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The Girls

I have two daughters— and even though their names are Alexandra and Charlotte everyone insists on referring to them as “the girls.”

While it’s a totally reasonable (and very accurate) description of them, no matter who says it (my mom, my boss, my husband, the guy who works the deli counter at the Acme) as soon as I hear it, I immediately think that they are talking about my boobs.


To illustrate this point, here’s a list of things people have said to me recently about the girls. (I mean my daughters. Not my boobs. See how confusing it can get?)

Anyway, as you read each quote, just replace “the girls” with “your boobs” and you’ll start to understand the gravity of the situation.

“Wow! The girls are getting so big.”
“Saw a picture of the girls on Facebook. They’re almost the same size!”
“The girls are the spitting image of your husband.”
“I miss the girls so much. I just want to squeeze them!”
“The girls were amazing last night—they’re so well behaved!”
“You should feed the girls before we leave. They look hungry.”
“Let’s Facetime! I haven’t seen the girls in forever.”
“We should give the girls a bath tonight. We don’t want them to look sloppy for their Christmas photos.”
“Have you introduced the girls to Santa yet?”
“My parents can’t wait to play with the girls.”
“The girls are so snuggly.”
“You look exhausted. Let me handle the girls while you sleep.”

And, I wasn’t kidding about the deli worker at the Acme who knows my two-year old has an affinity for processed meat and said, “Where are the girls today? The salami is waiting!”

Yeah, like I said, awkward.

I’m just glad I’m not the father of two boys.

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Raw Pork. It’s what’s for dinner.

Lately I’ve been playing Chopped in my kitchen. It’s that show on the Food Network where they give the contestants a basket full of random shit like kumquats, cotton candy and a hundred year old egg (it’s a real thing) and challenge them to turn it into a four star meal in 40 minutes.

I imagine that the inspiration for this show came from someone like me whose husband came home from work one day and asked, “Hey, what’s for dinner?” And she was like, “Um, I think we have some stale pretzels and a furry hotdog in the fridge.”

I hate food shopping. No matter how focused I am, somewhere between the bread and milk aisles I turn into a pregnant pothead and find myself wandering around like, Wait, why am I here again? Oh right! Three cheese tortellini and hot fudge. Yes, I’m sure that’s all I need.

Thankfully, Tom doesn’t demand that I make him dinner. In fact, most nights he cooks for me, but not because he’s trying to be sweet. It’s more because he doesn’t want salmonella poisoning. Some of our biggest fights have started over raw pork. It’s always the same scenario. I’ll declare that the pork chops I just made are done to perfection. He’ll take my word for it and scarf them down like he’s been living on a deserted island for three years surviving off of fire ants and coconut milk. Then I’ll take a better look at the pork and declare that it needs to go back in the oven immediately. He’ll yell, “Why do you tell me it’s done if it’s not!” To which I’ll reply, “I can’t believe you just ate two raw pork chops in under a minute. You should consider competitive eating.” He never thinks it’s funny. Instead he checks his pulse all night while I call him a hypochondriac and secretly script what I’ll say to the police when they find him face down on the lawn.

So what’s in my Chopped basket tonight? A hundred year old avocado, 1lb of questionable frozen-solid chicken that I’m pretty sure moved with us twice, an economy-sized box of Cheeze-Its (the pregnant pothead must’ve went to Costco), two bottles of House of Tsang sesame seed oil left over from the Asian-inspired raw pork dish I made last week, and a half empty bottle of wine that I’ll polish off while I’m cooking this shit so I can forever say, “Oh that meal? I was totally wasted when I made that!”

I’ll let you know how it turns out. If Tom survives he’s doing the dishes. And he better not dry them with a washcloth because when we’re not arguing about raw pork we’re arguing about his blatant misuse of towels. Like one time I asked him to get me a burp cloth and he handed me a beach towel. When I called him out on it he was like, “What’s the difference?” I said, “Well, a beach towel is something a grown man uses to dry the seaweed off of his ass after he emerges from the sea like Godzilla, while a burp cloth is a small piece of fabric used to wipe dibble from a newborn’s tender lips.” He didn’t agree so I made him pork that night.

