Monthly Archives: November 2011

…. and then I felt like a dick.

It happens.  You say the wrong thing, you do the wrong thing, and before you can say “oops!”, it’s too late.   You fucked up… and now, you feel like a dick.  No worries, here’s four things you can do to de-dickify yourself:

1. Time.  Let it create some distance between you and your dicky move.  A lot of times you feel like more of a dick then people actually feel about you.  So just lay low, be a soft dick if you will, and before you know it, someone else will pop up and be a dick, therefore replacing any memories of your dick move.

2. Apologize.  Sometimes if you blurt out something dicky and then immediately slap your hand over your shit spewing mouth only uncovering it to profusely apologize, you will be forgiven.  Sometimes, not.  But you lose nothing with an apology.  Even if the offended only half accepts your apology (which HAS to be as sincere as possible) they might just refer to you as sometimes being a dick instead of being a total dick.

3. Blame it on the A-A-A-A-A-Alcohol.  This is a tricky one.  You CAN over-use this one so be careful.  It definitely, if used very sparingly,  is the quickest and most effective way to de-dickify yourself.  In fact, if you usually never drink,  alcohol is pretty much be a FREE DICK PASS, but watch out!  It only takes one too many times of using this excuse to label you as “That drunk dick” in which case you’ll be watching your friends check in to a million parties on FB while you sit home alone in all your dickass glory.

4. Don’t be the only dick on the block.   Owning your dick move is a perfect way to get others to share their dick moves with you.  Being a dick is not unique, owning up to it is.  That’s why it benefits YOU to admit it.  Before you know it, you’ll find yourself conducting your very own Dicks Anonymous  pow-wow and instead of crying about your recent dicky moves, you’ll be laughing at someone else’s.

Now that that’s out of the way, I’m here to help you out with #4.  Not that the other’s don’t work (they do, I’ve tested them all) but because I haven’t made a dick move in a minute, and perhaps you have.  You see,  I want to be the giver here and let you know, you’re not the only dick on the block……

The time a saw a woman with a newborn.  She looked tired (of course) and I felt bad for her… I also felt more experienced and thought her cute for being a new mom.  
“Your first?” I asked smiling sweetly, to which she replied: 
“My fourth.”…. and then I felt like a dick.

The time my mother had just gone clothes shopping and was very excited to show me her new stuff.  “Try it on!” I told her,  and so she comes out wearing this blazer.  
“It’s nice,” I tell her “but I think it would look a lot better without those shoulder pads... to which she replied:
“I’m not wearing shoulder pads…” ….. and then I felt like a dick.

sorry mom, don’t worry, broad shoulders are the new black….

The time I gave my hair a little extra attention and blew it out because I had a few hours without the kids and I wanted to actually appear like a normal human on the street.  Well, I was pretty sure I did a good job and was looking possibly even like a hottie ’cause I was getting a lot of smiles and attention out and about.  “Wow!” I thought, 
“I should wake up a little earlier and blow my hair out every day! I must be looking gooood, yeah!”.    
I stop at the corner feeling like a fucking superstar and this little old woman looks at me.   She mumbles something and I notice that her facial expression is strange.  
“What’s that?” I say, leaning in closer to hear her, and in a little voice she says:
“Your shirt button is open dear..”  :O  Yup, sure enough my shirt is wide open exposing more then just a little bra action.  
With cleavage spilling everywhere I clutched my chest, and practically turned purple ….. and then I felt like a dick.

See, even Eva Longoria feels like a dick sometimes.

And finally, the time I went to a friends baby shower (yes baby shower ) and got a little too WASTED (yes, wasted) and became too mouthy, probably a bit rude (yes, just a bit, wise guy) and ended up leaving  (or was I escorted out?) but not before kissing my other friend’s five month old so hard on the cheek, he subsequently started screaming.  Oh, did I mention I was with my 6 year old?  Oh yeah, it took me until the next morning, but as my groggy brain started collecting snatches from the night before it was ……. then that I felt like a BIG DICK.

I wasn’t THAT bad….. I think.

That’s all I got for you right now, but I’m sure it’s enough to bring you a little closer to admitting and owning up to any recent dick moves you’ve made.

Remember, everyone’s a dick sometimes, and if you say you aren’t, you’re being a dick right now.


C’mon Bitch, Take Care of That.

Your body is trying to tell you something but you’re too fucking busy to see it!
Let’s all put our whiskeys down and get connected ’cause if I notice it, you’ve gone and neglected your shit for too fucking long.

Check yourself, your body wants you to.

Here’s a reference for you with some FAQs on
What your body may be telling YOU:

Constantly digging in your sock drawer for a pair of socks without holes in the toes?

