I don’t know man, fuck is on your biscuit?

When I was a kid, I was always sticking up for the underdog.  I don’t know why, that was just my deal.  I’ve always been outspoken and, as “the pastor’s daughter” at a small private school, I had influence. People just didn’t mess with me. Or if they did, my ADD caused me to be too spacey to notice the mockers, so their bullshit was wasted on my dumb ass.  I was often totally checked out, daydreaming…staring into space.  And since my parents treated me like a normal kid, I didn’t quite develop all the bullshit baggage that pastor’s kids are known for.  So, whenever someone was getting picked on by others, I’d get all up in the bully’s shit. I learned early that it doesn’t take much for me to get people to do what I want. Privilege aside, that was just my reality, and I was aware of it.

Today, I want to explain some aspects of bullying. Because what I learned was that bullies BRING OUT the bully in me.  And in all honesty, I don’t LIKE how that feels. I don’t like BECOMING the bully. It feels shitty to me. And once I’m in the mode, I want to DEFEAT the bully. And I’ll stop at nothing to defeat. I become what I hate.  Isn’t that how bullies are developed in the first place?

In everyday life, I don’t find myself encountering bullies in person very often.  I think there have been three or four people in the past ten years of my life where I remember thinking “this person is a bully, and they are making me want to bully”, so I very intentionally separated myself from them. Otherwise I’d just sink to their level. I’d make sure that I could do what I could to help the underdog but, at the end of the day, those people will always be bullies. I can’t change that. Especially by treating them in a way that probably turned them into that in the first place. I’m sure they were bullied as kids or whatever, by their parents or someone else, and they have this chip on their shoulder. I can’t fix that chip. I have some empathy, but I also have sought out counseling to help me change the parts of me that are hurtful to myself and others. If you aren’t doing that…. now is the time to man the fuck up.

Every once in a while…. I am made to feel like shit by a man.  It doesn’t happen to me as often as it might happen to other women… I often don’t give a shit about what people think anyway, and I surround myself by good men.  And don’t get me wrong—women can be extremely hurtful to one another. So I’m not trying to be a man-hating femi-nazi here.  But when it happens—when a man says something that leaves me feeling like trash simply because I have a beautiful ‘gine—I get Really. Fucking. Pissed.

Today I am done. I am fed up with people with penises who think that women live and breathe for men.  I am so over that.  I have learned that there is a certain population of men who literally think this. They think when I get dressed and do my hair and my makeup and put on cute clothes, that I am doing it to get THEIR attention.  The fucking audacity of this is mind-blowing to me.  I cannot imagine walking around this earth presuming that people are acting in such a way to get my attention—simply because I am a penis-bearing human. (If that were the case, which it is not. Mama has the lovely labias).

I was recently reminded of how fucking mental this makes me— a really cute picture was taken of a beautiful girl and posted on Facebook. There was nothing weird or inappropriate about the picture, she just happened to look crazy fucking hot, as per the usual.  And it inspired a couple of male friends to say something about it. And it wasn’t “hey girl, you look great, have fun, you’re awesome.”  The comments were more along the lines of “why are you dressed like that?” and how she clearly wants attention so why can’t they say whatever they want about it…. Bla bla bla. It saddens me that this even happens.  A girl is left feeling so diminished by the comments about her looks, that she decides it may be better to hide. To not show her beauty. To not shine…

I am infuriated. I apparently have friends that are bullies.  And I CAN’T FUCKING STAND THIS.

I am here today, friends, colleagues… to offer up some wisdom for you. And YES it is wisdom so listen real close. Because after this, bullies get deleted from my life.

She dressed that way because I asked her to. BECAUSE SHE LOOKED AMAZING in that outfit. So she did. She wore the outfit I liked. Now, ultimately I don’t really care what she wears.  But she had a few options of clothes that fit her style, and I told her which one I liked the best.  Lesson you should take away from this: NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK. That night was all about us. Not you.

The second thing goes a little deeper for me.  The idea that you can say whatever the fuck you want because someone, in your mind, is INVITING it.  And this, ladies and gents, is part of the root philosophy of what has become known as “rape culture”.  There is an inherent disrespect for women at the core of this way of thinking.  Because, at the end of the day, if someone is “asking you” to treat them poorly… with less value than they really actually have as a person… so you’re going to do that shit???  And in this particular circumstance, how is looking nice for a night out with your girlfriends perceived as being asked to be treated poorly again?