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Brownies make terrible nursing pads

I sent my husband, Tom, to the store for nursing pads and he came home with brownies instead.

If you don’t know what nursing pads are because you’ve never milked yourself after birthing a baby, or you’re my husband, they’re absorbent pads that women stuff into their bra to keep their lactating breasts from squirting passersby in the eye—kinda like maxi pads for boobs. That’s why, when I ran out, I chopped a panty liner in half and stuffed it in my bra. It was brilliant. Until I realized, Ew…there’s a maxi pad stuck to my boob.

So I sent Tom to the store for nursing pads. It was the least he could do given that I had just spent nine months creating life—like god. Yes, god! Tom isn’t god. Not unless god created man, three tons of dirty drawers and a pile of beard trimmings in my sink.

The whole thing made me wonder how “nursing pads” could have possibly translated to “brownies.” Maybe…

  1. The label on the brownie box said “Goes great with milk.”
  2. In his mind, “Get nursing pads,” was code for, “You know what really gets me hot? Stuffing my nursing bra with a dozen store made brownies.”
  3. It was a simple miscommunication because “Get nursing pads” clearly sounds like “I could really go for some double chocolate fudge brownies.”
  4. “Nursing pad,” reminded him of his bachelor pad where I imagine he spent countless hours eating brownies and watching Wings reruns while he waited for me to walk into his life.
  5. He’s fat.

A few days later I sent him to the store for diapers and he came home with hot fudge sundaes instead. And suddenly, I had my answer. He was indirectly calling me fat! Holy shit! (I can say that now because, you know, I’m god.) So I told him it wasn’t cool to call god fat and that’s when he called me irrational.

Can you believe it? All I did was ask for nursing pads and he called me a crazy, fat bitch. What a dick!

He’s lucky those brownies were so delicious. And the sundaes weren’t bad either. (Though they could have used some peanut butter sauce.)

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This is fun. I was asked to participate in a project called, A Letter To My Baby. It’s part of the fourth installment of the New York Times best-selling book series, A Letter To My…. Of course I jumped at the opportunity to immortalize my very best, most heart-felt motherly advice in a letter to my two beautiful baby girls. I spent days about an hour, feverishly penning my words of wisdom. I was so proud. So I passionately read my masterpiece Alex.

For 2 and half minutes she listened intently. I could tell she was captivated by my brilliant insight. When I finished reading, she blinked a few times then lifted her finger, pointed to her diaper and said, “Poop.”

I imagine my 21-week fetus had a similar reaction.

Not sure if my letter will end up in the book but here it is on their blog with a few internet-approved photos of us. Check it out now and don’t forget to write nice things about it in the comments section. And while you’re there, you can also learn about writing a letter to your own baby and get updates on the upcoming book by following them on all the social media you pretend to hate.

But if you love my blog so much that you can’t bare to click out of it yet, stick around and read the letter that my daughter thinks is poop right here:

To My Two Baby Girls,

First of all, I hope you like your names. I spent hours compromising with your father until he felt like his opinion mattered. But if you don’t like them, it’s his fault. He chose them. Just ask him.

There’s so much I need to tell you, like eat as much peanut butter chocolate ice cream as you can before your 25th birthday. After that, it all goes downhill (and rolls onto your ass).

As grown women, you’ll be tempted to lie about your age. Never go younger. Instead, add at least ten years. You’ll always look amazing. And, by the way, if anyone asks, your mother is 75. Mathematically, this won’t make sense but chances are you won’t even notice. The genetic odds that you’ll be good at math are stacked heavily against you. Sorry.

Also, don’t spend thousands of dollars on special diets in preparation for your wedding day. Instead, just go as your beautiful self. Plus, ten years later, the last thing you want to hear is how amazing “you used to look.”

