You Thought She Was Just Taking a Bath. What She Did Next Will Amaze You.

Well kids, it’s about time for another inspirational song installment here at LiterallyNuts. Last time, we responded to Jason Derulo’s questions about our butts and our jeans, and we kindly asked Snoop Dogg not to “take it out” and “wipe it off” around us.

Today, I heard a brand new, ever-progressive song on the radio. The artist is a woman named Tove Lo. I have never heard of this person, because I’m old now. (I hit 28, and suddenly every major recording artist and Oscar winner is like 12 years younger than me.)

If you, too, are 28 and no longer know what the cool kids are listening to, here’s a picture of Ms. Lo for reference:

She's sad because you don't know who she is.

She’s sad because you don’t know who she is.

You may have noticed by now that I super love it when the media portrays women as strong, independent individuals rather than sex objects and idiots, and so of course I knew I loved this song the moment I heard the words “I threw up in the tub.”

Without further ado, I present to you the lyrics to Tove Lo’s “Habits” (with my constructive comments and suggestions, of course!).

“I eat my dinner in my bathtub
Then I go to sexclubs
Watching freaky people gettin’ it on
It doesn’t make me nervous
If anything I’m restless
Yeah, I’ve been around and I’ve seen it all”

Honestly there’s so much goodness going on here that I’m going to have to do this bit by bit.

“I eat my dinner in my bathtub”

No one does this. No, seriously, literally no one does this. It’s unsanitary and really just an accident waiting to happen. Also it’s weird.

“Then I go to sexclubs”

Okay…people probably do that.

“Watching freaky people gettin’ it on”

Is that what you do at sex clubs? Isn’t it quicker just to download porn?

“It doesn’t make me nervous”

That would make me nervous, for a number of reasons. I would probably be like, “Am I bothering these freaky people? I wonder if I’m making them uncomfortable. Should I ask them? No, they’re pretty busy. I don’t think I should touch anything. This is yucky. Where’s the buffet?”

“If anything I’m restless”

Have you tried knitting?

“Yeah, I’ve been around and I’ve seen it all”

Oh, so you have tried knitting. Fair enough.

“I get home, I got the munchies
Binge on all my Twinkies”

Do they still make Twinkies?

“Throw up in the tub”

Why are you BACK in the tub? Do you have anything else in your house besides a tub? Do you have a bed?

“Then I go to sleep”

In the tub, I’m assuming.

“And I drank up all my money
Tasted kinda lonely”

Maybe you should try drinking beverages instead of money.

“You’re gone and I gotta stay
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
Spend my days locked in a haze
Trying to forget you babe
I fall back down
Gotta stay high all my life
To forget I’m missing you
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh”

Ohhhhhh so you’re high. You definitely should have said that earlier. This all makes so much more sense now. Especially the Twinkies.

“Pick up daddies at the playground
How I spend my daytime”

Soooo, like, are these actual daddies? Of children? Are they at the playground with their kids? Because then I think they should probably stay with their kids. If they’re at the playground without their kids, then you 100% should not talk to them.

“Loosen up the frown,
Make them feel alive
I’ll make it fast and greasy
I know my way too easy”

This is a terrible idea. Stop doing this. Also where are their kids during this time?

“Staying in my play pretend”

By “my play pretend” you mean the tub again right?

“Where the fun ain’t got no end
Can’t go home alone again
Need someone to numb the pain

But your tub is at home! You love the tub.

“You’re gone and I gotta stay
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
Spend my days locked in a haze
Trying to forget you babe
I fall back down
Gotta stay high all my life
To forget I’m missing you
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh”


So, like…is this what music is now? Seriously? Just words that don’t really go together and don’t make any sense and we’ve all just decided to sort of accept it?

I’m gonna go throw up in my tub.


How to Tell if You’re a Grown-Up

So I keep wondering when that grown-up switch is going to flip. You know, the one that will up my maturity quotient and make me suddenly think and behave like an adult.

I’ll go to bed a 28-year-old child and, overnight – flip! – I’ll wake up a 28-year-old mature adult ready and able to do mature adult things.

I’ll know it happened because instead of waking up and thinking of all the possible excuses I could give to call in sick to work (let’s see…did I already say my dog died? What about my grandma? Who else can I kill off…) and hating my alarm for existing, I’ll be a morning-loving work-ready woman of the world. I’ll eat something like a bran muffin for breakfast (to stay regular) and go for a quick run to stretch my glutes. (I don’t know what glutes are.)

