banana (2)

Author’s Note: I originally ran this post last year, when I had been blogging all of 2 weeks and had 12 followers.
Thought it might be fun to break it out of The Vault.

My friend and her husband are ending their marriage over the most banal of issues – sex.

“But Samara, your marriage didn’t work out. Should you be passing judgement?”

Shut yer pie hole! My marriage didn’t end because I wouldn’t blow my husband!

They’re ending their marriage because they are “sexually incompatible.” He wants her to do certain things that she hasn’t done since they were dating. He’s angry that she’s being “withholding.” She’s angry that he’s a “sex addict” (whatever THAT is).

Essentially, they are ending their marriage over blow jobs.

I do not profess to be a sexpert. I hope none of you will think I’m using gratuitous sex to generate followers (does it work? Cause I’ll include pictures.)

If I were to write a manual on how to have a successful marriage, I would name it,

“Put Your Mouth On His Dick.”

Perhaps the ladies are not digging this. The guys probably are. Fuck them. Of course they want to read about how I’m pro blow. But hear me out. This is not for them. It’s about keeping marriages alive.

For some reason, in the marital bed, blow jobs seems to go bye-bye. Not initially, but after say, 5 years of marriage. Maybe 10. Life is stressful. Marriage is hard work. The tub needs to be recaulked. The dog has gingivitis. The PTO chair lady just died in your house and now you have to get rid of the body.

Women work 24/7. Outside the home, inside the home – it never stops. The last thing some feel like doing, during sex, is more work. And there’s a reason it’s called a “job.”

With intercourse, you can lay there and get intercoursed in a rather non participational way. And he’ll still be happy. What does he care? He just needed the valves cleaned out. Even if you were reviewing the Christmas shopping list in your head.

A good shop vac requires much more participation. You can’t really play the electric meat whistle mellifluously while pondering the sale of your kidney to pay off the home equity loan.

When you were first together, you used to bob some knob.  Sex with him was new, and you were turned on enough to do just about anything. Now? Sex with him is predictable. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The one thing I liked about The Ex was that he always knew how to get me there.  Almost as good as I could myself (I said almost).

But old sex lacks the fire of new sex. There is a quality called New Relationship Energy (NRE) that makes women do things they stop doing, eventually. You CAN’T. You just can’t stop smoking the pole because you’ve been married forever.

Here’s an analogy. Let’s say, you adore shoe shopping. Putting on new pair of shoes makes you feel limitless. Sexy. Powerful. Now imagine, every time you want to shoe shop, your husband says, “No.”

But, you tell him, “I need that. It makes me feel good. Plus, I earn my own money so this is a moot point.”

And he says, “No.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“It’s not my thing.”

“I don’t enjoy picking pubic hairs out of my teeth.” (just go with it.)

Just accept the fact that even if you’ve been married forever, you have to slurp the gherkin once in a while. His birthday. New Year’s Eve. Columbus Day. Passover. Tu B’Shevat. Penguin Awareness Day.

Ladies, just suck it up. Pun intended.

Pretty much anything you do down there will work. But The Ex claimed I knew how to operate a joy stick. So, I will share.

This is not about oral as foreplay, but blow job as main event. An entire five paragraph persuasive essay – with an introduction, body paragraph, and a conclusion. The kind where you swallow.


MEN- CLEAN UP DOWN THERE!  We don’t need a big whiff of dirty dick funk. If you want us to put our mouths on your penis, be hospitable! There is no excuse for having a funky dick!

Consider yourselves warned.

Let us proceed:

1. A little eye contact goes a long way. Pull your hair back so he can watch. Put on a show. (Don’t roll your eyes and look aggravated. This is a mood breaker.)

2. You may want to get your hands in on the action. The average mouth is 2-3 inches. The average penis is 5-6. Do the math, and call in for back up. And for Christ sake, wet your hands a little. Don’t dry rub the guy. You’re not at a Boy Scout Jamboree, trying to start a fire rubbing 2 sticks together.

3. It also helps to eliminate your gagging reflex completely. Of course, this is physically impossible. But a girl can try. Practice deep throating a water bottle. Not if your man is white.

