My Fear of Toilets, Toilet Snakes, and Porta Potty Perverts

I don’t remember a specific time that I didn’t have a small, underlying, perpetual fear of the toilet, but I know that there must have been one. After all, most of us had a period of time as small children where we were naive to all of the ill-fated things that could happen in the world.

Such as snakes in the toilet.


I don’t remember exactly when this fear began. The fear that I would sit down to pee and a snake would launch out of the toilet and bite my hoo-ha or, worse, slither right into it.

That might sound strange to men, or even some women who apparently have no fear about foreign objects entering their vagina. They’re probably pretty whore-ish and so have absolutely no sense of boundaries when it comes to vaginal intruders. I, on the other hand, do not like foreign objects in my vagina, especially when unexpectedly thrust into it while I’m just having an innocent pee.

To prove that my fear is not unfounded, I even did some research, which produced terrifying results. But Calmass Husband was unsympathetic.

Me: I just googled “snakes in toilet” and looked at images. Long story short, I’m going to have to start peeing elsewhere
CAH: We don’t live in the south where snakes swim
Me: I think they could swim anywhere
CAH: … we don’t have swimming snakes here
Me: prove it
CAH: I can’t
Me: exactly
CAH: :\
Me: I think it’s easy for you to be so cavalier about such things when you don’t have to live in fear of being violated every time you sit on the toilet. Plus, you men get to pee standing up, and it’s not like snakes are salmon who swim upstream.

How nice it must be to be a man and just whiz willy-nilly into the toilet, without giving a second thought to unwanted snakes in your penis.

As for me, I can’t remember the last time I sat on a toilet without a little fear in the back of my mind, and the need to peer into the toilet, mid-stream, to make sure that nothing reptilian was lurking below the surface.

And keep in mind, I don’t even have a fear of snakes in general. I actually quite like snakes and think they are often misunderstood and inappropriately villainized. I do, however, have a problem with them swimming up into my toilet, and potentially my vagina.

As of this writing, I found at least TWO incidences of people, one man and one woman, getting bit by a snake in the toilet. There could have been more, but I couldn’t bring myself to scroll any further down Google. The fact that it has happened to at least two people is enough for me, because it means that it is possible that I’ll be the third.

I discovered on my honeymoon that this fear is not specific to snakes.

We found a nice hotel in which to stay on the last night of our honeymoon that was fairly new and aiming to impress its guests. Not 5 minutes after we entered our room, we heard a knock on our hotel room door and found that the front desk, to whom we mentioned it was our honeymoon, sent us a complimentary bottle of champagne. Seriously, if you mention to people that you’re on your honeymoon, you get all kinds of free crap. Try it.

We were pretty tired by the time we arrived at our hotel, so off went our clothes, uncorked went the champagne, and on went the TV. It just so happened there was a marathon of the show “Ghost Hunters,” and so we hunkered in to watch a couple of men, who were probably past their prime in terms of starting a legitimate acting career, chase ghosts around allegedly haunted buildings. CAH and I snarkily made fun of these ridiculous men wasting their time chasing ghosts, and found the seriousness with which they took their missions hilarious.

A few hours of Ghost Hunters, and a half a bottle of champagne later, I had to pee. As I slid off the bed and headed into our hotel room bathroom, a thought began to creep into my mind, “What if a ghost is in the toilet??”. I quickly laughed off the idea as having had too much champagne and sat down. I couldn’t go.

Was the idea so silly? The episode of Ghost Hunters we’d just finished watching showed the hosts trying to chase down a little girl ghost, which we all know are the creepiest ghosts of all. Surely a little girl ghost could quietly hide in a toilet bowl with no trouble at all. What if I sat down to pee and she poked her little girl ghost fingers right into my lady business? Or worse, her tiny hands were probably nimble enough to full-on vagina punch me!

I sat there, frozen in fear at the thought of a tiny little fist furiously punching my vagina and feeling fairly certain that statutory rape laws would prevail since I was the adult and, even though there is little I could to stop a mad little girl ghost, I should have known better than to laugh at the idea that she existed in the first place, thus angering her to the point of hiding in a toilet and waiting for the complimentary champagne to overtake my bladder.

I must have stood up and sat back down at least a dozen times as I went back and forth between “This is ridiculous, there is no such thing as angry fisting little girl ghosts” and the fear of feeling that tiny cold fist violating my lady bits. I didn’t know where her little ghost hands had been and, let’s be honest, kids NEVER wash their hands.

