Category Archives: Escapades with AE

Re: Gigantic Flag Pole – Antique Gang Sign

Hi Ken!

I hope this email finds you well. I apologize in advance for my tone, I’m under duress.

It has come to my attention that a resident of Rachel’s Place has erected a flag pole of significant size in the middle of their front lawn amongst an array of colorful and diverse lawn gnomes resembling decorative rodents and small dogs. Unless the right hand corner lot of Loblolly and Sweetspire happens to be it’s own municipality, township or the location of a Rutherford County elementary school, then there is no logical reason that such a large metal pole would be necessary or aesthetically desirable.

You may be further unimpressed to learn that a 30 foot tall architectural focal point is surpassed in distaste only by the giant Confederate flag billowing in the wind on top of it. The fact that this antique gang sign was erected immediately after a young black family moved in directly across the street elevates the obnoxious decor to a level of provocation that I find intolerable.

Within our HOA documents in Article 8, under Usage Restrictions, numbers 3 and 6 prohibit offensive, noxious activity that may be perceived as a nuisance or annoying to our neighborhood as well as specify no signage shall be permitted for use other that for the purposes of advertising a home for sale. This house is not for sale and I find the flag annoying and the pole a nuisance. I’m withholding judgement regarding the flamboyant ceramic sculptures as a negotiation tactic should we disagree on an acceptable level of tolerance for offensive lawn ornaments.

In the same section number 8 prohibits immoral or otherwise unlawful or unacceptable conduct and several items throughout the HOA agreement specify there are to be no structures erected or modified on any property without written permission and review. If this enormous Southern Cross on a steel stick was in fact not pre-approved for super sized display by a blind architect, then could you please advise as to the earliest possible date it will be removed?

The HOA is in place to protect the value of my home and my ability to enjoy our neighborhood as well as to protect the safety and enjoyment of my family of any family in the neighborhood. I do not find this enjoyable.

Seriously, can you get the guy to take the flag down or should I plan on a half mast observation on Memorial Day?

Please advise.

Sent from my iPhone


I used to SAAAANGGG and now I *SING*

Things that I Do Now That I’m a Mommy!!
(that would otherwise qualify me for a 5150 psychiatric hold in the state of California)

This might have to be a series…for real.

So this morning I realized that I sing to my child.  This came as a complete surprise to me.  One moment I was talking to my 2 ½ month old baby and then all of the sudden I was having a conversation with myself…in my mind.  For the record if you hear your own voice then it’s called THINKING and you are not crazy…and if you think that’s weird then don’t even bother reading the rest of this.  You’re welk.

(I’m wearing a bath robe with a homeless messy bun on the top of my head and only one slipper.  I’m not sure if it came off or if it was never on in the first place but regardless, I think that visual can accurately depict the state of affairs in my home during a 4 am feeding.)

My thoughts were some variation of the following…
*Begin Scene*


“Hmmmmm….uhmm….well, okay this is a little creepy.   Something is happening here…yeaaah, I’m not really sure what is going on but… it appears…at least I think…I’m pretty sure…yep, it’s happening.  I am talking to an infant about a fish.  Full  blown monologue because 4 am is a great time to tell the life story of the little blue fish that rattles.  The thing is…I hear some sort of weird sound as I’m explaining where fish come from.  Caviar is to fishies and omelets are to chickies… I wonder how long I’ve been rhyming.   Yep, definitely just asked a fishy for a kissy.  I hardly even know this guy and here I am making out with him.  That sound though…wtf is wrong with my VOICE?  Baby girl, never kiss a fish unless you wish to get sick, with laryngitis¸ well that can’t be it.   What would Dr. Seuss do?  He would count…I wonder if he’s a real doctor.   Whatever okay so something is definitely happening here… what is the opposite of laryngitis?  I think I have that.  If that was a thing it should be called MilliVanilli-it is.  Alright my baby thinks this is funny and I’m pretty sure I just went up an octave.  If I was a pre-teen boy and got kicked in the nuts this would make sense.  I’m not.  OMG, I seem to have come down with a case of the Mariahs! Definitely just called my child DARLING.  Definitely a case of the Mariah’s.   I’m probably hurting my dog’s ears.  The baby seems to like it…she’s smiling. WOAH. Okay.  I get it…so every time she smiles my voice goes up an octave and gets a tiny bit more shirll.  I can honestly say I have never wondered what it would sound like if a carbon monoxide alarm said, “YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY”!  Now I know.  Seriously, if this is what happens when she smiles….and I’m pretty sure we’re on the cusp of a giggle. I will definitely get mistaken for a little tea pot short full of boiling water.  OMG STOPPPPPP! I didn’t mean to say that out loud…maybe it’s not such a good idea to yell STOP at myself when I sound like a rape whistle.   Whelp…I guess its official.  I am singing to my baby”…

*End Scene*

Okay so I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this and I’m not sure I want to know but I just became aware of it today.  It’s horrendous.  Why couldn’t I be that mom that sounds like Mary Poppins and her spoon full of sugar?  I sound like Mary Pop Drop it Lock it and a spoon full of crack cocaine.  I’m not entirely disappointed because who doesn’t appreciate a Mariah moment?  I really respect a bitch that can incorporate her favorite body wash into a love song.  Her Calgone is my orange tangerine scrub by Softsoap.  It smells amazing.

So I was totally surprised to learn that I sing like a helium addict to my child.  I’ve been singing to my husband for years so I know that occasionally the spirit will move me to song but I didn’t know that the spirit can get me a hit of helium every time my baby smiles! I called a fish a whore in a voice that is 10 octaves above a Soprano and also caught in a wood chipper.  Acoustically my mommy voice is a cross between, “someone lost a limb, now react” and “Golden Retrievers, it’s time for dinner!”  Like, I could do a voice dub for either Alvin, Simon OR Theordore should one of them get a little fresh with a fish and come down with a little manili, know what I’m saying?

As I said before, I sing to my husband all the time…and by sing, I mean I SAAAAANG but only because I’m a pain in the ass and it’s embarrassing to others and funny to me.

Prior to having a child, the extent of my singing was purposeful, rare and would never be appropriate in front of a small child.  I am blessed physically with the ability to manipulate my vocal cords and diaphragm in such a way that produces a deep bass-y bravado that resembles a burp at first but evolves into what it would sound like if a Baptist church choir was evacuating a building that happened to have been set on fire.  On accident, but they were taken by surprise.  It’s a vocal gift from the Lord so I don’t question it.  I mean come on, would Adele run around asking Theresa Caputo or Billy Graham why she was given the gift of song?  No.  She just has an epic hormonal broken heart breakdown with the accompaniment of some porcelain keys and a full orchestra and then moves on.  Who am I to have the audacity to ask Our Heavenly Father why he would choose ME  to have the ability to summon a sound from the depths of my soul that is not necessarily auto-tuned Opera but is also not a sound I’ve ever heard in the natural world.  Some say heavenly, others say demonic.  Potato Poe-tot-toe!

Anyway, so I hope you have a clear depiction of my  REGULAR singing voice.  My non-mommy singing voice.  I make Kim Zolciak look like Celine Dion.  I can’t “sing” necessarily… but I can  SAAAAAAAAAANNNGGG!

