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.














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.



My house smells like pee.

We live in Urine Central:all of the time.

No matter how fastidious I am about cleaning and washing things on the regs, It still smells really similar to a nursing home kind of thing where they try to cover up the odor of decay and incontinence with Lysol or Pine-Sol or some shit like that.  In my opinion, I prefer the smell of feces to the smell of Pine-Sol.

I use fancy and expensive all natural products that smell like butterfly wings and kittens because I like to be smug .The only fish and wildlife and environment threatening product I use is Lysol scrubbing bubbles for the shower. I refuse to give that shit up. Fuck my dish scrubber full of white vinegar and all natural dish liquid. FUCK. That. I have clear glass shower doors, so you understand. Sorry Pinterest. I tried, I really did.

So, my house smells of dog urine and fancy overpriced organic products (highly recommend the Method clover scented room de-stench-or-izer. It’s expensive as all hell and the bottle lasts for like, 13 seconds, but it’s a small price to pay because your house will smell like freshly cut grass for DAYS).

Even with all my efforts, it still smells like pee with a hint of Method clover scented urine. Upside: clover scented urine is marginally better than just plain urine.


The problem is that even though everyone is housebroken, including newbie Stannis, there’s one problem we cannot solve.

Poor Alice is ancient (going on 12 in January) and she is totally incontinent.  She leaks pee all of the time.  Every waking moment of her life, she leaks pee. Her bummy is always wet and her white fur is stained with yellow pee stains despite the weekly baths (if you wash her more often, even with the most gentle all-natural oatmeal dog shampoo, it aggravates her old lady skin problems).

Bless her little heart, she knows it’s naughty to pee in the house, so she spends her days licking up her accidents as they are happening.  Her back must hurt so much from assuming a constant pee-licking position, but this is her life now because she is old.

We tried meds, but they make her fee like shit.  I can see it in her expressions that the meds, while effective, make her feel uncomfortable in other ways, so I choose not to give them to her.

Our next step was to try doggie diapers with a maxi pad liner to soak up the pee. She seemed more comfortable that way and stopped the incessant licking, but the diapers don’t stay on very well because she doesn’t have a damned tail.

Not only is Poor old Alice incontinent, she is also now almost completely deaf.  She misses meals because she can’t hear the food hitting the bowl, so we have to go find her and wake her up and direct her to her dish via sign language before the Greyhounds get a chance to gank her food.

She gets left outside all alone because she didn’t hear us call for dogs to come in.

She  wakes up alone because she was sleeping and didn’t know everyone left the room.  We have to look for her and direct her to where we have moved.

Just until recently, Alice was my constant shadow, and now she’s out of the loop.  She’s not allowed on our bed anymore because of the leaking pee.  Despite my attempts to put a towel down for her to lay on, she prefers to lay next to it instead of ON it, so she’s off mommy’s bed now too.

Her heart is broken and she does not understand why she is now an outcast.

I don’t want this for her, but this is what is happening.  This is the same bullshit that lands people in an “assisted living facility.”

Poor Alice is in her twilight years for sure but she is still happy despite her challenges:  when you pet her, she makes the most glorious sounds of relief and appreciation because I’m sure that along with the incontinence and deafness, she is also achy all over.

This is old age.

She still serves as Group Sergeant and makes it her job to announce when Stannis and Vivi are enjoying themselves too much by barking her fucking ass off.

She also still barks her ass at company if they move, just so we know “hey! hey! that guy just moved!”

The only blessing here is that she’s not Incontinentia Buttocks.

But that’s way easier to clean up, so I don’t know.

What would you prefer?

Incontinentia buttocks or Incontinentia urine?

I am undecided.



Monica the ninjaerapist thinks I drink too much.

Most people I know drink at least one bottle of wine per night or more.

This is my culture, these are my people.

And we all get our freelancing done and kid’s homework/permission slips/various school bullshit/healthy breakfasts/lunches and dinner/baths/ridiculous curly long hair brushing requiring multiple products and various types of hairbrushes and techniques/tooth brushing/reading log assignments done accurately and on time.

The floors are cleaned, toys picked up, pets fed and dishes are done.

I suppose I am what you would call a “functional alcoholic” since everything I do past the hour of winethirty pm gets done in A+ to B+ fashion.

Nobody is neglected and nobody suffers. I end up in bed with full teeth brushing and all anti-aging ointments and tinctures applied by approximately 8pm.  Children go to bed at 8 with all necessary routines completed.

We hum along pretty well, but Monica theninjareapist thinks that one bottle of wine per night is too many.

