Pick a day, Easter.

As Easter approaches, I feel the need to express my lack of understanding about holidays in general. Let me start by saying that I don't understand holidays because we never celebrated holidays when I was a child. I tell people this and they always say, "Oh my God, you never got to celebrate Christmas?! What about Halloween--did you go trick or treating?" When I tell them no, I did not go trick or treating and there was never a Christmas tree or Christmas presents in my house, they act as if I just told them that every year, my parents made us each kill a puppy for Satan. They relax slightly when I tell them that Thanksgiving is a holiday we choose to celebrate, mostly because we love to eat. Although we call it Turkey Day to avoid Jesus being a part of it. Thanksgiving is the celebration of Jesus's first day of Kindergarten, right? And there was a turkey...? Never mind.

Easter is easily the weirdest holiday in my estimation. I never remember that it's Easter. I always drive to Target and freak out because the parking lot is empty. A Target parking lot is never empty. I wonder if a zombie apocalypse has finally happened, text someone ("Dude...why the fuck is Target closed?"), drive around in a near panic and finally get the message that it's Easter. Then I get mad. Is it really necessary to close Target for a holiday that most people feel pretty lukewarm about? 90% of people who get asked, "Are you doing anything for Easter" answer, "Meh...ham at my parents house...nothing special." Also, why does Easter keep moving? It's all over the map. Pick a day, Easter. It would make it a lot easier to remember that it's Easter and not waste my time trying to go buy tampons and a toaster.

The time leading up to Easter is also strange to me. People give up things for Lent but they always give us stupid things, like swearing or Taco Bell. Honestly, I'm no expert, but I do know that Lent is about self-denial of worldly possessions. So...you believe Jesus died for our sins and in the pursuit of religious and spiritual whatever, you've given up the F-word and 7-Layer Burritos? Really? Not very impressive.

Easter candy is not good, either. Those chocolate eggs with the white and yellow cream inside are nasty. Whose horrible idea was that? "You know, people like eggs and they like candy...what if we made a candy that made people feel like they were eating eggs but was really chocolate and white and yellow goo of some kind? What if we did that?" And if I never see another Peep again, it will be too soon. I had a boyfriend who used to make me hit every single Walgreens the day after Easter so he could buy all the Peeps at 75% off, which he would then put in the microwave. Sometimes he would stick a toothpick in them first because "it looks like they're holding a sword and when they expand in the microwave, it looks like they're having a sword fight." These were the moments when I questioned my life choices. Incidentally, he smoked a lot of dope. A lot.

This Easter I get to go see the Pixies in St. Paul, which is absolutely the most magical thing that Jesus and the Easter Bunny could have brought me. To celebrate the end of 2 Fish Fillets for $2 at McDonald's, I will be reliving my high school fantasies of being best friends with Kim Deal and makeout friends with Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV. So I'm not mad at Easter this year. I finally know what it's all about: ME.

But Maybe the Queen of Mexico

My 6 year old niece is obsessed with princesses. Ob. Sessed. I was never this little girl. I mean, I liked the concept of a princess or a queen simply for the fashion and the handsome prince. But from what I recall, I was never a wearer or crowns or gowns. I walked around with a blanket on my head to symbolize the long blond white girl hair I always wanted but we don't need to pull at that thread right now, do we?

Q has an abundance of Disney princesses in her possession and, to be fair, her parents have not bought any of them for her. This is all Grandma's doing. I'd also like to point out that the child is a genius who reads and writes better than any 6 year old in the free world and can articulate better than most adults about a variety of subjects. So she's no vain, shallow child. But she was definitely bit by the princess bug.

When it's time to play, she directs all action up front, assigning dolls and boyfriends. Of course, playing princesses with me is not easy.
Q: "Here, Aunt Dee, you can be Belle and I'll be Tiana. They're getting ready for the ball."
Me: "What is the ball in celebration of?"
Q: "I dunno, it's just a ball. Bell is going with the Beast and Tiana is going with Naveen."
Me: "Maybe Bell just wants to by herself. She doesn't need a date."
Q: "Yes, she does. She can't go to the ball by herself."
Me: "Sure she can! All her friends will be there. She doesn't need the Beast to have fun."
Q: (narrowing her beautiful eyes at me) "She needs to go with Naveen."

