Thursday, April 30, 2015

10 Signs Your Man is Cheating on You

Yesterday's post about how to drive your man crazy in bed was met with much acclaim, so it's time for a sequel! In addition to publishing articles about how to drive your guy insane in the sack, women's magazines LOVE to give advice like thisabout how to tell if your man is cheating on you. 

I don't need to tell you that O.H.M. knows better than all those bitch ass tricks. Therefore, O.H.M. now presents:

10 Signs Your Man is Cheating On You

1. You come home to find his penis in another woman's vagina (or a man's anus): There's no surer sign that your man is cheating on you than coming home to find his penis inside a woman's vagina that is not yours, or, alternatively, inside a man's anus. This latter discovery is also a pretty good sign that your man is gay (or at least bi), but that's the subject of a subsequent post.

2. You hire a private investigator who takes pictures of your man's penis in another woman's vagina (or in a man's anus): A picture is worth a thousand words, and when you hire a P.I., it's also worth a thousand dollars. Nothing says "your man is cheating" like actual, unaltered photographs of him with his penis inside another human being's bodily orifices.

3. You notice a sudden shift in his physical habits: Your man used to be a couch potato, but suddenly he's going to the gym every day and waxing his nutsack. When you confront him about his new routine, he says "Marie likes me better this way," and you don't even know anyone named Marie.

4. There is suspicious activity on his cell phone: Affairs are high-tech these days. You've always secretly kept tabs on your man's tech habits, and now you see he's changed his 4-digit cell phone pass code to "F-U-C-K." When you unlock it, you discover hundreds of naked pictures of a woman you don't recognize and a slew of sexy text messages from some random woman named "Caroline."

5. There are mysterious charges on his credit card bill: You open your Visa bill one day after work, and see "Lovers' Package for Two" charged to Sandals Resort in Bermuda. Except you've never been to Bermuda, and on the dates in question your man was at a three-day work seminar in Detroit.

6. Inexplicable items tumble out of his suitcase: Your man comes back from a business trip, and you try to be nice and unpack his suitcase only to discover a Victoria Secret's nightie, a half-used box of condoms, and diamond earrings in one of the pockets. You're pretty sure these items aren't yours because you have an IUD, you wear Hanes Her Way hip-huggers, and the nicest piece of jewelry you own is a pair of cat earrings from Claire's.

7. His mood appears distant: You try to engage him in conversation, but your man puts his head in his hands and mutters, "God, Samantha would never do this shit to me." You have no idea who "Samantha" is.

8. He talks in his sleep: Lately, your man's been waking up at night shouting at the top of his lungs, "Fuck me harder Jen, fuck me harder, oh yeah, do it to me! You know I like the rough stuff!" when the only Jen you know is his super hot co-worker that he has been spending a suspicious amount of after-hours time with lately working on some sort of "project."

9. Change in social media status: You check out his Facebook profile and notice that he's changed his relationship status from "married" or "in a relationship" to "it's complicated." Simultaneously, he sends out a tweet in his Twitter feed that says "Best sex of my life last night, thanks Anne!," when your name isn't Anne and he was supposed to be playing poker with the guys last night. Also, he posts a picture on Instagram of him licking someone's ear and that person is in a string bikini and tagged as "Anne."

10. He comes home with lipstick prints all over his collar and forehead: This sign of cheating is as old as dirt. Your man comes home from work with bright red lipstick prints all over his forehead and white button-down collar, and you don't recall kissing his head or putting on lipstick in years. He also has a giant hickey on the left side of his neck and smells like a combo of bourbon, Chanel No. 5, and pussy. Taken together, all of this could mean your man is cheating on you.

Rumor Has It

Gossip is defined as "a rumor or report of an intimate nature" or "a person who habitually reveals personal or sensational facts about others."

Anyone who reads this blog knows that I reveal a lot, but really only about myself--not other people. 

I am accustomed to keeping secrets. My job as a lawyer ethically requires it. And my mom's job as a psychiatrist set an example for me in placing a high premium on confidentiality. 

I would beg to go to work with my mom. I would promise to sit quietly in her office and color while she met with her patients. I would plead with her to disclose the identity of the occasional celebrity I knew she treated. Of course she always refused, and so I absorbed the value of keeping a secret, and the importance of resisting the urge to gossip. I don't always successfully resist that urge, but I try.

There's an expression that "great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about other people." I don't exactly agree with those characterizations, because I don't think they're helpful; they assign flaws to someone's character where flaw should be assigned to the topic of conversation instead.

But I do think it's a pretty bad habit to gossip; to reveal things another person told you in confidence; to repeat secondhand information of suspect veracity; or to talk about other peoples' lives just to fill silence or make idle chatter. It can be tempting--very tempting--to do that. But it's a temptation worth resisting.

Avoiding gossip is a conscious practice for me, so I have a list of five rules to help me do it:

1. I try to listen more than I talk: I talk about myself enough, certainly since I started this blog, so when I am with someone, I try to listen to what they have to say, instead of bombarding them with information about myself--or worse--other people.

2. I try to do unto others: It's the oldest schoolyard rule in the book, but I try to follow it when I ask myself if I'd want the same topic being broached about me, out of my own earshot.

3. I try to set an example for my kids: Little pitchers have big ears, as they say, but I want my kids to learn that gossiping is not a great way to strike up or sustain a conversation. I want to encourage my kids to talk about ideas, or even things, but not other people's business.

4. I try to resist the "brownie": Gossip is like a delicious brownie. It's tempting and unhealthy. It's something you can put out on the table and everyone will enjoy it and gobble it up. But is it worth it? Not usually, or not metaphorically at least. I'd rather eat a real brownie instead.

5.  I try to listen objectively: The truth is subjective, especially when it comes to human relationships, and there are many sides to every story. A given version of a story (including your own) is rarely reliable because it's never objective. And if that's the case, then gossiping just disseminates one particular subjective version of events--it doesn't actually communicate any real information.

