Ode to “almost forty”

So today I’m 39. ::bleck:: I type this as I choke down bran flakes with my morning coffee.  No, for real… I had a rather unfortunate experience this week that left my colon tragically shattered; as pathetic bits of my former self now float amongst the far reaches of the galaxy.  Searching for a new anus to call home.


With the above mentioned in mind, my turning 39 that is, I decided to write about a few lessons I’ve learned along the way.  Some of you may relate.  Let’s begin.

1.  No one likes a whiny little bitch.  There will always be one in your social circle who believes their “problems” are larger than everyone around them.   As they complain about the cable guy being late and hence missing spin class, your checkbook is in the negative and you just ate fried bologna sandwiches three nights in a row.  They don’t care, furthermore they are merely awaiting your RSVP to their pity party.  Don’t respond, in fact dump assholes like this from your life with great dispatch…

They’ll be pissed for a while, but mostly it will give them something to bitch about for a few days. believe in the miracle of occasionally flushing the friend toilet.

pity party

2.   If you have something “nice” you want to display on a coffee table or within reach of small children.  Break it in advance.  This way you will not set yourself up for disappointment. trust.

white kids

I call this one, “we don’t need no stinkin’ paint chips, this color looks DIVINE on everything!!”


This one I call, “I found the Sharpie you thought was out of my reach.”

3.  No matter how old we get, we will continue to be fascinated in how different colored food/drink turns our poo strange colors.


4.  And again you will never be to old to sing along to the: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWELVE…. do do do do do do do” pinball song from the show, Sesame Street.  If you hear it, to this day, you will STILL scream TWELVE, at the end.  It must be done.  Don’t blame yourself, it cannot be helped.


swish goes the pinball!

swish goes the pinball!

4.  You know that “perfect” family who sends/posts pictures of themselves perfectly poised with their golden retriever… you know the ones.  The family that wants you to be jealous of their perfect smile, hair, clothes and figures.  As a rule I never allow myself to be jealous when I see these type things.

Due to my consuming cynicism, I think thoughts such as:  “I bet her bathroom looks like return of the swamp thing.” OR her husband is on “Christian Mingle” -never once read the bible-… or her son probably eats his own boogers.   I say be unapologetically you,  let em’ eat your dust trail of awesomeness.

perfect family

5.  Kids suck at chores.  They will do everything in their power to complete any given task as “half assed” as humanly possible.   They need a full tutorial on how to operate a broom, yet can figure out an Ipad works within seconds.  Unless they have this… ::the ultimate facepalm::


6. Yesterday, I received a Christmas card that was addressed to:  Mr. & Mrs. James Bird.   Anyone who refers to themselves in such a way is a douchetard.  If YOU refer to me as such I shall paint mustaches on your family Christmas photo card and unabashedly mock you in all your epic douchiness, for you are the ultimate form of douchetard.  So it tis’.

Following on that line of thought, I don’t give a rat crap worth of zip what you take as your last name… that’s a personal choice.   But some people should stick to their own last name, no hyphens allowed for these folks:





If this isn’t foretelling of things to come, well I don’t know what is… oh my.

7. No matter how old you get, you will ALWAYS think cookie monster is the coolest.  And because of Cookie, you will only share cookies with your bestest pals.  Fuck the rest of em’, smash those bad boys into your face and let the cookie shower fly!


8. Relationships.  Man I’ve been through them.  I’ve learned when it’s OK to try and stay and work through things… but I’ve also learned when it’s time to run for the hills quicker than a Tijuana crack whore scurries for a quarter that’s inching toward the storm drain.

when to run (not an exhaustive list):

  • excessive petty jealous bullshit.  It’s not “cute”, and in fact it merits kung-foo style thunder punches to the junk. -ok maybe not, but this is a big red flag-.
  • having to apologize for something  you like or for the way you are.  -that is unless you engage in random fits of homicidal rage, then they may be onto something-
  • a phone call in which you receive a complaint about your excessive use of toilet paper -yes, this happened to me… now he doesn’t exist to me, thankfully-
  • when they tell you how to dress. -that is unless you’re wearing a tutu to a funeral or the like, otherwise start packing.-
  • the ones who like to stir up shit over nothing.  heck, if you wanted a lifetime of that nonsense, you’d work in retail or at a bank. ditch that asshat.

