I’d Like to Dropkick Elmo and Friends

I once had a baby drool in my eye. Right in my mother fucking EYE.


Okay, I’m actually reliving this…HANG ON. 



I’m fine.


I’d picked up the child for my mid-morning set of overhead baby presses (kept my triceps looking noice) and glanced up to gauge how close I was getting her to the ceiling fan because I am a responsible adult.

The moment my eyes ascended, a little blob of drool landed on my cornea. Plop! 

Without missing a beat, I launched that leaking meatball across the room, dropped to my knees, and screamed bloody murder Brando style in Streetcar…

Soooo maaaany diseaseeees!

Sooo maaaany diseaseeees!

HAHAHA – ohh calm down – that didn’t happen. 

It would have been fucking hilarious if it did, but I’m not a monster.

We're done here.

We’re done here.

So I didn’t torpedo the farting sprinkler system across the room, but I did blurt out the most extended (and to my credit, unfinished) ‘FUUUUUUc_’, as I tucked her into her highchair and bolted to the bathroom to put my eyeball in the shower where it stayed for an hour. 

Either she’d been smoking Newports since the 90’s, or she still hadn’t kicked the cough she caught from her brother. This fucking gnarly gross grossness brought on a pure chemical surge of anger. Like angry anger. The kind that makes me repeat myself repeat myself.

My immune system had never had its balls repeatedly hammered this way – and keep in mind I live in New York, take public transportation, and will absentmindedly nibble a hangnail after wrestling with a homeless man for the last free bagel at Planet Fitness.

Look, he’s not a member. I checked.

Point is, I’d never been sick so many goddamn times than whilst tending to these anklebiters.  

Children = carrier monkeys.

I would hold my breath every time I picked up her brother from preschool to no avail. 

Jesus Christ, is that a booger in your hair?



Filthy animals, all of them. 

These were just a couple of many, many events that never failed to shatter my soul just a little more than it had been the day before.

This was my experience as a full-time nanny.

Dodging bodily fluids and not selling Booger Head on the black market was part of the job. 

I had to accept it. 

Fuck you economy.

I’ve had challenging jobs before, but dealing with the wee ones is an incredibly distinct mental maze I’d no training for beyond three hours of babysitting.

For instance, I had damn near daily arguments with the 3-year-old, and it never ceased to amaze me how infuriating it was to communicate with someone so passionate, yet so irrational.

Just don’t punch his head off. Don’t do it. Not worth it.

And I never did. *pats self on back*

But it was a legit struggle.

Relief came in spans of an hour or so when they would fall asleep in the stroller every afternoon…aka, after I would walk an extra three miles until they passed out. True story, I once threw my coffee at a passing cab who laid on his horn when we crossed the street. 

That’s how enraged I became at the thought of them waking up. 

And let me just say, I’m like a mad scientist at the 7Eleven counter to get a cup to my liking, so never in my right mind would I have just thrown it around willy-nilly.

I’d become that much closer to exhibiting the mental rationale of a prison inmate. 

Check please.

I needed that coffee. I'm so sad.

I needed that coffee. I am so sad.

Then we’d get back to the apartment and proceed to have the “Can I have a treat” dance.

Um, a treat for what exactly? 

Because it took me telling you three goddamn times to quit bouncing the basketball inside, and the only reason you finally quit was because I had to put that fucker on the top shelf in the closet? 

Or is it because you had a complete meltdown when your sister touched one of your seventy-five cars and made her cry?

Maybe because your teachers told me what a good listener you were in school today on opposite day.

Do we really think we’ve earned a treat today buddy?

Me thinks hell no.

A typical day at a glance:

“Why is dressing you in the morning like shoving a 45 pound balloon full of pudding into a sock?”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Why have you not stopped talking for 45 minutes straight?”

“Why am I not embarrassed to be publicly arguing with a 3 year old?”

“Why am I already exhausted?”

“Why are you still talking?”

“Why are you crying? You literally just woke up from a nap – nothing’s happened yet”

“Why are you so calm? What did you do.”

“Why am I so calm?”

“Why does ‘Yo Gabba Gabba’ remind me of my last mushroom trip?”

“Why haven’t you needed to use the bathroom yet?”

“Why do you hang out with that kid? He’s an asshole and a vegan and he’s only 3.”

“Why is that woman breastfeeding at the playground? Let me guess, she’s the vegan kid’s Mom.”

“Why is that woman breastfeeding while talking to me? Did she just catch me looking at her boob again?”

“Why am I so angry all of a sudden?”

“Why do you say ‘no’ at the suggestion of bathroom when you’re squeezing the shit out of your crotch?”

“Why has that woman NOT put her damn boob away yet? TUCK THAT SHIT IN, WOMAN.”

“Why can’t I find a different job?”

“Why can’t I just marry some rich dude and be a stay-at-home wife with a mild pill addiction?”

“Why do people willingly do this? These kids are out of their goddamn minds.”

“Why does that kid have a more expensive wardrobe than me?”

“Why won’t you share with your cars with sister? You have 137 of them out.”

“Why can’t I be a functioning alcoholic/drug addict to make this experience any easier?”

“Why are you always about to run out into the street?”

“Why would you ask me for a treat? You didn’t do anything special.”

“Why are you making me hate the sound of my own name?”

“Why can’t we talk about current events – politics, climate change, gentrification?”

“Why are you so obsessed with the Power Rangers? They’re pretty douchey”

“Why are you not tired yet?”

“Why aren’t you using the toilet like I know that you know that I know you know how?”

“Why would I give you a treat now when you’re in bed?”

My saving grace were the couple of women I met through play dates. One was a fellow nanny, the other a stay-at-home Mom. These intelligent, gorgeous angels were my life blood, and I surely would have lost my mind even more and/or committed murder if they weren’t around to talk me down from the ledge. I’d never appreciated how important adult conversation was to maintaining a sense of self before, and at that point I had “Elmo’s world” playing on repeat in my head for months, so I knew I was coming dangerously close to settling in for a nap under the tires of a bus.

