It’s our wedding anniversary; 5 years of marriage. I can lie and say that it’s been roses, love and unicorn tears but it hasn’t. It’s been difficult, sure. But it’s also been the most fun I’ve had on this planet.
I love you like a love song. And yeah, I keep hitting repeat. It’s not one of those instant classic love songs. It’s dated and when people other than us here it, they roll their eyes at how cheesy and predictable the lyrics are. Doesn’t matter, because when I hear that song, I’m immediately back in our college town falling in love with you all over again.
When I have too much to drink, I’ll sing this song for you at karaoke. It will be the staple that when our friends see me walking towards the stage, they rush to the bar to drown out my warbling voice. I’ll be off-key, forget the lyrics and possibly be cut off as the next person gets up and sings their alcohol assisted version of “I will survive”.
When my depression knocks me on my ass, you’re the only person I find tolerable. In reality, I think it’s because you’re close enough to me that I can be a complete cunt to and you won’t leave. You know that my miserable mood and attitude is because of a minor chemical imbalance and not permanent brain damage. Anyone else would have told me to nut up but, you’re there for me in ways that I can never repay.
You overlook my bad habits. You don’t mind when I leave the bathroom light on, you tease me when I lock the car doors to prevent animal attacks. You let me rage against unhelpful customer service people and reel me back in when I go t0o far. You’re the only person on the planet I’m ever completely open with. Which is how I know that you won’t judge me for the next paragraph.

You’re as close to me as my intestinal bacteria. You help me process complex things and break it all down into something that is easily digestible, you help me help myself. Your presence in my life makes living just that much easier. And sometimes, when I swallow something that isn’t the healthiest option, you help me just let it pass quickly. These are the moments when you know me better than I know myself. I’d be lost without you. You’re something that I can’t create on my own and I had to travel the world for awhile looking for just the right thing, and it was you. Now that I know you, I’ll never be without you. You’ve wormed your way into my life, my heart and my soul and my digestive tract.

You smile when I make terrible jokes, when I have terrible ideas and you hold me when a fireman is sawing into the hood of our car at 2 o’clock in the morning. You see through all of my bullshit and make me feel like I invented the wheel or was the first person to put porn on the Internet. You’re not perfect,  but neither am I. We’re imperfectly perfect together. I don’t need an anniversary to remind you that you make my life better. But since it is our anniversary, I want you to know that 5 years of marriage is only the start of our adventure together.

This picture reminds me that we’ll always have good food and genitals on our advenutures.


My Job Application

Dear Forbes and Gene Marks,

Please consider this my formal application to be a writer on your website. I’m young, so I know what the internet is all about and look! I even have a blog. I’ve heard that this is the way to become an expert in whatever field you can imagine. I was thinking about being an expert on being a short, balding CPA but I think someone already did that and I don’t want to crush their dreams and aspirations.  You won’t need to see my resume; because why would Forbes care what my credentials are when they just give their writers cart blanche to word vomit on their server space. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get too technical there, let me explain that server space is another tech word for internet.  But since this is a formal application, let me present several reasons why I would be such a good candidate.

I’m white and middle class. Being white and middle class gives me the opportunity to see what is wrong with people and to provide thought-provoking and genuine advice to correct all of the wrongs in the world. I figured since Mr. Marks (I can call him Mr. Marks, right? Or should I just refer to him a Sir with my eyes trained on the floor to further showcase my subservience to the male sex.) has already solved the problem with poor black kids, I would tackle something easy like the spread of HIV (don’t have sex outside of your pre-arranged government approved heterosexual marriage), Cancer (don’t be genetically inferior to your health overlords, don’t be poor to live in an area that can be polluted) and rape (don’t be on the short end of the power struggle, or a woman.)

I’m afraid that if I focus on those topics, people will think that this is a health blog and I didn’t study wikipedia for a few hours last night to be a medical professional.

