Category Archives: Humor

Look Inside Your Vagina (or you’ll die)

I’ve had a mole on my face, next to my sideburn, for as long as I remember. It seemed innocuous enough, until recently when it started turning into some weird bumpy thing. Then, my sister who is a nursing student was all, “CANCER this and CANCER that,” and I got all panicky and went to the doctor. My family practitioner is a good doctor but she’s as emotional as sheetrock. She’s a very no-nonsense person and because of that not at all comforting. She looked at it, “it doesn’t seem to be anything to worry about,” she said, tucking her little magnifying glass into her front pocket, the way that doctors do. “Take a picture of it with your iPhone.  Every few months, take a new picture and compare it to the one before it. If it grows or changes then come back in.” I stared at her for a second, “hmmm, okay,” I said. But I actually thought, “OMG HOLY SHIT THAT SOUNDS SO STRESSFUL!” She must have noticed the panic in my eyes because she added, “if you want, I can refer you to a dermatologist just to be sure but it honestly doesn’t look like anything to worry about.”

I slowly nodded, “yes.”

I made an appointment with the dermatologist and waited for three months until my appointment, wondering all the while if I was going to die before I saw a doctor. I didn’t.

Yesterday, I went to my appointment. I walked into the office, filled out paperwork and after a few minutes, the receptionist called my name. I followed her to the back and she tried to whiz past the scale and I stopped abruptly, “wait, we aren’t doing the uhm,  thingy?” She tilted her head, “excuse me?” I shrugged, “I don’t have this thing at home so could I weight myself?” She nodded, “sure if you want.” I enthusiastically threw off my coat and purse and stepped onto the scale. “Oooh,” I gushed, “I lost five pounds since last time!” She looked at me like, I don’t give a rats ass lady. So I picked up my stuff and trotted behind her. In the room, she instructed me to put on a gown and hop up on the table. I changed and this time I even put the gown on right. Last time, I put it on  backward and my husband was like, “WHY ARE YOUR BOOBS OUT LIKE THAT?” I sat on the table and swung my legs until the doctor came in.

“Hi, I’m Doctor H,” he shook my hand.


“What am I seeing you for today?”

I turned my head and pointed, “am I going to die?”

He stepped closer to me and inspected my face for a minute with a light.

“Nope. That’s just some fatty cells clumped together an-”

“Ew,” I said.

He laughed, “anyway, they’re not dangerous at all. In fact, they might just go away on their own.”

“Oh, okay,” I smiled.

He grabbed my leg, “But while you’re here, let’s just look you over real quick.” He picked up both of my legs and started to inspect them. I blurted out, “my husband has been in Sweden for weeks and so I didn’t shave my legs so I apologize for that.”

“No worries,” he smiled, “women always worry about their leg hair for some reason. But, honestly, I don’t even notice.” The nurse in the room turned to me, “well, I’m just happy to hear that I’m not the only one who stops shaving when the husband leaves.”

“Oh, no, I go completely feral,” I told her.

The doctor grabbed his phone, “so listen, I’m going to show you some pictures of what you should look for and what should cause alarm be-”

“Ah! NO! I don’t want to see!” I recoiled from him and made an icky face.

“You need to see,” he said in a dad voice that he pulled from somewhere inside of himself. So I reluctantly looked at his screen where he’d pulled up a billion terrifying images. “Okay, so I’ll monitor for those and-”

Doctor H smiled, “good, good, do a skin check once per week. Also, make sure you check your vagina and anus. My neighbor got Melanoma in her vagina and she didn’t see it for a long time. She died.”

The room was quiet for a second, uncomfortably so. I took a deep breath, “okay, well that’s not terrifying or anything.”

“No big deal,” he smiled, “but skin checks are important and you should be thorough.” And I imagined myself walking down the street holding my vagina open like a skirt and asking everyone, “Notice anything a little off?”

Then, Doctor H began wrapping up and I remembered that he was a skin expert so I had to ask, “how can I look young forever? I’ve never seen a dermatologist before. What can I do to have vampire skin?”

“Well,” he smiled, “a retinoid cream, sunscreen always, and drink a lot of water.”

“What about chemical peels?”

“those are good to do a few times per year.”

“Mineral or chemical sunscreen? I’m sorry, I know you have other people to see but just need to know.”

