How to Be Super Creepy with Your Doctor, Courtesy of Calm-Ass Husband

A lag in writing has been mostly due to my being ill. Like, SICK. Luckily, I’m feeling much better, but as if my body didn’t make it clear enough to me that it’s pissed off, I finished my illness off with a UTI.

Those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, in addition to clearly being raging perverts, probably remember that I am prone to UTIs. The last major one that I had ended up with Calm-ass Husband rushing me to the emergency room because it progressed so fast and furious that it turned into a kidney infection. That was when I had morphine for the first time, and immediately began a stream of verbal diarrhea that trumps any kind I’ve had after too many glasses of wine. It began with essentially hitting on my nurse (in my defense, she was insanely hot), and ended with mortifying Calm-ass Husband, who was then Calm-ass Boyfriend, in front of the doctor.

The doctor told Calm-ass Boyfriend that I had a urinary tract infection and began to list the reasons why I might have one, when I piped up,“It’s because we only see each other on the weekends and so we don’t get to do it during the week, so when he visits me we have a lot, a lot, a lot of sex. Like…a LOT.”

I’ve only seen CAH freeze with a smile on his face like that one other time, which was the first time he accompanied me to Colorado to visit my mom. She’d end up informing us that coconut oil is a fantastic natural lube. To her credit, she is totally right.

Sadly, this UTI is not bad enough to warrant more of the magical truth serum that removes the flimsy filter I have shoddily duct taped between my brain and my mouth. It did warrant my doctor stressing absolutely no sex until after my antibiotics are done. He said other things too, that were probably more important, but that is what I zeroed in on. I IM’d CAH as soon as I got off the phone.

Me: Bad news, no sex til after I’m done with my antibiotics.
CAH: Who said that??
Me: The doctor
CAH: Well….did he say what he defines as sex???
Me: Uh, no, and I didn’t ask

“Hey doc, when you say “no sex,” what do you define as sex? Are we talking p in the v specifically – or does hand and mouth stuff count, too?”

To be fair, it IS San Francisco, I’m sure he’s been asked worse.


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!

The Mrs. Cunt Fungus Saga Continues: How to Stop Your Nosey Neighbors from Snooping Through Your Trash

Many of you may remember my neighbor, a lady I affectionately call Mrs. Cunt Fungus. Mrs. Cunt Fungus is the cunt down the street from me who insists on making snide and passive aggressive comments about my dogs, blissfully unaware of the fact that I will cut a bitch for messing with my dogs.

Well it had been a blissful few months without so much as a peep from Mrs. Cunt Fungus and her life partner, Mrs. Sloppy Slit. Until today.

See, Calm-ass Husband and I recently ordered a small dumpster to clear our house of unneeded stuff. I love days when we get rid of stuff. It’s so cleansing.

But leave it to Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit to ruin this beloved time for me.

Calm-ass Husband came home from work early today, to meet a repairman who was coming by to repair our leaky washer. When he pulled up to our house, he found Sloppy Slit in our driveway, looking through our fucking dumpster. She understandably looked shocked, likely expecting that she would get away with her shameless dumpster diving in the middle of the day, in the middle of a work week.

CAH got out of his car and gave her a “WTF?” look, and she went on to say how she is a “recycler,” noticed the stuff we were throwing away, and would like to keep a few things we tossed. CAH, being nice and calm, cleaned the stuff off and gave it to her. Then called me to tell me what happened, betting that I’d have a less rational response.

He was right. He knows me well.

But I decided to be a bigger person and do the rational thing. Not having the contact information for Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, I contacted our HOA, relayed what happened, and expressed my concern over neighbors possibly hurting themselves on broken glass and loose nails if rummaging through our trash. The HOA president responded with an equal level of concern, said she’d contact our property managers, and have them take care of it.

Then I went home, found 6 condoms left over from my and CAH’s days of dating, filled them with Cetaphil face cleanser, and strew them and the wrappers all over the surface of our trash.

photo 1

The “Get Rid of Nosey Neighbors Kit”. Yeah, I’m a lucky girl.

photo 2

If anything, they’ll be concerned about Wes’s hydration, considering, if they’re keeping track, these condoms appeared in the last 12 hours. I overdid it on that 3rd one from the bottom. That’s a quintuplet load.

photo 3

The staged “evidence”

photo 4

No corner of our dumpster was left untouched.


I made sure that the “mother load” was front and center.

So, Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, have fun rifling through my  and my husband’s staged night of fun. We made it extra creamy for you.

Is Your Husband or Boyfriend Playing Grand Theft Auto 5? Here’s How to Calculate Your “Lost Husband Time” Compensation.

Gaming widows. I’m one of them. This is the time that Calm-ass Husband will abandon the marriage to play hours on-end of a game. He will fill a Costco basket full of so much junk food, you’d think he was preparing for the apocalypse. Then he will play. And play. And play. Only stopping to eat, use the bathroom, and occasionally, sleep. I’m just thankful he’s not peeing into a Dr. Pepper bottle to save time.