It’s completely horrific and there is only one occasion in which I would ever do such a thing.  To annoy my husband for fun.  In pursuant of that goal I have SANNGED in the grocery store, at an NFL football game, at my In-Laws house, at family gatherings and other various non-specific locations.  I just always choose a time and setting that is completely inappropriate.  I’m not saying that there is necessarily EVER an appropriate time to impersonate Ruben Studdard with acid reflux after a root beer chugging contest but I like to be predictably unpredictable.  I like my husband to live in fear of when and where my next performance will strike.

Something else you should know about how I SANG to my hubby is that there are only two songs that I SANG and I only do one verse from each during a given performance.  You never know what you’re going to get.  When I feel moved in my spirit to express myself this is what happens…



(For this song I like to jiggle my jangle for the “nan a nan a nan a na” part, not like Shakira but just enough to clear up any misunderstandings about whether or not I do squats. )



And with this selection I have the capability of sounding EXACTLY like (If you thought I was going to say Ginger Spice you are obviously not paying attention) I sound EXACTLY like a big fat guy with a 5 o’clock shadow who happens to have sleep apnea and he’s in a church choir too but he may or may not be nursing a hang-over from drinking Keystone light in a smoke filled bar during the day.   As you can imagine, it’s LEGIT.

It would be fair to say that my SANGing voice is not exactly cochlear-ly pleasing.  My husband has tried to insinuate that I could potentially make his ears bleed but I’m pretty sure if he can listen to Hatebreed through his Dr Dre Beatz headphones loud enough for me to hear the pain in Jamey Jasta’s voice and THAT doesn’t cause inner ear trauma then there is no way my vocal gift from Jesus would cause damage.  At least nothing permanent.

So that’s it.  That’s what I do.  I belt out a single verse with every ounce of Patti LaBell I can muster and then I pretend like nothing happened.  I *could* be accused of having a rare form of boy band girl group vocal Tourettes’…I mean it *has* been suggested once or a couple of times but make no mistake, I do this shit on purpose.  It’s just one of my things like putting a love note on the coffee maker or sneaking a lovetap on the booty. I refer to these small acts of emotion as “marriage enhancers”.  It’s just a little way to get a little attention.   You have to be careful though, this particular modus horrendous opera operandis happens to be more of a wild card type of move.  It’s the kind of thing you do when you want a little bit of attention but not so much attention that you have to wax.  It’s just a little you know, “HEY LOOK AT ME HUSBAND I’M BEING ANNOYING AS F*CK BUT ONLY FOR 5 SECONDS SO IT’S CUTE!”

I will take this opportunity to warn any newlyweds out there…if any of you are contemplating trying to come down with a touch of the Andrea Boccelli meets Baby Spice, it’s a little offensive.  Once I was at the mall with my husband and my BFF and between floor 1 and 2 I said IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVAAAAAAA YOU GOTTA GET WITH MY FRANNNNZ.  It’s not like I meant HER but I can see how that could be misinterpreted so she made a really strange face. I would say that the look she gave me was comparable to what I imagine she would have done if I had just licked the banister while riding on the escalator.  Like everything is fine, the stairs are moving, we’re holding hands just in case so we don’t have a near death experience over the ledge like Tai after Cher fixed her from being toe up… and then I sing and my BFF is all like “WOAH WOAH WOAH WTF was that… that was too weird to have an actual conversation about but not weird enough to talk on three way with our other sort of BFF so I’m just gonna give you this look so that you know that I know that you know you’re singing in public  but let’s forget this ever happened and try not to trip on the way off”.   I don’t know what to say.  It’s a burden being a one woman vocal flash mob.  One minute I’m elevating up a mobile staircase and then when the clock strikes WTF thirty…..I perform.  If I’m” being perfectly honest with myself I would have to say that on the offensiveness scale of zero to the time I saw Miley Cyrus’s cervix on MTV….my SANG-ing is a solid studded nipple wardrobe malfunction.

So there you have it. I’ve been a barratone of love for the past five years and then I wake up one day and I’m suddenly Charlotte Church in a wind tunnel.

Until next time….You’re welk!

WTF #Staples, I thought this was supposed to be EASY? #Lies

Today I found myself needing to fax a signed contract.  Typically, this would be no big deal.  I would simply turn 45 degrees to my right in my office, put the pages in the machine, type my email address and 5 seconds later I would have a PDF attachment in my email that I could send it anywhere my little heart desires.  Unfortunately, I am on maternity leave and do not have access to my office.  So, I had to find an alternative.  Turns out Staples offers business services including the ability to fax.  Their motto is the “EASY” button, right? So, I packed up my newborn baby and high tailed it over to the nearest Staples to do exactly what I would normally do from my office…email a signed document to myself (and then forward it to its final destination).  Some variation of the following is what happened when I got there…

*Begin Scene*

Me: Hi, I have some documents I need to fax to email please.

Cashier: Oh, sure! We would love to help you.  Silvia over at the scan & copy station can help you with that, have a great day!

Me: Thanks! (I walked over to fax & scan station to find Silvia)

Me: Hi, Silvia.  I need to fax some documents to an email address, can you help me with that?

Silvia: No, we do not do faxing to an email…

Me: Okay…what do to you do as far as faxing? I have a contract I need to send out today.

Silvia: Well, we can send a fax to a fax machine. (Points to an antique grey thing with a dial pad and a phone receiver with a curly cord like Sue Ellen Crandall used in Don’t Tell Mom the Baby Sitter’s Dead, “I’m right on top of that Rose!”…wow, how vintage.  

Me: Okay, I guess I could do that…and the fax will just print it out in the office I’m sending it to and I suppose the recipient could then re-scan it and email it back to me so I also have an electronic copy for myself…uhm, do I just pay you when I’m done, or…?

 Silvia: Yes, it’s $2.00 for the first page and $1.50 for every page after that for long-distance and you pay after you receive a confirmation print out that the fax was sent.

Me: Ok, well it’s not long distance I just have to fax it to Tennessee (Where does she think I’m sending this? China?)

Silvia: Tennessee *IS* long distance, if you’re not faxing within the Charlotte metro area, it’s considered long distance….

Me: Well why would someone drive to Staples just to send a fax in Charlotte? Wouldn’t it be easier to just drive the document to its destination if it’s local?

Silvia: *BLINK…*BLINK.*

Me: Okay…uhmm…well, I have 60 pages here…so, it’s going to cost $90.50 to send these documents via fax…uhm….via wireline fax?

Silvia: Well, no, it would be $90.50 plus tax so actually that comes to $97.06. 

Me:  (Laughing) Wow, okay…and you offer no other more cost-effective way to do this?

Silvia: Well, I guess I could scan the documents for you into this computer here and then you could email them?

Me: *phew* YES! Yes, exactly! That’ll work! Let’s do that. (Why didn’t she say that in the FIRST place?)

Silvia: Okay, it’ll be 25 cents per page for me to scan these for you onto my computer here and then you can go rent a computer over there for 45 cents a minute and send yourself the email. Do you have a rewards card?

Me: …What?

Silvia: A rewards card…it’s…

Me: No, wait…what USB card?

Silvia: It costs 25 cents for me to scan the documents for you here and I will put them on my USB drive (holds up USB on a lanyard around her neck) and then you have to go over there to use the computer…you can rent the computer…it’s $0.45 per minute…

Me: Wait, okay…so you want to put my private documents onto YOUR USB drive…with one computer and then send me to a different computer to upload the file and send it via email? That doesn’t sound very efficient or secure. 

