I Got a New Muff and Gave My Husband Herpes, How Were Your Holidays?

I was all prepared to come back from my winter holidays to talk about the amazing little gem dropped on us while we were all celebrating:

Kim Jong Un threatened “merciless war” on South Korea by a fucking fax. Which, on one hand, is hilarious because I picture him typing it out on a 6-year-old Dell computer, on which he’s still making reasonable monthly payments of $120/month. He probably used Microsoft Office, and was even kind enough to use a cover page.


Kim Jong Un’s Weapon of Mass Destruction: Clippy

But on the other hand, it is INFURIATING. Aren’t these the same guys who claim to have unicorns? If you have unicorns, why the fuck are you sending faxes? Strap one of those winged-bitches up with a majestic scroll, and point his horn south-ward. I’ve never had anyone wage war on me before, but I can guarantee that if I were put on notice by a majestic unicorn, I’d take it a hell of a lot more seriously than a fax.

Alas, I can not rail on our favorite tiny little Korean fella quite as much as I was hoping, because so much happened during my holidays, that I felt these little gems deserved just as much as attention. Here are my top 3 moments from my winter holidays:

3. I took alcoholism to its classiest level yet: I got a drinking muff. A drinking muff is just a regular muff, but I have a flask hidden in it (shhhh). Not to be outdone, Calm-Ass Husband turned his jacket into a “beer jacket.”

faux fur muff

Don’t worry, the muff is faux!

We went and looked at Christmas lights, and it was our best Christmas light trip, yet. Look how drunk happy we look!


2. I started a new pilates class, and dropped it the same day:

First of all, let’s get this out of the way right now: I don’t say the “f” word. No, not “fuck.” If you’ve read literally any other article I’ve written, you know I dole out f-bombs like little positive reinforcement treats to keep you all coming back. I don’t say the “f” word as pertains to breaking wind, passing gas, etc. I don’t care if others say it, I just don’t. In fact, it’s become a big joke among my friends and family as they all try to get me to slip and say it. My big plan is, on my death bed, to make it my last word. Actually, I will just whisper out a faint, “Faaaaa….” and then die right in the middle. Kind of like the last episode of Sopranos. Those surrounding my death bed will think they’re finally going to hear me say it, then be frustrated forever more, using all their spare time to rant about it in chat rooms and online forums.

So I started a new pilates class, and I ended up with an elderly woman, who apparently had a serious case of gas, right above my head when we were on the mat. I’m not talking little slips here and there; it got fucking awkward. And silent in the class. I seriously began to worry that she crapped herself. And I was trying not to vomit. And the entire time, I just kept subtly slipping further and further down my mat in an attempt to escape the immediate area, without being obvious. I’ve drawn a stick-figure recreation of how I looked by the end of the class:

It's like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field :(

It’s like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field 😦

But that isn’t even why I dropped the class. Do you know who was in that class? FUCKING CUNT FUNGUS, YOU GUYS! What are the chances? Of all the pilates classes in all the town, she had to fester her way into mine. By the time I walked out of the class, I was pissed off, sore, and in desperate need of shower to wash away what I was certain was an invisible field of stranger-gas, surrounding me like Pig-pen’s dirt clouds in the Peanuts cartoons.

Needless to say, I dropped that class.

1. I gave Calm-Ass Husband Herpes :-/

Well, probably not. I am already on his shit list for giving him MRSA a few years ago. For those of you who don’t know, MRSA, per WebMD, is:

“Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) is a bacterium that causes infections in different parts of the body. It’s tougher to treat than most strains of staphylococcus aureus — or staph — because it’s resistant to some commonly used antibiotics. Those who are infected will get cancer and die.*”

* Ok, I made up that last line. But, I mean….WebMD, right? It’s always all “cancer and death” with those guys.

So I got him a mean case of MRSA when I pestered him to come get a pedicure with me and those fucking nail salon bitches didn’t properly clean out the foot bath. I’d been going to that salon for 5 years. The one day I bring my husband, then boyfriend, for a pedicure, he gets MRSA. So my track record was already bad.