I’m a woman. I’m sorry I was born a lady, and I’m trying to work on it. But this disadvantage will only allow me the opportunity to overcome this adversity. As a woman,  my job is important, but I will always put my work last. My priorities are first dutifully serving my husband, secondly being a thoughtful and devoted mother, and a mix of being  a dutiful housewife and a humanitarian. Once those are all crossed off my to-do list, I can focus on work, well after I spend an hour or two at the gym. I have to keep my figure and attractiveness up to the high standards of Mr. Marks so I can be ogled by my co-workers when I leave the room.  As a woman, you’ll never have to worry about me leaving my position as a Forbes writer to become a CEO or anything that involves hard work and persistence.

The reason I’d be so successful working under Mr. Marks Sir, and Forbes is that I can internet troll like the best of them. I’ve made blatant, ill-advised and mis-informed statements all over this blog post. This is something that I could do on a semi-weekly basis and it would be great if I could be paid for it.

I’d love to meet with the Forbes team, but I’ll have to get permission from my husband to travel outside of the house.  Maybe if all of those poor black kids aren’t using Skype to improve their lives we could set something up that way.

I look forward to hearing from you.



I revel in being a DINK (Double-Income, No Kids). I’m really excited if you have kids, are planning on having kids or even enjoy your nieces and nephews. But I have to tell you, I’m unabashedly and overwhelming pleased with the fact that both HHP and I can get completely shit-faced on a Wednesday night and only have to make sure the dogs aren’t eating HHP’s cell phone.

We can be completely spontaneous with our plans. On our recent trip to a wedding in PA we decided to head up to Niagara Falls because we’d never been and mostly, because we could do that. On our road trip we didn’t have to stop unless we had to. We can stay up until 1am playing Dr. Mario and it’s really nice to be a little irresponsible. I almost forgot to mention the frivolous spending?  I’d hate to try and plot out our budget, because as much as I say I bought a baseball bat for “protection” in reality, it was an impulse buy because I felt our household needed a baseball bat. Eating out, clothes, Target, hookers (ok, fine, escorts) you name it we probably have spent money on it.

I have a coworker that hounds me about having kids. She has a 9 month old and thinks babies are the greatest thing to ever come out of a woman’s vagina. It’d be impolite to tell her some of the amazing things I’ve seen in porn so I amuse her ranting but it’s kinda getting on my nerves. I’m being judged because I’m in no mood to procreate which is frankly not cool. And if any of my parent friends think this blog post is a judgement against them, I assure you it isn’t. I’m just a dog rolling around in the awesomeness that is not being a parent.

We’ll end up having a happy little mistake eventually and I’ll grow to not be freaked out by it just like my mother and grandmother were not freaked out by there own children. But I’m in no rush to get pregnant. As I’ve said many times, that’s a solid 2-3 months of no drinking and I’m not ready to make that kind of commitment.

I can pretty much guarantee that any child I have is going to be messed up and I can only hope that the older I get the less therapy the kid is going to need as an adult.

Warrior Dash

HHP and I are going through a bit of a rough spot. We’re talking a lot but we aren’t hearing what the other person says and we are both missing super big important non-verbal clues. It’s neither my fault or his fault. I think we were super focused on improving ourselves and now that we’re ready to pay more attention to being a couple it’s hard.  So when I conned him into signing up for the warrior dash I thought it would do us both some good.

Obviously, neither HHP and I are in prime physical condition so I knew it was going to be hard. He was unsure about the whole idea of the race; jumping over fire was intimidating and the idea of  “dying” were definite drawbacks. I was concerned about getting all Kirk Cameron left behind and not having enough confidence in myself to finish. I’m really quick to quit something because it’s hard and I know that I don’t push myself as much as I should.

So we get there, and it’s scary as fuck. There are tons of people running around some of them mud covered and even a few dressed as Link and Princess Zelda. We saw an incredibly patriotic Captain America who completed the course with a giant American Flag that didn’t get muddy at all. People dressed as Street Fighters, Spartans and even a few brides running the race.

The flames shot up at 2:30 and we were off. The first obstacle was a giant fucking hill. It was pretty similar to the hill to our house, except not paved and I couldn’t stop and pretend to check my cell phone to take a break on it.  I was caught up in the rush of the crowd and ran up it and then we came to the mud. I’m not talking about a little bit of mud, I’m saying like brownie batter, diarrhea, fire swamp from the princess bride  mud.  I fell a few times, my shoe came off once and HHP biffed it too. That part of the course exhausted me. I knew it was going to be muddy and hard but I had no idea that mud could seep into my shoes and make them 5 pounds heavier. HHP was great and he would pause and wait for me to catch up and didn’t even laugh when I face-planted into what I’m pretty sure was deer shit.

