Somewhere over the rainbow, innnn myyy paaants…

Email to Male BFF: “I need a ruling on behalf of your people: A guy sent me an OkCupid message Wednesday night. I was going to answer, and then I got anxious, and then I was going to answer, and then I got anxious, and now it’s almost a week later. How much of an asshole am I if I answer now? (Bear in mind there might be pussy at the end of this rainbow.)”

His response: “I wouldn’t be thrilled about a weeklong wait, but I’d be even less thrilled about no response. And pussy solves a lot of problems.”

P.S. I wish I could take credit for that rainbow line, but I stole it from a comedian named Christian Finnegan.

She’s a bad mother, fucker — review of #BadMoms


Amy Mitchell (Mila Kunis) is trying her best to be a good mom. She’s working, caring for two kids, making lunches and dinners, helping with school projects, driving to soccer practices, and participating in a PTA run by a trio of the worst offenders in Mommy Culture. You’ve seen these moms; hell, you probably know at least one. Played to snippy perfection by Christina Applegate, Jada Pinkett Smith, and Annie Mumolo, they’re the wealthy, well-kept Perfect Moms who talk shit on the “less perfect.” They’re the women who look at a working mom pityingly and say things like, “You’re SO strong to be able to just leave your kids and go to work. I don’t know how you do it. Don’t you miss them?” But they also look down on stay-at-home moms for looking less than perfect. They’re the moms who run school bake sales and militantly demand homemade, gluten-free, nut-free, soy-free, BPA-free, artificial-color-free, joy-free baked goods so no special little snowflakes are harmed in the making of said bake sale. (Look, I don’t want your kids to explode, either, but ain’t nobody got time for that.)

Amy’s husband is useless and ri-goddamn-diculous, and hardly helps with anything, despite his less-demanding job. I don’t know any real-life men like him, which is good, because I’d hate to have to go around punching men in the dick.

It should come as no surprise that being stuck in this life construct from ages 20 to 32 might push a girl to her breaking point — to make her think, “You know what? FUCK THIS,” and just…do less. Stress less. Acknowledge that there’s no such thing as a Perfect Mom, and take some time to unclench. So that’s what Amy sets out to do.

She befriends two fellow odd moms out: Kiki (Kristen Bell), a stay-at-home mom with another ineffective husband; and Carla (Kathryn Hahn) a bawdy and fucking fabulous single mom. By the end of the movie I was a little in love with her. She may be my spirit animal. And Kristen Bell is delightful as always, though maybe not the best representation of a stay-at-home mom — Kiki is a disheveled, shut-in weirdo at first, which seems like a harsh stereotype. But I loved the evolution of her character throughout the movie; toward the end, she got a round of applause from the audience in my theater.

As I mentioned, not the best male representation. I hate to generalize, but though the movie is funny, it’s obviously made for women (but by men, oddly — same guys who wrote The Hangover). So gentlemen, I’m sorry, but this movie is not kind to your people. There are only a few male characters, all pretty useless, and with very little redemption, so much so that I noticed. Amy’s son is an entitled little suburban douchebag; there’s a soccer coach who’s bitch-whipped by the head Mean Girl Mom; the two useless, dimwitted husbands; and a hot single dad. (Hot Single Dad takes his shirt off, by the way, and…I mean…it didn’t hurt to look at him, but his only purpose in the movie seemed to be being pretty and sweet. [*cough*WelcomeToOurWorld*cough*])

The movie’s trailer is actually a bit misleading – the women aren’t constantly drunk and irresponsible. They’re just blowing off a little steam on occasion, bonding over simultaneous love and hatred for their children (c’mon, you know your kids are total assholes sometimes), and commiserating about the overextended existence they find themselves entrenched in. They learn a lot from each other, and rally together hardcore when one of the Mean Moms starts messing with Amy’s daughter — you don’t fuck with a mama bear, people. Even my barren womb knows to reco’nize.

Beautiful life lessons in sisterhood aside, I still laughed so hard and so unexpectedly that I MAY have accidentally spit a little. (Thankfully no one was in the seat in front of me.)

Ladies, gather your tribe this weekend and go see this movie. Preferably with a juice box of wine and an irresponsibly-overbuttered bucket of popcorn.

The new All-Wheel Drive Honda Singleton.

I’ve had a shitty week — just too much stupid all coinciding: relationships, finances, PMS, change in prescription drugs (I don’t think they’re supposed to make you feel worse), and ball-sacky weather. It’s mangling my body, my sleep, and my attitude.