...LaLaLaLa LaLaLaLa Elmo's wooorld...

…LaLaLaLa LaLaLaLa Elmo’s wooorld…

Each night I would dissolve into a puddle on the train, massage my temples and repeat to myself, “Fuck this. I’m not going back tomorrow. Never again.”

Followed by…confusion.

“I mean, why does this kid insist on testing my limits? Jesus, he reminds me of my ex.”

Followed by…pity party.

“Where have I gone so wrong in life to deserve this? I’m a good person. I sometimes pick up litter that’s not even mine because I can’t even fucking help myself. I’m pretty much the nicest person I know.”

Followed by…psychoanalysis. 

“He shit his pants on purpose today. On purpose. He’s a manipulator, that one.”

Followed by…shame.

“Don’t even look at me sir. I haven’t put on makeup in three months because what’s the point. I’m a shell of a woman. Covered in nothing but snot and self-loathing.”

Followed by…rage.


I feel I should point out that these kids weren’t even bad kids. I saw some actual bad kids in actionand those twisted fuckers terrified me. No, my kids were the best behaved out of the lot, and I attribute their survival to exactly that.

What sucked my soul out of my ass was the act of repeatedly spending a day maxing out my mental and physical energy with no greater goal in sight. 

Unless of course the goal was to invest in having my tubes tied before my next birthday.

Population control. 

Well played, Universe.

Whoooo's ready for sexy tiiiime?

Whoooo’s ready for sexy tiiiime?

I know folks are quick to say that children are miracles, but they’re wrong. If you pooped out a kid, good for you, but that’s no miracle. What’s far more inspiring are the people who keep those little turds alive while you’re at work all day, especially when they’re not genetically obliged to do so. 

Take a moment and let that soak in. I’ll wait.

And after that, give your nanny a nice bottle of booze and a damn raise already ya cheap cunts.

Frankfurter Spectacular only in Australia.

So folks, we’ve had our first spider sighting about an hour ago.

We were warned about this. Even told to shake out our shoes every morning, because these ass monsters of your nightmares are very real and very in your damn house right now.

Fuuuck me.

It’s going to be a long night.

We were winding down from yet another remarkably boring day in Burwood by partaking in our nightly routine: piling into my room, playing music, and abusing the gravity bong we’d put together with a bucket and ½ of a liter bottle of some shitty Australian soda. (Please refer to diagram below)

See Mom? I'm basically an engineer! Quit crying.

See Mom? I’m basically an engineer. Quit crying.

Roughly 45 to 75 minutes later, depending on the neighbor’s weed, two of my comrades sauntered into one of the girls’ rooms to raid her candy stash. The rest of us hung in the living room watching “A Walk in the Clouds” for the fourth time (rented) on VHS. *Good thing I traveled to the other side of the planet for this experience.*

That’s when we heard the screams so horrible, how the cops weren’t called is a damn miracle.

The one girl who spotted it has a serious case of Arachnophobia, had been talking about her disease since the first day we unpacked, so naturally she’s sobbing uncontrollably. The other one can’t stop doing the heeby-jeeby dance all over the house. She was doing a pretty decent job of keeping her shit together, but we could see the fear in her eyes.

It was quite the turn of house vibe in a matter of mere moments, I will say that.

Everyone, half out of intrigue/half out of boredom, jumped to see how big this asshole was. I opted to stay put with Keanu.

keanu reeves  vs huntsman spider

For some, this may not be such an easy choice, and I respect that.

When the toughest, baddest chick in our house decided to check it out for herself, I looked to her for guidance. Surely it couldn’t be that bad, but I needed Maranger’s level head and guts of steel to ease my mind.

Her badassery knew no bounds, and I respected the hell out of her. She was basically House-Mom of the apartment and had a zero tolerance policy when it came to bullshit.

She existed on three substances: Diet Coke, beer, and cigarettes. I’d never seen her ingest anything else. So I easily assumed she was completely devoid of fear, seeing as she not only laughed in death’s face every damn day, but kicked him in the no-nos and gave him the finger.

I waited and watched.

She walked into the room, and I shit you not, without missing a beat silently walks directly into her room and grabs her camera.


i can't gif

We all spent the remainder of the night, together, in the living room.

My plan was to get drunk enough to pass out (black out, whatevs) through my terror.
However, in order to render myself blindly intoxicated and exhausted, I had to stay up most of the night playing on the computer. Bonus, I actually stumbled upon some really funny web sites!

For instance, some fantastically brilliant person found some old Weight Watcher’s recipe cards circa 1974 and talked MAD SHIT on all of them. I mean, talking mad shit on anything is my favorite, so I was thrilled.

Side note: I rechecked that website while sober and still giggled like a little gay goat, so, yeah, it’s the tits.

Anyway, the key is to click on all the highlighted words in the slide show, and when you’re done, check out the “Extras” link. Take a look at “The Pate”. People from all around the interwebs wrote in to say what they thought the liver pate looked like, and one of the words used was “bukkake” (boo-cock-ie). *Being from Kansas and not a whore’s whore, I had to look that up*

According to the Urban Dictionary, that is the act of repeated ejaculation on one designated spot.
If that’s not a visual of what this liver pate looks like, I don’t know what is.

Brit Brit will pass on the pate

Brit Brit will pass on the pate

I mean, is that not the most vile thing you have ever heard? It sure as shit blew my little Midwest mind.

One of the recipes called “Frankfurter Spectacular” was simply a row of hot dogs in green jello. I was laughing out loud every picture, and not because I was under the influence of as many mind-numbing substances I could find. This shit was pure comedy.

Please also enjoy this complimentary Pineapple and Dong Colada

Please also enjoy this complimentary Pineapple and Dong Colada


Ohhh guess what, I’m taking my first surfing lesson tomorrow. That would be exciting except for, you know, the sharks and the recent threat of tiny jelly fish that can enter your blood stream and fuck up your nervous system. There have been pictures of some poor bastard with his arms tightened up like a T-Rex all over the news. Tacky.

So let’s raise a glass to this fair country, shall we?

