My Neighbor and I Both Ate Our Emotions Today


My neighbor and I both ate our emotions today. Though, while mine was not exactly healthy, it wasn’t quite as horrifying as hers either.

Before I get into that, I should first talk about the eating of emotions. We’ve all done it at one time or another. Some people do it often and don’t even realize it. Others drink they’re emotions, which is a whole other issue altogether. They’re sad and depressed, or stressed out. Suddenly they wake up one day and realize they’ve eaten a combination of Thin Mints and Oreos for every single meal, for weeks. It’s OK. Everyone (for the most part) has gone through this phase at one time or another, and once you realize it you get it in check.


I definitely wouldn’t condone eating away your feelings often. First and foremost, it isn’t like someone thinks to themselves “man, I’m having a really shitty day, I’m going to go home and eat kale until I fucking puke.” Actually, if you ate kale until you puked, you’d probably be actually eating kale until you shit your pants, making your shitty day literal. So it’s either that or because kale tastes like a filthy 1970s shag carpet. I don’t know, but I do know that people don’t usually run home and eat away their emotions with super healthy super foods.

That isn’t entirely true, though. I am “Facebook” friends with this girl I went to high school with who tells us all the time about how after a stressful day she goes home to eat a pile of apple slices, or a bucket of celery. It’s really obnoxious too because she always has to add in the precursor: rather than go home and pig out on pizza and cookies like fat people do after a hard day, I’m going to …

Shut the fuck up, bitch. No one wants to hear your fat shaming bullshit. PS we all know the reason you are like this now is because of how you looked back then…

But I digress.

So I wouldn’t condone eating away feelings often, or all the time. But I definitely believe that sometimes a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, or a nice bag of Twizzlers Nibs are just what the doctor ordered. Dare I suggest that many doctors I know do suggest that once in a while letting go and indulging after a hard time is … healthy?

It’s healthy because, simply put, repressing stress is probably the worst thing a person can do to their body. People have to let that energy out, or it keeps building. We’ve all heard the analogy of the bottled up feelings, being shaken and shaken until one day all those feelings come splurging out in an explosion of yuck. This is my entirely unscientific and non medical opinion, here, but I think it’s pretty right on. At least in my experience.

Plus there is a moderate way to destress with food. Don’t keep enough junk in the house to overdo it. Make sure to put what you want in a plate or a bowl so as to keep to your portion size. Find something low fat, or low carb, or low cal that still fulfills your urge to pork down all your rage and hurt feelings until you pass out. There are a lot of ways to get around the really and true badness of bad eating.

This isn’t rocket surgery or brain science here. It’s just fucking common sense.

Today, when I was super stressed out about all the things going on, and a shit ton of money I have to spend to take a vacation to Texas (of all places) that I REALLY don’t want to take, just so my daughter can see her Biological Bum (whom she adamantly does not want to see) and all the issues this is bringing up which is another blog post for another day …I just needed to do something to feel better fast. I needed it so badly, and fortunately there was little junk food in my house to indulge on.

Except the Salsa Con Queso.


I have a weird relationship with Salsa Con Queso. I won’t eat it for a really long time and be totally tired of it. Then I’ll eat it with chips every day for lunch for like three days straight. The plus side of this is that it has a lot of tomatoes and onions and shit in it that is actually good for you. The other plus is that the calories and fat isn’t quite like a Snickers bar or a bucket of neopolitan ice cream might be.

I keep telling myself this. Rationalize, rationalize, rationalize. Regardless of your feelings about my rationalization of this, let’s just agree that there are a lot of things that I could be eating that are much much worse for me to pork away my emotions and frustrations on than this. Okay?

Glad we agree.

I encountered what one of those “much much worse” things was today, shortly after my uninhibited love affair with my Tostitoes and my Salsa Con Queso dip.

Sitting on the couch, working on editing my upcoming book, and yelling up the stairs various threats of punishment that will come if the homeschooling work was not finished “by the time I get up there…” I noticed my neighbor standing on her porch. We live in a townhome, so the proximity was fairly close. She was standing there looking longingly toward the parking lot. She appeared sad, but she sort of always does. Then, in a moment of sheer horror then amazement then fear then entertainment then genuine concern, I saw her pork down one Twinkie after another until she had eaten not one, not two, but TWELVE MOTHERFUCKING TWINKIES.

My neighbor and I both ate our emotions today. Tomorrow I will probably eat my Salsa Con Queso again, since there is still about 1/2 a jar left and watching the Twinkie hog down sort of stressed me out just witnessing it.

How To Make It Into My Next Book – Vacation Edition

I’ve been somewhat quiet on the blog lately, mainly because I’ve been on vacation for three weeks now. I have one more left to go and I am certainly ready to get home. It isn’t that I just love the community in which I live in southern California SOOOOOOO much. You guys know that isn’t true. It’s just that I like my own kitchen. I enjoy having more than one bathroom for my whole family. And my bed at home doesn’t have springs sticking into my side every night when I go to bed.

But there is something I just can’t keep quiet on much further. Something so profound in its impact on this vacation that to say nothing would be a detriment to my own mental health:

How some on this trip will make it into my next book.

Last night I was helping my cousin – getting married this Friday – put together place cards for the reception. It was pretty involved: cutting, sticking, hot gluing, printing … and, in fact, the job wasn’t even finished after five hours of work. As I burned off almost all of my finger prints with the hot glue gun (which will be to my advantage later, I’m sure), we were talking about my book and how people could get into it. Well, really we were talking about how my cousin (the one getting married) could get into it; or how she could secure herself a book all about her.

While I’m not sure that Bridezilla will get a book of her own (kidding about the Bridezilla thing … OK, not really kidding … see Lins, you’ve made it in my blog TWICE now!! … just don’t have a Bridezilla meltdown), I did come back to our hotel room and think about ways people on our vacation could make it into a future book.

