Today I went down to our local community college and turned in a transcript request form in order to determine which classes will transfer, and which ones are incredibly useless in any and all areas of my personal or professional life. (Oh, HAI BILLIARDS “P.E.” CREDIT!)

As an adult student who will be surrounded by people I technically could have parented, I’m understandably a little self conscious about my triumphant return to the wonderful world of education.

Up until I turned in the form, everything was going just swell. I looked around me and convinced myself “I don’t look *that* much older than everyone else!” I mean, I’m obviously no spring chicken at this stage in the game, but I’m not exactly screaming at school children whilst angrily waving a cane to get off my lawn, either.  I looked up at the line of available clerks, and purposely selected an amiable young man to hand in my required paperwork.

Imagine my horror when the young man takes my documents, looks up, smiles, and instead of addressing me with my preferred formality of “smoking hot youthful piece of ass I’ll be thinking about later”, he calls me the most hateful, derogatory term anyone could ever use to describe a woman:  “ma’am.”



Stunned, I retreated from the building into my vehicle. I sat there for a moment wondering when I had crossed that line into ma’amdom. Frantically texting friends and relaying the horrors of the day on Facebook, I briefly considered marching back in there, flashing my tits and screaming “MA’AM?? DO THESE LOOK LIKE MA’AM BOOBS TO YOU? YOU SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WERE JUST WEANED FROM A SET!” Whippersnapper.

Things just got worse from there as I flipped down my mirror visor. Far removed from the soft, dim glow of my bathroom lighting, I examined myself thoroughly in the devil’s mistress otherwise known as “natural light.”

Holy shit. That little fucker was right.

I am a ma’am. A ma’am I am. I do not want to be a ma’am. I do not want that on my cans. I do not want it on my face, I do not want ma’am any place!

Sulking, I drove back home to the safe recesses of the home I keep as dimly lit as a seedy strip club. Spent a few minutes adjusting my boobs to circa 2003 levels and digging around for the Oil of Olay anti aging serum like a heroin addict who misplaced their syringe. I then thought about all the husband upgrading I need to get on if I’m going to be able to collect all that sweet, sweet alimony to pay for my extensive plastic surgery.

Then I remembered something very important: I don’t care.

I’m not sure why I had such a visceral reaction to the “ma’am”. I’m not in denial about it. I’m getting older, which is a privilege not afforded to everyone. This is the same sort of bullshit I wasted my youth on worrying about how fat I was instead of just enjoying the moment. And just as I look back at my “fat” pictures from my 20s wondering when I was ever so slim, I will hopefully live long enough to one day look back on my 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s pictures wondering when I was ever so young.

Until then, I’ll keep my ma’ammaries tucked safely away, safe from traumatizing the 20 year old community college clerks who offend old ladies with respectful language.

Ho’s In My Downline

I am experiencing what Web MD tells me is a “Mid-Life Crisis.”  Now, Web MD has been wrong before, but this is the first self-diagnosis that doesn’t have me dying of some rare tropical disease or malignant cancer…so instead of running to my doctor in a self-induced fit of hysteria, I decided to research this common malady.

Here is what I discovered:

The midlife crisis typically begins between the ages of 35-50.  Granted I am only 24 years and 130 months old, but it seems pretty feasible.

Apparently, the mid-life crisis manifests itself a bit differently in the fairer sex, who often focus on superficial things like appearance, or becoming oversexed and chasing after men 20 years their junior. (First of all, men 20 years younger than me are not men…and secondly, I have WAY too many daddy issues for THAT nonsense). More often than not, however, it has more to do with the “MY CHILDREN ARE SELF SUFFICIENT AND DON’T NEED ME ANYMORE AND I’VE SACRIFICED ALL MY HOPES AND DREAMS AND OMG WHO THE FUCK AM I?” while lamenting you’re not Adriana Lima on the outside, Marilyn Vos Savant on the inside, or Oprah Winfrey in the bank account.

Also key is the crippling inability to make decisions.

I recently DID make a rather sudden decision to turn in my notice at work and go back to school.  I mean, with my children being  8.5 and 15.5, they don’t need me every waking second anymore.  Its only recently set in that I have freedom that I haven’t had since I was a freshly minted high school grad.

I got some surprisingly negative feedback from a host of sources I would not have expected.  Even though I have yet to make any final decisions, I have to admit “chasing my dreams” seems a lot less appealing when people seem so keen to tear them down.  It’s like someone takes every insecurity you ever had, waves it in your face like it’s Dirk Diggler’s penis and screams at you in a foreign language that you’re pretty sure is terrorist in origin but it COULD be that it’s plain English and you’re just too stupid to understand it.   I could probably have left out the bit about Dirk Diggler’s penis because that part actually sounds pretty awesome.

