It’s Thanksgiving Eve, there’s a crap ton to do.
Did you take the turkey out of the freezer? Oh hell no, I asked you!
Better get that bird in the tub, he’ll be frozen till June.
No one likes an arctic bird, I know we will call him Elsa, I bet he can sing quite a tune.
We have green-beans and cranberries, I see giblets galore.
Quick…5 second rule, I just dropped the stuffing on the floor.
The rolls are real sticky, the potatoes turned brown.
It’s OK, don’t sweat it, the family will be drunk as we pass them around.
The turkey is ready to be stuffed to the gills.
WTF is that his neck? Please pass me one of those pills.
This meal only happens just one day a year.
Why do we stress and pour alcohol to calm all the fear.
Its about being thankful so relax and decompress.
Pour the vodka, beer or Zin, perhaps a Xanax is best.
Sit with your family and relish this thought.
29 days till Christmas and I already can’t remember what I bought.
Happy Harvest to you and yours.
May your day be filled with cheer.
What’s that smell, oh shit the turkey. Can we do it at your house next year?


With the holidays quickly approaching I have had to spend more time than I like with my kids in retail stores and restaurants. I try very hard to run errands without my children. If I am planning to go out to a store with my kids, I need to add at least 1.5 hours to my total trip time. That time accounts for bathroom breaks, snack stops, public meltdowns, etc. The holidays only amplify the crazy that exists in my family. Anytime I go out with all three kids it’s like I am using a megaphone to tell the world “Watch out, here comes the Crazy Ape Shit out of Control family.” The glaring looks of fellow shoppers, can be as icy as the winter snow. Some shoppers offering a look of pity, others are staring at you shaming you for having such ill-behaved children.

Last week I was heading out of Home Depot with all of the kids. I made the mistake of walking past the Christmas decorations. My kids wanted to stop to look at all of the light up lawn ornaments, and push every button on the singing stuffed animals. When are the stores going to wise up and put those pieces of shit on a shelf that my demented “elf” children can’t reach? We spent about 15 minutes watching the blinking lights before I announced that we would be leaving. My youngest wanted to continue to push the buttons on the snowmen, reindeer, and the new and improved Christmas fox. We were on a tight schedule, so I said “No, it’s time to go.” I had my oldest holding my hand, the middle was in the basket, and my youngest was now dragging on the floor holding onto my leg screaming as though he was being tortured in the Spanish Inquisition. He desperately wanted to push the button one more time. My button however, had been pushed its final time.

As we passed the exit there was a greeter at the door. He looked and me and said, “I don’t miss those days.” I stopped and looked at him; not exactly sure what to say. Then it hit me. I said “Thank you.” He was one of the first people to be honest with me and agree that this shit sucks. Parenting isn’t all roses, and it’s OK to be honest. We talked for a few minutes. He told me that he much prefers his 30-year-old son, to the pain in the ass toddler that he raised over 26 years ago. It made me feel better about the rage I was feeling in the lawn ornament aisle five minutes earlier.

Everyone always says, “Don’t be stressed, you’re going to miss this.” I beg to differ. I am not going to miss running down the aisle of the grocery store to stop a kid from pulling down boxes of Cheerios. I will not miss public restroom breaks where my kids drop an F-7 shit that can scrape the paint off the walls. I will not miss leaving my basket full of items at the front of the store to go to the minivan to have a “chat.” I will not miss whisper screaming into my kid’s ear and raising my blood pressure 30 points. These are not the memories that people scrap-book. I have yet to see a photo album where someone puts pictures of them punishing their children, or a scrap-book kit for the “Time-Out” page.”Oh Stacy, look how cute Tommy is in the time out chair. What a beautiful memory.” Said no Mom ever.

There are plenty of things that I will miss. I will miss cuddle’s and hugs. I will miss butterfly kisses and hand holding. I will miss painting nails and coloring. Everyone misses the good shit. When was the last time you heard a parent say, “Man, I sure do miss the time when Bobby told his teacher to shut-up. That was a blast to deal with.” I think it’s OK to not miss the crappy hard times that we deal with as parents. I think it’s OK to call this period of time “survival mode.” I guarantee you that I will raise a glass to all fellow parenting survivors when I can go into a store and not worry that someone will call 911 because they see me slapping one of my kids with a flip-flop. It is OK to say, I will not miss those days.




