Laces out.

It’s the one day of the year you can be anyone.

You are not who you were born to be.

You can slip out of your own clothes and into someone else’s. You can be dead. You can be a fictional character brought to life. You can be a celebrity. You can change sexes. You can even change from a human, if you really wanted to.

You can attempt murder on Dan Marino because he didn’t place the football with THE LACES OUT. He forced me to miss the kick – thus losing the game – in the final play of Super Bowl XVII against the San Francisco 49ers.


I’m sorry, did I say I attempted murder on Dan Marino? I did not. I meant she.



Lt. Lois Einhorn with the Miami-Dade Police Department attempted murder on Dan Marino. She dolphin-napped Snowflake from the Miami Dolphins. She murdered Roger Podactor. And – she made out with Ace Ventura, the Pet Detective.


She also really needed to lose the damn beard because we could have sacked this contest. But she wouldn’t because EINHORN IS A MAN.



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Who beat Finkle and Einhorn? Who beat a real woman with a sock shoved down her pants and a real man, also with a sock shoved down his pants? Emma’s poor soccer socks.

Well, it wasn’t the reigning Halloween champs – the host and hostess of the night.


It wasn’t Hugh Hefner. Although, there was that one time Finkle met Hef at the Playboy mansion. If you dig through the mansion’s archives, you might find a picture.


Finkle naturally met Andy Reid too. But no, Andy Reid and his Chiefs didn’t beat Finkle. Go Dolphins.


It was them.


The King of Pop and his girlfriend won the Halloween costume contest of 2017. 

Michael’s girlfriend is a huge Dolphins fan.


The biggest shocker of this night – this night, on the one day of the year you can be anyone. On the night you are not who you were born to be.





The traditional morning after picture: Ray Finkle only drinks coffee from his favorite college mug. Oh look! So did Daenerys Targaryen.


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And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”


You know when you were a kid and your mom yelled at you for pulling your sister’s hair?

You knew better but did it anyway. There’s no way of “accidentally” pulling your sister’s hair.

You know after years into adulthood, you get the lecture by the dental hygienist for not flossing well enough?

You’re ashamed because you remembered to floss but you’re also a lazy ass and don’t want to get out of the warm bed and walk on the cold tile floor.


Shame on you.

The index finger shake. The shame shake. The you-knew-better shake.

You know when you’re driving along the road and you think to yourself, ‘I haven’t had a pedicure in a long time. I’m going to treat myself to a pedicure while the kids are at school.’ Good. You deserve it. Sometimes you need to do something for yourself.

I have two daughters. Two daughters that love expensive pedicures. I felt no shame sneaking in a pedicure while my daughters were at school. I was saving money by only paying for myself instead of three full pedicures.

“Do You Lilac It?” by OPI was my color choice. Why, yes I do lilac it. I lilac sitting alone, scrolling my phone, people watching, and reading a book. I found great comfort soaking my feet in hot water while my girls were staring at multiplication flashcards and running a mile in middle school P.E.

School is good for them. I graduated school. I deserved a pedicure alone.

Tap. Tap. 

What the hell.

I put down my book and looked down at the nail tech. She was using her tiny scoop to dig out the sides of my toenail, where the nail meets the skin.

Hm, that’s weird. She tapped the top of my foot. That’s never happened…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh God.

White piles of toe gunk fell from her scoop and rested on top of my foot. I pulled out my phone.

She’s placing the gunk on my foot. Why isn’t she using a towel like everyone else? She’s piling my toe gunk on top of my foot.

My mouth dropped. I looked around the room. No one had white toe gunk in tiny piles on top of their feet. I opened the camera app on my phone and slid the viewer to video. I pushed record and held the phone at a slight angle. I spread my fingers apart on the screen and zoomed.

Tap. Tap.

“Nasty toes. You see this? You nasty toes.”

There it was.


Shame on me.

The index finger point.


Nasty toes. 

I’ve been getting pedicures long enough to know she was showing me I didn’t get enough pedicures. She placed my toe gunk there for all to see.

Tap. Tap.

