my day off

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog

A couple of weeks ago, my husband approached me and spoke the words I’ve been longing to hear since our son was born.

No, not: “I’m finally going to stop bugging you about butt stuff.”

No, not: “I’m so over sticking my hands down my pants while watching television.”

No, not: “I promise to never again leave my dirty clothes on the kitchen floor after coming home from work and undressing in front of the stove like a crazy person.”

(Though, let’s be honest. I never had the slightest expectation that my husband would say any of those things. Because I am a realistic woman.)

This is what he did say, however:

“So . . . I’m thinking about taking our son on a day trip.” 

Here was my external reaction:

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog
“Ho hum. Whatevs. Like I care. I’ve already forgotten what you just said. I’m out, y’all. PEACE.”

My internal reaction, however, was more like:

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog

“Oh, really?” I replied, casually. “Where you gonna take him?”

“Down to Cincinnati to watch Nadal play some tennis.”

“Huh,” I said, disinterestedly. Because you gots to play it cool, am I right? Even when you’re already making a “My Day Off” mix tape in your head. (First song? “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang.)

“Wanna come along?” asked my husband.

Um . . .

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog

But it was a fine line I needed to walk. I had to seem like I wanted to go, but not enough to make my husband think I really should go.

“Nah,” I smiled. “You two go on and have a special father-son day.”

“You sure?” asked my husband, sounding concerned. “You won’t be too lonely?”

Now. I’m all about Real Talk here on est. 1975, so I’ll freely admit that what was running through my head was this:


But what I actually said was this: “Of course I won’t be lonely! You guys will have an awesome time.”

Wow. Such cool. Very cucumber.

So my husband and son clambered into the car, all excited to go watch athletes of some nature play some kind of sport I didn’t care about, and I waved at them through the window and blew them a thousand kisses. Kisses that were fake as hell. Because as soon as my husband’s car was out of sight, My Day Off began.

I even had an agenda.


10:30 AM: Immediately turn off the television. Relish the fact that for twelve hours I will not once have to watch SportsCenter or hear the theme song to Teen Titans Go!

11:00 AM: Go directly to KFC for lunch. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Do not wear a bra or put on deodorant.

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog
I want fried chicken in my mouth and I want it now.

12:00 PM: *burp*

12:30 PM: Say to myself: “While they’re gone, I might as well get some work done.” Then laugh and laugh because YEAH, RIGHT. Spend the next two hours watching YouTube videos.

2:30 PM: Start to feel legitimately bad about not doing anything productive. Do three sit-ups and feed the cat.

3:00 PM: ZZZzzzzz.

5:00 PM: Wake up from my nap with a mouth as dry and gritty as the floor of an ancient Egyptian burial chamber. Chug five glasses of water while watching more YouTube.

6:30 PM: *beep boop beep* “Hello, is this Pizza Hut?”

8:00 PM: “Shit. They’re going to be back in less than three hours. I haven’t done any work. I haven’t done any cleaning. I haven’t even showered. I better get something done pronto. But first, I’ll just check Facebook.”

8:30 PM: Still on Facebook.

9:00 PM: Still on Facebook.

9:30 PM: Still on Facebook.

10:00 PM: Realize that My Day Off is almost over and I have literally nothing to show for it. Decide to at least put on some clean pajamas, then change my mind, because that would just make for extra laundry.

10:30 PM: Hear the garage door open. Quickly dive into bed, turn off the lamp, and commence with fake snoring, because twelve hours clearly wasn’t enough time alone and I still want more. Does that make me a bad wife and mother? Maybe. Do I care?

est. 1975 has a day completely to herself! What does she do with it? You'll never guess... because it's boring as hell. #funny #humor #est1975blog #est1975 @est1975blog

Not even a little.


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:
“KFC Store” – CC BY 2.0; File:KFC signs – Old and New.jpg; Uploaded by Jayblue42; Created: 11 June 2006 — Modified
Michelle Visage .gif – Source unknown, footage from Rupaul’s Drag Race, aired on LogoTV

sheet stains

There has been a smear of liquid foundation on my bed sheet for a week.

It looks like poop. And it’s right at about butt level, too. If someone were to accidentally wander into my bedroom, they would probably jump to the conclusion that I’d sharted during sex.

I know *I* would jump to that conclusion.

est. 1975 has a stain in her bed and she is not doing shit about it. #funny #humor #stain #bed #est1975 #est1975blog @est1975blog
My husband and I. About every single stain and/or smell that appears in our bed.

Fortunately, only my husband, my son, and I ever go into my bedroom. And I know this to be the case. So when I was doing my makeup in bed (why) and accidentally pumped my little bottle of foundation too hard and squirted it all over the sheets (dumb), I made the controversial decision to:

  1. Give it a half-assed blot with some toilet paper.
  2. Abandon the pretense.
  3. Toss the duvet over it and act like nothing ever happened.

