Talking to Your Husband About Your Period


There he is. Poor Nick. My husband. Smelling the inside of a maxi-pad.

This was during one of our many talks about my period. My husband – like many – is a little bit of a misogynist. He has never taken the time to consider the nuances of the fairer sex and always thought that women were just like him. Cold. Sterile. Emotionless.

Recently I decided that the best way to make him understand that women have different experiences, emotions, and needs than men was to talk at length about my period. Who am I kidding, though? A man understand women? That’s about as likely to happen as Kim Kardashian closing her legs and losing that huge ass of hers. So at the very least, talking to my husband about my period is a good form of punishment.

Talking to Your Husband About Your Period


My husband rarely experiences bad bodily feelings. But when he does, it’s like the end of the world. I have noticed lately that he’s starting to feel the effects of age. His elbow hurts all the time when he uses it a certain way too much. I have aches and pains all the time, but you don’t see me rubbing them, blathering on about them, and putting icepacks on before lifting something. His stomach can no longer handle him eating three week old leftovers either. The endless conversations about how he had lost his appetite the last time he did that were enough to make me take an Ambien-Vodka cocktail.

What my husband has absolutely no concept of still, though, is being compassionate towards other people’s pain. When I had a really bad asthma attack years ago he told me I was acting like a princess. I had back surgery when I was 13 years old and still have stainless steel rods screwed onto my spine. And he still doesn’t understand that I have limitations. One time we moved my husband actually insisted I help carry heavy boxes and furniture up a staircase. By myself while he was at work.

Cramps are a really good way to help him get the point that people have their limits. Usually when I have cramps they progressively get worse and worse and worse. There is never a let off until I either (a) take some Tylenol, or (b) pass out and sleep them off. It’s always been this way, but it was only recently that I realized I should be sharing with my husband the nuances of it all.

“Nick, I can’t make dinner tonight, will you pick something up? … oh, there are about a million men trying to push their way out of my uterus. It feels like World War II in there.”

Talking to Your Husband About Your Period

Stomach Upset

I remember when I was in health class in high school, they always acted like a period was no big deal. You just bleed for three days and that is the end of it. And for swimming class, they’d only give you the pass on it for three days too; then still make you do super-strenuous stuff as a replacement activity, in spite of how shitty you felt. Now I realize that this was just a part of the cultural male agenda to try and minimize the plight of women, but let’s not get socio-philosophical here.

To begin, I’ve never actually bled for only three days. Maybe just four or five, but never three. It isn’t just a little blood for those days though, either. It’s cramping. It’s hurting boobs. It’s headaches and anxiety. It’s mood swings. It’s insomnia. And it’s stomach upset.

All of those are normal for a woman to have on her period. Normal. But if you are my husband, you have no concept of what is normal for a woman, so it’s all crazy and unreasonable and it’s like being in high school with the health class and the swimming pass all over again.

So a few weeks ago my husband ate leftover Mexican food that was over two weeks old. We were laying in bed, watching some shitty movie, and he said he had a stomach ache. Then for about thirty minutes he tap danced around just telling me that he had the shits from eating old Mexican food. It was the most awkward conversation I think I have ever had.

To me, if you are married you are there to experience everything. Why be skiddish? We’re married. This is why I have absolutely no problem at all telling my husband every little thing that’s wrong with me when I’m on my period (really, ever). My boobs hurt. I have a migraine. My sinuses are drizzling gooey snot down the back of my throat. I could continue, but the real gems are when my stomach is upset.

“I just lost forty pounds in water weight, thanks to my glorious period and too much dairy. I think I’ll skip dinner and take some Imodium.”

Talking to Your Husband About Your Period

The Scent of a Woman

Let’s not beat around the bush (no pun intended): periods can smell a little weird. I don’t mean like fish weird (that’s gross). I mean like dead blood cells weird. I mean like feminine products weird. That’s why they make scented tampons and maxi pads.

I don’t usually use scented stuff, simply because I don’t see much of a point. If you are clean and take care of yourself, there really isn’t much of an issue. And it’s only about a week anyway. But sometimes in the box there is a free sample for whatever their newest product is, and nine times out of ten they have some new scent technology.

Last night I opened this box of sample scent technology maxi pads and opened the package to smell a waft of lemon scent fly at my nostrils. Weird, I know. I started laughing and my husband asked what was so funny, so I figured I would show him. By having him sniff the pad himself.