“Mineral works well and has fewer chemicals so if you like the natural route, go with that.”

“Can I use oil to clean my skin? I do. Is it wrong? Am I ruining my face?”

He gathered up his papers and stared at me like he knew if he didn’t get away soon, I’d keep him there all day. And it was true. I had twenty years of fashion and beauty magazine consumption rattling around in the back of my head and I wanted, no, needed, to debunk everything I’d ever heard.

“Don’t use Olive Oil, turns out that’s actually very drying and not good for your skin for a number of reasons. Coconut oil, however, is great. If you don’t break out, then go for it.”

And then he escaped.

I learned how to take better care of my skin and that you need to aggressively monitor your vagina so it doesn’t kill you.


Ho Ho Whore Nuts

It’s that time again, where parents encourage an overweight stranger to touch their children and whore nuts are all the rage at Whole Foods. No, it’s not one night in Bangkok, it’s Christmas.


I read this as “Whorehouse Nuts” and I was like, I don’t know what this is but I need it.

I love Christmas. I hate it. I’m conflicted. Christmas is a struggle for me because I feel split between two different parts of myself: Little kid me and the jaded asshole I’ve become. On one hand, Christmas was a big holiday for me growing up. My mom loves it, more than loves it, she’s  essentially a Christmas elf, in both her physical size and joy. Every year, her home explodes into what can best be described as a Christmas cornucopia. When she’s not actively decorating her house to look exactly like Santa’s workshop, she maintains the Christmas spirit by blasting Manheim Steamroller in July. Honestly, the only thing she’s lacking is real Santa and a fleet of flying reindeer.

Because of my mom’s unbridled enthusiasm for the holidays, there’s a part of me that is filled to the brim with nostalgia come December. I love Jingle Bell Rock, holiday cheer, and decorating my tree. However, there’s an equal part of me that loathes the whole thing. I really struggle with the waste, consumerism, and the fact that it’s become a giant corporate clusterfuck. I’m also not religious. However, I’m positive that Jesus wouldn’t approve of us celebrating his B-day with 2 billion tons of wrapping paper in a landfill and a discounted Walmart Kitchenaid Mixer.

So how do I keep celebrating a holiday that I love while making it mean something more than psychotic sales at Target and feeling drained when everything is about gifts, gifts, gifts? I love gifts, like a lot, but I like gifts to mean something, not just, “here, I’m obligated to do this and try not to choke on it.”

The solution seems to be to reinvent the holiday altogether. What I like about it:

Celebrating the change of season from fall to winter.



Doing acts of service.

Being grateful for stuff.

Giving people I care about things that might make them happy.

The tree.


Time with friends and family.

Winter solstice. Look at me, the ice queen!

What I’d like to do is turn the holiday into what I think it was supposed to be in the first place: A jolly time for giving and being grateful while also being drunk among people you like. My new holiday will be a time for getting together with friends, making some kind of grateful list (also good for depression! double win!) drinking a ton of spiked eggnog, decorating a tree (yay to praising the environment! Thank symbolic tree for oxygen!), visiting relatives and bestowing gifts of locally bought goods or services  (local economies!) wrapped in some kid of eco-friendly bag (because wrapping paper just really pisses me off), donating to an important cause, forcing friends and family to also donate to cause and/or dragging them or guilting them into doing nonprofit work with me. And, eating so, so much food. Food is life.

It’s basically just about food. Booze and food.

What are some traditions that you do for the holidays? I want to hear how all of you will be celebrating this year (or every year).


It’s Amazing I can Walk Anywhere

There are two basic skills that I’m inexplicably terrible at: walking and swallowing. Nine times out of ten, if I’m drinking something, I choke on it. And I fall down no less than 9 times on any given day.

