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!


5 Ways Kanye West is Like Hitler

I typically don’t get all “tabloid gossip”-y on here, but Kanye West makes me feel stabby. And lately, the shit that drops out if his mouth makes me think that the best thing that could happen for his Kardshian-let is for Yeezus to go all Yochabed, stick that kid in a basket, and send her up a river so literally any-fucking-one else can find and raise her.

(For the Jesus freaks: yes, I know Moses’s mom’s name was Jochabed, I was sticking with the “y” theme, so calm down, you whiny yunts.)

Granted, I do have a personal beef with Kanye because his song Bound 2 rips on a girl for wearing Forever 21 when she’s 30. So fucking what if I wear Forever 21 in my 30’s? IT’S IN THE FUCKING NAME OF THE STORE, KANYE!

Recently, Cunt-ye compared himself going on stage to police officers in the line of duty, or soldiers at war. Referring to a prop mountain in his act:

“That mountain goes really, really high and, if I slipped … you never know. And I think about it. I think about my family and I’m like ‘Wow, this is like being a police officer or something, in war or something.’”

This made me realize that Kanye loves himself so much, he deserves his own sexual term, which I’m hopeful gets picked up by Urban Dictionary:

Kanye: to love yourself so much, that you give yourself an enema, drink the dirty enema water, and savor the flavor.

Sentence: After Kim Kardashian posted that picture of her post-baby body in a white bathing suit, she was so self-satisfied, she gave herself a Kanye.

Also, for the record, when I Googled “Kanye compares himself to”, this came up:


I love that “Hitler” is right up there, so here’s my list of how Kanye West is comparable to Hitler:

1. While in prison, Hitler wrote Mercedes and begged for a car loan. Kanye has to beg big brands to do business with him, too.

2. Hitler had chronic flatulence of the butt. Kanye’s mouth clearly suffers the same condition.

3. As a child, Hitler wanted to be a priest. As you can see from my search, Kanye thinks he’s God.

4. Hitler only had one testicle. Kanye has one testicle. (I don’t think that’s true, but pass it around anyways).

5. Hitler used frequent enemas as a medical remedy for ailments. Kanye had a sex act named after him that involves an enema (see above).

But alas, the similarities end there, as Hitler was allegedly an animal lover and the regime even enacted animal protection laws. Cunt-ye wears fur.

So, in some ways, the Fuhrer is better than Kanye.

RIP Mr. Mac B. Lappy: 2008-2013

My laptop died. My very first nice laptop. I am devastated. DEVASTATED. I have been through hell and back with that laptop. I feel like a pet has passed away. Mr. Lappy has been sick for awhile – it manifested with a strange white line that went through the screen. But I discovered that if I pinched Lappy in just the right way, the line would go away. So I blissfully went along this way, ignorant to the fact that “White Lining” is apparently the computer equivalent of “flatlining”.

And of course Lappy died right before Christmas, when money needs to go to things that I *want*, not that I *need*. Why can’t I have unlimited funds to buy frivolous things? And why can’t I have a fainting couch to throw myself onto when I utter such dramatic questions? If the vapors were still around, like I’d like them to be, I’d be so distraught that I’d definitely take to bed with the vapors.

It is truly times like these that make me rethink the “Sugar Daddy” thing. Especially when, this time of year, all I hear from Calm-ass Husband are things like, “Wife! You spend too much money!” and, “Stop walking away from me when I’m trying to talk to you about your spending habits!”. But Calm-ass Husband gets even crankier when I talk about dating other people. He’s such a dictator. I’m basically living with Kim Jong Un.

To honor Lappy’s memory, here are my five favorite moments with Lappy. Please imagine “I Will Remember You” by Sarah MacLachlan* playing in the background:

* I know it’s spelled “Sarah McLachlan.” I changed her name as a tribute to Lappy.

1. Before meeting Calm-ass Husband: countless IM chats with random strangers I met on Craigslist.
2. First dating CAH: using Photobooth to take and send him half-naked selfies right after telling him “no sex until the 5th date.”
3. The 5th date with CAH: playing my “sexy time playlist” on iTunes, which I barely managed to pull together since, after telling him “no sex til the 5th date,” he took me out every night, 5 nights in a row.
4. Saying “I love you” to CAH for the first time: Yup – it was by Google Chat. He totally tricked me into saying it, knowing I was drunk.
5. WiseassWife.com: The countless blog posts I’ve written for this site.

