Category Archives: My Stupid Life

My 30 Most Mundane Fears

I’ve been absent from the blog for a while, but I promise I am working on a HILARIOUS post about the vacation I just took. Much funnier than the actual vacation itself, which has already become an indistinct blur of airport panic, flop sweat, rental-car regrets, temper tantrums, lackluster water pressure, and unflattering photos.

In the meantime, I think it’s been well-established in this space that I am one neurotic bitch. How neurotic?, you’re wondering. Well, I’m so neurotic that I’ve succumbed to a sudden, strong urge to catalog all of my greatest fears. Because if I keep them all in one location, I CAN CONTROL THEM. (Guys, should I be medicated…?)

There are a few categories we’re not even going to cover on this list, because they’re simply too grand in scale and too numerous to mention: The sudden, tragic deaths of family members; being stranded in the wilderness after a plane crash; anything negative that could ever possibly happen to my son; nuclear war. You know, the big shit. This is just a round-up of the relatively minor, mundane terrors that occupy my thoughts on a daily basis. Welcome to my waking nightmare! Continue reading


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My Dad, In 5 Quotes

My dad has always said that he doesn’t want to be the “Number One Dad.” Too much pressure, he says. But I can honestly report that he is probably the Number Four Dad in the whole world, or maybe even Number Three.

If I had over thirty years’ worth of video footage and the know-how to make GIFs, this post would just be a series of GIFs of my dad dancing. But I don’t and I don’t, and so it’s your loss that you’ll never get to see my pops doing the sprinkler. (That shit used to KILL at the Father-Daughter Dance.) Continue reading

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12 Ways I’m Just Like a Horse

I don’t know why all of these VERY INTERESTING COINCIDENCES crystallized for me today in the form of this list. But I’ll tell you what — it feels very right and very cosmic. Sometimes the spirit just moves through you, and Seabiscuit is my spirit animal. Continue reading

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9 Things I Definitely Remember About My Son’s Birth

I want to make it clear right up front that this is not a post about bodily fluids. I mean, I could write a novel about that, if you want — but I don’t think you do. If you are squeamish or simply not interested in the secretions of others, know that this is a safe place.

However, we’re coming up pretty quickly on my son’s first birthday, so I’m about to get very mommy-blogger in this bitch and reminisce about the day he was born. And, more specifically, what it was like for ME. (I’m only about six months removed from being a legit Millennial, so yeah this is about me. Duh.)

The funny thing about being in labor is the tricks your memory plays on you. Time kind of stretches out and loops back on itself, and it’s hard to keep track of what’s happening and in what order.

(Also, I don’t have any basis for comparison, but I assume this whole time-shifting, memory-warping experience is amplified if you’re on magnesium sulfate — which I was. Here’s my one-sentence review of magnesium sulfate: “I’ve never in my life been so unhappy to be so high.” Once magnesium sulfate gets a Yelp page, it will be hearing from me.)

So in the interest of family history, I feel the need to write down the few ephemeral labor memories I have left before they go the way of Brian Austin Green’s hip-hop aspirations, or Jordan Knight’s solo career. (Which reference is timelier? Neither.)

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5 Quintessential Quotes from My Mom

This is a post about my mom, because DUH IT’S MOTHER’S DAY, but I’ve already distracted myself with the title. My sister used to work with a woman who thought that “quintessential is when you have five of something” (e.g., quintuplets), and so now I’m worried people are going to think I think that, too.

I know what quintessential means, guys! It’s only a coincidence that there are five of them! Continue reading


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6 Signs My Baby Is A Genius

My son is only 10 months old, but he’s very advanced for his age. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that he’s very advanced for your age.

Go ahead and accuse me of being biased. But I don’t have blinders on. In fact, I have no problem admitting that he can be a real simpleton sometimes.

For example, he doesn’t know how to operate a standard transmission. He can’t distinguish between Baroque and Rococo. He doesn’t seem to grasp the symbolism of the red pickle dish in Ethan Frome, no matter how many times I spell it out for him.

