My Anti-Women #YesAllWomen Post

Okay, so it’s not really “anti-women” per se, but I needed to get your attention. This is important.

The #YesAllWomen campaign is about telling the truth about women’s rights in this country and worldwide. It’s about the fact that yes, in fact, all women have experienced some form of sexual harassment, abuse, or assault at the hands of men. It’s about women and men standing up for other women and telling the world that events like the shooting and stabbing deaths that occurred in Santa Barbara last Friday and the misogyny that provoked them are not uncommon.

Caught up? Awesome.

So anyway, I started checking out the #YesAllWomen campaign on twitter – you should too! It’s interesting, captivating, heartbreaking, and empowering. It’s sometimes eye-opening, and sometimes not.

Here’s some examples of the types of things I was not surprised to see:

Obviously, any time a marginalized group wants to fight back or stand up for their basic rights, the group doing the marginalizing gets all freaked out and fights back. In this case, the marginalized group is us chicks. I want to be clear, however, that the oppressive group is not “all men” but is actually misogynists of any type (which hopefully includes only a small and pathetic subset of “all men”).

As we’ve already discussed, the comments section of anything is where humanity goes to rot and die, and so naturally we’re going to see the ignorant asshole guys who threaten to rape any woman speaking out against rape, or who use the ever-popular “everyone is oppressed” defense.

Par for the course, really.

Here’s what I was surprised to see:

I double-checked each profile just to be certain, but these last few tweets were all composed by women.

Oh, ladies.

Here’s the thing: some men are rapists and abusers and trolls and monsters and misogynists. This is an absolute truth. These men hate women and hate losing control to women and hate women having any power.

And that sucks, and it is absolutely not okay, but we knew that already, and it’s why #YesAllWomen was started in the first place. The whole idea was to get the attention of men and call on them to join us in the fight for equality.

What I didn’t expect was the amount of women-hating women out there. That’s right: to me, if you are a woman, you have certain obligations to other women. You have an absolute responsibility to be a safe haven for women everywhere – for victims of abuse, assault, rape, violence, aggression, hate. You should be the one who takes another woman into your arms and whispers, “I am with you. You’re safe here.”

Every time, every single time, there’s a sexual assault that gets attention in the media, there are women everywhere who condemn the victim for being slutty/stupid/naive/ugly/pretty/fat/skinny/annoying/drunk/high/naked/flirty/popular/lame. There are women everywhere who roll their eyes and shake their heads and exchange knowing glances because she must have been asking for it. What they’re really saying, these women, is, “That would never happen to me. I’m too smart. Too proud. Too cautious. Too sober. I would never let that happen.”

If you’ve ever said any of those things, then it is you, my friend, who ties your best friend’s hands behind her back while her boyfriend punches her in the gut. It is you who holds your sister down while some guy at a party takes advantage of her. It is you who holds open the door to every misogynistic rapist loser looking for a target, because as your voice echoes, “It’s HER FAULT!”, you become another hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cries.

Yes, I feel pretty strongly about this.

Are you a woman? Then you should too.

Being the “cool girl” or the “non-feminist” or the girl who can take a joke isn’t worth stealing the voice of one more victim.

I promise you, one of your best friends or your cousins or your classmates has been raped. I promise you, the last time you made a joke about some girl “asking for it,” someone close to you felt your knife twist into her back.

#YesAllWomen deserve support and compassion and loyalty and respect.

From, yes, all women.


What To Do With That Big Fat Butt: A User’s Manual

So the other day, I heard the new Jason Derulo song on my radio. In case you’re wondering who Jason Derulo is, he’s the guy that yells “Jason Deruloooooooo” at some point in every single one of his songs.


Anyway, the lyrics of this particular song caught my attention, especially when I heard the unmistakable rap stylings of Snoop Dogg (which I just had to Google to learn if his name is spelled with one G or two and found this little gem: “Calvin Cordozar Broadus, Jr., known by his stage names Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Dogg, and later Snoop Lion, is an American rapper, singer-songwriter, and actor.” Snoop LION? When was that? Also, a lion is not a scarier version of a dog, Snoopster. You’re thinking of a cat.)