Bottom line, I have noticed that the less I gossip, the more I learn, and the richer my life becomes.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

10 Ways to Drive Your Man CRAZY in Bed!

Women's magazines are forever publishing articles like this, purporting to give women advice on ten zillion ways to drive the men in their lives wild, crazy, nuts, bonkers, zany, batshit, and all-around insane in bed.

Well, newsflash! O.H.M. knows better than Cosmopolitan, Redbook, Glamour, and Marie Claire COMBINED. Accordingly, I now present:

10 Ways to Drive Your Man CRAZY in Bed!, by O.H.M.

1. Ignore his penis: Nothing makes a guy CRAZIER than ignoring his penis. Pretend his penis isn't even there by giving it zero attention at all times. That REALLY drives men INSANE!

2. Turn up the thermostat to 75: A really, really hot bedroom makes every man go BONKERS. They go positively NUTS with sweat and discomfort. Turn the temperature up to 75, close every window in the room, and watch your man go BERSERK.

3. Insist on cuddling: If you want to drive your man WILD, simply insist on cuddling for a really, really long time before, during, and after sex. Combine this with item #2 above, (thermostat at 75) and you'll be sure to make him GONZO.

4. Engage in pillow talk about all the women at work who have wronged you: Just as he's getting ready to doze off, launch into a long diatribe about the latest female colleague at work who has unjustly stabbed you in the back during that morning's status meeting. Make sure to take umbrage when he falls asleep mid-tirade. That will drive him MENTAL!

5. Ask him to investigate a mysterious sound: Wake him up in the middle of the night by poking his shoulder hard with your forefinger and asking him to investigate a mysterious sound you are POSITIVE you heard either inside or just outside your home. Men become UNGLUED when awoken from a deep sleep with that request!

6. Straddle his chest and pluck every single gray hair you can find out of his head and eyebrows with a tweezer: As you're getting ready to make love to your man, put on the brakes while you squint and examine all of his gray hairs that require emergency tweezing. Men go PSYCHO when you pluck their gray hairs out one by one!

7. Join him in his morning shower. Then turn the water all the way to freezing cold: If you want to try something extra frisky, jump into the shower with him in the morning, then turn the water all the way to freezing cold and jump out as quickly as you got in. Men just FLIP THE FUCK OUT at this sassy little trick!

8. Leave a playful little note on his pillow that says, "Did you fix the garbage disposal yet?": Nothing gets a guy UNHINGED like being reminded of all the things around the house that need fixing, especially when those reminders come from you. So send him a flirty note or pepper him with text messages in the middle of his workday to let him know you're thinking about your broken dishwasher, leaky roof, or vehicle that appears to need more coolant.

9. Poke him repeatedly to make him stop snoring: Snoring drives you crazy, and being woken up because of snoring drives him PSYCHO! It's a match made in crazy-making heaven! Combine these two crazy-making things by poking him repeatedly and waking him up every ten minutes to make him switch positions and stop snoring.

10. Give him a mouthful of hair: Especially when combined with the 75 degree thermostat (#2) and the cuddling (#3), nothing makes a man go APE-SHIT like a mouthful of hair! Be it hair from your head or *blush* hair "down there," a huge, disgusting mouthful of thick, lustrous hair is something that turns every guy into a raving LUNATIC.

BONUS TRICK: Be spontaneous! Spontaneously insist on analyzing and hashing-out your relationship ad nauseum as soon as you have him trapped under the covers. Make sure you address every last one of your insecurities and issues and discuss "where this is going" and "how we are doing" in excruciating detail. Hit all of those buttons, and your man is SURE to go ABSOLUTELY BALLISTIC!

So listen up vixens, and try these tips to spice up your love life today!

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Die, Packing Peanut, Die!

Several months ago, an internet-meme-turned-real-life-enterprise surfaced to “ship your enemies glitter,” ostensibly because glitter makes a terrific mess, and everyone except Boy George impersonators, the producers of “Disney on Ice,” and six year old girls hates glitter.

Well, there’s something you can ship that's even worse than glitter, and it's sent to people every single day all over the world, be they friend or foe: The packing peanut.

The packing peanut is an unholy abomination, and it must die.

My grandparents lived in Tokyo for many years. During their time in the Land of the Rising Sun, they amassed an enviable collection of Japanese furniture, dolls, and other assorted bric-a-brac. When my grandmother died last year at the age of 98, my aunt kindly and spontaneously sent me one of the dolls: A delicate, foot-tall sort of “Geisha Barbie,” if you will, mounted on a wooden pedestal and posed in a rectangular glass display case. 

As soon as I opened the giant cardboard television box on my doorstep, I could see that a great deal of care and thought had gone into ensuring that Geisha Barbie made it from New York to Alaska in one piece. Every single tiny, delicate part of the doll and her glass case was individually entombed in bubble wrap and packing tape, and everything but one tiny, dangling silver earring on Geisha Barbie's left ear had arrived intact. 

It was a feat of familial thoughtfulness and a triumph of modern shipping, and I was pleased to have something of my grandmother's. But Geisha Barbie was also a source of minor domestic strife and discord, mostly due to the massive quantity of packing peanuts that exploded from Geisha Barbie's box all over our living room.

Too big to vacuum and too small to collect by hand, the packing peanut, made from polystyrene foam, is a “common, loose-fill packaging and cushioning material used to prevent damage to fragile objects during shipping." Packing peanuts are "shaped to interlock when compressed and free flow when not compressed.”

“Free flow when not compressed?" That’s one way to put it, I suppose. I might say "explode when unleashed" or "scatter to the four winds when loosed," or something a bit more descriptive and accurate. 

But whatever. Semantics.