So I give in and stop peppering play time with feminism (or is that bitterness?). Everyone goes to the ball and has a date. At some point, Q's doll decides to steal my doll's date and we have another conversation about how every story need not revolve around a man. Then my sister chimes in that every story needs conflict and I give in again. None of this lasts more than 10 or 15 minutes anyway as Q will be distracted by something and be on her merry way.

One day I decided to tell Q the truth. "You know...you'll probably never go to a ball. Like, people don't go to balls."

She just stared at me with that angelic face, expressionless. I couldn't tell if she was thinking, "Well duh, Aunt Dee," or "Are you fucking kidding me?! There will be no ball?!?!"

She sighed and said, "Aunt Dee, I'm not the Queen of England but maybe I could be the Queen of Mexico."

Rather than explaining that Mexico doesn't have a queen and, honestly, if they did, she probably doesn't want that job (what with all the violence in Juarez), I laughed and tickled her. But it got me thinking. What is our obsession with the role of princess?

As Kate Middleton prepares to transition from commoner to princess, our country has become fascinated by her. Incidentally, we have no monarchy and folks moved here to escape that schlocka a million years ago or whatever. But for a nation founded on disapproval of the monarchy, we sure are interested in the monarchy. And look at all the tragic things that have happened to princesses and queens over time. These ladies more often than not meet tragic, cruel ends. I'm not saying that Kate is going to be kidnapped and quartered by the French or anything. But beyond all the scary and gross deaths princesses and queens have faced over the years, I bet being a princess is really, really boring.

Imagine all the looooooong events you'd have to sit through, your legs perfectly crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in your lap, fighting off the yawns while people endlessly took your picture. You could never have a shitty day where you run to the drugstore in your sweatpants for ibuprofen. It doesn't matter if you have terrible cramps, you simply must be there for the dedication of the new Pediatric Prosthetics wing at the hospital lest people think you a cold, heartless bitch, scoring you a headline along the lines of, "Princess Doesn't Care About Limbless Children, Only Cares About Self, Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby."

And for God's sake, what if you were infertile or decided you didn't want to have children? The press would talk about your womb as if it were the crumbling leader of a Middle Eastern country chock full of oil. "We've got to get in there, fix the problem and harvest the goods."

You could never "accidentally" drink too much chardonnay at the party and slur anything about "my motherfucking mother-in-law from hell" or half-jokingly say, "We should invade China" or suggest a round of body shots with your hot ginger brother-in-law. And you can forget about forgoing panties at the Westminster Polo Championship because a stiff breeze will blow your skirt up and the whole world will know you've retired all grooming efforts.

Also, you probably shouldn't have an opinion about anything. You'll need to perfect stock answers to politically and/or socially charged questions. "Princess Kate, what do you think about the situation in Libya?"
(Smiling brightly) "I'm very proud of my charitable duties and my husband's commitment to the whole of England. We are very much against AIDS, global warming and all sorts of other nasty things."

The worst part of being a princess would probably be marrying down. Kate Middleton is smokin' hot and William...well, he does look a lot like his father, now doesn't he? Did you see Charles and Diana's wedding? Don't tell me you didn't notice the look of slight nausea and panic in her eyes at several stages during the ceremony. Those were the moments she was thinking, "What the fuck am I doing?! I'm a super hot 80s babe with sweet, sweet feathered hair; why am I marrying this shriveled old man?! Dear God and Queen Mary of Scots, save me!"

Oh, if being a princess were all about going to balls, wearing lovely dresses and putting little to know effort into your stunning beauty. If only there were princes to save us from our poison apples, cruel spell-casting sea hags, yeast infections and cable bills. Alas, this is not the case. I guess we'll just have to save ourselves.