As your great grandmother used to tell me, “Never let ’em see you sweat.” I’m pretty sure she got this from a deodorant commercial. Or maybe they got it from her. Either way, it’s amazing advice. It means be confident. Or maybe it means always wear deodorant. It took me my entire life (all 75 years of it) to understand just how important it really is—confidence, not deodorant. Actually deodorant is really important too. With these two things, you can accomplish anything (even in oppressive heat). They’ll be plenty of people who will try to steal your confidence away from you. Don’t let them. It just means they don’t have any themselves.

Judge people. And judge them hard. But not based on their clothes, weight, religion, race, birthplace, profession, paycheck or any other superficial bullshit people will tell you is important. Instead, judge them based on how they treat people. Are they kind? Do they respect you and those around them? If so, hold them tight. These are the kinds of people you want in your life. (And, if you’re going to go out to dinner, it helps if they’re good at math).

Never lose sight of your sense of humor. It will get you through awkward first dates, tough job interviews, that first huge pimple on the tip of your nose (we all get at least one), your worst day, your best day, your saddest moment and your craziest hour. You’ll learn that laughter really is the best medicine. And wine. Lots of wine. But don’t drink until you’re at least my age, 75, because…smart phones! SMART PHONES! They remember everything. Even after you drop them in the toilet. Twice.

But most importantly, understand that life isn’t always easy and there are no guarantees. Actually, that’s a lie. There is one: I’ll always be with you. Whether you can see me or not, I’ll always be there to soften your fall, cheer you on, laugh with you, cry with you and eat peanut butter chocolate ice cream with you—even if it rolls onto my ass. I got fat for you once and I’d do it a million more times. That’s a promise.

Love Always,

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I watched all of Big Love (HBO’s 2006 drama about modern day polygamists starring Bill Paxton and Jeanne Tripplehorn) angry at Tom because “How could a man be such a douchebag and cheat on his wife like that?” And worse, “What kind of self-loathing woman would allow her husband to treat her that way—sleeping with four different women right under her nose while she waits obediently for him with dinner prepared and a smile on her face? Jeanne Tripplehorn you are a disgrace to women!”

Then I got married.

And holy shit…polygamy! What a fucking brilliant idea! Not only would I get my own bathroom and closet, I’d get my own house. Paid for by my husband who sends me a check every month and keeps me on his medical and dental plans. And the benefits don’t stop there.

Wait! Before you hit send that nasty email to me, hear me out.

To really make this work, I’d demand 7 wives—one for every day of the week. I’d designate Monday night my night because Mondays are already fucked because, you know, they’re Mondays. (And if my husband is sleeping with 6 different women he doesn’t deserve a weekend night anyway.)

Every week, I’d dump all of my laundry off at my sister wife’s house claiming that it’s for the “good of the family.” I’d drop my kids off with another one and guilt a third into making me dinner on nights when I’m meeting the girls out for drinks (because, come on, no one should drink on an empty stomach. Right?)

Once a week, I’d pass a Shop Rite rotisserie chicken off as my own (not too different from now), light some candles, bat my eyes and by midnight I’d send him on his way to snore and drop his morning deuce at the home of one of his other wives.

Of course I’d have to make sure my sister wives are far less attractive than me because I can’t have my husband sleeping with women who are hotter than me. And, I’d have to make sure that I don’t really like the other wives because I’d feel bad about dumping my husband’s smelly jock on the doorstep of someone I like. I’d also need to find women willing to do things that I suck at—like cooking, cleaning, ironing, scrubbing the tub, emptying the dishwasher, washing the floors and taking out the garbage. (Right now I have my husband doing all of this but at times I find his work to be subpar.)

So you see, I’m sorry Jeanne Tripplehorn. You were right to put up with Bill Paxton’s shit. Thank you for showing me how a real marriage should work. Clearly, I need to be a polygamist. Or a Real Housewife of New Jersey because I’m pretty sure I just described a day-in-the life of Teresa Guidice. Only she calls them maids.


