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10 Reasons That I’m Surprised That Someone Married Me

A Story About My Little Brother’s Death

My Life With Animals

A Little About M.E. A Short Bio

Scientists You Have Sex Entirely Wrong

Just Stare Into My Vagina And Tell Me It Will Be Okay

My husband and I are in our mid-thirties and approaching that romantic place where we feel like if we’re going to have babies we should probably do it.

I’ve held out for a long time. Partially to spite our family because his parents are like, “do you not understand how sex works?” and my dad horrifies us by saying shit like, “your children are going to be retarded if you keep waiting.” And i’m like, please leave me and my womb alone!

But we’ve also held out because it’s never been the right time. Since we met in Italy and lived in Italy there was the whole, “we’re not even both citizens of the same country,” thing. Then there was the, “we just want to enjoy being married,” thing. Then we moved to the U.S. and there has been the “he’s been laid off twice because that’s what happens in engineering so we never have insurance for longer than ten minutes,” thing.

I’ve also held out because I’m super scared.


Top Fears In No Particular Order: 

  1. That something will be wrong with the baby. This is where parents go, “it wouldn’t matter I’d love my baby no matter what.” Yeah, duh. But ALSO, it’s hard to think of my child growing up with more challenges than a kid already has. I know the “right” response is to pretend like it’s not something that even occurs to me, and that I’m supposed to say that it shouldn’t matter because love is love but also, having a deformed, disabled, or otherwise challenged child would be really, really hard. Yes, I’d still love my kid no matter what. Yes, I’d do my best to be the best mom ever for their specific challenges, and hope that they could still enjoy the highest possible quality of life, but regardless, it would be hard, and thinking about the nine million things that can potentially go wrong is scary.
  2. My kid will grow up to be an asshole. This would be largely my fault, I imagine, but still, I don’t want to be responsible for unleashing a total jackass onto the world at large. Has anyone seen, “We Need To Talk About Kevin.” Yeah, super scary.
  3. People will treat me differently when I’m pregnant or a mom. This stems from the fact that my usual reaction to pregnant women isn’t “you’re glowing,” but rather, “OH MY GOD THAT LOOKS PAINFUL! CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING?”
  4. My husband (who is amazing, truly) will not help 50% and I’ll be forced to stab him in the head with a fork.
  5. Something will go wrong with the pregnancy and/or childbirth and my life will suddenly become a lifetime drama where I’m dying on a table somewhere screaming, “JUST SAVE MY BABY!” then I turn to my husband, who is crying and hysterical, and say, “Just do the best you can and find a woman who will love both of you,” before I bleed out.


Fear number five is probably my biggest fear right now. Mostly due to my current situation: Finding an OBGYN and dealing with insurance. I’m not pregnant but I want to have all of my ducks in a row before we even consider backing away from our tried and true pullout method (note: For anyone under thirty reading this, I’m an idiot so don’t do anything I do in my life).


  • Your doctor has to be in-network
  • Their affiliate hospital has to be in-network
  • Lots of my in-network doctors are NOT affiliated with my in-network hospital.
  • What the fuck?

I live in Utah and only two hospitals in my area are in network: Intermountain and LDS. Now, I’d rather have my baby at home with my dog acting as my midwife than give that much money to the LDS church. Nothing personal, but churches tend to fund anti-gay marriage bills and throw money at people fighting planned parenthood and I’d rather not contribute to their church agenda that is the opposite of my mostly liberal agenda. So, this leaves me with one hospital option. I searched our insurance database and sifted through a bunch of “2 star out of 5” doctors because, uhm, fuck no. I don’t want a 2 start doctor anywhere near my vagina or my slippery newborn. Of the 4-5 star doctors NONE OF THEM ARE TAKING PATIENTS WHO ARE NOT KNOCKED UP ALREADY. After being turned down from around 34,000 doctors, I felt a little bit hysterical, I mean, how hard can it be to get someone to stare into my vagina and tell me that everything will be okay? So my final phone conversation went something like this:

Receptionist: Hello, lalala office, how can I help you?

ME: I’d like to make an appointment with (insert Dr. Name Here)

Receptionist: Okay! Are you pregnant?

