But I was Drunk: Drinking is not an Excuse for Harrassing a Woman

The other night I came home from a concert, and low and behold some neighbors were outside having a few drinks. My one nice neighbor offered to serve me up some food that was left over, which was very kind of him. I gladly took the offer, as I was starved and had no interest in cooking. I was too exhausted.

I was dressed up a bit. I had on a black skirt–which went past my fingertips if my arms laid at my side, (appropriate length) and a strapless top. For the most part, I wear my version of mom gear daily: a cute shirt and jeans or shorts. I don’t dress like I stepped out of a Talbot’s or LL Bean catalog, nor do I look overly sexy. I don’t want to be one of those moms, but I’m not a frumpy type by any means! I would love to think I’m a casual MILF, but I’m probably just a short, decently cleaned up mom with some regard for fashion and comfort.

So I do understand that when people who don’t normally see me dressed up, of course they might say something nice. A few commented that I looked nice, which was kind and appropriate.

Large neighbor with a strong presence however, went on and on about how I looked “hot.”

It wasn’t one time, it was repeatedly. He commented on how I look like I’ve been working out and how he sees me in workout clothes frequently and that I look good, but no, he’s not stalking me, and it became increasingly uncomfortable.

My nice neighbor was inside and didn’t hear all of this, but no one else said a word to tell him to shut up.

He was yammering on after I ate the delicious free food, and went on to go to my home.

Not once did anyone but myself try to get this man to just stop blabbering.

Everyone thinks, “Oh he’s just drunk, he means no harm.”

Well news flash people: I don’t exist for people to scrutinize my body. I wasn’t naked. I wasn’t dressed like a stripper. Even still–even if I was, I wasn’t asking to be hassled. I wasn’t asking to be the subject of scrutiny. I didn’t ask for this man’s opinion. I don’t care to know. I was just coming home from a concert, in which I wanted to look nice and not like a mom for a minute.

It’s one thing to compliment, and another thing to irritate the living shit out of a woman who really wanted to punch this beast.

Another time, he was rude to my husband while drunk. Of course everyone says, “Oh he’s just drunk.”

Well pardon me, but when did drinking become an excuse for being an asshole? When did it become an excuse for scrutinizing a woman until she is so uncomfortable she has to leave a place?

Maybe I should have just scrutinized him? His gelatinous fat. His staggering gait. The buttons that won’t button on his shirt or burst open.

“I notice you’ve been eating a lot. I notice you’re getting really fat. I’m not stalking you though.”

What would his wife have thought, who seems like a nice person, if she had been there?

Sure, he is nice while sober, but drinking does not give people permission to be jerks.

I am not on this earth for you to devour visually, while verbally churning your sexual desire, even if it wasn’t in a crass manner.

I don’t want to know that you are looking at me. I don’t want to know that you find me sexy or hot. I don’t care. If I cared, I would be your partner, but I’m not that stupid., and hey, I’m sober.


Daughter. A snapshot


You are not me. You are not your father.

You’re yourself, which is awesome, because I don’t think the world needs another me, and if you were like your dad, you’d both be too quiet to approach each other.

You’re 2 and want to do everything yourself, and fully believe in the power to evict other members off playground structures.

You believe in the power of attorney, except for you are always the attorney.

You like Tinkerbell, and request seeing your own doody in your diaper, unless it happens to be in the potty. Then you just want chocolate.

You are 25 lbs.

You are pale, wispy-blonde-haired, and green-eyed.

We lose your numerous dolls everywhere.

I have rescued more princesses and fairies, and other creatures in one month than any superhero could have done in his or her lifetime.

When you go to bed, you request songs, and sometimes when I sing them, like a person fiddling with a radio dial, you demand a different song.

You know the Beatles and Elvis. Elvis from Dad, Beatles from me.

A dangerous lady, you continued to jump out of your crib, so we threw you in a bed.

You wake me every morning. I hear your door creak, and then I hear mine squeak open.

“Mommy, it’s so nice of you to share your bed.”

Like I had a choice?

You sneak into the bed and lie down next to me.

You are big-bellied, skinny-legged and tiny-tushied out.

I’m supposed to run after you on the sidewalk, and you don’t want to hold my hand in the street.

That’s when I carry your stubborn ass after trying numerous times to get you to hold my hand.

You horde pretzels, and would forsake me for a smoothie.

“Yes officer, my mother just dealt drugs. Give me a smoothie. Thanks cop. Bye mom. Enjoy Jail.”

