Tag Archives: humor

What to do when you invest all your money and then the market crashes and you quit your job

After several years of watching the stock market, I finally bought some of it. I went through a ridiculous rigmarole to get set up to invest through an investment company, and then I invested the majority of my savings. I won’t tell you how much exactly because that there ain’t none of your business.

That was in November. I invested in a total stock market ETF, which means that rather than investing in a couple companies—like Apple or Facebook—I invested in all of the companies. Or most of the companies. I don’t exactly know, but it’s something like that.

Anyway, I invested some money. I felt responsible and mature and rich. The stock market had been doing well and, I figured, would probably continue to trend upward. For a little while, it did. And then it did not.

The stock market straight sucks right now.



It took a giant poop dive (that’s a nosedive but into a pool of poop) and I lost a bunch of money. Again, the exact amount ain’t none of your business. Plus, to be honest, I don’t know the exact figure. But I’ve lost enough that it sucks. Losing five bucks sucks, and I’ve lost considerably more than five bucks.

Beyond that, I’ve also recently made the decision to quit my stable, decent paying job, and not because I have another job lined up. I intentionally do not have another job lined up, in fact. So not only have I lost money in the stock market, but I’ve also lost my source of income.

What does a person do when these things happen?

A person keeps her money in the stock market, because as long as humans continue to innovate it’ll probably return to pre-poop dive levels one day, and if she sells now then she’s really losing that money forever.

A person stops spending all her money on stupid shit like diet Snapple and fancy trail mix and crazy backcountry tents that she thinks she’ll use one day but of course never, ever will.

A person … I don’t know.  What else does a person do? You tell me. Please. It appears I am stupid and have made a series of very poor decisions.

On attractiveness and fanciness

Looking good is fun. Like, dressing up, wearing jewels and makeup and, I don’t know, barrettes? It’s fun. Makes you feel good. Makes you feel attractive and fancy, and that’s what life is about, ain’t it?

No, WRONG-O, life is not about those things. I’m not sure what life is about, but it’s not about looking good and being fancy. It’s probably about other things, like reproduction and survival.

Oh, looking good is what gets you a mate? And fanciness, as a display of wealth, is proportional to your ability to survive in the industrialized world? P’shaw. I heartily reject that baloney.

Imagine you meet someone. For sake of this argument, this someone is a man and a babe. He’s wearing a well-tailored suit and has an expensive hairstyle. He smells good. Nice, straight teeth. Muscled shoulders. You think, “One day, I’mma marry that man.”

One day, you do. And boy, he looks fly in those wedding pictures.

Chances are, you just got TOOKED. Any asshole can trick you into marrying them. That handsome man, he might suck. So many people suck, and the people who care the most about looking good are probably the ones who suck the hardest. This handsome man won’t want to chill with you, he’ll be busy getting his suits tailored and beauty snoozing while wearing his retainer. And when he’s not doing those things, he’s probably strutting around town, primping and preening and seeking admiration from others.

That’s not say all handsome men are scoundrels, nor all beautiful women. But definitely some are. Don’t let their looks sway you, and don’t let your looks sway others. You should aim to be as unattractive as possible. Got a chiseled jaw? Cover that up with scraggle beard. Got a neat butt? Wear puffy poodle skirts so no one can see. Then, when you meet someone and decide they’re worthy of your love, you can shave your beard and show off your donk. It’ll be a wonderful surprise for all parties involved.

As for fanciness being a symbol of your ability to survive, that’s bull, too. If you’re wearing diamonds and going on extravagant vacations to show the world how rich you are, you’re actually threatening your survival. Bad people gonna wanna kill you for all those riches, and the Earth gonna wanna kill you for your big ass carbon footprint. Motherfunk that frivolous display of wealth. Instead, show us aggressive saving habits and a frugal lifestyle. That’s how we’ll really know you got money in the bank to pay for our homes and medical bills.

A note: I wrote this because I looked stupid today and am soon to be unemployed. There’s a decent chance life is about looking good and being fancy. IDK.

(I used italics to emphasize “is” back there. Cool, wasn’t it? We got to bring italics back.)

WebCG: Sprained Nickelboob

Welcome to WebCG, the classygallie.com version of WebMD. WebCG provides valuable health information. Note: Just kidding. Nothing you’ll find here is at all valuable. I’m not a doctor and I don’t know your business, so do not believe anything you read here and certainly do not take it as legitimate medical advice.