Thank you, Australia, for taking the fun out of everything exciting to do here, by spicing up such activities with the very REAL possibility of death and/or disfiguration.

Thank you for the vast, vertically challenged, metro male population that make it utterly impossible to guess their sexual orientation. Seriously, you checking out me or the dude with more highlights than me?

Thank you for embracing every fashion mistake made in the 80’s – 00’s, and marketing it to the public as “cool”. Trucker hats? Still? Fuck this.

Thank you for the shittiest television ever exposed to man-kind. Seriously, this is serious. Like, so bad. 

Thank you for making it a endless treasure hunt to find ketchup…that tastes like ketchup. Get this not-even-red sugar paste away from me savage.

Thank you for the fist-sized spiders that will now render me an insomniac until I return home.

In case you forgot.

In case you forgot.

Thank you for changing my attitude about koala bears, whom I once believed were sweet, adorable lil fur balls, but learned are actually a bunch of slutty sluts – each carrying their very own case of chlamydia. Da fuck, koala bears? You down with bukkake too??

Thank you for letting the second most terrifying creature, the kangaroo, procreate so much they outnumber humans on the continent 3-1. I mean…why? Just, why?

And thank you, you Vegemite eating freaks, for making the alcohol so expensive, that I will have to starve in order to purchase the power to dilute this reality known as living abroad.

Pray for me guys, for I am sure to return to you a bit more cynical and with an alcohol tolerance of a fifth grader.

Subway stresses me the fuck out

I Curse Because I Care

No, not the subway. Subway. As in the sandwich shop.
I’m serious.

If you’ve ever visited one of these during the work week’s peak lunch hours, you know what I’m talking about. It’s straight up bananas.

I had no idea what the hell I was about to get myself into when I forgot my lunch today and decided to join my fellow frugal co-workers.

“Five. Five Dollah.  Five Dollah Foot Longs!” we chanted down 42nd street. I was feeling good. Feeling bold. Who’s going out for lunch today? THIS GIRL.


No I don’t want your silly flier sir (slaps the hand), for I am NOT a tourist. Do I look like a tourist?! Of course I like comedy shows; what kind of a question is that? I hate you so much. Jesus, why do these people move so slowly? I hate these people. Arrest is the only reason not to tornado…

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Having Roommates Past the age of 30 Can Suck a Barrel of Dicks

Hello, my dear friends.

Things are fine here….just needing to vent a bit…do you mind?

I didn’t think so.
Have you met those people who always start their shit talking sesh with “I love him/her to death, but…”

As though that little cotton candy buffer puff will ease the vile tongue thrashing about to be unloaded on some unsuspecting asshole.

I’m one of those. Can’t even help myself.

So, my roommate. Love her to death…

Well, maybe love is a bit of a stretch, but I do like her a whole lot.  (However, I do love her cat. C’mere Camille, you fuzzy chubby bitch, snuggle with meeee. Why you run? *hangs head*)

Anyway, I like my dear roomie very much, and that’s mostly (100%) due to the fact she is rarely around. When she does come home, it’s usually in the morning, and that works out well. Below is what I call The Flow Chart of Understandings:


Pre-work: GossipGossipGossip!!

OMG! STFU! GFY! Totes.

OMG! STFU! GFY! Totes. I just LOL’d my dick off.

Post-work: I’ve reached my human interactions quota for the day and need to avoid all eye contact and communication for 4-6 hours minimum.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.



So we have breakfast chit-chat for a few minutes about the usual: Jobs, friends, boys, etc.

Lovely, all lovely.

Then we skip off to work with glee. What a wonderful little marriage my roomie and I have.

But like every marriage (or so I hear far too often, seriously why the shit do people get married) there are things she does that makes me want to punch her in the throat.

Nothing crazy, just 3-5 quick jabs straight to the larynx.

Exhibit A: Shower Time
Ok, I understand that there are some people who like to take their time in the shower. Fine. Do whatcha gotta do. But if you’re going to take 25 minute showers, don’t be all shocked and shaken when I act annoyed you need to use the bathroom for the 4th time in the morning while I’m on my bathroom time. You had your allotted hour, so please go fuck yourself.

Also, no matter what anyone thinks, everyone loses hair in the shower. Some more than others (I personally have a fist-sized rat’s nest that should probably be tagged and photographed at the end of my wash/rinse), but everyone sheds. So what does that mean kids? Pick the goddamn thing out of the drain before the next person uses the shower.


Dude. Duuuude.

Dude. Duuuude.


Pretty difficult to wrap your head around, I know, but not exactly quantum physics.
*Sidebar. Not only is her hairball in the drain every damn day, but the no-slip shower mat is always bunched up.
This may seem like “no big deal”, and it’s not, but that sonofabitch is suctioned to the tub.

How is it such a small woman can get a practically glued piece of rubber bunched up into a ball? In fact, I have a hard time pulling that fucker up to straighten it back out!

I like to think of myself as a fairly educated individual, but this completely baffles me. What in sweet hell are you doing in there? Aerobics? Squat thrusts? The Running Man, perhaps.

This must explain why it takes her damn near half an hour to shower, because honestly, showers are for running a washcloth over face, pits, back, cracks, and feet. Any more scrubbing than that is unhealthy and you need therapy.

Exhibit B: Kitchen/Dish Clean Up
We do not have a dishwasher.
Pssh, white people problems, amirite?
It takes two seconds to rub a sponge, rinse, and bam, you’re all done. Super simple.

Now, we are not the kind of people who always wash said dishes the moment we’re done power binging in front of the TV, so that’s not my issue. The issue is this: When I am finally washing the dishes in the sink, I leave no man behind. Because, like, why the hell would I? My hands are already wet, so what’s three more seconds of my life?

This, evidently, does not seem so obvious to the roomie.

Why, just this morning she ate her breakfast, packed her lunch for the day, and washed her dishes. Now I’m up before she is, so I’ve already got a spoon and a cup in the sink. And, sure enough, I walk into the kitchen when she’s done, and there they were.

What the actual fuck?

And yet I just sat there, staring at the cup and spoon in disbelief.

