2014-12-31 12.39.27-50


I didn’t think turning 40 was any kind of big whoop, so when the day came I did not drop my basket. I realize that for some people, turning 40 is a crisis, but I don’t get it. I’m going to save freaking out for my 90th birthday when I realize I’m gonna die pretty soon because that’s just nature’s way. It’s too soon to phone it in at this point.

All that said, there are things about being 40 that are a bit of a bother.

  • It all comes full circle when you find yourself calling your mom to ask her questions about hot flashes and other ridiculous shit because your hormones are suddenly like “later, bitch!”
  • Incidentally,  your pre-tween daughter is coming to you with questions about her boobs.
  • Said pre-tween daughter now takes the same size shoes as you do and will be wearing your clothes by this time next year. The good news? Your wardrobe just doubled. The bad news? So did hers.
  • That puppy you got as your “practice baby” when you were 28 is now deaf and wearing diapers. After successfully potty training two babies, you’ve totally nailed the diapering thing and so “practice baby” is now just a cruel joke.
  • What metabolism?
  • You have to switch positions during sexy time because the sound of your cracking hips is too distracting.
  • Pooping on the regs is no longer a thing. You find yourself actually considering buying that Activia yogurt stuff. If it’s good enough for Jamie Lee Curtis, it’s good enough for you!
  • Depression and anxiety once experienced in younger days and expressed through emo poetry and random poo poo baby blog posts now comes out to frighten your family (and sometimes even you). When will mommy turn into a raging thundercunt? Nobody knows!
  • Your shit is falling apart, and you find yourself collecting “ologists” now instead of cocktail recipes: Cardiologist, Gastroenterologist, Gynecologist, Rheumatologist, and coming soon Gerontologist! When that day comes, I’m going to write my first musical. It will be brilliant.
  •  Grey hair, wrinkles AND acne. This seems gratuitous.
  • My doctor is younger than me and I do not trust that he knows anything at all. He probably doesn’t know who The Goonies are and I cannot have it. Next doctor I find who can name all of the goonies is going to be the winner. There may be a high five in there somewhere too. Can you high five your doctor? You can if it’s the right doctor.
  • Something always hurts for no particular reason. This changes daily and sometimes hourly.
  • I realize I look like my mother. This is not a bad thing, but it’s taken this long for the resemblance to really present itself as we now have matching wrinkles. Hers are just 25 years deeper is all.
  • Nirvana is now considered “classic.” (shudder)
  • I smell weird.

The end.














This is my real address book.  It is not a joke.

It’s left over from 10 years ago from my baby shower invite list.  It’s evolved over time as people have moved and/or died and/or turned into assholes or whatever, but here it is in all it’s glory.

The list lives in a drawer full of other junk I have no idea about and gets smooshed, crunched, ,moved and mashed all year until it’s Christmas time again and I am forced to face it for real to get the cards done.

If you don’t get a card from me, it’s probably because my address book is a pile of ripped up papers.  Please, take no offence.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Organizing this is not really high on my list of priorities, ya know?  It just makes Christmas card sending a real buttfuck of a task, but it’s the only time I think about it, so does it matter that it looks like this?


Mister is the most disorganized person in the universe and even he judges me for it, so it must be really terrible.  I’m failing to see the major impact this has on my life, so I make only the most feeble attempts at organizing it. Last year,  I put a clip on it to keep it all together. That was progress the list had not seen since about March of 2005.  Maybe this year I’ll put it in an envelope?

No I won’t.

Don’t anybody suggest sitting and typing them all in because that is a hilarious.

I have a genius system where, if somebody moves, I rip the return addresses off of the envelope and put it in the clip on top of the  messy pile. Sometimes I just keep the whole envelope because I’m too lazy to rip the new address off. Maybe I cross off the old address, maybe I don’t.  It’s exactly like Christmas card roulette, and I’m ok with it because I like my cards to go on an adventure.  See the old house, perhaps get forwarded to the new place.  Maybe make some friends on the road?

That sort of thing.

So yeah.  If you get a card from us this year, you’d better shit your dick because you are one lucky and special motherfucker (who has probably not moved in ten years.)

Merry Christmas (maybe).


These are all the things that sucked this week:

Suckage item #1:


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Right here is what I call a pile of bullshit.