4. NO TEETH. I know that some women do the whole “let me just graze it with my teeth” thing. HELL NO. Keep the chompers OFF. The perfect blow job would, in fact, be given by a gorgeous woman with removable dentures.

5. Have some idea of what kind of intensity your guy likes. Not everyone wants to be sucked like a Dyson upright (but a surprisingly large percentage do).

6. Don’t forget the twins. Cup them. Fondle them. Gently. Don’t throw them around like you’re rolling dice in a Vegas crap game.

7. Hum. Why do you think they call it a hummer? Hum a little tune while he’s in your mouth. Nothing complicated. I like “Ave Maria.” Go for seasonal. Maybe some Christmas carols.

8. Swirl your tongue around on the coronal ridge – the part where the shaft meets the head. It’s extremely sensitive. Covered in nerve endings. So, go lightly. Otherwise, it’s like clamping two jumper cables to each nut sack

9. And if you’re feeling really adventurous, you can always go for the perineum. The taint.The little area just past the family jewels. Right underneath it is his prostate gland. So, it’ll actually fit in with the whole Movember thing.

I strongly advocate the Power of the Blow Job. When I was married, I could pretty much get The Ex to agree to do anything after I’d blown him.

Me: “Honey, would you mind replacing the roof and repainting every room in the house?”

Him: (post blow job) “Sure, babe.”

And the whole gift thing? Pfft. Forget that. Every other wife is running around, pushing through crowded department stores trying to find him the perfect birthday gift for the umpteenth time. I NEVER had to do that.

I just had to brush my teeth.

The Ex always tells our son he fell madly in love with me because of my cooking. I love to cook. I own tons of cookbooks. I actually own 20 years of the Thanksgiving issue of Gourmet Magazine. I DO. I’m very domestic. I know – totally incongruous with many aspects of my personality, but true, nevertheless.

I have an amazing collection of Julia Child videos from her 1960’s television show “The French Chef,” which I got on Amazon.

The first time I cooked dinner for him, I agonized over the menu. It had to be perfect. For dessert, I made Julia Child’s internationally famous chocolate souffles. These exuberantly rich gravity-defying bites of chocolaty heaven are an ambitious endeavor. And painstakingly intense to time. I went trench coat-loony making sure the souffles would come out of the oven at the precise right moment.

And where do you think they ended up? In the bedroom, all over us. Him, specifically. I basically licked the damn souffle off Mr. Winky. All that work was WASTED.  I could just have easily bought a few Dunkin Donuts and played Ring Toss the Boom Stick.

Incidentally, I don’t really think he married me for my cooking. I think that’s something he tells Little Dude. Cause it’s not nice to tell a 10 year-old, “Son, Mama sure can suck the chrome off a tail pipe!”

But –  maybe it was my cooking. Anything’s possible. In which case, this entire post is without merit. And what you really need to watch is this:

A tribute to Julia Child on her 100th birthday, set to Guns N Roses “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

You MUST watch this. Hilarious, goofy, bizarre Julia. I adore her. I love her ditzy commentary:

“We’re having four vegetarians for dinner. I mean, we’re not going to EAT them, but I have to make a vegetarian dinner!

Either way, whether it was my cooking, or my blow jobs, as Julia would say:

Bon Appetit!

Do couples forget to please each other after they’ve been married a long time?  
Is Julia Child not the wackiest broad on television?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 



Little Dude is a “walker,” which means he does not require bus transportation to school. His school is, in fact, at the end of my block. Six houses away. 270 steps from the end of my driveway.

I know this because the other day I counted them.

There’s a thin strip of street to cross, which is fervently policed by Gayle, the cheerful blonde Crossing Guard. I live on a quiet, tree-lined block. The only traffic, outside of school arrival and dismissal, is the occasional car belonging to someone who lives in my development.

I’ve walked my kid to and from school every day since kindergarten. Last fall, as he was entering the 4th grade, he begged for the opportunity to walk the 1000 feet himself.

I was torn. In theory, it seemed very safe. In fact, I could stand and observe him walk to the end of the block until he was under the watchful eye of cheery Gayle. It’s probably a 4 minute walk. What could possible go wrong?

