So. Y’all.

(And by “y’all,” I mean the three people likely to read this, two of whom got here by searching for midget porn and that one pervy guy in Denver who keeps downloading the picture of the slutty girls.)

Let’s talk.


This blog. It sucks. I know.

I don’t even think you can call it a blog at this point. I haven’t written here in over a year, and even then it was just to humble-brag about a book I don’t even really like anymore. (But by all means you should use that link over there to buy it and judge for yourself.) Before that, I pieced together a few random thoughts I had when stoned out of my gourd at a Slash concert that seemed super funny at the time (but maybe not so hilarious in the sober light of day). And who even knows what came before that?

Who even cares?

Over the last few years I’ve been (mostly) content to just let my little blog hibernate, always with the idea that I’d come back to it someday. It just felt like a given that, at some point, I’d find myself with my panties all twisted up about something and I’d be glad to still have the soapbox.

But Donald Trump has been running his presidential campaign for more than a year now, y’all. If I haven’t lost my ever-loving blogging shit by now, I’m probably not gonna.


I read this thing the other day where two people whose opinions are supposed to matter to me debate the current status of the Mommy Blog. Is it dead? One lady I’ve never heard of says yes, while some guy I’ve never heard of says no.

To me, the very fact that these are the two most interesting people they could find to talk about it seems to answer the question.


The truth is, I don’t really care if the Mommy Blog is dead. Because this was never a Mommy Blog. I mean, yeah, technically I AM a mommy (though no one calls me that anymore) and this IS a blog… but how many Mommy Blogs can you name with posts about pony fetishes and fake vaginas? How many of them get half their traffic these days from clueless pervs looking for dildo helmets?

Probably not many.


The last few years have been filled with soccer games and birthday parties and the day-to-dayness of life. Friendships have been both won and lost. Freelance work and corporate drivel have dominated my days, and a frustrating start/stop creative process has ruled the nights.

I’ve started caring about some new things, and stopped caring about many more. I have a few more wrinkles and definitely more age spots – but I deny their legitimacy by insisting they are just freckles I never noticed before.

I’ve nursed loved ones through sickness and stood witness to loss and heartbreak, and tried my best to offer comfort where I could. Not sure how well I’ve done with that, but the good intentions were there, and sometimes that’s all we have – good intentions.


“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” – Proverb


My Little Bean is NINE now (hold me) and not so little anymore. He has an occasional attitude these days, which I find equal parts infuriating and hilarious. And his schedule’s gotten more crazy, which means MY schedule has gotten more crazy. But it’s all okay, because he’s still just as awesome as he ever was, just in different ways, and even when he’s acting like a total asshat he still manages to make everything better better better.


In these last few years I’ve washed one million, seven hundred thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven loads of laundry. And re-washed about half that, because I can’t seem to fucking remember to put the fucking wet clothes in the fucking dryer before they get fucking skunked and I have to start all the fuck over again.

Also, displaying a shocking lack of foresight, the Little Bean’s school has named me President of the PTA. This is horrifying on so many levels I don’t even know where to start.

I should be doing work related to that right now, in fact. Responding to emails, or begging for volunteers, or signing some bullshit at the bank or something.

The last thing I have time for is this blog.


Still, I miss writing here.


I’ve never made any money off of this site. I’ve never shilled for a product (naps and eyebrows don’t count), and the one time I tried running ads on the site (because everyone else was doing it) I felt so gross about it that I pulled them almost immediately. The instant the blog became about money, it ceased to feel like my space. It wasn’t free anymore.

I like free. Free is good.


The Big Bean and I were at a restaurant one day when a nursing home group came in. About 15 old folks of varying age and ailment were ushered in, and we watched from the bar as the restaurant staff pushed tables together and got them seated. All of the seniors looked a bit bewildered as their chaperones worked to get the menus passed out, walkers stowed away, soft appetizers ordered.

“That looks awful,” the Big Bean said to me. “Please just shoot me before I get to that point.”

“Really?” I asked, imagining a day free from all responsibility, no list of things to do, other than just waking up and staying alive until bedtime. “To me, it looks wonderful.”