She tapped my foot with her hand. Code for, “put your foot back in the water.” I waited a second to see if she would wipe the gunk off my foot with her towel. She did not. I closed my eyes and slid my foot back into the water. I could feel the toe gunk release and float up. I wished I was holding up multiplication flash cards for my daughter. I wished I was running a mile with my other daughter. I wished for anywhere but here.

I opened my eyes, saved the video, and closed my phone down. I lifted my right foot.

She shoveled my toe gunk out again.

Tap. Tap.

“See that? You need to keep coming.”

I knew it. She was trying to sell me more pedicures in an odd sales pitch including white toe gunk placed on top of my foot.


Shame on me.

I got a pedicure without my two expensive daughters.


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And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”

Swipe up.

Swipe right.

You’re good-looking.

Swipe left. 

You’re not good-looking.

The terms swipe right and swipe left are terms from the dating app, Tinder.

I am married. I have two daughters, two dogs, a cat, a beautiful home, and my iPhone stores my credit card number for me.

I swipe up. 

I swipe up on Instagram stories. I swipe up all the time. I swipe up when Scott’s asleep next to me. I swipe up in front of his face as he’s talking to me. School car line? Swipe up. Grocery store line? Swipe up! Sitting in the parking lot of the gym? Fling! 

If you’re wondering, “Julie, what the hell are you talking about.”

I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. THE FASHION BLOGGERS ARE RUINING MY LIFE. Ok, my life isn’t ruined. I have a lovely life. But now I’m buying their life and damn, I am rocking this casually draped jacket over my shoulders on this humid 85-degree day.

Cody’s probably going to kill me for posting this but it’s really highlighting my susceptible tendencies, not hers.

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I swipe up.

I can’t stop watching fashion bloggers’ Instagram accounts. It’s like a fashion magazine come to life. I get excited when I see their perfect faces pop up in my feed because it’s like turning a new page. The babies never cry. The toddlers never have meltdowns. The husbands are silent props. The inside of their houses are white. White, you guys. Who has white interior? Fashion bloggers living in a fantasy world. It’s a world where I’m an outsider, looking in. My face is pressed against the window and staring.

Do I want a perfect life? Yes, who wouldn’t. I swipe up for sweaters. Pants. Shoes. Rugs. New restaurants I need to try out. Makeup. Even fresh flowers sitting in my kitchen sink for no reason. Did you know certain nail polish colors trend? They do and I have them.

And do you know what else happens when I swipe up?

I’ll tell you what happens – Scott finds out.

Scott: Hey! What’s this charge? Did you buy something for $89?

Me: What? Oh. What did I buy? It might be the joggers I accidentally bought. Such a good deal for under $50.

Scott: Wait, what did you buy?

Me: $89. I don’t really remember. That might be a rug runner too.

Scott: Ok, well I was just making sure our credit card wasn’t stolen.

Me: Scott, I’m buying Becky’s life. I need help, I think.

Scott: What? Who’s Becky?

Me: Me. I’m Becky. My whole outfit – Becky. Our house decor – Becky. She’s like my own stylist or something. Here, look. She’s a fashion blogger. Her blog’s name is Cella Jane but her real name is Becky. And actually, she lives in Kansas City. Look, she has these swipe ups on her Instagram stories and this is how I shop now.

Scott: Tell Becky Swipe Up that she’s draining our bank account.

Me: I don’t know her personally. But…

Scott: What did you do?

Me: Nothing. I did nothing. It’s just…she works out at Fusion and I haven’t seen her yet. I just want to see her look like crap after a workout. No one escapes Fusion without looking like a drowned rat. I need to see the perfection fall a little bit.

Scott: You are out of control.

Me: Sometimes I see her chipped nail polish in her stories. It makes me feel normal.

Do I know, deep down, every fashion blogger rips ass under the sheets at night? Of course I do.

Being a social influencer is a job. It is a full-time job to appear magazine-perfect through special cameras and photo editing. Ripping ass and waving the sheets towards their husbands’ faces is the behind-the-scenes we’ll never see. Their babies cry. Their toddlers have meltdowns. All couples argue, even on date nights. No one is perfect. I know that.