*Again, sidebar: I’ve convinced myself she’s not doing this to be a bitch. She’s too damn sweet. But has it really not occurred to her that…You know what, if I’m giving her too much credit, and she does have this thought process of “well, those weren’t my dishes” then fuck her so hard.

Oh. And another thing. Ungoddamn believable, but she constantly leaves huge chunks of food in the sink.

I guess she keeps forgetting the drain is actually a drain, and not a garbage disposal. Is this a “if you want it bad enough, it will happen” experiment, because I’m at a total loss here. And I won’t even get started on the peanut-butter-knife situation that appears a few days a month like clock work.

Jesus H, why wouldn’t you just lick the excess PB off the damn utensil, then leave it in the sink for me to fucking deal with? It’s like cleaning oily rubber cement. Am I alone in this? Bueller?

To be fair, she does take out the garbage more often than I do, and I truly appreciate that. Of course, she doesn’t replace the bag…

Shhh, I know buddy. I know.

Shhh, I know buddy. I know.


I think the lesson I’ve learned (we should all learn) is this: If someone has to pick ANYTHING out of a drain because of you, you’re a solid piece of shit and should kill yourself.

Unemployed or Funemployed?

It’s Monday, so the start of a fresh week full of possibilities. *fart noise*


I’ve already got a mini-facial scheduled today at 4, so I will be forced into the city. That means I have to go to the gym, thank Christ.  It’s been too many days already. True, I did meet the business end of a mini van just 72 hours ago, but I’m happy to report I’m feeling much much better, so a workout is in order. (I just lifted my shirt and jiggled my belly fat)
Yeah, fatty needs to earn a sweat in the worst way.

Yeah, fatty needs to earn a sweat in the worst way.

“What…business end, what!” NBD. I was just HIT BY A FUCKING CAR the other day. Silver lining: it was cold, so I was swaddled in eighteen layers of clothes. Also, she was making a turn, so hardly breaking 10mph. Also, like I mentioned, it was a mini van. The sloped hood turned the experience from being body slammed by a roided up linebacker to being picked up and cradled if you will, then immediately thrown to the ground like garbage.


She actually knocked the curse words right out of me, because when I popped up, all I could scream was, “Are you kidding me?”
Bitch broke all my eggs, too. I should have sued.
Anyway, like I was saying.
I was supposed to meet my new gardening friend today, but she hasn’t responded to my text, thank God (flakey people unite! Maybe next week!), so I don’t think I’ll be freezing my ass off over a dirt hole as of yet.
P.S. This little gardening experiment of mine is guaranteed to be hilarious, for I haven’t a plant-friendly bone in my body. Shit, I killed a plant Matt gave me for Christmas, and the only reason he got it for me was because it’s one of the easiest plants to take care of.
Killed that fucker extra dead in a matter of 10 days.  Cause of death: over-watering.
That’s right. I cared TOO MUCH, so it died.
I’m not even going to get started on how much that parallels my entire romantic life…
I think we can work this out! Really!

I think we can work this out! Really!

Another reason this is to be an exciting week is I start my temping tomorrow at 9am, which means I have no choice but leave the house and deal with this fine city again.
And I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but shit goes down when I leave the house. So color me excited.
As thrilled as I am about the new experience/meeting new people at temp job, I do have concerns:
*The time I have to get there concerns me. Folks, I’ll be late to my own funeral. But only by, say, 10 minutes – so sit tight.
*How often I go to the bathroom during the day might actually be a problem, for I will have to have someone “cover the phones” every time I leave the desk.
I’m sorry, but the average person does not drink as much liquid as I do. Plain and simple. And with all the free coffee, tea, AND sparkling water (that’s my jam right there), I will go bananas and consume all of the beverages all damn day. Constant peeing is inevitable.
This could be a selfie, and you'll never know. Oh haaaay!

This could be a selfie, and you’ll never know. Oh haaaay!

(Slightly off topic, but when are New Yorkers going to embrace urinary catheters and/or adult diapers? Think of the time saved! With only 3 public bathrooms in the fucking city, I feel this would solve a lot of problems. World peace and shit.)
Where was I? Oh yes.
*The hours are from 9am-7pm. That makes for a very looooong day. Fuck me, when am I going to make it to the gym? I figure I’m going to have to be in bed by 8:30pm just to get enough sleep. Goddamn my need for 10 hours of sleep. It’s a disease. Like, legit.
Now that I’m not working full time, I’ve got evenings free to par-tay. I should find some lucky young chap to take me out, no?
Oh, shit. I just added a profile onto Time Out New York Singles.
This is going to be fucking hysterical!
As of 10pm, I’ve gotten 5 messages expressing interest. 5 old baldies, one of whom claimed he wanted to “make my eyeballs roll”.
Ew. Mission accomplished sir.
This is outstanding. I can actually feel my ego whimpering. But I musn’t lose hope! A rad guy is sure to be floating around on the internet waiting to meet me in my adult diaper for drinks after temping. That’s what all rad guys do, right?
Wow! So many rad, single guys here! Said no one ever

Wow! So many rad, single guys here! Said no one ever

Not working full time also allows for taking care of my friends pets.
Dogsitting starts tomorrow, which means I get to stay on the Upper West side and act like I live there for an entire week. My Nana loves when I do this because she’s convinced I’ll meet a nice (rich) man. I try to explain I’ve a snowball’s chance in hell achieving this because I look/am the furthest thing from Jewish, but her confidence is just adorable.
A bit of drama with the dogs yesterday – I thought the owners had a dog walker for mid-day, and they didn’t. Those poor damn dogs hadn’t been out since that morning! I freaked out. Pictured two dead dog bodies in the middle of the floor, surrounded by piles of shit and puddles of pee.
This, however, was not the case when I arrived.
They were totally fine. I had 100 heart attacks, and those pups were totally FINE. True, a bit overly excited to see a human – but no puddles. No piles.
I’m not getting paid enough for this stress.
I intended to go running in Central Park that night, but I bought and drank a bottle of wine instead. Ate everything in sight. Passed out at midnight.
I sincerely hope I have more self-control tomorrow.
Sweet jobless freedom

Sweet jobless freedom

My Relationship is giving me a Fat Ass

I don’t think I want to be in a relationship anymore.
It was fun, and although I will miss my dear Matt, watching my waistline grow is just pissing me off.