You’ve been good to me Lappy, I will miss you. Know it will take me a long time to bond to your successor, Mrs. Mac B. Airy. Or Mr. Mac B. Pro. We’ve not yet decided. It’s too painful to think about.

Dear Chase Bank, Go Geflurg Yourself. #chasefail

Wiseass readers, this is between me and Chase Bank, so don’t read this. It’s private. I just feel it’s the only way to get through to the commie pinko assholes at Chase Bank.

Note to Chase: I am not 100% sure what a “Commie Pinko Asshole” is, but I heard my dad yell it a lot at the TV as a little girl, whenever the news was on. I assume it’s an insult. Or maybe you think it a compliment. That is exactly something that a commie pinko asshole would think.

Hi. I assume you’re here because it was difficult to read the letter in its original format – line by line on Twitter. Here it is in a simpler way.


Dear Chase

The level of my anger at your mismanagement of a simple check order is not how I wanted to start my holidays. It’s hard to express my displeasure to your customer service people & not sound like a gun threat (I’m not).

Being lost in your phone support system is akin to spending all day at Ikea. By the end, I was cranky, confused, and hungry. At least at the end of Ikea, I can buy a plate of delicious french fries. You may not have confusing Swedish words, but your banking rules are just as asinine, you f’ing smörbolls.

I now have two orders of checks, that have not arrived at my door. They could be anywhere. I have a new post man, so for all I know, the old one took them. He’s probably kiting checks cross-country, living the life on my hard-earned dollars.

Your phone support offered to send a 3rd order. I hesitated because, I don’t want the new postman to get ideas from the last one. But before I could weigh-in, I was told that they couldn’t order new ones after all. Because I had verified my address online.

Like your f’ing website prompted me to do.

So there was a waiting period. You fyrkantigs.

I now apparently have to go into the branch to order my checks, for the 3rd time. And your phone support’s only mea culpa? To put a “rush” on my order. The order that was already rushed due to the first round of check cancellations.

Are you kidding me, you dumarsles?

“Rush order” is a no-brainer at this point. It’s not an acceptable offering of apology for this ridiculousness.



Jess, AKA The Wiseass Wife


P.s. I relish the day when I no longer have to pay my 90-something-year-old landlord my rent in check form, and can be done with them forever.

How I took Down a Plane Villain and Saved American Airlines Flight 622

Here’s the problem with flying when I have a deep suspicion of everyone I meet: I assume anyone could be a terrorist or an evil villain who plans on overtaking the plane.

Finally my suspicions paid off, because I’m pretty sure that I thwarted a villainous takeover of American Airlines flight 622.

I was at the airport for a trip to Chicago, casually waiting for the announcement I love so much: “It appears our plane is full and we will be asking for volunteers to check their baggage.”

Translation: free baggage check for anyone too cheap to pay for it, AKA moi.

My ears perked up in delight when the announcement was made, and I hastily hopped in line to be one of the selfless volunteers who sacrificed the comfort of having their luggage nearby for the greater good of her fellow passengers.

Then I noticed him.

He looked like a young Jeff Goldblum, dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck – classic villain gear. I don’t know much about being a villain but, were I to decide to become one, I know that my first order of business would be to hightail it down to the Gap so I can stock up on black turtlenecks. That’s standard issue villain gear, right?!

*Note: Not the airplane villain, but an actor re-enactment.

*Note: Not the airplane villain, but an actor re-enactment.

Then he spoke to the man behind the counter, “Excuse me, have you got a seat for me yet? I’ve been waiting for 40 minutes.”

And I shit you not, wiseass readers, this guy had an accent straight out of Transylvania. I half expected him to follow it up with “38, 39, FOURTY! FOURTY minutes I’ve been waiting! AHAHAHAAAAA!”

But to recap: he was dressed in all black, had a Transylvanian accent, and was not assigned a seat on this flight. Oh and was growing impatient that boarding had begun and he didn’t yet have a seat; clearly nervous that his plane takeover plans may be thwarted by a run of tourists, eager to see the Windy City and catch a glimpse of Oprah.

After I gleefully, I mean selflessly, handed over my luggage to be checked for free, I boarded the plane and sat down. I was in the window seat with no one yet sitting next to me. As the stream of people dwindled down, I excitedly began to suspect that I would get the row to myself, which was a relief because I had forgotten to use deodorant that morning and so had to buy some at an airport store. Unfortunately, when I sat down at the gate, I couldn’t quickly put it on because some British guy was sitting right across from me and I somehow felt a patriotic duty to represent America by refraining from calling his attention to my armpits. You’re welcome, America.

