There’s really no easy way to shut down a blog, especially after nine years. NINE YEARS. That’s like 300 years in blog years. That’s like falling asleep when you’re 30 and waking up when you’re 40 but still thinking you’re 30 and acting accordingly. But as we know, there’s nothing cute about a 40-year-old blogger. Obviously In the Pink© has been winding down for some time now, what with work, pugs, babies, vacations, intermittent hospital stays for “exhaustion,” extended unpaid vacations, the occasional stakeout, breaking and entering, stalking politicians, posting gratuitous baby pictures on Facebook to show everyone that my baby is cuter than theirs, posting gratuitous pug pictures on Facebook to show everyone that my pug is cuter than theirs, afternoon wine tastings and Law & Order weekend marathons.

I don’t know about you but there’s nothing more unsettling to me than when I come across a blog that basically disappeared into the ether. The last post is from 2009, it’s been overtaken by spam, there’s no farewell and you’re left to wonder, what happened? Was the blogger kidnapped five years ago? Should I alert the police? Is someone holding him for ransom? Would anyone even pay? That said, I wanted to bid you all a fond farewell and wish you all the best in your future endeavors, although God knows what those would be.

So here’s something of a blogtrospective. Interestingly enough my very first post back in 2005 (when I actually paid attention to Texas politics) was about former colleague Paul Burka in It’s Burka’s Texas (and we just live in it). Clearly a harbinger of things to come.

Here we go:

• The original When Harry Met Sally parody
• Starbucks names (Elaine/Ilene, IIIN, Anin)
• The Rapture! End Times! The Antichrist!
• Growing up Irish Catholic
• Seriously. It’s because you’re not married.
• Professional politician stalker
• Hillary! Hillary! Hillary! Hillary! Hillary!
• Pinot is good for you.
• Mental illness du jour
• Perry for President (Remember?!)
• Sex scandals for dummies
• Stop breeding, Breeders!
• Great moments in media
• Participating in the Democratic process
• Backslash, the ORIGINAL hashtag

Thank you loyal readers and commenters (the anonymous, the semi-anonymous, the wish-they’d-been anonymous); fellow bloggers; trolls; the Pink Mafia; guest writers TJ Shroat, Smooch, Tickled Pink, John Cornyn’s Box Turtle, Fled the Asylum, The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton, Andy Brown, MattyD; the extended Kennedy clan; pregnant powerwashing nannies; death panels; patriotic kitten sweater vests and, of course, freakishly small knees.

I hope I’ve made you laugh. God knows I didn’t make you think. But no one says leave ‘em thinking. Until next time.

You can still find me here: @EileenDSmith

[CAVEAT: I reserve the right to bring it all back for 2016.]

This marks my first Easter with a baby and I have already gotten her an Easter basket and filled it with chocolate bunnies and Reese’s peanut butter eggs. Yes, I know she can’t eat chocolate—what kind of mother do you think I am DON’T ANSWER THAT—so I will be eating all the chocolate for her. I will also be dressing up my pug as Judas Iscariot as he would most certainly betray me for even one morsel of chocolate. And then he might feel a little bad but only once he realizes that I’m the one who feeds him.

Today is Good Friday which basically means you can’t eat meat. Unless you’re not Christian in which case you should eat all the meat you can now because as far as I know they don’t serve steak in hell. Although we usually ate meat and starch every night growing up, Fridays during Lent meant mystery fish dinners. The only seafood I liked as a child was, naturally, shrimp cocktail but apparently that was TOO FANCY for Good Friday, a day that Catholics are supposed to go to confession and pray for the poor souls who have spent thousands of years in purgatory and, let’s be honest, have little chance of ever making it to heaven.

There are two doors to every confessional. One provides a screen between you and the priest so your confession is anonymous and the other is the dreaded “face-to-face” where you can personally witness his, and therefore God’s, utter disappointment in the direction your life is going. One time I mistakenly walked into the face-to-face room and immediately walked out, went around to the screen section, and affected a British accent to mask my identity.

They say confession is good for the soul. I prefer spilling your guts to a bunch of strangers after three too many mimosas. Either way you’re putting it out there. Just don’t confess to anyone that you lie to make people feel better. Then they’ll know that you were lying when you asked them if they’d lost weight. Awkward.

I will be marching in the Easter Parade that I organize every year in my neighborhood although I’m the only one who participates. But this year I can take my baby with me in a stroller and walk along in our matching mother-daughter Lilly Pulitzer outfits and matching bunny ears. I have a feeling one of us will be slightly more adorable but don’t tell her because it’ll make her feel bad.

Graham crackers? OMG more like gay crackers.