So I’ve had a lot of thinking to do, and I know I have to make a decision or continued to be paralyzed. I think I’ve hit upon something big.  Something wonderful.  Something with flexible hours. Something that combines my talents with my interests while earning a great income.

I’ve decided to become a hooker.

I am taking appointments now and will probably be starting a referral program, so tell your friends! You’re going to want to get in on the ground floor of this great opportunity before I get the herps. Although I’m getting a tramp stamp that says “No Glove, No Love” flanked by dolphins and/or butterflies…I can’t guarantee I’ll be Chlamydia free for long, so act now! Is there a bachelor degree in escorting, because it definitely sounds like something I would pay for.  Major will be Hooking with a minor in Exploiting Wealthy Chubby Chasers.  And of course I’ll have a rewards program, along with special discounts when you bundle services called “Packages for your package”

I feel like escorting is entry level to my ultimate career plan….a promotion to a Madame position is what I ultimately see myself doing.  I understand that hooking is not a career.  Once I get the herps I figure I get myself a great little multi-level marketing scheme going.  Get a bunch of ho’s in my downline, they sign up ho’s under them. Hold a few ho conferences to get them all riled up, excited new “business owners”.  I figure incentives can be like “Get 20 girls to sign up under you, earn a year’s worth of antibiotics” etc.   I’m excited about this. I’ve seen my competition on Craigslist.  I’ll undercut their pricing if I have to in order get my foot/vagina in the door.

I honestly have no idea how I’m not a multi-millionaire already.

….someone should probably alert Web MD someone diagnosed themselves correctly using their information so they can high five each other and weep copiously while muttering “We did it, Norm…after all these years…we finally did it.”

Borden, Bathory, Belle, and You

My teenaged son, Brendan: “Look mom, there’s an article here about the 16 most evil women in history. We should read it and see where you ranked.”

Me:  “HA! I’m not on this list at all. Eat it.”

Brendan: “You probably only didn’t make the cut because you haven’t actually murdered anyone yet.”


“Haven’t actually murdered anyone”.   “Yet”.  So true.  On both counts.

I get this giddy sort of feeling whenever one of my kids calls me evil. That probably means the evil runs so deep, the mere insinuation that I am “pure evil” is downright flattery. In my children’s eyes, I am ranked right up there with Lizzie Borden, Elizabeth Bathory, and Belle Gunness.  I mean, I do my best, but I don’t think I have the testicular fortitude to bludgeon my parents, bathe in the blood of virgins, or murder more than one or two husbands.  Maybe I’m just not confident enough in myself to admit I really do sit amongst the greats.  All I know is, whenever one of them calls me “evil”, I always try to go above and beyond to implement this hell-sourced strength.

As such, I present to you, 5 great ways you can nurture and strengthen that untapped evil potential that lies lurking in your tiny, dark parental heart:

  1. Make them clean their room. Truly an evil that has stood the test of time. The bitching and moaning that spews forth from my offspring’s mouths when this evil request is made is reminiscent of a medieval torture chamber. You can almost hear the faint echos of the tortured souls of the past in the belabored moans, begging, and cries for mercy that ensue from the mere mention of such excruciating manual labor as “making the bed” or “putting your laundry in the clothes basket.”
  2. Personal Grooming. Now if you already have a teenager or child old enough to be interested in cute boys or pretty girls, this can be a wasted evil.  I like to save this one for the 12 and under set.  Oftentimes, I will purposely wait until my 8 year old daughter is tucked into bed,  getting ready to read a few pages in her chapter book before asking:  “HEY….did you brush your teeth tonight?”  The nights I get an infuriated and tearful “WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH” as she stomps into the bathroom, ripped  from the cozy comfort of her bed are all the evil parental validation I really need.
  3. Mom Trolls. As far as I can tell, this is the only real reason anybody has kids.  It’s the ultimate payoff, and if you’ve nurtured your evil properly, it is scary how naturally and effortlessly you can make them wish they were orphans.   Whether you decide to invite them along to the music store only to suddenly “remember” you need to stop and pick out a few new bras first, or decide you don’t like the name you gave them anymore and start calling them “Ulysses” for weeks on end, the mom troll is really a flexible concept and can be customized to your specific child.
  4.  Make sure their homework is done. This is another big one.  The longer you can keep them away from their favorite shows, video games, or other hobbies by making them do homework first, the better.  As we all know, homework is just a huge waste of time developing skills they will never use in the real world such as reading, writing, and basic math.  Killing hookers in Grand Theft Auto V or licking a semi-truck in Goat Simulator are the hard skills that are really going to take them places in life.  By putting less of a concentration on a video game where they can learn real life skills like “how to get your money from your ho and keeping your pimp hand strong”, and more of a concentration on soft skills like “reading”, you are definitely nurturing that evil and experiencing personal growth.
  5.  Make them pick up messes they did not specifically make. Oh, man. I love this one.  There is no more evil thrill than asking your child to do the entire sink of dishes and not just ones they dirtied, or to mop the floor in the entryway where the dogs tracked in mud, or to single handedly clean up the concrete piles of rubble, twisted metal, and dead bodies in any given war torn country.   All such tasks are equal in your child’s eyes. Or alternately, make them pick up messes they DID specifically make.  It doesn’t really matter.  You will still be evil for asking, and you will still be able to feast on their tortured cries, growing stronger by the minute like the dark lord himself.

