Wednesday, February 15, 2017


HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY from the GREATEST POTUS to ever grace what I can only hope will go down in history as the whitest of all White Houses! As I always say, there is absolutely nothing wrong with raising your hand, no matter how big or small, in salute of your ethnicity. Just remember, please do so with a closed fist. 

Extending right arm from the neck into the air with straightened hand: bad. 

Extending right or left arm from the neck into the air with fist, or lifting both arms bent at elbows, pumping hands with palms open to the sky (aka “raising the roof”) to your favorite Kanye tune: good. 

To help you avoid celebrating this HUGEST of SAPPIEST of UNFAIREST of BEST of holidays the WRONG way, I’m thrilled to share some of the things I love, so that you may love them, too. Otherwise, you’ll be deported. Because I love deporting, and you must hate America if you don’t love what I love, and most of all, that’s me. 

Goddamn do I love me some me. 

Some other things (besides me) I love:

Walls made from concrete, barbed wire or taco shells. 
A reliable, natural-looking bronzer. 
Ordering a side of extra-crispy hash browns with every Executive Order. 
Tom Brady (not in a gay way). 
P-Dog (aka Vladimir Putin), with or without shirt, but never on horseback. 
Pussy grabbing as a new contact sport, not an act of misogyny.
Red baseball caps, bills forward, low and curved. 
Steve Bannon, especially when he suggests banning something or someone. 
Rallies with HUGE crowds of millions of adoring fans waving billions of signs with pictures of me on them. 
Bald-faced lying. 
“Make America Great Again (as slogan and lifestyle)!”
Tweeting after midnight after a glass of warm milk. 
Not releasing my taxes. 
Bald eagles (as an appetizer). 
The expression “In Like Flynn.”
Trying (and failing) to correctly spell the word misogyny. 
My daughter’s floral-print shift dresses. (Buy now! Your sweetheart will love you forever!) 
Chanting the word CHYNA (helps me sleep like a baby). 
Full, pouting lips. 
My Cabinet picks (so filthy rich)! 
My kitchen cabinets (made of solid gold)! 


Shit, I can’t seem to get through Donnie's introduction fast enough. It’s Valentine’s Day, there is nothing romantic about my desk or my office or my current state of mind, and I have to leave in 20 minutes to pick up my daughter. 

Before I must go, let me start there. Ava is, after all, a great place to start spreading the love. 
  • I love my daughter more than all the heart-shaped mylar balloons in the universe, even when I have to drag her kicking and screaming out of Target because I won’t buy her another plastic toy made in China. 
  • I love pizza and cookies. I’m convinced the smell still lingering in our house should be a fragrance, maybe something like Chanel Eau De Pizza ‘n Cookie Dough. I can picture the TV spot now ... hot dude running down a dark corridor, chasing hot woman wearing dress made of pizza. When he catches her, he discovers their mutual love of baking. (May need a little work, but I’d totally buy it and I haven’t bought perfume since around Y2K, because on the precipice of Armageddon, you should probably try your darndest to smell pretty.) 
  • I love love in all forms. 
  • I love Will Arnett (and no, I haven’t seen the Lego Batman movie yet). Dude always makes me laugh, and laughing is unequivocally loveable. 
  • I love running outside (sort of offsets my passion for cookies and pizza). I never thought I’d utter those words, but running outside has become akin to meditation for me. With that said, I’ve never meditated. I’ve just gotten comfortable with panting, limping and stumbling along in tights in public, so I don’t think I’ll be striking sukhasanas out of doors anytime soon. 
  • I love sunsets, long walks on the beach, breathing, butterfly kisses and sarcasm. 
  • I love Jason Isbell. His music, not him. (Come on, I’m married. He’s married. I don’t even know him. Anyway, I’m sure he’s perfectly nice.) 
  • I love surrendering myself to sentimentality. It’s okay to embrace your sappy every now and then. Go ahead, cry during that Michael Bolton concert or insurance commercial (as long as it isn’t the one with the guy in khakis).   
  • I love trying (and failing) to write the perfect sentence; gin; college sports; the way my 55-pound dog struggles to curl up on my lap; Lake Michigan; my husband’s mad problem-solving skills, his sense of humor, and yes, even his inability to close anything he’s opened (e.g., drawers, cupboards, ketchup containers); short-story collections; new friends, old friends and friends I’ve yet to meet; eating cheeseburgers at the bar of Boone’s Prime Time Pub in Suttons Bay; my awkwardness in social situations; coffee; hiking; working out of my house; inspirational quotes, especially with pictures of puppies or kittens; sweatpants (aka what the kid’s call yoga pants); salads (pairs well with pizza); good IPAs; blogging; living in close proximity to most of my family; the color green, in just about any shade; and each day I’m blessed with having (despite not always expressing my gratitude). 
  • I love John Hughes movies. I can’t recite a single sonnet, but I used to be able to recount Breakfast Club, almost word for word, from beginning to end. 
  • I love long hair on men. (I am, however, much less enthusiastic about man buns. Men's buns are okay.) 
  • I love parenthetical statements. (If you haven’t figured this out by now, you must be asleep at the wheel. Like stop eyeballing your phone or filing your toenails or dry walling. Whatever. I’m out.) 
All my love to you and yours,

Tuesday, February 7, 2017


If I must confess, I’m the one who stole Brady’s jersey, but can you blame me? I mean, he is THE SINGLE GREATEST QUARTERBACK of all time. He’s also so good looking. Like on a scale of 1 to 10, he’s a solid 6.25. 

