The Venn Diagram of What My Family Can Eat

Every other summer, my family makes the trek across the U-S-A! U-S-A! and then heads north to another country. That country is called CANADA and it is one of our favorite places on earth. First of all, we have family who live there, so it’s always nice to see them. Second of all, I checked, and there are no vagina-sized-bible selling craft stores there. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay, Canada!

Traveling is a challenge for us, because 75% of us are on strict food regimens (and 25% are picky). We have digestive disorders ranging from Ulcerative Colitis to Irritable Bowel Syndrome to severe food sensitivities. I’m sure if I worked for a big corporation, the owner could help me solve all our digestive woes, but — until then — I prepare foods according to various food regimens to help my family not cry out in pain every 30-seconds.

The food regimens include the Specific Carbohydrate Diet (SCD), a completely badass regimen that calls for absolutely NO complex carbs (no brown rice or sweet potatoes, even!). Anyone who is on it is Completely Adorable AND spends a FUCKLOAD of time in a kitchen.

Also for our eating pleasure we have the low-Fodmap regimen: newer, but taking the digestive world by STORM. That’s probably because it was developed in New Zealand, a country where ZERO douchebags are controlling their female employees’ birth control coverage. Lastly, we have a general soy-free/partial-vegan/low-something-something acid regimen.

Traditionally when we’ve traveled to Canada, I’ve written out a list of all the foods my family can and cannot eat. Needless to say, it was always confusing and of little help. THIS  year, I decided to make a Venn diagram that explains everything clearly and simply. Here it is — the Venn Diagram of What My Family Can Eat. It’s so easy to understand, a female employee can understand it!


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A Good Corporation Is Hard To Find

When I was a little girl, I HATED corporations. I thought they were gross!

Then something happened in 6th grade. Our class went on a week-long, overnight field trip to this nature center on the Connecticut shore. I ended up getting this MASSIVE crush on a corporation.

By the end of 7th grade, a corporation asked me out. That corporations didn’t even talk to me when we went to a dance or to play tennis. That corporation was really shy!

Eighth grade was when I started getting a little CORPORATION CRAZY. OHMYGAWD I loved KISSING corporations. I loved talking to corporations on the phone. My first corporation-friend taught me that Led Zeppelin was not a GUY.

By ninth grade I was dating an older corporation. Unfortunately, by the next summer, the corporation lived in Montauk with a girl who would later be voted Best Looking in her class. But, I made-out with that corporation a TON my sophomore year at parties, even though the corporation was still dating Best Looking. Ha!

I went steady with a nice corporation junior and senior years.

College spelled M-E-S-S for me. This is probably because I did not read a bible. JUST KIDDING! It’s because my parents had gotten divorced and when I left high school I came UNHINGED. I ended up with an eating disorder and took some time off. By the time I went back to college, I was mostly attracted to corporations that didn’t LIKE me that much.

Post-college was a time I seemed to be attracted to only JEWISH corporations. To this day, if I’m attracted to a corporation, they are guaranteed to be at least some part Jewish!

At age 25, I met the nicest Jewish corporation I’d ever known. The corporation was kind and loving and — guess what? — the corporation and I got married!

The corporation and I have an egalitarian marriage: we take equal responsibility for our kids and for the work around the house. My only complaint is that the corporation doesn’t do much cooking. Bottom line: the corporation is a GREAT dad and husband.

It’s not easy to find a good corporation. But I highly recommend avoiding Oklahoma.




When a Bad Pedicure is Not Better Than Having No Pedicure

I’m really more of a “paint my own toenails while sitting on a beach chair on a sunny day with a friend in my driveway” kind of person, but — given my recent back issues — I can’t even bend over and reach my toes. So, a professional pedicure was “required” right before I was leaving for my 30th high school reunion. I just kinda walked into the nail place and took my chances, but it was pretty crowded, so The Lady told me to come back at 12:30pm.