I didn’t decide these things because I’m lazy (I am). I didn’t decide them because I’m gross (also yes). I decided them because I hate changing sheets with Every. Fiber. Of. My. Being.

est. 1975 has a stain in her bed and she is not doing shit about it. #funny #humor #stain #bed #est1975 #est1975blog @est1975blog
You see an unmade bed. I see the stuff of nightmares.

Now, now. Calm your tits. Don’t go running to the phone to inform Social Services that I’m an unfit wife and/or mother. I may be gross but I’m not that gross. I change the bed sheets just as regularly as anyone else. It’s just that in this particular instance I had JUST changed them. Like the DAY before.

And I really, really, really didn’t want to change them again.

I felt a *teensy* bit guilty about not doing it. Just a teensy. So I had a mini-conversation with myself in order to justify my reasoning:

Me: “You should probably change those sheets.”

Myself: “Don’t be ridiculous. Look at that. It’s just an itty bitty blemish on an otherwise pristine set of sheets.”

Me: “But it looks like poop.”

Myself: “So?”

Me: “So, poop is gross.”

Myself: “It might look like poop, but it isn’t poop. There’s no smell. There’s no germs. There’s no hygiene issue here.”

Me: “But…”

Myself: “Oh, so you really want to rip off all the sheets and fucking do all that work right now?”

Me: “No.”

Myself: “Well, then.”

Me: “ . . . ”

Myself: “Do we have any Cheetos? I’m hungry for Cheetos.”

And thus the sheets remain unchanged.

Oh, don’t judge. When my son was just a little guy with what I would characterize as an “unpredictable esophagus,” I was changing sheets constantly. That kid could barf, and he did it a lot. Every time he ate something funny. Every time he got stressed. Every time he caught a cold. Every time he took a ride in the car. Every time anything happened at all. He was a master of the violent and overly productive retch, and a disproportionate amount of this retching happened at night. In bed. On clean sheets.

est. 1975 has a stain in her bed and she is not doing shit about it. #funny #humor #stain #bed #est1975 #est1975blog @est1975blog
If my son was the Christ child.

Still. A mom has to do what a mom has to do. My husband and I swiftly came to an arrangement: he cleaned up the kid, and I cleaned up the sheets. Each of us did these jobs reluctantly, but we did them nonetheless, looking stoically forward to the day that our son would grow out of his incessant horking. Which he eventually did.

Then, what seemed like a blink of an eye later, the nightly nosebleeds started.

It turned out that my son had a bunch of blood vessels in his nose that were too close to the surface, and he ended up needing nasal cautery surgery to fix the problem. But it took us about a year to a) definitively diagnose the problem, b) try out non-surgical options, and then c) convince our son that he was not going go to into surgery and wake up dead.

A whole year. Of bloody pillowcases and sheets.

*shakes head*


Fortunately, my son is now six and he no longer pukes at the drop of a hat. The nosebleed problem is solved. There are no more overnight accidents (which I didn’t even bother to mention, because we all know what those entail.) And last but not least: our two elderly cats, who were also a dab hand at expressing biohazard all over our bed sheets, have at long last crossed the Rainbow Bridge. So I’m finally back on a “normal” routine of changing the linens.

So, a smear of foundation? It didn’t come from a butt. It didn’t come from a nose. It didn’t come from an unpredictable esophagus. It is NOT EVEN A THING. It can wait till the weekend.

IT. CAN. WAIT. Trust.

This, on the other hand:

est. 1975 has a stain in her bed and she is not doing shit about it. #funny #humor #stain #bed #est1975 #est1975blog @est1975blog
Aw hell no.


An earlier version of this piece was published in 2014 on BLUNTmoms.

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:
“Woman Washing Kettle”: Artist Adriaan de Lelie (1755–1820); Title “Woman scrubbing a kettle”; Date 1796; Source/Photographer; — Modified
“Virgin and Child: Title “The Virgin and Child,” a painting attributed to the Master of Flemalle; Date 6 March 2013; Source — Modified
“Unmade Bed”: Date 18 April 2005, 01:04:01; Source Flickr; Author Liz Lawley — Modified
“Couple in Bed”: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864–1901); Title “In the Bed”; Date 1893; Source/Photographer The Yorck Project: 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. ISBN 3936122202. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. — Modified

a wild man crush appears!

