The “F” bomb.

After aimlessly meandering through these past 38 glorious years of life, I’ve come to realize the sheer power of the F bomb; and that is, there are some sentences where it should just not be excluded.  In fact, its placement is an intrinsic necessity to the import of the question or statement.

Not only may it be used as an adjective, adverb and a noun, but it is the perfect sentence enhancer for when the situation is just right.  Kinda like Spongebob and his “sentence enhancers”:

Image::ahem:: It was a really good episode.  shutup.  I digress.  Let’s begin, shall we?:

1.  Recently, I decided to write this post due to an experience I had while at my son’s music school.  I was standing in the office, writing a check and discussing various concerns regarding his music lessons.  I was curious to know how he would be accommodated as he has a learning disability.  Fair enough.  Reasonable concerns.  No?

So I’m sitting there… talking with the school’s manager about matters I consider to be relatively private and issues I should be able to discuss with a manager/professional at the school without interruption.  Perhaps a stretch?  Apparently for them…

Approximately five minutes into our conversation, I fucking kid you not, one of the teachers comes barrel assin’ into the office with a mother of one of the students,  and walks directly in front of me.  She begins to speak and interrupts me mid sentence, asking the manager about a makeup lesson for her student, as though I was not standing there.  As though I were invisible.

Now I’m thinking two things:  1. If I open my mouth RIGHT now it will not come out right.  Hold your tongue, Bridgett.  Then:  2.  Fuck that, I’m saying something.

Me: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Them: ::blank stares:: ::stammering::

Manager: “She has a half an hour time slot to teach her student, so I need to speak with her, Sorry I hope you understand.”

Me: “No I don’t fucking understand.  My son has a half hour “slot” as well.  Their time is not more valuable than ours.  They can get to the back of the fucking line like everyone else.”

This is a prime example of the F bomb and its power.  Without the F bomb, it is possible I wouldn’t have received approximately 15 apologies (as they grabbed my $85.00 check ::ahem::).  Additionally, I now have the pleasure of attending piano recitals and people whispering behind my back calling me: “the crazy ass bitch”.


2.  When you live in New England and you see this forecast for the first time of the year, and think, “And it begins….

ImagePS. that’s today’s “forecast”.  Stick around it may change.  You’re welcome.

3.  One day, long ago, while out shopping I was attempting to enter the Gap with two children in tow.  One child decides, just then in the breezeway of the store, where people are entering and exiting… “this is a great time to throw myself on the floor in fit like fashion and thrash about wildly”.

Indeed.  Of course, my patience had waned to the likes of a smashed dog turd, so I released a maelstrom of obscenities that still clings to the atmosphere above Methuen Massachusetts.  A woman stops in the store’s breezeway (a woman who clearly has no sense of “timing”), and just stands there. staring at me.  judging me.  her eyeballs verbally lashing my face.

I stand upright from my knelt position, and I release the Kracken:


No words. just a dust trail heaved amidst her feet. the power of the F bomb, folks.

4. Recently, while posting random bullshit on Facebook, I find this video which showed a group of scientists excavating a GIANT anthill into which they poured cement and revealed its intricate infrastructure.  I found it amazing and a great tool to enable scientific research, but of course there’s always some ultra liberal tardo who’s gonna whine about the ants.

The same little ant bastards that infest your cabinets in the summer and poop in your sugar bowl then hence your coffee.  Fuck ants.

So I post this video to Facebook.  I receive a response.  I give a response and use the F bomb appropriately…

FYI, Daryl is no longer my friend.  He deleted me because he’s on his period.

Screen Shot 2013-10-21 at 6

5. So I’m watching The Today Show, and this poor girl comes on the screen and I think: “Who the FUCK did your eyebrows?” .  I cannot avert my eyes from the brow.  I could not hear a word that was uttered.  I was mesmerized by the sheer girth of the brow.  The  “F” bomb accentuates your respective level of disbelief and astonishment.


Then I think: “Dear God, am I on acid?   Is this real life?  Wait….is that a frickin’ unicorn in my kitchen?!”

6.  Several years ago (prior to four vaginal ploppings, aka. kids), I was out for an evening of dining at the Bay Tower Room, in Boston Mass.  I arrive in an evening gown on Valentine’s Day (craving the lobster bisque).  The hostess tells me:

“Oh I don’t see your name here for a reservation.  There’s a two hour wait for a table tonight and that’s not even a guarantee. Sorry.”

So I pause, hoping there is a hidden camera and someone is putting me on…. I think, ‘Ok Bridgett, let’s act like a lady you’re wearing your favorite Ralph Lauren gown.  Must behave appropriately.’

I stare back at her face.  She’s blinking. rapidly blinking. a vapid barbie like stare overshadows her face. her cynical smile mocked me, I knew it…

I unleashed furious rage:

“I don’t FUCKING think so, lady!  I called, double check that damn list!  I’m not eating at PF fucking Changs in this dress!”

Thirty minutes later I was enjoying lobster bisque.   I regret nothing.

7.   For most of us who live in New England, we are acutely aware of the “unwritten rules of the road”.   That is, blinkers aka. turn signals, and merging are completely optional.  Additionally,  cutting someone off then going ten miles below the speed limit… par for the course.

In fact, if you have been driving in your car in Massachusetts for the better part of ten minutes and you have not uttered a profanity….. you are doing it wrong.  We don’t ask questions such as:

“Is your directional broken?!”

“What are you blind?!”

“Do you know where the gas pedal is?!”

We have a blanket statement, we all know and use frequently.  The placement of the F bomb relays our universal displeasure, and that is:

“What the FUCK was that?!!”

Simple and to the point.

8.  Your boss.  You’re leaving, it’s 5:15 on a Friday and you’re heading to the bar to meet up with your friends for a celebratory end of week drink.  He stops you and asks, “Where are you going?  You got fifteen more minutes.”

Later you aren’t telling your friends: “I really dislike my boss today.”

No, no, no… later you are telling your friends, three martinis deep:

“fuck that fucking prick.”

Far more accurate sentiment with the F bomb.

9.  Jehovah Witnesses.  Next time one of those black tie bible thumpin’ weirdos comes knocking at your door, answer and once they hand you their “The Watchtower” literature, ask them:

“You do realize no one ever reads this fucking shit, right?”

They will never come back to your house again.  Problem solved.  You’re welcome.

10. and I leave you with this, because owls are cool.


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Rules, sometimes they are meant to be broken.  Because some rules are dumb.

Let’s discuss…

1. Yesterday, while basking in the warm autumn sun at the playground with my son, a stranger standing nearby commented to my son:

“Oh honey, you shouldn’t climb up the slide.”

I bit my tongue because, I didn’t view the controversy as “rumble worthy”.   What I wanted to say: “Get away from me before I thunder punch your throat”.   I was good, I didn’t do that.   They say a picture’s worth a thousand words…. so I made one.

Image2. In 1994 Congress passed the “National Energy Policy Act”, making the low flush toilet the industry standard, which only uses 1.6 gallons per flush.  That’s right kids, once upon a time, a bunch of assholes sat in a room and decided how much water is necessary for the business end of your asshole.

Thanks to Congress you now have to flush three times instead of one time to get rid of the real “troublemaker”.  Brilliant!

3. Swearing: I like to swear.  a lot.  Some consider it a vice, I think of it as a talent.  I like to think of it as a daily “challenge” like: “How many swears can I cram into this sentence? Hmm…. only 17, best step that shit up.”

What pisses me off, are people who come to an ADULT gathering, bring their kid and then ask that you clean up the language.  Or like a bar, people that bring their kid to a damn bar!? then tell me how to behave….are you crappin’ me?

