suburban haiku: horrors of the pool

Today’s guest post is brought to you by the incomparable Peyton Price: fellow career refugee, comedy poet extraordinaire, and author of the hilarious book “Suburban Haiku: Poetic Dispatches from Behind the Picket Fence.

(I don’t often pitch stuff on this site, but seriously? Go buy this book. It’s a trip. And adorable. Seriously. Go. Now.)

Any old hoo, est. 1975 is honored to be able to showcase a selection of Peyton’s renowned haikus, right here and right now. Read on to experience the horrors of the community pool… Suburban Haiku-style.


It’s time to order
a new Land’s End bathing suit
I’ll never get wet.

I asked my husband
“I don’t look pregnant, do I?”

At the pool, it’s strange
to make small talk with neighbors
in almost no clothes.

Summer diet plan:
Do not eat any ice cream
in front of thin moms.

It’s quite bad enough
to see young moms in swimsuits.
But au pairs?! Oy vey!

Favorite pool games:
“Is she fatter than I am?”
and “Do those look real?”

The swim-shirted man
is checking out a lady
in a ruffled suit.

Solution! Caftan!
How many free hamburgers
equals the pool fee?


Peyton Price is the author of Suburban Haiku: Poetic Dispatches from Behind the Picket Fence. You can find her doing hard time inside the pool fence, and at Her work can also be found on BLUNTmoms.

pelvic organs? come on down! (part 3 of 4)

Blah blah blah part 1 and part 2 of the series. Go read! Or don’t! Be whatever you wanna do!


Well, loyal so-and-sos! As most of you know, in just two days I will no longer have a uterus. Which means that:

1. I will no longer have periods. 

Translation: I will no longer spend seven days of every month gushing blood and other grossness. I will no longer RUIN ALL THE UNDERPANTS. I will no longer clutch my abdomen in pain from the bullshit cramps that every woman is rewarded with when she chooses not to house a baby in her womb every single month of her reproductive life.

2. I will no longer need pap smears.

Translation: I will no longer need a complete stranger to jam an ice-cold speculum into my vajay, crank it open, and scrape cells out of it on the regular. I will no longer have to worry about those cells being cancerous, pre-cancerous, mostly cancerous, a little bit cancerous, or maybe possibly cancerous.

3. I can no longer get pregnant.

Translation: I will no longer have to have those awkward “uh… husband?” conversations that precede a panicked run to Target for a pack of pregnancy tests. I will no longer have to make excuses to my son about why he doesn’t yet have a baby brother (there’s no interest in a sister.) I will no longer have to pull and pray.

And I am MORE THAN FINE with all of that.

I am also MORE THAN FINE with the fixer-upper jobbie they’re going to do on my *other* down there parts. I can’t wait to be able to do such luxurious and indulgent things as a) hold in my pee, b) not pee my pants, c) stop leaking pee, and d) poop without drama.

I am also MORE THAN FINE with not having to deal with my own pubic hair for once:

Hooray! A white-trash Brazilian!

But the thing that I AM THE MOST FINE WITH is the fact that YES! OUR INSURANCE APPROVED THE MEDICAL NECESSITY OF THIS PROCEDURE AND WILL IN FACT BE COVERING IT. Hoorah! Hooray! Huzzah! O frabjous day! And other things people say on the Internet!


So yeah. Surgery Wednesday. And all of my pre-op testing is complete. By the way, the pre-op stuff (the ominous “bladder testing” I mentioned in my last installment) was HORRIBLE. Like so horrible that I actually don’t even want to go into it too much. Let’s just say it involved:

1. More than an acceptable number of catheters. (More than 0 is unacceptable.) Also, one of the catheters went in my butthole.

2. Electrodes taped in places where there may or may not have been pubes. Which were later ripped mercilessly out of my skin.

3. Having my bladder repeatedly filled up with water. COLD WATER. COLD, EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE WATER. And being forced to do stupid things like “hold it,” “cough,” “cough harder,” and “do the thing like you’re about to poop.”

Anyway, it was all very traumatizing and I’m glad it’s over. At least I’ll be anesthetized for most of the yucky and undignified things yet to come. MOST of them. I’m not under any real delusions about the privacy of my hoo-ha and poop chute in the coming week or two.