What if we went ahead and reversed things.  I mean… a moderately chubby guy who goes out dressed “nerdy”, wearing Airwalks from Wal-Mart or some shit like that MUST be just ASKING to get rude and degrading comments, right? Otherwise he’d obviously work out, eat well, and get a fashion consultant.  At MINIMUM…. Shop at Target.  He clearly wants to be treated like shit. Duh…  It’s like this guy in a wheelchair who vandalized a church for loving gay people. IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE.

So I will leave you with this:

  1. I’m sorry someone treated you poorly or disrespected you in life, inspiring you to do the same to others. That sucks for you and it sucks for the people around you.
  2. Deal with your shit, and start being a better person.

Underneath the skin there’s a human.

A beautiful, captivating woman said to me yesterday, “When you make yourself vulnerable, you are actually safer.”

…I would tend to agree.

I am sitting here on my grungy sofa, listening to my little people talk themselves to sleep through the monitor, with a chill YouTube playlist in my ear, and pinot grigio on my tongue. The FINALLY warm air is on my shoulders, and I smell the damp earth carried in through the window behind me.  For the first time in several days, I am letting down my guard, and I am letting my thoughts and ever stormy feelings melt through my fingers.

I have known “guarded”.  As much as I lay myself out there for the world to see, I tag on a little follow-up of “fuck you” to anyone who has a problem with it. I guard myself against those who will potentially hurt me with that threat.  How I decide they fit into this category is a messy, tainted process.  You will find things in there like racism, sexism, religious baggage, affiliations by the thousands that carry a poor vibe in my mind… past memories of hurt and resentment.  These are not your friend when it comes to the playground of my mind.

When you choose to live in a “life-long” partnership with a beautiful person… you damn them—your best friend and lover—into the jail of both predator and prey.  Those are roles they will play in your life. They will hurt you, you will hurt them.  It is no easy task for two broken people to care for each other to the degree that an ideal marriage/partnership demands.

So now what?

What are your options when there is such high risk of hurting and being hurt?  Why do people even do this? It can’t just be because of the babies. There’s more to it. I think we as humans want to feel vulnerable to another person. Protected, cared for, exposed. Naked.

Maybe we have to be exposed and vulnerable in the relationship, the personal connection, to really relate sexually. To be naked physically, and connect in a really authentic and meaningful way, there has to be some sort of meaningful exposure of the human spirit…  BOTH the beautiful and the dark and ugly parts of your humanity.  Otherwise it’s guarded. It’s closed up and wary, self-conscious. It almost feels violating.

“Guarded” has not worked for me in this relationship.  After ten years, I have found that it is only vulnerability that brings good things between us.  It ends up being a safer, happier place.  In the process of achieving that end, we take a risk. And we hurt each other. Pretty badly. We are broken people. We cannot possibly care for another person’s emotional or physical needs perfectly all the time.

The question I’m left with is—Is it worth it? The pain?  So far I’d say yes. But you know what, it’s a real fucking hassle.  And it gets really fucking old sometimes.  It’s fucking exhausting. To be so fucking vulnerable all the goddamn time, especially when that person is struggling through a place of hurt and insecurity, caused by you and a myriad of others from the past.  Who wants to open themselves up to that level of unpredictable volatility? It’s a huge risk.

I think it’s the only way to live.


I want my baby where that cake and that icing is.

Get the money, get the money, that’s what I know
I’m hoping that my seeds know a little more than I know
I know, I know, but baby this what I know
If we ever settle down, well baby this what I hope

Please let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
Hope my baby girl grows up to be a hustla
Let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
If not, then you’re only a customer

~The Roots, ‘Hustla’, How I Got Over (2009)

Alright all you sexy geeks and gangstas. I’ve got to throw out a little word of gratitude. Every single person who has read this blog or left your amazing and demented ideas in the comments, or even contributed ideas and stories for me to expound upon– you have been part of a very serious event, for which I am quite grateful. Let me ‘splain.