You want to do everything yourself, besides change your clothes.

“No, you want to do it, ” you tell me, stubbornly refusing the position until you realize I won’t give in.

I will never give in too much. If I do, you will have me working as your servant for the rest of your life, and I’m afraid dear, that I’m not a submissive, although you do have my heart daughter.

I just hope you always hold positive snapshots of me in your mind. Forgive me for when I am not at my shiny-happy-people mommying best.

Remember me as I remember you always each day.

Lovely and my own.

50% of marriages end in divorce. The other 50 % end in masturbation

I have only had one long-term relationship. My current marriage.

Until then, I hadn’t really known what it was like to really be with someone on an intimate level. I didn’t know anyone else’s poop habits, farting tendencies, dirty socks, shower habits, family mores, or anything until I got married.

I feel like I had a different learning curve than most, however, now I’m just as seasoned as the rest of you dull functioning adults. ūüėČ

I’ve stated that I thought it would be easier–marriage that is, and I also recognize that no one tells you how tough having a child with someone can be. It is glorious and wonderful, yet also really tough when it comes down to blending each other’s viewpoints on parenting. In-law problems that exist become amplified when a kid is around.

Lately, I’ve seen ¬†numerous people around me or heard of acquaintances ¬†get divorced, and it makes me wonder (not in that “Stairway to Heaven” makes me wonder way):

Why do some marriages last, and others fail? I recognize that there are some hard and fast reasons why. Clearly if you are married to a man, and it turns out that guess what, he really prefers men or pimping ho’s, you’re probably going to divorce. If your wife decides to spend 25,000 on the Home Shopping Network and bangs your 21 year-old neighbor, clearly you ought to see a lawyer.

But why, what is the reason that some marriages last?

Everyone rolls eyes. JESUS LADY. It’s because of LOVE

Love isn’t the reason. Barbie loved Ken, and she had plenty of other Ken’s. Dylan loved Brenda, but he loved Kelly too.

Plenty of people love the person that they marry, but end up divorcing anyway. Sure, some people have a more solid or real love than others, but there has to be some reasons why people just make it work over the years other than that old huge umbrella term we deem LOVE.

It’s not just WORK either. I read Facebook memes announcing how the older generation worked at marriage, while the younger generation just gives up, but the fact is, all marriages are work. The good ones too.¬† It’s when the “work” of marriage feels like a never-ending battle that it’s not work, but mere survival, and not a happy situation.

Besides, that crabby older generation also stayed deep in the mud with some terrible marriages.  The older generation dealt with marital issues through alcohol.

We deal with it through counseling, and possibly alcohol, a blind-fold, and a night at the strip club.

Look, what happens in the titty bar stays in the titty bar, so don’t ask.

I think marriages that last have a few traits from what I have seen. For what it’s worth, I have been married 5 years. I’m not a jedi, and I’m not always very good at getting this whole relationship thing, but I’ve met quite a few happily married couples (counting them as couples who have been together longer than 7 years and both admittedly happy or seeming so–tricky) and many of them seem to share these traits. I’m not a scientist, and the only research I’ve done is “Does a man’s desire to give oral correlate with a happy wife?’

Survey says?

Yes, for 200!

The couples I know who seem the happiest, seem to share the same morals and religious views. Whether the two people think there’s no God¬† or that the day begins, pauses and ends with a God, being on the same track religion wise seems essential.


Hmm. This isn’t so easy to pin down. This seems so insanely variant by relationship. I would just wager that the two partners have decided to tolerate each other’s drive, kink factors, and habits enough to find a happy medium. I’ve met numerous couples who may not have had the same sexual habits, but managed to get by as long as there was some common habits. A lot of women I spoke with gave it up to keep the men happy, even if they were a bit tired that night. Some men adjusted how they approached their women. Overall, most couples I’ve met that are happy are sexually happy as well whether they’re vanilla or kinky.


Seems the happiest of couples have either two families that like both people, or if one or both families are difficult, the happy couples stayed happy because they made tight boundaries for these difficult family members. If someone in the other family is rude to the partner, most of my happily married peers seem to be able to squash the situation, or at least side up with their partners. It seemed this made the situation better. Both recognized it’s a less than wonderful situation, but seemed on the same page during crises, or were able to manage them.


the happiest couples seem like they communicate the same amount, or can tolerate one partner’s tendency to either need frequent or little communication


the happiest couples figured out how each parent works in the family dynamic, and while they still disagree from time to time, there’s a respect that’s been created. The two parties enmesh their values on parenting enough to work well.