But he didn’t understand, so I explained. First I squatted so he had a visual aid. Then I explained it to him.

“Sometimes a woman’s vagina smells rotten during her period.”

He interrupted “you don’t smell rotten on your period.”

“Right, that’s because I bathe a lot. Some women do not, so their vag smells foul when Aunt Flo is in town. So Always has taken it upon themselves to add lemon scent to the mix in hopes that it will cover up whatever foulness the period has to offer.”

And then I illustrated with the movement of my hands how the smell wafts out.

Horrifying, I know.

So the only question that remains here is if this is effective. So far it seems not. Poor Nick is not more compassionate, or understanding. Now he just blames everything that goes wrong on my period. But I do feel that this is just retribution for being a misogynist.

I also think that women should not be so ashamed of these things. Why? Why be ashamed? It’s who we are. Cramp-wielding, hormone-fusing, foul-smelling blood baths. Embrace it, ladies.

A Merry Cantankerous Christmas To You


Have I mentioned to all of you faithful blog followers before that I hate the holidays? The spending and the family and the lines and the gimme-gimme-gimme-what’d-you-get-mes… it is all just a little much for me.

So as we now close into the final stretch, I’ve pretty much been drinking heavily, swearing profusely, and emotionally eating my way to the end. But those aren’t the only ways I’m ensuring a cantankerous Christmas for me and the people that have the great misfortune of being around me.

A Crotchety Christmas Eve

I’ve decided that Christmas Eve is going to come with a side of crotchety bitch.

For two weeks or so, I’ve had a really bad chest cold; this of course did not excuse me from having to cook a multitude of meals, clean the house, get the gifts wrapped, run the errands, and do every other random bullshit preparatory thing that needed to be done. Because while everyone else gets sick and gets to sit around on their asses whining and being waited on and shit, mom gets sick and everyone just demands more.

So on Christmas Eve, my mother and father are coming over and Santa will have come in the afternoon somehow (stealthily, I might add … I have yet to figure that one out). Then we’ll open presents while I get shitfaced, eat dinner, have dessert, and I’ll shuttle the two of them out the door before they either (a) get into an argument, or (b) get back together after 22 years apart.

But remember that I’m cranky because I’ve been sick and no one really seems to have given a damn, so I plan on inserting some crotchety behavior into Christmas Eve. Just in case they thought they were all off the hook for being a bunch of ignorant jerks while I hacked and spewed everywhere. Somewhere, somehow (another thing I have yet to determine) I plan on throwing some freakish bout of hostility into the mix. I’m thinking that since I still have a cough, I might throw myself onto the floor and start banging my fists into the ground while I hack. Nothing says “crotchety old bitch” like proving your point.

A Cuntly Christmas Brunch

When I was in middle school (fuck this “middle school” west coast bullshit, by the way … where I grew up it was called junior high … but I digress), I learned what the term “cunt” meant. It makes me cringe to even say/hear/read/type it, so I’ll keep it to a minimum, but nonetheless that one day in junior high (motherfuckers … it’s motherfucking junior high), I learned that this is a crass way to refer to a woman’s vagina. And if you are trying to insult someone, of course it would be only natural to use a woman’s body part as the deepest of offenses.

I myself even call my husband a vulva and/or hairy labia in a derogatory fashion when we argue. I also call him a vulva and/or hairy labia when we’re in bed, but that’s another story altogether.

Besides being sick, I have gotten more details on people’s medical problems, health issues, bowel movements, and other assorted bodily things than I have wanted to as of late. I think it has to do with the fact that I mostly hang out with old people. My dad needs hip surgery. My mother in law has a cold in her eye and it makes her look like a rabid raccoon. My grandfather had a very productive bowel movement the other day after seven doses of Dulcolax and a bowl of prunes.

TMI, right? Well to get even with all of these people for conjuring up images that I never in a million years would have wanted to think about, my revenge will obviously be my own TMI.

I think I’ll start by talking about a strange vaginal itch (disclaimer: I do not have a strange vaginal itch). Then I’ll move on to discussing the fact that my labia smells like butterscotch (disclaimer: my labia does not smell like butterscotch). Then I thought I would tap off the whole Cuntly Christmas Brunch by standing in the middle of the kitchen, my hand down my pants and scratching vehemently, then turn around just at the right moment and ask if anyone wants butterscotch liquor in their egg nog. It’ll be super crass, super horrifying, and fucking awesome.