This blog was once a huge part of my life. It was my creative outlet, it was my venting space, it was a place where I could write, untethered. It opened doors for me. It connected me. It made me new friends, and rediscovered some old ones, too.

It was a way for me to be silly and shocking and weird and deep and sometimes all of the above.

A lot of what’s here makes me cringe now, but at the time I really felt it, whatever “it” happened to be at the time. Sure some of it’s bad (bad bad so bad), but some of it still makes me happy, or proud. Some of it still makes me laugh. Some of it still touches me.

It costs nine dollars and thirty cents every month to keep it hosted, but I never worry about the auto-withdrawal.

It’s worth it.


I stopped writing here because of the pressure.

Pressure to get noticed, pressure to be heard. Pressure to be funny. Pressure to make money. Pressure to be popular.

The pressure didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me.

I watched other bloggers I knew, great writers who were a whole lot more motivated, talented, and connected than me, become bigger than big, using their blogging success to springboard into hugely popular best-selling books, nation-wide shows, Fashion Police writing gigs. They deserved every single bit of it and I was (and am) so happy for them but with every one of their successes, I felt a little smaller. A little less worthy. A little more red-faced that I wasn’t better, or bigger, or doing more than I was.

So I quit. Without even realizing it.


Gore Vidal once said, “Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.”


I’ve been thinking for a while now that I should start writing here again. It’s a thought that lives in the back of my brain, popping up when something funny happens, or something amazing, or scary, or super annoying (see aforementioned presidential campaign).

But then I always think back, “Why? Who cares?”

Who even cares?

I don’t know if I even care. I think maybe I do, but it’s been so long since I wrote here that my voice feels rusty and it’s definitely different, older, more scratchy and worn from all of that work and stress and disappointment.

(Not that I’ve been toiling away in some bad prime time drama, or anything – I don’t want to oversell it. It’s mostly just the daily repetition and constant checking of to-do lists that have taken their toll, with a few little dramas interspersed. But still.)

But still.

What I do know is that I’d like to try. I’d like to see if I can pick this thing back up again and maybe have a little fun with it. Or, at the very least, use it to work through my own personal bullshit, which is what I often used it for before.

In a very interesting and entertaining way, of course.

Either way, I can’t kill it now, and I can’t continue to let it lie stagnant. It needs fresh water and oxygen. And maybe a bath.

I hope I can breathe new life into it. I hope I can give it what it needs.

I’m going to try. And if I can’t, well…

At least I had good intentions.





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Bejewell on July 20th, 2015

Last week my silly little book was named the winner of the Discovery Prize in the Poetry category of the 2014 Book Awards from the Writers’ League of Texas.

This was a total surprise, for lots of reasons. Here are just a few:

  1. I’d completely forgotten that I’d entered this contest.
  2. I’d completely forgotten that this contest existed.
  3. After stumbling upon a couple of painfully bad reviews a few months ago, I’d been doing my best to forget that my book existed.
  4. These are serious awards for serious authors of serious books. The 2014 winners include Thunderstruck & Other Stories, a collection of short stories that won author Elizabeth McCracken the $20,000 Story Prize last month, and Getting Life, the memoir of wrongfully-convicted-then-fully-exonerated Michael Morton. My book contains poems titled Neil Patrick Harris Gets the Paddle and Hair in My Ass Crack. This math is weird.
  5. Just this month, I’ve made enough money off of it to buy myself a nice burrito supreme from Taco Bell – but maybe not the combo meal.

But really, here’s the biggest reason:

I wrote, compiled, and illustrated this book during a super shitty time in my life. I’d been through the emotional ringer for lots of reasons, and was left feeling pretty much awful about myself. Luckily, after a few months of tearing myself apart I had the wherewithal to realize the only way I was ever going to feel any better was by shifting my focus completely – and putting together a funny book sounded like a much more pleasant pastime than sitting around asking myself why I was such a pathetic, unlovable loser. So I ran with that.

