The Douchelor: Sobby McSobbersons, Cold Fishes, And A Manson Girl. Ole!!!

And we’re back!!!! Now that we’ve met Juan Pablo, it’s time to meet the crazy – I mean, the LADIES. Hunker down, kids, let’s do this thing.

Please stop crying, ladies

Please stop crying, ladies

We do a little JP montage, where his nondescript sports entertainment job that we still don’t care about is discussed, and we see JuanSpawn again. She really is the cutest. JP has nothing bad to say about JuanSpawn’s mother, which is expected, since ABC wants him up for sainthood, but nice all the same. JP speaks the language of loooooooooooove, and the cats adjust their little rain slickers as I dry heave. My mom IMs me. She’s dry heaving on their dog.

Commercials! I can’t see a Subway commercial without thinking “ZOMBIE: EAT FLESH.” Just me? Carry on.

So JuanSpawn is staying with JP through all this? OKAY, because THAT’S not weird at all.  Oh, and here’s fucking Sean Lowe for no reason. GREAT. And he’s giving JP advice. Glorious. OMG OMG OMG, JP hates the term “journey.” But how will everyone drink? HOW, JP?!?!?!? He’s also awful with names. Me too, JP. Me too. Fucking Sean Lowe drops “journey” three times, so I hope your medical insurance is paid up.

Shower shot of JP. I ain’t complaining, and neither are you.

Commercials! The mother who lets her child hide and instead of seeking eats a yogurt on the couch? I can’t decide if that’s horribly mean or absolute genius.

Here’s Harrison, recapping that JP is a hunk. Thanks, Captain Obvious. We’re at El Casa de Herpes, and we meet Chelsie, who I hate because I’ll never spell her name right. She’s looking for LURVE. And hugs! And cotton candy! And unicorns! She mangles some Spanish and giggles. Oy. Renee loves surfing and her son Ben. Andi is a prosecutor. Her job doesn’t define her! Don’t put Andi in a corner! Amy J is a massage therapist and considers herself an artist of the human body. She wants a man who wants to be rubbed. And she wants to feed JP breakfast like a baby bird. Okay, so she’s insane. Got it. Nikki is a peds nurse. She doesn’t want to settle. We’ll see how desperate she gets. Lauren H has a very close family and a shitty love life that she is VERY open about, whether we want to hear about it or not. Valerie likes goats. She informs us that she is very very pretty. Lacy has a huge family. She has a home for the elderly. I like her immediately, so I’m sure she’s doomed. Clare’s dad had brain cancer. It’s sad. He made a DVD for her future husband that Clare’s never seen. Wow.

Commercials! Okay, Belvita breakfast bars? I will ALWAYS hear “Velveeta breakfast bars” which would be something entirely different.

At El Casa de Herpes, JP arrives and we’re up for our limo montage. There aren’t 25 wimmens, there are 27. GREAT. More names to keep straight. Harrison drops “journey” so drank yo drank. First up is Amy, who talks very fast. Cassandra stares at JP and has nothing to say. Christy is nondescript. Christine brings a gift for JuanSpawn. Nikki brings a stethoscope and has JP listen to her heart. Shantel is a woman of color! Huzzah!!!! Victoria is from Brazil. Lucy’s a barefoot hippie and probably writes love letters to Charles Manson. Awesome. Danielle has my name. Well, that’s a first. Lauren S brings a fucking piano. Chelsie brings a science experiment. Elise smells good, reports JP. Ashley is a first grade teacher and gives JP a gold star. Sadly, she does not stick it on his forehead, as I would.

Commercials. SHEESH. Let’s all take a breather, shall we?

When we come back, a heavily pregnant Clare steps out of a limo. It’s totally fake. JP is sweet enough to say she looks pretty pregnant. FAKE, PEOPLE. SHE WORE A FAKE PREGNANT BELLY AND NO ONE STOPPED HER. Kelly plays soccer. Amy J has a little touch of the Manson Lamps. Renee talks about her son. Lauren is boring. Maggie brings JP a fucking fishing hook and a Southern accent so thick my mom reports that her teeth hurt. Kelly brings her dog. The dog does not poop on JP’s foot, because all species love JP.  Alexis is from Florida. Kylie humps JP. Sharleen is a cold fish incapable of smiling and also an opera singer. JP thinks Andi is hotttttttt.