I briefly thought about calling my new husband into the bathroom because I thought I might feel better if someone was in there with me, but I didn’t want to let my crazy peak out so early on in our marriage.

I carefully laid towels down in front of the toilet in anticipation for the possibility of having to bolt off the toilet and run away mid-stream (it wouldn’t be fair for housekeeping to have to clean up my pee stream) and half-squatted over the toilet so I could watch for a tiny girl ghost while I peed.

Thankfully, I was able to complete my pee into the toilet without any signs of a ghost.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after that several stories surfaced about men being caught inside of port-a-potties, spying on women as they did their business.

Yes. Men like to watch women do their business in a port-a-potty and have no issue with standing in a huge hole of waste to do it.

For me, it was yet another toilet intruder to worry about. Granted, I don’t pee in port-a-potties often, and even when port-a-potties are all that is available, I will try to hold it if I can. I take serious issue with the fact that port-a-potties are nothing but huge shit holes, disguised as bathrooms.

So I’ve done a fairly admirable job of avoiding port-a-potties, but sometimes, you have got to go and there are no other options. Recently, when my husband surprised me with a road trip to go wine tasting, I had to make that awful choice.

We stopped off in the middle of nowhere because CAH had heard of this little Mom and Pop shop that allegedly sold the best beef jerky in the world. I was thankful because the Venti Iced Latte I sucked down at the start of the trip had my bladder in a death grip. I followed my husband into the store and asked the burly woman behind the counter where the bathroom was.

“Outside” she answered in a husky voice, pointing outside as if I would somehow be confused as to where outside was, relative to where we were standing inside. My stomach dropped. I had to pee, badly, but something told me that port-a-potties in the middle of Deliverance Town would be a house of horrors, best-case-scenario. My ever-cheerful husband cheerfully told me he’d be out after he bought the beef jerky because he also had to go.

Of course he was cheerful, he could just saunter into the port-a-potty like the King of the Jungle, and pee standing up without worry of a creeper dude appearing out of nowhere. He had the advantage of standing and always being aware of the depths below.

I slowly and timidly walked out to the port-a-potties, and entered the first one.

I immediately noticed the plastic paper toilet-cover dispenser, on which some comedic individual had carved “Obama’s Policies”, which only served to confirm my suspicion that I was amongst the type of people who would wait for unsuspecting women in port-a-potties. Not because they hated Obama, but because they felt a port-a-potty was the most effective forum to ensure that their political views were heard.

I took a deep breath and began to pull down my pants. I heard CAH cheerfully enter the port-a-potty next to mine and manage to pee and exit the port-a-potty before I even had the nerve to gingerly squat over the toilet. I took another breath and slowly squatted over, silently praying that I could pee quickly, and that it wasn’t the kind that started strong and, just when you think it’s about to end, is drawn out for an extra 30 seconds with the tiniest trickle of a stream. Those are the WORST for avoiding port-a-potty creeps.

As I began to relieve myself, CAH, now standing right outside the port-a-potty, began talking to me:

“Awwwwww honey, there’s cows out here! They’re coming right up to the gate!” he said, oblivious to the fact that his wife was potentially squatting over the face of a pervert.

He continued,

“Babe! One is eating right from my hand! You’ve got to see this!” he exclaimed, as if I was taking so long in the port-a-potty because I was enjoying myself in there.

I finished up and walked outside, where CAH turned to me with a sweet, blissful look on his face, obviously unaware that I had narrowly escaped the potential of giving an unintended golden shower to some political port-a-pottie graffiti vandal. I decided he was totally selfish for not standing outside, readying himself to rush in and defend my honor should I let out a terrified squeal at spying a face staring back up at me from inside the potty.

It was then that I realized the fact that, when it comes to the dangers of having a vagina and needing to use a toilet, chivalry is dead.


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.

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

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

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

Picture from

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.

Typos Suck, and I Have a Bulging Disc, Not a Bulging Dick

Just like when Calm-ass Husband tells me about his job, my eyes glaze over when people tell me about their medical problems. I’m an empathy-based listener, so telling me, “I’ve been in the worst pain of my life” will get more of my attention than “I have cancer”. It’s not that I don’t care that you have cancer, I just better identify with how you are actually feeling.