Point being, the arrival of what turned out to be two black hefty bags worth of light pink packing peanuts was problematic. Geoff protested through each tedious moment of unwrapping Geisha Barbie, grumbling about where we were supposed to put her and how long it was taking to liberate her from her plastic cocoon. I defended Geisha Barbie's honor, saying she would look "perfect" in the recessed alcove to the left of our front door. "Oh, I know the perfect place for her," Geoff muttered under his breath in a menacing tone, and I instinctively kicked the kitchen garbage can aside and placed my arms protectively around Geisha Barbie's display case.

Notwithstanding our divergent affections for Geisha Barbie, both of us cringed equally as we watched our children scoop up huge handfuls of packing peanuts and toss them about with delight as the little, non-biodegradable, here-until-humanity-goes-extinct-in-the-zombie-apocalypse styrofoam turds clung to every fabric, hair, and static-electrified surface of our home and persons.

"Please can we just recycle them?" I begged. No, they're not recyclable, Geoff told me, and anyway, we were going to "save them for an art project." I had heard this before. We had "saved" several large styrofoam boards that came with a rocking chair from Target, for "art projects." In other words, we shoved them into the crawl-space style closet under our stairs, only to dig them out and dispose of them years later, to make room for more shit, quite possibly more styrofoam. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't art.

Knowing that the under-the-stairs-closet would just be a purgatory for the packing peanuts en route to the landfill, and that the peanuts would ultimately meet the same fate as their board-shaped brethren, I pleaded for reason and their immediate disposal. But no, Geoff held firm that we were saving them, so into the closet they went.

The peanuts were out of sight out of mind, until two months later when the kids decided to play "airplane," as they are wont to do, inside our under-the-stairs closet. This closet is the equivalent of every closet in every cartoon and sit-com--the one you open up and everything from old skis to wooden tennis rackets to broken video-games comes tumbling out all at once. Choice and noteworthy items in our version of this closet include (but are not limited to): sleeping bags, tents, Rubber Maid action packers full of old VHS tapes, spools of wrapping paper, empty suitcases, and outgrown car seats. In other words, it's a kid's pipe dream for "airplane."

Retrieving the children and their friends for dinner one night, I was chagrined to discover the contents of the two black hefty bags full of packing peanuts strewn about the entire crawl space and every object inside. Enraged, I screamed at the top of my lungs asking what the fuck had happened here. Perplexed, I inquired in a calm and measured way as to what precisely had transpired. 

I was informed by dispatch that there had been a serious weather event en route to Seattle, and that the peanuts were the "hail stones" that had prompted an emergency landing in Ketchikan, where all passengers were now safely on the Tarmac. I shooed the passengers out of the jetway, and sent them upstairs for dinner in the departures lounge as I attempted to collect the "hail stones" and place them back in their "clouds."

All the while, the same four words kept running through my head in an endless loop: Die packing peanut, die.

The Greatest Love of Oil

I believe that Exxon is our future
Treat Shell well and let them lead the way
Show them all the money that they need to thrive!
Don't let folks ask you why
Just make it easier
Let the children's classrooms
Fill up to at least thirty-three.

Everybody's searching for a barrel
People need someone to pass the buck to
We don't have another fuel to fulfill our needs
A scary place to be
And so we learned to depend on greed.


We decided long ago, never to care If our kids' schools fuckin' blow
If they fail, if they succeed
At least we took care of BP!
Who cares if kids have piano or PE
Our cars don't run on art, you see
Because the greatest love of oil
Is happening to me
I found the greatest love of oil
For a tiny fee
The greatest love of oil
Is easy to achieve
Voting to screw our kids
It is the greatest love of oil

I believe that Exxon is our future
Treat Shell well and let them lead the way
Show them all the money that they need to thrive!
Don't let folks ask you why

Just make it easier
Let the children's classrooms
Fill up to at least thirty-three.


And if, by chance, that special place
That you've been dreaming of
Happens to be Prudhoe Bay
Find your strength in oil!

Monday, April 27, 2015

That Not-So-Fresh Feeling

Once again, Facebook's ad algorithm appears profoundly interested in my lady parts. I have now been subjected to ads for Carefree [Panty] Liners, K.Y. Jelly, granny panties, and now something from a company called "Madame Noire" that promises to "protect [my] fresh."  

I didn't click on this for fear of prompting further such ads, so I can't reveal to my readership the true "15 shocking causes of feminine odor."  Nor did I realize that my "fresh" was a noun-object worthy of protection. 

But now I do realize that, so I'm just going to make up what I THINK are the 15 "shocking causes of feminine odor."

1. No penis in or near vagina.
2. Vagina smells like a vagina and not like a whispering pine lily
3. Woman is wearing pants.
4. Woman has a vagina.
5. Penis is too small, allowing odor to escape (where is my FB ad for Extenze for Men?)
6. There is too much hair on/near/around the vagina.
7. It's a vagina.
8. Woman just went for a run in spandex.
9. Woman has failed to buy a mysterious product sold by Madame Noire.
10. Madame Noire's definition of "fresh" is not the same as evolution's definition.
11. Vaginas are super gross. Duh!
12. Changing the word "fresh" from an adjective to a noun.
13. Most men think vaginas smell bad and you better do something about it now.
14. A distinct absence of orchids sprouting from the vagina.
15. Self-hatred and misogyny. 

The Insidious Dangers of Hero Worship

There’s a certain genre of journalism—maybe it’s more a style than a genre, actually—that my father refers to contemptuously as “hero worship.” The omniscient Internet defines hero worship as “excessive admiration for someone” or the “foolish or excessive adulation for an individual.”

Ever since my dad identified this phenomenon to me, I see it everywhere. For example, just today, Slate has an article about a lawyer who “transformed American society.” The New Yorker has a piece about “the man who broke the music business.” Jezebel has a chat with a "style icon.” The opposite side of the coin could be called “hero destruction,” in which the media gleefully celebrates the downfall of an individual, declaring someone to be “totally screwed,” as Salon did today, for example.

And that’s just today.