Commercials! “Her” looks like it’s really sad.

All the chicks go apoplectic as JP enters the room and a dance party busts out. There’s a photo booth. Stop it, JP, you’re too cute. I’m not allowed to find you cute, I’m supposed to bust your balls. We meet a few of the chicks again, and Lucy, the Manson Girl, shows her crazy and JP is SCARED and maybe a little turned on. Speaking of crazy, Amy the massage therapist is looney as a birdie.

First impression rose! Everyone goes cuckoo about it. They’re all getting vicious ALREADY. JP can’t remember ANYONE’S name. it’s kind of adorbs. We have our first crier in Lauren H. Cut this one loose, JP, she’s not over her ex and she’s snotting and slobbering all over you.

Commercials! No one gets this excited about a chicken sandwich, Wendy’s.

Lauren H is STILL FUCKING CRYING. She gets one on one time and assures JP that she’s always positive. Yeah, when she’s not sobbing all over the place. Her engagement just broke up a couple of months ago. Wait a minute. So her engagement JUST broke up? Was she filling out the application for the show as she was pulling off the ring? What’s the deal, Lauren? Whatever. She’s toast. Drop her, JP! She’s not over her ex! Cut the damn cord! She blubbers and blah.

Montage of the chicks meeting with JP. Andi, the one that made JP all googoo at the limo gets one on one time. They flirt shamelessly. Sharleen gets the first impression rose, which is a massive mistake, because she’s cold as a Canadian winter and doesn’t really like him. Oh noooooooooooo. This is a fucking disaster. JP thinks this is great. Sharleen looks like she wants to puke on my cats. Worst. First. Impression. Rose. EVER.

Commercials. I can’t get over this. If JP is THIS clueless, it does not bode well for the remainder of the season. Oy vey, Juan Pablo. Seriously, that was a train wreck.

Rose Ceremony! JP charms the pants off everyone. Time to break some hearts. First rose: Clare. Nikki. Renee. Andi. Alli. Shantel. Lauren S with the piano. Kelli with the dog. Cassandra who might be insane. Danielle with my name. Chelsie. Kat. (Kylie thinks he calls her and it’s super awkward) Victoria. Christie. Lucy the Manson Girl. Elise. In swoops Harrison from craft services, still chewing his last bear claw. Last rose. Amy. Harrison boots all the losers. Ahhhh, that separates the wheat from the chaff rather nicely. Everyone piles into the unmarked van to be tossed into the desert, never to be seen again. Lauren H, she of the Sobby McSobberson, weeps some more. Good lordo, get a hold of yourself, woman!

Upcoming highlights: Spit swapping.Crying! Anger! Naked! Backstabbing! Bomb dropping! Even yet more crying! Naked swimming! And the infamous bathroom floor breakdown!!!

And we end with fucking Sean Lowe and JP doing a “cute” “bit” about always being shirtless. GO AWAY, SEAN LOWE.

"Can I tweak your nipple? It won't be gay or anything."

“Can I tweak your nipple? It won’t be gay or anything.”

See ya next week, squirrels!













The Douchelor: My Name Is Juan Pablo

GIRD THY LOINS, my beloved little squirrels! Tonight we get an hour (HOUR) of learning all we need to know about this season’s Bachelor, the dreamy Juan Pablo. Do you mind if I call him JP? I knew you wouldn’t. SO. Here’s what we already know. JP was the fan favorite of last year’s Bachelorette, which I didn’t watch. He has a kid, and he plays soccer. SORRY. Football. Futbol. That thing when you kick the ball instead of throwing it. That thing. He’s a Latin Sensation and everyone loves him.

Rawr. FOR NOW.

Rawr. FOR NOW.

I’m extremely suspicious.

You understand why. I’ve suffered through Benny. And Sean Lowe. And Brad. And fucking JAKE. I have known pain. I have known suffering. But, as my former chemistry professor was so fond of saying, “LADIES. WE MUST PRESS ON.” Yes, Doctor Wallace. Yes we must.

