A Christmas Miracle

I have a great and very heartwarming Christmas tale to share.

Several years ago, my Aunt Mariah* came to town for Christmas. She came in a few days before the 25th to help with decorations and gift wrapping, because she is a nice, thoughtful lady. She is so nice and thoughtful, in fact, that she took on the burden of decorating the Christmas tree all by herself.

Aunt Mariah worked hard on that tree, so to keep her energy up she ate an English muffin with peanut butter while decorating. It was chunky peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter is the most delicious kind of peanut butter and, typically, is the kind you should always go for. The sole exception, however, is when you’re a lady named Aunt Mariah and you have gold crowns on your molar teeth. There are chunks in chunky PB and if you bite down on a chunk wrong, you’re going to eff up that molar crown in the baddest way.

And of course that’s what the crazy ho did. She was concentrating so hard on hanging tinsel that she didn’t pay any attention to the peanut butter chunks and next thing you know she bit down wrong and effed up her tooth crown. And then she swallowed it down whole! The nut!

The thing about Aunt Mariah, though, is that she actually wasn’t a nut at all. She was (and still is, bless her shart) an extremely practical person. After she swallowed that gold crown, she did a quick mental calculation and figured out that a new gold tooth could cost well over one thousand dollars! “Heck if I’m going to pay that,” Aunt Mariah thought. Instead, she ran down to the local grocer and picked herself up a metal strainer and a plastic mixing spoon. She was going to go a-gold-digging.

And by that, I mean she decided to do all her pooping in a strainer and sift through it in search of her gold tooth.

Well, that’s just exactly what Aunt Mariah did. Poor woman did all her crapping in a strainer for two days straight and didn’t see a flicker of gold anywhere. She was just about ready to give up when, on Christmas morning, the impoopssible happened.

“THE CHRISTMAS POO CAME THROUGH!” Those are the words that woke me up on Christmas morning 2006 (I think it was 2006, but I can’t remember for sure). My Aunt Mariah ran up and down the hallway, banging on every bedroom door in the house, screaming “THE CHRISTMAS POO CAME THROUGH!! IT’S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE! MR. HANKY THE CHRISTMAS POO CAME THROUGH!!! THE CHRISTMAS POO CAME THROUGH!!!!!” (I’m serious. That is what my sisters and I woke up to on Christmas, word for word.)

Despite the failures of the days prior, Aunt Mariah decided to give it one last try on Christmas morning. She took a dump in the strainer, used the spoon to go through it, and found a glint of gold amid her crap. She plucked it out, rinsed it off, threw it in a pot of boiling water, and said a prayer to the Christmas Poo. She took it to the dentist a few days later and came home with her gold poop tooth glued back down in her mouth, looking something like the ice man Paul Wall.

Looking something like a disco ball

Call it a smile on da rocks

Need proof that this really happened? Like all good Christmas tales, there’s a Christmas carol about it!

(Sung to the melody of City High’s “What Would You Do?”)

What would you do if you swallowed your tooth?
Would you sift through the loo digging up your poo
Cause you’re frugal?
And the only way to find it is to
Paw through your crap for something kinda shiny
Cause the gold cap’s gone
Somewhere in your butt now
In and out your gut now
You ain’t got a tooth now
Cause for you this is just Christmas morning
But for my aunt this is what she calls life, mmm

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the tooth swallower.

The Most I Will Be

I just spent an hour reading blogs written by people who live in houses with hard wood floors, white walls, and home offices with salvaged barn door desks. They eat old cheese and hand pies and drink Pimm’s Cups and cocktails. They decorate their homes with peonies from their garden, hand-lettered signs, and nautical paintings. They go on picnics by the ocean with their black lab and wear really cool leather shoes and have jobs as photographers and web developers. They dope.

So I read their blogs, and I think, “Hey, I could do that! I could live by the beach and have a magazine-worthy home and eat delicious foods every day. Why don’t I do that?”

Then I set my laptop down, and I get up to grab a piece of pizza from the fridge and to take into the bathroom to eat while peeing with the door open.

And I realize this is the most I will ever be.

Photo on 7-6-14 at 12.47 PM

He likes pizza, too. (Fun fact: the shorts I’m wearing in this picture are from 7th grade.)

