You Know that Bad Dream You Have Where You’re Standing Naked in Front of a Classroom Full of People?



Except I’m considering getting paid to do it for art students.

Monica the Ninjarapist thinks it could be very good for me in terms of making a mind/body connection, so we got the go-ahead there from the head lady.

I figure I look decent naked and although they take any shape/size/or age and nobody is there to judge, I think I’d make a fine candidate and at $16 an hour, I think I can sit still for 20 minutes at a stretch.

In fact, please god give me the chance to sit still and do nothing.

Getting paid is a bonus. I should be paying them just for the chance to sit my ass down and not do anything.  It would be a blessing, plus I don’t even have to wear a bra (hate those fuckers).

Only problem is, can I really do this?

Can I really be naked in front of a  room full of strangers and not DIE TO DEATH OF HUMILIATION?

Everyone I have talked to from both sides as drawer and draw-ee both agree that it is NOT weird. Like, at all. They’re there to draw shapes, not stuff grants or benjamins in your ass crack (although, if they felt moved to do so, I would not be opposed).

But let’s say that I can get past the “being naked in front of a room full of people” thing, I have a few practical concerns as well.

What if I’m sweaty and my pits start dripping? Do I shove kleenex up there and keep my arms firmly at my sides?  I’m gonna be a little nervous so the likelihood of my having a pit incident is quite high.

In fact, it’s a guarantee.

Maybe it will just roll down my body and pool up on the table or whatever?  I can then be a model posing in a swimming pool of perspiration.  Throw some lilly pads and Koi in there and we’ve got something really special going on.

“Farcical aquatic nude in repose”

Also, what if I have my special lady times?

Not only is there bloating and acne to consider, but there’s also the small matter of a string. Sure, you can tuck that sucker way up in there ,but what if if works it’s way back out?


32 students with a lovely drawing of my tampon string.

“Vaginal Marionette, sitting in contemplation”

And what if I have a Rite Aide type incident?  There’s no clothing to act as a filter or muffler.  It’s just gonna be out there and depending on what I’m sitting on, there may even be reverberation.

I’m not sure if there’s anything more humiliating than farting in front of a room full of people whilst naked.

That’s a dual fecta of embarrassment.

“Nude with buttocks issue”

But you know what?

Fuck it.

This is real life.

Draw that shit motherfuckers because this is what you’re parents are paying hard earned money for. You bring your pictures home and you show them what you did at school today!

Have any of you done this?  What was your experience?

What did you do about your tampon string?


Wine Accountability


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!)

Mister Hugs His Nuts

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I realize bathing suit season is pretty much over, but I cannot let this one go for too much longer as some pools and beaches are still open. For some of you, they never close (I HATE, HATE, HATE YOU!).

For those of you who are also facing the frozen tundra of decay and SADness, there’s nothing worse than seeing some sunny assmonkey in a bathing suit when you are wrapped in sweaters and fleece pants, fingerless gloves, a hat and fuzzy slippers (just to get through dinner preparations) while your electric blanket heats your bed for you before you slip under the finest down comforter IKEA has to offer.

With all those clothes still on.

It’s getting to be that time here in New England, but one day this summer, I excitedly opened an Amazon Prime package, thinking Mister had gotten me a present and HE SURE DID!

In the bag was a very small bathing suit bottom.

I looked at it for a while and thought, “these cute boyshorts might look nice on me,” but when Mister got home, he explained that the suit was for HIM.

OMFG, really?

I was horrified.


My husband is gonna wear nut huggers to the beach this year!

Whatever shall I do?

He tried it on and it actually looked decent because Mister is pretty ripped and lean despite his diet of chicken nuggets and pizza and lack of regular exercise which he prefers to get “in situ,” which means that he doesn’t exert himself unless he is forced into it.

Life is so unfair.