 9. The power of the word, “No.”   Sad as it may be, more often than not, people take advantage of you when they know you are kind-hearted and giving.  People will push the boundaries of good taste to see just how far they can get.  Word travels fast when you’ve helped ten people move just last month, feel what I’m laying down?

As a lawyer, I constantly receive emails/calls for FREE legal advice, from some people I’ve only met on Facebook, others I haven’t seen for years.  I think, ‘Ahhh, no bigs I just paid thousands on my legal education, haven’t seen you since high school; well shit, I’d love to look through your stack of documents instead of enjoying the weekend with friends & family!!’ – not exactly-   I have enlisted the power of the word “No” in my life and it feels great.

I figure, I don’t go to where my friends work and expect free samples or the like; so fair is fair.  Neither do I knock on their door and expect to forage through their cabinets.   I say the next time one of these entitled bastards comes knocking on your door, slam it smack dab in their smug fart faces.  Take.shit.from.no one. -that’s the new golden rule- btw. make note.

forage10. There will always be that annoying bastard who will rush to get in front of you in line at the grocery store, despite their having seen you heading there first or that person who cuts you off in traffic…. it’s not worth getting so upset.  As there will always be an abundance of jerks.  I just think, ‘wow,  I could suck as much as them, hey… I don’t suck so bad after all.’  And then I smile.

here’s to not sucking, friends!  happy holidays and a happy new year from me to you. ~b

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A night at the clam bake.

oh hey, sup’?  been a little while.  Last night was a night of true inspiration.  So here goes…

Let’s start with a bit of history: Once upon a time, not too long ago, I lived with a nuclear engineer.  It had it’s moments… He’d explain various physics at times, which nurtured my inner geek.  But my most favorite explanation of his, was gas and how it seeks the path of least resistance.  His vivid description will forever be engrained in my memory… now that’s how you teach shit.  literally.

To this day I refer to his theory as:


I am going to summarize his theory on the “snowsuit effect”.  Essentially, when you fart, the gas will seek the “the path of least resistance”.  Last night’s pot roast figures, ‘why share my essence with this here butt padding, let’s go for the kill’.  Coincidentally, this applies to other forms of matter, but let’s not get sidetracked with tomfoolery.  Hence, ergo and forsooth, depending on the potency of last night’s dinner, that bad larry is coming out your only breathing hole and knocking your ass out.  I’ve provided an illustration to demonstrate this theory:


Now that we have dispensed with that explanation, onto the next, shall we?  The clambake.  What is this black magic of which you speak?  I have provided the quintessential urban dictionary definition for you to review and digest:


Now that I have provided you with these two concepts,  I will continue onto last night’s unfortunate events.  Here we go:

Last night my husband and I climb into bed, and I cuddle up behind him puttin’ on my cuddling moves, aka. let’s make some bacon and get to porkin’.   Only I should caveat that ordinarily, we use separate blankets to prevent hogging, and excessive blanket tugging.  Yesterday, I dangerously veered from our standard of procedure and heaved the same cover over the two of us and began with my classic “fiddling with the noodle” move.

What happened next, will forever be seared into my mind… and nose hairs.  I swear to God it was an indescribable evil that wafted from hell fire brimstone.  I forgot myself and the dreaded “Snowsuit effect” and I released what I thought would be a silent inconspicous mousey fart.   This wasn’t as urban dictionary described, a giggle inducing queef type fare. Oh no… no, no, no, if I had to give it an adequate description… it was akin to the stench of a thousand dejected Big Macs basking in the July sun. ::gag::

I began to secretly waft the covers behind me, only it was too late, the dreaded snowsuit effect had already laid it’s path of vengeance and crept toward both our faces.   Frantically I thought, ‘Oh Good God, that’s awful.  I hope he doesn’t smell that.’  Then the unthinkable happened.

He asked, “Did you just fart?”


Him, “Yeah, you did!”

Me, “I’m sorry!!  I still wanna cuddle!  I didn’t mean to.”

Me: ::I was still trying to go in with guns hot::

Him, “Screw you!”

Me, “Awwwww, no fair.”

Him, “Gross.”

