15% Is Not A Good Tip

Has your life become empty of meaning? Are you spending less time rearing your children and more time drinking alone?

I’ll tell you why:

I haven’t blogged in a while.

Heartbreaking, I know. But here’s what’s up: Due to my monthly loan payments costing more than my rent, I’ve recently begun a second job

…drum roll please…

waiting tables.


This is me.

It’s possible you’ve never waited tables. It’s possible, in fact, that you’re a Kardashian and have never held any menial, shit-pay job whatsoever. Not to worry, though: that’s where I come in! Pull out your trapper keeper and start taking notes, because I’m about to slap your ass with some serious spanks of knowledge.


If you’re an asshole, here’s how to prove it next time you go out to eat. Some ideas:

Avoid looking into your server’s eyes…like…at all. Okay, wait, actually there’s some modifications to this rule. Is your server a robot? A house plant? An ottoman? If so, ignore this suggestion. However, if your server is a human, go ahead and look at him or her when speaking. Maybe, like, you could talk to your server the way you would talk to, like, another human being. (I know – I’m blowing your fucking mind right now.)

Point at what you want on the menu instead of using your words. If I had a nickel for every time someone said, “We’re going to share one of these and then have this, and I think I’d like to start with that,” I would have like four dollars. Do you know how much shit I could buy for four dollars? When you point to shit on the menu instead of actually using the gift of language and sound, I want to teach you to read. Sound it out.

Avoid using words like, “Thank you.” When your server drops something off at your table – say, a new soda or an entree or an extra spoon so you can share dessert (as if sitting on the same side of the booth wasn’t enough of a HEY WORLD WE’RE IN A RELATIONSHIP, please go ahead and share some shit as well), do me a favor and don’t just continue with your conversation as if your diet Coke appeared by magic. Take a hot second to utter the phrase (wait for it) – “thank you”! I know you can do it. Otherwise, expect just a tiny bit of poop in your tiramisu.

Complain about shit that cannot be fixed. For example: some restaurants feature outside seating. If one more mother fucker complains to me about falling leaves or rogue bees, I’m going to flip your table. Also, I’m going to punch you squarely in the throat.

Start your complaint with, “I never complain, but…” Do you know what you did there? You just lied.

Do obnoxious shit. For example: tonight, my husband and I enjoyed a lovely late dinner on the outside patio area of a restaurant. We started eating at around ten pm, long after the sun had set. Inexplicably, a couple seated near us demanded that the large table umbrella near their chairs be raised to cover them. If you’re wondering whether it was raining or sunny, the answers are no and no. There’s no rhyme or reason here, just obnoxious people doing obnoxious shit.

Tip 15%…or less. Listen, here’s where you’re probably thinking, “Pardon me? 15% is an excellent tip, and besides, I shouldn’t be required to pay my waitress!”

Listen, I get it. In fact, I actually agree with you! We live in a pretty ridiculous society which demands that you, the consumer, not only pay for a service, but also provide the paycheck for the person who executes that service. It’s bullshit. In a perfect world (or, in like, almost every other industrialized country), companies would pay their employees a living wage and tips would be superfluous.

Unfortunately, we do not live in such a world. That’s where you come in.

Here’s the thing: the tip you leave your waiter or waitress doesn’t actually go to your waiter or waitress. Part of it does, yes, but some of it also goes to the busboy, the bartender, the food runner, the host or hostess. Let me break it down for you:

Let’s say I work a waitressing shift in which I only have one table. The total bill for that table is exactly $100. My total sales for this shift, then, is $100. At the end of my shift, I tip a percentage of my total sales to the runners, bussers, bartenders, and hosts. In some restaurants, this is as much as 8% of the total sales. So, back to my $100 table. Even if this table leaves me zero tip at all, I still have to pay out 8% to the other people who helped me serve that table. Therefore, if I receive zero dollars on a hundred dollar table, I’m still tipping out eight dollars out of my own pocket.

Sucks, doesn’t it?

So do everyone a favor and leave a good tip – I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that any time someone leaves less than an 18% tip, a kitten gets punched in the face.

Please, don’t leave a bad tip. The kittens are in your hands.



Why You Should Always Write “Amputate This One”

The other night, some friends and I were discussing emergency room horror stories (which is actually pretty redundant and could just be called “emergency room stories” since they’re all horrible) and I recalled this little charmer from my days working on a college campus.

One evening, while living in a dorm (ahh, the start to all great stories), I was awoken by a student crazily pounding up and down the hallway, banging on doors and yelling about baseball. When I confronted the ruckus (shaking my fist in the air and shouting, “You meddling kids!”), I found a kid with a mangled hand and pants around his ankles (because, really, where else should your pants be when you’re bleeding profusely in the middle of the night?).