And thus we begin. My friend and yours, Chris Harrison, introduces us to this mess. COUNTDOWN TO JUAN PABLO. Casting. Wimmens. And the JuanSpawn. Please keep this child away from the madness, especially the one with the gigantic martini glass splaying her legs in the hot tub. She’s got a germ.

JOURNEY! Drink your drink. Harrison blathers. Terrible terrible audition tapes of women begging to be on the show because not having a boyfriend makes you a horrible, disgusting excuse for a person and ugh, I vomit on the ginger cat before he can pop open his little umbrella. One classy babe can put her fist in her mouth. Another is in a towel and informs us that she’s wet. Good to know, honey. No one knows how to answer “hard questions” like the capital of Montana or their middle names. They’re going to just be themselves. Their empty, empty selves. Harrison plays around with the ladies. He’s adorbs.

These wimmens, all of course rejects, humiliate themselves. There’s about five brain cells bouncing around here, and they’re all pummeling each other. They’re all going berserk that it’s JP. We finally go to commercial, wherein I will inject Haldol into my jugular vein.

Commercials! Hey, it’s Mama Banshee on instant messages! She hopes JP brushes his teeth between makeout sessions. Oh Mama. Always looking out for our dental health.

25 women this season. I will NEVER keep them straight, so we better thin the herd quickly. Harrison is going to surprise some of them, producers will do the others (the uggos and losers). Lucy is first. She’s wearing formal shorts and screams and jumps up and down. Harrison sports a woody for her.

Elise is next, with a perfect dress and hair. Are they fooling ANYONE with this “surprise visit” shit? Really? ERMAHGERD, Christy is basically naked. She CERTAINLY didn’t expect this. Riiiiiiiight. Over in Oklahoma, Lauren H meets who I THINK is Elan, the producer of the internet scandal over Diane in Row 7A, and I’m sorry, that shit was FUNNY, so whatever.

A montage of useless fodder girls follows, most of them massacring Spanish even worse than Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

Commercials! Okay, I’m going to take this opportunity to say that Gia’s suicide is going to be addressed, and I’m not recapping it. It’s not anything to be trifled with. So we’re going to just say rest in peace, Gia. Okay? Back to the fun.

So who IS Juan Pablo? He is, in his own words, EL BACHELOR!!!! And he ain’t hard to look at. Not my type at all, but still. Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. He’s been working on his English. What does he do for a living? Something vague about sports entertainment. We don’t really care. We see an old picture of him in adorable 80s glasses, which melts my heart because I ALSO wore horrible 80s glasses. Solidarity, JP!

He’s totes in looooooooooove with being a father to JuanSpawn. And she’s completely adorable. He’s always going to be in Miami, cause that’s where JuanSpawn is. It’s super cute and my ovaries tap on my abdomen all “HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOO????” Shut up, ovaries.

Commercials! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It is CRUEL that they have commercials for Sonic and their delicious slushies when there isn’t one within 20 miles of my house. I am not going all “Harold And Kumar” for a slushie. Well, unless New Jersey goes the way of Colorado, and I think you know what I mean by that.

Let’s meet JP’s family! Back in Miami, we go to his aunt and uncle’s house. JuanSpawn is, of course, there. There are a lot of relatives. As someone with a very small family, this is nice. I’m a little jealous. JP says the girls better like Venezuelan food or they’re toast. His cousins cluck and cluck about how he dates everyone and nothing works out. One cousin begs him to keep his shirt on. Holy crap, I love his cousins. His uncle gets his name wrong. I LOVE his family. They’re so so sweet. His sister is on Skype and drops that she’s pregnant. Everyone freaks out.

Time for Papa and JP time. He tells JP that he met his mother on a blind date, and that it’s tough, but to keep an open mind and to keep Camilla (JuanSpawn) as number one. Good advice, Papa. They hug it out. Aw.

Commercials! Applebees gave me food poisoning. I’ll never forgive you, Applebees!!!

We’re back. And we go to a montage of poor Gia. I cannot and will not rag on her. So let’s just say she’s missed and loved by a lot of people and I hope she’s at peace.