The problem is not that these things aren’t true, necessarily.  The problem is that these narratives celebrate and elevate individual accomplishments and failures over the collective set of circumstances, people, and places that generated them. All of those details are usually too dry, messy, boring, and involved to go into. So they don’t make for a good story.

It’s also distinctly American to lionize the individual. Americans are raised to believe that everything we achieve (or don't) is because of our individual virtues or deficits, when in all likelihood, everything we do or don’t achieve is really because of the complicated interplay between our genetics, our environment, the people and places we encounter there, and—most of all—sheer dumb luck and timing. 
So it's not particularly useful or informative to read an obsequious 500-word public worship piece while drinking another disposable cup of coffee.

Hero worship is delusional, because of course, no one person achieves any measure of success or failure in a vacuum. We are all the sum of our collective parts. It’s also unsustainable, because now more than ever, the world needs the spotlight removed from individual awesomeness or awfulness and re-trained on our collective responsibilities: to conserve water; to keep polio from coming back; to fight systemic poverty and injustice; to hold our governments accountable to citizens not corporations, and so forth. 

It takes heroism to do those things, but real heroism is usually found in a collective effort of some kind:  one which recognizes that each of us has a part to play, and that heroes are for comic books and movies.

Legislative Zax

Adapted from The Zax, by Dr. Seuss (1961)

One day drafting laws
In the capitol halls
Came a Right-Going Zax
And a Left-Going Zax

And it happened that both of them came to a place
Where their budget bills stood
Without budging a trace.

"Look here, now!" the Right-Going Zax said, "I say!
You are blocking my bills! I need yeas, and you're nay!"
I'm a Right-Going Zax and I always go right.
Get out of my way, now, let's finish this fight!"

"Who's in whose way?" snapped the Left-Going Zax.
"I always go left, making left-going tracks.
So you're in MY way! And I ask you to move
And let me go left in my left-going groove."

Then the Right-Going Zax puffed his chest up with pride.
"I never," he said, "take a step to one side.
And I'll prove to you that I won't change my ways
If I have to stay in this capital ten zillion days!"

"And I'll prove to YOU," yelled the Left-Going Zax,
"That I can stand here in my fine dry-cleaned slacks
For ten zillion years! For I live by a rule
That I learned as a youth back in law-making School.
Never budge! That's my rule. Never budge in the least!
Not an inch to the west! Not an inch to the east!
I'll stay here, not budging! I can and I will
If it makes you and me and the whole state stand still!"

Of course the state didn't stand still. The state rolled its eyes.
In a couple of years, some new Zax arrived.
And they did the same thing as those two stubborn Zax
By resuming their fights about pipelines and tax.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Juneau Sunshine FOMO

When the sun shines in Juneau, you had better have a plan, and it had better be good. All prior commitments that fail to incorporate the sun are out the window without comment, excuse, or explanation in a manner that anywhere else in America would be considered rude.

You can't miss ONE second of sunlight without feeling a nagging sense of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). You need to soak up as much Vitamin D as you can as fast as you can, because you never know when you'll feel the sun's rays on your sad, pasty skin again.

Also, it's very important that when the sun finally sets on a sunny day in Juneau, you have an acceptable activity to report to everyone else who will be judging your use of each hour of that sunny day.

Acceptable activities include a ridge hike, a boat ride, a kayak trip, spending the night at a cabin, a 30 mile or more run, and skiing. Reports of these activities are met with oohs and ahs and smiles and envious nods, particularly from those who have made less acceptable use of the sun. You can almost see the FOMO in their eyes.

Somewhat acceptable activities include hanging around playgrounds, going to an outdoor sports practice, or sitting on someone's deck. Unacceptable activities include shopping at Costco, writing a brief in your office, watching TV, taking your kids to the pool, or napping.

I won't disclose what I did yesterday, because I refuse to compete in this silent and vaguely obnoxious pageant of the sun.

I will also neither confirm nor deny whether this photo was taken on the rare and gorgeous sunny Juneau day that was yesterday, or some other sunny day in Juneau approximately seven months ago.

Because no one will ever know, and Juneauites are too trusting and polite to check out my alibis.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

#100freednipples in a Few Pictures

 We raised $831 for The AWARE Shelter!

Isaac asked why, when we were buying the ingredients for these, I covered his mouth when he announced to the whole store that we were having "a nipple party."

Good question little man!

Friday, April 24, 2015

I For One Demand a Stripper at My Funeral

The Wall Street Journal reported yesterday that China is cracking down on the practice of funereal stripping. You heard that right, compadres. Those fascist commies want to put an end to the "obscene" practice in which sexy, busty, women in Lucite heels, pancake makeup, and bright red lipstick hit the pole in the hopes of drawing more mourners to a decedent's funeral. 

See, the more sad peeps you have at your funeral, the happier you'll be in the afterlife, and without titties, pasties, thong undies, and some dollar bills poking around near a stripper's vajiigle-jaggle, no one is gonna show up, or so say the defenders of this honorable practice.

I am firmly on their side. 

As I've written before in this post from November, I have very detailed and specific funereal requirements. Specifically, I want at least 500 people present at my funeral. And I noted that my hope for an afterlife is based solely on my desire to observe the spectacle of grieving and repentant weeping in the wake of my death, particularly from ex-boyfriends and prior lovers who have wronged me, and who will now never have closure, and who will be overheard wailing and blubbering like little girls and muttering my name over and over again between cries of "WHY GOD, WHY?!" while shaking their heads and rubbing their red, puffy eyeballs.

Now I can add one more item to my funeral wish list, and that's a stripper. For just $322 USD, a woman can "gyrate out of her clothes"--sometimes even with a snake in hand--"mere steps from a photo of the deceased."

As long as it's made clear that this stripper is trashy-hot and I am--er, was--classically beautiful, I'm OK with this. I'm actually better than OK with it, because what I really want is for my funeral to be above average. And that means TWO female strippers for $644 doing "ass-to-ass" next to my casket, like in Requiem for a Dream.

