This Old New House.

I woke up around nine on Thanksgiving morning and, but for the clink clink clink of the fan and my dog licking her butt, the house was painfully silent. Nothing was as it should be. I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed my … Continue reading

Dating When You’re Almost Dead.

College. Sigh. When dating was simple, because we were wasted and didn’t care about stupid adult stuff. With all the time in the world, it wasn’t a big deal to spend a few months making out with a frat guy who collects beer … Continue reading


Despite the fact that my husband told me on our first date (to my face) that my house smelled like Pet Smart, he was still somehow under the impression on our wedding day that he was marrying some sort of together, with-it, domestic goddess.

I played along for the first part of our marriage and then, like we do, I began showing him glimpses of the real me – the disastrous, disorganized, scatterbrain. Then, one day, I decided to put it all out there except for the farts and was like fuck it let’s eat some Taco Bell and leave the wrappers on the counter and lay around all day, yes?

It’s a good thing he loves me so much, because my disorganized ways are his nails on a chalkboard.

I’m Donna Reed’s worst nightmare.

Try as I might, I struggle to keep things in order most of the time, something I blame on my raging case of ADD. The good news is that it’s not a raging case of crabs. The bad news is that there are many days I find ordinary things impossible.

Like, forgetting to replace the toilet paper, leaving our asses to bare the brunt with Bounty.

Or, forgetting to buy toothpaste before we run out, leaving us to strangle the tube every morning like it’s Rick Perry, determined to get one last glob out.

Or, like buying soap.

(Do you guys know how much more awesome you would smell simply by replacing your bar-soap with shampoo?)

Last week, I went to the grocery store three times.

Last week, I forgot to buy soap three times.

On Friday morning, as my husband was showering for work, I heard a faint, “Jesus. Ugh!” come from the bathroom.

I knew it had to be one of three things, a roach, cat-hairball puke, or dog pee.

I stuck a hanger in the door to jimmy the lock, mostly because I resent the fact that, if I locked the door, I’d have two children bashing their heads up against it repeatedly and screaming at the top of their lungs in under a minute.

But, also because I wanted to see what was up.

Me: What happened, babe?

Him: I was trying to find something to wash my body with, since you haven’t bought soap, so I grabbed your body wash.

Me: Yeah…and?

Him: AND…I happened to look at the back of the bottle for once, as I was lathering, only to discover that it isn’t even soap. It’s…it’s…vaginal wash.

Me: YEAH…and? It’s not like it’s made from actual vaginas or like it’s vaginally scented or anything. It’s just soap for sensitive areas. Is someone a little jealous there’s no flower-scented penis wash on the market? 

Him: Can you just buy some soap today? PLEASE.

Me: By the way, Biolage makes you smell FABULOUS and leaves your skin shiny, frizz-free, and totally manageable. WHICH, I would have told you had you’d asked.


After I picked myself up off the floor from laughing so hard, I thought it would be extremely beneficial to provide you guys with a visual to help you better understand.

So, without further adieu, I present to you….

Vagina-Soap Gate
(reenacted by yours truly.)

Email subscribers: click here to view the video.

STFU & Listen


Come here.

I have a secret.


Don’t be shy.

Come on, closer…

Eww, too close. Back it up, creep.

Here’s the thing.

People who blog don’t usually read a whole lot of other blogs.

Well, I don’t, anyway.

This little tidbit shouldn’t really be all that shocking to you, because…

Warning: I’m totally about to offend someone.

People who write about themselves all day long on the internet are likely to possess at least a little bit of arrogance. It’s kind of a requirement.

Now, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and I’m certainly not saying we don’t care about others but, well, it is what it is…we like to talk about ourselves.

Last night, after the kids were in bed, I went about my usual routine of checking my Twitter replies, checking my Facebook and blog comments, and, of course, my traffic numbers.

And, for what?

I mean, the amount of money I’ve made over the past several years from writing would be at least enough to buy a few of you a Slurpee. And, I generate zero income from my personal blog, because I want to be able to say fuck and shit without giving a fucking shit who I offend.

Anyway, last night, after really thinking about all of this, I realized there’s one common theme.


You guys, I’ve been way too self-absorbed, and doing this all wrong.

Do I try to interact with my small readership?

Most definitely.

Do I go out of my way to read your words? Words that are just as important to you as my words are to me?

Not nearly enough.

When I took a step back and thought about it, it didn’t sit well with me. The one-sidedness of my behavior reeks of narcissism, and makes me feel gross.

I don’t want a superficial relationship with the people who take the time to read my thoughts, reach out to me, comment, and stroke my ego.

I want a real one.

So, after whacking myself upside the head a few times, I asked my friends to share their favorite posts with me.

Then, today, I asked again.

And, now?

I’ve got a shit-ton of beautiful reading material for my weekend, that I’m really looking forward to.

My friend Mandy summed it up beautifully…


And, although, I’m sure it’s been done a million times before, in a million other places, in a million different ways, I thought it would be wonderful to open up this space, as well, to what’s going on in your lives, in your heads, and in your hearts.

I’m so tired of the fake encouragement, the superficial relationships, the bullshit camaraderie, and the faux-gratitude.

It’s time for me to STFU & Listen…

So, I would love for you guys to leave a link in the comments, or even in a direct message, with your words.

Anything, written at anytime, as many as you want, even just a photo you love.

There’s only rule.

No penis pictures.

Because, I don’t want to know you that well.