I arrived promptly at 12:30pm, sat in my chair, put my feet in the water, picked up a People magazine and started reading. After about 15 minutes, I looked up and saw that every single person who worked there was busy with a manicure or pedicure AND there were two women next to me who didn’t even have their feet in the water yet.  The worker who’d TOLD me to come at 12:30pm was giving a pedicures to two high school girls. Hold on…I’m going to give you all the PARENTHETICAL, HIGHLY JUDGMENTAL thoughts I had when I found out the pedicures were for their senior prom:

Why do so many kids get professional pedicures/manicures now? Is it because the services are relatively cheap ($25/$12)? I didn’t have a professional pedicure until I was in my early thirties and pregnant with my first baby. <— clearly makes me better. What happened to draping an old towel over the floor and giving each OTHER pedicures? <– Yeah! And song lyrics you could understand! AND WHY THE FUCK ARE THOSE FUTURE-BITCHEZ NOT IN SCHOOL? In the middle of the day on a Friday?!

Thank you.

So, the lady giving the pedicures to the girls says to me, “As soon as I’m done with these girls, I’ll do you.” Okay, maybe 5 more minutes. The girls’ polish is finally applied, one of them takes off across the room to get her manicure (genius, help me) and I figure I’m gonna get my pedicure soon and get going for the fun weekend. Then The Lady says to Prommer II , “Do you want a manicure?” NO!! Shut up!!! Don’t ask that question!!! I’ve been sitting in this chair that is HURTING MY BACK for 20 minutes now! Did you mean 12:30pm Greeenwich MEAN time?

Here is where I will introduce the foreign language atmosphere of the nail place, which you might  find jingoistic, and for which I apologize. The Lady is Vietnamese, as are all the employees, and as they are polishing our hands and feet, they keep yelling across the room to each other in Vietnamese, which — I guess if you’re working on someone’s FEET — is CLEARLY your prerogative as a way to not THINK about the fact that you’re working on someone’s FEET. But, in some fucked up way, this bugs the shit out of me, mostly because I have NO IDEA what they’re saying and somehow I’ve come to the very ego-centric, highly self-involved feeling that they are ALL BITCHING ABOUT US.

At minute 30 (thirty!), one of the husbands of one of the employees walks in, takes over one of the services and finally The Lady finishes Prommer II’s manicure and begins to work on my feet. Now, I  don’t think it’s a cultural thing when I tell you, The Lady is Completely Batshit Crazy.

Evidence of Crazy — Exhibit A: The Lady starts telling me about how three people were out on vacation that day, which is why I had to wait so long, and she usually works in Worcester, but they called her down to help. And me, being the Champion of Workers Everywhere!, nods in sympathy and continues to soak. She tells the story about how there are 3 people on vacation and how she usually works in Worcester no less than 5 times.

Evidence of Crazy — Exhibit B: The Lady also starts saying how sorry she is that she kept me waiting 30 minutes and that she feels really bad, and do I want a manicure? “No…no thank you. I understand…I know what it’s like to be short-staffed. It’s okay. I just want to get my pedicure (and GO!) and I’m not really into having my fingernails done.” The Lady pushes the manicure like a County Fair salesperson selling cleaning products.

ME: I really need to leave at 2pm, to beat traffic.

HER: It’s okay! I’ll do it at the same time you’re getting your pedicure, you’ll feel like a queen!

ME <thinking she must feel really bad and wants to give me this FREE manicure as a way of saying sorry>: Okay.

One of the men finishes doing a pedicure, moves over to my chair and starts working on my feet while The Lady starts working on my hands. It was VERY NICE and I really DID feel like a queen, UNTIL…

MAN GIVING ME PEDICURE <in Vietnamese and holding up my foot by the heel, for everyone to examine> “????????????????????????????” <— I’m pretty sure he is saying, “Look at her heel! It is in really bad shape. Check out all the unsightly, thick skin!”

ME: <wishing at this point I could speak Vietnamese because I would have said, “DUDE, that is what a HEEL looks like WHEN YOU SOAK IT FOR THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!>

THE LADY: <points to what can only be described as a CHEESE GRATER>

pedicure_ankle injury

Cheese grated!

