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Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Naked Pictures


nude photos  


Kate Upton took some naked selfies with her boyfriend and frankly, I'm disgusted.

I'm disgusted that her privacy was violated. Disgusted that information and images that were meant for her own use were shared with the rest of the world against her will.

But as for the idea that she took the images, that she posed in front of a mirror with her handsome beau or lay in bed with him and took a few photo shots?

Big. Fucking. Deal.

What's the problem, exactly? All the hip and beautiful people are doing it! Even the not so hip and not so beautiful people are doing it.

And honestly? Most of the rest of us are too.

News flash (and you may want to avert your eyes, people):

EVEN MOMS TAKE NUDE SELFIES.

And we have been for years, long before Kate Upton was even in a training bra.

That's right, give mom a cellphone, a filter, the perfect light, a few props (possibly a large fern or a Japanese fan) and a few idle minutes to ourselves, and it's go time.

In fact, it is possible, may be even probable, that YOUR mom is leaning over the kitchen sink looking for just the right angle to illuminate her cleavage and minimize her stretch marks right now.  Or perhaps she's perfecting  the one leg draped out from the bedsheets look. Your dad likes that one.

It's evening actually.  So maybe she and your dad are getting the iphone and their love swing ready for...

Don't believe me?

Let me flash back to 2008.

Ringing cellphone, me answering it:  Hello?
Frantic Friend: Ohmygod Nicole?
Me: Yes, what's wrong?
Friend: Nothing.  Nothing. Hey um. Listen....did you just a get a picture on your phone from me?
Me: I don't think so---let me check---nope, nothing came through. Why?
Friend: No reason.  NO reason at all.  Listen, if my boobs come through on your phone, could you just delete them?  They were meant for my husband.  I might have accidentally sent them to you instead.
Me: I'll delete your boobs, no problem.

And that was it. It wasn't weird or disgusting or shame-worthy.  It wasn't even unusual.  I suppose I just assumed that married or monogamous people want to keep each other interested, want to entice the person they are with when they are not with them.  And I also supposed that I understood, as I understand now, that liking your body enough to photograph it is a good thing.  

Naturally, I recalled this conversation the other day when I learned about the pictures that were hacked from Upton's and other celebrities phones and released to the public.  As I scrolled through my social media, I was shocked to see how outraged so many women my age were over the concept itself.  To be clear, they were not all outraged over the violation of privacy that occurred to allow the photos to be released to the public. No. There were 35 year old women horrified that a grown woman had taken taken naked pictures on her own phone in the privacy of her own home. I read comments like "You play, you pay" and a condemnation of someone who would do such a thing as a "slut".

And I was.. confused.  I didn't understand how this was HER fault in any possible way.

How many photos on your phone would you want the world to see right now?  Let's be honest, the good photos make it to Facebook or Instagram.  The rest of them...they just...exist. Maybe none of them are of you naked, but how about the one you took of the damage to your bumper after you hit that pole? I'm guessing you'd prefer to keep it to yourself.  Because you took it with that intent.

So. When it comes to Kate Upton and her naked photos, I am disgusted and ashamed by only this: that we too often blame the victim.  That I see women condemning another woman for making a private choice about her own body and adopting a "she got what she deserved" mentality when she is violated.

And it makes no sense to me.  Because in my world, grown women, with bodies of all shapes and sizes, with bodies that are perfect and young, or those whose skin that gravity and childbirth has slackened and aged, well...they do this sort of thing.

Or might do this sort of thing.  One day. Or won't.

But they can.  If they want to.

And this does not make them a slut.  It does not make them open to or available for your judgement.
And above all, it does not mean they are to blame when a crime is perpetrated against them.

So hate the idea of it, but leave the victim alone.

And go help your mother, she wants to know how to turn the camera on her iphone around.
So she can see exactly what shes taking a picture of when she's photographing...the dog.

And whatever you do, don't scroll through her camera roll.





