I Tried “Leaning In” But I Leaned Too Far and Fell Over; A Non-Mom’s Thoughts On Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s Book “Lean In”

I read Sheryl Sandberg’s book “Lean In”. Ok, I technically listened to it on Audible, which means that I was working while I was listening to it, which I think means I was leaning in more than most women. Not that it’s a competition, but it kind of is.

Sheryl Sandberg is the COO of Facebook and wrote a book for women on how to be more successful. The idea behind it is how to stop letting ourselves cave to outside pressures that many men don’t have to deal with. This book seems to be the feminist “ra ra we can do it” manifesto of this year, and many of her thoughts are nothing new, just repackaged so she can get a little financial slice of the feminist pie (which is presumably bushy).

Those who know me know that I’m not much of a feminist in the “man-hating” definition of the word, nor Sandberg’s apparent “you must procreate to be a worthy woman” take on the word. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see a woman president, and will fiercely debate my pro-life friends that, they aren’t truly pro-life if they aren’t stepping up to adopt or donate money to unwanted children; they’re just judgemental assholes. But I’m not out their burning my bra. I don’t even know if women are still burning their bras, to be honest. So there’s that.

But I wanted to give it a try because I saw a lot of my female friends recommending it, and I love books, so, why not?

Right off the bat, if you are a child-free woman, this likely isn’t the book for you. In Chapter 2 she began talking about the demands of working moms and I had hoped it was just for that chapter, but unfortunately by chapter 9, she was still rattling on about moms. Also, apparently, there are a lot of women out there with crappy husbands – she even makes her own husband kind of sound like a dick at times. An entire chapter focuses on how to get your husband to do more housework, as well as ways to get him to help take care of the children more. She also says that men get laid more when they do more housework. I guess that again must be a mom-thing because, if Calm-ass Husband tried to do the dishes as a form of foreplay, we’d have an issue on our hands.


For someone who comes off as a feminist, I was disappointed to see her mainly pander to women who are mothers. The child-free movement is growing quickly, and largely stems from our rights to chose whether or not we want children. To assume that we all have kids seems counterintuitive to the fundamental idea around feminism. I find it bizarre that so many women like Sandberg complain that they are discriminated against in the workplace because they have children, while discriminating against women who chose to not have children. Pot, kettle, black.

I think one of the biggest fallacies that surrounds women without kids is that we somehow have it easier than those with kids, but a reminder: having kids was a conscious decision made presumably out of a desire to have them. I think one of the greatest disservices a woman can do to her children is to act as if they, or the life resulting from having them, are a hardship. We’ve all met our fair share of self-righteous moms who love to paint themselves as the martyr who sacrifices so much for her family, while working and keeping the household together. They almost act as if kids were something that just happened to them, rather than a choice. Don’t get me wrong, I am lucky to have mom friends who do a great job at managing all of the responsibilities in their lives without constantly feeling the need to smugly lord it over the heads of others like some sort of trophy. Those also seem to be the moms who actually enjoy motherhood instead of treating it like a cruel inevitability of life. If I were to ever start complaining that I felt lonely without kids, everyone would look at me and say, “You chose this path, suck it up”. Why don’t we say that more to those who want to complain about their lives with kids?


The fact is, being child-free does not exempt you from struggles, sacrifice, and hardships in life, they’re just different. Yet Sandberg continues to beat the mom-thing to death throughout her book, as if only moms deal with these issues. She reminds me of a friend of mine, a mother of two, who will listen to me vent a frustration I’m having about an issue, and then sum it up with, “Well, at least you weren’t up last night at 3am with a vomiting child,” as if it’s some sort of pissing contest, and her vomiting child trumps my heartbreak at having to watch my husband be forced to take steps to put his own mother in jail. Is there some level of disconnect from reality that clouds some womens’ brains and make them complete narcissists once they have a child?

I even double checked the title of the book, it said “Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead”. It didn’t say “Lean In: Moms, Work, and the Will to Lead”. So in a sense, Sandberg actually managed to write a book about how women are alienated in the workplace, while alienating a portion of the women who read her book. Well done, Sandberg.