Do I think Becky Swipe Up will read these words? I’d say the chances are high. Our town is big but not that big. I’m ok with being the woman that looks like a drowned rat and rips ass under the sheets. That’s who I am.

I am a humor writer, not a lifestyle blogger.

But it doesn’t stop me from swiping up. And the rug wasn’t an accident.



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And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”

You need this in your life.

Let’s talk about things. Stuff. Shit you don’t need but want. The crap your friends tell you, “oh my God, you need this.”

Notice I said tell you and not sell you. There’s a huge difference.

I understand people enjoy running an at-home business. Whether it’s selling makeup, jewelry, purses, skin care treatments, leggings, tupperware, is tupperware still a thing? Their target market is you – their friend. I will always buy from friends. It’s not that I’m necessarily sold on a product but I’ll buy from you because I’m your friend.

I’m not trying to sell anything.

No, I take that back.

You need to buy my book. Here’s the sales link if you want to buy an autographed copy –  “But Did You Die?” by A Bunch of Know It Alls.

I’m getting off topic. Selling my book isn’t the point of the post.

I’m here to tell you about the amazing things you need in your life. I’m your friend and I am not being paid to mention these products or sell them. But you need these in your life right now.

  1. The Righteous Butter Body Lotion You know when you walk in a room and someone smells good? But then you feel weird going around the room sniffing everyone? You leave and you wonder, “who smelled so good? Who smelled like heaven on earth? They are probably at home enveloped in a big knit blanket with a book and a glass of wine.” It’s this lotion. That’s the secret. Whoever smelled amazing had this lotion. I get called out every time I go somewhere – you smell so good! Oh, I know. I smell my arms all day.


2. Yay Labs Softshell Ice Cream Ball Anything that can keep my kids entertained when I don’t have to gets a shoutout. It’s called awesome kid shit. It’s an ice cream maker. I purchased this a few years ago at a local toy store. I was looking for a birthday gift for someone else’s kid when I found the ice cream ball for my daughters to make me homemade ice cream. This ball gets used all the time. It gets used by my (toddler) nephew to the tweens on the block. It comes with ice cream recipes (or healthier all-fruit sorbets) but you can use your own recipes too. You add the liquid in the cylinder in the middle. On the opposite side of the ball, you add the ice and rock salt. And then the kids go outside and kick, roll, shake, play kickball with the ice cream ball – hell, I don’t know what they do out there. I send them outside and they come back with ice cream.

* If we’re being honest here, the quart size only makes enough for 2 or 3 kids. If there’s a group of kids, they fight. I wish it could hold more ice cream.


3. Murchinson-Hume Dish Soap in Original Fig  OH MY GOD. Back to scents – this soap, you guys. I found it at The Container Store last year. Scott gave it a side-eye. Yes, it’s in a fancy container which may hint that it’s pricer than Dawn dish soap. It does cost more. It’s a splurge. I can save a buck or ten by buying Dawn dish soap. Or I can have this smell – this smell – in my kitchen. I’m sitting here with my nose in the bottle as I type because I’m trying to describe it. I can’t. It just smells good. Come wash your hands at my house and you will leave smelling your hands all night. I got the hand soap too. I’m about to buy anything that says original fig on this whole damn website. I think it’s made without chemicals or something. Does it clean my dishes better than Dawn? Don’t care.


4. Rent the Runway They say social media has ruined this generation. Maybe it has but you probably wouldn’t be reading this list if it weren’t for social media. Yet, you’re probably like me and have the same dress show up in every picture at weddings. Rent the Runway lets you rent designer clothes for 4 days. You get two of the same dress (in two different sizes) shipped to you a day or two before your event. You wear the one that fits better and return both dresses the next day via UPS. Your rental price includes the shipping and dry cleaning. There is no monthly charge to rent.

* If we’re being honest here, it is nerve wracking wondering until the day before the event, “what if both dresses don’t fit? I’m screwed.” I used Rent the Runway three times and one of the two dresses always fit. Read the reviews. Know where your body flaws are. I’m tall and busty so I look for dresses that are longer with plenty of give up top. If you want $30 off your first rental, use my code on Facebook. I paid $65 for this $500 dress. And Facebook will only see this dress on me once.