I trust that you all are as livid as I am at the new Honey Maid Graham Crackers “This is Wholesome” ad campaign that features a happy gay male couple with a seemingly happy child. My heart broke when I saw the morally bankrupt commercial because now I must eat my late-night treat of roasted marshmallows and melted Hershey chocolate bar on Melba toast.

And they don’t stop with The Gays. There’s also an interracial couple and a dad who’s a drummer. A drummer. Raising a child. Disgusting. Why don’t they just promote dogs and cats raising children? (Although my pug isn’t half bad at taking care of our 3-month-old. Except for the occasional biting of her toes. In his defense they do look like cocktail weenies.) The comments on YouTube are priceless.

Dude. We’re talking about A COOKIE. To gain additional biblical insight, I turned to One Million Moms, an offshoot of the always tolerant American Family Association, to see their response to Crackergate.

Nabisco should be ashamed of themselves for their latest Honey Maid and Teddy Graham cracker commercial where they attempt to normalize sin. Right away it shows two men with a baby, followed by other families, and ends with different families pictured including the one with two dads. This commercial not only promotes homosexuality, but then calls the scene in the advertisement wholesome. One Million Moms stands up for biblical truth, which is very clear in Romans 1:26-27, about this particular type of sexual perversion…this is truly sad. If this is what Honey Maid thinks is wholesome, then my family will no longer purchase Honey Maid or Nabisco products.

Good God. They’ve just lost the business of A MILLION MOTHERS AND THEIR STRAIGHT CHILDREN. Wait until they witness the next ad campaign featuring a white mom of Irish descent and a Salvadoran dad of Houstonian descent who recently adopted a beautiful baby girl who’s white and Hispanic, and left in the care of their half-pug, half-chihuahua for hours on end.

For now I’ll leave you with this offensive image of two loving parents.

I’m not much of a scrapbooker myself given that I’m happily married and thus completely fulfilled. To be honest most of my hobbies these days involve drinking white/red/whatever’s in the house and plying baby pacifiers out of my pug’s mouth. But for all the single ladies who spend their weekends poring over just the right cardstock and sticker embellishments for their cat’s eighth scrapbook in a series of cat scrapbooks, they are faced with quite the dilemma: to shop at Hobby Lobby or not to shop at Hobby Lobby.

The craft store chain is strongly against some types of birth control because of their deeply held religious beliefs. Their landmark case against Obamacare’s contraception mandate went in front of the Supreme Court yesterday. (Not surprisingly the three female justices on the court—Sonia Sotomayor, Elena Kagan and Sam Alito—argued against the for-profit corporation.) The whole thing seems so unnecessary. I think we all can agree that Hobby Lobby is an effective form of birth control in and of itself. Do the female employees who work day in and day out amidst crochet hooks and stitch markers really get out much? Lots of single guys coming in asking about American Girl doll dress patterns?

If you don’t have time to read up on the case, all you have to do is watch this video about how Obamacare=Euthanasia. Riveting.

This is my first St. Patrick’s Day with a baby so naturally I bought her the traditional “Kiss Me I’m Irish” onesie and one for myself. I’ve also put a green ribbon on my pug and he’s been looking at me mournfully all morning because apparently being festive and celebrating your heritage is THE WORST THING EVER to happen to a dog. (Yes, they’re both in a dog bed. It’s not like they can both fit in the crib.)

For whatever reason Austin doesn’t have a St. Patrick’s Day parade. I guess it’s still perfectly acceptable to discriminate against the Irish in Texas. However the traditional holiday parades elsewhere have proven quite controversial after organizers barred LGBT participants from marching and holding pro-gay signs. Let me get this straight. It’s perfectly fine for grown men to dress as leprechauns and wax nostalgic about Danny Boy but gays are just too gay.

In NYC, however, the parade went on without Guinness, which withdrew its sponsorship due to the ban, saying that Guinness “has a strong history of supporting diversity and being an advocate for equality for all.” This, my friends, is huge. You can’t have a St. Patrick’s Day event without Guinness. That’s like not dying the Chicago River green, an idea originally developed by plumbers to check for illegal discharges to the sewer system. Gross. Sam Adams and Heineken also pulled out of parades. This is such a shame. Now where will all the impossibly tiny Shriners in impossibly tiny cars go?

So feel free to drink Guinness today. I, for one, will be drinking Harp because Guinness is simply too heavy for me. The last time I had a Guinness was when I was studying in Galway and halfway through I fell off the bar stool and was outed as an American, shaming my ancestors forever. Again.

I haven’t seen Disney’s Frozen because my daughter’s only two months old and I don’t know if they even let babies into movie theaters or what I would do if she started crying and ruining the experience for those recently laid off people hiding from the world. Plus it’s easier to stay at home and watch Law & Order marathons together. It’s definitely more age appropriate than the Disney channel, which just wants to turn kids gay.