Monday, September 1, 2014

My Brother's Keeper

We are loading up an episode of Girls and eating homemade spaghetti when I burst into tears unexpectedly. 

I cry soundlessly at first, tears slipping down my cheek, past my chin and into my bowl.  But then, suddenly, I am sobbing loudly, grossly. My shoulders tremoring, my fingers pinching my eyes to make them stop, stop, stop.  

The television is dead frozen on the title screen. 

By the time my husband takes the spaghetti bowl from my hand and lifts me from my chair, into his arms, I am heaving guttering breaths, vulgar sounds from my chest. 

I did not know a person could make these sounds. 
Until my brother died and I made those sounds.

It wasn't just the sudden, unasked arrival of the memory of his death, just two years ago, that made me cry so suddenly. It was an unexpected, accidental inhalation of his cigarette in the upholstered arm of his chair as I sat down.

His chair, that is mine now. 

And as much as that chair is a big soft place to write, a comforting place to eat spaghetti and read Hemingway, it is a tweed harbinger of churning regrets. It is a holding space of lost things and childhood rituals, his impish blue eyes.  There are a cushion of questions and matted unanswers, seeping with cigarette smoke. Smelling like him.

It is a his-then-mine chair.

And it makes me angry, sometimes. 
It comforts me, sometimes.
And it makes me very, very sad.

Little brothers aren't supposed to die.  This is something you know as a child without someone telling you.  Old people die, great grandmothers and senile neighbors. Great Aunts die, leaving cats and doilies to be meted out among relations.  
Little brothers, the ones who are a foot taller than you and who smile with their eyes, do not die at age 30.

But heroin addicts do. 

They are the ones that stay children eternally, sweet and starving.  Their world slowly dwindling, shrinking in size just as you, the older sister, have the world opening up. They don't have things, can't give you things, aren't sure of anything.

You get married, you have a baby. You have never seen drugs, save for 1980's TV commercials.

They have spoons in their car. They get lost driving down your street. Have girlfriends with track marks and heavy eyeliner. 

You pick up your little brother to take him to the dentist. He brings all the things that matter in his world, in a plastic garbage bag: his television remote, his cellphone, a half smoked pack of cigarettes, $14 and some coins. Who is going to steal your tv remote? You ask him, gently, kidding. They might take it just to fuck with me, he answers dubiously. 

You don't ask who they are. 

One day, he shows up at your house. A weekday morning, holding a highball in his wavering hand.  Could he borrow something hard to drink, some whiskey? Just to help him get some relief? When he turns his head, you see a mangled ear and a gash, wet and seeping.  

You don't ask who did this to you?

You know, without asking, it was them. 

He is one of them, really. The ones who have nowhere else to go but dark streets in a Ford Taurus with one headlight.  The ones who give away everything they have for one last fix. 

They do not want to die. But they are dying every day, for years. 
Until they suddenly are completely gone, that last fix fixing it all, forever.

They die with the water faucet running, on Thanksgiving morning. 

And this is how I came to keep my brother's chair.

And this is how I ended up crying into my spaghetti.



Maybe I won't always keep the chair.  

Maybe I'll wake up one morning, tomorrow morning, and push it out of the family room, straight to the garage, banging walls and scuffing the floor.  And then, on garbage day, I'll push it all the way to the curb. 

Maybe I'll give it away. 

Probably, I won't.

Probably I will eat toast and jam there tomorrow morning, with the cursor of my computer screen blinking in front of my half-sleeping eyes.  

Probably I will press my nose into the worn arms of that chair when I am desperate and wanting to find my brother again.

Probably I will keep the chair forever. Because there isn't very much else that's left. 

Because like the soft and scraping pain of what I have lost and the memory of his smiling eyes, it is permanent. Mine forever, to keep.

He didn't live very long. He didn't have very much. 

But he gave these things to me. 



































Friday, August 29, 2014

Anatomy of a Slacker Mom Friend



Now that the school year is upon us, I think I should introduce myself.

