Nothing says “alone time” quite like a candlelit bath… with a bunch of creepy (and apparently drunk) rubber ducks your daughters so kindly left for you.

Nothing says “alone time” quite like a candlelit bath… with a bunch of creepy (and apparently drunk) rubber ducks your daughters so kindly left for you.

The First Trimester Really, Really Sucks. Here’s Why.


So you just found out you’re pregnant. Congratulations! I’m sure you’re bubbling over with joy, already thinking of baby names, designing your nursery, and feeling super maternal. It’s a great feeling, isn’t it? Well don’t get too excited there, caterpillar. Because in a mere 2-3 weeks, you will be cursing yourself, your husband, your mom, and anyone else who dared tell you that it would be a good idea to procreate.

“Oh, I can handle a little morning sickness,” you say. “I spent most of my 20s fully functioning at work with a bitch of a hangover. I’ve never been so prepared for anything in my entire life!”

Well, I’m here to tell you that nothing, even previous pregnancies, can prepare you for the harrowing months that are the first trimester. If only it were just morning sickness. Hell, if only morning sickness were just morning sickness, it wouldn’t be that bad.

But don’t think that you’ll be given any sympathy from friends or coworkers. Unless you’re extremely brave or comfortably vulnerable, you can’t really tell anyone outside of immediate family and extremely close friends… that 15% chance of miscarriage in the first trimester is always lingering in the back of your mind.

And by the time you do start spreading the news, your memory is so shot that you cannot give an accurate recount of the past few weeks. Plus, the last thing you want to do is sound ungrateful- you know how fortunate you are to be in this position. So when people ask how you’ve been feeling, you’re most likely to mutter something about being a little tired and sick, but then you immediately perk up and proclaim that you’re feeling MUCH better now and that it wasn’t even that bad. You repeat this conversation so many times that you start to believe it yourself, and the rest of the world is left with this rose-colored impression that the first trimester is all about a little morning sickness.


Lucky for you, I’ve been taking horribly misspelled notes throughout the first trimester so that I could paint a more accurate picture for you. There’s no candy-coating it. The first trimester really, really sucks. Here’s why.

1. You’re dumb. Dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb. You’ve probably heard of “pregnancy brain,” and let me tell you, it’s a real thing. But we’re not just talking about pregnancy here- we’re talking about first trimester brain, which is an entirely different level of dumbacity and ineptitation. You know that feeling when you go into a room to get something but can’t remember what that something is once you get there? Just imagine that being the norm, all day, every day. Here is a sampling of some of the dumbass things that I’ve documented over the past few weeks:

  • “I just ordered a decaf triple nonfat latte in the Schlotzsky’s drive-thru.”
  • “This morning I was getting ready and couldn’t remember if I put on deodorant or not, so I went to the bathroom to put some on. Five minutes later, as I was getting dressed, I couldn’t remember if I put on deodorant, so I went to the bathroom to put some on. Five minutes later, as we were out the door, I couldn’t remember if I put on deodorant, so I went to the bathroom to put some on. After I dropped the girls off at preschool, I checked to see if I had remembered to put on deodorant… I had not.”
  • Repeat the above incident, but substitute “putting laptop in car” for “putting on deodorant.”
  • “The lady sitting one table over just asked me how old my daughters were. She then proceeded to tell me how she always wanted girls but that God decided she should raise boys. My reply? ‘Are these your sons?’ ‘No, they’re my coworkers.’ She couldn’t have had them by more than 10 years. Dammit I’m such an asshole.”

2. You’re tirrrrreeeeddd. You really want to be productive and feel good about yourself, but you simply can’t keep your eyes open. You start mistaking anti-depressant commercials for pregnancy movies because you identify more with the lady in the bathrobe who can’t get off her couch than you do with Katherine Heigl. And if you already have kids, they probably think you’re just turning into a lazy piece of shit. But, once again, you can’t explain what’s going on… because those little f***ers innocent sweethearts can’t be trusted with a secret. (This is not an exaggeration, btw. The morning after we told our 4-year-old the news, she managed to tell her entire day camp, including the drumming troupe that was performing that day.)


And don’t think that you can just drink a shitload of caffeine to compensate, one of the many pregnancy “no-nos”. But now that I think about it, if you do need a couple cups of coffee in order to do normal activities safely like DRIVE YOUR CHILDREN TO SCHOOL, you can at least do it without judgment at this point. Try ordering a fully caffeinated latte when you’re 8 months preggo. People will look at you like you just took a shot of Fireball with a heroin injection as a chaser.

3. You find yourself crying at EVERYTHING. Pardon my French, but pregnancy really turns you into a big pussy. I am literally crying right now watching the Lego movie. We’re talking commercials without Sarah McLachlan in them, national anthems of other countries, quasi-heartfelt endings to mediocre novels, Buzzfeed lists… everything. Now excuse me while I try to find a tissue… and my dignity.