I’ll jet off to work calm and rested, not hungover and pissed off. I’ll seamlessly balance being a team-player with being assertive and confidant, and all will applaud my work ethic and my many living family members and pets. (Because I’ll have stopped killing them off…you get it.)

When I get home I’ll clean the beautiful house I was able to buy after learning how to save money (and also how “mortgage” works and how one can buy a house and not actually own it for like forty years and why that makes any sense at all). And when I clean, I’ll actually clean, like with solutions and chemicals and rubber gloves, not the way I do it now, which involves a lot of pushing things under my bed and sweeping up a bunch of dog hair and then kicking it under the couch.

I’ll do laundry more than twice a month and wash my sheets more than…um…


Listen, I really don’t wash my sheets a lot. I won’t bore you with facts and data.


I’ll suddenly be able to invest money and do my taxes and know the meaning of terms like “money market account” and “disposable income” (I mean, isn’t that, like, all income? If I dispose of it all on shoes and can’t pay rent it is). I’ll do things like eat balanced meals, even on weekends, and my husband and I will eat dinner at the table instead of on the couch watching Bar Rescue.


I’ll recycle and give money to charity. (And I won’t take “charity” to mean “the liquor store” like I do now.)

I’ll respond to inquiries about jury duty rather than just ignoring them and hoping the FBI has more important things to do than arrest me.

I’ll join a co-ed kickball team and we’ll spend weekends enjoying good-natured tournaments. I will not become overly competitive until everyone refuses to play with me.

I’ll stop wearing flip-flops that are impractical and I’ll start wearing sneakers everywhere, because they’re just better for you.

Obviously, my maternal instinct will kick in (it’s gotta be in there somewhere, right?) and I’ll not only be desperate for children, but have total faith in my ability to raise them to be protective members of society and not serial killers and sociopaths. I won’t think about all the drinking and traveling I can afford to do if I just avoid buying things like diapers or baby food.

I’ll stop watching things like Catfish: The TV Show and start watching things like CNN and The View.

I’ll stop sleeping in until 1:30 on weekends and instead will get up at 7am to get the most out of my day! I’ll go to bed at a reasonable hour every night, but before I do, I’ll always brush my teeth. I’ll even floss them! (That’s gonna hurt like a bitch at first, though. It’s been a while.) I’ll lotion myself up every time I get out of the shower and I’ll use eye cream under my foundation. I’ll never go to bed with a full face of makeup and false eyelashes because I’m too drunk to find a sink.

I’ll put gas in my car before the light’s been on for 27 miles.

I’ll stop using credit cards as my secret unlimited savings account.

I’ll have plans for the future that are more defined than, “Let’s figure out what we need to give up to pay rent this month.”

I’ll stop pouting. I’m a big pouter. Also, I’ll be able to kill bugs myself instead of making my husband do it while I scream in the corner.

I’ll keep up with dentist appointments and eye appointments and always get my yearly checkup. (Full disclosure: I probably haven’t been to the eye doctor in ten years, and haven’t been to the dentist in like three. Luckily I’m probably going to go blind soon, so having no teeth in my head won’t even bother me.)

I won’t even want to watch seven hours of Law and Order: SVU in one sitting while eating pints of ice cream in my pajamas. I’ll be like, “Ew, seven hours of Law and Order: SVU in one sitting while eating pints of ice cream in my pajamas? Gross. Let’s go get mammograms and colonoscopies together instead. Because we’re grown-ups and you can’t be too careful.”


As of today, though, I’m still just a giant adult-sized infant, whining when I’m hungry and occasionally peeing myself. I’ll let you know when the switch flips.

Pizza Is Better Than Exercise

I keep wondering if I’m ever going to like working out.

Or, at the very least, to stop hating it so much.

You know those people who bounce around in $124 lululemon stretchy shorts and say things like, “I love working out!” or “I have to exercise every day or I feel totally gross!,” or “I ran an extra four miles this morning just for fun!”

I hate those people. Also, I think they might be liars.

If you happen to be one of these liars: Shut up already. We get it. You shudder at the idea of binge-watching tv for seventeen hours straight and the thought of gluten makes your skin crawl.

No problem. More pizza for me.