That’s your foot’s way of telling you you need a motherfuckin’ pedi.  Those ‘aint holes, they’re goddamn gore marks from those talons you call nails.  Scratch up a ten spot (pun totally fucking intended) and bring your kids if you have to, just GO before you wake up with shredded sheets or casualties in your bed in the morning.

there may be times you want to kill your man, but do you really want it to go down like THAT??

Do you run your nylons by just simply putting them on?

That’s your legs crying out for you to wax them bitches.  And if you don’t wax, then shave em, and if you don’t shave, then get a motherfucking blow torch.  Depending on the method, leg hair removal can be costly, but in the long run (another motherfuckin pun) it’ll pay for itself in the form of  pantyhose replacement costs, and trips to the ER for your kid’s stab wounds from that razor sharp stubb.

You don’t want to be Star Magazine’s next Yeti sighting… do you?

When you look in the mirror, do you often wonder how it is your updo has unintentionally gone the way of the

That’s called grease and it your hair’s way of BEGGING you to WASH IT.  Remember in the old days when bitches used to deny a date ’cause they had to wash their hair?  Yeah, well YOU need to turn down movie/date night tonight, take a hint, and wash THAT SHIT.  Jheri Curl slick on a white bitch ‘aint cute…. matter fact it ‘aint cute on ANYONE unless you’re Rick James, which you ‘aint bitch.  Besides,  you don’t want your locks to be more buttery then your popcorn now do you?  Oh, and if you’re gonna leave a wet spot, don’t make it on the back of your movie chair.
Moving on.

You ‘aint Rick James bitch.

Does your clean-cut man ever look like Black Beard the Pirate when he goes down on you?

Well… if that motherfucker has to brave the Black Forest just to reach the man in the boat, he deserves a goddamn medal.  Your hooha won’t tell you it needs some bushwacking  but it WILL tell you it needs some motherfucking attention, bite the fucking bullet and clean between the lines.  Feeling bitter?  Want to leave it wild down there as some sort of punishment for your man?  Listen, I get it,  I can be a heartless bitch too but just remember, ultimately YOU will benefit most from this landscaping** then him.

Remember, YOU are your HOOHA’S  ONLY ADVOCATE.

Although my little reference guide stops here, there are MANY more things your body is trying to tell you….

I hope this was a good jump start for you though, and on that note, MY grumbling  stomach is my ASS’S way of  telling me it needs to be FATTER so I’m gonna go grab some leftovers and take care of that. Ciao.

** Tip: for extra hooha attention try landscaping your shit in the shape of your  man’s initials, be careful though, doing this while drunk could result in undesirable effects including some other dude’s initials which will subsequently result in some ‘splaining to do.

The Time I Almost Lost My Birthday

There’s a lot of cool stuff about being pregnant.  There’s a lot of really horrible stuff too but I think that’s the whole point of life really.  No pain, no gain right?  Today,  I want to tell you about something that happened to me when I was pregnant that  wavered from cool to horrible and back again. 

I don’t really remember everything about my OBs visits when I first discovered I was pregnant.  I remember there was a lot of questions, a lot of paper work, a lot of excitement and a whole lot of Dos and Don’ts (bummer).  I don’t remember the questions really or what exactly was on all the papers I filled out that day but I DO remember one particular moment and I think I remember it because it made obscure “I’m having a baby shit” really real for me.  “When was your last period?”  your OB asks, and you’re pretty sure, maybe not exactly but you give her an estimation and then  she does it.  She takes out this little magical paper wheel.  She spins it carefully lining up arrows with numbers and then says… “So your DUE DATE IS….” 

“Wow… did she just say what I think she did??…. are you serious?  So my
DUE DATE is MY BIRTHDAY???” Yup.  She said it alright.

Now I know that due dates being inaccurate is an understatement but it’s still a really weird feeling being told that your child’s birth will coincide exactly with the date of your own.  At first I remember I felt really happy.  I can’t really explain why.  It was kind of like being told that before you even feel your baby’s first kick and before you even know if you will be welcoming a boy or a girl, you already share something super special with them.  When my OB told me this news, I thought of how many times I would tell people that my baby would be my ultimate birthday present.  I imagined the expressions on their faces, and if saying it would eventually get annoying.

I imagined being in the hospital on that day and being showered not just with well wishes for the new baby but also with birthday presents for ME.  I imagined joint birthday parties with pinatas, and sharing the same sensibilities and passions with this little person who would be my ultimate astrological twin.  In hindsight I can only review my thoughts at this time with three words:  How fucking stupid.