Grocery shopping is a necessary evil. We need food to survive; therefore we must go out and purchase the food. While at Publix last week I began unloading my items onto the conveyor belt. The bag boy politely asked, “Paper or plastic?” As I answered his question I saw the cashier out of the corner of my eye. She had a somewhat shocked look on her face. I didn’t pay much attention to her due to the fact that I was battling with my children over who was going to place the items on the belt. One kid was under the basket, one was standing in the basket helping me unload, and the third was reading Soap Opera Digest.

When I go shopping, I don’t just pick up a few things. My cart usually looks like I am preparing for the Apocalypse. Living in a house with five people causes you to buy a variety of items. It is not uncommon to see all or some combination of the following items in my cart; diapers, beer, wine, panty liners, bathroom wipes, KY lubricant, Tums, Pepto Bismol, anti-itch cream, drain cleaner, batteries, lighters, rubbing alcohol, and sometimes Preperation H.

I have never paid much attention to how I unload the cart. I am usually trying to keep my kids from stealing candy or scanning the cart to remember what item I had forgotten. Before having children I would get embarrassed if the cashier saw me buying condoms and beer, or panty liners and bathroom wipes. I would  hide the items under other things, perhaps a magazine or spread them out as to look less conspicuous. When the cashier picks up the magazine and sees the condoms, I am pretty sure she doesn’t think you are going home to have a water balloon fight. I am at the point where I refuse to be embarrassed for buying personal items. If I am buying beer and condoms together, it just means I’m going to have a good time and I’m not stupid enough to drink without protection. I know what happens after I have a few beers, and I am in no way interested in having another child.

When I got home and began to unload the groceries I figured out the puzzled look on my cashiers face. I finished unloading everything and found one lonely brown paper bag . When I opened it I saw the following items; KY lubricant, batteries, and a bottle of wine. I assumed at that point that the cashier thought I would be using those items together. To be honest the batteries were for my son’s remote control car, however I give the girl points for imagination.

It made me stop and think about the judging eyes of my cashier. We have all had a cashier give us a dirty look  from time to time. Perhaps when you run into the store with your kids to buy beer and diapers. Why do they look at you with such disdain? I can’t have a beer while diapering my child? It’s not like I came into the store drunk with my children and bought more beer and forgot the diapers; now that is a reason to give a dirty look.

So from now on I will make sure and tell the cashier what I will be doing with all of the items from my cart. “The KY is for me and my husband. I need the panty liners because I gave birth to three kids and I pee my pants when I sneeze. I have children with allergies and need creams, ointment and disinfectants. We are very hairy people and the drains get clogged all the time, so Drano is a must have item. I have frequent heartburn and three children-sized hemorrhoids, so I need a lot of Tums and Preparation H. I need a lighter because I love to light candles, and I need the batteries for my vibrator.” Plastic bags will be fine, thanks.



I am not a crafty person. I am however a fan of the DIY network and anything on the HGTV. I love to watch people turn a piece of junk into something a gay antique collector would spend top dollar on. I have spent countless hours watching savvy home flipping couples as well as those Canadian hunks “The Property Brothers.” I am a bit confused with Canada as a result of their many home improvement shows. Every time I watch an episode I see some first time couple buying a $500,000 home. What do people in Canada do for a living? Are they drug runners? Who makes that kind of money at 25 years old? I can’t afford that type of house at 34. Please, if you read this and live in Canada, email me and tell me what you do for a living. I am dying to know. At this point I believe all Canadians to be lucrative drug dealers with a keen sense for DIY projects.

Last week after watching one of those ridiculous shows, my husband turned to me and said, “Let’s redo the kitchen cabinets.” I have wanted new cabinets since we moved into the house. I was thrilled. “Yes, what kind of cabinets do you want to buy” I asked. His reply, “No, we are going to re-finish them ourselves.” Was he kidding? What do we know about painting kitchen cabinets, or home renovations for that matter? We do watch a ton of HGTV, but I spend most of the time judging the people and making fun of them as they struggle with their projects. This did not seem like a great idea.