A Callous Christmas Dinner

OK, Christmas Eve (tonight) I’m cooking dinner for my parents and we’re opening gifts. Christmas morning (tomorrow in the am) I’m making a huge brunch for all segments of our families and friends that are local (albeit, very few are coming). Christmas Dinner we are going to my in-law’s house to open gifts with them, have dinner, and pretend like we all enjoy each other’s company.

My Cantankerous Christmas wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t do something to reinforce my title as “Queen of Bitches,” so I think I’ve decided on being as rough, callous, and uninterested as possible. Fortunately, we’ll be at my in-law’s, and this is what they are used to. They hate me. I respond by pretty much sitting and not saying much. My husband is similar, which I noticed very early on. I remember one time we were at his parent’s house and I noticed he was very callous when he was around his parents. He would stand there silently, with his arms crossed. He never really talked about anything unless he was asked a question.

When I asked him about it, he said that he knew he acted that way, and that he was callous like that on purpose. He said if he wasn’t, then his mother would spew her emotion everywhere and manipulate him to get things from him (in the way of commitments, time, and career and otherwise sacrifices). Whether this is the case or not, I still don’t know. What I do know is that I typically follow his lead and keep my mouth relatively shut (well, shut for me) because it is his family. And most of them hate me too.

So what are you doing for Christmas, faithful blog followers? Being chipper and loving it? Hating it in a bout of vehement misanthropy like me? Deleting yourself from my blog now that you realize how much of a truly crass and angry woman I can be?

I know that I can be a tough pill to swallow, but this whole Cantankerous Christmas really couldn’t be any better of a situation for me. I get to be a misanthrope. I get an excuse to drink copious amounts of alcoholic grape juice. And I get to open myself to a world of stories to tell. People always say to me: “Christmas is what you make of it.” They are of course referring to the fact that I’m far away from my family and in an unhappy place in life right now. But I think it goes beyond Christmas being what you make of it; it’s about Christmas being about who you are. Many of you don’t know me in person, so it isn’t really fair when you send me your hatemail and tell me I’m a “fucking asshole,” an “ugly whore,” and a “miserable cunt.” Because you don’t know me in person and you don’t know that I really am one of the nicest and most caring people you will ever meet.

But that doesn’t come without a price: I am called a bitch for a reason, and I am referred to as “blunt” because I say it exactly how it is. You might say I’m a little … cantankerous. I think Christmas this year is what I make of it, sure; and my Christmas is about who I am. A Merry Cantankerous Christmas to you, faithful blog followers, or whatever respective holiday you celebrate around this time of year. I hope it is what you make of it, and you are you in the process.

STFU Fridays: Did you know I’m 25 again?

Hah! I fucking wish! If I were 25 I’d be young, spry, and free of my four gray hairs. I would slap the shit out of myself for being so naive and idealistic about the world and politics and how great society is too. (And I’d probably save myself the trouble that turned out to be all for naught, and leave grad school before incurring all that extra debt…)

So what I should be in the realm of “25,” though, is in the Top 25 Mom Blogger Authors on Circle of Moms. And yet I am not (yet). Why you ask? Probably because rather than log on and vote for me daily, my husband has spent his time scrolling through apps on his smartphone, and looking for new pornography downloads. And you faithful blog followers haven’t S’d the F up and voted for me. Again, yet.

Thus, in an effort to garner more votes and excitement and “fuck yeah, you are one of the top 25 mom blogger authors out there”s, I decided that I’d let you all know you should vote. And in exchange for your vote, I will share a few of my own current Shut the Fuck Up facts.

Because you faithful blog followers haven’t heard enough of my vulgarities, have you?

Here’s the link (just click the picture, scroll until you see the B(itch)log and hit the ol’ “vote” button)…


… and here goes my STFU Facts:

1. Vaginas horrify me. I know, I know: shut the fuck up, Heather. Right? Since I have a vagina I should probably think the thing is better than Barbara Streisand in “Hello, Dolly!”

Not the case. The thought of vaginal birth makes me feel faint. I know I should be all “power to women” and “the vag is a beautiful flower that blossoms to puke out a baby” or whatever, but I just can’t take that shit. Maybe it was my dysfunctional childhood. Maybe it’s the fact that every time I think of one I remember the time I saw my mom dry humping the back porch and was worried she’d get slivers on her hoo-ha. Then I wondered what it would be like to have slivers on my own hoo-ha, and well … let’s just leave it there. The female underworld bugs me a bit.