I digress.

Anyway, after listening to the lyrics of this beautiful song, I feel that I am better prepared to accept true love and respect into my life. I feel admired as a woman of the world. I feel accomplished and successful not for my degrees, not for my various contributions to society, but as the proud owner of a big. fat. butt.

I’d like to share my reaction to Mr. Derulo’s and Mr. Dogg’s various questions and observations about my ass.

The song begins:

“I got one question
How do you fit all that in them jeans?”

Well, guys, usually in the morning I just sort of pull my pants on. I don’t really think about it. I find that if I buy jeans in the appropriate size, it’s not super difficult to fit all that in them jeans.

“You know what to do with that big fat butt…”

It serves a few different purposes, yes.

“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. 
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Just a ittle bittle.” 

Oh. I usually just use my butt for sitting and stuff but I guess I could wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, just a ittle bittle. (Although I think technically it’s “an ittle bittle.”)

“Patty cake, patty cake with no hands
Got me in this club making wedding plans
If I take pictures while you do your dance
I can make you famous on Instagram.”

Um, patty cake is a children’s game. It pretty much requires hands. If you have no hands, you shouldn’t be playing patty cake. If you can play patty cake with your ass cheeks, you are the most talented person in the world and I think I would like to hang out with you.

Also, if someone offers to take pictures while you dance and make you famous on Instagram, you should absolutely call the police. (If they can make you famous on Facebook, though, DO IT.)

“Hot damn it
Your booty like two planets”

I really can’t tell if this is a compliment. Which two planets are we talking about?

“Go ahead, and go ham sammich”

Go get a ham sammich? Like to eat? I am hungry from all the wiggling.

“Whoa, I can’t stand it.”

What the hell? I thought you liked my big sandwichy planet booty, and now you can’t stand it? Fuck you.

“Cause you know what to do with that big fat butt
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Just a ittle bittle.”

Yep, okay, more of that. Done.

“Cadillac, Cadillac, pop that trunk
Let’s take a shot
Alley oops that dunk
Tired of working that 9 to 5
Oh baby let me come and change your life.”

When you say “pop that trunk,” are we still referring to my butt? Cause that doesn’t sound awesome. Also, what if I like my job?

Enter Snoop:

“Shake what your mama gave you
Misbehave you”

My mama doesn’t like it when I misbehave.

“I just wanna strip you, dip you, flip you, bubble bathe you”

Okay, but I already took a shower today. Also if you flip me in the bubble bath I think I’ll drown.

“What they do, taste my rain drops, OK boo?”

No, not okay. I have a feeling that we are not talking about actual rain drops here, and I am offended.

“Now what you will, what you want, what you may do
Completely separated, til I deeply penetrate it”

I’ll have no part of this.

“Then I take it out, and wipe it off
Eat it, ate it, love it, hate it”

Are we eating sandwiches again? And do you love my bootay or do you hate it? I feel like you need to get it together.

“Overstated, underrated, everywhere I been
Can you wiggle, wiggle for the D, O, double G, again?”

Snoop Dogg, you know you look like a wet rat, right?


“Now make it clap
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Now make it clap
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Make it clap
Now make it clap.”

I’d like to meet the woman (or man!) who can clap their ass cheeks. I’ve been standing here trying to accomplish this for ten minutes and my ass refuses to applaud.

“Damn baby you got a bright future behind you.”

So again…we’re not talking about my actual future here, like at my job or in my marriage or anything. We’re literally just talking about my tushie? Oh okay.

I’m off to quit my job and keep practicing my new craft – my future depends on it! (And by “my new craft” I mean “ass-clapping technique”, obviously.)


My Swimsuit Catalogue Doesn’t Know Me At All

So I got the Victoria’s Secret Annual Swim Sale catalogue in the mail yesterday.

I almost didn’t recognize it on my countertop, and for a brief moment thought to myself, “Man, Sports Illustrated is showing quite a bit of ass on their cover.”


I’m pretty sure this is Richard Nixon from behind.

But no, these ass cheeks that are as plump and dimple-free as a photoshopped picture of ass cheeks weren’t meant for my hubby, but for me!