Silvia: Well, I will delete the document from the USB when you are done.

Me: Do I get confirmation of that?

Silvia: No¸ but it’s my policy and I will delete it.

Me: Wow, okay well I guess paying you $15 to put my documents on a USB card is better than paying almost $100 to use that relic over there…


…..This is ridiculous but whatever I NEEDED to get these documents sent and I didn’t have any more time to waste so I decided to pay the $15 for Silvia’s expert scanning services and then head on over to the pay-per-minute-PC.  I fired it up, gave it my credit card and logged on to to access my email and to my *shock* I got an error message that said, “This browser is outdated”…you would think that at $0.45 cents per MINUTE these bitches could keep their shit up to date but then again my other option is a fax machine straight out of Dr.Huxtable’s home office.  The clock is ticking (literally…there’s a little clock ticking away up in the cents it’s charging me) so I shout out to Silvia just to make sure, “How much per minute to send a telegraph?”…and she ACTUALLY says, “We don’t offer those services here”.  How surprising.  I used my Gmail account instead of iCloud and $6.00 later was able to attach my document.  When I went to the removable drive to retrieve it, what did I find?  About 15 other attachments from previous customers stored to the USB drive that my confidential document was ALSO stored on.  WTF Silvia, I thought you said you deleted personal shit post use?  Obv not.  Clearly protecting customer information is not a concern around here.  I sent my document and then accessed the USB drive again and deleted my document permanently.  I contemplated deleting all the other customer files that were saved but instead decided to just let Silvia know that they were there…

Me: Silvia, just so you know there are other customer files still saved to this USB.  Honestly I could have sent them anywhere…or read them…or used Mr.Wilson’s W2 that you have stored on here and stolen his identity…

Silvia: (Smiles smugly)

Me: You might want to delete them per your personal privacy policy?

Silvia: *Blink*…*Blink*

…….Okay, WTF?  I just spent over $21 to send a FAX in the most inefficient way possible that not only compromises my security but also that of at least 15 prior customers. To illustrate just how ABSOLUTELY MOTHER EFFING RIDICULOUS this is, I would like to share several alternatives that I thought up during the 10 minute road rage drive back to my house (I was a passenger but I bitched a brain storm while my husband drove). 

10 ways to send a signed document in either a more cost-effective, time efficient or secure manner that Staples “Business Services” offered me today. Staples, you’re welk.

  1. You know those three big huge copy machines Staples has in their store for customers to use?  Those have the function to scan and email a document.  It’s that easy.  Hook them up to the internet just like your out of date PCs.  Charge me per minute if you want…it takes like 1…ONE MINUTE.  The machine does not save or store the information thus not inadvertently compromising my security by giving customers and employees access to my personal documents
  2. I could have BOUGHT a printer/copier/fax machine FROM Staples for around $80 and sent the documents myself from my home…or ordered it from Amazon for $20 less with free shipping thus eliminating the entire need to use Staples service center or retail store (as if the terrible experience wasn’t enough to never return, ever)
  3. I could have driven to Nashville in a fuel efficient vehicle and signed the documents in person and spent less money in gas than Staples wanted to charge me to send a friggen fax
  4. I could probably find a plane ticket and fly there for less than Staples wanted to charge me to send a friggen fax
  5. I could have hired a COURIER service to deliver the documents for less than Staples wanted to charge me to send a friggen fax
  6. I could have bought an e-signature software application and signed the documents electronically and sent them via email for less than Staples wanted to charge me to send a MOTHER EFFING FAX
  7. I could have taken a photo of each signed document individually and saved them all to my iPhone and then attached them to an email and sent them to myself one by one (time-consuming, but FREE)
  8. I could have taken a picture of my signature and used an app on my phone to paste it to each document and then saved & emailed the signed contract
  9. I could have unlocked the original PDF contract and inserted a signature to sign the document and then locked it back up and emailed it as a PDF
  10. I could have emailed a letter of power of attorney to a friend in Nashville and had THEM sign the documents in person!

I realize only AFTER seeing red in Staples how many alternatives there are to having to ever step foot in that store again.  Pardon me for thinking it would be easier than all of the above to just pop over to Staples and scan and email a document to myself.   

“Easy”, my ass.

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Happy Halloween! Scarier than a mythological taco bell birth, boo bitches!

Halloween is a time of year where people get a kick out of scaring the ever-living shit out of loved ones and strangers alike.  Some women use this as an opportunity to dress like a slutty something or other but looking like a walking herpes infestation is super scary in itself so I’d say they’re on trend.  Other people get all gory and bloody and scream to startle, etc.   When it came time to think up the scariest thing EVER for a Halloween costume, what comes to mind?  Sally Mae.  What’s on deck for seconds? GIVING FREAKING BIRTH. So, I went with that…here’s what happened…

I haven’t really taken the time to explain my birth story to many people because first of all, no one cares and secondly, it wasn’t that interesting.  I didn’t give birth on an airplane or the side of the road, the whole thing was pretty text-book like the rest of my pregnancy.  In fact, I would have probably written more blogs during my pregnancy if lots of weird shit happened but it didn’t.  I just spent 9 months gaining weight and organizing things.  It was a snooze fest (literally).

Anyway, although my birth story was boring, there are still some critical plot points that are crucial to you understanding the Halloween costume I devised so here’s what’s important…. I was in labor…WITHOUT DRUGS…for 36 mother effing hours. That’s right friends, a day and a half of freaking the eff out every 5-8 minutes in agony.  It was a great time for my husband I have to say, he was right next to me the entire time.  Poor guy.  If you’ve never given birth, a contraction means little to nothing to you.  You can’t really fully appreciate what it feels like. 

I also heard and read that after labor you get a case of the good old college blackout where you remember nothing from last night except the happy parts and you forget all the pain and humiliation and you can’t remember if you shit or peed somewhere weird or if you showed anyone your vajajay.  I can tell you that is absolutely 100% true.  That’s exactly what it’s like the day after having a baby.  I cannot for the life of me remember the pain of labor or much of what was going on below my waist after the baby came out.  Since I knew this amnesia was going to happen,  I prepared in advance.  I didn’t want to be tricked into doing that shit again without proper knowledge of what I was getting myself into so I made SURE to describe in great detail what labor actually felt like, while it was happening, so I could remind myself later in case my baby needed to be an only child. The good news is, it’s not THAT bad…and I will probably have another 3-4 babies in the future.  The even better news is, I wrote down all the gory Halloween details of what it feels like in my daughter’s baby book.   I might need to use this as leverage one day when she’s a teenager and I will have this memory FOREVERRRRRRR.  Also, *bonus* I can share it with you all right now!

Here’s what I wrote:

What does a contraction feel like?

A contraction feels like you’re drunk and ordered your phone number off the Taco Bell drive thru menu, ate it all in under 10 minutes giving yourself a case of severe beer shits bubble guts and THEN someone smacked you in the back with Thor’s hammer.

True Story.
During the actual contraction I imagined giving birth to a baby Taco that was just weed whacking the shit out of my spine and internal organs with a mythological sledge-hammer.  I described this to my husband and this was yet again one of the many times during our marriage where he’s asked me if I have been smoking crack. You’d think after 5 years together you’d really know a person but nope, he has to ask…”Are you on crack?” For the record, the answer is no.  I’m on caffeine and very little sleep.  Anyway…
So that’s what labor feels like. 