"Anthonis van Dyck 051" by Anthony van Dyck - The Yorck Project: 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. ISBN3936122202. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH.. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons -

Before I launch into this piece, let me say up top that I have FULL PERMISSION FROM MY HUSBAND to write about this particular topic. All of you loyal so-and-sos can rest assured that I am in no way exploiting him or disrespecting his privacy for the sake of my art. He has given me the 100% go ahead. In fact, I’ll tell you exactly how the conversation went:


Me: I need your permission to write about something.

Him: You have it.

Me: But you don’t even know what it is yet.

Him: I’m fine with you writing about whatever.

Me: That’s totally adorable and I love you, but I still think I should check.

Him: All right, what is it?

Me: I want to write about your man crushes.

Him: …

Me: …

Him: …eh.

Me: So is that a yes?

Him: *sigh* FINE.


See? Total permission.

Those of you who are est. 1975 regulars already know quite a bit about my husband. You know the nature of his “coffee drinking habits.” You’ve heard the ridiculous things that come out of his mouth. You remember that one time he stabbed a table with a knife.

However, those of you who are new to the world of est. 1975 may crave a few more details about my husband. So I jumped on over to Facebook and asked my family and friends to help me out:


That was the question. Here are just a few of the answers:

Craigslist (My sister thinks she’s funny.)

and the easy winner, from My Girl Natalie:


Now. Some might argue that a truly “dudely” straight dude wouldn’t admit to having crushes on other men. I adamantly disagree. I find any straight man confident enough to stroll up and down the gender spectrum for crush material to be extremely dudely. Not to mention hot, sexy, and whatever the adjective is for “my panties just melted the fuck off, ran down my leg, and collected at my feet in a puddle of liquefied cotton.”

And because my husband is just that dudely, he has (semi) graciously agreed to let me share with you, my readers:


Strap yourself in.


1. Rafael Nadal. Okay. You may wonder why ANYONE would have a crush on a man who makes faces like this:

The answer is simple. My husband has a little crush on Rafa because he has a little crush on HIMSELF. But don’t take my word for it. Just look at the facts:

  • Rafa is from Spain. Just like my husband.
  • He’s exceedingly gracious and polite. Just like my husband.
  • He’s a professional tennis player. Just like my husband. In dreams.
  • He did a practically naked photo shoot with Bar Rafaeli. Just like my husband. In other, dirtier kinds of dreams.

But I’m gonna cut my husband some slack on this one. Weird faces or no, LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING ARMS.

EDIT: After my husband read this post, we actually had this conversation:

Him: There are way better pictures of Nadal’s muscles.

Me: Honey, there were 65,000 images of Nadal on Getty Images. I wasn’t going to look through all of them.

Him: You should have.

Me: …

Him: I would have.


2. Tim Armstrong.  Front man for punk bands Rancid and The Transplants, Tim Armstrong is without a doubt the wettest of my husband’s wet dreams:

Guys, I don’t understand this one. I never have and I never will. My husband has been at Fan Boy: Level Infinite over this man for the entire thirteen years we’ve been together and I JUST. DON’T. GET. IT.  The man is not particularly attractive. His voice is not what I’d call “easy on the ear.” And, according to the one person I know who has actually interacted with him, he’s… well, let’s just use the phrase “socially disabled.”

And yet, when asked to give me the 5 words that best describe Tim Armstrong, these were what immediately jumped to my husband’s lips:

  • Awesome
  • Terrific
  • Energetic
  • Genius
  • Better than Sarah

So. Yeah.


3. Adam Rothenberg. Unless you’re a fan of the BBC police procedural Ripper Street, you’ve probably never heard of this guy:

The only American actor in the entire cast of Ripper Street, Adam Rothenberg plays the role of Captain Homer Jackson, a former Pinkerton agent who has fallen from grace and fled to Victorian-era Whitechapel. Sarcastic, intelligent, and cynical, this character fulfills the classic BBC trope of the Underestimated but Savvy American Who Delivers Witty Quips and Wry Observations. You know the one. The handsome, troubled comic relief. He makes my husband swoon.

I’ll be honest—this man crush delights me in a way the other two do not. Here’s why:

  • My husband refers to Rothenberg’s character on Ripper Street as simply “The American.” Guess who else my husband refers to as “The American”?
  • Rothenberg is a brooding brunette with a pale complexion. Guess who else is a brooding brunette with a pale complexion?
  • Rothenberg plays a bitter, sarcastic weirdo who is constantly putting his foot in his mouth and getting himself in trouble. Guess who else is a bitter, sarcastic weirdo who blah de blah?
  • Rothenberg’s character gets himself *out* of trouble by being charming and persuasive and calling people “darlin’.” Guess who else pulls this same kind of bullshit?

Yeah. This guy is totally the man version of me. Actually, if my husband *didn’t* have a crush on him, I’d be worried.


