Humor · spirituality

Church Chat


If there’s one thing I dread discussing — it’s religion.

All those pesky questions: Who created us? How did we get here? Why are we here? Where are my car keys? I just had them a second ago and — oh. Someone put them in the fridge. Ahem. Anyway. So yes…lots of questions. If you happen to think you have a good grip on some of the answers, there will always be some jackass to say that you are “wrong, wrong, wrong!” –and your ultimate fate is burning in hellfire for all eternity.

The two ultimate goals in my lifelong spiritual path?

1) To get to the actual truth.
2) To not be that jackass.

I was raised to find my own way, discover my own mysteries in life. I took cues from my grandmother who was deeply religious yet hardly talked about it. My parents tried not to cram their views down my throat. They allowed me to get to know either God or Buddha or the Big Void of Nothing in my own time.


My earliest memory of church-y things was when I was around 6 years old. My dad had a part time job cleaning the local Baptist church and once dragged me and my brothers along on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I was mesmerized by the giant stained glass Jesus peering down at me as I skipped around the empty pews. Hmm….he seemed like such a nice guy! Maybe he could be my friend? His eyes were warm and understanding.

((Cue the angel choir))

Suddenly my bowels cramped, gripping me with fear. Oh no! Would Jesus be mad at me if I pooped in the church bathroom? Jesus seemed to wink down at me and chuckle, “Well, my Dear One, God created you AND your need to poop. So it’s okay, go on. Poop away, my child, poop away. I love you and everything about you. Even the poopy parts.”

And so began my lifelong relationship with God*. As I grew older there were a couple things I knew for sure in my heart: He was good. He was all about love, acceptance and forgiveness. He was like a close friend of mine, always there if I needed to talk. And He was hilarious.

Of course, my spiritual beliefs weren’t always so solid. I read the Bible many times as a kid, purely out of curiosity. (Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Case was out on loan.) Then I entered college and read it again (Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Disgusting Sneakers was out on loan). Only this time with fresh eyes, more cynical. I used my Big Brain and thought, well I’m much too smart to believe in something that I can’t prove, right? This book was written by mere mortals after all. There were lots of parts I didn’t believe in (and still don’t.) I thought maybe religion was for suckers. For people who have their own sins to hide, so they use religion as a shield to protect their own personal ego and pride (I still think this to be true for some).

I flip-flopped between believing in some Big Creator and thinking, maybe there really IS nothing else? How clever I was! I had discovered the real truth! Maybe others who believed in God were brainless sheep?

But I remembered that fateful poopy day in church, I love you no matter what. And that experience of feeling completely accepted and loved, plus the countless personal experiences that I’ve had with God since (none involving poop) have shaped my faith over time and made me the person I am today.

So I’d like to stand up now and say something.

Hi, my name is Darla and I believe in a Creator*.

The most important thing I’ve realized in my quest? This is my story. These are not your memories. This isn’t about what you believe and don’t believe in. I am me and you are you. And we are all together. Goo goo g’joob. So how can I possibly condemn others for their own views? I don’t care if you believe in God, Buddha, The Big Nothing or Justin Bieber. Whatever works for you and brings peace to your heart (OK, I take back Justin Bieber) because you are on your own path and finding your own Truth in your own time, just like me.

I’ve never understood religious fanatics who pound on my door to tell me they know the answers and it’s their duty to tell me. It’s like they’re carrying a punch-card: Convert 10 People and Win a Free 6 inch Subway!

Eat Fresh!
Eat Fresh! And Repent Your Sins Now with Double the Meat!

Well, you don’t need to convince me of anything. I’ll be fine, really. Because when I am dying and facing the reality of things, you won’t be there beside me, will you? No one will — it’ll just be me all alone, facing my own deep and intimate relationship with the Source and the Unknown. And when it comes down to it, all that matters in the end is what I know in my own heart to be true.

My simple truths (not yours, mine, so take a chill pill) about religion and spirituality:

None of us knows for sure what is the Ultimate Truth of All Things.

For crying out loud, we can barely figure out how to program a DVR or how to make a good cup of coffee.

If you do believe in something, great. If not, fantabulous.

But try not to tell others they are obviously wrong.

Never treat anyone with disrespect, no matter what they believe in.

Unless it’s Justin Bieber.