He even poops on the regs which makes me jealous because despite my exercise routine, vegetable based diet comprised of disgusting kale smoothies, salad, probiotics and Citrucel regimen, I still gain weight at the mere sight of a cupcake and suffer from non-pooping syndrome: which I’m sure is still colon cancer despite my doctor friend’s assessment to the contrary.

But this is all beside the point. I just really wanted to talk about poop for a second.

So, to my horror, he intended to wear this very European style suit IN AMERICA ON THE BEACH IN AMERICA!

I decided that if we were to appear at the beach as an obvious family we would need to fake an accent (possibly Russian because that is my favorite) so people wouldn’t think we were weird and move their children/blankets farther away from us because: “that guy’s junk is all out there! Those people are so weird!”

But, if we fake a Russian accent, they may say: “they seem to be some kinda European so we’ll just let them do their thing, but please, children, hide your eyes. It’s rude to stare at a dude’s junk!”

(I suspect most guys would love for someone to stare at their junk, but with kids around it’s just creepy, agreed?)

Luckily, every time we found the opportunity to go to the beach this year it was shitty and overcast, so no clothing was removed at any time.

We dodged a bullet there, but I can assure you that I will face this same issue next beach season.

All of this said, I understand where he was going with that suit. Board shorts must suck. They stay wet forever and stick to the legs. I have the same problem with my ultra padded bikini tops (the rumors are true: Crissy has no tits). They hold water that you have to squeeze out (because that’s not awkward at all to do in public) and then even after the squish, they sit there like two sopping woolen mittens on your chesitcals for hours.

You haven’t seen pruning until you’ve seen pruning boobs.

So, I get it. I really do.

But nuts are already all pruny, so like, maybe I don’t get it?  I don’t know.

Anyway, we are in the wrong country and so the huddled masses at the beach will not understand.

The bathing suit issue is resolved for now, but it will return.  Look for that coming Summer 2015.

I’m sure this story is NOT over.


Nobody Expects the Stannis Inquisition


This is Stannis Mattise Voltaire.

Pretentious name, I know but wtf, it took us two weeks and we couldn’t decide on only one pretentious name, so we picked them all. We call him “Stannie” and he seems to like it.

That’s Talus’ butt there next to the pool. We got Stannis just before putting Talus on transport to be reunited with Ehpa, Eric, Xanax and HulkSmash!.

Any reasonable person might ask: “why would some already overwhelmed people decide to bring home 70 lbs of more work?”

Well, we were desperate and lonely and sad about losing our friends and so the only way we could get any sort of piece of them back into our daily lives was to get a dog just like theirs.

We specifically asked GPA Mass for a dog just like Talus, and they had one, so we went and picked him up.

Turns out, he’s not exactly like Talus.

Temperament wise, yes. Exact same dog, but Stannis has a particular list of talents that far exceeds those of our beloved Talus.

Here, let me list the talents for you (in no particular order of importance):

  • He plays fetch. Greyhounds do not play fetch. They are racing dogs. How this sonofabitch learned how to play fetch is beyond me. Maybe he had a fun trainer or whatever,  but he played fetch for hours for the first two weeks we had him. And then, he quit. We throw his favorite ball and he just looks at us like, “wtf? Like, you expect me to like, bring it back or some shit?  Fuck that noise. Immma go lay down now.” He thinks he’s been cute and fun for long enough. The end.
  • He likes to hang out in the little green kiddie pool we bought just for him because we brought him to the beach and he loved wading in the water. We ran right out that very day and got the last pool they had at Toys ‘R Us. Strapped it to the roof of the car and everything. He used it twice and then he quit that too for same reason as above. Unless! We’re at the dog park and there’s a muddy puddle. He’ll lay down in there no problem because: fuck your new car.
  • He sheds worse than a cat. Greyhounds are non-shedding dogs.  Nobody told him.
  • So far he has eaten: a beanie baby that he ripped open and then dragged all over the house (the vacuum cleaner just pushes the beans around, so you have to and suck them up individually with the hose for approximately three hours solid), multiple Calico Critters which are Homeslice’s fave and mega expensive, a pair of flip flops, a Lalaloopsie and a stuffed squirrel as well as multiple sandwiches and other stuff the kids leave around.
  • He can turn two cups of dog food into ten cups of dog shit.
  • He pissed on Mister’s camera bag and forced mommy to play the “hurry up and steam mop/unpack/wash camera bag/replace everything before daddy gets home so we don’t have an animal abuse case on our hands” game.  I LOVE that game!