So there you have it. The three men my husband would totally man-bang. I have to admit I’d take a crack at two of them myself (sorry, Tim Armstrong.) Seriously, did you look at Rafa’s biceps? He can make weird faces all night long. That’s why there’s a light switch next to the bed.

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:
“Anthonis van Dyck 051” by Anthony van Dyck – The Yorck Project: 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. ISBN3936122202. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH.. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons – — Modified

all the naked ladies

As many of you loyal so-and-sos are already aware, I live in a land-locked Midwestern city characterized by frigid winters, infernal summers, and a transcendent amount of big-box retail. To add insult to injury, my town is populated primarily by:

  • Skunks;
  • Stinkbugs;
  • Dudebros;
  • Basic bitches;
  • Mediocre indie rock musicians; and
  • Fanatical weirdos with a primal and disturbing devotion to college football.

Still, in spite of all its flaws, I do love my city. It’s affordable. It’s easy to get around. Every place I could ever possibly want to shop lies within a 5-mile radius of my house. There’s culture if you know where to look for it. The schools are good. The people are nice. I have loads of friends and family nearby.

I’m happy here.

Nevertheless, there are times when my family and I need a break from this wasteland of fast food, strip malls, and aluminum siding. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that of the three of us, my husband feels the urge to get away most strongly. After living half of his life near the ocean, every day he spends away from the sea kills off a small part of him and his hot, tight body-boarding butt cheeks.

My husband his hot, tight bodyboarding butt cheeks.
My husband and his hot, tight body-boarding butt cheeks.

So we save our pennies, and journey to the West Coast whenever we can.

We spend the majority of our vacation time in San Francisco, as that’s the city my sister Cheeks calls home. It works out well. The menfolk spend their time doing outdoorsy stuff, and the womenfolk spend their time crabbing about having to do outdoorsy stuff.

My sister’s boobs taking a nap in Dolores Park.

As many of you know, San Francisco is a very unique and diverse place, and in many ways it is the antithesis of where I live. Because of this, whenever my family and I go there, we try and do things that we can’t do at home. We visit Ocean Beach and Golden Gate Park, Sausalito and Angel Island, Haight-Ashbury and the Mission District.

And of course, the naked bathhouses.

****record screeches***

Let me explain.

A few years back, when my son was four and AWFUL, my family was planning a trip to San Francisco when Cheeks assessed—quite correctly—that I needed some girl time.

“I’d like to take you to a spa,” she said.

“Omg. That sounds awesome,” I replied.

“I need to warn you. It’s a … different kind of spa.”

“What do you mean?” I asked warily.

“Well,” said Cheeks. “I haven’t been there yet, so I don’t know the exact details. But it’s a Japanese bathhouse. And you have to be naked.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaha” I laughed.

But she wasn’t kidding.

Cheeks sent me a link so that I could read about the place. We looked over the web site together, spending about .000001 seconds reading about the spa’s actual services, and close to three hours laughing our way through the image gallery, which included pictures of:

“So you just sit in these baths, naked, in front of God and everybody?” I asked Cheeks.

“I guess,” she said. “There’s a whole bathing ritual you’re supposed to follow. I thought it could be fun.”

“Will there be dudes there?”

“No. The men go on different days than the women.”

“Huh,” I remarked.

“So what do you say?” asked my sister. “Do you want to try it?”

I hesitated for a second. Then I realized I was 37 years old and didn’t really give a fuck. “Sure.”

My family landed in San Francisco a week or so later. My sister picked me up at the hotel and took me straight to the spa, which meant I was filthy with travel grime, and badly in need of a shower. (After all, it’s only polite to rinse off before getting into a public bath with a bunch of naked weirdos.)

Fortunately, shower stalls were available at the bathhouse, so I stripped down and got into one. In the meantime, my sister also stripped down, parked herself on a nearby wooden bench, and began rinsing off with a pull-out faucet. The scene looked something like this:

Guys. Stop. I know my art skills are amazing, but you’re just embarrassing yourselves with the constant bouquets and the fan letters and the endless parade of compliments. Seriously. Have some dignity.

Now at this point I feel I should mention that one of the rules of the communal baths is that everyone bathing must be as quiet as possible. Silence is preferred, but you can whisper to someone if absolutely necessary, as long as you do so at the following volume:

10 is normal conversation. 0 is a piece of dandruff landing on a t-shirt.

There is even a mechanism for regulating the noise level in the communal baths—a small gong that bathers can ring to alert rude assholes that they are being too loud.

Yes, you heard me right.


To hit with a mallet.

To keep the room quiet.

I’ll just let that sink in for a second.