Man takes said cheese grater to my heels, then a few minutes later takes a salt rub in his hands and starts massaging it over my feet and calves and I’m thinking, “Owie! Something really stings!” Next thing I know, I’m bleeding from the ankle. The Man has OBVIOUSLY cut me with the cheese grater, but he starts telling me that I must have cut it while shaving. WHAT?! I barely remember to SHAVE MY KNEES! You think I’m going to reach down and SHAVE MY ANKLES??? Blood is dripping into my little chair tub, I’m feeling bad because I’m bleeding ON HIM and then The Lady comes over, wielding a small bottle of what can only be describes as Liquid Drops That When Applied to Bleeding Ankle Will Sting Like A Father Fucker But Stop Said Bleeding.

Further Evidence of Crazy — Exhibits C, D, E & F:

C — When asked what color I want for my fingernails, I ask The Lady to only apply clear nail polish, as I really don’t like having color on my fingernails. She apparently decides that means it’s okay to paint my nails as sloppily as possible and proceeds to covers my finger TIPS (I was pulling the polish off my skin for days). Oh well, it was a “comped” manicure.

D — While painting my FINGERS, she tells me that the person she’s been talking to the most at the shop is HER SISTER and that her sister is the youngest in the family, but she, The Lady, is the prettiest, “Don’t you think?”

E — The Lady now starts pushing me to have my EYEBROWS plucked and I’m all, “NO WAY. I haven’t seen these people in 5-10 years. I need to feel comfortable in my body.” And she goes on and on about this woman who FOUGHT having her eyebrows done and now LOVES it and starts telling me that my eyebrows are really WILD and to this day I look in the mirror and wonder what the fuck she’s talking about, because my eyebrows aren’t so much WILD, as Completely Non-Existent.

F — The Lady moves onto a new service victim (pedicure for an 11 year old) and then gets a call on her cell phone (from one of her Worcester clients, we all learn) and proceeds to put the cell on speaker phone so we can ALL hear the 15 minute conversation (cell phone conversation in English is to across the room conversation in Vietnamese AS anything completely annoying is to anything else completely fucking annoying).

My blood has coagulated, my toe and finger nails have been painted, I’m sent to the dryer and after 10 minutes of clearly being forgotten about, I ask, “Can I pay?” (Can I PLEASE go home so I can finally get on the road?!) The man who releases me asks The Lady “How much should I charge her?” which I understand, EVEN though he says it in Vietnamese, and The Lady, with Exhibit Z of Pure Fucking Crazy, CHARGES me for the manicure.

Tôi sẽ không bao giờ, không bao giờ, không bao giờ quay trở lại đó. Và bao giờ hết. Bạn không nhận được tip, công việc Whack. <— I will never, ever, never go back there. Ever. And you are not getting a tip, whack job.
I didn't even like the color.

I didn’t even like the color.


I Peed in My Pants at My 30th Reunion

I am ALWAYS one of the very last people to leave reunion, when the campus is empty, the parking lots are cleared, the dining hall has about four people left in it and the quiet feels like some kind of scary 1970’s television sci-fi drama. The whole thing makes me sad and anxious and then I get this intense, “I have to go home…NOW!” feeling.

The good news is, for the last two reunions, I’ve driven friends home. So reunion didn’t have to end when I left campus.

willy reunion

Not empty

The friend I was driving home this reunion (we’ll call him DAVE) agreed to meet me in the dining hall or on the quad after I was done packing. I ran to the dorm I’d been staying in, quickly changed into something for the ride home, threw all my stuff together and found myself with FIVE bags full of reunion essentials: clothes, shoes, quilt, water, food. Five bags meant two trips to the car.

The first trip was across campus, to the far, far away parking lot. I raced along, lugging all my stuff and sweating like crazy, tripping my way across the “cobble stones” in my no-back CLOGS (they were part of the Sunday outfit I’d planned and packed!). I got to my car, loaded three of my five bags, hopped into the driver’s seat, put down the windows and cranked the A/C.

Before my sweat could cool, I pulled into a parking space right behind the dorm, ran into the dorm, huffed it up the stairs, got my remaining bags, dragged them down the stairs, rolled them outside, put them in the car, got in, put the windows down, cranked the A/C and was ready to find my friend and GO HOME!

To save time, I drove to the school’s main entrance, hoping to drive my car onto campus and park as close to the dining hall as possible. But the main entrance was “officially” closed. I reversed direction and drove BACK to the original, far, far away parking lot and positioned my car right behind the dining hall.