4. You have to pee ALL THE TIME. Thought that the peeing all the time thing happened when the baby grew big enough to push on your bladder? Wrong! If only. Not only does your uterus start expanding from day 1, intruding on your precious bladder space, but those lovely pregnancy hormones increase blood flow through your kidneys, which in turn fill your bladder more frequently. The experts like to praise the kidneys for their “efficiency” during pregnancy. I like to curse them for their dickishness. The Piss Olympics strike most frequently during the middle of the night, so you better get used to falling in the toilet because your non-vampire-peeing husband left the seat up.

5. Being sick sucks. I know, I know. This one sounds like it should win the Isaac Fucking Newton Award for Brilliant Observations, but hear me out. This is not so much because you feel bad… you feel like shit and can’t get out of bed anyway, so you might as well tack an illness on there and get it out of your system while you’re still bed ridden. The primary reason being sick sucks during the first trimester is directly related to the previous ailment. Because your bladder is constantly on the brink of overflowing, and you’ve increased your fluid intake to speed up recovery, you now pee yourself a little every time you sneeze or cough. And if you ever have a coughing fit… well, suffice it to say that you may want to go ahead and purchase some additional underwear to get you through these nine months. On the plus side, you now have a use for that economy size box of panty liners you had just purchased from Costco before you found out you were pregnant (make that a box of Overnights if you’ve birthed children before). So if you are out and about and witness a pregnant woman sneeze, I want you to look her directly in the eye, say “God bless you,” and mean it.

6. You revert to eating like a child. Here is a list of acceptable sounding foods during the first trimester: toast, bagels, sugary cereal, waffles, graham crackers, ginger snaps, PB&J, and anything that has “high fructose corn syrup” listed as its first ingredient. Sounds awesome, right? You finally have an excuse to eat a bunch of crap! Well, kinda. Except that you’ve stupidly googled “nutrition during pregnancy,” and it pretty much tells you to eat the opposite of what you’ve been eating.

  • “Eat plenty of dark, leafy vegetables for iron and folic acid.” Ewww, vegetables! Yuck!
  • “Make sure to eat a wide variety of foods so that your body gets all the nutrition it needs.” Does switching from the honey graham crackers to the cinnamon ones count as variety?
  • “Avoid foods that are high in sugar.” Great, now I’m going to starve to death.

And since you know that YOU are the one responsible for the health of your growing baby, you can’t even enjoy the sugar diet because all you taste in each and every bite is guilt. (Get used to it, my friends. That guilt never goes away.) But I say fuck it. It’s the first trimester. It won’t last forever, and you’re lucky you’re able to eat at all. 


Side note: I kind of feel that pregnancy nausea is your body’s way of adapting to the fact that you are now a fucking moron. It doesn’t trust you to remember all the new food rules you’ve just been given (e.g., no raw fish, no soft cheeses, no deli meat), so it just develops a taste aversion to all of them for you. For the really evolutionarily advanced, the body will reject all food just in case you were forgetful enough to break one of the rules. If you were physically sick throughout your entire first trimester, congratulations, you are adaptively superior.

7. You’re bloated, and your clothes don’t fit. And that’s putting it nicely. Despite the fact that your child is about the size of a peanut, you’re hardly eating, and you piss out your body weight on a daily basis, you still manage to feel extremely and undeniably fat. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was all in your mind, but the fact that your go-to ass-flattering skinny jeans now give you a Snooki-styled muffin top, you know it’s real. And you are made aware of your complete inability to control it when your yoga instructor keeps reminding you “mula bandha” (i.e., suck in your fucking gut) throughout the entire class. The only thing that will bring you any sense of reprieve is the day your body finally decides to “pop.” The inexperienced will feel a sense of superiority over others who may “show” early on… the knowledgeable know better: The day you “pop” and become visibly pregnant instead of portly will quite possibly be the best day of your entire pregnancy. And the sooner it happens, the happier you will be.

8. Your boobs hurt like a biiiiitch. It starts with a burning, tingling sensation in the early weeks then progresses to a dull, throbbing pain as the weeks go on. Ever wonder what it feels like to get punched in the tits whilst sunburned? Go get yourself pregnant. And don’t think that skipping the bra will help. Your knockers are getting so disproportionately large that they qualify as weapons of mass destruction. Harness those bitches, for Pete’s sake! And don’t worry. Soon enough you won’t think this boob pain is all that bad… because the first few weeks of breastfeeding are worse. WAY worse.

9. You are in a constant state of panic that something will go wrong. You cover the full spectrum of emotions in the first trimester, from joy to guilt to doubt to whatever emotion goes along with “tits on fire.” But the worst of them, by far, is the paralyzing fear that you are going to have a miscarriage. It’s real, it happens, and you don’t know if you’re strong enough to handle it should it happen to you. What’s even worse is the fear that you’ve already had a miscarriage and just don’t know it yet. This also happens, and I know this because I’m a fucking idiot and poked around on Google right before my 12 week appointment, when they measure the baby’s heart rate using a Doppler monitor. When the nurse couldn’t find a heartbeat for a few minutes, I outwardly smiled but inwardly freaked the F out. 