ME: (fuck) Uhm, no I’m not but we might try soon an-

Receptionist: Dr. lalala only sees patients who are already pregnant.

ME: I totally understand. But one question: How am I supposed to get genetic testing, make sure that my hoo-haw is in golden baby-making condition, and have all of my terrifying questions answered about whether or not I should get pregnant if I can’t see a doctor until it’s past the point of no return?

Receptionist: Uhm, I don’t kn-

ME: ALSO, let’s say that there are complications. I could DIE. Don’t you think I have the right to thoroughly vet my doctor before I’m whittled down to a terrifying 9 month deadline.

Receptionist: I’ve never actually thought of it that way.

ME: If you have a suggestion box will you add that?

Then I hung up the phone and spent one hour watching videos of handicap goats on Instagram (Goats Of Anarchy) until I felt better. Finally, I made an appointment with a great OBGYN that is in network but NOT affiliated with an in-network hospital just to get a checkup before I get pregnant. But then I’ll have to switch when I am.

What group of fucksticks created this system? I know a handful of you are like, OBAMA! BLAME OBAMA. But no, please don’t. Not at all because of my political beliefs but because our system was disaster way before he was elected president. Let’s make a new, better, system y’all.

Since I am a whacko and seem to have no control over the pregnancy situation I spent a week going, “maybe we don’t want kids.” But I totally do. So I’ve come up with fun ways to make this fun for someone as batshit as me.


  1. I used an astrology site to map out my exact conception dates to have a virgo baby. No, I don’t really believe in astrology as a science, but I’m a virgo and so are most of my friends and they’re badass so whatever.
  2. I did a weird amount of research on the Shettle method. True or false? Who the hell knows but I’d like a girl first because I’m sexist but also because I’ve read a lot of interesting research on family dynamic and the sex of the eldest child. Yes, I’ll also be happy for a boy. I’m not a total monster.
  3. I started a baby registry with baby list. You’re thinking, that is totally batshit. And I agree. As someone who generally dislikes baby showers and baby related things in general, I am totally in agreement with you that it’s crazy. However, it helps me concentrate on a fun aspect of having a baby (shopping) so that I focus less on the not fun aspects (possible death scenario).
  4. I forced my husband to look at the registry. He was both baffled and concerned. “Honey, but you’re not even pregnant yet,” and then I was like, “I KNOW THAT, FRANCESCO. Just LOOK at that organic onesie. LOOK AT IT.”
  5. I Googled prenatal vitamins for 2-12 hours. Folate, apparently a really good thing that I need a lot of.

So, that’s where I’m at right now: TERRIFIED. Seriously, how do people just have babies? How did you decide to have a baby if you had one and were you somehow less terrified? Why?

Weird conversations with my dad

My dad immigrated to the US in 1979 to STEAL AMERICAN JOBS. Just kidding, he actually came here to repopulate the United States with his seed. This dude makes babies like it’s his job (that he stole from an American). Because my dad is foreign, and also crazy, growing up with him is interesting. And often, just super weird.

Take for example this 20 year running joke where he claims to be some random man named John Anderson. He thinks it’s THE FUNNIEST joke in all the world. And it’s literally been a thing since I was a teenager. That, and, “I’m in Chicago.” Which doesn’t even really make sense.

The other day:

Dad: hello? [very thick Persian accent]

Me: Hi dad!

Dad: I’m not eh your dad. I’m John Anderson FBI.

Me: Ok dad.

Dad: I just eh said I’m not your dad. I don’t have deh children. I have many girlfriends and no children.

Me: Gross.

Dad: excuse me? What’s so gross about dat?

Me: The picturing my dad with his many girlfriends part.

Dad: hahahahaha! Can’t I git a break?

Me: Not when your goal in life is to recreate the Persian empire on American soil.

Dad: Bahahaha. Well, I need a break.

Me: Then you should get better at using contraceptives.

Dad: hahahahaha. I’m dropping off your stepmom at the airport and then I’m coming to see you. I love you baby.

Me: love you, too. Dad.

Me: [hangs up and searches for wine].

My Dog Hates Me

I really like my dog, Oliver, a lot. In a sort of stalkerish, I watch him while he sleeps, sort of way. The love is not mutual, though. In fact, I’m preeeetty sure he hates me.


I used to tell myself that he’s just bored with me. I’ve worked at home for most of his life so he thinks of me as a sort of lamp or chair that occasionally takes him for a walk. Francesco, my husband, on the other hand, is about the coolest thing in the entire world because he’s never home. However, I’ve recently started working at the office and it’s become pretty damn clear that Oliver just thinks I’m an idiot. For example, in this instagram video. Notice how I’m trying to be his bestie, and he’s just giving me some nasty side-eye like I’m his racist cousin at a family reunion that he didn’t even want to go to in the first place.

We don’t have kids yet, but I’m pretty sure that this is basically what it’s like to have a teenager. And now I need to call my mom and tell her I love her. Also, I probably need to adopt a baby goat or a capybara because they’d probably be all about me and we could climb on shit and swim and ALL WOULD BE GLORIOUS.

Francesco said, “no.” Probably because he’d be jealous.

What about you guys? Do you have pets? Do they like you? What’s that like?

My Husband Is A Psycho

My husband isn’t really a psycho but I thought it would be a pretty interesting title as far as search engines are concerned. Unfortunately, people are going to come here looking for answers on how to deal with said psycho husband and they’ll probably be disappointed. And now I feel bad. So, here’s some advice just in case you did come here to solve your psycho husband problems:

  1. How crazy is he on a scale from Scott Baio to Mel Gibson? If you’ve picked Gibson, my advice is to bake him a cake, pretend like you’re going to confession, AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE IMMEDIATELY. He’s unpredictable, crazy racist, and hopped up on deranged man power. RUN!
  2. Is he talking to himself and/or convinced that he’s a garden gnome? Is he scaring you? If he’s not being scary but also thinks he’s a garden gnome, agree with him, and tell him that garden gnomes love yard work. Smile lovingly at him in his weird pointy hat while he sweats and toils in the sun.
  3. Is he being abusive and mean? Yes? YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THAT. In the words of Beyonce, Queen Bey, LET ME UPGRADE YOU. Nobody deserves to be treated like crap or to be afraid of their partner. Get out, go to a family members house or a friends. Ask for help. Call a therapist or the police. There’s no shame in telling people that your husband is an asshole. Seriously. NO SHAME.

Alright, now back to my husband. My husband is not a psycho but sometimes he sounds like one because he’s foreign. And he has a crazy accent and doesn’t  understand pop culture.

For example. This morning I was walking around the house getting ready for work and for some reason that one song is stuck in my head, that Britney Spears song, “You better work bitch.” But I was tired, and I hate mornings, so instead of singing it I was just kind of padding around talking the lyrics. Like, “Oh, hey you in the mirror. You want a Maserati? Better work, bitch.” Then, I decided that my only form of communication with my husband all morning should be the same.

ME: Hey babe

Him: What?

ME: You want a Maserati?

Him: Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?

ME: You better work, bitch.

And he just shrugged and ignored me like he pretty much does every day and went back to making his fancy espresso that coughs and sprays black coffee shit all over my stove every. fucking. morning. I went back to the bathroom to apply a shitload of concealer and to continue talking to myself in Britney lyrics.

Then, Francesco was dropping me off at work and before I got out of the car he was all,


I turned, “Yes?”

“Uhm, if you want deh Maserati you gotta get a job and shit!” He laughed out loud and pounded on the steering wheel.

“Those aren’t the lyrics, dude.” I shook my head disapprovingly and got out of the car and pretended like I didn’t know him. Because it’s one thing to speak in Britney lyrics and it’s another thing to TRY and fail miserably.

Get your shit together, husband.

Empathy, Apathy, And Ants

Ever since I was a kid, a toddler, really, I’ve been way into saving bugs. Bugs, animals, any and all disadvantaged children in third-world countries. My empathy, according to my husband, runs out about there, especially when he has the man-flu. But bugs? I go to great lengths to save them from certain death. Even though their life spans are like ten minutes. Or ESPECIALLY because of their short lifespan. I mean, if you only have ten minutes to live your entire life. YOU’VE GOT TO LIVE, DAMMIT!