This is Homeslice’s homework which is actually designed to torture ME.  Not only did I have to cut this shit out into tiny squares that are impossible to control, but I had to sort it because it was arranged randomly. I had to go over them one by one with her. She got most, but I think she got a lucky guess on the others. I put those fuckers in the “done” pile realfuckingquick.

Guess or not, it’s still a correct answer, amiright?

Suckage item #2:


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My weekly allotment of wine was nearly done by Wednesday!  In my defense this was purchased last Friday night and was shared amongst friends, so really, wine consumption has been quite tame.  But still, this photo makes me sad because: rationing.

Suckage item #3:


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I did not get Veteran’s Day off, but everyone else did and so in an effort keep kids off screen time (mandated by me), Mister let them go wild streame-ring the  house. It’s a multicolored Halloween prank at my house right now.  It’s lovely, but who is going to have to take them down?




At least it wasn’t toilet paper, I guess. Girlfriend is known for her excessive use of tape, so I am particularly pissed about this because everything is taped down solid, which makes for extra pain in the ass, but most irritating of all is: there is NO tape left in this house.

You don’t realize you need tape until there is no tape.

Protip: Hide the fucking tape.

Suckage #4:


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This is my container drawer. Somebody should complain.

Suckage #5:


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Wall-e, the butane powered space heater, is now a permanent resident in my living room.  Mister thinks it’s the fucking balls.

It terrifies me every bit as much as the gas dryer, washing machine and garbage disposal.

Mister wanted me to post a picture of it when it’s lit, but I didn’t want the Internet to catch on fire cuz this thing says “DANGER” all over it.

Suckage #6:


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Who knew these fuckers take on water? I found myself standing over the kitchen sink shaking drips out of them until I noticed this:


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They have assholes.

So to get the water out, we had to drill them BIGGER ASSHOLES.


Now we have rose bud gang-bang “amules.”

Suckage #7:


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I dont live in a place where people keep chickens. So imagine my surprise to find these three ladies just chillaxin’ out there on an ordinary Monday morning?  I had dicks in my mulch, so why not chickens?

My driveway is a place of many wonders, Queefies.

So, how did your week go?

Mine was kinda crappy and included some heavy stuff, but this is all that I can share because we try to keep it light and fluffy over here.

Feel free to dump your bullshit here.

In fact,  please do.






T.Swift has decided to take herself off of Spotify because she’s worth SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT.  She just can’t even anymore, you guys.

Some of you don’t give a rat’s ass, some are relieved and some are like us: fuckin’ bummed out.

Yes, that’s right.

I’m a 40 year old Taylor Swifter and her songs have inspired many a dance party in my kitchen.

Is her music “art” as she calls it?

In some circles that is very debatable, but I like to think of art as something that moves people. I don’t care if your reaction is disgust, disdain, glee, amazement, introspection, or it’s just something that makes you wanna shake it.

Art, in any form, is art as long as it moves people in some way.

Indifference is the artist’s worst enemy.

Her definition of her art (and art in general) is totally fucked up because she refers to all of it as “rare and valuable.”

Oh, honey. Some art is indeed rare and valuable, but there are a dozen or so pop princesses out there. I’ll give you the art thing, but it is not rare. In fact, it is ubiquitous.

However, I agree that it is valuable.  Its value for me lies in the enjoyment it brings to people and not in the amount of cash it delivers to already stuffed coiffures. Judging by the home she purchased here in Rhode Island, she is not hurting for mortgage payments and heat. So, I’m disappointed. I have stuff like food and warmth to purchase instead of albums.  Maybe little girls will buy her albums with their allowance money, but that’s sad too.

How can she take their allowance money? They worship her, and she looks at them with $$$ in her eyes.

You cannot place a dollar sign on the fun and happiness that art inspires in fans. It is priceless.

Money, although nice and awesome if you can make some whilst doing what you love, should not be a primary motivation for being an artist and sharing your work.

Some people hate her songs, but people like Girlfriend, Homeslice, Ehpa, Pam and me find it perfect for dancin’ like you just don’t care.

What an amazing power that is.

I get all bummed out after I spend hours writing a blog post, for instance, and nobody reads or comments. I’m completely stoked when somebody reads and has something to say. Trolls are even welcome. Bring it, assmonkeys. You cannot hurt me with your words! I shall throw you to the ground very roughly!