Let it be said that when the first kid comes, this is a learning curve. Almost every parent I know goes through a rocky period with the other parent while they “battle” it out on how to parent. It seems like it would be so intuitive and everyone would just get along all ducky, but that’s not reality. It takes awhile, so be patient.


The happiest partners and parents I know are ones with a good support network. Take the strongest couple, move them away from everything and everyone they know…give the couple a child and…bam! Ripe for conflict. It takes a village to raise a child, yet many of us do it alone.

Some of us do it alone due to family conflict, and others due to a lack of available people.

It really tests a marriage. make no mistake about it. You want to have a kid? Consider your resources, and plan ahead.

Social lives

the happiest couples seem to want the same type of social life and share some friends, or the other partner has grown used to the other person’s outgoing or introverted nature.


The tolerant 50% end in masturbation and marriage. The intolerant do not. However, what makes one person more tolerant than another?

The happiest marriages are the people who married someone whose baggage they could tolerate.

When you meet someone ask yourself this question, “Can I carry this person’s baggage for eternity?”

If you say you will meet someone without baggage, you my dear, are a fat effin’ liar.

The happiest marriages are the people who share the same values and desires.

This is all just so friggin wonderful of me to discover. We all get married believing these things.

We all believe that we love, tolerate, and share enough to make it work the rest of our lives, yet 50% of us do not collect 200.00 at Go. Some of us get stuck in Jail, and only have two properties, and neither one is Park Place.

Why then do 50% of these marriages end? Why do they not go on to bicker, love, and masturbate?

Is it because the institution is a dead one? Is it because we are all a bunch of animals? Is it because none of us knows how to talk to anyone without using a computer or a phone? Is it the blending of gender roles or the stifling economy?

Too much internet porn?

What gives? What makes some last, and others end?

50% of the world can’t be normal and the other 50% unstable. My guess is 75% of the public is unstable, so that screws with the statistics. Abnormal people probably have some happy marriages. Normal people, unhappy marriages.

The 50% that end in masturbation are probably slightly unhappy at times also, but the unhappiness is either tolerable enough, or the person is a masochist.

I wish I knew how this whole marriage thing worked truly. I feel like I am learning as I go, and I don’t like that at all.

I’d prefer a manual. Maybe I should marry a robot on the side?

Inputting into hard drive, Mrs. Laura?

Well, I’ll save that and don’t forget to edit and tweak Robot.

Ooh, I love when you edit my documents.

Being Smart: Means Diddly-Squat

Hey there world.

There are a bunch of people here who think being educated is worth a lick of doody. I am sure my in-laws think my education is ridiculous, considering it is hard for me to find a full-time job worth daycare and student loan payments. In fact, I know they do.

I am a freelance writer, part-time teacher, and full on chocolate whore, which means I do filthy things for Godiva, Dove, and specialty chocolatiers, mainly begging. No oral.

Apparently, having spent a lot of time reading amazing books from authors like Achebe, Morrison, Dickers, Balzac,Ellison, Baldwin, etc really means I am employed to basically talk to people about literature, and when I mean talk to people about literature, I mean, I am forced to hear how shit novels are so awesome, and then proceed to say nothing about gender and Judith Butler.

Apparently being in gender classes, discussing feminist issues, and working on crafting fine pieces of literature basically means I am able to sit in a seminar style class and debate the role of the sex industry, yet I won’t get paid for anything, unless of course, I decide to work in the sex industry.

Being skilled is the name of the game. Everyone needs a trade! A skill!

I have skills.

I can write. Edit.

Brandish a dildo expertly and feel comfortable talking about the pros and cons. Dr. Ruth would be proud.

I can schmooze, multi-task—did you people know that not only did I finish an article, apply for a job, raise a child, lift weights, go food shopping, and make dinner, but I also found Tinkerbell and Princess Tiana today?. Tell me, what modern Prince Charming can do all that and save 2 princesses too, and a toddler’s heart from breaking?

Bitch, please.

I can charm people into doing things they subconsciously want to do, but fear. Arrange events and meetings. Navigate the Internet. Host a party, event, or television show barely sweating.

I can deliver humor, nuance, and kindness.

I can finish a project, organize my self and thoughts, deliver on time, be nice to people, and even do it in slightly high-heels.

I am qualified. I am not just some academic cast-off who only wants to discuss good literature with a bunch of people in a dungeon, although that does still appeal to me, especially if the dungeon master wears pleather or vinyl.

