I Am Not A Doctor…And I Didn’t Even Play One Behind Tony Spinnutto’s Swingset


Me: “What did the doctor say?”

Jen: “Well, now they’ve added another drug, also NOT on my insurance, to try and thicken my lining, and then I have to go in for an ultrasound to see if it worked, so they will know IF they can even think about doing the IVF cycle.”

Me: “How many meds are you on, now?”

Jen: “Five.”

Me: “Hey, I don’t want to claim to be a doctor, but I’ve heard of this drug that you can take, all by itself, that’s super cheap, and if you take it, you’ll be pregnant, like…constantly.”

Jen: “You’re talking about meth, aren’t you?”

Me: “Have you ever met a meth head with fewer than five kids?”

Jen: “God, it’s true.”

Me: “I’m not convinced it’s not a fertility drug they lost control of.”

Jen: “Maybe it’s not the meth, but all the hooking they do to GET the meth.”

Me: “Well, there’s another option for you.”

Jen: “You’re never babysitting.”

Smart Idea: Try And Lure Journalist Boyfriend Out Of The Country WITHOUT Pulling Out A Boob


Me: We’re in Nassau.  I just snagged beach access at one of the hotels. Which is a bigger asshole American move: Starbucks or a Piña Colada in a coconut shell?

Ryan: Piña Colada. Very ’50’s Mad Men kind of thing. Everyone does Starbucks.

Me: Good call. I’m moving here. Please come.11301435_10206404349643273_1533162408_n (1)

Ryan: Sure, there are newspapers there. I can add ‘Mon’ to a lot of my stories.

Me: Headline: Water Too Clear


Ryan: Sharks protest clear water, say interferes with theme song terror.

Me: No one gives a shit when they see us, Turtles cry.

Ryan: Turtles demand theme song to give swimmers night terrors.

Me: Turtle King demands unionization.

Ryan: Koch brother’s destroy unionization of turtles, and then take away their healthcare and access to education.

Me: Fuck, that’s scary.  I need another drink.

Ryan: Drunk Americans…Are They Ruining Nassau?

Only In Phoenix, Do You Go To The Bahamas For Cooler Weather.


(Yes, I’m home, but now I have to finally sit down and write all the shit that happened, so…let’s just pretend that I’m still in the Bahamas, okay?  Who’s with me!?)

A Facebook IM conversation…because I had no cell service AND I LIVED.

Me: I just saw a shark from my balcony!

Ryan: Sweet! Hopefully it was humming its theme song. Even if just to itself. Dun dun. Dun dun.

Me: HA! Add smallish (12-24″) sea turtle. I *may* have accidentally yelled, “TURTLE!” thereby disrupting the entire formal dining room, when I spotted it through the window. In my defense…it was a fucking turtle…in the ocean…just swimming like it belonged there.

Ryan: It’s much more fun to just randomly yell turtle, like on the light rail, or something.

Me: Please don’t give me ideas.

Ryan: But that’s why I’m here, to give you ideas. (And get you thrown off the light rail.)

Me: Awesome…just what I need.

If I’m Not Back Soon…My Mother Pushed Me

It kills me that you've, changed, skyline, but I love your resilience.

It kills me that you’ve, changed, skyline, but I love your resilience.

So, in case you think I’ve gone too quiet (ha ha ha ha ha!!!) I’ve merely gone cruising. And not the shitty cruising I did in my 1980 Ford Fairmont, but the boat kind with 2,000 strangers. Fun fact: tanning oil is apparently still a thing, and there is a 1″ slick of it on the surface of the pools.

Anyhoo! Until I’m back in town and can regale you with how I saw a shark from my balcony (a fucking shark, yo!)



I Heart You, New York. Why? Because, Like New York, My Heartbeat Is Irregular

Well, there goes today's plan.

Well, there goes today’s plan, Manhattan.

So, friends, I have escaped the confines of a Phoenix summer for a few spare moments, and I’m in my favorite place on Earth.  Now, because we come every couple of years, the kids have already seen the major attractions, and we’re now able to focus on the subtleties of the city.  Unfortunately, that’s how my mother managed to convince me to go to The Whitney Museum.  Now, before you label me a Philistine, let me point out that I love art.  I spent great deal of time in college studying art history, just for pleasure.  That having been said…I fucking hate the modern era.  There are some beautiful contemporary pieces and talented artists, but by my estimation, easily 50% of modern art is complete shit that somebody threw together because they were pissed at their parents.

Case in point…


Keep staring at this…it doesn’t get more interesting.

I’m not sure what makes me the most angry about this…that someone got away with selling it…that the Whitney is showing it…or that for five minutes, I watched some pretentious asshole telling his female companion about the “genius of the brush strokes”.


I call this one “My Personal Hell”.

Sooooo….is the art part that you took the effort to hit up some Goodwill stores, or that you can build a lit Lucite box?



This isn’t art…this is what happens when a mother finally gets tired of all the fucking stuffed animals collecting dust in her house, and snaps.  $20 says that this is what happened after some poor mom in the suburbs had her monthly Bunco night canceled, and she was left alone with three kids, a bottle of vodka, and a whole bunch of rage.


Please, I can find this in any rough high school in America.

I thought the museum janitor had gotten lazy.  But no.

IMG_0210If the artist has ever seen an actual vagina…then that woman needs to be referred to a health care provider IMMEDIATELY.



I call this one, “Tripping Hazard”.

This is what I want to do to someone, every time that I get invited to one of those fucking Partylite parties.


And the coup de grace…  Every year, I have my students do an IDENTICAL activity about who they are.  And every year, one kid TRIES to put a dick on his body form, and every year I tell that kid to cut the shit and take it off.  Somewhere in America…this kid’s teacher is shaking her head.


Now, this…this is art…why? Because a sassy dead rabbit who can protest, speak French, and be slightly existential?  That’s a whole bunch of alright in my book.



It’s A Wonder I Retain Any Self-Respect


At the end of every school year, every student goes through burnout, but no one flames out half as badly as the teachers. By the last week, makeup was no longer a priority for me.

(As she entered the room…)

D’Avonte: (looking me over) “Ohhhh, UHHHH-UHHHH, you best go over to your closet, honey…take OUT your purse, and put something on your face, because if you think I’m listening to any of your crap about math right now, with you looking like that, you are sadly mistaken.”

Me: “Hey, you’re being mean.”

D’Avonte: “Honey, I am saving you from yourself.  Where IS your lipstick?  Where IS your dignity?”