What I want to do, is lean in and whisper into their tender little angel’s ear:

“Get fucking used to it, you weren’t invited.”

4. People on Facebook who write things like this:

“I would really appreciate it if none of you would post about Sons of Anarchy tonight.  Some of us can’t stay up till eleven and have to DVR it, don’t ruin it for the rest of us.”

From now on I will sit and wait for one of these whiny bitches, to write something to the effect of: “Watching The Perfect Stranger with Halle Berry, so far it’s a good one.”  Then I shall comment, “Halle Berry is the killer, fuck you for telling me what to do.  I write what I want.”

You’ve been warned.  I will do it next time. dicks.

5.  Yesterday I watched a documentary on Alcatraz, and as a minor side note it was mentioned that there must always be a light left on in the main hallway of cell block D (even at night, when the tourists have long since departed).  This had me pause in thought, as simple as the statement was, because ummm why?

Next I imagined some fucking asstwit sitting in an office dreaming up this rule:

“I know it’s an empty building, on an island in the middle of the San Francisco Bay surrounded by frigid waters, but they better keep that fucking light on at all times or else….well, or else bad things might happen!  Because I said so… I think?  That fucking light just better stay the fuck on!!!!”

I swear to God, there are people out there just like this wasting precious oxygen.

6. In 1966, The Treasury Department authorized the Federal Reserve Banks to destroy “worn out” paper currency.  So when these old bills arrive at the Federal Reserve Bank, they are fed through a high-speed shredder, which cuts them into strips.  It is reported that the life of a one dollar bill is approximately 22 months and a one hundred dollar bill is spared a little longer and has a 7-year life span.

Are you crappin’ me? I could make a dollar bill last way longer than just shy of two years, I mean really.  This makes as much sense to me as this:


7.  In 1978, The Supreme Court rendered a decision in the case of Tennessee Valley Authority v. Hill, regarding this little guy:


This little three inch fish rocked its way all the way up to the Supreme Court.  This case involved the construction of the Tellico Dam on the Little Tennessee River in 1973.  A biologist, David Etnier, discovered that construction of the Tellico Dam would alter the habitat of the river to the point of wiping out the snail darter (an animal on the endangered species list).

Oh, did I mention that amidst the snail darter controversy/litigation, the construction of the dam never ceased?  Yeah… to the tune of 110 million dollars.  Wicked cool, huh?  Why did we keep building?  I don’t know, but this little bastard fish could have potentially cost us all obscene amounts of tax dollars.  Let’s circle back to that.

Chief Justice Warren wrote the majority, halting construction of the dam, stating that to continue with the construction would be a direct violation of the letter of the law or the “Endangered Species Act”.   The day this decision was rendered officially went down in history as: “The Day America got sand in its vagina, over a fucking three inch fish.”

One of Jimmy Carter’s only saving grace, he signed a bill in September of 1979, exempting the Tellico Dam project from the Endangered Species Act.

Only Jimmy Carter went and fucked that up in 1980, when he granted political asylum to 3,500 Cuban refugees, and Miami became a Babylon of sorts (only with riots and lunatics sleeping under the 95 overpass and the Miami Orange Bowl).  Fun.  Awwee, he wanted to be nice though, aint that the sweetest thing?

Like Fidel was only going to send over 3,500 people, because you know…. he’s a wicked good listener and all. Castro saw this as an opportunity to purge his country of many undesirables including political dissidents, hard-core criminals, and the mentally ill.  Castro stated: “They want them, they can have them, I will flush my toilets.”

Oh and he did.  I could go on, but that’d just be silliness.  Then in 2002 we gave Jimmy Carter the Nobel Peace Prize.  What the fuck for?

Ok maybe for Habitat for Humanity, the rest…..meh, I don’t see it.  Hey Nobel Peace Prize committee, I made stool this morning shaped like an “S”, where’s my prize?!

8.  Let’s face it… not everyone is going to like us.  I mean I KNOW that I am not everyone’s cup of tea.  Nor do I want to be, because what’s the fun in that?   I know there’s an “unwritten rule” that we aren’t supposed to tell people when we don’t like them.  I believe this rule should be abolished and we should be allowed to tell people without them getting offended.

It’s life, we can’t impress everyone right?  I believe it would make life easier and we could just plan things without them because now, it’s out there.   Then we could write songs like this and sing it from the mountain tops.  What a wonderful world that would be:

deborah-lee-tindle-69. Shoes.  Somebody please explain to me why I have to put shoes on my infant son? Why is this some kind of strange rule, that a child who doesn’t walk must wear shoes or socks? Especially when wrapped inside ten fucking layers of blanket.  Please explain this enigma of life to me, because if I have one more person ask me:

“Where’s his little shoes?”

I swear I will go completely apeshit.  I am assuming the appropriate response isn’t: “Stuffed inside your ass”.  Instead I politely nod.

10. Towns that don’t allow smoking outside. OUTSIDE!!!  What kind of pansy ass communist bullshit is that?!  I don’t get that…

The next step is such Orwellian measures as installing cameras in our toilets.  An hour after we make BM we receive a call from some government monkey and it goes something like this:

“Oh, hey Mrs. Nicolace, we know you ate corn last night at supper.  We were wondering what happened to the corn?  The corn is a mystery… we must know the whereabouts of this corn!”

corn poops, that is all.

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Thing’s I’ve learned while being a mom.

Sure, this topic has been written about oh, I don’t know… probably a gazillion-ish times.   But I thought I’d share my “take” on things nonetheless.

So on that note, I thought I would list a few of my own observations.  Just for fun.  Let’s begin:

1. “Oh isn’t he/she cute?!”:  Anyone who cruises our proverbial hipster social networks of the world, knows two universal truths:  1. You are a part of the group who posts entirely too many pictures of your children.  OR  2. You are part of the group who posts entirely too many pictures of your pet.

If you are a part of group #1 and you’ve just seen the 1,450th picture of your friend’s dog/cat/pygmy goat/bunny or two toed sloth, you think,  “For the love of God, will you just have a f*cking kid already?!”


If you are a part of group #2 and you’ve just seen the 10,567th picture of your friend’s kid(s), you think, “Your damn kid is ugly anyway, I’m never having kids… people lose their damn mind when they have kids.” -immediately posts picture of dogs wearing pantyhose.- 

ImageOR Taco Dog.  all normal.  hell, it doesn’t matter what it is, we all just secretly “cyber-hate” one another.


2. Kids can be dicks:  Yes, I went there.  They can be, dicks, big ol’ penises.  For instance, here’s how they work:

a. ‘Oh, were you eating that?’-as their stubby little fingers nonchalantly steal a sandwich from your plate the moment you turn your head.-

b. ‘Oh, were you trying to eat a nice quiet dinner?’ -let me show you how I can make meatloaf fly.-

c. ‘Oh, did you need those car keys?’better call the plumber, I just flushed those bitches down the john. Aint I cute though?-

d. ‘Oh, you’re bringing me to a restaurant?’ -Allow me to burp the alphabet, then call the waitress fat.-

e. ‘Oh, were you watching that?’ -Watch me thrash my body about (in lunatic fashion) until you put Spongebob back on.-

f. ‘Oh, were you talking to another adult?’Que my ear piercing shrill cry, as I cropdust you both.-

g. ‘Oh, you have work in the morning?’ -I can’t think of a better time to cry about ab-so-lute-ly fucking nothing!-

3. Foreplay: Foreplay is fun isn’t it?

Myth: Foreplay comes to a screeching halt once you’re married.

Truth: No, no, no…. it comes violently careening off the road into a fiery crash once you have children.  Because you both know,  at a moments notice, that sweet falsetto voice will pierce the veil of an early morning “session”, looking for mommy and daddy.