I am employable. I will find more freelance work if none of you full-time employers are man enough to take on a woman who rocked MTV, dealt with hecklers on stage, wrote and published memoir excerpts, sold people’s souls to the devils, and did ¬†it all with a smile.

Sure. I am not your typical everyday employee, but for those of you job posters ranting about thinking outside of the box, it’s time you lifted your head from kissing the box, and metaphorically think outside of the narrow box in which you isolate potential employees.

Some of us are out there and willing to work, if only you wouldn’t be so narrow-minded.

I might even let you have a bite of my chocolate.

For those of you who think studying the arts is a waste of time, you may certainly be right-I would probably make a living more easily as a janitor, however, I like being happy, and doing something that comes naturally to me.

If you think otherwise, offer me a job as a mechanic and have fun walking home.

Offer me a job as a surgeon, and run fast when I accidentally start cutting the wrong things.



A woman with a liberal arts degree and an entertainment background–professional, not sexual you sick perverts.

Missing Our Fathers: A Generation of people long for the men they never had. Father’s Day Discussions

As I peruse Facebook today, I started to notice all the highly emotional content of my friends’ statuses. While I am sure there are a zillion deadbeat mothers, when it comes to social media and Mother’s Day, I don’t notice the same emptiness and longing, unless it is for a mother who has passed away. This isn’t to say that mothers are inherently better than fathers, but that there are a generation of people, notably female, who are longing for the fathers they never had.

Some people were completely abandoned by their dads, and others weren’t abandoned, but neglected–some notably so, and others in a more hidden, behind closed doors fashion.

Post after post, women–maybe because I am female I heard more “female” voices–cried out for the father they wish they had, or wish they knew. Some had other men step in to do the job, and others did not. Some women mourn for their children; their children suffer the lack of a father, which hurts the mom and kids.

Our generation–my generation, was home to a lot of fathers who felt that paying the bills and coming home were good measures of strong parenting. While clearly many of my friends and acquaintances could have only wished for a man to show up and pay those damn bills, a lot of women and men from my generation lacked play, compassion, and nurturing from the person they called Dad, Pops, Father, Daddy-o, or what have you. ¬†Mothers filled the other needs, and fathers were financial providers and head of the house.

With the advent of women in the working world, these roles have altered, and while some argue that woman working has brought on higher divorce rates, etc, the coming generations, such as my daughter’s are truly blessed to have a whole new breed of Fathers.

Fathers today are more active and involved with their children—on the whole. Yes, there were good dads back in the day, and there are shit dads currently out there sharing their sperm, but in general, our culture has formed a different role and expectations for fathers in this day and age.

It isn’t enough to pay the bills and come home Dads and Husbands: we want you emotionally involved and invested. We want you to cook, clean, play, put on some makeup during dress up, and wipe a few dirty asses.

I would love to see what type of Father’s Day posts will crop up on the walls of my daughters’ future 20-40 year old female friends. I suspect that the dialogue on fatherhood will be much better.

Men get a bad rap in many ways. You never hear people dishing the dirt on crappy mothers on their day, but with fathers, we as a culture–both female and male, really seem to be hurting. The good fathers and men I suspect, feel a bit cheated by the reputation that is held against them. The single mothers and children who have been abandoned by these men, have left a hole,¬† insurmountable at times, that these mothers have to fill.

I know wonderful single fathers, and some of these men struggle, while the women lack clearly in every sense of the word, but our culture doesn’t have much of a dialogue for these single men. There is no narrative or culture of empathy for men who parent alone, without a present mother. I feel for these men highly, but I also know that the dialogue and culture of empathy written out for single mothers, is based on a myriad of factors.

We Mothers embody a generation of children. The expectations are always that we will be nurturing, present, and active. Now we also have the expectation to provide financially. For a single mother, she not only has to fulfill the maternal roles, but now she has to be the financial provider. She has to pay the bills, show up, and be super woman, which is what society expects of all mothers usually anyway. I am not stating that we should empathize more for single mothers than fathers, but that to remember how much we automatically expect from mothers is significantly different from what we expect from fathers. When a dad changes a diaper, we all applaud him for being such an awesome guy. When a mother works full-time and raises kids, we nod and say,”That’s what she’s supposed to do. She’s a mother.”

Additionally, women make less than men, so now you’ve got a single woman trying to raise kids on her own on less income than what a present father would have provided.

