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This is the kind of stuff that just happens to me.


This is just like Saturday, when my Ex and the Cute Guy texted me at the EXACT same time. I have to be go under general anesthesia at the dentist this morning, and my Ex texted, asking “Do you need me to drive you to the dentist on Monday?” at the exact same time that the Cute Guy texted, “Are we gonna watch movies tonight?”

And I may or may not have texted my Ex, “As long as you bring that big cock over here for me to suck.”

While my Ex was no doubt jumping up and down because he had just won “Ex wife fellatio lottery,” I racked my brains to come up with the most clever plausible excuse. My gazelle-like reflexes came to the rescue with “Jk.”

I’m sure it would make an exceptional porno movie plot, though. En route to the dentist to have what will no doubt be the most excruciating oral surgery of my life, I just have to have my EX, of all people, put his penis in my mouth. Ooh baby.

But I digress.


I work HARD on my post images. I search for a long time for a photo, one that I’m not stealing from anyone. Then, I upload it to iPiccy which is Photoshop for the artistically challenged.

I then tinker with a gazillion effects until I get the one I want. I’m not a graphically inclined person, so It’s more of me just clicking on every effect going, “Whee! Look at THAT! Ooh, cool!”

Very much like when I was on hallucinogenics in college, holding a cigarette and waiting for the ash to turn green. And then waving it around so it would make all those cool trails in the sky.

And it was really hard to post that picture of myself in this blog, so there’s no WAY I’d use one for a post image! It’s a super cool bondage bra from Nasty Gal, and meant to be seen, but NOT IN THE WORDPRESS READER. (By the way, don’t EVER hashtag your outfit on Instagram with #NastyGal. You’re welcome)

Like most women, I am beseiged with body image issues. STOP – don’t tell me how I look to you. There are a million ways to make a photo look good before you post it online and I USED EVERYONE SINGLE ONE OF THEM. TWICE.

So I was pretty freaked out when I clicked into the WordPress reader to catch up on posts and HOLY HELL, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? I have no clue how that happened. I know if you post a video, it will automatically supersede any image you have as your post image and appear in the reader.

I also know that when you share to stupid Facebook, they just grab whatever image they want out of your post to accompany your story as the thumbnail. It’s damned annoying.

I’ve actually learned how to deal with that, by running the link through something called a “URL scrubber.” I giggle maniacally every time I use it, because “scrubber” is what we used to call slutty girls when I was in high school.That, and “hua.” Not “Hua,” a state in ancient China that was destroyed by the Qin Dynasty.

To fully understand how we used it, for your viewing pleasure, The Ralph Cifaretto Whore Tribute. 

And now, I actually know that because I added this video, it will APPEAR AS MY POST IMAGE! Take that, WordPress, you hua!


But other than that, I’m clueless about all things techie. Hence, the mystery of why the bra shot showed up in the Reader.

When people start saying stuff like,”To optimize your site’s PageRank flow, use special no-index code to tell search engines to not index these pages and add no-follow code for all links to them,”

I just hear “Blerghity blergh de blerghin blerrgh.”

I know, I KNOW! I should have been learning this stuff at BlogHer, but I was too busy flirting with bloggers, Minions, random guys in the elevator, and McHunks serving us the food at the closing party. I have no memory of that last one, but Gunmetal Geisha claims she has photographic evidence. Of course she does.


So, today I will be have to be to knocked out by the oral surgeon lady to carve out my impacted wisdom tooth. She tried for HOURS, but couldn’t extract it and I kept getting un-numb. That’s a redhead thing, by the way. We are resistant to anesthesia. And it’s right next to a very sensitive root canal tooth.

She may just take out both, which pisses me off! I’m the goddamn poster child for dental health! I was 21 years old before I had my first cavity, that’s right! 21!

She’s very mean, by the way. She is short tempered and curt and a sadist and I think she and the lady who wax my vag should go out on a date and bash each other in the mouth and rip each other’s pussy hairs out.


So, hopefully I’ll survive this procedure and if they give me really good drugs, I may even publish again.

Maybe WordPress will just magically make a picture of me in my panties appear in the goddamn reader this time.



Does your blog do glitchy stuff like that? Can you deal with it yourself?
Have you ever had to be put to sleep for dental surgery?  Did they at least give you good drugs afterwards? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

mask with color


It would have been problematic to walk around BlogHer with my hair artfully swept in front of my face all weekend.