You love breaking a sweat and probably do it without a single hair falling out of place. In fact, your sweat is probably more of a “glisten,” adding a bright, healthy glow, while mine is like someone hung me by the ankles and dipped me into a vat of liquid funk.

(Disclaimer: I don’t mean “funk” like the good kind, like the “bring in da noise, bring in da funk” funk. Just to be clear.)

Basically, while you and your perfect, non-sweaty hair look like this at the gym:

mind-my-gap-7I look more like this:


I mean, working out is awful, right? Can’t we all just agree on that? Mr. Literallynuts and I have been exercising regularly for about two months now, and I’ve been waiting for that moment while I’ll be in the middle of a particularly gruesome workout and suddenly – BAM! – like magic, all my homicidal visions of burning down the gym will fade away and will be replaced by images of toned kittens and puppies. I’ll think, “Man, I love when sweat covers my eyeballs and I can’t see!” or “Feeling like I’m going to pass out in a pile of my own vomit is the BEST!”

Alas, this hasn’t happened. Instead, I continue to hate working out for literally every moment that it’s occurring. I hate the idea of it, I hate driving to it, I hate completing it, and I even hate that moment afterwards when my husband’s like, “Great job!”

Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me, actually, until the gym and the horror that happens there is behind us and I’m safely on my couch. I’m sore and I plan to watch at least fourteen hours of uninterrupted S.V.U.

I worked out for, like, twenty minutes. If that doesn’t earn me sixteen donuts and a week of television in bed, I don’t know what will.

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.

Mistakes My Parents Made: A Look at Childhood in the Eighties

There’s good news and there’s bad news.

The bad news is that it’s been a really long time since my last post, which pretty much destroyed my naive newborn-blog goal of posting once a week. (Two months ago, by the way, I was all, “One post a week? Hogwash! I’ll write a post every single day!” Oh, to be young again.)

The good news, faithful reader, is that during my absence I traveled many miles, to a faraway land only spoken about in the low tones of legends. This place is known as “Florida.” You may have heard of it in such mythical bedtime stories as “Naked Florida Man Killed By Police After Eating Part of Teen’s Face,” or “Florida Man Arrested For Calling 911 After His Cat Was Denied Entry Into A Strip Club,” or even “Topless Woman in a Thong Ransacks Florida McDonald’s, Then Eats Ice Cream,” which, judging by the happy ending, is almost certainly going to be turned into an animated feature by Disney.

If you’re thinking this place sounds too good to be true, you’re wrong. I know, because there reside the two people who made me who received me by Stork Delivery: my parents.

Before the days of Facebook and Instagram and selfies in the bathroom, my mother kept photographic proof that I existed with – wait for it – actual photographs. On paper. She put these photographs in photo albums, which used to be three-dimensional books rather than a link on MySpace. (Surely someone still has a MySpace, right? Cool, good reference on my part.)

During my vacation, I scoured these cracked, yellowing volumes in search of evidence that, lovely as they are, my parents are to blame for the person I am today (crazy, out-of-touch with reality, inexplicably confident, unashamed to laugh openly at my own jokes when no one else is laughing or even present…)

And oh, what evidence did I find.

And so, without further ado, I bring you: Mistakes My Parents Made.

That time that they looked on as their youngest child developed an obvious case of childhood obesity:


Yes, my older sister did and does have giant feet.

That time they waterboarded my sister and thought it was so hilarious they took this picture of it:

My beautiful pictureWhen I showed this to my mom and waited for her to apologize for this clear abuse of power, she said, “It looks like she’s having fun!”

My beautiful picture

Yeah she’s totally into it.

Clearly I knew I was next (notice the look of terror as I arm myself with weaponry):

My beautiful pictureThat time they mistook me for a Cabbage Patch Doll and tried to sell me in a garage sale:

My beautiful picture

That didn’t really happen.

That time they got me wasted:

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

Someone cover up that whoring doll.

This mullet:


Seriously, all my dolls are sluts.

Let’s just take a minute to check this out, okay? The girl in this picture is clearly a sociopath and is like someone you’d see on Killer Kids or Hoarders.

I mean, the ears. The hair. The expression.

IMG_1201 - Version 2

IMG_1201 - Version 3

Don’t turn out the lights.

This excellent example of a positive role model for girls (although, to be fair, we can probably blame this one on the eighties):

Lauren1 001

I still stand that way in pictures.

This hairstyle:

Lauren2 001

So it’s straight on the bottom and teased on the top? No no, don’t change a thing. You. Look. Awesome.