Things you should never say to black people (and by "black people" I mean "anyone").

1. "I have a lot of black friends." No you don't. In fact, I'm willing to bet if you ever met a black person, they would hate you. A lot.

2. "My best friend is black." If by "best friend" you mean "the woman who sits in the cube next to mine who I smile at every morning", then yes; your best friend is black.

3. "I've always wanted to have sex with a black woman/man." And now you never will.

4. "I had sex with a black woman once. She was a hooker." A man actually said that to me once. He was also missing a tooth. A front tooth.

5. "You're the first black woman I've ever slept with." Great; here's your paperwork. You'll need to see a notary in order to officially be granted the title White Dude Who Had Sex with a Black Woman.

6. "Can I touch your hair?" Can I touch your ass?

7. "Do you know Random Person Who Also Happens to be Black?" Yes, we all know each other. Actually, there are only 4 of us; the rest is all mirrors.

8. "Black people are such great singers." Clearly you've never met my father. Or my brother.

9. "Do you use the word 'nigger?' Why is it ok for black people to say 'nigger' but white people can't say 'nigger?'" Well you've just said it three times, asshole. And just because I'm standing here doesn't make it acceptable.

10. "I'm 1/16th African American." I'm 1/16th impressed.

Breaking the Poop Wall

This weekend, I had the opportunity to discuss a very important stage in relationships with a group of extremely intelligent women. The Poop Stage. We all agreed that The Poop Stage (TPS) is perhaps the most pivotal stage in a relationship. Sure, you love my smile, my laugh, my lust for life, my boobs...now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom. How you like me now?


As toddlers, we go through a Freudian phase of life that none of us remembers, also called The Poop Stage (or perhaps something slightly more scientific). This happens when we make a doodie in our little plastic toilet, stand up, turn around, look at it and realize, with great astonishment, that we did that. Many children will call their parents in and proudly present the deuce like a gift for baby Jesus. And we are lavished with praise and gumdrops or maybe a star on our Potty Chart. For minutes, perhaps hours, we are kings and queens of our plastic thrones; masters of our own asses; certified poop commanders.

Somewhere along this journey of transitioning from shitting in our shorts to long, drawn out bathroom sessions involving magazines, the act becomes horrifying. Parents no longer take you to Dairy Queen to celebrate the poopie; instead they walk into the bathroom as you’re exiting, waving a hand in front of their face, scowling and scolding. “Good lord that’s horrible! For the love of God, turn the fan on! Light a match! Are you trying to kill us all? Jesus Christ!”

Our poop pride quickly disappears and we are left embarrassed, shameful, and wondering silently why we are so disgusting. Through no fault of our own, it happens again the next day. We accept that this is going to continue and that it’s going to be gross. We seek out private places to make boom-boom—we drive to the local Target over our lunch break to avoid polluting the shared work bathroom; we try to beat roommates home so we can drop the kids off at the pool in relative comfort. And when that fails, we apologize for our natural movements, attempting to make jokes, cracking a window, politely lighting a $35 Aveda candle.

But the challenge comes when we start dating someone. Oh, the excitement of the first date with all those awkward moments that happen as two people try to figure out if they’d like to marry, fuck or kill the person sitting across the table from them. Eventually, there might be a first kiss, which tells you an awful lot. (My advice: if it’s bad, run. Run fast.) After a few dates, things get complicated. Does he like me? Will he call? How do I walk that stupid, delicate line of “I really want to hang out with you” and “I don’t even remember your name, playa”?

At some point (and it’s different for everyone) there will be sex, which can make or break the situation. Being compatible over coffee or dinner does not necessarily translate into sexual chemistry. You will likely know this before you hit the sheets but most of us decide to check it out anyway. I can say from experience, sometimes your instinct is wrong, in either direction. So, you know, go for it.

So everything’s going along swimmingly—sex is good, conversation is stimulating, he has a nice car, he loves his mother, he always calls when he says he’s going to, there haven’t been any angry outbursts, he’s not rude to servers in restaurants, he doesn’t refer to his ex-girlfriend as “that fucking bitch” or “the love of my life” and it looks like we might have a winner.