Thank God this is America, and we can do whatever we want at our funerals! Long live America, land of the free, home of the you can have two strippers tastefully "lezzing out" (to use industry speak) with each other on a pole at your funeral. 

U.S.A.! U.S.A! U.S.A.!

Sandra Bullock is Fucking OLD, and The World May Never Be the Same Again

The internet nearly imploded this week with the news that People magazine named the actress Sandra Bullock 2015's Most Beautiful Woman at the ancient, wretched, and (to paraphrase the inimitable Amy Schumer), totally un-fuckable age of FIFTY. 50! Five-OH! As in, half a fucking CENTURY

Mary Elizabeth Williams wrote a hilarious piece in Salon about how the world basically stopped turning, birds fell from the sky, and water began running in the opposite direction down the drain in both hemispheres of the planet when news broke of Sandra Bullock's beauty.

Because never before has someone with two X chromosomes in their DNA lived to this age and been gazed upon by human eyes without the spectator either turning to stone, bleaching their eyeballs, going blind, or collapsing into a liquefied pile of irrecoverable hysterics and insanity after viewing the ghastly, beastly, repulsive, appalling, abominable, revolting, repugnant, repellent, detestable, unsightly, sickening, and all around loathsome hag that is a WOMAN of FIFTY years of age. 

FIFTY. Let me say that again so it really sinks in. FIFTY.

It's kind of like that movie from 2002, The Ring. First you see the ring, and then you die. Same deal. First you see a 50 year-old woman, and then you die. That's how it works. It's fatal. (Speaking of which, I think Naomi Watts, the star of The Ring, is almost 50, which is why you haven't seen her in a long time. Hollywood must be trying to protect its customers and not kill them off, otherwise there'd be no one left to buy movie tickets).

Looking at a woman over the age of 50 is especially dangerous when she's being cast as sexually appealing, because such a characterization defies the inviolable laws of the universe completely. Laws which state unequivocally and in no uncertain terms that only a woman between the ages of 18 and 35 can own a vagina that is not a dark, abandoned, desiccated, tunnel of despair and boulevard of broken dreams filled with incinerated ashes, dust, cobwebs, and the wailing, forever-damned souls of her former one-night stands.

I can't believe People took this risk with its readership. Let me tell you: by putting an ancient, wrinkled, wizened, primordial, grizzled, broken-down, geriatric, fossilized dinosaur like Sandra Bullock on the cover of its prestigious "Most Beautiful" issue, People has incurred serious liability from any reader who experiences emotional or physical distress or disfigurement after looking at Ms. Bullock's face, which makes that guy the Crypt Keeper look young, because in case you haven't figured it out by now, bitch is FIFTY. In fact, I just heard a rumor that a worker at Hudson News in Chicago O'Hare has already been carried out on a stretcher, and surely there are more of these incidents to come.

Wait ... remind me. How old is George Clooney again? I've heard he's good friends with Sandra Bullock, and I'm curious to hear how he's taking this news, or maybe if he himself has been harmed by it. 

Oh wait. I just checked on Wikipedia. He's 53. Man, that guy is fucking HOT.

That's Not Really My Bag

So yeah, no offense or anything but that's not really my bag. It might look like my bag, but I assure you it's not. My bag is slightly bigger, roomier, a different material, and it's black--not red. It's also a fancier brand and has some distinctive markings that no other bag has, so I can guarantee you that is not my bag.

That is, however, my cup of tea! And a delicious cup of tea it is, what in this delicate little blue and white china mug with matching saucer. It's just the right temperature and flavor. I can't quite place it. Chamomile? English Breakfast? Earl Grey? 50 Shades of Earl Grey? Maybe it's that pregnancy and nursing tea? I'm not pregnant or nursing, but this tea is still good. Whatever cup of tea this is, I can tell it's been steeping for awhile and it's definitely mine.

So even though that's not my bag, and I'm leaving it behind for the next person (whose bag it is or might be), like I said, this is is my cup of tea, and I'll be taking it out on your boat. Which reminds me: please know that you're welcome to do whatever floats your boat. Be it use of an oar, a paddle, a four-stroke engine, a sail, a fan, hydraulics, motors, or any other means of marine propulsion, the last thing you want is for your boat to sink. So you're entitled to do whatever it takes to make your boat float.

You're also entitled to whatever frosts your cupcake, whatever bakes your baguette, whatever butters your biscuit, whatever grills your burger, and whatever fries your mozzarella sticks. For all of these are very tasty snacks, and you're entitled to have them prepared in the manner you find most agreeable. 

After all, it's a free country.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

10 Alaskan Urban Legends That I'm Starting Today

1. There’s a haunted bathroom in the basement of the Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage where Richard Gere once stuck a gerbil up his ass. The ghost of the gerbil can be heard squealing late into the night when guests are watching Pretty Woman in Tower 2.

2. On the fifth floor of the Capitol Building in Juneau, there’s a secret file cabinet full of bills that would have made every single day of the year a different day named after something. But no one has the key except the janitor, and he’s in cahoots with Senate Finance to keep them all locked away.

3. A small prop plane disappeared over Talkeetna and the remains of the plane and pilot were never found. But a week after the wreck, a never-before-seen species of brown recluse spider was discovered inside the ear of an Austrian climber on Denali. His head literally exploded because of the pressure of the spider laying eggs inside his ear canal. It’s suspected that the downed plane was actually carrying out a top secret GMO bio-terrorist operation, and all the spider specimens except this one died.

4. Rookie mushers in the Iditarod are subjected to a little-known hazing ritual where the defending champions make the rookies eat nothing but wet kibble for the entire race and they have to drink a cup of Lance Mackey’s urine.

5. All “reindeer sausage” is actually horse meat made from horses de-commissioned by the Mat-Su Valley 4H Club.

6. Johnny Depp has a yacht that docks in Gastineau Channel in Juneau every summer, and sometimes he gets off and Goldbelt Corp. lets him do a surprise guest spot on the Mt. Roberts Tram narrating details about the flora and fauna of Southeast Alaska to the shock and delight of cruise ship passengers.