This leiderhosen outfit:

Lauren3 001

Why haven’t we brought back the side pony?

These outfit choices:

Seriously though, those are some big feet.

That is a lot of coordinated cheetah.

As well as these outfit choices:


Is it still a vest if it has sleeves?


Obviously I wore this while I taught P.E.

That Christmas when I was allowed to believe that this was how to smile for pictures:


This is the smile of a child who’s about to eat your face off, à la Florida Man.


My dad definitely still gets underwear every Christmas.


That’s a pretty cool watch though.

These. Haircuts. (I almost can’t even make this one public. Don’t blame my parents…we just didn’t know about hair back then.)


We clearly never had a chance.

That time we needed props for school pictures (again, not so much my parents’ fault as the eighties in general). Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to be coloring?



Speaking of school pictures, that time my parents allowed me to wear the following shirt on the ONE day of the school year that you’re supposed to set the bar high:


Let’s immortalize this one forever.

I could go on, but I’ve become too ashamed. Basically, everything everyone did from like 1978 to around 1994 was just a huge, glaring mistake.

Take a look through your parents’ photos and you’ll see what I mean.

May as well start looking for a good therapist while you’re at it. You’re gonna need it.

Anti-Aging: When Your Oldness is Simply Unacceptable

When exactly did ‘aging’ become absolutely the worst thing a woman could do?


Anti-aging from the people who brought you Silence of the Lambs.

Seriously, watch like six minutes of commercials and you will see three ads for cars (featuring young sexy women if the ad target is men or 20-something sexy moms if the ad target is women), four ads promoting weight loss (featuring young sexy women regardless of the ad’s demographic), and approximately 78,034 ads about aging. Or, rather, the sheer depravity of actually looking as if you are aging.

Basically, if you are a woman, there is no worse thing you can do than age. Really. I mean, you can age in the literal sense, like have birthdays and stop wearing mini-skirts, but you absolutely must never age in the way that involves getting wrinkles or not being sexy. Because being sexy is, as we all know, The Most Important Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. Ever.

And aging is, as we all know, The Most Horrible Thing A Woman Will Ever Do. We know this because the tv tells us so. Think about it: at any given time, your television (and computer and phone and various billboards and store windows and busses and salespeople and magazines and celebrities) are reminding you that you pretty much look like hell. Grey hair? Dye it immediately. Blemishes or dark spots? Try this cleanser. Bags under your eyes? Cover that shit up, girl. Worry lines on your forehead? What – do you not want to get a man? Stretchmarks or cellulite? I literally just threw up in my mouth.

Look younger AND change your ethnicity!

Let’s look at the term “anti-aging” for a moment. What does that actually mean? Do you know what the only real “anti-aging” product is? A gun. And do you know what the advertisement would be? A commercial of a young, sexy woman, with long, flowy, grey-free hair, and she would lay around in peach-colored satin sheets before saying, “Want to really stop the clock on aging? Now you can!” And then she would shoot herself in the face.

Oh, and then she would die. Because anti-aging is being dead. Or it would be some freakish Benjamin Button situation in which you actually get younger and younger with each passing year, and if this happened, I can guarantee that no one would like you. Seriously. You would be like, “Omg you guys! I’ve figured out the secret to anti-aging!” And everyone would be like “Get away from me you terrifying adult toddler!”

Once your shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

Once you shed your old zombie skin, you can re-emerge wearing the skin of the unsuspecting human you just ate.

See the problem here? You really can’t win. This is because the whole “anti-aging” concept is a myth. A hoax. It’s impossible. And yet, it seems to be getting worse.

Maybe our great-grandmothers didn’t have this problem because people only used to live to like 30. Maybe back then, age was revered. People were like, “Yep, made it to 42! High-five.”

Somewhere along the way, though, a woman aging became pretty much synonymous with a woman going on a puppy-murdering spree, or pooping in the heating vent, or eating your leftover Chinese food. Basically, it is NOT OKAY.

So knock it off, already. Either kill yourself or turn into a baby, because anything else is really grossing everyone out.

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby, Volume 1

The other day, a good friend asked me, “Do you ever write anything positive on your blog?”

I mused that over, and realized that I do, in fact, seem to have a penchant for bitter ranting and raving.