Don’t go pounding on doors to tell people they’re going to burn in hell if they don’t go to your church.

Especially when I’m in the middle of a Golden Girls marathon and still wearing my bathrobe. I appreciate your concern, but I think I’ll be just fine. It’s a nonflammable robe.

Everything in life is about two things:


We are here for only three things:

  • to experience
  • to learn
  • to eat chocolate

Get it? Is that so hard, people? Sheesh.

And finally,

If you have to poop in a church bathroom, it’s okay.

I know God is laughing at me right now for that last one.


*Creator, God, Source, Spirit, He, She, It…whatever.

Image result for church lady snl
Amen, sister! (Betcha didn’t even notice I Photoshopped the pic from above the post. My resemblance to Dana Carvey is uncanny!)

I am a smartphone addict and the world is going to hell.



Nomophobia — the fear of being out of mobile phone contact.

A drastic change happened in my life this past year. I ditched my trusty old flip phone from the dinosaur age — the one I never texted on and barely used to even make phone calls — for a damn smartphone.

What the hell was I thinking?

Now I’m addicted to this soul-sucking piece of plastic and it feels sad. First sign I had a problem? If a few hours went by without checking it, my hands would sweat, my heart would pound and nothing would ease the subtle yet unnerving feeling I was missing out on something, anything (ohmygodsomethingishappeningIjustknowit!) unless I checked my phone.

The problem is, once you get that fix, you want another hit over and over again just to maintain.


Before I went to bed at night?  Gotta check Facebook.

First thing after I had my morning coffee? Gotta check my email. And Twitter. Instagram. WordPress.

On my lunch break? Phone.

After the boss walks back into her office? Phone.

On my cigarette break? Phone. (Yes, I smoke the phone.)

While I’m on the phone? Phone.

It’s true, I’m cheating on my phone with another phone and sometimes I use them both at the same time and I don’t even care!

Now my life is a big, fat texting, emailing, messaging, instagraming, tweeting, facebooking hot mess of insanity.

I’m caught between desperately craving this fake pseudo-social interaction bullshit of likes and comments and tweets and twits, and realizing it’s all empty and useless for the most part.

Yes, it is.  Empty. Waste of precious time.

But Darla! you say, It keeps us connected! It’s social! C’monIt brings people together! The internet isn’t all bad! Some of it’s good!

No, it is not. We are all pathetic.

Fine, I’m pathetic. Because I’ve fallen for this crap. I remember when it all started too.

One day last semester I was sitting on a bench outside of class with other students, all of them looking down at their evil little phones. I was waiting for class to start so I did the natural thing we used to do in the olden days: I waited.

After a few minutes of pleasantly sitting there doing nothing, a 21-year-old classmate of mine asked “Darla? What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” I snapped out of my daydream.

“What’s wrong? You’re like…just staring off into space….” she laughed.

Oh my fucking god.

The other night my husband and I were sitting on the living room couch in the dark and both of us were hunched over, looking down at our respective tiny glowing rectangles. After a half hour of silence, we realized the TV wasn’t even on.

The TV wasn’t on! Has the world gone mad?

Last year, we used to pride ourselves on the fact we never texted. Now we’ve actually texted each other while in the same house before. Sure it was about dinner and I was very tired and didn’t want to get up to walk over to the next room to talk with my husband, but still.

We’ve fallen hard and fast for this addiction, and guess what folks, it’s real and it is sucking the life out of all of us.

Social communication has been reduced to bite-sized morsels of superficial bullshit we gobble up and spit out over and over again like monkeys pressing a button for food. Release the treat! Give it to me again! It’s never enough! Buzz! Buzz! BUZZZZ!!!

What have we lost? Eye contact. Long, meaningful conversations. The sense of touch. The ability to connect with another soul without a stupid machine wedged inbetween every interaction.

This summer I worked at a doctor’s office. My favorite parts of the day were the little moments I truly connected with a patient who is sick or dying or just lonely. Sometimes I’d rest my hand on their shoulder or help them up or give them a pat on the back and a smile. I looked into their eyes and I asked them how they were today and I actually wanted to know the answer.

The thing that surprised me most was the response. All people — young, old, women, men — their faces would suddenly soften, like a wall was slowly crumbling. Sometimes they’d start crying or telling me stories from the past or relating their dreams and fears to me. It was like a dam busted open wide. Because I actually took the time to talk to them face to face. Imagine.

