pelvic organs? come on down! (part 4 of 4)

Hello loyal so-and-sos!

Some Many Most of you will be happy to know that with this post, the est. 1975 “pelvic organs? come on down!” series is finally coming to an end. (Well… I guess there’s always room for an epilogue post. You know. Down the road a piece. If you’re “lucky.”) I’m actually going to miss this series a lot! It was fun to write and hopefully more than a little bit educational.

If you’re interested in binge-reading the whole series, you can find the previous installments here:

Post 1: Diagnosis: Prolapse

Post 2: How to Fix Dem Sagging Girl Parts

Post 3: The Wide Wide World of Pre-Op

Before we get started with the final post, though, I do have an important announcement to make. At this time I would like to inform you guys that after giving it some long and very serious thought, I have chosen a new, more “action hero” type name for myself*. From now on, I will be known the world over as: PROLAPSIN’ JACKSON.

(Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty.)

*not true


Okay! So many of you know that two weeks ago I underwent surgical treatment to correct my pelvic organ prolapse. The procedure involved a partial hysterectomy and fairly extensive pelvic reconstruction surgery, and now that I’ve recovered from it a bit I thought I’d give you a little peek into how it went.

Here we go!

1. The surgery itself went great. At least that’s what I’ve been told – it’s not exactly like I was awake – but I believe it’s true since I seem to be healing quite nicely. No fevers, no complications, no infections other than a “maybe UTI”. The abdominal incision looks neat and clean, and last Friday the surgeon took out the staples and replaced them with Steri-Strips. I get to take those off later today.

Even the episiotomy wasn’t that bad, and I was *so* afraid it would be. I mean, it’s definitely tender down below, and the stitches are still there, and it will take a while for them to dissolve. But I was expecting it to be SO. MUCH. WORSE. Obsessing over old stand-up comedy bits like this didn’t exactly help put my mind at ease:

(In all seriousness, though, watch it. It’s Margaret Cho. It’s hilarious. It’s only 3 minutes. It involves the word “Frankenpussy.)

So all in all, the procedure went great and the surgeon was excellent. And for that I’m super thankful. If I’m going to have a Frankenpussy, I want it to be the best Frankenpussy there is.

2. For as well as the surgery went, however, the following 24 hours were easily THE WORST 24 HOURS OF MY ENTIRE LIFE. After the spinal anesthesia began to wear off, and I was taken off of my lovely “Do It Yourself Dilaudid” Machine of Goodness, shit began to get REAL. You see, the doctors decided to transition me from the morphine drip to Vicodin pills, which sounded fine in theory, but in reality it DID NOT WORK. Like, literally. The Vicodin did not work. There was no pain relief, not even a little bit. Only a copious amount of OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP WHY DID I AGREE TO DO THIS TO MYSELF OW OW OW OW OW OWWWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Which, coincidentally, was the point when ALL the nurses disappeared.

I think the floor must have been short-staffed that day, because it started to take at least 45 to 60 minutes for someone to show up after I pressed the Call button (if anyone showed up at all.) And before you start jumping to conclusions, it was not because I was a horrible patient and all of the nurses were just ignoring me because they hated my guts — there was just no one around. My mother would go out to the nurse’s station and it would be completely deserted. The one time she actually managed to find someone it was an “Art Therapist” with her hands full of crayons and posterboard.


Now. Don’t get me wrong – I love nurses. As a rule I find them friendly and reliable, selfless and committed, patient and hardworking. They are, for the most part, people who put themselves out there in a way that not a lot of other people could ever do. My nurse friends, as well as most of the nurses I’ve encountered in my life, are amazing men and women with so much integrity and medical knowledge that it’s practically coming out of their buttholes.


When you’re in desperate need of a pee and you can’t get to the bathroom on your own because your abdomen doesn’t work and you’re hooked up to 2348973 IV drips and attached to the bed by a pair of compression socks?

When your meds aren’t working and you’re in such excruciating pain that you don’t even realize that you’ve been steadily crying for SIX STRAIGHT HOURS?

When you’re so nauseous and uncomfortable that you can’t drink or eat or barely even move, let alone take seriously the FIRM AND FAIRLY PATRONIZING RECOMMENDATION that you need to “get up,” “walk around,” and “wake up your bowels”?