So now you’re thinking, “Holy crap! Is this a Lochness Monster sighting? In my bedroom? NO, no… oh my, it’s an actual erect penis!!  Woah, well, I’d better hop on that thing before it scurries off into the mist!  I’m going in!”

4. Old men: Children tell stories just like little old men… Usually their stories are long and sometimes without a point; in fact, a “plot” is entirely frivolous in their respective worlds.  Sometimes characters/places are fictitious but more often than not, no matter how hard you try, you do not know the what the hell they are talking about.  Don’t get me wrong, kids can be hilarious, but they don’t learn that brevity is king for quite a few more years.

For now… suck it up.

5. Cha Cha Cha:  Remember that Cha Cha Cha song about diarrhea you used to sing as a kid? You know the one…. “Some people think it’s funny, but it’s really hot and runny, diarrhea… diarrhea, CHA CHA CHA!!”

Truth: That song WAS funny.  It is no longer funny at 2 a.m. when your child is walking downstairs with a stream of fresh “Cha Cha Cha” running down his/her leg. -ok, so maybe the song is still a little funny-

6. “You know what I think?”: Everyone has an opinion, everyone has untraveled wisdom on how to raise your children.  It’s amazing how many people think they know your child well enough to offer their unabridged wealth of knowledge, after having spent nearly zero minutes with your child/children.

‘Hmmm, yes…. indeed, do tell.’

You see, my eldest child is autistic and my three year old is speech delayed and the “nuggets of wisdom” are always forthcoming;  Almost kinda like “cha cha cha”, if you know what I mean. ::ahem::

So circling back: The advice always starts with, “You know what I think?”

Yes Dearest, Doc. Spock’s of the world, I’m talking to you: you know what I think?  I think you should go bobbing for apples… in a shark tank, with your dick.

OR if that doesn’t suit your fancy, I can bake you a pie. like you know…


7. Shit Lottery:  This only really holds true for those of us who were foolish blessed enough to have more than one shit maker bundle of joy.

What is this black magic of which I speak?  Well, it’s simple really… it’s when you go to change one child’s shit pants, and to your surprise you discover,  the other one has also made you a “present”.

congrats, you just won what I call, “the shit lottery”.

8. Kisses: Sure you kiss your spouse.  Sure you kiss your nieces/nephews/mom/dad…. etc.  But you will never kiss anyone’s head/face/cheek as much as you kiss your kid’s.  Trust.  In fact, if my kid’s head had a marquee it would read: “One billion kisses served.”  True story.

9. Playdates: This one applies especially to women.  It doesn’t really matter how much our children like one another, WE (the moms) must get along (and btw, our criteria is utterly shallow).  While out at a playgroup or at a playground we are scoping the women for our perfect “match”….

“Dear God, she’s wearing a vest with kittens on it AND Crocs.  There’s no way I’m calling her.”

10. Last but certainly not least… some of the most important lessons I’ve learned while being a mom.

How they remind us, to be kind, and to love without limits.  How they show us to appreciate their innocence, their desire to nurture and care for others without judgment or inhibition.



How they make us a laugh without even trying.  They are simply, just themselves…


Their laughter, their smile, that quirky hand motion or that all too familiar sense of humor, those subtle hints that shine through and remind you… they are forever and inextricably a part of you.


 After longing for some time alone,  once they’ve been gone for five minutes… you’re already thinking about them, worrying and missing them all at the same time.  This will happen until we are gone, I think.


How much they change our lives, the monumental sacrifices we make, the worry that consumes our hearts, and the old freedoms we covet at times…

The truth is, if we had to choose, we’d rather sacrifice everything… because without them we’d have nothing. 

Life is wonderful.




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A.D.D., my ass.

Hey people.. What up?

So a couple weeks back, I took my son, Cob, to see a neurologist to have him evaluated for A.D.D. per the adamant request of my son’s teacher and the school principal (a sister).  I knew this was more of a maturity issue rather than a learning disability.  However, despite my position, both of these women insisted Cob be placed on medication for his “inattention/hyperactivity”.  I told them my position against medicating a child, but they persisted;  insisting on the ‘positives’ on medicating a child.

I mean no offense to those of you who do such, but I am strongly opposed.  We are all entitled to do as we wish with our own…::ahem::

Although, my mind does search for biblical scripture (being this is a Catholic school my son attends), which would strongly advocate medicating small children? I’m at a loss… Apparently I was absent during CCD when they read the following passage:

“And Moses appeared from the behind the burning bush with a satchel of Adderall, and said, ‘Come fourth young brethen who be a raging pain in the backside.  I shall medicate thee,  so thou shall not be smite with the plagues of a thousand whores. Don’t make me go all Abraham on your punk ass.  It didn’t end well for Isaac, kids.'”

Nope, missed that one.   Anyway, the doctor’s appointment, I took him just to shut these women up.  I was not convinced that my child had ADD, nor was I willing to medicate him  under ANY circumstances.  But I took him… here’s how that went:

The doctor comes in, and asks Jacob a series of questions.  He responds clearly and reasonably, and with little to no hesitation.  It was really me that was the problem.  The doctor had to ask me some questions as well…

He handed me a questionnaire and left the room giving me time to answer them in regards to Cob and his behavior.  Cob begins to mock our visit with the following quips, as he spins in his chair:

“I’m sorry to inform you Jacob, but you are mentally retarded.”  -i respond with uproarious inappropriate laughter. we both laugh till our faces turn red-


“Jacob, do your balls itch at night?”  -more laughter-

The entire ritual was laughable, since we both know there is no disability.  The child is sharp, cool and funny.  The doctor re-enters the room staring (mostly at me), since he undoubtedly heard our hysterical fits of laughter. The doctor then asks me, during a random series of questions:

“Does he often stare off into space for extended periods of time?”

I’m not entirely certain why this question struck me as funny… but I laughed, I tried to stop…impossible.  The doc just stared some more.  It was just ridiculous.  I think I was still reeling from the ‘balls’ chat with Cob.

To sum it up, the doctor does not believe Cob has A.D.D. as he does not present with the typical symptoms, also he is an A, B student.  Academically and socially Cob is doing just fine.  Only I’m surprised the doctor didn’t say:

“Jacob, you’re fine, but your mother is mentally disturbed, I’d like to medicate her.  Do I have your permission?”

True Story.   To follow up,  I sent the following email to both the women who insisted I have him evaluated and medicate him with mind altering drugs.  Cob is a bright child, he’s just lazy.  A real little lazy dink sometimes… but give that boy a video game and he’s got it beat in less than 12 hours.

We can all be lazy, and he excels at a game I call: “Grab ass”.   This game may be enjoyed by all,  it’s easy… You merely do everything other than what you are SUPPOSED to be doing.  There, now you have a name for that thing you do… Some people call it “procrastination”,  I call it grab ass.  We all play  a little grab ass.

So here’s the email I sent to these two women. I think I relayed the sentiment.  Enjoy…

email screen shot 1

Screen Shot 2 email

And then the picture I attached for them to enjoy.  I’ve yet to hear a response.  Meh – it’s early. :


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9/11 – 12 years later, and Happy Birthday to my Son, Jameson.

Twelve years ago on the eve of this day, thousands of people packed their bags for a trip they would take.  Bags that would never be unpacked.  People they would never meet.  A business trip left unattended and unresolved.  Unwittingly loved ones spent that last night lying next to a lover or a friend.  Shared their last hug or kiss.  Left their side with either sorrow or great anticipation for what the future would bring.