One thing she did mention that was helpful is the phenomenon called “Imposter Syndrome”, which I think is an important syndrome of which to be aware. I Wiki’d that syndrome (you know it’s true if it came from Wiki) and found out,

“The impostor syndrome, sometimes called impostor phenomenon or fraud syndrome, is a psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalize their accomplishments. Despite external evidence of their competence, those with the syndrome remain convinced that they are frauds and do not deserve the success they have achieved. Proof of success is dismissed as luck, timing, or as a result of deceiving others into thinking they are more intelligent and competent than they believe themselves to be.”

Basically, when you are receiving accolades, promotions, or a job offer because of your amazing accomplishments, there’s a part of you that says, “I don’t deserve this, I didn’t earn this, they’re going to figure me out eventually.” I know a lot of people, myself included, who have experienced this, so it was nice to hear that someone in a position such as Sandberg experiences it as well.

Overall, Sandberg has valuable things to say to moms, and I’m sure that moms will get a lot out of the book – I even bought it for a mom friend of mine. Unfortunately, for women who don’t have kids, we’ll just have to wait for a successful non-babyhead to be the beacon of inspiration in the murky waters of corporate America.


The Secret is Out, Us Child-Free Folks Love Hookers, Blow, and Swinging

Today I was reading an article by John Kinnear at the Huff Post, “5 Things Parents Need to Stop Saying to Non-Parents.” I shared it on my Facebook page and noted that I especially liked that it was written by a parent, when my fellow child-free-by-choice (CBC) friend, Theresa (you all know her from by her battle cry for small boobies) took issue with one part:

“As a non-parent I’m a bit upset that he told everyone about all the hookers & blow we have at our parties.”

Hookers and blow. He totally outed us.


It’s not like we are trying to hide it in shame. It’s actually our way of being nice to parents; a little mercy, if you will.

The fact is, while our friends with kids are rattling on over their Monday-morning lattes about how their weekend was packed full of soccer games, barfing, swim lessons, kids’ birthday parties, and middle-of-the-night temper tantrums, we’re only nodding with feigned sympathy to be polite. We don’t WANT to rub in your face what our weekend was like, so we give a canned response, some variation of, “Oh, I just did some work around the house.”

The fact is, this is the typical weekend of the child-free:

1. Hookers and blow – thanks for outing us, John Kinnear. Yes, the cat is out of the bag: us CBCs love our hookers and blow. It’s really the biggest reason we chose to not have kids. It is SO difficult to have hooker and blow parties when you have kids hanging around. Even if the hooker does have a kid, they’re surprisingly hesitant to turn the blow party into a “blow and playdate” party. So we selflessly forego children. Look parents, until you’ve experienced a hookers and blow party, your life is truly not complete. You haven’t lived. It is a special experience, and words alone can not do it justice.

2. Swinging – oh come on, we all deny that it happens, but us CBCs throw the BEST swinging parties. The fact is, when we meet other couples who are also CBCs, we’re secretly sizing them up to determine if we’d sleep with them. If they make the cut, they’re invited. And we don’t do key parties anymore, that is so 70s (and, unlike 70s swinging parties, we’re all ridiculously hot). In fact, if you hear someone mention a “key party”, it’s a sure sign they’re a parent. We do smart phone parties. Everyone tosses their smartphones in a basket and then grabs someone elses. Each party has a “Designated Texter” and, when it’s time to switch partners, they simply text “Switch” to everyone.


3. Not only do we wipe ourselves with money, we drink it, too – Remember that episode of South Park where it was revealed that Magic Johnson avoids developing full-blown AIDS because he puts his money in a blender and drinks it? Well us CBCs got a little nervous that our secret may be exposed because, the truth is, part of the secret to our happiness is the fact that we take extra money we save by not having children, throw it in the blender, and drink it. We are also part of a secret exchange program, where we trade stacks of cash for rolls of cash. Fresh cash against your ass is the most luxurious feeling in the world. I’m sad for those who cannot experience it, because it is life changing. Again, we weren’t hiding it to be secretive, we just didn’t want to rub it in the faces of our friends with kids while we watch them scrape together extra cash to put away for their kids’ college funds.


4. We worship our vaginas and stomach skin in the mirror – it’s our form of religion. You know how parents do things like, have gratitude every day that their kids are healthy, or don’t need braces? Well us CBCs have seen the pictures of vaginas and stomachs post-birthing, and they truly inspire gratitude. I can stare at my vagina and be grateful that my vulva will never be stretched to the size of a soup bowl; Calm-ass Husband will never have to contemplate if it may be better suited to just prop me up on the couch, spoon some guacamole into my vagina, and grab some tortilla strips for a light snack while he watches The Killing. And we can rub our tummies and not read braille. Those aren’t tiger stripes – that is a goddamn sign of the coming apocalypse. It’s alien messaging and you derelict scientists need to start deciphering that shit like they’re the new crop circles.