The other day I woke up to an ant invasion. An entire fucking ant colony had moved into my dog, Oliver’s food bowl. This is because he’s an asshole and won’t eat any of his kibble that isn’t coated in canned food. “Well, it’s because you spoil him,” you’ll say. Of course, it is, but also because he has a will like nobody I’ve ever met. My husband put his foot down once and was like, “either he eats his kibble or he doesn’t eat.” And I told him to pick on someone his own size and stop being such an asshole. Oliver went nearly 2 days without eating in a standoff of willpower (note: He had a full bowl of food, he just refused to eat it), Oliver won. By the third day my husband broke, went and bought the three dollar per canned food and mixed it up apologetically with his kibble while Oliver glared at him like, “yeah, mix it good, fuckface.” But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, my dog is a shithead and didn’t finish 7-10 pieces of kibble because they weren’t delicious enough. And seventy generations of ants had moved into the bowl. Because ants are much less picky than poodles, apparently.

New Note (2)

Thousands of ants were marching in a giant swirl around the bowl. The remaining 43,576 ants that wouldn’t fit in the bowl were marching in incredibly orchestrated lines in a 3×3 space around the bowl. “Oh, SHIT!” I yelled when I first saw them. Then, i wandered aimlessly from the kitchen to the living room waiting for an adult to come and fix it for me. Then I realized that I was the adult and I had to fix  it. There were a few dozen ants a few feet from the others so I got a little broom and tried to sweep them up, gently. I put them outside. They all shriveled up into tiny hard balls of black. Like coarse ground pepper. “Oh no! I’m sorry! Get up!” I prodded them with sticks for a minute and then realized that I killed them. Then I felt super bad and hoped that their family members hadn’t seen them brutally massacred. The broom wouldn’t work. Everything that I could think of would kill them. And, as noted above, I can’t kill insects. It’s not that I LOVE all insects, spiders, honestly, scare the shit out of me. I can’t kill them, though. I have to work up the courage to trap them in a glass while I sweat profusely and shake uncontrollably. Sometimes I talk to them, “I’m just putting you outside goddamnit. Stop jumping around in there!”

Part of the reason I have a hard time killing insects is because I’m clearly nuts, but also because I respect them. Which I know sounds crazy and you’re all rolling your eyes like, “get a grip, psycho.” But ever since I can remember I’ve been really attached to nature. And, since toddlerhood, I’ve felt that everything fits together and that no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, everything is important. I used to talk to trees, I had pet rocks (which would be sad if it wasn’t so creepy), I should possibly be locked in the crazy house. Also, I’m slightly paranoid about bug karma. What if during the apocalypse insects become insanely giant or really good at math and gang up to attack any human who has ever squished an ancestor? There’s also a part of me that just thinks that humans are super, unbelievably, stupid. If you’ve ever observed drunk teenagers, you know what I mean. We’re dumb. All of us. And so who know what the rest of the creatures on the earth are all about. I have no goddamn idea. And science is too political when it comes to this sort of thing, I mean, at one point, it was scientifically proven that non-white people and female people were not real people. So, I struggle with science’s time-encased notions of importance, relevance, or I don’t want to be squished-ness. Basically, I like to play it safe. And I like to make my life as difficult as possible. Clearly.

After thirty minutes of watching the ants dominate a small corner of my kitchen, I remembered Google. Google knows all things. I grabbed my phone and quickly Googled “How to get rid of ants without killing them.” I read the two-hundred suggestions but all of the suggestions were stupid. Use vinegar. Essential oils. Lalala. Great, thanks, that’s a great idea from preventing this from happening again. But what do I do once they’ve already broke in and seized a part of my home? Nothing. I started to wonder how in the hell they’d managed to get in my house in the first place. I went out my back door and looked outside approximately where they were inside. Sure enough, there was a line of ants charging in, and another line of slower ants wobbling out, struggling to balance small crumbs of Oliver’s food in their little pincher faces. They wanted the food. So if I moved the food outside, maybe they’d all give up and go outside.

I dumped the remaining crumbs of Oliver’s food outside near the ant line. And I went to write in my office.

Every hour I came back into the kitchen to check on the insect situation and every time there were fewer ants. By the end of the day, there were no more than a few dozen. That night, I proudly (and smugly) explained what happened to my husband who stared at me vacantly. “You’re fucking insane, dude. Why didn’t you just kill them?” For which I glared and told him that I hoped he got chlamydia. But then I thought about it for a second and remembered that we were married. “NEVERMIND! I hope you stub your wiener,” I yelled after him, which also didn’t make any sense.