Stay With Me In A Hotel Suite

You had better believe that you will get an entire book written about you if you stay with me in a hotel suite. A small hotel suite. A small hotel suite with a small kitchen that you move things around in all the time, in spite of the fact that the only one that actually ever goes in the kitchen to get anything for anyone is me. A small hotel suite where you get the comfortable bed (dad) and we get the shitty bed with the springs that stick into my back in the middle of the night, and the pillows that could really be called “instruments of neck destruction.” A small hotel suite with one bathroom. A small hotel suite that has a bathroom which we all have to share that seems to be occupado for thirty minutes or more, multiple times per day, whenever a man (dad or husband) goes in there. A small hotel suite where there is limited space for clothes and shoes, and my expensive shoes and clothes get repeatedly moved around, wrinkled, smashed, folded incorrectly, or damaged. Or lost. A small hotel suite where we have to do laundry once a week, and you offer to help with the laundry so you go up to the laundry room and promptly lose four of my irreplaceable and staple clothing items.

All of that. That will get you into my next book.

Don’t Ask About My Book

This is what really hurts. I can count on one hand how many people have asked about my book since we got here. And I’ve seen and talked to a lot of people. I’m starting to think I’m just more of a B(itch) than I thought.

I don’t want to sound like a spoiled and temperamental writer. But at the same time, I want to not let people continue to focus on their lives only when in conversation with me. I want to exist in their minds. Maybe not equally, but if we are to have some kind of a relationship it has to be a fair one where we both do things and are important.

Let me repeat that: I can count on one hand how many people have asked about my book. If I lost my thumb and pinky finger in an unfortunate accident involving a lawn mower, a gas can, and a lighter, I could still count on one hand how many people have asked about my book.

For those of you actually interested, I wrote a book. It’s actually my third. A member of my family even just learned Saturday night that I have done such gloriously rewarding things, and that my time is actually not always spent in total mediocrity. Just what in the fuck does that say?

Sales are going well, thanks for asking.

Oh you read it? Well I hope you enjoyed it. I don’t offer refunds if you didn’t.

Promotion is going great too! Thanks for taking such an active interest and being so supportive! Next time you run a marathon and need a donation, join a band and want to get people to your first show, run a Kickstarter for your creative project, have a baby or buy a house or get married or engage in any other major life moments, I will make sure to show you the same exact level of encouragement and support that you have showed me!

I’m starting to sound bitter, so I think I’ll stop there. I’m actually the furthest from bitter anyone could imagine. I know what you are all thinking – how could you suffer the disappointments of losing articles of clothing, sleeping in a bed with springs, and your major life achievements being disregarded simply because no one thought to look?

I’ll tell you why: because it’s all making it into the next book. You might call this blog post the teaser…

So I’m On Vacation…


….which means I haven’t had much to say lately. Not because I’ve been on vacation, I just got here yesterday. No, I have had little to say on the ol’ bloggie lately simply because I was getting ready for the trip. Traveling is difficult even on your own.

So I’m on vacation. Those of you that have been around for a while know that I’m from Chicago. I live in California now, though (unfortunately), so typically vacations involve the Windy City. Last year we came out for a couple weeks, this year we’re spending a whole month here.

Let’s hope next time it’s permanent.

So far I have learned a few things.


#1 A Lot of People Are Obnoxious

It doesn’t say “surviving on cynicism and misanthropy” in the banner of this website for nothing: I think a lot of people are obnoxious. I’m probably more obnoxious than any of them, but that’s another blog post altogether.

We took the train again with my dad across the country, and while I had learned some lessons the last time (in terms of making it a little more comfortable for us), what I hadn’t learned was how to avoid the obnoxious people. Even the car attendant was getting on my nerves at a certain point, and it was her job to be my BFF.

The worst was on the one night that we went up to the dining car to actually dine. Typically we just stay in the room and have it delivered, or eat our own food. Stupidly I suggested we go on the first night, though, and we were seated next to the most obnoxious woman EVER.

“Is there a tilapia on this menu? There’s supposed to be a fish. This isn’t right.”

“Are these mashed potatoes made with Idaho potatoes? Instant? This isn’t right.”

“It’s so cold in here, can you turn down the air? This isn’t right that it’s so cold in here.”

“You charge for wine? Oh that isn’t right. Are you sure there is not tilapia available?”

“Arnold, what was the problem in the baaaaaaathrooooooom? You couldn’t get it out? Oh that isn’t right.”

#2 Hotels Are A Reminder That Not Everyone Practices Effective Family Planning


Last night my cousin and I were talking about the natural, Catholic family planning course she and her fiance had to take (their wedding is one of the reasons we are in town). As if her description of the Catholic-approved “birth control” (if you can call it that) methods weren’t horrifying enough, I realized this morning that probably a lot more people practice it than you’d think.

How did I realize? If you know anything about the natural, Catholic-approved family planning “birth control,” you know that it doesn’t work. Everyone that uses it has a shit-ton of kids.

Each family I saw staying in our hotel has six or more children. One family had nine, and the mother was pregnant with the tenth. And while the children running around screaming is not noticeable while we are in our nice, relatively soundproof suite, the continental breakfast is a much different story.

It was like the state of nature with free Cheerios and waffles. Children were running around between tables, smacking the chairs and yelling “blah blah blah blah blah.”

Snot flowed everywhere.

Every thirty seconds a child would fall or trip or run into something or bite their tongue or smash their head into their cereal bowl and loud crying would commence.

All-the-while mine just sat there in horror. After about ten minutes I got a “can we go back to our room now?”

So that’s where we are. A lot of observations, and at the same time a lot of really loving being home. It should come as no surprise to all of you that I really dislike California. Sorry, it’s just the truth. I’m allergic to everything there. I think a lot of the people I have encountered are narcissistic, self-centered, overly-career focused a-holes.

And honestly, I just prefer the Midwest.