7. The Exxon Valdez oil spill was a giant hoax staged by Green Peace. The boat was actually named “The Good Ship Lollipop” and its tankers were full of chocolate syrup from Hershey, PA—not crude oil from Prudhoe Bay.

8. Sarah Palin is really a hermaphrodite and Jamie Lee Curtis met her at a hermaphrodite convention and introduced her to Jon McCain who is a big fan of the Halloween franchise. That's the real reason McCain picked Palin to be V.P. in 2008.

9. Osama Bin Laden was actually captured in an igloo on the North Slope where he was hiding out due to his oil industry ties, but his capture abroad was staged in order to perpetuate war in the middle east.

10. There's a lake outside Denali State Park where if you ride your snow machine out there on midnight on a Friday the 13th in winter, and there's a full moon, and you say "Abominable Snowman" ten times into the reflection of the lake, your worst enemy will go missing the next day in a sled-neck gang initiation ritual and never be heard from again.

8 Emotional Support Service Animals I Would Like to Register For

1. Service Monkey: To support my generalized rage at the world around me and curtail my impulse to pick up anything in arm's reach for use as a weapon, up to and including my own feces.

2. Service Chinchilla: To support my self-consciousness about being extremely hairy, and encourage me to eat lettuce more often than bacon.

3. Service Leopard Gecko: To support my skittishness, sensitivity to wild temperature swings, and perpetual desire to save $15 or more on my car insurance.

4. Service Pig: To support that feeling I get at 10:00 p.m. every night when I keep opening up my pantry over and over again expecting something new to be inside, as though it were the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and to support the secondary feeling that I will eat anything I find there, even dried lentils, children's chewable vitamins, and brown sugar stuck to a spoon full of all natural peanut butter from Costco.

5. Service Peacock: To support the sense of pride I feel after spending 8 or more consecutive hours alone with my children without intentionally or accidentally killing either one of them and/or myself.

6. Service Giraffe: To support my disappointment at being 5"2 when I try to delude myself and everyone else into thinking that I am really 5"3.

7. Service Sloth: To support the irresistible gravitational pull I feel to any soft surface that contains a pillow and/or blanket, including a couch, arm chair, bed, hospital bed, and empty office with a couch and no window, and to support the feeling that I sometimes enjoy looking at trees from those soft surfaces.

8. Service Slow Loris: To support my periodic episodes of crippling depression and anxiety, because the Slow Loris is the cutest animal ever to evolve on earth, and the only way I will never feel depressed or anxious again is if I can have a Service Slow Loris and gaze into its sweet little furry Gremlin face every day for the rest of my life or its life, whichever ends first.

So Macaroons Are #Trending Now?

Once upon a time, macaroons were something gross you ate at Passover instead of cookies and cake. Your fat old Jewish aunties--reeking of boiled chicken and Oil of Olay and sporting hairy, menopausal chin moles--would plop down a few cans on the Seder table white doily table cloth. These fine confections looked like this:

You'd tear open the plastic top and the aluminum vacuum sealed tab underneath, and shove as many of these mass-produced, Kosher-for-Passover, highly generic and uniform bite-sized macaroons into your face as you could, as fast as you could. They were the only remotely tasty thing aside from brisket and matzoh ball soup to be had at a Seder, and the adults were too drunk on Manischewitz red wine to notice how many you were piling into your coconut hole.

Nowadays, macaroons are something else entirely. For one thing, they're not called macaroons anymore. They're called "macarons" and they are French and look like this:

Apparently, I am not the first blogger to notice this development:

It used to be that macaroons were something you found only in a can, in Judaica stores in Brooklyn neighborhoods like Crown Heights and Borough Park. These days, macaroons macarons are more like the fare of Park Slope and Fort Greene-based artisinal macaroon stores "macaron shoppes." And there is actually a chain called "Macaron Cafe" with four locations of prime Manhattan real estate and an elaborate menu of these confections, packaged in fanciful, gossamer tissue paper wrappings. (The website notes that they're "Kosher-Certified").

I'm beginning to get the nagging feeling that the fine cuisine of my old Jewish aunties is being appropriated by yuppies, courtesy of those notoriously anti-Semitic French gentiles, no less! 

Well, the French, the hipsters, and any combination thereof can have the macaroon/macaron for all I care. There's always schmaltz (look it up), matzoh, and gefilte fish. And no foodie, no matter how determined or talented, can ever--EVER--hope to make a trendy version of those disgusting items.


Us vs. Them

Remember those friends in high school or college who couldn't handle their shit? You know the ones I mean. The kids who partied like total amateurs, getting drunk and stoned and slurring and embarrassing themselves and making you babysit them all night long. You'd have some degree of sobriety and perspective, and they'd have a helpless case of the giggles and the stumbles that were often the harbinger of puking and finally--mercifully--passing out.

Well, that's basically how my kids behave every single night before bed, regardless of how much sugar they have or haven't ingested. The combination of a day's worth of mental stimulation and physical exertion coupled with dinner and exhaustion conspires to make the last thirty minutes before bedtime a desperate, dark time in our home.

At least for the adults. 

During this time, the need I feel to put my kids away for the day is at its peak, and yet, in a painful twist of irony, my kids' resistance to being put there is at its peak. 

They spin in circles and jump on the mini-trampoline. They insist on one last snack and one last drink of water. They refuse to brush their teeth. They finally brush their teeth, but then ask for more snacks, get them, and insist on brushing their teeth again. 

There is nagging, begging, yelling, and non-compliance. There is streaking through the house naked while an adult chases them down, madly waving pajamas about like a Spanish bull wrangler with a red cloth. There are exchanges of stupid jokes about pee and poo followed by uproarious laughter (theirs, not ours). There is frustration, eye rolling, pleading, and finally yelling (ours, not theirs).

