nancy W. Kappes is not my personal Tyler Durden” posts if you are already lost because this is about to get confusing even for me and if you don’t know the background you’re fucked and should probably just skip this and instead just read about the time I scared Blair from “Facts of Life.

    So Nancy shows up at Blogher carrying a big bottle of water which was actually straight vodka and carrying pictures of her kids, grandkids, and a trucker hat she’d had made for me.

    Me, Nancy, hats.

    Me, Nancy, hats.

    Also, she brought her “Judy Garland Trailmix” and dumped it out on the bed so I could have first pick, which was very generous and ladylike, and I didn’t actually have any of them because I’d been drinking but she made me a doggie bag and called me a bitch, but in a really nice way.

    Nancy's Judy-Garland-Trailmix

    This is totally for real, y'all

    Then she started yelling about what tiny crap-hole hotel room me and my roomie were staying in and insisted we go to her giant suite across town but I reminded her that I was supposed to be hosting a party in a few minutes but then everything got kind of fuzzy and I can only assume she slipped me a roofie or I got a contact high from standing too close.  At one point she got lost and I was hiding in the bathroom having a serious conversation with a bunch of chicks and I can’t remember what it was about but I think it was about how someone’s pet llama had cancer or something  and then Nancy walks in and I can’t see her but I can tell it’s her because she’s all “OUT OF MAH WAY, BITCHES!” and then she sees me on the bathroom counter and waves offhandedly at me and then she kicked open the door to a stall and is all “Move, bitches!  I gotta take a piss”.  Then everyone in the bathroom got all quiet and kind of looked at each other all shocked like “What the fuck just happened?” and I’m all “By the way?  That? Is Nancy W. Kappes, y’all” and they’re all “NANCY W. KAPPES PARALEGAL?!” and I’m all “Totally” in kind of a smug, I-fucking-told-you-she-was-real sort of way and everyone got all wide-eyed like they’d just seen the ghost of Ringo Starr and then Nancy walks out of the stall and pulls out her trail-mix bottle and is all “Alright, line up, bitches! Who needs dope?” and some chick is like “Uh…you’re selling us pot?” and Nancy looks at her with aghast pity and is all “No, honey.  POT IS FOR FUCKING AMATEURS” and that’s when I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere.   Then I got pulled away to meet the sponsors and I told Nancy to stay there because our sponsors were pretty kid-friendly and I felt a little concerned about the people I left behind in the bathroom but then 10 minutes later they had formed like a giant Nancy-entourage and were following her everywhere and it was obvious that they were genuinely won over by her awesomeness because not enough time had passed for whatever pills she gave them to have kicked in yet.   Then I look over and see Nina from The Goodnight Show on PBS and she’s dressed in her signature pajamas and it was cool but very weird.  It was like if you threw a dinner party and suddenly you looked over and Captain Kangaroo was there.  Back when he was alive, I mean.  Not the decaying corpse of Captain Kangaroo.  That would be even more fucked up.  Then I look behind me and Nancy is assaulting our Crocs sponsor but he actually seems quite delighted about it and that’s when I was very glad that I hadn’t taken any of the pills she gave me yet because the whole thing was so surreal I would have suspected it was some sort of weird drug hallucination.

    About 2am Nancy left for her hotel and I was kind of concerned that she wouldn’t make it back safely but she pulled out a card that already had her name, and the address of her hotel printed on it and pinned it to her shirt.  On the bottom of it was a phone number explicitly “for bail”.  True story.

    nancy1

    Then she winked at me and placed her finger on the side of her nose and it was kind of like when Santa Clause goes up the chimney in that poem except I think maybe she was gesturing that she was going to snort something in the bathroom first.  Then she left and my roommate was all “Dude.  What…the fuck…just happened?” and I’m all “I have no idea.  But I think maybe it was awesome”.  And she’s all “Yeah.  I think it actually was awesome”.  And then we passed out.  The end.