“It’s like finding a needle in a haystack this early on, dear,” she says.

Well, I just read that the fetus is the size of a lime right now, so why don’t you just find the fucking lime and go from there. Sounds like a really fucking small haystack to me… or a really big needle. Why don’t you just hand me the damn…

“Hear that? Strong, healthy heartbeat.”

Everything’s fine. You resume breathing, change the Overnight pad that you just relieved yourself in, and carry on with your normal life… until you read something else traumatic on the internet… or you stop feeling the baby kick as often… or you can’t hear the newborn breathing on the baby monitor… or until that first big fall…

So you’re an exhausted, bloated, nauseous, bitchy, nervous, brainless, emotional train wreck who soils herself. But it gets better (and then worse… and then better again… and then worse than before). And this pattern goes on and on until… well… probably forever. And as bad as the first trimester is, you know how lucky you are to experience it… even when you’re half a pint into Mr. Ben & Jerry, mascara streaming down your face, tears flowing down your aching boobs and landing on the muffin top that’s spilling out of your yoga pants, as you sit in bed watching Father of the Bride Part II for the tenth time. Congratulations. :)

Follow this blog to receive updates on new posts (e.g., <spoiler alert!> 2nd Trimester shenanigans, such as when I accidentally zip up my fat roll trying to squeeze into non-maternity jeans). If you don’t have a Tumblr account, simply add this RSS feed to your favorite reader:

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How to Stop a Snorer in the Most Passive Aggressive Way Possible


Because no one likes a nag… especially a nag who is sleep deprived.

If you’ve ever slept alongside a snorer, then you know the nightly ritual:

<mild snore>

Awww, that was kind of cute.

<more sporadic, mild snoring>

I can deal with this. It’s not that bad.

<more frequent, yet mild snoring>

I am the epitome of patience and understanding. I. Can. Do. This.

<it gets louder>

"Sweetie, you’re snoring again," you whisper softly as you gently stroke the unknowing offender’s back.

<it stops>

<it starts again 10 seconds later>

"Honey, can you roll onto your side? You’re really starting to snore," you say, gently but firmly, loud enough to wake them up.

<rolls over, snoring stops>

Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer. No, wait. Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Hahahaha, it’s still funny. Man, I haven’t watched Friends reruns in forever. The next time I have the TV to myself for more than 5 minutes…

<the snoring resumes>

"Dude, please stop snoring," you demand as you give the miscreant an arm squeeze hard enough to convey that you’re starting to get pissed.

<snoring stops>

<resumes immediately>

"Please. Shut. the Fuck. Up." You are now yelling. You start to wonder if "shaken grownup syndrome" is a thing. Because if so, you may have just caused some minor brain damage. And in this moment, you could care less.

"Huh? What? Was I snoring?"

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

This little routine may or may not go on until you manage to fall asleep with a pillow over your head… or until you resort to watching Friends reruns on the couch… or until you relegate the wrongdoer to the dog house. It’s their own damn fault anyway.*

You’ve read up on the best ways to handle a snorer… getting them to acknowledge the problem, encouraging the use of a nasal strip, reminding them to take their allergy medicine, citing studies that show that food and alcohol intake can actually cause snoring, rolling them onto their side mid-snore… but none of them takes. This is partly due to the fact that the offender is not conscious when the snoring occurs, thus making this low on the priority list of shit that should be changed in one’s life.

But I think the dismissal is mostly due to the fact that you sound like a fucking nag. This is what they hear coming out of your mouth, in a tone that can only be described as “Gilbert Gottfried.”

"Wah, wah, wah. You should drink less."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. Did you remember to take your allergy medicine?"

"Moan, moan, moan. You were snoring again last night. When are you going to do something about it?!"

Thanks, sleep experts, but no thanks. There’s enough unsuccessful nagging going on in my life without your help, and I NEED TO GET MY SLEEP BACK.

And I want to help YOU get your sleep back, too. I have two words for all the snoring victims out there: Passive Aggression. They can’t accuse you of nagging if they don’t know they’re being nagged! Here’s all you have to do:

  1. Record them snoring, but do it with THEIR phone, and set it as their ringtone. Then call ad nauseam during the work day and *hope* that they are as bad about turning off their ringer at work as they are at the dinner table. (Why only be passive aggressive about snoring?) THAT should help them “acknowledge the problem.”
  2. Apply a Breathe Right® strip for them, right after they fall asleep. This way, you don’t need to be a nag, they don’t feel pestered, and you reap the benefit of silent breath all night long. HOWEVER, you don’t want to insult their adultness by treating them like a child who needs their diaper changed. They are big kids who can handle responsibility, too! So make sure to apply some black Sharpie or super glue to the back of the nasal strip prior to application. This will empower them to contribute by way of problem solving and strategic scrubbing the next morning. Nobody benefits from handouts, people!
  3. Buy ear plugs… but not just any ol’ earplugs. Buy the most expensive ones you can find. That way, when your significant other takes a look at the credit card statement and says, “Honey, I think our account has been hacked. There’s a charge from for $350,” you can reply, “Oh that was me. I was advised to purchase earplugs so that I could get a good night’s sleep… you know, due to the snoring and all.”
  4. Promote side-sleeping by placing uncomfortable objects behind their back. Experts recommend sewing a sock containing a tennis ball onto the back of the snorer’s pajama top, but that would require a needle and thread… and consent. I say take it a step further. Coax the offender onto their side, then gently place common household objects underneath them until they’re too scared to sleep on their back ever again. Things like pine cones, conch shells, cacti, live porcupines, whatever…
  5. Plant the idea of couples counseling by gradually going into a noticeable deep depression. This could take some time, but if you’re patient, the payoff will be huge. Once your partner becomes truly concerned about your mental well-being and urges you to seek out professional help, say that you’re too scared to do it alone. And when the therapist asks you in the first session your reason for seeking help, immediately reply, “It’s because of the snoring.” BAM! They just voluntarily put themselves in counseling for that shit without even knowing it.
  6. Let them volunteer to sleep in another room so that you can have an entire, quiet bed to yourself. You may be wondering, “How can I possibly get THEM to volunteer to move without me suggesting it?” Here’s how. Wait until your partner is in full-on snoring mode, then take off your pants and sidle up alongside him/her like intimacy is the first thing on your mind. Ignore the urge to punch them when they start making cooing sounds, and wait until they aggressively resume snoring. At this point, allow the urine to flow freely out of your body, saturating your partner’s side of the bed in warm, sopping piss. Roll back over, throw your back pants on, and pretend to be asleep. Your bed mate will inevitably wake up, assume they were the one who wet the bed, and (not wanting to disturb you) amble to the couch in shame. Wait once more for the snoring to resume, change the sheets, and enjoy that well-deserved bed to yourself.

I hope these super-passive aggressive tips and tricks will bring restful, sleep-filled nights to you and yours. Please share your snoring (or voluntary bed wetting) stories below and on Twitter using the hashtag #itsnotsmotheringitsapillowfight

* Let it be known that I do have a basic grasp of the English language. I understand that it is not grammatically appropriate to use “they” in the singular sense. However, to keep the post gender neutral (women can snore too, people), I really had no choice. No way in hell was I going to use “he/she” in place of every third person singular pronoun, nor was I going to use “it.” We’re not unborn children. We’re people. Ok that’s a little f-ed up, but you get the point.

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How to Look Like a Meth Head

So this happened yesterday…


… and because I’m such a generous soul, I thought I would share how you, too, can look like a meth head with just a few simple household items! Bookmark this page for your next Halloween costume, practical office joke, or high school reunion!

Things You’ll Need


Step 1

Place a busted pen in your mouth so that the ink leaks out, covering only one side of your mouth— asymmetry is key. Make sure to cover your gums, teeth, lips, and a little outside your lips for the full effect. If you can, smear some on your thumb for a “burn mark” effect. It *probably* doesn’t matter how the pen started leaking in the first place, but for a more authentic meth look, leave the pen in a hot vehicle for a couple years so that you don’t even notice when it starts to go south. This will add to the confusion and authenticity of the overall look. It should go without saying that the pen should be black. You want to appear as if you’ve been burned from heavy smoking of crystal methamphetamine, NOT like you’ve just eaten a Smurf.

Step 2

Let it dry. If you can, go somewhere in public and have conversations with people you don’t know very well while the ink is setting. This will help move the ink into your lip cracks and fine lines. Ideally, someone will alert you to the fact that you have something black around your mouth. Avoiding all eye contact with the informant, start rambling an incoherent reply about teacher thank-you notes, oral thinking habits, car heat, high school reunions… whatever comes naturally blathering out of your mouth. This will really help you nail that meth head look for the big reveal.

Step 3

Clean up the excess ink. If you skip this step, you may actually just look like a pen burst in your mouth, resulting in fewer probing questions from friends and bystanders. We’re aiming for, “Is she doing drugs?” and “I’m here for you if you need me.” It’s not funny unless you’re on suicide watch. Find some baby wipes (or a wet paper towel if you don’t have kids or major tatti problems), and pretend like you’re trying to rub off as much as you can. Don’t worry, your scrubbing will be fruitless and result in a perfect black stain on your lips, teeth, and gums. Whatever you do, make sure you do NOT use makeup removal wipes or rubbing alcohol or anything that is guaranteed to remove the ink completely. That would be entirely beside the point.