All day long, my kids fight with each other. But at bedtime, they are aligned against their parents as one. I realized this when I overheard Isaac speaking to Paige and referring to me and Geoff in a conspiratorial whisper as "they."

The battle lines are drawn, and each night is a stark reminder of just how bright those lines really are.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I MUST Get Pregnant Again JUST So I Can Do This!

(Photo courtesy of

Potential names for this baby:

1.  Beretta 
2.  Gunner
3.  Hunter
4.  A.K.
5.  Shooter
6.  Smith
7.  Wesson
8.  Colt
9.  Tracker
10. Blitzkreig
11. Guage
12. Remington
13. Ruger
14. Steele
15. Columbine
16. Bullet
17. Carbine
18. Haliburton
19. Magnum
20. Kalashnikov

10 Things the Elimination of Which I'm Just Wildly Guessing Probably Never Individually Nor Collectively Saved an Entire State From Going Bankrupt

1. Crayons

2. Trumpets

3. Computers

4. "Prairie Home Companion"

5. 300 Mile Boat Trips

6. Some dude's $30K/per year salary 

7. Bucket of concrete to dump into pot hole

8. Fruit cups (without pineapple) in assisted living facility

9. Flu shots

10. Soccer balls (generic brand)

The Entitled First World Parent's Bill of Rights

First Amendment: A prestigious and expensive preschool shall make no law respecting whooping cough, or prohibiting the free contraction thereof; or abridging the abundance of organic, hypo-allergenic foods for kids without any actual allergies, or of the right of the children un-peaceably to assemble on a well-padded and carefully supervised playground with a 1:2 adult-to-child ratio, and to petition the Board for a redress of grievances regarding deficiencies in the language immersion and/or fine arts curricula.

Second Amendment: A well-financed birthday party, being necessary to the security of the child's future admission to Harvard, the right of such parties to feature clowns, musicians, and a large, colorful bouncy house, shall not be infringed.

Third Amendment: No full or part-time nanny shall, in time of solid applicant pool be quartered in any house, without sufficient background checks conducted by the Owner, nor in time of fewer applicants, but in a manner to be prescribed by at least three references.

Fourth Amendment: The right of the children to be secure in their toys, books, iPad, and "good choices" against unreasonable sharing and disruption shall not be violated, and no latte shall issue, but upon proper steaming, prepared by a competent barista, and particularly featuring a nice head of extra foam, with the temperature hot but not scalding.

Fifth Amendment: No parent shall be held to answer for their child, or otherwise be subject to a suggestion that their child did anything wrong, particularly in sports, unless on a presentment or indictment of a cease and desist letter from an attorney, except in cases arising in a desirable school district, or perhaps while on vacation in the Bahamas or Nantucket; nor shall any child be subject to the same outfit twice in one week; nor shall be compelled to apologize, nor be deprived of private tutoring, gluten-free cupcakes, or a trophy or ribbon, without due process of law; nor shall ballet lessons overlap with Suzuki violin, except every other Wednesday, as necessary.

Sixth Amendment: In all brunches, the adults shall enjoy the right to a speedy seating at an attractive table near a window, and a cheerful, patient server in the restaurant most favorably reviewed in Zagat’s and most tolerant of misbehaving children, and to be informed of the specials of the day, which shall include pork belly something, and a signature Bloody Mary; to be confronted with an accurate bill; to have compulsory process for obtaining reservations three weeks in advance, and to have only cage-free, farm-to-table eggs for their Eggs Benedict.

Seventh Amendment: In pregnancy, where birth is preceded by a complex and involved birth plan, the right of the parent to name their child after a fruit, vegetable, mineral, day of the week, month, or season shall be preserved; and no name chosen by another person in the same general circle of friends shall be otherwise given to any child, than according to the unspoken rules of etiquette governing such matters.

Eighth Amendment: Excessive waiting anywhere--for anything--shall not be tolerated, nor excessive resistance made by the public to any request, nor cruel and unusual deprivation of enriching summer camp programs.

Ninth Amendment: The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by entitled parents and their children.

Tenth Amendment: The powers not delegated to the Entitled First World Parent by him or herself, nor prohibited by law, are reserved to the child respectively, or to his or her designee.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Because This is How We All Chop Vegetables

When I chop vegetables for dinner (which is often), I like my husband to nuzzle up behind me with his mop of shaggy brown hair and give me a female reach-around while kind of dry humping my ass as I casually stab at a yellow bell pepper.

And I just love the way he can look at a head of broccoli like it holds the secrets of the universe. That's what made me fall in love with him in the first place!

Then after I'm done chopping and having a quick mid-dinner-prep orgasm (because nothing turns me on like dinner prep), I like to drizzle a little extra virgin olive oil on the veggies and stick them in my Bellini Affordable Living function black electric oven. 

We watch our dinner roast evenly at 350° behind the fan forced, double-glazed glass door, while he gets out the strawberries and starts dipping them in chocolate fondue for us to feed to each other later with our nightly flutes of champagne.


Isn't this everyone's go-to weeknight dinner routine after 15 years of co-habitation?

UPDATE: I just found this picture in an article about how to be a happy couple, with the following caption:

  • A lot of couples split up who cooks, but when only one person is doing it you're missing out on some quality bonding time. Not only do both people enjoy the meal more if they make it together, but cooking together is a unique experience the couples should experience often — it involves communication, creativity, and even sensuality.

REALLY!?!? BARF!!! And why is the WOMAN always chopping the veggies? I haven't chopped veggies in my house in like 10 years.

Tide Pooling

I knew I’d hit a new low in parenting when I tried to convince my kids that we should stay home and watch cartoons instead of going on a previously planned tide-pooling excursion in nature last weekend.

That Saturday evening, another mom and I made a wholesome plan for some good clean fun: we would take our kids to the beach to catch the 8:00 a.m. “minus tide,” a very low tide that periodically reveals diverse sea life and land features not usually visible in regular low tide.