    PS.  Also, I asked PBS’s Nina to sign my boobs and she refused and then scampered off like a frightened bunny.  I totally forgot that even happened until now because of all the other shit that was going on.  That’s kind of the sign of a good party.  Or a terrible one.  Probably both.

    PPS.  For real, y’all.  I’m not making this up:

    Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

    Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

    Comment of the day: Here’s my Nancy story: met her in the bathroom, exchanged some exchanges, we chatted with the housekeeper who was getting off soon. Nancy rooted for a few bills and graciously tipped the housekeeper, who then left. Seconds later, someone broke a glass in the bathroom. I had to fetch the housekeeper, who seemed more than happy to come back. I think Nancy is psychic and knew that was going to happen and pre-tipped. To ensure promptness. Nancy is the new Chuck Norris. ~ Deb on the Rocks

    Craft time with Nancy W. Kappes

    I usually don’t do Nancy W. Kappes posts so close together but the Blogher Conference is coming up and that means the People’s Party is only a few weeks away and (partially to prove that she is not my own personal Tyler Durden) Nancy W. Kappes (Paralegal) is driving to the People’s Party and I take no responsibility for whatever she tries to sell you or put in your drink.  “Get a lid” would be my advice to you.  I actually have several bizarre posts for you but right now I’m driving back to Houston from West Texas and I can’t download my pictures because I can’t find my camera cord because that would be dangerous.  So without further ado, letters from Nancy:

    Okay, motherfuckers: listen up. It’s Time for Arts and Farts and Crafts with Nancy W, Kappes, Paralegal.

    Today we are going to make our Roller Wigs® for the Soiree in the City of the Big Shoulders, Hog-Butcher to the Nation, Where You Freeze Your Fucking Ass Off All Year Round—Chi-ca-gooo!

    WHAT YOU WILL NEED:

                    Rollers (Size-Bloggess)

                    Plastic cap

                    Nitrous Oxide

                    Needle (ha! gotcha!—not that kind)

                    Strong thread

                    Morphine Suppositories

                    Sharpie

                    Large Bottle of Grey Goose

     

    DIRECTIONS:

        Go to the Dollar Store and get the rollers. Go over to the hair colour section and pretend to look at the “Frost and Tip” kits. Snatch the cap with the little holes out of it and put it in your purse. Drive home and assemble ingredients.

      First off, get a large tumbler out of the cupboard and put 4 ice cubes in it. Get out the vodka, and put the glass with ice in the sink. ?  BECAUSE YOU DON’T NEED IT, YOU ASS-HAT!  Now take about 10-12 large gulps from the bottle. Wasn’t that fun? Now, insert your morphine suppository or ten [GET BACK HERE AND WASH YOUR HANDS, MISSY!] Then take a bit hit of the nitrous oxide. Set aside twenty minutes or so for incapacitation due to hysteria because ha! you just totally put your finger in your butt! [and yes, I AM in 2ndgrade.]

    Now mark the level on the vodka with a sharpie. Don’t they smell good? Take another hit of nitrous oxide and immediately bring the level on the vodka bottle down two inches. Whoa! Now we’re ready. Take the cap with the little holes out of your purse, and open the bag of Bloggess-size rollers. Take another hit off the nitrous because your hands will need to be very steady. Now, try to thread the needle. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! How many tries did it take?? So, what you’re gonna do is, thread the string thru the appropriate holes in the cap (oh fer chrissakes, use your fucking head. Just do it the way Jenny has it.) Then, push the thread thru the rollers (I am using those funky Velcro rollers, just cause I like to stick them on myself.) Okay. Take another 2 inches off the level in the vodka bottle and a hit of nitrous and continue to “sew” the rollers on the cap a la Bloggess. Now laugh your ass off and think of just how much fucking fun we/me/you (only the Bloggess knows…) are totally going to have in the middle of July. 

    Good job boys and girls! Tomorrow we will learn how to make a syringe out of a needle, eyedropper and rubber band! See you next time!

