After all this time as online friends, it was time for us to meet.

And meet we did!

Yes, they were two of the most fun days I’ve had in a long time. But it was more than that.

These women are the family I chose.


It was a pretty intense couple of days. There was a blood moon. Beth won a major book award. Facebook broke.

And The Sisterwives finally got to meet one another and spend time together.

Don’t tell me these things aren’t all connected…

If you’d like to read the highly amusing tale (I wrote it!) of what happened when we took over Dallas, click here!

I’m closing comments, so you’ll head over to Sisterwives to read and comment. See ya there, okay?



The Kids Are Alright!

September 24, 2015



Recently, a super cool 14-year-old kid named named Aidan Thomas Hornaday was brought to my attention.


This kid is not only a kick ass blues harmonica player, he’s a young philanthropist out to make a difference in the world. He started working for change when he was just seven years old.

Aidan recently gave a TED talk which is on YouTube. The Sisterwives were so moved by him, and so committed to spreading awareness of Aidan and his work, that we decided to watch his video with our own children.

Then, we asked our kids to write about what they thought being a “difference maker” meant.

Any of you who follow us on social media already know who Little Dude and Hastykid are. And you get to hear from some of our other kids as well. These kids are all amazing.

I’m going to close comments here, in the hope that you’ll comment over there. So please visit the SisterWives site today, and read about what the “Children Of the Sisterwives” are doing to help make a difference.

And let me tell you, These Kids Are Alright! 


shoplift 3


I just shoplifted a few items from Ulta, an overpriced makeup superstore.

Note: I’m not condoning shoplifting, or in fact, instructing any of you to do so.

As a matter of fact, this is a work of fiction.

If you get caught, and pull this article up on your phone to show security officers how you were led astray, they will laugh at you and they might chuck small objects at your head.

UGH. I KNOW some of you snapperheads are going to read this and become inspired to shoplift.


So, some basic rules.

1. Don’t shoplift at a store you frequent. Life is hard enough without having a reputation as the neighborhood klepto.

2. Don’t be greedy! Something small, please. Don’t try to jank a laptop from Best Buy.

3. Don’t boost around other shoppers. They will turn your ass in.

4. When you’re leaving, check to see if someone is following you. If they are, RUN LIKE HELL.

5. Wear shoes that are easy to run in (see # 4)


I had the money to buy what I wanted. As a matter of fact, I bought some things as well. That’s actually one of the techniques to avoid getting caught. Make a purchase.


So why did I steal?

Because. Like a whole lot of other things I shouldn’t do, I get a high from it.

I’m not a compulsive thief. I’m just GOOD at it. And I get a rush when I shoplift. It appeals to the rebellious punk buried alive inside me. It’s my “fuck you” to the man. (yes, I just said that).

But ever since I had a kid, I rarely shoplift. I don’t want to have to call Little Dude from county lock up to come bail me out.


There is honor among thieves.

Never shoplift from a small business which might be struggling to make it. You hit the big, obnoxious retail chains. The added bonus is that employees of corporate-owned businesses are often FORBIDDEN to interfere with your nefarious activities, because corporate is terrified you’ll sue them for assault or some other nonsensical reason. And half the employees don’t give a crap. They’re busy stealing out of the stock room.


I learned to shoplift from an expert. When I was in junior high my absolute best friend was Jayce, a white girl who lived outside the projects in a real house. Her older sister, Kelly, five years our senior, was the sister I never had – and my mentor in the art of the five finger discount.

Kelly and Jayce were the two sweetest girls on the planet. Kelly in particular had an angelic quality about her that made everyone adore her. Shoplifting expertise was so incongruous with her outward demeanor, no one ever suspected her.

She was also a heroin junkie, constantly bouncing in and out of methadone programs and rehabs. But that personality of hers – she was just so NICE, people overlooked this glaring flaw of hers. I know I did.

Jayce, who was in my grade, grew breasts one night the summer between elementary school and junior high. So began her foray into the world of bad girl-dom. I was a good girl, a nerd, an A plus student. Running with Jayce and Kelly allowed me to take the occasional trip to the dark side, the side with cigarettes and drinking and Jayce’s stories of the boys who felt her up in her backyard at night.

Every so often I would cut school and take the ferry from Staten Island into Manhattan with Kelly and Jayce. Enormous, crowded, utterly anonymous Manhattan was the perfect setting in which to learn shoplifting techniques. Kelly taught me how to locate the “blind spot” in a department store, where security cameras can’t see you. To use the receipt from a purchase to go back into the store and walk out with the same item, unpaid.

The three of us worked a classic team boost together. Jayce and I would act overtly suspicious, handle lots of merchandise, look furtive. The store detectives would focus all their attention on us, while Kelly would slip through the store unnoticed – liberating merchandise into her oversized tote bag.

