Writing my way out of depression

I am depressed. Sort of. Sort of not. It’s always there. Lurking like a greedy motherfucker. It wants my time. My attention. My energy. I fight it. I write to fight. Today’s weapon of choice is my son’s letter journal, a book I started when he was just a few weeks old in 2000. Today I’m writing about first love. First love is hard. I’m so glad I write letters to him. I’ll never stop. I re-read them sometimes and know that these letters are as much for me as they are for him.

Foot photo bomb courtesy of second born, who also has a book of letters coming.
Foot photo bomb courtesy of second born, who also has a book of letters coming.

Fifteen years ago, he raged colic and chronic ear infections like a boss. It was hell. I was profoundly lonely and depressed. I didn’t think I’d survive it. What did it feel like to be happy? I needed to remember.


My mom inspired this writing. My baby book is full of her emotional and descriptive writing about my childhood. I saw her love for me in the words and it took my breath away. Her words grounded me. They still do. I was loved. Wanted. Seen. I cherish her words. I hope my kids feel the same way about my words.

I remember writing this. I remember what his hand felt like in mine.
I remember writing this. I remember what his hand felt like in mine.

Depression is a soul sucking demon. I wrote my way out of postpartum. Pills and counseling and exercise and nutrition helped too, but writing seemed to help the most with the worst, loneliest, scariest moments. I’d plop down and scrawl.

Coming out of the dark postpartum depression.
Coming out of the dark postpartum depression.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Just keep fighting. That’s what I did.

I was fighting. FIGHTING stupid depression.
I was fighting. FIGHTING stupid depression.

Fear. Would my son struggle with depression? Damn genetics. Damn depression.

This is whoa...
This is whoa…

Writing it out. Figuring it out. Not giving up. I went to counseling. I wrote. I took my medication. I wrote. I took care of my body. I wrote. A month after this entry, I got pregnant with my daughter. It couldn’t be that much harder than dealing with all these imaginary friends. Especially Nick. That fucker. He showed up in August. My daughter was born on May 14th, 2004. That made my son happy. Nick was no longer necessary.

Nick was a dick. A bag of dicks.
Nick was a dick. A bag of dicks.

Cliffhanger! Here…

Note the apology for being "snippy." The first of many to come.
Note the apology for being “snippy.” The first of many to come. Irritable depression. Fucking depression.

Writing, writing, writing, and more writing. Fighting depression with words.

I wrote to my daughter and I wrote to my son. I wrote in my own journal. Time between letters grew farther apart, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I was too tired to finish a note. Sometimes he wanted to write in his letter book, so he did.

Slumber party and Scooby Doo. I remember.
Slumber party and Scooby Doo. I remember.

I’m still fighting. I’m still writing. I don’t know that I would be writing the way I do without having the connection to my children. I’ve always loved to write, but my the power and clarity that comes from writing to connect with them and stay with them is my secret weapon for fighting depression, to stay. I want to stay.


The words will come. Or not. Butter love and an empty brain on a page in February.

I share this with you today because maybe you are fighting? Maybe you should try some writing? There’s some good research on this and even if there wasn’t, what do you have to lose?

P.S. You can read more about Nick in my book. You can get the book on Amazon by clicking the image below. You can also find it at your local bookstore.

Borderline Personality Disorder: Advice for Dealing with the Drama

When I put a call out for readers to write in about mental health issues I expected a good amount of email. What I didn’t expect was that so many of the messages would be about the negative impact borderline personality disorder has on relationships. And by negative impact what I mean is OMG IT’S SO FUCKING STRESSFUL.

The main feature of borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a pervasive pattern of instability in interpersonal relationships, self-image, and emotions. People with borderline personality disorder are also usually very impulsive, oftentimes demonstrating self-injurious behaviors (risky sexual behaviors, cutting, suicide attempts).


Found on Pinterest - ajourneythroughimages.blogspot.mx
Found on Pinterest – ajourneythroughimages.blogspot.mx

People with BPD are intense, dramatic, unpredictable, overly emotional, and often super sensitive to anything that they perceive as threatening, which is basically everything and everyone a good deal of the time. It’s very hard to live like this and it’s very hard to live with someone like this. It takes a lot of patience because BPD is pervasive. BPD is the elephant in the room and the monkey on your back and the thorn in your side and the itch you just can NOT fucking scratch.