5. We have our own fight club. It involves bikinis and bukkake. But that’s all I can say because I’ve already broken the first rule.

So there it is. Mr. Kinnear let the cat out of the bag, but it is a bit of a relief. So now, when our parent friends look at us and say, “Why are YOU so tired, you probably just slept all weekend”, we can finally be honest and say, “Between the blow, gang bangs, vaginal worship and bukkake…..I’m EXHAUSTED!”

Tampa Bukkake. Not to be confused with the other Florida regional bukkake clubs.

Tampa Bukkake. Not to be confused with the other Florida regional bukkake clubs.

Man Arrested for Humping an Inflatable Raft. Caution: Raft Porn Ahead

Well, it’s not a beehive, but it does give new meaning to “one in the pink”.

An Ohio man, Edwin Charles Tobergta, was arrested FOR THE SECOND TIME, for having sex with a pink rubber raft. Which, if you think about it, looks like a huge twat:

The man in this picture is NOT Edwin, and not, as far as I know, a raft humper. Picture from forums.outdoorsdirectory.com

Note, this man is NOT Edwin and, as far as I know, is not a raft humper. Picture from forums.outdoorsdirectory.com

So basically, this guy just wants to be enveloped in a huge vagina. Can we blame him?

Raft sex, or, “rexing”, (not to be confused with T-Rex fetishists, who refer to it as, “trexing”) seems to be on the rise, as evidenced by all of these clear examples I scoured from the Internet.

The fact that this rubber humper got arrested once, and then went back for seconds, means that, not only is raft-loving good, but this is a solid guy who doesn’t just raft ’em and leave ’em.

Still not Edwin.

So Edwin was humping this pink raft-

Actually, he obviously loves this raft, so I feel bad referring to it like an object. I’ll call her Pinky Rafferty.


Edwin and Pinky. Sure, I could have gone for a Twilight reference since his name is Edwin, but I decided to go with a Romeo and Juliet reference to confuse all the teeny bopper Twi-hards who probably have no fucking idea who Romeo and Juliet are.

Anyways, it appears that Rafferty is the Capulet to Tobergta’s Montague, as she belongs to Tobertga’s neighbor, who refuses to let these lovers be together.

I long for a world where we don’t have to refer to someone’s giant rubber love-twat as a possession, but these are the injustices we face in this day and age.

(For all you lit nerds who are now having a coronary because my basis of comparison between Edwin and Pinky, and the Capulets and Montagues, is the mere fact that they are neighbors: stop being so fucking pretentious, it’s a joke. All of it. This is why you have no friends, because no one wants to hang around your smug ass, always correcting people. You’re all awfully judgemental for a crowd of people constantly dressed in plaid and corduroy. And would it kill you to swipe on some mascara and lip gloss before you leave the house? It’s probably unclear if I’m talking to the boys or the girls, but really, you could all stand a little makeup.)

Picture from http://jessicacrawford.wordpress.com/

Picture from jessicacrawford.wordpress.com

While they were separated by a fence, Tobergta would not let barriers come between him and Rafferty and, according to the police report the second time around, Edwin stepped out of his house, butt naked, and went straight for Pinky.

He’s a man who knows what he wants, and he just goes for it. Fucking renegade.


The first time Tobergta had a rendez vous with Rafferty was in 2011, but unfortunately, Pinky’s owner witnessed the love-fest and, being an opressive man hell-bent on killing true love, tried to chase Tobergta away. In a dramatic, last minute runaway attempt, Edwin picked up Pinky and ran away.


Sadly, Pinky ended up back in the sadistic hands of Edwin’s neighbor. But Edwin could not be kept away, because on June 17th of this year, he bravely decided to get her back. He charged the property, or walked next door, and was overcome with his consuming desire for Pinky and once more tasted the forbidden pink plastic poon.

Unfortunately, this time, a child witnessed the inflatable intercourse and called the cops. And Pinky and Edwin will now be forced to love each other from opposite sides of bullet proof glass, as Edwin is now locked away in jail for the next year.

Guys, hump whatever inanimate you want, but maybe do it in the privacy of your own home.