Me:  ::Turns over falls asleep, yet continues to intermittently giggle through the night::

So there you have it… my night at the clam bake.  Both dreadful and yet oddly hilarious.  So this morning I sent the hubby the following message:


Then I thought, no that was pretty bad, I should make him a for real apology card.  So I did that:


So that wraps it up kids, the moral of the story?  Be wary of the dreaded clambake.  That’s my holiday tip.  You’re welcome.  And on that note, I will leave you with this:


PS. I wished for Beano.  A lifetime supply. ::gahhhd::

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Meat bags and Beef sticks.

Hey there peeps…. happy halloween!  Let’s get down to business, shall we?  Get to the real “beef” of the situation.  Because both of the words mentioned in the title of this post are equally hilarious,  I decided it was important to discuss their appropriate use (which is always by the way).   However, there are those very distinct occasions in which the use of these words are imperative.  Let’s begin.

1.  First, I would like to dedicate this lovely blog post to my dearest hubby.  The only man on God’s green earth who can make me smile and giddy with anticipation when I read this:

message to hbee

“beef stick” fury.  just hilarious.  ::heart flutters::

2.  Occasions in which I feel the word “meat bag” is imperative to relay my sentiment in attending.  For instance, your baby shower, your wedding, or your bridal shower.  NO ONE wants to watch you open a relish dish from your Auntie Denise, then round out the torture discussing it’s generic fucking qualities for ten soul crushing minutes. no one.  The following picture sums it up:


That’s right, some random dude’s meat bag slapped across my face.  For instance, this guy pictured below.  I’d rather stare down his salty meat bag as he lashes his gnarly pubes across my chin.  That’s my level of hate.


Hell, I’d wear his banana hammock as a hat, if I were given the choice.   I should caveat that: if you would like to invite me to your wedding and plan to have an open bar… I’m  down, otherwise I just saved you a stamp.  You’re welcome.

3.  A few things emerged this week on Facebook.  Items/topics of discussion that are “trending”.   Trending, pffffffffftttt… don’t make me trend my foot in your ass.

::ahem::  First is the giraffe thing.  What is this brain fever you ask?  You share a riddle with your Facebook friend, if they DON’T guess they have to turn their profile picture into a giraffe for three days.  Or some dumb ass shit like that.   So I made my own riddle.  Here is yet another example in which the use of the word “meat bag”  is appropriate:

Screen Shot 2013-10-31 at 9.19.29 AM

Also, fuck giraffes.  there I said it.

4.   Also a hot topic is this woman, in North Dakota, who plans to hand out ‘fat letters’ instead of candy tonight -Halloween- for huskier brand of trick or treaters.  There are several things I could say about this woman.  First and foremost, she sucks meat bag!

Secondly, everyone should knock on her door tonight and frisbee toss a scale toward her face.  Not some ordinary every day scale… oh no,  we need one of those old fashioned scales you weigh yourself on at the amusement parks.

Like the:  “how much do you weigh on the moon type scale”.   One that is sure to leave a healthy dent.   Also, no beefstick for her.  That’s her penance for being a total douche.

Screen Shot 2013-10-31 at 8.54.18 AM

5.   Speaking of Halloween.  Here’s tonight’s forecast for New Hampshire.  Mother nature needs a flacid beefstick across the face.  asshole. nature can be an asshole. that is all.

Screen Shot 2013-10-31 at 8.53.13 AM

6.  Game requests for Candy Crush,  Dragon City, Farmville or the like…. sometimes when you receive these game requests, the use of the both the words beefstick AND meat bag are necessary.  This is only to impart your grievous dissatisfaction with their attempting to diminish your brain function… also good for a laugh (and the opportunity to use the word, ball pein hammer):

Screen Shot 2013-10-31 at 9.30.54 AM

7.   So I’m not a sport’s fan.  But I hear last night The Sox won the world series… so that’s great.  It’s nice for the home team to win, but as we all know this doesn’t come without the onslaught of assholes.  Car tipping etc…   Then we see comments like this from cowardly chodes on social media:

Screen Shot 2013-10-31 at 11.17.16 AM

We planned the bombing? Really? I bet Austin Michael doesn’t have a beefstick… he has a chode.  A tiny two-inch cheese wheel chode.  dick.

8.  Sobriety, sometimes it sucks the meatbag.  Like for instance, at your wedding, baby or bridal shower.  And that’s a wrap.


9.  Completely unrelated, but please enjoy this video.  I’ve now watched at least ten times. welcome to my world of mental dysfunction:

10. oh and happy halloween, creeps.


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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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