She taught me how to go up to the jewelry counter at a department store, and confidently ask to see watches – and then pocket one practically right under the salesperson’s nose. That was one of my favorite moves. I have to punch myself in the face to stop myself from pulling that one in a crowded Nordstrom’s at Christmas time.



I frequently escaped my noisy five-brother household to sleep at Jayce’s house. My mom would sometimes give me a few dollars so we could buy candy or nail polish the next day. I used to have to sleep with my money in my underwear or else Kelly would steal it to buy drugs. I adored her anyway.

Kelly used to write her parents letters at night, telling them how much she loved them. I can still remember their mom reading them in the morning, rubbing the tears out of her eyes behind her glasses.

I wonder now if she was crying at the emotional content of the letters, or for her daughter’s wasted life. Kelly was a loving daughter, but she was a total delinquent. Her parents owned a little beach house on the Jersey shore, which Kelly used to break into routinely and rob. And leave notes apologizing.

I spent three years in junior high under Kellys’ expert tutelage. I was an avid shoplifter all through college. I hate to write that I’ve never been caught, because even though it’s the truth, I feel as though it will jinx me.


Jayce turned into a full-blown bad girl in high school. I was still trying to color inside the lines at that point, and our friendship ended. We never spoke after the ninth grade but we nodded hello to one another every morning, when I passed her outside the high school. All school year long she stood outside with the other reprobates in the morning, smoking cigarettes and weed.

One day, in my junior year of high school, the phone rang. It was Jayce. She hadn’t called my house in years. I knew why she was calling, before she even said it.

Kelly had died. She drowned in the bathtub early one morning, while high on heroin.

My heart broke into a million pieces. My mom wept bitterly. I reconnected with Jayce then, briefly, but intensely. My mother and I spent all three days sitting with her family at Kelly’s wake. Back at school, we resumed only our nod ‘hello’ in the morning. The last time I ever saw her was the day of my high school graduation.

I heard through the grapevine that Jayce got married and had kids almost right out of high school. I never spoke to her again. I haven’t even thought of her or her sister in years.

But this morning, when I put on my stolen lipstick, I though of Kelly, Fagin to my Artful Dodger. And I wrote this story in her memory.

FullSizeRender (4)


Did you ever shoplift? What other delinquent activities did you engage in?
Can I call you if I need bail money?
Talk to me. I’m listening.


Follow me on Instagram. I take pictures in superhero underwear because I crave validation.

Women Drivers SUCK

September 17, 2015 — 83 Comments
Dangerous Driving


Look, lady in the parking lot,

I understand the frenzied pace of your suburban itinerary, as you hurtle from Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale to an anal bleaching appointment.

So why don’t you put down the cell phone, and use BOTH hands to wrangle your tricked-out Yukon XL Denali out of a tight parking spot? You forked over a lotta money to have motorized cup holders and tri-zone climate control. Why risk banging up your land yacht?

I’ve never EVER seen a man pull that move

I’m not saying there are no bad male drivers. But I’ve NEVER witnessed a man multitask at the wheel that hard. Women are famous for their extra car-ricular activities.

To be fair, I have seen men shave on their way to work. And I once saw a man in a fur collared overcoat brushing his teeth while negotiating the Belt Parkway. But this was Brooklyn, where proof that evolution can go in reverse lives strong.

I’m guilty of multitasking at the wheel, but only for the essentials. Finding a suitable playlist on Spotify, or downloading porn.

Women also get territorial over desirable parking spots. Men don’t circle over parking spots like vultures hovering over a desert carcass. Parking lots at upscale supermarkets in suburbia are treacherous. Put a gaggle of frenzied housewives in a crowded parking lot at dinner time and it becomes the gladiator amphitheatre at Pompeii.


Since I am a woman, it begs the question, does my driving suck? Well, let’s just say I’m an “aggressive” driver. Not in a hostile way. In a “slice through traffic because I have places to go” kind of way.

I always seem to get stuck behind these kind of people:

What a nice and sunny day, Martha, let’s drive super slow and listen to Enya.”

But Harold, this woman behind us seem like she’s obviously in a hurry. Shouldn’t we rather pull over and have some tea instead, so she can pass?

Oh, fuck YOU, Martha. I’m sick of your shit. Fuck your tea in its fucking face.”


I’ve gotten into more than my share of accidents. Not because I’m careless as much as distracted. I have gotten into accidents pulling out of my own driveway on three separate occasions. All because I forgot to open the garage door first. Oopsie.

I also have a tendency to side swipe the garage door jamb as I’m backing out and clip the passenger side rear view mirror. I’ve ripped that sucker off a few times. It has been suggested to me that I have some issues with my spatial sense.