The closer I got to my due date the more fantasies I reveled in.  By then, I  knew I has having a girl which brought with it a whole new level of foolish and idealistic scenarios that danced around in my head.  She wouldn’t just act like me, no no, being that my baby is is now a girl she would, of course, look just like me as well!   I would fashion a clone of myself inside my own body… correction, destiny would.  Why else would she be scheduled to arrive on a day which obviously was intended originally for me??

Everything seemed so fantastic.  My belly grew larger and rounder and so did my expectations.  It was all so fucking wonderful……. until it wasn’t.

So I wake up and it is the day.  MY day, and mine in so many ways.  It was my birthday, it was my due day, it was my Birthdue day.  So, why wasn’t I feeling anything?  I waited.  My husband kissed me and wished me a happy birthday and I got all the calls from family members wishing me the same.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s great and all, but where is this baby??  As the day trudged on, I felt the usual movement in my belly but not much else.  I was getting disappointed, I was getting discouraged… I was getting pissed.

“Why do they give people a due date in the fucking first place???” I thought.  What a fucking racket.  “Why cant they just say something like the first week in April, or the end of November??”  “Do these OBs really think that little fucking paper wheel somehow turns their asses in to God?? You just spin it and tell some eagerly expecting mother when she’s going to give  birth down to the very day???  Okay bitch, why don’t you spin your little fucking paper wheel and tell me what tomorrow’s Pick 4 numbers are gonna be then huh!? What are you some kind of modern day soothsayer substituting your crystal ball for a fucking spinny wheel??  Where’d you get that thing anyway?  Thing looks like a decoder ring from a fucking cereal box.”

The Culprit

 Yes, so these are the things going through my mind while I lay in bed on my birthday until it is no longer my birthday.  Needless to say, not one of my better birthdays.

The next day I woke up and realized I wasn’t mad at my OB or her paper voodoo wheel.  I was pissed, rather, that I had banked so hard on trying to make a fantasy become reality.  I didn’t realize it then, but this whole experience was really just preparation for the pitfalls of parenting in general.  Was this the real destiny that was laid out for me?  The whole process of learning to be let down, but not letting it get YOU down is as vital as it is recurring.  And going even deeper, it’s the grander lesson of learning to be selfless — something that takes real getting used to when you first become a parent, and something that never goes away.

So I did of course give birth, and she did come close.  Two days after my birthday to be exact, which as it happens, turned out to be absolutely perfect. As the past 6 years have shown me.

You see, there are years when I want to have a birthday and years I don’t.  When I do, it is far enough away from my daughter’s that I CAN do MY thing. 
When I don’t, it’s close enough to my daughter’s that I can completely ignore it and focus on her’s instead. 
As the number keeps going up, and one year slips past the next, I find myself favoring the latter. 

I should warn her though,  when I get up to a birthday, like the big 4-0, the one who will be learning the lesson of selflessness will be her.  And so she’ll have to settle for something a bit more quaint.

Happy Birthday to me.

ABC/NYC — The REAL Local Tour A-L

Im a local fucking New Yorker.  And when I say local, I mean LOCAL as in my ass was born a few blocks from where I live now and haven’t strayed much further since.

So, in honor of this wonderful, irreplaceable, and undeniably unique shit hole of a City that I LOVE, I have compiled a
from a the perspective of a
ABC style

No Empire State Building in this shit,
and no Statue of Liberty either,
that’s for fucking tourists.  

So join me  as I guide you through MY streets of NYC.
Picture book style, cause that’s all I’ve been reading these past 7 years…  

Introducing the first installment: A-L

Well, I hope you enjoyed your tour so far. 
As soon as I start drinking again, I’ll get going on the next installment.

Life is Good

I am visiting my family in South America. The apartment I am in is huge, but three kids fill it up with ease. Their Lego games would make Shakespeare blush. Everyone betrays everyone, no one survives, and there are even little Lego beheadings here and there. This happens while their mom is away. 

She returns to complete chaos. There are pencils right behind the bedroom door (boobytrap I presume), the dog has eaten through the throw pillows that have been thrown on the floor, and the little one DEMANDS that she change the batteries on his Wii remote. She, is covered in sweat, clutching six bags, and her cell phone is ringing. 

At this point I would just lay down, soil myself, and start crying. She, instead, grows arms like an octopus, and pulls the most amazing Matrix style multitasking slo-mo move I have ever seen. 

The bags are put down on their proper surfaces simultaneously, the Wii remote is swung towards the battery drawer where Tommy can look over the edge and replace them himself, the penciled door trap is swept away with one foot, and the broom appears lodged under her arm to sweep the stuffing from the deceased pillow. All while answering her cell phone. Oh and her hair was down and it was humid. She was incredible.