Going Crazy

On Saturday, Curtis and I went to the grocery store for sandwich makings.

While waiting in the deli line, the smiliest woman I’ve ever seen turned to me and shouted, “HELLO!!!!”

I didn’t know this lady – or at least I didn’t recognize her – but I turned to her and shouted hello right back.

Then, still smiling like a fool, she shouted, “How are you!!?!”

“I’m good!” I said. “How are you!?”

She told me she was good, and then kept on staring and smiling at me. I was smiling right back. It was uncomfortable but at the same time familiar and heartwarming. I really wanted to keep our conversation going and to make her like me, so I stared right in her eyes and asked the only question I could think of.

“How are you?” I asked for the second time.

She paused for a moment, said “…I’m good,”  and turned away. Curtis turned away too and even took a couple steps away from me. The great rapport I had built with this random lady disappeared in an instant, and I was left alone to think about how terrible I am at harmless social interaction.

Below is dramatization of the event. Dizzy plays the grocery store lady.

 Dizzy studied at Juilliard. 

You know when you go to the movies, the person you buy your ticket from always tells you to enjoy the show? And most of the time you just say thank you, but occasionally you’ll slip and tell them to enjoy the show too, even though you know they ain’t gon be watching the movie. Or someone will wish you a happy birthday and you’ll say, “You too!” You know when those things happen?

Those things are embarrassing, but there is something truly upsetting about asking someone the same question twice within a ten-second period. And when it’s a stranger in a deli line, there’s no explaining yourself. There’s no point in it. All that’s left to do is stand there and watch that stranger’s provolone cheese get sliced, knowing that at least one person in the world thinks you are crazy. Not jokey or funny crazy. Real, legitimate, this-girl-here-is-a-damn-kook crazy.

Airplane Tweeting

I went to Florida last week.** On the flight home, I ordered a $7 plane drank to help me fall asleep. It did help me fall asleep (#respect), but not before getting me a little lightheaded and then inspiring me to write down the tweets I would have tweeted had I had netwerk connectivity.

I’m going to share them here. I would share them on Twitter, but there is nothing worse than when someone you follow clogs up your timeline. I used Photoshop to make them look like real tweets to keep it more fun.

Disclaimer: I feel very fortunate that my plane did not have netwerk connectivity.


**My trip to Florida was fly. My cool ass cousins and I went to the beach, went to the pool, went to the movies, saw friends, RODE ON BOATS, ate pizza/steak/shrimps/fresh fruits/other good things, drank drinks, learned the lyrics to Disney songs, and practiced rapping. (Side note: I think I could be a rapper.)



Sunscreen in the eyez/saltwater surprize

If I were Beyoncé


If I suddenly found myself in a universe where I was the main character in Beyoncé’s “Partition” song, but had never heard the whole thing before, these are the thoughts I would think and the feelings I would feel.

Driver roll up the partition please
Driver roll up the partition please
I don’t need you seeing Yoncé on her knees

OK, if I’m Beyoncé then I’m telling my chauffeur to roll up the partition because I don’t want him seeing me on my knees. Why would I be on my knees? I must have… dropped my earring on the limo floor? That’s got to be it. Yeah, the driver definitely needs to roll up that partition. If I’m on my knees, then my booty must be up in the air. Ain’t nobody need to see that harvest moon.

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Took 45 minutes to get all dressed up
We ain’t even gonna make it to this club

Wait a minute–we’re not going to go to the club just because I dropped my earring? I’m not much of a clubber but if it’s a club Jay-Z and Beyoncé go to, I’d like to check it out. Plus, if it took me 45 minutes just to get dressed up, do you know how long it must have taken to do my hair and make-up!? Upwards of two hours, fool. We going to that club.




Now my mascara runnin’, red lipstick smudged

How did that happen!? I must be crying or something. Maybe we shouldn’t make it to the club, I guess I’m sad.




Oh he so horny, yeah he want to *F WORD*

Oh my! I seem to have misjudged this situation in the worst way, and I don’t at all like where it’s headed. I know Jay-Z’s supposed to be my husband in this scenario, but even if I can accept that, we’re in a moving vehicle! And our driver’s like two feet away! I think we ought to hold off on this for… ever, probably.





He popped all my buttons and he ripped my blouse
He Monica Lewinski’d all on my gown

Shout out to Jay-Z for popping my buttons and ripping my blouse and doing his freak business on my gown. Very cool of him, to wreck all my clothes en route to the club. Guess that’s why we’re crazy in love. Drunk in love. Crazy and drunk in love.

Just kidding. That’s effed, Jay-Z. Damn!

On a side note, why am I wearing a blouse and a gown at the same time? Who dressed me? Did Jay ruin all my clothes on purpose because my outfit didn’t make sense?





Oh, there daddy, daddy didn’t bring the towel
Oh, baby, baby be better slow it down

Wait a minute–are we going to a club with a swimming pool!? Hot diggity I don’t care if you forgot the towel, we’re going swimming! Forget slowing it down, put the pedal to the metal! I’m tryna get my Marco Polo on!

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Took 45 minutes to get all dressed up
And we ain’t even gonna make it to this club

Yeah I remember you saying that earlier but if there’s a pool involved in this outing I’d really really like to make it to that club.





Take all of me
I just wanna be the girl you like, girl you like
The kinda girl you like, girl you like
Take all of me
I just wanna be the girl you like, girl you like
The kinda girl you like
Is right here with me
Right here with me
Right here with me
Right here with me

None of that is true.

I don’t want anyone to take all of me, for starters. I have dogs who need me, and nephews and a niece, and plus I’d like to keep at least a quarter of myself for myself. I got lots of hobbies, nah mean? Secondly, I guess it’d be cool to be the kind of girl Jay-Z likes, but it’s not like that’s my only goal in life. I want to be a lot more than just the kind of girl he likes. Just the kind of girl Patrick Stump likes? Yes, sure. But Jay-Z? Jay-Z better make like Bruno Mars and think I’m amazing just the way I am.





Driver roll up the partition fast
Driver roll up the partition fast
Over there I swear I saw them cameras flash

Damn that driver. I already politely asked him TWO TIMES to roll up the partition. Either he never rolled it up, or he did roll it up and then rolled it down again. Neither is acceptable. I’m going to have to fire him. Eff! I’ve never fired someone before, but I bet I suck at it. Maybe Jay-Z will do it for me.





Hand prints and footprints on my glass
Hand prints and good grips all on my ass

Not this again.





Private show with the music blastin’
He like to call me Peaches when we get this nasty

Private show for who!? Jay-Z or the chauffeur?! Who is calling me Peaches?!? IS THIS SONG ALMOST OVER YET?

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Red wine drip filth talk that trash
Chauffeur eavesdropping trying not to crash

Is some of this gibberish or am I currently too distressed to understand anything? Motherfunker I hope we don’t crash. Imagine if I die like this: all my clothes ripped and soiled, my lipstick and mascara smudged, booty out. Please,  I hope that chauffeur don’t crash. Also I wonder if he’s rolled up that partition yet.





Oh, there daddy, daddy now you ripped my fur
Oh, baby, baby be sweatin’ on my hair

TAKE IT EASY ON MY GEAR, DAMN. Barf, there’s sweat dripping on me. I wonder what Jay-Z would think if I vomited on him, cause it’s bout to happen.





Took 45 minutes to get all dressed up
And we ain’t even gonna make it to this club

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One baby, one dog, and one horse

Up until last month, I’d rescued one baby, one dog, and one horse.

The Baby

I know Steve Buscemi isn’t British, but he looks like he maybe could be.

The baby I rescued a few summers ago when I was out for a run. The baby’s British mother was pushing him in a stroller, about to descend a hill, when a large turtle crawling in the weeds next to the sidewalk caught her attention. She stopped to admire it and, when she saw me about to jog by, called me over to join in on the admiration.

“That’s one right good lookin’ turtle, in’t, luv!? Come ‘ave a look at this turtle wiv me!”

I didn’t want to stop, because I was still kinda pissed at her over all that Revolutionary War/William and Kate wedding coverage stuff, but the turtle really was big as eff and deserved a moment’s acknowledgement.

