the marriage fail

I was washing my face this evening, the usual pre-bed preparations when I was met with the biggest marriage fail of the last four years.

There, on my right cheek, just far enough towards my ear that I was unable to detect it, was a black hair. A face pube. It looked like an eyelash growing out of the soft, delicate, ladylike palate of my milky white face.

My immediate reaction was to call the hubs into the bathroom, point out the hair and demand explanation. How long had it been there? Why the hell wouldn’t he have said anything? For years I have loved him enough to insist he groom his eyebrows, cleanse his skin, moisturize, mind the nose hairs, and he lets me walk around with a twig growing out of my face. Like a witch. Or worse. An Italian.

He tried to insist that he hadn’t seen it. As if the toothpaste tone of my skin wasn’t a stark enough visual contrast to the raven spinter. Frankly I’m surprised someone hadn’t tried to tug at it, thinking (mistakenly) that an eyelash had fluttered down and rested on my cheek. They would be expecting to balance it delicately on their index finger, just in front of my lips, insisting that I make a wish. I don’t think you wish on facial pubes. I think you hope they don’t blacken and shrivel your index finger, cursing your children to be bearded. The girls.

I knew he’d seen it. Even as he laid the denials before me, I knew. I had already made my mind up to blog about it.

I brought the laptop into bed to try to get a few things down before I forgot. (The delicious smelling house guest is still in the living room.) When the hubs got into bed he looked over and saw that the blog was up on the screen and asked, You bloggin’ about your sideburns?

Rot. in. hell.


BTW, I could not have been more thrilled by Zemanta’s “related articles” suggestions. I’ve included a few below for your enjoyment.

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diamonds and chicken parts

toothpicks, pt. 2
Image by “Cowboy” Ben Alman via Flickr

The lovey Julie (whose blog reaps far greater rewards than mine) invited me to a private viewing of the new yellow diamond collection at Tiffany tonight. Me, Julie, Abby, and 100K worth of yellow diamonds. There is nothing like sitting in a private office at Tiffany & Co. draped in diamonds looking like a homeless person. Almost as good as trying on a 30K dollar ring with chewed off nails and bloody cuticles. Classy, Caroline, classy.

I was walking back through the mall (to FINALLY go buy a new cell phone with the hubs) when I stopped at the food court to go to the bathroom. Coming back through the food court I noticed one of the Asian places was handing out free samples. You know the ones. Little pieces of chicken of toothpicks. No biggie, right?


Suddenly it hit me. What do you think that chicken would have to say if someone told him that THAT was his fate. It’s not the same with people. We are buried. I’m not concerned that someone is going to make my belly into a breadless, cheese and bacon sandwich, or parse me apart and give me away for free on a toothpick. I’ll go on to do something noble. Give an eye to a bb gun victim or something. I just couldn’t imagine how I would feel if someone told me (the chicken) what the big plan was. A family bbq? Fine. Chicken Pot Pie? Certainly! Free sample on a toothpick. Fuck no.

Writing it out like this makes me feel like a crazy person, but I honestly thought about it for about an hour. I started to think of all the things I’d be embarrassed to tell animals they became. (And really, free toothpick sample still stands as one of the most disgraceful.) Slim Jims. Can you imagine telling a cow (or is it a pig? neither? both?) that it’s destiny was to be a Slim Jim? That’s like telling a tree that it’s gonna be two ply Charmin.

It’s not vegetarian propaganda, but it’s certainly food for thought. Next time you go to put something in your mouth, as yourself if you’d be proud to become that when you died. Not a bad measure…

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shut your mouth! it’s ask caroline wednesday!

OMG. I have been so stressed out all day long. My real job and life kept me so fucking busy and all I could think about was Ask Caroline Wednesday. So, I got a lot of questions. I’m sure it was all the guilt I dished out, but whatever. I decided to choose four for tonight. So, drum roll please…

Dear Ask Caroline,

What is your opinion/stance/feeling about the smell of your mate?  Do you think it is critical that you like/are attracted to the smell of your mate’s skin if you are to enjoy a long lasting relationship? I don’t mean a situation where you are put off by it – like really bad B.O., but a situation where you might not have a strong opinion or not particularly drawn to it/crave it.

Is it all about sex or is there some cosmic connection you have with folks when the ‘smell thing’ is in a good place?


Smells Like Love

Dear Smells Like Love,

Your question could not be more timely.