5. Fornia Lattice Front Contour Sports Bra I will never be a woman that wears those cute bralets under tank tops or sweaters. I’ve tried. I can’t. My boobs are big and real and cold. They need support and to invert when I’m cold. I found the holy grail of bralets. I have three colors – white, navy, and mustard yellow. I want them all. They’re supportive as a real bra. They’re sturdy and stylish under tank tops. I’m cool, you guys. I’m finally cool. Oh God, the bralet trend is over, isn’t it.

* If we’re being honest here, I don’t wear them to my workout classes. They’re supportive and sturdy but not jumping-and-kickboxing sturdy. I’m a DD cup and I’m wearing a L-XL here.


And there you go. Things you need because you’re my BFF. Don’t forget you also need to buy my book. –  “But Did You Die?” by A Bunch of Know It Alls.


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The birth of Kate.

Good evening.

It’s May 7, 2017. Kate is eight years old today.

It’s story time here on the blog.

I can’t think of a better story than the birth of Kate. I’ve never written Kate’s birth story. I’m a little surprised at this because birth stories are one of those staple stories we, as parents, tell one another. Placentas, foot-long needles to the spine, a smear of poo on your baby as it slides out – I mean, there’s no filter when it comes to birth stories. No, I didn’t poo on Kate.

Before I begin the story, I will tell you I am feeling more pain now than I did eight years ago. That’s because my dumbass decided to book a dugout suite to watch the Kansas City Royals play the Cleveland Indians on the afternoon of May 6th. This normally wouldn’t be a huge deal but the group of people we joined are good storytellers and their stories always include a party bus, two stripper poles, fireball shots, and Prince’s power ballad, Pussy Control.

Back to my daughter’s day of birth –

Kate was due May 17, 2009. On the evening of May 6th, I felt contractions. I couldn’t sleep through them. Once the contractions were five minutes apart, we called my parents to pick up Emma and headed to the hospital around 2 am on May 7th.

I changed into a hospital gown and monitors were wrapped around my belly. The nurse checked my cervix and we waited.

Nurse: No change. You’re at a 3.

Me: No change?! They’re five minutes apart!

Nurse: I’ll wait another hour but if you don’t move, I might have to send you home. You are welcome to walk the hallways and see if that helps.

I walked the hallways with Scott. Another nurse pushed a baby burrito past us in a clear bassinet.

Nurse: Look at this little girl! Her daddy is a Sporting KC player!

Scott: Really? That’s cool!

I stared at the baby. And then looked at the mountain attached to me.

Me: Don’t let anyone upstage you, Kate. GET OUT.

I waddled back to my room. The nurse checked me again.

Nurse: No change. I’m sorry, Julie. I’m going to have to send you back home.

Scott: And do what?

Nurse: Come back when the contractions get stronger or if her water breaks.

Scott: If her water breaks at home, I’ll be delivering a baby at my own house. You better send me with a handbook on how to deliver a baby.


Nurse: You’ll be ok. It’s probably false labor.

Scott: No, you don’t understand. She’s Mexican. Last time she had a baby and her water broke, the baby just flew out of her vagina. And the doctor said she’ll be faster with this one. Get ready for us to be on the news with a highway birth.

Me: Scott, it’s fine. We’ll go.

I walked into the bathroom to change into my own clothes. I held on to the sink. The contraction took my breath away. I walked out to the nurse’s station where Scott was still arguing with the nurse. He was writing down notes on the hospital admittance form.

Scott: So I’ll take the shoelace and tie it around the umbilical cord?

Me: Oh my God. Let’s go.

Scott: This nurse is making a huge mistake. Sending us home like this when you’re clearly in labor.

Scott drove me home. The morning light was just starting to fill the sky with color. I was quiet. The contractions were intensifying.

Scott: I guess I’ll call my parents and tell them false alarm. They’re probably almost to Kansas City by now.

Me: Uh huh.

Scott: Why don’t they induce you? What kind of nurse is that?

Me: Mm.

For the next 30 minutes, Scott drove back to our home. We turned down our street. I felt liquid on my legs. I jumped out of the seat.