Apparently, everything. I have a Facebook page for my civilian, non-blogging friends and family who actually don’t know I even have a blog. I posted. asking for opinions. More than 50 very adamant people weighed in. All but one were convinced that letting my child walk to the end of the block was a potentially life threatening decision, akin to child abuse. Because even in that short span of both time and place, anything could happen.

I decided against letting him walk alone to school. Full disclosure: it wasn’t because all these dogged opinions persuaded me that it was unsafe to do so.

It was because I didn’t want to be judged by the other parents.

I didn’t want to be “that” mom; the one who doesn’t take care of her son correctly. I didn’t want to impact my son’s social life. People where I live are shallow. They’ve just barely learned to accept the fact that I refuse to wear the local suburban mom uniform: Juicy sweat suit, large Louis Vuitton bag, Tory Burch shoes.
(I’m lying about the Tory Burch shoes. I have a shoe addiction so that doesn’t count)

I was afraid I’d be judged as “the mother who doesn’t care if her kid gets kidnapped.” So everyday, I walked him.

After all, (clamored the cacophony of voices on my Facebook page) things are so different today.

When I was a kid, I walked to school everyday, starting in kindergarten. I survived. Well, I got my ass kicked a lot of days. But that was because I grew up an outcast in a predominately black housing project. No kidnapping was involved.

As kids we played outside all day, with no adult supervision. I rode my bike to the library. On summer nights all the kids were outside after dinner until dark, with nary a grownup in sight. You came home when the street lights came on. Or if your mama called for you.

Occasionally, if you heard gunshots.

I’m just keeping it real. It was a nasty, crime-infested housing project.

In 2008, A New York City journalist and mother of 2 named Leonore Skenazy made the controversial decision to allow her 9-year-old to take the subway home from school alone. He begged to, and she felt he was ready to handle the experience. Lenore Skenazy is an Ivy League-educated journalist who has written for several prominent newspapers. I would assume she’s an intelligent person, capable of making a well-informed decision.

She published an article about it and the backlash was intense. It became national news overnight, eventually receiving worldwide coverage. She was verbally annihilated for risking her child’s life. Editorially drawn and quartered for child abuse. Dubbed the “world’s worst mom.”

Was she? She researched statistics to support what she felt was a reasonable and informed decision.

And I agree with her.

I wholeheartedly believe that what has changed most is not the increased risk of kidnapping, but our own psyches. I believe we are a fear based culture. A fear based world, actually, fearful beyond the scope of child rearing. Global fear is the undercarriage of racism, war, homophobia and intolerance of all kinds.

I believe we learn fear. I believe some parents blanket themselves in fear as a cushion of superiority; an indication as to who’s the most careful parent, because being stifling and overbearing is mistaken for valid concern. Fear-based über parenting is the barometer by which we measure the quality of our child rearing.  I also believe that we are inundated with gruesome stories of child abductions and murders which dominate he media, thus blowing out of proportion the real facts around these crimes.


I subscribe to the method of parenting whose name Skenazy coined in response to the overwhelming uproar of censure she received. Free range parenting was developed by Skenazy as the antithesis to helicopter parenting.

Helicopter parenting is – well, picture a helicopter hovering a few feet above you, blades rotating furiously. Think about the parents you know who do every little thing for their kids. Helicopter parenting is not just about being “hyper present;” it’s about the wrong kind of presence.

Some parents are like that because they’re neurotic and refuse to allow their children to learn and grow.  And sadly, some women are like that because they feel guilty about the choice they made – a very valid one- to work inside the home as stay at home caregiver. To justify their choice, they perform Herculean acts of parenting so the world understands just how imperative it is that they be home. Little Johnny would die if the crusts weren’t cut off his sandwich. The next thing you know, little Johnny is in college and his mom is calling his professors when he gets a bad grade.

Richard Mullendore, professor at the University of Georgia has an interesting theory regarding the manifestation of helicopter parenting. He blames it on the pervasiveness of cell phones – which he refers to as “the world’s longest umbilical cord.”

Antipodal to helicopter parenting, free range parenting is empowering your child towards independence and allowing them to make mistakes. It’s evaluating the perceived danger of a situation logically and making decisions based on facts. It’s rendering kids susceptible to the lumps and bumps of childhood and raising kids who walk around smart, not scared.