Well, for New Year’s Eve, we got invited to a 70s-themed party, and I insisted he dress up. Like the pedicure situation, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Like the pedicure situation, I persisted. And like every “guy hoping to get some action later” situation, he finally gave in to me. So off to Goodwill we went, and we got him some totally groovy corduroy pants, and a bitchin’ button-down. And all was right in the world.

Lookin' groovy, baby

Lookin’ groovy, baby (again, the fur is faux)

Until a few hours later, while at the party, CAH randomly reached into his pocket and pulled out a little blue pill. No…not that little blue pill.


A pill for herpes. My husband was wearing herps pants. By the way, how ironic is it that both the pill to get an erection, and the pill to treat a disease obtained by your erection, are little blue pills? Very funny, Big Pharma.

I saw a panic wash over his face unlike any panic I’ve seen on his face before. Actually, I’ve only seen it one time before. It was April Fool’s Day in 2012, and I told him that I changed my mind about having kids, and I wanted to get started right away. Hahaha.

Luckily, he was wearing underpants. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get herpes from pants. Otherwise, think of all the herpes that would be rampant in junior high from the sheer volume of dry humping (do kids in junior high still dry hump?). And he still got action, because his herpes are my herpes. And that’s love.

I am working on a holiday song for him. Something like,

“Last Christmas, I gave you MRSA,
and the very next day, antibiotics made it go away.
This year, to save me the tears,
I’ll give you something more infectious.”

Eh, I’m still working on it. I hope you all had a great holiday season!


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

WINK Wednesday – Orange Julius Wine Slushie

It’s that day of the week! WINK Wednesday, the day to celebrate being child-free and inebriated. This is my very first WINK Wednesday post, so I thought I would bring you something extra special.

Something super classy.

Something that will have the wine snobs fainting in their chairs.

Orange Julius Wine Slushies – HO YEAH!


Let’s do this!

2 cups of your favorite white wine
8-10 peeled and seeded oranges (or 2 1/2 cups of orange juice, if you want to be lazy)
1/2 cup of powdered sugar
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract
3 cups of ice

Blend everything except the ice for about 30 seconds, until nice and perfectly blended, then add the ice a bit at a time. Use less ice if you like a thiner consistency you can drink with a straw, or that doesn’t hit you in the face all at once when you tip your cup to drink. Use more ice if you love taking it in the face.

Which I know you do. You nasty thing.

Now get drunk and celebrate your freedom, my fellow WINKS of the world.

And remember, a fabulous vintage house dress always makes the WINK experience much better.

Are You a WINK?

Do you know how many mom bloggers there are?

A kajillion. I know for a fact because I spent all last week counting.

Do you know how many blogs for child-free wives who love wine there are? Not nearly as many. I can’t give you an exact count because I am so exhausted from counting all the mom blogs.

I want to find these other women, my brethren. My fellow WINK wives.

WINK = Wine Inebriated No Kids. *

*I don’t want to discriminate against girlfriends who are not yet/don’t want to be wives, or lesbians who are unable to/don’t want to marry. So you’re welcome to join in.

** Ok fine, if you are a man, or a woman with kids, you can probably sneak in if you keep your topics of discussion to: wine, wine in the media, wine throughout history, wine’s impact on agriculture. Just kidding, we talk about boobs, vaginas and rescuing animals, didn’t you read my site tagline?

Calm-ass Husband and I already are part of the DINK lifestyle – Dual Income No Kids.

But that is too broad. I want to find my sisters in arms. Rather – my wives in wineglasses.

I need a Grindr for WINKs.

For those of you who don’t know what Grindr is, I’d like to welcome you, middle-aged women of the midwest. I’m really excited that you found my blog!

Grindr is basically a way gay men find other gay men in their immediate vicinity to hook up. Ugh, sorry, you might be middle-aged and from the midwest. “Hook up” means casual sex. Grindr takes all the work out of a good old fashioned booty call. You can literally log in and see who is around you and what they’re looking for, and then just meet for sex. I downloaded it to my phone to see who was looking for a good time around me:

photo 2 photo 3 photo 4

Hopefully someone who develops apps is reading my blog and develops a WINK app. I even came up with my profile already:


Until then, I’m doing three things. Creating and introducing WINK (ta da!), starting WINK Wife Wednesdays, which will have either my favorite wine recipe or favorite wine product, and unveiling the badge below.