Me: Scott. I think. I think my water broke. It’s all wet. Everything is soaked. Scott this can’t happen. Why did she break my water on our street? KATE!!

Scott: Are you sure? Are you sure your water broke?

Me: I know I didn’t pee. It’s gushing. Scott, I can’t stop it. I’m wearing your pajama pants. It’s all over my car! She’s not letting anyone upstage her.

Scott: What?

Me: Just go.

Scott turned around and floored it.

Scott: Damnit. We’re going to hit the morning rush hour traffic.

Scott started to make phone calls. I cried with the pain and the fear of my fast deliveries.


Me: Don’t. Don’t kill us. Scott, you need to hurry.

Another 30 minutes passed and Scott pulled up to the hospital again. A nurse ran out of the emergency department with a wheel chair. I stood up out of the car. Water gushed again. I cried.

Nurse: Yep, your water broke. Let’s go. Dad, park the car and meet her in labor and delivery.

My room sat untouched since I left an hour before. Another nurse walked in.

Nurse: Yep, that’s amniotic fluid. Go change into a gown in the bathroom. If you need to, go ahead and pee too.

I sat on the toilet and peed. I wiped and looked inside the toilet. White flakes were everywhere.

Me: HEY! What is all this? Is something wrong? There’s white flakes in my pee!

The nurse walked in.

Nurse: That’s amniotic fluid. It’s normal. Nice and clear. That’s good.

Me: Oh. Hold on, another contraction. Ok. What happened to the other nurse in here?

Nurse: We had a shift change.

Me: Oh, thank God. No ass ripping.

Nurse: What?

Me: Nothing.

Nurse: I’m going to check you and if you’re far enough, we’ll call the epidural team in here.

Scott arrived. I was at a 6 and the epidural team wheeled their cart in. I finally sat in my bed, relieved I couldn’t feel anything anymore. The nurse walked in again to check me.

Nurse: Wow. You really go fast, don’t you? You’re ready to push!

Me: But I didn’t even get to close my eyes.

Nurse: I’ll call your doctor.

The hospital staff prepped the room. Lights came down out of the ceiling. Stirrups were placed in front of me.

Nurse: Bad news. Your doctor is stuck in traffic.

Scott: Are you kidding me? Can’t one of you deliver her?

Nurse: We could but legally can’t. I’ll call a doctor off the floor. Oh, honey. This baby is falling out.

Another nurse ran in and held Kate’s head. The nurse ran out of the room and ten seconds later a female doctor walked in. She put her hands up, like she was being held hostage.

Doctor: I don’t deliver babies.


Doctor: I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not an obstetrician. I’m a D.O.

Me: You’re not a doctor? What the hell is a D.O.?

I looked at the nurse holding Kate’s head. My legs were spread as far as they could in the angry D.O.’s face.

Oh my God. She’s scared of my big vagina.

Scott: Looks like you’re delivering one now. Someone better catch my daughter or I will.

Nurse: We’ll talk you through it.

I didn’t push. Kate fell into the doctor-but-not-an-obstetrician-doctor’s hands. Kate cried. The nurse took Kate and put her on my chest.

Me: Oh, Kate.

Scott: Hi, Kate! Happy Birthday.

Me: Scott, her hair! She has blonde hair.

My real doctor ran in as the nurse helped Scott cut the cord.

Me: Oh, thank God. Don’t let that woman near me with a needle and thread.

Doctor: I’m so sorry. The traffic. I’ll finish you up. We’re going to deliver the placenta. You might have to push again.

A nurse took Kate away.

Doctor: Beautiful. Placenta looks good. I’m going to stitch you up. What’s your daughter’s name?

Me: Kate. Her name is Kate Audrey.

Scott: Hey! I won the baby football pot! It’s 5-7-9! And 8:30 am!


Happy birthday, Kate! May 7, 2009 at 8:27 a.m. – you never did let that other baby in the hospital upstage you. You always have the best stories.


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It’s called chivalry.

A gentleman should always hold the door open for a lady.

A gentleman should offer his jacket if a lady gets cold.

Is chivalry dead? Not unless the woman kills it. I can open the door myself, thank you. 

The person that gets to the door first should hold the door open for the following person.