With regards to allowing your child to play outside unsupervised, walk to school, etc, what are the facts? Lenore Skenazy referenced statistics she obtained from the Department of Justice.

1. U.S. violent crime rates have plummeted almost 50% since they peaked in 1992.

2. Of all children under age 5 murdered from 1976-2005:

31% were killed by fathers
29% were killed by mothers
23% were killed by male acquaintances
7% were killed by other relatives
3% were killed by strangers

3. Number of children killed each year by family members and acquaintances: About 1000
Number of children abducted in “stereotypical kidnappings” (kidnapped by a stranger for ransom or for sexual purposes and/or transported away) in 1999, the most recent year for which we have statistics: 115.
Number of those children killed by their abductor: About 50.

Murders of children by abductors constitute less than one half of 1% of all murders in America.

Crime rates, in fact, are down. It is only our perception of crime – a fear based perception – that is up.

Interestingly enough, 200,000 kids under 14 are injured every year in car accidents. Doesn’t stop parents from piling 6 of them in a minivan for soccer practice.

I do not want my child unsafe. Nor do I want to make light of the horrific things that can happen to children, to anyone. The instinct to protect our children is biological. I personally morph into scary Mama Bear if I think Little Dude is in any kind of danger.

But I do not want my child growing up fearful. I’ll not have him live a life borne out of the constant onslaught of horror stories brought on by the media – stories whose purpose I question. Are they to inform? Or to quench our appetite for the macabre and disturbing; to confirm that our children are in danger the moment we take them out of the bubble wrap?


This year, I did not succumb to societal pressure, nor an anticipated trickle down backlash against my son. Little Dude walks himself to and from school everyday. And no- I do not stand at the door, watching him walk. I kiss him goodbye and sit at my kitchen table, coffee in hand, and take that great leap of faith.

In his book Protecting the Gift, child-safety expert Gavin De Becker explains that compared to a stranger kidnapping, “a child is vastly more likely to have a heart attack, and child heart attacks are so rare that most parents (correctly) never even consider the risk.”

So let all the other mothers in the neighborhood judge me. Maybe they ought to think about that heart attack statistic, and take the artery clogging Ho Hos and potato chips out of their kids lunches, and mind their own damn business.

Would you let your child walk to school alone, or play outside unsupervised? What do you think of what Lenore Skenazy did? Is the world really that much more dangerous than in was when we were growing up?
Talk to me.    I’m listening.



1. Congratulations on your engagement. Your fiancé gave venereal warts to every housewife at the gym. His ball sack is a hot bed of disease and infection.

2. If I can’t afford it, and I have to have it, I’ll just shop lift it.

3. Why are you so engrossed in your cell phone conversation? Are you a transplant doctor awaiting a donor heart? Someone could strap a pair of cymbals to their feet, and kidnap your child and you would be oblivious.

4. No, it’s not a “difficult age.” Your kid is an animal. We’re in a restaurant, so please, don’t just stand there while he caterwauls like someone shitting farm equipment. I would like to enjoy my meal. If you don’t learn to control him, I will cut you and dance in the blood.

5. I know being morbidly obese is horrible and challenging in a million ways. and it’s probably glandular and I’m sure you’re a lovely human being. But in the mean time, stop blocking the entire aisle at the fucking supermarket. The regular sized people need food, too.

6. Oh my God, your baby is UGLY. SCARY ugly. Did they yank his head out with forceps? Is it too early to consider plastic surgery? Get that shit fixed so he doesn’t scare the other babies.

7. For the love of everything holy, please brush your teeth. Your breath smells like feces. Would you like a tic tac, or some toilet paper? While you’re deciding, I’ll be over here donning an oxygen mask, so you don’t singe my eyebrows.

8. No. Your kid is not a “bad test taker.” He’s just dumb. Remember dumb kids? Yes. They still exist. You own one. You should sterilize him so that he does not reproduce.

9. Stop being so incredibly nasty to me, PTO whore. Our kids go to school together. If you continue to act bitchy to me, so help me God I will fuck your husband six ways till Sunday.