Okay, back to the story. My sister and I were completely naked, in front of a bunch of completely naked strangers, and we hadn’t seen each other in a really long time. So naturally we were a little bit giggly and slap-happy. Don’t get me wrong—we were whispering—but apparently we were doing so at a volume above the acceptable level of “a single Kleenex landing on a marshmallow.”

We had barely been in the spa for 5 minutes when:


At which point we were immediately confronted by the angriest naked lady in the history of angry naked ladies.


Managing not to say “do you also have a condition where every sound you MAKE is incredibly loud?”, my sister and I quickly apologized to the insane naked woman who was trying to achieve peace and serenity by bashing on a gong and yelling at strangers.

Ah. Tranquility.

We didn’t say anything to each other from that point forward. We didn’t want any more encounters with hostile ladies of the naked variety. In cowering silence and abject nudity, we began the following bathhouse ritual:

  • The steam room (120 degrees): This was nothing special. It was just a run-of-the-mill steam room—hot and humid and sweaty and boring. However, my sister did have a funny experience while in there, which she texted me later:


  • The dry sauna (140 degrees): This was lovely for about 15 seconds. Then I became a desiccated mummy that had to gulp down 900 glasses of cucumber water just to stay alive.
  • The cold pool (55 degrees): I’ve been swimming off the coast of Maine in 55-degree water, so I thought I had this. But I was wrong. So, so wrong. The minute I submerged my nether parts, my naked labia cracked into a million tiny pieces, and with no bathing suit and accompanying mesh gusset to contain them, they fell off, floated away, and were never heard from again.
  • The hot pool (104 degrees): This was essentially a heated swimming pool, which after the cold bath, was just fine by me. Cheeks and I hung out here for some time, despite the elderly Asian lady who kept following us around the pool and STANDING REALLY UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE TO US. Still, incredibly old naked women with no concept of personal space aside, the hot pool was by far the best part of the ritual.

While we were sitting in the hot baths, Cheeks and I took notice of a woman walking slowly back and forth between the steam room and the dry sauna. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a slow naked tennis ball.

We watched her FOREVER. She was completely fascinating. She was just doing what she was doing, being naked, giving no fucks, pacing slowly between two rooms, but never actually going INTO either one of them.

Then, suddenly, she had a turban.

Cheeks and I blinked. And looked at each other. And looked back at the turban. Where did it come from? When did she have time to put it on? Were the spa’s towels made of magic? Could they simply be willed into turban form? Or was the whole thing like a video game Easter egg, where if you walked back and forth over a specific area a certain number of times, you would unlock a turban?

Cheeks’ rendition of the naked woman and her magic turban, as drawn on my son’s travel-sized magnetic Diego board. I think she’s saying: “Sup.”

After a while, it was time for Cheeks and I to go home. And the minute we set foot outside of the spa and were finally at liberty to laugh our asses off without being gonged into oblivion, that is exactly what we did. It had been such a weird experience that we couldn’t help it. But after a lengthy assessment, we both agreed that we had enjoyed ourselves.

10/10. A++++. Would bathe naked in front of people again.


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.

and panties all in a bunch

1839: Oil on canvas by Edward Delacroix: Tasso à l'hôpital de St Anne Ferrara (Tasso in the Madhouse) - public domain

If you’re a regular fan of this blog, or if you follow me on social media at all, chances are good you’ve already deduced  that yes, I do indeed suffer from a mighty case of depression.

And you would not be wrong.

Still. I wouldn’t go changing your name to “Columbo” just yet. For one thing, you need a fake eyeball, a dirty trench coat, and 38 thousand packs of cigarettes to really sell it. More to the point, you need to be able to crack cases a LOT tougher than this one. I mean, it’s not exactly Unsolved Mysteries over here. I’m pretty sure just about anyone with access to the evidence would come to the same conclusion.

Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we?

  • Given the choice between taking a nap or a shower, I alwZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz
  • I have actually said the words: “I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I am too tired to watch television.”
  • My idea of a good time? Eating vast quantities of Chinese food, then falling asleep instantly.
  • *sees hairbrush* “Not today.”
  • *sees toothbrush* “Nah.”
  • When my husband gets home from a long day at work, I find the best way to greet him is to ugly-cry for 45 minutes about how I stubbed my pinky toe on the washing machine seven hours ago.
  • I have actually thought to myself: “Thank God my son is in school full-time, otherwise when would I watch my six hours of YouTube videos a day?”
  • “My glasses are dirty.” *does nothing about it*
  • “I forgot to put on deodorant.” *does nothing about it*
  • “Is that a skid mark in my underwear?” *does nothing about it*
  • “I’m a month behind on my work.” *binge-watches The Blacklist*

I guess what I’m saying is: Calm your boobs, Sherlock. It wasn’t like you needed to bring in a profiler or anything to figure this shit out.