If it makes me a bad person to have a personal preference other than palm trees and beaches, well than so be it. All I know is that as our train rolled its way towards the Chicagoland area, the water towers and the rolling lands and the humidity that everyone complains about were so wonderfully “home” to me that I could taste it. It tasted like pizza and hot dogs and the White Sox and my childhood; my family, my friends, and everything I’ve always loved.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did my opinion offend you?

983697_579422125435615_1137414111_nTough shit.

Last week I posted this photo that I found on of a cat that’s owner had covered it in make up. A few people noted feeling a little disturbed by it. Someone else told me that she hoped a herd of cats mauled me while I bitch.

Note that I said “…of a cat that‘s owner…” as opposed to “…of a cat whose owner…” You know why? Because cats are not people. They are animals. Filthy, disgusting, rancid, disease-filled animals.

That’s just my opinion.

Now as for putting makeup on the cat, it didn’t look like it was all that disturbed to be dolled up like that. In fact, it sort of appeared to enjoy the attention. It wasn’t – like – chained down or anything. It was of a healthy weight and its hair had a nice glow (indicating it is well taken care of). If it had appeared to be abused, that would be a different story. While I do like to distinguish the difference between animals and people, I also can respect an animal as a living, breathing thing. But really … the cat looked a-OK with the makeup. So I saw no problem with it.

I’ve pasted it in above, do you? I mean really. Let’s keep things in perspective here.

And yet it turned into a direct attack on me, and lost me a whopping 20 blog Facebook followers, because I included the note that I actually hate cats.

As for owning cats, while I wish all of them were nuked off the face of the earth; and I do see a moral dilemma with domesticating any animal meant to be in the wild – in the end I say: to each his own. I respect other people’s rights to their feline friends if they so desire. But that isn’t going to make me love cats. As horrifying as the thought of me hating a kitty-witty is, I actually do and feel I have good reason. My mom was bit in the neck and sent to the hospital once by her cat of five years; and I am so seriously allergic that on more than one occasion my throat has started to close from a cat rubbing against me.

But what do I get for it? What? Courtesy? Understanding? Fuck no. I can respect all of you for loving your cats; but then I  in return have a herd of psychotic, mauling cats wished upon me for having a different opinion than all (some) of yours. Gee, this seems fair, doesn’t it?

I think this is a bigger problem.


I think that there is very little respect anymore in our culture. Maybe around the world it’s different, but in American culture – and especially in the community in which I live – it seems to be waning.

A great example: RSVPs. This last year I have thrown so many fucking parties that I didn’t want to throw: birthdays, dinners, funerals… you name it, I threw it. The only thing I asked everyone for was an RSVP. Let me fucking know if you are going to come. You know that I am going to cook up a gala of a meal. You know how hard I fucking work to make my house look nice when people come over. You fucking know that it is a thorn up my asshole every time someone doesn’t even acknowledge that I invited them. You know goddamned fucking well that after throwing all these parties for everyone and everything else, I didn’t even get a fucking piece of cake on my birthday.

And yet there is so little respect for other people and their time and effort and planning to pick up the goddamned phone and say “sorry, I just can’t make it” around where I live. Or maybe it’s just no respect for me. In truth, I’m starting to think that’s the case.

Fuck that.

I’m throwing one more party this year and then I’m done – forever: a baby shower. It’s in the Midwest, though, and etiquette is a little different out there. People that plan on not coming actually let you know. Some of them even call and apologize, rather than just sending an email or RSVPing “no” on an event site. I hardly know what to do with myself after years of assholes being so rude.

There is very little respect for other people, other people’s feelings, and others’ opinions anymore.

Opinions Are Like Assholes:

Everyone’s Got One And Some Of Them Stink.

I don’t know why everyone always gets so up in arms when I say the following:

Opinions are like assholes: everyone’s got one and some of them stink.

What is so offensive about that? It’s a case-in-point fact.

One of my favorite undergraduate professors once told me that: sure, everyone has an opinion, but that doesn’t mean all of them are right. This is a big issue in philosophy, and it’s called relativism. Anybody who’s anybody in academia knows that relativism is a big, fat, crock of shit. Allowing relativism is how you get people like Hitler mass-murdering Jews; and psychopaths like that Batman Returns killer, just last year in Colorado. It was just their opinion that those people deserved to die! Baseball players believe it’s OK to use performance enhancing drugs because they believe the rules are stupid. They all had a right to their opinion, right?

Sure, everyone has a right to their opinions, but it doesn’t mean that their opinions are (a) actually the correct or accurate or morally OK option, or (b) that they have an inherent right to act on them.

And on the note of opinions, I think people take opinions too personally. I have never seen people so offended than when I say that I hate California. I do! So sue me! A lot of people do. Just because I’m honest and don’t bottle up my feelings doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Instead, though, a lot of the people I know who take personal offense to my feelings about the Golden State spend all their fucking time trying to invalidate my feelings and tell me why I’m wrong for having them. Which brings me to one last issue…

Cultural Narcissism

I think one of the biggest problems with our contemporary, American culture is that we have somehow come to the belief that everyone is experiencing things exactly as we are. So often I experience with people in my own life and my own community others forgetting that everyone in this world is living a different life, with a different situation, a different financial standing, a different upbringing, in a different time period, with different parents, under different circumstances, and along the lines of different health issues beyond their control.

Clutter in the house makes me feel physically sick. It stresses me out. It creates more dust, which I am terribly allergic to as well. My husband doesn’t get that and just keeps adding more and more clutter, because he fails to recognize that I am different than him. Along the same vein, I am deathly allergic to cats. And no matter how many times I say that, people very close to me absolutely refuse to understand why I would not like them. They have a hard time believing that I could dislike something that they love – they love it so everyone must love it, right?

Wrong. We all are entitled to our own opinions, just like we all have our own lives to live. Oh, I’m sorry. Did my opinion offend you? Well isn’t that too bad. Unless you are living in my shoes, in my life, with my problems, with my money, with my family, during my time, and encountering everything that I encounter, you kindly can keep your own comments to yourself.