Which is why I’m known as being “hard” on cars. I would never drive recklessly, particularly if my kid is in the car. But I’m not a baby about banging up against a curb while parking at a strip mall. I have things to do! Slurpees to buy! It’s just the front bumper of my car. It will survive.


I actually love to drive. I got my first car when I was 30,  which is also when I learned to drive. As a teenager, my first car was the bus.

Living in New York, there’s really very little need to own a car. My Ex got me my first car for Christmas when we were dating, so I could drive to his house in New Jersey. I went to driving school in the city, so I drive like a New Yorker. Which means I ignore lanes and cuss like an Armenian taxi driver.

I’m also a virtuoso parallel parker. That’s the only kind of parking that exists in Manhattan. Why do all the suburbanites get their dicks in a blender over parallel parking? How hard is it to:
1. Pull up next to the car in front of the spot.

2. Back up, aiming for the center of the spot.

3. Once your car is actually pointed at the center of the spot, straighten out.

It’s easy peezy, lemon squeezey. Why must Drivers Ed make a Wagnerian epic out of parallel parking, complete with those whore cones in some byzantine configuraion?


Perhaps women would get better at driving if they actually DROVE places. The majority of suburban women I know will drive locally, but that’s about it.

If I mention that I’m driving into the city with Little Dude for the day, women will ask me, “Alone?”

“No. I just said, I’m taking my kid.”  “But you’re driving YOURSELF? No MAN is driving you?”


What IS that? Is that some kind of learned helplessness? This whole phenomenon where women don’t want to drive long distances? It unnerves them if they have to drive over a bridge OMG and get on major highways.

Does having a labia prevent you from merging onto a highway?

I’ve driven long distances countless times. I can do the drive from New Jersey to Boston, which is where my BFF lives, with my eyes closed. As a matter of fact, I’ve driven it with my eyes closed.

Driving is freedom. I can throw my kid in the car, put on music, and go anywhere. I’ve done road trips as far as from New York to Florida. It’s unthinkable to me to depend on a Y chromosone to get places.


The idea that women drivers suck is not just a stereotype; or if it is, well, stereotypes exist for a reason, don’t they? It’s a globe trotting cliche. In South Korea, there are female – only parking spots, which are wider. They’re also outlined in pink and have a miniskirt logo.


People speculate constantly as to why men appear to be better drivers than women. One common belief is that men are better at focusing on a single task, while women are the better multi-taskers. although, not actually IN the car. There’s also the theory that men have a better spatial sense, which works for me and that ever widening smear of white garage paint on my front right bumper.

Personally, I think men are better drivers because they tend to enjoy the actual task of driving, whereas women just want to get to wherever they’re going. For men, it’s a journey. For women, it’s a destination.

In other words, it’s the opposite of how both genders feel about sex.


Do you think women drivers suck? How good of a driver are you?
Can you parallel park?
Are there any warrants for your arrest for unpaid traffic tickets?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


I’ve spent a large portion of my life waging war against my hair.

It’s a nightmare. My hair is curly and frizzy. Not loose lustrous curls –  small, tightly coiled kinky curls.

I grew up being told I had “Black hair.” It was not meant in a pejorative way. I was a white girl in a black housing project. It was just a way to characterize the texture of my hair. Black people told me it was “nappy.”

White people made fun of me and called me “Nigger knots.”

When I was a little girl, every morning was devoted to the taming of this fuzzy tangled mess. For one hour, I stood at the sink, my legs cramping, holding back tears as the the heavy brush banged against my head.

My mother slathered my curls in Dax, and Ultra Sheen, relentlessly pulling and stretching my hair into submission. Finally she would wind it into two long, waxy pigtails

I longed for bone-straight, parted in the middle, 70’s hair. Laurie Partridge hair. My mother was less concerned with the Partridge Family and more concerned that I not run around with a wild mass of frizz jutting out of my head.

By the time I was 8, she was straightening my hair with chemical relaxers. They were foul-smelling products which stung my eyes and nasal passages. The lye dripped onto my neck and burnt my tender skin. But they straightened my hair.

In between chemical processing there were searing hot metal combs used to press and flatten my hair into surrender. They straightened my hair, and burnt it  – as well as accidentally burning my ears and scalp too many times to count.

Curly hair is labor-intensive. It must be wet down and restored every day;  at least, my curl pattern (3C) did.

I didn’t have the time or patience to wear my hair curly every day. When I got older, I no longer had to suffer drugstore lye and scalp burns. I went to black hair salons in Bedford Stuyvesant, where they knew how to deal with my hair.

Today, I still relax my hair. I use organic keratin and go to white people salons in the suburbs.

The last time I let my hair go curly I was pregnant with Little Dude.

I didn’t want chemicals being absorbed through my blood stream, so I let my curls run wild. Pregnancy gave me the best hair I ever had.  It was the only time my curls were thick and smooth.