Oh how I miss the days when he was busy, I was busy, and we could only see each other two/three times a week. We would anxiously await our designated Tuesday/Thursday “date nights”, and then we would leave each other even more smitten than the day before. There would be birds chirping, small animals would gather, and everything seemed as though it were kissed with dew. Awwww

You could take a dump on my hand right now, but I'm so happy, I won't even flinch

You could take a dump on my hand right now, but I’m so happy, I won’t even flinch

Then we started to get selfish. We wanted to feel all tingly all the time, so we acted accordingly.  We started spending more, and more, and MORE time together, and yet there still didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to cuddle….

AKA, lay the eff around and do NOTHING.

Now I love Matt. That’s right, I said it, because I do, but damned if he isn’t JUST LIKE ME only with a metabolism of a jack rabbit. He loves to cook, eat, drink wine/assorted import beers, and watch the History/Discovery/Food channel until the wee hours of the morning. He also has a sweet tooth that is almost as powerful as mine, so a sugary treat is always a must.

What's cookin' good lookin'

What’s cookin’ good lookin’

What’s the problem, you ask?

Well, after all of this eating/drinking/sugary treating/t.v. watching has gone on, we wearily make our way to bed, look lovingly into each other’s eyes, and promptly pass out. True, there may be some lovin, but definitely not enough to make up for the calorie overload that occurred just the hour before.

~Waistline killer Number 1~

Then there’s bed time.
Again, I love sleeping next to Matt. He’s all tall and warm, and I fit really well right next to him, but the moment he’s comatose, I can’t find a comfortable spot to save my life. That lanky bastard takes up my entire bed, and the strength of 10 men could move his skinny ass. Go figure.
Plus, he evidentially turns into a turtle when he’s asleep and feels he needs to cling to me for my available body heat. Which wouldn’t be an issue if it wasn’t for the fact I sleep with a fan BLOWING IN MY FACE because I get so hot, even in the winter.
In the morning, he’s all, “I sleep SO WELL next to you…mmm (cute-sie cuddly sounds)”
“Oh, gee…sweetie…that’s good…(yeah, that’s really fucking swell babe. Get off me, I feel like a gorilla in a sauna)”

I can feel my skin boiling. I hate you so much.

I can feel my skin boiling. I hate you so much.

Look at the clock: 7:58am.

Fuck you clock!

~Waistline killer Number 2~

***Maybe now is the time I should fully explain why I’m pissy about my new….uh….situation.

See, I’m used to getting up around 5:30am, making breakfast, watching the news, working out/yoga for an hour, get in the shower, make my lunch for the day, get ready for work, jump on my bike, and then breeze into ol’ office at 8:55am (give or take 15 due to the bastard headwind. Chicago bike riders know what I’m talking about).

The most crucial aspect about all of this is the fact it’s one of the few times I get to be totally alone, catering to no one, and taking my sweet-ass time to do all of the above.

*omm* Please everyone leave me the fuck alone *omm*

*omm* Please everyone leave me the fuck alone *omm*

So you can imagine how thrilled I am to burst out of bed at 8:00, knowing I have about 3.2 minutes each for all of the things I have to do before leaving the house, try to ride as fast as humanly possible (into the bastard wind, naturally), and snort and pant my way into office around 9:20. You know, just early enough to not get fired, but late enough to irritate your coworkers.


ShitShitShitShit SoLateSoLateSoLate

So what is the third and final Waistline Killer??
He thinks I’m perfect.

Awwwee… shut up.  NOT cute. This is where boyfriends truly sabotage us girls. They think (say aloud) we’re perfect the way we are (to keep getting laid), “That muffin top over your jeans is cute honey”, and then we somehow convince ourselves they’re right and go for that second helping of pasta and fourth glass of wine*.

*These are the actual events from last night. I’m a beast, what can I say?

Just one glass for me tonight babe. *clink*

Just one glass for me tonight babe. *clink*

And, to top it all off, my digestive system seems to be reacting to my relationship, too. I swear to God and everything holy I cannot poop if that man is in my apartment to save my life! He could be on the other side of the place, watching TV loudly, yet I cannot……you know……drop them kids off at the pool. Stifling the necessary poo is just NOT GOOD FOR YOU, and yet I’m completely powerless to the stubbornness of my bowls.  Agony!

Ahh, finally somewhere I feel comfortable

Ahh, finally somewhere I feel comfortable

All in all, I’m realizing I’m going to have to join a gym again in order to not kill Matty when he’s sleeping AKA the cutest pile of dead weight I’ve ever seen.

Subway stresses me the fuck out

No, not the subway. Subway. As in the sandwich shop.
I’m serious.

If you’ve ever visited one of these during the work week’s peak lunch hours, you know what I’m talking about. It’s straight up bananas.

I had no idea what the hell I was about to get myself into when I forgot my lunch today and decided to join my fellow frugal co-workers.

“Five. Five Dollah.  Five Dollah Foot Longs!” we chanted down 42nd street. I was feeling good. Feeling bold. Who’s going out for lunch today? THIS GIRL.




No I don’t want your silly flier sir (slaps the hand), for I am NOT a tourist. Do I look like a tourist?! Of course I like comedy shows; what kind of a question is that? I hate you so much. Jesus, why do these people move so slowly? I hate these people. Arrest is the only reason not to tornado punch my way through this field trip – why the hell would you bring children here? MOVE YOUR ASS, KIDS.

I was clearly hangry, for I would never think those things with stable blood sugar. (That’s a lie. I think this all day, everyday.)

The intoxicating aroma of baking bread signaled we were nearing our destination. Yussss. The length of the line wasn’t even a deterrent, because it looked like it was moving pretty fast. This shit is AWN.

We made our way to the back and commenced with the office gossip.