But worry not, loyal readers. NEVER FEAR. I’m not going to take you through any kind of detailed explanation of my 25-year history of depression, mainly because it’s really boring and not even remotely funny. (Also boring.) I’ll spare you the long litany of my daily complaints, ranging from “I’m sad today” to “I’ll probably be sad tomorrow” to “How long have I been wearing these pajamas?”

That said, I do think you guys might get a laugh out of just how bunched my panties can get over dumb, relatively unimportant shit when I’m in the throes of my depression. Because that part IS actually pretty funny, especially when you’re looking at it from the outside in. AND there’s pictures.

So go burn some microwave popcorn, pull up a chair with a busted spring in it, and get ready to accompany me on a journey through



DUMB SHIT #1: My son’s pajama drawer. Every evening I tell my son to get his pajamas on. Every evening I tell him not to make a huge mess of his pajama drawer. Every evening I walk into his bedroom and find this:

Also? This is actually not even half as bad as it usually is.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: They’re not actually up IN the crack, but they’re definitely threatening to go there. All it would take is one wrong move with a butt cheek.

MANIFESTATION: Wandering around and muttering: “You know what I LOVE? Saying the same damn shit, day after day, to people who can’t even be bothered to pretend that they’re listening. Why no, I’m not being sarcastic! I’m serious as a heart attack over here! Being habitually ignored in my own home truly is the wind beneath my wings.”

MITIGATION: An entire pint of ice cream, eaten alone and in silence, all while glaring and making the obvious statement of not offering any to anyone else.


DUMB SHIT #2: Slicing my toe open while shaving off my toe hairs. I mean, I could just *pluck* my toe hairs. Or I could use a fresh razor blade on my toe hairs instead of the one I’ve been using since September 11th (never forget). Or I could just not do anything at all about my toe hairs because nobody gives an actual fuck. But no! I have to shave them off BECAUSE HAVING NO TOE HAIRS MAKES YOU SUPER HOT. JUST LOOK:

I Photoshopped my toe wrinkles out of this picture *way* more than I care to admit. And you can still see a butt ton of toe wrinkles. So clearly that was a good use of my time.


METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Making a comfortable home in the ass crack, but not so deep that they can’t be dislodged with an awkward chair swivel or an overly animated walk to the restroom.

MANIFESTATION: Crying buck-ass naked on the toilet, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of toe blood with a rapidly disintegrating wad of cheap toilet paper, and repeating “I hate men” over and over again.

MITIGATION: A huge bowl of pasta with cream sauce and extra Parmesan cheese. And don’t you dare forget the garlic bread. Seriously. DON’T FORGET IT. I’ll push your mother down the god damn stairs.


DUMB SHIT #3: The day-old cup of coffee found on the floor next to my husband’s side of the bed. I mean, it makes sense to drink a cup of coffee in bed, doesn’t it? Get that nice big oily jolt of caffeine right before trying to go to sleep? I know that’s what gets me ready for Mr. Sandman. I especially like to not actually finish the coffee, and instead just leave it on the floor for someone else to pick up, or perhaps accidentally drop a dirty sock into. That just sends me straight to dreamland.

If you’re questioning whether or not this photo is staged, I can assure you it is 100% the REAL DEAL.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Where the edges keep darting into your butt crack for what seems to be short recon missions. First the right side, then the left. They’re never all the way in, they’re never all the way out.

MANIFESTATION: Staring at the cup of coffee for a second, then deciding to just leave it there until someone else just fucking deals with it. Slumping both head and shoulders in defeat when the realization hits that NO ONE ELSE is going to fucking deal with it. Then, with a morose sigh and a half-hearted “Eh. FINE,” giving in and bringing the coffee mug down to the dishwasher.

MITIGATION: Writing about it on the Internet for all to read.


DUMB SHIT #4: The person who installed the light switches in my bathroom like THIS:

It’s interesting because there are tools out there that prevent stuff like this from happening. Levels, yardsticks, even the side of a piece of frickin’ printer paper. But no. YOU had to do it freehand, YOU STUPID JACKASS.

METAPHORICAL STATUS OF PANTIES: Practically in the rectum. Will have to be manually dislodged at a later point, when there are sure to be no witnesses. They’ll then go straight into the washing machine because reasons.

MANIFESTATION: A pure, unadulterated hatred of the universe. Sullen, empty threats to “burn this whole jacked-up house to the ground” and “move into a dirty dumpster” because even that would be better than spending one more minute in “this janky pile of shit.”

MITIGATION: Taking two Night-time Mucinex and hitting the sack at 9:30 PM.