We decided to start with the bathroom vanity cabinets in case the project was a huge disaster. We went to Home Depot and bought a quart of paint, some brushes, sand paper, and counter top resurface product. We went home and watched a few U-Tube clips and decided to tackle the project. This was a great time to start because it was dinner time and I was positive that the three blessing would cooperate and help make this project a breeze. I set them up with some corn dogs and juice boxes so I could set up the tables in the garage.

As soon as I was ready to start sanding the cabinet doors, the tribe danced their way into the garage. “Can we ride bikes while you do this?” I opened the garage door and started throwing scooters and bikes into the yard. “Please stay outside while we sand the doors down” I requested. I put on my mask and started going to town on my hated oak doors. As I am sanding like a pro, my youngest rode his bike directly into the table knocking one of the doors onto the ground. “Get out of the garage” I yelled. I don’t remember seeing many children in the DIY shows. Perhaps I should have locked them in a closet so I could get the work finished. After an hour of scooters and bikes ramming into my cabinet doors, I ordered everyone into the living room to watch TV. I gave instructions on what to watch and explained that if they left the carpet, it was bedtime. Not five minutes later the three hemorrhoids were back in the garage asking to help paint the doors. I guarantee that those renovation savvy families give their children away to gypsies during project time. No work was going to get completed with the kids awake.

I took a break and went into the house to put the kids to bed. I then returned to the garage where we continued sanding, scraping, and prepping the doors. We were ready for the first coat of paint. It went on pretty good, but my husband decided that he wanted a different finish, so he ran to Walmart to buy a product to add to the paint. It was now 9:00pm and I was getting tired. While he was gone I decided to try the resurfacing product on the bathroom countertop. I read the directions. It was simple. Clean the counter, use a roller to apply. So I did just that. The paint was super sticky and smelled like gasoline. I was leaving drip lines and bubble all over the place. It looked like shit. I ran to get a rag to wipe it off, but it was too late. The countertop lost the battle. The $20 product I applied was now going to cost me $100 in purchasing a new countertop.

He returned with the plaster and we watched another video on how to make chalk paint. He went into the kitchen and got some of my Tupperware and a spoon to mix the plaster. I wasn’t paying enough attention to him so as he called me to mix in the paint I was about 15 seconds late and the plaster turned into concrete. “Is this how it looked in the video” I asked? Apparently that was not a funny question at 9:45pm. We began to exchange a few choice words and then quickly started mixing a second batch of paint. This batch seemed like it was going to work.

I looked around the garage and it was a mess. Paint on the floors, brushes soaking, bikes, scooters, corn dog sticks, and empty beer bottles were all over the garage floor. I bet this is what it looks like on those shows before the editing process. The house was quiet and it was close to midnight. We had gotten two cabinet doors painted in the course of 6 hours. Those fucking DIY people renovate an entire house in a 30 minute show.

Defeated I took a shower and decided to clean up in the morning. As I was washing my hair I could hear my husband screaming “What happened to the countertop?” This was not going to go over well. 6:30 AM rolled around pretty quickly. Three bright-eyed hemorrhoids were lined up in my room requesting breakfast. I was not in the mood to cook a weekend buffet. We went into the garage to check the cabinets. They didn’t look bad, but there was no way we could do this in the kitchen. We have over 20 doors and drawer faces to paint. At this rate it would take me six months to complete the project.

We decided to take a trip to a specialty paint store. We brought our two finished cabinet doors and shattered DIY dreams. The owner took a look at our door and explained the correct process to painting cabinets. We were out of the store in 15 minutes with another $200 worth of paint and supplies. We went home, put the kids to bed before starting the project and success was upon us. I am happy to inform you that with the correct paint and tools you can paint a cabinet door properly. I managed to paint my bathroom vanity in just a few hours and it looked like freaking Martha Stewart did the project herself.

So I offer you a few tips for those DIY projects that you are planning in your home. Send your kids to sleep away camp. Children and projects do not mix. Buy beer, or a ton of wine. It was helpful with easing the pain of the disaster that occurred on the first try. Don’t be naive and think that it is going to be cheap because you are doing it yourself. I managed to screw up $200 worth of product before we got it right. DIY can initiate divorce. It didn’t go that far for us, but the kitchen is still to be completed. Be strong. If Canadian drug runners can do it, so can we.




