So yesterday I was chatting with my friend who’s in her early forties and she mentions to me that she’s never had a mammogram, and I’m like WTF?
HER: I know. But I’m scared they’re gonna tell me I have cancer?
ME: That makes sense. You should totally wait until the cancer gets really big and spreads throughout your body.
HER: I know, you’re right.
Dear males who live in our house,
Okay, so I just found a little something and I need to talk to you about it. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, you’re guys. You love your bathroom time. And since I can hear a lot of what’s going down in there (literally), I fully expect to strap on a gas mask if I dare to step into that room within a half hour of you going. What I do not expect is to have to put on a full-body Hazmat suit. I mean, we have the same anatomy back there so I kinda know how that shit works. Pun intended. Anyways, I’m on my knees begging (well, actually I’m scrubbing, but while I’m down here already, I’m gonna beg a little too). I’m begging you to do a little something the next time you’re in the bathroom. When you get up from the porcelain throne (after you stomp your feet because they’ve fallen asleep from sitting there so long), take a quick look around. Do you notice anything? Any leftovers? Any unintentional Jackson Pollock paintings? And don’t just look INSIDE the bowl. Take a look around OUTSIDE the bowl too. Because I just found a five-inch streak (hopefully chocolate) on the underside of the seat and it looks like it’s been there for at least a week. AT LEAST. And wellllll, I don’t usually lift up the seat too often but you guys do. And I assume you pee with your eyes open since half of your pee made it into the bowl this week, so I’m guessing you probably saw the UBS (unidentifiable brown streak) long before I did. So please, if you DOO something, DO something. Flush again, flush three times, clean it off with a big wad of toilet paper, or in the least, put a fluorescent pink post-it note there with a giant arrow pointing to it so I see it while it’s still fresh. Do whatever it takes so that I don’t find your fossilized poop a week later.
Dear woman who left that lovely comment on my page,
I just wanted to say thank you for leaving such an insightful comment on my page. I totally hear what you’re saying. Who the heck are all of these women signing their posts with #metoo? And carrying their useless women’s rights posters that do nothing to advance women, blah blah blah, I have a vagina and that makes me special. Maybe if women spent less time talking about being oppressed, they’d have more energy to accomplish something, right? Like you did. I mean you stated it pretty clearly in your comment. YOU never got sexually harassed. YOU were never paid less than the men you worked with. YOU are successful and run a profitable company now. So I can totally see why you would think all these women are just being whiny complainers.
Because YOU got lucky.
Dear Mark Zuckerberg,
I am a mom. I became a mom eight years ago, and it was the most exciting, confusing, amazing, terrifying, isolating, happy, exhausting time of my life. There were plenty of hours of the day that I was with my husband or friends, but there were also a crazy number of hours that I was alone. So alone.
When I first started breastfeeding, my daughter would crying loudly while I cried silently because I felt like a failure. And even once I got the hang of it, I would sit there nursing her in the middle of the night in a chair in the dark with no one to speak to. I felt so alone.
Ummmmmm. Can I show you what my bedroom looks like right now? Nope, not how messy it is. It’s actually not as messy as usual because a week ago I freaked out on my rugrats and made them both clean their rooms, and then I walked into my room and realized I was calling the kettle black big time.
This is my bedroom right now.
Before you start reading, this post is sponsored by RetailMeNot and they are giving away a kickass prize, aka MONEYYYYYY. So keep reading.
So the other day I made the mistake of taking the kids shopping and it was a disassssster. I swear literally every item they saw in the store, they were like, “Mom, can I get this?” “Mom, I want this!” “Mom, this is what I want!!” “I want I want I want I want I want.” And by the time we were done shopping, I was beyond angry.
ME: Aggghhhhh, if you guys ask for ONE MORE THING, I’m going to lose it. You can either do chores to earn money and pay for it or you can put it on your holiday list.
Okay, so technically you’re not even thinking about my holiday gift for another two weeks when you suddenly jump up off the couch in the middle of a TV show and announce that you have an “emergency” bowling night at 9:30pm and race off to the drugstore to desperately search for something that doesn’t look like it came from the drugstore, but I want to give you a little advice this year. Here are some things NOT to get me this holiday:
1. Do not give me something to clean the house with, ie. a fancy mop or an expensive vacuum. If you do, I want to walk downstairs and find YOU using it. Without your shirt on. Every day.
I saw the preview months ago. And I immediately wanted to see this movie. And not just because Julia Roberts was in it. I mean I grew up on Pretty Woman and Steel Magnolias and Mystic Pizza, so when I saw her mesmerizing face in the preview, I was like yessssss. But then I saw a different face. A very different face. And I knew this movie was going to be special. So I impatiently waited MANY months for it to come out, and then it finally did.
ME: Zoey, we’re going to the movies today. You’re going to LOVE this movie.
Okay, who’s ready for a HIGH-larious story? A little gross but F’ing hilarious. Before I tell you, I want to loudly announce that this is NOT about me. Like this is NOT one of those stories you tell about yourself and then pretend it’s about a friend to protect yourself. Okay, so here we go.
Last night I went out with my friend for dinner and when the waiter came over to order our drinks, I ordered a wine and she said can I have a club soda?