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    Then like 10 minutes later I got this email from Nancy: 

    FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! I totally forgot to include the drawing that goes along with the instructions for the Bloggess Roller Wig®! Hold off till tomorrow if you can because it’s 4:15AND I HAVE BEEN WORKING SINCE THREE O’CLOCK! WHEW! I am beat!

    I swear (no shit) I will send it tomorrow!

    And, please dear God, let up on the pain and the vomiting already! Jesus Christ. Well, yeah, you too.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    Then the next day I got this email which still does not have any picture attached but is still awesome even though I don’t really understand it and I think she might be yelling at me and also I voted for Obama and now I’m worried about him taking my drugs away because I need them y’all:

    Jenny, Jenny, Bo-Benny, Banana fanna fo funny..JENNY

    Fuck. I forgot  how that dumb-ass song goes. So how is the pain today? Mine is INTOLERABLE!!!!! 

    ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! AAAAUUUGGGGHHH! THEY WILL HAVE TO PRY MY VICODIN AND PERCOCET OUT OF MY COLD, DEAD HANDS! NO! ACTUALLY, THEY’LL HAVE TO SAW OFF MY HANDS! WHOA! WAIT! MWHAA! WHEN I SEE THEM COMING, I AM GOING TO GOBBLE THEM ALL UP.

       I mean, Christ in a rowboat here while fuck me running! If THIS is the kind of bloody, buggery bollocks this Ass-Hat President is gonna start…well…they just better make laudanum for an over the counter medication. And bring back the Opium Dens. I LIKED this guy! Why him wanna make us all pain-y and shit??

    Damn. Now THAT is some sad motherfucking news. I’m more upset than Farrah Fawcett’s publicist. DO NOT be fuckin with the pharmaceuticals, bitches. I’m totally buying a safe. I refuse to be subjected to the humiliation of giving blow-jobs for opiates. Nuh-uh.

    Okay. Anyway, I hope I didn’t offend any mommies out there with my rant. Sometimes I am unable to fold my napkin and things get a little fucked-up.  I knew at least not to raise a child like a veal calf. Only once did I smack my kid (just one, and just the once.) She had moved out for college, got an apartment with a friend, blah blah, yeah, friend flaked out, so she came home to live with me again. One Saturday as she was still sleeping (at 1pm) I woke her up to tell her I was going into work. She mumbled something, something, bitch and  POW! I cracked her upside her head like a mofo. We looked at each other like “Damn! I can’t believe that just happened!” Then, I said, “You know what? That felt really, really fucking good, so I suggest you get your act together and straighten the hell out!” Problem solved.

    Okay, I’m almost finished. I do know that I raised my daughters well (even with no dad, support, anything) because I see what kind of mother my eldest daughter is. She makes the Virgin Mary look like Leona Helmsley.

    I’m done.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

     

     

    Comment of the day:  I’m out of vodka. Please ask Ms. Nancypants if tequila will work?    Fuck. This is why I hate crafts. ~ amo

    Letters from Nancy

    As regular readers know, Nancy W. Kappes (Paralegal) is my favorite fan in the entire history of the world and she sends me these bizarre, rambling emails that I print out and tape to my refrigerator and she won’t start a blog in spite of my prodding but she’s too awesome to keep to myself so I occasionally share a little wisdom from Nancy.  Today is one of those days.  You’re welcome:

    JENNIFER ARIEL LOUISE LAWSON! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE NOW!

    Okay, I got some shit to run by you. There is this douche bag at work who is a complete tool and she follows this mommy website and this chick is all like, “Ohmygawd! Here she is with her new baby!”  Then she shows me photos of her (apparently older daughter) who is downright motherfucking scary-ass! And SHE’S looking at the baby all like “I’m going to totally eat your fucking head the first chance I get, you bitch.” *

    So now I’ve been doing nothing (ha! literally!) all week except trying to figure out this “mommy blog” bollocks. All I want to know is WHO GIVES A RAT’S ASS ABOUT YOUR KID??? It’s like my Claire’s [uh-oh—child mentioned] bugger it, she’s 20, and her new motto is “NOBODY CARES!” yes, you answer all questions put to you with “NOBODY CARES” and give them fierce stink-eye when you do it. Highly effective in a work environment.  Okay. I can tell stories about my grrlz all day, but “NOBODY CARES!” However, if they were of a mind to be entertained, it’s all good.