Dear Pediatric Dentist,

I left your office today feeling violated and confused. After I received my bill for the 20 minute visit, the front desk associate had to administer smelling salts so I could get up off the ground. I am positive I pay for dental insurance for the three cash cows that you treat in your office. I spend over a thousand dollars a year for coverage, yet I was handed a bill for over $200 for a cleaning on one child and a filling on another. You do understand that the children have baby teeth and that they will eventually fall out? I’m positive that you learned that in dental school. I myself have seen baby teeth fall out. I also play the role of the fucking tooth fairy, so I get hit up for cash on that end as well.

I am always a fan of efficiency and a quick visit. However, today you cleaned my oldest child’s teeth and completed a filling on the other child in less than 20 minutes. How is that even possible? I have sat in the Starbuck drive thru for longer than 20 minutes. Is your time really worth $11 a minute?

I just want to be clear on what it is that I expect from you when I take my children in for a visit. Please look at their teeth and let me know if we have any extensive problems. They do brush their teeth twice a day. I’m not exactly sure how much toothpaste ends up in their mouths, but I know they brush their teeth because I clean the bathroom sink.  If their teeth are going to rot out give me the option of pulling the tooth.  I promise that another tooth will grow back in its place. That is what permanent teeth do. They grow back in the same fucking spot where you charged me over $100 to fill that baby tooth.  I am not saying that I want my children to walk around toothless, but I will not pay for services that we do not need.

Moving on, please don’t try to sell me additional X-rays, or treatments that are unnecessary.  I am almost positive that with the degree that you earned that you can take a peek in there and know if a major problem is occurring. You already took one set of x-rays this year, don’t try to sell me anymore, I will not pay for them. I have a set of 3D glasses that we got at the movie theater a while back. I will put those on and X-ray their teeth myself if necessary.

I am happy that you have a degree and make tons of money. After coming to your office for two years I feel like I own part of you jaguar, will you let me borrow it sometime? I must say however that you have chosen the wrong field. Proctology seems to suit you. You will still be checking an orifice, just one that is a little further south of the border. I hear they make a shit ton of money. I am positive that you gave me an anal probing with my bill, did I pay for that as well?  Perhaps you should warn your customers of the impending colonoscopy. I was not fully prepared, I would have skipped lunch.


One pissed off Parent

throwing fit


I remember being a kid and my Mom telling me that she was going to run away so she could be left alone. She also told us that she was going to change her name to a four letter word so we could no longer scream for her. She would say “My name is now shit, so if you call my name you will be smacked in the mouth for cursing.”  I remember thinking how awful that was and why on earth she would say such horrible things to her loving children. 25 years later I now know why she said them and I find myself doing the same thing. My key phrase to my children is “I’m Done!” I find that I say this several times a day, and the frequency increases throughout the week. I was talking with a friend of mine in front of our kid’s school today and she is also a card carrying member of the I’m Done Club. I have a feeling that there are millions of us out there. Saturday, marked the 50th time I said “I’m Done” this week.

I woke up to the television blaring an awful cartoon theme song and asked the kids to turn it down. After six requests I jumped up and went into the living room to turn it down myself. I found a blanket and pillow fort that could rival the pyramids. They had moved all of the kitchen chairs into the living room and gotten every piece of fabric we owned to build this monstrosity. It wasn’t even 8:00 A.M. and I was already done. “Are you guys serious?” I asked. “What? We didn’t want to wake you up to ask” was the response. I turned and walked back into my bedroom to try and center myself, as to avoid beginning the day with a series of flip flop beatings.

Later that afternoon we went out to run some errands. We went from Wal-Mart to Target where we made three separate stops to use the public restroom. We then proceeded to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I asked number two and number three to sit in the cart so I could move quickly through the store. They did not want to sit next to each other in the cart and as I went to pick up my daughter she pretended to be a limp noodle. If playing dead was an Olympic sport she would be wearing gold.  She instantaneously becomes 65 lbs. of pure pain in the ass. As I was standing there cursing under my breath I quietly whispered to her, “I’m Done, get in the cart.”