When I get in stressful situations I get snippy and shut down. HHP kept me from quitting by telling me that he was proud of me and to not care that we were getting passed by people that started half an hour later than we did. We made it through the Swamp of Sadness and then we found ourselves with more obstacles. Climbing over walls, under barb wire fences, balance beams, and even more mud. It was exhausting. I was most terrified about climbing this giant wall and I couldn’t do it but HHP did. He started to struggle a little at the  top but I think I promised him “warrior dash anal” if he completed it. We could smell the fire when we came around one of the last turns. It was much smaller than I was planning and taking practice leaps over the speed bump near our house totally paid off. HHP sailed through it and I can’t wait for the sports photos to see my look of sheer terror.

We came up to the giant cargo net. You could hear the DJ spinning Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby got back” and I was pumped. I just wanted this thing to be over but in yet another awesome act of selflessness HHP asked me to wait until a woman at the top who was visibly terrified of the downward climb got started. We cheered her on and didn’t start our climb until she was securely on the ground. We slipped ass first down a giant mud hill (I have wicked  grass rash from that) and we crossed the finish line holding hands. Ok, really HHP was pulling me along.

It was the hardest thing I’ve done in recent memory, but even when I was covered in mud hating everything and everyone and repeatedly telling HHP that this was the worst idea I’ve ever had I would do it again in a heartbeat.  I got to spend a few hours with my husband, totally relying on him and his encouragement to keep me going. That doesn’t happen very often. In our relationship I’m usually the one pushing him and encouraging him so it was a really good change of pace. The whole walk back to the car we were giddy with excitement that we accomplished something that we really didn’t think we could do;  we felt closer to each other which was exactly what we wanted.

We didn’t end up getting around to Warrior Dash Anal last night. Honestly, by the time we got in the house, sex was the last thing on our minds. We took showers, HHP dressed my wounds since I couldn’t see them and we passed out.

Everything hurts today, we’re both dragging ass and all I want to do is not wear pants but I’m happier than I’ve been in a while. We’ll probably do it next year, heck I might even do the one in NY in August and Tennessee in September. But neither of those races matter because I’ve got this:


Home Alone

HHP is gone for 13 out of the next 17 days. I’m sure by the end of it, I’ll miss him but right now I’m reveling in being alone.

Things I’ll do when HHP isn’t around

-Eat at Taco Bell.  It’s not really meat and I’m okay with that.

-Poop with the bathroom door open. (This has nothing to do with eating at Taco Bell) If you haven’t done this, I highly recommend it. It’s another level of pooping freedom.

-Write more. HHP is hands down the most supportive person on the planet. But I’m still too afraid of putting myself out there for him to read what drops out of my head.

-Wear pants around the house. When HHP is here, I don’t wear pants all the time. But when I’m almost 30, eating cereal in my underwear on the couch with the dogs. I feel creepy.

-Do the dishes and other household duties. When it’s the two of us, I can justify being lazy and letting the housework slide. But when it’s just me, I feel guilty.

-Wear his underwear. Sometimes it’s fun to rub my girl-bits all up in his shorts. (HHP doesn’t know I do this)

Things I won’t do when HHP isn’t around

-Talk a lot. I can go hours without opening my mouth but it will end up with me talking out loud to myself at 2am.

-Dance. Having a kitchen dance party all alone is the saddest kind of dance party.

-Vacuum. Yeah, I feel guilty about not having a clean house but not that guilty.

What do you do when your spouse isn’t around? Anything I need to add to my list?

I’m not a marketer; I’m also not an idiot

This first time I wrote it, it was much better and snarkier and funnier and also smarter, but WP decided it was hungry and ate my post. Here’s version 2:


I don’t know what was said yesterday in Mitch Joel’s speech at #social2011 but I’ve heard it’s pretty negative towards GenY. A paraphrase of his statement: “24 year old tattooed and pierced gen-yers are better fit to roll spliffs than think strategically.”