Now don’t think I am pitying single moms–it’s the toughest job out there, to be a single parent, but most people I know don’t want pity–just empathy. I know amazing single moms that are so strong, and don’t feel a lick of sadness that Pops never shows up to be a dad, but it is reality that a single mom has some work cut out for her that a single dad may not have.

Please remember I am generalizing to some extent, and that obviously, a single mother who is a lawyer, is faring better than a single dad who is a grocer.

I think the Facebook and social media walls are all a “twitter” over fathers because it is also socially acceptable to speak of negligent dads. For my friends whose mothers have been disgustingly absent, it is a quiet topic. We expect mothers to be there. A negligent mother is horrifying, and crushes society’s hopes in so many ways. Think of all the horrific moms in the news in the past 10 years that we have absolutely hated without even knowing them because they were murderers, child abusers, and more. While we hated male/father absuers, killers, etc, we really felt our blood boil when as females and mothers, we saw abusive murdering moms on the news.

Our culture is invested in Mothers. We don’t shine a significant enough of a spotlight on them to really discuss the pains of those who didn’t have a mom to hug, or lean on.

It’s time to really evaluate what we ascribe to parents of both genders, and to reconceptualize what it means to parent. Men are weighed down by social mores as much as women; we just may feel it more because of the financial and societal sexism that still exists. I think we are getting closer to doing this on so many levels.

For all of you who are missing a father, loving your father, or appropriating a different man to call “daddy,” enjoy your day today. To all dads, whether you struggle to parent or find it the easiest and best job ever, enjoy today and keep on showing up and trying your best.

We need you. Today’s women and girls want you more than ever.

Turn Off the Voices: the static of trauma

I don’t like to make you all depressed, but sometimes I have to be plainly real and not funny.

Or at least funny, but very freaking honest.

I have had a very hard time lately shutting off the voices. I don’t mean schizophrenic voices or hallucinations. I haven’t had those since I last dropped acid in High School–did you ever see a Siamese cat turn into a pig?

I did. I got that distinct pleasure as a young blip of estrogen and other hormones with a few other amoeba-aged friends of mine.

I am talking about the voices from the past. The static of memories that run through your mind, like radio frequency. When I talk about trauma, I talk about sexual, physical, or mental traumas from the past. It could be a rape. The loss of a child or parent. Being beaten. Mugged. The trauma of war.

When people experience this–at least in my case, ( I’m not a psychologist so if you are reading this to get therapy, then we should both get some help pretty fast) the static of the event tends to be very loud in the brain. It is hard to separate the event from the rest of the day’s events: the pain or recurring memories just refuse to go away.

I had an event happen over the summer, and a few months post-event, it felt like everything I did or said was colored or tinged with the heartbreak, anger, and depression from what had happened. A happy day could be disrupted by a smell, word, or sight that reminded me of what happened. It felt like a monumental roadblock was put in front of me, and yet somehow, I had to find a way around it in order to function.

I had to stay chipper and upbeat for my daughter, as I didn’t want my feelings to start pouring onto her psyche, so to speak. Toddlers are very susceptible to the moods of their parents, as are all children, however, they lack the sophistication to express their sensitivity to their parents’ moods. It was a tough act. I did fairly well, and I can say that for the most part, I managed.

No one was hospitalized, and I didn’t require a white coat or padded room, although having intercourse in a padded room might be really fun, and easy on the knees, but that’s just a thought.

My issue is there are quite a few traumas that happen to be linked as they are either similar, or dealing with the same issue. For the most part, they are all in the very far past, so the “frequency” is quiet. I am not bogged down by the stress, pain, or various emotions those experiences had once made me feel. Most of these situations I have been able to write about in my memoir, and some of these chapters were published. Life has moved on, and so have I.

However, the past few months I have undergone a good deal of personal stress, and so I am finding the static of those experiences rearing their vicious heads.

It irritates me when people say, the past is the past. While this is certainly true–we all grow and move past the person we are even from yesterday–to me, this clich√© doesn’t account for the fact that the past shapes who we are–and while it’s not impossible, it is rather hard to ditch like a filthy friend on the side of the road.

I’m not having flashbacks really…the pretty colorful or ugly ones, but the voices of self-doubt, fear, and anger have become louder than I would like them to be. It sometimes feels as if I have regressed to those sad places when I am alone and away from others.

I have worked hard to turn down the frequency, and the static is barely audible, but I hear it.

I think I wrote this to really just share that while the past is the past, and we can move on from bad experiences, traumas, and heartaches and be a happy person, sometimes when our lives present stress, these past traumas come back because the associations are so strong, that it’s hard to disconnect from them.