When you’re in what feels like drastic physical straits and having to jam repeatedly on the CALL button to get attention and/or send your 65-year-old mother to patrol the hospital hallways in order to find help?

I hate to say it, but the fact of the matter is that, in those moments. you might feel A LITTLE BIT PISSED OFF WITH NURSES.


Thankfully, it all worked out in the end – after about 6 hours, the nurses finally upped their game and got the attention of the doctors, who took me off the Vicodin and gave me new pain meds that actually worked. And afterwards there was plenty of nursing staff and they were attentive and sweet and responsive and we all loved each other and lived happily ever after and had a million babies together.

3. After the pain was under control, things got a lot better. Since then, my recovery has been steady, though it has also been slooowww:

  • It took me about 12 days to ween myself off of the painkillers, and I’m still on about 2400mg of Ibuprofen a day. Which means that my pain levels are now manageable but my liver probably looks a piece of beef jerky. A piece of beef jerky from Ancient Egypt.
  • It’s hard to sit upright in a chair for long. I have to lay down and rest my abdomen after a while. As for other activities? Walking around is fine (though it makes me incredibly tired), bending over hurts, and laughing KILLS. It hurts so bad that I didn’t even use the tickets I had for Eddie Izzard last night. And I LOVE HIM. So you know it’s serious.
  • My stomach/various guts are much better than when I first came out of surgery, but they’re still pretty messed up. I’ve gone from an inconceivable and unholy TEN DAYS OF THE WORST CONSTIPATION EVER to an inconceivable and unholy STATE OF CONSTANT DIARRHEA which I can really only describe accurately with this picture:

  • I was given the A-OK to get back behind the wheel two days ago, so I decided to go for a little journey to test my stamina. A *very* little journey. My mother came with me, we drove less than a mile, and we were in one single store for 15 minutes TOPS. Still, this was me afterwards:


So yeah. Recovery is coming along, steady but very slow. I don’t get the “all-clear” to resume normal activity until the very end of June, so until then I’ll be doing a lot of taking it easy.

(In the meantime, feel free to make Prolapsin’ Jackson action figures and send them to me.)


If you haven’t already done so, consider following est. 1975 on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Pinterest! I add fresh, hilarious material every single day.


Photo credits:
“Willam”: Source unknown. Footage taken from Rupaul’s Drag Race, broadcast on LogoTV.

husbandisms ahoy!

Him: “Do you have any chores that need done?”
Me: “Um…”
Him: “Because they’re not going to get done.”

Me: “Why don’t you ever wear this t-shirt?”
Him: “It’s too rough for me.”
Me: “It’s too rough for your delicate skin?”
Him: “What can I say? When a man is a pussy, a man is a pussy.”

Him: “What has happened to men?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Him: “They’ve all been replaced by ab-comparing narcissists.”

Him: “Where’s my belt?”
Me: “I hung it up on the belt thing.”
Him: “It’s not here.”
Me: “Well, did it fall off?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “…you’re wearing a belt. Is that the one you’re looking for?”
Him: *looks down*
Him: “I found it.”

Him: “You’re looking hot.”
Me: “You’re just desperate.”
Him: “I know.”

Him (about our son acting like a brat): “I understand he’s growing but he’s growing into a butt.”



Me: “That was awesome how you just threw a tantrum like a 4 year old.”
Son: “Maybe I am 4 years old.”
Me: “If you’re 4 years old, I guess I can only let you watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse from now on.”


Hey guys! Don’t forget that I’m trying to lasso the 2014 Badass Blog: Funniest Blog Award! If I’ve ever made you laugh, even one single time, do me a solid and click the badge below. Then head over to page 3 and vote for est. 1975 for Funniest Blog!


my girl A: penny wise, tongue foolish

Today’s guest post is a Very Special Guest Post.

*lets that sink in for a moment*

Aaaand we’re back.

Yes, it is indeed a Very Special Guest Post because it is the FIRST AND ONLY guest post written by ONE OF MY REAL LIFE FRIENDS! Please welcome, cherish, and love up one of my actual factual besties: My Girl A!


So. I’ve got this tiny Chihuahua named Penny. She has one blind eye, and she’s missing teeth on one side, so her tongue hangs out. She’s 11, and she doesn’t care about anything.