I just had a full liver panel done recently and all is well there so I haven’t done any harm yet (possibly due to the daily kale/lemon/raspberry/raw almond/coconut water/flax seed/banana/spinach smoothies for breakfast).

Wait till she find out by “bottle of wine” I really mean one of the  BIG bottles and not a regular sized.

She will shit, and so I will not tell her.

Because, is this an issue, really?

I wake up at 5am and get up to exercise and get the fam ready for the day.

Sometimes Girlfriend jumps on her bike and we go for a four mile bike/run a couple of times per week. I average 8:15 minutes per mile when I’m not stopping to make sure she’s keeping up and not getting hung up at intersections and whatnot.

Am I the face of alcoholism?  I say nay. nay and here’s why:

Things happen as they should at all times.

Because of this,  I’m making a case to change the term  “functional alcoholism” to “functional because of alcoholism.”

Please, DSM-5, keep up with the times because we need your support.

Stressed out, self-medicating moms need a new category.  It works. It’s not broken.

Livers may disagree (at which point we may re-assess) but everything else seems to be in order.

It’s the new way to get through parenting without freaking the fuck out because omfg there is so much work to do once you get home from work ie: your children and managing a family.

So fess up: how much do you drink per night? Are you able to function at A+ to B+ level? Maybe I’m normal or maybe I should stick to Monica the Ninjarapist’s recommendation of only one glass of wine per night ( in which case I will get much larger wine glasses and call it success!)


Almost every day at lunch break, my friend Pam and I go for a power walk. We go up and down and all over the east side of Providence wearing our work dresses, statement necklaces, tights with boot socks still pulled up to the knee with our sporty shoes on.

We are fancy.

We almost always end up at Rite Aid for somethingorother; many times it’s chocolate and tampons.

The same cashier is always there. Her name is Joanne. We see her every single day and she never gives any indication that she’s seen us before. It’s been nearly four years. There should be some sort of rapport by now, but nope. Nothing.

We’re just two more customers to get out of her way so she can go back to sticking orange clearance stickers on hideous bottles of nail polish and expired boxes of Cheeze-Its.

At first, Pam and I were hurt that Joanne doesn’t want to be friends with us, but then Pam had a revelation and diagnosed her with Facial Blindness which we thought was a thing that only existed on Arrested Development, but turns out it’s the real deal and Joanne’s got it.

This works out for Pam and me because most of our purchases are embarrassing–especially the purchase I made last week.

You see, I’ve been having some irregularity issues because: 40.

And I have a friend who’s a doctor and she is kind enough to humor my hypochondriacical tendencies. She instructed me that 1) it’s not colon cancer and 2) to take a probiotic and some Citrucel. So, I had the probiotics and had already started taking them, but had to pop into Rite Aid to get the Citrucel.

Whilst purchasing said Citrucel, I had an incident.  It was loud, proud and quickly filled Rite Aid with the smell of probiotics doing noble work.

I was the only customer in line.

It was undeniable.

Oh god.

Pam wasn’t with me that day, so I had to endure the entire walk back to work choking on my own laughter to the point of sputtering and gagging, bag of Citrucel swinging expectantly at my side.

So, this is why I’m actually glad that Pam had diagnosed Joanne with Facial Blindness because I can still go into Rite Aid and know that Joanne has no idea I’m the one who did it.  In fact, she may not remember it at all because who knows what’s she’s got going on upstairs?

She’s somewhere in her 50’s and she’s a cashier at Rite Aid. ‘Nuff said.

College ain’t for everybody, guys.

If Joanne were able to recognize us, I would ask her to sign a HIPPA because the things Pam and I purchase would certainly warrant such a thing.  Pam and her husband, Ethan, are on the baby train and Joanne was very helpful in determining if the buy one get one free sale applied to both ovulation predictor kits AND pregnancy tests.  It did.  Hooray for Pam!

And since Pam is still not with child (sad face here), Joanne won’t think anything of it when we go in for tampons and chocolate (for the one billionth time).

Only Joanne knows how much chocolate Pam and I consume in one week. It would disturb anyone except her because she doesn’t remember we just bought three bags of M&M’s yesterday and we’re back for more a mere 24 hours later.

Even Monica the ninjarapist (that’s ninja-therapist not ninja rapist, although she’s badass enough to rape a ninja and get away with it) knows Joanne since her office is across the street.  We talked about it in therapy and she agrees.  Facial blindness is the only answer.  We also considered professionalism but quickly ruled it out because sometimes we like to be mean because sometimes being mean in private therapy is very therapeutic.

Anyway, my only regret from that day is that I didn’t say: “I hope that’s the last asshole you hear from today.”

Hindsight is a bitch.