Humor poetry wasn’t my first choice of genre. I already had a couple of other book drafts in the works, both contemporary fiction novels with dark comedy undertones, and I tried to move forward with each of them first, but just wasn’t feeling it. The more I tried to force it the more frustrated I got, which kind of defeated the whole purpose. In the meantime, I was writing some silly stuff for this blog (yes, I used to write stuff here! Crazy, right?!) and for some reason, short, silly, stupid poems were coming easy. So finally I decided to just go ahead and run with them. And now I’m glad I did.

One of these things is not like the others.

The announcement letter I received had this to say about the Discovery Prize:

“This is the second year we’ve named Discovery Prize Winners in each category. The directive to our judges was simple: Please nominate a book outside of the Finalists and Winner that you felt warranted a special mention for its fresh voice, inventive story, or some other element that made it stand out. While so many of the national book awards today tend to go to books being traditionally published by the major houses, we think it’s important to shine a light on the wonderful books that are being published by small presses or by authors themselves so we also asked our judges to keep that in mind for this Discovery Prize.”

So basically what they’re saying is, “You totally didn’t win, or even place… but know what? We still dig what you did there.”

Okay, so it’s not exactly a Pulitzer, but in my little world this is still a big deal. I love that this totally weird book, which I created and published – from the words to the illustrations to the cover to the marketing and everything else – 100% on my own and learning most of it from the ground up, can now be considered (on some small level) a success. That makes me feel pretty damned puffy, y’all.

And to have gone from feeling like a dumb, ugly, waste of space to winning an award for being “fresh” and “inventive”? Well, I’m not gonna lie – that’s just a lovely, refreshing, sweet-smelling breeze of all good.

Also – and not to go all Dalai Lama on you, or anything – but I do think it says something about resilience and possibility and all kinds of other new-agey, karma-ish things. At the very least it proves that, with just a little bit of muscle and a whole lot of heart, it is possible to take a truly shitty situation and turn it into something sweet.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is this:

If you’re struggling with depression or deflated self-worth, if your heart’s been hurt and feels like it might never recover… please, please find it in yourself to take one step – just one – in a different direction. Whether it’s writing silly poems, painting pretty pictures, running a mile or volunteering to help someone else in need… just find a new, better direction, point yourself that way, and take that one first step. The next one will be easier, and so will the next, and so on and so forth… until, before you know it, all that other nonsense will be way behind you, and you’ll have created something amazing, or accomplished something new, or made life for someone else a little bit easier – and you’ll feel good and proud and know in your heart that it was all worth it.

At least, that’s what worked for me.


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Sure, I’ll have some pot! What could possibly go wrong?


Wow, I probably shouldn’t have smoked that pot.

Oh, dear. I think I might have had too much pot.

Wait, you can’t have “too much pot”! That’s ridiculous! People don’t overdose from pot!

Pot. Pot. Pooooooooooootttttt. Potty Potty POT!

(ducking) SHITWHAT’STHATNOISE??!? Are we being attacked??!? Terrorism!

Oh, it was just the drum intro. Haha whoops

Okay, you can definitely have too much pot. Definitely.

Where is Axl? What are they playing? I don’t know this. Axl’s not here? They’re not playing the Axl songs? What the fuck is this WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME

Wow, I’m stoned. Like, a lot a lot a lottttttt-tuh-tuh-tuhhhhh

Is everyone staring at me? STOP JUDGING ME

Everything about this was a bad idea.


Why am I so slouchy? When did I get such bad posture? I used to have the best posture. God I’m old.

Can you be too old for pot? If you can, I am. Wait, no you can’t! Willie Nelson is like 112 and he smokes like every day. OHMYGOD I’M OLDER THAN WILLIE NELSON. Maybe not chronologically, but definitely in my heart right now.

Hey, Hawaiian Shirt Guy, what’re YOU looking at? Eyes front, fella, mind your own! You’re here to see Slash and his weird band of people who aren’t Guns ‘n Roses. Not some dried up, weird old lady strung out on pot.

Should I dance? I feel like I should dance. Everyone else is dancing. Is it conspicuous that I’m not dancing? Yes. I should dance. I’ll dance.

Jesus, when did I get so bad at dancing? I need to stop. I’m like 14 unreasonably long octopus arms attached to two awkward, stumpy pig legs. I’m really just insulting Slash, at this point. And myself.

Huh. Now I can’t feel my feet. That can’t be good.