    We went thru a bad patch years ago when we had no money. I mean, really; no. fucking. money. We had to eat “Hamburger Helper” but couldn’t afford the goddamned hamburger, so we ate “Helper.” But it was worse the next night when we had mother fucking as-god-is-my-witness-where’s-that-damned-turnip “LEFTOVER HELPER.” So bite me, you sanctimonious bitches.

    Another tale. We’re at the grocery using our food stamps that happened to save our lives, thankyouverymuch, when this fucking cunt behind us in her little designer track suit and her jewelry lets out this big sigh like “oh, what an inconvenience.” I get the groceries and the grrlz in the car and say, “Mommy will be right back.” Elizabeth yells out the window, “Hey, mom! Don’t kill her.” I assure them I won’t, march up to the bitches’ BMW who by this time has locked herself in the car and is shitting in her designer pants. I calmly tap on the window, which she finally rolls down a crack and I say in my sweetest voice, “My dear, I want you to go home tonight and get down on your knees and thank the good lord above you have some man to leech off. In fact, I’d suggest a blow job while you’re down there, because you could not survive one motherfucking day in my world. Hey! That felt kinda good remembering those days. Mayhaps there’s something to this shit after all.

    Oh! Now I’m on a roll—I gotta call all mah bitches just to say ‘hey,’ but here’s a parting thought. Claire was about in 4th grade and was having a friend over to play. Her friend looked around and said, “Where’s your T.V.” And my sweet little girl gave a shrug and simply said, “In the Pawn Shop.’ Like, duh.

    Well, what a strange and different missive from the Psychopathic Paralegal, I must say. So if you can explain how all this shit got started and—well, fuck! You hardly ever mention your daughter, so what is the deal? Colour me all kinda confused.  

    * And that’s something else that bugs the piss outta me. “Oh, you’re going to have a new baby brother or sister! Isn’t that exciting?” yeah, right, mom. How about if Dad came home and said, “Oh, Honey, guess what! I’m bringing home a younger girl and you will have to share all your toys and vie for my attention, and she’ll get all in your stuff and isn’t that wonderful?! Aren’t you excited???!!  Fucking fuck that fucking shit. I actually saw my psycho neighbor kid—about 5 or 6 years old [years ago—where the fuck are you Douglas Bence?] try to actually cut off his little baby brother’s head with a pair of hedge clippers. Dude, I kid you not.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal (at least for now until these women come with axes, torches and rakes. Or an explanation.)

    Okay, it’s me again.  Just wanted to clarify that I do have a mommy blog, I talk about my kid probably too much, and my name is not “Jennifer Ariel Louise Lawson” but now I’m kind of considering changing it because it totally sings.  Also, Nancy W. Kappes is insane and also kind of my hero.

    If you have a choice, don’t get rheumatoid arthritis. Or testicular cancer. I heard that one sucks too.

    A series of things that should be separate posts but they aren’t:

    1.  Paraphrased conversation between me and my rheumatologist yesterday:

    Me:  My feet are ouchie.

    Him:  That’s because you have a degenerative disease, dumb-ass.

    Me:  Yes, but I thought I’d be better by now.

    Him:  I think you don’t know what “degenerative” means.  Let’s up the chemo drug that makes your hair fall out  to 10 pills at a time and if that still doesn’t work then next month we’ll start doing IV therapy and self injections.

    Me:  Yay!

    PS.  That “yay” was sarcastic.  I know it’s hard to see sarcasm on paper but probably the context should have given it away.  

