The Day I Peed My Shoe. Yesterday, Actually. Yesterday, I Peed My Shoe.

Once upon a time, I wet my shoe.

Not the pretty kind of “wetting my shoe” that’s an adorable misleading statement where I say, “I wet my shoe,” but then I’m all, “J/K! I got my shoe wet with the garden hose while watering the garden. Gotcha!” You know what I mean? Like when you drop a pea on the floor and say, “I peed the floor,” and your nine-year-olds think you’re HILARIOUS and your teenage daughter rolls All the Eyes in All the World and goes, “Stop, Mom. Just stop.” ...  read more

Egg Hunting: Hunger Games Style

Listen. I am not here to tell you there’s a right way to do things and a wrong way to do things. I’m just saying that if your Easter egg hunts don’t involve roofs, duct tape, twine, someone with an engineering degree and a mean streak, children and adults sustaining minor injuries, and at least one person crying, you’re probably screwing up Easter, and Jesus won’t be able to rise from the dead this year, and, therefore, all of humankind will, theologically speaking, be doomed to eternity in the fiery pits of hell without our Risen Savior. ...  read more

A Make-Up Tutorial for the Rest of Us

Wrote three drafts this weekend. Nothing’s done. Not the writing. Not the chores. Nothing except this make-up tutorial I made us this morning. Not, you know, for people looking for something useful or helpful. It’s more of a make-up tutorial for the rest of us.

Enjoy.

Yours truly,

Signature

How to Houseplant

My mom grew roses when I was kid. Gorgeous, HUGE roses with conceited, ruffled petals in every 80s pastel color imaginable, especially all the varieties of peach. She trimmed them, and dead headed the rose hips, and put tar on the end of every cut stalk to make sure the aphids didn’t get to the vulnerable plant, and my brother and I would play in the crab grass while she worked the rose beds, and threaten each other with bodily harm, but we stayed away from the roses because we knew what was good for us. ...  read more

Never Trust a Fart. This Is Why.

Frankly, I’ve had a lot of luck with farts over the course of my lifetime, and, not to brag, but I’m a pretty good farter, socially speaking. I mean, I know how to gently eke one out in public situations to see how it’ll develop, clamping down quickly if it’s too voluminous or odoriferous or loud. Or, alternatively, letting that sucker rip if my audience is my 9 year old boys. I got cocky, I guess, is what I’m saying. And my successful farting career lured me into a false sense of security. ...  read more

How’s It Going?

I’ve been a little quiet this week because I’m under water.

Not a LOT under water.

Just a bit.

Probably.

Maybe.

Although, to be honest, as a person with mental illness, I wouldn’t really know if I was all the way under water, so I’m historically unreliable on the whole self-assessment thing. I mean, what do I know about how I’m doing? NOT MUCH, friends. Not much at all. ...  read more

A Quick, Butt Important Question. In Addition to This One… Guess What’s Better Than Pants?

Hey!

I have a quick question for you.

Guess what’s better than pants?

That’s not the question, though. That’s a lead-up to the real question, which is coming. It’s like a prelude to the question. An appetizer question. The processional question as we prepare for the grand entrance of the real question; like the flowergirl of questions, all cute and tiny, toddling down the aisle and lifting her fluffy, tulle dress over her eyes so we see her princess panties while all the guests giggle and her mommy stage whispers Put. Your. Dress. Down...  read more