Step 4

Apply red lipstick over the entire lip area, including where the black ink “wandered” onto your chin, per Step 1. You may think, “Isn’t this going to cover up the ink stain and just make me look like I decided to add a pop of color and sass to my daily yoga outfit?” My answer for you is “NO”… because apparently, it doesn’t work that way. The red lipstick will actually act as a half-assed attempt to cover up something that you’re trying to hide, as the black ink will still manage to peek through. The asymmetrical application to cover the asymmetrical dye job will give the effect of having applied it with a shaky hand. And because you’ll be super paranoid about being seen in public, you’ll continue to subconsciously touch it and smear it, making it look like you’ve been wearing the same makeup for days and days.

Step 5

Take a selfie, and post it on all forms of social media, using the hashtag #BigBlackPenisBlownUpInMyMouth. Make me proud, and I’ll post it here. Five seconds of internet fame is waiting for you.

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The 10 Biggest Search Engine Let-Downs EVER


#7 will shock the hell out of you!!! And don’t miss #8! Oh, and #3, duh…

Because this mommy’s potty mouth has nothing to do with bathroom porn.

Since starting my blog last year, I have become accustomed to casually checking (obsessing over) my stats whenever I post something new. Playing around with the functionality, I learned that I could see the search terms people were using that eventually led them to my site. Approximately 80% of these search terms are unavailable or private, for various reason, but the other 20% are pure entertainment.

Given the name of my blog and my liberal use of profanity, I started to realize that people were actually finding my site as they were looking for porn. This is my top 10 list of users who were sorely disappointed when they Googled “mom fucked at house party tumblr” (for example) and instead found a blog post about the Frozen soundtrack.

10. Mommy in toilet picture tumblr  (Philippines)


Google, I think it’s pretty presumptuous of you to have “toilet” coded as an alternate word for “potty” in your search algorithm. I mean, I know they’re technically synonyms in the most literal use of the words, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use the term “toilet mouth” when describing foul language. And I’m DEFINITELY certain that I have not once used the word “toilet” on my blog… with the exception of now… which would be four times and counting. Dammit. I’m about to get even more hits from these creepster latrinephiliacs.

9. Pics of moms solo in bathroom-tumblr  (South Africa)


HAHA! Joke’s on them! Little do they know, moms NEVER get to do ANYTHING solo, including going to the bathroom. Even the internet search engines know this. (Bing is an exception. Bing knows nothing.) If you happen to find a picture of a mother in the bathroom all by herself, please feel free to send it my way. I need to know who this bitch is and how she did it.


8. Potty from asshole tumblr  (Punjab, India)


Potty FROM asshole? I don’t get it. Like, what does the potty look like from the viewpoint of the asshole? Because I’m pretty sure it would look like a gleaming beacon of hope for the colonic relief that’s about to ensue. 

7. Tumblr baseball mommies naked  (West Virginia)


It should come as no surprise that this user is brought to us from the good ol’ U.S. of A. As we’ve learned so far, this search in most other countries would have been something to the effect of “tumblr cricket mommies naked toilet ass.” And because you’re a fellow American, I’ve decided to throw you a bone and introduce you to the concept of the “image search,” used WHEN YOU’RE SEARCHING FOR IMAGES. I just entered “tumblr baseball mommies naked” into the Google, clicked on “Images,” and voilà!

Drumroll, please…

Grady Sizemore!!! He came up as the first, second, AND third result. Nailed it! So sweet of you to search for naked images on behalf of all the mommy baseball fans out there. You’re welcome, West Virginia… and America!


6. Moms that fuck themselves tumblr  (Tucson, Arizona)


You know what? YOU, Sir (or Madame… no judgment), may actually have come to the right place… because I’m kind of the queen of fucking myself. Did you see that I broke my wrist at a black tie wedding a few months ago? What an idiot! Or read about the time the dumbass Target employee told her manager that I was looking for a banana hammock? OR when I was late picking up my kids because I was stuck in the fucking checkout line for 45 minutes at Walmart because I decided to save a few cents for once? I’m actually kind of offended that my site only came up as #9 on the search list… it should have been much higher. So I thank you for your patience and persistence, as you must have suffered through A LOT of porn before finally finding what you were looking for.

5. Tumblr mouth fuck work out  (United Kingdom)


Now that’s a helluvan idea right there (my husband thinks it’s genius). Good for you for wanting to get in shape! I’m not certain as to whether you plan to be on the giving or receiving end of the “mouth fuck workout,” but I recommend you complement this exercise with some cardio and weight training. If you’ll be giving the “mouth fuck,” make sure to add in some extra core work to help take pressure off of your knees. If you are the one receiving, maybe try practicing your pelvic thrusts on the floor first. We don’t want you falling over! And congratulations on conning someone into thinking this is exercise!