I wish our bodies had more obvious gauges for things. A red light should come on to let you know you need to eat a vegetable because your body requires, like, riboflavin or whatever. Or, *ding ding* “Oh, OK, I have to exercise more and maybe I’ll stop feeling as if I’m constantly dragging my body through sand,” or, *BEEP* “Says here this drug is fucking me up. The gauge just told me to call the doctor and get THIS drug, and it’ll fix you right up.”

Or even a green light: “You’re OK, it’s just the heat. Crank the AC and drink more water.”

We need a more specific human schematic.

We should be able to upgrade our bodies like car models. I’d like the Sport features, please. 

Can my body get nav?

“Sounds like somebody’s got a case of the ‘go fuck yourself.'”

Sometimes I check a calendar and realize I can’t pin my unusually vehement annoyance on PMS.

This is even MORE irritating because it means I am not awash in hormones and perhaps over-sensitive. It means everyone is just an asshole.

Or I am. Hard to say. Except, you know, statistically.

Please don’t give me the ick before I’m caffeinated

Woman near the office coffee: “Oh, I like your sweater, it’s so pretty!”

Me: “Aw, thank you!”

She leaves the room.

Man near the office coffee: “I can’t say anything about your sweater because that would be creepy.”

Me: “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

Though, um…if you didn’t want to be creepy, maybe don’t bring it up at all? What with the wedding ring and all…maybe just shut up?

Also, I am apparently an asshole before I’ve had coffee.

Cockblocking Cupid

Honestly, how did people ever end doomed online dating “relationships” without the iPhone’s number-block feature?

What? Is that NOT how I’m supposed to do it?

I’m not an asshole, he is, and a creeper to boot. Trust, this was merited, and sanctioned by a panel of experts.

During the most intense of the phone flirting, you said you wanted to “impale”* me with your dick, and later told me you like your ladies in white cotton underthings, considered aloud that it made you sound a little pedo, but said it anyway? *deep breath* I’m out.

There was more, if that’s not enough.

It’s my fault, really. I should’ve known when I saw his name was “Phyl.” You know, like “Phil,” except you’re an asshole. Goddamn hipsters.

* That’s not just me, right? I realize I’m not exactly after “sweet, gentle, love-making” here — I definitely need to be banged the hell out of. Probably twice, just to make sure we unclench all the Crazy. But isn’t “impale” a tad aggressive? I’d really like to live through this transaction, sir.

Slut Shame and the Blame Game

I had scheduled a date. I was going to meet an OkCupid person. We were going to go to a Philly taproom I’ve wanted to go to for years but never had time/company. They have fried PB&J, and I KNOW y’all don’t think I’m above eating the HELL out of that on a first date.

Yeah… I can’t. I started thinking about our conversations, the number of red flags I’d been letting pass because they were “just little things” that made me go “Hmm…” But when considered together, they make me really uncomfortable. I have a bad vibe I didn’t get from the initial OkC messaging, but have had for the past few days of texting. I told friends about less than half of those “little things,” and they told me to cancel, and cancel NOW.

But something in my brain felt guilty, like I should meet him because I said I would, because I said we’d at least be friends, because I flirted, because I took the flirting further than I should have, because I am a sexually frustrated attention whore, and because what did I expect would happen when I behaved that way?

Sound advice from a friend: “Don’t help them think only with their dicks until you’ve at least seen their face.”

On occasion it seems a self-proclaimed male “feminist” bloviating that, “Women should be able to express their sexuality without fear of being judged!” translates to, “I’m going to make demands on your time and behavior, and treat you like you owe me something, even when you’re sick, or busy, or clearly don’t want to.” I guess I’m only free to express it when the whoring works in your favor?

But I am legitimately concerned, all bad Spidey Sense, and fuck that. I’m not gonna get axe murdered just so everyone at my funeral can remember me as NICE. (My friends wouldn’t — they’d be like, “GAWD, how was she such an accommodating asshole when her asshole never actually accommodated anyone?!” My mom would probably be proud I died polite, though… [Ahem. Too dark?])

Anyway. I should’ve known when I found myself telling him we had to go out Monday because I was “busy” on Thursday — busy watching Scandal, but busy nonetheless.

It’s possible I have more feelings than one normal person should, like maybe I evolved wrong, or missed a meeting. Because I shouldn’t be blaming myself for being “slutty” here. (“Well, yeah, I feel like he’s overstepping my boundaries, but how would he know I even HAD boundaries?”) And if I’m actually worried about my safety (not a TON, but…a little), I REALLY shouldn’t feel bad about either just saying “no” or blocking his number.