Fast forward a month and I’m picking out my child’s Halloween costume using the craft catalog otherwise known as Pinterest.  Most costumes for infants are cuddly and snuggly because babies this little don’t really move much and you need a costume that can be incorporated into their most often catatonic state.  One costume caught my eye…a subway sub.  I thought this was hilarious. You basically cut a bunch of felt to look like veggies, somehow you affix this to the infant and then you wrap it up in a Subway wrapper like a swaddle. Genius!  And this is what my ADD mind did when I saw this…

“OMG so CUTE! A baby subway sandwich! Wrapped like a burrito!  A BABY burrito! That reminds me of the time my baby was a taco beating the shit out of my uterus…OMG HOW FUNNY WOULD IT BE IF SHE WAS DRESSED LIKE A TACO ! HHHAHAHAHAHHHAHA…wait, not just a taco…I will dress her up as a CONTRACTION! Where can I buy Thor’s hammer? I wonder if that’s on Amazon…”

And that is how this costume was BORN.

All I needed to do was make a life size taco for my baby to wear and when I Googled “Taco Bell taco” for pinspiration, this image that came up was a taco served in a Dorito’s bag. 

Done, I can make that and just put my baby inside of it…but if she’s laying in a taco, she’s obviously the ground beef.  Hmmm….how do I make my baby look like ground beef you say?  



Boom.  Leopard Print.

Now for the accessories…we need a Taco Bell sign and a hammer.  I made the sign out of construction paper because that’s easy but I did have to order the mythological hammer…check it out:


That sign was done free hand, someone give me a high five for accuracy!


So in case you haven’t figured it out, what is my daughter dressed as this Halloween? 


TacoBell Baby 2

At this time I would like to state that I am not and nor have I ever been on crack. I simply find it hysterical to dress my child as I imagined her on the day of her birth for Halloween. Because for one thing, nothing is scarier and I think she’s cute as a weapon wielding Mexican snack.

Nom Nom!

You’re welk!

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Uh Uh,I work out.

Who do I hate more than people who brag about running at 5 am? People who bitch about other people going to “their gym” the first week of the New Year.

1. Just bc you read Men’s Fitness on a stationary bike for 30 mins 3x a week does not make it “your gym”.

2. Maybe if someone gave you some encouragement instead of being rude when you first started working out, you’d actually
look like you work out. You just look like you sit on your ass and read Men’s Fitness on a stationary bike for 30 mins 3x a week.
3.The only reason the typical New Year’s resolution lasts 2-3 weeks is because no one wants to come back to a place where there’s likely to be a judgemental asshole *wait for it* reading men’s fitness on a stationary bike for 30 mins 3x a week.

If you don’t like it, buy a kettlebell and go home…actually, run home. Let’s see that Nike+ app!

You’re welk.

Football Catchphrase

“This is JUST like the cowboys vs. the indians!
OMG they should play each other on Thanksgiving day!”
- Yours Truly

Yes. I said that.  The Cowboys are my brother’s team and they’re playing the Redskins and that is what I said.  No one knows anything until they find out so now I know that as fate would have it they do play on Thanksgiving…every year.  This kinda feels like the time I didn’t know what WOP meant until after I wopped all over the nation’s capital.  My brother called me an idiot and told me to “fucking pay attention”…uhm, that’s my specialty asshole.  I have observed the whole first half of this football game and I’ve been paying attention.  I’ve noted 5 phrases that I’ve paid attention to…that make no effing sense what so ever.  You’re welk.

1. Are you shitting me right now? 

What? If someone was shitting me, I would effing know it I can tell you that much.  If I was being forcefully expelled from someone’s ass…I think a better question might be “why are you shitting me right now? Or…when will the shrooms wear off?  This is not an approporiate question to just scream at the TV because Tony Romo didn’t do something you telepathically told him to do.

2. WE are winning/losing/sucking/….insert any verb here.

Who is we? There are like 85 guys on the football team and you are not one of them.  Stop using inclusive plural pronouns to refer to the team you’re rooting for.  It makes you sound psychotic. 

3. Go fuck yourself!

Really?  That’s what you say when you’re mad at someone?  You want them to go pleasure themselves. Immediately?  That is fun.  Do you know what happens when guys figure out how to go fuck themselves?  They stay in their room from like 2nd grade until they leave for college.

4. You’re so fucking gay, fucking HOLD HIM! HOLD HIM!

If he was gay, he’d hold him willingly.  He also wouldn’t be married to a Victoria’s Secret model or sopranos actress.  By the way, are you married to a supermodel? Pop star? Actress? Socialite? No? Single? Living at home? Further proof that you are not on the team.

5. FUN BALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nothing about this looks fun.  I don’t like to be rushed, ambushed, sacked, pummeled, chased, trampled by 350 lb. black guys or yelled at by old men.  I’ve learned that it’s actually “fumble” but I don’t care.  My point remains.

* Bonus #6: What the fuck just happened?

Just kidding, this is a legit statement.

Do not bring me to a dept. store

My girlfriends and I are going to NYC for Elana’s 30th Bday right before Christmas.  We thought it would be cute to get a group photo of us sexually harassing visiting Santa Claus at Macy’s.  After careful thought and consideration I’ve decided that it’s best I just sit this one out.  I thought I would just write a quick note explaining exactly why it is that no one, especially my best friends who love me, should ever bring me to a department store unless I have something very specific to get and I’m already late for something important…like my own parole hearing or something that is like super urgent.  Otherwise, nothing good will come of such an excursion.  Below is the letter….you’re welk.

BFF Bitches,

You might walk through the front door of Macy’s, gangbag get a pic with Santa and be out and that’s fine but I am going to need specialized handicapped accommodations if you guys think I’m coming to this photo op.  If not, I will be faced with the impossible physical challenge called “that bitch has ADD”.  As a courtesy and precaution, I thought I would give you a little preview of what I can only assume would be a typical one sided conversation that at least one of you and probably a security guard would experience should you actually decide to bring me perusing through the Macy’s on 34th street in NYC.  You’re welk.  You bitches have been warned.  

 (Approximately 4 seconds after stepping foot inside Macy’s)