I watched this remarkable orchestration from a supple leather couch, frustrated and frozen by a slow internet connection, and wondering why my email would simply not refresh. The horror. I felt pretty much useless. I imagined a boot camp for moms, where they do baby pull ups while dropping the cereal boxes into a moving cart. Yoga classes right to soccer pickup, right to taking five screaming girls to the movies without going deaf. An obstacle course of horrendous splatters, vomit, baby carrot pick-up in oncoming traffic, bottomless toddlers running towards balconies, and at the end of it you have to sit with a child for an hour because they simply don’t like the chicken you made for them today.

I looked down at my penis – whom I seldom ever engage in direct conversation – and said, “nap time, my friend, let’s rest… life is good.”

I AM The Single Guy Position

Hey hey hey, I am a guy of thirty five years living in New York City but, I’m not  just any guy….  

I AM The Single Guy Position. 

Many of the women my age are having babies. There are strollers everywhere in this city, filled with little soft bags of cutely dressed chub and eyes staring back at me. 

I can’t help but look at these mommies – my contemporaries – and admire them in their daily grind. Some of them look euphoric – enthralled with their new bundles of light. Others, however, will tell you all the right things using just the perfect words, while their strained faces scream out “what have I done??” and “Get me out of this nightmare!”

This is a dangerous blog about these women from a daring single man’s perspective. And I know I have no right. But I think it is important to both celebrate, chronicle and comment on this pack of resilient women, for better or for worse.

Friday Night Hype

Okay, so it’s Friday night and that feeling’s in the air.  You know, the sensory overload that IS FRIDAY NIGHT…. 

The smell of dirty wet wood at the too dark dive bar, the sound of sluts snorting coke in the bathrooms of clubs, and the feel of elbows jabbing your ribs at the band performance you wish you could ditch out on if only your friend wasn’t the fucking bassist. 
Look at what you might be missing ladies!!

Well, being that I’m a mom now,  it’s not as easy to get out on the most splendid night of the week!  Arrangements have to be made, babysitters hired, puke buckets placed prophylatically on the sides of beds, legs shaved and the like… and for what? 

In the old days, Friday nights meant something.  Mainly it meant the possibility of getting laid, and if that didn’t happen you could at least get drunk enough to act a like a complete fucking fool and wake up the next day bragging about your epic night of douche-baggery.  

Since those days are over, I’m actually proud to say that I’m much more choosy about being debaucherous.  People need me now.  And just any people,  people I actually made that came out of my vagina.  So you see, I can’t just go and be flagrant.  I might have to tie a shoe tomorrow or cook something and it takes a damn good reason for me to want to do that in between puke sessions.

Below are three more Reasons I’m Home on a Friday Night:

I’m a cheap bitch.  Yeah beers are cheap if you like to hang out in dive bars with a bunch of 16 year olds flashing fake IDs and drinking Miller Piss, but since I’m in no mood to look like a senior citizen, I might have to actually go somewhere a bit more ‘grown-up’.  Now ‘grown-up places’ have ‘grown-up prices’ and that $4.00 dive beer just inflated to $8.00.  Fuck that, for another couple of bucks I could enjoy a nice glass of wine… but then again, I could just stay the fuck home and get a whole goddamn magnum for $14.00!  So I’ve not only at least tripled my alcohol intake but avoided the whole getting-ripped-off-by-the-cab-driver-’cause-I’m-too-wasted-to-see-what-denomination-bill-I-just-handed-this-mother-fucker part.  
Did I mention that at home I can be totally naked without worrying about my bare ass somehow being put on Facebook?

I can get sex anytime I want.  Why go out and whore around drunk looking for sex when I have a husband?  I mean, he’s been trained for almost ten years now to know exactly what the fuck to do to me.  Why would I jump in to the sack drunk with another drunk fool who doesn’t know my hole from a hole in the ground?  And THAT’S considering his drunk ass can even get it UP.  Also, there’s NO walk of shame thing.  Nothing makes you feel more like a whore then stumbling home, panties in purse, while the rest of the world is going to work.  Besides, saying 
“I do” automatically gives you an “I Don’t Swallow Anymore” Pass so I can get it in with zero expectations.  Now THAT’S sex worth having!