According to the lady at the waxing salon, Instagram is the best way to network. Evidently, some chick who pours hot wax on my vag is the final word on networking, because I opened my Instagram account the day before BlogHer.

Annnnd, I posted pictures of myself on it. By the second day, I could no longer resist taking selfies with other bloggers. EVERYONE was doing it, and I was stupid drunk just got into the spirit of things.


The first day of BlogHer, I clung anxiously to Quirky Chrissy, who took excellent care of me. She was completely chill about me being up her ass like a suppository. Chrissy is one of the most positive, light-filled people I’ve ever met. Even hungover, her optimism defies logic.

I stopped attending sessions at BlogHer, after sitting through ones that informed me I was violating all “rules” of blogging. My posts are too long, my titles suck, I have no niche, I don’t organize my blog-related files (organize my blog files? I get outwitted by laundry).

I did some networking at the Expo, and found out that although I can’t earn actual money writing for brands, I CAN get paid in dog food. I’m gonna buy a dog so I can finally monetize this blogging thing.


The best part of the conference was not the sessions or the Expo. It was the camaraderie. In my soulless suburban neighborhood, women specialize in haughty standoffish-ness.  At BlogHer, the default behavior is “Hey! Let’s hang out!”


I was very much ME at the conference. And people still liked me.

– I dress like a middle aged rock star frantically trying to beat back death by shopping at Hot Topics.

– I am clumsy. Chrissy and Joules watched me slam-walk straight into a glass door.

– I’m a hot mess who loses EVERYTHING. I lost my wallet (recovered!), my conference badge (got another) and my sunglasses (prescriptions Ray Bans, sadly gone forever.)

– I can be nutty. The first thing I did after meeting Chrissy was jump up and down on her bed shouting “WHERE ARE THE LESBIANS???”

– I say inappropriate things, like, “Okay, I’m gonna go to my room, watch a little porn on my phone and touch myself.”

– I do inappropriate things, like grinding up against the beautiful Ponies and Martinis while dancing at the closing party. She was totally cool about it, even though I held about as much appeal as a kid grabbing on your clean blouse with greasy French Fry fingers.

– I am an incorrigible flirt. I picked up a man in the elevator.

This one needs an explanation, so I don’t sound like a slutty elevator strumpet. I was waiting for the hotel elevator with Chrissy and Joules, deep in discussion about whether testicles are essential, because, you know, that’s a vital topic to discuss in public.

A hot guy emerged from the hotel gym and joined in our conversation. We all bantered in the elevator, and because his chiseled abs showed through his sweaty shirt he seemed interesting, I asked him,  “Are you single?” He was, and asked for my number.

He then exited the elevator on the wrong floor 3 times, claiming that I “made him nervous.” It think it was more that I was wearing this:


me at blgo her




Apparently, when I drink I feel the need to make out with bloggers like Aussa Lorens.

kiss aussa


And Minions.



I’m practically blind without my glasses (which I wasn’t wearing, because that would make too much sense). So I introduced myself to bloggers with my “Helen Keller at the dinner table” impersonation, in which I would grab the badge from around their necks and yank it up to see who they were.

This was how Dawn and I discovered simultaneously who the other was, and SCREAMED at the top of our lungs in the hotel lobby like two hyenas escaped from the Central Park zoo.

Gunmetal Geisha is an enchanting, ultra feminine waif. She captured the whole experience on video but I swear that’s not why I’m saying all these nice things bout her.

I’ve “known” Emily as long as I’ve been blogging, but our friendship was firmly cemented when she proclaimed at the closing party, “If you can’t appreciate the glory of David Bowie you have no soul.”

Usually when I meet someone and I feel like I know them, it’s because they were in jail with me. Lucy, however, I think was my sister in another life. She took off this necklace and gifted it to me:




Molly (A Mother Life) is a funky redhead with a killer Aussie accent, Sarah (est. 1975) is even FUNNIER in person than on her blog, Jen Kehl, techie goddess extraordinaire, of COURSE had an extra phone charger thingey when my phone died.


The closing night party was on Pier 84 in Manhattan. The food was by McDonald’s, but cheeseburgers become ambrosia when a wait staff of all gorgeous male models serves them to you on trays.

As the sun set over the Hudson River, we drank free booze and danced our faces off to old school R&B. In between dancing, l lounged on the grass with the coolest group of chicks ever.