Sprained nickelboob
Sprained nickelboob is a slightly uncomfortable condition of the human nickelboob. The nickelboob is that triangle-shaped, nickel-like indentation centered smack dab between the boobs. Also known as the xiphoid or xiphoid process, it’s where your ribs connect to your sternum. If you twist or reach the wrong way, it can get tore up. If it does, it hurts a little bit. Not enough to totally wreck your day, but enough to make you want to complain about it.

In some circles, sprained nickelboob is also known as costochondritis. Those circles are typically hella nerdy, the kind doctors run in.


I call this “human nickelboob.” Others call it “Xiphoid process frontal” by Anatomography – Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.1 jp

Moving in a funny way that your body doesn’t like. It could be just one funny movement or a lifetime of funny movements. I guess you could get it if you have a cold and you’re coughing like crazy. Or you could get it if you’re way too hard on your nickelboob in general. There are probably lots of causes. I don’t know like I said I’m not a doctor.

Painful nickelboob, especially when you move funny or someone pushes down on it really hard (a doctor, for instance). I recently sprained my own nickelboob and goddamn did a doctor push the crap out of it.

When to seek medical care
Here’s the deal: If it’s really just a sprained nickelboob/costochondritis, a doctor’s visit is probably overkill. You’ll be told to apply ice and heat to it and to take over-the-counter pain medication to reduce discomfort. It’ll probably heal pretty quick and you’ll be back to pain-free nickelboobing.

That said, a hurty chest is a symptom of a lot of scary health conditions and it’s best to know whether or not you’ve got any of them. A doctor will check all your vitals to make sure business is in good working order. They’ll want to make sure that you’re breathing fine and that your legs aren’t swollen, numb, or otherwise acting kookily. They’ll also want to make sure you’re not feeling nauseated or feverish. They’ll take care of you. It’s never a bad idea to have a doctor check a hurty chest.

Time. Time heals all nickelboobs.

How to spend a snow day

Snow days are boring.

I know, I know. We love them. Ain’t many things better than a snow day, right? They get us out of school and work, and we sure do like getting out of school and work. School and work are not the greatest. But know what is the greatest? Being smart and having money. Both of those things are fantastic, and that’s what school and work will get you.

Know what a snow day will get you? Dirty teeth, dirty underpants, and about 24 hours of house arrest. (You know you’ve had at least one snow day where you didn’t brush your choppers or change your unders, don’t you dare say otherwise.)

I had a snow day this past Saturday. I’m not sure if a snowy weekend day can be considered a true snow day, but since I now work at a corporation that means serious business, weekend snow days are the only ones I get.

This snow day was ever more boring than most because I was alone. My parents and Chico were in Connecticut and Curtis was at some foosball game, so it was just Dizzy and me. Here’s a tattoo I once gave myself while at work, but was also appropriate for this snow day:


A very cool, reasonable thing for an adult woman to write on herself.

Not long into Saturday’s boring snow day, I decided, “Nay, today will not be a waste. Today, you finna do some things.”

I did do some things, and I felt all right about them. I’d like to share what I did with anyone else who’s looking for a productive way to pass a snow day.

Things to do on a snow day, especially if you’re in the crib by your lonesome

Clean out your wallet
If your wallet is fat as hell with old receipts and other pieces of crap, throw those things away. While cleaning out my wallet, I found a receipt for a post office in Puerto Rico and an expired coupon for a butcher shop. A butcher shop! As if I’m some type of cosmopolitan, buying my meats from a butcher. No way, José. I make my meat purchases at the grocery store.

Take a shower
Showers sometimes suck. On a snowy winter’s day, though, a shower is tight. Hop into that steamy stream with a couple of carrots and a glass of Diet Coke, you’ll have yourself a right old time.

Shovel your driveway
Shoveling your driveway doesn’t sometimes suck—it always sucks. It is not at all an enjoyable way to pass a couple hours. I gots a question for you though: Do you go to the gym? Do you run on treadmills or ellipse on elliptical machines? Because shoveling is a workout too, and it is 100 times better than running on some damn treadmill. Think about that word even, treadmill. A mill for your treads, a factory for your steps! Every time you use a treadmill, that’s unpaid labor. That’s unjust.

Holy moly. I just Googled “treadmill history” and learned they were invented in the 1800s as an instrument of prison discipline.