I started writing this blog shortly after leaving my career back in January, in order to stay home and care for a very sick little baby. I had just turned 30, I was fat from being pregnant, complete with saggy stomach skin that was challenging, DARING even, every pair of pants I owned to look normal. I was adjusting to staying at home, which I had never seen myself doing, and I was exhausted and an emotional wreck from my baby’s health scares, extended hospital stays, open heart surgery, and other issues. I was grieving the loss of my career, and my friends who I’d made as colleagues from across the country, because I wasn’t sure I would ever see them again. In short, I basically felt like I’d lost my life, myself, and it had all been replaced with bittersweet heartache.

Recently, Sugardaddy’s cousin had her kid in the hospital for four days with an infection. Seems like a short stay, but to a mother even one night is an eternity. This was also one event in a string of difficult health scares they’d had within the past 6 months. Now, I don’t know how many of you have kids, but if you don’t, I can’t really explain to you what they do to you. They basically take over your heart and soul. There’s no other way for me to explain it. They move in, settle all their shit all up in your soul, permanently occupying every cell in your body.

So I emailed her and just let her know that I was thinking about her, and if she needed to talk or get negative with someone, that’s my specialty. She asked how we’d done it. How had we coped with months and months of what she had recently gotten a small but very heavy and real taste of?

So I began to give that a lot of thought.  I’m not suggesting you do any of these things necessarily, but they worked for me, so farbeit for me to deny you the truth. I touched on a couple of these things a little bit back in February, in my post about how to settle the fuck down.

1) Own it. Get real with the fact that life fucking sucks today (or this week, month, year, etc.). Denial is not going to get you anywhere. Just own that shit.

2) Move your sexy ass. Now, crises in life can be paralyzing. I want to warn you of that if you haven’t experienced that before. It’s depression, really, but if you find yourself paralyzed, for the love of God GET UP AND MOVE! I don’t care if you walk in circles in your living room, just move. Do. Not. Stop. Moving. Which brings me to…

3) MEDICATE. I’m serious people. Get yourself some antidepressants, and please do not stop taking them. Just freakin’ take them. Hustle ’em up off the streets if you have to. Take that shit.

4) Drink. And I mean draaaaaank! Drink** yourself something that, to a degree, numbs the pain and fear in your sweet little soul.  **Please drink responsibly by not driving directly thereafter.

5) Lose yourself. What I mean by this is, do something occasionally that really lets you check out. My personal favorite is to go dancing with friends who make me feel good. But maybe you prefer reading or fishing or running. I’d do a lot of running when the baby was in the hospital. For some reason, it felt cleansing to go out and run so hard that it just hurt. Like I was purging pain from my heart and mind.

6) Fuck. If you don’t know already that sex makes you feel AMAZing, then I’m sorry for you. But it’s fucking science. It releases all kinds of endorphins and shit that make you feel so good that it keeps you coming back for more. Over and over and over… just do it. I don’t care who you fuck– mama ain’t here to judge. Just be safe and try to only fuck people who don’t leave you feeling like shit afterward. Let’s not perpetuate the hard times you are already experiencing.

7) Dump. And this is where all you mutherfuckers come in. This blog has been a really nice place for me to just dump all the shit in my head so I don’t have to carry it around inside all the time. And I think this has been a really important part of the processing that must be done when coping with crisis. It’s okay to get cynical, negative, sarcastic, etc. But find a place to deposit all that shit, and move on. You’re going to need to emerge from the place of pain you are in eventually.  I think that process gets stunted if you hold on to the negativity.

So I want to thank you all for basically being my garbage recepticals. Kisses!

Mama just got a job, so I don’t know how often I’ll be throwing shit up on this blog, but I always love good material to get stupid about, so feel free to send stuff my way at thiswaygeeks@gmail.com.

I love you assholes. Get in here, let’s hug it out!!!!

Don’t poop on me: A Universal rule in sex and other life scenarios.

Tonight I get home from running an errand for a friend, and Sugardaddy’s watching Star Trek: Next Generation. Again. Guess who’s NOT getting laid tonight. This bitch.