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Why is it that when women lie about their age and their weight they always go younger and thinner? To me it makes more sense to go older and fatter. Because if I tell everyone that I’m 21 and weigh 105 pounds they’d nod their head then gossip about how terrible I look for my age. They might even assume that something horrible happened to me—like I was trapped in a cave with no water or anti-aging cream for three years. Or worse, they’d say, “see what drinking all that wine does to your skin and your ass?!”

But if I tell everyone that I’m 55 and weigh 205 pounds their jaw would drop and they’d be like, “NO WAY! You’re 55!? You…look… amazing! And you carry your weight so well!” Then when they ask me what my secret is I can hold up my glass and say, “lots of wine!” and we’d all laugh as I finish the bottle with no judgment.

See what I mean?

So ladies, the next time someone is crazy enough to ask you how old you are, add at least 10 to 15 years. Then offer up your weight and go 80 pounds heavier. Trust me. You’ll never look better.

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Every time I see this State Farm commercial I laugh because it’s the true story of my husband Tom’s life. Except in his version when he says, “I’m never letting go,” he has his hands wrapped around my neck.


Then it makes me think about how Tom and I first met and my Italian grandma who should have written fortune cookies for a living. One of her favorite sayings was, “Your true love will be standing right in front of you and you won’t even realize it.”

Turned out she was only half right. He was sitting right behind me when we worked together at MTV in Manhattan. And, I wasn’t the one who didn’t realize it. Then again back in those days Snoop Dog was pretty big and I can remember on several occasions riding the elevator with him for one too many floors and ending up with a very nice contact high. So it’s quite possible that the story of how I met Tom is just something I made up while I was on drugs.

Tom was such a mystery to me. For weeks I thought he went to Hollister University because a lot of his clothes had Hollister written on them. I also thought he was a pathological liar because when I finally mustered the nerve to ask him out for a drink he said he had to play ice hockey that night at 11:30. I would have preferred the “I have explosive diarrhea” excuse.

Then one night we were all invited to a big work party. I remember it because it was the night I wore a push up bra that was two cup-sizes too big for me. So all night long while I was talking to the person on my right, my boobs were talking to the person on my left. In fact, I often wonder if it was my boobs or me that Tom spoke to first that night. Either way, I learned so much about him.

He belonged to an ice hockey team that often played at 11:30 at night. Hollister is a clothing store not a university. And most importantly, just like the poor SOB in the State Farm commercial, he never wanted to get married, never wanted to have kids and never, ever wanted to move to the suburbs. I assumed he was playing hard to get.

Nearly eight years later we’re married, we have a baby and we moved to the suburbs.

So even though it’s not until June, Happy Anniversary Tom! Here’s to “never letting go.” Though it would be awesome if you could loosen your grip just a bit. Oh, and I really hope your true love wasn’t standing right in front of you and you didn’t even realize it. My boobs were pretty distracting that night.

Here’s a picture of poor Tom…
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I believe in it all—angels, astrology, the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, leprechauns, good luck, bad luck, knocking three times, black cats, vampires and werewolves.

I never doubt anyone’s God because to me, if you can’t prove it’s there how can you prove it’s not? And as a practicing Very Bad Catholic I think our Fish-Only rule on Friday is crazy. What if I get up there and God’s a giant cod? Then what?

But most of all, I absolutely believe in the afterlife. So much so that I made this plea to The Long Island Medium on Twitter after my grandmother called me from a dresser a few months after she passed away:

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So, it shouldn’t surprise you that when my mother had an encounter with my stepfather who passed away six months ago, I was the first person she called to tell. The conversation went like this:

Mom: I got a visit from Dave!

Me: Did he call you from the dresser? You should really put a phone in there. I’m afraid I’m missing calls.

Mom: Nope. Better. (Excited pause) I smelled his fart.