And it made me think how little we actually communicate with each other today. Genuine communication about the stuff that goes on deep down inside of all of us. How much we all desperately need to know we’re not alone floating around out there, caught in some vapid interwebular net of flavor-of-the-month popularity.

But all things in moderation, right? So I’m starting to put the stupid phone down. I actually have to tell myself not to check it. I have to resist the urge all day.  I’ll admit, it reminds me of when I quit drinking coffee, it’s that much of an addiction to me.

Last week I went a few days without my phone. (I still texted my husband once though so I did cheat a little).

But I found I didn’t miss it, that hollow feeling of craving something I know is ultimately bad for the soul.

Fine, my soul, not yours. It’s just me. I’m sure you’re not addicted, right? First step is admitting you have a problem. Just resist the urge to tweet about it. Like I’m about to do with this post.



Are you addicted to your phone? How many times a day do you check it? Be honest. If you’re not addicted, let me know any tips for quitting, like say, putting the phone on a table and smashing it to smithereens with a hammer.











I’m Angry Because I’m Not Angry Enough


Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.

Mark Twain



In a controversy the instant we feel anger we have already ceased striving for the truth, and have begun striving for ourselves.




Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools.

Albert Einstein



Anger happens. Deal with it, learn from it, then move on, people. Sheesh. Hey — did you notice Albert Einstein said ‘bosom’? Yeah, that made me laugh and now I’m not mad anymore. Good one, Einstein.

She’s a Maineiac



Thanks for lightening up the room, Al.

Holy hell! What is up with everyone these days? Dang, people are mad! Everyone is so ticked off! Have you noticed this? Maybe you’ve been trolling the latest viral post? You know the one where someone says something that inevitably ticks off someone else and then grown adults start fighting each other in the comment section like kids in a sandbox?

Seems being upset or having an opinion is all that’s required to become a social media sensation.

It’s always: “I think this!” vs. “Yeah, well, I think that, so bite me!”


C’mon man. Just chill out, duuuuuuuuuuuuude.

What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding? Whatever happened to trying to see the other person’s viewpoint? Putting aside your own knee-jerk reaction to discover that gee, some people might have different experiences and therefore believe different things?

For instance, did you know that all the mysteries of the universe were revealed to me by a giant colony of gummy bears who live deep in the Nevada desert? And that you really shouldn’t inhale an entire bale of weed in one sitting?

Maybe if you’d stop being so darned pissed off all the time and thinking you know everything while everyone else is obviously wrong you could ….uh…what was I saying again? Oh yeah. You could, I don’t know….grow and learn a little? Possibly become a more informed, well-rounded human being? Be more respectful of others? Hand me the bong?

Nah. What’s the point of that? No drama. That would never go viral. Because what’s more important than showing genuine compassion for your fellow human beings?

Being famous.

So I’m going to give it a shot with my own attempts at going as viral as a bad antibiotic-resistant rash.

[Disclaimer: I know some of these topics might incite the reader to get quite upset with me and for that I am not sorry nor will I ever be sorry.]

My Viral Post Ideas:

  • Why I Think Granny Panties Should Be Required Wardrobe for Women Over 40. And for Men. Of Any Age.
  • 10 Reasons Why I Feel Oatmeal Tastes Like Shit
  • An Open Letter to My %$**ing Chin Hair
  • This Post is Making Me So Mad I Can’t Even Come Up With A Title That Illustrates My Anger and I….Just…GRRRRRR!!!! OOOOH!!! Now I’m REALLY PISSED OFF! And It’s All Your Fault, You Stupid Post with the Stupid Title! I Hate You!
  • No, I Did Not Love Being Pregnant. Actually I Found It Rather Uncomfortable at the End. Boom.
  • Duck Dynasty’s Lame, I Don’t Much Care for Beards. And for People Who Say “Boom.”
  • Kids are Hard. They Make Me Tired. Discuss.
  • Why Parents, Childless Couples, Gay People, Straight People, Religious People, Atheists, Agnostics, Old People, Young People, Middle Age People, Employed People, Unemployed People, Single People, Divorced People, Married People, Alive People, Dead People and Justin Bieber are Flawed But I Am Not
  • How Your Life Choices Have Affected My Life Choices Not At All in the Slightest But I Have To Blame Someone
  • 1,001 Reasons Why Betty White is the Root of All Evil
  • I Like Cheese.