2. I think about the New Kids on the Block at least once a day. Sometimes twice. I dance to The Right Stuff in the shower. Every time I talk about NKOTB, someone in my family tells me to shut the fuck up already.

3. I hate California Italians. I hate California Italian food. I know, most of you are like “shut the fuck up, B(itch)!” For one, I’ve talked about it before – way to recycle material. But I actually mentioned that I hate all Italians. Now I’ve realized that it’s really California Italians.

For one, California Italians can’t cook to save their goddamned lives. For two, they’re arrogant, pompous assholes. I was at a party a few weeks ago and this dillhole told me that Chicagoans can’t cook pizza, or really any Italian-style dish, worth shit. STFU doucenoodle.


4. On the note of food, I get tired of eating. It’s boring to me. After about five bites, I start to get really bored with my food. It isn’t that there’s no flavor or that it’s gross or anything; it’s really just the chewing. Chewing is perhaps my least favorite activity.

I know. I for real need to shut the fuck up. Whine much about stupid shit?

5. One last comment on food (it’s on my mind because I just got bored out of my fucking mind eating tortellinis that I – a Chicagoan – made): slimy things gross me out. This kind of goes beyond food, though, because it’s really anything slimy is nasty to me. So I don’t like mushrooms or brocolli, because they both have high slime potential. I don’t like slugs. When the dishwasher broke the other day, I puked in my mouth over the bits of slime that came out of the thing.

There is one slimy thing I’m totally OK with, though; probably because it is ever-present as a result of my horrible allergy and sinus problems: snot. So I don’t like mushrooms but I’m totally cool with boogers.

Should I give myself a shut the fuck up punch in the boob now, or later?

6. I’m a total hypocrite. Every time I bitch and complain about kid’s Christmas movies, you are all given pre-approval to tell me to shut my lilly-livered ass the fuck up.

Why you ask? Oh, because I’ve encouraged the viewing of these hackneyed, poorly done Christmas kid’s movies for about three weeks now. I added maybe 180 of them to the Netflix que and it keeps it quiet in here (because kids are suckers for bad acting and puppies).

So those are a few of my current shut the fuck up facts. Now please – PLEASE – shut yourselves the fuck up and vote for me on Circle of Moms. You literally have only a few hours left to get your vote in.

Here’s the link again, just in case you forgot with all my talk about vaginas and slimy things. Good thing I didn’t talk about slimy vaginas though, eh?


I Think I Have An Obsession With Balls

Balls on a stick, covered in frosting and sprinkles. Balls mixed with egg and simmered in cranberry sauce for a few hours. Balls made out of cheese and chutney, rolled in a variety of nuts and miscellaneous hanging fruit. Balls drizzled in caramel and covered in – big surprise – nuts.

These will be the centerpieces of the party that we’re throwing this weekend in honor of Thanksgiving. The last minute cancelations on the old RSVPs have really started to roll in, which I don’t know if I’m upset about or happy for.

If I’m upset, it’s because I’m a little offended that we can always go to other people’s parties, but they never seem to be able to come to ours. What’s worse about it is that some of my Trailer Trash Mom’s hillbilly family actually had the balls (no pun intended) to say “something better came up.” Something better came up motherfucker? How about my fist up your rude asshole next time you give me shit because I can’t make it to your kid’s birthday party? But I digress…

If I’m happy, though, it’s because I’ll have all of those balls to myself.

This isn’t the first time something I’ve done has been ball-focused, though. And in fact, I’m starting to wonder if I have a little obsession with them.

Exhibit A

Food In Ball Form

This party will be the third one in which a lot of the food I’ve made for it is in ball-form. I do it all the time; in fact, I just made some balls for dinner the other night.

Is it the calm I get when rolling them out that entices me to do it so often? Is it the ease with which they cook evenly? Whatever the case may be, I roll so much of our food into balls these days, it’d probably be easier to make a list of the food I haven’t made squishy and sphere-like.

Exhibit B

“Suck on my hairy balls”

So I don’t actually have testicles. I know many of you have been wondering for a very, very long time. But I don’t.

And yet the words “suck on my hairy balls,” and it’s equally as effective variant “lick my sticky nuts,” come out of my mouth on average ten times a day. I say it under my breath when someone cuts me off. I say it to my uber-religious father when he annoys me. I yell it at my husband when I clean up his nut hair clippings off the floor.