Soo, this is where it gets tricky. Evidently my friends didn’t realize I hadn’t stepped foot in a Subway restaurant in, like, five years. Let alone a Subway in Times Square. Turns out the hiring requirements for these “sandwich artists” involve previous experience in guerrilla warfare.

I never noticed their uniforms before now. Christ.

I’d never noticed their uniforms before now. Christ.

I’m chatting away, not paying too much attention , and before I know it the tense little woman at the bread wall was demanding information.

“Uh, oh! Hi there…well, can I uh…um T-T-TURKEY!” Whoa. Cool out lady. We’re all friends here.

“Oh, uh, no cheese. That’s right, no cheese.  Oh! Uhh, wheat, uh oh ummm, jeez, 9-grain oat whatever…” oh shit, I can’t think!

“No, not toasted…” shit, I wanted it toasted.

“Uh, yes, uh foot long…” LADY, QUIT YELLING AT ME!!

I looked to my friends for support, but they shot me the ‘what’s your deal Gimeno, don’t you know how this works?’ look, and actually got annoyed I was holding up the line.

What a bunch of mother fucking traitors.

I responded with my ‘NO, you assholes, I don’t know how this works. Y’all know I’m too cheap to go out for lunch, and crowds of three or more give me the pit sweats. Why did you dickfaces bring me to the gates of hell for food?’ look. Please refer to diagram below…

NO, you assholes, I don't know how this works!!! You all know I’m too cheap to go out for lunch and crowds of three or more give me the pit sweats. Why did you dickfaces bring me to the gates of hell for food?

Da fuck?

The guy in front of me gave a little snicker-n-snort.

Yo. Shut up.
I bet you got a huge boner throwing out your order without batting an eyelash because you come here four days a week and get the same damn thing. And I bet you wear those pleated Dockers every damn day, too. You think you’re better than me? Sporting that ID badge around your neck and sunglasses on top of your $11 Great Clips buzz cut you’ve gotten every other week for the last 27 years. You think you’re better than me??? Smug douche.

…Is what I would have said to him.

But I’m a lady.

“Uh, yes, lettuce, tomato, um, shit…that (what the fuck are those??), yes, um, a tiny bit of mayo -TINY BIT, Jesus, okay, yeah, thanks…” Good Christ, my pits are like kiddie pools.

I thought it was a promo for their spicy chicken, but we're actually in hell.

And here I thought it was a promo for their spicy chicken, but NOPE, we’re actually in hell.

Hands were flying everywhere; a cyclone of bread, cheese, sweet peppers, pink chipotle sauce, oregano, and yelling. So much yelling.
I had no idea what the shit I’d even ordered as I paid, nor did I care. I needed air…

I was deathly silent on the walk back to the office.
My buddy from Boston busted my balls hard, slapping his four fingers on the opposite palm, “Ya gotta be ready, Kansas, awn the ball, know what you wahnt when you step foot in that establishment.”


All of the feels

All of the feels

I’d been beat down. Dignity slaughtered. Pride pummeled.

Owned by a mother fucking Subway.

I’d never been happier to see my desk, not to mention I was about to faint from starvation. Whatever was in this wrapper was going to be hoovered in a matter of minutes, but I had to stop to admire the shit storm I actually purchased once revealed.

My sandwich cradled the most ass-backwards medley of 42 black olives, a couple of sweet peppers, a slice of cucumber, some rando piece of bacon I didn’t ask for, a lettuce explosion, three tomato slices stacked in a pile, and a little blob of mayo – Like a salad shooter barfed all over my limp 9-grain honey oat sourdough whatever.

Sandwich artist my ass.


Aug. 31, Midnight. Chicago, IL.

The Penske was packed, Otto was finally in his pet carrier after quite a bit of coaxing (i.e. me cursing and shoving that fat-ass into basically a purse), and I was off to get my co-pilot, Jillian.
It had been, ohhh, maybe a year since I’d driven a car, much less the monstrosity that is a moving van, but I triumphantly got that husky sonofabitch from the rental location, to my house, to Jillian’s without disaster.  Total distance: 5 miles.

Out the way, bitches!

Out the way, bitches!

My feelings of optimism couldn’t even be shaken by the howls of pure agony emitted from the pet carrier.
‘Oh baybee boy, it’s okayyy. Shhh shh shhh, now, buddy, you’re fiiine! Calm down bay-beee, pleeease.’
I couldn’t help but giggle as my precious angel very dramatically smashed his face against the mesh door, hoping to break free. I found it especially hilarious when he clawed and scratched at the walls, making the entire nylon carrier move and shake like a scene from a cartoon. My sweet boy was not happy, but I was confident he would relax once on the road.

Bitch, you're gunna die. Twice.

Oh, you’re gunna die. Twice.

Jillian opened the door and stared at the cage, watching it bounce all over her seat.
Jillian did not share my sense of humor on the matter, for she quickly realized the size of the cab guaranteed the carrier would have to rest on her lap.  And those nylon walls were not going to stop the claw tornado Otto had become.
I figured her lack of excitement was because she’s a dog person.

Off we go!

45 min into the trip.
The fur demon hadn’t been silent for a solid 60 seconds, and my patience disappeared some 20 miles back.
Jillian had been clawed and bitten through the carrier at least three times, but we kept him in there because we had been instructed (by seasoned cat owners) to do so, no matter what.
Thus began the discussion of drugging the little asshole.

We’d heard rumors of Benadryl but were unsure of the dosage.

We agreed to give him another 30 minutes to calm down, assuming he would wear himself out sooner than later.

2 hours later.
That goddamn motherfucking cat has not shut the fuck up for 30 goddamn seconds!!!!  Are you fucking kidding me?!  Jesus Christ Otto, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking throw you out the goddamn window if you do not shut up!  What the hell is your goddamn problem?!?!  Jesus Christ, I cannot fucking listen to this shit for another minute or I will lose my mind!!’

‘Calm down, Dani, he seems to be getting a little better…’

He hadn’t. I could feel my brains melting out my ears I was so pissed.  How could I endure another potential 12 hours of that crazy shit?? It was everything in me not to pull over, yank him out, and punt him like a football across the field.

