Wine


And on Wednesdays We Roofie our Book Club. 3

Last night, I hosted my very first book club. We read “The Girl on The Train” by Paula Hawkins, and I printed out discussion guides with color coded questions. I made caprese salad and Brussels sprouts and this delicious pasta I found on Pinterest that I only slightly over seasoned, and we all had matching dishes and wine glasses. I had a cheese tray on this cool slate and labeled it with chalk: “Artisan White Cheddar” and “Cabernet Gouda.”

Seriously, y’all, this was grown up as shit. (more…)


SURPRISE! I’m not dead. 2

Rejected titles for this post include:

  • My Brain Called in Sick This Week
  • Nobody Uses Homophones Correctly All of the Times
  • Is This Real Life?

Y’all. Reality is by far stranger than fiction. Life is so crazy weird and good and just weird right now that I can’t even write about it yet. I need a few more wine nights with the girls to even be able to find the words for my current reality because I’m pretty sure if someone put a gun to my head to right write a normal post write today I would churn something out alarmingly akin to this. (more…)


7 Scientifically Proven Ineffective Ways to Mend a Broken Heart 9

Whenever someone posts a list, don’t we all just usually scroll through the opener anyway? I’ll save us both some time by skipping the usual pleasantries if you’ll do me a solid and read for more than just skimming the bold lines.

But first, I will say this one thing: I’m relying entirely on empirical evidence in this study. Now, there has been a relatively small sample size (just me), but my approach is similar to the argument that global warming can’t exist because I’m cold right now. If that’s good enough for Steven Colbert and congress, who am I to upend the entire scientific method? (more…)


“… and that’s because none of us got enough love in our childhood.” 3

As a teacher, one of my favorite genres of writing to teach was the persuasive essay.

Maybe it’s because I worked at a law firm in college and fancied myself able to keep most of those misogynistic, self-righteous bastards on their toes. If I told you how many lawyers I’ve been in “relationshits” with, you would understand my not-so-thinly veiled loathing. AND I’M NOT YOUR “SUGAR,” MR. HOLLAND!!!

Maybe it’s because nothing is more entertaining than 150 preteens writing letters to convince you that the driving age should be lowered to thirteen. “My girlfriend lives on the other side of the highway and my mom won’t let me ride my bike that far” is as good a reason as I’ve ever heard.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been known to argue with a wall when I get bored. Let’s be honest… it’s probably that.

Either way, let me dazzle you with my persuasive writing skills as I explore the logos (logical), pathos (emotional), and ethos (credibility) appeals for why you should help me shamelessly whore out the Terrible Poker Face blog. (more…)


Repeat after me… “s-p-e-r-m”

terrible poker face mean girls GIF

For the last 2 hours, I’ve been reading a district level test aloud to one of our 7th graders that doesn’t speak English. Because the universe thinks it’s hysterical to put me in situations where I have to be the more mature person in the room even though my sense of humor is most definitely not suitable for children, it was obviously a test about sexual reproduction. (more…)


Admitting you have a problem is the first step 3

I’m really happy with Romeo. Like I’m actively not writing about how happy I am with him because I’m historically a jinx and also because talking about happy feelings makes me feel about as comfortable as wearing a sandpaper bikini.

But sometimes when I’m over-analyzing our relationship and doing everything I can to make the other shoe drop just to end the agony of waiting and wondering when and if it will BECAUSE HOW CAN SOMETHING THIS GOOD LAST, I feel weird that I don’t have anyone I can call to the bullpen. (more…)


Be Careful What You Wish For

Most days I walk around with my writing cap on, hungrily looking for things to write about. Any writer can tell you (not that I’m a writer, but sometimes I like to dress up and play writer) that no moment is too banal as long as you’ve got the right spin. Occasionally, I’ll make it through the work day without one “writing worthy” moment and start to wish one into existence, hoping that someone will say something ridiculous in the parking lot that I could make fun of or praying for inspiration to drop down out of the heavens and bless me with a story.

Other times my dad calls me after a minimum of 2 bottles of wine and can barely speak.


It isn’t noteworthy that my dad is drunk, though it does stand to mention that my dad is A Drunk. Like a good, ole-fashioned hides the bottles in the closet kind of drunk. He’s also a bipolar narcissist who refuses to acknowledge or treat any of these issues through therapy or medical purposes. The upside is it’s made me interesting, empathetic, and a bad bitch when it comes to a crisis. And it doesn’t take a professional to infer that the downside is that it’s also made me paranoid, angry, and a roller coaster of a girlfriend.

It wasn’t until the last year that I realized my “fear” of intimacy wasn’t actually a fear at all- it was flat out contempt. I was so used to the “I love you” and “you’re my world” comments that would come from my dad to be addled with upwards of five vodka rocks and self-indulgence about how much HE loved and how much HE sacrificed for me. To this day he can’t tell me he loves me without turning it into a poor man’s attempt at a sonnet- maybe because that’s how much he loves me; definitely because that’s how much he loves to paint himself into that role. Even loving his kids was always about him. Everything was always about him. So right up until this year, being adored by a romantic partner made my skin crawl; the wires in my brain had become crossed and when the warm and fuzzies were supposed to light up, instead a silent, seething repulsion was lit. It was a visceral reaction and I would literally become hot with anger or start to have my vision blur or would be convinced I would vomit. While my face I’m sure resembled someone witnessing a car accident, the soundtrack of my mind was more like:

Me to me: Don’t freak out.

Me to him: Pull it together you self-indulgent fuck.

Me to me: Stop it. Let him be nice to you.

Me to him: Who in God’s name do you think you are, telling me that you love me? Are you high?

Me to me: You’re going to die alone.

Me to him: You’ve ruined it. If you don’t let go of my hand, I will break your fingers for fun. Please tell me you just snorted a bunch of adderall and we’ll pretend this never happened.

My psychology doctorate that I’ve earned through following Psychology Today on Facebook and almost a decade of watching Criminal Minds in obsessive yet intermittent bouts has finally allowed me to name the problem and start healing. Oh and the partying so hard that my hair hurt did it’s fair share of helping and hurting as well. It’s a new process though, and most days I’m worried this whole house of cards will crash down and Romeo will realize any semblance of emotional stability I portray is a sham. MOMENTS LIKE THIS ARE EXACTLY WHY I DESERVE MORE CREDIT FOR QUITTING SMOKING.

I’m sure it’s becoming more and more obvious why I’m such a catch. (So much humor disguised as insight will continue to be lost on the world until we can all agree on a sarcasm font.)


I (honestly) love my job.

I mean, get real. No one wants to go to work on all of the days. Even though I actually do love my job, I frequently have days where I spend inordinate amounts of time resenting the fact that I couldn’t just commit my energy to marrying for money. The main reasons this plan never panned out for me is that gold-digging is a full time job that I just couldn’t hold down while starting a kick-ass career in a field that I love, drinking Olivia Pope sized glasses of wine in the company of people I knew I would never sleep with, and wondering why all the tall guys were already taken. (Although, Dear Old Dad used to always say “any man can be 6’2” if he’s got enough money to stand on.” He’s a hopeless romantic, that one.) (more…)