I say put makeup on all fucking cats. And if that makes me deserve a group of psychotic, mauling cats, so be it. At least I went down being honest, rather than acting like a little bitch who’s too afraid to speak the truth for fear of the wrath of others. But then again, the wrath of others really is the problem, isn’t it?

Some Open Notes To All Those I Encountered Today

Today is May 1st. I should be rejoicing the coming of this day, for it is the beginning of May No Shave Month. Every year in the month of May, I shave nothing. No legs. No pits. No bikini area. I do it because then on June 1st I take a razor to sasquatch and it feels so unbelievably good. I also think it’s a celebration of being a woman – I mean, why do we have to shame ourselves into shaving off what is natural and there normally? Other cultures don’t. Why shame us for being ourselves, ‘merica?

Sadly, there was no rejoicing today. Or at least not much beyond the few moments I was deep in the heart of LA and able to again get away with driving like a total maniac (my natural state). To look at just why today was so lackluster and – well – horrible, we should look at all those I encountered today.


Poor Nick

Oh darling. I would love to actually sleep a little in the morning. I know this is hard for you to comprehend and all, being the only person on the planet (in your mind). But every night I spend about 3/4 of the night waking up and taking the covers back from you since you’ve stolen them all; or helping one of the various people that has woken up and needed something. I am tired. So the next door you slam in the morning. The next bowl you smash onto the counter. The next wrist watch, keys, or wallet you drop onto the coffee table. The next electric toothbrush you use loudly with the bathroom door open. All of it will be inserted into your asshole next time you wake me up with your bullshit loud banging around in the morning.


And on the note of assholes…


Mother. The kid’s bathroom is also the guest bathroom. You know this because as a guest you have many times come over and asked to use the bathroom, and you have always been shown the door to that one. In the kid’s bathroom is a can of air freshener. For guests. Use it.

When I came home from dropping you and Grandma off at the airport, it smelled like a dog had taken a dump in every single corner of the apartment. I had to open all the windows to air it out. Please. Febreeze.

And on the note of bodily functions…

Lady At CVS

Lady at CVS. I get it. You were wiggling around in line in front of me, as I waited to pick up my dad’s prescription, because you had gas. I turned a blind eye (and my nose) as you ripped one so loud even the kid two aisles over started giggling. I’m not a fan of flatus jokes, I’m really not; I’m also not a fan of talking with strangers about what they had for lunch. I did not appreciate when you turned around and told me that you had too many beans at the Mexican place down the street for lunch. Next time, keep it to yourself.

And on the note of keeping things to ourselves…


Grandma, I kept it to myself as we traveled to the airport this morning, but I just have to say it: most of your kids and grandkids are jerk offs. I sent them an email about Mother’s Day and not a one of them responded. Not even to graciously decline coming to my apartment for BBQ. I get it. They hate me. My cousin Kevin informed me of that years ago. But I continue to extend olive branches to these people, because I know it’s what you want, and they just continue to take a dump on me time and time. And time again.

One additional open note for you, Grandma: you were right this morning when you joked that I need Depends more than you ladies at the assisted living facility do. It’s become pretty clear that my bladder is the size of a cashew.


And on the note of old people habits…


Dad. Shut the fuck up with your bitching about physical therapy. Shut the fuck up about your constant blathering about the situations you need the walker. You aren’t getting it. It’s time to suck it up or get out. I’m tired of sleeping on an air mattress on your living room floor. I’m tired of running 70 fucking errands a day for you. I’m tired of cooking all your meals all to your bullshit “I don’t like healthy food” specifications where I have to sneak healthy food into your food to make you not realize that you are eating well, because God forbid you fucking have a diet other than soda and Twizzlers. Seriously. Shut it.


And speaking of people that need to shut it…

People That Think Los Angeles Is The Greatest Thing Next To French Toast

LA is a shithole. Anyone that contends otherwise can for real shut it. Shut it hard core, or my fist will shut it for you.

Los Angeles is disgusting. Everything looks dirty. Everyone is angry. Everyone drives like a fucking maniac (which I do enjoy on the occasion I go down there, I will admit). All the freeways are dumps covered in cars full of people that should be at work. But wait! I’m starting to realize that people in LA don’t work. They talk. And drive. And drink their hipster lattes. And mooch off others.

After living in Los Angeles for two years, I cannot stand going there, except for (as I mentioned above) the fact that I have an opportunity to drive with my psychosis set on “high.” And on that note, I also want to mention to all those asscans that say “ohhhhhh…. you are just sooooooooo lucky to live near LA because you can go there where there is sooooooo muuuuuuch to doooooo.” Fuck you. Everything in LA costs a bagillion and one dollars, and even the shit that is free costs me 50 bucks in gas.


And on one last note of people who get a big fuck you…

Our Apartment Complex

Fuck you, Essex Property Trust. Fuck you Camarillo Oaks. Fuck you apartment complex management and apartment complex. I’ve reached my last fucking straw with you dickholes.

Today we got a letter that due to some incidents with the kids in the area (not mine) destroying people’s personal property, children are no longer allowed to play or even be out in the complex without the clear supervision of an adult. This includes the patios on our very own apartment – kids cannot play on them without an adult being out there as well. So while I understand legalities and all the apartment complex faces, I find it terribly disturbing that the management is just SO CONCERNED about someone’s fucking flower pot being kicked over; and yet, they are in no way concerned about the rampant drug use and sales that go on in the community.

Just a few minutes after receiving the letter, I saw and smelled someone smoking a joint out on their patio; then saw a bong in someone’s kitchen window as I got in my Jeep to leave that shithole to run more bullshit errands for my dad. Seriously. If you’re going to ruin my fucking life by making me sit outside with my Pookies at all times; and yet not break the very serious drug problem going on in the community, you can consider this our official end of lease.


A lot of assholes, asses, and related things going on in my day. You know why I’m so angry now? Do you faithful blog followers understand why my face is red and my blood pressure through the roof? When all of this bullshit goes on, I just want to hide under the covers and tell the world to go away.