So! I hope you guys have enjoyed this little  tour of the ridiculous bunched-panty moments of a depressed person. You know, they say you can’t truly understand someone unless you’ve walked a mile in his or her shoes house slippers linty dollar-store socks with cat hair on them.

I realize that my linty dollar-store socks don’t look particularly appealing. But I’m pretty sure you’d rather walk a mile in these than in a pair of my bunched-up panties.

EDIT: Thanks to Jeff of Jeff and Jill Went Up the Hill for helping out with this piece, despite being in recovery from “the snip.” If you’re feeling generous, check out his blog, or send him a bag of frozen peas. Whichev.

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:
1839: Oil on canvas by Edward Delacroix: Tasso à l’hôpital de St Anne Ferrara (Tasso in the Madhouse) – public domain — modified

the nagging wife


Only kidding.

Sort of.

In all seriousness, the reason that the Nagging Wife has been a comedic trope since time out of mind is because we all know one. Oh, don’t argue with me – we do. If we haven’t been scolded by one, we’ve seen somebody else get scolded by one, or we’ve (gasp!) (the very thought!) (well I never!) been the ones who did the scolding ourselves.

Now wait a minute. Don’t bust out your torches and set me on Internet fire just yet. There’s more to this train of thought. Bear with me.

Hear me out.

While I can’t speak for everyone, I can certainly speak for myself, and I will attest to the fact that as a wife and mothers, I certainly do nag. I nag a lot. Some days it seems like I nag my husband and son from the moment they crawl out of their beds in the morning until the moment they crawl back into their beds at night. I nag them to hurry up. I nag them to pick up their shit. I nag them to do whatever housework they said they would do but never did. I nag them to stop leaving their dirty socks all over Every. Damn. Where.

No, it’s cool. It’s just some of my husband’s dirty socks hanging out on the living room carpet. Two pairs of them. In the exact same place. Because that’s where they go, apparently. No big.

I freely admit I nag. But you know what?

So does my husband.

A lot of husbands do, actually. Probably close to all of them. Except their form of nagging isn’t really considered “nagging.” There’s certainly no pervasive Nagging Husband cliché associated with it. Male nagging generally isn’t thought of as bitchy or grating. It’s not satirized to DEATH on sitcoms or in stand-up comedy routines. It doesn’t make us think of a screeching banshee with a voice like sliding down a razor blade naked.

Which, if you ask me? Is completely and totally unfair.

Because (in my opinion) my husband’s nagging is equal to, if not more annoying than, my own brand. Okay, yes. He doesn’t nag me about chores or parenting or social obligations. He doesn’t nag me about lawn care or car maintenance or any of the other tedious things I nag *him* about.

Still. What he does nag me about is SEX.


And while I’m sure – in fact, I know – that my husband is not the only one guilty of engaging in some prodigious sex-botherin’, I nonetheless can only speak from my own experience. So that’s what I’m going to do.

First I’m going to hit you up with a couple of important facts:

Fact #1: My husband and I have plenty of sex. He’s not hurting. I’ll leave it at that.

Fact #2: I am a woman whom Dan Savage would classify as “Good, Giving, and Game.” Again, I’ll leave it at that.

All right. Now that we’ve established that my husband is not a victim of Bed Death or even Vanilla Sex Life Syndrome, let’s ask ourselves a few questions.

Question #1: Why is my husband’s nagging about sex completely acceptable in our society, when my nagging about other stuff is considered to be irritating, patronizing, and in many situations, downright laughable?

Question #2: Why does he get to complain endlessly and relentlessly about his sexual needs, but when I ask him to do ANYTHING more than once I might as well have transformed into a hysterical griping fishwife?

Question #3: Why does he get to mope around like an unmedicated Eeyore when I say “Not tonight,” but if I dare to get uppity when he leaves 398475394875 used Kleenex all over the house, I’m “treating him like a child” and “he’ll pick them up later.” (He never does.)

I don’t have a good answer to these questions. I wish I did. Because here’s the thing: Sex is not an entitlement. For either partner. In a lot of ways, having sex is just like going out for a nice dinner or watching a movie – it’s something and fun and entertaining that two (or more) people do together. And they decide when to do it, where to do it, and how to do it, together.


And if it doesn’t work out on one particular day? You move on. You wait until the time is right. You don’t grumble and moan and bitch about it every minute of every day until it happens. You don’t make passive-aggressive comments (“remember when we were dating?”) until the other person gives in just to shut you the hell up. You don’t constantly grope someone and make suggestive gestures and throw around overtly sexual comments until… well, I guess that doesn’t really apply to the dinner/movie analogy.

For most people, anyway.