The other morning, I took Oliver for a walk. I crossed the street and started down the road when I heard, “hello Misty,” in the bushes. I jumped and screamed. Turns out the bushes were not calling my name, rather, my neighbor was from his steps. “Sorry about that,” I said, “it’s like I’ve never been in public before.” He laughed, “no big deal,” he said, “I’m just out here clipping my nails.” And I thought, why can’t more men go outside to clip their nails? My husband does it in the bathroom and it’s like he on purpose misses the garbage can and for a month I keep stepping on his nasty little nails. My co-worker regularly clips his nails at his desk, which is on my list of the top five grosses things anyone has ever done in an office. I joked on Twitter, “Since my co-worker is clipping his nails at his desk, I guess I don’t need to go to the bathroom to change my tampon anymore.” Fair is fair, buddy. So, I’m thinking to myself that guys should go outside to clip their nails more often when Oliver jerks my hand to pee on a rock and I stumble and catch myself on the fence, spraining my wrist a little. “Sonofabitch!” I screamed and then immediately bent down to randomly pet Oliver, self-conscious that someone might have thought I was yelling at him like a Goddamn monster.

The walk continued. Oliver stopped to poop in some weeds and I realized right then that I didn’t actually have a bag with me. I rummaged in my pockets and managed to find a small square of tissue. I bent down and tried to clean up three turds with one tiny tissue square, holding my breath and feeling faint, while Oliver is yanking on the leash to go look at something. I manage to get it all cleaned up and am walking as quickly as I can towards my house when my boot hits the edge of a crack in the cement and my ankle snaps. In slow motion, the turds fly out of my hand, my legs buckle, and I land on my tailbone. I somehow managed to keep a hold of Oliver though, who is still pulling, now more than before because he wants to get away from me because either I’ve embarrassed him or he’s decided I’m a danger to his personal safety.

I limped back home and somehow got myself to work with only my pride slightly wounded.

A Little Pile of Graveyard

The other night, F and I came home from a movie to find out trash destroyed and an entire chicken carcass missing. I panicked. I’d read a lot of articles about shit that dogs shouldn’t eat and knew that cooked chicken bones were at the top of that list. Convinced that my dog was dying, I picked him up and ran into the kitchen to grab my phone to google shit. Because I was distracted and also panicking my coordination was a little off and I smacked my face into the wall corner and nearly knocked myself out. I whirled back and slumped down to the floor holding my forehead.

“Dude, when it comes to that dog, you can’t see anything else but him,” F shook his head at me.

“Suck it, buddy,” I groaned, “we might have to take him to the emergency vet,” I reached for the counter to grab my phone.

I typed, “What happens if my dog ate entire fucking chicken.” Google had conflicting information from, “OH MY GOD HE’S GOING TO DIE!” to “he’ll probably be fine but if he starts like shitting blood everywhere immediately rush him to the vet,” and “Beastiality legal in Germany.”

While stumbling around I nearly stepped in a giant mountain of disgusting. Initially, I was like, “A RAT DIED THERE!” but then I realized it was much worse than that. It was a pile of bones the size of a football. Oliver had essentially thrown up an entire fucking graveyard and there were thigh bones and little shards of ribcage poking out everywhere in a mound of brown substance. I gagged. And in between gagging felt a huge wave of relief that he didn’t digest any of it.

I picked Oliver up, “you’re a nasty little shit, you know that?” He licked his lips and wagged his tail like, “yeah, I know. Hi!” And I smiled and wondered how something so cute could be so disgusting. Then I cried because I had to scrape the remains from the hardwood.

10 Messages From My Dad: Have You Been Eaten By A Shark?

My dad hasn’t always been a family man. But, in his old age, he’s come to like the idea of being around his kids more than ever. If I don’t call him for a while, he’ll get offended and pretend like he doesn’t know me when he answers the phone. “Oh, I’m sorry, do I know you gehl? You don’t sound familiar.” If he calls and I don’t answer, he leaves a message. My answering machine is completely full of voicemails from my dad, almost all of them asking if I’ve been eaten by a shark.

My Voicemail: Hello, this is ME. I’m sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back with you as soon as possible. Unless I’ve been eaten by sharks.

My Dad-Message 1: Oh no baby! You’ve must have been eaten by deeeeh shaaaaarks (strong Persian accent). Call me back baby. Love you baby. Love daddy.

My Dad-Message 2: Baby, wanted to see if you wanted to go for deh coffee but you must have been eaten by sharks. Call me baby. Love you.

My Dad-Message 3: Oh, those damn sharks! They got you again baby! Wanted to see if you want to go for coffee. Call me baby. Love you.

My Dad-Message 4: Hey baby! Again, must have missed you because of the shaaaaarks. Oh, I hate dose sharks! They are always eating you! Call me baby. Love you.