Therefor, I decided that now is as good a time as ever to put together a post that’s as cheerful and optimistic as kittens dancing in a bucket of Jell-O. Without further ado, I bring you what’s bound to be the first of many:

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby
Volume 1
  • People who don’t tip at restaurants. If you can afford an inexpensive meal, you can afford an inexpensive tip. If you can afford an extravagant meal, you can afford an extravagant tip. It’s simple math, really. There’s a special place in hell for people who don’t tip their waitstaff, and every meal’s a sneezer. (snEEz-er: noun. Food that was sprinkled with bodily fluids because you’re an asshole.)
  • In general, anyone who is rude to waiters, hostesses, dry cleaners, delivery guys – you’re not a nice person if you’re not nice to your waiter, and no amount of bullshitting will make up for that. (Note to my single friends: if you’re on a first date and the dude is a dick to the waiter, he’s pretty much waving that Red Flag right in your face. Act accordingly.)
  • People who stuff their sweatshirts and suitjackets into the overhead compartments on airplanes. Really? Oh okay, I’ll just shove my rolling suitcase under my ass and prop my feet up on it in this fourteen square inches of space so that your sweater can be comfortable. Does your sweater need anything else? Can I get it a drink? (I’m assuming these aforementioned people are also the non-tippers. They just take their beloved sportsjackets out to dinner and the two are so giddy with lust that no one remembers to tip.)
  • Books with movie covers. This is just in case you were thinking about picking up a book, you see Tom Cruise on the cover and think, “Oh, right, I can just watch this book on my television! Silly me, I can’t believe I almost read. Gross.”
  • The Friends episode I was watching earlier in which Joey announced to his new agent, “I’m 25.” It’s a weird phenomenon to grow older than people who were grownups when you were nine.
  • Also, people who are 25 and are actually making a living at a fulfilling job rather than working six part-times/living with their parents/putting themselves through school/day-drinking and crying round the clock. No one likes a showoff – grab a beer a make some self-sabotaging choices like the rest of us did at your age.
  • People that drive the speed limit in the fast lane. If you do this, no one loves you, and you’re going to die alone. If you drive under the speed limit in the fast lane, you’re clearly some sort of sociopathic terrorist sent here to destroy America.
  • Mornings. Every morning. Without fail. Just once I’d like to have my eyes snap open, a smile already on my lips, my feet poised to bound out of bed like people in orange juice commercials. Instead, I literally make a deal with the devil every single time my alarm clock goes off to let me press snooze just one. more. time. I’m not going to tell you the terms, but let’s just say at some point he’s going to collect and A LOT OF SHIT is gonna go down.
  • People who start sentences with “No offense, but…” Say no more. I already hate you.
  • Girls that wear a full face of makeup at the gym. It’s one thing if you’re coming from work and you’re still sporting some eyeliner; it’s quite another when you clearly put on false lashes and cream blush just before your trip to the elliptical. Working out is awful enough without having your perfect ponytail and painted brows bouncing next to me in the mirror while I’m looking like a sweaty monkey wearing the mask from Scream.
  • Duvet covers. There is absolutely no feasible way to actually fill a duvet cover from end to end and corner to corner with your comforter. It’s physically impossible, because science.
  • Facebook. Okay, don’t get me wrong, I have a facebook because I live on earth but here’s the issue: You know how, sometimes, you’re walking around thinking, “Why, my life is pretty okay!” Maybe you have a job, maybe you’re in a fulfilling relationship or you’re happily single, maybe you just mastered a level of Candy Crush that’s been torturing you for weeks. You take a look in the mirror and say, “I. Am. Awesome.”

Wrong. Facebook is here to remind you that literally every single person you have ever known is doing much better than you are. Haven’t made it to Italy? Everyone you know is studying abroad! Feeling okay about waiting a few years before you walk down the aisle? Sorry, loser, but all your friends have four kids already and they’re loving it. Wondering whether you should have leftover pizza and fistfuls of peanut butter for lunch? All the girls you went to school with are busy shucking their own pesticide-free organic corn to make homemade fiber bars for the homeless. Loving the way you look in that new bathing suit? Come on, fatty, everyone else is doing crossfit and living on chia seeds alone.

Facebook is like the world’s snooty, suck-up coworker who exists to prove that you actually suck way more than you thought you did, and that all of your accomplishments are like seven years later than everyone else’s. Nice try, failure.