It turns out he had broken his hand either A) in a barfight or B) while punching walls made out of cinder blocks instead of letting me sleep. (Oh, if everyone received such a punishment for waking me from my slumber.) Either way, he needed medical attention, and being the contractually obligated compassionate person I am, I accompanied him to the hospital.

If you’ve ever been to the emergency room for literally anything, and you’re not a Kardashian, you know what happened next: for the next six hours, my charge slumbered on an uncomfortable chair while I fluctuated between irritation and MIND-NUMBING HOMICIDAL RAGE.

Just before I was going to set the place on fire (screw the sick and needy, I was TIRED), my drunken friend was wheeled off into X-Ray. While I toyed with the idea of breaking off my own arms and using them to beat bystanders, a nurse returned and told me that we would both have to wait another hour or so before they could assemble the cast and set us free.


I end up napping on a discarded hospital bed when they finally take him for his cast, and when they return him to me he’s so sleepy and half-drunk that he immediately falls asleep while I speak to the nurses. They give me his discharge paperwork, we talk about cast maintenance, and we all say our goodbyes.

It’s close to seven in the morning, and I feel hope inside me beginning to swell and bubble up to the surface, wondering what kind of world will greet me outside the hospital doors. What has happened in my absence? Cures for cancer? Flying cars?

I wake up my wee friend so we can depart, and he groggily takes in his new cast. As we say goodbye to the nurse, my buddy mumbles, “Can I just ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she says.

He pushes up the sweatshirt sleeve of his non-plastered hand to reveal a bloodstained, claw-like talon.

“Why did you put the cast on the wrong hand?”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I ended up murdering dozens of people through sheer force of hate.

Just kidding.

No, instead, I took another nap while they broke off the first cast (off of his perfectly undamaged, clean hand) and administered a second, onto the hand that was basically screaming, “I am clearly the hand that is broken. Seriously. I’m literally covered in blood and I look like somebody chewed me up and then rolled over me with a car. Stop looking at that other hand. It’s obviously fine. This couldn’t possibly be any more clear. Wait, what are you doing?? That hand looks PERFECTLY FINE!! Stop putting a cast on it! Stop it!! Wow, you’re really doing it. I can’t believe you just did that. You are a stupid bastard.”

The end.


Things That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby, Volume II

You know what I’ve been meaning to do? Write a list of more things I hate! Obviously, Volume I of Thing That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby was just the tip of the rage-filled iceberg, and thus, I present you with Volume II. You’re welcome.

babypunch (1)

  • Dog hair. Just…all of it…everywhere.
  • Everyone’s aspirations on Pinterest. Spoiler alert: your life will never be that awesome. Ever. Your kids won’t ever fingerpaint your portrait in your super organized and expertly labeled kitchen while you bake organic free-range vegan chicken nuggets out of homemade hemp seeds and your husband chops wood in the backyard to carve into floor to ceiling bookcases lined with black-and-white family portraits you took yourself. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.
This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don't even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You would not.

This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don’t even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You most certainly would not.

  • People who try to make you prove that you know things. For example, I went to Florida State University. Whenever I say, ‘I love FSU!’ or even so much as root for the teams, there’s always that one guy who’s like, ‘I bet you can’t name the running back on the 1994 football team.’ Um, you’re right, I can’t. Do you know what I can do? Smash this beer bottle over your head and then shank you with it. I’ll let you live if you can spell the name of the sixteenth president’s dog walker. Dick.
  • Weather forecasts. Why is that even a thing? Many a day I’ve stood under a plexiglass train station awning, unsuccessfully trying to shield myself from a torrential Sharknado-style downpour, only to have my iPhone weather app look like this:
You're a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

You’re a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

  • Pickles, because I don’t understand them and I think they taste like everything that’s evil. We might not agree on this.
  • College tuition. Like, what exactly am I paying for? I mean, after you pay the professor and, like, heat the classroom, where else is that money going? It’s not funding my textbooks, or my laptop, or, like, getting me a job, so I guess that’s where I’m confused. Do you guys really need $80,000 from me and all my friends? I feel like this is some sort of Ponzi scheme, and at some point I’m going to show up to class only to find the doors boarded up and the word ‘Suckers!’ scrawled across the front.
  • Mondays. They’re the worst. Actually any day that involves work is sort of the worst. Weekends should be 78 days long, and then we should all put in a hard day’s work before the next 78 days of BBQing and sleeping in.
  • People who write TO their babies or pets on Facebook, a la: ‘To my kitty cat, Martin: You’re the best cat ever, and mommy loves you so much! Happy birthday, xoxo.’       Um, if your cat or dog or baby can read your Facebook, you need to send them to work and be making some money off that shit.
  • The fact that there’s an episode of Mtv’s True Life called, “My Boyfriend’s Fed Up With My Weight.” This pretty much sums up my feelings about that:

can't even

  • People who don’t wave at you when you let them in front of you in traffic. Maybe this is a Southern thing, but if I let your ass in, I expect a wave of acknowledgement, a wave that says, “Thank you for this. I can never repay you, but I will never forget you.” And then I will smile and feel pleased with myself for doing such an extraordinarily good deed. (But not before some other asshole tries to jump on the bandwagon and also pull in front of me, as if my generosity of spirit is a free-for-all. Not today, buddy. Back of the line for you!)
  • Stubbing your toe SO HARD that you’re afraid to look down because you’re sure that half your foot is missing and is now a mangled stump in a pool of foot-blood. (And then, like, two seconds later you’re completely fine. Wtf.)
  • When people randomly talk out loud in your vicinity because they clearly want you to comment. For example: you’ll be sitting at work or in class or on the subway and someone is reading the newspaper next to you, let’s say. And you’re both minding your own business, but then that someone says something like, “Wow, that is unbelievable.” Not directly to you – that would be too obvious. No, this is more of a sneak attack, a not-so-subtle subtle plea for acknowledgement. And then you keep not commenting so they become more aggressive and say, ‘I just can’t believe it!’ while giving you the side-eye of desperation. They might add a, “What an interesting story,” or “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” all the while expecting you to finally leap from your seat and shout, “WHAT IS IT?! WHAT?! TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW BECAUSE I AM SO CURIOUS BECAUSE I HAPPENED TO OVERHEAR YOUR EXCITED EXCLAMATIONS!”                                                                                                                                                                                                             Well I just won’t do it. I see right through your little game and I refuse to participate.
  • Competition shows. If we follow reality tv to its logical conclusion, the only possible outcome is The Hunger Games: Sing For Your Life.
  • Romantic comedies. They’re, like, awful. Also, I don’t care what romantic comedy you’re going to see – I can tell you how it goes. Dude and chick meet. They don’t like each other at first and just can’t see eye to eye! (Oh, the shenanigans and misunderstandings that ensue.) Eventually they realize they’re madly in love and come so close to living happily ever after, but then one of them (the dude) does something stupid or wrong or awful (but not so awful that we stop liking him!) and someone else (the chick) finds out about it and boy is she mad! And she cries and then they’re apart but – wait! – the guy returns with a grand romantic gesture (think flash mob, heartstopping proposal-even-though-they’ve-been-broken-up-this-whole-time, or something to do with a dog) and everything’s cool! I just saved you $11.50.

This Week In Pictures

So a lot of stuff has gone down recently. Some of this stuff is funny, and some of it is not funny. Since you’re probably way too busy and important (with things, like, oh I dunno, a job and adult responsibilities) to keep up with everything, and since I’m pretty much glued to my couch watching Lifetime movies, I’ve decided to do you a solid and sort it all out for you.

You know what happened this week that was decidedly not funny? My dog eating shrimp tails and coffee grounds out of our trash can and then…um…gassing us out.

Also not funny: the fact that Eva Mendes is apparently seven months pregnant with the son of God. Ryan Gosling, I thought we agreed that you would only impregnate me.

Additional non-funny recent events: That World Cup score. I know like….absolutely nothing about soccer except that it involves really nice, sculpted calves and sweaty South American men with thick curly hair…I forgot what we were talking about.

You know what is funny? Last week’s Supreme Court ruling about Hobby Lobby and birth control (I’m pretty sure telling people you shop at Hobby Lobby is all the birth control you need, but whatever). It’s funny because it’s such a ridiculously laughable decision, but it’s also not funny because half of the members of the highest court in America basically told women to go fuck themselves. (Cuz you can’t get pregnant that way. Duh.)

That about wraps it up for This Week In Pictures.

Also, I lied about there being pictures. Sometimes I lie. The world is a cruel, disappointing place. It’s best you learn this now.

The Politeness Curse

Recently, Pantene produced a commercial about the compulsion of many women to constantly apologize – for everything. It’s a great ad, so much so that when it depicts a woman starting a conversation with her employer by saying, ‘Good morning,’ rather than, ‘I’m sorry’, my mind was blown because I had literally never even thought of that.

Basically, women are pretty much conditioned to constantly apologize for taking up space. I know this, you know this.

But today, while getting my eyebrows waxed, I had an idea – a musing, if you will – about how I manage to take this compulsion one step further with a little problem I like to call:

The Politeness Curse.

Why do I feel that no matter what anyone does to me, I must not only show gratitude, but make sure they feel wonderful about it?