Regardless of gender, anyone that wants to give up their coat for a someone that is cold is simply a nice person. Or maybe they’re just hot.

It’s a new era. The 2017 etiquette for men has new rules.

One rule, really.

Flowers are always nice.

No, forget the flowers.

The one rule: never say the word relax. 

I take that back – you can say relax to the brand new mother of your child when you hand her a gift certificate to a spa. “Here, you’ve been up all night. Go relax.”

You can say it on the beach as the waves pull your lover’s feet into the ocean. “You want to grab a slice of pizza and relax on the beach?”

You can say it inside a hot tub in the mountains as you hand your lady a glass of wine. “Here, I thought this would be even more relaxing.”

Hell, I don’t care, you can say it while you load up the kids in the car on a trip to the grocery store on your own. “I’ll run to Target with the kids. Sit here and relax.”

But the second you have an angry woman in front of you – you better start agreeing with whatever nonsense she’s spitting at you. Agree and talk about it later. Trust me. You do NOT – I repeat – you DO NOT utter the word RELAX. See also CALM DOWN. If you include the arms motioning downward, they will be kicked back up.

I will light the town on fire and tell a female cop I discovered arson because I was told to RE-LAX. Oh, hell no. Where’s my torch.

This isn’t a post about Scott and me. This is a post about a little girl finding womanhood.

Scott told Kate to relax.


This adorable photo from the Daddy/Daughter dance shows a reserved 5th grader and her father. And then there’s the 2nd grader, chugging her childhood down her throat because the same father told her to relax.

Kate wasn’t even angry at Scott when it all started. She stomped in our room that morning and showed up next to my side of the bed with her arms crossed.

Kate: I’m mad at Emma.

Me: Just cuddle with us and ignore her.

Kate: No! Mom! But Emma…


I felt a fury ignite in my stomach. It passed.


Scott: Fine, I’ll go with Emma.

Kate: I don’t care. You won’t be going with ME.

Kate stomped out of the room.

Scott: What happened to her?

Me: You told her to relax when she was angry. She’s me now.

Kate felt the fire inside her at age seven. It’s the fire every woman feels when a man tells her to “relax” or “calm down.”

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I had a chat with Kate woman-to-woman. I reminded her he did get her a corsage for the evening. Flowers are always nice. And he would love to have a date on each arm for the night. She must forgive his words. 

She agreed to go to dinner and the dance with Scott.

It’s called chivalry.


Next year, she’s flipping off the camera.


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A hairy situation.

Bloody tampons.

See ya, men!




Did they leave yet?

I’ll wait.

I love having code words to get men out the room. They scatter like a flock of birds when a woman starts running towards them, flapping her arms, and screaming crazy talk.

Just us ladies? Cool.

Men. I don’t understand their minds. I thought I did. I thought I knew Scott. I’ve known the guy for 15 years. Scott is like most men.

The answer is always yes or no with Scott. Scott knows what he likes. He’s messy and unorganized. He’s athletic. He takes pride in opening a jar of spaghetti sauce but he’s not cocky. He loves making others feel better about themselves. He never expects a thank you. And, like all men, he likes pretty women.

He’s also turned off when a woman doesn’t shave her legs.

He’s turned off when a woman doesn’t shave her armpits.

Bikini area. Meh, I don’t think he cares about this one. Unless you’re in a bikini.

Hairy toes. Turn off.

Nose hair. Turn off.

Hairy face. “Why the hell would you shave your face? You’re not shaving your face. Please go get a hobby. I will divorce you if you start shaving your face.”

Scott has a problem with a woman shaving her face. It doesn’t make any sense. I believe I’m correct when saying most men only like hair on a woman’s head. Then Scott threw me for a loop and decided he likes silky smooth legs, soft skin, supple breasts, and a hairy face.

I shaved my face.

He’s not divorcing me. My face looks better. He just hasn’t noticed yet.

It’s not that I have a hairy face. I’m half Mexican but I have a white face and body. I have dark hair but the majority of my hair is on the top of my head. I don’t need to shave my face. I don’t have a mustache or even a single chin hair. I’m not a hairy person.