You cannot change BPD, you can only learn to live with it and develop some coping skills and approaches to managing the intensity of it. You can NOT use logic and reason when dealing with BPD. Whether you have it or you love someone who does, you will go bat shit nutballs if you don’t accept that simple truth.

You can’t change it. You can only cope with it.

Mood swings can be tough, but one thing we do know is that moods change. There are lots of things that contribute to mood changes. Personality does not change like a mood. I repeat – personalities DO NOT change. The development of personality is a bit complicated, but once a personality is developed, the simple truth is that it IS what it IS.

So what that means is that if someone has borderline personality disorder, they way they think, behave, and feel within the context of their moods is going to be there no matter what tone their mood takes. Happy, sad, anxious, distraught, lonely, grumpy, relaxed, etc. – the dysfunctional pattern of instability of self image, emotions, and interpersonal relationships will always be lurking!


For example, let’s say that you have a conflict with a person who has BPD. They might send you a text telling you that they have nothing to say to you and don’t EVER want to talk to you again. And then they will follow up with a text that says a lot of things, despite the fact that they told you had nothing to say and didn’t want to talk to you again. It’s so confusing when you think of this logically, right?

Wut the shit?

If you remind the person with BPD of what they said and express your frustration, confusion, and exhaustion, they might stop texting you. Or not. But they will definitely be angry with you and have no idea how to deal with your logic because their feelings are just so damn powerful that they block out anything reasonable. If you love this person with BPD and are willing to continue having a relationship, you will go though this or something like it often.

What should you do?

One thing. ONE.

When dealing with the dramatic and intense emotions of a person with BPD, you should always stick to the facts and avoid talking about feelings. Facts NOT feelings.

Facts not feelings. Facts not feelings. Facts not feelings. Facts not feelings. FACTS NOT FEELINGS.

You got that? Good.

Image via Pinterest
Image via Pinterest

When communicating with a person who has BPD, you should use a calm tone of voice and be genuine. You are responsible for what you say, not how it’s interpreted, but because you know that someone with BPD has difficulty interpreting what you say, no matter HOW you say it, due to their fragile sense of self, you had better damn well say EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN and say it in a way that will offer you the best chance of being understood.

Be clear.

Be concise.

Be concrete.

Use facts.

Avoid feelings.

Be kind.

Be patient.

And that’s what Aunt Blabby told me to tell YOU about dealing with the drama that comes with having relationships with people who have borderline personality disorder. She will talk more about it soon, but this really exhausted her, because BPD is exhausting to talk about.

Have a good Labor Day. Pass the meat!

Borderline Personality Disorder on Psychcentral

Aunt Blabby is the new Dear Abby

When I was a wee girl, my nickname was Aunt Blabby. Because of all my blabbing.

Things haven’t changed much. I still talk too much but now a lot of the time it’s because people want me to. They ask me to! It’s my fucking job. Ah-may-zang! Who new that my alter ego would someday be more useful than fucking annoying?

A little background…

I have two master’s degrees – one in psychology and the other in gerontology. I’ve been working in the mental health field for almost two decades. You can read about that HERE and watch a video of me, which is well produced and whatnot, but I still look like a dolt, so whatever….

It’s my passion to keep learning so that I can educate, support, and advocate for all things mental health. I’m qualified to address lots of stuff and not qualified to address other stuff. I’ll tackle what I can using a shit ton of profanity, as always.

Because fuck you.

Not fancy and classy.
Not fancy and classy.

Blah, blah….

Yup. Gonna blab. My alter ego, Aunt Blabby, is going to answer questions and impart information about how to minimize your overall fuckedup-ness and how to integrate some wellness stuff into your life in a realistic way that doesn’t involve setting you up to fail and feel more shitty. I hate it when experts do that. They are like, “Ok, here’s how you spread a wet fart on toast,” as if you could even….