TGPMA, or, Temporary Game-Playing Marriage Abandonment, is a serious problem. Especially surrounding the release of a new game. Such as Grand Theft Auto V.

Grand Theft Auto V will turn adult men with well-paying jobs into adolescent boys who depend on their parents. If your husband or boyfriend is anything like mine, he will take a week off of work with the sole intention of spending every extended waking hour playing this game.

PicMonkey Collagegamer

By the way, if you are married, or dating, an adult man who does this and does not have a well-paying job, it’s time to re-evaluate your life choices. There has to be some sort of pull that levels out the fact that he spends an inordinate amount of time playing this game. Here is a quick check you can do.

Note: If he’s your husband, he must possess all of Column A and can only possess 1 of Column B. If he’s your boyfriend, the only trait from Column B he can possess is the first. If he possesses any others, run. Run away and never look back.

PicMonkey Collage

Important note: You don’t want a guy who ACTS like Don Draper. Or Jesse Pinkman, for that matter. Altough, arguably, Jesse does treat women better than Don Draper. If you can find a guy who looks and dresses like Don Draper, but treats you the way Jesse Pinkman would, then you’re golden. Like a shower (that was for CAH, who I know would have finished it that way in his head. That’s love, bitch). Then again, Jesse does have a tendency to get loaded on meth and have marathon gaming sessions. Hmmm….this might warrant a later post with a side-by-side comparison.

PicMonkey Collagedone

Of course, if you’re on Pinterest at all, then you’ve inevitably seen this little gem floating around:


The only exception to these rules is if you are actually dating Don Draper, AKA Jon Hamm. If you are dating Jon Hamm, he can live in his parents house, playing video games 24/7, and dress like Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad circa season 1, and you should still date him. Have you seen his bulge?

The number of times I've added an image to my computer labeled "Jon Hamm's bulge" is nothing short of astounding.

The number of times I’ve added an image to my computer labeled “Jon Hamm’s bulge” is nothing short of astounding.

Now that we have that out of the way, you are either ready to set your terms, or you’re packing your bags for greener pastures.

When it comes to setting terms for your time as a Grand Theft Auto V widow, be clear on your objective. Do you want compensation for husband-time lost? Do you want compensation for lost help around the house? Having a clear objective in mind helps you to better prepare for setting your terms.

Once you have your objective in mind, you need to figure out exactly what it is that you want in terms of compensation. Luckily, I have come up with an equation to help you do just that:

1. Take your husband’s salary and convert it to his hourly wage.
2. Take the average number of hours you spend per day in quality time with your husband (be honest, no fair inflating this number).
3. Multiply the average number of hours you spend per day in quality time with your husband, by his hourly wage. You now have your Daily Compensation Dollars (DCD).
4. Now multiply your daily compensation dollars, by the number of days you anticipate your husband will be playing Grand Theft Auto V. You now have your Grand Theft Auto V Compensation Budget (GTACB).


Let’s say your husband’s salary converts to $40/hour. Let’s say that you spend an average of 4 hours of quality time together, per day. 4 x $40 = $160.

$160 is your DCD. Now let’s say your husband wants to play for 5 consecutive days. Your GTACB is $800.

The beauty of this equation is that, the more days your husband plays the game, the more you win. If he wants to pay you less of a GTACB, it’s entirely in his control. He just needs to play less. This is really a win-win solution for all involved.

By the way, TGPMA does not allow for you to get a temporary side-husband. I asked and it almost called off our negotiations, and nearly threatened my stakes. So learn from my mistake – don’t ask for a temporary man-mistress.

The Review of My Wedding Photographer I Wasn’t Allowed to Put on Yelp

Calm-ass Husband keeps me honest. Well, he keeps me socially polite, anyways. Most of the time I’m annoyed on the rare occasions that he makes me be nice, but I’m always grateful in retrospect.

Recently two events prompted me to finally write a review I’ve been dreading: my horrible wedding photographer.

I’ve been thinking about getting some work done to my nose, and finally decided to look into doing it next year. I know, my friends will be like, “What?? Your nose is fine!” Ok, yeah, let’s get this over with now, and then never go through this again:

Yes, my nose is fine. It’s not horrible. It doesn’t have a huge bump or a hook. My septum isn’t deviated. I don’t look like I’m Greek. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Are we done?

My nose is passable. But in my eyes, it’s not what I’d call a Prêt-à-Porter nose. I just need to take it to the nose tailor, if you will, and have it nipped in a pinch to better fit me, k?

Anyways, I was scouring reviews of local nose tailors, when that ever-present, nagging feeling that I’ve had for the past two years hit me: “Review your wedding photographer.” I stuffed it back down. I just wasn’t ready.