We left Publix and stopped at Subway to pick up lunch. Once again I find myself in a public restroom with the kids. I asked each to wash their hands but the youngest one kept pushing the soap dispenser until there was a pool of soap on the floor. I grabbed his hand and rinsed it. I pulled a piece of paper towel and handed it to him so he could clean up the mess. Once he was finished I took the paper towel to throw it out. “I want to throw it out!” He shouted. My reply, “Let me do it please we need to go.” That was the beginning of the end. He threw himself to the floor, in the public bathroom mind you and began to scream as though I was poking him with scalding hot iron rods. I picked him up and walked him through Subway to order the sandwiches. He began to whale and moan like he was being scalped. I knelt down and whispered “You need to stop. I’m Done.”

We made it home and started the bed time routine. I sent all three kids into the shower at the same time because I was prepping for dinner. I heard the water turn on and for about five minutes it was relatively quiet, then the screaming began. I ran in to see who had been attacked by a bear and found all three covered in bubble bath spraying each other with the shower head. WTF! There were bubbles everywhere and the bathroom floor was soaked. This marked the 50th time I WAS DONE this week. This event proved to me that my kids know that I am full of shit. They know by my current track record that even though I say “I’m Done”, I continue to live here and take care of them. They continue to be fed and clothed each day, and I continue to drive the Mom-mobile to school each morning.

So from this point on I think I’m going to leave when I’m done. I am going to walk out of the house, start the car, and drive away. I have no idea where I will go or what I will do, but when I’m done, I will be done. I am going to peace the fuck out and hit the bricks. It’s going to be an epic event.

I wonder if they would be upset. I wonder if they would cry and call for me to come home. My guess is that they would sit and stare out the window calling my bluff as I drive around the neighborhood aimlessly cursing and crying. “You think the bitch is gonna come back?” One kid would ask to the other. “I hope so, Dad isn’t going to feed us or wipe our asses.” That conversation would go on for about five minutes until I returned home because as a Mom I don’t get to ever be done. Done is a mythical universe that only exists in books and movies. Done is like Disney World, most likely the happiest place on earth. Done is nowhere near my zip code. So from this point forward I am working on a new phrase. When I am at the edge and I can go no further I will quietly recite “Get over it Bitch, you don’t get to be done.”


How many times have you asked, or been asked the question, “Can I ask you a favor?”  Sometimes it is a very small errand, other times it’s a life changer. You can tell the kind of favor by the way the person asks. If the person asks the favor quickly and does not change their tone, it is most likely an easy favor that will not put too much stress on your life. “Can you drop me off at the mechanics after work?” That is a simple favor. We are both already at the same place and I will in fact be passing the mechanic, so the answer is yes. If the person is slow to ask the favor, their voice gets higher, or they say can you sit down, we need to talk before they ask; it is most likely a rough one.  “I don’t want to bother you but, are you using both kidneys? If not I could use one.” That in fact would be a big favor, a game changer.

I am guilty of asking for both easy and difficult favors. I hate asking people to help me out, but sometimes my hot mess express of a life requires an interventional response team. What makes me a bad person is that I will ask a favor, but I do not want to return that favor when it is requested. Last week a friend of mine watched two of my kids so my husband and I could spend the day together. It was so nice to be out in public and go to the places we wanted to go.  We ate breakfast without taking anyone to the bathroom, we walked around an outdoor shopping center and I didn’t have to scream ‘Don’t run into the parking lot you’re going to get smashed by a car.” It was peaceful and more fun than I remembered. We shopped and bought items for ourselves, played grab-ass in the clothing racks, and I even giggled as my husband crop dusted fellow shoppers and then ran like a child. I was grateful for the time, but unaware that a return favor was coming quickly.

My friend called panicked the other day asking if I could help her out, her voice was seven octaves higher than normal. Alarm bells should have gone off in my head. “Warning! She wants something. Hang up before it’s too late.”  She “forgot” that she was going out-of-town for the evening and needed me to watch her dog. I have three kids and a dog of my own. The last thing I want in my house is another thing that shits and pisses. I did not want to say yes. I very frankly wanted to say “Hell no, and go fuck yourself.” However, she is a good friend and had just done me a big favor. So I hesitantly said yes and she brought the dog over.