Commercials. Okay, let’s get back into this. Abreva, a medicine for oral herpes. Well. That is certainly appropriate. Know your audience and all that.

Back to Harrison. Will JP find his twoo wuv? Harrison drops “journey” so you know what to do. Women cream their jeans. Some go insane. All drink heavily. We go to Venezuela. Kissing. Groping. More groping. Even yet more crying. Naked! Crying naked! Psychotic fights! JP is totally out of his mind trying to rein in the cuckoo. People are crawling around bathroom floors. JP is ready to quit. What! Will! Happen! Next!!!!!!

Oh come on, we all know he’s not going to quit. We meet the loons tomorrow night. Join me, won’t you???








Operation: Derby Part the Second

You guys. Seriously, YOU GUYS. Okay, first things first. YOU have managed to get me skates and a mouth guard. They’re on the way. I’m beside myself with gratitude. Before we get into anything else, here are the freaking angels who have helped the cause:

Jennifer Knappe
Lydia Ondrusek
Frank Tabor
Jannine Meloni
Sada Preisch
Susan Ellington
Mrs V A Chaplin-Langdon
Sarah Thiboutot
Abby Anderson (You can help Abby get to her dad’s bedside when he goes through his next cancer treatment by going HERE)
Meg Walker
Stephanie Kartalopoulos
Krista Grotto

Is that everyone? Did I miss anyone? Feel free to punch me in the face if I did. We’re getting there, people! I still have to get insurance and dues taken care of, but seriously, you guys. I cannot thank you enough. I seriously cannot thank you enough. I love y’all more than my luggage.


Operation Derby!

My beloved little squirrels, I have a proposition for you. You might know that I’ve joined up with the Jerzey Derby Brigade, which up till now means I’ve been standing on the sidelines at practice, watching the team skate their asses off, wishing I could be up there with them. I haven’t been able to, because gear costs money, and money is something I have literally none of right now. Ya can’t skate without skates, or gear, or insurance or derby fees, and whoa, that’s like, a LOT of money. So I stand on the sidelines like a sad little skate-less panda.

That’s where y’all come in. Introducing OPERATION DERBY. You sponsor me by hitting that little PayPal button to your right, and I…do something for you. I don’t know what yet. Something good. A plug for your blog? Done. A hand-crocheted hat? It’s yours. A sticker with your website name plastered on my helmet? It can happen. If you have any other ideas, let me know. I want to skate, and I am asking for your help.

Derby for me is more than just elbowing chicks in the boob at top speeds. It’s getting me out of the house, it’s helping me meet people, and get in shape, and put my life back together. Help me make this happen? I love y’all so much, and by sponsoring me it will bring all the squirrels together in this little adventure. And if you can’t or don’t want to donate? That’s totally fine. I’ll still write all about my escapades on wheels here, and I’ll always love y’all more than my luggage.


Helmet donated by the one and only KristaBat!

Helmet donated by the one and only KristaBat!

Harry Potter And The Pinkwashing Parents

Tonight I read an article by the great Kelly Wickham about a New York Times piece regarding the pinkwashing of books (namely Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) by a mother who thought the book was too harsh and mature for her five year old son. Instead of simply saying “We’ll wait on that book till you’re a bit older” she changed the story around, softening character descriptions, changing words, and altering the plot to suit her needs so her son wouldn’t be, I don’t know…corrupted? Damaged? by the book. WELL. Kelly disagreed with this little stunt, and so do I. Pull up a chair and let me tell you why.

harry-potterI have always been a voracious reader. I wouldn’t have gotten into writing if I hadn’t been a bookworm, and it has been that way since I was a very small child. My parents have told me that I would memorize board books and “read along” before I could recognize letters, and it’s been off to the races since then. So when I heard of the term “pinkwashing” I was appalled. Appalled! What in the holy hell has happened to our society that we bypass saying no to children and instead change stories around to fit our myopic view on what’s appropriate? Your kid is too young for Harry Potter? Read him something else! Kids have had the opportunity to grow up with Harry, and I think they should have that opportunity in its true form, as the growth and maturation of the characters mirror the changes of childhood so well, in good and in bad.