A little bit of pee comes out when something I write connects with someone and makes them laugh or feel like their life is normal or whatever. That should be what makes her happy, too.

I wanna see Taylor Swift piss herself at one of our dance parties. It is a sight to behold, let me tell you.

There is video, you may not see it.

We pay for Spotify, and even though she makes a fraction of a penny for every time someone plays one of her songs, MILLIONS OF PEOPLE ARE DOING IT.  I know that in this household alone, we have played her tunes enough times to have purchased at least one album, so fuck you, Taylor.

She’s not our favorite anymore because she’s acting like big giant greedy poo-poo baby!

I cannot get down with that literally or figuratively.

I am super disappointed in her life choices.

And so, dear Taylor, we are skakin’ you off.

I’m sure you’ll be writing about this in your next album entitled “Why Does Everyone Think I’m a Douchebag Now?” coming out in December 2015 when you realize that nobody listens to your rare and valuable art anymore.  If we can’t hear you on Spotify, well then, you are dead to the QOFEs.


I guess it’s on to the next one, but for now, I am happy to be free from her spell, confused by her choice, and lonely for a new dance party favorite (mainly because her songs remind me of Ehpa and I play them when I miss her).

Perhaps this young lady has the right idea:

Other replacement suggestions welcome below, but remember we need shit to shake what our mommas gave us.

Suggestions for Meshuggah or the like will not be considered (I’m looking at you, Mister!)

Meshuggah makes me need a Xanax.





I just read The Art of Racing in the Rain.  Do not ask me who wrote it because I don’t have time to care. I liked it though, so kudos to some guy or whoever.

The point is that this is the very first book that I have read since Homeslice was nursing, and I had lots of time to just sit and wait for her to drain the life out of my (then) bodacious ta-tas.

Turns out those were the glory days: I had huge knockers and time to sit and read.  Who knew that would be the highlight of my existence as a reader.

I loved my books so much and I missed them tremendously, so reading one for the first time in five years was a momentous occasion.


It felt like I had a part of myself back again!

Except: nay, nay.

It was not meant to be because once school started, I have been inundated with shit I really don’t want to read, but have to: PTA newsletter, Common Core Eureka! suggestions for how not to kill myself while learning “the new math,” suggestions for how to teach Homeslice to read, and a bevy of other crap that I don’t really care about but because I do not want my kids ending up homeless on the street giving hand jobs for crack, I must read the shit that comes home every day.

Mainly, I just skim it for stupid crap I have to remember like “wear pink on Thursday for Breast Cancer!” and “Wear your class color on Friday!” and “Pajama day on Wednesday!” type of bullshit.

I don’t want my kid to be party asshole and wear all black on breast cancer day.  Next obvious step is prostitution.

Every week, there’s a special day to remember in addition to making sure we are wearing sneakers on gym day and have studied for spelling tests and what kid needs to return library books on which day and who has a dentist appointment.

With all this going on, do I care that there was a great turnout at the Halloween Dance?  Do I need to read a letter about it? Should my tax money be thrown into the recycle bin within seconds of having received these papers?

I think not.

I was there at that dance on an exhausted Friday night, and from my perspective, it was an awkward  high school dance situation that I did not want to relive.

The cops escorted one dad out for being drunk.

I was jealous because this was a sober event for children, and so I dutifully donned my ghost costume and showed up sipping water (having pre-gamed only with Xanax because omg the people and the flashing lights, loud music and the children running around like little assholes for two hours. Fuck that I had to do something!).

Had I known the cops would be escorting drunks home, I would have shown up having had winethirty in an incredibly obvious way.

As far as I’m concerned, since there was no wine served for parents, the Halloween dance sucked ass. I would have even put up with a two drink maximum. Something, anything, but throw us a freakin’ bone here!  Nobody was happy to be sober. Possibly not even the kids.

But, I digress.

When it finally comes to be reading time at my house, I’m reading to Homeslice. Such tantalizing tomes as Fox Wears Socks and Cub in a Tub really aren’t getting me there.

And after working all day at my fancy lady job reading more stuff that is not of my choosing because I also do not want to wind up homeless on the streets giving hand jobs for crack, I have to come home and read school nonsense from not one but TWO teachers. Thank god I don’t have more than two kids because I just can’t even.  I cannot.

Perhaps I should read this:

how to even

But I do not literally even have the time.