Other people who haven’t seen Frozen are warning God-fearing Christians that the film is indoctrinating otherwise innocent animation-loving children in the ways of homosexuality and bestiality. (I assume you’ve seen Beauty and the Beast. I’ve never been so disgusted in my entire life.) Yes, Colorado-based conservative radio host Kevin Swanson is arguing that Frozen carries a blatantly pro-gay pro-Obamacare left-wing agenda.

The movie purports to be about two sisters, one of whom can create snow and ice, learning to love each other. Do I have to spell it out for you? L-E-S-B-I-A-N-S. Icy, snowy, L-E-S-B-I-A-N-S. It’s kind of like Heat Miser and Snow Miser but the music isn’t as good.

“Friends, this is evil, just evil,” Pastor Swanson said. “Man, how many children are taken into these things and how many Christians are taking their kids off to see the movie Frozen, produced by an organization that is probably one of the most pro-homosexual organizations in the country?”

The good pastor’s right. That “It’s a Small World” ride might as well be “It’s a Gay World.”

“You wonder sometimes if maybe there’s something very evil happening here,” Swanson added. “If I was the Devil, what would I do to really foul up an entire social system and do something really, really, really evil to 5- and 6- and 7-year-olds in Christian families around America? If I was the Devil, I would buy Disney in 1984, that’s what I would have done.” Are you kidding me? If I was the devil I would vanquish all my enemies and steal their stuff.

And it’s not just the sexually deviant sisters. There’s also some burly mountain man screwing his pet reindeer.

“I wonder if people think: ‘You know, I think this cute movie is going to indoctrinate my 5-year-old to be a lesbian or treat homosexuality or bestiality in a light sort of way,” Swanson said. “I wonder if the average parent going to see Frozen is thinking that way.”

I’m going to go with “no” on that one. I’m guessing that the average parent doesn’t see incest and bestiality in your typical Disney fairy tale. Except maybe The Sword in the Stone.

Swanson cited a blog post on the National Catholic Register, “So, How Gay IS Disney’s Frozen?,” to back up his allegations. Come on. Anyone who cites something off the conservative National Catholic Register is pretty desperate. If you’re looking for a good Catholic newspaper—and, really, who isn’t—try the National Catholic Reporter or Jesuit News or Better Popes and Gardens.

However the blog post did bring up something that most people probably missed:

Viewers who stayed through the end credits were treated to a parting gag in which Elsa’s giant, male-voiced snow monster, wandering through her abandoned ice palace, picks up her abandoned tiara and places it daintily on its own head, smiling as it discovers its true inner princess.

I KNEW IT. I always knew snowmen were gay! That’s why growing up I made sure to make the carrot the nose.

I probably would have forgotten to vote today, if not for the overzealous Andy Brown campaign bandits who broke into my house, blindfolded me, threw me in an unmarked van and drove me to Maplewood Elementary. I screamed to the precinct workers that I was being forced to vote against my will but they couldn’t hear me because their hearing aids had been recalled in 1989. I tried to vote in both primaries but apparently that’s “frowned upon.”

Needless to say I did end up voting for Andy Brown. I also voted for Ramey Ko based on his deluge of yard signs all over my neighborhood. I am easily swayed by placards of any kind.

If you haven’t made it to the polls yet, fear not. Voting hours in Travis County have been extended until 9PM because of the TREACHEROUS WEATHER that we endured this morning. I’m not sure how many of you braved the outdoors but it was ugly out there. It was cold. There were some puddles on the roads. The sky was kind of gray. My heated car seats took a little longer to warm up. Honestly I wasn’t sure I would even make it back from Starbucks but I was equipped with snow tires, three cases of bottled water, a flashlight, doggie bags and astronaut ice cream.

Luckily it is not nearly as bad out there anymore. You’ve got a little less than four hours. Go fulfill your civic duty or die trying.

I can’t wait to bring my baby with me to vote next Tuesday and pass her off as 18 years old to the octogenarian poll workers at Maple Elementary, who will almost certainly believe me despite the fact that most 18-year-olds don’t wear onesies with dancing elephants on them.

I don’t know if you’ve already voted or if you like to vote on the official day but hopefully you voted/will vote for Mr. “Señor” Andy Brown. No, this isn’t paid media although he has assured me that when he becomes Travis County Judge he’ll make me the court bailiff. I have already started practicing throwing people out of the courtroom, meaning throwing my pug out of the house and then feeling bad and giving him yet another baby toy.

Most of you probably know Andy Brown (he has earned a coveted spot in my tag cloud in between “Mormonism” and “single ladies”) and his many public service roles—Travis County Democratic chairman, wayward camper and photo opp-er, perennial fundraiser attendee, sometime briber—and therefore know why he should be our next county judge. While I’m not really sure what a county judge I assume it has something to do with “counties” and “judging.”