I started the weekend a nervous introverted wreck. I ended it laying on a blanket on the grass, laughing, talking, cuddling with my head in Lucy’s lap, purring contentedly while watching the stars in the night sky.


Writing is how I breathe. However, it can be a very lonely endeavor. I began blogging because I craved interaction. For me, that was my main takeaway from the conference. I connected.

Online friendships are missing a crucial physical component, that of touch. At BlogHer, I was able to hug/kiss/grab/grind/snuggle/hold all the people I’ve “known” online.

The beautiful people who have lived in my heart for a year and a half, became real.


Have you been to a blog conference?  Have you met people you know from the Internet in real life?
What was I thinking with that outfit with my bra showing??   Talk to me. I’m listening.


July 18, 2015 — 7 Comments


The world just got brighter today. Rara is free!

Originally posted on The Monster in Your Closet:

After fifteen months behind bars, Rara steps–or has already stepped–through the gate to freedom and mamasaur hugs today. Her husband won’t be there to meet her, but she will be surrounded by love nevertheless: in person, unrestrained, unrestrainable love.

A couple weeks ago, she wrote, “I feel as if I must be dead to the internet[.] Who out there even knows of me after 438 days?”

I’d like to join @matticusdj and @Card_Castles in asking you to show a little #RawrLove today. Rara might not see your messages today, or even in the next few days; when she does, they’ll be a lovely reminder that she remained vibrant in this space despite her physical removal from it. She didn’t have to keep typing here to keep filling up hearts.

All the same, I can’t wait for her to get typing again.

It’s time. Finally, thankfully,

it’s time.

View original

Punk Rock MILF

July 14, 2015 — 111 Comments

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He said, “Oh, my wife and I have very generic sex. She doesn’t really have any deep-seated issues.”

The implication being that I’m uninhibited and adventurous in bed because I’m meschugena (that’s street Jew for crazy bitch.)

I’m not buying that. If your wife is vanilla, don’t attribute it to her clean bill of mental health. She’s just a starfish fuck.


Psychological baggage may prevent women from getting close to men, or make them difficult and needy. It doesn’t make you a hot scromp.


I’m the first one to admit I have raving daddy issues. But it’s not like I’m a cliched “daddy issues girl” who ended up on a stripper pole or addicted to drugs. 




At any rate, everyone has baggage. Here’s to life in all its fucked up glory. I still maintain that emotional issues won’t turn you into a nymphomaniac with lascivious tastes in bed. That’s just blind luck.


I recently stumbled across a Subreddit called Dead Bedrooms.

*Please note: Do not surf Reddit. You will see things you cannot unsee. There isn’t enough eye bleach in the world to cleanse what I have seen, while searching for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the dark and lonely night.

Apparently, this is a Thing – it’s when a couple, married or otherwise, doesn’t have sex because one of them is LL (low libido). And it’s not always the woman, although that is the more common scenario.

I’m in groups where married woman discuss sex as if it’s an unpleasant chore. Particularly stay-at-home moms, who have to spend a day taking care of squalling brats. Nothing drains a libido faster than exhaustion accompanied by puke, poop, and spit up. It’s ironic that the ultimate expression of womanhood, being a mother, can leave one feeling  sexless and decidedly unfeminine.


I usually keep quiet during these discussions, unless blow jobs are being discussed. I’m enthusiastically pro-blow and try to put in a good word for checking the mic ever since a friends marriage broke up, over blow jobs.

But I don’t join in the I-hate-having-to-fuck my-husband discussions, because I don’t want to disagree and feel like I’m gloating.

I should preface this by saying that I have always had a very strong libido. Even as a kid. I used to watch Star Trek and get little twinges over Mr. Spock (don’t you dare judge me and RIP Leonard Nimoy).  And later, over Charlie’s Angels – but that’s a whole other story.

I grew up in the New York City projects and had the hots for The Jackson Five. All of them. Individually, not some jungle-fever gang bang.

Before you send a marching band to my house to play “Me So Horny” this has not always been positive. There’s such a thing as incompatible sex drives. A relationship I had in my 20’s, the love of my life, the “one who got away” – died of sexual incompatibility.

If I’m in a relationship, I’m an “every day” girl. This man was more of the “once or twice a week” persuasion.  It was a source of constant frustration to me, and not just sexual. It’s emotionally frustrating to walk around all the time throbbing at the heart and the pussy.