First of all, I love me a good smelling man. It was one of my favorite things about living in Europe–delicious smelling men everywhere. The black man is obviously the flag bearer of the scented man. I can sniff out a black man from a thousand paces. Though the hubs does have this one spot on his neck that smells so good I sometimes forget my name. Nom nom nom.

But I can’t help but feel like I’ve never loved the “smell” of a man. His scent? His skin mixed with soap? Totally. But just naturally lovin’ how they smell? Something about that reminds me of my dad coming in from mowing the lawn on a Saturday, grass and dirt sticking to his calves, smelling exactly like a dead baby. I am so grossed out by sweaty people, especially sweaty hair. (Which reminds me, there is a whole ‘nother post about women who blow their sweaty hair dry at the gym. OMFG. I’m throwing up in my mouth just thinking about it.)

So to answer your question, nah. Any man can be made to smell delicious. Which brings me to my timely story…

The hubs and I have a house guest. A delicious black man, voice smooth as honey, wears artsy graphic t-shirts, hair like Lenny in his hot stage, is sleeping on our couch. All of that I can get past. What’s tempting me to leave the hubs? Egyptian Musk.


This crude little bottle of oil is making me crazy. It’s soft, almost soapy smelling, but with a hint of something darker, manlier. I’m afraid he is going to wake up in the middle of the night and catch me standing over him like a creeper. Licking my lips. Caressing him like a baby bunny.

I don’t even think I’m attracted to our house guest, I’m attracted to his Musk. And it’s gonna put me over the edge.

My advice to you, go and buy a scent you love. Go to Sephora and fall in love, then go find a man. Actually, buy two scents. Wait to give him the second til you’re sure you like him. No use wasting a perfectly good smell on a douche bag.

You’re welcome.



Dear Ask Caroline,

Exes on Facebook – where is the line? Is a teen high school romance on level with a summer fling that ended years ago? And if you didn’t have sex, does it count? What if you want to be friends to stalk them? Is this cheating?


Socially Loveable

Dear Socially Loveable,

Puhlease. I think I have five or six hundred Facebook friends and I’m positive there are less than twenty people on the planet that I like. I’ll give you a second to do that math…

Nonetheless, though, the Facebook thing is such a pain in the ass. What about clients? Worse, what about those dumb mother fuckers who friend you after an interview? (True story.) Who does that? Ms. Post could have done us all a favor and not keeled over before Facebook reared it’s ugly face. (And her daughter doesn’t cut it.) We are desperately in need of some FB etiquette.

Here’s my two cents, which is what you’re paying for. Friend ’em. I once made the mistake of doing a Facebook inventory. I decided I was going to weed out all those periphery friends and ex-boyfriends. I don’t know what I was thinking. Those are exactly the kind of people I need access to in order to make me feel better about myself. Now I have to go back and re-friend them. (I’m certain that there is a psychologist somewhere reading this and gouging himself in the eye with a toothbrush.)I’ll probably have to make up some story about how someone hacked my Facebook account. Goddamnit.

The added bonus of friends you don’t like is circumventing the Facebook privacy standards. If you can find a friend of a friend of a friend of a boyfriend, you can loophole your way to viewing pictures of his wedding to the fat chick with the fug bridesmaids. All without anyone ever knowing.

As for sex. Who cares. Sex is just another way of saying hello. Did you kiss on the mouth? That’s when we have a problem.

Stalk away. Stalk away.




Dear Ask Caroline,

Aside from keeping Greek yogurt and almonds handy at all times, how can I better handle my food cravings?


Moderate Mollie

Dear Moderate Mollie,

Well, let’s see. Today I ate:

pb toast with banana

a slice of pizza


two chocolate chip cookies

half a soft pretzel

two beers



Sounds like a well balanced diet for someone WHO IS IN A CAST AND CANT EXERCISE FOR FOUR WEEKS. Additionally, my motto for the middle seventeen years of life was “Have your cake and throw it up too.”

So, good question.

You could try taping mantra to your desk. (Although I’ve found it’s difficult to remember they are there when you intentionally stack folders on them.) You could also try chewing gum.

I personally like to go the water method. I play a game where I drink so much water in a day that I am too busy getting up to pee to even think about food.

I also like to go on Facebook and look at all the people from high school that I didn’t like who are still really thin. That usually does the trick. The only side effect is the crippling depression. Which is manageable.

Hope that helps,



Dear Ask Caroline,

Whose idea was it to put an ‘S’ in the word ‘lisp’?