But Sunday morning delivered 36 degrees and torrential rain, along with a text from my friend—a born and raised Juneau girl—that asked hopefully, “How much rain do you think is too much?” You tell me, I thought, and please God, let this be it.

We texted back and forth for awhile, each of us afraid to admit to the other that we simply couldn’t deal. We wanted to bail. We wanted to go back to sleep and park our kids in front of the television, where mine had already been stationed since 6:00 a.m.

I presented the amended plan to Paige, positive that she would be thrilled to continue watching “Monster High” all morning long. To my surprise, she objected, although in retrospect, I should have guessed that she would: For every time I want to do something, Paige lobbies for the exact opposite, even if it’s her favorite thing in the whole wide world: gluing herself to the couch for that coveted and fetishized ritual known as weekend morning screen time.

“NOOOOO!!!,” she protested, and began to whimper that it would be "forever" (also known as a month or two) until another minus tide; that she had been looking forward to this for her "entire life” (also known as the 16 hours since she heard about it); and that it was "barely even raining at all" (also known as pouring). I was informed by text that my friend's older daughter had the same reaction.

Fortunately, Isaac was on my side and wanted to stay home. I told Paige that if she could get her brother and herself all geared up in 20 minutes, we could go. I felt like the evil sea witch Ursula in "The Little Mermaid," setting out an impossible task that I knew would culminate in me getting my way. 

But I grossly underestimated Paige's firm resolve to see that I didn't.

Both kids were ready in record time, and before I knew it, I was piloting our car northward with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on a giant mug of coffee, and my sphincter valiantly fighting to contain a crap that was turtling out of my asshole due to the rush that somehow wound up prioritizing marine observation over my treasured, leisurely weekend morning shit session with The New Yorker.

I must say it was worth it, even the suppressed crap part.

Well, at least it was worth it after the rain went from sideways to just regular, and once I got over the nagging neuroses that we were going to get stuck on an island across the channel and have to wade back to shore, neck-deep in 33 degree seawater before drowning 50 feet from the beach. 

There were sea stars, urchins, anemones, and all sorts of other creatures that I could now view on relatively dry land in their natural habitat, rather than while diving in the ocean, which as readers of this blog well know, is an activity that is more than welcome to go fuck itself.

We ran into several other families, including one of my friends who is a real life marine biologist and once hosted a seal release party (not to celebrate the dropping of Seal's new album, but to literally release a rescued seal back into the wild). My kids were enthralled and super psyched, and I was psyched that they were getting to experience nature "in their own backyard" before the whole planet is so polluted that the only things you find in tide pools anymore are used condoms and empty bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. 

Not one to miss an opportunity for familial one upsmanship, Paige gloated to both me and Isaac that she told us this would be fun. Three hours later, I was back home taking a nap while my kids finally watched the cartoons they had so wisely delayed to catch the minus tide. 

And at that point, I had to admit that Paige had been right all along.

Isaac inspecting what my marine biologist friend dubbed "a voracious predator." I forget what this thing is actually called. Note the boots on the wrong feet.

Paige holding a baby voracious predator.

Green and pink sea stars.

Sea star and my boots, for scale.

On the tidal flats.

Baby voracious predator and sea anemone with recessed tentacles. I'm lying. I'm not even sure this type of sea anemone has tentacles.

Urchins and clams.

Donald Trump's Lost Twitter Sharts

That living, breathing, wet diarrhea fart of a real estate mogul Donald Trump's Twitter account sharted out the following tweet the other day, and it’s caused a bit of a fifteen-minute P.R. kerfuffle for the repulsive, megalomaniacal real estate mogul. 

The 140-character bon mot in question said:  “If Hilary Clinton can’t satisfy her husband what makes her think she can satisfy America?” 

The Daily News reports that this damp, squishy, turd of a tweet was "'retweeted by one of 10 staff members' who handle Trump's social media. 'As soon as Mr. Trump saw the tweet, he deleted it,' said the rep."

Uh-huh. Right.

This begs the question: what other shart-tweets that Donald Trump totally disagrees with inadvertently made their way into The Donald's Twitter feed without his knowledge?  O.H.M. speculates that a serendipitous screen shot would have grabbed the following:

  • "I've lost track of the number of wives I've failed to satisfy. Need refill of Viagra prescription."
  • "The G.O.P. can suck my gold-plated dick. Only this "Just for Men" dyed ginger comb-over will make America great again!"
  • "Just found Obama's real birth certificate! My underlings had misfiled it with my release papers from psych ward. Whoops!"
  • "Running out of orange liquid foundation and bronzer. Just sent Ivanka to Sephora to grab some."
  • "Taking suggestions of name for my next building. Top 4 contenders so far: Trump Hall, Trump Palace, Trump Manor, and Trump Trump."
  • "If half my business ventures are in Chapter 11, what makes me think I can save the U.S. economy?"
  • "Good thing I have so much money. Otherwise no woman would ever touch my shriveled-up junk."
  • "S.E.C. investigating me again. Time to divert some $ to junk bonds. Long live the '80s!"
  • "New porcelain veneers look great! Now I can open up my shart hole with even more confidence!"
  • "New season of The Apprentice airing soon. Must manufacture celebrity feud to help with ratings and promotion."
  • "First order of biz when I get to White House: re-paint it gold and re-name it Trump Palace D.C."
  • "I have a great relationship with the blacks. I've always had a great relationship with the blacks."
  • "All of the women on The Apprentice flirted with me--consciously or unconsciously. That's to be expected."
  • "According to Bill O'Reilly, 80% of all the shootings in NYC are blacks. If you add Hispanics, that figure goes to 98%. 1% white."
  • "I do own Miss Universe. I do own Miss USA. I mean I own a lot of different things. I do understand beauty."
  • "The beauty of me is that I'm very rich."