Oh, he won’t mind anyhow, not after he sees BEAUTIFUL NUMBER 12 framed and hung at my world-class Mar-a-Lago, right next to the portrait of yours truly fist-bumping THE WORLD’S SECOND GREATEST LEADER: my bro, Vlad. (I like to call him P-Dog, but that stays between us.)

For the record, and I’m talking to you PuffPost, I refuse to apologize for bailing at halftime. Despite widespread voter fraud, and that nasty woman’s lifelong experience and persistent love of spouting truth, I grabbed my way to sweet victory, and I knew THE SINGLE GREATEST FOOTBALL FRANCHISE in history would also rise to the occasion. 

Can you honestly criticize me after that DREADFUL half-time show? First off, Lady Gaggag doesn’t even sing our national anthem!?! TOTAL DISGRACE! And what was with the weird, high-waisted getups, and all that male gyrating? Like raising children, hip-shaking should be left to the ladies. 

Plus, we were almost out of chicken wings and Bud Light. Oh, excuse me, hold on a sec. I’m getting a text here from my main man, Spicer. (I like to call him Press Spice, but that stays between us.) Oh, for Christ sake, Busch, PLAYING POLITICS TO MAKE A BUCK! Promoting your German heritage. SHAMEFUL! This is the UNITED STATES OF AMERICANS, and if you speak Spanish, auf wiedersehen. Go back to DEUTSCHLAND! Your beer is SCHEISSE and your cars are TOTAL CRAP, too! 

So ... wait, let me revise and start fresh. After all, I was given alternative facts. 

... I went on a wing and Leine run. Folks, I’ve gotta tell you, both are delicious with lemon. No joke. Don’t be afraid to try a little fruit wedge in the suds. I promise it won’t turn you liberal or gay. 

In conclusion: Boycott Budweiser (beer made by immigrants sucks). 

And while you’re at it, boycott Lady Gaga (definitely a man dressed as a woman and music sucks), Starbucks (anti-Christian coffee sucks), Macy’s (cheap linens made in CHYNA suck), Mexico (avocados healthy and suck), Oreos (cookies are black and white and suck), and trickle-down economics (gotcha)! 

Just in case you forget who to and not to boycott, here is a handy cheat sheet:

Budweiser: [NEIN]
Starbucks: [SATAN SAYS YES]
Mexico: [NUNCA]
Trickle-Down Economics: [YES! IT’S RAINING GREENBACKS!]
Make America Great Again (as slogan and lifestyle): [#WINNING!]


My sincerest apologies for that rather HUGE introduction. I must have been inspired by that historic Super Bowl performance, and what I mean by historic performance is Lady Gaga’s half-time show. Pitch goddamn perfect, if you ask me. (I heard there was some decent football played around it, too.) 

Or perhaps it was the anticipation of a brand new week of sneaking in a little Daytime TV?

Not that I would know how many times Jack Abbott has been married or Victor Newman has died. Soap operas are totally lame, right? Like the worst thing in the world to ever own tuning into, save for maybe Joanie Loves Chachi. (Might, however, explain what the Sam Fuck happened to Scott Baio.)

It’s quite possible my IQ has suffered from the decades I’ve watched The Young & The Restless, but I only harbor a dash of shame and a sprinkle of regret. Laying myself bare here, I’ve even shed actual tears watching this shitshow, and by shitshow, I mean highbrow, highly controversial, fake-ass drama. 

And yes, I admitted decades. 

Writing this, I realize I’ve watched Y & R on and off since late middle/early high school. Forty-four minus 14 equals 30-ish, give or take. Forgive me again, for I was never all that astute at math. (Probably because I know how many times Jack Abbott has been married and Victor Newman has died.) 

I started watching soaps with my brother after school, kept on eye on them throughout my college years with friends I’m blessed to keep in touch with to this day, and continued to tune in whenever I could following joining the post-graduate workforce. When I began working out of my house as freelancer, my regular viewing began in earnest. That said, I only sometimes do so in sweatpants and never whilst ironing my husband’s shirts. 

Now don’t let me mislead you. I promise my obsession is somewhat under control. I do not DVR Y & R. Life does (and probably should) sometimes block the screen. Episodes will sail by without my loyal viewership, and that, my friends, is the pure magic of it. You can skip days, weeks or months of the show, circle back, and easily grasp the gist of the what’s what and who’s who. The plot lines move at the speed of tortoise mollusks, and the actors ply themselves with so much Botox and collagen, they never age.  