I’ve known her to whiz in plain sight of me as if to say “Look at this. LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE DONE HERE.” Same goes for pooping, and the really sad part is THAT SHE HAS NO REASON. She knows full well how to receive “treatsies” – pee and poop outside! I even altered the back door so that she can do it at her leisure.

One day I noticed that Penny was scratching herself to the max. I tend to let her have longer toenails, because clipping them is very traumatic for her — she cries and shakes and is a general drama queen about the whole thing. Then, afterwards, she lays around on her back, giving me The Eye. (If I try and cheer her up, she climbs under my shirt, but verrrrrrry slowly, just to really ram the guilt and sadness home.)

I could see that scratching herself with those long-ass toenails was tearing her shit UP, so I made an appointment with the vet. It turned out that Penny had a skin infection. She received some kind of injection, had her nails clipped (how COULD you, MOTHER!?) and got a salve for her itchy areas. The receptionist also recommended I get Penny an itch-relieving “Hot Spot Spray,” apparently attainable at any pet store. We left, and I took my little chihuahua home to wallow.

Later I had some errands to run (Target, let me keep your lights on with ALL THE MONEY) so I figured that first I’d stop off at the pet store and have a look for the spray.

A very nice young gal showed me the extensive line they carried, and that made me feel better. There were so many of them that I realized this must be a common thing. She described the one I bought as being a “deterrent.” It was all natural, and organic – I could basically drink from the bottle, was what it sounded like she was saying.

So off I went to Target. It was pretty early in the morning, and it wasn’t open yet, so I stopped at McDonald’s for an iced coffee and a biscuit. By the time I got back to the parking lot, I only had about ten minutes left to wait. I opened the bag from PetSmart and had another look at the spray. I thought to myself: “This is all natural and organic and what not — I wonder what it tastes like.”

(Let me stop here for a moment and say that within my group of friends and family, I’m known as “The Taster.” I’ll taste or lick just about anything for a small fee or favor. My nieces and nephews go out of their way to try and bust me. But I’m a master, and will go the distance.)

So naturally I went ahead, sprayed some Hot Spot Spray on my finger, and… tasted it.

All hell broke loose. It was like Satan pissed in my mouth, and then shoved a ghost pepper in there just to teach me a lesson. I started drooling and began to sweat. I became fairly sure I was dying.

I had my McDonald’s biscuit, so I shoved that in my mouth Cookie Monster-style. But somehow the grease settled the Hot Spot Spray even deeper into my throat. I had my coffee next to me, so I took the lid off, opened my car door, and tried to rinse my mouth out, spitting onto the pavement, real classy like. No go.

I wished a silent RIP to myself.

By this time, I noticed people were filing into Target, and in my hysteria, I thought that I would just ask someone for some candy or gum. I ran up to the first woman I saw and asked her. She hustled away, not speaking to me, and I wished I had some Hot Spot Spray to blast in her face.

Then I went up to the service desk attendant and asked if he had any candy or gum. My excuse was that I was ill, and had a terrible taste in my mouth. He was happy to help!  He got his jacket, put his hand in, and pulled out 5 or so pieces of heavenly release for me. I grabbed them from him, and just as I was popping them into my mouth, the familiar scent hit my nose. But at that point it was too late. The damage was already done.

I had just received Red Hots, and I had no other choice but to fling myself off a cliff.



A true connoisseur of all things Reddit, Tom Hardy, and Benedict Cumberbatch, My Girl A is one of the funniest people I know and I just love her so hard. Hopefully you’ll see more of her on est. 1975 in the future, but if you can’t wait until then, there’s a funny chat between me and her here.

pixie c.d.: friends are golden but vodka is cherry

Today’s guest post is brought to you by a woman who is so real and so funny and so supportive of this blog that I almost don’t even know how to thank her. Please welcome the wonderful Chris Dean of pixie c.d., an awesome, genuine, one-of-a-kind mom-blog that chronicles the adventures of a middle-aged mama who simply refuses to grow up.


Stick around and read about Chris’ very first time hitting the sauce and getting hit right back. It’s hilarious and true and we’ve ALL been there. Trust.


Way back in the dark ages of Girl Scouts, we used to (be forced to) sing this song about friends. It was something about them being silver and gold. Or maybe non-refundable. (Or something like that.) Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is: there are times in every person’s life when you NEED the gold friends.