I tried everything. I fed him tiger penis soup from China and horny goat weed from India. I dressed as Leela from Futurama.

I went unfucked.

While choosing an island in the Caribbean for our vacation, I said, “I really don’t care where we go. As long as we can have sex five times a day.”

He was visibly horrified.

We broke up soon after that.


I had a really strong sex life with my Ex, which is probably why he still stalks me.

We never had that post-baby “don’t touch me” thing happen. We had plenty of sex with that little bassinet right in our bedroom. When my doctor told us to wait six weeks after my son was born to have sex, my Ex said, “Wait a minute. Is that for anal, too?”

Even 14 years into our relationship our sex life really never dwindled or got stale. I don’t know exactly what to attribute that to. I wish I did, and could articulate it to couples who are experiencing Dead Bedroom.

I am adventurous, energetic and kinky as hell, but not because of my “deep seated issues.” Maybe it’s because I’m from New York, and have been exposed to a veritable cornucopia of kinky fuckery? Or because I started exploring my sexuality in college, in a hippie-ish, upstate New York “land that time forgot”? Is it because I grew up with five brothers, and there was so much sperm flung around our apartment it was like living in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo?


Sex is one of the most fun activities a couple can engage in. It costs nothing. It’s fantastic cardio. The hormones released are natural mood enhancers. Certain positions, like reverse cowgirl, are great for working out your hamstrings and quads.  Reverse cowgirl is also a fabulous position for hitting a woman’s G-spot.

Yes, a G-spot exists. We’re not talking Big Foot or Chupacabra. Although it is pretty fucked up that something which feels that amazing you have to go on a mystical quest to find, whereas everything you need to make a man orgasm is just protruding out there, waggling at you.


Women who think having sex with their husbands is like facing a long layover at a crowded airport during a snowstorm, think again.


Women are complicated creatures who need to feel safe, protected, and taken care of.  Men are generally far less complicated. They need to be fed and fucked. If you want him attending to your needs, attend to his.

Sex is a powerful stress reliever. It releases calming hormones in the brain, which is balm for the body. Sex correlates to healing faster, getting sick less often and living longer. A panacea for so much of what ails us- automatically installed in our own bodies!

It feels good. Stop denying yourself one of the worlds’ greatest pleasures. Most men are more than happy to give a woman an orgasm. A man I was involved with recently was a sexual gem, more invested in making me have an orgasm than in having one himself. Do both of you a favor, and accept this graciously, and repeatedly.

Reclaim your femininity; your essence. Particularly if you’re a woman who spends her day cleaning up poo and puke and spit and All The Things. You need to remember that you’re a goddess. There’s nothing more restorative than finding yourself through the touch of another.


I’m not some kind of sexual superstar. I just feel empowered because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly.

The physical pleasure of sex, the freedom of it, connects two human beings in a way that lets them endure the pains and losses of being human. It’s a life affirming expression of joy and trust.



The title of this post is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful Sisterwife Mandi, who referred to me in a conversation as “Punk MILF.”

Mandi is the author of Dear Stephanie, an intense, sizzling, roller coaster of a read. Because I love you all, and because

I’m a proud Book Pimp,


please leave a comment. We’ll do a drawing and one of you will win a copy!



Is your sex drive compatible with that of your Significant Other? 
Have you ever heard of Dead Bedroom? How about Tiger Penis Soup? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

Sleepaway Camp Sucks

July 4, 2015 — 83 Comments

sleepaway-camp 5

My kid left for sleepaway camp Wednesday morning.

It’s the first time he’s going for the whole summer

It’s also the first time he didn’t want us to drive him. He wanted to take the bus. With his friends. 


I think I may be overly attached to my kid. We have that unique ‘mother-son’ bond.

I’m not saying the other filial bonds aren’t as strong. The mother-son connection is a very specific relationship, just as the others are. For me, it’s “I’d walk through fire for this kid” strong.


Sleepaway camp is a Thing. You either grew up with it, or you didn’t. And if you didn’t (like me) it’s hard to understand why people are such slavish devotees. It’s practically a cult, and I’m no stranger to cults.

My Ex grew up going to sleep away camp, so naturally he wanted our son to experience it. I knew Little Dude would either love it or hate it. There’s no in between.

The first year we were considering it, we were with a few other families at one of our houses.

I said,”Sleep away camp! That’s where kids learn every filthy thing they know! That’s where slutty little camper girls give boys BLOW JOBS!”