The very tight race is now very tense, with challenger Sarah Eckhardt portraying Brown as the devil, or at least one of those communist red aliens we’ve all been hearing about, in her latest campaign mailer. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy personal attacks as much as the other guy, if not more, but they could’ve at least used a better picture.

Andy’s not the devil. He’s just a boy, standing in front of a voter, asking her to love him. (Apologies to Notting Hill. Scratch that. I refuse to apologize for that wretched romantic comedy.)

So go ahead. Love Andy. Vote for him.

(Early voting through Friday. Election Day is Tuesday. Thus concludes your public service announcement.)

The past few weeks have been busy despite the fact that every day is pretty much the same, what with the Groundhog Day-like cycle of sleeping, crying, burping, eating and pooping. And then there’s the baby. OMG! The good thing about being awake at odd hours, aside from being mesmerized by THE CUTEST BABY EVER, is that I’ve been able to catch almost every Olympic event possible. And even if I miss one it will be on again in like an hour. And I’ll be all, didn’t I just see this? Or is it because I’m a precog?

Naturally my favorite event has been the Women’s Skeleton competition, otherwise known as I’m Trying to Kill Myself. What’s next, jumping off tall buildings? The gold medal goes to the athlete who’s most dead?

In fact I’ve been paying so much attention to the happenings in Sochi that I almost missed what’s going on in that scandal-ridden Texas Lite Gov Republican primary. Apparently at one point in his life State Sen. Dan Patrick was almost human and it’s coming back to haunt him. As the Dallas Morning News reported this week, Patrick, the anti-immigrant zealot from Crazytown, once hired a handful of unauthorized immigrants at his sports bar as cooks and dishwashers in the mid-1980s although he only “vaguely” recalls that. In Patrick’s defense, who remembers what they did in the mid-80s? (Except me. I remember everything and I still hold grudges. You know who you are.) Patrick would’ve gotten away with it too, if not for Land Commissioner Jerry Patterson’s oppo research and Miguel “Mike” Andrade from Mexico. Andrade confirmed that Patrick was well aware of his illegal status and that of his cousin and two other men.

“He was real, real, real kind with us…real good with the Hispanic community,” Andrade said. “He was really wishing (he had) some kind of power…to help us to work in this country and have a better life.” According to Andrade, who is now a U.S. citizen, Patrick wrote him a recommendation to help him with temporary residency. He also offered to help him visit his sick mom in Mexico at the time. Patrick called the allegation “simply preposterous” and argued that he’s never once “acted even remotely like a semi-decent person.”

He should bow out now before they unearth his team of illegal pregnant powerwashing nannies.

I swear I have a good excuse.

On Saturday my husband and I brought home our new baby girl, Crosby Hope. We’d been waiting to adopt a baby for a long, long time so we are crazy happy and beyond grateful. Now I will immediately begin blogging about EVERY SINGLE THING she does. Hey look! She’s peeing on herself! OMG! She’s peeing on me! LOL!

Naturally I’ve decided to raise her in a healthy open environment devoid of tired gender stereotypes, which is why we painted the nursery soft pink, bought all pink onesies, got her pink bedding, and dyed our pug pink just for her homecoming. Of course my actions took me by surprise, kind of like when we were planning our wedding and I was all, whatever, I didn’t spend my childhood dreaming about the perfect wedding but the minute I put my dress on, I was like I’M THE PRETTIEST BRIDE IN THE WHOLE WORLD TAKE MY PICTURE.

I suppose one never knows how one will act in life-changing experiences such as these. Or maybe my self-contradictory attitude indicates more serious trouble ahead and I’ll become just another mommy blogger who drinks rosé in the early afternoon while ignoring her precious baby so she can broadcast mundane everyday baby things she mistakenly thinks are hysterical to her rapidly dwindling amount of Facebook friends. Like, for example, look at my dog looking at my baby in a Moses basket! Have you ever seen anything so precious?! And I’m drunk!

In reality I doubt I could ever turn In the Pink into one of those lucrative mommy blogs with the daily Boudreaux’s Butt Paste giveaways (“kicking rash and taking names!”) because politics will always be my first baby. I imagine I’ll be posting late at night, somewhat sporadically, which I’ve been doing anyway over the past year or so due to a real live job and advice from my team of therapists. I’ve already started reading her the New York Times headlines every morning and she seems very interested or else she’s passing gas. We already have a way of communicating about the news like when I told her to spit up on me if she thought Chris Christie was ultimately responsible for Bridgegate. (She did. My “Governing Cover Girl” hoodie will never be the same.)