So. My apologies if this installment of the “pelvic organs? come on down” series seems a bit slapdash. It really kind of is. I’m scrambling to get all the shit done that I need to do before the surgery, I slept a whopping three hours last night, and my mother is about to pull in the driveway after an 8-hour car trip. The next installment will be better, and both super gross and totally informative. I promise.

On that note: I’m obviously going to be out of commission over the next two weeks, so I won’t be posting for a while. But guys? DO NOT WORRY. I’ve totally got you covered. I’ve lined up two weeks’ worth of hilarious guest posts from a bunch of talented bloggers and friends, including:

And guys? Listen up. My guest bloggers put in their valuable time and gave up their original comic material to bring est.1975 the funny. So do me a favor and bring *them* your love. Read. Comment. Share! We will all appreciate it.

Wish me luck and see you on the flip flop!


Interested in reading more of this series? Follow the yellow brick links!

Post 1: Diagnosis: Prolapse

Post 2: How to Fix Dem Sagging Girl Parts

Post 3: The Wide Wide World of Pre-Op

Post 4: Pain and Catheters and Constipation, Oh My!

my girl T-isms

You loyal so-and-sos remember my girl T, right?

If not, I’ll refresh your memory with these prompts:

  • One of my absolute besties
  • Makeup expert extraordinaire
  • Funnier than I am
  • Leaves cranky comments when I talk about her in posts

My girl T is a fan favorite around here so I thought what better way for you to get to know her than through one of my fabulous “-isms” posts? And also this picture:

My girl T and I refer to this picture as the one in which she “looks like a thumb.”



T: I’m glad I just ate 100 calories worth of Nerds, satisfying

T: Also can you tell me why they make tankinis with the backs cut out?
T: I want to cover up my stomach but I would really like my back fat to hang out a hole

Me: Sometimes I just feel so stupid initiating sex with my husband
Me: like… HEY BABY

T: The warrior pose is excellent for ripping your vagina
Me: The triangle pose is also excellent for that
T: The tree pose is excellent for bruising your inner thigh
T: The sun salutation is excellent for seeing your husband’s toenail clippings on the floor
T: The chair pose is excellent for making you realize you have the knees of an 80-year-old man

T: I can’t decide whether to poop or barf
T: Poop then barf then pee on myself was the route I apparently chose

the stench of G

When I was a freshman in college – the one year that I had absolutely no control over who I was going to share a room with – I was assigned a horrible lovely roommate by the name of G. Good old G hailed from butt fuck Egypt Defiance, Ohio and her devoted fiancé was a pear-shaped weirdo down-home country boy who was never, ever seen without a cowboy hat.

Please believe me when I say that I really did try my best to get along with G. But it was a very tall order as we had absolutely nothing in common. I liked punk music and indie rock; she liked country (and also western.) I was a bleeding heart liberal with a boner for Bill Clinton; she was a rabid conservative with a boner for IT’S A CHILD! NOT A CHOICE! I liked going to parties and concerts, studying with friends, and working at my university job; she liked never leaving our dormitory room EVER.

But perhaps most importantly, I believed in proper foot hygiene.

She did not.

You see, G had the most heinous problem with foot odor of anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. And no! Don’t you dare go defending her and blaming it on some physiological anomaly. I can tell you right now that it wasn’t because of her diet, as she ate the same college dorm crap we all did, and none of the rest of us had radioactive green vapor trails coming out of our shoes. It wasn’t from some rare medical condition that made her feet sweat more than everybody else’s, or which caused her foot perspiration to smell like a zombie’s taint. And it certainly wasn’t from her weight, as I am easily as overweight now as she was then, and my feet don’t funk out like two bricks of half-digested Limburger cheese.

No, the problem issued from one source and one source alone. It was caused by her trusty, crusty pair of these:


Look, I like a pair of broken-in Keds as well as the next person. But here’s the thing. If you NEVER wear socks with them, and if you go to college in a state that stays boiling hot from early May until about halfway through friggin’ October, and if you spend a lot of your time trekking up and down hills to get back and forth from class… those Keds are going to REEK.

And believe me, hers did.

They reeked so badly that at any given time, I had about five bottles of Lysol spray sitting around the room for quick and desperate access. They reeked so badly that I spent a lot of money I didn’t have on an extensive collection of candles, oil warmers, and air fresheners. They reeked so badly that I eventually went down to the local head shop to purchase some incense meant to mitigate the smell of the strongest ganja.