I’m not an expert, but you CAN trust me. I’m a fucking professional.

You can send your questions or ideas about things you want me to blab about by emailing queenofcussinmwdas@gmail.com or filling out the contact form here on the blog. Make sure to put Dear Aunt Blabby in the subject line.

Aunt Blabby is like Dear Abby. With f-bombs. And metaphors about penises and poop. But fear not, the information will be valid and reliable and helpful even if it is presented in a way that might or night not be safe for work.


Click here if you want something for nothing

Everyone wants something for nothing. I love a little something for nothing, but I’m not angry when it costs me something for something. I like to think that when I get free samples at Costco I am getting something for nothing, but who am I kidding, I pay membership fee and I’m glad to do because I know that someone worked hard to create the something and deserves to be compensated for that work. I do eat as many samples as I can every time I’m there though, because maybe I’ll actually eat enough to feel like I’ve covered my membership fee and then I am getting something for nothing. Sort of…

Not everyone expects something for nothing from bloggers, but those who do, REALLY FUCKING DO, and they get loud about it sometimes. Good think I’m half deaf when it comes to burning bags of cunt who can NOT stop complaining about bloggers who do sponsored content because I have a lot of blogger friends who make good money doing this BY WORKING REALLY FUCKING HARD.

Everybody has to make money somehow, because how else would we pay for our Costco memberships? I like to volunteer as much as the next gal, but I also like to eat and have a place to live, and those things cost money, so I work hard doing things to earn money. Blogging is one of these things.

I’ve never been good at the business of blogging. I lack the belly and brains for it, but I do okay. Not pay for all the things okay, but pay for some things okay. It’s a rare thing for me to sponsored content, but it happens. I dabble in the business side of blogging when I feel like I can do it comfortably and naturally. Nowadays (OMG did I just use the word “nowadays?”) I do other things as well as blogging to earn the my Costco membership and more.

The other day I read an article about Heather Armstrong, the creator of the mega successful mommy blog, Dooce. Her Twitter bio says, “I exploit my children for millions of dollars on my mommy blog.” Atta girl! Yet despite the earning of millions, she has decided to quit blogging biz.

A quote from the article…

“The blogging world has gotten rather toxic and I just feel really drained.”


Dooce is quitting the business despite the fact that she could pay the Costco membership fees for every single person who likes my Moms Who Drink And Swear Facebook page , because the negativity and burden was devouring her soul. Mad props to Dooce. I will drop this bitch like its hot if I ever stop loving it, even if I am earning enough to pay for a million Costco memberships. Yep. I’ll say “Bye, Felicia!” And I’ll never look back.

The Internet can be a dangerous and scary place. I know this because I don’t spend all my time blogging and pinning pictures of baby animals and watching Taylor Swift videos on YouTube. I’ve been a target of the poisonous poster, both anonymously and not, yet I still love to blog.


I have the luxury of blogging on my own terms and even when I do have sponsored content, I answer only to myself and the people who choose to read my posts. If people like what I write, they let me know and share it. If not, they let me know and don’t share it. The only burden I carry is the weight of being truthful and kind and that’s not a burden as much as it’s a responsibility, and that kind of responsibility is, to me, more like an opportunity.

I have earned loyalty and friendship among the blogging community and blog readers by being kind, responsible, and consistent over the past eight years, and so, I feel that writing a blog with an explanation for my absence over the past year isn’t a ridiculous thing to do, because I still love blogging and would like the opportunity to keep writing this ridiculous mess and continue to deserve the faithful and supportive readership and sense of community.

I am grateful. Thank you for your support. Thank you for the company. Thank you for being patient. Thank you for making this fun. Thank you for having my back and each other’s as well when the angry, greedy butt sniffing whore clowns try to poison us with their bitter venom.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

When I started this blog, I was at a very low point. Writing helped me grow and heal. The community brought me back to life. And now I’m back to doing what I did before I started blogging, which is helping other people grow and heal through my job as a clinical psychotherapist. Doing both things is what I want to do and I’m working on figuring out how to manage my time and all that other difficult shit that working people who want to have a life and family do. I’ll figure it out because I want to. I’ll get there.