As I happily began to root around in my bag for deodorant, it happened. Mr. Transylvania took the aisle seat next to me. There was only one seat between me, and certain death.

As we began take off, I realized he was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. Not reading a magazine or anything, just sitting all calm. Like a total fucking villain.

I decided to do a little investigation to figure this guy out. So I slid my People magazine across the seat and casually said, “You’re welcome to read my People magazine. I know it’s not a very manly magazine, but if you’re at all interested in reading about how Mischa Barton came back from a nervous breakdown, it’s all yours.”

He looked at the magazine and then back up at me, clearly pondering how he should react in this situation. He must have decided it better to appear normal and not raise suspicions, so he gave a quick thanks and grabbed the magazine.

And then flipped right past the fucking article about Mischa Barton. That’s it, I was on to him.

“Light traveler?”, I asked, non-chalantly flipping through Elle.

“I forgot to bring a magazine,” he answered, “I was waiting for a seat assignment.”

“Ah,” I replied, “Last minute flight?”

“No,” he continued, “when I bought the ticket, it didn’t assign me a seat.”

I eyed him suspiciously and continued, “That’s too bad, I was able to choose my own seat. Were you not given that option?”

“No.”, he replied confidently, intently studying a picture of Giselle Bundchen and Tom Brady at the park with their kids. This guy was good.

Not long after take off, he went straight to the bathroom. I braced myself; clearly airplane-overtaking heists begin in the bathroom, where you can hide your heist accoutrement more readily. Not long after he got up, a man who looked like a stockier Bruce Jenner stood up, dressed all in black. Shit. Clearly he’s working with Mr. Transylvania. He’s wearing the uniform, and we all know Bruce Jenner is one black turtleneck and a white fluffy cat away from looking exactly like a villain.

It wasn’t long before Mr. Transylvania came back and took out a laptop from the overhead compartment. So he DID have in-flight entertainment, dirty liar. As he opened up some bogus PowerPoint presentation about glass production, complete with glass-strength testing videos, and pretended to be immersed in the world of glass, he casually turned and asked what the weird tray/box-like thing in the seat between us was. I had just been wondering the same thing and realized that it was the perfect hiding place for plane-overtaking tools. He was on to me being on to him.

I grabbed the side of it and yanked up with all my might saying, “Let’s just SEE what it is!”. It didn’t budge. It was some weird tray thing for drinks and it was bolted down. He gave me a puzzled look as I slumped back into my chair, muttering something about a tray for extra drinks.


Suspicious tray

He went back to making his fake charts and graphs about glass, as if he was fooling anyone. I mean really, glass has to have been around for like, a thousand years; what groundbreaking stuff is he coming up with?

A glimpse of his fake charts and graphs about glass.

A glimpse of his fake charts and graphs about glass.

The problem is, I then had to pee terribly, but did not want to go back to the bathroom he had been in. Any woman will tell you that life is a constant effort to keep unwanted people and things out of your lady parts. Anyone who knows me knows that I live in constant fear that a snake, rat, or other unwanted thing will come up out of the toilet while I’m going. I constantly have to peak down while I’m peeing in order to thwart any possible animal attacks, and keep my hoo-ha bite-free.

What if Mr. Transylvania planted something from his heist tool collection in the toilet? Like an electronic snake programmed to shoot out of the toilet the minute it detects someone is going?!? It’s probably called something all villain-y like the “Vag Badger 3000” or, the “Lady Part Prod.”

Note to any sex toy designers reading this: if I see the “Vag Badger 3000” or the “Lady Part Prod” now show up in adult stores, I will straight up sue your asses for stealing my idea. You’ll come to know me as the “Wise-ass-blaster.” (Don’t use that one either)

I finally lost the argument with my bladder, as my bladder can be surprisingly persuasive.

All went fine in the bathroom, no electronic snakes bursting out of the toilet. I probably should address my fear of toilet violence with a trained professional at some point. Maybe then I can also address my fear of an airport toilet pulling out my insides after I flush it, although in my defense, I totally remember reading about that happening when I was a little girl.

Why did my childhood serve to make me develop such an intense fear of toilets?

When I got back to my seat, I looked over at Mr. Transylvania’s laptop and saw that he was now watching a movie. As I zeroed in on the actors, I realized he was watching “Taken”. Great. I could now picture him calmly looking over at me and telling me in his creepy Dracula accent that he has a very specific set of skills, before pulling me, screaming, from my seat.