OMG Yummyyyyyyyy! Okay, I’ll meet you guys at the Santa line in a few minutes, I’m going to go sample 63 designer perfume sprays whilst politely declining whatever the tiny cardboard free things those women give away because WHAAAAAAT!  The Martha Stewart home baking collection has all utensils on sale?!  Are Jessica Simpson holiday collection shoes in stock here? I love babies.  Don’t you just love babies? I just want to get a couple of tutus just in case because I have a coupon and it’s one day only with 15% off semi-precious stones.  The tutus are soooooooo precious, especially the ones with the rhinestones.  Well, maybe I’ll also get one with the glitter, that’s semi-precious and jewelry-ish.  Is there a manager here? Who can I talk to about this?  Plus what about costume jewelry?!  Do you think a card of 80 earrings in every diameter would qualify as a precious stone?! Is a pearl a stone?  Who is in charge of determining what is and is not precious?  You know what, nevermind.   I’m sweating.  I think instead I’ll just pick  some new underwear for my husband and the tube socks and undershirts match so I need the whole set.  Did you know that Coach sells computer accessories? Is that an iPad case or steno book holder?  Not everyone likes technology but everyone loves Kate Spade ballerina flats and I can keep my wallet organized in case I need something in a hurry.  That Lennox pattern looks exactly like a basket weave. I  hope they make a designer basket case. I think I need one because the iPad case was the last one in stock.  That sign says 75% off 7 jeans.  What’s 75% off  of 7? Like 2?   What if all size 2 jeans could be on sale!!  That’s such a good deal and if I have a daughter some day she could wear them to 1st grade as vintage.   It’s like I used a back to the future coupon but more extreme than all those free canned and boxed groceries on TLC.  How many K cups can I fit in those cute lazy susans?   I need to display the whole box so are their two holders because otherwise I would have half still in the box.  What’s the point if half are on the counter out of the box?  Have you seen what Smashbox does that with their weird packaging which is really just plain cardboard trying to be cute.  It’s like homeless makeup.  I like candy canes when it’s cold outside.  Do you think there is a huge shelf here for the elves here at the Santa station?  Because kids will probably notice that their elf is so much shorter than Santa’s real elves.  I hate elf ears but I wish that elf at the door had her ears pierced she looks like she’s about to get scrappy.  If she took out her hoops I’d know shit was about to get real.  Isn’t that santa suit so formal?  Loves it.  It’s is like a three piece formal sweat suit with fur accents. I love Pink.  If Santa had Pinterest I could just tell him to check out my board instead of sitting on his lap because I think I’m too old for that.  Are these for sale?  These small candies?  Why are they by the register like they’re complimentary if they’re really $1.99? Ferarra Roche tastes just like miniature puffs of melted chocolate that accidentally fell in some gravel but still tastes good. Didn’t you love the vanilla and citrus notes from the third spritz on the way in?  I think it’s 3.5 oz.   By the way did you see that cardboard cutout?  Justin Beiber is not really that tall.  Speaking of Justins, Jessica Biel wore a pink wedding dress and all of the other girls wore neutral.  Bitch.  Does she have her own perfume?    Anyway, as I was saying, I need the Michael Kors watch and these earrings would look so cute on that Elf, remember the one with the weird ears?  It’s the season of giving peace and putting your hoops in like a professional seasonal employee.  Is there wi-fi here? I need to check my email before it rains so let’s go to Tiffany’s.  I think it’s time for breakfast.   I love the smell of coffee.   

(4 seconds after leaving Macy’s)

What did I come here for again? Shit..where’s the Santa?

……….I rest me case.

With Love & Holiday Cheer,


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The token “intellectual feminist feature”, wtf?

Vogue. Fall. Wtf?

Women buy the September issue of Vogue magazine because they want to read a 400 page memo from Anna Wintour reporting what body image issues are on trend for fall seasonal depression.   Women look forward to the experience of digesting 395 pages of celebrity-inspired emotional abuse.  After a cover to cover marathon of self-indulgent self-esteem, the average American woman realizes they have more issues than the Vogue archives.  The only semi-intellectual, semi-controversial international scandal Vogue readers are interested in reading about is the heel and hem in Paris versus the neckline and accessories in Milan.  The September Vogue is an escape from the summer cork wedged sandal and a transformative out of body experience through the deep into the throes of exotic textiles of tomorrow’s trend.

The highlight of the September 2012 Vogue issue is different for every woman depending on her personal style and body type. For me I found no greater joy then upon learning that the fall 2012 “body part exposed during the daytime normally for whores only that is suddenly mainstream” is officially no longer the crop top.  Instead, the vintage style called “growing out my sun-in hair mistake” came back rebranded as “ombre” in the “whore-hair ready to wear” fall collection.  It was euphoric to realize that every single “Rachel Zoe crochet headpiece” is now back to being called “disgusting raggity ass beanie”…so major. 

With no warning except stabbing pain, I found myself emotionally stepping on a thumb tack reading that latest must have in designer footwear is “men’s style boot, distressed leather via trash compactor method” and it’s nicknamed “The Miley Cyrus pitch-a-fit-stomp-stomp-white-trash-eco-friendly BOOTIE”, obviously these boots are on backorder until the next occupy eviction but to complete the look you HAVE to have the Gucci couture argyle socks which are priced just a tad above budget at $17,000.

While in the final pages of Anna Wintor’s magnum-miranda-opus-priestly I realize I’m halfway through an international investigation into the war crimes against Somalian women…wait, what? Wtf?  What runway were these bitches on? She’s not even wearing argyle socks. *BAM* The bitch slap heard round the world.

Why the eff are there intellectual articles about women’s rights in a fashion magazine?  This is reverse sexism.  Can’t a bitch read a magazine to find out what’s we hate about each other without having to actually read words or feel compassionate toward one another?

Anna, get serious.  You’re welk.

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Syracuse vs. Temple 12.22.12 Tee Shirts!!!

Click on this file —->  OrderForm to order a tee shirt…
Hope you don’t get raptured before the game!!



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Wife of the Year since wedding day….Genius since yesterday!

Anonymous Executive
Wife of the year since wedding day, genius since yesterday.”


There are 5 parts to this saga.  This story is what occurred last night between the hours of 7 pm and 9 pm in my home.  At first, in parts 1-3, it’s questionable as to how I function as an adult in my everyday life.  Then it’s revealed in parts 4 and 5 that I am actually a


I think I qualify as Mensa… (which is like the IQ of Jessica Simpson, Google it, she’s literally MENSA)…. 

This blog is longer than usual because it includes transcript conversations between my husband and me, an expert analysis of my husband’s mental health, the actual story of what happened and then an explaination as to how in the HELL any of that would translate into intellectual prowess…
I thought breaking it up into sections like a mini-novel would make it easiest to read…you’re welk.   Enjoy!


 PART ONE OF SAGA: (SAGA is an acronym for “She’s A Genius, Aight”…it’s street slang)

PART # 1

I came home from work last night around the time E! News airs…and I arrived with more junk in my trunk than usual.  I needed to bring it all into the house and I thought making just one trip would be preferable.  I didn’t want to ask my husband for help me because I didn’t want him to see all my stuff.  There wasn’t anything Jose Baez-ish in there but more like mostly work files but with glitter and some glued-on sparkles here and there and it’s just better to keep that type of behavior to one’s self.  Plus, the man I married is morally opposed to the amount of money I spend in Hobby Lobby on sparkly things that are meant to be permanently affixed to home decor.  It’s a touchy subject. 

Like the independent woman that I am, I got out of my car by myself without any assistance. I turned off the headlights (good job), I got my body completely out of the vehicle (good job) and then I locked the doors (good job).  Before shutting my door, I popped the trunk. This is a little secret I discovered that is really helpful when my arms are full and my fingers are unavailable for fine motor skills.  If my arms are full of the crap I’ve removed from my trunk, I can just drop a “People’s Elbow” on the trunk to slam it down and then everything is locked up.  If I don’t lock the car before closing the trunk, then I would have to try to push the lock button AFTER dropping the “People’s Elbow” on the trunk.  Let’s be serious, there is no way I would manage to push that tiny miniature lock button my key fob while juggling all my important work crap.  Actually, I can’t easily push that button when all ten fingers are available, let alone with my arms full.

