Kiss My Butt

This isn’t really a blogpost. It’s more of a status update. And, the worst kind of status update. It’s one of those annoying “Look How [Insert Exaggerated Superlative] My Toddler Is” status updates that every new mom shares on social media, usually accompanied by some moderately funny/cute (but rarely interesting) photo of their kid in action. Ug. How annoying!? But since I haven’t posted anything in a long time, here it is anyway. Hey, at least it’s not on Facebook, right?

Alex: Mommy, my tummy hurts. Can you kiss it?
Me: Sure, baby.
[Here’s where I’d put a few adorable kissy face emoticons]
Alex: Thank you, Mommy.

A few short moments later…

Alex: Mommy, my butt hurts. Can you kiss my butt? (Followed by maniacal laughter).
[Here’s where I’d leave a WTF?!?!? face emoticon (Does that even exist? It definitely should.]

(And, in case you’re wondering which exaggerated superlative I’d use in this annoying “Look How [Insert Exaggerated Superlative] My Toddler Is” status update, I’m going with this: “Fucking Hysterical, Brilliant and Exactly-Like-Her-Mother.”)

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The Blannel

Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Probably because today was the first time I sat next to this guy on the train.


At first I was like: Why does he have bacon just sitting on his lap like that without a plate or a napkin to stop the grease from making that gross wet spot that never dries? People are going to gawk at his crotch all day. Ew. Maybe that’s what he’s going for. I mean I’m gawking at his crotch right now. Ug. What a jerk. But more importantly, it’s been at least 10 minutes, why hasn’t he eaten it yet?!  

Then it suddenly occurred to me: Wow. Orange plaid looks a lot like bacon. 

And, just like that I came up with the most brilliant idea since pajama jeans. Yes! A flannel made of bacon…The Blannel.

The Blannel will revolutionize life as we know it….

Forget pheromones and Axe deodorant. With the blannel people won’t be able to get enough of you. And dogs. Dogs will love you. Maybe even raccoons and possums.

Thanks to the Blannel, millions of homeless people will suddenly have access to food and clothing! And, tardiness will become a thing of the past as employees everywhere are able to iron their shirt and make breakfast at the time same.

Yes, Blannels are sensible, biodegradable and delicious but as with anything there are a few considerations. Like if you’re really hungry you could end up shirtless by lunchtime and maybe even dead because, let’s be real, nobody should consume enough bacon to cover their entire upper body.

And of course, vegetarians will hate you. But don’t sweat it. (Seriously, sweat and bacon are a terrible mix.) Instead, just tell them that you’re “making a statement,” and before you know it there will be 100,000 angry vegetarians marching through your city taking selfies in a blannel.

Also, you should probably store your blannel in the fridge. Luckily, refrigerators were designed to be dressers. I mean why else would they come with drawers?

Yup, Oscar Mayer is the new Oscar de la Renta. Who knew? Probably that guy on the train with the bacon on his lap.

Let’s look at it again. That’s some flannel-y looking bacon. In case you’re still unclear, that’s actually his orange flannel shirt sticking out of the bottom of his jacket. 

Screen Shot 2017-03-20 at 5.45.07 PM
Wow. This guy is amazing. Not only did he inspire the greatest idea of all time but I’m still gawking at his crotch. And, now, so are you.


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Graffiti Dick

This morning I was stuck sitting on a train that didn’t budge for 15 minutes and while I would normally spend that time cursing out the train conductor and questioning all of my life decisions, instead I spent that time staring out the window thinking about dick.


So many questions (and thanks to NJ Transit) so much time.

Is Dick this artist’s name? If so, I completely understand why he didn’t add a “was here,” to it. Does anybody really need to know where dick was? (Actually, depending on the circumstance, the answer to that question could be a resounding, “Yes!” So, never mind.)

Or, is this artist so passionate about dick that he risked his life to sneak onto the NJ Transit railroad with a box of spray paint to pay tribute to it? And, if so, why the word ‘dick’?” It’s such an ugly word. I prefer, “balls!” Sure, it’s not quite the same but it’s, um, in the same area (ba-dum-bump!)