You people.  I couldn’t sit here on my ass and write this shit for you other moms who are home on a Friday Night if I’m out being freewheeling, now could I??  I mean, if you’re home right now you’re probably a bit tipsy, or perhaps your kid is still fucking awake and your ready to kill yourself… or both.   In any case, it’s a sad fucking state and so how else would I let you guys know that you’re not alone in the whole “Am I a loser ’cause I’m not going anywhere?” moment you’re having?  I’d much rather be here, in front of my computer imagining you in your nursing bra chuckling in front of yours.  Heeey now, I’m not a lesbo bitch, and I can be just as satisfied imagining you in a Snuggi. The point I’m trying to make is that I love writing and I love laughing and if I can make just one of you laugh too, it’s worth all the piss beer in the world.

Ok, I’m pretty wasted now, time to make sex. TGIF!

No Job, No Fucking Way.

Being a SAHM these past several years has taught me a lot of shit.  Like how to handle hostage negotiations and how long past the expiration date you can still drink milk without massive diarrhea.  I’m used to my life.  It’s comfortable, and no one else fits in my couch’s ass impression quite like me.  So you can imagine my dismay and feelings of impending doom now that the little one is approaching school age.  I have a feeling something’s going to eventually be expected of me.  Something sinister……… 

Something job-ish.

I’m not getting too sweaty about it, I mean I think I can pretend that watching Maury in my 
kid-less home is some kind of paid focus group for at least a couple of months before my husband catches on and asks to see some dough… and then, when I’m found out and my gig is up, I’ll just have to come out with it.  I’ll just look him in the eye and say,
“I can’t fucking get a job.”

Don’t bother me, I’m working.

Of course you know he’s gonna wanna know why, and that’s why, I got that shit covered.  See I’ve been thinking about this a lot, mostly when I’m drunk, but even so, I’m certain my reasoning is legit and my rebuttals — tight.  I’ve explored lots of different entry level career paths too.   I mean, I  have a college degree but it’s in fucking ART, so to employers, it carries as much clout as a piece of shit stained toilet paper.  That being said, I’ll share with you the reasons I simply CANNOT work some jobs just in case you need to use them with your man too.

Food Server — AKA Waitress.  You might be thinking, why can’t you do this job? After all, you’re a MOM!  You should be used to serving people!  Well, you’re fucking wrong.  I’m used to serving KIDS.   Yeah, I’ll bring you your meat, and then I’ll probably hover over your ass and cut it in to a million tiny fucking pieces.  Then I’ll bring you string beans instead of the bacon you ordered and try to convince you they’re just ‘green french fries’.   If you actually end up staying there’s no way in hell I’m bringing you dessert without finishing those green fries and god help you if you talk too much instead of eating.  Off the fucking table you go so….. yeah…. I guess that whole option’s out.

Hey! Guess what!?

Cashier.  First of all, you ‘aint getting your change back from me unless you can identify every coin properly and give me at least three different combinations on how else $1.73 can be made.  If that’s not enough to tell my manager about, I’ll also probably lecture you about the importance of saving money and offer you a chance to earn $1.00 by cleaning my toilet.  Oh, and I’ll most likely slip one of your dollars in my pocket out of habit because I’m just used to thinking 
a) you’ll never notice and 
b) what the fuck do you have to buy anyway?

Ok, so four quarters is the same as…….

Clothing Store Salesperson.   Obviously I will become irate and curse you for making my folded piles messy, chasing you with a fashionable belt out of the store.  And if somehow I manage to bite my tongue with that shit, I’m definitely barging in to your dressing room to make sure you don’t need help buttoning your pants.  There’s no way I’ll let you buy anything but sweaters and hats in the winter and I don’t give a fuck if you’re 45 lady, that shirt is cut waaay too fucking low! “You aren’t leaving this store with that on!!!”

HAI, ME AGAIN!!  Just hold your sleeves and I’ll help you get that sweater on….

And so, There’s really not much else I’m too qualified for…..  although I did see this animal trainer position advertised on Craig’s List the other day.  I guess I can check that out although unless it’s for the fucking circus, I’ll probably just be overqualified.

Now THAT I can DO!

I Fucking Hate Clothes : a poem

Guess what? 

I don’t wear thongs.  They give me yeast infections. 
And I won’t wear shit that cuts me in to sections. 
Too high of a rise and I get camel toe.
I get a muffin top when them shits is too low.  
I can’t do a 34 back size — I’ll get the back flaps
But I can’t wear a sports bra ’cause you can’t adjust the straps.
Boy shorts give me double butt — so not cool,
And push ups give me double boob so fuck that too. 
Bangs give me forehead zits.
Polyester gives me smelly pits.
I refuse to do a baby doll 
I’m a woman not a girl
Skinny leg pants make my ass look big.
A bob on me so looks like a wig.
So fuck the stores, I won’t even shop on-line.
Why can’t I just be naked all the time?