Me: A ghost fart?

Mom: Yup. I’m telling you it was him.

Me: Do you really think it’s appropriate to blame it on your dead husband, Mom? Plus you live alone. Who are you hiding it from?

Mom: Diana, I lived with the man for 30 years I know what his farts smell like.

Me: You’re telling me his farts have a signature scent—like Cinnabon and Abercrombie & Fitch?

Mom: Yes. It was him. I’m sure of it.

Me: Well then that’s just rude. The guy hasn’t seen you in six months and that’s how he says hello. I’d be pissed.

Mom: Why?! I think it’s sweet. He wanted to make sure I knew it was him.

Me: Sweet? I’d hate to see what he got you for Christmas.

Mom: You don’t believe me?

Me: I totally believe you. A woman knows her husband’s farts.

Mom: Thank you!


Mom: You still there?

Me: Yeah, hold on. I think Dave’s visiting me. (Pause) Wait. Nope. That’s just a hello from the 8 ounces of sweet potatoes the baby ate last night. I should go.

Mom: Goodbye!

Me: Mom, wait!

Mom: What?

Me: If he visits you again can you ask him if God is a cod?

Mom: *Click*

For Mother’s Day I gave her a beautiful framed picture of the two of them…and an Air Wick.

Ps. Still don’t believe in ghost farts? Check out my post, I GOT GAZZZZZZZ. It just might make you a believer.

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If you haven’t noticed, I’m not too big on sappiness. All of those flowery Facebook posts about how much everyone loves their significant other and how great their families are make me want to puke.

Not that I don’t think that it’s nice or that I don’t feel that way about my own family. It’s just…well, I’m of the mind that a firm and solid exclamation like, “BALLS!” gets the point across just as effectively.

That said this post might be just a bit out of character. However, I want you to read it not with a tear in your eye but with a smile on your face (like you’re working through a gas bubble. In a minute you’ll realize how appropriate that is).

Thanks to Cinderella’s whiney attitude about mopping floors and marrying some stupid Prince (who probably would mess up her floors anyway) the word “step” has forever been branded as evil.

But please don’t let one bad batch ruin the rest, because to me “step” is anything but evil. Instead, it’s funny. It’s wise. It’s a great cook. It’s politically incorrect. It’s got “gazzzzzz” (said just like it’s written).

In fact, I often correct people when they refer to my Stepfather as my Father. Not because I don’t want him to be my biological father but because Stepfather is a very important title to me—one that takes years (in my case 34) to nurture and develop and deserves the utmost respect. So yes, Dave is my Stepfather. Get it right.

Now here comes the sad part. In November 2014 Dave passed away from cancer.

Ok, ok, ok hold on. Before you feel too bad let’s laugh a little because that’s exactly what he would do.

As a teen I didn’t really appreciate Dave. (But let’s be honest, the only real way to get a teen to appreciate you is to buy them booze and let their friends do lines off your back. So we’re in a good spot.) Like any gum-cracking teenage girl with a stepfather, I spent most of my time slamming doors and giving him the stink eye.

And do you know what my evil stepfather did in return?

He had dinner with me every night. He came to my track meet (yes, that’s a singular “meet” because I was only on the team for one day. But damn it, he was there!) He taught me how to drive, how to cook (I should have paid closer attention) and how to clean the filter in my AC. When I locked myself out of the house after sneaking through my bedroom window he opened the front door for me—no questions asked. (Ok, maybe there were a few.)

When I was a little kid he came to every school concert no matter how painful it was to listen to 25 eight-year olds years squeak out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the violin.

When I was 5 he took me to Disney World and on the way there we laughed at my very first joke: “How did the alligator talk? Through the machine!” (Oh shut up! He thought it was funny!) He also taught me what the word “fart,” meant (or should I say showed? He was a very gassy man. Are you getting that now?)