Bare the badge proudly on your website, or on your Facebook page (grab the HTML below the picture and add it to your website):

Screen shot 2013-03-27 at 7.07.34 PM

Spoiler Alert On Life After Your Wedding: What to Expect Immediately After Getting Married

Wedding season is coming so I decided to weigh-in on life after your wedding now that it has been almost two years since mine.

Spoiler alerts ahead.

Not much

Not much

After me and the Calm-ass Husband got married, it was weird. Weird because everyone asked if it felt different, and it didn’t. I was fully expecting it would.

The morning after I got married, I did two things:

1. Praised myself for actually having sex on my wedding night when everyone told me that I would be too tired (drunkenly getting on all fours and yelling, “HAVE AT IT” totally counts)

2. Proceeded to remove about 1,327 bobby pins from my hair.

Seriously. I didn’t even have a full updo, how were there so many fucking bobby pins in my hair?

But that was it. I fully expected that, the morning after I got married, I would wake up with cartoon blue birds flying around my head. I’d be wearing a light pink quilted 3/4 sleeve swing robe and a matching pink chiffon scarf around my (suddenly) blonde hair in rollers, and my new husband would be smoking a pipe at the dinette set, reading the paper.

“Hello, darling,” he’d say, in that weird old-timey accent that actors had in the 1950s.

No one ever told me that, in reality, you wake up hungover because, instead of riding off in a limo after your reception is over, your dad will say “Hey let’s go get some shots at the bar next door”, which you will think is an EXCELLENT idea since you’re already pretty drunk and, as it turns out, if you walk into a bar in a wedding dress, EVERYONE in the bar will just keep buying you shots (keep THAT in mind, future brides).

Also, you will probably wake up to all of your relatives texting you to come downstairs and have breakfast already, and your friends texting you to inform you how hammered they got the night before (and you praise yourself for just buying Two Buck Chuck as your wedding wine and soaking the labels off in the tub and replacing them with personalized wedding labels because you knew after a few glasses of wine, none of the guests would care that it was cheap). And the wedding dress that you once took such pains to lovingly protect is now sprawled across the floor like some scrap you found on the clearance rack at Target. And after you apply your makeup to be sure to look halfway presentable when you go downstairs to grab breakfast, you realize that you will probably never again look as pretty as you did when you had on your wedding makeup and princess dress. And allllll of that planning that you’ve done for a year, maybe more, is over in the blink of an eye and you’re just left standing there like, “Well, back to reality.”

Also, your new husband is as hungover as you, wearing the same boxers he always wears.

Luckily he looks hot in boxers.


But, it really feels no different. Because you were already committed to your husband for life. And you already knew you’d love him forever. And he already felt confident that you’d love him through sickness and health, and you already knew for sure that he would stick by you through thick and thin. The only people who are now sure of it, are the people who attended your wedding.

And they, too, are now waking up, hungover from cheap wine, so they probably already forgot.

And after your wedding, you will go out with friends and family for the first time since they saw you get married, and their happy, shiny faces will say, “SO?!?!?!” expectantly, and you will be like, “Soooo…..???” and they will be like, “Does it feel different??” and you will be like, “No not really, other than that when I finally do snap and murder someone, my husband won’t be required to testify against me.”


And you will go on your honeymoon and come back, and life will go on. And not much else is different. And maybe you will try to make it different by calling each other “Mr.” and “Mrs.”, but that only halfway works because he was always technically a “Mr.” Or maybe you will relish in your new legal power and, when he’s blissfully drifting off to sleep, you will lean over and whisper in his ear, “Now it will be my decision when to pull the plug….”, and softly kiss his earlobe as his eyes snap open.

Or perhaps when you do things that annoy him, like throw pinecones in the recycling bin, he will just sigh and shake his head and say, “I love you. I have to now. It’s the law.” and you will be like, “YUP! And I have the paperwork to prove it, you are legally required to love me….FOR LIFE!!!”.