Don’t get me wrong. The friends that’ll hang out with you at the mall or watch that movie your sweetie thinks looks like a waste of time are all fine and dandy. They would be the silver in your life.

But then there are the folks that aren’t just another shoulder to cry on or ear to listen to you during your darkest hours (like a month into your first year of college when your boyfriend just dumped you over the phone). Oh sure, they’ll be that, but they’ll also have the shittiest of shit-eating grins plastered on their smug mugs as they quietly hand you a bottle of Cherry Dark Eyes Vodka in between your every sob over your two-timing ex. THESE friends? Are pure gold!

Chris, meet vodka

The nice thing is that as you sit there, pouring out your broken heart in tears, sipping straight from the pint bottle your buddy has mysteriously pulled out of his trench coat, the pain will begin to…lessen. Eventually, the giggles will set in, signaling the “I’m OVER that asshole! Because I was too good for that prick anyway and can do SO much better!” phase.

At least, you’re pretty sure that’s what you were trying to say, even though your tongue got all wrapped around your eye teeth so you couldn’t quite see what you were saying. “Now gifs me ‘noder ship, broffer!”

You’re not worried about getting drunk ‘cause nothing that tastes like cherry cough syrup could be THAT alcoholic, right? Besides, you’re starting to feel all warm and relaxed and everything is right with the world because you have the BEST friends in the history of EVER! Right up until you try to stand up and head for the john and everything sort of tilts…sideways.

Forget your buddy with the booze. The wall is your new bestie, holding you up when there’s no one else in the world who will. Which you spend a good five minutes explaining to it, your cheek pressed against its wonderful coolness and your hand lovingly petting it like a wall-puppy.

Once you make it to the bathroom, you probably spend some extra time talking to the sink, since it would be just plain WEIRD to talk to the porcelain perch as you’re perched upon its porcelain-ness. “Don’t worry, Perch. I’ll thank you while I’m trying to remember how to turn the water on to wash my hands.”

Judging by the number of snickering folks gathered outside the throne room door, you guess your conversations with the facilities weren’t in your head like you thought. Or all that quiet. Or maybe everyone in the house has just suddenly gained psychic powers. Which, oddly enough, doesn’t sound as crazy as it should.

You might be wasted if…

But fear not, for these people are your bestest friends You know this by the revolving glasses of sweet, never-before-tasted drinks they keep shoving in your hands. Thanks to their deep love and concern, the night has passed from heartbreak to discovering that your secret identity is Super Woman! Or maybe it’s Super Drunk. Either way works for you, since their superpower is the same — spilling shit.

As the night drags on in a foggy spiral of slurs, spills, enough f-bombs to curl your mother’s hair from 150 miles away, and three times the usual number of visits to your always-there bud, the crapper, it slowly dawns on you that you HOWEVER, since you’ve never been there before, you’re now forced to ask EVERYONE in the house if you are, in fact, wasted.

Not one to blindly base your belief on the opinions of others, you call friends you haven’t spoken to since junior high to poll them on your state of drunkness. (Drunkness; because good grammar goes out the window in the face of cherry vodka.) Don’t even worry about the fact that it’s after midnight and they’re all away at college; their parents will HAPPILY relay your message first thing in the morning.

The pass-out arrives

As your slurring reaches the point where you can’t even understand yourself and you’re using your fingers to prop your right eyelid half open, it’s officially time to say hello to Mr. Pass-Out-On-The-Floor. Again, your friends are so damn golden that they bring you a pillow and blanket to make the hardwood floor as comfy as possible. They even listen sympathetically as you expound on your fear that, being “asleep” by unnatural means, you might not wake up through the next five or so calls from Nature.

“Don’t even worry!” they say. “We’ll take good care of you.” And that they do, as they continue to drink. Yes, drink to the point that someone comes up with the beautifully TERRIBLE idea to pour a glass of warm water on the floor by your ass, then shake you while screaming, “Wake up! You peed the floor, you nasty bitch!”

Drunken, panicked terror and humiliation — all in the name of a damn good laugh. For them. But the alcohol takes over and you pass back out in your squishy, soggy pants to wake a few hours later to a glorious, sunny, weekday morning. And miss every single class before noon.