The dog was dropped with a kennel, food bag, and dish. As soon as she placed in the kennel the barking began. It was the kind of barking that makes nails on a chalk board seem like a welcoming sound. I was not able to keep her in the kennel, so I brought her inside. My dog was livid. She had that “Bitch you better get the fuck out my crib” look on her face. She began to follow around the other dog, sniffing and barking at her. Both dogs walked into the kitchen, circled the floor and shit simultaneously.  Shit-fest 2014 had officially begun.  After picking up the heaping pile of shit from both dogs, I took them outside and left them on the patio. As I was working in my office I look out to see them running across the patio to the corner and both squat to pee. Awesome. I love doing favors. Favors are the best!

That night I couldn’t lock the dog in the kennel because she barked as though she was being skinned. I figured she would sleep on the dog bed in our room, which is how the night started out. My dog was not happy with her being in the room but they both fell asleep and so did I. Unfortunately I woke up the next morning to my husband screaming at the dog who was mid-shit in our closet. There is nothing like jumping out of bed at 5:00 A.M. to clean up a hot pile of dog feces. Favors rock!

That morning I had to drop the kids at school so I mistakenly put the dog in the bathroom. I figured I could lock her in there since I do that with my dog. I was wrong. When I got home to let the dog out I found a river of urine, a pile of shredded towels, and the towel rack pulled off of the bathroom door. This 16 pound Terrier Mutt was like the ravenous beast “Cudjo” on steroids. I could not believe that this dog had survived for so long. If it were my animal I would have done the humane things years ago and “Driven it to the farm up-state.” Don’t get me wrong, I am a dog person, but what the fuck!!!! Favors are my favorite.

After cleaning up the bathroom mess, I gave the dog a bath. She was soaked in piss and I was not going to let her walk around my house with wet urine paws. I then put both dogs back on the patio where they played another round of “Who is going to shit on that first.” Later on I decided to go for a run and I was smart enough to put the dog in the crate. She was barking but I wasn’t going to be home so who cared. When I returned I opened the garage door and found the dog once again covered in urine in the cage with her dog bed torn up in a million pieces. I had to hose out the kennel, throw out the dog bed, and hose the dog down again. My friend called about 20 minutes later and said she was on her way. I had only had the dog for 24 hours but it seemed like a fucking week. I packed up her shit and sat it outside by the curb. Favors are the best when they are finished.

When my friend arrived we sat and talked for a few minutes. I was blunt about the dog’s behavior and she apologized and explained that the dog has anxiety and separation issues. The anxiety the dog was feeling should be real, I wanted to kill it. I did my best to bite my tongue, because as I stated this is a fiend and she did take care of my kids last week. Although, I don’t think either of my kids shit on her floor repeatedly, or pissed on her bathroom towels. I will have to ask them what they did to her for her to repay me with this favor. Either way favors suck if they involve a breathing, shitting mammal.

So I urge you to be mindful when asking people to do favors. I really do want to be a good friend and help people out, but not if it requires that I pick up ten pounds of animal shit. I do not want to be a wildlife biologist or a veterinarian. I have plenty of organisms that shit at my house; I do not need another one. Here is a list of favors that you can ask me. Ask me for a small amount of money, or perhaps to pick you up a coffee. Ask me to iron a shirt or drop you at the doctors. Ask me to do your grocery shopping or even pick up your mail, but please do not ask me to watch your fucking dog.



I wanted to say thank you to everyone that has visited my blog over the past month. In 30 days we have reached over 20 countries. I am so excited about this journey. Please keep sharing my blog and come follow me on Facebook and Twitter. New post coming at ya in a few.




My husband has a very close group of friends from college that he stays in daily communication with. I refer to them as his “girlfriends.” They have a sacred “Text chain” where they converse about all of life’s important topics, such as when they last had sex, which soccer or football team won last night, the last time they took a shit, etc. I have never seen this secret communication, but I am positive that they are constantly trying to as I say “Out Douche” each other. It goes without saying that they are “Man Card” carrying kind of men.