But then what would I have to blog about?

28 Imperative To-Dos


So yesterday was my birthday. Did any of you people get me a fucking birthday cake? No. No you didn’t.

To be fair, I didn’t really announce that my birthday was coming up, quite like I did last year. When I turned 30, I wouldn’t shut the hell up about it for about nine months before the day. The 31st birthday isn’t quite as much of a milestone, and – frankly – I’d like to continue to believe I’m still 28 anyway. I mean I just finally referred to myself as “30 years old” a couple weeks ago – for the first time; and even that sent me screaming for the bottle of Xanax and pint of peach Schnapps. I’d like to get back to the whole 28 forever thing.

So I forgive you. I didn’t need the cake calories anyway.

You all shouldn’t feel bad, though, because even Poor Nick didn’t arrange cake for me. We had a little game night last month for my birthday, although I didn’t get a piece of that cake (that I baked). I was too busy playing hostess of game night, then he took it to work the next day. Yesterday on my actual birthday, I celebrated by buying myself a piece of low fat, flourless chocolate cake after it had become clear that no one else in my house arranged anything. It was tastier and better for me than anything they would have gotten anyway.

So in spite of all of the lackadaisical attempts to woo me with carbs and frosting, I have ushered in my 31st year with a little celebration of my own. By “celebration” I mean I made a to-do list of imperatives for the next year. You do all know how much I love my lists, and they’re “imperatives” because these are things that had better happen in the next year, or they’re never going to happen. I kept my list at my dream number. If I think “28” enough times, it will come true. Right?


#1 Celebrate my generation.

I don’t mean “my generation” like the general group of people that make up these incredibly douchey, overworked, a-hole hipster 30-somethings. I mean celebrate the generation in which I was born. I’m talking about the motherfucking 80s, bitches.

Fortunately, all I have to do is open my closet and I’m confronted with 80s attire. I’ve loaded the Netflix que with 80s classics that can be watched on repeat. And the newest station plugged into my Pandora is “80s playlist.” Now… where’s my crimper?


#2 On the note of my crimper…

This year’s biggest to-do is to keep up on my womanhood. Keep my hair feeling nice. Take the time I need to shave my hairy legs. Get my nails done when they need to be done, rather than when my feet begin to look like a gargoyle’s. I can’t feel like a woman if I don’t treat myself like one.

#3 Eat more pho.

#4 Drink more Italian sodas.

#5 Punch every person in the balls that I hear judging others for their weight and/or eating habits and/or relaxation activities.

Just because I like to eat salad and be active doesn’t mean I need to judge others for having different values than me. I think I will reach superhero status if I punch people in the balls that do not agree with my philosophy on this.

#6 Knit myself a bunch of shit.

Knit others nothing. All I ever do is knit things for others! It’s time to do some work for myself.


#7 Finish my goal of reading 52 books for 2013.

I am currently on #13.

#8 Publish my next blog book.

I feel like I’m sort of cheating on this one. My Wife’s a Bitch is already slated to come out Tuesday, June 4th. Have you sent me a video for the trailer yet?

#9 Start working on my next novel.

#10 Stop worrying about blogging, writing, and reading quotas

I know, this runs contrary to #s 7 – 9.

#11 Purge even more things from our apartment than I did during spring cleaning last month.

#12 Update our wall art.

With my own paintings.


#13 Update my wardrobe.

With clothes that actually fit, versus the ones right now that fall off me – they are just too big.

#14 Buy myself some new bras.

Seriously. I have two.

#15 Consider therapy to explore why I only wear black underpants.

#16 Acquire more jewelry.

Why was I left out on the memo that women wear jewelry? And on how good it can make you feel to wear it?

#17 Acquire more diamonds.

By giving my husband more blow jobs.

That was a joke. I don’t give my husband blow jobs to begin with, so the concept of beginning, or giving “more” is false. But I could perhaps start letting him hug me for his own “personal use” on occasion.

I’m still kidding. I typically prefer to be untouched.

#18 Acquire more animals for my apartment.

My apartment is rapidly becoming a house of murder. I just really love my ode to taxidermy.


#19 Save money…

…to buy myself a Sleep Number bed.

#20 Move out of our shitty apartment.

Preferably somewhere that I don’t get contact high just from walking outdoors.

#21 Move to a bigger place.

Where I can have a little space from the crazy people that comprise my family.

#22 Demand a room all for me.

…at said bigger place. Right now I get hardly any space, and my writing is confined to the couch; my artwork having to be done outside.

#23 Move home, to Chicago.

#24 Have more babies.

That’s right I didn’t just say “have a baby,” I said “have more babies.” And I just contradicted my little diatribe under #17 about not allowing my husband to touch me. (I think I need to squeeze “spend all year contradicting myself” into this list somewhere.)

In any event, I’m determined to birth as many little, slime-y shitters as I can, just to get revenge on some of our family that seems to be opposed to us procreating like good Catholics.

I also think babies are cool. But I ain’t no spring chicken, and have no plans of being wheeled into my kid’s high school graduation(s) in a wheel chair on life support because I’m pushing 100. It’s now or never, Poor Nick. Now or never.

#25 Embarrass more frequently.

I have really been failing at my job as parent, when it comes to embarrassing. My parents embarrassed the everliving shit out of me when I was a kid. And it’s why I’m able to be comfortable in my own skin, and just be me now.


#26 Do a three month set of homeschooling…

…that is entirely the way I want to do it. Just to see how it goes. (Right now I still cow-tow to traditional school standards, as well as family pressure.)

#27 Tolerate less bullshit.

…still, kids weald a lot of bullshit too. There is no reason to tolerate the tantrums, and following that up with begging and pleading to get them to stop. I’m telling you faithful blog followers – time outs and consequences aren’t just a thing of the past.

#28 Throw absolutely no more parties this year.

Well, except for a friend’s baby shower this June… but that’s it for me.