Only the following day to learn those were the last moments they would ever share.  The unimaginable horror consumes me every year on this day…. But it also teaches me to be thankful.  To be grateful for the short time I am given here, on this place we call earth.  To hug my loved ones a little tighter, to complain a little less and to love a little more.

As the story goes…. it begins in the summer of 1997.   I began to visit NYC several times for shopping and theater.  For a small amount of time I was convinced that was where I would spend the remainder of my days.  Only it didn’t happen that way.  I had children and my roots remained firmly in NH. Tis’ life.

But I remember…

plummeting through a cavernous dimly lit tunnel, a NYC PATH train twisted through the underground terrain as my body was thrust against a steel beam to which my fist was tightly clenched.  Within minutes of its hurried journey, there was squeal of air released from its accordion like doors to which a mass exodus of commuters and tourists flocked. The underground train released its herd of passengers into what was then an underground mall inside the World Trade Center.

Upon entering the tiled mecca brimming with activity, my senses were accosted with an overwhelming consortium of sights and sounds.  There were the most delightful smells, something akin to walking through a cloud of doughy goodness laced with intermittent hints of marinara.  The melodious sounds of street performers stringing their instruments and the pangs of steel drums awakened even the most dulled of senses.  The sheer volume of people walking through these halls resonated a dull drum like tone; a sound accompanied by a muddled mess of indistinct chatter.

Eventually making my way to the above ground world, I navigated the very edge of a sidewalk attempting to view the majesty of the twin towers that loomed overhead.  I craned my head back so far, it seemed as though an imaginary hinge was crafted at the base of my neck.  These stupendous structures seemed to infinitely span into a silvery cloud cover that loomed in the Manhattan sky.

My week was filled with kamikaze cab rides, shopping, sight seeing and cocktails. I left behind the metropolis playground with my card stock covered disposable camera filled with a collection of memories; along with an assortment of keychains and mugs. I returned to New Hampshire where life would resume as usual until one day….

What we believed would be our ordinary nine to five day turned out to be anything but routine.  On that day not one of us expected what would forever jilt our country’s collective sense of security…. the most devastating series of attacks in history on our American soil.

Words cannot adequately depict a clear image of what we all felt that day.  Images that have forever been seared into the hearts and minds of Americans and citizens across the globe.  An unbearable measure of sorrow consumed the lives of the victim’s loved ones.  On that day there would forever be a deep scar of loss inflicted on our lives that no measure of antiseptic salve could ever fully nurture.  For the innocent victims and heroes of 9/11 our country wept an innumerable amount of tears, yet the outpouring display of human kinship and kindness touched us in a way will never forget.

A year after this tragedy, I revisited Manhattan to witness the devastating void where blind hatred had indiscriminately left its mark; to stand where I had four years ago and I tried to digest the now forever gone Goliath like structures.  Standing at ground zero abreast to a chain link fence I glanced down the sheen of a glossy billboard which carefully enumerated the names of fallen victims.  Two beams from the structures were welded into the shape of a cross which now stood at the center of ground zero.  A mural depicting the statue of liberty was painted on the facade of an adjacent building which read, “The human spirit is not measured by the size of the act, but by the size of the heart.”

Amateur drawings that foretold of a toddler’s Crayola creations were posted on this same fence, finger-painted hearts and the like were scribbled on greetings to their fallen parents, aunts, uncles or cousins.  Another recurrent theme were T-shirts displayed on the fence’s metal webbing, shirts with a person’s name and picture; with signatures and sentiments penned around the person’s face.  In the background, a street performer serenaded the crowd with his flute as he played “America the Beautiful” with the expectation of a donation in his brown rimmed hat that sat at his feet.  As I stood there reading the billboard names, the horrific events of the day replayed in my mind.

the tears.  the great sorrow,  it still hurts.

Years later, on September 10, 2010, I went into labor with my son, Jameson Bird. My husband and I made our way to the hospital that night around 6pm in a state of unadulterated bliss knowing our baby boy would soon be here.  Not surprisingly, there weren’t many thoughts which distracted my mind from the task at hand.  But then it occurred to me…if I did not give birth prior to midnight, I would have a September 11th baby.  I will be honest,  I was concerned for the negative connotations this day would imprint on my son’s life.

I had secretly hoped that I would deliver Jameson that night, but I did not deliver Jameson until the early morning hours of September 11th.  But I learned… On this sad day, I could now rejoice in new life, I could rejoice in the baby giggles,  the first words, the wobbly first steps and the tears of joy.

God willing, with every passing year I may see him grow into a wonderful man like his father.  While this day will always hold a great measure of sorrow, what I have learned is that no one -no matter how powerful and mighty they may believe themselves to be- they may never take away our hope.  Sometimes when you look just right, life will show us light in the strangest of places. But most importantly, that life is so very precious…. go home and tell someone you love them tonight.  trust.

Also, Happy Birthday to my little man, Jameson Bird.  Mommy and Daddy love you with all our hearts. 9.11.10



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Life in New England.

Oh hey. So it’s September.  And you know what that means?!  YEP, we here in New England lose our ever lovin’ minds.  -i will circle back to that- But, for the most part we are good peeps.  I mean you know, we are friendly to check out clerks and smile at the random passerby whilst shopping at Market Basket.  That is unless of course there is a sale announced and we frantically stampede toward the front of aisle 9; like a herd of ravenous water buffalo tracking prey…. sending small children airborne like chunks of turf from underfoot.  -meh. we got our 12 pack of Sam Adams for 8.99, so what there were no survivors?-

Otherwise, we aren’t so bad.  I mean the rap we’re given, being snobs and all.  Not always true…  but sometimes we get the proverbial hair betwixt our anus.  For instance, we don’t do “neighbors”, we don’t make nicey nice that is.  We get home….we have then entered our bubble.  We aren’t  bringing over pies and cakes, nary a June Cleaver shit in these parts.  In fact, if I were to venture a guess, my fellow New Englander brethren would prefer the following activity over socializing with their fellow neighbors:

  1. Clench Fist
  2. Insert into anus (sans lube)
  3. Open hand. wiggle fingers.
  4. remove hand. lick fingers clean.

There are exceptions, there always are. But yeah, that’s the degree of dislike for our neighbors.  I don’t get it, but so tis’.

We drive like douchebags.  Straight up D’s.  But that’s OK as long as you are making a B-line for one of these (in fact if you don’t see one of these within five minutes of driving. bang a u-turn. you’ve driven south of Rhode Island.):


And like I said before… It’s September and pumpkin coffee is back! OMG pumpkin flavor!!! ::tremulous anticipation, seizures and white froth seeps from mouth! ahhhhhhhh gahhhh  f*cking pumpkin!!!:: all normal behavior. trust.  ::ahem:: Along with pumpkin flavored coffee comes pumpkin donuts and pumpkin muffins.  This is also about the time we buy pumpkin scented candles,  make pumpkin flavored bread and then produce pumpkin scented farts.  Pumpkin f*cking everywhere!! In fact, i’m nearly certain if one were able, they’d fashion their sphincter to produce pumpkin shaped poo then stick a wick in it.  Thank heavens that’s an impossibility. ::phew::

Also, we have the most complex of coffee orders, something akin to genuflecting to the coffee gods.  In fact, to get just the right mix, the moon must be on the cusp of Gemini and the sun must be in the house of mercury. Also, a pigmy goat must be sacrificed.  Done.  And, I love the people who order this:

” Yeah, I’ll have a large French Vanilla iced coffee. MELT THE SUGAR! Xtra xtra cream and xtra xtra sugar. Oh, and half the ice!”

