they crash economies and ruin lives

Look, I can't possibly comprehend all the ins and outs of how and why exactly the world's economy crashed back in 2008 and never recovered. But I strongly suspect boys are to blame. Were any girls ever mentioned in news articles highlighting the greed, corruption and bad decision-making that led to said crash. No. It was boys. Always boys.

Here is what I do know. In 2005, I bought a house. I now look back at that decision with derision, regret and a sense of whathefuck-was-I-thinking. But then I remember that in 2005, purchasing a house was an actual investment. Renting felt a lot like shoving a wad of bills down the commode with a ceremonious wave and flush. Buying seemed like the smart thing to do. It did not seem at all like what it actually was, i.e. adopting an albatross to take up permanent residence on my back.

Now I'm stuck with a house I couldn't sell - couldn't give away. Turned into a rental property occupied by mentally questionable family members who were, like, number 2 on the list entitled Reasons to Move the Fuck Out of Here. And the albatross is now digging his claws in super-deep with issues like outdated-everything and no-long-term-investment-potential-whatsoever and fucking-broken-air-conditioning.

So thanks a lot, corrupted, greedy and stupid boys. For fucking up the economy and killing any and all hopes for economic prosperity - no, stability - for the rest of my life. Asshats.

A boy flirting with an albatross. FFS. Why am I not surprised.

photo cred: Chantal Steyn

captain horndog, resident corndog

Every relationship I've ever (and I do mean ever) been in has eventually devolved into an endless stream of corndog innuendo. Romance and sexy (actually sexy) flirtation - so I know you're capable of it, boys - wears away over the weeks, months and years and suddenly I can't even talk about my day without an idiotically suggestive response.

Here's a tip: If, for instance, I've just confessed that my children/coworker/neighbor/asshole Walmart cashier make me want to scream, it is not a good idea to chuckle and say, "Baby, I got something to make you scream later..."

And if I say I have a tip, don't tell me you've "got a tip for me," followed by a creepers eyebrow jiggle. 'Cuz I know that's what you're thinking.

For cripe's sake, it's what you're always thinking.

Try this instead. Zip your lips, listen to what I'm saying, act like you give a damn and go jiggle something else later. Lotion's in the cabinet by the sink.

This might be the response you want,

but it is so not the response you're going to get.

photo cred: Erin Z

dear pompous-ass professor:

The enormity of your ego is eclipsed only slightly by the amount of audacity you have to continually email 7-years-gone alumni about your blog posts. It's almost sad to me that you, a published author, pander to us with your look-at-me emails every time you have a drunken thought about birds. Fucking birds. Here's a post worth sharing with everyone: we don't fucking care. We don't give a shit about your birds and your beer and your close encounters with b-list celebrities.

And you know what? Here's something else for you to consider in your mighty Nor'eastern brain - the one that's so far superior to my Southern drawl. DO NOT send me a friend request on Facebook directly following your blog post about shameless self-promotion that you - you guessed it - e-mailed out to the entire listserv.

I mean, really. You're a grown man. So do us all a favor and stop telling us every time you open a Yuengling and shit out some sort of craptastic half-witted essay about preserving bird habitats. Put that fucking feather in your cap.

You did write the book on this.

we all fall down

Boys make you fall in love. And then they tell you they just want to be friends. In an email.

the douchinator

So Ahnold and Maria broke up and shockingly, the Governator was soon after implicated in extreme douchiness for Classic Boy Shit. An affair. A love child. And supposedly said love child was born within days of Maria's youngest child?

Vom.

I've had this conversation with girlfriends before, regarding elected officials: no one's a saint, right? Just because a guy's an absolute dog in his real life doesn't mean he won't do a good job in office. We shouldn't hold it against him.

But I kind of do.

Because, hello. It's gross. If a guy can't respect his own wife with fidelity, are we to believe he'll do the honorable thing on behalf of his constituents?

Why do boys, especially famous ones, think it's okay to disregard human decency? Not that Mrs. Garish behaved any better in this scenario. But it's like they think their penises are extra-special by association with power and fame. The Governator, John Edwards, Jesse James. Jude Law (why, Jude, why?). Countless examples. Even, dareIsay, Dr. King. Yeah. The same one we all quote, seek to emulate and otherwise revere for his humanitarian ideals? Apparently he couldn't keep it in his pants out of love and respect for his marriage, either.