It’s a process, and one that takes work. If anyone is going through the motions of trying to move forward from such an experience, I say, keep doing the work. It gets better. The static subsides, and while it may present itself during difficult times, you can move past it. This is not forever.

Go Eat Worms: Surefire Signs You have Low Self-Esteem

Sometimes in life, you need a few people to knock you down, otherwise you wouldn’t realize how worthless you are, right?

if you answered yes, you are the owner of Low Self-Esteem.

If you answered no, you are awesome, amazing, and probably really annoying.

Okay, I kid, but I want to help out the public, my friends, myself, and my readers decipher when they may be having a period or lifetime, or moment of Low Self-Esteem.

Clearly, there are real clinical signs I am sure, but reading that stuff is a drag and boring.

You’d rather hear from me and my expertise, no?

The First Sign you may have the self-esteem of a Gnat:

Sure, there may be some incredibly cocky and self-important Gnats, but usually, Gnats feel like little pests no one likes.

Hanging Out with Douchebags

Do you occasionally hang out or know someone close to you who is a real prick? Does this person constantly point out your flaws? Is this person certain that he or she is some bigshot everyone should worship? Does this person have access to numerous mirrors, clothes, sex, money, or any of the above? Does this person note your flaws casually, seriously, frequently, or empathetically?

If you answered yes, this cocky individual is trying to bring you down because he or she has decided that he’s the best, and knows best, so basically, be grateful for this person’s input.

If you tolerate this individual in most forms, you probably have low self-esteem. You probably fear that this person is right, and that yes, you are a screw up, no-good, filthy old bastard. People like this have a way of finding the Low Self-Esteem Individual– here after known as LSEI (sounds like some shitty boy band formed of 3 pubic hairs, and one acne mark)–incredibly easily. LSEI’s make Cocky people feel good about themselves because LSEI’s don’t object to being put down, and therefore, Cocky person feels awesome and can live another day admiring how “rad” he or she is, and polishing the mirror to reflect his or herself just a little better.

A sign you may feel you are less important than poo.

What did I do wrong?

Are you constantly wondering what you did wrong when a situation in your life goes awry? Do you wonder when you’re dumped, divorced, singled out, or treated poorly what you did to make this happen? Of course, there’s probably some legitimate reasons why you may have brought on or dealt with a tough situation that has to do with your own blame, but it’s not always your fault LSEI! Sometimes, the other person was a real jerk. Sometimes, you both were. It’s more productive to ask yourself how you contributed, and what you can gain from the situation. It’s helpful to consider what the situation did for you, as well as how to move on past it. Taking all the blame is not only a sign that you feel less than a piece of gum on a sneaker, but also keeps you from fully seeing a situation.

You’re not all that bad, kid.

Walking Away Silently

Do you find yourself coming away from a situation wishing you had said something, but didn’t?

Do you find yourself reenacting that moment when some little jerk said the rudest thing to you, and you just sat there and cried like you lost your puppy?

Are you unable to concentrate on anything else but that time in which you let someone treat you badly, without you saying a word?

It’s Low- Self Esteem.

In case anyone cares, I don’t charge much for my advice, and sometimes, I’ve lived and learned from an experience I talk about. I’m not an LSEI, or a pube or acne mark, however, I do doubt myself more than I should. I do walk away sometimes thinking, “Shit, why did I let that person get away with that?” “What could I have done differently?” I do sometimes let Douchebag people get away with crap.

It’s important to recognize when you’ve let someone get the best of you in life. Some jerks just rob people of worth, dignity, and happiness, and you have let them. You have let someone take away a bit of your sunshine, and it’s not easy to gain back. Don’t let them! Don’t let just anyone eat from your dish. It’s okay to act like a dog, and guard your dinner bowl.

Not everyone deserves to take a drink from your being.

Why I love Men: They make me want to eat rocks, but they also smell good and look nice. In Ode to Men

Hi Men.

Hi Members of the Planet Earth with the XY chromosome.

Hello those of you with a penis, and I guess it’s unfair to not say hello to your fellow peers, the testicles. Hi there.

My name is Laura, and ¬†I’m of the female persuasion. I have breasts, a vagina, XX chromosome, estrogen, dramatic flairs, high-heels, jeans, and a slight propensity to eat fattening foods and get extremely horny pre-period.

I thought I might like to say that even though I sometimes feel the incessant need to choke the shit out of some of you, I truly truly enjoy you all.