Here’s the thing:


1)      I had to google what the hell a spliff is.

2)      I’m not 24 and glad I’m not.

3)      I don’t do social media strategy and I kinda don’t care about social media strategy.


But I’m pissed. I’m super pissed actually. And I said so on twitter. And today I looked this dude up to see if he clarified anything from his speech, but he didn’t. He was talking to someone today and he said “for the record: not knocking young people and skills. Knocking experience. It takes experience to lead something this huge not…”


Really? Because it sounds like you are knocking young people and their skills. You’re also passing judgment on people who have piercings and tattoos which is really passé. So I tweeted that “Every single tweet from Mitch Joel makes me less and less impressed, because only those with experience can be leaders?” Surprisingly he responded. His comments were pretty unimaginative and the only reason he replied was to try and shut me up.


Here’s what chaps my ass: When I was 24 and had tattoos and piercings, I also had 10 years of work experience.  And while it wasn’t sitting in marketing meetings, I wasn’t “working” in my dad’s office for the summer either. I was interacting with customers who had successfully been marketed to. I was in the real world. Just like I’m sure Mitch was, but at 24 the internet probably wasn’t invented and marketing was done on sheets of papyrus.


But no, Mitch Joel believes that everyone is exactly the same and all young people are incompetent. With my feathers ruffled, I got on my 140 character soap box and was met with the response of telling me to pipe down because that always happens. Every generation is treated that way; it’s just the way it is. (Please tell that to anyone who has ever been discriminated against. “Just the way it is” is my favorite answer to anything ever.)


I find nothing justifiable in grouping people together simply because we all happen to be roughly the same age. Just because I sprang forth from the loins of my mother at roughly the same time as 60 million of my besties doesn’t mean we’re exactly alike. So no, you can’t market to us all the same way, nor can you assume that we all have the same work ethic and drive to succeed. And I’ll be damned if I let you treat me that way.





Vulnerability is a four-letter word.

This blog post about being vulnerable struck a chord with me. I’m not very pleased about writing this, because I prefer to live in my delusional world that I’m almost always right/perfect and have few if any flaws, but this post really brought me down a peg or 7.

Fact: I don’t do vulnerable.

I can’t pinpoint exactly where, but for a long long time now, I associate vulnerability with weakness. It’s taken me a while, but I no longer think when someone else gets weepy or is emotional that they are less than me, but I flat out refuse to show that side of myself. I’m pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me cry in my adult life (this includes the woman who removes the hair from my upper lip.) I don’t feel comfortable expressing sadness, grief, disappointment or fear. Give me anger, rage, joy and lust any day of the week. I’ve read enough to know that I won’t connect with people or establish true interpersonal relationships with people because I don’t show my vulnerability but frankly, it’s just not in the cards for me to call up someone and tell them that I had a super shitty day and I just wanted to share. I have to be pulled, while kicking and screaming, into sharing my emotions. I go on auto-pilot when someone asks me how I am. The words “I’m fine.” have rolled off my tongue more than a million times and even if I show a hint of not being fine, no one pushes me to elaborate.

While I could have not written anything about this, this sentence struck me:

“Lame not just because I can be a gigantic asshole but lame because I am then never ever getting my actual needs met when I express myself this way. “

Fuck. I hate not being able to place the blame on someone other than me.

The blogger’s New Year’s resolution is to be more vulnerable in 2011. She’s going to accomplish this goal by focusing on 3 tasks.:

“1) tune into my true feelings, 2) disclose those true feelings (admit when I’m wrong, admit when I’m afraid), and 3) take into consideration the feelings of others and be open to their emotional processes (especially when they’re unlike mine.)”

I think I have a good handle on steps 1 and 3; being married to HHP has made me empathetic. I can tell when people are upset and I think I’m ok with dealing with other people’s emotions. But step 2 is the biggest one for me; I think I’d rather go to the dentist and gynecologist while simultaneously getting my upper lip hair removed then disclose any negative feelings I have, but I’m going to challenge myself to try. What’s the worst that could happen?

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