But let me break this scene down for you.  The episode involves Deanna Troi (the notorious “hot” chick on the Starship Enterprise’s crew) and her mother, who are of an alien species that can sense other’s thoughts and feelings and, I don’t know, have a lot of sex and go to weddings naked, and other stupid geek porn fantasies like that. Now, if you’ve ever watched this show, you’ll know that Deanna Troi’s mom is a serious fucking slut. She’ll reappear every now and again and try to get a VIP pass to party with Captain Picard’s trouser snake. Cap’n ain’t havin’ any of that shriveled slut’s diseased shit. (He’s classy like that… all French with a British accent and shit).  So a good portion of this particular episode involves watching old-mom-slut try to fuck like three different dudes on the starship.

Then …THEN…, Sugardaddy turns to me and says “You know what I like about the Fresh Beat Band*? That dark-haired chick? She kinda resembles Deanna Troy. Yeeeeeeah.”

Fuck my life.

And this is where I’d like to point out that some shit just shouldn’t happen.

There is a point, ladies and gentlemen, with many MANY things in life, where we as a society surpass the limits at which we need to FUCKING STOP. I’m talking about sex, I’m talking about politics, I’m talking about the small window I get into the imagery that may or may not go through my nerdy husband’s head as he makes marital relations to yours truly. And you know, it makes the throw-up come up into my mouth. It really does.

May I advise you of some things? All ya’ll dudes out there who watch porn and think that you are now pornstars and can do weird porn shit? Please read THIS link.  Now, I am going to blow up your brains at a later date with information on how to please your woman. But that right there needs to be mass distributed.

Now. My people. My fellow Americans. Democrats, Republicans, Moderates, “Independents” (whatever the fuck that means), Libertarians, Socialists and Fascists… lend me your ears, little lambs. Shhhhhhhhhh gather ’round. Are you listening? Please stop being so fucking stupid. I’m serious, just stop.

Let me tell you about a little thing called “mutual masturbation.” Can you say those words? Muuuuutual. Maaastuuurbaaation. This is when two or more people do or say things that make themselves and/or the other feel good, affirmed, validated, excited, ecstatic, hot, turned on… the list goes on. The point I need to make about mutual masturbation, and why it’s relevant here, is that it’s NOT REAL. Nothing is being PENETRATED. It is not real intercourse. It is not real fucking. There’s no. mutherfuckin. penetration, people. And this is where things can get a little… off course. Because it is at this exact point that leads me to ask: “What exactly is getting you off right now?” Because if you just think and talk about hopeful shit that sounds like the magical fucking land of Oz and spank yourself until you cum in your own hand, that don’t mean shit to anyone but you. And if it’s the actual act of pooping on someone that is hot to you, you need to fucking get therapy, or get the fuck out!

So when you’re watching the political conventions, Fox News, CNN, or listening to NPR, watching Meet the [fucking] Press on Sunday mornings, or reading something from Focus on the [fucking] Family, may I suggest that what you really like about it is not actually real? It’s someone telling you something that makes you feel good, logical, or right in your convictions, and it has just enough reality tied to it that it makes you believe it’s the real shit. But it’s not. It’s not the real shit. Like when you tell me you aren’t racist, sexist, classist, elitist on SOME level deep down, intentional or unintentional. Go fuck yourself. Because if you haven’t come to terms with the fact that life is complicated, messy, lacking easy answers and solutions, then I’m not totally convinced you’ve really experienced people. People who are in your life, your community, your planet. Those people? They want to climax too, asshole. They want to feel their bodies exploding in ecstasy, just like the next guy. Because at the end of the day, if you’re not doing something real, participating in something real, if you’re NOT penetrating something, you’re just masturbating. And the only person getting off is you.

*For all of you childless readers, Fresh Beat Band is a children’s show on Nick Jr. that makes me want to kill myself.

Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right.

“Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right

Get it right, better get it right, get it right

And I’ll be rockin along, zonin, yeah

Movin along, zoninnnnnnnn.” ~ Kid Cudi, ‘Ashin Kusher’

Sometimes you meet a person who has felt what you have felt, who has seen the depths that you have traversed. And they’ve come out alive.

This is important.

Because their mere existence tells you that you, too, will come out alive. That’s a little more than inspiration, my sweet crackas. That’s straight up truth, spoken to the deepest part of your soul that is the decision-maker for whether or not you are going to survive any given moment.