Hawaiian Shirt Guy is staring again. I’ll stick my tongue out at him, I bet he stops. There, that’ll teach him. Wait, now he’s really staring. He really wasn’t staring before, I guess. Whoops.

Why is everyone so tall? I can’t see anything except this dude in front of me, with the Curly Sue hair.

I need to touch the Curly Sue hair. NEED TO. Will he notice? Nah. Okay. Be cool, Beej. Just a quick touch so he doesn’t feel it.

(rubbing fingers through strange man’s hair) This is so fun! I am so creepy.

I want to jump on his back and ride him like a horse, holding his soft Curly Sue curls in ponytails like reins.


(drops hair, looks around innocently)

Why’s everyone wearing top hats? What a weirdly random fashion choice.


Why am I at this concert? I don’t even really like Slash.

Wow, this is a really long guitar solo. Like, uncomfortably long. Loooooooooooong.

I’m bored.

I wonder what Axl Rose is doing right now.

I hate the way Axl Rose spells his name. Actually, I just hate Axl Rose in general.

That wasn’t very nice of me, maybe Axl Rose is a very nice person. I need to stop being so judgmental. I’m a terrible person. I really need to work on myself.

Holy shit, is Slash still playing that same solo? My god, man!

Man, someone who gets migraines would be so fucked right now.

I guess these songs are okay but I do kind of wish this was some other kind of music being played by some other band.

Oh, great, the Young Skinny Slutty Girls have arrived to make me feel even shittier! Yes, please post up right there in front of me, young ladies, where I can enjoy watching you dance better than me in skirts shorter than anything I’ve ever worn, in heels I could never wear because bunions. What a pleasure.

Oh, good, here they go with the hair-flippy, twerky dancing now. And that one’s boyfriend has his hand down her skirt. Awesome.

Where are these children’s parents?

Hey, Young Skinny Cute Girls, know what? Someday you’ll be old and haggard and unable to hold your pot, like me. I look forward to that day.

OKAY, SLASH, WE GET IT. You’re, like, the best guitarist ever and can do a guitar solo for, like, a really long time. Congratulations on that.

I’m tired.


Hawaiian Shirt Guy is judging me again. What an asshole. Who wears a Hawaiian shirt to a SLASH concert, anyway? Nosy fuckers, that’s who.

I have to pee.

I want to go home.

I bet Slash hates wearing that fucking hat. He must be so over it by now.

Know what I’m over? This fucking concert.

Can we go home yet?

I’m not driving.

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Bejewell on December 22nd, 2014

Today is December 22nd or, as I know it, The Day That Amazon Prime Officially Owns All Our Asses. If you’re a lazy, disorganized fuck like me and now find yourself a slave to the corporate 2-Day Shipping gods, today is your last day to serve your Lord and Master and get that shit here by Christmas Eve so nobody’s crying the next morning because Santa didn’t come.

One of the things Amazon offers while you browse the site for merchandise is the “Customers Also Viewed” feature. This section appears just below any item you view and can offer some great ideas for items that might be more appropriate for you than the one you’re currently browsing. Sometimes (but not THIS time) these items are even better or more interesting than the first thing, and I’ve also found that an extended “Also Viewed” click-thru marathon can provide some fascinating insights into human online-shopping behavior.

Of course, the results of such analysis do often create more questions than answers. Take, for example, the award-winning*, best-selling**, top-reviewed*** book Something Smells Like Pee: and Other Classy Observations. This incredibly touching, hilarious book (currently available on Amazon Prime) would make a wonderfully perfect gift for anyone on your holiday shopping list. However, one glance at the page’s “Also Viewed” list and you’ll see that customers interested in this amazing item are also checking out some seriously weird shit.

Let’s take a look:

Now, I think it’s clear that this book is the item for you. You probably realize it, too, and I bet you’re ready to buy copies for everyone you know, probably right this very second! But just out of curiosity… how about we take a quick peeksie at some of those other items viewed? if nothing else, we might learn some interesting things about the typical audience for this fantastic piece of literature.

So let’s explore.