But the real moment of truth came when I asked her to use her pacifier to tap out the name of the first woman president in Morse Code and, wouldn’t you know it, she spelled out Hillary.

That’s my girl.

Every year I share a poignant Christmas story from the “Life of Eileen” vault. So why should this year be any different? (For Christmases past please see 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. Good God. So that’s where the time has gone.)

After my parents ruined my life by telling me there was no Santa Claus, they continued to force me to go watch my cousins sit on Santa’s lap in blissful ignorance, telling him all the things they wanted. Up to that point I had never realized that the parents were standing in the background shaking or nodding their heads at Santa following every request. Like when my 6-year-old cousin asked Santa for hand grenades you could see my aunt waving her hands frantically and mouthing NOOOOO because if she hadn’t I suppose her little boy would’ve found German-style potato-masher hand grenades under the tree on Christmas morning.

Of course now that I no longer believed in Santa there was no real Christmas surprise on Christmas morning. Instead as I opened my presents and stocking stuffers I yawned and said, Oh, look, another one from MOM AND DAD MY LYING PARENTS. It was hard to get all excited on Christmas knowing that there was no Santa and that the lopsided red- and green-sprinkled sugar cookies we had carefully laid out for him the night before had been dutifully eaten by our cairn terrier. In other words Christmas without Santa didn’t feel like Christmas at all.

Something shifts inside you when you find out there’s no Santa, when that wide-eyed optimism turns into an underlying bitter skepticism. Sure, it doesn’t happen right away. The year I found out there was no Santa Claus I convinced myself that I’d forget by next Christmas and everything would be back to normal but of course I couldn’t forget. DAMN YOU STEEL TRAP MEMORY. Slowly I started realizing that Christmas isn’t all about presents even though I still like presents and remind my husband on a daily basis that if he doesn’t buy my presents I will find someone who will.

But there are lessons to be learned during this holiday season and one such lesson can be illustrated best by an ice skating “game.” One winter my dad took my sisters and me ice skating and suggested we play Crack the Whip, because apparently trying to maneuver your frostbitten toes over freezing cold ice while wearing ridiculously thin, possibly lethal, blades wasn’t challenging enough. Here’s how the game works. Everyone holds hands and skates as fast as they can until they decide it’s time to throw the person on the end—typically the youngest and frailest child—into one of the walls. The moments before they do you think, maybe they won’t let go, until you see the glint in their eyes, the subtle loosening of the grip. You brace yourself and close your eyes and then, nothing. You’re still holding hands and skating along and this time no one lets go. And there you are, just another family, gliding around the rink, holding hands.

Turns out I don’t want more presents. I want more of that.

Merry Christmas.

Trust me when I say there is nothing scarier than a white Santa.

As I’ve written about several times in the past, this is the Santa my parents took us to year after year in order to show us that it’s perfectly fine to sit on a strange man’s lap even if that strange man is wearing thick black eyeliner and has freakishly gigantic hands. But you know what’s even more unsettling than a creepy white Santa? A creepy non-white Santa.

Last week Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly made it clear that the real Santa is white (unless you’re poor in which case he’s invisible). Kelly made her comments in reference to an article in Slate, “Santa Claus Should Not Be a White Man Anymore.” I think we’re missing the point here. What about, “Santa Claus Should Not Be a Man Anymore.” Do you have any idea how tired I am of showing up in my husband’s red long johns to be a Salvation Army Santa only to be told that I can’t because I’m a woman? And also too old? IT’S STILL A MAN’S WORLD DON’T KID YOURSELF.

Here’s Megyn:

When I saw this headline I kinda laughed and I said, Oh, this is ridiculous. Yet another person claiming it’s racist to have a white Santa. And by the way, for all you kids watching at home, Santa just is white. But this person is maybe just arguing that we should also have a black Santa. But, you know, Santa is what he is, and just so you know, we’re just debating this because someone wrote about it, kids.

Megyn’s right. We do have a serious problem here. A grown woman who still sees Santa Claus. (Position has been filled.)

You know, I mean, Jesus was a white man too. He was a historical figure; that’s a verifiable fact—as is Santa, I want you kids watching to know that—but my point is: how do you revise it, in the middle of the legacy of the story, and change Santa from white to black?

Actually I don’t think Jesus really was a white man, being Middle Eastern and all, but I’ll take her word on Santa. I know my Santa was white. I still draw pictures of him in my art therapy class.

NAILED IT.

In case you’re not a subscriber to TIME magazine (and really, who is?), Pope Francis, “The People’s Pope,” is the Person of the Year. As you know I grew up Catholic and remember to this day the feeling I had when I saw Pope John Paul II in a parade in DC back in 1979. After yelling at my parents for making me go to a parade without any Shriners, I saw the pope and my life changed forever because up until that point I didn’t realize men could wear dresses. I imagine we had to write an essay about it for the nuns in between saying rosaries for kids in public school and getting our heads checked for lice. Truth be told in recent years I hadn’t been paying much attention to the Vatican during the Reign of Terror/Benedict but Francis makes me want to dig up my vintage “I’m Catholic. Jealous?” t-shirt.