It is my privilege to wish the happiest of birthdays to such a person in my life. Happy birthday, B-Randy! You know who you are, you sexy ‘rican!  I gift you with this open-to-the-public weblog, in lieu of Cuba Gooding, Jr. naked, eating fried chicken coated in chocolate, singing “I’m a little teapot” karaoke style in your bedroom. With as many favors as that asshole owes me, apparently he resents the fact that I’d treat him like a whore and offer to buy such a performance from him, in honor of your birthday. What is with people being all uppity these days??!!

I would also like to gift you with this fucking weird Ken doll.  I really don’t know what to say about this offense to humanity besides “I love you.” And if you don’t know, now you know.

So now that you have exited your twenties and joined the cool kids’ club in 30s-ville, what do you plan on doing? Because I believe I spent the evening of my 30th birthday obsessively lotioning my stomach as the skin continued to slowly shrink back after giving birth to a naughty little baby that I couldn’t nurse due to hospitalizations. I do not wish that on you, my friend. I hope you feel sexier than that tonight.  Do what makes you come ALIVE this weekend. And every day. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

In addition to all the above-referenced priceless gifts, I would also like to bequeath to you the list of search terms that have brought people to this blog. This is no ordinary list. It is a list filled with the seeds of questions to the mysteries of the universe. Like, “What the fuck?”  And “Who the fuuuuuuuck?”  B-Randy, you are now the caretaker of these search terms. Treat them well. Love them. Hold them. They need you.


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If everything could ever feel this real forever.

Sleep deprivation does this to me.

Have you ever been like, working out, maybe doing some pushups or some variation of a plank, and just started crying? Because you were just that fucking exhausted because maybe your baby or something similar to that in your life won’t fucking sleep at night? But not just for one night, but for days and days on end?

Well if that happens, take a shower, because that apparently will help you make it through the rest of the day.

Oh and, a Foo Fighters documentary on VH1. Foo Fighters were one of my favorite rock bands in high school, and they take me to a very centered, familiar, happy place that few things sufficiently do.

Dave Grohl. I love you. Thank you. Goodnight.

We got tom-toms over here bigger than a monsta.

“But I take a left and leave ’em hangin’ like a teste.” – Nicki Minaj, ‘My Chick Bad’ by Ludacris

You knew it was only a matter of time before something threw that special little happy place I was in for a couple of weeks straight into the commode of cynical frustration with the world.  It’s just how things are. It’s nature. It’s science.  So now I blog to you MFer(s). (You’re welcome, K-Money.)

After a little hiatus from workin’ for a living, in order to nurture some lil’ babies (you know, chewing their food and spitting it into their open mouths like a little bird), I’m having to look for a job in a fucking awful job market. Luckily I have semi-decent bazungas. You gotta pay for these titties, aight? Or at least pay my baby-sitter.  The upside to today’s job search was 2 extra hours of being kid-free, leaving me sitting here writing this bullshit, eating a leftover piece of my 4-year-old’s birthday cake, and sipping on a Bud Light “lime” beer, but the kind with less alcohol content because that’s all they sell in grocery stores in the arctic circle, and I was too lazy to go to an actual licka sto. The situation is that sad. Yet I’m strangely happy.

There are two main ways that I effectively deal with anxiety– 1) running, and 2) drinking… well, now that I no longer compulsively eat to drown out the pain…maybe I’ll write about that sometime.  The happy juice was my method of choice for about the first 3 months of 2012… and quite frankly, since July of 2011.  But there comes a time, boys and girls, when you look down at your love-handles and realize they’ve expanded beyond what can legitimately be considered love-handles. When they become too big to hold onto, for instance… they’re not “handles”.  So on March 22, I decided it was time to stop literally pouring cheap wine down my throat every night, and to begin the slow process of purging my body of toxins and rarely used stores of energy (i.e. “fat”). I began eating better, and exercising every single fucking day.

Believe me it was a good choice, and here’s why.  When you run, or do any sort of cardio exercise as far as I’m aware, your brain releases seratonin, a happy little neurotransmitter that makes you feel all squishy and satisfied (low levels of which cause depression). Chocolate does the same thing, but with alternate results to running, I’m afraid. Figure it out.  Your body also begins to release endorphins after 30 minutes, which minimizes your brain registering pain (praise the Lord Jesus!), and give you a feeling of euphoria.  This euphoria… this is a good thing. Sometimes situations in life leave me feeling so shitty and out of sync with the universe that running is the only thing I can do to make things right in my head.