The dads all looked at one another.

“Where do we sign UP?!”


Little Dude was only 8 years old when he went for 2 weeks that first summer.

Do I even have to TELL you what a basket case I was? We don’t have family near by, so my kid had never slept out of the house before. I waited all of two hours before checking on him. I called the camp every hour until 9 pm when they politely but firmly informed me that my son was FINE, but maybe I should calm the fuck down?

When he returned home, my kid, for first and only time, said he hated me – hated US. The culture shock of returning to genteel society after two weeks of living in the woods like a wild hyena had disoriented and confused him.

And he wanted to stay longer.

And so, a sleepaway camper was born.


That summer, he got up the next morning and for the first time, picked out clothes himself and came downstairs dressed.

Hmmm.  Perhaps…there is good in this?

For Little Dude, it’s utter freedom. No one to bug him about table manners or picking up his socks. It’s a majestic camp ground in gorgeous woods with a spectacular lake and every activity a kid would want to do in the summer. It’s heaven on earth.

But OH MAH GOD he comes home filthy. I’m a germaphobe. I won’t even let him unpack his bags in my house. We unpack in the garage, and his mildewed musty laundry goes straight into the washing machine. Twice. While I douse all his bags with Lysol.

The first year, I wanted my kid to strip down in the driveway while I hosed him off, but my ex refused to let me, citing that as “cruel” because our hose only has cold water.

The second year, my kid went for a whole session, which is a month. He came home tan and fit and blissful.

And with impetigo. Ugh.

Last year when we went to see Little Dude on visiting day, he was in the infirmary with a virus. He was so ill we brought him home to see his pediatrician. She insisted we take him immediately to the ER. He was admitted to the hospital, and after a day, was transported by screeching ambulance to a bigger hospital with a pediatric oncology department.

You think I’ve survived some bad shit? It was all a cake walk compared to thinking my kid might have lymphoma. I spent 4 days in a pediatric oncology ward while they ran endless tests on my baby.

Lotta sick kids in that ward.

I’m just going to take a moment here to acknowledge how grateful I am that my son is healthy.





The doctors eventually diagnosed it as Mesenteric Lymphadenitis, a swelling of the lymph nodes in the intestines. It’s caused by a virus, but no one else from camp had gotten sick. It was mysterious and terrifying, as illness often is.

You think a scare like that might intimidate a kid, but mine has been chomping at the bit to get to camp since May.


This year, we decided my son would go for the whole summer. I have to pack up our house and move into a new place before school starts. It’ll be easier if he’s away.

Some parents do a crazy happy dance when their kids go off to camp. Not me.

Yes, I do get to go out and do All The Things. I travel, see friends. Write. But I miss my kid.


This year I’m really struggling.

The night before Little Dude left, I cooked his favorite meal – fajitas- and we watched a great documentary – Fresh Dressed. It’s about the evolution of hip hop culture in New York. I probably dug the fact that my kid was into this movie as much as I dug the movie itself.

He left on Wednesday morning and I didn’t speak to anyone, aside from Lizzi, for two days. I let phone calls go into voice mail. I took a break from Facebook and found out they had disabled my account for having a pseudonym. I didn’t care.


My house is usually so noisy. My kid talks constantly. Always has friends over. Blasts music. Plays XBox online so it sounds like there’s an army of psychopaths killing hookers in my basement.

It’s so quiet. I can hear the walls breathing.

My Ex stopped by this morning, to make sure I was eating (I was not) and not pining for my son (I was). I got my ass out of the house and bought some groceries. Sad little single-person groceries.


I didn’t speak to anyone because I wanted to lean into this sadness and explore it. I have never missed him like THIS before.

Yes, it’s the first time my kid will be away an entire summer.

It’s also the end of his childhood home. We’ll be in a new place. The last vestiges of our happy family will be wiped away forever. I know it’s a fresh start, and one I need – but it’s also tremendously sad. My kid will never be a toddler walking around this house again.


It’s the end of an era.


Eventually, I’ll embrace all that this means for the both of us.

But for now, I’m just going to feel how it feels to say goodbye to the little boy and the house he grew up in.


Little Dude

That face.



Do you have a kid who goes away during the summer?
Can you imagine missing your child like this?
I should be having debauched bacchanalian blowouts in my house all summer.  Are you available?
Talk to me. I’m listening.