    PPS.  Honestly, I’m fine and can still totally function.  It just feels like when you’re wearing really uncomfortable stilettos that are two sizes too small and you can still pole dance but you know you aren’t as effective as before because you keep grimacing but you’re trying to at least grimace “sexily” except you know it’s not working because that stripper with the bullet-holes in her thigh is getting bigger tips than you.  And that’s exactly what rheumatoid arthritis feels like.

    2.  For those of you that are new, Nancy W. Kappes is a paralegal from Indiana who never comments but sends me these long, fucked-up emails that are shockingly similar in tone to the emails I send to my idols who never respond to me and now I know how it feels to get an email screaming about failed abortions and Jesus-Christ trucker hats.  (It feels awesome.)  (That’s not sarcasm).  And Nancy fans keep yelling at me to share more of her letters so here are the latest two (starting with her take on Cinco de Mayo) and I swear to God she is real and not me and might even come to the Blogher People’s Party in Chicago so stop doubting me, non-believers:

    CHACHACHACHAJENNNNN

    Hey! A Holiday celebrating mayonnaise. I’m gonna totally protest and eat some Miracle Whip. Once for a party, I filled this huge piñata with M&Ms. Just plain ole colored M&Ms. Lots of fucking boxes of M&M’s. Like tons of M&M’s. Okay, so the kiddies are blindfolded and the grown-ups sneak off to smoke crack watch their little faces light up. Elizabeth (who would grow up and be a rugby star—all 95 lbs. of her—but she could run like her mother, and once she grabbed those tree-trunk legs of the other players, you had to saw her head off to get her to let go.) Anyway, she’s about 7 and a twee little thing, but she takes that stick and knocks the motherfucking piñata into the next county. Okay. So now we are knee deep in GODDAMNED UNWRAPPED M&M’S AND THREE DOGS AND EIGHT KIDS START GOBBLING THEM UP AS FAST AS THEY CAN. Fuck me running, no one told me the shit had to be fucking wrapped. So there’s dogs pooping up huge rainbow turds and the kids are all eating a % of 1/1,000 (one being the number of M&M’s and the other being the amount of dog hair.) Then their Guatemalan housekeeper who has wet her pants and passed out laughing gets on the phone in her room where she no doubt  was laughing her ass off to her friends in Guatemala about  the fucking-dumb-ass gringo who totally didn’t wrap the candy. Muy loco chica!!!

    So the hell with it.  I’m drinking jello-shots tonight.

    Gotta run. I’ve scheduled a conference call with Life, God and Jesus at 4:00pm. It ain’t gonna be pretty.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    **************************

    HOLY MIGHTY FUCKING BALLS, JJJJJJJEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNN!

    Come to Indiana where all the viruses, bacteria, people with an I.Q. in double digits, anything interesting, moved out long ago with all of the goddamned fun. When I would take the grrlz to school in the am [driving 145 mph–we looked like our faces had been put in one of those 90-mile an hour wind tunnels; Claire used to claim her face didn’t return to normal until 3rd period] we would pass “Conner Prairie” and, yes, it is as hokey as it sounds—makes Rock City look like the Louvre. One bleak, cold, pitch dark morning in winter, there was an atypical lack of joviality and witty banter until we passed C. Prairie and Elizabeth bellowed, “You stupid shit-heads! What the hell kind of drugs were you on when you decided to stop here?” We still don’t know. People say “Oh, but it is such a great place to raise your children”. Bollocks. It’s difficult for tha grrlz to get products for their meth lab. 

    Okay, so this thing that is in Chicago in July or whatever—no wigs! Roller wigs! HA! Totally like your photo! How motherfucking awesome would it be to look out over a crowd of people and they are all totally wearing roller wigs! Sweet! Actually, if I wasn’t a lazy bitch, I would make some for you to pass out, but maybe a shit load of the Jesus Christ hats where we cross out Jesus Christ with a fucking sharpie and write in“The Bloggess.”