Now while I can’t guarantee everlasting notoriety and inclusion on “Top Ten Evil Persons” lists, I can guarantee that you’ll frequently be in the #1 spot in your child’s eyes….and being #1 in our child’s eyes is all we can ever ask for.



Titillating Words

My 8 year old daughter, Bailey: “Mom…do you know what tits are?”
Me: “Yes. Don’t use that word. It’s a bad word. Do you know what they are?”
Bailey: “Yeah, they’re boobs. Can I say boobs?”
Me: “Yes.”
Bailey: “Then why can’t I say tits if it means the same thing? How about I just don’t say tits at school.”
Me: “Stop saying that word, now!”
Bailey: “It really doesn’t make any sense that I can’t say tits when it means the exact same thing as boobs.”
Me: “Stop. I mean it.”
Bailey: “Tits.”

While half of you shake your heads disapprovingly and the other half nod knowingly, you have to admit….my foul mouthed 8 year old does have a point. If it means the same thing, why is one inappropriate while another is fine and dandy? I’m sure there’s some big long winded historical essay and peer evaluated research somewhere detailing the why, who, what, when and where….but I can’t even be bothered to supervise my own child’s YouTube adventures that allow her to acquire such language, let alone go through the effort of research.

Now as my husband pointed out, tits doesn’t mean boobs. It’s derivative of teats, which are one specific part of the breast. While I ponder the endless slang terms for various body parts….I have to wonder how “Hoo hoo dilly” and “Cha Cha” made the acceptable list, while others cause pearl clutching and assurance that fainting couches will never truly leave the interior design scene.

To be sure, my daughter has uttered far worse than “tits”.  One winter not so long ago, she stood atop a sledding hill waiting for some teenagers to clear the way, lost her patience and screamed at the top of her scandalous wee lungs: “Hey KIDS!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY!”  And when a redheaded girl screams “Get the fuck out of the way,”  you best be getting the fuck out of the way.  She similarly dropped the F bomb at her fine upstanding Christian preschool repeating various versions of “We don’t say fuck do we mom?  Fuck is a bad word.  It’s not nice to say fuck.  My brother says fuck all the time.” Thankfully her teacher knew that gingers don’t have souls anyway, so I don’t think that Jesus found out.

Now before you finger wag and assume my household is nothing more than a glorified haven for sailors who have been at sea so long that they lost capacity with all forms of communication outside of vulgarity, let me assure you that the dysfunction stems far, far deeper than that. To be honest, I’m not even certain how either of my children are still alive with me at the helm.  I think if it weren’t for Frozen Burritos and Hot Pockets we would never have a hot meal. I’m not even sure what “matching socks” are, but that sounds a lot like something for families who have household staff.

Yet somehow, that pact I made with the devil all those years ago paid off, and despite the occasional lapse in appropriate language use, frequent questionable nutrient intake, and daily lack of matching socks…my kids are pretty great. They are respectful, well mannered, hilarious, intelligent, and every mom-brag on Facebook that makes you want to punch that mother in the face.

I don’t have a fabulous answer for her as to why she can’t say “tits” in place of or alongside “boobs” without getting into a too-deep- for- her- years conversation about certain words carrying more power than they should. While I will be the very first to admit that perhaps an 8 year old latching on to the word “tits” like a dudebro who only gets to see his own isn’t my finest parental moment,  foul language does not translate to bad character. Even if she strung together a series of obscenities so offensive that George Carlin himself came over to our house to shake the hand of the lass who resurrected him from his eternal slumber…she would still be kind. She would still be loving. She would still be smart.

Yes, I keep her in check here and now, but someday she’ll be an adult, move out of my house, and have a life of her own.  While I’m rolling around in my piles of money in my clean, child-free house, I’m sure her colorful vocabulary will have increased ten-fold. And she will still be fucking wonderful.