the trouble with yeast infections

A few years ago, my sister Cheeks and I had the strangely mystical experience of suffering from yeast infections at the exact same time.

Behold the chat conversation that followed.



Me: can i just say


Her: me too! it keeps comin’ back
Her: probably because I HATE the yeast infection treatments
Her: so I get the one-day treatment and it totally doesn’t work

Me: i hate them too
Me: that totally just happened to me
Me: i did the one-day treatment and it didn’t work
Me: and now i have to do the week-long cream

Her: it’s bull! shit!
Her: uggggh I hate the cream

Me: My husband was all like: “WHY do you keep buying the one-day treatment?”
Me: and “You always have to do the week-long treatment like 2 days later”





boneitis gif
Futurama (FOX)

Her: omg
Her: and it gets EVERYWHERE

Me: and then i got in the bathtub this morning and a bunch of it blobbed out into the water

Her: oh yeah that’s always fun
Her: and don’t even TRY to wash your vagina
Her: that shit is WATER RESISTANT

Me: and it stays in your vagina for like 10000000 years

Her: and say goodbye to sex for like two weeks

Me: omg *dies*
Me: last night my husband was all “What about with a rubber?” and i was like NOOOoooooooo

Her: he doesn’t understand
Her: tell him to put some mayonnaise and fire ants up his ass

Me: bahaha
Me: he doesn’t understand that if even a molecule of air gets near the yeast you’re like OMG ITCH

Her: laughing soooo hard

Me: the night before last i had to sleep with no underpants on because i was like


meet the husband

So. I thought it only fair to write an intro post for my husband, since I plan on writing a lot about him, and mostly in an exploitative manner because he says and does a lot of funny shit.

English is my husband’s second language, and when we met twelve years ago, he was still getting his mind around the nuances of American vernacular. That’s a nice way of saying his English was super awkward and formal, and as a result his sense of humor came across as basically nonexistent. But he is gorgeous and I am shallow, so it wasn’t a deal breaker.

Over time, and much to my delight, my husband became more and more comfortable with American colloquial speech. And the sense of humor that he’d always had, but was unable to effectively express in English, started to rear its hilarious head.

It was like winning the lottery after I’d already discovered a gold mine. A sexy gold mine. With a Spanish accent.

Now it is many years later and I can hardly remember a time when my husband didn’t crack me the hell up, and I want to share the husband funny with you. So here’s a taste. Wet your whistle. There’s plenty more to come.

Him: *bonks me on the head with his penis*
Me: That totally felt like a hot dog.
Him: It ain’t called a wiener ‘cuz it looks like a bun.

Him: You’ve got a ton of cleavage showing, but your boobs are actually looking very well contained.
Me: Well, I’m wearing an awesome bra.
Him: Bra-vo.

Him: I think Father Winter is here.
Me: Father Winter?
Him: Yup.
Me: I think you mean Old Man Winter.
Him: Nope.
Me: Or Father Christmas.
Him: Nope.
Me: Okay…
Him: You have them confused.

Me: If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.
Him: What if I died? *pretends to be dead*
Me: Wow, it’s amazing how you’re still moving and breathing after you’re dead.
Him: Well, it takes a while.

Him: *on the phone* Are you naked?
Me: No.
Him: The answer to that question is yes. No matter when, no matter where.
Me: Oh.
Him: Let’s try again. Are you naked?
Me: Oh…um. Yes.

Him: Look what I got! Scratch-offs! You can scratch them off if you want.
Me: I don’t want to scratch them off. That was a waste of two dollars.
Him: Fine. When I win millions of dollars, you can’t have any.
Me: Fine.
Him: *scratches them off, loses* You owe me two dollars.

Him *to our son*: Mama has to pick up the cat from the doctor so it can come home and pee in our bed.

Him: I never get sex.
Me: Dude. I just offered yesterday.
Him: But then I reminded you that I hadn’t showered in two days and you were like… *makes a noise like thwip thwip thwip*
Me: What is THAT supposed to mean?
Him: It’s the sound of your vagina flying away.

Him: *looking at some expensive merchandise* What are these things made of, gold and human balls?

That’s all the husband funny I have for now…hope you enjoyed it. And don’t worry. There will be more.

Oh, yes. There will be more.

an ode to the hairs on my chinny chin chin

There are many ugly hairs
that sprout out of my chin.
I pluck them out or shave them off
but they just come back in.

Back in my more girlish years
I had just one or two.
But after I turned thirty-five
a mighty forest grew.

Now it makes no difference
how much I depilate.
A quick look in the mirror and
I’ll spot one more or eight.

I carry tweezers with me
because I never know
when a wild chin hair will appear
and it will have to go.

Someday I will just give up
And without shedding a tear
I’ll stand up tall, puff out my chest
and grow a fucking beard.

intro post, a.k.a. my “qualifications”

My name is Sarah, and this is my blog.

As a discerning reader, you may be wondering what exactly qualifies me to write this blog or anything at all. Well, how about the fact that I don’t even have an English degree? Yes, that’s right. You heard me correctly. I don’t know a single thing about grammar, usage, or style beyond what little was forced upon me in high school. And if I’m honest, I’ve forgotten most of even that.

Still not convinced? Would it help to know that I’ve never published a thing in my entire life? I haven’t. Not a poem, not a short story, not an article for a magazine or newspaper, not even a letter to the editor. Not one single word. Impressive, isn’t it? And I think the fact that I’ve never made it farther than “Chapter One” in any number of failed manuscripts speaks for itself.

I do make a little bread and butter from the freelance work I do as a proof reader, editor, and copy writer. But that kind of writing doesn’t count, does it? I mean, copy writing isn’t real writing. Sort of like how Velveeta isn’t real cheese. And pennies aren’t real money. And Roseart aren’t real crayons. Those cheap Roseart pieces of shit.

Okay, fine. Maybe it counts a little. But it’s certainly not going to affect the quality of this blog, I promise you that. If what you’re looking for are the incoherent ramblings of an aging “writer” with essentially no experience, est. 1975 is absolutely the best place to be. Trust.

Come. Sift through my many bitter and unoriginal complaints about growing old. Slog through a shit ton of poorly written and only mildly interesting anecdotes about all of the stupid things I still do at the age of almost forty. Join me on the hairy, saggy, yet strangely liberating journey toward not giving a fuck.

Let’s do it, friends. Let’s get ugly and incontinent together.

Still Not Real Crayons