Some examples:

When I was in college, I got my eyebrows waxed once in a little hole in the wall nail salon. I generally have pretty thick eyebrows, especially then, and I like them that way. However, the salon employee immediately explained to me that my eyebrows were too thick and would look better much thinner. I said, “Oh, I like them thick, I just want them cleaned up a bit,” and she said, “Okay, we make them thin.”

My skin went cold.

Nonetheless, do you think I argued with her? Do you think I said, “Excuse me, but I’m paying for a service and I would like it carried out a certain way, please”?



Who drew those on my face?

Whenever I get my hair cut or colored and it doesn’t go the way I wanted, I will literally sit in disguised horror as the stylist adds pink highlights when I ask for brown (true story) and say nary a word about it. Even when the chick stands back and is all, what do you think? Without fail, I will respond with: “Perfect! I love it. Thank you so much.”

(If you ever give me a gift and I say those words, in that order, I hate everything about it. Sorry.)

If you’re a waiter and you bring me a veggie burger (gross) rather than the steak fajitas I ordered, I will approach the situation like this, “Um, I’m so sorry to do this, but I don’t think this is what I ordered…….”

I will then wait uncomfortably until you come to my aid, hoping you’ll say, “Oh my gosh, you’re right! Let me grab your fajitas.”

If, instead, you say something like, “Nope, you ordered the veggie burger. I’m certain because I never write down orders and just keep track of everything in my mind like a Jedi,” there’s a good chance I’ll say,

“Oh. Of course. So sorry.”

To make matters worse, I should probably mention my tipping compulsion.

To be clear, I spent years in the service industry and think that tipping well for good service is an absolute obligation, not a choice.

My problem is that, if you shave my head bald when I ask for a trim, I will thank you profusely before tipping you 20 percent.

Why?? Why do I do this?

The worse example of my need to please everyone in spite of myself is this:

Before I got married, a good friend came with me to shop for a wedding dress. We went to the trunk show of a designer well out of my price range, at a boutique well out of my price range, just to see different styles.

Within five minutes of being there, my very dear and very pregnant friend dropped the drink she was holding in an opaque travel mug (which the employees, like myself, had probably assumed was water). To our abject horror, the cup was full of a hot pink smoothie, and when the mug hit the ground its contents spewed heavenward like a cartoon geyser with Wile E. Coyote trapped on top.

Smoothie went EVERYWHERE. This is not an exaggeration – thick pink liquid literally seeped into the intricate vintage lace of at least five dresses.

My heart stopped. I considered shoving innocent bystanders out of my way and simply running for my life.

Alas, my 8-months-pregnant friend was in no shape for running, and so we resigned ourselves to whatever consequences the store employees would see fit.

Happily, one of the employees was lovely. She explained that these were sample dresses which couldn’t be sold anyway, that they would simply be sent for cleaning, and that everything was all good.

The other employee?

She wanted us dead. Not just dead, actually – I imagine she wanted to hold our heads down in a bathtub filled with strawberry smoothie until we stopped struggling.

She, of course, was the woman assigned to help me try on dresses.

(You’re probably thinking, why oh why would you stay to try on dresses?? Answer: I felt bad and couldn’t think of a polite way to simply leave. I was kind of just hoping my girlfriend would go into early labor.)

Anyway, I ended up trying on a couple dresses, all the while subjected to the saleswoman’s hateful remarks about my girlfriend (“That’s the worst thing anyone has ever done. She should be embarrassed”) and myself (when I offered to pay for the dresses to be cleaned: “Don’t you think you’ve done enough? You can’t fix this”).

Do you think I said, “Hey lady! Relax! We said we were sorry!”


Do you think I allowed the woman to put me in a $3,000 dress, a $700 sash, and accessories which came to a grand total of well over $5,000?

And then, when she said, “So are you going to buy something after all this or not?” do you think I said, “No thank you, Rude Saleslady.”

If you imagine that’s what I said, you haven’t fully grasped my politeness compulsion.

I took out my credit card (which was not intended to pay for my dress) and agreed to spend over $5,000 on a wedding dress I didn’t really want because I felt bad.


This is not normal.

If you’re balking at how ridiculous I am and what a terrible decision that was, have no fear: my dear smoothie-loving friend saw the terror in my eyes, pulled me aside, and said, “Do you even want this dress?” To which I responded:

“I don’t know.”

(Seems like a reasonable way to feel about a $5,000 purchase, right?)

My friend immediately informed the saleswomen that we would not be making the purchase while I stood cowering in my own fear, barely holding myself back from screaming, “Like me! Like me Rude Saleslady!!”

So my question is this:

Is this another generally female habit? Do you do this? Am I a lunatic? Why must I not only apologize for other people’s issues, but then fall all over myself to make sure that the other people feel good about them?

That’s it for today. If you don’t like this post…I’m really sorry.

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.

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