Shovel your driveway. Get exercise the moral way.

Drink apple juice
Apple juice is bomb, why wouldn’t you want to drink it? Have yourself a glass or two, you’ll deserve it after all that snow shoveling. Maybe take it into the shower with you, even.

Watch Pretty Woman for the first time
It’s a movie that plays for free on TV, why wouldn’t you want to watch it?

I missed the first half hour when I watched it and I have a serious request. Can anyone explain to me a premise that justifies Richard Gere hiring a prostitute that’s almost half his age? Seriously, I need some help understanding it. Are we supposed to accept that, sometimes, perfectly decent men sometimes pay for lovin? Richard Gere’s character seemed like a nice enough dude (and certainly dreamy enough), but how is he not a creep? Am I wrong for assuming all johns are scoundrels? If Julia Roberts can look past it, should I too? Someone please explain.

Bake a pizza
Since you’re home by yourself, you’ll get to eat as much of it as you want. Happy Snow Day to you!

Go to bed a 9pm
It’s just a good time to go to bed, no matter the circumstances.

By the way I was joshing you earlier. Snow days are dope, you and I both know that. Hope this list helps make your next snow day a real good one.

Support the Rabid

Once, my sister Chris and her husband, Matt, woke me up in the middle of the night by pretending to be chainsaw-wielding murderers. Another time, they got an elderly Austrian woman (likely some sort of witch) and her cat to scare the crap out of me on a mountain. And yet another time, they terrorized me in my sleep with the tiniest and most bourgeois of weapons: a milk frother.

You can read about some of those experiences here, if you wish.

Recently, they gave me another scare, and it’s maybe the worst yet. ‘Twas a rabies scare.

Around Christmastime, I go to Chris and Matt’s house in Pennsylvania. I’ve gone there for the last three years and it’s a tradition that, until now, I’d planned to continue. I like Pennsylvania, and I like Chris’s cooking, and—mostly—I like their children. Love ‘em a lot, actually. Look at how lovable they are, even when you can’t see their faces!


I didn’t want to show their faces. Too many weird peeps on these interwebs.


This year, I went to their house the Monday before Christmas. As always, my dog Dizzy came with me. Over the past few years, Dizzy and I have established quite a nice Pennsylvania routine. We play with children, beg for meals, poop with the door open, and sleep in the third floor bedroom.

Up until the early hours of Wednesday morning, that routine ran very well for us. But it was in those early Wednesday hours that something changed. I woke up to the sound of flapping wings.

First, a brief aside: Except for college, I’ve lived in the same old house in rural Maine my entire life. The house is real old—maybe over 200 years old—and has a barn attached. I’ve seen plenty of mice and snakes and squirrels running round indoors in my day. But what I’ve never seen is no flappin ass bats flappin round indoors.

Back to last Wednesday. I was sleeping in the third floor bedroom, with Dizzy at my side, when the sound of flapping ass wings woke me up.

“Huh,” I thought. “Sounds like a winged creature.”

I opened my eyes, and not at all to my surprise, there was a winged creature ping ponging between the walls, flapping around like a fool.

Things moved real fast after I confirmed the winged creature’s existence. I shouted “WHAT DA FUCK,” grabbed the covers, and threw them over my head. My phone was on the bedside table. I snuck my hand out and snatched it real quick to dial Chris. It was 2:47 a.m., but by the miracle of crying babies, she was awake.

Chris: Hello?
Allie: I got the blankets over my head, there’s a bird or a bat or something in here. Save me.
Chris: What? You’re stuck in the blankets?
Chris: Oh. We’ll be right up.

Chris seemed very calm, and I suppose she should have been. Since moving into their house, Chris and Matt have seen a couple of bats, including one in their bed. Knowing that, I guessed the winged creature was almost certainly a bat rather than a bird.

Knowing also that bats sometimes carry rabies, I thought I should try to get Dizzy under the covers too. The dude wouldn’t move. When he’s asleep, he could not care less about what’s going on in the waking world. A squirrel could scamper up our bed and use Dizzy’s teeth to crack open an acorn and homie still wouldn’t rustle.

“Suit yourself,” I told him. “Shit you vaccinated anyway, li’l puppy dog.”

After a minute, Chris and Matt arrived outside my bedroom door. It had been shut the whole time, which is why I went under the covers in the first place—I didn’t want to open the door to run out and have it flapping around loose in the house.