Cracking DaVagina Code: How to Diffuse an Argument With a Woman

Note: I am in no way a professional shrink. I just say the shit that pops into my head.

I was really tempted to simply write, “You can’t” and have that be the extent of my article. And probably all the legit professionals are going to read this and be like, “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m a trained professional and this is not how we do things.” Trainer professionals all secretly have potty mouths, we know it.

Also, many women will get annoyed that this doesn’t really encourage talking about “feelings,” or be all indignant and say, “Speak for yourself, this doesn’t apply to ME.” But really, they’re just mad that I’m revealing shit, like when magicians reveal how a trick is done. And this is geared towards dudes, not chicks.

There’s no denying, us women are OUTSTANDING at arguing. I don’t know if it is an innate ability, or learned; I’m not a psychologist or a bartender or a hairstylist, so I’m not professionally experienced with the inner workings of women. But one day, we just grow up, graduate from high school, and once that diploma is handed to us, it’s like we got a second, invisible diploma.

A diploma in “Argumentology”.

First of all, you guys could avoid 99.9% of all arguments if you could just learn to read our minds, which, by the way, we fully expect you to fucking do, yet you all refuse to get off your asses and even try.


A man wrote this card, so it’s ok that I posted it.

Thirdly, start doing crosswords or sodoku or something to improve that memory. Because here’s a secret: while we do have excellent memories, some of the shit we “remember”, we either only remember vaguely and so are spinning in our favor, or we’re just plain making it up. We just know that a) your memory is shitty enough that you aren’t 100% sure we’re bluffing, so you won’t call BS on us and, b) you know calling BS will just enrage us and drag the argument out further.


Or, if you’re feeling really gutsy, call our bluff. But you should know that the rules of Scrabble apply, so if you call our bluff and we can prove our memory is correct, you automatically lose a turn.

My friend's girlfriend played this in a Scrabble game. Turns out this word is in the Urban Dictionary, which I think makes it totally legit.

My friend’s girlfriend played this in a Scrabble game. Turns out this word is in the Urban Dictionary, which I think makes it totally legit.

Second, you have to understand that, much of the time, whatever it is we are arguing with you about is not the reason why we’re actually pissed. We’re pissed about something you did 2 weeks ago and it is manifesting in our irritation at the fact that you have the nerve to sit next to us on the couch and start watching videos on your iPhone while we are in the middle of watching an old episode of Private Practice.

Ok, that one may have gotten personal.

I know that, as I was mentioning that whatever it is we are arguing with you about is not the reason why we’re actually pissed, you men were all nodding your heads and thinking, “YES! Yes! Why do women do that? How are we supposed to know what you’re pissed about?!”


I hate to beat a dead horse, but if you all knew how to read minds, you wouldn’t have to ask why we do it.

Also, you men are all about strategy, so this one’s on you. There is so much missed opportunity to be strategists here. You can crack the code. It’s within you to do it.

Sidenote: How has the term “Woman Strategist” not become a thing? Don’t worry, we’ll make it equal, there can be “Man Strategists”, too. Although that job wouldn’t pay as much because it’s far easier to crack the man code than the woman code, and women are still getting paid less than men (I threw that in there for the feminists who are reading this and about to throw a blood clot). Ladies, if you find a man whose code is hard to crack, move on. Trust me on this one. You’re not going to be the one to “fix” him. You’re not that special.

This is just like solving a mystery and you guys just need to play closer attention. Chances are good that, before the fight errupted, you already had a feeling that she was annoyed with you. You, of course, ignored that feeling and passed it off as gas or indigestion because bowel issues are way more pleasant than arguing.


But every woman has a tell when she’s pissed, and you likely know what it is. So think back to when you noticed her irritation start: did she suddenly go quiet one day? Did she start slamming doors a bit harder? Did she give you short, quick, one-word answers like, “Fine” or “Whatever”? Yup, she’s pissed.

This is where my patented (not at all) method (hastily written words after too much coffee) will change your life (that statement is not proven and is unlikely).

Start a short list of her biggest complaints, think of it like an investigator’s notebook for mystery solving. Note the complaints she brings up a lot. If you find yourself blocked on complaints, try this exercise:

Finish this sentence in your head:

“I’m going to lose my shit if I hear her bitch about ___________ one more time.”

Write the answers to the blank on your list.