But we worship them anyway. And everyone knows in spite of this recent fiasco, Ahnold will be back. In the spotlight soon enough for his latest movie featuring blown-up shit.

Whatever, dude. It ain't that big.

photo cred: edjane obama

chivarly ain't dead (unless you just killed it)

We went to a concert in the sketch part of town...well, not exactly sketch...just the part of town that a single lady like myself doesn't want to be stumbling around in the darkness where who-knows-what awaits. And we met there because that was easier than trying to coordinate a pick-up and delivery.

After the concert was over...after we had sat for several hours in the darkness laughing and talking to one another in close quarters and sharing little touches here and there...we walked outside to leave. You were parked just on the side of the building in the bright white light of the fluorescents. I had to park out back. Out behind the bar. Out where there were no bright white fluorescent lights. Out in the darkness. Out where there are shadows and possibly shadowy characters.

And instead of walking me to my car, you hugged me quick like I was your least favorite cousin and got in your car before I'd even stepped onto the gravel lot. Left me standing there like I'd been in a hug-and-run incident and cranked your car while I shuffled through the darkness to my car. I thought maybe - just maybe that you'd be waiting at the exit to make sure I made it out safely, but when I rounded the corner, you were gone. Like you'd burnt rubber to get out of that lot fast enough.

That's the kind of shit boys do.

a woman's right to shoes

I love shoes. I own probably over 100 pairs. Manolos. Louboutins. Valentinos. Nine West. BCBG. Target.

And I will not get rid of one pair. Not one. They all go with something.

This drives my husband bat-shit crazy.

"Your shoes are everywhere," he moans, almost daily. "It's as if you just step out of them wherever you are, and leave them there!"

Yeah? And?

When we're out shopping, and I find a cute pair of shoes, he declares, "You have to get rid of a pair you have in your closet if you're going to buy those."

The fuck I do.

He has 679 dress shirts, 10 of which he wears. And 15 silk handkerchiefs I know he'll NEVER use. And 2,347 pairs of boxes with dogs and ladies and playing cards and polka dots and stripes and paisley on them. I don't ask him to throw those out, and he leaves them on the floor.

This drives me bat-shit crazy. Not because he owns 2,347 pairs of boxers, but because his shit is everywhere too.

I could complain about this, or I could let Carrie Bradshaw complain for me:





Preach it, Carrie.

while you were out

While you were away on business recently, I couldn't help but notice a few little things. One, I spent a hell of a lot less money. And because you weren't there to whine about the groceries I "forgot" to buy - i.e. the things you never put on the list but presumed I would remember because I don't have 5 billion other fucking things to think about? - I never even went to the store. For a whole week, the children and I managed to survive on what was already stocked in the fridge and pantry. Imagine that. No "emergency" runs to the area HellMouth, a.k.a. Walmart, with two children in tow, because you ran out of coffee creamer. Or beer. Or soda.

You know what tastes great? Water. Try it sometime.

Also, the bathroom stayed way cleaner.

So did the kitchen.

And every night I went to bed at a reasonable hour. Why? Because once the children went to bed, I had peace and quiet. Think about that for a minute.

Better rested. Less shit to clean. Less running around town. Better finances.

But I'm sure it was all just a coincidence. Had to be.

Though it defies all reason, some find water refreshing.

Photo cred: alfebetac

if you don't got no buns, hon...

Last night, my father was inexplicably angry...that my mother had purchased regular-sized hamburger buns instead of oversize hamburger buns. For the hamburgers that were very nearly on the table when he arrived home.

"All she buys are these tiny buns," he groused. "Is it too much to ask to get bigger buns?"

You just said a mouthful, Dad.

And while we're at it...BUY YOUR OWN DAMN BUNS.

adam

Dear Adam,

It all started with you. Douchebag Numero Uno. What the fuck did you do to push eve into the slithery clutches of the serpent? It had to be good, because no woman in her right mind would even look at a snake, much less let him convince her to eat a world-felling fruit. She'd run away screaming for you to kill the fucking thing with a shoe - or, in your pre-clothed case, a rock. Duh.

Behind every woman is a man driving her crazy enough to chat up a slithering, hissing creature with glowing eyes. So whatever it was you did or said to poor eve, nice work. All we do know is that at the time, the girl thought she was in better company.

Douche.

"Uhh... I guess you could make some pie?"

photo cred: artschoolgirl27