Matt came in and turned on the light while I stayed securely under the covers.

“It is a bat,” said Matt. “I’ll catch it in my hat. Maybe I’ll give it to the cat.”

Nah just playing, he didn’t say all that. He did truly say it was a bat, though. Then he caught it with a butterfly net, which they keep in the crib for situations bazackly like the one we were in.

Once I knew it was caught, I took the covers off my head.

“Good job. That was hella spooky.”

Matt suggested I leave the bedroom while he got the bat out of there. I didn’t have any pants on and told Matt as much (what kind of sicko sleeps in pants?). He didn’t mind, so I scooted out.

He put the bat in a box and taped it up. Apparently if a bat’s in a room with a sleeping person, you got to get it tested for rabies. I was fairly certain I didn’t get bit, pooped upon, or drooled upon, but I guess it’s possible they can bite you without you even knowing. Plus, seeing as I’m a hypochondriac, I would have never slept again if it hadn’t gotten tested.

The results came back negative, which means the bat didn’t have rabies and neither do I, even if the adorable little monster had nibbled on me (which I’m sure it didn’t).

In the end, it was only another scare at the hands of Chris and Matt.

P.S. R.I.P. Sweet Bat. I’m really sorry humans build beautiful, warm houses and then kill lovely creatures like you when you seek shelter within them.


This is going to be very controversial.

Friendsgiving doesn’t make any sense and is dumb.

Wait! Before you get all upset here’s the truth.

I don’t mean that Friendsgiving, as an event, doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never attended one but by the looks of all the pictures in my Instagram feed, Friendsgiving, as an event, makes plenty of sense. A bunch of friends gather to eat good food and drink good drinks together. That sounds logical enough.

What doesn’t make sense is its awful name. Friendsgiving. You know what that name implies? THAT YOU’RE GIVING YOUR FRIENDS AWAY. On Thanksgiving, you give thanks; on Friendsgiving, you give friends. What the heck you doing that for? Pass them over here. I’ll take your poor friends, you monsters.

That’s it. I don’t like the word Friendsgiving. But have a happy Thanksgiving!

Me and my medium-length hair

You know how, at the start of each new America’s Next Top Model cycle, all the contestants get makeovers? Usually involving the chopping and bleaching of hair? Here’s a wonderful blog someone wrote about the best and worst ANTM makeovers, in case you need a reminder.

During the makeover episode, one of the girls—or more than one, depending on the cycle—always flips out. They scream about how much they hate their makeovers, crying over how stupid and ugly they look. I always had zero sympathy for those scene-causing B-holes.

“Look at that trick ass,” I’d yell at the TV. “All mad just cause her hair looks different. Small price to pay for the chance to be the next Adrienne Curry or CariDee English. Bitching about her hair when she could be marrying Peter Brady or getting paid to talk about her moderate to severe plaque psoriasis. It’s just hair! Shake my damn head.”

Today, I’d like to apologize to those girls. I lopped 8-10 inches of hair off my own head and now I get it. I, too, am a scene-causing B-hole.


On the left, I look like a long-haired witch. On the right, I look like a short-haired witch. We all know witches supposed to have long hair. Also, my teeth are not that little in person. They’re just overwhelmed by my gums when I smile.

I didn’t want to cut my hair. I take that back. I did want to trim off some of it—maybe five inches, tops—but I felt like I had to cut enough to donate. I’ve had long hair my whole life and I’ve never donated any of it before. I felt overdue for some good deeding, and painlessly cutting strands of dead cells off my head seemed like an easy enough entrance into the world of generosity. I was wrong.

Ashly, my hair stylist, didn’t push me. When I walked into the salon that Friday evening, already defeated, she told me, “Dummy, you don’t have to cut your hair if you don’t want to.” I said I know, but I should. She said, “You should, your hair is disgusting.” She is my sister’s best friend and I hadn’t cut my hair in a year, so she’s allowed to say things like that.

She measured my hair, accounting for layers, and sectioned it into three braids. She looked at me for one final confirmation, I nodded, and she made the first snip. Then the second. I reached back, ran my fingers through what was left of my hair, and gasped the most sincere gasp of my life. It was so short.

I know it’s not that heinous, and that if I ever took the time to style it, it’d look good (shout-out to Ashly). Still, I ain’t a fan. As someone who’s now had both long and medium-length hair, I can say medium-length hair is for the birds.