Also, you will go on Pinterest and see all these other brides-to-be, or hopeful someday brides, pinning all these great wedding ideas and think, “Fuck, why didn’t I do THAT??” in a fit of wedding remorse.

But that is about it. You don’t suddenly live in a land of sunshine and unicorns, because you were hopefully living there anyway.

So there is the spoiler alert on your life after wedding. But hey, if you’re lucky, your hilarious new Mother-in-Law, who loves to cut a rug, will own the dance floor with moves that make the entire cast and crew of Dancing with the Stars jealous.



Booty Camp: House Training Your Dog with the Booty Method

I remember several instances during my childhood where my mom said, “You just wait until you are older and have kids of your own. I hope they are just like you.” I generally took this as a compliment, like every other self-centered, narcissistic child with demon-driven behavior who was prone to striking deals with the devil. In hindsight, I’m thinking it was not a compliment.

I gleefully avoided the karmic retribution she foresaw by choosing to not have kids. But karma is a sneaky bitch, and got me anyways. So now I am stuck with Olive the Renegade, who refuses to be fully house broken, despite my best efforts. I have done countless hours of research and decided that none of the dog trainers seem to help so, much like my finally deciding to employ human baby techniques on Olive for her constant barking, I’d try it with the housebreaking. What do I really have to lose at this point?

the wiseass wife

I found an article about this woman, Wendy Sweeney, who calls herself a “potty whisperer” and runs something called “Booty Camp,” which sounds like the title of an awesome porno, but it is not. Booty Camp is where you send your toddler to learn to pee in a potty.

So I made a booty call to this self-proclaimed “Booty Expert” to get some answers on some long-pressing questions about booties:

1. Do you in fact have big booty bitches, big big booty bitches?
2. Do smart girls really tend to have dumb booties?
3. I know players wanna play, ballers wanna ball, and rollers wanna roll, but if I put my arms around you will you feel on my booty?

Sweeney was obliging in listening to my questions, but then asked that I never call again and hung up.


It was up to me to take Olive through Booty Camp on my own. I closely studied the tenets of the Booty Camp method. They are:

  • Never ask if they have to go potty. Give the responsibility fully to them.
  • Let the trainee know, “If you go pee and poo in your pants, you’re going to have to clean it up.”
  • Stuff the trainee full of salty snacks and sugary drinks to move things along. As Sweeney told TV’s Ann Curry, “The salty snacks make the kids more thirsty, so they drink more. It also draws water into the bowel and that softens the stool, and it helps prevent the constipation when the kids get nervous and want to start holding. The sugary drinks never quench their thirst, so they end up drinking more, and that gives them more opportunities to go to the bathroom in that short period of time.”
  • Tell the trainee that they need to listen to their body and when it is time to go, they have to go over to the potty and relieve themselves.

I also read in another potty training method that you can inspire the child to have to pee during potty training by setting up fountains or other types of running water. I pulled all of the Homedic fountains I own into the living room, and turned on the kitchen faucet for good measure.

I was ready to do this.

I sat Olive down and told her that it was her job to clean up her pee and poo if she goes in the house and she can NOT eat it, like she’s prone to doing. That is taking the easy way out. With that, I broke out some Cheetos and popped open a can of Red Bull, threw them both in her bowl, and waited.

9am: Olive has eaten some of the Cheetos and lapped up half of the Red Bull.

9:07am: Olive is drinking out of one of the Homedic fountains. An unexpected, but welcome, turn of events. The more fluids in her bladder, the better.

9:15am: All of the running water is making me have to pee. I grab Olive to go with me so she doesn’t pee in the house while I’m in the bathroom.

9:16am: I realize by locking Olive in the bathroom with me, I was not leaving the decision up to her to go on her own. I lean forward and open the bathroom door, and push her out of it.

9:18am: I ran out of the bathroom to see if Olive had peed. She was back over at her bowl, finishing off the Red Bull and Cheetos.

9:25am: Olive is running laps around the house like she was shot out of a cannon. She’s leaving orange streaks of Cheeto dust all over the furniture. The Red Bull must be taking effect.