So what do you guys think? Were you reading these titles and thinking, “Oooh, that Darla! She’s gone and done it again! Stirring up the controversy! Hot damn! She is really making my blood boil now! I’ll have her know cheese is actually very binding to the digestive system! How dare she!”

I dare because I care.

To go viral.


Because you would like me when I’m angry.


If you have any other hot button issues that you’d like me to get all pretend angry about, let me know in the comments with a title of your own.

I’m kidding. I could never stay mad at you. Unless it means I’ll go viral and be pretend famous one day.

Humor · rant

Stand Up Saturday: Parenting

Welcome to another installment of no holds barred, profanity-laced, semi-comedic rants straight from my rambling mind.


Today’s Topic: Parenting

Being a parent these days is such a drag. You try to stick to rules like no glue-sniffing, no shoving kids off the slide and for god’s sake, how many damned boogers have you eaten today?

As if this wasn’t draining enough, then I’m expected to teach my kids this stuff too? And for what?

In spite of all this saintly parenting, they defy you by growing up and discovering Facebook. Suddenly being popular is more important than making me dinner.

Whatever happened to solid parenting? Whatever happened to raising our kids to be respectful? Whatever happened to having your kids take out the trash so you won’t have to?

I grew up in the 1970s, a time when parents were just shadowy blobs off in the distance that occasionally grunted or barked orders your way.

I try to remember what my dad was like when I was a kid and all that comes to mind is a fuzzy image of him smoking a cigarette in his recliner. Sometimes he’d lower his eyeglasses and shoot me a look of disapproval. That was his parenting style.

Go on. Make. My. Day.
Go on. Make. My. Day.

My mom was merely a swish of apron rushing around the kitchen.  Sometimes she’d look down at me, shake her head with disgust and yell, “Darla!” This was her parenting style.

It wasn’t their mission to entertain me. It wasn’t their mission to teach me about life. They just lived their lives and I watched them. The single best way to learn anything.

My parents didn’t read a parenting book informing them how to raise a child. Back then it was all about one thing: Keeping you alive.

Here we all are, still alive. Good job, Mom and Dad.
Here we all are, still alive. Good job, Mom and Dad.

Mom and Dad taught us to follow four simple rules:

  1. Don’t eat shit you find on the ground.
  2. Don’t beat up your brother.
  3. Don’t beat up your sister.
  4. Don’t run into traffic.

That was it.

Welcome to Parenting in the 1970s.

images (2)

So I’ve made it my mission to not be a helicopter parent but more a recliner parent. I strive every day to adopt a parenting style that uses much less time or energy.

I’m myself.

I just go about my day and do my thing. My kids watch how I act, then they figure out what are the right or wrong things to do in life.

Of course, this puts a lot of pressure on a parent to actually be a good person and show it to their kids through their actions. (And I admit, it’s a lot harder to sustain this illusion when they catch me wearing my bathrobe and tunneling through my third block of cookie dough while binge-watching The Big Bang Theory.)

But face it, kids are much smarter than us. We need to give them more credit.

Need help with your homework? Figure it out on your own. Fighting over a toy? Figure it out on your own. Your brother’s stuck upside down in the toilet? Don’t flush.

My main rule? Unless there’s blood, don’t bother me with it.

Is this lazy parenting? Hell yeah! But in the long run it’s a win-win situation for everyone involved. Less is more, people.

We all need to get our priorities straight, stop concentrating only on our kids’ academic achievement and more on simple social rules of respect and kindness. I worked at an elementary school for years and it was all about one thing: How the kids hold their scissors. Hey, I’m a big fan of improving our fine motor skills, but what about modeling good behavior?


Oh, crap! He’s not holding them right! His pinky’s all screwy! He’s not cutting straight! We must rectify this immediately! Sure, now he’s trying to stab Timmy’s leg with the scissors, but is it in a straight line?  We have to make sure he can cut paper or Timmy’s leg properly! If we don’t teach him now, how will he survive out on the streets?

Naturally, the teachers think showing our kids how to behave should be the parents’ responsibility. And the parents pass the buck onto the teachers. This world is filling up with people who don’t know how to treat other people. It’s all about statistics and standardized test scores and landing a sweet job and making enough money so you can hire someone to cut paper for you.