I will briefly describe his cohort. J is a self-proclaimed chubby play boy whose game is less like Michael Jordan’s and more like Screech from Saved by the bell. T, who we call the silver fox, is a fun-loving guy who my grandmother has repeatedly hit on at family events. D, was once a fresh faced young boy, but has morphed into a dirty old man who has a girlfriend 12 years his junior. She was his kid’s summer camp counselor. The last of his friends is Z; he is the holy grail of douchery. He once got mad because I chained his dog up outside after he shit in the house. He proceeded to tell me that he was going to tie my toddler to a tree because he also shits inside the house. The five of them together are a giant middle-aged cluster fuck.

Last week one member of the brain trust sent my husband an article about how semen has vital nutrients and minerals that women need to stay healthy and vibrant. My husband sent me the article with the caption “Read this, it may save your life.” Before opening the article I thought to myself; wow, my husband must have found an article about being safe in public, or something about food or childcare safety. I opened the article to find a recent “study” on why women should ingest semen on a daily basis. It outlined several of the benefits including, improved skin appearance, sleeping better, weight loss, and so much more.

I was floored at what a great piece of medical truth he had found. I asked him which medical journal he found this bit of world-changing wisdom in, and he simply stated “It’s a reputable source”.  He sweetly continued with “I know that you would feel so much better after a good night’s sleep, which is a benefit that is clearly stated in this article.” What a thoughtful husband I have.  “You’re right sweetie, but I know you need the sleep more than I do, since you work so hard, so I will save it for you in a Tupperware and you can drink it.” His reply was calm and clear, “It is only beneficial to women.” Oh yes, of course.

Since the publishing of this ground breaking research, women across the globe must be going crazy trying to find men who can give them this potion. Watch for headlines in your local papers and news stations, “Woman tackles co-worker and sucks him dry.” Ponce De Leon was right. There is a fountain of youth, and it has been inside of men’s pants for centuries.  Women, we have an endless supply of magic juice at our fingertips. The cure for all our ails, right between your man’s legs. Now I know why when I tell my husband that I have a headache he always says, “I’ve got something for that” with pure confidence.

Now back to reality, the place where I live. I must ask, where do men find this shit, and why do they think that we will believe them when they send us this award-winning journalism? I am convinced that when men go to get “trained” to obtain their “Man Card” they go through a series of programs that teach them how to do the following; tailgating, snoring, fondling, crude humor, use of the infamous “C” word, never asking for directions, and of course educating women on the benefits of semen.

As soon as my husband can give me a copy of a report from the World Health Organization on the benefits of semen ingestion that clearly include; weight loss, better sleep, improved skin appearance, and growing bigger tits, I will happily pretend his junk is a Slurpee machine and go to town.

I understand that the “Man Card” is a very important piece of mythical paper, but come on guys, find articles that are a bit more believable to send your wives. Or try taking out the trash, doing the dishes, and folding some laundry. I bet your semen dispenser may look like a Slurpee when she comes home and you were the one who cleaned the house. Personally, nothing gets me hotter than seeing my man scrub a pot while I sit on the couch downing a bottle of wine.

So I beg of you men. Please go back to whatever organization gave you your precious “Man Card” and revisit the curriculum. Please tell whoever is in charge at “Man Card University” to change it up a bit. How about some professional learning on “Ten ways to properly eat a taco.” That might be an interesting session. Throw in bringing your wife flowers, emptying the dishwasher, perhaps getting the kids dressed for bed without screaming like a lunatic. Any or all of those would be greatly appreciated by all of woman kind. So until semen is marketed as a weight loss drug or sleep aid, please use the head on your shoulders to find a better way to entice your woman to sip on your Slurpee.



I can safely say that I have gone number two in a public bathroom only a few times in my life. I hate public restrooms. They are filthy and riddled with germs and bacteria. I would always wait to go home and enjoy the safety of my porcelain throne, away from the amebic dysentery that could jump on your pant leg in the restroom at Burger King.  I always had control over where and when I wanted to use the bathroom, that was until I had kids. If I had to go bad enough, I could leave and go home, or hold it and suffer the prairie-dogging effects and stomach pains. I understand that some people are public poopers, but that is not my choice. I choose to hold my load for private dumping. My views on public pooping have only gotten worse since having children.