I got out of my car, ran into the dining hall (clogs!) but no friend was to be found. WHUH?!

Okay. Maybe he was waiting for me at the dorm. I ran back to my car, drove back to the space behind the dorm, got out and realized I’d just dropped off my key in the dining hall and wouldn’t be able to get into the dorm’s main door.

Standing outside the dorm, I began to wonder if maybe my friend was in the bathroom next to the dining hall and I’d missed him while he was in THERE . Thinking about THAT made me realize how much **I** needed to pee. So, I got back in my car, disregarded the “officially” closed main entrance, drove up close to the dining hall, threw on my car’s blinkers and ran.

Now, I’m a 47-year-old woman who’s birthed two children and who has probably done ONE set of kegels in her entire life, and that was while stopped at a traffic light, 10+ years ago. It’s not like I need Depends Undergarments ™ or anything, but running? I try NOT to do that guy on a full bladder.

But, there I was, running down the steps, bladder loaded with two pints of water, three cups of morning coffee and a LOT of fruit, so with each step it became: pound, pee, pound, pee, pound, pee. Now, I may be making this up, but I think at that moment, I was mostly disappointed I wouldn’t be able to tell this story AT reunion.

I headed for the bathroom, first stopping to open the men’s room door and call out Dave’s name, but only heard the echo of my voice against the tiled walls. Then finally…FINALLY…I headed into the women’s room. PHEW!

peed_willy map_whole thing

I left the building, ran up the stairs (no worries this time!) and that’s when Dave called out, “Cathy!” I’D FOUND HIM! We could leave!!!!

Epilogue-like thingy: Dave had decided to wait in the dorm common room (apparently one COULD enter the dorm without a key) and we’d just missed each other. Without Dave knowing, when we stopped for gas, I changed my underwear. I didn’t have to change my pants, because I wasn’t wearing pants. I was wearing a skirt (it was the outfit I’d planned!). Plus, “I peed in my skirt at my 30th reunion” didn’t crack me up as much as “I peed in my pants at my 30th reunion” <–hilarious.

It was great to have Dave’s company on the ride home. We kept the reunion going and neither of us felt as sad or as lonely as we did on that empty campus. The best part? We didn’t have to stop ONCE on the way home to pee!

The end.


The Week I Said Really Inappropriate Things Out Loud to the Stepford Wives

I have avoided saying inappropriate things out loud to the Stepford Wives for decades now. But I seem to have reached some kind of breaking point.

No cell phones in the WOODS.

No cell phones (in the) Woods!

I was walking in the woods, as I do most days, when I came upon a woman wearing sunglasses (in the woods?) and talking on her cell phone (in the WOODS?!). So as I neared her, I cleared my throat, making that universal sound for: YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING REALLY ANNOYING. Unfortunately, throat clearing is about as well understood as when you honk your horn at another driver to say, HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD OF A FUCKING INDICATOR?!?!?!

Not taking my signal to heart, she said into her cell phone, “I need to know what my bottom line is.” (Aren’t there any all-white GOLF COURSES in town for this kind of bullshit?!). Walking right past her, I blurted out,  “Oh my god.” She continued on her cell, “What’s this deal going to BRING me?” In my most Yo-Donald-Trump-of-Barrington-I-am-now-completely-disgusted-and-have-lost-my-faith-in-humanity tone, I exclaimed, “OH!_MY!_GAWD!!!”

Are you thinking, “Catherine. That’s not so bad. People on cells phones ARE Completely Annoying. You could have said a lot worse. And you were in your peaceful woods!” Ha. Hahaha. Hahahahahhahahaha. Let me tell you the other story.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that there are TWO gas pumps in each lane at the gas station, so that two CARS can pull in, preferably front-to-back, but front-to-front being possible. Well, a couple of weeks ago, a woman was pulling into the same line of pumps from the opposite direction as I was, but instead of stopping and letting me also pull in, she just kept driving straight for the pump, blocking me and forcing me do one of those ridiculous gas station U-turns.

saying out loud_gas station

Barrington Rocket Science

Fast-forward a couple of weeks and I’m pulling into that EXACT SAME lane and see another woman pulling in toward ME. So as not to make her do that whole U-turn thingy, I put my brakes on and waved her forward. With RACING speed, she pulls in, her hood facing mine, gets out, starts pumping gas, and doesn’t even look at me. WHUH? Now, I wasn’t looking for some kind of Nobel Peace Prize for my small act of kindness, but she could have at least acknowledged me, waved to me with a thank you…SOMETHING! Notsomuch.

I wasn’t done pulling in when I waved her forward, but — okay — I guess she couldn’t tell that. So I cautiously pulled my car forward, having a hard time judging the amount of space because it was my husband’s car, and when I finally got out, the pump still didn’t reach my gas tank. Soooo. I got back IN my car, inched it forward — UHgain — got out and then had to spin my body around in some kind of I-still-don’t-understand-how-I-did-it way so that the hose was wrapped tightly around my ASS, squeezing even MORE annoyance out of me, but finally reaching the gas tank.

What does the woman do? Nothing. No, “Oh! Sorry!” In fact, she is noticeably AVOIDING eye contact with me in a way that is Just. Plain. WEIRD.

To further set the stage: It was cold and rainy. My back had been hurting ALL day. My blood sugar had plummeted and I had gone off the birth control pills that were regulating my peri-menopausal symptoms, which — apparently — now include EXTREME IRRITABILITY. AND, I am also feeling — no joke — premenstrual. Heck, let’s add that I was slightly dehydrated too, just for fun! Anyway, that’s when I broke. I did not mutter, but said — out loud (but on a very busy road, where no one can hear a thing!) — “You are such a bitch.” WHOOPS!!!!!!!!!!

I AM NOT PROUD! I mean, all those women were ridiculous, but that’s the stuff I WRITE about on Facebook or in my blog, not SAY OUT LOUD! Saying it out loud is…is…THAT’S WHAT MY MOTHER DID WHEN SHE STARTED GOING (EXTRA) CRAZY DURING MENOPAUSE! Oy.


I found a picture of a D.O.T.E.!!! I loves you, internet.

But don’t worry! I’ve realized it’s better for me to be permanently bloated and a few pounds heavier than to be a permanent DONKEY ON THE EDGE. I’ll be going back on those hormone-controlling pills yesterday.


I Am SuperZen!

The other day I was taking a walk and getting more and more annoyed at all the luxury cars driving past me. I rerouted myself onto the trails, took a deep breath, and saw a couple of Stepford Wives walking toward me. Now, usually, when I see a Team of Stepford Wives (They are ALWAYS in teams. They are only solo if walking their yellow dog OR on their cell phone talking to a friend who just had plastic surgery) I always say “hello.” But the twins (always dressed alike) typically just ignore me. Turns out, it’s for good reason! When I said “hi” to THIS pair, one of them tried to say “hi” back, but it was too much on top of talking to her friend and walking her dog and she tripped on a root. So, being SuperZen really helped me find that amusing.

super zen_2014-tesla-model-s_100436548_m

I would also find it amusing if a Tesla lost its charge while stuck in traffic at a light, RIGHT when I was walking by.


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You Won’t Believe What Happened to This Woman When She Put On Her Bathing Suit — I Can’t Stop Laughing

First of all, what happened to THIS  woman when she put on her bathing suit wasn’t THAT funny, I just wanted to give The Internet a little “fuck you” for all the videos with these kinds of titles that have FORCED ME to watch endless minutes of dogs, cats and grandmothers online. That said…

Last summer when we went to the beach, I put my bikini on and the bottoms, which HAD been falling off every time I jumped into a wave (for the LAST five years), now fell right to my ankles. I can put up with a LOT of bullshit, but this Crossed A Line.  (I had two twist ties in the picnic bag that I used to twist around each side of the bottoms and tighten them up = Answer to Your Burning Question.)

Unlike bra shopping, my kids have accompanied me on MANY spontaneous bathing suit try-ons. I say “spontaneous,” because it often goes down like this: we go to Sears for kids’ socks and shorts, or to T.J. Maxx for flips flops or something like that, and then when we’re done, I lead the kids into the bathing suit section, where I find a few suits that are kinda cute and then drag the kids over to changing room, where I try on the suits. Trust me, kids LOVE this shit.

Randomish picture to break up all the words and make blog easier to read.

Randomish picture to break up all the paragraphs and make blog easier to read.

First of all, the bathing suit dressing room at Sears is in the lingerie section, so that alone is a good life lesson for kids. Once they’re bored with all the thongs, they usually come wait outside the changing room and ask to see my latest suit. If I’m not feeling too ridiculous looking, I’ll open the door and their individual responses are usually something along these lines: My 10 year old daughter, “It looks so cute on you!” (<— She’s like some kind of sweet Zen master). From my son: “No.” (<— He has a really good eye and I trust him completely.)

Possibly one of the worst assaults to the brain during bathing suit shopping is the difference between how cute the suit is on the rack/on the model/in the catalog or online and what it ultimately looks like on ME. My sister once gave me this ADORABLE purple-and-white striped bikini. Seeing it on my body, however, only elicited this response: “What the fuck? I have FOUR asses.” (Two held within the confines of the suit and two doing their own thing outside.) Top that off with my left (larger) breast NOT being revealed in some kind of SEXY way down the center, but sticking out near MY ARMPIT, and we had yet another bathing suit fail.

The Lands End ™ catalog has been floating around our house lately and what I thought would look cute on me was this:

bikini shopping_aqua sport suit

Cute, sports-bra style top under rash guard shirt.


But what might actually be more flattering is this:

bikini shopping_sariJUST KIDDING!

If I shop based on this:


You can’t see Catherine on the beach because she’s CAMOUFLAGED!


Then I end up with a bill like this:

Yeah, I'll "save this for later." IN HELL!

Yeah, I’ll “save this for later.” IN HELL!

After the whole bikini-bottoms-falling-off incident last summer, I was FORCED to get this:

bikini shopping_me on beach

From left to right: my arm, my boogie board, recently adjusted breasts, Zen daughter.

It was a fine “emergency” suit, but one that required ENDLESS breast adjustments. I need something that I can better relax in — you know — like the bikini that constantly fell off in the water.  Unfortunately, my family RAYFUSED (!) to go bathing suit shopping with me on Mother’s Day (We drove RIGHT PAST the store **DEDICATED** TO BATHING SUITS! It was MOTHER’S DAY!!). So, I’m still in the market. But don’t worry! There is no swimming event at my 30th reunion, AND, if I don’t find something before beach season, I can always just wear my new sports bra with a pair of boy’s swim trunks. <— dream bathing suit that I can put together for ONE GAGILLION DOLLARS less than the Land’s End version.

Cowabunga, dude!

A to Z from Men to Zen

You know how some people like to point out that dog spelled backwards is god? Well, I have a fascination with words that are one letter OFF one another…like swanky and skanky. You can be swanky, but change one little letter and POW! You’re SKANKY. It’s so funny!

Right now I’m reading The Dude and The Zen Master and it popped into my head that the words MEN and ZEN are only one letter off; ergo, MEN are one letter away FROM BEING ZEN!

A_Zmen_men and zen

I’m sorry about these colors.

That got me thinking about all the OTHER things MEN might be close to being. So, I worked my way through the entire alphabet. Come see!

Aen: This was a bad place to start. Let’s move on to B.

Ben: MEN are ONE LETTER away from being named BEN!

Cen: MEN are close to not being able to say CENT.

Den: MEN are a DEN.
What happened to MEN and their love of DENS? Are they now what is referred to as Douchebag Hollows? NOOOOOOO! I mean Manly Caves.


Gen: MEN are one letter away from being a generation unKNOWN.

Hen: Hahahahahah! MEN are a girlie chicken!

Ien: MEN are a misspelled Irish name.

Jen: MEN are a popular 1970’s girl name!

Ken: MEN is a barbie!

Len: MEN is a nick name for Laverne and Shirley’s neighbor.

Men: Oh! MEN ALREADY men!

Nen: hmmmmm…

Oen: MEN are a hipster spelling of Owen.

Pen: MEN are a writing instrument. Easy!

Qen: Men are a Ken from China.

Ren: Men are a…hold on…I have to look this one up. WHAT?! MEN are THIS?!
The CONFUCIAN (!)  virtue denoting the good feeling a virtuous human experiences when being altruistic.
We are learning WORDS on Writing Out Loud today!

Sen: MEN are a politician who loves to regulate my vagina.

Ten: MEN are the age they had cooties!

Uen: No.

Ven: Add another N and MEN is almost a diagram!

Wen: MEN is a text spelling of when.
NOTE: Author does not own a cell phone and has NO idea if people EVER text W-E-N for the word when. However, WEN could be a spelling that finally resolves all the confusion about whether to pronounce the H.

Xen: MEN is a Chinese word I just made up.

Yen: MEN are having a strong desire for Japanese currency!

Zen: MEN is just ONE LETTER away from being THE DUDE. Yeah, Well, Ya Know, That’s Just Like, uh, Your Opinion Man


A_Z men_jewishmenzen

Men as Ven

That Man Would Be Gorgeous If He Just Lost Some Weight

I was going to insert a picture of Dr. Oz, but his show annoyed me so much, I thought this would be more enjoyable for all of us.


You know how women always say, “He’d be so good looking if he just lost some weight?” We say that because we don’t CARE about men being intelligent, funny, accomplished or having a great personality. It’s all about the looks for us. Women can’t fall in love with an unattractive man and then grow to love him. Sorry! It’s in our genetics. It’s time to make men realize how much WE care about what THEIR bodies look like. Just in time for reunions and the beach!

First of all, guys, have you been checking out your body in the mirror? Weighing yourself daily? Measuring your trunk around the love handles? Good start, but please don’t stop there. You have a lot to pay attention to and I’m here to spell it all out for you. No part of your body should go unimproved in preparation for seeing people who remember you with hair.

George Clooney would not be half as good looking without those gorgeous FEET.

George Clooney would not be half as good looking without those gorgeous FEET.

Warm weather is the time for flip flops, so it’s time to take care of those fungus-strewn toe nails. Your doctor can prescribe medication and then it’s on to the nail salon, where no one speaks English, you don’t speak <?> and you receive whatever kind of pedicure you THINK you’ve ordered. But don’t worry! Whatever you order will likely come with a plastic bag to cover your feet to help soften those callouses. No one wants to see Baby backed into a corner OR the thick skin on the bottom of your feet. Keep in mind that your feet are the ONLY body part that should be soft. Everything else should be FIRM.

For example: calves. Have you been standing on tiptoe like a ballet dancer to improve their shape? Your calves should have gorgeous, defined muscles up toward the knees. Think Lance Armstrong, Livestrong years; not Oprah interview years. We don’t want your calves to be the same circumference below your knees as they are at the ankle. Got it?

Thighs. They should be muscular but not TOO muscular. You should look good in swim trunks, but not like a body builder. Body building bodies are GROSS! Those guys LOOK like they’re obsessed with their looks. You need to be obsessed with your looks, but not APPEAR to be that way. And please remember to ZAP that KNEE FAT.

As a public service to women, I have not included any pictures of hairy backs.

As a public service to women, I have not included any pictures of hairy backs.

While we’re still on your legs, how hairy are they? There’s a limit. While you’re minimizing your leg hair, please remove all toe, ear, nose and back hair as well. Remember, you are not going to Reunion of Planet of the Apes.

It's not his smile. It's the abs that make him adorable.

It’s not his smile. It’s the abs that make him adorable.

Now we’re at the hard part. Not the penis, you weirdo! YOUR GUT! I have two words for you: Pilates. Stand sideways and look in the mirror. Is your gut bloated? It’s probably because you have kids. KIDS ARE NOT AN EXCUSE. We don’t want anything less than washboard abs. And we’re talking Marky Mark circa 1991 Calvin Klein underwear billboard ad abs. Got it?

Chest! “Push ups are the number one way to improve your chest muscles,” so GET TO IT! Here are the rules: no boobs, fatty or muscular, just taught, firm chest muscles. For these, we consult Daniel Craig.


THIS works!

ARMS! Especially the BACK of the arms. Nothing should jiggle when you wave goodbye to your college-age children. Have you read the Rob Lowe piece about dropping his kid off at college? I’m sure Rob Lowe did not wave off his son with jiggly triceps. So, more weight lifting, guys!

Your back side is “the last thing others see as you leave a room.” That means NO BACK FAT. You might want to take up tri-athaloning to help. This is also probably a good time to remind you about the back hair. WAXING. It’s not that bad. It just kind of SMARTS.

On to the ass. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how many kids you have — you should not be wearing any jeans that are actually COMFORTABLE. We call those DAD JEANS. Your ass must look hot in LEVIS 501s. There should be sufficient LIFT to your ass. There are algorithms more complicated than the Facebook News Feed algorithm that will help you know the exact amount of lift. But as a rule, if your underwear is holding UP your ass, you have work to do. Squats, squats and MORE SQUATS!! Then add one-legged squats and dead lifts. A sagging ass is a message to the world that You’ve Let Yourself Go. More to the point: that YOU ARE NOT WORTHY.

Women think men are sexy if they have a  good sense of humor. <— Best Urban Myth EVER!

Okay, we’re at your face. A good investment might be that double-chin exercise machine they advertise on TV. Or plastic surgery. If you’re clean shaven, please invest in one of those 5-blade razors that cost ONE GAGILLION DOLLARS and that are SO expensive, the replacement blades are kept under lock and key at the drug store. You probably don’t know this, but a nationally televised ad for razors was once created in which a man with a shaggy beard walks past different shaped shrubs and as he walks past, the shrubs are magically trimmed, implying that the razor is used for TRIMMING HIS SHAGGY BUSH OF A BEARD! I know…I know. Its’ a woman’s world.

Not THIS kind of toner.

Not THIS kind of toner.

The face will also require Botox, a twice-a-day cleansing regimen that includes expensive, all-natural cleanser (chemicals will kill you!), toner (look it up!) AND moisturizer. Teeth: whiten. Uni-brows: pluck. Luckily, no make-up is involved, BUT — that said — we expect your good looks to be very natural LOOKING. You shouldn’t WORRY about all the things listed here. You should just fucking DO them and look CONFIDENT. Confidence is sexy! Also, remember the nose and ear hair.

Hair. The final frontier for your back-to-school-after-30-years reunion. Oh, what can I say. That we don’t mind your baldness? That it’s cute? You poor, poor man. Are you some kind of back-to-the-earth hippie? Going “all natural” is just another term for “I don’t care about myself.” So pull out the Big Guns. NOTHING is too expensive to offset a badly receding hair line. But make sure it ALSO looks natural! No one wants to catch up with someone who looks like they’ve been up all night playing blackjack in Atlantic City and is just now exiting the casino, dragging his oxygen tank.  And for those of you thinking of just SHAVING your head, I have only this to say: You are not Michael Jordan.

When women think of Dave Grohl, they think of his hair, not his musical talent.

When women think of Dave Grohl, they think of his great hair, not his musical talent.

PHEW! I think that’s it…for this edition. And we haven’t even covered finding the perfect swim trunks, wearing underwear that hides your balls, or jeans shopping. And you thought your only problem was maintaining a hard on. Good luck, guys!


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Stupid Things I Do In The Shower

I’m not sure who told me that experts recommend washing your bras in the shower. I think it was my sister, who didn’t say it was a very good method, so I’ve alwasys avoided it. JUST KIDDING! I “avoided” it it because I didn’t have any bras worth taking special care of! See here for more information.

I could tell my brand new, “high hold” sports bra could use a wash and I didn’t have any Woolite in the house (any woman who grew up in the 1970s knows that Woolite is what you use  to safely clean all your fine washables). So, I decide to go for the shower.

First of all, washing your bra in the shower is one of the best ways to crack yourself up, because no woman has been that unerotically “felt up” since Jon Hamm felt up Kristin Wiig in Bridesmaids. And then, when you think of that hilarious scene, you laugh all over again.

So, if you’ve been looking for a good laugh in the shower,  I highly recommend doing this stupid thing.

Ooooo..for synthetics!

Ooooo..for synthetics!


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