Now, mama can’t rightly attempt this daily feat on her own, no sir. Mama needs some purty lil’ children to serenade me down the path toward what Sugardaddy and I jokingly call “beach-ready hard body”.  These sweet sweet voices… they go by the names of Nicki Minaj, Ludacris, Nirvana, Metric, Jay-Z, and Filter.  Some songs offer up a good tempo, other songs are energetic, but these speak truth right when you need it. And running is very much a mental game. If you’re thinking thoughts like “I can’t do this anymore”, you literally will not be able to do it anymore. If you imagine little lego guys rebuilding the muscles in your legs, and visualize your lungs opening wider so you can get that oxygen you feel short on, that shit’s gonna happen.  The songs below speak truth or power that put the right things in my head, all at just the right time, like sweet little angels in my ears.  And I find that running isn’t too different from life in general. The mental approach you take can greatly influence your actions and the way you perceive reality. Make sure your self-fulfilling prophecy is a good one, friend.

So I offer these up to you as a gift, with the hope that you will also experience this euphoria. It’s just good shit.  And somehow, after the two-hour long hard cry I had at the shock and horror I felt when I found out I needed to go get a job, I was able to promptly get on with it. Somehow, through running, I think I’ve managed to reverse some of the self-inflicted brain damage that may have occurred during my binge-drinking months as I was coping with my little baby’s close blows with death and the resulting halt of my career.

Here is my homage to the wind beneath my feet. You can go to the full playlist and listen to the songs HERE if you’d like. You’ll find more than what’s described below. What are the songs that help you live life better?

Did it on ’em by Nick Minaj. This song is probably what I’d consider my theme song for motivation, and gives me a sense of power over anything that gets in my way.

Notable lyric: “If I had a dick, I would pull it out and piss on ’em. Let let let let let let let let let let me shake it off.”

Hustle Rose by Metric. Emily Haines soft sweet voice will calm you during the moments that you need to calm your breathing and focus, slowing your pace to recover a little. But this beautiful song slowly progresses to get you back into a strong and steady place. The shift into awesomeness happens at 3:25, and you’ll be well on your way to another strong tempo.

Notable lyric: “If you’re looking for something life-like in this sardine nightclub… If every surface you touch is cold, never go home… You could throw me a bone, if I get too close you wake me up, remind me…”

Dirt Off Your Shoulder by Jay-Z. It’s easy to just get down on yourself when you’re running. There are too many times when you feel tired, weak, sore. You have to mentally push past that. And Jay-Z will help you with that, crackas. He’s like the coach telling you to keep going when you want to stop.

Notable lyric: “If you feelin’ like a pimp n***as, go’n brush your shoulders off. Ladies is pimp too, go’n brush your shoulders off… You gotta get that dirt off your shoulder.”

You Know You’re Right by Nirvana. This is another good song to get you to refocus at its beginning, especially if you’re at a really tough part of the run, and then Kurt Cobain starts pleading with you in his raspy voice to remember that you’re okay, because it sounds like he’s saying “you know you’re alright“. And I need that reminder. Thank you, Kurt.

My Chick Bad by Ludacris feat. Nicki Minaj.  Ludacris is one of my favorites. In this song, he’ll tell you how great you are, and how he wants to buy you Louis Viutton shoes and stuff.  Sometimes a girl just needs to hear how great she is.

Notable lyric: “My chick do stuff that your chick wish she could… Trash talk to ’em, then I put ’em in a hefty.”

My Chick Bad Remix (“Pussy Rules the World version) by Ludacris feat. Diamond, Trina, Eve. Again, this song just tells me how amazing I am as I embarassingly chug down the street.

Notable lyric: “I got swagga on the hund-ed, thousand, trillion… Now that’s what I’m all about, I’m the baddest… Still the Eve of Destruction, still pushing buttons that’ll do away the roof… So put your diamond rings on and get yourself a hustla.”

Ri Ri Resurrection.