Until next time, here’s that something for nothing I promised….

taylor and bunny


Naughty moms give all the fucks

My mom was a perfectionist. Was. I didn’t notice this perfectionism when I was growing up because I was a self involved filterless spaz of a jerk kid and also because the thing I did notice about my mom was that she was so so so soooooo so nice. She still IS nice. But she’s not a perfectionist anymore and sometimes she’s a wee bit naughty. I love it. I love her. I love us. Here is a photo of us that was taken in 1981.


I am posting this old picture because after you hear about how naughty we are sometimes, especially tonight, you might want to find us and punch us in the twats. If I can at least protect my mom, I’m gonna do it, but what’s a Mother’s Day post without a picture of a girl and her beloved mom that she gives all the fucks about, right?

So…my mom has changed a lot. She’s got some challenges with her physical and mental health, as most aging people do, and these challenges have resulted in her having to shift her priorities. She has no time for perfectionism or bullshit. We know our time together is limited, so we make the most of it. We have fun. We laugh. We eat greasy burgers, 1,000 calorie milkshakes, and sometimes we sit around and watch bad television and drink way too much.

Tonight she wasn’t feeling too hot, but I dragged her out to dinner because meat and booze usually cheer her up. Or maybe it’s me they cheer up? Whatever, it’s not like she argued. And I needed my mom and I needed to be cheered up and nobody, I mean NOBODY cheers me up quite like my momma. We plopped down into a cozy booth at one of our favorite restaurants just in time to see the most interestingly dressed server walk by. And when I say interesting, I mean what my mom said…

“That might be trendy, but it’s not flattering.”

Cue hysterical laughter. WE ARE THE WORST. But she started it…

It’s well documented that I dress for shit. I have the fashion sense of a blind time traveler from Zog. I give zero fucks. My mom, on the other hand, before she re-prioritized, had some sweet fashion sense. She gave a lot of fucks and it showed. She now gives no fucks about her fashion, because she has other more important shit that requires her energy – like breathing and walking and remembering stuff, because that stuff is fucking hard for her now – but she still good goddamn knows a hot mess when she sees one. Her eyes work good. They fucking better, you know, because she fucking cataracts blown out of both of them over the last few months.

Here’s the thing…

Why does it really matter what someone wears as long as they are happy and comfortable? I mean, I give zero fucks and my mom gives zero fucks, and we would never begrudge another person the right to give zero fucks if they had zero fucks to give. That being said, if a person is totally rocking a look that says they give a LOT of fucks and those fucks are going to complete waste, is it wrong that a couple of zero fuck givers can’t help but notice how that person fucked UP?

I think not.

GAH! But maybe I am wrong? I did have a few glasses of wine and my look today was nothing less than a zero fuck giving heap of color disabled blergh, so what do I know?

Nothing about fashion. I just know about love.

But my mom knows about both things. She knows all the things about fashion and the server’s outfit wasn’t flattering. It was actually distracting and weird and sort of a shame, because she was cute as a bug and I think that’s why her outfit made my mom give some fucks. It might have also had something do to with the fact that she doesn’t give any fucks whatsoever about what she says anymore or how loud she says it, which, quite frankly, is probably my VERY FAVORITE THING ABOUT HER NOW next to the fact that she is probably the only person in the world who truly loves me more than anything else in the world. She gives every single fuck about me.


I just want to be with my mom. Any version of her is perfect. If she is breathing and we are laughing and loving our time no matter now imperfect it seems, to me it is perfect. I give no fucks about the fucks of others. If my time with my beloved mom includes the two of us secretly acting like naughty mean girls, so be it. I know that the cutie server with the unflattering outfit did not hear what my mom said or notice our snickers. I would give MANY fucks if she did and so would my mom. I think. Hard to say. She’s re-prioritized, you know? Eventually we all must. Life is like that…

What I do know is that we are fully aware that tonight we were simply naughty and horribly dressed people snarfing up dead flesh and knocking back too many boozies. We don’t get many nights like this anymore. Tonight was perfect. It was the first time in a very long time when we both felt physically good and emotionally glad. Things have been pretty fucked up lately…

What makes a mom good or bad and who fucking decides this anyway? If it were up to me, I’d judge a moms goodness by counting the number fucks she gives. I think that even if a mom fucks up, the fact that she gives so many fucks that it’s statistically impossible for her not to fuck up sometimes, is THE way to know how fucking good she truly is. If I could get the world to understand that standard of measurement, I’m pretty sure that most of us would never for one minute debate this good or bad nonsense.