That is why I have not really mentioned my injury. The injury that has kept me from posting regularly the last few months. I assume you will be just as bored as I am when people talk about medical problems. And I won’t go into detail.

I have a bulging disc. Or as I almost sent in an email to my 60-something neighbor before proof-reading it, a “bulging dick”.

It hurts, it sucks, blah blah blah. Calm-ass Husband had to take me to the ER for lidocaine injections twice because my shoulder was spasming, whine whine.

But I swear, I’ve been down and in tons of pain and that’s why I’ve been MIA. Look, here’s proof:

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don't do shit for a bulging disc.

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don’t do shit for a bulging disc.

And drugs don’t do shit for a bulging disc, by the way. I got Percocet, which vaguely helped, but then while doing research on it, I kept reading things from other Percocet users like, “I’m up to 8 a day”, and, “When I stop taking it, the withdrawals make me vomit.” which terrified me and so I’ve only taken it twice.

But you readers are ON MY FUCKING ASS. Which, ok, I kind of love. But I’ve been getting emails of “where did you go”, and comments from friends, such as, “I noticed you haven’t posted on Wiseass Wife in awhile.” And then my friend Collin on Facebook, after BADGERING ME RELENTLESSLY TO THE POINT WHERE I WAS CURLED UP IN A BALL IN TEARS about my choice to not have kids (ok, ok, fine, it was one Facebook comment and I found it kind of cute and endearing), mentioned something about it.

So I will explain the highlights and lowlights of my life while I’ve been in chronic pain and on drugs so that you understand why there’s not been much to write about because I’ve literally been the most boring person on the planet (and don’t say I didn’t warn you):

Highlight #1: Tending to my garden

Look at my bush!

Look at my bush!

Most of my free days are spent in awe of the fact that I’ve managed to keep plants alive. Look how bushy my lemon balm and sweet potatoes have become. Which leads me to #2.

Highlight#2: Tending to my downstairs garden without sobbing

The main body part that has been affected by my bulging disc has been my right shoulder and arm. The pain has been excruciating. And of course the assholes at the ER were all, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?”. On the first visit I said, “I hate this question, because I’m sure if my arm had just been cut off, that would definitely be a 10, but I can say this is the worst pain that I have ever felt in my life.” The second time I went to the ER and they asked me that question, it was after I begged my primary care physician, a female Kaiser doctor in San Rafael, for pain meds, and she declined me because “pain medication can be habituating” (even though I don’t have a history of addiction), so my answer was something to the effect of, “THE SAME FUCKING THING IT WAS LAST TIME BECAUSE NOT A GOD DAMNED FUCKING THING HAS BEEN DONE ABOUT IT SINCE THE FIRST FUCKING TIME I WAS IN THIS GOD DAMN FUCKING PLACE.”, to which the nurse said, “So I’ll take that as a “10” on the pain scale.” Then he asked me, in front of my husband, if I “felt safe at home”. I told CAH that he should have given me a stern look and said, “You know what to say,” but I guess he was too “concerned” about my “sobbing” and “screaming of obscenities” to take advantage of the colossal failure of Kaiser Permanente to offer a safe space for potentially battered women.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

I’m sorry, I digress. I often get distracted by the massive failure of Kaiser Permanente to actually do something productive. And all you Kaiser patients who have found them to be “not so bad”, give it time: they’ll miss your breast lump or colon mass soon enough, and catch it just in time for your funeral. Here’s my personal list:

1. My sweet family friend Doug: stomach problems diagnosed as “indigestion” by Kaiser. Sent home with anti-acids and told to “wait it out”. Died a year later from metastasized stomach cancer. Kissing his cold, hard cheek, one last time while he lay in his casket was not the highlight of my life.

2. My best friend’s grandfather: lung mass operation postponed for a month because his Kaiser doctor went on vacation. Died 6 months later from metastasized cancer. Hope that vacation was worth it.

3. My neighbor’s wife’s breast cancer: presented as a bruise on her breast with “orange-peel-like” consistency. Sent home with instructions to give it time to heal (much like mine). Died within the year of breast cancer.

And then my own personal issue with them 10 years ago, which I won’t divulge publicly, but let’s just say, they owe me one. So when I do walk in there and ask them to tie my tubes, I don’t want to hear any bullshit about me only being 35 with no kids. Just tie those fuckers and be glad I didn’t sue your negligent asses.

So needless to say, can’t wait until hubby has open enrollment and we can switch to insurance that doesn’t concern themselves more with how much money they can make per patient, than actual diagnostic work-up.