New Year, resolution 

I guess once you’ve told someone, “You’re a coward, a liar, and an asshole, and I’m sorry I ever met you”…That’s probably closure, right? 

I couldn’t even cry, I was just so tired. I sent the email and then sat there like, “Huh. OK, so that’s that, then.” (I mean, I’m not thrilled, but…)

He responded implying I’m being petty, like, “I’ll refrain from name calling, but that’s wonderful, thanks” was part of it.

Umm…you’re welcome. And I dare you to call me any name I haven’t already called myself. 

Crazy slut? Pfft. I have that shit engraved in one of those nameplate necklaces. It’s on my resumé.

Clingy, desperate? I’ll own that. It wasn’t my finest behavior, but I learned from it.

Resentful? Bitter? Probably. But part of re-gutting myself was to get past this permanently. Plus it’s been so long that it’s hard to really resent some…ghost of a person you never really knew, who exists only in some hazy online ether now. It’d be like hating that money-grubbing Nigerian prince.

During our…whatever, I asked numerous times if he had the same feelings for me. I probably would’ve been able to infer he didn’t if he and I had a standard romantic relationship. But we’d started as friends and always agreed we wanted to stay friends. So my brain went blurry, because a friend would never knowingly let things happen the way they did — they would’ve leveled with me. (I’ve done it before. It sucked, but the friendship survived.) 

But I had to give up knowing; it was hurting me too much. So I went about assuming it was over, accepting that, and letting him be.

But then his blog likes, Facebook friend request, and LinkedIn profile checkup started grating on me, like, “OK, what are you doing?” Then came his invitation to discuss things he’d seen me writing about him here. So we discussed — argued, really, via email. But I got my answer: He never felt the same way, and finally told me directly.

SO. Not the answer I wanted, but an answer, one I knew was possible. It’s what I’d guessed, but was never 100% sure. I always told him I’d feel better if he just said it (he never would, either out of kindness or desire to keep me hooked), and I do feel better. Part of my mental reaction was, “THANK YOU. Christ, was that so hard?!” But it would’ve been easier, and we’d still be friends, if he’d said it sooner. 

I can’t know how the discussion affected him (I’d guess just relief I finally stopped talking). I’m…partly bummed I was so spectacularly wrong about truly knowing him, and honestly, that I’ll never get to have sex with him. (Don’t judge me — I REALLY wanted to. It would’ve been great, to the point that I probably still would if he tried, which is pretty fucked up so I’m happy it’s not an option.) But I’m also relieved I have my answer, and that I got to say what I needed to. (Sad truth? I still don’t entirely believe him. But I’ll get there.)

It sucks we imploded a friendship, because I really valued him that way more than romantically, but he acknowledged the friendship wasn’t much reciprocated, either. And the longer I was left wondering, realizing I’d started being hurt by our conversations more than I was enjoying them, that I’d ended up feeling dirty and used, and that he didn’t miss me even as a friend, the easier it was to let go of that as well. 

Wow, I’m even the wrong kind of asshole. 

I emailed him back, because I am an idiot. He’d clarified some things, so I wanted to do the same.

Aaand it turned out exactly as I thought it would.

One day I will learn to listen to my friends and just be an asshole when the situation calls for it, which is what I think he wanted — for me to keep quiet and stay away.

But at least I got it out. “The cold never bothered me, anyway.”

P.S. Fun fact: Gmail’s “block” feature is apparently about as useless as Facebook’s. Technology can kiss my dick.

P.P.S. Sorry, I’ll take the weekend off and stop buzzkilling your news feeds.

The elephant in the room. 

Quick acknowledgment: I am not a complete asshole. I’m aware of the fucked-up shit happening in the world right now. I am not trying to be insensitive. Quite the opposite, actually — I am so OVER-sensitive that if I tune into the news too much, I will end up on my living room floor in a ball, weeping for humanity.

It happened after 9/11. It happened after Newtown. It happened after the Boston Marathon. It’s why I’ve had bitchface all day today and am currently hiding from the world with spiked cider and a book.

For the most part, my goal here is to make you guys laugh if I can. So that’s what I’m going to keep trying to do. You have enough anger and sadness on your social media — I have nothing to contribute you haven’t already heard a million times. And my thoughts on world events are more than likely not why you’re here reading the po’ folks’ Carrie Bradshaw.

So. I’m gonna go on making my little jokes and trying not to end up in The Weepy Floor Ball, which is the world’s shittiest yoga pose.

I love y’all.

As you were.