No disrespect to anyone who has medium-length hair. Not trying to knock you, I just think it’s garbage. Garbage on me, prolly looks fly on you.

Why I hate my medium-length hair.

1. My hair is the color and consistency of a straw broom. It’s much more comfortable having that straw broom gently sweeping across my lower back than having it stab me in my raw, sensitive back of the neck. FYI, I know the back of the neck is called a nape. I was gonna just write nape, but that somehow sounds a li’l freaky when paired with “raw, sensitive.”

2. My hair used to be long enough to tie itself into a bun, no hair elastics required. Do you know how useful that is? It saved me tens and tens of cents in annual hair elastic costs. Hair elastics suck.

Quickly, as a sidebar: Why are hair elastics so terrible? They are the simplest yet least reliable products in the world. They’re too tight when they’re new, and then immediately leap to too loose. And then they break, leaving you and your unbound hair in a bind. There’s maybe a day in a hair elastic’s short, shitty life that it’s actually any good. You know hair elastic manufacturers could easily improve them, but why would they? Because then people wouldn’t buy enough of them to pad hair elastic tycoons’ already fat wallets. I know this sounds like a dramatic rant, but when you go through as many hair elastics as I do, it would start feeling hella dramatic to you, too.

You hair elastic tycoons belong in prison. GOODY, WHAT’S GOOD?

3. It poofs like a mofo. My hair has always been flat and limp and very prone to static. Now it’s poofy and limp and prone to static. Maybe that’s not necessarily worse, but it sure is a change. And change is for nickels, better for dimes/I’d count ‘em all out, but I ain’t have the time. (That’s a rhyme I made up to express my dislike of non-money change.)

4. Medium-length hair whacks me all out of proportion. My long hair used to ground my moon face and my stretched-out, pear-and-pickle-shaped body. Now my short hair frames my moon face and throws my pears and pickles all off balance.





Having said all that, it’s actually a nice haircut. Plus, I’m sure my chopped off hairs will find a good home on a good head. Maybe it’s growing on me.

Day-by-day, millimeter by millimeter.

(That means it’s growing on me literally—you know, getting longer. It is not growing on me figuratively. Still hate it.)


Becoming the office weirdo

When I started my new job, I made a real concerted effort to not be the office weirdo. Truly, I consciously decided to not do things that normal, polite people also do not do. I didn’t want to beg for food, or drop down and do push-ups whenever I got a free minute, or tell people when I go poop. I wanted to keep my head down, do my work, and get my paycheck.

I’ve been doing well. During the day I eat only my own lunch and my own snacks and my own $900 worth of hardboiled eggs and Raisinettes from the cafeteria. I’ve only ever tried doing one push-up—but it was on my standup desk and when it almost toppled over, it reinforced my vow to not do that type o shit. I poop four times a day and—while everyone must suspect something’s up, especially when I leave immediately after stinking up our 10-foot shared workspace with, u kno, a cloud of diarrhea air—I’ve yet to tell a single person about my bathroom schedule.

I’m normal now. I’m courteous and hygienic from the hours of 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. From 4 p.m. to 8 a.m., though, I remain a goddamned monster. And unfortunately, sometimes there’s overlap between hours.

I don’t clean my water bottle that much. It only ever has water in it—and since water is what I’d use to clean it—I figure it’s pretty much a wash. I do notice that it sometimes/always has a rusty film on the inside. To counter that, I bought a darker colored Nalgene. Problem solved, son. It’s still hella scummy, but peoples can’t tell. Bugs can, though. Bugs can tell very well.

This past Monday, I got to my job around 8:15 in the morning. I sat down at my desk, pulled my water bottle out of my backpack, and took a pull of sweet, scummy H2O. I set down the bottle, leaving the cap unscrewed, and logged onto my computer. Then I picked up the bottle to take another sip, and that’s when I saw it. A little ringworm-looking-ass-bug* coiled on the inside of my water bottle cap.

Kind of looks like I'm balancing a severed finger tip

Kind of looks like I’m balancing a severed fingertip on my thumb, doesn’t it?