It doesn’t have to be a fancy list, just open a notes app in your phone and jot down a few of her voiced frustrations:

1. Wants me to take her to more chick flicks
2. Hates it when I belch at the dinner table
3. Gets annoyed when I watch videos on my iPhone right next to her while she’s watching old episodes of Private Practice

You don’t have to write this all in one sitting.  You may have blocked most of it out, so feel free to take notes as you go along.

photo (2)

Now, when your wife or girlfriend gives her cue that lets you know she’s pissed, pull out your list and see which complaint best fits the scenario that occured just prior to the cold frost setting in. Now, here’s the important part that we all know you hate, but trust me, an ounce of prevention is a worth a pound of cure:

Be the one who brings it up. Bring up the thing on the list that you think it may be.

Even if you’re wrong about what is making her angry and she’s mad about something else, chances are good she will be caught off guard that you a) were proactive by being the one to bring it up and b) were listening at SOME point. And even if she’s pissy now, it won’t be as bad as it will be a few weeks down the line when it comes up by her exploding.

Also, this is a “duh”, but the best way to get her to stop bitching about something is to make an effort to fix it. Even if it doesn’t make sense, you may want to weigh which sucks-ass more: fixing the issue, or hearing her bitch about it and getting the cold shoulder.

Also, don’t underestimate the power of reminders on your phone. If something she complains about is something that can be solved by setting reminders on your phone, it’s worth the 60 seconds it will take to set a recurring reminder. And if you’re looking for a good app, Calm-ass Husband and I love Kahnoodle.

And if it has been two weeks and she’s been festering, go by my personal rule of thumb:


The Vapors, Vintavoyeurism, and the Paula Deen Effect

One of the most popular articles on this site is “Five Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn“, which means that you are all vintavoyeurs like me.

Vintavoyeur (noun) – those who are fascinated with the sexuality of people from the past.


“He spends all day locked in his room with old Playboys from the 1960s, he’s such a vintavoyeur.”

See boys, I just made you sound like a classy connoisseur of antique pornography, and not just some dude jerking it to a box of porn mags he found when he was cleaning out his dead grandpa’s attic. You could totally put “Vintavoyeur” on your online dating profile and get more hits because women will find it intriguing. And then 6 months into your relationship, when she stops by your house early to surprise you and gets pissed because she found you passed out in your room with an old copy of Penthouse and a wet, dirty sock half-hanging off your wang, you can say, “You have no right to be pissed, you knew from the very beginning that I’m a vintavoyeur” and then she’ll be all, “I don’t even know what that MEANS, I just saw it on your dating profile and thought it was french. YOU DON’T EVEN SPEAK FRENCH!”. And then you can be all smug and say, “Well, that’s what you get for not bothering to ask me about it. It’s like you don’t even care about my interests, you just like that I look good on paper.”

And then she’ll look like a selfish, uncaring bitch and you win.

You’re welcome guys, you are welcome.

Vintavoyeurism, the difference between a perv...

Vintavoyeurism, the difference between a perv…

and a classy gentleman.

and a classy gentleman.

If any of you actually read the text around the Victorian porn pictures, you’ll see that I’m working on a historical fiction book that centers around the south, and one of the most intriguing things I’ve learned in my research is about an old medical condition called “the Vapors”. The Vapors:

In the Victorian era, a wide variety of conditions that primarily affected women were referred to as “the vapors.” Women were viewed as fundamentally weak during this period, and they were also believed to be more susceptible to a range of medical complaints. The stereotypical Victorian image of a woman swooning against a couch is a classic depiction of a woman who has been overcome by the vapors. Currently, this is not a recognized medical diagnosis. (wisegeek.com, but corroborated by tons of other sources who didn’t define it as concisely.)

WHY is this no longer a medical diagnosis?! Is it because we are no longer required to wear a hundred pounds of clothing in 100 degree weather and so don’t swoon as much? Because it doesn’t mean that we don’t want to. I love swooning and would personally swoon at least 3 times a day if swooning were permitted. Especially if it meant that Calm-ass Husband would finally have to break down and buy me a fainting couch.

I'd put it right next to his gaming spot so that when he's spending too much time gaming and I need attention, i can just swoon next to him.

I’d put it right next to his gaming spot so that when he’s spending too much time gaming and I need attention, i can just swoon next to him.