    Well now I cant get this goddamned font off my computer. Motherfucker, I hate these things.

    I cant stand this fucking fontits like Letters to God.or some Readers Digest shit. Plus, considering the content, isnt that an oxymoron?

    Nancy W. Kappes 

    Paralegal

     

    3.  Neil Gaiman direct messaged me on twitter.  Seriously, that happened.  And yes, sadly, it happened because he read my post about strange-looking guys I’d totally do if I wasn’t married but still…NEIL-fucking-GAIMAN, y’all.  I own 27 of his books.  Swear to God.  Then I told my friend Laura that Neil Gaiman had DMed me and she was all “NEIL DIAMOND DMed YOU?!?” and I’m all “No.  Neil GAIMAN.”  And she’s all “Oh.  Who?”  Then I drowned her in a fountain at the mall.  

    4.  I’m going to spend the night on an aircraft carrier with a small group of internet-famous people next week, including Guy Kawasaki and some guy who was on Dancing with the Stars.  I think he also invented the internet.  I’d write about it here but all those people probably have google alerts set up for when people mention their name and I don’t want those people to find this blog before I meet them because I’m the only non-famous, weird girl going and I plan on pretending I’m someone else.  Like maybe Neil Gaiman.  So instead I’m gonna video blog about it later today or as soon as I can figure out how to work this new fucking computer that is trying to destroy me.

    5.  Neil Gaiman, y’all.

    Comment of the day:    Mmmmmayonaisse. Europeans don’t refirigerate it and they put it on their fries. That’s all I really know about them and also where my curiosity ends. ~MayoPie

    I think Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) might be me writing to me from the future. I am totally going to fuck up the space/time continuum.

    So remember when I wrote about the greatest letter-writer in the history of the world (Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal) and everyone said she should start her own blog and I was all “Yeah, Nance, why don’t you have a blog?” and she was all “Bitch, I don’t know from ‘BLOG’.  That’s totally the noise I make when I’m throwing my guts up” so I resigned myself to just treasuring the bizarre letters she sends me but then when I posted a picture of my inbox people saw that she was still writing me and I got a bunch of people yelling at me for keeping Nancy all to myself.  So fine, here’s a small sampler of the letters from Nancy W. Kappes (Paralegal) from the last few weeks.  Please stop yelling at me.

    Sweetie, you CAN NOT tell me you have motherfucking rheumatoid arthritis!!!  NoNoNoNo! Baby, you are too young for that shit, and I know cause my mother got it when she was young and it’s just all fucked up. The prednisone works okay but it so fucks you up with the hair on your goddamned face and will make you look like the fat guy in the “Borat” movie and I am getting snot all over my fucking keyboard because I am crying so hard right now I cannot even see because THIS SHIT IS TOTALLY MOTHERFUCKING FUCKED!

     

    You’re going to get all kinds of whacked-out people telling you to hell, I don’t know, wear a copper bracelet, eat hickory nuts, douche with cat pee, but fuck, JJJJJJJJEEEENN. It’s like, remember when you were pregnant and all these fucking women would like jump out at you and fucking BOO! tell you these monster-motherfucking horror stories about being pregnant, or how to breast feed your kid [duh. when mine would wake up in the night—they slept in a bassinet by my bed, I’d toss ‘em in with me and say, “here you go; one on each side, I’m going the hell back to sleep.”] Here’s what NWK,P would do: remember the poster I had on my wall in high school of Janis Joplin in all her feathered, spangled glory saying, “DON’T TAKE NO SHIT FROM NOBODY; TELL ‘EM ALL TO FUCK OFF.” It has been my life’s motto and ya know what? it’s worked for me all these years.

     

    Totally bringing the flamethrower to Our Lady of the Perpetual Mink,

     

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

     

    Why is it that nothing bad ever happens to the motherfucking shitheads in this world?  I think in my next life, I’m gonna come back as a real ass-hole. I think it’ll be cush.  Now I know why they don’t sell automatic weapons on the street. I would be one busy motherfucking bitch.