I gagged. Bugs don’t normally gross me out, but this bug was way up in my personal space. Plus, DUDE WAS A WORM!!!! WORMS THE TYPE OF MOFOS THAT KILL BITCHES!!!! WHAT IF I’D ALREADY SWALLOWED ALL OF HIS BRETHREN?!?! I plucked him off the bottle to get a better look. He looked dead as hell, so I left him on my pointer finger while I quickly Googled:

water worms
those worms that eat your stomach
those worms that kill bitches

I thought I was onto something with that last search when I looked at my finger and the homeboy Wormy was fully unfurled. I muffled a scream in the middle of my silent, open office. I didn’t know what this worm was capable of. He could have burrowed into a hangnail crevice and eaten my bones before I even had time to flick him off.

I couldn’t flick him off, though, because what if he was a real bad bug and I did eat some of his family members? I’d need to know what type of evil I was fuxxin wit. Or what if he was a perfectly decent bug, minding his own business, and I was going to flick him into oblivion, effectively murdering a nice ass worm in cold blood? My solution was to run to kitchen and grab a paper towel. That way we could both chill safely while I Googled whether or not my stomach was going to get eaten from the inside out.

On my way to the kitchen, I walked past my boss on her way in. She asked me how I was, I said a shaky “I’m aiight,” and then ran to the sink. I got Wormy into a paper towel and brought him back to my desk. My boss was looking at me real confused like and said, “You look like you bout to cry.”

“Yeah gurl, look at this. YOU SEEN THIS? I had a worm in my water bottle, peep it.”

“Oh, shit.” (She didn’t really swear, but she might as well have.) “I would die. You got to take that to the doctor. First let’s take some video real quick.”

The doctor! I’ve only been at my job for a few months and had forgotten that we have a free walk-in clinic onsite. My boss and I took a few videos and then I folded up the paper towel and brought it down to the clinic. I walked through the doors, saw two receptionists sitting behind a counter, and slapped the paper towel in front of them.

“Hi, nice to meet y’all. Um, I found a worm in my water bottle. Here it is.” One of the receptionists gasped. A third lady, who I think was a nurse, appeared. “I don’t really clean my water bottle that much… but, you know, sometimes I do. I’m afraid I swallowed this worm’s people. I’m tryna find out if that’s a problem or … just a bit of extra protein in my system.”

The receptionist who didn’t gasp unfolded the paper towel to examine it.

“This isn’t a worm,” she said. “See, this bug’s got antenna plus all types of little legs. It’s a centipede, I think. A centipede-like bug.”

I exhaled. “Word? I saw those antenna, totally forgot worms don’t have those things. Same goes for the legs. I dumb. You think I’m OK then?”

The nurse answered. “Well, let’s put him in a specimen jar so we can show David, then we can tell you for sure.” I don’t know who David is, but I assume he’s an entomologist they’re cool with. The receptionist grabbed a specimen cup.

“Come here, little buddy.” She struggled a few seconds to get him in the cup, then said, “Uh-oh. I lost him.” She dropped him on the desk or the floor or down her sleeve, we never found out. He was gone.

“Well,” the nurse said. “You’re probably fine, but let us know if you have any abdominal issues. Cramping, upset stomach, nausea, diarrhea, anything like that.”

I said I would, thanked her, and returned to my desk.

Once again, I am the office weirdo. I’ve now been ordered, by a medical professional, to tell people about my poop.

*I know ringworm isn’t actually a worm.**

**At least I know that now.

Many of you won’t like this

Dear President Obama,

I got a favor to ask of you. Give me a day off from work every month when my lady ish starts. Please.

I know. You’re going to face a lot of opposition when you go to pass this into law. Cronies, congressmen, everyone. Lot of people gonna hate on this. Please just hear me out.

But first, don’t worry. I won’t get too graphic. I know it’s tough for you and your fellow males to reconcile the messy reality of menstruation with your expectations of women. I promise, no blood talk.

(Just kidding, mofo. Of course There Will Be Blood. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum, though.)

Periods suck. With them come cramps, nausea, backaches, sore boobs, diarrhea, bloating, fatigue, trouble sleeping, headaches, acne, constipation, and more. Lot of times, I get cold sores and sore throats. It’s like having a cold and a flu concurrently, but worse because it happens every month. Oh and don’t forget, there’s also that blood-seeping-from-vagina business, too.

Does that gross you out? Get over it, ya baby. You wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for periods! Not a damn one of us would. So while I get that it’s a little narsty, it’s also something 50% of us deal with on the regular. Ladies have to pull blood-soaked tampons out of their bodies — usually with dark, congealed masses of uterus clung to them. We have to actually physically handle them. You should be able to handle just hearing about it.