None of these things worked. Not even a little.

In fact, as the dreaded pair of Keds continued to age, the smell got exponentially worse. It got to the point where I could spend almost no time in my own dorm room, except to change clothes and sleep. Even sleeping was an unpleasant experience – I had to fall asleep *under* my bedclothes, which I sprayed each night with copious amounts of perfume (there was no Febreze back then) before crawling into bed. And let me just say that choking on Obsession fumes while sweating to death underneath the cheapest, polyester-est duvet in the world is not exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.

My friends confirmed what I already knew. They would swing by to get me on their way to class, but they would wait for me *outside* of my room rather than set even one toe inside. And one time we were all studying in the hallway when we realized you could actually smell the foot funk seeping out from under my closed dorm room door.


Needless to say, I never took boys back to that room. Ever. Not even once. I lost a WHOLE YEAR OF HOOKUPS thanks to G’s awful foot stench.

When the academic year was over, and my father and I were loading my things into his little black GTI, I remember feeling a palpable sense of relief that I would Never Have To Smell That Disgusting Shit Again. And I never did smell it again. No foot odor I’ve encountered before or since has ever matched that of the incomparable G. And in a strange way, it’s kind of led me to put ol’ G up on a pedestal. A pedestal of Incredible Foot Nastiness Surpassed by No One, but a pedestal none the less.

I wonder what G is up to these days. She liked church, and marching band, and of course she loved her cowboy-hat-wearin’ weirdo. Maybe the two of them got married young and are living happily ever after. Maybe they volunteer at their local parish, or for the Republican party. Maybe they have a whole mess of chilluns. She probably doesn’t remember me much – except for possibly the fact that she hated my guts – but I hope on some level she knows that I remember her.

And the foul, positively repulsive smell of her Keds.


Me: so I found out that one of the side effects of the prolapse surgery is painful bloody pooping for weeks

Her: um

Me: and I’m essentially getting an episiotomy

Her: oh noooo

Me: as well as the abdominal incision

Me: I’m going to be a hot mess

Her: just don’t look down there

Me: oh girl I plan on it

Me: *dabs blindly with Tucks pads*

Her: rinse it with that little squirt bottle and run away


Me: the husband has already started bitching about not being able to have sex

Her: it’ll be really hard for him

Me: I know

Me: try not to cry

Her: after all, who is thinking of your husband at a time like this?

Her: we should get him a card


An actual email that I just sent to my husband (I do his expense reports for him):

“Okay sweetheart,

This is the latest iteration of your expense report.

It should cover all of your business expenses through today.


<3 <3 <3

You have tight buns

more about me

A long long LONG time ago, a certain Daddy Anarchy gifted me with what is known in blogging circles as the Liebster Award (you can read his original post here, and I highly recommend you do, because he funny and shit.)

The Liebster Award is a neat sort of chain-letter thing that helps writers of newer and/or smaller blogs to discover each other and get some exposure. You can find a nice summary of “the rules” here but essentially this is what’s going to happen next:

1. I’m going to tell you 11 “interesting” facts about myself.
2. I’m going to answer the 11 questions Daddy Anarchy asked me in his post.
3. I’ll nominate 5 other newish/smallish blogs for the award.
4. I’ll ask the writers of those blogs 11 new questions.
5. I’ll include the Liebster Award logo so y’all can see how pretty it is.

Ready? Here we go!

11 “Interesting” Facts about Myself

1. I have three tattoos. A dragon on my left thigh, a cross on my left shoulder, and a cross on my upper right butt cheek. They are all black and have faded pretty badly over time, giving them a vaguely “I got these tattoos in prison from a meth addict with a Bic pen” look. If I had money I would fix them, but I don’t.

2. My favorite city in the world is Edinburgh. You’ve heard of it, right? The capital of Scotland? Or do I need to go all Eddie Izzard “do you KNOW there’s other countries?” on your ass?

3. Speaking of Edinburgh: Once when I was visiting there, I ate a shit ton of haggis and then accidentally burped into my husband’s mouth while kissing him. He was completely disgusted and almost threw up, but that didn’t stop me from laughing about it for close to thirty minutes.

4. My favorite city in the world *used* to be London. But the last time I was there some rich woman (“posh cunt”) ran her stroller (“pram”) over my foot (“foot”) which promptly caused my toenail to turn black and fall off. So it’s not my favorite city anymore.

5. My nose is the shape of an arrowhead.

6. Some random things I hate: Ryan Air. Slimy boogers. Stomach flu. When my feet get hot and sweaty. The smell of Diaper Genie. Puke burps. When good television shows get cancelled. People who apologize for stuff only because they got caught doing it. When cats sneeze in your face/mouth.

6. I’m epileptic. And proud of it. If there was an Epileptic Pride parade, you can bet your sweet seizure I’d be spearheading that thing in my town.

7. Stuff I think is cool about my son: He is fluent in Spanish. He is 6 and already reading the Chronicles of Narnia. He’s seen me have a seizure and didn’t lose his shit. He is amazing at every sport he tries. He is currently listening to “Back in the USSR” on his radio.

8. The best thing I cook is chicken and pasta in a white thyme-mint cream sauce.

9. Some random skills that I possess: The ability to crack an egg into a bowl with one hand without getting any shell in there. The ability to shuffle cards in “bridge” formation. The ability to always lose to my sister in Scrabble.

10. My favorite part of going to the pool is treading water in the shallow end and chatting with the old ladies.

11. And last, but not least: I did NOT poop on the delivery table.


Good stuff, right? Now it’s time for:

Answers to Daddy Anarchy’s 11 Questions

1. Who is your favorite author? Irvine Welsh, without a doubt.

2. Who’s your biggest hero? Right now, my friend A is my biggest hero. The last twelve months have brought more shit down on her than any mother could ever imagine, and she is still going strong. <3 you Miss A.

3. If you could change one thing about your physical appearance, what would it be? My double chin. Fo sho. Even if I started eating right (I won’t) and exercising (nope) I still wouldn’t be able to do anything about that stupid chin.

4. Leno or Letterman? (and don’t be a smartass and say “Leno’s not on anymore” or “what about Conan, or the other guys?”) They’re both douchebags but I’ll go with classic Letterman.

5. Have you ever mixed french fries with a Wendy’s Frosty? No.

6. Now that I’ve introduced you to mixing french fries with Frosty’s, will you try it? Barf.

7. Favorite 80s hair metal ballad? November Rain, Guns N’ Roses.

8. If you were a comic strip character, who would it be? Opus from Bloom County. He’s fat, funny, gets pimples, and likes to wear black.

9. In the next 30 seconds, name as many different words for “ass.” Go! Butt. Buns. Bum. Arse. Buttocks. Booty. Can. Uh… Back Door. Erm… *goes blank* *tries to think of the lyrics to “I Like Big Butts” by Sir Mix-a-Lot* *goes blank again* Um. I think I fail this test.

10. Team Edward or Team Jacob? *disdainful blink*

11. What, if any, stereotypes do you fall into? Sexy Housewife. Except without the “sexy” part.


All right, that was super fun. And now I’m going to nominate 5 bloggers to answer some questions of my own. Without further ado, I nominate:

1. Brooke at
2. Canadian Expat Mom at
3. Kris at
4. Lori at
5. Angyla/Angila at

Here are Your 11 Questions

1. What is, in your opinion, the dumbest competitive sport?
2. Name your three favorite classic rock bands.
3. What is the lamest Dirty Little Secret you have? (Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone will tell everyone.)
4. Sexiest part of a man?
5. Sexiest part of a woman?
6. What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?
7. Which canceled television show would you have reinstated to the air in a heartbeat?
8. Benedict Cumberbatch or Tom Hiddleston? You can’t choose both, as much as I know I’d like to. I mean you. As much as I know YOU’d like to.
9. One of my neighbors is having a super loud, bass-thumping block party right now. If you were me, would you a) stab, b) shoot, or c) strangle?
10. Worst song that you love?
11. What popular character on television do you absolutely DETEST and why?

And that’s it! Hope you enjoyed reading some “interesting” facts about me, and if you did, there’s absolutely no better way to show it than to hop on over to my sidebar and SUBSCRIBE! Also, I *highly* recommend reading the blogs I nominated for the Liebster Award. I love them all and SO. WILL. YOU.