ode to a chin zit

Zit oh zit upon my chin
A battle I can never win
You will never go away
I can wash my face all day.

At first you lurk upon my chin
Then: a head. Just like a pin.
Small and hard, I pick at you
Until you bleed. Sexy! Woo!

You are made of grease and oil
You nasty, gross and ugly boil
I want to pop your nasty head
I want to pop it till its dead.

I think I’ll go and do that now.
My mirror better watch out. Yow!


Now. You might be wondering what could possibly be better than a poem entirely devoted to a chin zit. Well, I have your answer: a SONG entirely devoted to a chin zit! The talented and sexy duo The Foxy Pockets have deemed my poetry worthy of being put to music, and I couldn’t be more delighted. Check it out for yourself! Then head over to the blog from which The Foxy Pockets sprung and read it obsessively until you forget what day it even is. It’s that good.

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:
Author: Antonio del Pollaiolo (1431–1498). Description: Profile of a Woman. Source/Photographer: Corel Professional Photos CD-ROM. This is a faithful photographic reproduction of a two-dimensional, public domain work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain. — Modified

confessions of a dirty wife

This past week I found myself in a creative rut. No funny anecdotes were coming to mind. No hilarious stories were chomping at the proverbial bit, begging to be told. No charming quips or caustic barbs were on the tip of my tongue, waiting at the ready.

I was in a decidedly unfunny FUNK.

So I did what I have always done during such depressing times — laid in bed and played hours upon hours of video games.

But after a week of laying around doing nothing productive beyond amassing an overly self-indulgent number of ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED!s, I eventually decided that I needed to… you know. Clean up my disgusting house. Do some chores. Return phone calls that I’d been ignoring for days. As you do.

It turns out that doing this stuff was just the kick in the butt I needed. Because suddenly, as I was doing laundry and trying to de-gross my house, INSPIRATION STRUCK! And that inspiration was this: I would take pictures of the ridiculous shit in my house and show them to all of my loyal so-and-sos.

Great idea, right? RIGHT?!

Let’s begin!


Let’s start here with this humongous pile of clean laundry just hanging around IN THE MIDDLE OF MY LIVING ROOM. Why, you ask, is it hanging around in the middle of my living room? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because I got tired, dropped the baskets, and deemed the situation “Eh. Good enough.”

For those of you who were thinking about blowing this picture up and looking for panties, don’t bother. My grannies are the size of bed sheets and are basically indistinguishable from any other laundry in these baskets.

In the living room, next to the piles of clean laundry that will take six weeks for me to fold and put away, we also have what I like to call The Dumbest Purchase I’ve Ever Made: the IRIS LEGO 3-Drawer Sorting System. For a mere $39.99 per three tiny drawers’ worth of almost no storage space, you can sort all of your LEGOs once… and then never again! (We have three of these useless shits.)

Oh, the careful and intricate organization of these LEGOs. Its beauty and composition almost makes one want to weep.

Moving into the kitchen, we come upon the following lovely tableau. I know, I know. You can barely tell it’s the kitchen, because the kitchen counter is covered with so much dirty CRAP you can’t even hardly see it. But trust me. It is the kitchen. We ostensibly prepare food here.

Because the kitchen counter is absolutely the best place for a brand-new shirt and some… garbage.

Still, I like the above picture because you can *almost* see the BEST and most AWESOME picture my son has ever drawn for me. Here it is in all its glory:

What? It’s a picture of Jack Skllnington. Don’t hate.

While I was touring the kitchen, I also noticed that the dishwasher was wide open. Yep, just wide open, with the top tray pulled out. At first I was confused, but then I remembered that I’d opened it about three hours before, intending to do the dishes. But then I was like: “Nope.” And walked away.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Okay. So. I first noticed this next phenomenon in the kitchen but as I moved throughout the house I saw that it was more than just an anomaly – it was a PATTERN. And that pattern? Is that NONE OF THE CLOCKS IN OUR HOUSE TELL THE RIGHT TIME.

clock7gif clock6gif clock4gif clock5gif clock3gif clock2gif


Hey. Hey guys. GUYS. I MADE THE BED, GUYS. This is how you do it, right? I mean, that’s where the blanket goes, right? On top of the pillows like that? And all the sheets and pillowcases should be different colors and patterns, right?

Look at those hospital corners. You could bounce a quarter off those sheets. (If the quarter was made of a Super Ball and you flung it on the bed at 900 miles per hour.)

See anything interesting in the above picture besides the perfectly made bed? No? Are you sure? You didn’t happen to see… THIS?

It’s an important question.

Our last stop is the best stop: the basement. Oh, the basement. Full of mementos and marvelous wonders, it never ceases to intrigue the mind and tickle the fancy. I know I could spend hours down there just combing through old memories if it weren’t for the fact that it smells like a MILDEWY PIECE OF SHIT.

Speaking of mementos:

“Ah yes, darling. Remember these… potty seats? They do indeed bring a tear of reminiscence to my eye.”

I also think it speaks volumes about my cooking habits that the roasting pan is a) in the basement, b) in its original box, c) hasn’t been used since Thanksgiving, and d) wasn’t used since the Thanksgiving before that.

I really do make a mean turkey. I just make ONE A YEAR AND THAT’S IT.

And finally, over in the corner near the whatever that thing is, a delightful memory of Christmases Past:

By the way, that dead fly and/or earwig was HUMONGOUS.

And that’s the end of our tour! Pictures that did not make it into this post include:

  1. A pair of my dirty underpants lying on the stairs;
  2. My husband’s limited edition Hellcat Records Fender guitar that he has played not even once (he never learned how);
  3.  A framed finger painting of my son’s with the somewhat disturbing title of “FINGER”;
  4.  The neatly stacked pile of gardening books sitting in the basement that I have never even cracked open; and
  5. The plungers in EVERY. SINGLE. BATHROOM. because our water pressure su~ucks. (Also we do big poops.)


I hope you enjoyed this and remember! 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.

dad needs new ears

The following is a phone conversation I had with my awesome, albeit 72-year-old, father today. As you will see, it starts out just fine. Then it quickly degenerates into ME YELLING EVERYTHING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.



Dad: “Hello there!”
Me: “Hey, Dad.”
Dad: “What’s up?”
Me: “Not much. I’m just calling to see if you got the check from Cheeks.”
Dad: “What?”
Me: “Cheeks and I put some money together so you could buy a new cell phone, remember?”
Dad: “Oh! Yes. I remember.”
Me: “Well, she sent you a check a while ago. Did you get it?”
Dad: “Get what?”
Me (louder): “THE CHECK.”
Dad: “No, I didn’t get a text.”
Me (more louder): “NOT A TEXT.  A CHECK.”
Dad (irritated): “Nobody sent me a text!”
Me (even more louder): “NOT A TEXT, DAD. A CHECK. C-H-E-C-K.”
Dad: “A what?”
Me (the loudest): “A CHECK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Dad: “A check?”
Me: “YES.”
Dad: “A check for what?”
Dad: “No, I didn’t get a check.”
Me: “Okay. Great. That’s what I was calling to find out.”
Dad: “…”
Dad (annoyed): “Yes!”
Me: “So for sure there’s no check there?”
Dad: “No check.”
Me: “All right, I’ll tell her to put a stop payment on that one and send you another one.”
Dad: “Another what?”
Me: “GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD” *jumps off cliff*


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.

vicki lesage: sauce deluxe

Today I am tickled pink to bring you this hilarious guest post from writer, blogger, humorist, and all-around hot mama Vicki Lesage. You can find Vicki on her personal blog and in her memoirs Confessions of a Paris Party Girl and Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer.

partygirlgif pottytrainergif 

Ever wonder what it’s like eating at a McDonald’s in Paris? Ever not wonder, but then you just read that last sentence and now maybe you are wondering? Well, you’re in luck. Read on, and discover everything you ever wanted to know about Parisian McDonald’s employees and their unhealthy possessiveness of Sauce Deluxe.


Pulp Fiction taught me loads of useful information. If someone ODs in front of me, stab a syringe of adrenaline into their sternum (kids, don’t try this at home). I now know the difference between a motorcycle and a chopper (truth: I don’t). Most importantly, mayonnaise + fries = artery-clogging pieces of heaven.

Move along, ketchup. Cavort with hot dogs and burgers all you want. My fries need more calories than you can offer. And not only does mayo with fries taste better, but you look European. Classy.

McDonald’s in France took it one step further, creating Sauce Deluxe. It’s fancy. Don’t believe me? “Deluxe” is right there in the name! I’m not sure exactly what the sauce is, but it’s rich and creamy and has herbs in it. It’s mayonnaise’s rich, sexier cousin. I don’t need to know more. I just want to dip my fries in it, smear it on my face, and swim in a pool of it if I can get my hands on enough of it.

King of the Sauces.

But that’s the thing. You can’t get your hands on enough of it. The McDonald’s employees guard that stuff like it’s the Crown Jewels. Ordering it requires some secret code. And you’re never sure it’ll actually be waiting for you at the bottom of your soggy take-out bag.

You see, Its Royal Highness is served as a side for Deluxe Potatoes, which is French for “deluxe potatoes.” You have to say it with an accent in order to be understood, so you end up sounding like an asshat saying “deuh-loox poh-tay-tohs” with really wimpy t’s.

Deluxe Potatoes are fine but they’re not as luxurious as they sound. They’re just potato wedges, really. And the potato-to-deep-fried ratio is all out of whack. A French fry gives you way more grease for your buck.

Deluxe Potatoes. French for “meh.”

So your best bet for a tasty calorie-laden feast is fries with Sauce Deluxe, but good luck completing this black market transaction. My crazy fry-lovin’ ass always tries anyway. “Bonjour, I’d like a Big Mac Menu (pronounced “Beeg-uh Mack-uh Men-oo”) with Sauce Deluxe on the side.”

One of three things will happen:

1. “Huh? Which sauce?” Bitch, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m saying. There’s no other sauce that even sounds remotely like the one I just said. But no matter how many times I repeat “Soss deuh-loox” I’m met with a blank stare. Finally, I tap out Morse code and comprehension dawns. “Ah, you meant soss deuh-loox.” Gah, that’s exactly what I said!

2. “You can only get that with Deluxe Potatoes, not fries.” What, are they stapled together? Why can’t I get Sauce Deluxe with anything other than Deluxe Potatoes? Here’s 30 Deluxe Cents, gimme the damn sauce.

3. “Sure.” Wait, what? I anticipated more of a problem than this. Oh, there we go. They forgot to put the damn sauce in the bag, forcing me to eat plain fries. Did you hear me? PLAIN FRIES, people. The horror.

It shouldn’t be this hard. I should be able to order it, pay for it, and receive it. It’s McDonald’s, not rocket surgery.

But after years of hardcore investigative work, I finally cracked the code.

Step 1: Order everything EXCEPT the Sauce Deluxe. Wait until they repeat it back to you so that you’re sure they didn’t eff the rest of it up.

Step 2: When they ask “Is that all?” NOW is when you say, as if it just occurred to you, “Oh, and a Sauce Deluxe.” They’ll say “You have to pay,” in a tone that indicates they think you’re too cheap to pay 30 cents. You respond with “OK,” in a tone that says, “I eat 30 cents for breakfast” because if you’re going to fork over that much cold hard cash you might as well feel superior about it.

Oh, you need exact change? Hold on a sec. It’s in my other treasure chest.

Step 3: Wait 20 minutes for them to assemble your order because even though it’s fast food, they never anticipated that more than one person between the hours of 6 pm and 8 pm would want a Big Mac. They did anticipate you’d want fries, though, so those are getting nice and cold in your bag while you wait.

Step 4: Right as they’re about to hand you the bag, gently ask “And the Sauce Deluxe is in there, right?” Nine times out of ten, it won’t be. But if you would have asked earlier, they would have made a mental note to get it later and then forgot. The sauce is too cool to sit in the bag like a chump; it has to be the last to arrive to the party.

Now 30 cents lighter and one Sauce Deluxe heavier, you’re ready to relax and enjoy cold fries. Totally worth it.



A Midwest native, Vicki currently lives in Paris, where she indulges in wine when she’s not busy working or having babies. IT Director by day, she squeezes in writing wherever she can, from blog posts to books. Her common theme is complaining about France but as an equal opportunist she complains about plenty of other things as well. She loves fondue, wine, math, and zombies. Everything’s better with zombies.


Photo credits:
“Gold coins”: English Wikipedia, original upload 17 September 2005 by Swiss Banker, who is the creator of the image. Licensing: Public domain. This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Swiss Banker at Wikipedia. This applies worldwide. — Modified

my sister the hoarder

From 1975 to 1983, my life was golden. I was an only child, I got all of my parents’ attention, and most importantly, I didn’t have to share a bedroom.

Then my sister came along and RUINED. EVERYTHING.

Ha ha. Only kidding. My sister and I have a fantastic relationship. There’s always been a real give and take there, you know? Even when she was really small. She would trail along behind me wherever I went, all doe-eyed and loving and worshipful… and in return I would chase her around the house, shrieking at the top of my lungs about how I was going to “put her in the oven and cook her up.”

Give and take, people. Give and take.

Anyway, I was just going through some old chat archives and I happened to stumble upon this chat my sister and I had in 2006. It’s about her hoarding and slovenly ways, and we both think it’s pretty funny.

(By the way, my sister and I have agreed that she shall be referred to from now on as “Cheeks.”)


(She got buns, hon.)


Cheeks: okay so I’m organizing my jewelry box
Cheeks: I have some seriously old crap in here

Sarah: oh god
Sarah: if I never cleaned mine out it would be ASS

Cheeks: all those heart pins with my name on them
Cheeks: half a “Best Friends” pin and I have no idea who has the other half
Cheeks: one earring from your wedding
Cheeks: a GIRL SCOUT pin
Cheeks: a piano pin given to me by my piano teacher
Cheeks: a “Lisle Balloonfest” pin
Cheeks: this shit is hilarious
Cheeks: an “Angel on your Shoulder” pin I used to wear in ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
Cheeks: an “All Star” soccer pin

Sarah: yeah because you were just such an “All Star” at soccer
Sarah: LISLE BALLOONFEST, you didn’t even go to that!
Sarah: you were like not even born!

Cheeks: I KNOW

Sarah: you have it because you STOLE IT FROM MOM

Cheeks: but I was like… seven
Cheeks: so why the crap do I STILL have it
Cheeks: a pin of the Olympic torch. I shit you not.

Sarah: how big is your jewelry box, 800 tons?

Cheeks: not anymore!
Cheeks: my god
Cheeks: too funny

Sarah: do you have any “friendship bracelets”?

Cheeks: no, just the “Best Friends” pin
Cheeks: like… why

Sarah: the “Lisle Balloonfest” one is probably the worst.

Cheeks: I dunno, this “All Star” soccer pin and Olympic torch
Cheeks: and the one random Girl Scout pin

Sarah: hahah you used to be really into Girl Scouts though, weren’t you?

Cheeks: sure, but when I was 8!
Cheeks: it’s amazing the shit the younger me found fit to save
Cheeks: and what the older me was too lazy to clean up

Sarah: you dont even know how much I threw out of yours

Cheeks: bahaha
Cheeks: I believe it

Sarah: one time Mom paid me $50 to clean your room and I threw out SIXTEEN BAGS OF TRASH

Cheeks: OMG I remember that, and I was so pissed
Cheeks: I mean seriously, way to completely violate someone’s privacy

Sarah: dude
Sarah: believe me
Sarah: I’m sure you didn’t want a bunch of stained purple plastic purses (that used to be MINE) full of used tampons, pennies, sanitary napkin wrappers, pens that didn’t even work anymore, and 10-year-old gum

Cheeks: bahaha

Sarah: trust me I didn’t throw out ANYTHING you might have really wanted to save
Sarah: oh and I forgot to mention the 8,000 pounds of cheap makeup Mom would buy you that you would use once, throw in your purse, then step on accidentally and break it, so not only would the makeup be ruined but the purse would be covered on the inside with light blue eyeshadow chunks

Cheeks: bahahaha
Cheeks: touché

Cheeks and I.


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:
Artist: Albert Anker (1831–1910). Title: The little knitters. Date 1850-1900. Source/Photographer: Unknown, First uploaded to Commons 00:58, 20 March 2006 by User: Rlbberlin. Licensing: This is a faithful photographic reproduction of a two-dimensional, public domain work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain. — Modified

i married a spaniard

As some of you already know, my husband hails not from the good old US of Hey but rather from a city on the coast of Northern Spain by the name of Santander.

Me in Santander looking pretty.
Me in Santander looking pretty.

Santander is the capital of the Spanish region known as Cantabria, and though the city itself was officially founded in 1755, its origins date as far back as 26 B.C. It is a beautiful port city with mild, oceanic weather and a population of almost 200,000 people, and because I have no shame and will try to hook readers any way I can, I will now casually mention the fact that the 2001 Nicole Kidman movie The Others was filmed there as well.

*clears throat*

So anyway. As you can imagine, It’s all kinds of interesting being married to a Spaniard. He and his family have welcomed me with open arms into their rich and celebrated culture, teaching me more than I could have ever thought possible about their beliefs and traditions and stuff and junk and whatnots. And I hope you’re interested in learning about these things too, because I was just settling in to tell you ALL about them, whether you wanted me to or not.


Here we go!

1. In a Spanish family, you must NEVER. EVER. put your shoes on the table or your purse on the floor. Putting your shoes on the table risks bringing all manner of bad luck upon you and your family, and a purse on the floor means your ass ’bout to be as broke as all hell. FOR REAL, SON.

However, dirty socks on the living room floor are perfectly acceptable. Apparently.

If you have a keen eye, you will notice that there are FOUR socks here. Which means that a) the original pair of dirty socks had a pair of dirty sock babies, or b) this was done on two separate occasions. I’ll leave you to solve the mystery.

2. If you have any knick-knacks or tchotchkes in the shape of elephants, they must always have upturned trunks and face away from the door or else BAD LUCK. While this superstition is not Spanish per se, I first learned of it from my husband and his family so in my mind it counts. (There’s also some debate about whether the elephant should face towards or away from the door. My husband’s family says away.)

Now hear this. I may believe in a mysterious bearded man who walks on water and lives in the sky, but I absolutely refuse to assign destiny-altering powers to inanimate objects. Mainly because I AIN’T CRAY. I do want my house to look good, however, and having decorations facing *backwards* is a concept I find totally and completely ridiculous. It offends my sense of design on a deep and almost visceral level. Thus, my husband and I have committed to waging a long, drawn-out, incredibly passive-aggressive battle over this particular item:

2014-07-07 14.59.09
I think this elephant candle holder that I got for $2 at Kroger looks completely stupid facing backwards (as is pictured above.) So after my husband goes to work I turn it around. Then when he gets home he turns it back. This has been going on for five years.

3. Spanish people eat twelve grapes at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I know this doesn’t sound so bad, but let me clarify — it’s not like you’re allowed to eat these twelve grapes calmly and at your leisure. Oh no. You have to eat one grape per bell chime at midnight — if you’re shitty at math, that’s one grape per second for twelve seconds.

Think about that. I mean really think about it. Actually, no. Go into your kitchen and get just one single grape and see how long it takes you to eat it. I bet it takes hella longer than one second. What I’m trying to say here is that eating twelve grapes in twelve seconds is pretty much impossible, which I guess is why it’s supposed to bring you a year of good fortune if you can manage it. But I’ve been with my husband for thirteen years and I don’t remember anyone in the family EVER actually doing it.

(SIDE NOTE: I hate fruit, so I try to bypass this particular tradition when and if at all possible. Unfortunately, I usually get suckered into at least making the attempt. When that happens, I just eat one single grape over the course of twelve seconds and then sneak the other eleven into the garbage. ¡Feliz Año!)

4. In a Spanish family, getting off of the phone can take anywhere up to 100 hours. Seriously. I’m not kidding around. This is my husband getting off the phone with his mother:

Husband: “OK. Ok, Mamá. Adios.”
Husband: (listening)
Husband: (listening)
Husband: “Sí. Sí.”
Husband: (listening)
Husband: “Sí, sí, sí. Adios. Sí.”
Husband: (laughs)
Husband: “Adios, Mamá. Adios.”
Husband: (listening)
Husband: (listening)
Husband: “Ok. Sí. Adios. Adios. Adios.”
Husband: (listening)
Husband: “Ok.” (laughs) “Sí, sí, sí. Adios.”
Husband: “…what?”

5. The country of Spain has generated some amazing food phenomena that fortunately have nothing to do with grapes. Check it:

  • Olives and olive derivatives everywhere;
  • Paella (Rice with all kinds of delicious shit in it. My wonderful mother-in-law makes it with calamari, scallops, shrimp, sausage, and chicken);
  • Torrijas (French toast on Easter);
  • Turrón (nougat candy on Christmas); 
  • Croquetas (and tapas in general…yum);
  • Churros con chocolate;
  • Churros con chocolate; and did I mention?
  • Churros con chocolate.


There are so many more things I could write about but I’m running out of time and space so I’ll have to come back to them on some future occasion. For now, I feel the need to mention that — in all seriousness — I truly love my Spanish husband and his family. Very, very much. I tease them about some of their cultural “quirks” just as they tease me about some of mine. And isn’t that what an increasingly global community full of international families should really be about? Making fun of each other’s shit and then laughing about it?

However, there is this one thing that is currently driving me completely fucking NUTS:

Me: “What are you watching?”
Husband: “Wimblundon.”
Me: “It is NOT pronounced that way. I’ve told you a thousand times.”
Husband: “Fine. How is pronounced?”
Husband: “That’s what I said.”
Me: “No it isn’t. Repeat after me. WIM. BULL. DONE.”
Husband: “WIM. BULL. DONE.”
Me: “Yes!”
Husband: “Wimblundon.”
Me: (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

Lucky for him he’s hot.

Another picture I took in Santander because butts.
Another picture I took in Santander because butts.