Now, I’m pretty progressive, and I can certainly appreciate a fine ass on a woman as well as the next straight girl. Or lesbian. Or straight guy. Or gay guy. What throws me off, though, is why the Victoria’s Secret catalogue is so sexual just to try to sell me bathing suits. I don’t need it to be sexual…unless I’m using bathing suits wrong.

Like, am I the only woman who can make it to and from the beach without taking any part of my bathing suit off? I usually leave my bottoms on the whole time I’m swimming, but it seems like that may be all wrong.


I’m just gonna take these off for maximum sand in my crotch.


You know how sometimes at the beach you have a spontaneous orgasm while slipping your bottoms off? Me too.

This isn’t just a beach problem, either. The irrepressible need to shed clothing extends to other Victoria’s Secret Model Activities as well, like exercising. (When you’re a Victoria’s Secret Model, you tan, swim, exercise, and eat the occasional sexually suggestive hot dog.)

For the record, if I ever pick you up to go to yoga and you answer the door like this, don’t ever speak to me again.


I don’t really feel like going to topless yoga today, so why don’t you go ahead and leave your shirt on.

The women in the catalogue are capable of feeling one of two emotions: ecstasy or rage.


These seem like a tan line nightmare.


This woman wants to punch you in the teeth. She’s probably just pissed because that is not enough material to adequately cover a vagina. Also, when did the necklace-belt hybrid become a thing?

They start with ecstasy, but then they realize that they’re jutting out their hip so far that they dislocated their pelvis (I made that up but it still sounds terrible) and their joy combusts into anger.


I feel like there’s something slightly off about this photoshop job.

Don’t despair for them, though. Soon enough, the joy returns.

They love eating fruit so much that it sends them into fits of euphoria (but who doesn’t?):



What they don’t love is showing you their face:


Thank goodness they covered her face here. I’m sure it’s HIDEOUS.

You know how sometimes you're on the beach playing peek-a-boo with your fedora and it's so super trendy and adorable? Me too.

You know how sometimes you’re on the beach playing peek-a-boo with your fedora and it’s so super trendy and adorable? Me too.


So you brush all your hair in front of your face and then hold it in place with your hand? Fashion GENIUS.

Thanks, Victoria’s Secret, for reminding me that my face isn’t necessary as long as I have a hot body. Sometimes I forget that and actually try to use my face for things like talking or sharing information. Tomorrow, I’ll remember to just put a bag over my head, slap on my bikini (just the top), and hip-jut my way out the door!


Sidenote: If you’re wondering why the photo quality is so poor, it’s because I used my iPhone to take pictures of my actual paper Victoria’s Secret catalogue. There’s probably a way to download the catalogue online or do some fancy computery stuff, but I don’t really know how to use a computer. Reason number 3928 that I shouldn’t have a blog.

Facebook: Late Night Hate-Reading Since 2004

I’m pretty sure when Mark Zuckerberg came up with Facebook (and by “came up with” I mean apparently stole from these two guys who look like one guy), all he really wanted was a way to discreetly look up ex-girlfriends and judge their choices from the comfort of his own dormroom. The whole point of Facebook, clearly, is to stare at pictures of people you hate and get re-pissed-off at them for whatever made you hate them in the first place.

At least, that’s how I use it.

What is it about Facebook that makes us so desperate to know everything there is to know about everyone we hate?


Seriously, this can’t be just me, right? I can’t be the only loser who stays up until two in the morning typing the names of my sworn enemies into the search bar, only to see faces that I’m aching to punch. With my car.

It’s like self-inflicted torture, and I don’t know why I do it. I can’t help myself. I probably spend more time on Facebook looking at people I don’t like than people I actually do.

Is this weird?


But the thing is, some of the people I hate on Facebook are people that I can’t actually hate in real life. At least, not to their faces, because social convention prohibits it. Like, if you were really mean to me in high school and called me “Ugly Bitch” every.single.time I walked into physics class, but now you’re a husband and father of three and devout Mormon, it would be remiss for me to still hate you for something so petty which happened so long ago. I mean, what am I gonna do, prank call you? Nonsense. We’re all adults now, we all made mistakes, and congratulations on your lovely family!