Then I logged on to Facebook and saw that my friend Melissa had posted pictures of her wedding; the sting of how long I waited for my wedding photos hit me again, for the umpteenth time (p.s. M – you looked stunning and the boobs were bangin’ in that dress!).

I finally decided to write a review. An honest review. And Calm-ass Husband took one look at that review and said, “Well…you’re not wrong…but….I think it’s better to post this on your blog and not Yelp.”


Fine, I’ll give him the fact that I accused my wedding photographer of having a sloppy vagina, and those are serious charges to level. But it is true! So we made a deal, I will write a nicer review of her on Yelp, but I get to post the full review on here. So here it is, my sloppy vagina-d wedding photographer:

(Names have been changed to…sigh, because CAH made me)

“I’ve waited 2 years to write this review. Partly because I wanted to make sure that my frustration subsided enough to be fair, and partly because I like Sally as a person, and so was procrastinating.

I engaged Sally and Studio 6:66 Photography about a year and a few months before my wedding. I wanted both engagement and wedding photos. My husband, then fiance, lived in San Luis Obispo (attending grad school), and I was in Sacramento. That’s about a 5 hour drive. We scheduled the engagement photos about 10 months to my wedding date. I took a few days off work and went to SLO. The morning of our shoot, Sally’s husband texted me to say that Sally was having a personal health crisis. I won’t go into detail because it’s personal, but let’s just say that she was having a health issue in her lady tubes. Fair enough, shit happens. I recently had to wean off my beloved Cottonelle wet wipes because I learned that they don’t biodegrade, which means I am now having to SACRIFICE money to install a bidet in one of my bathrooms in order to both be kind to the environment, AND ensure that my Down South Lady Mouth is shiny and sparkly for when it gets a spontaneous visitor (AKA, my husband after a good golf game). So I totally get lady-area issues. We rescheduled and worked it out.

Flash-forward to a week before my wedding: I get an email from Sally with details of scheduling and last minute items for my wedding and, at the end of the email, as if an afterthought, she casually mentions that she is not only pregnant, but a week overdue. Um, what? You wait until a week before my wedding to tell me that you’re not only pregnant, but overdue? Let’s set aside the fact that my deadbeat Maid-of-Honor was a colossal loser when it came to so much as lifting a finger to assist (thanks to her, I had to cancel my own bridal shower), I was also working what should be an illegal amount of hours at a spirit-crushing, employee-soul-mudering factory, and, um, it was a week before my wedding.

I need to take a Evie Garland, Out of this World, break, touch my pointer fingers together, and freeze time so I can stop being polite, and channel the stressed out, anxious bride of two years ago:

Are you FUCKING kidding me? Are you out of your GODDAMN mind? Are you seriously such a fucking clueless jackass that you found it perfectly acceptable to mention to a bride, a week before her wedding, that you are pregnant and overdue? Do you think that, just because I share the same genitals as you, I’m going to nod understandingly, reveling in the miracle of life that you’re about to bring forward, rather than thinking about the fact that there is a high liklihood that amniotic fluid is going to free flow down the fucking aisle of the mission that insisted on metaphorically bending me over and ass-raping me financially for the privelege of getting married there when I’m not Catholic? Well screw you, you fucking naieve asshole. I could care less that you and your hipster husband created a little friction with your nether regions one night when you got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon while listening to deep cuts of Belle and Sebastian, reminiscing about your hipster college days. And what really pisses me off? What REALLY pisses me off, is that this is the second time your vagina issues have gotten in the way of your managing my engagement and wedding photography. What if I had emailed you after the wedding and said, “Hey, so thanks for photographing my wedding, but while I was sleeping, my vagina went rogue, cleaned out my bank account, and hopped the border to Mexico. So unfortunately, I can’t pay you.” You would be like, “God damn, woman, tell your vagina to get its shit together!”, right?

*And clapping my palms together, restarting time.*

In a panic, I forward my photographer’s email to my wedding planners, who thankfully managed the issue for me by replying to my photographer that this is not acceptable and she has to commit another professional photographer to us for my wedding day. Sidenote: she went into labor on our actual wedding day.

The photographers she got for us made it clear that they were just taking pictures and that Studio 6:66 was editing and sending us final pics. My wedding was in June – I did not get my photos until October. Not even the sneak peak on Facebook that I see my other friends tagged in. The swing photographer finally took pity on us and sent us a few photos so that we had something to show for our day while we were still in the spirit of our wedding.

Bottom line: Sally does not seem to know how to schedule around her vagina. In fact, in regards to organization, her vagina seems quite sloppy. So, as long as she’s not trying to spit out another kid, go for it. But I strongly recommend that you really make sure she’s not in the process of reproducing/gestating when she’s set to do your wedding.”

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.

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.

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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: