Tuesday, May 24, 2016


There are some things in life that just sound way better than they actually are, like ordering coconut shrimp off a menu or buying a haircut through Groupon.

...It's the same thing as when you make a sex tape.


Because a sex tape may sound like all fun and games, but, like coconut shrimp, you’ll be all like, “yea...that wasn’t a good idea” once it’s in front of your face.

No wait, let me amend that: When it’s in front of someone else’s face.

I have heard three instances of my friends making sex videos with their boyfriends only to have the guys threaten to release said videos post-breakup.


The most recent case was the pickle (pun intended) my friend Jane found herself in with her loser boyfriend Paul.

Jane and Paul dated on and off for almost a year and decided to have some taped, X-rated fun. 

Paul seemed relatively normal, but when they broke up, Paul turned completely crazy.

They broke up for valid and mutual reasons, just fighting a lot, not being on the same life page, etc. etc. so Paul really had no reason to be spiteful or hateful.

But once Jane got a new boyfriend, Paul brought out the porn.


Right after Jane announced on social media that she was dating someone new and super happy about it, Paul started angry texting her.

Not angry texting like the classic curse words, but angry texting her links to amateur porn sites.


“Then he tells me that soon I’ll be famous,” Jane recalls.

“I. was. ill.”



She called him in a tizzy asking him WTF and he responded all sinister saying, “The videos will be there soon enough and to keep an eye out.”


“I stayed up all through the night - checking these sites - just absolutely mortified - truly - truly mortified,” she said.

The next day, Jane drove over to Paul's house to confront him face to face, as she describes, “to tell him what an effed up individual he was, and to make sure he wasn’t that sick of a pervert.”

But that, too, turned out to be a regrettable decision, since Paul didn’t let her see his computer or phone to prove he had the video or not.

Paul then accused her of coming over because she still wanted to be with him.


Realizing she was getting nowhere, Jane decided to forget the whole thing and move on with her life. 

But when she texted her new boyfriend about hanging out later, he told her it was over between them, out of the blue.

“What?” Why?”



Jane hadn’t told her new boyfriend about the sex video drama, and hoped she never would have to.

“Were you at your ex-boyfriend’s house just now?” he asked.

“Ummmm…” Jane said.


The new boyfriend told her that….OMG….no, PAUL had just messaged him on Facebook—someone he had never met—about how Jane had been at his house all afternoon because she was begging him to take her back.






What a fucking psycho.

Jane didn’t know what to say.

“How could I tell him, ‘BUT I WAS ONLY THERE TO SAVE MY NUDES!!!!’ (Ed note: LOL) without coming off as crazy??” she asks.

She feebly tried to tell him that Paul was a liar and that she just had to “take care of something,” but apparently Paul was very convincing about her wanting to take him back.


If only Jane had made the bad decision to get a haircut from Groupon instead of make a sex tape.

Because those bangs will eventually grow up out.


Tuesday, May 17, 2016


People submit Toolbag Tuesday stories to me pretty frequently and I laugh my ass off (just in case you were wondering...not all 285 posts are just about me...) 

But sometimes, these stories are funnier when you break it down into one sentence, rather than a full-on post. 

(Errrr...it's also easier to copy and paste when you're busy with other stuff...)

So today I give you a compilation!
Toolbag Tuesday condensed! Each one I got a chuckle out of....

- We finalized our divorce on the 17th, he was remarried by the 28th.

- I had just bought him dinner, bought him this amazing cat tree thing for his cats and offered to help with some of the vet bills because he doesn't make a lot of money. And the following day he said I was "being selfish" because I wanted to spend time with him when "I knew he had to practice for his music gig." LOL (Ed note: don't worry, girl, the cats know you're not selfish!!)

- The guy I was hooking up with went out of the country for several months and left me his fish to take care of, forwarded his mail to me and gave me some other things to keep safe. Then one day I sent him a sexy picture and he asked me not to do that anymore because his girlfriend wouldn’t think it was appropriate.

- …When he came back, he actually tried to get sympathy because his girlfriend had cheated on him while he was travelling.

- This guy I was sleeping with had talked about doing a movie and dinner. The day came and I didn’t hear from him until 20 minutes before the movie was supposed to start. I told him I didn’t think we had time for the movie, and did he want to just get dinner. He flipped out on me and started yelling saying, “what do you think this is, a date? Next thing you’re going to say is you have feelings for me!”

- He brought a date to a Superbowl party with all our friends the day after we had sex.

- I asked my boyfriend if he needed help moving out of his apartment and he gave me the task of snaking his bathtub drain which had a ton of long, obviously girl hair in it that wasn't mine and asked me to pack up a drawer where he kept mementos of all of his past relationships.

-The guys I've written about on this blog who said they're going to sue me. 



Send me your Toolbag stories!!! 

Wednesday, May 11, 2016


Once upon a time, my friend Brenna was going on a date with a guy I was Facebook friends with.

“What do you know about him???” she asked, doing her research.

I said I didn’t know Greg at all, we just had mutual friends, and that he worked at a marketing firm.

I honestly wouldn’t have recognized him in a grocery store, although, “I did Facebook message him a month ago asking if his company had any job openings,” I said.


Greg wrote back saying no, they weren’t hiring, and that he was actually leaving the company so if I heard of any job openings anywhere to let him know.


That was all I knew about him.

I clicked through his photos.

“He’s cute!” I said. “If not a little bald.”

“Well I’m going out with him this weekend!” Brenna said, excited. He was cute and successful. 

They had met at a bar, exchanged numbers and both had a mutual love for the beach and fun.

But then Brenna showed up to brunch that following Sunday with a grossed out look on her face.

“Well...we slept together...and it was OK…” she said.

Ouch. Haha

She continued, “But then afterwards, he freaked out about how I wasn’t on birth control because he didn’t use a condom.


I love how guys forget everything they learned in biology and make it the girls’ fault that she’s not on birth control.

Like...obviously you’re not really all that into birth control either, dude. 

It’s so sexist I can’t stand it.

He freaked out and got out of bed and paced the room,” Brenna said.

We all assumed Greg was freaking out solely because of the baby thing.

“He did say he was quitting his job...” she said.

I said, “Yea, he mentioned that in his Facebook messages.”

Over the next couple weeks, Brenna felt increasingly awful/sleazy when Greg didn't respond to her texts and calls.

After-school special alert!!!

Was he REALLY still mad about her not being on birth control? 

Did he know she had only rated him an “OK”?

(Ouch. Haha)

“Does his Facebook page say anything?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Nothing.”

Brenna still hadn’t heard from him when she found out she wasn’t pregnant. Thank God.

We had all moved on and completely forgotten about Greg thinking it was just an embarrassing one-night stand, when TWO MONTHS LATER, the news came into my Facebook news feed.

Greg was engaged.


To be married.

With a girl, who, judging by the number of likes and comments, was someone he had been with for a long time.



A no-condom cheater!!


Punch him in the d*ck!!!!

Yea, Greg, I guess I'd FREAK OUT too about using no condom while cheating on my girlfriend when there was a possibility the side chick could get pregnant.

(And way to shame the single girl you sleep with for not being on birth control when what you’re doing is way more shame-worthy.)

This Greg…not too smart is he??

Or even OK.



Friday, May 6, 2016

In favor of my working mom

I listen to Dr. Laura, this on-air therapist, on my way home from work every day and I'm on board with most of her advice except one: about how "stay-at-home moms" are better for their children than working moms.

Because I had a "working mom" and I appreciated every single panty-hosed visit to our school growing up.

Peeking out from behind the thick, velvety curtain on stage at various elementary school plays, I felt it was extra important that she was able to squeeze a visit on her lunch break.

...A leather bound file folder balanced in the crook of one arm clapping as we got presidential medals, first grade graduation certificates, etc.

The other stay-at-home moms were always the ones in jeans and Keds sneakers looking way too calm in the front row, arriving early, smelling like cookies.

I remember my friends who had stay-at-home moms, which I now understand to be a job in itself, but their presence at school functions, gymnastics meets and soccer games seemed less meaningful since they weren't doing anything else.



I admired having such a hard-working mom. 

Someone who was so important she got work calls at 8 o'clock at night after dinner, or after a particularly seething ten o'clock news segment about the New Orleans Public School system, where she worked.

I also remember how important we found it that our mom took two weeks off for vacation every summer to be with us, no leather folder to be seen.

"What about your meetings?"

"This is more important."

We beamed.

That role model hard-working attitude has been duplicated in the 12 or so years us children have worked full-time.

My twin sister Joy once flew back to Charleston, where we live, ON MARDI GRAS day to finish a project that suddenly had a last-minute deadline.

I had five jobs simultaneously in the three years I lived in New Orleans. 

I don't think we even saw our brother Franklin from 2007-2010 due to his workload. 

Last year at Jazz Fest, I had to leave the set of my favorite band, Johnny Sketch and the Dirty Notes, because I had a work emergency that I needed to solve.

I sat in the back row of the children's tent, by myself, furiously checking my work email.

"One year I had a work emergency, when your grandfather was in town visiting for Jazz Fest," my mom said to me. 

"But back then, we didn't have smartphones and I had to leave and go home to get on the computer. And you have to buy a whole new ticket to re-enter."

Other people might have ignored it, feigned bad reception at Jazz Fest. But there I was, typing away. 

Mamma raised me right.

Of all the great qualities I've inherited from my mom—brains, compassion, a really cute nose—one of the least acknowledged is how us children inherited her desire to work hard for your passion. 

Such as...cold-call walk into the office of a community weekly newspaper fresh off of college graduation and pitch being a freelancer and do so well that they hire you full-time three months later.

In New Orleans, it was learning how to create my own job. I had just gotten laid off and thanks to my mom's connection at an arts nonprofit, I was hired as a lowly receptionist.

Spoiler alert: I'm a terrible receptionist.

That's when my mom told me to "grow where you're planted," which is code for make the job you want, not the job you have.

(Kind of like "dress for the job you want, not the one you have," only less sexist.)

During my stint as a "receptionist" I forced my way into being the organization's email blaster, grant writer and, at my mom's recommendation, I started teaching newspaper to kids after school, which still today, was the most rewarding job I've ever had.

Thanks mom.

When I decided to move back to Charleston and miraculously got a job interview for a business magazine, my mom drove 12 hours with me to take the interview. 

Taking time off of her own job to do it.

Now that I understand how hard it is to juggle a full-time job with a needy DOG, I am even more impressed that mom was able to juggle so much, so successfully, with three needy kids. (Well, two needy kids and Franklin.)

And I'm that much more appreciative of the time she made for us. 

She still continues to be a role model.

My new life goal is to be immortalized with a surprise half-hour long tribute when I retire. 

Yes, in the middle of a work luncheon for something unrelated, my mom was surprise honored by an entire room of people for all her years of hard work and all the lives she changed.

New life goal: To have co-workers BEG me not to leave when I stop working.

Oh and have a dedication in a book:

Certainly, that beats staying home in Keds, baking cookies.


Today it's fitting that I’m exhausted because I stayed up until after midnight several nights this week to write a complicated article for the business magazine where I still work. 

But I don’t mind one bit.

Because I was taught to work hard for my passion.

Besides...that’s what my mom would have done.



Tuesday, May 3, 2016


It’s National Teacher Appreciation Day today!!! Buy your nearest teacher a tequila shot!

It reminds me of this guy I went out with in college, who tried to teach me something.

Have you ever had a significant other try and teach you something? 

Like a skill?

…without PISSING you off in the process??

I suppose it’s hard to be a teacher when you’re not properly trained on how to be patient or kind.


This all went down when John, my boyfriend at the time, tried to teach me how to surf.

He was a very good surfer and I always admired his tan feet and decided that I’d like to learn how to surf, too.

And I had recently seen a group of actual (school aged) children learning how to surf one day, so how hard could it be?

A better question would have been: How hard could it be to teach someone how to surf???

The first thing John did was violently push me from behind.

There was no warning, it was a full-on beach ASSAULT. 

Right as he was walking towards the ocean with his surfboard under his arm, he passed me, pushed me from the back HARD, and kept walking. I almost fell face first onto the sand.

“What the hell?” I said, regaining my balance. I thought for a second the surfboard had accidentally hit me. 

But then he admitted to his deliberate attack.

“I needed to see what foot was your strongest,” he said. “You stepped forward to brace yourself with your right foot."

“Wait, THAT'S your test to see which is my strongest leg?” I yelled, looking around the beach to see if anyone witnessed this embarrassment.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the only way to really tell.”

Then, John added insult to injury when he added, “You’re goofy footed.”

“WHO’S GOOFY?” I asked, again embarrassed, getting angrier by the minute.

“You. You’re goofy. You surf with your right foot at the front of the board. Goofy foot.”

I didn’t believe a word he was saying, wondering if I was being punk’d.

I mean…we hadn’t even started the lesson and I had been pushed like someone on the school yard and then made fun of??? 

He was already the worst teacher ever.

And then without so much as a proper lesson on the mechanics or a “dry run” on the sand, John whisked me into the freezing cold ocean, threw me on the board and then PUSHED me on his surfboard ahead of an oncoming wave.

I was immediately overtaken by the wave and was dragged underwater by it, surfboard flailing behind me, attached with velcro to my ankle and I put my arms in front of my face so that the surfboard wouldn’t clobber me in the face in its un-manned crash to the shore. 

...While trying not to drown.

Once I felt sand on my belly and saw the surfboard stop moving on the shallow surf, I got up and screamed at John.


It was the equivalent of pushing someone off the high dive when they weren’t ready. 

Letting go on a two-wheeler without their permission.

“YOU COULD HAVE KILLED ME!” I wailed, but John didn't see it that way. 

He told me to...OMG...stop being a "baby" and come back to the water and try again. He was totally unfazed that he made me legitimately scared for my life.


There was water all lodged in my ears, which gave me a pounding headache and the absolute last thing I was going to do was put my life into his hands again.

“Just ride the wave,” he kept saying, like those were easy instructions.


(Also I'm pretty sure they have a no pushing policy.)

We broke up soon after, which wasn't surprising, and I haven't properly attempted to surf again, goofy foot or not.

So…uh…happy national teacher appreciation day…to the teachers who are patient and kind.

For those who are not, though…

...buy their nearest student a tequila shot.



Tuesday, April 26, 2016


I don’t think many doctors (or my mom) would agree, but I DON’T think it’s a terrible idea to get someone you’re interested in completely shitfaced drunk just to see the kind of person they really are.


I say this isn’t a terrible idea because seemingly normal people bring out their true colors and intentions when shitfaced. Some turn into racists, others like to get into fights and punch strangers.

These are all dating deal-breakers, but how are you supposed to KNOW this information without the test of too much tequila?

It was convenient that this guy, Marty, who hit on my friend Stacey, got shitfaced drunk over the course of the night, because had he NOT gotten shitfaced, Stacey would have accepted a date.

But his true colors came out and it turns out he’s gross.

Marty started out his pickup line very eloquently. He and Stacey were both waiting in line to get a beer and he told her that he liked her glasses. (Yea! Four eyes unite!)

“They look really good on you, I’ve never seen glasses look so good on someone,” Marty said.


Stacey adjusted them on her face sheepishly and said thanks. They both introduced themselves. His name was Marty, and he made some joke about how only cool people have names that end in Y.

They chatted until they each were served a beer and then went their separate ways.

The next time Stacey went to get a beer, Marty also went to get a beer, meeting her at the bar and offering to buy her one. (Also eloquent.)

Stacey accepted and they talked briefly about what part of town they each lived and what they did. Then Marty asked her for her number.

Stacey told him that she didn’t give her number to strangers and what if he was a creep and wouldn’t stop calling or texting?


He laughed and then told her to get his number and he ended up writing it down on a napkin.

“Call me Stacey, with a Y!” he said. Cute. Then he disappeared.

Stacey was flattered and actually WOULD HAVE CONSIDERED calling him, but then, an hour later, Marty resurfaced…shitfaced. Thankfully.

He came up to her as she was dancing and…seriously…said, "hey…I really like your glasses.”



“Uhhh...yea…I know,” Stacey said.

“Hi, I’m Marty,” he said.


“I know,” Stacey said. “We talked earlier.”

The napkin was still in the back pocket of her jeans.

“OK, good,” he said. Then he got close to her ear and whispered, “I’m really looking for some hot P*SSY tonight.”

Then he eyed her up and down.


As if that was even a remote possibility!


Stacey walked away from him and went back to her friends, telling them about how this seemingly cute guy who liked her glasses and bought her a beer is not cute at all but is just looking for a girl to sleep with.