I stopped to check it out. And to keep it one hundred, it was pretty fly. But just as I was about to (reluctantly) give her props for inviting me over, she let go of the baby’s stroller and squatted down, her hand outstretched to the turtle, a blade of grass between her fingers. She was calling to the turtle, trying to entice it to come over for a belly rub or something. Missus was too wrapped up in the turtle baiting to notice that her baby’s stroller was starting to slowly roll down the top of the hill.

I put my hand out and grabbed the stroller… that was it. I didn’t have to chase it or anything. Still, I rescued a baby. A British baby! I let go of old grudges and rescued a British baby.

The Dog

Napoleon complex in the flesh.

Chico the mini schnauzer

The dog I rescued was a young brindle pit bull that attacked me when I was out walking Dizzy one morning. She didn’t really attack—she just ran up to us and started freaking out, jumping on me and trying to get Dizzy to play. I love Dizzy, but he’s a scaredy cat bitchass, and so he started yelping and crying and I had to pick him up, even though the pit bull wasn’t being mean at all. She was just playful and wild as shit.

We were on a super busy street, I was carrying Dizzy in my arms, and the pit bull was jumping on me, sprinting out into the road, and coming back to jump on me again. She chased us for maybe an eighth of a mile until we got back to my house. As soon as I opened the front door, she sneaked through and started running wild in the house. Our other dog, a mini schnauzer with a Napoleon complex and a stankin attitude toward spayed females, immediately started lunging and snapping at her. The pit bull’s snapping back, Dizzy’s running around yelping, my dad’s screaming to get the pit bull outside, and my mom’s trying to find an old collar that’ll fit the pit bull’s neck. Everyone’s in an uproar and the entire house reeks of buttstink and adrenaline.

Finally my mom found a collar big enough, and I leashed stranger dog up and took her outside. I walked her down to the house on the corner, where I thought I’d seen her tied up outside before. That was her home, and apparently she had slipped her collar.

The Horse

Via digdang.com

Just a pretty horse (via digdang.com)

The horse I rescued my junior year of high school. My friend Lacey and I were driving around in her car to kill time before basketball practice, when a big brown muscly stallion shot out of the woods and in front of the car. Lacey, without a second’s thought, gave chase.

We followed him for a few miles and eventually herded him back to his own barn. There, the horse’s toothless owner garbled something completely unintelligible, but what I imagine was something like, “Thank you, heavenly angel ladygirls, for returning my little pony boy.”

Last Month

I have a decent rescue track record. Remember the baby, the dog, and the horse? So, a few weeks ago when my friend Sarah and I drove past a border collie running loose in the streets, I was down for a rescue mission. At first we saw an old scraggled mofo with a leash looking like he was walking with the dog. But when we drove past a second time and the dog nearly ran straight out and under Sarah’s car, we decided we better stop and try to help.

I got out while Sarah went to park. The second I stepped out of the car, Old Scraggly Ass handed me the leash and said, “Her name’s Riley. Will you catch her? She doesn’t have rabies or Bordetella or nothing. She don’t bite.”

I ran over to an empty parking lot and starting calling Riley’s name. While standing there, holding a leash and calling for a dog I didn’t know, I began to ask myself a few questions.

Why dafuq did Scraggle Ass Snaggle Tooth need to mention that Riley is disease-free? Is this his dog? Why is he not catching his dog? Why does a stranger need me to catch his dog?

I decided these were pretty good questions that deserved an audience bigger than just me.

Me: Excuse me, stranger/monster man. Is this your dog?

Scraggle: …Yes.

Me: Why ain’t you catching your own dog?

Scraggle: She’s… a border collie! (He holds up his hands). Border collies are… (He waves his hands around.) You know!

Within a minute or two Riley ran over to me, Scraggle yelled out for me to grab her, and I did. Then he came over to take the leash from me and the dog cowered away from him, clearly not wanting to return.

Scraggle: Thank you! She just wants to play, that all. Hey, do you… do you live in town? You down to chill?

Me: Hell no, on both accounts.

Scraggle: Oh. Oh okay. Hey, about that down-to-chill part–can I… Can I buy you lunch?

Me: Hell no, again. You’re scaring me, mister. Plus it’s 3pm and I already had lunch. Shit. You got cookies or something?

He didn’t, so I got back into Sarah’s car and we left.