I can vividly remember the first time I had to take my first-born to a public restroom to take a shit. He was only 15 months old. I was scared to death to take him to the restroom. Having a public restroom phobia I was a good first time Mom who was fully prepared with one of those portable potty seats that fits right into the toilet. I had time to sanitize the seat, the toilet, the grab bar, and I eagerly waited for him to go. We were at Target, and their bathrooms are usually very clean and of course I used the handicapped stall so I had room to stand in there with him. He went about his business and I was pleased with the results. Maybe my fears of public pooping were irrational. Public pooping wasn’t so bad. Target was a safe bathroom and I had all the proper equipment for an effective mission. Perhaps I had misjudged public poopers.

Now, let’s skip ahead a few years to having two children that need to use the bathroom at the same time. Number one and number two both needed to go number TWO. We were on a road trip to Lego Land and were in the middle of nowhere on a backwoods road. We came up to a Citgo station and quickly parked. Both kids were crying that they couldn’t hold the shit demons in any longer. I jumped out of the van and I ran into the gas station with both poop filled toddlers in my arms. We approach the bathroom door, and the smell hit you like a ton bricks. I opened the door and it was like a scene out of a horror movie. There was shit and piss on the floor, a condom machine on the wall, and only a roll of paper towels. I no longer had my nifty portable potty seat. I put down number one and asked him to hold onto my leg for dear life and not touch anything. I tried to clean off the toilet seat and line it with paper towel so number two could sit and do a number two.  As soon as I put her on the toilet she reaches down and touched the seat! “STOP! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!” I screamed like a lunatic. Once she finished, I swapped out the paper towel and put number one on the toilet. As he was grunting and pushing number two decided to leave the safety of my leg and tried to put a penny she found on the floor into the condom machine. “Candy, Mommy?” she cries as she tried to place the filthy penny into the coin slot of the “raincoat” dispenser. I was right. Public pooping is like war. I almost didn’t survie this battle.

Moving on a few more years down the road…..We were out to dinner at a restaurant with the entire family. As usual we ordered the kids meals first so they could shove food in their pie holes and stay calm until our food got to the table.  Just as my dinner was placed in front of me I hear those four awful words…..”I have to go” states my middle child, “Me too” chimes in number three. “Can you guys wait?” I asked hoping that a miracle would occur and we would make it home to avoid bathroom hell fire. No such luck and I get up from the table and escort these two shit bags into the restroom. I placed number two in the stall next to us as we occupied the handicap stall. I do my best to clean the seat and set him up so he doesn’t touch anything. He is a marathon pooper and can take in upwards of 10-15 minutes to finish the project. Once completed he jumps off the toilet and proceeds to tell me the names of the turds. He likes to name his feces, what can I say. So before I flush he says, “Bye Dad, bye Mom, and so on. As we exit the stall to wash our hands I see my daughter standing at the door. “Did you wash your hands?” I asked. “No” she states. “Well, did you poop?” I asked. “Yes I pooped, but I didn’t wipe, so I don’t have to wash my hands.” WTF, are you kidding me. I stood there in awe, speechless, but also hungry. “Wash your hands” I stated and we went back to the table. What is one more pair of shit stained underwear to wash. The war rages on.

It seems like every time we leave the house someone has to take a shit. I am not sure why anyone would want to use a public restroom. As I stated before, they are the epitome of nastiness and I do everything that I can to steer clear of them. All three of my kids are equipped with poop-dar, it is a radar like ability that can detect every public bathroom within a five-mile radius. Unfortunately for me my three kids think that a public restroom is a playground and want to stop at each one that we see. They swing from the doors, play with the locks, touch the toilet seat, and wrap toilet paper around their heads like Egyptian mummies. I have thousands of dollars’ worth of toys at my house, yet a public bathroom is more appealing to these rat bastards. I am looking forward to the day when I can return my frequent public-pooper card. I am a firm believer in private pooping and I will throw a fucking party when all of my kids can go to the bathroom on their own.