I love you, Mom. I give all the fucks about you. You made me fucking care. I want to make you proud and I know that every single fuck in this blog makes you fucking smile.


You want my book. Buy it HERE.

book ad banner

Sometimes I tell my son I will kick him in the balls

My son and I made steak and eggs for dinner and decided to start watching the new series, Daredevil, on Netflix. All fucking good. ALL. FUCKING. GOOD.

I love all things superheroes and I have more days out of the month than not that I wish for superpowers. I ask the universe to stop using me as a toilet and give me echolocation or telekinesis. So far…nothing.


Anyhoo…we are really enjoying Daredevil, despite the fact that my kid just talks and talks and talks throughout every…fucking…episode.

Z: OH MY GOD! Did you just see how hard he got kicked in the balls?

Me: I KNOW, RIGHT? And that fucker didn’t even flinch. Now shhh….

Z: He probably has a superpower where he can suck his balls into his body.

Me: I’m guessing that most superheroes have that power. Now shhh….

Z: Agreed. They are like turtles.

Me: Remember when you painted that shitty little ceramic turtle for me?

Z: I do. It wasn’t shitty.

Me: It was. Now shhh…


Me: If you don’t shhhh….I will kick you in the balls and since you don’t have the ball suck into your insides superpower, it will hurt.

I would never kick him in the balls. At least I don’t think I would. I hate to say that I wouldn’t and then do it and have you think me a liar, but even if I did do it, and that would be like a .0009% chance, I’d deny it.

kicked himself in the balls

I just KNOW some pearl clutcher is reading this and losing her shit right now. CHILL THE FUCK OUT, PEARL CLUTCHER! I AM KIDDING.

Or am I?

I’m a therapist and I’m just trying to make sure my kid has lots of stuff to tell his future therapist, because I know how much I enjoy hearing fucked up shit like this from the kids I work with. Makes the day go fast, you know? And it makes me feel about six hundred times better about how often I tell my son that I might kick him in the balls if he doesn’t clean up his room. Or shut the hell up when I’m trying to fucking watch Daredevil on fucking Netflix!!

Talking about therapy made me think about mental illness which made me think about the new book, Surviving Mental Illness Through Humor. I wrote the foreword. The book is fantastic and inspiring. You want one. I am giving two signed copies of them away.

How do you win one with a love note written especially for you from me in it? Like this…

Well, if you have the balls to tweet a little something you think your kids will tell their future therapist about you and use the hashtag #kickyouintheballs and tag me, @queenofcussin or @laughtosurvive, in the post, I will have my son read them all and decide which two of you are the mostest horriblest.

Good luck.

The Bitch is Back (#thebitchisme)

Thanks to those who have reached out and asked if I’m sick, dying, or dead. I am not sick or dead, although I am dying. We all are. Slowly…rotting…meat…suits…melting…into…

Anyhoooo…I’M BACK. OMG I AM BACK. The. Bitch. Is. BACK!

So if I wasn’t sick or dead, where was I? I was working, motherfuckers!

Some of you know that I am a clinical psychotherapist. I took some time off to caregive the fuck out of people who needed to be cared for and only did a wee bit of clinical stuff here and there along with lots of writing. LOTS. Remember that book I wrote? NO? Well, you should fucking buy it. Click HERE to do that. But first read the rest of this shit.

Anyhooo… Now I am back to doing a lot of clinical stuff. Hoo-fucking-ray. It’s truly where my heart is. I’m passionate about mental health stuff for all the reasons you might think. All of ’em. Good mental health intervention and care saved my life. It MADE my life possible. So there’s that…

I am in the process of writing the proposal for my next humor book, a book about mental health that is chock full of profanity and practical stuff about living a life that isn’t FUBAR. It’s possible. Trust me. I hope to shit that my literary agent will be able to sell it. If not, I’ll figure out a way to get it out. Pinky swear. Not soon, but soon enough.

