September 19, 2011


Is It A Kitten Or A Child?

During The Nanny Years, I developed the sort of land-speed record bathroom habits that only childcare providers or parents have mastered. There seems to be some sort of Murphy’s Law stipulation that says after 4 hours of eagle-eyeing a child, the 36 seconds in which you rush to the bathroom, leave the door cracked open just in case so you can hear any baby screams or children gasping for air, and void your bowels in a rush that’s probably medically unhealthy are the same 36 seconds in the day that the child inevitably finds the glue in the crafts bin, or climbs onto the couch and then falls off the back, or gets tangled in his blankets in his crib and puts up an unholy ruckus trying to wiggle free that makes you think that an intruder has entered the house and is trying to abscond with said child.

Since the end of The Nanny Years, I have learned to love my quiet, uninterrupted, and long-in-duration bathroom time. I read my magazines. I’ve even been known to paint my toenails while already sitting (multitasking for the win!). I write grocery lists as I mentally walk down the aisles and make a menu for the week.

This was BK— Before Kitten.

Because my little cat, my Velcro shadow, my tiny terror, my monster of love, goes into panic mode the instant I walk in the bathroom and shut the door in his face. Even if he didn’t see me go in, I hear him running around the house, looking for me before he finally deduces where I am and sets up post outside the door, howling, yowling, and generally trying to convince me that his inability to be alone trumps my bodily functions.

Again— pet owner, or furry, bastardized motherhood?

XOXO

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July 3, 2012


You know you’re getting older when men in their thirties start looking younger, and boys in their teens look older.

I have to stop myself from checking out jailbait regularly, and should start demanding to see dates’ I.Ds to verify their age, then start grilling them on their maintenance routines.

XOXO

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July 16, 2012


The Geniuses Over At Cosmo…

Cosmo has a cover story this month titled “When Your Vagina Acts Weird After Sex.” 

Because I don’t know about you, but sometimes after I get laid, my vagina listens to Amy Winehouse on repeat, drives recklessly, tells us she’s going vegetarian, and starts asking to be referred to as “Her Ladyship.”

…Cosmo, what. My vagina is ALWAYS weird. I’ve owned it for 23 years, and I STILL don’t really understand what all goes on down there, and I’m OK with it, because I’m not constantly checking in on how my vagina feels. Here are my regular interactions with my vagina:

  • "Oh, you’re bleeding? Great, not pregnant. Let’s shove in a tampon about it."
  • "What was that? You want to have sex with him? NOW? Ok!"
  • "Ouch. OUCH. Thanks for giving me those early UTI warning signs."
  • "You’re not going to come? I just spent two hours developing the early stages of carpal tunnel over you, and you’re just not going to RSVP to this orgasm tonight? Fine, bitch. Be that way."
  • "Do you want ice cream or a cheeseburger for lunch? Both? Vagina, you’re brilliant." 

 XOXO

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August 30, 2012


Geography Issues.

The one problem with living so close to Canada is that when you see handsome, well-dressed Canadian men roaming around in V-necks and perfect hair with just the right amount of product, you always have to ask yourself,

"Are they gay, or just Quebecois?"

XOXO

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October 9, 2012


I made a “WWDD?” drawing to hang in my cubicle at the call center while it was slow today. It stands for “What would Ders do?” and really helps me find the strength and will to schmooze when all I want to do is take my headset off and put my face on the keyboard and snooze.

…Help.

XOXO

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November 3, 2012


It’s SHOCKING to me that Romney politics will simultaneously mandate I give birth to a child and then not only deny but exacerbate the global warming and environmental issues that will make the world that much more of a unsafe, unstable, over-capitalized place for that child. Is it just me, or is that illogical?

XOXO

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December 6, 2012


The money I saved on my toiletries by shopping at Walmart was totally negated by being repeatedly eye-raped by a creepy like legitimate Vegas troll. Don’t stand so close to me. Don’t breathe on me. Don’t tell me you like my dress. I wanted to shake my box of tampons at him to ward him off and crawl back into the hole from which he came.

…Do you ever just want to say to someone, “Don’t even think about it. In what world?”

HE WAS MISSING TEETH.

XOXO

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