How much easier would our lives be if the Vapors were still around? We could blame everything on it. Nowadays all we have to blame stuff on is our periods, but this only typically works with our significant others. It’s not like we can go to our bosses and be like, “Sorry I was a bitch to you this morning, I’m on my period.” But we could go to our bosses and say, “Sorry I was out of sorts this morning, I have the Vapors.” Then to prove our point, we would swoon on the nearby fainting couch that would now be mandated in all working environments to prevent all of the workers comp head injury claims.

The Vapors would work anywhere, too, not just work. At the house of a friend of your significant other’s who you hate? No problem, meekly say, “I have the Vapors” and swoon. You’re significant other will be hustling you home to wipe your brow with a cold rag in no time. Arguing with a store manager about the fact that you are trying to return a dress that you both know you’ve worn at least a handful of times and he’s saying he won’t take it because of the deodorant stains? Just hold the back of your hand to your forehead and utter, “Oh dear, I’m afraid this stress is giving me the Vapors” and swoon. You’ll be walking out of there with your money back before you know it.

Granted, I’m sure many of you are saying, “But Wiseass Wife, this will surely set the women’s movement back 100 years.” Don’t worry, we’re good. Do you think 100 years ago a woman would have had the audacity to set up a blog where she lets loose a tirade of asinine and foul thoughts? No, she wouldn’t have even been allowed to get online. Plus, I say if we introduce it quietly enough, no one will really notice. We can basically have our cake and eat it, too. We’ll have the younger girls and elderly women start it since these things are generally more tolerated from them. It’s the Paula Deen effect.

The Paula Deen effect – The phenomenon whereby racist, sexist, and other things considered offensive are only considered so when uttered by anyone between the ages of 12 years old and 70 years old.


  1. “I cannot believe Paula Deen said the ‘n’ word, I hope she goes down in flames, that wretched dragon woman.”
  2. “You have got to come to my family barbecue this weekend, my 90-year old grandma gets drunk and starts spewing racist profanities. It’s hilarious.”

and here is the 3rd example, which I borrowed from my friend Jenny, who actually received this from a classmate as a child. Hilarious, right?

Would not be so funny if this were from someone between the ages of 12-70 years old.

Would not be so funny if this were from someone between the ages of 12-70 years old.

I think I’ve made my case. Unfortunately, writing is hard work and it has given me the Vapors. I’m off to swoon.

I’m Officially in Valium Withdrawal. Also, I Use My Nipples as an Icebreaker Now.

It’s official: I’m in Valium withdrawal.

Note: Symptoms include fuzzy brain, and every time I re-read this thing, I find a shit-ton of typos, and I seem to be wavering back and forth between tenses. So, I’ve done the best I can with the fried brain that Valium has left me. Apologies for anything glaringly wrong.

After only 3 weeks of use, I’m full-on addicted. Which is weird because I’m not even craving more of it, let alone whoring myself out for a few hits of the “Yellow Vs”.

Note: Yellow Vs is the street name for the 5mg Valium pills. And to prove how much I’m not a Valium junkie, I had to Google “street name for Valium”.

But there I was on Monday night, feeling like I was having a heart attack. The shittiest part of it is that I was in the middle of making dinner for “Anniversary v2.0”. I felt so terrible after I so viciously poisoned Calm-ass Husband at Anniversay v1.o, that I wanted to make him another special dinner that did not cause projectile vomiting.

When I Googled "Valium addiction", this came up on a website for a treatment center in Kansas. I'm pretty sure that is a sexual assault picture. I guess if you're a Valium addict, you're more likely to get sexually assaulted. Also, I don't know which symptom "dehydrat" is, but it sounds scary.

When I Googled “Valium addiction”, this came up on a website for an addiction treatment center in Kansas. Unless “man hands” is a symptom of Valium withdrawal, I’m pretty sure that is a sexual assault picture. Also, I don’t know which symptom “dehydrat” is, but it sounds scary. Also, I hope I never have to get addiction treatment in Kansas.

But apparently our anniversary dinners are cursed because, halfway through making dinner, I was sweating profusely and my heart was pounding. It felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. Then I started to feel like I felt like I was going to throw up. So I finished making dinner (because I’m a fucking trooper) and went to bed with the hopes that it would be better in the morning. By the next morning, it wasn’t, so I decided to give the good ole’ advice nurse a jingle.