In a matter of months, Francis has elevated the healing mission of the church—the church as servant and comforter of hurting people in an often harsh world—above the doctrinal police work so important to his recent predecessors. John Paul II and Benedict XVI were professors of theology. Francis is a former janitor, nightclub bouncer, chemical technician and literature teacher.

So there’s your resume for becoming pope: janitor, bouncer, chemist and English teacher. I’m almost there: former hostess, office temp, English major, professional blogger. But let’s face it. I’ll probably never be pope. Then again I never thought I’d make the cheerleading squad, what with my lackluster split jumps and boyish figure, but I did. And now, decades later, I still mention it every chance I get—cocktail parties, UPS deliveries, emergency rooms, etc. Which makes me think that my accomplishments since then have been few and far between, aside from naming members of the Supreme Court and drinking more wine than you. Good God. What have I been doing with my life?

Should’ve been a janitor.

I burst into tears after finally decorating our Christmas tree because I realized we’d put it up too late and I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it since we’ll be tossing it in the backyard soon to die a slow death next to our tree from 2012. I’ve barely had time to set up my Celtic Christmas channel on Pandora and in a moment of weakness I ate all the chocolate out of my Advent calendar. I haven’t even started Christmas shopping which means my family will be receiving signed selfies of me. Again.

That said I’m trying to prepare for the new year ahead of time which is why I checked my Facebook “Year in Review,” which purports to tell me my biggest moments of 2013. Like “Red meat two nights in a row” (Jan 4), “I killed a spider in yoga class today” (March 18) and “Took Henry to his annual vet exam” (May 16). Screw you, Facebook.

A better way to evaluate the year that was is to look at the people who really made an impact. And because I refuse to take Barbara Walters’ list seriously (Kim & Kanye, the stars of Duck Dynasty, Miley Cyrus), I have created my own list of people/objects.

10. Marco Rubio’s water bottle.
9. The Chief Justice’s lesbian cousin.
8. Everyman aka Paul Kevin Curtis.
7. Radomysisky, Second Segwayman of the Digital Apocalypse.
6. Connie Britton as Wendy Davis.
5. Attack tampons.
4. #NDO4SA
3. Edward Snowden’s porn poet pin-up girlfriend.
2. Slutbags.
1. The new pope.

I trust everyone survived the Thanksgiving holiday. There was only one major incident involving my nieces. One morning I decided to take them on a hike with The Pug and the water levels were, let’s just say, dangerously high. They were a little nervous about crossing at first but after 20 minutes of auntie heckling they gave in. So I was helping my 8-year-old niece when we slid on a rock and plunged into the ice cold water. When I stood up I realized that my knee was twice its normal size with basically means it was normal sized. I thought I’d have to be medi-vacced out. Also I have a gash on my forearm and a scratch on my forehead, which may or may not require cosmetic surgery. (My niece, of course, is fine. She may look innocent but, believe me, she can be ruthless.)

Since we’re on the topic of family, do you know who loves his family more than anyone else is even capable of doing? Ted Cruz. You can tell by this insightful profile on the conservative Townhall website: Why Ted Cruz Fights.

There’s nothing more heartbreaking than walking out on Monday morning to get on a plane to Washington, and having both girls grab my legs and say, ‘Don’t go, Daddy.’ That’s difficult… but at the same time, they are a big part of why I’m doing this. In 20 years, I don’t want to look my daughters in the eye and say we allowed freedom to slip away in America, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.

Wow. That’s commitment. When you leave your children to go to work, I bet you’re not going into battle to single-handedly fight the powers that be to keep this country free. You’re probably just sitting in a cube somewhere dreaming about what could have been if only you had applied yourself. According to the writer, “Cruz ran on one ‘simple’ idea: Saving our country.” Saving our country? Either the author is sleeping with this oily variety bohunk or she actually believes his bullshit. Maybe both.

You should know that there’s really no point in reading this profile, which is basically a rewrite of every article on Cruz ever written, except even more vomit-inducing.

What we do in the office every day is simply try to do the right thing. Our mantra is ‘good policy makes good politics.’ On each issue that comes down the pike, the team’s focus is: What is the principled course of action? How can we defend free market principles? How can we defend the Constitution?

That’s one of the first things I think about in the morning, aside from wondering why my pug is sleeping on top of my head. How can I defend the Constitution today? Sometimes it’s about freedom of speech, sometimes freedom of the press, but usually it’s about reading friends and family their Miranda rights after accusing them of various wrongs.