It has been a year of death, and it has been a year of fighting to live. For many people, all over the globe, and for my family.  I find peace in accepting death, participating in the struggle of life, and celebrating that messed up journey of pain and joy.  And I would never be able to make that journey alone.

Today I share with you:

~ Great use of garter belts

~ Big Mouth Billy Bass on the wall

~  Car spinouts

~ Razing buildings

~ Being honest with yourself when you do stupid stuff just because it feels good at the time. And then having the self-respect to admit that stupidity to yourself, and giving yourself the grace to move on.


Sugardaddy serves a tool his “Last Supper”.

If you got a gun up in your waist please don’t shoot up the place (why?)

Cause I see some ladies tonight who should be havin my baby… baby…

‘Big Poppa’, Notorious B.I.G. (1995)

Today went down in the books as the “Maundy Thursday Massacre”, round these parts.

No later than 9 a.m. this morning I get a call from the manfolk of the house. He rarely calls me from work because, while I care for two small children who I love deeply and birthed from my own womb, he cares for 3 semi-useful yet mostly-douchey supervisors and 60 craft employees backed by a union that may or may not enable them to act like children, for which they cannot be fired.

He is a better person than I, because he seems to be able to productively manage the generally high level of bullshit he gets dished every single day, while working within the confines of these union contracts and the limited mental capacity of his management staff, who make it a point to fuck up all kinds of shit every single day, leaving Sugardaddy to clean up the mess. I’d just fight a ho. That’s just my style. But all of this makes very clear why he happens to be such a sweet and patient husband. This is just now dawning on me…

Anyways.  So he calls me this morning while the little people are still eating breakfast and I’m doing the dishes in my underwears, so I ask “What’s goin on?”  I thought for a moment I was wearing some kind of sexy lingerie after what I heard next.  “I just wanted to talk to someone who isn’t a complete fuck-up.”  What did I do to deserve such a compliment, you ask?  Someone’s gon get some tonight, beeeitches! Talk that romantic talk, Sugar. Mama like.

So he goes on to tell me of the bullshit disaster he walked into this morning because his 3 tool supervisors can’t tell their asses from the donuts they’re shoving into their faces.  When I excitedly asked if he was going to fire someone (I love that shit, I really do. I mean, I get hot from people getting fired), he said no, but he was going to tell one of them to pack up his shit and get the fuck out, because he wasn’t coming back to work at that station.

I wished him a happy Maundy Thursday.  He replied, “You bet your ass it is, because that guy just got his last supper from this place.”

Which brings me to my point: May the love of your lord and savior Jesus Christ bring you the peace that surpasses all understanding this weekend, as we remember his death and resurrection. Also, mayhap things would be a little better if we laid down our guns, and found some sexy ho to make love to, no?  Let the wisdom of Biggie Smalls rest in your hearts and minds this Easter weekend.

The lost art of keeping your 4-year-old off the pole.

If you haven’t figured it out already, your role as a parent includes keeping your daughter off the pole, which requires setting standards of how she should expect to be treated by others, as well as explaining her anatomy to her.  As much of a free spirit as I am about sexuality and femininity, I found the latter to be one of the more difficult lessons for me to relay to my 4-year-old.  It all started when she was 3, and stopped wearing diapers. I was so proud of myself.  Potty-training– DONE. The next thing I know, we’re watching cartoons and I see her chubby little toddler fingers exploring her nether regions. I mean, you can’t blame her– she’d never had access to that part of her body back in diaper-land.  Undies offer a freedom that I had to teach her to respect.

“What are you doing, pumpkin?” “I’m touching my privacy,” she says matter-of-factly in her high-pitched little voice. (That’s what she called her private parts at the time.)  I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to teach her that it’s not socially acceptable to finger herself in the presence of others without making her feel ashamed? Knowing your body and the eventual art of masturbation are healthy parts of life, but not in front of your Mom. NOT IN FRONT OF YOUR MOM. Luckily, my fellow mom-boss Holly was there, and she’d already traversed this scary frontier with her two boys. “Bathroom or bedroom, bathroom or bedroom,” she whispered to me hurriedly, so that the madness would end.  It was at that point that I realized I needed to have some answers ready… coming up with them in the moment was not an option.