Oh, also, I’m still waiting for my return phone call, Jamison.

Although big ups to my AMAZING physical therapist and spinal surgeon. Kaiser must have outsourced the hiring the days they were hired.

Anyhoo, my right arm is my predominant arm. Which has made most things I do regularly, such as writing, very painful. So the high point of my life recently was shaving my hoo-ha without sobbing hysterically, charging out of the shower, throwing my razor at CAH and screaming, “YOU BETTER APPRECIATE THIS, MOTHERFUCKER, AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE SPOTTY PATCHES I COULDN’T REACH.”

Seriously, guys. you can’t appreciate the squatting, pulling, and grunting that goes into making our girly bits all pretty and smooth for you. And as I established in a prior post, my vagina is my best feature. Well, I pointed out in a prior post that I wanted to write about how my vagina is my best feature, but CAH strongly requested that I didn’t. So out of respect for my husband, I won’t point out how it’s like two little butterflies fluttering around a pink rose. It’s a work of art.

But writing about it is just one of the ways that my husband and I don’t see eye to eye. Which brings me to the next point.

Highlight #3: My husband and I don’t agree on everything and that is ok.

I recently watched an episode of Private Practice (don’t judge me, being home alone, hopped up on drugs, makes you binge watch things you wouldn’t normally watch) and a baby was born with some androgynous defect where it had both a penis and a vagina and had a 70% chance of identifying as a girl and 30% as a boy. The parents had to decide whether to assign it a gender, or let it grow older and decide. So I explained this predicament to CAH and said:

Me: Let’s see how like-minded we are. At the count of 3, we each say what we would do in this situation.

CAH: Ok….

Me: 1…2….3….


We were both stunned. I was stunned that he went with “girl” and he was stunned that he didn’t think of “drown it”. Clearly he’s never seen the “Joy Luck Club”.

Highlight #4: I went to the World War Z premier and saw Brad Pitt

‘Nuff said

Highlight #5: Birds came to my homemade bird feeder and I assumed a SWAT posture and filmed them.

Again, ’nuff said

Highlight #6: While looking for a new general practitioner, I read the best doctor review ever.


Highlight #7: I unsubscribed from American Apparel newsletters because they had the audacity to send two newsletters in one day.

And let’s face it, no one is actually buying their overpriced basics. We just go to the website for the half-naked models.

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And now you know why posts have been scarce. But the good news is that I’m beginning to feel much better and so will work to increase them back to normalcy as soon as possible.

Have a good weekend!

We Don’t Get PMS, We Get Superhero Powers; And Always Brand Tampons Really Needs to Get Their Shit Together

Disclaimer: Guys, I’m talking about lady business. So if you’re squeamish, skip this one.

I really don’t understand why women get so pissed off when their boyfriends/husbands/man friends ask them if they’re on their periods when they are being bitchy. 9 times out of 10, if I’m being little Miss Cunt-Faced McBitchMouth, it’s because I’m PMS’ing and, when Calm-Ass Husband reluctantly puts on his suit of armor and bravely asks, “Babe, are you going to start your period soon?” I can stop and say, “Oh yeah…..I am. Sorry.”

The tenth time, I grow blades out of my knuckles all Wolverine style and charge him with bile spewing out of my mouth. That’s when he realizes we are closer to the monthly D-day than he initially thought. Hence the armor.



Sidenote: Because Mother Nature is one fucked up bitch with a HI-larious sense of humor, my PMS-induced violent aggressiveness is also accompanied by hits of super-human horniness. So it’s not uncommon for the Calm-Ass Husband to get a text from me saying, “When we get home, I am going to ride you like I’m competing in the Amazing Race.” And then that text is followed up with, “And then I’m going to punch you square in the face.” He usually comes home looking both hopeful and terrified. At some point this is going to cultivate a phenomenon of “terror boners,” wherein he gets boners every time he is scared, which could make for an awkward situation should armed gunmen ever break into our home in the middle of the night and confront poor CAH.

I don’t really like the term PMS. I prefer the term “Hormone-loading.” Kind of like carbo-loading before a big marathon, us women like to hormone-load to refill our super powers of sub-human strength and extreme food consumption abilities.


The problem is that the makers of tampons and maxi pads do nothing to make this monthly trip to earth-hell any easier.

Seriously, what the fuck is this, Always?