OK, I totally just took that one too far, and to be clear my husband doesn’t actually clip his pubic hair. I don’t think.

But that brings me to the next point.

Exhibit C

Jokes Involving Testicles

I make a lot of jokes involving testicles. I’m pretty sure it’s because I hear them a lot, but then there are other times when it fits with just about anything.

This Friday I’ll be roasting a few of my favorite bloggers on my STFU Fridays post; all of which started out of an awful joke I made into something of a comic/picture, which (of course) involves a crack about balls. And not a night goes by that I don’t make fun of my husband for that one time he laid in bed scratching himself. Not a single night.

So what’s the verdict? Do I have an obsession with balls?


This evening I made some pumpkin bread and had a lot of leftover batter. So the only natural thing for me to do was to break out the cake pop pan and make some balls. Pumpkin balls, covered in nuts. Covered in nuts and drizzled in ball molasses.

Now my mouth is watering to squeeze as many of those squishy sacks into my mouth. See? I can’t even stop myself, even when I’ve taken it to a point even I am grossed out by. I’m totally obsessed. Are you?

Probe Me, Alien Life Form … Probe Me

I wrote a post quite a few years ago about reasons I’d want to be abducted by aliens, but then deleted it after some creepy Internet trolls commented that they were whacking off to the thought of me getting anally probed by an alien life form.

Well, now I say: whack away. I’m pretty sure I saw a UFO last night, and I need to talk about it.

So I was driving last night. It was pretty late and we were on a stretch of road that runs between two farm fields, heading East. There isn’t that much land in California that is undeveloped, but when you hit it, there’s always an eerie feeling. A couple of times I’ve seen people walking in the pitch black. Once there was a truck driving through the fields.

Now I have driven through this stretch of road probably a million times. I know all the ins and outs of it. I know where the broken stretch of farm fence is. I know where the cell phone tower lights hang.

I do not, however, recall ever seeing – in all the years I have been here – two lights from a round disc, hanging in the sky over the mountains.

I thought that must be an airplane; but then the lights never moved. I thought it’ll disappear in a second; but then I drove around for an hour and it continued to hover. I thought I must be the only one noticing this, but then Pookie saw them too and freaked out, and some people at a stop light were looking in the sky, videotaping it with their cell phones.

So I’m pretty sure it was a UFO. There was apparently a sighting a few nights ago around the same area as well. And when I Googled it, I found this video from a couple years ago in the same, exact spot over the mountains.

Now I could freak out. I could think that the aliens are finally coming to destroy the human race so that they can have our resources (what remains of them). I could break out my tin foil hat. I could start researching conspiracy theories and reading books about alien cover-ups.

I could also consider this my last stop to Crazytown, USA, and start getting fitted for my straight jacket. It’s most likely this last one.

Instead (for now), I will leave it with my words. Those words?

Probe me, alien life form … probe me.

Article 1: I am married, which means that if an alien life form probes me, I’ll actually get some action for once.

Article 2: I wouldn’t mind being selected for an alien insemination program. Marge Simpson did it. The chick from Earth Girls Are Easy did it. Babies act like aliens 90% of the time anyway – why not?

Article 3: I’ve always wanted to go into outer space, but don’t trust the faulty intelligence of humans to do one of those future “fly into space” things we’ve all been promised to see in our lifetimes. Anything that has mastered intergalactic travel, though, is alright by me.

Article 4: I find scientific experimentation sexy.

Article 5: Did I mention I’m married? It’s worth reiterating.

When I was little, my father thought he saw something like a UFO. He became obsessed with it for a while – he even bought one of those UFO tops that spun on the table with the lights. He never mentioned a wish to be probed by them, though, so I would say I’m just furthering the family obsession with extraterrestrial life forms.

Taking it much, much further.

Okay, now that I’m done with that, I’m going to legitimately go fit myself for a straight jacket and try to figure out whether or not that really was an alien. If aliens do exist, why would they visit Earth? And why visit Earth so frequently? I mean, it’s pretty obvious we’ve fucked this place up beyond repair at this point. It seems as though if anyone should be doing the space travel and the searching for resources, it should be us. That leads me to believe they really want the probing.

But that’s all too much thinking. Now I have a headache. Or maybe I already was probed…

How Being a Parent Is Much Like Being In a Mental Institute

The other day we watched Girl, Interrupted. I always have mixed feelings about that movie. On one hand, it’s a cute and yet offbeat coming of age story. On another hand, it isn’t too terribly realistic in the interest of giving the characters more leeway to move the story along.