Just kidding. I still hate you, I hate your whole family, and I’m pretty much hate-reading your Facebook statuses about finger-painting and Jesus.

I think the reason we do the Facebook Hate Read is to confirm our suspicions about enemies from our pasts. Like, if I hate you, I would like validation that you’re a terrible person and I was right about you all this time. Also, I would like to know if you’re fat now.

Did we go on a terrible date six years ago, only to have you tell me three hours in that you think you’re gay? I’m looking your ass up, my friend. Did you make out with my high school boyfriend like five minutes after we broke up? My wine and I will be searching you this evening. Are you an ex-boyfriend, ex-bestie, inexplicably dirty former roommate, or old shitty college hookup? I MUST KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

Also, if you could put up some horribly unflattering pictures of yourself, I would really appreciate it.

Oh Shit, I’m Just Like You: A Mother’s Day Tribute

It’s like a train that’s heading right at you for years and years and years. You see it coming, but you can’t stop it and you can’t get off the tracks.

And just like that, it hits you.

You’ve become your mother.


Oh hey, you have my face.

If your mother is my mother (in which case we should definitely hang out because we’re long lost siblings), this transition from A Unique Individual to Holy Shit I’m a Carbon Copy of My Mom involves the taking on of some specific characteristics. Some are good. Some are less good. For example:

My mom talks unusually fast, as do I. When I was in high school, my friends used to save my voicemails and play them back for me as proof that nothing I said made any sense at all because it was so poorly enunciated and spoken at such lightning speeds. My mom talks so fast that she literally forgets what she’s talking about, as if her words move faster than her brain can even process them. She’ll be in the middle of a story, which will remind her of another story, which will remind her to ask me if I’ve made a doctor’s appointment and how is my husband’s dry skin doing and did I get the newspaper clipping she sent me about how cilantro is good for psoriasis? Oh, I did get it? Then why didn’t I ever mention it and why didn’t I thank her for the card she sent? and then will end the whole diatribe with, “It was a nice time.”

What? What was?

Oh, she’s back on that story she started telling fifteen minutes or a week ago. Try to keep up.

Also, try getting off the phone with someone who has so many words. I’ll say, “Okay mom, I’m walking into work, I gotta go,” and she’ll say, “Okay, I just wanted to tell you not to forget to call your uncle because it’s almost his birthday and it’s not nice to not call people on their birthday, and also you should email your sister because she was asking about you the other day, also she’s not been feeling good, my poor girls are always sick! I hope you’re not getting sick too, you don’t sound very good. Do you have a cough? Is that allergies or a cold? Are you taking anything? Oh that reminds me, please make an appointment to see an eye doctor, because your eyes are so important! They really are. You don’t want to be fifty and have no eyes. I know you think I just say things and you never listen to me but this one is important, because everything I read says that your eyes are the first things to go and that would be so sad, wouldn’t it? Yes it would. You don’t want to not have eyes. So remember to do that. And you have good insurance now so you have no excuse! It’s a good thing you have good insurance. We have the worst insurance. Did I tell you how much your father’s dental work was? THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! There’s three thousand dollars in his mouth! It’s just ridiculous. But it had to be done. When’s the last time you went to the dentist? You know your teeth are so important, everything I read says that you need to be brushing AT LEAST three times a day! I brush after every meal, because I don’t want to lose my teeth! No I don’t. Are you flossing? Please tell me you’re flossing, but don’t lie to me, sometimes I think you lie when you tell me things. I don’t really believe you’re flossing. Anyway say goodbye to me now, I have to go.”

Yep, bye mom.

If you know me well, you know that at any given time I’m about six seconds from completely freaking out. I wouldn’t call myself a “laid-back” person, or one who “rolls with the punches.” No, I’m wound pretty tightly and my stress level is disturbingly high, so much so that my husband has gotten pretty used to saying things like, “Calm down. Just breathe. We’re only deciding what to have for dinner.”

I would like to publicly blame my mother for this.