Lynn Messina made a choice, and she’s going to have to live with the consequences. When I was young, I remember the sweet agony of being so engrossed with a book that when something bad happened to one of my beloved characters I would weep and rage and throw the book across the room (hell, I still do that.) That’s part of reading. The miracle of words on a page that come to life and affect you viscerally, that give you joy, and agony, and excitement and make you think.


Messina is taking that away from her son by pinkwashing the Harry Potter books, and I wish to goddo she wouldn’t, not for her sake but for the sake of her son. I know I’m getting all riled up here, but if my mother had read “Anne of Green Gables” to me and left out the part about Matthew dying because it was too sad? And then I later found out about it? I would be furious. That’s MY book and MY characters, and you changed it? How dare you? There are so many books out there geared for a five year old child, so many you could drown in them, and you choose to black out major plot points and character flaws because they’re too real? What is that child going to do when he’s older? Is she going to hide him away from other forms of entertainment and learning? What about “Where The Red Fern Grows” or “Bridge To Terabithia?” Those books wrecked me as a kid, but you know what? I don’t regret reading them for a second. The first time I read “Mockingjay” there was a part that had me yelling and literally flinging the book across my bedroom as tears welled in my eyes. I was 35 years old when this happened. I picked up the book, blew my nose, and KEPT READING.

Reading, as they say, is fundamental. Pinkwashing is censorship plain and simple, no better than banning books from school libraries. I remember picking up “Tiger Eyes” as a 12 year old and my mom reading the back cover of the book as she was wont to do, and you know what she said? She said “NO. No way are you reading this book, it’s too old for you. You can read it later.” And I simply sulked for a second and picked up the next book on my leaning tower of tomes from the library. Simple as that. SAY NO. Don’t put your kid in a bubble of misguided “protection” that will certainly burst some day and leave him or her with a sense of confusion and betrayal. Do we really want that for our kids? Leaving them on a pink cloud of delusional happiness that will someday let them fall?

Well of course we do. We want kids to be protected from the big bad world, but that’s not reality. Reality is holding their hands as they discover the universe around them, not holding our hands over their eyes. I hope Ms. Messina’s son grows up to be a passionate reader, one who laughs and cries and hurts and hopes along with his beloved characters. I hope that the Great Pinkwashing of Harry doesn’t turn him off to reading, and I hope Ms. Messina thinks about maybe learning how to set limits in a productive way.

JK Rowling once said “Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home.” And when kids are ready, Harry and all his friends will be there in their true form to take children through a grand adventure. That’s the beauty of books. They’re always there to take you home.

Gimme A Head With Hair

The ever-awesome Jezebel popped onto my FB feed this morning with a riotously scathing short piece on some douchebag from a no doubt scintillating website called MyBonerIsCrying dot com (I’ll be damned if I’ll link to that shithead) regarding the divine Jennifer Lawrence and her adorable new pixie hair cut. This douchecanoe whined and bitched and fat-shamed and said that he would never, ever have sex with JLaw EVER YOU GUYS because she has cut off her hair. The Jezzie writer nearly broke herself laughing over the preposterous claim, and I did too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go on a little rant.


I’ve worn my hair super short for about 15 years. I love it. I wouldn’t change it for the world. I love it because it’s easy, it’s sassy, and I think I look pretty kick ass in it. I’ve never, ever had a guy say anything negative about my hair other than the puppy-dog eyed “why’d you cut your haaaaaair?” to which I reply “because I felt like it, dude, why’d you cut YOUR hair?” They usually don’t have a response to that, and if they argue that long hair on guys is not masculine, or out of style, or “gay” (Goddo help me if you say that) I just roll my eyes and walk on by, because please.

The myth that a woman cannot be sexy with short hair is just that. A myth. A woman can be sexy with ANY hairstyle. A woman can be sexy with a shaved head. I’ve done it myself, and I thought I looked rather awesome. A woman can be sexy with scars, and stretchmarks, and hairy pits, and a belly and thighs that aren’t  concave, and ANY WAY THAT THEY LOOK.

Honey Boo Boo’s mother describes herself as sexy. Guess what? Her husband agrees. You go, Mama June!