4. Tatti in indian ass facebook  (Delhi, India)


I just learned that tatti (or tati) is Punjabi for “poo”… and now, so have you. After today’s language lesson, I challenge you to casually slip it into three everyday conversations. Feel free to use the Urban Dictionary examples provided by our friend, Puneet, below.


3. Tumblr fuck passed out ex wife  (Wichita Falls, TX)


WAY TO REPRESENT, TEXAS! EX-WIFE RAPE? WHO COULDN’T GET BEHIND THAT?! If you could just leave a comment with your name and email, I think we can find some people to rally around your cause (if you know what I mean <wink> <wink>).

2. Women cornholing men pictures tumblr  (Muskegon, Michigan)


Gross. And leave it to a Midwesterner to use the term “cornhole” when looking for porn. New idea for a Buzzfeed quiz: “What do your porn searches say about where you’re from?” Okay these are just getting unbelievable. Let’s wrap this up.


1. Toilet do girl’s ass In my mouth tumblr  (Mumbai, India)


Hold on just one fucking second. Puneet?! Is that you??? Welcome, friend! Stick around for a while, peruse the blog, and don’t stop with the Urban Dictionary entries. They’re solid gold!

In conclusion, I think we’ve all learned a few lessons here today:

  1. People can be pretty disgusting.
  2. Indians seem to have some toilet-tatti-ass combination fetish. I’m still not sure exactly how that all works, but whatevs.
  3. If you don’t use an image search when looking for porn, you’re probably not going to find what you’re looking for.
  4. I predict that I’ll be getting about a gazillion percent increase in these “researchers” accidentally stumbling upon my blog, seeing as I’ve now added the words toilet, colonic, tatti, fetish, cornhole, rape, latrinephiliac, and Grady Sizemore to my posts. This one’s for you guys.

Follow this blog to receive updates on new posts like this one… because there will be more like this one. YOUR SEARCH COULD BE FEATURED NEXT (anonymously, of course)! If you don’t have a Tumblr account, simply add this RSS feed to your favorite reader:

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The Banana Hammock

Me to Target employee: “Do you know if y’all have any banana stands?”

Target employee to manager: “Do you know if we have any banana hammocks?”

Manager: <speaking very slowly> “I’m sorry. I don’t think we carry any of those.”

Me: <with a straight face> “Thank you.”

<walks away, hides behind shelf, laughs ass off while updating Facebook status>

March Madness… Lessons in Preschool Bracketology


I have always been a sports fan but am far from what you would call an “expert.” This is especially true for sports like college basketball, where there are a few hundred Division 1 teams that play a gajillion games each over a four month period. I follow my team(s) throughout the year… if they’re winning. I read up on big games and major upsets… the day after they are actually played. And by the end of the season, I know who the big threats are going to be in the tourney… because I make myself pay attention in crunch time.

So you can see that I am your average-to-below-average college basketball fan… I just don’t have the time or the will to give enough shits to sift through analysis of over 5,000 fucking Division 1 basketball games. And if you think it that way, there are just a handful of true “experts” out there… and the rest who claim to be experts are completely full of shit. But the morning after Selection Sunday (aka Better-Study-Up-Real-Quick-Monday), I have the same exact reaction as the experts, the “experts,” the average followers, and the bracketeers… Who the fuck is Wofford?! 

Grownup Bracketology

Given that I know nothing, and given that those who do still can’t predict what will happen in March (and <ahem> April), I have shamelessly employed the following methodology over the years to fill out my bracket:

  1. Did I attend that school? If yes —> they make it way farther than they deserve to go.
  2. Have I heard of that school? (looking at you, Wofford) If no —> they’re tossed immediately.
  3. Is the number beside their name closer to zero than the ones beside their opponent’s? If yes —> I’m no dummy.
  4. Did I happen to catch one of the games that they came back from behind to win/ crushed an opponent/ made national news because of a coach getting ejected? If yes —> I pat myself on the back for being super knowledgeable and advance them as far as I can logically let them go, given #1-3.
  5. Do I have positive associations with individuals who did attend that school or support that school’s sports teams? If yes —> they win out any matchups that don’t involve #1-4.
  6. Do I have enough upsets in the first round? If no —> go back to #2, dig up a couple of the schools out of the trashcan, and let them make it past the Round of 64.

And there you have it. You may be surprised to find out that I have never won a bracket challenge… no matter how big or small the pool has been. So I decided to change things up a bit this year and let my children do the picking… because it couldn’t possibly be any less scientific or effective than the approach I had used in the past.


When I say children, I mean little, teeny, tiny, itty, bitty preschoolers, both girls, ages two and four. Their knowledge of basketball is pretty much limited to acknowledgement of its existence as a sport and possible correct identification of it when seen on a television screen or at a park. How were they going to choose? Should they just point randomly at the bracket and advance the teams on the other end of their finger? Or flip a coin and call heads or tails until they decide that they actually want to play with coins instead? Or assign teams to each child and hold 67 thumb wars until we determine a winner? The possibilities were endless! 