Item #1: Mr. Gugu & Miss Go Men’s Creepy Unicorn Sweatshirt

There are no reviews yet for this gorgeous piece of work, but it should be noted that this is a menswear item and I’m sure some happy male purchasers will be chiming in any day now. At only $63.13, it’s a creepy, corny, unicorny steal!

Item #2: Realistic Full Bear (Brown) Adult Costume

I’d like to think that the discerning Amazon shoppers who considered spending $699.95 for this gem of a costume were looking for something to wear on Halloween… but given the other items that my fans have shown preference for… well, let’s face it. Their reasons were probably a lot more pervy.

Item #3: Cute Space Kitten Ladies Leggings

An essential component to any complete wardrobe, these kitten leggings will beautifully enhance any thigh. Verified purchaser (size: Large) Shawn says:

At first I was afraid that there would not be enough flying cats, or stars on this pair of pants. Fortunately, my fears were put to ease when my new pants arrived. My wife has grown fond of these pants and has started borrowing them for herself. I will most likely be looking to buy these in bulk, next time.

Item #4: Star Wars Han Solo Carbonite Beach Towel 30″ x 60″

This is the best beach towel ever created in the history of beach towels and if I do not get one for Christmas I will cry. However, it does lose one star because, as one reviewer pointed out, it is not actually MADE of carbonite.

Item # 5: Sharp Shirter Stripper Sloth Shower Curtain

Who wouldn’t want to dress up their bathroom with this unique addition? It even comes with 12 shower curtain hooks, for your convenience! 10 reviewers so far are giving it glowing recommendations, among them izbaby, who says:

I am so glad to have this hard working girl in the house. She picks the bills up slow but I know she is working to put herself through college and support her illegitimate offspring. Make it rain!

Feeling like this list is a little low on class? Well, skip to the next page and the items start to become a lot more respectable:

To start, the book I Love My Gay Badger Son tells a heartwarming tale of parents adopting and raising a first grader who also happens to be a boy weasel-like mammal who likes other boy weasel-like mammals. Adventures are had, love is shared, and they all learn many valuable life lessons along the way.

The Life-Sized Weeping Angel Cardboard Cutout will add a touch of tasteful whimsy to the home decor of any Dr. Who fan.

And the Tank-Shaped Cat Play House is sure to keep your war-hungry pussy entertained for hours on end.

See? Nothing but class.

Of course, any self-respecting fan of Jenny “The Bloggess” Lawson’s New York Times bestseller Let’s Pretend This Never Happened has already purchased their own copy of my book, so her inclusion on this list is only natural.  And the Willy Care Kit? Well, that’s just the gift that keeps on giving, y’all. Besides, whose family jewels don’t need a little extra polish every now and then? (Comes complete with grooming brush, shears, tiny ball-viewing mirror, and even a little medallion for when you feel like getting fancy.)

So overall, I’d say we’ve learned a few things from perusing this list, wouldn’t you? Let’s review:

(1) The people who buy Something Smells Like Pee are fucking weird fucking awesome

(B) If YOU want to be fucking awesome, you will buy a bunch of copies of Something Smells Like Pee immediately with two-day shipping and give it to everyone you know for Christmas, and

(iii) has a gift for literally anyone on the planet.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little holiday lesson. Happy shopping, peeps — now go make some MERRY!


* Proud winner of the Best Book Written By Anyone in My House Award, given by me

** Currently ranked #1 in sales on the list of Books Written About Things that Smell Like Pee (children’s books, animal care books, parenting advice books and household maintenance books not included), calculations performed by me

*** By me

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Bejewell on September 22nd, 2014

I’ve eaten too much
Not a single bite more
can pass between these lips

(Unless, of course,
our server comes by
and refills the tortilla chips.)

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Bejewell on August 28th, 2014

If you’re currently growing out your facial hair and considering the Full Beard + No Mustache option — but you’re unsure if this is the right look for you — please ask yourself the following questions:

1.  Are you Amish?

2. Are you Abraham Lincoln?

3. Are you a leprechaun?

4. Are you Uncle Sam?

5. Are you a Klingon?

If you answered “yes” to one or more of the above questions, this look is totally appropriate for you.