I am also working with A from Swirleytime on a new book called “Caretaking Chronicles: Humor and Stoicism from the Cradle to the Grave.” It’s a book about caregiving. It’s intense. You are going to want to read it six times infinity. It will make you laugh and cry. It will be about 6 months to a year before it’s out, but it’s gonna be worth the wait.

Yeah, I’m back. I’ll be blogging sporadically during April, but May is Mental Health Awareness Month, so I will be dropping all sorts of blog bombs about mental health topics. The stigma has to stop. HAS TO STOP. Fuck you, Stigma. Fuck. YOU.

Tis' bullshit. Stop it. STOP. IT.
Tis’ bullshit. Stop it. STOP. IT.

Oooooo and this!

Available April 7th!
Available April 7th!

Oh yeah… I wrote the foreword to this book   – Surviving Mental Illness Through Humor, brought to you by Alyson Herzig the author of The Shitastrophy, and Jessica Azar, of Herd Management. #smith Surviving Mental Illness Through Humor! Best hashtag EVAH. I hope you buy the book and hashtag it all over social media. Laughter is the best medicine. After orgasams and chocolate and wine and pills and photos of baby animals, of course. And hashtags.

So I guess the point is…#thebitchisback I will be all over your shit in May. You have been warned.

mental health may

If you need more of me to read and haven’t bought my book, you can buy it by clicking HERE. Yup. It’s something…

Tales from Another Mother Runner: How I became the most grateful bitch EVER

For the first twenty something years of my life, I was a lot like this….

I was just constantly picking fights with God or the universe or whatever. I was chock full of fuck you and your infinite whatever, I’LL DO WHAT I WANT! I took everything for granted and was pretty much a bitter pile of shit a lot of the time.

I started to make peace with God or the universe of whatever grand and weird force is out there about a decade before cancer took my father to Heaven or the universe or wherever people go when they die. I got grateful. I got healthy. Slowly and deliberately, I made a lot of hard choices, but once I embraced gratitude as a lifestyle choice, I was like this…

And I never want to lose the calm, floaty feeling that washes over me when I do what it takes to earn the feels I am rewarded with when I do the work – the physical and emotional work it takes to get to grateful.

I DO THINGS. I move, I go, I do, I ACT.

There are many obstacles to gratitude. If you want to get grateful, you have to be willing to work hard. Working hard allows you to see the positives despite the negatives attempts to blind you to them. Disease, trauma, environment, and toxic relationships are just a few of negatives. Some of these negatives are pervasive and challenging and the only way to keep your path clear of them is to keep doing what it takes to clear that path when necessary.

Yeah, it’s a lot to DO.

But the biggest obstacle most of us face is simply getting out of our own way. Oh, but that’s a lot of responsibility, isn’t it? Being accountable for our own lives and choices, not putting the power or blame on others, but taking charge and acknowledging that we are our own biggest liability, to figure out how to clear our own path and to keep doing it.

To choose to DO it. Over and over and over.

I realize that this sounds all deep and existential and whatever, but it’s really not. It’s so basic and it’s actually a very realistic lifestyle for everyfuckingone to embrace if they so choose. Every moment of every day you are alive, you have to do the work it takes to allow you to see that you ARE in charge of the choices you make to create a life that makes you feel grateful and positive even though that life will have obstacles and challenges.

I have no idea what’s going to happen tomorrow and I don’t need to. I do know that unfortunately, the meat skeleton I’m living in is eventually going to wear out. It’s fragile and finite, so I have to take care of it. I have to choose the positive, to be grateful for what it can do for me when it’s full of positivity and health, and it can only be that way if I make the choice to choose health, to DO healthy things.

For a period of time, I didn’t choose positivity and health. I let everything that got in my way, STAY in my way, not being accountable for my role in clearing my own path. I took charge of my life and health and one of the first ways I did this was by taking action. ACTION. I moved. After a long period of inertia, there was motion. Loco-motion. Pun intended.