In the end, I chose what should have been the obvious deciding factor all along: Mascots. Despite the fact that my oldest has a pretty irrational fear of mascots in person, I knew that her judgy self would have a blast choosing between pictures, and the youngest seems to have a blast no matter what. The 4-year-old would be responsible for choosing teams from the South and East regions, while the 2-year-old would do the same for the West and Midwest regions. I figured the winner of the Finals would be determined by some type of tickle fight or dance-off… because nothing says family values like pitting your small children against each other in a competition they could care less about when they would otherwise be singing Let It Go on repeat in perfect “harmony.”

Preschool Bracketology

Want to know if your team is making it to the Final Four? Just take a look at your mascot and see if he/she meets my daughters’ selection criteria.

1. Could your mascot be described as a cute bird? Sorry, St. Joe’s and North Carolina Central University, the answer for you is “no.” Everyone else is pretty much guaranteed to make it past the first round. Congrats to Creighton and Louisville, you guys made it to the Sweet Sixteen! And that adorable Jawhawk advanced to the Elite Eight. Maybe there is something to this after all…


2. Could your mascot be described as a super-creepy, non-animal with a stuffed human head? It doesn’t take a child psychologist to figure out that if your answer to this question is “yes,” then my children, without fail, chose the opposing mascot. I really just don’t get it. I mean, the Sun Devil looks pretty badass, but the rest of those guys just look like they rummaged through a costume box at their pedophile neighbor’s house. Seriously, Providence… WHAT THE FUCK?!!! 


3. Could your mascot be a character on Barney? Because even though I don’t let my kids near that filth, at least he’s not the Providence mascot. I personally think there’s something a little (way) off about Wichita State’s… is that wheat?, but kids have liked weirder things… Florida Gators and Wichita State Shockers for the National Championship title. I shit you not, the mascot method put two #1 seeds in the finals.


4. Are “rabid” or “mangy” common adjectives used to describe your mascot? If your answer is “yes,” then I hope you escaped your college years without too many lice incidents. Did the guy who invented Nix go to Weber State or something? BTW I just googled the history of the Weber State mascot, and apparently they used to keep a live wildcat at games until one broke lose and bit a cheerleader on the nose. I was joking at first, but rabies is a literal concern for you guys. And you’re going to get pounded by the Arizona Cat in the Hats in the first round. Pretty much sucks to be you.


5. Did my husband, myself, or a close relative attend the school of your mascot? If so, then ignore all the previous criteria… because it seems that no one is immune to falling in the trap of picking with one’s heart… including preschoolers. They’ve been trained to say “Hook ‘Em Horns” from the day they were born, and they proudly don the beautifully feminine orange and navy when their daddy gets to them first in the morning. But unlike adults who stupidly bet their team will make it all the way, children know better. As the rounds progress, they can sense when you get far too excited about their loyal choices and will drop that ingrained loyalty just to fuck with you. Virginia axed at Sixteen, Texas and Cincinnati axed at Eight. And since I’m pretty sure they have no clue that I attended GW as well, those creepy Colonials didn’t make it past the first round.


6. Does my dog, Duck, own a chew toy of the same name as your mascot to spite a good friend whose team beat up on one of our own at the same time we happened to be in Oregon to purchase such a toy? And do our daughters have an emotional attachment to your mascot because it bears a striking resemblance to their dog’s favorite toy? If the answer is yes, then congratulations, you’ve made it to the fucking Final Four.


WuShock vs. Albert Gator. Sister vs. Sister. It’s game day everyone! Follow their progress on Twitter @HelenDammit #preschoolbracketology.


And since ESPN is no fun and won’t let you have two winners, we went with the ol’ “Whoever Calls It Out First” method… meaning that the 4-year-old chose the winner and the score. She originally wanted it to be 89- 89 thousand million percent fifty five… but we talked her down to somewhere in the 60s or 70s. Calling it here: Florida Gators over Wichita State Shockers, 89-62.

ScreenHunter_60 Mar. 19 21.32

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Tale as Old as Time…

“‘At that moment the spell was broken. In one magical instant, the Beast turned back into a prince, and the enchanted servants returned to their human forms. The castle came to life with rejoicing. There was no doubt that the loving couple would live happily ever after.’ The end.”

"Mom, that’s not the end."

"Oh, really? What happens after they live happily ever after?"

"They pee-pee on each other."

Who knew that Beauty and the Beast were into golden showers? Maybe because they’re French?

Dear Idina Menzel, Thank you.


When I gave a last-minute plea for you to let your voice crack just a little during your Oscars performance of Let It Go to make the rest of us feel better about ourselves, I had NO IDEA that you would go above and beyond!!! I mean, you didn’t look comfortable up there the entire time, it was rushed, and you nearly passed out at the same part I always do! It was super sweet of you, and I really appreciate it.