Clearly, this guy (or girl) has some talent. He should have covered the entire wall (all the way to New York City) with original illustrations of dicks from around the world. The Huffington Post would have definitely turned it into some sappy, emotional political statement and his dick wall would have been immortalized on social media forever (or at least for a few minutes).

Or, maybe this artist was calling everyone on the passing trains a dick. That makes total sense. Though, in that instance I would have went with “asshole,” because there are a ton assholes that ride these trains every day. Myself included. There’s something about the prospect of having to stand on a packed, delayed train for two hours after working all day that makes it OK to toss old ladies and pregnant people out of the way to get a seat.

Whatever the case, it’s definitely the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen.

After about 15 minutes the train started to move again and I was able to get a full-frontal view of the artist’s dick. I captured all :05 of it on camera and to be honest…it was a little smaller than I expected.


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Alex went to a birthday party yesterday and an incredibly talented balloon artist made her this Elmo.


One night in my house with my kids and Elmo looks like this…



Only a true horror fan will get that reference. If that’s not you, check out the 1980s re-make of The Fly where you can see Jeff Goldblum slowly transform into a hideous monster after stepping into a teleport machine with a house fly. Not only is it a great movie, but it also perfectly depicts what happens to you when you step into life with an infant and a toddler.

By the way, BrundleElmo also has giant disproportionate balls but that’s a different movie…probably on TLC.


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Mack N. Cheese

My 2 year-old Alexandra eats Kraft Macaroni and Cheese every single day of her life. Even if I offer her something else (like peanut butter cups and vodka) she’ll still drag herself across the floor and cry until I produce a plate of macaroni and cheese. She’s like a drunk college kid at 3Am.

As much as I hate to discourage her budding appreciation for one of life’s most exquisite dishes, someone’s gotta control this unhealthy obsession. And since I’m her mother, I suppose that someone is me, which is what inspired this conversation I had with my husband, Tom, this morning. 

(If the words are in “A L L  C A P S,” it means I’m spelling it so Alex doesn’t catch on).

ME: I think we need to nix the M A C  N  C H E E S E for awhile.

TOM: (confused stare)

ME: We need to stop letting her eat M A C  A N D  C H E E S E  for a while. It’s too much.

TOM: (Still nothing)

ME:  M A C… K ? Does that help?

TOM: Ohhhhhh!

ME: Really?!

By a show of virtual hands, who besides my husband spells the abbreviated version of macaroni and cheese with a “K?” Does he think it’s a person–like Mack the Knife? Like there’s some dude running around named Mack N. Cheese who’s made of elbow macaroni and powdered cheese food and spends his life hiding from hungry toddlers and drunk college kids?

Actually, Mack N. Cheese sounds like a pretty awesome guy. But when you invite him over for dinner and he asks, “What can I bring?” do you say, “Dessert” or do you say, “Just bring yourself?” And then do you make something that goes with mac ‘n cheese? Like ribs? Or is it presumptuous to assume that he’ll just offer himself up for dinner?

What a confusing friendship. Well, at least I know that if we send him a Christmas card Tom will spell his name right on the envelope. I think it’s the least we can do after my daughter ate his face for dinner.

Wow. I really need to invest in a night nanny. I think I need sleep.





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What if God is a cod?

I’m a practicing “Bad Catholic.” That means the closest I come to going to mass is shouting, “Holy Shit! Learn how to drive, Jackass!” from my car window at churchgoers who don’t pay attention to traffic signals. I never know when lent is or if it’s capitalized (and even if I did, I would still order pepperoni pizza on Friday nights) and the only time I pray to God is when I’m trying to cram my fat ass into my jeans or when the room won’t stop spinning. But yet, this weekend, I baptized my daughter and two years ago I baptized the other one.

Both times, I insisted, and, not just because I wanted to collect money from my relatives. Sure, that was part of it. But the bigger reason is because every neck twisting, eye rolling, fucked up devil possession movie that ever kept me awake at night started with the words, “Based on a true story.”