Luckily,  I invented this system called, “Pop, Lock It, Drop It (The People’s Elbow)” and it works out perfectly.  I extruded my important crap and locked up the car without dropping any important crap.  I hope you can appreciate this personal success because in the past I’ve been known to struggle with car locking systems.  Basically, I didn’t have a car locking system with street cred. In fact, I’ve literally slammed and locked my entire pony tail into the driver’s side door of my car while trying to escape with my arms full.  Not Gangsta-chic. This was when I was using a system that I invented called, “36, 24, 36″ in which I would try to squeeze my 36″ hips through a space that’s 24″ because I park like a sardine.  I thought I could manage to shut and lock my door with my butt…you know, like the “People’s Butt”.  I misjudged my dismount and the general diameter of my ass so you could say that things didn’t really go as planned.  I now refer to this technique as “I’m long and I’m strong and I’m down to get the friction on”.  It’s just a little rhyme to remind myself that I am not 5’3..uh uh, uh uh and by sliding my ass down the side of a Mercedes …the best possible outcome is white boys got to shout.  As a professional I do not want that kind of attention, at least not during office hours.  So these days I just “pop, lock it, drop it” like a lady and I’m happy to report that so far I’ve experienced no whiplash….thank you Jesus. 

Once I got all of my stuff into the house without being judged for my file folder decor, I politely declined to go to the gym with my husband. He asked if he could take my car keys at least because both of our membership tags are on my key ring (I forgot to ask why this is the case… mystery).  This request required me to retrieve my keys from a very large purse and it’s kind of tricky sometimes to immediately fish in and pull out what I want.  It’s like the claw game where things look a little different from your point of view until you grab something and then realize its not the toy you wanted but you don’t want to throw it back in so you keep it and just try again.  In this case, I retrieved three half empty water bottles and two empty protein bar wrappers….and then like 12 loose almonds. I believe it was a full serving size.  These items were from the first week of Lent I think because that was the last time I made an effort to eat protein throughout the day.  

I felt like Mary Poppins pulling the surprises out and while magical innocent eyes stare mystified in complete disbelieve.  This is what my husband looked like…he was in awe.  Normally, this would be a great subconscious visual aide where I could send a subliminal message to those around me. I would hope anyone observing would think “OMG, isn’t it amazing that she can remain so physically fit without the sweaty, smelly gym…it’s just all based on CLEAN eating! Who wants to eat dirt anyway? Organic people? She must stay hydrated all day and snack on protein in her spare time! Almonds are SOO fun…mmm YAY!!” At least I wish this was the message conveyed to anyone brave enough to invite me to go work out.

Unfortunately, anyone who knows me would view this exact situation and just assume I stole a squirrels’ trash stash on the way home from the office.   There is no way in hell that these items are truly representative of my chosen lifestyle.  The least likely to believe it? My husband.  It’s a Wikipedia verified FACT that in a perfect world my drug of choice second to carbs is cheese.  Above carbs is caffeine… in that order.  Plain water would be my beverage choice if I was talking to a volley ball named “Wilson” and only in that scenario. 

However, I do often describe myself as a “Fruit Water” enthusiast.  Specifically, my favorite beverage is what I like to call “Bean Water”.  For some reason, I tend to be discriminated against in social situations when I admit to ingesting 64 oz. of coffee in a day.  However, 64 oz. of plain water is like totally acceptable.  I’m not sure if you’re familiar with something called “vintage, organic, farm grown poetry”, but it’s a thing and I once heard an old man with no teeth recite a line from this poetic vintage…it was something like “Bean, beans, the magical fruit”.  Well, coffee is a bean and I guess beans are a historically a fruit so that’s why I just tell people I drink fruit water so I can avoid being bullied by tired people. 

I might not have convinced my husband that I lead a healthy lifestyle just based on the contents of my purse but he does admit that I run at LEAST 15 minutes twice a day.  I run LATE but whatevs, my heart still elevates to that ideal target and I feel like I’m going to die until I reach the finish line and then I feel happy so based on my Facebook newsfeed, I’m a runner.   

The most important lesson here is that you never know how useful all the shit is in your purse until you need to find something else.  After a solid three minutes of going through the inventory of a healthy person’s oversized handbag, mixed with the lifestyle of a kindergartener mixed with the lifestyle of a business executive, mixed with a makeup artist, mixed with an extreme coupon-er, mixed with a touch of “hoarders” and some Honey Boo Boo glitz….I took pause.  When I removed the tiara from my purse I immediately could feel my husband emit a VERY strong telepathic vibe… that only I, his wife, can detect.  This specific vibe is my cue to pay close attention because I’m about to find out that I did something stupid via my husband calling me out on my bullshit at a time where I could really use some support because it’s hard to be completely full of shit all by yourself. Husbands don’t understand that there is a place and a time to point out the errors of my ways…but for some reason they always pick the time that’s the most hormonal and the place with the most amount of objects not definitively attached to a building or structure.  It’s incredible!  

I’m not sure how this mechanism works exactly, but I think it’s the same process that causes a surge of adrenaline in a woman when her kid is trapped under a car.  Sometimes women just need to pick up a car to save the life of a child….but I kind of think that MOST of the time when there is a car on top of your kid and you are the mom,  this is probably your fault.  Honestly, how did a car land on your child?  If this mother also happens to have a husband then we can be 100% certain if he’s at this scene, he’s thinkin this is the right place and time to talk about women drivers.  WHEN, not IF but WHEN the husband says, “You ran over your baby with your car….because you’re a bad driver”…then the woman is going to need to summon the strength to lift the vehicle OFF the child and ALSO throw it at the husband with enough force to cause amnesia so no charges are filed. 

In my purse/find my car keys situation I started to get the telepathic feeling that my husband thought my hips were too big and I need to go work out…but then I got a better signal and realized he thought my PURSE was too big if it takes this long to find the keys and HE wants to go work out.  Anytime I can’t find something in my purse he instantly makes it the purse’s fault, it’s really unfair I think it’s discrimination.  A grown man should not go around bullying a handbag just because it’s an immigrant and slightly above average in size as compared to tiny, American handbags.  I simply will not put up with telepathic bullying so I decided to take stand…I said some variation of the following:   

ME: You thought the price of the bag was a waste of money when you assumed it was was 50% off on sale yet you’ve been paying for a gym membership for two years which in total is like a second waste of money bag.  Except, this 30 lbs. purse is where I get my shoulder definition and self-esteem and I can hardly say that about club for Christian men.   I realize you are now accidentally aware of the price of this bag and the veins in your neck aren’t using their inside voices so I just want to remind you that you you’re a Christian young man, it says that on your membership card for the YMCA and what would Jesus do?  I don’t think he would bring his wife to meet the homies for a pick-up game.  Pretty sure that never happened, ever.

HUSBAND:  Does it say that? On my gym pass…that Jesus works out there? Show me!

ME: You can’t just demand that I show you the image and likeness of Jesus! You just have to pray that all adult men who are the child of a homeless, single mothers will go to the YMCA to stay on the path to righteousness, this includes Jesus…it’s in the Bible. 

HUSBAND: This is a waste of time but that’s exactly right…if you’re not going to go then you’re wasting our money and I think you need help or I need help.

ME: I said, YOUNG MAN, when you’re short on your dough! You can STAY THERE, and I’m sure you will find…Many ways.. to.. have.. a.. good.. time.  NO MAN does it all by himself.  I said, YOUNG MAN put your pride on the shelf, And just go there, to the Y.M.C.A. I’m sure they can help you to…day! uh uh uh uh uh…

HUSBAND: (calm…half laughing) How are you STILL looking for your keys, in that name of all that is HOLY!?