You see, I got to chatting with some girlfriends and I discovered shaving your face is the new thing to do. We all have peach fuzz on our face. If you remove the fuzz with short little strokes using a facial razor – not our normal leg razor or a men’s facial razor – it exfoliates your face. It also makes it easier for moisturizer to absorb and makeup goes on better.

I bought Finishing Touch Lumina from Target. (This is not a sponsored ad. I’m just telling you what I used.)


See? It’s not a normal razor. And I don’t have makeup on, not that you care because this is girl talk.


Use short little strokes at an angle and BOOM. Silky smooth face. It hasn’t grown back courser or darker. If you want a demo, watch this YouTube video. Hell no, it’s not me on YouTube. I’m awkward on camera.

Or maybe you’re all doing this and I’m the last to know. 

There’s my new beauty secret. Don’t tell Scott.

I can’t say I know how a man’s mind works but I do know a woman’s secrets. Like how we go days, weeks even, without washing a bra. And how we drink our wine with the dead fruit fly in it because that’s what the fruit fly deserves. Or without thinking, we look at the the toilet paper after we wipe. Oh! We love to scrub the dandruff off our scalps before we get in the shower, really digging in good with our fingernails. We will waddle with a piece of toilet paper in our crotch until we can find a tampon…

The men are still here, aren’t they? That’s what you get for eavesdropping.

Women can be just as gross as men.


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The white marlin.



You could pass this picture off as three men holding a white marlin. No one would question it. Just three friends showing off their giant fish before releasing it back into the ocean. A weeklong “man-cation,” as they say, off the coast of the Dominican Republic. 

Really, bulging veins?

I can tell you pictures aren’t always as they seem.

It was an epic battle in the open sea.

A battle against a woman and a white marlin.

And the men called her Hercules. 


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My date with Amy Schumer.

** Warning: This post is rated R. I’m not a G-rated writer by any means but Scott’s grandma reads this and I felt I should post a warning. It’s Amy Schumer, come on. **

I am not a lesbian.

Amy Schumer is not a lesbian either.

But that’s not going to stop me from calling Amy Schumer my date because my go-to male date was crushing on a male deer from a treestand.

Amy did everything right. She told me to put away my cell phone. She never picked up hers. She talked. I listened. She had the wit and delivery to send my ab muscles into spasms. I left wanting more.


Amy Schumer has no idea who I am. I went on a couples date but it wasn’t that kind of date. I picked up an extra 4th ticket from a neighbor when she realized she had to miss Amy Schumer’s performance in Kansas City last night.

Things I learned on my date with Amy Schumer:

  1. Be brave. But if the media or your partner tells you “you’re brave” for showing your body, you have every right to kick their ass with your brave self.
  2. Some – but not all – mothers of sons can’t let their sons go on a date because they want to have sex with their sons themselves. I’ve said this for years, Amy. Mothers of sons are far more intimidating than fathers of daughters. Someone write a sad country song about that.
  3. The sex talk with daughters should also include the vagina smell discussion. Soup. It smells like soup. And that’s ok.
  4. It really isn’t fair to be a woman. Women care too much about what others think. We need to start thinking like a man. Let things go. Don’t let body image bother you. When was the last time you heard a man ask you if he tasted ok? Never, Amy. Never.
  5. Then again, it really isn’t fair to be a man either. You need to get hard. Stay hard. And do all the physical work of moving back and forth, front and back, in and out.  Women get the luxury of just laying there if they want to.
  6. If you want your relationship with your partner to grow closer, travel out of the country together and hope for food poisoning. One of you can shoot military-style -MC16 bullets mixed with a gallon of shit water out of your ass. And the other can push you off the toilet so he can put his face in the porcelain bowl of death. Scott and I went to Mexico once and we can confirm it brought us closer.
  7. We’re all the same stories during a drunken black out in our 20s. Or 30s. No one blacks out and wakes up in their bed next to a yoga mat and a cleaned house. No. You wake up on the floor and you can feel the hate for you radiating from your partner’s sleeping body. When he wakes up, he will tell you everything you did the night before because you don’t remember. Like how you ate a whole package of the “special gummies” even though you were told to only eat one. Then you decided to eat two sleeves of Ritz Crackers dipped in guacamole, only the “guacamole” was butter. Or baking two pizzas and slapping them together to make a sandwich. These are totally Amy’s stories, Scott’s grandma. Not mine, so not mine.
  8. Amy Schumer doesn’t like the Cleveland Indians because the word “Indians” insults the Native Americans. Amy Schumer respects the Kansas City Royals for not being offensive. I didn’t mention during my date that Kansas City’s football team is the Kansas City Chiefs and they play in a stadium named Arrowhead.