And she’s going to have a lot of questions, your daughter… and you better have the answers ready that you want settled into the little “sex corner” of her mind.  Otherwise, our fucked up world has answers ready and waiting, and they’re not the answers that will give your daughter a long and happy life with a satisfying and self-respecting relationship with her body, or with other people’s bodies.  Like these “pole-dancing parties”. And I’m not talking about for adults, I’m talking about the ones that 12-year-olds are currently doing for their birthdays.  Or the “rainbow parties” that involve junior highers, a line of girls with different colors of lipstick on, and a line of little dudes who, in my opinion, have years of work to do to earn that kind of love from a woman.

Mark my words: My. Daughters. Aren’t. Gonna. Do. That. Shit.

So here is what I’ve learned. It’s okay to shake your booty with your daughter while you listen to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”. It’s NOT okay to let them watch the video, and not just because it is not attractive when a guy can only lift ten pounds, or when groups of guys have penis-wiggling contests in bars. Also, it is not okay to let her say “shake my hot booty” (because she should not at the age of 4 know what “hot” means in that context). And when the word “sexy” pops up in the verse, tell her she can’t sing that word because, while sexy is not a bad word, it is a grown-up word.

When you explain her lady parts, don’t use words that have negative connotations that might invoke a sense of shame for having a vagina.   Like “naughty” or “no-no”. Because the world is telling her that it’s a dirty, wicked thing. And it is NOT. The world is also telling her that, if she has a vagina, that she is dumber than her penis-bearing counterparts, and that she shouldn’t hold positions of power, authority, decision-making, strategizing, or influence.   I find it’s simplest to use the technical term, but then apply a nice little word for her everyday use. Like “bottom”, or “private parts.”  A nice little analogy to help your daughter understand what private means can be found in Where the Wild Things Grow, where the kid has a private boat. The boat is JUST HIS. And people have to ask nicely before they can ride in the boat, and he’s allowed to say no to anyone who wants to ride in the boat if he doesn’t want them to. And if people insist on riding in the boat after he says no, then it is more than acceptable to kick that person’s ass so they think twice the next time they feel like riding in whatever boat they fucking want to.

Also, try to avoid using the following terms to refer to her vagina:

Penis glove, cock sock, cock pocket, cum dumpster, sperm bottle, goop chute, love rug, poontang, poonanie, cooch, vertical bacon sandwich, bearded clam, meat curtains, hatchet wound, fur burger, front bottom, kebab, minge, snapper, catfish, love canal, the cum dump, chocha, black hole, sperm sucker, fish sandwich, cock warmer, whisker biscuit, deep socket, cum craver, cock squeezer, slice of heaven, flesh cavern, glory hole, man in the boat, DNA dumpster, tuna town, split dick, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cockpit, snooch, poody tat, cold cut combo, furry furnace, slop hole, nether lips, serpent socket, hairy doughnut, fun hatch, spasm chasm, bacon hole, belly entrance, sugar basin, sweet briar, breakfast of champions, wookie, fish mitten, fuck pocket, hump hole, Republic of Labia, fetus flaps, sausage wallet, Yo Yo Smuggler, Ninja Boot, Chia Hole, Furrogi (Poland), Fortune Nookie, Calamari Cockring, Displabia, Bluntfrunt, moneymaker, The Helmut Hide-A-Way, toolshed, snake charmer, Furby, Enchilada of love, queef quarters, cream canal, punash, salami garage, slurpee machine, pink cookie, penalty box, meat crease, pole hole, one-eyed python trail, bubble gum by the bum, horn of plenty, the indoor picnic, hamper of goodies, the welcome opponent,  devil’s hole, pooswaa, south mouth, Lawrence of A Labia, ponchita,The Notorious V.A.G., baby oven, penis parking, cooter muffin, the promised land, cha cha, the virginator, scrumpter, cucumber canal, dick dungeon, cock curator, nice slice, weiner wrap, pachinko, fuck donut, the unmentionable, jaws of life, love cave, Indiana bones and the temple of poon, or pushin cushion.

If she, upon maturing, and from a place of self-awareness and long-established self-respect, decides to adopt any of those terms (really more because some of them are funny) then so be it.


A good one: Holie of Holies. Brought to you by the man who explained to me that, if a man wasn’t crazy about me, then he wasn’t fucking worth it. And that’s truth, people.