It’s time to start enjoying my time on this earth. Life’s too short to always be running yourself ragged for others, while sitting around and waiting for people to celebrate “you” only for them to do nothing. That’s why I bought my own piece of cake yesterday, and why this next year is the year of me.

Or you might call it: the year of the B(itch). It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? What are on your to-dos this year, faithful blog followers?

15 Things That Keep Away The Crazy

I think we all know that I’m a little off. By off, I of course mean batty; and by batty I’m trying to beat around the bush of insanity. And while I haven’t been dragged off in the ol’ straight jacket just yet, I probably should be. Being a Stay At Home Mom that homeschools can be tough sometimes. A little nerve-wracking, to say the least.


There is an episode of The Simpsons early on in the series where Ned Flanders goes ape shit and drives himself to the mental hospital, driving straight through the wrought iron gates to get in. When he goes to check in, they ask if he’d like to go willingly to his padded room, or would he opt for the kicking and screaming option. He asks for kicking and screaming. I like to think that were Ned Flanders to have my fifteen things that keep me sane – or at least sane enough to avoid the mental hospital – he may have avoided his own mental breakdown.

(Yes, I am aware of the fact that I am talking about a cartoon character as though he is a human being. Need more proof I’m close to the nuthouse?)


#1 S&Ms

You people are perverts. I know what you all are thinking when you see #1 as S&Ms: you think I’m talking about some kinky shit with my husband. Poor Nick bringing home cans of champagne and edible panties, and shit.

Not the case. When I say S&Ms I mean that what keeps me sane are my starlight mints. You know those old people candies that they sell either with or without sugar, the little mints you also get after a particularly garlic-y meal out? After my brief stint with smoking cigarettes in high school, my S&Ms replaced the nasty cancer sticks. They keep me sane in a big way.

#2 Lipgloss

Between this and my S&Ms, it’s very possible that I have an oral fixation problem. I apply chapstick and lipgloss so much. I’m addicted and develop a facial twitch if I go too long without glossy lips.

#3 Diet Coke

So yeah. I have an oral fixation. Clearly. My top three things that keep me from losing my everliving mind are relative to my mouth. What’s #4 going to be – blow jobs? Not the case. Nonetheless, I am heavily addicted to Diet Coke. The people at McDonald’s know me by name for no reason other than my morning trek to obtain a $1 Large soda.

#4 Books

This is really serious. As long as I have a book nearby when I feel the crazy coming on, all I have to do is open the book and lose myself in the story. This is why I love being a writer; and it’s why I am terribly obsessed with reading as much as possible.

#5 The Bathroom Lock

I hear moms complaining all the time about wanting to take a dump without being interrupted, and I think to myself: where’s the fucking lock? Your kids will be fine left to their own devices for a couple minutes. And as long as you have a key or another fail-safe to get the door open, should a kid lock themselves in – this is a surefire way to escape the insanity of parenthood.

#6 A Sense of Humor

I joke about a lot. And when I’m not making jokes, I’m finding something that’s naturally hilarious and laughing until I pee. A lot of times people don’t get my jokes, though. On my wedding invitations, I had a picture of a bride and groom with a joke about bringing your flame retardant clothing to prevent the lightning injuries that were sure to come from my husband and I marrying in the Catholic church. No one got it.


#7 Weird Personal Fitness Challenges

I’m not one of those uber-douchey people that’s obsessed with fitness. You know them. They are constantly posting about their gym workouts and judging others for what they do and eat. Let’s be clear here: if you work out and like to talk about it, that’s totally cool. It’s when it moves on to judging others (…posting pictures of people’s cellulite on Facebook, and making fun of people that don’t eat healthy all the time…) that it becomes a problem.

OK, all that being said, weird personal fitness challenges help keep me sane. It isn’t even that I want to be fit, or lose weight. It’s that I find it funny to do weird workout and eating stuff, and it’s interesting to see the things I will do to keep it up. Right now I’m doing a three parter. Part One is 10 more seconds of wall sits each day. I started with 10 seconds on the 1st of April, and am up to almost 2 minutes. Part Two is eating only fruit for one or more meals a day. (It’s harder than you’d think, fruit is not very filling). Part Three is doing the Sweatin’ To the Oldies workout tapes. That’s right, I’m rockin’ it with Richard Simmons. Randomly about a month ago, I found one of my mom’s, so I went out and bought one and the Pookies went wild for it. (A video blog will follow here shortly…)

#8 Nonstop Weather Updates

I know. It’s weird. Growing up in the Midwest really made me fear the weather and all its wrath, though. Nonstop weather updates on my iPhone, iPad, and Macbook help me feel like I have control of the situation.

#9 Tetris

Hello! Mindlessly fitting blocks into impossible spaces. A metaphor for life.

#10 Reading Satire Websites

Like The Onion and I enjoy John Stewart on YouTube sometimes too. Are you getting the theme here, though? I enjoy laughing at the absurdity of life. Better to laugh than lose it, right?

#11 Comparing My Life To My Mother’s

Whenever I start to think that life’s getting me down, I compare my misery to my mother’s. No one is in as bad of a situation as she is – with a hillbilly husband that lies like drinking a glass of water, living in a trailer halfway across the country, and cracking jokes about wanting to get her back to his trailer so that they can work the bed sheets (if you know what I mean).

#12 Fantasizing About Wolf Blitzer

Have you people forgotten about my terrible crush on Wolf Blitzer? Whenever I start to feel a little like I’m going to lose my mind, I let it get lost in thoughts of Wolf. And Ryan Reynold, Vladimir Putin, Hulk Hogan, and most members of the NBA.

#13 Writing On My Blog

People sometimes call their blogs “an outlet,” or a “place to vent their frustrations.” I think of my own blog as that, as well as a place to share my stories of every dip shit, asshole, douche-tart I come across so that you all may benefit from my wisdom in the ways of dealing with trailer trash jerk offs. And about parenting and being a shitty housewife. And stuff.