Always, when I’m on my period, by the time I’ve put down the half-gallon of ice cream and potato chips, rolled my ass off the couch, pulled on my most forgiving pair of yoga pants and hoodie, and sluggishly elephant-stomp myself and my 7 extra pounds of water-weight to Walgreens to buy maxi pads, the last thing I need to see is how incredibly thin and active you are. If anything, rubbing that in my face will bring out one of the most dangerous super powers of hormone-loading: Hulk strength. Also, when my Hulk strength comes out, I have Hulk’s temper, and I will proceed to Hulk-smash every Always product in the aisle. And when all the poor Walgreens workers come running to restrain me, I will pump my fists in the air, screaming at the top of my lungs, shaking them all off effortlessly before I stomp my way to the candy aisle and double-fist Reese’s Peanut Butter cups into my angry Hulk mouth.


And what the HELL is this??


Limited Edition Radiant Collection? Always, unless you dipped these tampons in gold and had each one personally signed by Tory Burch so that when I use them I can make my husband call me “Golden Burch Cooch” (which is awesome and I may just make him do that anyways), you’re not fooling us. Do you really think us women are that stupid and naive that we are buying your Limited Edition Radiant Collection all, “Ooooo it’s Limited Edition Radiant Collection? I’m getting these a velvet dust cover and make a YouTube tampon-haul video”? It’s actually insulting. Because first of all, when we are on our periods, we are feeling anything but “radiant,” and trust me, the power of suggestion is not going to work when bloating has given us moonface, our skin has taken on the consistency of sandpaper, and our cravings are so fucked up that we will happily dump a jar of grape jelly into a tub of butter and spoonfeed ourselves (as an example….not saying I’ve actually done that….don’t fucking judge me, ok?).


And Walgreens, I have a beef with you too. For those of you men who were brave enough to stick with me through this bloody tale, I’ll let you in on some period industry knowledge. We choose our tampons based on grams of blue stuff it holds. By the way, we don’t actually bleed blue stuff, despite what all of the commercials would have you believe. It’s actually red like normal blood. But I can understand how years of believing that we bleed red everywhere else, and then inexplicably bleed blue out of our hoo-has would make this whole period thing weird and creepy. I assure you, it’s red.


So we buy our tampons based on grams of fluid it holds, and SOME of us have to buy what I refer to as the “period trough,” because we deal with more than just a period. It’s like our vagina murdered someone and then panicked and pleaded with us to help it hide the body. On a related note, I want to know who these women are who only need the “light” tampons and maxi pads. In my head, I’ve imagined them as tiny little blondes who wear Ralph Lauren polos and headbands, and when they feel their periods coming on, they scrunch up their little button-noses, let out a tiny mouse-like squeak while tensing up slightly, and then they’re done til next month.

But for those of us with slaughterhouses in our uterus, we need the period troughs, and tampon boxes are nice enough to let us know just how much each tampon size will hold so we can choose accordingly. But it doesn’t do us a lot of good when WALGREENS only carries the second most absorbent tampon across ALL brands. I sat in their tampon aisle for ten minutes, reading each box and, without fail, the highest absorbency I could find was the second to the highest. LOOK!


So then I was thinking, what if the very highest tampons are so big that they can’t keep them on the shelves? I’m going to have to swallow my pride and walk up to the pharmacist and ask for a period trough? He will realize that the fact that I am asking for a full trough, coupled with the fact that I am not blonde, or wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, means that I am likely going to blow at any second. So he will calmly put on his suit of armor and summon his team of tiny midgets with shields who cautiously roll out a wheelbarrow holding a tampon the size of a twin bed mattress. Then as I look at him, with my eyes slowly turning red and fangs growing out of my gums, I’ll say, “Are the midgets necessary?” and he’ll says, “This one’s on the house if you calmly leave. We all have taser guns and will use them if necessary.” At which point I’ll just laugh and say, “Tasers are a mere tickle against my hormones of rage,” and then I’ll take my mattress tampon and elephant-stomp my way back home.

And Always, if you ever make a maxi pad labeled, “Fat, bloated, horny and angry,” I will personally buy 12 cases within the first month of its release.


Why You’re Probably a Terrible Parent if You Have Me Babysit Your Kids

One of the many reasons I’ve chosen to not have kids is because I can’t take the pressure of forming young minds.  I just know that, despite my best efforts, I’d end up raising the next Ted Bundy or Florida face-eater.