At some point, you will have to poop at his place.

The anxiety surrounding this inevitable occurrence is pretty intense. As women, we don’t really want men to know we poop. It’s ridiculous because when you get a group of men together, they can talk about the stuff that comes out of their ass all day. As the girlfriend, if you chime in with something like, “Oh dude, I dropped a deuce the other day that had its own zip code. It was doing its taxes and shit”, you break the Poop Wall. Yes, intellectually, New Boyfriend knows that you eat food and, thus, need to make a doodie now and again. But for God’s sake, don’t talk about it. Even my feminist instincts can’t argue with this one. I mean, I want New Boyfriend to view me as intelligent, creative, funny, sexy, loyal, loving, etc. But I’ll do anything to avoid him finding out that I poop.

I’m pretty crafty for a while. I will admit to quietly slipping out of bed once the man snoring starts and closing myself in the bathroom for some quality time. I’ve straight up lied and told a long story about there being a line for the loo and only one working toilet at the restaurant to cover up the fact that I’ve been gone for 15 minutes. But at some point, it’s going to happen. Perhaps after a Mexican themed dinner or a big cup of coffee.

There are several ways to handle this:

1. Make it funny. “Ha ha ha, I’m going to destroy your bathroom dude. It’s going to be like a Michael Bay movie.”

2. Be a total girl about it. “Um...ok...so, I have to, like, go to the bathroom. But, like, I mean, I have to go to the bathroom. So, like, I’m really sorry but we had burritos for lunch and even though I said no beans, it’s still, like, going to happen and I’m so embarrassed (giggle, giggle, sob, sob)."

3. Just resign and admit you’re disgusting. “Ok, so here’s the deal: there are some things happening in my butt that I cannot control. So I’m going to the bathroom for a while. Please don’t acknowledge it.”

Generally I go with #3. Because he doesn't care. He’ll probably laugh at you and tease you a bit but if he honestly breaks things off because you poop (which has never happened in the history of the whole world) then my man’s got issues you can’t even begin to understand. I read an article the other day about how Terrence Howard, star of many horrible movies, won’t date a woman unless she wipes her business with baby wipes every time she goes to the bathroom. This is proof that Terrence’s delicate toddler Poop Stage was not a glorious time full of stickers and cookies and hugs and applause. His Poop Stage was traumatic and shameful, likely at the hands of his Mommy, leading him to believe that we’re all unclean in our nether regions, especially women, because a woman is the one who mistreated him in regards to his poopy phase. That’s called transference of anger. That’s right, bitch, I just psychologized you. And now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom.

I declare this half eaten burrito official.

While I was slogging away on my treadmill at the gym, CNN told me that Maine is desperately trying to decide if their official state dessert should be the whoppie pie or blueberry pie. Pennsylvania is also considering the whoppie pie for official dessert status, which obviously makes Maine want that one more because it’s just human nature to covet thy (sort of) neighbor. As I schvitzed and schlepped away in the name of socially acceptable perfection, I began to wonder: does every state have an official state dessert? Why do we need official state desserts? Does that mean that any time there is an official meal, the official dessert gets served? How does this get decided? And with all the piles and piles of shit going on in the world, why am I grasping on to this?


I decided to just go with it.

Upon Googling “how official state foods are chosen” I didn’t find much; mostly state government pages that listed WIC-eligible foods. I found lists and lists of official state foods and one tiny blurb that said that when someone wants to make an official state food (say an official muffin, dessert, beverage, etc) they have to bring it before a judge and have it “declared by law” as the official state food.

Who the hell does this? And why? If I decided that clamato should be the official state tomato-based beverage and I went through the process of trying to have that declared by law, everyone would assume that I am crazy and unemployed. And rightfully so.