A.k.a., “The filthy beast”.  These are the same people who complain they’re tired around 11am.  Yeah, no shit genius you just drank a liquid friggin’ snickers bar??  My favorite…when they plop that bad larry into the cup holder of a treadmill at the gym.  Why not just bring a handle of rum? Or just eat a snickers… you’ll feel better.  Like Joe Pesci.

joe pesci snickers

We also LOVE fairs.   Every year, right around this time (september/octoberish).. we go to outdoor fairs.  There we may buy more pumpkins! or old freaky dried to crap lookin’ corn to slap on our front door and oh yah, meat on a stick!  There’s also the rides, you know the same rides that have been disassembled and reassembled about 1,459 times, are encased in rust and violently shake…we like to put our young children on them.  They are operated by a dude named Jose who doesn’t speak English and smiles creepily, with the only three teeth which remain in his head.  There’s horses that pull heavy shit… uh, ok let’s do that then?  Then there’s a tent…where they shave sheep.   {You know, if you really wanna get the ol’ blood pumping}.  It’s not fancy but it’s what we do, every year.  Dare I say it’s actually fun, yikes.  did i miss a few?


The nice kinda sorta OK thing about living in New England, we don’t fuss too much about our looks.  You don’t have to coif, (coif, such a funny word), prior to checking the mail just in case the neighbors catch a glimpse of our unsightliness.  Full on… who cares.  Class it up, go out in your bathrobe, screw it.  I’ve actually seen a man in his boxers, checking his mail.  NO one cares.  It can be a blessing and also a burden at times.  For instance, no one wants to see your buttcrack brimming from atop your hello kitty pajamas whilst grocery shopping. That’s a tip. You’re welcome.

There’s a scarcity of Wisteria Lane type folks, if you will.  While they exist, we New Englanders do provide a lovely potpourri of sorts.  One will not likely find  a “Gabby” sort from Desperate Housewives pushing Sriracha flavored chips right round the ol’ corner…

desperate housewives

You’re far more likely to find a man or woman, sitting on their front porch stoop with a prominent dunlap bursting just beneath a Nascar T-shirt…. smoking a Marlboro.  Like I said, there are the svelte ones, but you’re far more likely to bump into this guy:


We LOVE Nascar… essentially a group of rednecks watching other rednecks turning left.  It’s riveting. really.  Ok, so I lied, it’s really just an excuse to binge drink for an entire weekend.  Starting at about 8:30 am.  Nothing says ‘let’s party’ more than tossin’ back shots over bacon and eggs.  Actually, i’m not gonna lie…the people are a blast.  Since sobriety is essentially not an option.  I mean what’s more fun than watching someone crash in a fiery wreck? nada much.

Which brings me to this.  We love our booze.  So that landed us here.  Be proud.  That shit WAS NOT easy. Ok, so it was pretty easy.  We’re fun. shutup.:

Screen Shot 2013-09-05 at 3.14.16 PM

We have this amusement park in Salem NH, Canobie Lake Park, for about 4 months out of the year it is in operation and people from NH and Mass (mostly) come to visit.  This is where we gather and emerge from our fall/winter hibernation and our potpourri population “mingles” annually.  I’ve provided a Bingo card for your entertainment/use if you should ever visit.  This may also be used at local Wal-Marts.  This should easily paint a clear picture of our lovely New England “flair”. enjoy… please use responsibly.

canobie bingo

PS. yes, there is a random peacock that walks around. every year…like clockwork, a single god damned googly eyed frickin’ real life peacock.  it’s inexplicable, really. I still don’t get it?  You may find one of these at Wal-Mart as well, every other tuesday of the month, let’s say?  But oh Canobie Lake, you are an enigma.  It’s chock full of “character”.  Great for people watching. trust.

They also have this new ride called “Untamed”.  It’s actually a complete blast.  No lie.  They were smart about this one, and put a “test seat” at the entrance of the ride.  So you know,  patrons won’t stand in a line for over an hour only to discover their ass is too large for the seat.  They figured a sign that read: Ride is not designed for those with a large ass, would border on the tacky and tasteless realm of things.  So problem solved, “a test seat”. ahhh, everyone wins.

large bumsTotally random, we bumped into this little guy.  A baby squirrel.  Usually I’m not a big fan of squirrels but the baby ones are kinda cute. awwwe.

photo 1

I could go on and on and on about life in New England.  It’s mostly swell.  It has it’s quirks, like any other place.  But I will leave you with this, “and that day on the playground, little Susie’s life changed forever when Tommy whispered ‘penis’ into her ear.”  Penis. That is all.


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sorry i laughed.

OK, I lied. I’m not really sorry.

I know I’m not alone in the following admission: “I laugh at shit I’m not supposed to.”

why? well, I’m very immature.  I have no other logical explanation. I have stories.

Let’s begin:

1.  While attending law school, my cohorts and I would occasionally take short breaks in a gazebo that was a few short feet from the entrance.  One fine spring day, my friend Joe (not really Joe), told me an unforgettable tale.  One I will surely share with my grandkids, which goes as follows:

Joe: “Bridge, you will NOT believe what happened last night.”

Me: “What now?”

Joe: “Well, my wife and I were going to watch a movie in bed last night.  So she pulls our blanket out of the dryer, and I guess it had a bit of static cling.”

Me: “yeah?”

Joe: “Well, I guess she farted right before I entered the room and she started violently shaking the blanket to get rid of the stench.”

Me: “uhhh, ok?”

Joe: “dude….The next thing I know she’s jumping out of the bed rolling around on the damn floor! I would never have believed this could happen if I didn’t see it with my own eyes!! The static from the blanket LIT HER FART ON FIRE!”

Me: “What?!  No way that just happened!”

Joe: “Yes!! She was rolling around on the floor to extinguish the flames!”

Me: ::Uproarious scathing laughter:: “Holy shit!” -literally-

Moral of the story… next time use a little snuggle fabric softener.  Avoid charred “ignition points” and awkward social situations.  Poor snuggles the bear, never had a chance.

smokey bear

2. One morning, approximately nine years ago, it was very early… around 4:30 am.  Suddenly, a maelstrom of obscenities spewed from my exes’ lips and traveled upstairs pricking my sleepy ears:

“Well gosh dang it, mother of god! You have got to be gosh dang kiddin’ me!! For the love of god! What a f*ckin’ mess!” – oh,  did I mention he has a southern twang which makes for far more humorous episodes of cussing?-

That morning when I awoke, I found an Oscar Mayer weenie wrapper taped to my bathroom vanity, along with a note that read: ‘This was clogging the toilet, and made the whole damn toilet overflow this morning. Keep a better eye on the kids, please!”

You see, the man was uh… “very regular”.  So I knew there were a few “finless brown trout” swimming around on our bathroom floor that morning.  A few logs a floatin’ down the ol’ river.  Feel what I’m laying down? hope I’m not being to subtle. ::ahem::

My email reply to him that morning, I recall it like it was yesterday: “I admire your fortitude for filtering through your morning constitution to acquire said weenie wrapper.  That really must have been something to remember.” He did not appreciate the sentiment.

As an aside, I also noticed that the wrapper was spotless, which suggested that he cleaned the label as well… also hilarious.  moral of the story: sometimes, you don’t want to be an “Oscar Mayer Weenie”… true story.

3.  As a child, I remember my father always had nice cars, various muscle cars and classic cars he’d fix up.  It was a hobby of sorts, and he always made sure my mom had a sweet ride.  This, however, came with a certain degree of expectations… unrealistic expectations for a woman with two small children.  i digress….

One summer day that started innocently enough, we loaded up the ol’ family wagon for a  trip to the local soda jerk shop. –soda jerk, who says that? funny-  I kid, we were just getting ice cream.  Only to this day,  I will never understand why the following events went down the way they had?