I have no idea what guidelines evil-ass entities use to decide who’s worthy of demonic possession but I’m not taking any chances. I imagine they levitate through the streets at 3 am, swigging beers, smoking cigs and having conversations like: “Yo! Pazuzu,” (Evil entities always have Zs in their names) “I hear the Dunderman’s just had a baby. You should get on that!” Then Pazuzu says, “Nah, Captain Howdy’s got dibs on that one. I’ve got my eye on the Johnson kid—9 years old, avid Ouija board user, no religious affiliations. I’m excited. I already released the flies.”

Thanks to The Amityville Horror (also based on a true story) every time I see a fly in the house I make the sign of the cross, but not before I chase it around the bathroom with a shoe and a can of hairspray yelling, “Holy shit, just die already!”

So here’s the thing—no matter what you believe, do whatever your religion recommends you do to keep Pazuzu and his friends from creeping into your house and teaching your kids how walk on their hands and speak in tongues. Within reason of course! I mean the Catholics have way too many rules—don’t curse, don’t cheat, don’t have baptisms just to ward off evil entities and collect cash from relatives, don’t eat meat on Fridays…

Jesus Christ, Catholics! What happens if I follow all of those rules only to reach the pearly gates of Heaven and discover that God is a cod? How do I explain a lifetime of Friday night fish and chips to a giant codfish?

Pazuzu and his friends sound like way more fun. They probably order extra pepperoni on their Friday night pizza and curse at the delivery guy when it shows up cold and stuck to the lid. I’m sure they also understand that it’s not “drinking alone,” if the kids are home. They sound like my kind of Bad Catholics!

Crap. Am I an evil entity? I hate when my husband is right.

Anyway, just get a holy man to dip your kid in water and say little a prayer to protect them from…me, I guess. If you can’t find one, I’m sure that jackass who cut me off in front of my local church can find one for you. Anybody who drives like that and is still alive must have an in with God.


IF YOU LIKE THIS POST, DON’T FORGET TO SHARE IT AND VOTE FOR THE SPEW! Oh and don’t forget to comment because my self worth relies heavily on social media likes and comments.

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The Spew Bib

Now your infant can tell the world she’s gonna spew (it’s the considerate thing to do) with the bib that will change your life forever (lies).

You’ll be revered for your impeccable taste in bibware (your husband will think it’s stupid).

It will teach your baby Cantonese (That’s impossible. No seriously, Cantonese is really, really hard.)

It will breastfeed your baby until she’s 12. (If your kid is old enough to wear braces, stop breastfeeding!)

And it will protect your baby’s shirt from food. (Duh.)

Buy one now (I’m not really selling these) and get a second one free (I just wanted to write this ridiculous ad so I had an excuse repost this adorable pic of my baby.)

The official Spew Bib (Come on! How cute is she? And you better not say she looks like my husband.)

Get yours today! (Really, I’m not selling these, Mom! I’ll just give you the one in the picture. And, no! Posting it on eBay will not make us millions of dollars.)




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Happy 2017! 

As you try to remember where you left your bra last night and start trying to redeem yourself by writing resolutions, remember that there’s nothing greater than the feeling of accomplishment.

So aim low. Really, really low and 2017 will be your best year yet.

If you need some inspiration, here’s a few of mine:

  • Stop dieting and start wearing jeans that are two sizes too big. Someone’s bound to say, “Did you lose weight? Your pants look huge.”
  • Stop buying wrinkle cream. Instead, look younger by hanging out with really, really old people.
  • Don’t smoke. (If you’re like me and you don’t smoke, this is a no-brainer.)
  • Don’t eat swiss cheese, meatloaf, truffles or anything else I hate.
  • Don’t watch, play or participate in any type of sport whatsoever.
  • Continually forget to fill the gas tank.
  • Complain incessantly.
  • Stay awake all night with two babies who refuse to sleep. 
  • And back on this list….Don’t get pregnant. 

Get the gist? Great! Now get started. I’ll even give you your first one: Read and share The Spew as much as possible so that in 2017 it can reach 1,000,000 followers. (Don’t worry there’s only like 999,359 to go!)



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What’s wrong with my kids?