 I know you've seen me around the neighborhood this summer, I'm sorry we couldn't stop and chat. I've been a bit frazzled, you know, with the trying to stay alive until September and all that jazz. But I'm feeling pretty good, right now.  Because by Jove, I've just about done it!

And because I actually have time for things like conversation and teeth brushing (both important components to any friendship), I'd like to say hello.

So, hello.

I'm Slacker Mom Friend. It's nice to meet you.

If you are considering being my pal (God bless you, child), I feel like our relationship, unlike my marriage, should be built on transparency.***

As such, I think it's best that I present you with a picture of exactly what you're getting into---unlike those perfect, filtered photos on Instagram that I share with the people I want to trick into thinking I am beautiful/wonderful/wearing pants.  I'm going to give you the real shit.

***I only think this because experience tells me you will find out anyway.  

So here it is, unfiltered, unphotoshopped and undid.

 It's the TRUTH people.  Can you handle the TRUTH?


Truth #1: I can't talk to you on the telephone.  Ever.

I am imagining that there will be a point in our friendship that you will think about picking up the phone to give me a call.  DON'T.
I can't talk.  And even if I can, it will not be an enjoyable conversation for either of us.
There will be yelling in the background (children) and yelling into the receiver (me).  I will accidentally hang up on you when I attempt to use call waiting on my cellphone for the 467th time (maybe if I just press HOLD CALL?), despite knowing I will probably, really just hang up on you.
I will seem like someone with multiple personalities. What's the Tracy? Darnit Dominic!  You poured in way too much fish food.  Flippy is going to be swimming with the fishes. That means he's probably going to bite it. Yes, you should totally have told him to fuck off! Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but you should totally tell him your sorry. 
You will regret calling me the second I answer the phone.  If I even answer the phone.

So save yourself the time and the sweating and TEXT ME. K?

 I hide my crazy a lot better when you can't actually hear it.

Truth #2: I'm not actually wearing pants. 

When you see me sitting in my mini-van at the bus stop, waiting for that Golden Paragon to arrive and transport the children away, do NOT approach my vehicle. 

 If you want to be my friend, you are going to have to abide by this simple dynamic.  You will sit in your car, I will sit in mine and we will talk through our open car windows.  Unless it is raining and then we will just wave and smile and perhaps use unintelligable hand motions which can loosely be translated as I haven't slept in 13 years and thank you Jesus Mary Joseph for Monday morning. 

If you approach my vehicle, smiling and ready for close contact conversation, I can't promise you how I will react. Perhaps, I will resemble something like a caged animal.  I might shift uncomfortably in my seat and recoil back, giving you halfhearted nonsensical blathering until you retreat in discomfort.  

Or I might just roll up my window and peel away.  

You see, as much as I look put together from the obfuscated view of your car, what with my sweater buttoned up to my chin and my ponytail, close inspection will ruin the mystery.  Not only have I not brushed my teeth or my hair or washed off last night's makeup, I have buttoned that sweater up over my nightgown.  

Bottom line:  I'm not wearing any bottoms. 

So step away from the vehicle, friend.  It's best for both of us.

Let's keep the mystery alive as long as possible.


Truth #3: I'm not the mom I pretend to be on Facebook.

Right now, my sink is full of last night's dishes.  And we had chili.  So this is going to be bad.  Which is why I'm avoiding it. 

I did throw away the wine bottle(s) however. 

Sometimes I feed the kids ice cream for dinner just because I don't feel like going to the grocery store.  And I don't feel like it's appropriate to go through the Wendy's Drive-thru more than once per day.**

I yell.  I don't know what GMO's are.  I can't even bake a cake in a sheet pan that doesn't turn out lumpy on top.  

I have a fruit fly problem.

I have a candy fetish.

I take naps when I should be playing with my children or making my own Wheat Thins from a recipe I got from Pinterest.  

I don't even know how to pin things on Pinterest. 