     

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    REPRIEVED!!  Bene-to-tha-Dick just proclaimed that Plenary Indulgences are back on! Yee-Haw!  For the younger Catholics, it’s a practice that is like this totally awesome Get-To-Heaven-Quicker Plan we used to have, sort of like Green Stamps, but instead of toaster ovens, you collect points for saying your prayers—Hells, Yeh, Baby!! I’ll have to dig out Ye Olde Prayer Booke, but it’s something like if you say a Hail Mary, that’s like five years off your Purgatory sentence!  Sweet!! You can fucking rock the points all day long and maybe even end up with Extra Credit Points. Goddamn! I am so stoked!! I wonder if it is going to be retroactive—that way, I’ll totally get points for all those prayers I’ve said since 1963. But—FUCK! SHIT! I forgot about inflation. What if now for a Hail Mary you just get like 2 stinking weeks knocked off?  That will totally blow. In the meantime, I’m getting two-for-one, cause although I look like I am totally praying for You to get well from that EVlL RA, I’m also rackin’ up mah points, bitches!

    Lighting all the BIG votive candles, not the chintzy-ass little ones,

     

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal, Who Please Fer Chrissakes, Don’t Make me File A Pro Hac Vice Motion or Anything that Has to Do With the Courts Because I am Totally Phoning In

    Nice photo on your latest post! You realize, of course, that Mariah Carey is going to totally kill you since you have magic rainbows coming out of your tits and because she has a patent on rainbows and unicorns and little woodland creatures getting you dressed in the morning. Christ, I’m lucky if I can find two shoes that match. I got some new meds today that came with the instructions, “If you have an erection lasting longer than four hours, call your doctor.” And what? He comes and gives you a blow job?

     

    Looking Out For Your Welfare,

    Nantine

     

    Whoa! It’s only 10:16pm here and I am totally fucking baked. [This is the time I would usually do the drunk-dialing and phone my brother—1955-1996; a physician who made house calls-as my father did-to people in rural South Carolina with no fucking money, no future, no fucking hope. Yes, he was a saint, but he was cool—he had a fuckin wicked sense of humour and yet when you were around him, you wanted to be a better person. And not in some douche-bag way—he was just fucking awesome. He was the ‘baby’-born right after my father came home from the Korean War where my father was an M.D. in the POW camp—sorta like “MASH” My sister was two when my father left, my mother got knocked up, and I was born.  On September 27th.  Yeah…do the math – I still have the motherfucking scars on my head from the knitting needle and the first words I remember are “Oh, Jesus Christ, you DID NOT just do that!” Yes, they should have corked more than the champagne bottle. So, whoa! here is a post from NWKP that is all sensitive and shit, but I’ll tell you this: I might not have know how to raise a kid, but I sure as fuck knew how not to.

    So, fuck me running, this is prolly not going to make any fucking sense when I re-read it. So I won’t. Suffice to say, I am baked enough to wish that I was 15 years old and could run away from home again.

    We gotta do something with this goddamned RA.

    I can barely see,

    nwkp

    Comment of the day:I think it is totally fucking hilarious that when Nancy is baked at 10:16 PM, her spelling, grammar, and punctuation achieve almost normal status, and she says “fuck” a lot less often. I’m torn about this. I completely approve of 10:16 bakedness (AM OR PM), but she rants way better sober, apparently. Please ask Nancy to drink more, because that’s a good rule in general, but not to let it dull her fucking edge.  ~  Lori

    UPDATED: 50 bucks to take your 4-year-old to look at corpses = highway robbery

    So today is Valentines Day but Victor is in Florida buying Japanese swords and did not leave me candy, jewelry or flowers.  And granted, I don’t like any of those things and think that Valentines Day is dumb but still, everyone else is out getting wined and dined and my husband is getting drunk and buying weapons.  So I called him and told him that for Valentines Day I was going to buy myself a new confidence wig because I’m going to be screaming the c-word at the Mom 2.0 Summit next week and Victor was all “You have enough wigs” because he thinks wigs are like hall-trees.  Like you just buy one and it lasts forever. Then I asked my four-year-old what she wanted for Valentines Day and she said she wanted to go see the Corpse Display at the museum.  True story.  This is going to be the best Valentines Day ever.