Dear Bearskies,

A goddamned mother fucking genius. One who likely doesn’t believe in a god.



Email your questions to, subject line “Ask Caroline” and I’ll use my vast brain to help you.

tomorrow is going to be an epic day

In addition to my attendance at the Harvard Graduate School of Education graduation ceremonies where I will MOST CERTAINLY pretend to be an alumnus, it’s Ask Caroline Wednesday. And let me tell you, a select few of you more than made up for last week’s dismal showing of loyalty.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll tackle all of the questions or just a few, but either way it’s going to be epic. Epic. Sex, food, Facebook. I’m getting giddy just thinking about it.

Anyway, let’s not give away the milk, shall we?

Today, on the other hand, not an epic day. I’m not gonna dwell on it, but it turns out the one thing you shouldn’t do while unable to exercise is eat cookies and dark chocolate Hershey’s Kisses, which is what my diet has consisted of for the last 24 hours. Hurray!

In other news, let’s talk a little bit about babies.

Now that I’ve humped over to the wrong side of 25, I’m starting to feel the silent pressure of BABIES. My mother knows better than to ask me about my plans for giving her grandchildren, mostly out of fear that I’ll cut her out of my life and change my phone number, but there are forces worst than a woman who has entered the stage of her life where she’s aching for people to start calling her Mimi. (The name my mother has chosen as her “grandmother” name. Now, I don’t want to get all worked up about this, but I have some very developed opinions about picking your grandmother name. Apparently it’s all the rage nowadays. Will you be a Nana? Or are you more a Gigi? Gammie, perhaps? How about you stupid fucking bitch, the child can’t talk. You’re name is going to be whatever half speak/half vomit sound comes out of their mouth? No? You don’t like that one? Fine. Then I’m going to go by Coco. And so is the hubs.)I’m noticing that there is a force that exists in the universe. For the sake of clarity we’ll call it Bavity. Bavity is everywhere and no one can explain it. Suddenly you wake up and think, “huh, am I supposed to have babies? Am I behind? Am I going to be sorry later if I don’t have a baby right now?”

That’s the first step towards damnation.

So, to combat Bavity, I’ve started a little anthropological exercise of my own. Rather than recoiling anytime I’m in close proximity to babies (or toddlers), I absorb. I allow myself to imagine that I were the mother, those little beings my children, and we’re all going about our day. I see a mother walking down the street with a day old child strapped to her chest and I think to myself, “self, she is taking her child out into the world for the first time. Together they are taking in all the wonders of a beautiful afternoon. How wonderful that woman must feel. Her baby. All hers.”

And then I think. “Oh my god. I am so glad that isn’t me. Imagine how sweating that woman must be getting with that baby strapped to her. Can she eat a sandwich with that baby stuck to her like that? Does she pee with that baby there? Does the baby have sunscreen on? Do babies need suncreen? Is the baby going to overheat? Are babies sensitive to temperature? Is it hot inside the womb? How come puppies don’t open their eyes for a couple of days but babies open them straight way? Do monkeys open their eyes straight away? Do monkey go through vaginal birth? Why have I never YouTubed monkeys giving birth? Would that be considered porn? Would monkey porn be considered animal cruelty? Is this a million dollar idea?”

So it’s no wonder the hubs and I haven’t seriously considered procreating.

The other precaution I’ve been taking is playing the “what’s the best age?” game. This is a game where I poll people with children to find out at what age they most enjoyed their children. Turns out, never. Or sleeping. Lots of profound love and an incredible sense of accomplishment and pride, no doubt, but actual joy… not so much. Lots of work, lots of emotion, lots of divorce, lots of under appreciation. Sounds awesome. Sign. me. up.

Despite this intellectual fodder, Bravity is still a force to be reckoned with. Thousands of screaming babies on planes, in restaurants, in bathrooms, and on subways, yet one well behaved, angelic looking baby and suddenly I start saying this like “our kids” or asking the hubs whether he thinks public or private school is best. (And if you think I have an aversion to babies, you should see the hubs when they are mentioned. His voice changes octaves and he gets sweaty.)

To make matters worse, the paint-chip-eating voice in the back of my head will prevail. Against my better judgment I’ll end up with three or four. I’ve even named them. Only I’m certain that my children will be tiny adults. They will dress in tweed layers and wear thick rimmed glasses and say things like “excuse me, mummy, I know you’re on the phone, but do you think it’s possible for you to reach the bath salts? I was just thinking how nice it would be to prepare you a bath before I settle in to read the newest Judy Blume with a tumbler of your best breast and some steamed sweet potatoes. You know how I like yours the best.”