Yes, my silver friends, that is the meaning of true friendship. The golden people in your life don’t just love you, they love you enough to offer up their illegally-gotten booze in the name of getting your 17-year-old ass drunk for the first time. They love you enough to lend you their phone for a game of long-distance drunk-dialing. They love you enough to stick around to torture you once the pass-out hits. Because they care THAT DAMN MUCH.

Man, I really miss those guys…



Chris Dean is married to an amazingly tolerant man who swears he doesn’t mind putting up with her. They live in Indiana with their four adult-kids and the petting zoo she has systematically managed to turn their home and yard into.

foxy wine pocket: my first (and last) brazilian

Today’s guest post is brought to you by friend and sister-wife Kelly Fox: the brains, brass, and beauty behind twisted suburban mom-blog Foxy Wine Pocket. Check out the hilarious post below to learn everything you ever wanted to know about Kelly’s hoo-ha, then go check out her site to find out what the actual fuck a “foxy wine pocket” is.

Cartoon representation of Kelly that we all can masturbate to.

Now sit back, grab a bottle of vino, and enjoy!


My husband and I have been married for over 17 years (obviously, I was a teen bride — OBVIOUSLY) so it can sometimes be a challenge to keep the spice in our sex life. We’ve used lots of things over the years: lingerie, toys, porn, you know the drill (we have never used a drill).

But my favorite “spice” is pubic hair art. That is, over the years, I’ve shaved various shapes into my pubic region: hearts, arrows, a martini glass, his initial, etc. (My god, I just realized that I’m an artist, and my medium is pubic hair.) If a particular piece doesn’t come out well, I just make it a Rorschach test, and we have great sex anyway.

I will not be including any of those pictures with this post.

For my husband’s last birthday, I decided to surprise him with a Brazilian. Now, I’ve never had a wax job on any part of me before, much less one where they remove everything from my hoo-ha. (I know, I know, they don’t actually have to remove everything, but I figured go big or go home, right?) I decided that I could spare some hair in honor of my husband.

I should have known that this wasn’t going to be my thing when I made the first appointment and got the stomach flu a few days before it. Not the kind of stomach flu where you’re projectile vomiting everywhere, but the kind where you can’t even move without shitting your pants. So, even though the flu was gone the day before the appointment, I just couldn’t trust my sphincter to stay in check. I mean, it’s one (humiliating) thing to poop on the table while you’re having a baby. It’s something else entirely when you’re getting a Brazilian. You could be banned for that shit.

So I cancelled that appointment and made a new one. I didn’t think much of the whole process when I was scheduling the appointments, but honestly, I was a little nervous when the day came. When the technician arrived, I gave her a frightened look.

“First time?” she inquired.

“Yep,” I chirped softly.

She then proceeded to explain the process and how she was going to remove the most sensitive hair first and then the rest of it. And then she moved the blanket.

“Oh. Uhhhhh, well, first we need to trim the hair back a bit. Quite a bit.”

I guess I had a forest going on there. I silently cursed my Italian grandmother. And the technician proceeded to trim my pubes with teeny tiny scissors (at least she didn’t have to get out a chainsaw), which actually tickled a bit. So I giggled and then got nervous about giggling over someone touching my pubic hair. Because it seemed vaguely inappropriate. (But it felt kinda nice.)

“Okay, now that we’ve trimmed the hair, I’m going to remove the most sensitive area first.”

“I’ve pushed out two kids. How hard can this be?” I pretended to be brave.

“Okay, then, here I go.”


But what I uttered through clenched teeth was a weak, “I’m okay.”

And then she pressed her hand against my pubic bone (I assume to alleviate the pain).

“Harder! Harder! HARDERRRRR!” I screamed. Only that might have caused some more awkwardness.

After she threw me a weird glance, she assured me, “Well, that was the worst one. It gets easier from here.”

And it went like that for one fucking long session. Time became meaningless. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and not kicking her in the fucking face. Breathe in. Breathe out. Restrain foot. Repeat.

Fortunately, she was right. The first one was the worst. (But the rest sucked pretty hard too.) After removing all of my hair, she applied some sort of soothing salve. It had a name. I don’t remember it. I was kind a hoping for a massage. Or a cigarette.