My mom is capital-N Nervous. She is a champion worrier. She worries about things days, weeks, months before they’re likely to occur, and she worries with passion. If she’s traveling, or I’m traveling, or you’re traveling, any time in the foreseeable future, she’s gonna go ahead and fret about that at least a few weeks in advance. Did you make a list of what to pack? You’re going to forget something, and she just doesn’t want to hear it.

When we talk on the phone, our conversations will be ticking along just fine until she hears the sounds of a car, a person, a siren, or a dog, at which point her voice will drop an octave to worry dark thirty and she’ll say, “Oh no, are you outside? By yourself? You know I don’t like it when you’re outside by yourself,” or “Oh no, you’re home alone? You know I don’t like it when you’re home alone. Lock the doors. Don’t open the doors for anyone,” or “Oh no, you’re driving? You know you shouldn’t be on the phone when you’re driving. Are you looking at the road? Everything I read says that you shouldn’t be on the phone when you’re driving.”

As progressive as she is, I’m pretty sure she would like me to have a gentleman caller escorting me from place to place in a covered wagon. During the day. With a security detail.

Oh, and that reminds me: my mom reads a lot. She reads books, magazines, the newspaper, the internet, and the sides of boxes. She wants you to know that everything she reads says that everything you’re doing is the exact opposite of what you should be doing, and also, apparently you should really be wrapping your cheese in foil or else it will go bad faster, and don’t even get her started on the proper way to store strawberries for maximum freshness.

Seriously, don’t fuck with her strawberry routine. (It has something to do with paper towels and organized rows…I’m not sure, I still don’t really get it. It’s pretty complicated.)

Basically, she’s kind of a know-it-all, and I say that with affection, because so am I. (Um, I developed this entire blog just so I can share my opinions with more people. Everything my mom reads tells her that this blog is the best.)

By now, I think we’ve pretty much established that I am and have always been a fashionista. If there’s any doubt as to where my love of clothes and badass haircuts came from, I invite you to look no further than this photo:

You will never be this cool.

You will never be this cool.

Seriously, I can’t even look at it. It’s like staring directly into the sun. I’m actually sorry for showing it to you, because now you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing that you will never be that awesome.

My bad.

Anyway, back to me and the girl from Ipanema up there.

I like to think that I’m pretty thoughtful, and I attribute that, too, to my mama. She may not remember what the hell she was talking about, but she will sure as shit remember your birthday. And your anniversary. And your kid’s birthday, and your favorite color, and the type of coffee you drink so she can have it waiting for you when you come over.

She goes all out on holidays, and don’t you think for a second that that stopped when her kids grew up. This is a little glimpse into my mom’s spread this past Easter for my 30-year-old husband and me:


There’s another basket but I couldn’t fit it into the frame.

Every time I’m home, my mom tries to give me everything in her house. She goes through the rooms, saying, “Tell me what you need! Do you want this garlic press? Do you need napkins? You should take these rubber gloves for cleaning. Could you use this jacket? Put these beach chairs in your car. Take a jar of peanut butter, I can always get more peanut butter.”

My mom seems to fear that there are no stores where I live.

I’m waiting for the day that I arrive to my parents’ house to find it completely empty, my mom and dad sleeping on a blanket on the floor, having given away all their worldly possessions. I can just hear my mom now: “Do you want this blanket? Go ahead, take it, we don’t need it.”

Sometimes I check just to make sure she’s not secretly dying, since she so readily disposes of her things. She assures me she is not.

Here are some of the ways in which I am nothing like my mother:

She’s a morning person. (You may recall that mornings are my greatest nemesis.) She has more energy than anyone I know, especially me, which is pretty sad because she has a few decades on me. She’s up at 6:30 every. single. day and if you’re not, you’ve basically wasted a huge portion of your life and hers. When my husband and I go home for visits, my mom can barely restrain herself from waking us up, even when she promises the night before to let us “sleep in.” What this actually means is that around 8:30 on Saturday little Joanie is coming bounding into your room, having already vacuumed the floors and done the laundry and shopped for groceries and worked out at the gym, tsk tsk tsking you for having slept in so late and pulling the covers off you like a serial killer in a horror movie.