#14 Shitty Romantic Comedies and Episodes of Maury Povich

Good movies? Good movies that win awards? Good movies that are critically acclaimed? I typically hate those. But whenever I feel a bout of the crazies coming on, all I need to do is hunker down in my pajamas for a day with a romantic comedy marathon, coupled with Maury Povich paternity test episodes on YouTube, and I feel better.

#15 Making Fun Of My Husband

This goes along with my sense of humor. In my family growing up, we made fun of each other. Constantly. We still do. I maintain that this is – by far – the greatest gift my dearly departed grandparents gave to us, for we developed a thick skin to the world early on, and we learned that the best way to live life is to have fun. You know we love you if we make fun you, and as a result I rip on my husband nonstop.


What keeps away your crazy, faithful blog followers? Are your things as mundane as mine? Or are they more meaningful or legitimate, like a prescription for antipsychotics?

I don’t really understand why The Gays want to get married anyway …

Marriage sucks. I mean it’s got its perks (I have yet to find many). But it’s hard. My grandmother – married for 63 years before my grandfather passed away, just this February – once said to me “you aren’t doing marriage right if it’s easy.” True ‘dat, Grandma. True ‘dat.


When I got up this morning, I came to a bit of an epiphany. After all this gay marriage, equality talk – people turning their Facebook profile photos red, and rallying with the rainbow flags and such – I realized something rather striking: I don’t really understand why The Gays want to get married anyway.

I also don’t really get why The Straights are so opposed.

Think about it in terms of my marriage. Every day I get up in the morning and see that my husband has left for work. There was no kiss good-bye. There was no subtle waking me up to say “I love you” one more time, before dragging himself to work – like they do in the movies. My husband doesn’t have to be dragged to work; he has to be dragged home.

I get up and make breakfast. I make cereal for Pookies, a banana for me, and I see that in the sink my husband has piled dishes from his own breakfast. Rather than place them in there uniformly, or – dare I suggest – on the counter, he’s submersed them in a bowl of rancid, cold water that was soaking the stuck-on food from cooking dinner the night before. I spend a while getting the contents out of the puke water, with my bare hands, before losing my appetite.

I go to the bathroom and fall in the toilet. Still half asleep, I haven’t noticed the toilet seat was left up. I shower. While in the shower, I get soap in my eyes and the only close towel is my husband’s. I use it to rub my eyes, praying this isn’t the place he dried his balls with this morning. He’s been scratching them a lot lately. I clean tiny beard hairs off the sink and toothpaste off the counter.

Later in the day, I’m vacuuming. I get to our bedroom and on the floor are my husband’s clean socks. Rolled up. Sitting next to the dresser. Where his sock drawer is. I bend over to pick them up and put them away and a twinge hits my lower back, telling me it’s time to stop.

But I don’t. I have to make dinner, and to make the dinner I prepped yesterday, I have to get the BBQ going. On Sunday I asked my husband to clean the grill. He watched The Walking Dead for a few hours, then read about the Dodgers on his computer for a while instead. On Monday I asked him if he could please do it and he promised he would. On Tuesday at 11 o’clock in the evening, while getting ready for bed, he still had not done it.


At 6:00 my husband hits quitting time. At 6:30 he’s still at work: solving problems, getting caught up, finishing things ahead of schedule, answering superfluous questions, and avoiding coming home. Dreading the minute I call to ask where the shit he is.

On his way home, his former carpool lady calls. Can they start the carpool again? It was so nice to have someone to talk to on that long, 50-mile drive, he thinks. “Sorry – my wife won’t allow it … you got me home late too many times in a row,” he says.

Poor Nick gets home. Around 8:30. He’s been gone since 7:30 in the morning. At this point I’m past being tipsy from wine o’clock and onto having a headache from it (I’m a lightweight). There will be no sexy time tonight. I bitch about my period coming soon. He prays to God it’s my period and not early symptoms of pregnancy.

Poor Nick is resigned to this. I’ve made chicken and rice. Again. For the fourth time this week. Poor Nick chokes it down with something of a smile. I complain that he never tells me my cooking is good, my hair is pretty, my ass isn’t fat. He goes to put on pajamas and sees I didn’t make the bed. I never make the bed, and this annoys him.

Around 11 we go to bed and play the game of “these blankets are mine,” “no these blankets are MINE” until it’s time to get up again in the morning.

Now you all may be thinking this is a pretty miserable situation, and you would be right to think so. There are of course the good times, and the reasons for being married, together forever. But there is all this other stuff that makes so many people say “marriage is the hardest thing you will ever do.”

So why in God’s name would The Gays want this?

If The Straights are so against The Gays; if they really think it’s that gay sex is wrong, or it says it’s wrong in the Bible or whatever, why not LET them have all this bliss? All the hairs on the counter, the numb complacency, the wine o’clock headaches, and the nightly fight for the covers? This misery, this daily difficulty – it would serve them right. Right?

On a serious note, I think I know the reason why The Gays want to get married, legally. Because this isn’t an issue of The Gays or The Straights, or what your religion says, or what mine says; but that of human rights. It isn’t really gay marriage anymore than it is straight marriage, just like they aren’t any more The Gays as we are The Straights. We are all human beings and our sexuality, just like our race, creed, religion, or underwear color preference has nothing to do with being treated as such.

As a Catholic, with many family and friends that are Catholic, I struggle with this and many other political issues. Fortunately, with my family and friends, we are able to disagree and still maintain our close ties; which is why I am fine with saying that I am in full support of anyone’s right to marry, regardless of their sexuality. It’s just that when I think about it, I remember that my religion is not the religion of everyone – so why should I have the right to tell people that may not believe the same as I do what they should do? And that there are a lot of things the Bible says to avoid that people don’t – like eating shellfish. Who still abstains from shrimp, which the Old Testament unambiguously states is a punishable sin? (Get it: times change). More than any of that, as a Catholic and a believer in my faith, I believe that Jesus preached love. That’s it. Love and equality. Maybe I’ll burn in hell for being in support of gay marriage; maybe one day I’ll lose someone important to me because of our opinions.