10. Place don’t sit next to me, please don’t sit next to me, please don’t – oh my God, you smell like Big Foot’s Dick. Your BO could be used in international bioterrorism. Next time you go out in public, please take a shower, heathen.

11. Heroin is awesome. It’s so convenient that the dealers are selling it behind all the high schools. And in those economy-sized little $5 baggies.

12. Good thing I am not a crazy person, or this Godforsaken supermarket parking lot would be littered with the dead.

13. I know you just farted. My eyes are watering and suddenly the room smells like an exploded septic tank.

14.  I could just totally punch you in your misshapen annoying face and run away because you don’t know me and you couldn’t report me if you wanted to.

15. Oh, dear Lord. I look ridiculous. Am I really wearing a backwards baseball cap? Forgive me, world. It’s a frantic attempt to beat back death. In a few short years, I’m going to be shopping in Forever 21, trying to get a discount with my AARP card.


Do you think things you would never say out loud?  C’mon. Your turn.
Talk to me.   I’m listening.

My Son, The Cock Blocker

September 2, 2014 — 65 Comments



My son has a standard line he uses whenever he thinks a man is flirting with me.

You know that’s my MOM, right?”

It’s because the man in question is often twenty years younger than me. Trust me –  I look every bit my age (which is between 35 and none of your business). And I’m no hot piece of suburban ass. I look like an aging rock star who drank too much tequila and passed out tailgating in the parking lot at Bamboozle. Men are just horny bastards, and they flirt.

Also, MILF porn, featuring 20-something man/boys banging much older, sex crazed, know how to give a great blow jay experienced women in their sexual prime has inundated the Interwebz. So, very hopeful, 23-year-old man/boys flirt with women in their (okay, okay) forties.

Yesterday, I took my son and his friends to the movies so I could catch up on my sleep. Snacks are of the utmost importance at a movie. And boys going on 11 can EAT. We got there just in time to watch the previews, which they really wanted to see. So after they were seated, I made my way to the concessions.

I got my order of enough disgusting junk food to collectively hijack all our brain’s biochemistry by intense dopamine release. But it became apparent, that even doing my best impersonation of a pack mule, I would have to make 2 trips to bring food to the Little Princes who were seated in those comfy reclining seats. The young man who was assembling my order had been flirtatious with me the entire time he waited on me. He looked like he was 22, at best. Now, I have no intention of dating, much less sleeping with, a boy half my age. Why?

Because 23-year-old man/boys need this:

3rd edit

And ain’t nobody got time for that.


But flirting is FUN. I’m a huge flirt. Not just with men. I flirt with women, babies, doggys, grandmothers. My Ex used to say I would flirt with a piece of wood. It’s harmless.

This young man now fell all over himself to help me carry the snacks. He texted his manager to get special permission to leave the concession stand so he could walk me to my seat. (see why flirting is a GOOD thing?)

On the way out of the movie, he found me. He was just getting off of work and he fell instep alongside us as we made our way out of the movie. He asked me if I lived in the area, and did I come to that theatre regularly?
Before I could answer, Little Dude gave his clarion call.

You know she’s my MOM, right?”

After I kicked him in the throat glared at him, the young man said,”Well, heh heh, I assumed she wasn’t buying snacks for a group of random kids, yes. But, hey. Nice to meet you. I’m D—-.”

My son interrupted. “What are you, in college or something? She’s a MOM.  She’s too OLD for you. “

This is what he does.

All. The. Time.

I recently posted on Facebook that I was in a specialty grocery store with my son, because I’m an idiot who continues to feed him, despite his big, FAT mouth.

And the exact same thing happened. A 25-ish year old man/boy got into a heavy flirtation with me as I was trying to find the right rice for risotto (Arborio). Harmless, fun and yes – a little ego boosting. Why not? And Little Blabber mouth came out with his standard line.

“You know she’s my MOM, right?”

This time, the man/boy just smiled and sauntered away.

Score: Little Dude: 1     Cute Supermarket Man/Boy: 0


Eventually, my son will have to deal with me being part of the dating world. At the moment, I run a business and have precious free time to spend, and I choose to spend it with my kid. Because he still likes me and thinks I’m cool. I’m capitalizing on that while I can.