We had a white Monte Carlo with a maroon plush interior, gaudy buckle handle grips, complete with a magnificent golden scroll along the dash. It was like a couch on wheels, really… the finishing touch,  T-tops -so 80’s-.

With the T-tops down, on that fine summer day, with the wind in our hair we took to the open road with the anticipation of creamy cool ice cream tantalizing our tender senses.

I don’t remember the flavor of ice cream I ordered that day. But I vividly recall my brother’s choice…. chocolate.

Once there, after making our flavor choice, our father returned to the car with our cones.  No picnic table? really? Eat it IN HERE? well, shit… Even as a child I knew I’d rather counter with the likes of Satan at the precipice of Hades, than let even a drop fall from my lips. quickest ice cream cone of my life. straight up.

Then without warning, we were off… T- tops down, and that’s when gusty wind blasted toward us, and the chocolate shower began. Through my whipping hair, I could see my brother’s eyes widen to the likes of saucers with tiny black pins at their center.  The utter fear was mind numbing, and also hilarious… well, for me. at the time.

The never ending chocolate shower spattered across his rosy cheeks and onto the maroon plush beneath him. Luckily, my uproarious laughter was drowned out with the sounds of hearty wind gusts, as my brother’s face was completely enveloped in brown.   Suddenly,  his eyes instinctively clasped shut, and then the chocolate shower turned torrential and whole chunks began to spray.  Until there was nothing left but a very sad, very empty cone.

the horror. the inexplicable chocolate horror. Oh, and the belly laughs.

4.  We were venturing out one Sunday afternoon for a nice “family day”, but prior to our departure we had a new car seat which had to be “installed”.  My husband struggled with the epic torture device, and for some reason it was not anchoring properly.  A ten minute struggle ensued with its straps and the equipment’s enraging awkward girth.  Our perplexed two year old stared into his rage filled eyes, beads of sweat formed on my husband’s brow and his complexion flourished to the likes of a steamed radish…. After several minutes he exclaimed:

“I am so f*cking pissed right now!”

Of course I laughed, which I tried desperately to suppress only my body began to spasm into seizure like tremors…. and then out it came; the uproarious inappropriate laughter.

Today, I regret nothing, he was not amused. Meh… But to this day I still recall to him the aforementioned quote; complete with grinding teeth and affected seething rage, for even the slightest episode of rage:

Can’t fix a bothersome drip? que that shit up! “I’m so f*cking pissed right now!!”  Can’t find your car keys and you’re running late?  rip it out…  No cream left for your coffee?  bamm…. angry eyebrows, furious rage!!

He still doesn’t see the humor.  I think he’s coming around though, any day now.

5.  This cartoon on Nick Jr., Peppa Pig.  Is it me or do all these pigs look like they have a penis for a face?  Inappropriate? yes….


Actually to be more precise, they look more like chodes.  What’s a chode?  Let’s reference good ol’ urban dictionary, shall we?

Screen Shot 2013-08-29 at 8.06.47 AM

What’s the moral of this story? my kids aren’t watching that shit.

6. I had a house in Portsmouth, there I had a long mahogany table and also hardwood floors.  From time to time I would bust out the lemon pledge and give it a shining. Only one day, I also pledged the floor. totally by accident. really…

Enter stage right, my ex… who went down like a 250 lb. sack of potatoes.  He stood baffled, as my bouquet of heckling laughter clung to the air around us, and he asked while staring at the floor:

“What in the dang heck?!”

More laughter.

6.  When we were young’uns, my parents brought my brother and I to a farm. There my brother was attacked by a rooster.  No injuries, just the hilarity of my mother chasing down an irate rooster; and me laughing hysterically while my father dragged me off to the bathroom for a good ol’ spanking.  Don’t care, it’s still funny.

On that note, I gots to go. I have very important, adult like things to do today. I leave you with this:


Anyone thinking, Paris? yeah… me neither, totally thinking Penis.

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the epic fail mall trip. with a happy ending.

Oh, hey there.   It’s Friday and that’s good.  Let’s just say yesterday, not the best day.  Little itsy bitsy background.  I’m hosting a benefit tomorrow for my dear friend Ann, she has poly cystic kidney disease and needs a transplant soon… as her kidneys are functioning at a dangerously low level.  As I am last minute mary, i waited till yesterday to go shopping for various items to place in a gift basket to raffle.  I couldn’t find what I was looking for (after about an hour of searching), but the torrent of shit didn’t end there, my friends.

Somehow I managed to hold it all together, and when I returned home I sent my planning committee the following private email, which essentially detailed my shitty day.  My friend, Sherry, thought it was so funny she asked my permission to post and share on facebook.  Hell, why not… share away.

You know, after I read it again, I thought: ‘well crap, that is kinda funny’.  So I thought, ‘why not share it myself?’  This feels backward to me, aren’t I supposed to share first? too funny.  Well enjoy. and happy weekend, all. (this is raw form, no editing, probably some grammar faux pas, and a few f-bombs. I thought it best to leave it in its authentic form…zero filter. you’ve been warned. carry on):

Thursday 5:04pm

Bridgett Nicolace

So here’s my basket. I was going to get a bathrobe and a pair of slippers but no dice… could not find a plain white terry cloth robe to save my fucking life today. I looked in EVERY store in the fucking mall. So instead I bought a shit ton of bath and body stuff including an air freshener like a decorative plug in (pumpkin scent), a pumpkin scented candle, a body poof, and pumpkin body gel, pumpkin lotion, two perfumes (random fragrances), I think three other bath gels and a couple more lotions ( i think three) idk… about 100 bucks worth of smelly froo froo crap. I hope that this is Ok.

Today was epically shitty. I’m sure most of you saw my husband’s post. Well, due to moving/packing and juggling 4 kids, i had myself a little nervous breakdown at the mall today. If I wasn’t rushing around at the last damn minute I’d be fine.

My mom agreed to watch all but one child, Jameson. Jameson was fine… well, I go to Wal-mart… proceed to smash my hand between the carriage and a wall. bleeding. I had to request a bandage from the first aid kit. awesome.

We go to the mall. I look for no lie, about an hour in all stores for a bathrobe and slippers that don’t look like an old lady from the trailer park just put it on a hanger for a quick take. Legit ugly shit in every single store, a whole lot of hello kitty bullshit…not happening. I was snapping at cashiers at this point as I was in full on asshole mode.

Gets better. I decide, fuck this noise, I’m trying on some clothes… I gotta doll my shit up for Saturday. Like not crazy dolled up, just something that isn’t stained or has holes in it. Ya’ know… classy shit.

Yeah so there i am in the macy’s dressing room. Trying stuff on. One outfit to be precise. In that amount of time, Jameson flips over in his stroller, and that’s when I discovered that he had shit his pants as his ass revealed a saturated ick of green diarrhea shit. Soaked through his pants diarrhea shit. OMG and the smell hit me.

Well when he took “the dive” so did the stroller which contained a new plastic item I purchased that shattered on the floor. Now I’m sweating and my pits reek of steamed hot dogs. seriously the scent was ungodly. combined with the shit stink.

Well, it gets EVEN better. A woman with two of her daughters comes in the same dressing room and they are carrying on about the smell and “how could they even stand the smell in there and she was leaving” blah blah…

Now I’m horrified and rushing to get out of the dressing room. I stop to apologize to the woman, and I am now frantically searching for the restroom. I couldn’t stop to pay for the items because this woman I just apologized to now knows my kid has shit in his pants.