When the flight attendants arrived with their drink trays and asked me if I’d like a drink, I calmly ordered a glass of wine, but made a point to open my eyes really wide, and look from the flight attendant, to Mr. Transylvania, and back at her again; silently signaling that he was suspicious. She smiled and nodded. She totally got me.

After she gave me a glass of wine, she placed one down on the tray next to Mr. T. He looked up to say he didn’t order it, but she enthusiastically pointed at me and said, “She bought you a drink.”

What?! NO! I was trying to tell her that he is planning to overthrow the plane! Mr. Transylvania looked over at me and smiled a “thank you.” Great. Now he thinks I’m hitting on him. He’ll probably take me with him to wherever he’s hijacking this plane and I’ll have no choice but to fall in love with him like Patty Hearst did with her attackers. As I was silently imagining poor Calm-ass Husband reading the news that his beloved wife had been kidnapped to Transylvania and was probably not ever coming home, my lack of sleep the night before made my body betray me, and I promptly fell asleep.

What seemed like 15 minutes later, I felt a soft touch on my arm and opened my eyes to see Mr. Transylvania peering down at me. “We landed,” he said, in his villain-y accent. I bolted up and realized we were on the ground, unharmed. I looked over at Mr. T for signs of anger that his plane heist plans had been overthrown by wine and trashy tabloids, but he was already hightailing it down the aisle with his carry-on. Probably to try and overtake another plane after failing to overtake this one.

Nice try, pal, but you’re never going to overtake a plane on my watch.

Happy Birthday to My Sister Wife

I have a few sister wives. Mind you, they are for me, not Calm-ass Husband. Believe it or not, I have more introverted than extroverted tendencies, so I like to keep a few close friends rather than a hundred acquaintances. Mainly because I like to stay drama-free and low maintenance and, sorry ladies, most women are not a low drama people. When I meet someone I like, I tend to love them right away because I can tell they’re my kindred spirit. So I tend to take my kindred spirits as sister wives.

Today is the birthday of one of my beautiful sister wives, and to honor it, I’ve come up with 5 of my favorite things about her:

1. She’s stabby. If people piss me off, I tend to get annoyed and want to stab them. She’s the same way. I can think of 3 people off the top of my head that I know she’s stabbed in her head at least 290 times.

2. She let me touch her boobs. ‘Nuff said.

3. She says the word “cunt” with such reckless abandon, that I’m pretty sure she’s on NOW’s list of particularly egregious women. Right next to my name.

4. She buys wine in bulk at the liquor store across the street from her office. How fucking classy is that?

5. She’s just as allergic to kids as I am. Nothing makes me spring a lady boner faster than seeing my sister wife get annoyed at a screaming child nearby.

Sister Wife, I love you to the moon and back! I hope your birthday is a drunken fuck-fest. Muah!

The Homeschooling Epidemic: How Homeschooling Mom Bloggers are Making Me Seriously Concerned About the Country’s Future Adults

Homeschooling seems to be as much of a rising trend as going gluten-free, or naming your kids any name with a suffix that rhymes with “ayden”. I believe it is a trend made popular from the rising mom-on-mom war crisis I reported not long ago. It’s an idiot’s war, to say the least.

Sidenote: I recently found out that the word “idiot” used to be the old term for the mentally disabled, before being replaced with today’s more popular term, “retard”. “Retard” is now taboo, so I’m not sure if “idiot” is also taboo, or if we can still safely use it? Also, if we are phasing out “retard”, once the new replacement word is phased in, will “retard” be allowed back in the rotation, like idiot was? Or is this word retired forever? My dad works with the mentally disabled, so I asked him what they call each other. Surprisingly, they call each other “retard,” and are offended when a peer calls them “idiot”. So I’m wondering if we aren’t waging war on the wrong word? It seems like we never even bothered to ask the mentally disabled which word offends them most, and I find that to be a complete lack of consideration for their feelings, as well as blatant disregard of their intellectual and emotional ability to decide these things for themselves. Frankly, I’d like us to stick with one word, so I don’t have to constantly stay abreast of which words I’m not allowed to use. Sticking with one taboo word makes things much more efficient.

Back to homeschooling.

I’m all for homeschooling. In some cases. In fact, my mom homeschooled my youngest brother. My mom is also a Stanford-educated attorney. The homeschooling moms I’m seeing in the blog-world are continuation school….at best.