(Hahahaha. “Masses of uterus.” So sorry. Swear to keep my promise about not getting too graphic from here on out.)

Anyway, as you might imagine, it’s hard to go to work when you feel that terrible. I can only speak from my experience, but the first day of my period is hella painful. I pop Advil like Tic Tacs and still it feels like a professional rock climber is using my womb as a stress ball. It’s not debilitating, but it sure is unpleasant. I’m sure it’s much worse for some people and much better for others. Don’t matter. We should all get a day off. We should all, at least, get the opportunity to get a day off.

Lot of people are going to disagree with that. Haters are going to say things like:


“Periods aren’t that bad. There are worse pains in the world.”

“Women do not need special treatment.”

“This justifies unequal pay between genders.”

When you get that kind of feedback, I’ve got some canned responses you can use.

“Ew yourself, you damn lady sheep.”

“You’re right — there are worse pains in the world. Still, it’s better to not have diarrhea thirteen times at the office.”

“Women absolutely need special treatment. They are special as hell. They have wombs, which though excellent for baby purposes, are not excellent for much else.”

“Wrong. Women would get more days off than men, but it’s because their bodies can grow humans. Can a man’s body grow humans? No? Men’s bodies don’t spend a week every month of every fertile year of their life painfully shedding uterine lining? Ah, guess equal pay is still fair, then.”

Here is my official proposal, Mr. President: You give lady workers 10 extra sick days a year, or something. I’m saying 10 instead of 12 because surely at least a couple periods are going to start on weekends, or maybe some aren’t as severe as others and don’t require time off at all. I don’t know. I know some people are going to take advantage of it — taking menstrual leave when they aren’t menstruating — so I’m trying to make it as fair as possible. It’s a little complicated.

In truth, it’s a lot complicated — lot of logistics that’ll have to be figured out. You know, pregnant ladies who don’t have periods, menopausal ladies who don’t have periods, ladies who just don’t have periods at all, ladies who really do have debilitating periods, etc. I don’t know what to do about all that. You and your friends can figure that out though, I imagine. Y’all smart.

Anyway, cool. Thanks for reading. If you could have this passed and signed into law in about 28 days, I’d appreciate it.


I know that was a little weird and gross. I don’t care. Periods drive me crazy. Actually — it’s not periods that drive me crazy. I’ve already said they suck, but I’ve accepted them as necessary, unavoidable, and — ultimately — helpful for baby-growing. What drives me crazy is that everyone thinks they’re so embarrassing. Something to hide.

Why! I want to sing from the rooftops when I’m on my period! I want everyone to know — particularly dudes — that I’m bleeding, and that it hurts like a mofo, and that I need a goddamn heating pad and a bed.

I’m worried people reading this will think I’m saying women are the weaker sex — that we’re delicate and can’t work because of our periods. That’s not at all what I’m arguing. I’m arguing that a lot of women are guaranteed to feel shitty at least once a month strictly because of the nature of their anatomy, and yet we still get the same amount of sick days as men. How is that fair?

A male coworker once left work early because he was burping a lot. The following day I got my period and, within the first two hours at work, pooped five times. And I didn’t take a sick day because there’s a chance — next month or the month after — I’m going to poop six times and need that sick day more. Or I’m going to get a stomach bug, or a respiratory infection, or some other illness and need the sick day then.

Ain’t that some shit?! I should be able to say to my boss, without embarrassment, “Yo, I’m menstruating up a storm over here. I’mma go home.” But I can’t, because that’s rude. She’s a lady, even, and it’s still rude. What kind of misanthropic ass society is ashamed and disgusted by something so crucial to its continued existence? That’s like being appalled by sex. Or by boobs.


Anyway, as you might have guessed, this wasn’t that serious a proposal. I’m not totally sure menstrual leave would work, but it’s good to think about. (They have it in Asia, FYI.) What we need more, probably, is open acknowledgement and acceptance that women get periods and it’s OK to feel like garbage.

I thought I had Alzheimer’s Disease

My friend Dori got married a couple weeks ago. I’m not one to use phrases like “beautiful ceremony,” but it was a beautiful ceremony. Dori looked like a beaming beach dream, and so did her groom, and so did everyone there. The sun set and the blue moon rose, and we drank and danced and celebrated yung luv. It was wonderful.