But why even bother going to school anymore? Ever notice that nowadays everybody’s kid is ‘brilliant’? Last week, my new neighbor dropped by and introduced me to her 6-year-old son.

“This is Liam. He’s a genius. I homeschool him to give him the attention he needs because he’s WAY too smart for public school.”  The words ‘public school’ dripped out of her mouth like she was saying ‘genital herpes’.

So I leaned down to his level and asked, “Hey, kid? What’s the square root of I don’t give a shit?”

Not really, my parents taught me manners. But I almost asked him because I really wanted to know the answer.

My guess is bullshit times infinity.

Instead I said, “Hey, buddy! What’s up? You like Hot Wheels? Or Super Mario?”

Liam responded by kicking his mom in the shin then sticking his pinky in her face and whining, “My finger hurts! Kiss it! Kiss my boo-boo! It hurts! I’m gonna dieeeeeee! Get me a Band-Aid! IT HURTS, MOMMY!! GET ME A BAND-AID! RIGHT NOW!”

images (3)

Oh, he’s a genius all right.

I wonder if he knows how to cut in a straight line.


Like this? Here’s more:

Stand Up Saturday: Pain

Stand Up Saturday: Marriage


An Open Letter to An Open Letter


Dear Open Letter,

Well, lookatchoo! All open and shit. You’re such a smug jackass. What do you want from me? Overly dramatic indignation? Cheap humor? And for what? So other people can read it? Why not keep my stupid thoughts inside my head where they belong?

I’ll give you credit, you are versatile. Hell, I can write an open letter to just about anyone and anything.

Like Beyoncé.


Dear Beyoncé:

Why is it every time I type your name the computer automatically sticks that funky dash above the E? It doesn’t do it when I type touche. Oh no, all I get then is an obnoxious red line underneath. Who the hell do you think you are? Supreme Queen Ruler of the Universe?

Yeah, you are, I admit it. Carry on.



Dear Pop-Tart:

Why do you lie to me? You never pop out of my toaster. You just get jammed in there, then I reach in and bits of you break off. I’m forced to bite into a charred piece of cardboard and get third degree burns on my tongue from your scalding lava frosting. I know I should like you, but halfway through eating you I have serious doubts if it’s worth it.



Dear Viral Videos on the Internet:

What the hell? Seriously? Really? You are popular because….? Is the key to be mildly entertaining while ridiculously obnoxious? Please, enlighten me. And tell me what to do so I can become pretend famous for five seconds then slide back into obscurity so I can eat my Pop-Tarts in peace.



Dear Beard:

Damn, Beardy, lately you’ve been getting around. You show up everywhere. It was with pure delight I watched you adorning the manly-man-chins of the entire Boston Red Sox team. I’m certain at one point the Cardinals’ pitcher wasn’t sure whether to strike you out or grab his sickle and go fishing for Jimmy Hoffa in that rat’s nest.

But it’s gone too far, ZZ Top. Us women don’t like kissing Brillo pads.  I don’t think you guys really think the mountain man look is trendy so much as you’re just too freaking lazy to shave.

So in protest I’m going to grow out my own beard and stop shaving my legs until this beard trend stops. It’ll be my own personal quest to see which body part morphs into Robin William’s forearm first. You with me, ladies?



Dear Life:

What the hell? Seriously? Really? You are a piece of work. Either I’m worrying about you in the future or bitching about you from the past. You think you’re all that and a bag of microwave Bacon-Flavored Pork Rinds. Well, you can’t break me, you sneaky sonofabitch. Screw you.


Whew! You know, that felt good, Open Letter! I’ve contributed absolutely nothing to society, but you’ve saved me tons of therapy! Thanks!

Love, Me


What open letter would you love to write? Feel free to unload your contempt in the comments so we all can get our panties in a bunch about it.

Humor · rant

Stand-Up Saturday: Pain


Welcome to another installment of weekly no holds barred, profanity-laced, semi-comedic rants straight from the rambling mind of the Supreme Destroyer of Bullshit — The Maineiac.

Today’s topic: Pain

I’ve had lower back pain for years.

And when I say back pain I really mean the feeling one gets when their lower vertebrae are constantly being set on fire then slowly crushed into a fine powder.