Speaking of the actors, I can’t help but admire them. If I wasn’t a writer, terrified of public displays of any kind and a connoisseur of eating and drinking basically everything, that would be my goal job. The shit you get to say, wear and do, well, all of that is pretty fantastic, and I’m betting the pay isn’t half bad either. (Some of the actors aren’t half bad at acting either. Yeah, I said it.)

Why am I a fan of Y & R anyway? 

It would be a copout to say it’s just mind candy or my guilty pleasure, because I think it goes beyond that. Over the years I’ve become downright nostalgic about the show. When I watch Victor spar with Jack or Sharon steal somebody else’s baby or Ashley confess her love to her daughter’s fiancee or Adam resurrected from the dead as a different dude named Gabriel (but he had reconstructive surgery and he’s really the real Adam), I’m that much closer to my brother, my college roommates, and perhaps most of all, my grandmother who left this earth going on 9 years ago. 

At least once I week I used to bring my grandma lunch, and we’d watch and dish on the show together. I miss her strength, her sharp tongue, her legendary potato salad, and yes, I miss that indulgent and frivolous ritual she and I shared. 

In my heart I feel she’s still watching with me. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


Despite my estimates of 1 million or 250,000 (give or take a few), I see only 4 of you are currently following me, and I’m pretty certain all 4 of you followed me from a while back, like sometime during the Watergate Hearings. (I maintain I knew nothing, btw. TOTAL NONSENSE. All of it just locker-room talk.)

Four followers?!!

How SAD! How PATHETIC! Save for The Good Book, does anybody read anything anymore anyway? Second to maybe writing, reading has got to be the ABSOLUTE HUGEST WASTE OF TIME. 

Then there are The Writers. TOTAL LOSERS. They wear hipster glasses! They do hot yoga! They read BuzzFeed! They spend what little money they make—and folks, let me tell you it’s peanuts—on terrible liberal coffee drinks from Starbucks! They talk about semi-colon abuse and experimental expressivism (whatever that means)! 

Yet 4 of you are still here. Remind me to repay you for your loyalty. I promise to put you up in one of my hotel janitor closets very, very soon. Complimentary tap water sourced all the way from Flint, Michigan. All-you-can-eat, day-old taco salad bowls. Really, please enjoy as many taco bowls as you can grab. Nobody’s judging here. 

You’re welcome. 


Last night I watched my daughter gallop-skip-run with glee across the indoor soccer field alongside the only other girl in her class. If only my daughter could superglue herself to the hip of this other little girl. 

While shy at first, Ava often unfurls into a social butterfly. I admire her enthusiasm for socializing, as it takes me much longer to warm to people. 

The young woman standing next to me is the mother of Ava’s newfound bestie. It’s the fourth or fifth session of this particular soccer class and we’ve finally gotten around to chatting in earnest. As it turns out, her daughter and Ava have met before (a happy circumstance of living in a small town) at my niece’s high-school graduation party a couple of years back.  

This woman tells me she had her daughter at 18, so it’s more than possible this woman could be my own daughter. Our age gap is that significant, and we both have 5-year-olds. Like my daughter, she seems at ease with making a new friend, or at least making an acquaintance of another soccer mom in waiting. I envy her for her ease with people, too. 

Have I mentioned this woman is pretty? I know that sounds vague and superficial, and what she looks like shouldn’t matter, so I’ll skip all the Harlequin-izing of her smile, her skin and her hair, but I admit it: her appearance helped me open up with much less stress and effort. 

In the course of our conversation she told me she could be very impatient; she loved and played soccer in high school and hoped her daughter would one day do the same; she recently opened a salon; her partner wasn’t her daughter’s father, but had basically raised her; she’d been adopted herself; she had three sisters and one brother; and she didn't think she ever wanted another child. 

Ever, I thought, resisting the urge to blurt, “But you’re only 23 (maybe 24 at most)! You might change your mind.” 

And she might. Or she might not, and for that, I liked her even more. 

Twenty-four is 20 (light) years from 44, and yet, we two mothers of 5-year-olds had something in common. I do not ever wish to have another child, from my uterus (mostly cloudy) or via adoption (mostly sunny, as the need is perpetually great). 

One thing I’ve learned about motherhood: sometimes you have to slam the door on what other people think, family, friends and strangers alike. A mom will be judged whether she has one child or octuplets, whether she’s Kate Plus Eight or One and Done. 

So who gives a— [about the Oxford Comma, which I’ll never need to describe my brood, because I only have one kid anyway]?

Would you want another after this one?
Although I already knew it, my lovely confidant from last night reaffirmed my decision was perfectly fine. In fact, it’s perfectly great. No more diapers. No more mind-numbing sleep deprivation. No more pureed food facials. No more feeding schedules. No more mysterious shirt stains dubbed postmodern broaches. No more backseat surprises of old sippy cups turned award-winning science projects. 

No more worries. (Just kidding.)

Look, babies are amazing, and to all you moms and dads out there who have or aspire to have more than one, you’re also amazing. (And if you’re somebody who chooses to forgo having kids at all, I’m totally cool with you, too. You, my friends, are amazing. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.) 

At 39, I was blessed with the single most amazing kid I believe I was meant to ever have. From the bottom of my heart, I want for nothing more.