He was fitting so badly, he had started to choke and cough, making me hate him even more.

Keep howling. I dare you.

Keep howling. I dare you.

*Outlook not good.*
We called the emergency vet.

Jillian: ‘Uh, wait, so Benadryl is poisonous to cats?  Really?  Is there anything we can do to calm him down?  No?  Nothing at all?  Oh, geez, okay.  Well, thanks for your time.  Okay, bye-bye.’

Okie dokie, this will fit right here just fine then

Okie dokie, this will fit right here just fine then

We had to pull over. All I wanted to do was take the tire iron out of the back and smash the front of the truck repeatedly, but I chose to take a lap around the parking lot instead.

‘Jillian, let’s just let him out.  I don’t know what else we can do.’

Understandably we were nervous he was going launch straight for our jugulars, or leap onto the pedals when we got back on the road, or both. Either way, that goddamned animal was surely going to make us pay for what we’d done to him.

I unzipped the carrier.

Otto quietly walked out.

We stared, bracing ourselves for the mauling.

Instead he sat, quite calmly, on the dashboard…for the remainder of the trip.

Approaching the 14th hour of travel and we were still nowhere close to our destination.
NOTE: driving from Chicago to New York takes an average of 12 hours. True, one must factor in traveling by a gas-guzzling, ever vibrating and deafening metal box on wheels, but 14 hours and no end in sight?
Something was wrong here.
Something was wrong, indeed.

We're gonna die.

Now we’re all gunna die.

Keep in mind this trip went down before the glorious GPS now mandatory in every vehicle, so also keep in mind our only directions were printed out from Map Quest and our cell phones were merely flip phones. Therefore, by the time we realized we were fucked, we’d apparently been bending over for a few hours without our knowledge.   Although we were traveling in the right direction, our destination was incorrect, which only added more time required in our hell.
Not to mention the various pit stops made to ask for directions, purchase maps, call friends with computers, etc.
Damn it. Damn it. GODDAMN IT.

Once we figured shit out, things went smoothly…until we approached the city.  What materialized out of thin air was an instantaneous wave of narrow roads and ramps, confusing round-abouts, construction detours, and NEW JERSEY DRIVERS.
Jillian, having experienced my cool, calm, and collected traveling self for all of 6 minutes the entire trip, wisely suggested she drive the rest of the way.

*sigh* She was right

*sigh* She was right

By the time we found our exit, we were left to figure the ass-backwards streets of Brooklyn. These were, of course, conceived (not to mention constructed) by those one can only assume were the heaviest of New York’s drinkers.
At the very least, the hours passed quickly due to the distractions of trying to solve the maddening puzzle – which only amounted to a mile and a half from where we needed to be.
Bouts of psychotic laughter were occurring more and more often and our sanity was a dull flicker at this point.

But, as we approached the 20 HOUR travel mark, we pulled up in front of my home-to-be. Oh thank Christ!



Aaaand wouldn’t-cha-know-it, we HIT A FUCKING CAR in the process.

Now I will spare you the details, but I will sum it up by describing it as the most upsetting 3 hours of my existence, thus far.

Not only had we just driven 20 hours straight, gotten horribly lost many times over, contemplated murdering an innocent animal, and passed the point of exhaustion and dementia a hundred miles ago; we were then forced to listen to this wretched excuse of a man call us ‘Stupid fucking bitches’ repeatedly until the police report was finished and he decided to take his ratty sweatpants-and-house-shoes wearing self inside.

It didn’t matter that we apologized profusely. It didn’t matter that it was an accident the Penske insurance I bought (thank you God, thank you God, thank you God) was going to cover completely…

Did I mention he threatened to ‘kick my ass’ along with my boyfriend’s ass?

Um, did I mention he is MY NEW FUCKING NEIGHBOR?

I quietly walked upstairs into my new bathroom, sat on the floor, and cried.

I've made a terrible mistake

I’ve made a terrible mistake

Day 2 in this Hellish Shithole they call ‘BedStuy’.
Jillian and I decide to go eat brunch and get drunk.
Very drunk.
Stopping on the way home for a handle of vodka, the biggest bottle of Jameson they carried, and whatever else we could afford.

This should be fine for tonight, thanks

This should be fine for tonight, thanks

Day 3 in Shit Stuy.
I walked with to Jillian to get a car to take her away from her nightmare/my new reality.  She had an early flight home, and God love her, I knew she couldn’t wait to escape. She looked at me with utter pity and sorrow knowing she was going back to my old home, Chicago, and I had no choice but to remain. What had I done?
I was sad.

I did not cry, but I was very sad.
As I headed back to my place, I decided to walk to the block where I parked the truck.

It was not there.

Assuming I was mistaken with the location, I walked down another block, over one more, and still nothing.
I decided to go back to bed.

Oh yeah New York? This is what you're giving me?

Oh yeah New York? This is what you’re giving me?

A couple of hours later, I returned to the original spot, but this time I was, unfortunately, 100% certain I was in the correct location.
That mobile turd was gone like a fart in the wind.

After calling the city’s towing system to see where the truck is being held, I was informed there was no record of the truck in any facility.
The truck has been stolen.

Now, this part of the story really makes me laugh:

When filing the police report, one of the officers asked if I was moving ‘in’ or moving ‘out’.

‘Moving in’
His eyebrows raised and gave me an are-you-serious look I will never forget.
I just laughed, nudged him, and said, ‘C’mon now sir, you can’t do that!  It’s not that bad, right?  I’m from Chicago!’
‘What did your parents say when you told them you were moving here?’
‘To be safe, ‘good luck’, and, ya know, work hard…’
‘Did they tell you to buy a gun?’


‘Whaaat?? Oh, uh, no sir…I have Mace (showing him with hopeful eyes)’

‘That’s not strong enough around here.’
Don’t cry. He’ll know you’re weak. Don’t cry.

The other officer laughed sweetly, remarking that the area was getting better, and he (the other officer) was being dramatic.  She was a doll for saying that, and I could have seriously hugged them both.