My Dad-Message 5: Baby, you must have been eaten by the sharks once again! Well, call me if you can baby. Love you.

My Dad-Message 6: HAAAAAPPY FATHER’S DAY TO YOOOOOU BAAAABY. Oh, happy father’s day! I loooooove you! Must have been eaten by those shaaarks. Call me, love you! Note: My dad doesn’t really understand how father’s day works

My Dad-Message 7: Where is my daughter at? Well, I guess she was eaten by sharks. Love you baby.

My Dad-Message 8: Hey, baby, call me back. You want to come over for dinner? Or did you get eaten by sharks? Love you baby. Call me.

My Dad-Message 9: Oh, no baby. Looks like you were eaten by deh sharks again. Love you Tiger. Call me. Love you.

My Dad-Message 10: I’m in the neighborhood with your brother and wanted to see if you want to go have a coffee together. But obviously, you were eaten by sharks. Love you baby. Call me.


Don’t Eat That: Sidewalk Foraging Gone Wrong

For the past two years, I’ve been really into gardening. And why not? It’s pretty easy, food is insanely expensive, and who the hell knows what they’ve sprayed on it by the time you shove it in your mouth. I’ve grown lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, garlic, and even chamomile. I love it. I love eating fresh organic vegetables that cost me like 1/4 of the price it would at Whole Foods (let’s be honest, you have to pledge your first born to afford to shop there). But, sometimes I get a little carried away.

I’ve noticed little chestnuts all over the ground from trees that line my street. Every day I walk Oliver through them and I think, “man, this is super wasteful also because this shit costs like 9 dollars per pound.” So, I started collecting them like I was grocery shopping on my street. On every walk, I’d shove five or so into my pockets and by the end of the week, I had an enormous bowl full. I Googled, “how to roast chestnuts,” and “how to make chestnut butter.”

Sidenote: I partially blame my father-in-law for this. For years I’ve made fun of him for his weird urban foraging, like the time he grabbed fist fulls of rosemary from a hotel vase on the Vegas Strip. Apparently, he’s rubbing off on me. 


On my last urban foraging trek, my neighbor saw me shoving chestnuts into my pockets and he was probably like, what the fuck is that whack job doing, shoving sidewalk nuts into your sweatpants?” So, in my attempt at being normal, after I emptied my pockets at home I meandered outside to where my neighbor was now talking with another neighbor and casually asked, “you don’t mind me picking up your chestnuts, do you?”

“Not at all,” he smiled.

“If you want to take them from my lawn, go for it,” the other neighbor added, “or, if you’d like to help me harass my wife, you can step on them and really work them into the grass so she has to pop them out with a butter knife.”

“That’s just mean,” I laughed. I turned to walk away, “cool, thanks, guys. I’m gonna go roast them.”

“No, no, no!” my neighbor yelled, “you can’t eat those. They’re Horse Chestnuts and they’re not edible.”

“Seriously? I asked. “Like, gross or deadly?”

He shrugged. I thanked him and when home to google it and apparently Horse Chestnuts are useless and poisonous. I sulked for a minute, then went into the kitchen to dump out my giant mixing bowl of chestnuts into the garbage. Then I wondered, why would anyone plant shitty chestnuts instead of the edible ones? I mean, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, we could like live on chestnuts. EXPENSIVE ASS CHESTNUTS.

Now I’m researching how to plant non-deadly chestnut trees because I want one in my yard. Do any of you have nut trees?

He Shit The Bed

If our poodle, Oliver, was a human child, he’d be the one with the big bottle glasses, standing in the lunch line listing off his allergies to the exhausted lunch ladies.

He’s adorable. But, his hair is tangled even though we brush it and take him to the groomer, he kind of smells like pee because can’t aim worth shit, and he’s always sick.

Oliver eats grain free food because he’s allergic to rice. He can’t have most treats unless they’re basically 100% unicorn meat and if he eats something he’s not supposed to, he shits his brains out for days.

This week, I made F, my husband, some homemade chicken noodle soup because he had a fever (he’s also always sick).  It was delicious even though I cooked it because I’m getting better at stuff with age. And since it was delicious, I tried to shove all of it in my mouth at once while watching Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce. While eating like a goblin, I dropped a single noodle on the floor. And, in slow motion, I watched Hoover puppy eat it before I could grab it.