This is not my favorite.

You may think that my half-naked husband or random slumber-party guests or visiting friends would deter her, but think again. Cover yoself up, she’s coming in.

I sometimes have to remind my mom not to have more than one cup of coffee, because on two, she’s like a junkie on speed. And since she’s pretty much already like a junkie on speed at her baseline, coffee is adding fuel to the fire. Recently we were at breakfast and while my mom was in the bathroom, I had to kindly ask the waiter to cut her off.

Also, she’s a cleaner. (I don’t much care for cleaning, myself.) During my most recent trip, my mom and my dad and I stayed up until two in the morning talking. My mom left for bed and my dad and I continued chatting for a while until I realized it was almost 2:30 and past my bedtime. I headed to the bathroom to wash my face, and instead found my mom cleaning the toilet. At 2:30 in the morning. Duh.


She likes doing it. Really.

I don’t even clean my toilets during the day.

If you stay at my house, bring your laundry, because mom’s gonna get that shit done. Put it in the hamper before bed, and you betta believe your whites will be washed and folded by morning. She just gets more hours in a day. I can’t explain it.

Now, I know, you’re probably thinking that a woman doing her adult daughter’s laundry is ridiculous, and you’re probably also thinking that I seem totally spoiled and rotten.

Yes. Oh, and yes.


MILF alert.

How else are we different? Well, she’s skinny. Always has been, always will be. I’m not sure how I ever lived inside of her teeny little body, but I can only imagine that my giant arms and legs protruded from her belly like the monster from Alien.

She’s also about 4’10. Like a footstool, or a tree stump. You can rest things on her, which is quite a nice perk, actually. You can carry her around in your pocket and feed her M&Ms, but know that she’ll have you up every morning before seven.

When I used to complain to middle school friends that my mom was strict or mean, they would all say, “But she’s so cute!”

Deceptive, I know. But don’t be fooled by the trendy 70’s jumpsuit and Jennifer Lawrence pixie. Joan can be terrifying.

When I was in elementary school, I had to take this horrible medicine three times a day every single day. It was orange and sticky and disgusting and I would gag every time I tried to get it down. My mom would try to hide it in orange juice, on bread, over ice cream, but it was no use. To this day, pulpy orange juice makes me gag.

Anyway, I used to try to find any way possible to avoid taking this crap. I would toss it down the sink or pour it in a drink, but my mom always knew and always made me take it anyway. Until the day I devised The Plan. Every morning I drank hot chocolate made with Swiss Miss. You remember the little packet of powder, right? On the morning of The Plan I stealthily poured my terrible orange medicine into the empty Swiss Miss packet and pushed the packet – medicine included – deep into the trash, congratulating myself on my brilliance. I danced through the school day gleefully, innocent and carefree. It was a simpler time then.

Hours later, I victoriously returned home from school to find my mom sitting quietly on the couch. She didn’t yell or scream – my mom’s not really a yeller. Instead, she just sits. And stares. She waited for me to speak.

“What’s wrong?” I finally asked, knowing in the pit of my stomach that the day of reckoning was upon me.

“Do you have something to tell me?” she asked.

You and I both know that this question is the kiss of death.

I, of course, said no.

She said, “Okay.”

And that was all. That was all! She’s like an terrorist interrogator. She let me retreat into my room, knowing full well that I was done for.

I maybe lasted ten minutes in a sweaty ball on my bedroom floor before coming clean. It didn’t matter, though. She already knew.

She always knew.

4’10 and bone chilling.


She’s laughing at your fear.

Basically, I see, and especially hear, myself turning into my mom more and more every day. Except for the fact that I don’t clean, am incredibly lazy, am not a very good cook, have no patience, don’t like working out, hate mornings, don’t know how to budget, ignore dust, and can drink more than one cup of coffee without turning into a lunatic, we’re practically twins. 

I could certainly do worse.

So thanks, mom, for being a little bit crazy in all the best ways.

Happy Mother’s Day.


A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.

                                                                     ~Tenneva Jordan