If you answered “no” to all of the above, but have already grown your facial hair out to this unfortunate style — Heads up, dude. You look like a garden gnome.


Bonus Round:

In which of the following situations is a “chin strap” appropriate?

Next Edition: Mutton chops.

Until then…

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AUSTIN, TX—Shoppers used to waiting in long lines at a local Target store’s three open checkout lanes were baffled this Saturday when a fourth register was opened. “We all just stood there, staring at each other,” said Nina Martin, a mom of three who was fifth in line at Lane 26 in the Parmer/I-35 North location when the light for Lane 27 suddenly flashed on. “There were at least three people behind me and we all wanted to rush over there, but none of us did because we just couldn’t believe it.”

Store manager Nicholas Strong made the unprecedented decision to open a fourth register when the three lanes already in use became overrun by long lines of shoppers. “Of course we see a lot of back-up on a daily basis – with only three registers open every day, that’s a given. But today, it felt more congested,” Strong explained. “The lines were so long that carts were blocking other shoppers from getting through, and when two separate customers pulled out their old-timey checkbooks to pay, I knew I had to do something.”

The decision to open an additional register wasn’t implemented right away; it took Strong and his subordinates some time to select one lane from the 42 available. “It was hard to narrow it down,” says one staff member. “We all debated for a while before we finally agreed on the best lane to open.” Ultimately, they settled on Lane 27 because of its convenient place in sequence after Lanes 24, 25, and 26, which were already open per the store’s usual procedure. “Lane 27 just made the most sense, you know?” says Strong. “I mean, why make people walk all the way down to Lane 1 or Lane 45 when there’s a perfectly good register right next to them?”

Once the extra register’s light came on, it took stunned shoppers several minutes to understand that the lane was actually open, and the light’s activation hadn’t been some kind of electronic glitch. “It was mass confusion at first,” said another customer, who wished to remain anonymous. “Some people thought it was a mistake, but I just thought it was some kind of practical joke. I was all, ‘FOUR lanes open at Target? Come on! Where are the reality show cameras?’”

Even some staff members were slightly bewildered by the new situation. Lana Boucher, an employee in the store’s meat department, said, “There was a buzz around the place, for sure. I didn’t even think those other registers worked if it wasn’t Christmastime.”

Despite their initial mistrust, shoppers did eventually grasp the concept of an additional available register; and a new line gradually formed with relatively minimal disruption to business. “There was a little shoving at first, sure, but overall the results were really good,” Strong reports. “Once they understood that the lane was really open and we weren’t messing with their heads, almost all of our customers responded in a very positive way. I’m glad we took a chance and tried it.”

Still, Strong knows he might face some consequences for his decision. “I don’t know what will happen once corporate gets wind of this,” he admits. “New and progressive ideas are always a little scary to some of the higher-ups.”

Calls to Target corporate headquarters requesting a statement were not returned.

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Bejewell on June 29th, 2014

The Big Bean is one of my favorite people in the world.

He’s a great husband. A wonderful father. A good friend. He works hard to provide for his family. He makes me laugh every day.

And last night, he almost killed me with his toenails.

For years I’ve joked about his poor foot grooming habits, complaining (mostly in jest) that the nails were too long and too strong, the jagged bits dangerously sharp (but probably convenient when climbing). I’ve called him names like Fred Flintstone and Tarzan. I’ve asked him to fetch me a bunch of bananas from the tallest tree in the forest. I’ve even laughingly speculated that his gnarled talons could be used as weapons, suggesting he try his luck in a cockfight.

It was all in fun. It was all just jokes.

But I’m not joking anymore, y’all.

I’m scared.

Last night I was sound asleep, lost in happy dreams when the man I love moved beside me, shifting for a more comfortable position. As he adjusted, one hirsute, briery foot grazed the back of my leg. I woke to the pain of a craggy, serrated shiv attempting to slice – yes, slice – across my Achilles’ tendon. I cried out in shocked terror.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he squawked, immediately realizing the enormity of the situation. He knew, with that one quick movement, the dangers we’d both just faced: mine, Death by Toenail; his, a lifetime of tragic guilt.