I’ve heard rumors that babies are in the best mood when they first wake up in the morning. And that upon hearing a soft, sweet cooing coming from the nursery, the parents of these babies walk in and are greeted with big gummy smiles that say, Good morning adoring Parents!

Not my babies.

My babies open their eyes and let out an ear piercing screech as if they suddenly realized that they’re chained to a pipe in a dark bathroom and the only hope for freedom is to saw off their own foot.

What’s worse is that the older one screams for my mother the second she sees my face. I get it. The stress and exhaustion of having two babies less than two years apart has given me a sort of Lord of the Rings, Gollum-like glow. And it probably doesn’t help that I usually try to comfort her by stroking her hair and saying, “Don’t cry my precious little baby.”

But still, I’m starting to get a complex. So to make myself feel better I’ve composed this list of reasons my kids might be starting their day in such horror (other than the grim reality that I’m their biological mother).

  • It’s Tom. He’s responsible for everything including rain on the weekends and when the guy at the deli doesn’t put enough cream cheese on my bagel.
  • They discovered that there are people who work at delis that don’t understand that bagels only exist because it’s socially unacceptable to eat cream cheese with a spoon.
  • They have to endure another 18 to 20 more sober holiday seasons before the government says it’s OK for them carry a flask in their bra.
  • Based on genetics, they discovered they’ll probably never wear a bra big enough to successfully hide a flask.
  • Their grandmother and Connie are the only people who read The Spew.
  • Open-mouth chewers exist.
  • So do people who put their feet on my coffee table (if I had one).
  • We can’t afford a coffee table (because the state says babies need to eat food, not drink coffee at a really awesome Restoration Hardware coffee table…even if it’s on sale.)
  • People who constantly say, “No worries,” even when their is a clear reason to worry like there’s a huge tarantula in my car and I still have another 5 miles to drive.
  • If you Google “Tarantino” horrifying images of giant tarantulas will populate until you get to the “ino,” in his name.
  • Their father sometimes ends sentences with prepositions (like “What do you have to be so afraid of spiders for?”)
  • Grammar snobs that pick on their husbands.
  • Ivy League snobs that pick on grammar snobs.
  • Dumb people who think they’re smart
  • Smart people who think they’re dumb
  • People at Costco who stand in line for 20 minutes for a piece of cheese on a toothpick.

Wow! I think I hit the nail on the head. How about you? Oh, I also hate people who use cliches when they speak. (But this is about what my kids think…not me, right?)


I guess there’s also a slight chance that they’re waking up in such horror because I constantly write about them on the Internet and sometimes use them as an excuse to make a long list of my pet peeves. But that’s just a guess, I don’t want to start any rumors…


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It took me like 30+ years, four years of marriage and two babies but I finally did it! I made Christmas cards. 

How exciting. 

So what do you think it will take for me to actually send them? 

Ok, that’s not entirely true. I did send them to half of the people on my list. The other half is sitting at the bottom of my work bag (along with a beautiful Father’s Day card I bought for Tom when I was pregnant with our first child). 

Now if I send them it will just be weird because they won’t get them until after Christmas and maybe even New Year’s and nobody wants a Christmas card (or a Father’s Day card) while they’re packing away their Elf on a Shelf. Plus, it will call attention to my Christmas-card incompetence. 

I wonder what those people whose addresses I asked for are thinking now that they didn’t get anything from me. 

I hope they weren’t waiting for gingerbread cookies or a mistletoe scented Yankee candle. That would have been really nice of me. Way nicer than what they were really going to get–a Target-made collage of my kids with Merry Christmas written in a very uninteresting font. And it would have been even more disappointing for the handful of Jewish people I had on my list.


I wonder what it will take for me to bake Christmas cookies? Probably, like my dead body, or something. Wait, that’s gross and doesn’t make any sense. Nobody wants cookies made from my dead body. Though, imagine how nice it would be if I came back from the dead to bake them! 

God, I’m so fucking sweet. 

For now you’ll have to settle for this cell phone picture of a Christmas card I didn’t send you. 

Merry Christmas!

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