If you are going to be my friend, you will have to accept that I am a hypocrite.*

You will know that when I post that picture of my smiling, beautiful children eating ice cream cones that this might be the only real meal they have eaten today (save the fruit snacks, cheese sticks and GoGosqueezes) and that on the way home I am leaving them in the car with my 13 year old and running into the hardware store to pick up the supplies to make my own fruitfly traps.  

But man, on Facebook, I am the mother-freaking Mom of The Year.

*It would help if you are a hypocrite too.
**At least not since the guy at the drive-thru window called me out on it. "Hey, it's you.  AGAIN."

This picture is meant to deceive you.

Truth #4: We probably won't ever actually hang out

I will want to go places with you, eat meals, drink wine and wear pants.  I will want to have uninterrupted conversations about my hopes and ambitions, the things that make me interesting outside of being someone's mother, wife or daughter.  I like you.  But here's the thing: I won't be able to.

And neither will you.

We will talk (or text really) endlessly about a Girls Night Out and casually throw out dates and times of availability.  We will mention a movie we might want to catch together, a restaurant we want to try, a paint-that-picture-that-someone-else-drew-in-the-lines for activity night.  We will have the best intentions of making it happen.  But my kids have marching band and my husband travels and my babysitter got a boyfriend.  And you are still breastfeeding and the baby won't take a bottle.  

So our relationship has been relegated to rapid fire conversation at birthday parties while our kids bury some other kids they've never met in the ball pit at Chuckee Cheese. 

Or yelling at each other from our respective car windows at the bus stop. 

I'm not wearing any pants.
Yeah?  Me neither.
I always thought I would like you.
We should always be friends.
We should.  Maybe we can plan a Girls Night!
I'd love that.  I'll check my schedule.
Do that.
Text me?
You bet, friend.







Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Growing up

Me:  "I have been thinking. I want to be a writer when I grow up."

Him: "You can be anything you want to be. But never grow up."


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Does it happen all of a sudden?  Did you wake up one day and absently look up at the crack on your ceiling and say, "Yes, yes. Now this it. I think I am an adult now"?

 Tell me now, because I haven't done this yet.

Or were you sitting at a bistro table at Starbucks, sipping your Pike's Place. Legs crossed, reading The New York Times when you knew it must be true?  Stepping on to a subway train?  Holding your first child?

I'd like to know, how you know.

Does adulthood find you all at once? Or does it creep up slowly, taking over a few more cells each day, deliberately. And then a little more and more.  Until childhood is a milk thistle in your field, floating away on an unhurried air. Gone.  Sturdy stems of flowers growing in it's place.  I want you to tell me, how you know.

How to know when adulthood finds you.
How to find adulthood.

Sometimes I don't even think I belong there. The times when I speed my mini-van around the cul-de-sac with the windows down, the kids laughing, hair whipping, as I pump up The Killers and sing.  I'm coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine, gotta gotta be down, cause I want it all. The times when I eat ice cream for dinner and my husband finds my bowl of cereal in the bed.  The times when I climb into his lap like a little girl and bury my face in his starched collar.  Tell me everything will be okay. 

Sometimes I worry that I might already be there. The times when I snap at my teenager to turn the radio down so I can think.  The times when I serve meatloaf and green beans for dinner.  The times when my teenager climbs into my lap like a little girl and buries her face into my hair.  Tell me everything will be okay. 


Maybe I'm stuck between the growing up and the growing old.
Maybe I'm liminal. 

Maybe just knowing that word makes me a grown-up.

If I wake up tomorrow and I find adulthood clenching at me, I might look up at that familiar ceiling crack and scream a big fat fuck you.  Roll on my side. Go right back to sleep.

Or maybe it will sneak up in the parking lot of the Dairy Whip, while I sit eating my cream-sickle twist, alone in my mini-van.  The Killers on the radio.  

A shoulder tap. 

Hello, gotcha! Adulthood, here. Are you ready to go?
Do I have to give up eating ice cream for dinner?  I ask.
No, you don't have to give up anything.  
I listen to my music loud. I say, defiantly. 
Most grown-ups do.
I'm not sure what I'm doing most of them time, I confess.
Most grown ups don't.