Being sexy isn’t about your hair, or your makeup (your red lipstick might be a mohawk and engineer boots, and frankly, I think that’s smokin’ hot.) Being sexy is a state of mind. Do you think Jennifer Lawrence gives one single solitary fuck what some whiny little jerk on the internet thinks of her haircut? Jennifer Lawrence, who has stated she would never starve herself for a movie role and wants to punch people who tell her to diet? JLaw has NO time for you, little boy, and she certainly isn’t losing sleep over the fact that you SUPPOSEDLY wouldn’t sleep with her, which is bullshit of the first order. You’d sleep with her in half a heartbeat if she had a head tattoo of Donald Trump, so stop lying, you pathetic thing.

Sexy comes in all shapes, sizes, colors, sexual orientations, and creeds. Sexy is in the way you look at yourself in the mirror, and how you carry yourself in front of others. And you know what’s NOT sexy? Having a website about “boner killers” and whining to the internet about a celebrity not being part of your spank bank any more.


Lady In Red

I haven’t felt like writing much in the last couple of days. I could blame it on the bronchitis that has kicked my ass since last week, or the excitement of moving out of Boston back to NJ on Tuesday, but I really have no excuse. I’ve even had a bunch of ideas for posts that I’m putting on Sticky Notes on my computer so they don’t fall out of my head. So yeah, not so much with the NaBlo-ing, but better to have real content than a bunch of blah-blah, right? So here’s something I came up with today…

Today I was putting on my makeup after a shower, and thinking about how much I love wearing red lipstick. Makeup in general is my thing, I always have at least powder and mascara on, and I suppose there are several reasons why. Vanity is certainly up there, I mean, I’d be lying if I said “I love wearing makeup, but it’s only for other people, I couldn’t care less, actually.” Vanity gets a bum rap, but let me tell you something. When I was sick, very sick in the head and rotting away in my apartment, the last thing I was was vain. I barely showered, never did my hair, and certainly never wore makeup. I was too busy getting drunk and melding into the couch in a cloud of misery and woe. It was a wretched time, but you know that already.

When I got to my first treatment center, I took the first selfie (I truly hate that word) in what seemed like forever. It was in a bathroom mirror (so typical) and I kinda looked lost and a little dazed. Here, I’ll show you.

first-selfieThe Sox cap is hiding what is probably the worst haircut I’ve ever gotten, by the way. Anyway, I had gone into the bathroom, put on some mascara and lip gloss, and snapped the picture on my little piece of crap phone. I hadn’t really looked at myself in a hell of a long time, and the person looking back at me was full of trepidation and fear of the future. I love this picture, not because I look good in it, because I don’t think I do, but because I was able to take it. It had been a hell of a long time since that had happened.

Since then, I’ve been getting better, buying new clothes, losing weight, and wearing makeup practically every day. I do this because it makes me feel good. Plain and simple. Not because I’m looking in the mirror saying “DAMN, girl, you look GOOD” but because wearing makeup represents me taking care of myself for the first time in almost a year. I care about how I look. For other people, sure. But mostly for me. I can look in the mirror now and like what I see.

Which brings me to the red lipstick. The red lipstick represents power. It’s not “wearing makeup that doesn’t look like you’re wearing makeup” or just slapping on some Chapstick and running out the door (not that there’s ANYTHING wrong with that, it’s just not the point of the story.) It says to me “You got up this morning. You got up, and you showered, and you got dressed, and you took that little tube of red lipstick and put it on, because it makes you feel fabulous. It’s not a color to be trifled with. I wear red lipstick to get noticed by ME. I wear red lipstick  as a statement, and that statement is “damn right I’m here. I’m HERE.”

Some people say red lipstick is slutty, or trampy, or tacky. Those people are wrong. Red lipstick is awesome. It’s empowering. It makes a statement without saying a word, and that’s why I wear it. Your red lipstick might be fierce high heels (I can’t walk in those) or a shirt to show off your curves, or a new haircut or wild color, or hell, your red lipstick might be a thrown together sweatshirt-yoga pants combo as you chase your kids around. Anything that says triumphantly “I am here, I am me, do not fuck with me, because I got out of bed this morning and I am DOING this thing” is your red lipstick. Wear it proud.

I know I do.