But most importantly, Dave taught me that the most precious things in life are family and a great sense of humor. Oh and Vodka. You really can’t live without a good bottle of V.

So I promise you this: If my mom ever remarries—which she swears she won’t but if she does—of course I’ll be happy for her but don’t think for one second I won’t slam the door in her new husband’s face and yell, “YOU’RE NOT MY STEPFATHER!”

He really won’t be. Not in a million years—because just like a father, a good stepfather only comes along once in a lifetime.

So Dave, here’s to you (as I lift my glass of V), thanks for being an amazing stepfather. I hope Jesus doesn’t mind a little gazzzzz.

(Here’s a pic of Dave and me and all of my stupid, evil steps.)


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My mother is going to hate this post.

I can’t stop saying “balls.” And I don’t mean the kind you use on a golf course or in some other sport that bores me until my eyeballs dry out. And speaking of eyeballs, I don’t mean those either.

Nope. You know the balls I’m talking about. And if you don’t you should get out more.

Don’t worry, I promise there won’t be any animated .gifs or .jpegs in this post. The balls truth (see what I mean?) is that I traumatized myself during a Google-image search for the perfect reference. (Don’t do it.)

I know exclaiming “Balls!” every time something good or bad or painful happens is totally unladylike—especially since I’m a mom now. Who wants to know their mother is running around screaming, “Balls!” every time she stubs her toe? It’s just that it’s such a versatile word:

  • As an insult: You are balls stupid.
  • As a compliment: Did you just say “balls” in an meeting? Wow, that took some huge, gigantic balls.
  • As a term of endearment: You look balls-hot.
  • As an exclamation: Balls!
  • As an adjective to describe weather: “It’s hot as balls in here” or simply, “It’s balls in here.”

It’s even fun to say: ballsballsballsballsballsballsballsballs

I looked it up on Urban Dictionary. Turns out that Billy agrees with me and so does the fool who ate Sarah’s meatloaf:


I don’t have balls so quite honestly when I talk about them I’m really just talking out of my ass (how ironic).

Oh well, guess it’s better than “nutsack.” That was last year.

P.S. I asked my husband if he thought it was ok for me to write about balls. He said, “Sure, why not? People love balls. And Jesus. They love Jesus and balls.” So if you’re offended it’s his fault.

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My husband plays hockey. And with that comes sweaty, smelly, hockey equipment. I knew it was part of the deal when I married him. But when you live in an 800sq. ft. apartment in the city, shit gets real—especially when he airs out his jock in the hallway during a July heat wave. Where’s the ban on straight marriage?

To avoid divorce, he agreed to keep his equipment on the fire escape. Thank god!

Then this happened:


What you can’t see in the photo is the flock of angry, dizzy pigeons hopped up on the smell of my husband’s sweaty balls waiting to have breakfast in their new leg-pad home.


I knew what I had to do. For the sake of my marriage, I had to go to bat for my husband’s jock. I kicked. They made a weird angry bird noise I didn’t know pigeons made. I screamed. They made another weird bird noise. Then victory! I dumped out the nest and yanked the equipment back inside.


The sweaty ball smell was back. And now it was accompanied by West Nile and a whole lotta bird shit. So who really won? (Oh, and before PETA goes ape shit on my ass, you should know that I dumped all of his dirty socks and underwear out there so they could rebuild. Who says I don’t appreciate nature?)

Sooooo, I was thinking…

Catholic Priests who are against gay marriage,

I know you’re married to God and all but isn’t He… a he?

Or, have you finally confirmed that He is a She?

Open to discuss…

The Spew
(But not like pea soup spew or anything crazy like that. I saw that movie and for the record, I totally stand with you on denouncing Satan.)

Got Turkey Neck?

Ever since I time traveled last week I can’t stop thinking about turkey neck. If you have no idea what it is then you’ve obviously never walked down the health and beauty aisle at Costco. Nothing kills that buzz you get from saving 2 bucks on 12 sticks of deodorant like a multi-million dollar beauty company questioning the integrity of your neck skin.