If he’d been just a *few* inches closer, pushed just a *little* bit harder, those hairy, malformed claws could have pierced *right* through my skin. An artery could have been punctured. I could have bled out before he reached 911. In my shaken mind, the story plays out…

The paramedics arrive to find a grisly scene: my legs, cold and paled by death, jut out from beneath the covers, drenched in blood; the Big Bean, head in hands at the edge of the bed, stares blankly at his wooly, leathered feet as he rocks himself and mindlessly mutters, “should’ve clipped ‘em, should’ve worn socks,” over and over and over.

There but for the grace of god go I.


A couple of weeks ago, our seven-year-old son had his first pedicure. It wasn’t a planned event – I was there to have my own toes done and he was with me, so it seemed like a good idea to let him join in. After all, while wonderful in all the other ways, he did inherit his dad’s ridiculous Captain Caveman feet – and as long as he’s still a snuggler, why take chances? He enjoyed it, too, flirting with the pedicurist and giggling when she reached the ticklish parts… and in the end he walked away with neat feet, softer than they’d been since his newborn baby days.

As far as I was concerned, this was a win-win. The Big Bean scoffed when I told him, but we both knew he didn’t have a gnarly, hairy foot to stand on.

The Big Bean isn’t scoffing anymore. In fact, he’ll soon be receiving a pedicure of his very own, alongside me and his son. Sometime this afternoon, he will find himself ass-planted in an oversized massage chair, voice trembling wildly as his back receives the rough knead-and-pound treatment. A slight woman speaking in a foreign tongue will do her best to tame the hideous beasts a-soak before her. It will not be her best day.

No, it won’t be easy for any of us – but we will all survive.

The pedicurist will walk away with sore arms, a healthy tip and a feeling of great accomplishment.

My husband will emerge a better man, no longer a slave to the grotesque, monstrous deformities keeping him off balance. Able to run free, free from the thorny mess that’s always lurked below, just waiting to trip him up.

And I will finally be able to sleep in peace, no longer cowed by the fear of a painful, bloody nighttime death.

With my own soft, closely trimmed, coral-painted toes, I am finally taking a stand.

It is time.

Wish us luck.

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Bejewell on May 7th, 2014

I don’t often do giveaways. In fact, I’ve only done one giveaway on this blog that I can remember, and that was like six years ago when I still had a Blackberry. I gave a $5 gift card to the first person who correctly identified the mysterious booger-like substance I found on my desk. (Correct answer for the curious: Lotion spooge.)

So clearly I’m not an expert in the giveaway department.

But when I met this amazing jewelry designer named Ryan Sadkin, I knew I had to do one. Because Ryan Sadkin, being not only an incredibly talented designer but also just an all-around super-hot and very nice chickster, gave me a gorgeous necklace from her collection, specifically for a giveaway.

And here it is:

Isn’t it just GORGEOUS? Of course it is. Don’t you just LOVE it? Of course you do. Wouldn’t it make the perfect Mother’s Day gift? Of course it would.

The only thing I can think of that *might* make a *better* Mother’s Day gift is a copy of my book, which you should already have, and if you don’t, shame on you and here is a link.

Anyway. Because this necklace is such a rad gift, I am totally giving one to myself this Mother’s Day. And I’m also giving one to YOU, if you win this little contest of mine.

All you have to do to enter is leave a comment on this post, telling me something about moms. It can be anything. Tell a funny story. Write a silly poem. Just say “I love my mom” or “I miss my mom” or “Moms are the bombs” or “Word to yo mutha” or “Know who would love that necklace? MY MOM,” a la Muscle Man.


Whatever. I don’t care. Just say something.

You can also earn extra entries by:

  1. Liking my book’s Facebook page and letting me know here that you did.
  2. Sharing my book’s Facebook page and letting me know here that you did.
  3. Sharing this post or the book on Twitter with the hashtag #beejisawesome.
  4. Sending me a video of you twerking.
  5. Not suing me when I post that video on every social media channel I can think of.

You have until Sunday at noon. So get moving, y’all. Good luck, and happy accessorizing!