They were my new best friends… My only friends. I was officially freaked out and the idea of making some friends with guns seemed like a damn good idea.

Just me, Officer Gentry, and Officer Bowen. Besties.

‘Just remember not to ever walk with your head down.  Don’t walk with your iPod earphones in, and don’t talk on your cell phone neither.’
‘Yes, sir’
‘Okay now, take care of yourself’

I stood on the stoop and watched my armed besties drive away.

I hung my head in defeat and walked back into my house.

A couple of hours later, one of the officers called to say they found the truck at a privately owned towing company, and then she wished me luck again.


Battering of the Bush

“I’ve never done this before….just so you know….so..uh…I’m a little nervous…”

“I ahways get fust time peepoe.  Is fine – just take off pats”

This shit is so ON.  It’s too late to change my mind, and Rose is so nice and welcoming with her cute little self. Deep breath…okay, I’m fine.

(claps hands) Let’s do the damn thing!

Walk into the back room where there is a single table next to a cart with various methods of torture in all colors. Jesus, this is not going to be pleasant.

This is 100% accurate.

This is 100% accurate.

Pants off. Fold ‘em up, place ‘em in the corner.  Undies off – tuck those puppies into a pocket.  Lie down on the table, fold hands over tummy, wait for the impending doom.

Side note: I’m not sure why I’ve never gotten into the expected beauty routine my peers have adopted, but I assume it is the same reasoning assigned to still not giving up my daily wardrobe of Vans, jeans, and t-shirt. Am I living in perpetual arrested development? Could be. Laziness? Probably.

Sporadically at most, I will become curious enough about what most women practice on the reg to look into it for myself. I figure maybe my opinion has changed about some of these things by simply aging – kind of like my opinion about tomatoes. But I keep getting off subject.

Rose walks in after I’ve been lying there a few minutes in all of my pant-less glory, and I’m already so beyond mortified, all I can do is stare a hole in the ceiling.

I'm obviously just trying to play it cool

I’m obviously just trying to play it cool

But I can’t even look at her.

What can she possibly be thinking right now?

*People, I don’t care who/how hot/gender/body type you are; EVERYONE looks regoddamndiculous in just a t-shirt, and socks*

Rose is a pro though, and jumps right into the assessment of the job in front of her. She looks at me, looks at my lady parts, looks at me.

“You not alwite, huh?”

“Oh no, no, I’m good!  Fine, haha, you know, uh, I’m fine”

“No, I mean, you not all Caucasian.  You sometheeng mixed in”

“OH!  Haha, oh yeah…sorry…” (I’m an utter asshole)

Folks, my name is Danyela Gimeno. You practically become Luigi when you say it without even meaning to; ah cumma looka at this-a pizza pie, eh! So, no, I’m not all white. And yes, there’s a difference between my lady hair and Sally St.WASP’s from Connecticut.

Time to begin.

Wax on.  Dear lord. Riiiiiiip. OH SHIT.  (exhales) (chuckles uncomfortably)

That's all right? You're already done, right?

Oh sweet mother of God, you’re a twat terrorist

“You okay miiiss?”

“Oh yeah Rose, juuust great”

She’s not dumb, my sweet Rose, and she gets my sarcasm and starts laughing. Rose is good people.

A few more wax-ons, rip-offs, and I am sweating so much it has pooled beneath my back. I keep thinking it would get a bit easier as it progressed, but that isn’t the case. This fucking hurts.  There was no getting numb to it, psyching myself out, focusing beyond the pain. I was going to have to endure every last strip.

At this point Rose had given me a towel to pull between my hands, and may as well have offered me moonshine or whiskey and a leather strap to bite.  I mean, I’m no whiney bitch, but when you’re pulling hairs out of the most sensitive of areas on your body, you let me know how cool you are, mkay?

“You have much hair miiiss”


Look, I've been single for a very long time.

Look, I’ve been single for a very long time.


Rose just giggles, which makes me laugh, too.  I officially love/hate this woman.

To add insult to literal injury, Rose happens to be extremely thorough. So much so, she had one of those large lit magnifying glasses up to my hoo-haa and tweezers searching for errant hairs. She’s poking around, unfolding things; really searching for these little bastards, so naturally I decide now is the time to mention the weather.

This lady has obviously dealt with some high maintenance New York bitches who would have been furious to leave with any single evidence of puberty, so I quickly informed her that I was not one of these women, hoping she would ease up a bit.

-She may have, but who the hell knows, for my entire nether region was sobbing.-

“Okee, you jus going to row over like thees”


“Vewy good – now you hode thees tight. Hode open”



Oh my dear sweet Jesus, she can’t be serious.

I start to panic, as there is no possibility of running away. I’m too weak.

1) I am without pants 2) I am already afraid of how much my walking will be affected by this little experiment of mine, so I’m assuming running will be damn near impossible 3) She’s got hot wax.

I am totally powerless.


I roll over, hold open my butt cheeks, shove my face in the pillow, hold my breath.


Over an hour and $80 later (this includes a $30 tip; hey, she EARNED it) I waddle away with a few looming questions.

This woman does this all day, everyday, for a living. Has for the last 2 decades. What compels someone to do this? I mean, I’m pretty sure she has seen some shit over the years. How is it that a person, a woman no less, can inflict such pain on another woman, and then turn around expecting money for it? Even more perplexing is how/why tons and tons of women willingly do this on a regular basis?

And finally; did I really have hair in the crack of my ass??  How long have I been living a lie? I mean, I don’t wipe my ass with my bare hand, so I guess it could go unnoticed a lot longer than one would think.

I spent the rest of the day running to the bathroom to look at my poor, purple, naked nu-nu and shaking my head in disgust. She’s not cute bald. Not cute one bit.

She’s hiding her face in shame and won’t speak to me. I’m looking forward to the wrath she’ll surely bestow in the form of ingrown hairs…

I accepted a renewed appreciation for my razor that day and make the solemn promise to never do this to her again.

She's the devil, no doubt.

This is a picture of the Devil. Warn your kids