You never would have known, not even an hour before that beautiful ceremony, I was crying. It happened while I was applying makeup, in front of my mom and Curtis.

See if you can guess what made me cry.

A. The wonder of yung luv.
B. The looks of pride/joy on Dori’s parents’ faces.
C. My mom disowned me and Curtis dumped me, simultaneously.
D. I thought I had Alzheimer’s.
E. I picked the wart on my nose and it hurt a lot.

If you chose D, congratulations! You’re clearly very bright/good at picking up on context clues (like the title of this post). If you chose B or E, you get partial credit. Parental pride/joy on wedding days and nose warts also make me cry.

Why did I think I had Alzheimer’s?

As I got ready for Dori’s beautiful ceremony, my mom, Curtis, and I started talking about the time my dog pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. Excuse me—the two times he pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. We talk about this more often than we should, and as a result, I have a fairly good grasp of how it went down. Also I was present for both occasions so, again, I grasp it fairly good.

The first time, Dizzy sneakily pooped next to a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy. I blamed it on the puppy. The second time, Dizzy pooped in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone, even though I’d stayed outside in the cold for 20 minutes before class trying to get him to go. For both poopcidents, I remember feeling ashamed and lonely. Ashamed because my dog’s a goddamn poop bandit sociopath, lonely because I was in dog school by myself and had no friends nor family to commiserate with.

Except, while putting on makeup for Dori’s wedding, I learned I wasn’t alone. My mom claimed she was also there when Dizzy pooped in class. 

Jackée, courtesy of essence.com.


“No way, Jackée. You never came to dog class with me.”

“Yes I did,” said my mom.

“I remember that. That she went,” said Curtis.

“Y’ALL TRIFLIN. If you was there, tell me about it. Where’d it happen?”

“In that room!” my mom said. “That big room, with walls. See. I remember it exactly.”

“HA! You just described every big room in America, YOU FOOL! Are you having another Janet Jackson moment?” 

My mom chuckled and shook her head. The chuckle and head-shake of someone who knows she’s right. “No, Allie. I really went with you. I saw my old horse friends, remember?”

“I don’t remember. You lying, you wrong. Momma, I love you, but you losing it. Go ahead, name a dog that was there.”

“That Bernese Mountain Dog! The puppy!”

That’s when I welled up. Your girl started crying real instantaneous-like. My mom proved it—she did go to class with me, and I didn’t remember. I decided then that I had Alzheimer’s.

I know, that’s terrible and kind of self-indulgent, and also annoying and ridiculous. I’m 26 and I forgot one thing—that doesn’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. But it wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten. A couple weeks before the wedding, I’d also found a T-shirt in my bed and I didn’t know how it got there.

It was far more mysterious than it sounds, I promise. I had slept in the bed all night and the T-shirt wasn’t there, and it wasn’t there when I woke up, but it was there after I showered and went back to my room to change. And, beyond its mysterious appearance, I had a very clear memory of seeing it—and leaving it—in my dresser the day before.

So, there was dog training class and the T-shirt—two checks for Alzheimer’s. Plus, my paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s and my maternal grandmother had dementia. I’m not entirely sure how genetics work, but I know it has something to do with getting what your momma (and poppa, and their mommas and poppas) give you.

My grandmothers were in their 80s when they were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia, but young people can get it, too. Anne Hathaway had early on-set Alzheimers in Love and Other Drugs, remember? You probably do remember, because you don’t have Alzheimer’s.*

Fortunately, it turns out I don’t have Alzheimer’s either. One of Dori’s other bridesmaids is a physician’s assistant—I asked her if I had Alzheimer’s, and she said no, so now I don’t have it. Also, my mom admitted that, while she did come to dog class with me once (and I can kind of remember it), she wasn’t present for Dizzy’s poopcidents. I’m also happy to report that nothing mysterious has shown up in my bed lately—just some some dog doo on my sheets yesterday morning, but that was from the poop stuck on the fur around Dizzy’s B-hole. MOM I KNOW YOU WASN’T THERE FOR THAT. I HAD TO DEAL WITH THAT SHIT ON MY OWN.

*I really hope you don’t have Alzheimer’s, and I hope one day soon that no one has Alzheimer’s. If you hope that too, and you feel like donating to the Alzheimer’s Association, you can do that here.