P.S. Can’t forget the fine print:

No purchase necessary. Contest ends at 12:00 pm Sunday, May 11. Contest open to legal residents of the U.S. and Canada who are at least 18 years of age at the time of entry. Entries without contact information will be disqualified. Entries that do not follow contest specifications will be disqualified. Entries that include this link will be disqualified.

Winner will be selected by on May 11 and the winner will be notified on the same day. Winner must respond with his/her mailing address or shipping information with 48 hours of notification, or another winner will be randomly chosen. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED.

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Bejewell on April 24th, 2014

Hold the door open for me Thank you profusely
Do NOT hold the door open for me Thank you anyway, with dripping sarcasm
Tell me what to do Take great pleasure in doing exactly the opposite of whatever you just said
Tell me I can’t do something Prove you wrong
Cut me off in traffic Wait until I’m next to you again, then casually scratch my nose… with my middle finger
Ask me what time it is Answer with either, “MILLER TIME!” or “Time to make the donuts”
Become famous simply because you have big tits, a big ass, big hair or big money Never never never watch you on TV
Apologize with sincerity Accept, no questions asked
Break my heart Eventually get over it, but never really recover completely
Make my son cry FUCKING KILL YOU, then hate you forever (Adults)Imagine FUCKING KILLING YOU, shoot death daggers at you with my eyes, then hate you and your parents forever (Children)
Insult me Pretend it doesn’t bother me, go to the bathroom and cry, then avoid you like the plague
Ignore me Make a complete fool of myself as I try desperately to prove that I’m worthy of your attention
Are too nice to me Be suspicious
Intimidate me Talk reallyreallyfastaboutnothing and make a lot of unnecessarily loud, stupid jokes, then admonish myself for WEEKS for being such an ass
Compliment me Feel uncomfortable
Send me to voice mail Leave a very long, rambly message wherein I repeat myself at least seven times, then finally identify myself just as it cuts me o–
Make me laugh out loud Love you forever
Marry me Never leave you (at least, not for 17 years so far)
Have my back Be your loyal, true friend for the rest of my life
Hurt one of my friends Come at you like a fucking spidermonkey on crack
Play “She’s a Maniac” Dance like a maniac
Play “The Safety Dance” Do the Safety Dance
Play country music Complain
Play anything by Duran Duran Bitterly recall (again) the story of how I was unceremoniously tossed out of the Duran Duran fan club at my school in the 5th grade
Play anything by Aretha Franklin Sing along loudly, and badly
Unfriend me on Facebook Gasp, feel hurt, get mad, then block your ass forever even though you’ll never notice or care
Leave a comment on this post Like you
Give me a deadline Wait until the very last minute, then totally freak out and stay up all night to get it done, acting like a total asshole to anyone who dares to talk to me while I’m on deadline.
Drive past a cemetery with me in the car Inform you that people are just DYING to get in there, then laugh hysterically
Announce a great success Be genuinely happy for you, but inside feel sad and terribly insecure about my own future
Create something beautiful Fall in love with your talent and never forget how amazing you are
Cry Cry
Fart Laugh
Fall down Laugh, then ask if you’re okay
Ask me what I’m making for dinner Laugh, then hand you the folder with the take-out menus
Fire me from a job I hated anyway Watch the traffic report every morning from my couch, in my pajamas, then laugh and laugh and laugh because I know you’re in it, and thank the universe that I don’t have to work for such a shitbag anymore
Ask me what I’ll have to drink Feel pressured to decide then just say Mexican Martini even though I don’t really want that
Serve me three Mexican Martinis Tell slurry stories with WAY too much information, yell inappropriate things at other people in the bar, show my underwear and probably fall down
Slow dance with me Sway awkwardly. Step on your feet. Apologize profusely. Repeat.
Leave the TV on with The American President, Blind Side, Ocean’s 11 or anything with Cary Grant playing Stay and watch it all the way through the credits, even though I’ve already seen it a million times
Leave the TV on with any of the Twilight movies playing Watch the whole damned thing and hate myself EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF IT
Rush me Leave the house without anything I actually need
Tell me you need me Be there
Say anything during a home improvement project about caulk or the size of your hose THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID
Ask me if something is wet THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID
Talk about putting something in your mouth THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID
Discuss getting a piece of something THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID
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