9:43am: Olive is passed out in her bed. I think she crashed from the Red Bull. I feel like I should wake her to pee, but don’t want to take the power away from her. Also, this is the quietest she’s been in weeks.

10:12am: Olive is still sleeping so I poured myself a glass of wine and flipped on the TV to catch up on Girls.

10:34am: I’m on my third glass of wine and Olive is still sleeping. Fighting the urge to wake her and put her out to pee. She is so cute when she is sleeping. I think when she wakes up I am going to put her in one of her little dresses, put some Red Bull in a martini glass for her, and we can have “yappy hour.”

1:12pm: Fuck, I fell asleep after my 4th glass of wine. Olive shat in the living room and it has bits of bright orange in it. I think the Cheetos were a bad idea. I calmly told her that she had to clean it up herself by picking it up with a tissue and throwing it in the toilet. It then occurred to me that if Olive could reach the toilet, this would alleviate a lot of our potty training issues.

1:26pm: I have left the back patio door open in hopes that Olive will at least feel the urge to go outside to pee.

1:32pm: Olive is in the kitchen, sitting by the remaining cans of Red Bull, whining. Shit….I think she’s hooked on the Bull.

1:43: I give up, toss Olive outside, slam the patio door shut, and open a second bottle of wine.

My husband can deal with this when he gets home. I’m too drunk to be consistent at this point.

Mother of the Year.

Ctrl + Z Morning After Pills: the Best Idea I’ve Ever Had

How has no one made a morning after pill called “Control Z” or “Ctrl + Z”? Morning after pill producers are missing a golden opportunity. I think a little humor would go a long way in the morning after pill experience. Also, put them in pink packages with black script writing. Make them look fancy.

This is how douchey babies are made

This is how douchey babies are made

Look, we’ve all been there. Stumbling to the drug store in last night’s clothing with a Battleshots shot cup still stuck in your hair and your panties in your purse. The whole time you are caught up in verbal self-flagellation for sleeping with that douchebag in the TapoutT shirt wearing what seemed like a gallon of Axe Dark Temptations Body Spray, and questioning whether or not you should admit what you did to your best friend because you think she is still secretly judging you about those twins in Las Vegas last month (some of that may be from personal experience, and some not, but I’m not telling you which) (it was the twins, ok? And you know what? I’m not even ashamed because men get to have all the fun twin stories they want and even get a pat on the back, but if a girl bags a set of twins because she thinks that a sexual position called “The Eiffel Tower” sounds romantic and she’s always wanted to visit Paris, she’s “skanky.”).

Beware of twins in Vegaswho say they can show you the Eiffel Tower

Beware of twins in Vegas
who say they can show you the Eiffel Tower

By the time you’re plunking down the cash for the morning after pill, which highlights the fact that last night’s bar stamp is still on your hand, you could use a good laugh to put the situation in perspective. No woman just happily moonwalks up to the pharmacy counter to cheerfully grab a dose of the morning after pill (although seriously, the first girl out there who can prove that she moonwalked to the pharmacy counter to request the morning after pill will get a year’s supply of Control Z morning after pills).

This is how little Snookies are made

This is how little Snookies are made

When you walk up to the pharmacy counter to request a morning after pill, it is usually softly requested with your head down in a mix of shame, and fear of hurling last night’s Beeritas all over the pharmacy counter. But imagine if it turned out that your morning after pills were called Control Z?

You: (quietly) Hey – um- hi, I need the morning after pill

Pharmacist: Why certainly! Would you like generic or Control Z?

You: I’m sorry, what? There is a morning after pill called Control Z?

Pharmacist: Yup! “Control Z – To completely undo what happened inside of you”

You: Ok, that is fucking awesome. I feel so much better, thank you. I think I’m even going to moonwalk out of here. I can’t wait to come back and order some more!

Which proves that a name like Control Z will ensure many repeat customers. A problem that I imagine is faced by many morning after pill companies.

You’re welcome, morning after pill companies, you’re welcome.

Ctrl + Z = undo last night

Ctrl + Z = undo last night