Nurse: This is Nurse (name changed to protect innocent nurses), how can I help you?
Me: Hi Nurse, my heart has been beating really fast since last night. I feel like I’m having a heart attack, I think. I’ve never had one before, so I’m not sure.
Nurse: Have you ever experienced this before?
Me: Well, it’s not unusual for this to happen a little right before I’m about to get my period, and I’m on the 28th day of my cycle, so the timing is normal, but the duration is not.
Nurse: I’m sorry, my phone is cutting in and out, what did you say?
Me: I said it’s somewhat normal because I’m on the 28th day of my cycle.
Me: No, no….but if I were, I think I could have figured out the cause of my fast heart rate on my own.

So she finally told me to come in and see my doctor and made an appointment for that morning. When I got in, a young intern of about 18 checked me in, and then the nurse overseeing her came in and told me to take off my top and bra so they could place EKG leads. She asked me if I’ve ever had an EKG and I mentioned I had one right before my breast reduction surgery.

I whipped off my top and bra and laid back while they both started placing the leads around my boobs. Before long they were commenting on how great my breast reduction scars turned out. Then it got really quiet as they were placing EKG leads/examining my boob scars. It got a little awkward, so I, being at practically near-Harvard-level genius when it comes to making awkward situations even more awkward, blurted out,

“They put my nipples back on sideways!”

Both of them froze and slowly looked down at my nipples. So I go on to say, “I still have tiny scars from when my nipples were pierced during my young and wild days and, when I woke up from surgery, the holes were vertical instead of horizontal.”

NOT my pierced nipples, but an idea of how the holes would look were my nipples on me the right way. Now they're top to bottom. Also, if this chick isn't in a band called, "Nips Take Flight," she's missing a golden opportunity.

NOT my pierced nipples, but an idea of how the holes would look were my nipples on me the right way. Now they’re top to bottom. Also, if this chick isn’t in a band called, “Nips Take Flight,” she’s missing a golden opportunity.

“Wow!”, they exclaimed as they both leaned in and moved my boobs to the center to look closer at my nipples. It was at that point that the doctor moved my left boob aside to listen to my heart. So I’m pretty sure I was in a 4-way girl orgy that day.

After the doctor read my EKG and further listened to my heart she assured me, “You’re fine, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your heart.”

“Ok”, I said in disbelief, “so am I just crazy? Because it feels like it’s going to pop right out of my chest.”

She took a look at the long list of medications I’ve been on since I was diagnosed with a bulging disc. “Which of these medications are you still taking?”, she asked suspiciously. I told her that I was only on the anti-inflammatory, and that I stopped taking the Valium a few days before because the pain was better.

Doctor: Did you just stop, or did you wean yourself off of the Valium?
Me: I just stopped.
Doctor: You’re not supposed to just stop, you have to wean yourself off of it.
Me: Ok, no one said anything about that; what does this have to do with my phantom heart attack?
Doctor: You’re in Valium withdrawal.
Me: WHAT? That’s a THING? I’m not even craving it. I was only on it for 3 weeks. And I researched my symptoms online and Dr. Google said that I am clearly having a heart attack.
Doctor: Your heart is fine. You’re in withdrawal. It will go away soon, but in the mean time, no chocolate, alcohol or coffee until the withdrawal is over.
Me: (muttering) Great, this withdrawal may as well fucking kill me now.
Doctor: I’m sorry?
Me: Nothing, thanks, I’m going to go home and wait to see dead babies crawl across my ceiling.

So I went home and waited for my transformation from loving wife, to Tyrone Biggoms.


But instead of Tyrone, I turned into the Hulk. Because anxiety turned into irritability, which turned into full-on rage. And lots of sweating. I was basically rage-sweating. And try as I might to relax on the couch, poor CAH’s presence was giving me what I imagine roid-rage feels like.


So CAH set about to looking up symptoms of Valium withdrawal, because they hadn’t been fully explained to me at the doctor and I assumed it would just be the racing heart.

CAH: Look, it says here that, um, extreme irritability is a symptom of Valium. So…
Me: Yeah, I’m sorry I called you a fucking dickhead earlier. It was the withdrawal talking.
CAH: I didn’t hear you call me that.
Me: Hmmm?

So the cautionary tale here is that, if you are ever on Valium, wean yourself off that shit.

But another takeaway here, ladies, is that you should never underestimate the value of your nipples as an icebreaker.

It’s worked for the Kardashians time..


and time…



kris jenner nipple