Maybe that's how it happens.  

Mostly, I've been thinking that maybe growing up isn't about a feeling.  It is possible that it isn't about changing who you are or giving up anything or having the right answers.  
Maybe it's more simple.
I've been thinking that being a grown-up is just being wise enough to whisper "Everything will be okay" to the crying child in your lap.
Even when, deep down, the words sound impossibly brave. 
Everything will be okay.
Even when you aren't really sure if you believe it yourself.







Monday, August 11, 2014

Waiting for Better Days

I was sick.

Not the kind of sick that kills you or the kind of sick that can't be treated.  But rather the slow, insidious sort of sick that makes living each day just a little bit harder, a little more exhausting.

 An unimpressive and lonely sick, one I didn't feel like explaining the validity of to anyone that didn't specifically ask.  And even then I'd say, "I have anemia, it's pretty bad, but we have a plan to fix it, so it will be fine."

Except, I mostly didn't think I was fine.

When I walked up to my bedroom, I had to stop and breathe on the top stair, there were stars spinning and a black sky in my frontal lobe.  I was dizzy and my skin was pale.

I stood in front of the open freezer door, a butter knife in my hand, carving off ice chips from a frozen block and crunching them between my teeth.  It's pica, the doctor said.  Be glad you're not craving dirt.  But if it had been dirt I was craving, I would have scooped it by the handfuls into my mouth.
What the body thinks it needs, the body gets. It's powerful business.

More than anything, I was tired all the time.  A friend might say, "I'm exhausted!" and I might nod sympathetically, but inside I was thinking, what a careless thing to say, and she doesn't know how exhausted REALLY feels.
And this made me bitter, the space between her not understanding and my own hardening self-pity.
I shut people out, I closed the doors on friends. They couldn't know.

And so, the more I felt sorry for myself, the smaller my world became.



When the hematologist advised IV iron transfusions, my world had condensed to the size of an infusion room: four walls, two chairs (one of them empty) a television that never came on, an IV pole with a scary computer attached. I went alone to the first infusion, barely telling anyone but my husband and a few close friends.  I hated needles, I had passed out at the lab the week before. I was less than bitter but more than indifferent, I was consumed by myself and my own worry, hungry for some relief. Walking into the Infusion Center,it felt like an annoying dream, another bad day in a string of bad days.

So I hunched in the small, pink room, with a shot of iron doled out in a black tarry dose.  That liquid gold dispatched into my veins, to make me strong again, to help me crawl out of the tiny space that I had settled into, hoping it would work for me.  And while I hunched, I left the door to the little room open. I listened to the noises and conversations that drifted all around me, in the other infusion rooms and the sterile hall.

 Almost everyone was there for chemotherapy, I saw them as I walked down the hall coming in.  Bald heads and thin arms. The walls, covered with notices for Cancer Support Groups and Arranging Hospice seminars.

But it wasn't an altogether sad place. Unlike mine, the voices around me were still cheerful.  Or if they were not cheerful, they were the voices of people doing the business of living.  Briskly communicative, functional and pleasant.

I heard lots of people laughing.  Sick people, mind you. Sicker than me.  They were discussing dinner plans.  Doing work, writing thank you notes. I was surrounded by people, with hands empty but not outstretched, who were being spoon-fed medicine gratefully. Hopefully. People who were using all their strength, trying not to die, but were still doing heavy work---the work of trying to be whole and trying to be happy.

I was not going to die.  But I had lost myself in something pitiful, I was sorry for myself. I wanted better strings of better days.

Most of the other people there just wanted more days. Just...days.

**********

Next to me, there was a woman in her 40's, wearing a scarf on her head. She was talking with the nurse about her job as a librarian, about the husband who has to sleep with books in the bed.  She was telling jokes. The scarfed woman's friend, who was with her, was laughing, the nurse was laughing.