But the awkward sexual innuendo and the pain are not the reasons I will no longer be getting Brazilians. No, I could deal with those again. There are three other reasons I will no longer be waxing the hooha:

1. After the technician left the room, I picked myself up off of the table. Actually I kind of slid off of the table in my own sweat. I walked over to the mirror to examine myself, and I was horrified. Not because I looked like a prepubescent girl (although that was slightly horrifying). I was horrified because it was at that moment that I realized that my pregnancy stretch marks went ALL THE WAY DOWN INTO MY TANTALIZING TRIANGLE. They look like grotesque, greedy little fingers pointing the way down. Or lightening bolts threatening to strike any who enter.

Fortunately for me, my husband didn’t seem to notice the stretch marks. He was quite happy with the results. Also, he was too busy noticing that…

2. …without the hair there to provide a buffer, I was horny as hell. Constantly. This became a problem. (Dan didn’t think this was a problem.) It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing, I wanted to attack my husband. Or the waiter. Or the lamppost. I had Happy Hairless Vagina-itis. (Yes, I know it’s not actually your vagina that gets waxed, but it had a better ring to it than Happy Hairless Pubic and Genital Region-itis. See?)

Suffice it to say, we had a lot of sex over the next week. But the constant horniness only lasted until…

3. …the hair started growing back, and I switched from ecstasy to agony. AGONY. Apparently — and no one warned me about this — I am not a good candidate for waxing. The itching, while annoying, was the least of my problems. Turns out that I am prone to ingrown hairs, and they hurt like a mofo. I started referring to my lady garden as my “Not So Happy Hairless Vagina” and started telling my husband I had boils and scurvy and bad, bad shit. I looked like a diseased slave from Game of Thrones. Not even a Dothraki would ravage me.

So, basically, I’m done with the Brazilians. Forever. I’ll stick to pubic hair art to spice things up.

I’m thinking about a chili pepper next.



Kelly Fox is a mom and a writer, and she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. She has two (young) school-aged children and one fabulous husband (that’d be weird if she had more than one, right?). She also has a cute dog—a *really* cute dog. Her blog can be found at

the hollywood sigh: how i live a not-so-ordinary life

Today’s guest post is brought to you by a seriously fierce and funny bitch who spends every day gazing into the dank abyss of celebrity and calling its denizens out on their bullshit. Please put your Internet hands together for the snarky, blarky*, and utterly fearless Megan of The Hollywood Sigh!


*Yes. I made this word up. Wanna fight about it?


Somewhere during my time as an adult, my life has become exceedingly ordinary. I had kids and bought a house and a minivan. I sit on the sidelines at football and baseball games, bake cupcakes and pies to donate to school bake sales, and host themed birthday parties that are best described as “Pinterest done barfed up in here.” I wave at my neighbors and make small talk with the mailman. I make holiday dinners even if they’re just for the five of us because our extended family is thousands of miles away. I keep house (poorly) and manage the lives of five people.

If someone had told me ten years ago I would be a stay-at-home mom with all the accessories stereotypically associated with the title, I would have laughed. Not because I find anything wrong with the traditional family dynamic — I truly believe in that whole “different strokes for different folks” thing — but because it didn’t seem like an avenue I would take. Sitting here a decade later, I’m still not sure I fit the mold… even though from the outside looking in, it appears that I’m sitting firmly inside it.

So what keeps me from feeling entrenched in the mundane — and often scoffed at — role I appear to play in my life? If we follow the “role” metaphor and say “all the world’s a stage; and all the men and women merely players,” I can say unequivocally that my life is a fucking gag reel.

I trip a lot. Sometimes over stuff, most of the time not. I run into walls regularly and fall off beds. I accidentally throw oven mitts down onto the heating element and start small fires. I’ll lift the beaters out of the batter before turning off the mixer. I’ll answer the door brushing my teeth and take the dogs to the groomers without remembering to take off my Crest Whitestrips. I’ll answer a call with “Ow! Fuck!” because I all but threw my phone at the side of my head trying to put it to my ear.

I have kids, three of them, and all boys. I am as flawed a parent as there ever was. I laugh when I’m scolding them. I’ve flipped them off behind their backs. Sarcasm and humor are rampant in our household, both of which occasionally backfire. I spend a lot of time hoping to Cheez-Its my kids don’t repeat things at school that they’ve heard at home. On my current prayer schedule is that no one answers a teacher’s question with the movie title “Showgirls” (don’t ask).