That night, I proudly (and smugly) explained what happened to my husband who stared at me vacantly. “You’re fucking insane, dude. Why didn’t you just kill them?” For which I glared and told him that I hoped he got chlamydia. But then I thought about it for a second and remembered that we were married. “NEVERMIND! I hope you stub your wiener,” I yelled after him, which also didn’t make any sense. 

When I snuggled next to my husband and Oliver in bed that night, I made sure to pull the sheets off of the floor to keep spiders out of our bed.

“But I thought spiders were your friends,” my husband hyena laughed.

“You’re hilarious, asshat. I don’t spiders to bite Oliver. Seriously ,though, If they come up here, I hope they bite your ass.”

And I lay in bed, unable to sleep, terrified of spiders.





Does This Cup Make My Vagina Look Huge?

My friend K just moved back from France. So, it made sense for us to catch up over a FOUR HOUR phone call (it actually flew by). During this conversation, we talked about work. K is a former journalist turned evil copywriter, like me. Only, replace “journalist” with “literature major,” and “pimp.”

We talked about the ideal company to work for and fun parts of our job (like strategizing ways to take down competitors because marketing is an asshole industry), and I mentioned, about 400 times, that I would love to work with Thinx. They make period underwear. And as much as you’re probably thinking, “ew gross,” what you would be thinking after you used them is, “fuck yeah.” Anyway, I have five pairs, they’re amazing, and I’m obsessed with them. I was explaining the absolute badassery that is period panties, when K said, “I really want to try cups.”

“AH! Yeah! I’m trying!” I squealed like a teenager.

And I went into a long rant about how tampons are stupid because they dry out your lady garden, mess up your ph balance, and are also full of chemicals (unless you get organic ones).

“So, I’ve wanted to try cups forever,” I continued. “My sister gave me one to try from a pack of disposables she bought at Target. I tried it in Munich. And it got stuck. In. My. Vagina. And I spent one hour squatting on my bathroom floor like Gollum, trying to hook the fucking thing so I could get it out of my vagina. It was the WORST. I just kept wondering how I would explain to Francesco that I got some silicon doo-hicky permanently lodged up there.”

“That sounds terrible,” K laughed, “when I tried it,  the same thing happened. My boyfriend had to help me get it out.”

“AH! Jesus! REALLY? Awful. So, after that shitty experience, I still wanted to try a cup. I bought a Lena on Amazon. And it took three cycles to figure it out and I felt like a fourteen-year-old again, trying to figure out tampons. And to not freak out about how it might be sucking out my guts (note: It can’t suck out your guts, apparently). But on the fourth cycle, I finally figured it out. And, it’s awesome. Except, I think it might be too small because it leaks a little.”

Then it occurred to me that she might be all like, “she has a giant vagina.” So I quickly added that my lady cave is perfectly compact. And I don’t even know why because vaginas come in all sorts of sizes and it’s TOTALLY FINE. Still. I tried to overly explain.

“I mean, it’s not like my vagina is huge. My last gynecologist had to use the small speculum. She even waved it around and said, ‘I only use this small one for my special ladies,’ which was weird and kind of scary. And F was in the corner like, WTF is happening?”

K burst out laughing. “You have the WEIRDEST gynecologist stories. Seriously, who are these people you go to?”

“Right? I noted that I DO have weird gyno experiences,  “anyway, my vagina isn’t like enormous or anything.”

K paused, “I was just remembering one time when I was over at your house and you told Francesco to buy you Super tampons and he asked, ‘like extra large?’ and you were like, ‘Yes, extra large, for my EXTRA LARGE VAGINA.”

” And it’s not extra large. It’s just extra bleedy. But yeah, that conversation sounds like me and F.”

“It does.” She agreed.

I pulled up Amazon on my phone while we were talking, “So, I’m going to order the same cup but in a bigger size. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Thanks, yeah, definitely let me know how the HUGE one fits.”

And then I just glared at my phone while K laughed.

“This should be a blog post,” K said.

“Hmm. Yeah.” I agreed.