THEN…as if it was planned, Marty came up to Stacey’s group of girl friends and repeated the exact same line. 

Seriously, the same guy who she had told her friends about just a half-hour earlier, excited about their maybe date.

Marty came up to a girl who WASN’T Stacey and whispered in her ear, “I’M LOOKING FOR HOT P*SSY.”



“NOT IT!” the girl yelled, and ran to the bathroom.


And then Marty then got worse. 

He wouldn’t leave them alone even though they told him to go away and the BARTENDER had to come over and tell him to leave. And escort him out.

“I can’t believe I actually considered calling him,” Stacey recalls. “I almost went out with a guy who got thrown out of the bar AND used the P word!”

It was clear that she dodged a bullet, and it was all thanks to alcohol. Copious and copious amounts of alcohol.


New dating rule #2423532: GET THE GUY YOU THINK IS CUTE DRUNK and see if he solicits every girl in the bar to have sex with him.

This may be the smartest idea I’ve ever come up with.

(adjusts glasses.)


Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Preparing my presidential candidacy on my birthday

Today I am 33. Which on one hand (well not entirely one hand….more like 6.2 hands…uhhh nerd) sounds really OLD and then on the other hand, I still can’t run for president so I’m not old enough to officially be responsible for a nation.

So, I’m still young.

It’s also my twin sister, Joy’s birthday…her first birthday as a MARRIED woman, which is exciting and all, but she’s also not responsible enough to run a nation, ring or no ring.

Looking back, 32 was the year I noticed that my body was no longer Superhuman and there are repercussions for my constant gallivanting around town.

Hangovers started becoming crippling, for one thing. Trips out of town for vacation took longer to recover from. (I know, life is so hard.)


I can’t just work out at the gym for a week and see results immediately anymore.

I have to wear glasses almost exclusively now.

I turn down complimentary bread at restaurants with the excuse “older people” use about how “no thanks, I’m already ordering pasta and I don’t need any more carbs to go to my THIGHS!”


(I will turn in my cool pass now.)

But 32 was a bitchin’ year all the same and I did a lot. More than some people do in a lifetime.

I traveled to Austin, Texas, Suwannee, FloridaLos Angeles, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans FIVE times, Edisto Beach, SC and Washington D.C. These were not work-related trips.

And yes, it took me a week to recover from each. 

(Especially Austin, I searched Twitter a week after my flight to see if anyone had posted a picture of a passed out blonde girl in cowboy boots sprawled on the floor of Concourse B.)

I was in three weddings at age 32.

Simultaneously, I joined, and then quit, Match.com. 


I got a dog! (No I did mean to non-sequitor DOG after mentioning Match.com, but it’s fitting, and it stays.)

I quickly learned that dogs get up at 7 a.m. every day to eat.

I’d like to think that even if my body is getting DUMBER each year (since when is it OK to just start rejecting my nightly bottle-of-wine-and-Netflix life choices, body???) 

...My brain is getting smarter.

I am realizing the financial benefits of staying in sometimes. (seriously, take away my cool card.)

I’m trying to be a better cook

Joy and I are finally selling the house we bought 8 years ago. These are all "smart choices," or so says Money Magazine.

Also, I’m reading Money Magazine.

In fact, currently, I am hobbling around because I pulled something in my leg while painting the ceiling of the bathroom last night.

(At least I didn’t try and balance on a bar stool in the tub this time. See? Getting SMARTER.)

At midnight last night, when it was officially my 33rd birthday, I was scrubbing the sh*t out of my oven, head completely inside of it, like the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

Not out with friends taking a tequila shot.


But even so, I’m hopeful and excited about what 33 has in store.

Because say what you will about my life choices, they aren’t boring. 

(Or cheap! –Citibank)


I'm going to try and write more. I am currently writing a pilot for a TV show, a mystery novel, a children's book and a young adult novel in which I hope to include a vampire. (#NeverStopHustling)

That should keep me busy for the next 365 days.

But if somehow, SOME WAY I find myself bored, it's good to know that in two years, I’ll be able to run for president.


I think my dog will enjoy the White House lawn.

Oh, and, obviously...Joy for Vice-President. 

Here's to the BEST 33rd year ever.



Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...