But I think that when push comes to shove, my belief in love above all will prevail. Isn’t that what Jesus taught anyway?

8 Ways I’m a Bad Mom


I’ve been reading a lot about being a mom lately. It isn’t that I’m – like – researching it. It’s that a lot of people are writing about it. In case you all haven’t noticed, mom blogging is pretty much the cool thing to do right now. Anyone who has either dropped one out the vagina, become a stay at home dad, or in some way or another started mothering, is jumping on the bandwagon of blogging about parenting. Wee! Isn’t it great to have the opinions of many?

Okay, actually it is (within reason), because it makes us loser moms feel much less alone. You know us. We are the ones that don’t necessarily socialize with the other parents at the soccer matches. We aren’t always there with baked goods at the kid’s school Halloween party. We drink more than W. did during his tenure at Yale.

I’ve come to embrace my shittiness as a mother. I got to a point where trying to be the perfect mother was making me a little insane and intolerable to everyone around me. Who am I kidding, I’m still intolerable to everyone around me, and am waiting for my fitted straight jacket; but at least now that I’m not trying to be Mom of the Year all the time, I’ve lightened up a bit.

In any event, I’ve come to accept eight pretty glaring ways that I’m a bad mom. A super duper bad mom that will probably have some of you calling Child Protective Services…

#8 I sometimes serve Gerber meals to my nine year old

This isn’t often, mostly because I rarely buy the things. But every once in a while I know we’re going to be busy the next day, so I grab a couple at the grocery store “just in case.” Just in case always pans out, and now my nine year old is eating a toddler’s (or preschooler’s … they have preschool ones too …) meal with that fat baby’s head on the front of the package.

So I’m not talking about baby food, though. I’m talking about those meals with the pasta and the veggies on the side. They are super low cal, super healthy for any kid, and she loves them. She’d lick the inside of the little plastic plate they come in, if she didn’t have any manners that is.

I refuse to head to McDonald’s just because we’re really busy; and I also am not one to open a can of Chef Boyardi and slop it out. She just doesn’t like peanut butter and jelly like every other kid on the planet, so this seems my only option. Still, there’s something very odd about serving “pick me up pastas” to a little girl that may sprout boobs any day now.

#7 I rarely apply alcohol and Neosporin to minor scrapes

When did everyone start making such a fuss over minor scrapes and bruises? Sure, I’m a hypochondriac of the worst kind. I carry hand sanitizer everywhere. I have a “wash your hands when you walk in the house” rule. I don’t allow rides in shopping carts during cold and flu season.

But then I follow it all up by being as lax as possible when it comes to something like a minor scrape. Sure a cut will get some Neosporin. A burn will get some of that Aquafor ointment. Yet I see absolutely no goddamned reason why we should apply gobs of expensive antibiotic cream and half a box of Hello Kitty bandaids to a scrape I can’t even see without a magnifying glass.

#6 Unless we have a serious and immediate issue going on, I usually do two weeks of “wait and see” before calling the pediatrician. I also don’t believe in the emergency room for non-life-threatening emergencies

I think one of the biggest problems in America is that people go to the emergency rooms for back itches, elbow pain, crotch rot, and other various non-emergency situations. I further think that it is ridiculous for people to run screaming bloody terror to their pediatricians every time their kid sneezes. Get over it.

#5 I swear, a lot

Let’s be clear about this: I do not swear around other people’s kids. I don’t know if they teach their kids in the same way I do. And to be fair, I don’t drop the f bomb every other word at home, like I do on this blog.

But sometimes I do swear, and loudly. Fortunately, I have been able to teach that mommy’s using “big girl” words that “little girls don’t use.” It’s worked, so far. There are a lot of “hells” and “damns” and “shits” at our house, all of which come from me. And of course everyone sees my “Star of the B(itch)” certified star certificate, hanging in the bathroom. Sue me.


#4 I take out the vulgarity and all the talk about cooters from my blogs, and read every one of them to my entire family

Which means that when I read this blog aloud, this point will be entirely taken out.

So I am that mom blogger. The one who thinks her blog is so brilliant that the entire world should have it foisted upon them. I also think that my family gets great entertainment out of my blog (for whatever reason, I’m not sure what). It probably has something to do with how often I self-depricate.

#3 I throw away tons of schoolwork

Look. I’m not going to beat around the jon on this one. We homeschool every day of the year, all day long. That’s work sheets and art projects and science experiments and nature walks and more art projects and flash cards and more art projects and reading logs and coloring pages and more art projects. And even some more art projects, plus maybe a few more art projects for good measure. If I didn’t recycle the majority of the schoolwork either into the recycle bin, for Christmas presents, or to be used as toilet paper, I’m not sure where I’d store it all.


#2 I show my emotions

When my grandpa died in February, I cried a lot. I still do. I’m not one of those austere parents who’s going to hide their shit from their kids, thereby teaching their kids that emotions are things to be shoved into a bottle – only to be let out in occasional, explosive fits of rage. I don’t lay my drama on anyone else’s doorstep either, I just think it’s really important to teach kids that our emotions are a good thing. Even the bad ones.

#1 Sometimes I just don’t care

And herein lies the #1 reason I’m a bad mom, and also the reason you all relate to this post. Sometimes I don’t give a flip if Barbie is going on a date with Ken. Every once in a while, I could give two bananas what happened in your cupcake chapter book. On occasion, I don’t give a wad about what happened on Good Luck Charlie or Peppa Pig or  whatever the stupid kids shows that are ruining America happen to be big in our house right now.

Sometimes I just don’t care. I don’t say that I don’t care. I just don’t.

So there, I said it all. Call me a bad mom. Call me a horrible person. Tell me I’m a nasty ho who deserves nothing but to rot in hell (got one of those gems in response to a blog last week …). Notify the authorities. Do whatever you want, I know that where it counts I’m a good mom and with all this other nonsense I’m likely just a human being.

Are you a bad mom?