All before his second birthday.

wouldn’t be an injury without an insult

And as for the insult for this injury (below)…

After the doctor put on this godforsaken boot, I was finally able to go to the ladies room (I’d needed to pee since the moment I walked out of my house), where I discovered that my panties were on backwards. And I couldn’t turn them around because I couldn’t get my pants off over the boot.

I’m looking forward to whatever fecal cross contamination infection I have to look forward to…


do you see the sign on my back? it says “kick me.”

Remember that voice I was telling you about? The one that ate paint chips as a child and had NO business making suggestions about how I live my life? The one that told me that if I could just run eight miles once, I would have no problem completing a half marathon?

Well, that voice can go straight to hell. Hell, I say.

It turns out the voice wasn’t completely wrong. One can actually pound out 13.1 miles with insufficient training. One can even do it in pretty good time. So long as one is willing to risk getting two, yes two, stress fractures in her foot.

Yes, my friends, I am writing this blog post from my couch, my booted foot propped up on the ottoman so that the blood can stop pooling near my ankle giving the illusion that I have (gasp) cankles. I can’t decide which is worse, my humiliation or my self pity.

I have an MRI tomorrow morning and I’m still holding out hope that I’m going to show up, their going to take a looksie and then tell me that actually nothing is wrong. I can take off this #&$#!(*& boot and coast through the next two weeks until it’s time for me to go to Hawaii on vacay.

Oh, yes, that’s right. I am supposed to be hiking the mountains and trails of Kauai in less than two weeks. Not to mention the private yoga lessons that I’m been looking forward to for the better half of 2010.

I lied. The self pity is way worse than the humiliation.

The doctor has made a medical suggestion that I not doing any walking. I made a medical suggestion that he reevaluate my course of treatment. In order to avoid walking to work I have to, uhh, walk to the train station, take a train, switch to another train, and then, uhh, walk to work from the station. It is ridiculous. I live less than a mile from my office.

So, for now, I’m going to sit here feeling very, very sorry for myself and hoping that whatever is wrong with my foot is all a crazy mix up.

Clearly it’s making me cranky.

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snakes, planes, roaches, and shitting myself

Defecation in the sitting position, as used in...
Image via Wikipedia

First I’d like to say that there was no blog post on Wednesday because no one emailed me a questions for Ask Caroline Wednesday. That was both hurtful and humiliating and now I’m doubting my cred as a legit blogger. Really? No one wanted to benefit from my expansive knowledge of the universe? Unbelievable.

Alas, my self worth is closely tied to blog readers, their opinions of me, and my blog stats and recently it’s all been in the shitter. So, in an effort to regain the adoration of readers around the apartment, and to make up for my one week absence from the blog, I am going to tell a tale that I have previously decided not to share. In order to maintain my own dignity.

So. My biggest fear in life, besides snakes, roaches, airplanes, and dying, is shitting myself. For most people, this is a fear that will likely never be realized because, come on, who shits themselves? Well, I’ll tell you who. Me.

This is actually a very sad story about a to-date undiagnosed stomach issue that basically ruined me as a child. Through middle school, high school, college, and there after I lived in a constant state of fear. My belly was like a demon, waiting for me to get comfortable before it seized up and ruined everything. About two years ago I gave up eating meat, which largely contributed to my semi-wellness now. This is not vegetarian propaganda. Eat all the animals you want, but this girl will not be joining you. Animals in the tum lead to fire in the bum.

Having the stomach thing in check (relatively) has enabled me to live a fairly full life. I can go out to dinner now, hang out, eat at other people’s houses, all things I couldn’t do before. I have to be careful though. Occasionally I get carried away, get a little bold, and BOOM. Shit myself. What. the. fuck. This is mortifying for many of you to hear, but you really needn’t worry. I’m actually pretty used to it. I know pretty much every available bathroom in every major city, how to wiggle my way into health clubs, restaurants– any place that usually has rules about bathroom usage, I can bypass. When your alternative is pooing your adult pants, you figure it out.

Despite my progress there is one arena where I am as vulnerable as a lamb. Running. My best bet is not to eat anything at all before a run. By that I mean that if I plan on going on a run at 4PM, I should plan to starve all day long. It’s the only way to know for certain that I will be able to complete the jog without cold sweats and the McGurgle.