ME:  (calm…indignant) What?… I’m not looking for my keys! I’m just searching for a piece of gum so I can kiss you goodbye without burning your eyebrows off with my Ketosis Halitosis…I wanted to find the wintergreen kind like Christmas and I keep finding the spearmint kind which is like a spear and a tree and that’s more like the crucifixion…I found it though, all set.  K, so have fun at the Jesus gym.. Love you! MUAH! Byebye! (I did a quick kiss and then tried to run away like I had to pee or something …a scurry if you will)

HUSBAND: …. (Calm) So you know exactly where your keys are right now?

ME: (confident) YUP!

HUSBAND: (cautious) Are they in the trunk of your car? 

ME: (EXCITED) See! I told you I could communicate telepathically! Yes, that’s where I left them!

HUSBAND: (FREAK-OUT) WHAT THE EFF!? Now we need to pay for Pop-a-lock? AGAIN? How much did it cost?! Seriously, how much did this cost LAST MONTH?? Really?

ME: (Glass half full) Less than a gym membership?

******* AND SCENE! ******

PART # 2

Part TWO of this saga is titled, “If I was a spare key, where would I be?” …. While my husband was at the gym, I was trying to figure out how to get into my car.  I knew for sure I wasn’t going to call Pop-A-Lock again because a shared love for hiphop should be all that unites us…I just feel like I’m so needy all the time in our relationship and I don’t want to be that girl.  So, instead I just tried to remember where my spare key was so I could get to the trunk myself without inviting hip hop Huey over for a jam sesh.  I experienced flash back memories of manic OCD organization over-halls in which I decided there was a NEW best place to store my spare keys….NEW place…new place…where??!   I was in the middle of calling my BFFs to ask them where they think I put it  because they know me best in times of mania because I’m usually on the phone with them talking it out…then my husband interrupted part 2 of my saga with part 3….

PART # 3

Part THREE is named in honor of my husband and is titled, “My wife is the dumbest smart person I know and the most disorganized organized person I know and I don’t trust Pinterest so I hid a THIRD spare key that she never even knew existed just in case!! I’m glad SOMEONE in this house plans ahead… now I get to go open the trunk and prove that the keys are not there and my wife does NOT know where they are and they are in fact lost just like the other spare keys despite hundreds of dollars’ worth of Rubbermaid lining every closet, drawer and shelf in this house… after the trunk reveals LOST KEYS, I will prove my point and then I will never have to spend another penny in The Container Store again!” 

Isn’t that so cute? He just dreams so big! Then he popped the trunk…

ME: Exactly.  There they are.  There are my keys…right where I said I put them, in the trunk. If I know where everything is then I am NOT disorganized…just because you don’t know where things are or just because it doesn’t make sense to you doesn’t mean it’s not organized….you don’t have to  like where I choose to store my things!

HUSBAND: Well, let’s see…maybe I will like where you store the spare keys that you are going to need on a daily basis since you’ve decided to start storing your regular keys in the trunk of your car. Please, tell me…do you have any idea where the spare key is right now? 

ME: Of course I know where my spare hey is!….It’s with all of the other  household spare keys we have…there’s an extra house key, mail key, safe key, you have two extra car keys…they are all together and labeled.  It’s called a storage “solution” because there’s no problem!  Thanks for the help! (I didn’t run out of the garage, but I jogged lightly)

HUSBAND: (yelling like the house is on fire but in a calm voice like a crazy person)…. You have 30 minutes to find the spare keys before I start searching for them myself and if you don’t like the way I look for a tee shirt in the morning, then you’re really going to have a hard time with the way I look for lost keys in our entire house!

ME: (yelling like the house is on fire for real) …Challenge Accepted!!!

*****And Scene! ****

PART # 4 

Well…I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I didn’t find the spare keys in my allotted 30 minutes.  Right at the 30 minute mark…as promised…my husband decided to “help” search for them.  For reasons that defy all logic, the first action my husband took in his “search” for the missing spare key was a full-fledged panic attack in which he ran up the stairs muttering something that sounded like profanity and prayer mixed together (typical crisis coping mechanism).  He was moving FAST like every second counts and a bomb is going to detonate if he doesn’t find the missing link.  Ironically, every time he does a search and rescue like this, I do feel like the aftermath in my house resembles what it would look like if a bomb did go off.  True to form, he came right into our bedroom and proceeded to pull EVERY single tee shirt out of his dresser. 

I was standing there with my “WTF” face on and I assume you are wearing the same expression right now.  Confused?  Let’s explore “Husband Logic 101″…

Fact: Every spare key we own is missing.

Wife Logic
: “Self, why would I need a spare key if we have the keys we need? This is NOT a current pressing issue…moving on, what’s Teresa Guidice confused about this week?”.  

Husband Logic: “SELF, it’s time to FREAK THE EFF OUT!!! This is an EMERGENCY!! Where are the KEYS?!  My wife doesn’t know how to look for keys…let’s check the FIRST place they PROBABLY are supposed to be JUST TO BE SURE, in case she’s blind that she didn’t overlook them….okay…keys…keys..Where do we keep keys? OH, Yup! I got it! I know where the keys probably are….THEY ARE IN MY TEE SHIRT DRAWER!! DUH…..That is the first place I should look for ANYTHING important that’s missing…of course!!”……

Okay, all I have to say to every husband out there is why in the HELL would our keys be in YOUR tee shirt drawer?  The truth is, if my husband were missing an actual tee-shirt then the tee shirt drawer would be the LAST place he would look.  But if the ALL OF OUR KEYS is missing…. tee-shirt drawer, obv, duh…why didn’t I think of that?  That’s the first place he ransacks when it’s an emergency, I think it’s a reflex or something.  He looks in the refrigerator or the garbage can when his cell phone is missing (because ONE TIME I made a tiny error, whatever) and he looks in the laundry when his wallet is missing (again…only happened once)  ….and  he looks in the car when he can’t find an important piece of mail, which makes no effin sense but really, this actually happens …it’s just nonsensical. 

PART # 5
(For Dummies)

First of all, during any type of personal crisis, it is perfectly normal to react with a little bit of urgency and some psychosis or a some irrational behavior.  The nervous system can go into a state of shock when it’s pumped full of adrenaline during times of panic.  As you can see by both my husband and Britney Spears circa 2007, panic and crisis can sometimes manifests themselves physically as WACK-A-DOODLE-DO.  Don’t worry, this is completely avoidable.  All normal people and non-husband people are equipped with  built-in mechanisms that help to minimize the risk that one day we wake up, take a dip in the Pacific Ocean in our underwear and then shave our heads in the middle of the work day.  Unfortunately, these mechanisms are amnesia’ d away if you are a man and get married or if you achieve a top ten billboard single before age 18 immediately following a  Disney MGM contract.   This is not to be confused with the tragedy that is Miley Cyrus, I saw her on E! True Hollywood Story recently and I can confirm that she’s been WACK-A-DOODLE-DOO since waaaaaaaaay back… sadly I believe she was  dropped on her achy breaky head as an infant so she never even had a chance.  For most people however, we have built in mechanisms to deal with crisis in a (mental) healthy way. 