My sister and her family are in town for the Thanksgiving holiday and my nieces took to Henry right away after he bit off half their toes. It’s the way he shows affection. That and shedding all over you until you look like you fashion your clothes out of fawn pug hair.

Thank God my mother-in-law has agreed to cook. Years ago I made a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving and after my uncle tried some he asked the rest of the family who liked pumpkin pie and if they didn’t, he said, WELL YOU MIGHT LIKE THIS BECAUSE IT TASTES NOTHING LIKE PUMPKIN PIE. Needless to say I was quite traumatized. Now I busy myself with decorating (assorted gourds scattered randomly on the table) and entertaining (turning on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and yelling out which floats are my favorite).

As you know this is the time to give thanks for all you have while remaining bitter about everything you don’t have but definitely deserve. If you can’t think of anything to be thankful for this year, may I suggest…

The pope.

This pope is the bomb. Where did they find this Jesuit? He’s welcoming, inclusive, compassionate, humble—everything a Catholic isn’t supposed to be. Embracing gays is one thing but now he’s done the unthinkable. He’s insulted Ronald Reagan.

In his first apostolic exhortation, Pope Francis criticized trickle-down economics and tax cuts for the rich saying, “Some people continue to defend trickle-down theories which assume that economic growth, encouraged by a free market, will inevitably succeed in bringing about greater justice and inclusiveness in the world. This opinion expresses a crude and naïve trust in the goodness of those wielding economic power.” Oh, SLAM. If only people read apostolic exhortations.

Pope Francis added that “not to share one’s wealth with the poor is to steal from them and to take away their livelihood.” Let’s not go overboard. Show me one passage in the Bible where Jesus actually cared about the poor and downtrodden.

I fully intend to bring this topic up at Thanksgiving, after we’ve gone through all the TableTopics (“What fictional character would you most like to meet?!” “If you had multiple personalities, what would they be??”). I’ll open with a scathing review of trickle-down theories and if anyone disagrees with me, I’ll inform them they’re also disagreeing with the pope and challenging God and if they don’t reverse their arguments they will be spending at least 1,000 years in purgatory and I, for one, will not be praying for their release.

I am nothing if not a good hostess. Happy Thanksgiving.

I don’t mean to alarm anyone but I was in the hospital over the weekend with severe abdominal pain. They kept me overnight and were prepared to perform an emergency appendectomy in the morning. I immediately signed a DNR and asked that all of my worldly possessions be left to my pug. They assured me it would be a routine surgery to remove my appendix but I naturally assumed that they were part of the Obamacare conspiracy trying to weed out the sick among us in order to bring down costs. Turns out I didn’t need the appendectomy after all and am left with yet another completely useless organ. (Take my gall bladder. Please.)

Needless to say I missed the Sunday talk shows as I was convalescing, which meant I lay in bed with the back of my hand resting on my forehead in a dramatic fashion and waited for attention that never came. Apparently Wyoming Senate hopeful Liz Cheney was her usual charming self and used her valuable time on Fox News Sunday to slam her sister’s lesbian problem. Cheney said she opposed same-sex marriage, which is “just an area where we disagree,” referring to sister Mary. Yes, a simple disagreement between two sisters, like who should bring pecan pie for Thanksgiving or which one of them deserves civil rights.

Shocked by her evil sister’s public display of evil, Mary, who is married, took a break from Candy Crush to update her status on Facebook saying, “Liz — this isn’t just an issue on which we disagree you’re just wrong — and on the wrong side of history.” Mary’s wife Heather Poe wrote about Liz on her Facebook page saying that “in fifteen states and the District of Columbia you are my sister-in-law.” Oh, snap. My in-laws HATE it when I call them my in-laws.

Clearly this situation has made things awfully difficult for Dick Cheney, who prefers Liz because she’s straight but prefers Mary because Liz is an asshole. Later on Sunday Liz said in an email, “I love my sister and her family and have always tried to be compassionate towards them. I believe that is the Christian way to behave.” Oh, stop. If you’re such a Christian, you don’t have to tell people what a “Christian” you are. You just have to slap one of those Jesus fish stickers on your SUV.

In an interview Sunday Mary Cheney said that her sister had always been “very supportive” of her relationship with Poe and their two children but that now it’s virtually impossible for them to reconcile as long as Liz continues to be opposed to same sex marriage. According to Poe, “Liz has been a guest in our home, has spent time and shared holidays with our children, and when Mary and I got married in 2012 — she didn’t hesitate to tell us how happy she was for us. To have her say she doesn’t support our right to marry is offensive to say the least.”

This is going to be one awkward holiday and I know awkward holidays. My uncle once came downstairs during dinner wearing my aunt’s slip.