Vivi and Alice like just fine, Big Pussy is dead now so he doesn’t give two fucks about Stannis Matisse Voltaire.  He’s way too busy rotting in the ground to be concerned with such things.

Stannie is a pretty ok guy and super sweet and calm, so despite all of his foibles, we love him anyway.

Dogs: they wreck shit and piss on stuff.  If you don’t like broken shit and urine everywhere, don’t get a dog.

This is why (among soooo many other reasons) we can’t have nice things.


What are your dog’s special talents?

Crissy Gets a New Car. Finally Shuts Up About it.

Well, Queefies.

After years of loyal service, we have retired Sasha.


Girlfriend is totally beside herself because Sasha is a part of our family.


She drove both Girlfriend and Homeslice home from the hospital.

She rescued Vivian.


She kept us safe.


And now, she’s just sitting in the garage, waiting to be driven, longing to feel the wind in her hair once again. Mister and I cannot bear the thought of selling her, but at the same time, we don’t need her anymore. I feel like Henry VIII, tossing aside Catherine of Aragon for Anne Boleyn.

But unlike Henry VIII, I actually feel bad for my douchery. Sasha has always been good and loyal and virtuous. She’s just old now and not very thrilling anymore. It happens to the best of us, right, Queefies?

Remember when Crissy begged and begged Mister for a new car because  all she wanted in the whole wide world was to drive the shit out of some hot little number even though it scared the hell out of her?   Remember the day Mister tried to teach her and it did not go so well, Queefies?

Good times.

But then remember how after a little practice, she got better and felt not quite so scared?

And then years went by and Mister finally let Crissy get her Dream Machine. Crissy made a list of ALL the things she wanted, and after looking for almost two years, we found Anne Boleyn.


Except her name is Roxanne.

(I have no idea why all our car pictures are in parking lots.  That’s Mister’s department.)

She’s exceptionally fast and nimble.

She’s what they call “a six banger” or something. I told Mister “my new car is a six banger” and he looked at me like I’m a crazypants, but I think it’s because he’s just jealous because I’m fancy now and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

But it’s been a rough month, Queefies. Roxanne and I have been driving everywhere and my commute to work is a pressure cooker.  It’s constant stop and go traffic and everyone is in a hugefuckinghurry.  It only takes a second to recover from a stall, but my fellow commuters are the worst kind of assholes and they start with their horn bullshit straight away.

I’m actually quite brilliant at creeping along at 15mph in 1st gear constantly stopping and starting without stalling (that much).

Needless to say, I had to get a refill on my Xanies just for the ride to work.  But now  I’m finally able to drive Roxanne without panic attacks and pulling over to cry and hyperventilate.


And poor Mister has been very patient with my obsessive need to keep driving so I can get better. We do not have one of those relationships where the girl is allowed to drive,  so this is clearly killing him.  It’s killing me a little bit too because he gets all bent out of shape when I hit curbs, but they’re the same curbs I’ve been hitting all along so he can just shut it.  I’ve been driving like this for 22 years and I’ve never had a problem. Some curbs are just begging to be hit, amiright?

Anyway, we haven’t had a car payment in about 13 years and so having to pay for a car is new.  I’m considering party bingo or selling “special brownies” to Girlfriend’s Brownie Troop.

We all know how selling my panties went, so I won’t be doing that shit again.

Anyway, so far Roxanne has been worth all the pain.

Zoom zoom, Queefies.