Believe me — I could go on! But I’m not here to discuss my kid’s intellectual shortcomings. (What kind of asshole do you think I am?) We all have our cognitive challenges, after all. The important thing is that we celebrate and hone our strengths … even if “we” can’t seem to get a handle on basic French grammar, vous me suivez? Continue reading

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21 Quotes From My Boss: A Found Poem

My work anniversary is this week, and it’s the most melancholy of all anniversaries. It raises so many big questions: What am I still doing here? What am I doing with MY LIFE? Are these fuckers just going to give me a raise already, or are they seriously going to make me beg?

And speaking of “big questions,” which do you think is more pathetic: (a) buying lottery tickets with the sincere hope/desperate wish that you might one day manage to win your way out of this cubicle-dotted hellscape, or (b) finally giving up on that hope? JUST ASKING FOR A FRIEND. Continue reading


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3 Ways I’m Screwing Up My Son

I’ve only been a parent for a little over eight months. I’m not trained in psychology or neurology (or any other field where I’d have a greater than 50/50 chance of ever hoping to pay off my student loans), but that seems like it’s probably more than enough time to permanently damage a child’s chances of having a happy, healthy, successful life.

Before I start self-flagellating, I should acknowledge that there are a lot worse parents than me –for example, nearly everyone who has ever starred on any iteration of Teen Mom, especially most of the dads. I give you Ryan, speaking to his son on the occasion of his first birthday: “Hey, Bentley. I ain’t buyin’ your fuckin’ cake mix, buddy.” First of all, Bentley. Second, pretty sure that line is a direct outtake from American Psycho 3: Tennessee Drift. BUY YOUR SON A TWO-DOLLAR PILLSBURY CAKE MIX, YOU MONSTER.

But if I’m actually going to raise the bar high enough to make this limbo tournament competitive, there are also a lot of way better parents out there than me. This is based on nothing more than a gut feeling, but Sandra Bullock. How would she not be an amazing mom? I have seen no concrete evidence to the contrary, so there you go. Sandra Bullock: America’s Sweetheart, And Also Probably Mom of the Year. Thanks for making the rest of us look like assholes, Sandy! (This is the playful nickname used by Sandy’s close personal friends, such as George Clooney and me.)

Finally, before we get to the list, I want to point out that these are just three MAJOR ways I’m screwing up my son. I won’t even discuss the fact that I’m terminally messy, or helplessly disorganized, or relatively unmotivated. And I’ll just assume it’s a given that I’m setting a terrible example with regards to fitness and nutrition. Oh, and that I’ve probably done the kid a major disservice by passing on my genetics at all, what with my dozens of allergies (some potentially fatal!), crippling anxiety, and tendency to break out in mysterious rashes.

And no, my tendency to gloss over huge life issues did not make the list. Continue reading


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5 Signs I May Be Suffering From A Mental Disorder

Some people say, “I’m soooo OCD,” and they say it while they’re giggling and insisting that you remove your shoes before you walk on their carpet. Unless these people are simultaneously popping Anafranil and flipping a light switch on and off exactly 13 times, they might not actually be OCD.

(I hate taking my shoes off in other people’s houses. What if I didn’t know you were one of those people, and I’m not wearing my “company”-grade socks? Or what if I’m wearing heels with no tights or anything, and now I’m just padding around your house barefoot, like a goddamn street urchin? Most importantly, why did you buy carpeting that you never wanted anyone to walk on? I mean, Pergo is a thing for a reason.)

I don’t want to join the ranks of the irritatingly tidy who trivialize obsessive-compulsive disorder, but YOU GUYS, I THINK I MIGHT HAVE OCD FOR REAL. Let’s review the evidence.

ONE. I think the Virgin Mary is magical.

I have about five Mary-themed air fresheners in my car, because once I got in a bad car accident but didn’t die, and no one can prove to me that it wasn’t because of the rose-scented Virgin of Guadalupe hanging from my rearview mirror. Related: I carry a rosary for good luck. And also an evil eye amulet… and a key chain in the shape of a gas pump, which matters only because my dad gave it to me. So far, so normal — AM I RIGHT?

TWO. I’m a selective eater.

In the very technical sense of the word, because I could eat most of you under the table, quantity-wise. But anything with an icky texture — which is the majority of all foodstuffs, FYI — is verboten. Continue reading


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