If You Don’t Want Your Vagina on Facebook, Don’t Bring it to Work With You

You know, just yesterday I was whining about how my mind was empty of things to write about and worrying that I’d reached my blogging peak after just five little posts.

And then, this morning, I woke up to this: Massachusetts court says “upskirt” photos are legal.

Honestly, it’s like the universe swaddled me in a blanket of puppies and whispered, “Here you go. This is just for you.”

In case you missed it, this is pretty much what happened:

A few years ago, a creepy dude was caught taking creepy pictures with his cell phone on a subway train. He wasn’t documenting his dinner for Instagram or finding the perfect selfie angle for his mom (like, you know, a normal person). Instead, he was secretly taking pictures up the skirts of women with whom he was not acquainted.

In other words, he was trying to get shots of strange chicks’ vaginas, or underwear, or butts, or whatever. Without their knowledge.

You know, because it’s super tough to just find pornography online or on television or in a store or in your imagination, and everyone knows it’s way better to make your own. With people who don’t know they’re involved in it. Surprise Porn, as I like to call it (patent pending).

Anyway, so this guy got caught and went to court, as creepy Surprise Porn directors tend to do.

So far, you’re probably nodding along, thinking, “Yes…yes…this all seems to make sense…I, for one, would rather not have my vagina on your iCloud…” because you are a Human Woman and you brazenly assume that the only people who are allowed to enjoy your underwear and what’s beneath it are those who are expressly invited. (I know, I know, we women have gotten so uppity.)

Well stop nodding and lock up your crotches, because here’s the kicker:

Today, Massachusetts’ highest court ruled that the Secret Subway Crotch Photographer was, in fact, engaging in a perfectly legal activity. (Like you, I’m assuming that “highest court” is referring to the amount of pot smoked by these esteemed individuals in order to make such a ruling.)

Here’s why:

According to Chapter 272, Section 105(b) of Massachusetts General Laws,

“Whoever willfully photographs, videotapes or electronically surveils another person who is nude or partially nude, with the intent to secretly conduct or hide such activity, when the other person in such place and circumstance would have a reasonable expectation of privacy in not being so photographed, videotaped or electronically surveilled, and without that person’s knowledge and consent, shall be…punished.” (Emphasis mine.)

According to, the high court ruled that the practice of attempting to photograph up a woman’s skirt on the subway did not violate said law because the women who were photographed while riding Boston public transportation were not nude or partially nude.

Basically, because the women were wearing clothing to cover their sweet-smelling lady-bits, they were not assuming the expectation of the privacy of said lady-bits. Even though…you know…they covered them…for privacy. I know, it’s a brain teaser.

So, since I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl, I’m going to choose to see the silver lining here. The good news is this: for those of you who generally ride the subway butt-ass naked, you’re fully protected under the law! NO ONE has a right to take a picture of your bare undercarriage as long as it’s totally exposed to the world! Thank goodness the law is finally catching up with the times, and I can rub my delicate vaginal skin right on a warm, vomit-stained train seat without fear of someone exploiting my body by taking a photo.

really feel like women and the constant objectification of our bodies is being taken seriously.

There is a downside, however. (I know, I’m really reaching.) The ruling states that the women photographed supposedly were not allowed the expectation of privacy for another reason: They had willingly entered into a public setting.

I mean, if they had just stayed home instead of having the audacity to pay for and ride public transportation (with their vaginas with them, no less!), no one would have bothered with their hoo-has at all! It’s so simple, really: don’t go in public, and the public won’t exploit you! Duh. I mean, it’s sort of like how us ladies should just stop getting raped all the time, rather than assuming that other human beings might not rape us!

I’m really getting so sick of all these women thinking they can just go gallivanting around, vagina in tow, and just expect that no one is going to reach up underneath their clothing and try to snap a secret photo to jerk off to later.

But, for those of you “progressive-type” girls who don’t want to find your vagina getting photobombed on Tumblr, I offer this advice:

Go everywhere naked to legally protect yourself from unwanted photographers.

If you must wear clothing, then stay inside your house. Once you’re out in the world, all bets are off. Your vag is fair game. Do you really need to work and go to school and socialize and shop and pick up your kids, anyway? I mean, at that point, aren’t you really just asking for it? 

Honestly, if you’re taking your vagina outside, you might wanna slap some lipstick on the ol’ girl. Her fifteen minutes of fame could be right around the corner. Of the subway. Where that creepy guy is sitting.