Tag Archives: pants dropping schedule

My New Car Is Every 16-Year-Old Boy’s Dream

The two cars I’ve owned had only two doors. Since it was just me, I never needed a car with four doors.

Even that one extremely cold night in college when the girls and I decided…

  • Yes, we needed to go to that frat party.
  • Yes, all nine of us.
  • No, we weren’t going to walk even though it was less than a mile.

Don’t judge. It was all uphill, a little snowy, unwalkable in heels, and no one looks cute bundled up in winter gear. Also…

  • No, we couldn’t take two cars.

So all nine of us piled into my Ford Probe. Which was a less cool version of this one this exact one.

How do you get 9 people in that car? Easy: 1 driver, 2 in the passenger seat, 5 in the backseat, and 1 in the trunk.

Alas, those days are long gone. Strapping a baby into a carseat in the back of a two-door with one tween and one teen (who is now taller than me) seemed like a no go.

So Kiefer and I bought a grown-up SUV.

Or so I thought. My grown-up car has mood lighting.


How To Get In Someone’s Pants: Use blue mood lighting.

I may have just bought every 16-year-old boy’s dream car.

I’m totally going to get some.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Good news: IKEA sells cats. Bad news: Once you’ve gotten the tabby 3/4′s assembled, they hobble under the sofa, hiss at you and won’t come out.”—1pointperspective

Someone Get This Kick-Me Sign Off My Back

Soooooo…someone asked me out.

Guy: Since you’re single now, I hope you’ll let me take you out sometime.

Unfortunately for him, I overanalyze everything. So I was 99% sure “take you out” was code for “sleep with you.”

Guy: I know it’s probably too soon, and I don’t want to be your rebound, but I’m afraid that if I wait too long, some guy will scoop you up before I get a chance.

As it turns out, he’s just a nice guy, and my overanalyzation was unneeded.

But then he waved a red flag. Metaphorically.

Dangled it right in front of my nose. Metaphorically.

Guy: It takes me a few dates to see someone exclusively. I just have trouble committing to someone at first.

That’s when I started looking for the sign on my back that said, “If you have commitment issues, come see me.”

W. T. F. 

Guy: But after a few dates, I get past that initial hump.

Instead of overanalyzing the word “hump,” I decided to be optimistic. And I’m glad he did because he’s a Southern Gentleman.

Then he swapped out the red flag for a carrot cupcake. Metaphorically.

Guy: I think couples know within a year if they want to spend the rest of their lives together.

A year? Seriously? Thank you for restoring my faith. Or that’s just what guys say when they want to get in your pants.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “It’s a sad state of affairs when carnival women have the same unsavory habits as Mike Tyson.”—El Guapola

I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me

Three things that scare the bejeezus out of me. Three things that keep me awake at night. Three things that I consider my worst nightmare. Those three things are…

  1. A Pop-Tart shortage
  2. A chocolate shortage
  3. Aliens abducting, poking, probing, and prodding me (::shudder::)

If aliens are real, I want to be prepared. That’s why I viewed The Watch. They set up a Neighborhood Watch to catch a killer, and they ended up discovering aliens living in their ‘hood. Here’s what I learned:

  • It really pisses off the Neighborhood Watch when you egg them and then use the pun Yolk’s on you!
  • If you find a silver bowling ball, don’t put your fingers in it. Cows will die.
  • The best place to pitch a tent is in Costco.

    This is my kind of camping.

    This is my kind of camping.

  • If you find an alien, don’t drunk dance with him. He’ll get goo on your face.
  • Aliens are like some guys. Their brains are in their…pants.
  • Sometimes the Police Department rejects you because you’re just too awesome.

The most important lesson I learned is that aliens steal human skin, so they look exactly like humans. So look  at the person on your left, and then look at the person on your right. One of them may be an alien.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “She may be like Perry on Phineas & Ferb. There’s a hidden chute in the fireplace that leads to his base of operation, where he stores his spy gear. (It could happen.)”—Todd Pack

Questions From the Baby Mama

When Kiefer suggested we (him and me—not you) start trying to have a baby, a lot of thoughts ran through my head after that conversation. A lot. For example…

  • Is this just an excuse for more sex?
  • Is he “being the girl” and trying to trap me in a relationship?
  • Will he start calling me his “baby mama?”
  • Will he feel like we don’t need to get married if we already have a child daughter together?

Obviously he must be a pod person because the real Kiefer is a commitment-phobe. Except…

Isn’t having a baby together a commitment?

So I started to think about the worst possible scenario: Kiefer and I have a baby, but things don’t work out between Kiefer and I.

The baby still has a good father. And at age 32, I was prepared to have a baby by myself via the turkey baster turbo-slut route, so I’m in the same situation I was expecting to be in anyways. Win-win for me.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “What if you managed to walk through the living room with a big chain saw turned on and you “accidentally” tripped over something you strategically placed just moments before, causing you to “accidentally” cut the whole thing in half just like that? Oops.”—Kim Pugliano


32 is my magical childbearing age. I can feel it in my bones uterus.

Why 32? Because like mother, like daughter.

No, my mom didn’t have me when she was 32. She had me when she was 27, just before turning 28.

But my parents had been trying to get pregnant for about a year before I was conceived. Ask any couple who’s been trying to conceive for a year. I bet they’ll tell you it was the longest year of their life.

But the strongest driving force behind the age of 32 is the knowledge that my mom began menopause around age 37.


I’m almost 31. 37 is just around the corner.

And although the prospect of a cramp-free existence is exhilirating, the idea of not being able to have a child terrifies me.

So 32 is my age. At 32, married or not, I’ll be putting my savings towards the turkey baster method. Or I’ll just become a turbo-slut until I’m pregnant.

I haven’t decided which route to take yet. I’m leaning towards the disease-free-turkey-baster route.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “What are these pants you speak of?—Inurbase

Scariest Comment From Last Post: Peg-o-Leg’s comment, which you can read here.