Not that I know what it’s like to be in a mental institute or anything, I can only assume. But who are we kidding: we all know I’m headed for one at some point anyway.

So to my point. While watching this movie, not only did I realize that I’m headed for a mental institute, I also realized that being a parent is much like being in one already.

Here’s how.

#1 There’s always something you feel paranoid about

I always assume that a fair number of those people that wear tinfoil hats and think the government is poisoning all of our food in a mass conspiracy wind up having occasional stays in their local or state-run mental hospital. Paranoia is a big thing for the mentally ill, as it is with being a parent.

Someone gets a cut and everyone’s having a fucking heart attack looking for the Neosporin and the gauze and shit these days. And it seems like a lot of people lately have become those douchey parents that rush their kids to the doctor when they sneeze, then slaps them on 10 day courses of antibiotics “just to be safe.” Over a fucking sneeze!

It’s no surprise, but being a parent comes with a daily level of paranoia. Being responsible for someone else’s survival is a big deal, so it seems to some degree rightfully so. But many of us (myself included) take it too far, which is where we rank alongside the tinfoil hat, conspiracy theorists.

#2 Auditory hallucinations are a regular thing

I cannot tell you how many times I hear someone say “mom” when there has been nothing but silence. Anything that sounds remotely like it ends up being a “MOMMY!” in my ears – it is just said to me that much.

When you are a parent, it’s as though you are hypersensitive to the requests because there are always so many. The other day at the grocery store I saw a woman respond to her kid, when someone else’s kid three aisles over could faintly be heard whining “MOM!!!!”

#3 Someone is always with you in the bathroom

In Girl, Interrupted I was reminded of my daily existence when Winona Ryder’s character is bitching and griping because Whoopie Goldberg is watching her shave her legs. In a mental institute, it’s of course to prevent suicide since so many people either get there because they are suicidal, or become suicidal because they are there.

At my home it’s because no one has any sense of privacy. Today I shaved my legs and a random dance party broke out outside the shower. I’ve peed three times today and each time I was interrupted with requests.

#4 Crying and screaming in the corner or inside a closet is commonplace

In fact, I’m crying and screaming in the corner right now.

#5 You’re always doped up

After a day of the fighting and the complaining and the whining and the time outs and the throwing food on the floor and the ass wiping and the complaining some more and the dropping paint on the couch and the juice box being stepped on and squirted all over the carpet that just got cleaned, every parent I know has one of two coping mechanisms:

(1) A mommy’s juice box, box of Franzia wine; or,

(2) A bowl of Valium with milk.

#6 Every once in a while, someone loses it and gets the rest of the inmates riled up

Have you ever been in a room full of kids and one of them gets hurt or something and starts crying, then all of a sudden all of them are crying and not a goddamned one of them even knows why?

Yeah, I have. It never stops either. You think after something like Kindergarten it would come to an end. Your child is now in the primary grades or is growing up to double digits and everything will be cool because surely they are now much more emotionally mature than that.

Errr. Wrong. Kids don’t emotionally mature with their bodies until something like boob and wet dreams time, and even then sometimes they don’t emotionally mature until they fuck up and get sent to jail.

#7 Long wispy looks out the window towards freedom

Any parent that claims they have never lamented their life before kids is a total dillhole. It’s just not true and do you know why? Because it’s okay to do so. When your kids are grown and have kids, they will totally understand and feel the same way. It’s the way life is. Sometimes having kids can be a little isolating. Sometimes it can be a little depressing. Occasionally it can be so nerve-wracking that all you want to do is run away screaming towards freedom, even though you never in a million years would or could even define what freedom to you means anymore.

I think that’s something that happens a lot in mental institutes too, at least that’s what you see in movies. But every movie I’ve seen where someone is institutionalized, when given the opportunity to leave they end up staying. Sure it’s for a different reason, and there aren’t a line of asses in the bathroom waiting to be wiped clean, but I think you get my point.

So now that I’ve clearly proven myself to be Mother of the Year, I’m going to go look into some local mental institutes out in the rolling meadows or up on the top of some plateaus, where I can wrap myself in blankets and have that nervous breakdown I’ve been staving off for a few years now. Then I’m going to eat a bowl of Valium with milk for dinner and call it a night until the auditory hallucinations wake me up again in time for the late night pee show in our bathroom.