Well, not wanting to put the items back on the rack, I brought them into the bathroom with me. Security was waiting for me outside the woman’s bathroom. They only questioned me, but it was hugely embarrassing. I never put them inside my bag and just explained the situation.

I know you can’t imagine this but it gets better. I lost my iphone… I think during the great carriage spill inside Macy’s. Truth is, i don’t even fucking care to call. That’s about when I broke down crying the second time today. The first time was inside macy’s around several people.

wtf. bad bad day. so how bout that basket!! hope this will be ok.

I did get the frames for the gift cards later girls, see you saturday. 3:30 pm


Hilarious, no?  I too find other people’s misery to be amusing.  So it’s only fair to laugh at my own from time to time.  It’s so inexplicably human, really.  Word of the day, schadenfreude. It’s fancy, but I fit it in whenever I can; as I often delve into said world of “humor”.  I believe most of us do, as we are completely effed in the head. -mostly-

Screen Shot 2013-08-23 at 8.51.43 AM

The Happy Ending… my h-bee is the best.  Just a couple of the reasons why I love him so -not an exhaustive list-:

he posts this to my wall when I have a bad diarrhea experience with the babe at the mall.

Screen Shot 2013-08-23 at 7.57.28 AM

And he sings to our babies. i’m one lucky girl. enjoy. 🙂 -See I told you… happy ending. –

PS. Just want everyone to know, even though Jameson sprung like a gymnast on crack from his stroller, he’s totally fine.  The boy sprung back up without a mark or even a whimper.  Just this morning he stood on his head and did a split midair. I’m not sure I’m able to adequately describe what i saw, actually.  Oh, and he just wrapped himself up like a burrito inside my living room rug. yeah, he’s fine. trust.

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hey. sup’?

So I’ve been doing this moving thing.  Moving, it’s the opposite of fun.  Like something akin to stopping a random passerby and asking if you may take a five second whiff of their armpit; like really root around in there for a full fiver.  I’d prefer to do that over moving, that’s the degree of hatred we’re talkin’. -although my new home is rather dashing. i’m now in love with being a homeowner. For now, check back with me later.-

Frankly, I could dream up an entire list of things I’d rather be doing with my time.  Given the choice,  I would prefer several activities to moving.  Perhaps even unsavory choices that may land me in jail for a night.  Course everyone has their threshold/price for daring escapades, and we’ve all had those completely hypothetical (typically drunken or THC laden) conversations such as: “Dude for a fifty bucks would you eat that?”  -as they motion toward a can of Alpo-  Briefly you think: ‘What’s the worst that could happen? My dog eats it and he’s cool.’

I find it rather amusing when people say, ‘I wouldn’t do xyz for allllll the money in the world!’

Really? c’mon. really?…let’s not pretend that chugging a beer from a dirty boot is beneath you for five grand.  Five thousand clams, people.  Let’s hypothetically say that kind of money is sitting on your kitchen table for the taking and you’re faced with the option…if I were a bettin’ girl, I’d imagine within moments you’d find yourself asking: “Where’s my bib and that dang boot everyone’s carryin’ on about?!”

So today I’m here for a few reasons, mostly to talk about things I would do for five grand.  Several of these I would do for free, although my price may vary depending on the lack of shame I possess on any given day and said task’s propensity for landing me in the clink.  Let’s begin.

1. Rip a breakstand on a church lawn.  Really tear that shit up.  I’m talking large chunks of flying turf sent airborne.  Exit car that you leave parked on the lawn -preferably a shitbox with a black hefty bag concealing a busted window-.  Encourage high fives and fist bumps as you make your grand entrance -in a half shirt, mullet optional-.  Once the offering plate comes along, dig into that bad larry to make change for a dollar, then announce you’re leaving for twenty-five cent wings and a free titty show.

2. This one’s for the gents. Tape up the junk. Like really plaster that shit up. Find the most revealing of speedos, tape a gumdrop or small nub like object where said junk would ordinarily be. Strap on the ol’ speedo and proudly prance about your local public swimming pool. Stand uncomfortably close to those sunbathing, completely shameless. Perhaps fashion a cape that reads, “Captain Gumdrop”.  You know, real conspicuous like.

3. When a telemarketer calls, don’t hang up, stick around and chat.  Hunker on down for a spell on the couch and really yuck that shit up. You know, let them carry on about whatever wares their pushing for a few, then randomly break into song: “Islands in the stream, that is what we are, no one in between, how can we be wrong?” Encourage the person to sing “Dolly’s part”.  Once you’ve finished encourage them to speak more about their product, after a minute or two abruptly announce: “I gotta go now, I need to cook some beans.”

4. At the super market check out line, hold up two different brands of lubricant, candidly discuss a poor sexual experience. Ask their honest opinion on which brand they would suggest to “reduce shrinkage”.  When they call management, deny everything.

5. Go to one of those anti gay bible thumpin’ church rallies, with a young  mercenary of sorts… as he would likely receive a beat down (totally worth it), encourage the young lad to hold a sign which states: “The guy standing to my right likes the D, ask me about his sore ass and my video proof.” Before leaving place rainbow bumper stickers on all of their cars.  tell no one.

In similar fashion, find one of those “Westboro Baptist” rallies, place similar bumper stickers on all cars which read: “I fuck goats.” Both this activity and the latter, I consider a public service really.

6. Tie a raw pork chop around your neck. Walk down a scary dark road. No flash light.  Just you, your cojones, and a danglin’ chop.  You have a thirty minute start, then we release the wild hounds.

7. Find a car with an window open, any car really… it doesn’t matter,  jump through the window in dramatic fashion; while singing the chorus to “Dukes of Hazard”.  Jump wildly around in your seat clasping the wheel singing, “just the good ol’ boys”.  When the cops show up, call him: ‘boss hog’ and chortle.

8. Eat a live spider. -this one i would need full payment for- Also, for this one, there would be a size requirement, at least quarter sized.  That little furry bastard needs to go down live and kickin’, and no ketchup to taste, folks.  Actually, I’m not entirely sure I would accept payment for this, in fact, I’m nearly certain one would have to dramatically up the ante.

I know this reeks of fear factor type quality, but just imagine the sheer horror.  For me, my mental capacity precipitously diminishes to the likes of a seven year old girl when I see a daddy long legs. It aint right. I’m ok with it.

9. Go to the zoo, ask the zookeeper for a bucket of gorilla poo.  You know, really scrape the ol’ corners down. Package and send it to your ex, with a card that reads: “lunch is on me”. complete with smiley face or heart.  The one caveat, since gorillas likely produce a copious amount of poo, shipping could get to be a bit much.  But this one, I’d do for free and enjoy. A lot.

10. Invite over the in laws for dinner, bring up the word nutsack and penis seam in random conversation.  This I’ve already done for free, it’s hilarious. Trust. The stone cold silence is mind numbing.

11. Drop a clunker in your kid’s potty training toilet.  Inconspicuously place the training potty complete with deuce inside your neighbor’s car. Knock on your neighbor’s door the following day and ask: “Have you seen my toilet?” ( i know this one’s pretty gross, but just imagine the hilarious rage? that is if you don’t like your neighbor, and you don’t mind risking arrest.) as an aside, my OCD kicked in having an odd numbered “eleven” item at the end of this list. meh…

let’s finish up with this shall we? just because. thanks for stopping by folks.


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My first post. welcome.

I thought to myself yesterday morning, at the rousing hour of 3 am “ish” -during one of my delightful spells of insomnia-, wouldn’t it be great if people said what they’re really thinking?  Instead of fooling themselves and attempting to fool everyone around them?  I mean, there’d be a huge surplus of bar fights and unemployment… but it’d be waaay more fun.  I believe the following ten issues would be far more captivating if the truth were unveiled. Let’s begin:

1. Facebook statuses were actually honest. For instance:

“Clean eating this week!” Truth: Last night my friends and I polished off a handle of Jager and binged on a log of raw cookie dough.