But he goes into the 5th grade this year. And from what I understand, the year after he will be entering The Dark World known as Middle School and will be plotting ways to kill me. At which time I will become a full-fledged member of Normal Single Parents Who Date. I stuck my toe in the water recently and actually had a date. No, he wasn’t 23. Because 23-year-old man/boys need this:

clit buck


and ain’t nobody got time for that.


40 people on Facebook gave me input on what to wear. (Thanks again!) My kid was spending the night at a friend’s and had no idea.

It’s doubtful that my son will ever be spending weekends with his dad so I can drop Ecstasy for 2 days and have 36-hour sex sessions with him out of the house. We don’t have shared custody. My Ex doesn’t have a stable living situation. I don’t foresee that as a possibility.

Little Dude is going to have to deal with his mama dating. No, there won’t be a parade of Uncles waltzing around in my bathrobe in the morning, eating homemade pancakes. That’s just gross. (not the pancakes; I make the world’s best.) Random men spending the night and my child being aware of that.

The sex part will just have to be worked out. I imagine it will be something done during his sleeping hours. And since he has a tendency to wake up in the night, the gentleman caller in question will have to be able to get dressed quickly and make a rapid exit.

Please feel free to introduce me to any firemen in the New York/New Jersey area. Thank you.


Are you a single parent who dates?  Does your kid cock/pussy block you?
Should I just kick him in the throat?  Talk to me, I’m listening.

The Devil Wears Carters

August 28, 2014 — 56 Comments

the omen final edited

When Little Dude was a toddler, he was a real asshole. I took notes that I kept meaning to turn into a book, but I could never write.
He was too much of an asshole.

I’ve decided to turn them into a series of blog posts, “The Devil Wears Carters.” Here is the first in the series.


Little Dude had a speech delay. He didn’t talk until he was 27 months old. The irony is, he doesn’t shut up now for a minute. This kid talks from the second he wakes up, until the second he lays down to go to sleep. At 3 years old, he kept a running commentary on every single thought he had in his head. And his head was jammed full of thoughts.

At 3, he never ever fucking ever stopped talking.

I did everything short of burying his face in an ether-soaked rag to shut him up. NOTHING worked.

We had “quiet contests.” Whoever could stay quiet the longest, won. He lost after 2 seconds. We played hide and seek. He’d hide and I’d sit and have a cup of coffee, relieved to be out of earshot for 5 minutes. I developed a mysterious bladder condition which caused me to have to urinate every half hour. I’d sit in the bathroom just trying to enjoy the silence, which was short-lived. He’d stand outside and yammer at me through the door.

He’s almost 11 and he still does that. I can’t even pee without him continuing to discuss his latest Minecraft adventure. I propose we bring back the Medieval torture, the Rack, for the inventor of Minecraft. I will personally turn the handle that dislocates every joint in that motherfucker’s body.

I’ve been through a lot, but I had never experienced anything as draining as the onslaught of preschool chatter he subjected me to, all day, every day. He fell asleep talking. In the morning, he’d pick up his story where he left it the night before, as though there hadn’t been a 10 hour span between sentences.

His stories SUCKED.

They were about things I didn’t care about, didn’t want to know about, and couldn’t understand even if I WANTED to know about them.

And he had not a CLUE about proper story telling, which, in fact, has a beginning, middle and end. His stories were just endless middles, leaving us stranded forever on the Desert Island of Incomprehension. Me, and my little story teller. Marooned captain of the “USS What The Fuck?”

He had to begin every story by saying my name. FOUR TIMES. Well, my Mommy name, as in “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy, I farted in my underwear.”

Was this a speech impediment? Was he having a stroke? Was this a chanting invocation to conjure Satan from his infernal abyss?

I read articles about excessively talkative children, desperate for a remedy as my brain atrophied daily. I tried to focus my glazed over eyes on articles about kids like my own, as I felt the cytoplasmic proteins in my brain slowly leak out my ass. One woman wrote that her children talked constantly, and she loved every minute of it.

Was she fucking deaf? I doubt it, because even Helen Keller would have been signing “STFU” to my kid after 10 minutes.