One of the ways I choose to treat my mental (ADHD and depression) and physical illness (autoimmune disease) is with the most reliable and effective form of “medication,” and that, my friends, is by moving. I move. I started with walking. I walked until I could run. I do this with everything. I start slow, I choose to act, to move, to progress, to DO until whatever I’m doing becomes another something I’ve removed from my path to gratitude.

I just keep doing it. And so can you.

I am GRATEFUL for the opportunity to be a part of the book, Tales from Another Mother Runner:Triumphs, Trials, Tips, and Tricks from the Road. I earned it though, because I worked hard. I chose. I moved. I did. The story I contributed is bittersweet. As I wrote the essay, I once again grieved obstacles that did and still do get in the way of my path to gratitude, yet I realized how grateful I am to have had these obstacles, these challenges, these experiences.

Without them, I wouldn’t know just how much I have to be grateful for, would I?

Oh, but please don’t let this post give you the impression that I don’t ever bitch a blue streak, or whine, and slobber all over a challenge before tackling it, I’ll just put this riiiiiiiight here so that you know that the struggle is real. I just choose to be grateful for it.

Fuck you, CANCER. I ran this 10K to tell you to fuck yourself.
Fuck you, CANCER. I ran this 10K to tell you to fuck yourself.

You can buy the book, Tales From Another Mother Runner: Triumphs, Trials, Tips, and Tricks from the Road by clicking on the title or HERE.

Porn and Pork Chops: A F*ck You, Dinner Recipe

Porn and cooking.

I cannot say enough about how important it is for parents to teach kids about both of these things.

I’m going to tell you a little story about this. If you want to hear it, read on. If not, fuck off. And I don’t mean that in a mean way. Just, you know, fuck off in the nicest fuck offyiest way.

…so, I am trying to teach my kids a bunch of good life skills and requiring them to practice these skills – a LOT – in the hopes that they will get good at the skills so that they grow up to be confident, capable, independent adults. Cooking is an important life skill. If you disagree, you are wrong duck dong. Everyone needs to learn the basics. Period.

My son expressed interest in learning beyond the basics of cooking. Awe-some. I make defuckinglicious breaded pork chops. I can’t be humble about this. They are his favorite, so we decided the chops would be a good beyond the basics thing to cook, because cooking pork incorrectly can be ass exploding dangerous, so kids have to be taught pork safety. OMG PUN INTENDED. Anyway… I decided to teach the stove top and the oven baked methods so that he’s have a choice when he make them. How long to bake? I wanted to make sure. Googled it.

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Typo – whoops! One letter makes all the difference, don’t it? And so…because I know that boys are usually more receptive to conversations during some sort of activity, I decided to use the typo as a segue to talking about porn while I was teaching him to cook pork. Porn and pork. Twas perfection. I gotta tell you that, like his interest in beyond the basics with cooking, he was interested in talking beyond the basics of porn and the blah-blah bullshit mom-warn about porn.

We discussed porn and sex and intimacy and reality and fantasy and safety. And we made dephuckinglicious pork chops. Nobody ended up with the diarrhea or trichinosis or freaked out embarrassed. It was all good and I’m grateful. So much of parenting is in the moment. We think we know how it’s going to go, how we hope it goes, how we want it to go, but really the bulk of how it actually goes is wrapped up in the gazilion and one teachable moments that present themselves during the years we have the privilege of sharing them with our crotchfruit.

Fuck you, Dinner. Make yourself!

Breaded porn chops!

Pork chops. However many you want. Thin sliced is best.

Dip chop in egg and milk mixture.

Dip chop in bowl full of a mix of seasoned bread crumbs, parmesan cheese, garlic salt, sea sale, and pepper.

Place in skillet on stovetop where you have heated up some olive oil, fresh minced garlic, sea salt, and pepper.

Serve with whatever you want to serve them with. We like fresh fruit and some shredded, fresh parmesan cheese on top of the chop.