The next day, F and I came home from work to find him slouched over, trembling on the couch, his eyes barely open and glossed over. I tried to touch him and he growled and shot me some mean side eye.

F shook his head, “he’s just being dramatic.”

If I heard someone else say that about their violently shaking dog, I would assume that they were negligent assholes. But this isn’t a normal dog, this is Oliver. If he gets a leaf stuck to his foot, he’ll limp for a block even after we removed the leaf. And anytime he gets a belly ache, which is at least three times per year (it was more before we figured out his food sensitivities), he acts like he’s in total organ failure. For years, I panicked every time he limped or whined and rushed him to the vet every month, sometimes more than once. Slowly, we’ve learned to take his extreme sensitivity to all discomfort with a grain of salt.

So, I didn’t panic. I calmly picked up the phone and called the vet.

The vet asked, “Can you describe how he’s acting?”

“Like he’s dying, basically. He’s growling and shaking and won’t let us touch him.”

“Oh, no. That does sound like he needs to come in.”

“I mean, I want to bring him in but I’m sure he’s fine.”

The vet cleared her throat, “Uhm, okay. So you do want to bring him in?”

“It’s just like, you know, what if this is that one time that I don’t take it seriously and it is something really serious for once? So, I want to bring him in. And clearly he’s not feeling good and I don’t want him to be sick. But, our dog is a huge wuss. So, most likely he has a belly ache.” I said.

The vet said, “Of course. Bring him down now.”

I grabbed his leash and put him in the car. He laid down and stayed like that all the way there. Then, once we got to the vet he jumped up and was instantly normal. He wagged his tail, wanted to greet everyone, and suddenly wanted to be picked up. Which, made me feel like one of those crazy moms with Munchausen syndrome.

The vet came in, took his temperature (normal), pushed on his tummy (a little sensitive), and took him into the back to give him a shot to alleviate his tummy ache. I knew the exact moment that they gave him the shot because he screamed for a solid minute, so loud that it echoed throughout the entire clinic.

Hearing your pet cry, or kid, or partner, is painful and a part of me wanted to kick open the back door and kick everyone. But logically, I knew that they were just trying to help him. The vet came running into my room out of breath and red-faced like she’s sprinted all the way to the door to explain why my dog was howling, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “I promise, we only gave him the shot. I mean, it stings a little but…”

I nodded, “I know.” Oliver came running into the room with the vet tech and hid behind my legs. I picked him up, “did that mean lady hurt you?” and kissed his head. He looked at me like, “yeah, fuck her.” The vet shot me a look.

“The medicine will get rid of any nausea or any tummy pain that he might have.” Said the vet, “I took a fecal sample and it does look like he has more bad bacteria than normal so it looks like he ate something he wasn’t supposed to eat. He seems very sensitive to pain.”

Read: The goddamn noodle. He was practically dying over a noodle. Or tampon. He’d also eaten a tampon that week. Dogs are so Gross.

The vet gave him probiotics and antibiotics to rebalance his bacteria and sent us home. We walked in the door and the meds must have already kicked in because he ran over to his food and gobbled up the entire bowl in 3.2 seconds. Then he grabbed a stuffed squirrel and took off running around the couch.

F picked Oliver up, “a tummy ache?”

I shrugged, “Yep.”

Later that night, around 3 a.m., Oliver woke me up to go potty. I let him outside, he went to the bathroom then came running back inside. He tore through the house and jumped on our bed. Then he sat down, rolled around, and sat down again. It was dark. I was tired. I closed the door and climbed into bed. I put my hand on something wet. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Brown smears all over our white comforter. My husband was fast asleep.

“Babe, BABE, get up. Oliver shit the bed.” He sat straight up and stared at me, baffled.

“Oliver got poop all over the bed. We have to change the sheets.” He slowly nodded and crawled out of bed. We silently changed the sheets and I took Oliver to the bathroom to wash Oliver’s ass (when I was younger, I never thought that I’d grow up to spend a ton of time washing dog butt). I disinfected my hands, cleaned the bathroom, and settled back into bed at 4 a.m.

Oliver padded up to space between me and F, turned, and flopped down in between us. He snored like nothing had ever been wrong and all was right in the world.