What I’m having a hard time understanding, though, is exactly how you were able to receive my note in such a short amount of time. I mean, I posted it to Facebook no more than an hour before you took stage. And looking back at my stats, I don’t see any from the Los Angeles area. They didn’t move the Oscars to the middle of nowhere this year, did they? My best guess is that you have friends or family in places like Irving, Texas, Stafford, Virginia, and Eureka!, Kansas… and that they must have called you while you were warming up and dictated the whole thing to you over the phone. Please give a sincere thank you to whomever did that for me… for all of us.

I suppose there are reasons other than solidarity that could have caused such a performance. Maybe you were taking this opportunity to scout out potential partners, since you recently announced that you and hubby Taye Diggs were going through a divorce. I mean, what better place to see all of Hollywood’s eligible A-listers than from the stage at the Oscars?! Brilliant strategy, I must say, but it really could have thrown you off your game. Take my advice, and keep live television performances and your dating life completely separate. That’s why God created Tinder… so you can browse a menu of potential mates from the privacy of your own home like the rest of America. And trust me, Taye Diggs is way hotter than any of the other she-males who were nominated for awards this year. Stick to your gut, girl!


Or maybe it was that Cate Blanchett was staring back at you from the front row, looking absolutely stunning in a dress that looked just like yours, only more beautiful. I know she has two Academy Awards and a super cute Aussie accent, but you have a Tony, so don’t let it get you down!


But I think most people would claim that it was John Travolta’s complete butchering of your name that got you off on the wrong foot. What the fuck did he call you? Adele Dazim? I’m really, really sorry he did that, but there’s no way you were influenced by this nutbag, right? I mean, did you see Face/Off? Or The Punisher? Or Battlefield Earth? No one in their right mind would listen to anything that came out of this man’s alien mouth, much less let it ruin their day.

Whatever the reason, I want to thank you again for your shitty performance on the Oscar stage. It really, really did make me feel better about myself and my inability to belt the high notes. If I can’t sing it, then no one can… including the person who originally recorded it. So watch out, Texas, because this mama’s about to let it go and not hold back anymore! You can ALL thank Idina Menzel for that.



Photo credits: Getty images

Dear Idina Menzel, I love you, but…



I grew up singing along to Disney songs such as Some Day My Prince Will Come, which Snow White sung in a pretty, yet squeaky and relatively unimpressive voice; Beauty and the Beast, sung by an aging (but always badass) Angela Lansbury; and Part of Your World, whose song pattern was all over the effing place but was still singable. We belted those tunes in our car, alone or with our friends, because we could sing along without doing permanent damage to our friends’ ear drums or our own egos.

And then we get to 2013’s Frozen, the songs of which are more along the lines of “Broadway musical” than “Disney princess.” Take Let It Go, for example. Your performance has been described as “powerhouse,” will “blow you away,” “anthemic,” and “show-stopping.” You know whose voice cannot be described by any of those words? Mine. I mean, I can hold my own… until you get to the bridge:

My power flurries through the air into the ground

My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around

And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast

I’m never going back, the past is in the past

And as you transition to the final chorus with the lyrics “let it go,” I simply can’t breathe anymore and just pass the fuck out. Keep in mind that I have two little girls who like to remind me, in the sweetest voices possible, that I “don’t need to sing because the song sings itself,” or “No, Mommy, no!” After attempting to sing along to the Frozen soundtrack in my car, I’m expecting that any day now they’ll resort to, “Mommy, shut the fuck up already!” 

And don’t get me started on For the First Time in Forever (Reprise). The part of Anna isn’t too bad, but as an icy older sister myself, I naturally end up singing along to Elsa. All the chord changes and yell-singing make it hard enough, but it’s the climb at the end, when you transition into your head voice and culminate in a fucking E5 as you belt out “Ahhhhh… I CAN’T!” that really gets me. You know what, Idina? NO ONE can!!!

So given that my kids keep shushing me, that I’m likely to pass out in the car whist driving them, and that I can’t even stand the sound of my own voice now, I have resorted to singing these songs exclusively in my head. And since we’ve seen the movie, own the soundtrack, and now have watched it on iTunes twice in one day, these songs never leave my head. And since the voice in my head still has a hard time with these ridiculous “sing-a-long” tunes, I have grown to hate that voice inside my head. So please, I ask you, for the health of me and my family, get the fuck out of my head.

Note that you’re about to sing it on the Oscars… seriously, in just a few minutes. If you happen to catch this post before then, would you mind doing us all a solid and just cracking your voice? I mean, just a little? Please? We would all feel much better about ourselves.



Where Is Heaven?

"Mom, where is heaven?"

"Um… well… heaven isn’t exactly a place. It’s more a state of being. Or something like that. Actually, it’s just somewhere in the sky. Go ask your father."

"Mom, where is hell then?"

"Oh that one’s easy. Hell is that narrow, cavernous space between the driver’s seat and the center console. That’s where hell is."

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