Now, I can say I’ve saved one baby, two dogs, a horse, and myself because that dude was definitely a serial killer.


Author’s note: I wasn’t sure how to end this post.


Breaking and entering

I took Dizzy and his favorite lady friend, Mazie, for a walk a few weekends ago. We had spent the night before at Mazie’s house, and since her parents and uncle (Tyler and Katie and her brother) were skiing in the morning, I said I’d take Mazie out before I left for home.

“Mazie’s parents,” I said to Tyler and Katie. “You’ll be gone by the time we get back. Don’t lock that goddamn front door of yours.”

And with that, Mazie, Dizzy, and I set off for our walk. I went with nary more than a pair of sunglasses, mittens, and a jacket with limited pockets. I didn’t have my cell phone or car keys or nuttin, Jesus. (Remember, my jackets didn’t have many pockets.)

We three walkers did a quick loop around the neighborhood and then set off for the dog park a mile and a half away. Once we got there, Mazie romped with a sheep dog and Dizzy befriended a fat sausage-looking-ass beagle who was covered in frozen poo. We stayed for maybe 20 minutes before leaving to go back to Mazie’s crib.

"Condoms are high in nutrients and help promote ear growth."

“Used condoms found on city streets are high in nutrients and help promote ear growth.” -Dizzy, age 11 mo.

The walk back was stressful. Leashes kept getting tangled, jeans kept rubbing on my love handles, and used condoms kept getting found and eaten by Dizzy. By the time we got back to Mazie’s house, the dogs were thirsty, my backmeat was chaffed, and we were all frozed and ready to get inside. But when I went to open the door, I found that THE DOGGAMN FRONT DOOR WAS LOCKED.

It’s important to note that earlier that same morning I had taken Dizzy outside for a 6am whiz and locked myself out. I had to poop in the baddest way and very nearly shat my own pants looking for an alternate entry into the house. I resorted to knocking on Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window until they woke up and let me in. The second time around, of course, they was gone and I didn’t have that option.

Instead, I put the dogs into the fenced-in yard and started casing the house for easily openable windows. Every window I checked was high up, new, and securely locked.

Do you recall how I didn’t have any car keys or cell phones on me? Because of my lack of jacket pockets? Well, because of that I had no where to go and nothing to call anyone with. I remember saying the F word to myself many times before stopping and thinking, “Hey, come on now! Logic! Use logic and figure this out, baby G.”

My way of figuring it out was to enlist the help of the first person I saw walking down Katie and Tyler’s street. It turned out to be a skinny man and his bull mastiff. I scrambled up a snowbank to shout to him.

“Excuse me, sir!” I shouted from that snowbank I had just scrambled up. “How would you like to help me break into this home?”

Though the explanation I gave him for being locked out was shaky at best, dude was more than willing to do some breaking and entering. He told me his name was Ryan, and we got to popping.

Ryan spent several minutes attempting to use a credit card to unlock first the front door and then the back door. Neither gave, so we took a stroll around the house to look for unlocked windows. And bless my lucky stars, Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window happened to be unlocked!

Unfortunately, the window only opened to about a foot wide, give or take. It was also rather high off the ground. Ryan, the down dude that he was, agreed to give me a boost up. I took off my coat because: 1) Its lack of pockets was really bumming me out and I needed some space from it, and 2) I knew it was finna be a tight squeeze for lil mama (me) and I needed the least amount of bulk as possible.

It was a very tight squeeze.

Luckily, Ryan was happy to help shove me through. Despite everything I had going against me — namely, ungainliness and many well-fed body parts — I eventually thrashed and crashed my way inside and onto Katie and Tyler’s bed.

Feeling triumphant, I asked Ryan if he’d like to say goodbye through the window, or if he wanted to meet out on the front steps for a more formal adieu bidding. I guess, after everything we went through, I thought he’d want to take a moment to celebrate our accomplishments together. He opted for the former – a rushed goodbye through the window – and I haven’t seen him since.

Anyway, that’s the story of how I taught a neighbor how to break into my friends’ home. Here’s a link to a photo of a jacket. It’s not my jacket — you can tell by the deep pockets. It was taken by Jen Dessinger, an excellent photographer whose website once got effed up a little bit because of this blog of mine.