This is what a typical conversation with him was like. I was innocently trying to cut up a cantaloupe, and became engaged in a “steel cage battle of death/nobody gets out alive” conversation.

“Can I have some of that? What is it? Where did you get that from?”

“It’s cantaloupe. From the supermarket, sweetie.”

“Do we eat that part? Is that the skin? What is that?”

“It’s the rind. We don’t eat that.”

“Do we eat the seeds? No or yes?”

“No, we don’t eat the seeds.”

“Why not? Are they yucky or yummy?”

“They’re yucky.”

“Do Lenny and Stevie eat the seeds? No or yes?”

“No, honey.”

“Does Sammy?”

“No, nobody does.”

“I farted into my underwear.”

I didn’t answer because really, there was no question there.

“Am I gonna die?”


“If I eat the seeds, will I die?”

“No, you will not die.”

“What’s dying?”

“You close your eyes, and sleep for a long time.”

“Are you going to die?”

“Someday, when I’m old.”

“Are you old?”

“No, I am NOT old. Aunt Bobbie is old.”

“Did God make that cantaloupe?”

“Yes, God makes everything.”

“Did he make me?”


“Did he make you?”


“Did he make Daddy?”


“Did he make Daddy’s car?”

“Ye—Well, not really.”

“Why not really? No or yes?”

This kid would make a fantastic prosecutor.

“Well, cars are made in factories.”

“What’s a factory?”

“It’s a place that makes cars.”

“Did God make the factory?”

“No, people built the factory. God makes all living things.”

“What’s a living thing?”

“People, animals, plants…”

“Are poops living?”

“No. Yes. NO.”

“Does God have a pee pee?”

“Well, since he’s a boy, I would have to say yes.”

“Is his pee pee on the inside or the outside?”

“He has an outside pee pee.”

“Why is your pee pee on the inside?”

“It just is.”

“Can I see?”

“No, you can’t see!”

“I would like to see it right now, now, NOW.”

(well, take a number, dude).

“No, it’s private.”

“Is my pee pee private?”


“Daddy has hair on his pee pee, and his nipples are turning.”

WTF?? “All right, you lost me there.”

“Why are my boobies flat, and yours hang down?”

“They didn’t used to, you little fucker!”


“Look what Mommy’s got! M&Ms! Here – take the WHOLE BAG!”


The only time he stopped asking questions was when he was eating. And not even always then. It was unreal. The stuff that came out of his mouth you couldn’t make up if you tried.

First of all, my son, like most kids, repeated everything he heard, which we learned the hard way when he dropped a sippy cup and exclaimed, “Jesus Chwist!” We realized we had to have a total moratorium on cussing in our household, or else explain to his preschool teacher that he learned “motherfucker” at the babysitter’s. And he had an utterly charming way of putting words together in a tuneless and grating song, like “asshole, butthole, asshole, butthole” which he would sing incessantly around the house.

He also strung the most bizarre words and thoughts together.

“Mommy, can I make a pee-pee in your mouth?”

WHAT?!! My kid was either experimenting with words, or he was a total freak. And given who his parents are, I wasn’t so sure.

Once, we had the unfortunate luck to get in the elevator at the mall with an elderly woman in a wheel chair. She had some kind of respiratory tubes attached to her face. I prayed to all the Gods that he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. Luckily, he waited until we were out of the elevator to announce, “Mommy, she has boogers in her nose. Is that machine sucking out the boogers?”

“No, it’s to help her breathe.”


“Well, she’s old, and-

“Is she going to die? IS SHE GOING TO DIE?!!”

Another time, we were in Sam’s Club, and Little Dude saw packages of hangers he decided he had to have. We didn’t need them, and I wasn’t buying them just to tickle his 3-year-old fancy. Of course, this just put the little tyrant OVER THE EDGE. After all, he had decided he needed them. And he called hangers “hookers.”

So, I pushed my wagon out of Sam’s club at warp speed, while he shrieked at full volume,

“I want a hooker!! I WANT A HOOKER!

Like father, like son.


Do you have a child who you’re sure is the spawn of Satan? Who talks incessantly?
If so, do you drink in the daytime? What was the worst thing your kid ever did?
Talk to me.   I’m listening.