Some of the official state foods make sense; for example, Minnesota’s official state grain is wild rice. Duh. Minnesota is one of two main producers of wild rice. Maryland’s state food is blue crabs. Yep, that sounds about right. Idaho’s state food is the potato. Again, yes, I whole-heartedly agree with this and understand it. But here’s where it gets weird.

Louisiana has a state jelly. How come? It is Mayhaw jelly and the mayhaw capital is Georgia. Louisiana also has an official state meat pie. No, meat pie is not the official state pie—they have an official state meat pie. It’s Natchitoches. New Mexico’s state vegetable is refried beans. I got news for ya, retired old timey hippies: refried beans do not qualify as a vegetable. Oklahoma must feel inadequate because they have quite a few official state foods. One of their official state meals is corn. Corn is not a meal. In fact, Oklahoma has ten official state meals and none of them are an actual meal. A meal is several items, not one item. Utah’s state snack food is Jell-O. How did that happen? It’s not like Jell-O was invented or conceived in Utah because it wasn’t. But in 2001, the governor invented “Jell-O Week.” Oh how I wish I had been in that meeting. North Carolina has an official state blue berry—it’s blueberries. They also have an official state red berry, which is the strawberry. I happen to love North Carolina but 2001 must have been a very slow year for them.

And the big winner for official state beverage? Milk. Almost every state has legally declared milk official. Nebraska also decided to embarrass themselves why declaring Kool-Aid their other official state beverage but that is because Kool-Aid was invented in Nebraska. The state of Alabama ain’t playin’; their official state beverage is whiskey.

I guess I’m failing to understand why we need official state foods and beverages. This throw down between Maine and Pennsylvania for the whoopee pie is a big enough news story that CNN had an actual segment on it. I wonder if people can protest the declaration of an official state food. Like if Minnesota wanted to declare the kiwi as the official state fruit, I’d totally make a sign and go to the capitol and demand to know why a fruit that does not grow here and has no historical ties to my state would be named an official anything. Would I be ridiculed or seen as a new brand of community leader, demanding that things start making sense around here? By the way, Minnesota’s official state fruit isn’t the kiwi; it’s the honeycrisp apple.

Stone Phillips, be my guide.

I like to watch depressing and brutal shit on tv. I have no idea how or why this started but there it is. I’m a huge fan of Dateline, 48 Hours, I Survived, The First 48, Disappeared, Deadly Women, Wicked Attraction. But because I love these real stories of mayhem and occasional survival, I can’t stand shows like CSI, NCIS or any other show that is mostly acronyms. I like the real stuff.


These shows teach us a lot about all the ways we can be terrorized and/or die. Due to hours and hours of true crime education, I have learned the following life lessons:

1. Don’t ever get married. Without warning, your spouse will lose their mind and hack you to pieces. It doesn’t matter if you are newlyweds or if you’ve been in a loving marriage for 47 years. Usually this will happen for the life insurance payout or possibly because they are having an affair. Or maybe both. Which brings me to my next point.

2. Don’t get life insurance. As soon as your spouse, children or best friend finds out about it, they will knock you unconscious, put you in your car and set it on fire. They’ll get caught but you’ll be dead so what good will that do you?

3. If someone from your past shows up unannounced, don’t let them in your house. It might be your grandmother, an old friend who just happened to be in town or an ex of some kind. Whoever it is, they are there to kill you. Call 911 immediately.

4. If you break the first rule and get married, when you get divorced, immediately change your identity. If your ex-spouse finds you or—worse yet—is co-parenting with you, eventually and for no interesting reason, they will go bat shit crazy, kidnap you and stuff you in a garbage can that they will then place in a storage locker. Seriously.

5. Don’t drive at night. If a car pulls up alongside you, swerve off the road in a wild, reckless fashion because whoever is in that car has a gun and is planning to shoot you.

6. If you get a flat tire, Jesus Christ, do not let anyone assist you. Because they will assist you right into your grave.

7. Deciding to go on a cruise is like deciding to jump off the Sears Tower—it is a guaranteed death sentence, either by murder or dysentery.