Dear Janet

Dear Janet,

You told me to call you Janet, but I never got comfortable calling you by your first name. I also never got comfortable trying new foods like you said I would, but I’m not afraid and I try ’em all. I will be forever grateful to you for making me try things, like tabouleh and oranges. And for letting me spit that nasty liver out into your hand.

I had always been around traditional women – stay at home moms who cooked and cleaned without complaint. They served fruit from a can and hot meals of meat and potatoes. The women I knew all drove carpool, baked cookies, ironed things, watched soap operas and acted as room mom. They were boo-boo kissers who never complained, never argued, never seemed to need anything for themselves aside from the occasional night out to play Bridge with the neighborhood ladies.

Until I met you.

You were different! Bold, brilliant, bossy! You called yourself a bitch and I could NOT believe it. A woman swearing without apology? Amazing! You went to work everyday, and not just to a crappy part time job like some moms who only worked to “earn a little extra,” or to “stay busy when the kids were at school.” Not you! You were a professional! A career woman! A nurse! You didn’t kiss boo-boos. You treated abrasions and contusions.

And that pin your always wore….

era yes

Your strong voice and passion for equal rights intrigued me. Until you brought it to my attention, I had no idea that women didn’t enjoy the same rights as men! NO FAIR! You told me that you fought hard so that someday I wouldn’t have to. And you fought, loudly and proudly because YOU were a fearless warrior.

I identified with you. Unlike the women in my family, I was a big mouth! I shared my opinions and spoke my mind. I demanded to be heard. I had big plans for my future and I was confident that I could and would make all my dreams come true. Like you did! I looked up to you. I wanted to be like you.

Until you left.

I knew that you weren’t happy, but how COULD you? I was so angry. After you left, I didn’t want to be like you at all. I promised myself that I wouldn’t. I didn’t understand.

One day many years later, I thought about you. I WAS you. A career woman, bold and brave, balancing as best I could amidst a peer group that didn’t always understand my drive, determination, and desperate need to be seen and heard and treated with respect and equality! This potty-mouthed bitch made her dreams come true too! But I still didn’t understand why you left.

Until I did.

I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen sobbing. I was talking myself in to leaving and then talking myself out of leaving. I was talking myself into staying and then talking myself out of staying. I felt confused, miserable, judged, helpless, and worst of all – trapped. All the things you must have been feeling before you left.

My gender, once something I celebrated, had become the source of my suffering. I had spent the last three months of my second pregnancy on bed-rest, unable to work. After my daughter was born, what was supposed to be a temporary leave became permanent, the needs of my children were great. And suffocating. I watched my earning potential decrease each year that I was out of the workforce. I missed my career, a career I busted my ass to build! My marriage had become toxic and desperately unhappy. I was depressed and confused, angry with myself! Why couldn’t I just accept my circumstances and embrace the art of sacrifice?

Nobody seemed to really understand why I was so miserable. Why did I isolate myself? Why didn’t I volunteer to be a room mom? Play Bunco? Enjoy being a “lady of leisure.” They told me to be patient. That the job of taking care of my family full time could be just as satisfying as my career was if I’d just give it a shot. Adjust my attitude and embrace the traditional role of a woman “just for awhile.” Work would always be there, but my children would only be young once. Oh, and every marriage goes through hard times.

I thought about you, the only woman I knew who would understand. The only woman I knew who did what I was thinking of doing. Leaving.

I thought about what it would cost me. What it cost you. I understand why you left.

But I would not leave. Yet. I would fight a little longer.

I stayed. I fought. I’ll fight until I can’t anymore.

Just like you. You fought many battles. You fought hard.

Until you couldn’t.

This time, I am not angry with you for leaving. I know how hard you tried to stay.


When I saw you last week, I should have told you that your bravery inspired me, that you showed me that I could fight to keep my heart from breaking, that I was strong enough to do what I felt in my heart was right for me so that I could continue to become exactly who I was meant to be. We are cut from the same cloth, you and I, and that is why your soul will always be woven into the fiber of my being. Thank you for being a trailblazer. Thank you for loving womanhood enough to fight for it.

You did not live in vain. Rest now. I’ll keep you in my heart.

Love you, Bitch.