I’m THAT mom with the minivan — the one who pulls up next to you at a stoplight doing car choreography to ‘N Sync or forgetting to censor the word “fuck” as I sing along horribly off-key to the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage.” Yes, I do take requests and no, I don’t care what you think.

Yeah, I do the Martha Stewart birthday parties but if you hit me with your pool noodle light saber, you can bet your eight-year-old ass it’s on like Donkey Kong, no mercy given.

I mentioned waving to the neighbors. I’ll also ride my five-year-old’s Big Wheel around the cul-de-sac while the lot of them are outside taking care of their immaculate yards or seeing their book club ladies off. (PSA: The seats on those things aren’t padded for shit.) I gloat loudly when I win at HORSE and will absolutely make noises to put you off your shot so you miss.

All of these things may seem in and of themselves fairly normal on the abnormal scale. I’m not claiming to be a special snowflake or to feel differently about my life or place in the universe than anyone else. I’m certainly not bagging on the ladies out there who don’t feel the need to counteract the content of their lives with a little absurdity because, while we all may be women, we’re not the same woman and truth be told, that’s probably a good thing.

Because I hate taking turns on the Big Wheel.



Megan is the site admin and primary contributor for She has an irrational fear of dinosaurs, a sweet ass minivan, and the inability to move without hurting herself. She has three sons and her hobbies include reading, writing, and having Taco Bell for dessert.

missteenussr: my tits are the pits

Today’s guest post is brought to you by one of the most talented writers you’re likely to find in the blogosphere today: the amazing Brooke Takhar of She’s a goddess of grammar, a queen of style, and best of all, she knows how to bring the funny.

Once you go Brooke, you’ll never go back.

If you were one of those girls who read about the bust exercises in Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and then did them secretly EVERY NIGHT FOR MONTHS, only to find out that they are actual and complete bullshit, then you must you must you must increase your bust read this post. Seriously, Damien. It’s all for you.


True Confession (that if you’ve met me is actually no surprise at all): I have no tits. I wish I knew why my chest is so fucking flat. The other ladies in my family have handfuls of sweater meat. Did I piss off the feminine puberty gods in 1994 by shaving my head and wearing cut-off men’s pants? If so, I’d like to say: that look didn’t get me laid either so OK UNIVERSE, POINT TAKEN.

I gained weight in my twenties when I didn’t understand a steady Cool Ranch diet is actually not cool at all. Still no tits. The weight was instead lavishly distributed into meaty thighs, swaying upper arms and the sack that became my stomach. My boobs — still pristine mini-triangles of bullshittery.

I had a kid. The one up side of 10 months housing a beast that sucks you dry from the inside out, that all the pregnancy rags and tomes squeal about, is the incredible “busting-out bust” side effect. I made it to a robust A cup. Filled that fucker.

They say A is for Effort. I say A is for Actually Totally Devastating. I’m so small they don’t make my size in some bras. So when I find one that fits, I wear it back to back (to back) until it smells like a razorback gorilla used it for a tampon.

I’m so depleted of natural chest resources they’re like the last half-glug of muffin batter you pour into the 12th muffin liner, sad and alone and waiting to burn for sure. That’s me. Try that statement on for size (IF IT FITS) and understand why I was always SHIT at flirting. It’s like asking someone to build a (sex) house with no hammer. Impossible.

That feminine part of me that’s supposed to get kicked awake the first time a guy (most likely creepy, probably blue-collar) leers at my chest is fucking Rumpelstiltskin.

There are worst fates in life, I know. My face is totally viable for public consumption and I use my smile and sailor mouth to carry me through the rough seas of Titless Wonder-dom. I can run with no bra on, my shirts don’t drape weirdly, and I never have trouble eating a banana in public. As I age, my boobs won’t have to be air-lifted up into a nude-coloured support pulley system.

Small victories for a small-titted woman. Fuck it; I’ll take ‘em.



Brooke Takhar is the author of She lives day to day hoping she can one day just do what she like. She likes jeans, ponytails, songs with galloping drums and the word ‘f-ck.’ Her work can also be found on BLUNTmoms.