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Is turkey neck really that big of a problem in this country that the R&D team at StriVectin was able to reasonably justify spending millions of dollars to prevent it? (I mean isn’t stupid fuck a much bigger problem? Where’s the cream for that StriVectin?) And, I hope that budget allows for animal testing because if I’m gonna dish out 70 bucks for turkey neck cream I want to know it works on a turkey.

Also, it’s pretty shitty of us to call turkeys out for being flabby in the first place. Aren’t we the reason they’re so fat? I’m sure there’s a farmer out there right now slipping a Baby Ruth to an underweight bird all so that in a few months we can gather around it’s picked over carcass with our pants unbuttoned and complain that “turkey is so dry.”

Speaking of Thanksgiving, why is it the only holiday that encourages us to eat the mascot? For consistency, shouldn’t we be eating fat white guys on Christmas and leprechauns on St. Patrick’s Day? Or at least have it on the table as an option?

Turkeys should revolt against this blatant injustice. They should demand that all mentions of the first Thanksgiving be removed from history books nationwide (and maybe even eat a pilgrim to see how they like it). They should flood the Internet with heart-wrenching stories of Thanksgivings past, written one sentence at a time on 5000 pieces of white board. They should gather in cities across the nation holding picket signs and wearing anatomically correct crocheted hats. Yes! They should do all of these things and more.

But first they should swing by the labs at StriVectin and slather their necks with some turkey neck cream because 70 bucks is 70 bucks, right? Plus, who wants to look like a turkey? They’re so fat and flabby. Ew.

What Year Is It?

This is the Penn Station I walked into when I got off the train this morning.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Penn Station, don’t be deceived by this immaculate oasis. The real Penn Station is a filthy pit of despair where rats and cockroaches go to die and working schlubs who can’t afford to live in the city waste away, praying for a train that will never come and job that will make it all worth it. (And sometimes they drink beer out of a paper bag.)

So obviously, I immediately thought—Great! I time travelled. Which really pissed me off because Goddamn it! It’s the future and I’m STILL commuting into this shithole every day. Crap! How old am I? I need a mirror. I better not have turkey neck! Thanks, Costco, for calling my attention to that horrific thought.

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Then I was like: I wonder if Costco is still around? Surely, as a society, we must have finally made it through that 1000-gallon jar of relish by now. Which probably means we’ve also made it through that 1000 count pack of hotdogs too, because what the hell else are we putting relish on?

Speaking of hotdogs, I wonder what happened to that dude who always begs me for a quarter to get something to eat? I really want to know where the hell this guy is getting anything to eat in New York City for a quarter? I paid $4.50 for a Vitamin Water the other day! Maybe he’s just bad at Math. Poor guy. I get it. I should bring him some relish.


HOLY SHIT! In the future, we end the hunger crisis with endless supplies of Costco condiments. Because let’s be honest, hamburgers, French fries, onion rings, tater tots… they’re all just vehicles for ketchup. Right?

My next thought was to call Tom… at work. Because that mother f’er better answer! God help him if I’m the one who’s still commuting every day. Then again, if he’s not at work then maybe he’s figured a way out of this pathetic commuter life. Maybe I’m just here checking on one of our luxury rental properties and I took the train to trick the “regular” people into thinking that I’m just like them. Fools! Yes, that must be why I’m wearing these shitty Target clothes. Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t answer.

He answered. What a dick. After 20 minutes (and a really confusing conversation about turkey neck and some massive Penn Station renovations that were recently finished) he finally helped me navigate my way back to 2017. As I breathed in the hot stench of ass and dead rodents, I knew I was home. Then I heard someone ask, “Excuse me? Do you have a quarter so I can get something to eat?” I tossed him a ketchup packet instead because, you know, I’ve seen the future.


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.”)

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.


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 can 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.



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.


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.





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, Fuckface!” 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 fuck face 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.

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.)