Unfortunately, when you’re training for a half marathon (which is tomorrow), you really don’t have a lot of choice in the matter. You need to be running constantly, and in order to get those runs in, you have to run in the mornings, afternoons, sometimes even at night. It takes about four hours to go for a run. First you need to gear up, which can take up to an hour. The actual run can be anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours and then there’s the cool down, lie on the floor period. If you need to shower, forget about it. May as well take the day off work.

Training for this half marathon has been a totally different experience than training for the last. The little voice in the back of my head remembers that I already did this once and is pretty certain I can do it again. Training or no training. That voice ate paint chips as a child and has no business making decisions for me, but that voice is also lazy and likes cocktails, so it’s been the predominant factor in my training. Oops. All that is to say that I should have been running lots more and lots more frequently, but I wasn’t. Instead I decided that one week before the race I would run 8 miles to make sure I’d be okay.

I convinced the husband and best friend H to come along for the jog. They are, after all, both signed up to run the half as well. Due to scheduling conflicts, the only available time we had was Sunday evening around 7PM. That day I had to go to Foxwoods for work. I had eaten lunch around three, which for normal people would be plenty of time for digestion. (You know that thing about not swimming for 30 minutes after you eat? As a child my rule of thumb was pretty much no swimming the day I ate. You cannot imagine what it’s like to get the stomach drop in a pool. Danger! Danger!) How naive I was.

We took off at an awesome pace. It was one of the best jogs I’ve been on. We were clipping along, breathing, chatting, enjoying the weather. The miles were passing with no problem (save the hubs who was sweaty, crampy, and ornery) and it was pretty clear that we’d be able to finish the eight miles with no problem. I kept an anxious (mind’s) eye on my tum, knowing that I had likely made a huge error.

Let’s take a moment away from the story so that I may stress to you just how anxious running makes me. I am acutely aware that there is no where you can go when the tummy drop takes place. Without warning, a light and enjoyable jog can turn into a top five reason to kill yourself. For some, it is possible to waddle quickly home before all hell breaks loose, but I am not one of those fortunate folks. If and when it strikes, I am an immediate victim.

Back to the story.

We rounded 5 miles with no problem. We’d broken off with the husband so we could all pace appropriately. H and I were already making plans to run a marathon– that’s how great the run was going. (Silly girl. To think life could be so pleasant…) At mile 6, it happened. Swiftly the chill took over. My stomach dropped and my sphincter immediately reacted, clenching in fear. Oh no. Oh. no. Ohhhh no. No. No. No.

I suffered in silence for a moment, knowing that I was going to have to cop to the situation. H is my nearest and dearest. I don’t have any sisters, but I’m certain that if I were going to have one she’d be it. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about me. Except that as we jog a bitter battle is raging in my belly. What to do. What to do. What to do.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I looked ahead (at the WIDE OPEN expanse of trail) and behind (at the spotting of people jogging near us) and finally at Hailey (oblivious to the situation).

Hey, H, you think that tree looks good for a pit stop?

And in a response more glorious than anything anyone has ever said to me, H replied,

Why, I think that tree is perfect. As I matter of fact I was going to stop here and do some stretching…

And that’s how it happened. I shit behind a tree. With H faux stretching a little ways back, coughing in warning of approaching joggers. (Not that there’s a whole lot you can do. The pants are where the pants are. They’re either gonna get a gander or they’re not.)

I righted myself and stepped back onto the path, H joining me as if we’d never stopped. We finished our jog– even tacking on an extra mile just for kicks–without missing another beat.

The only sign of any shenanigans was my missing right sock.

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the why of why

We ask why because we cannot ask nothing. Because nothing sits,  stares uncomfortably at us. Relentless, heartless, wonderless, soulless.We ask why because we need something else. We need something to ponder, to hope, to factor in and follow through to the other side. The side that is brighter, the side that is lighter. The side that sighs relief and gives us peace from why.

We ask why when we see answers we do not want. We ask why when we see love returned, pain standing, staring, waiting, wanting. We ask why before we turn away, before we attempt to rewind, undo, try something different. We ask why because we are scared, human, small, sad.

Why, I wonder. Why sadness, why loss, why pain, why heartbreak. Why will you leave, why will I stay, why will I be alone, and why do I why do I why do I why do I why do I why.

Why does it hurt. Why does it hate. Why does it care to see me cry. To wonder. To beg. To pace.


Can you tell me why?