9 Things I’d Rather Do Than Eat Something Made Out of Whole Wheat Flour

This morning I went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I haven’t been grocery shopping in quite a few days, though, so the options were sparse. There were no eggs left, after I baked a double batch of cupcakes for an old professor’s surprise party last night. There was no cereal left I took interest in either. So I opened the pantry to throw together some sort of biscuits, only to find I had used all the white flour the last time I made pizza.

I was left with no option other than to use the wheat flour in the back of the pantry:  the whole wheat flour that I haven’t touched since I humiliated myself by trying to make my homemade pizza dough with it for a few friends that were over for dinner a few months ago. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I even bought the stuff. I’ll eat wheat bread, but the grains in it gross me out. Whole wheat pizza dough is absolutely vile.

Now I’m not referring to partial wheat, where it isn’t as grainy although still better for you. I’m also not talking about honey wheat. I’m talking about that whole wheat crap that tastes something like eating a chunky piece of sandpaper.

The result of my whole wheat breakfast biscuit was quite obvious. It tasted like shit. Crunchy, grainy, chunky shit. I realized then that there are quite a few things I’d rather do than eat something made out of whole wheat flour again.

#1 Lick the moldy grout in my bathtub

I need to clean the bathtub, and I imagine that were I to lick the bits of grout that are beginning to show signs of a little shower mildew, I would enjoy it much more than eating something made out of whole wheat flour. The consistency (I can only assume) would be much more appealing than the grainy crunch of just about everything made out of whole wheat flour.

#2 Eat my tropical fish – Achilles and Menelaus –

straight out of the fish tank

I know that’s pretty messed up. They are a part of the household, and it almost would seem like I’m eating family. That said, I would much rather pull them out of the tank and eat them alive than eat something made out of whole wheat flour again.

The problem with whole wheat flour is that it always screws with the directions or baking time of whatever it’s being used for. I don’t know why. I don’t fucking care why. All I know is that everything I’ve ever made out of whole wheat flour has to either be adjusted considerably just because of the flour, or come out burned on the outside and gooey on the inside. If I ate my two tropical fish raw from the fish tank, they’d be more well-prepared than anything with whole wheat.

#3 Get a high colonic in a random van in Venice, CA

I imagine that my stomach would feel a lot better after an enema, administered to me by a hippy in a random van in Venice than it does after I eat something made out of whole wheat flour. It can’t be the fiber, because I eat a diet high in fibers – fruits, vegetables, and healthy grains. I also do not have celiac disease, so don’t stop there and tell me all about how it’s time for me to go gluten free. I imagine it has to do with the horrible timing and preparation of foods made out of whole wheat flour. Whatever the case may be, after a healthy does of the crunch grain crap, my stomach feels horrible.

#4 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family

#5 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties

#6 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties, and do my rendition of “New York, New York” during dessert

#7 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties, and do my rendition of “New York, New York” during dessert, and pay all the settlements for eye and ear damage that follow

#8 Go on Wife Swap

Have you ever watched that show? I think there is nothing more painful than being taken from your own perfectly crafted lifestyle and being forced to live by someone else’s rules. There are plenty of times I watch that show and think to myself that I would never make it. What if I got put on a farm? What if I had to live for two weeks doing extreme couponing? What if I got matched with a family of hillbillies?

The only thing more painful than Wife Swap to me would be eating something made out of whole wheat flour again. The taste of grain and pasty shit rubbing along the interior of my mouth. Choking to swallow the dried up crap as it slowly churns down to reek havoc on my stomach. The flavor of whatever was cooked with it completely devoured by the distinct taste of horse manure that seems to always waft from a container of whole wheat flour.

Yes. I’d rather go on Wife Swap.

#9 Make out with my husband

after he hasn’t brushed his teeth for six weeks

Don’t get me wrong, my husband never goes more than half a day without brushing his teeth. Every morning. Every evening.

But let’s say for a moment that he suddenly stopped brushing his teeth and went for as many as six weeks without brushing once. By then, his teeth would be brown. They would have grain all over them. They’d smell like rancid wheat. And they would be covered in paste.

I would rather make out with that than eat something made out of whole wheat again. At least I wouldn’t have to swallow any of it.

I’m real fucking happy for you if you think whole wheat flour is the greatest thing next to stick butter. I – on the other hand – just can’t stomach it.