I’m finally getting over my jetlag from visiting the Windy City last weekend. This photo, featuring my husband, our friends and my enormous hair, was taken on the architectural boat tour on the (disappointingly non-green) Chicago river. Naturally I was wearing a life vest due to my inability to tread water for more than 12 seconds. And although an architectural boat tour seems an unlikely prospect for calamity, you can never be too sure. That’s why I always carry an emergency supply of molecular encapsulated alcohol powder and an extra pair of outrageously priced Lululemon yoga pants. BUT NOT ANYMORE. (I will, however, continue to hoard alcohol powder.)

In case you missed it, Lululemon co-founder Chip Wilson appeared on Bloomberg News last week and implied that fat women shouldn’t do yoga. At least not in his pants. I mean at least not in Lululemon pants. When asked about recent complaints that the yoga pants were overly sheer and fall apart too easily, Wilson replied, “They don’t work for some women’s bodies. It’s really about the rubbing through the thighs, how much pressure is there over a period of time, how much they use it.” Wait. Are we still talking about yoga? Pervert. Not that anyone should be surprised considering they have “Wunder Under” pants.

Now Wilson says he feels “really sad,” mostly for fat women who have to buy yoga pants at Old Navy. I would say that I’m going to boycott Lululemon but I can’t afford to shop there anyway. It’s either their yoga pants or my car payment.

Although I’m not a subscriber of Guns & Ammo magazine, I imagine that the editorial focus is on guns and ammo and the intended audience is people who own guns and ammo. So it’s no surprise to me that readers were up in arms (OMG!) when it published a column suggesting that very, very limited gun control regulations may not be a total infringement upon the Second Amendment. That’s outrageous. That’s like if I was editor of Cheerleading Rocks! magazine and I wrote a column suggesting that basket tosses were dangerous and should be banned before any more popular teenage girls suffer injuries. I mean just because that’s how I fractured my wrist in high school doesn’t mean that I should inject my personal opinions into it. Go ahead. Keep doing those basket tosses. You won’t be laughing when you FALL ON YOUR FACE.

I’m sure you’ll agree that the G&A column by contributing peacenik editor Dick Metcalf was a direct affront to everyone who loves freedom, guns and ammo.

I firmly believe that all U.S. citizens have a right to keep and bear arms, but I do not believe that they have a right to use them irresponsibly. And I do believe their fellow citizens by the specific language of the Second Amendment, have an equal right to enact regulatory laws requiring them to undergo adequate training and preparation for the responsibility of bearing arms. I bring this up because way too many gun owners still believe that any regulation of the right to continue to keep and bear arms is an infringement. The fact is that all constitutional rights are regulated, always have been, and need to be.

Damn, man. Why don’t you get yourself a job at the New Yorker already? After angry subscribers threatened a boycott, Metcalf was fired and editor Jim Bequette subsequently resigned following an apology and asking for forgiveness. Seriously. There’s nothing like taking a stand and then crawling back on your knees.

Needless to say, the Guns & Ammo Facebook page exploded with comments from enraged gun nuts, who clearly value the Second Amendment over the First.

One of my favorites:

I’ve written a lot about The Rapture over the years and have warned you nonbelievers accordingly but this time I’m convinced: The Rapture, It Cometh. Possibly as soon as next week.

What are the signs of The Rapture, you ask? You know the End Times are near when a black man is elected president, the economy tanks, your neighbors start disappearing, Crossfire is resurrected and George W. Bush converts the Jews by looking especially creepy.

Next week Bush will be the keynote speaker at a fundraiser for the Messianic Jewish Bible Institute, an organization which hopes to bring on the Second Coming of Christ by completely undermining the Jewish faith. I’m not sure how you can be a Messianic Jew any more than you can be a Jew for Jesus but last I checked Catholics don’t believe in The Rapture and with Pope Francis leading us, we’ll probably all be Episcopalians soon.

The goal of the Institute is to convert Jews to a hybrid type of Jewish-Christianity, or “Jewanity,” thereby restoring Israel to its original purpose—as a landing strip for God. As you can imagine Messianic Jews are not very popular among old-school non-Christian Jews, probably because they’re jealous. This is like when Charlotte converted to Judaism for Harry and became Charlotte York Goldenblatt. I believe that’s when Sex and the City began its long downward spiral, culminating in a Mikhail Baryshnikov guest role and two hideous movies.

Last year Glenn Beck headlined the event. The guy’s A MORMON. If there’s anyone they should be converting it’s A MORMON. Mormons are WEIRD. Not that I’m necessarily opposed to becoming a Joseph Smith Roman Catholic if it gets me into the Mormon Tabernacle off I-495. It’s hauntingly beautiful.