Unfortunately, these barely-educated women (who’ve taken it upon themselves to pass their partial-knowledge on to their children) have found the world of blogging. The blogging world has afforded anyone with a computer and an Internet connection the ability to spout-off anytime they want. Case in point:

Screen shot 2013-10-02 at 12.21.20 AM

Moms who blog and homeschool frequently seem to have a passing acquaintance with the English language. For example,  Jamie from DIY Home Sweet Home gives these tips:

Screen shot 2013-10-02 at 12.31.52 AM

Screen shot 2013-10-01 at 11.07.28 PM

For fuck’s sake*, would a little punctuation kill you? You could probably throw a handful of commas at your blog, let them fall where they will, and it will make more sense than it does now.

* Fuck’s sake: Notice the apostrophe, Jamie, noting that the sake belongs to “fuck”. Punctuation is brilliant.

I found Jamie’s blog through Pinterest and, after reading her tips and wondering what high school freshman was writing the blog, wandered over to her bio:

Screen shot 2013-10-01 at 11.12.45 PM

Of course she’s an entrepreneur, because every goddamn mom blogger out there is calling themselves an entrepreneur. Sorry, “momtrepreneur”. Listen, making a few bucks through sponsored links on your blog content that, let’s face it, isn’t groundbreaking, doesn’t make you an entrepreneur. By that standard, anyone who’s bothered to clean out their closet and sell their old crap at a consignment shop could call themselves an entrepreneur.

Entrepreneur seems to be a word that is thrown around a lot these days. I don’t think half of the people out there, proclaiming themselves to be an entrepreneur, know what it actually means.

Forbes defines “entrepreneur” as: “those who identify a need— any need —and fill it.”

I hate to break it to you “momtrepreneurs”, but: a million blogs, each spitting out the same tutorial for crappy thrifty homemade skirts that only other mom-bloggers would wear, or “healthy” snacks for kids that, in actuality, have the nutritional value of a Lunchable, is not fulfilling a need. You’re just the RC to cola’s Coke. Or cola’s Pepsi. Or cola’s Jarritos. Or cola’s Jones.

Now write a blog about how I can successfully have a child and not have to raise it full time, only having it on holidays to keep friends and relatives from constantly asking me when I’m going to have a baby, and you have a winning blog.

Start a successful business of volunteers who take on full-time children that aren’t even theirs, only giving them back to their biological parents for short periods of time, namely calendar holidays, and you can call yourself a “momtrepreneur”.

Darling Danielle over at the Blissful and Domestic blog is another mom blogger who homeschools. Here is a selection from her blog:

Screen shot 2013-10-01 at 11.33.51 PM

What is it with homeschooling mom-bloggers and their aversion to punctuation?

P.s. Danielle:

“Every Day” means, “each day”. “Everyday” means something that is commonplace, such as, “This is my everyday jacket.”

I especially love that this is from an excerpt she wrote ABOUT homeschooling.

Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that editing your own work is tough. That’s why real writers have editors. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back to an article I’ve written, even though I’ve proofed it several times, and thought to myself, “Great, I look like a goddamn (insert word that isn’t “retard” but denotes the same sentiment); how did I miss that?”. And sometimes, I’m just lazy about it. Hell, just last week I accidentally wrote that Violet the Screaming Dog is a little “stalky,” when I really meant that she’s a little “stocky”. To be fair, she can be pretty fucking creepy at times. Sometimes I wake up to her just sitting there, staring at me. And try as I might, I can’t get the Marin County Courts to grant me a restraining order against a dog. They’re all, “Stop wasting our time, we have real crime to deal with.” And let’s face it, Violet would probably just ignore an order of restraint, probably citing “lack of ability to read,” and “lack of opposable thumbs to hold the paperwork”. What a dick.

But yeah, I’ll admit it, typos constantly sneak past me when I’m proofing my own work.

But do you know the difference between me and mom bloggers who homeschool ? I’m not writing a blog about educating children, and littering said blog with terrible spelling and grammar. I’m not taking it upon myself to be the sole educator for a growing brain. For shit’s sake (pop quiz Jamie: why is that apostrophe there?), if you’ve taken it upon yourself to actually be THE educator in the life of your children, get your shit together.

And while we’re at it: shouldn’t you have to prove to the state that you can academically function at the level of a high school graduate before you can be in charge of schooling your own kids? Or are the current regulations some kind of fucked-up, retroactive, “no adult left behind” plan that hopes to subtly teach the parents as they teach the kids?

Either way, if you’re a homeschooling parent who is: a) competent and, b) tired of the stigma that goes along with homeschooling your kids, perhaps take gals like Jamie and Danielle under your wing. Help them out so they don’t continue to perpetuate that stigma.

Is there a homeschool for homeschool parents?