I like the muscles, honestly. Short and muscular, tall and lanky, tall and cut. Medium and toned.

The male figure is one hot commodity.

There’s also a brain too, except for I am too distracted thinking about the muscles right now to really pay attention to any of that. Pardon me, I’m eating a tub of chocolate.

Okay, hormonal moment resolved.

See, I grew up with all chicks, so men to me were exotic. While watching male peers, I often felt as if I should grab a camera, begin taping, and start whispering as I discussed the habitat of my male friends.

What is this strange yet intoxicating atmosphere of the male sphere?

I feel like I understand men for the most part.

You’ve got a bad reputation. Philanderers. Psychos. Male Sluts. Gigolos. Cheaters. Adulterers.

It’s hard to live day to day with that yoke of negativity around your neck men, isn’t it?

But most men that I know, are truly simple in ¬†meaning. Not intellectually simple or unsophisticated, but rather direct and with meaning. If a man doesn’t like you, he doesn’t call you. If he kinda likes you, he calls you or texts you just sometimes because he is bored. If he really likes you, he’s right there.

We women are not that direct. We can be right there with you, yet hate your friggin guts. We only came for the free food, or out of pure guilt.

Okay, I’m not a bitch like that, but we women weave a web of behaviors way beyond the male design.

What I don’t understand though men, is how you discredit me and my people, from time to time. My people not meaning the Jews, of which I do claim membership, but my people known as Women.

You don’t think we are funny or smart. You sometimes push us out of conversations. I’ve tried to join in, knowing I had something to contribute, and because frankly, I was bored with the female conversations around me, yet I’ve had men shut me out before I could say “boo.”

Apparently my breasts and vagina also degrades me to a certain conversational zone for some men.

Go back to the kitchen, their eyes scream at me. Don’t you have some romance novel to read? Some nails to polish?

I’ll have you know, I shake my finger, I don’t cook very well and I hate romance novels!

Maybe I will go polish my nails.

I enjoy men because they can be so blatantly blunt, yet surprise you with sensitivity when you least expect it, and I don’t often expect it from men. I know that is a bunch of sexist BS, but I haven’t met that many sensitive men.

I like that men can be so plainspoken about sex. That they can share what they like or dislike without really feeling disgusting, unless they simply are disgusting, or their friends are just boorish prudes.

Sure, some feel embarrassed or more timid than others. Men are just as multi-dimensional as women, and sure, some women are very open about sex, but in general, in my experience, I think men are told that it’s expected of them to have some prowess, and discuss it.

But I hate when men feel that a discussion about sex means we females want to have sex with you.

We don’t. Not necessarily. Maybe. Either way, it would be nice to discuss it with you without you feeling it is an invitation to touch us or invade our boundaries in any form.

We want to be friends with you men. We like you.

We want you to RSVP yes.

We are inviting you to get to know us, as people, as intellects, and as sexual beings.

On our terms though.

Isn’t that just like a woman?

Signed, Loving my XY peoples more than I can show it.


Ps–I endorse this message that I understand that the following message is just based on certain male stereotypes. I acknowledge that gender is fluid, and it’s okay if you wear women’s panties, or like to pack one in your pants, meaning a fake one. I understand that some men wear makeup, and some women wear wifebeaters and workboots. I am cool with this. I am cool with all genders and sex, and all kinds of sex, just none with animals, kids, or too much violence.


Men. Please come to the Party. You are invited. Bring Chocolate


He Made me Scream, He Made me Believe in Me :A Tribute to Some Men from My Past

The first man to ever make me scream and subsequently, run, was the Ice Cream Man.

I remember chasing after him in bare feet, down my quiet dead-end suburban street. I’d often have tons of change in my hand, as I ran, yelling for him to stop and hoping I wouldn’t drop my money.

It was the first, but not the last time I chased a man in pursuit of something wonderful and tasty. Ah Ice Cream.

There have been quite a few men in my life–professional men, (not male hookers, but men I worked with) romantic men, sexual men, friendship men, and father-like figure men. They all did something different for and to me; some of them added, while others subtracted from my life. This is a blog about a few of the men I felt shaped me or shaped an experience for me.

The Southern Gentleman

A friend of mine, whom I met in my late twenties-early thirties, is a guy unlike many I have met. It’s not that he did anything specifically for me that left a great impression on me, but he seems to get me and wrap up basically all of my sentiments in two sentences. I just feel like he’s listening. Women often say how men don’t listen, and this guy does–even to the things I don’t say. It’s almost a bit scary how he kind of nails down what I am thinking or doing. Sometimes, he calls me on my shit. A lot of times.