Some things are better left unsaid on a first date.


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Dude looks like a lady.

It was a normal Saturday night, really. A small group of neighbors and friends gathered to celebrate a surprise birthday for oh, let’s just call her Chrissy.

While Chrissy ate dinner with her spouse, the preparations began.

The mascara wands whipped out, panty hose pulled on (with the fun prints!), party dresses went over heads and accessories pulled the final look together. Oh, the hair. There were no mom buns or yoga pants because this is Chrissy’s party and Chrissy isn’t that kind of woman. Chrissy is not a plain woman. Oh no, Chrissy is extravagant and her friends were extravagant with her.

The hair was let down. Perfume sprayed. Cleavage up. Nails dry.

And out the door.


Did you know my husband wears a size large maternity dress from Target?

Surprise, Chrissy! 


It was an evening with girlfriends. The men in our lives – gone, tucked away for the night. The real women, with soft skin and curvier hips, watched as the newfound women discovered their female identity.

I can’t write better than the words that came from the pretty mouths of men.

“Hey, do you think I need to touch up my number 5 lipstick while I’m in the bathroom? Will someone go with me?”

“Has anyone sat down to pee yet? It’s…it’s different.”

“My feet are killing me. These heels.”

“Did this wig come with lice? Do you always feel this hot behind your neck?”

“Are you still tucking back?”

“My wife doesn’t let me motorboat her. Will you let me? I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Nip slip! Whoops!”

“Hi, my name is Scotti-with-an-i. Heart dot.” — “Hi, I’m Jamie.”

“You want to go to a Chicago Cubs game if they go to the World Series?” — “Might be expensive. Oh, they’ll pay for us to go if we give them a good lay.” (hand wave at wives)

“Let’s bring Chrissy to the Cubs game. She’ll score us free tickets in somehow.”

“Oh shoot. Forgot my purse at home. Guess someone needs to buy me a drink!”

“Can I have something fruity with vodka?”

“Oh my God! You can’t even taste the vodka in this!”

“I think we all agree that Ty looks the hottest. Hey, Ty! You’re going to be sore in the morning.”

“Did you have any idea how hot your husband looks tonight?”

“Ty’s so pretty. I’m kinda jealous of her now.”

“If Zeus was a lesbian, that is exactly what he’d look like. Kristy, the Roman Goddess, or something.”

“Oh no! I think I lost a nail! Has anyone seen my nail?”

“Metallic nail polish is in right now.”

“Look at this gown! And who are you wearing tonight?” — “The whole football team.”

“Jamie really brought tampons in her purse! What else you have in here?”

“Help me insert this tampon. Please.”

“Well, I can’t go back to the babysitter now. She didn’t see me leave the house. I can’t let her know I look hotter than she does right now.” (hair flip)

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you a hug goodbye. I’ve seen your penis too many times.”

“Ha! Her patty hose ripped. That sucks.” — “Did you know you can fix that with clear nail polish?”

“You need more number 5 lipstick. Have you heard of the number 5?” — “Of course I do! I watched my mom put on the number 5 growing up.”

“Cubbies grand slam! Yay!” (clapping and jumping)

“I’m so flat chested. This sucks. Your boobs look so perky, how did you do that? — “Shhh. It’s a nursing bra.”

“Let’s get Brazilians!”

“Can I see your phone?” — “Sure!” (pulls out phone from bra)

They say you’re supposed to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. These men walked in their wives’ shoes, bras, and necklaces for a night. And they were painful shoes.

They did it for the laughs and for the love.

It was a normal Saturday night, really. Happy Birthday, Chrissy. To many, many more.


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