IMG_6769 hair

2003 – Pregnant with LD

When I was a girl, to keep my hair neat during the summer while giving it a break from harsh chemicals, I got my hair done up in braids. Cornrows.

This is a habit that has stayed with me, on and off, into adulthood.

The ladies who work at the African braiding salons on 126th street in Manhattan work magic. But getting your hair done in braids? Sheer torture.

First, they press and pull on your hair until you’re in tears. Then they begin braiding, and you feel like you’re going to die in that chair. Imagine sitting for 7 hours with your neck turned different ways. And they pull your hair so tight you get a horrific headache. It’s part of getting cornrows. That headache.

I recently found out that these days, if I braid my hair? I am “appropriating a culture.”

Evidently, African Americans are tired of white people adopting black culture – music, hair, style of dress, speech – and neglecting to raise awareness for black issues. It’s not right to take the fun, hip part of being black and leave the bad parts behind. That’s considered “racial appropriation.”


If white people dress, make music and wear our hair to emulate African Americans, are we not paying homage to them? When did it become offensive to celebrate the aspects of a culture?

Kylie Jenner started a shade war when she posted a sexified picture on Instagram in corn rows and low slung sweats. The disingenuous caption to the photo was “I woke up like disss.”

Is Kylie Jenner an asshole? Absolutely. But not for her cultural misappropriation. She’s an asshole because she was born into a family of assholes who make their livings being assholes.

Amandla Stenberg, the 16-year-old actress from The Hunger Games, decided to call her out by commenting on the photo:

“when u appropriate black features and culture but fail to use ur position of power to help black Americans by directing attention towards ur wigs instead of police brutality or racism #whitegirlsdoitbetter “


I reject the idea that in order to embrace and celebrate black culture, people are obligated to direct attention towards police brutality and racism. And how does it help anything to publicly chastise Kylie Jenner in front of millions, to humiliate her in an attempt to expose her as racist? It doesn’t.


Cultural appropriation occurs when ignorant white people pick and choose what part of the black experience to adopt into their lives, while simultaneously invalidating the challenges faced by black women who will never have access to white privilege.

We partake of a culture for fashion, all the while purposely disinterested in the adversity faced by that culture.


I resent the gross generalization that because I am white and choose to braid my hair, that I am unaware of race issues. To declare that by borrowing from a culture, we are, by definition, ignorant of that culture’s historical struggles, is ludicrous. That kind of stock characterization of white philistinism propagates racism and distrust. It invites ridicule; in essence, it’s wearing “white face.”

According to the black community, the history connected to these styles, the context in which they were created, is essential to wearing them. These styles are the contemporary remnants of slavery. A white person who wears these styles cares nothing for that context and turns black hair styles into travesty, empty fashion, mocking the black race.

In fact, by wearing these styles white people are systematically breaking down the rich history of black culture, and continuing to exploit the black race just as slavery and segregation did.


I am TIRED of being blamed for past generations’ idiocy. If, by association, I am guilty of the crimes of a system by being part of the system, then we are all guilty. Which renders the concept of guilt meaningless.

Stop blaming me for oppression and hate I had nothing to do with.

I just want to get my braids done.

Does anyone really believe that the majority of young black girls getting braided up on 126th street have a CLUE about the historical context of the cornrows?

I am sadly aware that African-American women have been made to alter their appearances to maintain their jobs and their respectability. Many have been forced to give up natural black hair styles in what can only be described as an attempt to force them to adopt a “whiter” look.

This is heinous.

But now, if I put my hair in cornrows, I am accused of using my “white privilege” to exploit black culture’s historical symbols to satisfy my shallow need for self-expression.


I should be free to wear my hair however I choose.  I cannot change what has happened in the past. I can only fight for a better future. I know that even today, black skin still acts as a mark of negative difference. On many fronts, black America is in crisis.

But restricting MY personal freedom is not going to address racism and economic injustice. Cultural appropriation is just another way to create discord between races.

Am I only allowed to adopt the hairstyles or music genres, of my ancestors? If I am allowed beyond my own heritage, who draws the line, and where is it drawn? Can I enjoy the films of Spike Lee? The music of Miles Davis?

Culture is not black and white. Like many things, it lives in the gray area. It’s borrowed, repurposed, and reformed over and over again. Exchange of culture creates empathy, and tolerance. It’s what makes up the richly woven tapestry of our lives.

I refuse to view my enjoyment of other cultures through the lens of appropriation. If that makes me part of the problem – then so be it. Fling your accusations at me because of my white girl braids.

I’ll be over here, celebrating the beauty of cultural exchange by dancing through life to the music of cultures from all over the world.

Should white people wear cornrows? How do you feel about cultural appropriation?
Does that include doing yoga? Talk to me. I’m listening.