When the nurse came to check on my iv, I nodded my head toward the room next door.
 "They sound funny." I said. I was being nosy.  I didn't even care.

"Yes.  Chemotherapy. She always has someone different with her! I mentioned once that she had so great friends to come to her infusions.  But the woman that was with her interrupted me. 'She is the great friend, we are just returning the favor'. That woman is hysterically funny. I love her. It makes you realize..."  The nurse's voice trailed off.

Yes, it makes you realize.

That your bad days are someone else's better days.
That your world is as small as you want to be.
That you never know when you are finished living, so you may as well live right up to the edge of it.


***********
I was sitting in the pink room again, two days later. The door was open, the hall was quieter, but still pleasant.  The librarian was not in the next room this time.  She was home, hopefully, propped up on pillows in bed, reading her stack of books and killing cancer cells.  It was an elderly man, sleeping in the recliner.

But the nurse was the same and she started my IV, gave me the iron.  Told me I had an hour to wait.

"Can I get you magazine? Something to keep you company while you wait?"  She asked as she stood to leave the tiny little room, the small space of it resembling, dangerously, the depth of the world I had been living and isolating myself in.

"No, my husband is coming this time."  I told her.

And he peeked into the little room, just then, smiling with his eyes just for me.

We sat together in comfortable silence, listening to the IV monitor ticking off the time.
But my world, that pink room, started growing bigger the second I let him step inside.

All the while, up and down the hall there were other monitors ticking, iv's dripping.

Everywhere, I heard the sound of days being lived. Bad days.  Last days.

But the loudest sounds on that hall were the better days.
Those were the days, I realized, that reminded you that there was something still waiting for you.
If you just held on long enough and kept the door open wide enough to let them in.
















Friday, August 8, 2014

Bummer Summer: Vacation is making me dummer

I could write a nice long introduction to you, detailing the history of how I got to this dark, depressing place (Let's just sum it up in a title that would go something like this: : Bad Math---Procreation: 2 minutes of bliss for a lifetime of misery. ) but frankly, I don't have the energy.

 It's been sucked out of me slowly and painfully.  And now I can't remember if I brushed my teeth today or what my ATM pin is or if I'm wearing pants.

Fraternizing with child terrorists will do that.

So, don't expect a catchy intro, funny banter or proper use of punctuation.  That shit went out the window the day I found myself looking for a shoe that was missing.  One shoe, just gone.  Do you know why?  BECAUSE IT WAS IN THE TREE IN THE BACKYARD.  Right.  Don't ask, people.

I'm going to bottom line this for you in the simplest terms I know how (and all I have left are simple terms---I've been talking to 5 year olds for months).

I am losing any brain cells or compellingly witty qualities I had managed to salvage after staying home with my children for the last 13 years.
I thought I was in the clear when they all started school full time last year.  I was wrong.

Here's the proof.

5 Indications that Summer is making me DUMMER
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 As I prepared to go to a Marching Band function for my daughter and my children were eating dinner, I sweetly told them all: “No one touch my clothes with your dirty hands, please. Mommy wants to look nice tonight.” 
I was, after all, wearing my GOOD yoga pants.


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This was my facebook status on Wednesday. 





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This happened.    
In my closet.






 I don’t want to talk about it.
 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
 Dialogue surrounding every activity I take the children to do :

Me, cheerfully: Isn't berry picking/geocaching/miniature golf great?
Them, whiningly: It’s so HOT!
Me, trying to remain calm: It’s only 75 out, let’s make the best of it!
Them, being Them: We don’t want to make the best of it.  We want to make the worst of it. Let’s go home.
Me, dejectedly, : I thought you would enjoy this.
Them, uncaring: Well, we don’t.
Me, angrily: I spent $27 on these blueberries so we are going to have fun if it kills us, dammit. 
Now start picking, minions. 

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    Things I have actually said in the last week

To the boys: “Get that turtle off the ceiling!”

To my teenager: “Please, watch her. We can’t let the cat get knocked up again before she can get fixed.”