Also, I don’t want to give up day drinking.


Sidenote: It has been awhile since we have had a good serial killer. I keep trying to think of some recent ones, and I keep coming up with serial killers from the 90s, at best.

One of the things that comes along with the territory of not having kids is that you are prime babysitting candidate for your friends who did have kids and now spend all of their time trying to plan nights out away from them. The problem is that, since I don’t have kids, I tend to second-guess myself constantly when babysitting.


Not long ago I babysat the youngest son of some friends while they took their oldest son to an appointment. Not 15 minutes after they left, I had to pee. Which left me with a dilemma: do I close the door to pee and leave a two-year-old unattended? Or do I leave the door open and possibly expose my vajay to a toddler? It was a toss-up so I had to call them and ask which was worse: leaving a toddler unattended or exposing my vajay to their youngest child?

After they got done laughing they said that they usually just leave the door open.

Also, if your kid turns out to look like this, STOP HAVING KIDS.

This is your child after being babysat by me. Any questions?

But exposing yourself to a toddler is not something you just assume is ok, right? Like, I don’t want him to be in therapy 20 years down the road and be all, “Things were going great until I saw my babysitter’s vajay, and then life was downhill from there.” Or worse, have it be some kind of turning point that turns him into a serial killer who murders hookers and writes “babysitter’s vajay” in blood on their dead bodies. Although then we’d finally have a more recent serial killer to reference.

And that is my point: I don’t know how the minds of kids are formed and even the shit that seems weird to me, I now just take in stride as what must be normal. I had a mom tell me the “funniest” story about how her toddler daughter shoved a tampon in her diaper because she had seen her mom do it so many times. There was part of me that was thinking, “Huh, that’s weird. Is inserting tampons in front of your child a normal thing?” but at that point, I figured that there must be so many rules to parenting, that I don’t realize which are normal and which are, in fact, bat-shit insane. At that point she could have ended the story with, “So I gave her a shot of whiskey and a smoke and sent her outside to play,” and I would have been like, “Oh, that sounds like fun.” Even though the tampon thing did kind of weird me out.


Actually, you know what? I’m just going to put it out there: stop inserting tampons into your vag when your kids are around. If I did remember seeing that shit, it would stick with me. In a weird and uncomfortable way. I am the voice of the children. Knock it off. They don’t need to see shit going into your vag.

You think it’s bad when kids stick stuff up their noses.

And it is worse when babysitting girls because I am more keenly aware of the fact that their delicate little egos being damaged could lead to things like growing up to be a day-drinking foul mouth who writes about vagina mugshots and boner pills.

I do promise to not turn your kid into the next Bieber, which is probably worse than a serial killer or a day drinker.

I do promise to not turn your kid into the next Bieber, which is probably worse than a serial killer or a day drinker.

I once babysat the newly adopted tot of some friends and, as it was my first time with this little girl (who would later be the flower girl in my wedding), I wanted to make a good impression.

I took my little flower-girl-to-be to the food co-op to grab some snacks before we hit the park (oh yeah, I was pulling out all the stops). As I sat their with her in the produce aisle, trying to decide what to get for us to eat, my brain was like, “Strawberries would be good….no I think I heard once that you’re not supposed to give young toddlers strawberries…..blueberries? choking hazard…..bananas! No…..I think those can cause tummy aches. Apples? Shit…..I think those cause diarrhea.”

Suddenly it was no longer the produce section of the grocery store I was standing in, it was a baby killing field.

It wasn’t long before a lady with a cart was cooing over the baby and saying how darling she was. “Thanks,” I said, “She was just adopted. I have no idea what to feed her.” I went back to picking out produce before I realized how that sounded and turned around to clarify that I was not the one who had just adopted this baby, and to assure her that the baby’s actual parents did know what to feed her. Unfortunately the lady was nowhere to be seen. Presumably because she ran off to alert the proper authorities.

Of course, at this point, the poor kid started crying, so I quickly picked out a snack and gave it to her. Then kicked myself the rest of the night because I had just taught her to self-soothe with food. So….thanks Aunt Jess for Baby’s First Eating Disorder.


Stop fucking making me divide by 12 in my head!

So rest assured, if you have a boy, I will turn him into a serial killer. And if you have a girl, I will ensure she has body issues and an eating disorder. And will probably day drink.

Parents: think twice before entrusting me with the care of your precious children.