Don’t get me wrong – I love my husband. More than life itself. He’s smart as a whip, gorgeous as hell, and just amazing in every way. And I really do appreciate the fact that he’s still attracted enough to follow me around the house grabbing my ass and making not-so-veiled allusions to butt stuff. But let’s face it. When it comes to sex? He a nagging bitch. And I just think it’s massively unfair that he can consistently ride my ass about doin’ more nasty, but if I tell him to flush the toilet after he pees, I get an eye roll and a “yeah yeah.”

Long story short? Husband, don’t make me get out my rolling pin.

(Though you did say you wanted to do more butt stuff.)


An earlier version of this piece was published in April 2014 on humor/parenting blog Foxy Wine Pocket.

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:
“Taming the Shrew”: Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images; Taming the shrew. T.L. Busby; ca. 1826.; Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0
“Old woman”: Giorgione (1477–1510); English: Old Woman; Date circa 1508; Source/Photographer Web Gallery of Art: Inkscape.svg; This is a faithful photographic reproduction of a two-dimensional, public domain work of art. This work is in the public domain in the United States. — Modified

a christmas chat with cheeks and my girl T


It’s been too long, my loyal so-and-sos! Which is why I wanted to give you guys something funny to read before the holidays. Check it out while you’re waiting in line for seven hours at Target tonight, or while you’re waiting for your kids to FALL ASLEEP GOD DAMN IT on Christmas Eve, or while you’re delivering a big brown Christmas present to the toilet.

Speaking of presents, consider this blog post my holiday gift to you! Albeit a crummy one that you totally don’t even want. And that has the remnants of a scratched-off clearance sticker still on it. And that also looks suspiciously used and gross. “Enjoy!”



  • Love Christmas
  • Think everyone else should love Christmas
  • Are full of the Christmas spirit
  • Are full of any kind of holiday spirit at all
  • Actually enjoy having your kids home over Winter Break
  • Think cooking, cleaning and hosting are JUST! SO! MUCH! FUN!
  • Can get through the holidays without 17 gallons of boozy eggnog
Cheeks and I enjoying some boozy eggnog last Christmas. DEM CHRISTMAS NERLS!hard-returngif

Forging ahead, then? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So a couple of days ago, my sister Cheeks, My Girl T, and I were online having a lovely, cheery, holly-jolly Christmas chat. Except for the lovely, cheery, and holly-jolly parts. What I’m saying is that it was mostly complaining. Complaining about a) men, b) Christmas, and c) men that do nothing to help over Christmas. So, all of them.

Let’s go!

Yay the Christmas tree fell over and broke a ton of ornaments and ruined some presents

Oh no really? Was it the cat?

Nope, it just tipped over


Aww man that sucks so bad

It’s probably because the new carpet is so squishy
The new carpet which is already disgusting and stained everywhere

What did you do? Can you rescue the tree?

Yeah, not only did I have to basically decorate it myself last night, I had to do it again this morning


I also like how I am the only one who can do a dish or wash a clothes

Your husband needs to help more
For reals

Oh like your fiancé is just a paragon of housekeeping lol

Lol well he does clean the dishes at least
But he also cannot wash a clothes

Or change a litter

Oh I don’t do any of the cat chores anymore since two pregnancies
It’s why he hates the cats so much haha

Oh please
I saw the “cleaned” litter

Well I have low standards

Don’t worry my husband doesn’t do it either unless I throw a fit

Your husband really helps out around the tennis court


Kinda like how my fiancé helps out around the sailboat


Oh lord
What a Christmas dumbass

Do you know how many people he has to buy presents for? Like 3.


Me, our son, and his dad.
I’ve done everyone else for him already.

I made my fiancé do his own family and he was on Amazon like… yesterday
Paying a million dollars for shipping

Oh my husband didn’t even get me half the things I wanted because they wouldn’t get here in time
Even though I gave him my Christmas list like 5 weeks ago



Can’t wait! For the food I have to plan and cook!
Can’t wait! For this gift I bought myself and also wrapped for myself!

I especially loved being told four times yesterday that I have no Christmas spirit
I threw a fit

lol good
Want to know what dumbass thing my fiancé did? Chartered a sailboat the whole week of Christmas


He thought it would be fun family times

Fun for who

Certainly not me when I’m getting sick from being below decks with two screaming babies

That’s horrible

I told him he should just go sailing on his own and I wouldn’t mind
But no
He won’t go if he’s not dragging all of us into it
Because FAMILY

That sounds horrible

Lol I do not know WTF

I would have said hell no

“You know what Christmas needs? A sporting adventure!”

“On the high seas!”

I just picked my nail and it shattered and flew into both eyes

Kind of like my Christmas tree


“Merry” Christmas, everyone! “Happy” Holidays!

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.