He met me during a time when I was pretty much trying to ravel myself together. I was a hot mess, but a sweet hot mess, and coming together, but still grasping quite a bit.

Even when I was a pain in the ass, he didn’t stop being my friend or understanding who I am.

I’m supremely grateful for this. I can call him randomly at any point and catch him up, and he still gets it and understands me.

There are still some men who listen ladies.

The Hot In the Pants Dude

Okay, so there were quite a few of these dudes because hey, it’s not uncommon to meet horny guys when you are in your twenties, and sure, most of these men were assholes. However, despite some of the utter shittiness and cocky attitude of this one particular Hot in the Pants Dude, I learned a lot from him.

I didn’t fake it.

Just saying. And a girl needs that, so she knows what to look for when she decides to settle down or be in any relationship. You need to know your own body. If a young Brad Pitt look-alike wanted to teach me, I was okay with this. Sign me up today, thank you.

He also exposed me to some different practices. I will leave it at that. I may not have liked every experience we had, but it was certainly interesting. I’m glad I have the memory of an elephant sometimes!

Pardon me while I take a cool shower.

The Counselor

In college, I had the best guidance guy and advisor ever! When I met him, it was like meeting a very empathetic, kind, funny, and life-sized Bear. ¬†Not a Bear that would claw and kill you, but like a neutral-colored gigantic Care Bear. You kind of wanted to tell him what you wanted for Christmas, except for that wouldn’t be normal or appropriate I guess when you’re in college!

He was always patient, and helped me to make some good decisions when I really struggled. Even though he knew I was trying to juggle a lot as well as deal with some hard things emotionally, I never felt like he treated me like some “emotional woman,” which I’ve been passed off as before. He was also very honest, and I never felt like he sugarcoated things unless it were absolutely necessary.

Most importantly, he believed in me when I didn’t.

I am grateful for having met him. It takes one person sometimes to make a difference, and he always did.

The Doubter, The Skeptic

This man falls into so many categories, that I am not quite sure I like the above description. He was a myriad of things to me, both good, and god awful. We could have an amazing time, and then in the same night, he would lash out at me or do something absolutely rude and unkind. We were never partners, but rather partners in crime.

I remember during one of his angry mood swings, for some reason or the other, he told me I would never graduate from college.

“You can’t graduate from college…no. You’re not a good writer either.”

I don’t believe he ever graduated from college or even went, but I still felt crushed. I had dropped out of school to act, and was considering reapplying to school to finish my bachelor’s. I guess he found the idea ludicrous for some reason or the other. Maybe it’s because he had never finished, or that he only thought of me as the wild card he hung out with. A sexy girl, but not much else. We had conversed plenty about deep subjects, but I don’t think that was how he viewed me.

A year or so later when he came to visit me at Columbia, he sat in a chair and looked around my small dorm room.

“I’m proud of you. I really am.”

He may have, but I hadn’t forgotten what he had said. I wanted to thank him. Thanks to him, I was inspired to prove him wrong, and I am grateful that I did.

The Bi-polar Coke- head Boss

Everyone has had a coke-head Bi-polar boss, right? Okay, so hopefully no, but this dude was certifiably both an unmedicated bi-polar coke-head, and apparently, a relationship expert.

He asked me if I had ever been engaged. Apparently he had broken off his 5th or 10th engagement, no doubt due to one of his manic or narcissistic mood swings. I was 27 at the time, and hadn’t been. When I expressed this, he told me how fucked up I was…and a nobody. He liked to insult me, and then compliment me later, when he was feeling less manic.

Really, he was a no-good jerkoff who didn’t care about anyone else but himself, however, I really enjoyed the few times I told him off. It felt good to put the little bastard in his place, and taught me that I am capable of not taking shit.

Little Boy at the Mall

When I was about 18, some little boy came up to me and asked me if I had a boyfriend. He was three years old approximately, and he approached me outside of a department store. His mother stood close by.

“Excuse me,” he said, in this squeaky but well articulated voice,”do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I said, being honest. I doubted I would find one anytime soon also.

“Well, can I be yours?”

I said yes, when he was older, and just ate up his little smile. It made me feel so good, and I thought it was so sweet, that I still remember this to this day.

Look, I couldn’t have ended my blog with the coke-head, so little boy had to do.

Until next time, when I will discuss more influential men from the past…

For now, I will be running after my Ice Cream Man. How many of you think he might dare to take me home?