“I’ve had enough!!!” Truth: I don’t really have a boyfriend, but now you all think I do.  Also, I really like the Twilight series.

“Sometimes a smile is just a mask for what’s really going on inside.” Truth: I’m very boring. Please put down your smartphone while you’re doing number two and resume reading the back of the shampoo bottle.

“Happy 10th Anniversary to my husband, John. We’ve been through a lot of ups and downs, but mostly good times. Love you.”  Truth: All of our friends know how dysfunctional our relationship is, and I can’t believe we’re still together either. But I still want recognition for tolerating you all these years. Please like my status.

“I like my girls curvy!” Truth: I’m a chubby chaser.

“I can’t wait to take my wife to see the play “Wicked” tonight for her birthday.  Love you hunni.” Truth: I’d rather extinguish a campfire with my face.

“Just bought myself an iPad!  I already downloaded three of my favorite books!  I can’t wait to read them tonight with a nice cup of tea!” Truth: I can afford things you can’t.  Neener neener.  Also, I don’t plan on reading any books tonight.  I plan on drinking an entire bottle of red wine, then passing out while watching Netflix.

“Heading to the beach with my girls!” Truth: It’s Tuesday, you’re at work.  Be jealous.

“Watching Gossip Girl with my lady.  We love this show.  Football can be DVR’d, I like to make her smile.” Truth: I’m gay.

“Be the change that you wish to see in the world. -Mahatma Gandi”  Truth: I just farted and it smelled like popcorn.  I really wanted to write about that, but felt like that’d be “over sharing”.  Please enjoy what someone else thought up to define me.

“Come out to see my band tonight!!! Open mic night at the Swizel! All originals written by yours truly!” Truth: We suck.  I’m over forty and still live in my parent’s basement, because I still hope to hit the big time. Save your money and drink at home.

Random buff boy posts a minimum of ten topless pictures a week, in his bathroom mirror. What this really means: I have a small penis, and also my favorite band is Nickelback.

“Thank God, little Susie finally fell asleep.  We had such a busy day, I just love that little angel.” Truth: My kid was acting like a little shit because she refused to nap this afternoon.  I haven’t even been able to shower yet today, so I just fed her a buttload of Benedryl.  I regret nothing.

2. If animals could talk. Really let’s think about how cool/fun that would be?  Albeit awkward at times.  For instance, immediately after your dog frantically shoves his nose in your guest’s crotch he turns to them and says:

“How do I put this gently, Rhonda?  You’re gonna need to start wiping front to back.  You have a smidge of cucka in your bug.”

3. Our appearance.  I mean while some may appreciate knowing the exact dimensions/girth of a stranger’s vagina… I think I would rather know if my pants were a smidge on the tight side.  Statements such as the following,  should be completely acceptable.:

“I fear your pants may be completely consumed by the likes of your ravenous vagina, and in a moments notice you may be rendered completely pantless if you don’t change RIGHT now.”


“I see you’ve gone with the toothpaste pants today. You’ve managed to squeeze all the fat up from your ankles to overflow the brim of your pants.  Not a good look, girlfriend.”

4. Bitches.  Is it just me or does nearly every office have an excess of completely irrational bitches?  Seems bitchiness is flung about like a two dollar hooker whips off her drawers? Wouldn’t it be great if there were a three strike rule of sorts for these women?  Mandatory termination after bitchy incident number three.  The conversation would go something like this:

“Oh hey, Helen, can I talk to you for a minute?  Yeah, see here’s the thing… Last week, when you sent that passive aggressive e-mail about cleaning two coffee mugs left in the break room sink in all caps; yeah that was bitch strike two.

Then this morning we saw you woof down that stale doughnut in the break room, despite your bragging about your success on Atkins this month. Well,  that was strike number three.  We’re gonna need you to pack it up.”

5. Truth in Advertising.  You know how you go to the store and a generic item of sorts is displayed on an end cap and is far less expensive than the name brand?  Very tempting, no?  Isn’t there always a reason and we always seem to fall for this gimmick nonetheless?  Wouldn’t it be far more helpful if the merchant told us the truth, such as:

“Whizzit Crackers: You’ll save a dollar if ya’ buy this, sailor, but they look like the scab that fell off my dog’s ass last week.  Also, if you’d prefer to avoid licking the backside of your own ass to kill the taste… well, spring for the extra scratch.  Walk the extra two feet down aisle 7 and grab the Cheezits.  You’ll thank me later.”


“Don’t buy this.  Pieces are missing and the instruction manual is only in Chinese.  Ahhh, shit…buy it, it will be funny.”

6. Job Interviews.  Is there ever a truthful word uttered during this horrid ritual of pre employment?  How about some truth for a change, for instance:

“Tell me something about yourself that would add quality to our organization and why exactly we should hire you.”

Honest Reply: “I have nice tits but I will keep them covered just enough for everyone to enjoy, and remain professional at the same time.  I’ve cut back my bathroom breaks to only accommodate discharging number two, and not to update my Facebook status. I will flirt with my boss to make him think he’s still attractive and to push myself up a smidge on the corporate ladder.  I don’t get drunk on Tuesdays anymore and also, I need money so I don’t have to couch surf at my friend, Kate’s, apartment.”

7. Penises.  They are ugly.  No one wants to look directly at the one eyed willy, almost something akin to a mythological creature of sorts… Medusa for instance.  While the utility of the penis is enjoyable for some, it is just not attractive.  Sorry fellas.  It’s tragically awkward on an epic level.  For me, it reminds me of a veinna sausage with a one holed button screwed on top.  A reject one holed button tossed aside at the button factory that is now a fleshy swollen knob screwed atop your junk.  Try dressing that up, kids.  In fact, if I were to open a strip club, I’d call it: “Topless dudes, don’t worry ladies and gents we aren’t gonna take off our pants.” Way more business.

8. Ugly babies.  They exist, people!!  Where do you think ugly people come from?  Let’s be honest, all newborns look like a giant kidney bean with a wobbly turnip for a head.  Furthermore, they don’t look like anyone, they look like your genitalia just punched them in the face mid departure.  I like to give them a few months, see if they “grown into” their looks.  Six months later, I catch up and check out a picture of their kid on Facebook.  It’s either good news or  you’re left thinking, “Nah…shit. Still ugly. Poor lil’ guy.”  Post nothing, and hide from news feed. Yikes.

9. Gossip.  When you talk to your “bestie”,  right before they tell you a secret they ask: ‘Don’t tell anybody, ok?’  You reply,  ‘No, no, no…no worries.’  Lies.  You know you’re going to at least tell your spouse over dinner that night.  You know, because your spouse doesn’t really count.  The female mind is an enigma, let’s just agree upon that, shall we?

10. Beauty Pageants.  Frankly, I don’t care much about these, but I find them marginally entertaining.  I’m not some raging feminist who thinks they are demeaning to women.  To each his own, I say.  But what irritates me about them, is that moment precisely at the end when there are only two women left on the stage.  They announce the “big winner”, and the loser girl frantically kisses and hugs her opponent, congratulating her while the judges place a colossal tin foil crown on the her head.

I don’t want to see them hug and congratulate one another…what I really want to hear (what we all want to hear the announcer hail at that precise moment): “Let’s get ready to ruuuuuuuuuuuuumble!!!!!”  A lot more people would watch beauty pageants.

Thanks for reading, friends.  Come back for more if you like.  Have a good one.

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