    UPDATED: Holy crap, y’all  It’s like $50 to see the dead body display.  For that price I could make my own.  Honesty, it’s like the Museum of Science is daring me to steal corpses from the funeral home.  Which I would never do because cemeteries have less security because that would be wrong.

    PS.  My Valentines Day gift to you…a robot cat that you can force to say inappropriate phrases.  My personal favorite is having the voice of Nigel say “Every time I raise my eyebrows I’m thinking about having sex with your stuffed animals.”

    PPS.  This post is somewhat lame so I’m padding it with a new letter from Nancy W. Kappes who really needs her own blog:

    I got some shit to talk about hair. I was looking through old photos and saw one of my mother and went, “JESUS CHRIST in a rowboat!” (‘cause…well..he doesn’t need a rowboat, does he?)  Anywhore, this photo was taken when my mom was younger than me and holy fucking shit! It must be at Thanksgiving ‘cause she’s laughing and waving a turkey baster……oh no. oh, fucking hells, no. AAUUGHHH JJJJEEEEENNNNNNNEEEEE! My dad was a physician! She must have been in charge of the abortion/insemination plans.

    Okay, anyway, she totally looked like fuck, so I’m all, “Claire! Gettcher ass down here and help mama, sweetie!.”  She takes a look and goes, “Shit. Grandma looks older than you. And you’re a big drunk!”  Hmm. The thing was….her hair. I mean, she would go to the hairdresser once a week and get it “done.” JJJEENNNNN!  SHE HAD A COIF! I’M OLD AND I DON’T GOT NO FOKIN COIF! I mean, Christ, I don’t go a month without dyeing it some funky-ass colour. Plus, it just is there. On my head. Doing nothing. Just there in whatever dumb-shit way it wants to look. Do YOU have a coif? I know you have rollers and a hair dryer, but shit the bed, fred! Does this mean I am doomed? When I turned 30, my sister was living in Boston and took me to the Snazzy Place in B’ton. Now, at the time, I could  sit on my hair, and I liked it. BUT these bastards got me drunk and high and it seemed like a good idea to cut it off. When they were finished, it looked like someone had taken Mary Tyler Moore’s hair and put it on my head. I fuckin freaked out and started beating the shit out of some queen. THAT was the last time I have been to a “beauty parlor” to get my “hair” “done.” 

    Nancy W. Kappes

     

     

    Paralegal

     UPDATED part 2:  I couldn’t find a good wig so I just restyled one of my old ones and added the Pink Panther glasses that came with Hailey’s happy meal.  I’m totally ready for the Mom 2.0 Summit.  I’ll be the whorey blonde hiding in the toilet.

     Also, I just had a super professional conference call with Kristen, Jordan, and Ed about our panel (“It’s the end of PR as we know it and we feel fine“) and it was pretty much like this…

    Kristen:  Did you get the dildo email?  Someone needs to talk about the dildo people.  This aggression will not stand.

    Me:  “So what exactly does P.R. stand for?”

    Jordan:  “I’m not even supposed to be on this panel.”

    Ed:  “I can’t believe you people are making me write down ‘dildo’ on my meeting minutes.  Are any of you allergic to peacocks?  Because I have a great idea.”

    Me:  “No, seriously…is it Puerto Rico?  Is Puerto Rico ending?”

    Comment of the day:  Making a twitchy, British cat say “I like to drink the blood of children,” or “I’m going to get you so pregnant, bitch”? That’s what I call Valentine’s Day. ~ skinny malinky