To the cat: If you move your kittens one more time SO HELP ME GOD…
The cat: Blank stare.


To my husband: “I can see why Japan’s children are so much more advanced than the kids in America.  Annabella is learning Japanese in 8th grade.  It seems like such a hard language. But kids in Japan learn to speak that shit as BABIES.”
Me: manic laughing. 
Him: Blank stare.




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So obviously, I'm not doing great. 
 I have 6 cats, 6 kids and a plastic turtle stuck to the ceiling in my house. 

Don't judge.

 Sometimes I wander around the yard hoping that a neigbor over the age of 17 will talk to me about anything other than Pokemon and buying EMO clothes at Hot Topic. 

On those days, I am probably not going to be wearing my BEST yoga pants, but considering the situation I have brewing inside, 


the neighbors should be thankful that I remembered to put on pants at all. 





Friday, August 1, 2014

This is how you find me

You, my readers, have some dirty minds.
Which is, of course, why we get along so well.
We understand each other. 

I know this for many reasons, among them, the function on my blog analytics (look at me, all computer savvy and shit!) that allows me to see what brings you to my blog here. I see what brings you to me, what content you like (the stuff about sex) and what content you hate (all of my poetry, thanks guys).

Let's just say I know a lot about you.
And I want to tell YOU today, about...YOU.

NOTE: I am not a scientist people.  Clearly. My friend Theresa has explained GMO's to me 6 times and I still can't tell you what the O stands for-----I just know they are bad, and bad is good enough for me.

NOTE (AGAIN): I am not opposed to stereotypes.  I won't judge you by the color of your skin, your sexual preference or your choice of  career; I WILL, however, judge you on your choice of words (You can't say that) or your choice of Mom Jeans (Dear You, in the stone wash).

So. The way I see it, completely UNscientifically, if I immediately disregard those of you who truly enjoy my  illogical musings as those who have questionable taste, the rest of my would-be readers fall into one of four categories of people.

I'd like to introduce you to:

The Four Types of People Who Read Don’t hate the player hate the game


The Fetishist Who Can Not Spell
Keyword Search: 


  • HE has a penchant for freaky porn, but gets easily distracted by stories about shopping and mom jeans.
  • He probably uses the word moist in conversation.
  • HE knows what qualities he wants in a girl (exxtra small) but doesn't know that girls (no matter what their size) are not likely to go for men who use the word beeg, especially when referencing their...pet rooster. 
  • He likes to spell words phonetically (hopefully). 
  • HE has a weird affection for Indian mother/son love (which started, unexpectedly, when he saw Life of Pi on HBO)
  • SHE has a lot of questions, concerning questions, about sex acts that she hopes will be answered by a blog that specializes in discussion about disability, divorce and well...sex.  Okay, I understand that she thinks I have the answers but her understanding of the actual logistics of preforming the act give me nothing to work with.  I'm going to help her out, however. The answer is YES, if you want him to like you. ;)


The Would be Gangsta Who Likes a Bargain

Keyword Search:



  • He wants to look like a big spender but secretly buys his Girbaud and BOSS clothes from the Salvation Army
  • He was voted Most Like to Use a Groupon on a First Date by his fellow gang members
  • He works at HooDonald's (Do not click here if you have a weak stomach)


The Impatient Generalist
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  • He hates people, in general
  • He hates waiting, in general
  • In general, people hate him


The unsure funny girl 
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  • She is hysterical, but she worries that her witty "banter" may be more enticing than her milkshake (which is equally as hysterical)
  • She has uncertainty, plaguing uncertainty that drives her to the internet for information and affirmation and support
  • She just wants to be loved.  And desired.  And have people laugh at the deleriously wonderful, sarcastic and edgy things she has to say. 
I might be projecting a bit on the last one.  But let's just say I know someone just like her. Like really really well. 
 Intimately. Physically. Carnally. 

And let's just say she's really funny and kind of needy and you should totally read her blog.  
And let's just leave it there.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?