8. Speaking of travel, for the love of God, do not travel internationally. You might think you’re having a lovely Sandals Resort vacation but at some point, there will be a violent military coup, you’ll be kidnapped by guerillas and taken on a death march through the jungle.

9. Animals are not your friends, nor are they cute. They are simply waiting for the right moment to rip your left arm off and beat you to death with it.

10. Don’t attempt to do anything alone. You will get your arm stuck in something and no one will hear you scream and you will try to cut your arm off and then you will have only one arm.

11. Feel like going for a snowmobile ride? You might as well play Russian Roulette with yourself but only this time, the gun will be fully loaded.

12. Boats—whether fishing vessels, yachts, row boats or canoes—will only lead to a watery grave.

The Year of Dresden Jones

Even I'm surprised I didn't take to the Internet and go loco on y'all about some recent events.  To be honest, I feel as if I've lost a bit of my mojo.  2010 was a shit year, that's for sure.  And that really pisses me off because, at the start of 2010, I told everyone, "It's The Year of Dresden Jones."  I was serious--I was going to get shit done.  But you know that "self-fulfilling prophecy" stuff people talk about?  Yeah.  That.

As I watched the Vikings lose their only viable shot at the Super Bowl in 400 years because Brad Childress cannot count, I thought, "Oh shit...is this an omen?  Will this not be The Year of Dresden Jones?"  This sounds ridiculous and I'm 100% aware of that.  But I go through life thinking trivial things mean everything and the obvious signs mean nothing.  Like, "If I make it through this light, I'll totally get a promotion at work."  Where the hell does that come from?

Anyway, I was disappointed but determined not to let football (fucking football) derail The Year of Dresden Jones.  And to be fair to the NFL, football had nothing to do with it.  No.  It was allllll me, baby.  I consumed and staggered and blacked out through the year, right up until the very end.  Well, that's not entirely true...in September I found myself so devastated that I had to stop driving and sob in my car.  Why?  Because it was most certainly not The Year of Dresden Jones and that was becoming abundantly clear.

But...have you ever taken you car in for an oil change and suddenly they tell you, "Well, you need an oil change, new wiper blades, 2 new tires (because you can't get just one new tire), your head gasket is leaking and you lost your muffler somewhere on Interstate 94."  That's kind of what happened.  Only not to my car.  To me.

I've been acutely aware that I'm nuts for a long time.  To try and remedy this, I see therapists, I take pills, I cry a lot, I write, I drink, I tell people to fuck off, I buy make-up and shoes, I go to the gym, I listen to music, I drink, I get my eyebrows waxed, I solve other people's problems, I eat, I get a massage, I laugh my ass off, I drink, I determine that I am the smartest person in the world, I cry a lot, I decide I need to move, I drink, I get involved with men who have nothing to offer me (or the universe), I decide I need a new job, I take a vacation, I drink, I attempt to stuff something, anything into this gigantic hole inside me and when that fails, I drink.

And then BAM!  Something crazy occurs.  And I stop and wonder, "Well how the hell did that happen?"  Then I feel sorry for myself and I decide that I've been dealt a shit hand and everyone has an easier, happier existence than me.  That makes it easier for me to hate everyone and everything--myself the very most. 

I've been spinning through life and acting surprised when I get dizzy and fall down.

Then I met this man.  When I first saw him, I thought, "Old...messy life...probably has a criminal record.  No good; file him in 'stay away.'"  I sat next to him like a rocket about to take off, through the ceiling, my arms crossed tightly, my legs jumping, my jaw clenched.  This is how I usually am.  Why?  Because I'm uncomfortable.  I have to be doing something--making people laugh, showing people how smart I am, drinking.  And even though I was a cold, uptight bitch for an entire hour, that man turned to me and smiled and said, "You're going to be ok."  Then he gave me a little something and told me to keep it in my pocket.  I wept--not because his gift was so glorious or because I was so upset.  But because this man, who I had judged so harshly upon first sight, was so kind to me, so accepting.  And he was right.  I am going to be ok.  After all...it's The Year of Dresden Jones.