The first built-in mechanism in which we can individually prevent baldness and window smashing with an umbrella in times of crisis is the method called “Critical Information Recall”.  This is the ability to recall information during an emergency that otherwise would likely be forgotten or irrelevant to non-emergency situations.  We all know how to use an airplane cushion as a floatation device…but does anyone really do that properly like on vacation for fun?  We all know the number for 911 but there’s no reason to use that number unless there is a crisis… in fact, critical information that is used in an emergency is information that the average person will never people will never use in their lives.  However our brains are programmed to retain information that is essential to our survival during moments of stress and crisis as a defense mechanism against otherwise certain death or permanent disfigurement (see Heidi Montag).  You might be asking yourself how it is that I am such an expert in this autonomic neurological response during grave crisis.  Of course I did take neurobiology in college, so there’s that… but it was an 8 am class so we can just assume I was in a coma the whole entire time.  Luckily, I’ve been conscious for other “learning opportunities” which has supplemented my education. 


Let’s just say that on a
crisis scale of “1 to Amanda Bynes”, I’m a Lindsay Lohan,
…off the freakin charts.


The part of the brain that helps us to recall information in a crisis is also the part of the brain that allows us to remember an experience based on a trigger.  For example, if you smell a certain scent you might be brought back to a place in time and a specific event.  The scent is the trigger and the “Amygdala” is a little almond shape part of the brain that makes that happens.  This part of the brain is also responsible for foresight, fear and panic.  If you can imagine the same way that scent triggers a pleasant memory…imagine that there are other stimuli that can trigger an unpleasant memory.  If you touch a hot stove once and burn your hand then this part of the brain is going to remind you how painful that was the next time there is an opportunity to touch the stove and that way, you won’t injure yourself again in the future because we are naturally programmed to protect ourselves in times of danger or crisis.  

More importantly, this part of the brain can actually trigger a physical and emotional response based on a memory of something you have NOT experienced.  For example, if you saw your friend burn her hair off on a CHI set on “high”, then your brain would caution you against burning your own hair off in the future.  You don’t have to suffer the scent of your own follicles on fire to understand it’s not a good idea to bring hot metal that close to your face.  The process where you see someone behave a certain way and your brain tells you “that person is on bath salts, guard face” is the another example.  This process is where we get the emotions fear and panic from…and the cute way to remember the metabolism of fear and panic is the adorable phrase “Fight or Flight” that describes your options when you are completely effing terrified.

I’ll break it down in a way that EVERY woman will be familiar with.  Remember that time you completely bit it in front of the CUTEST boy, like omg, ever in the middle of the cafeteria?! I bet you remember every detail about that incident and you can feel at this moment the exact humiliation you felt when it first happened…ugh!  You’re like mid 20′s and confident and so over 14 year old boys but ouch…hurts your heart doesn’t it?  When we experience shame and humiliation that painful or threatens our species (let’s face it…no one’s trying to mate with the brace face klutz) we remember all of it so that we can protect ourselves from that ever happening again.  The smell of bologna, Lisa Frank stickers, JNCO jeans…any of these items from that day could trigger the memory so that you know unequivocally to NEVER effing eat linoleum in front of the popular kids.  But what happens if you walk into the cafeteria on bologna cute boy day? 

1. Flight…run away like a little biatch and sing some Ashlee Simpson until you feel better OR  
2. Fight…literally fight the urge to make an ass out of you and walk like a freaking normal human being.

Ladies, in a nutshell you are now well versed in the neurological advancement of our species.  You’re welk. This part of the brain called the “Amygdala” actually looks like one of those annoying almonds that I mentioned earlier. Half of this almond in your brain is responsible for avoiding danger by recognizing the warning signs so you can fight or flight.   The other half is responsible for recalling important information during a crisis that would otherwise not be necessary in any other scenario….but could save your life in crisis.

As a reminder, on the crisis scale of “1 to Amanda Bynes”, I’m a Lindsay Lohan.

I believe that is because I am physically incapable of anticipating and then avoiding a moment in which I will experience emotional trauma, embarrassment or pain.  I’m always freaking surprised every freaking time, it’s like the first time all over again.  My survival in these situations depends solely on my ability to retain a critical information that is considered completely useless to all people in all other circumstances except my crisis. Now that we’ve established that I have a scientific neurological handicap…my life probably makes a whole ton of sense to all readers.

So…lost the car keys…crisis? Uhm, if I lost them in a Mexican prison possibly but no.  The only crisis is making sure my husband knows how to find the spare keys.  You are now aware of what happens when my husband can’t find something…Britney crazy circa 2007…aka, laundry apocalypse.  As a wife, I want to make sure my husband doesn’t die because I killed him because he ransacked my house. Therefore…the REAL crisis is if I need a spare key, how will husband know where to find keys without asking me where they are and without destroying shit?

It’s important to clarify that I only remember useless information if it’s going to aid me during survival mode in the event of a crisis because I have many useless facts that I need to retain in my brain.  For example, if you recall, I know what the word “ketosis” means…it’s a medical condition where burning fat into energy causes the levels of ketones in the blood stream to elevate because of  starvation or extreme exercise.   I also know that “ketosis” in a normal metabolic process but one common symptom of dangerously high ketones is bad breath.  I also know that the medical term for bad breath is “halitosis”.  My ability to pull the term “ketosis halitosis diagnosis” out of my ass to explain why I was looking for a piece of gum to cover up the fact that I was looking for my keys gave me a medical excuse to not have to go to the gym while at the same time allowed me to look for my keys without my husband “helping”…which could have ended in injury or death if he tried to ransack my purse.

This is not why I’m a genius…but it’s pretty impressive I have to admit.

In summary of the above we are positive that I will need a spare key someday and my husband is going to have to find it bring it to me.  To protect myself and my loved ones I need to make sure my husband can find this key quickly without ransacking our house.  I can’t just tell him where it is because he will immediately suffer amnesia…I need to ensure that he can find it on his own without destroying my OCD friendly home.


AS I WAS SAYING….last night I locked my keys in my trunk and I needed to find the spare…

As promised, my husband went flying up the stairs in a manic search for our spare keys and bee-lined right to our bedroom and tore apart his Tee-Shirt drawer….once every shirt was on the floor I was able to see that a magical miracle had taken place…

THERE THEY WERE!  OUR SPARE KEYS!! ALL OF THEM!!! In the back corner of the drawer in a labeled envelope that said “Spare Keys – Household, Vehicle, Postal (no LV locket keys…see jewelry box)”!

I knew it, I knew I freaking knew IT…I DID NOT lose the spare keys.  I simply devised a genius plan that made it unnecessary for me to remember where I put them because it would be easy for my husband to find them without me telling him where they were.  I considered all of the places in my home and identified the single most ridiculous place to keep important shit. I made a decision void of any logic or reason that makes no effing sense what so ever to store our important spare keys in THAT SPECIFIC IRRATIONAL LOCATION….because THAT UNREASONABLE, ABSURD SITE is the first place my husband would look.

 {{The Tee Shirt Drawer.}}

I could very easily put the wine bottle opener in the tool box, the measuring cups in the microwave or the toothpaste in the refrigerator but disorganization and leaving husbands to fend for themselves in a household hunt is for EMERGENCY PURPOSES only….which is why when I finally found my passport I put in his suit jacket pocket in the closet, just to be safe for next time…trust me, there will be a next time.

Wife of the Year

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