Suffering from chronic back pain sounds so innocuous, like it’s a mild nuisance. The problem is it definitely won’t kill you, but it sure as hell will make you wish someone would.


People that don’t have back pain will never get it. Oh, but they have sympathy for other pain. Kidney stones? Oh you poor thing! Migraine? Oh man, those are killers, go lie down in a dark room! Lower back pain?

Suck it up, you wuss.

The thing about having pain in your back is you tend to use your back for just about everything in life. Sleeping, sitting, walking.  The only time you don’t use your back is when you’re having a near death experience or dead.

Even that’s not a guarantee.

“Ooh! I see the tunnel and there’s a light! I’m coming! Just hold on while I…oof…shit…oh God…oh no….crap…my back is giving out. Ah! Here, just let me lie down in this dark tunnel for a sec until the pain goes away…”

I’m so used to having a constant feeling of grinding back pain that one day I was in utter shock when by some miracle it momentarily went away. Poof.  Pain. Gone.

Unfortunately, I was in a hot tub.

I remember thinking, Holy hell! My pain is gone! Is this what it’s like to NOT have pain?! What kind of sheer bliss is this? I am in heaven! I can live again! I can be free! Yes!

Then I got out of the hot tub.

Too bad I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in a hot tub.

So my pain is still there. Doctors don’t know how to treat it. It’s not a disease they can fix. It’s not something they can remove during surgery so you’ll be all better. And believe me, many a time I’ve been stuck down on the kitchen floor and thought to myself, “Y’know what? I really don’t need my spine. Take it out, doc. Just fucking REMOVE IT.”

But doctors won’t rip out your spine. Pfft. Cowards.  Instead, they throw some ibuprofen at you with the prescription:

Take three pills every 6 hours. Stop when your liver falls out of your ass.

They tell you to go to a chiropractor. They “manipulate” your spine until your eyes go cross. I’ve done the chiropractor thing. Several chiros as a matter of fact. I’m so intimate with the whole chiropractic scene I call them “chiros” for god’s sake. It’s all very disturbing how intimate all these men are with my sacral area.

Last month, my pain had gotten so bad I was unable to sleep, bend over, move, breathe, sit or even blog. I knew it was time once again to visit my doc so I could get the runaround about how to ineffectively treat my back pain.

As I sat hunched over in the examination room, silently crying, she scheduled me for another X-ray, then handed me a thick manual on how to properly “stretch.” I stared at her in disbelief.

Oh! I get it now! If I simply stretch my back, this blinding pain I feel every goddamned time I bend over or breathe will magically disappear! Why didn’t I think of that before! It’s all so clear to me now! Newsflash! I’ve been practicing yoga for about 10 years!! Yeah, I get the stretching thing! It ain’t working, doc! For all I know the yoga is causing all this shit! Fuck Sting! Fuck him and his stupid fucking tantric yoga bullshit! It doesn’t work!

That was when the doctor asked me to leave.

Apparently, I had forgotten to say most of the above inside my head.

Screw you, Sting. Screw. You.
Screw you, Sting. Screw. You.

Today I got my X-ray results. The much-too-cheerful medical assistant called to inform me my spine was “curved” and there was now “moderate-to-severe arthritis” in my lower back. My lower disc was almost nonexistent, now just a thin pancake between my two upper butt bones.

Okay, fine vertebrae. You use your medical terms and I’ll use mine.

Mmmkay….I thought, so what you’re telling me is I have the curved-pancaked-spine of a 90 year old woman now? Terrific! And why the fuck do you sound so fucking upbeat about this? You are the worst fucking medical assistant ever. You and your normal spine suck.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

I really should stop saying these things out loud.

She set me up to meet with my doctor again for some “manipulation” then possibly an MRI. This is a new tactic, I’ve never had an MRI done on my spine before. I’m certain this will finally reveal what is really wrong with my lower back. My official diagnosis?

My ass is broke and it ain’t no joke.

Fingers crossed there’s a new cutting-edge buttbone surgery.

Humor · rant

Stand-Up Saturday: Marriage


Welcome to the first installment of weekly no holds barred, profanity-laced, semi-comedic rants straight from the rambling mind of the Supreme Destroyer of Bullshit — The Maineiac.

Today’s topic: Marriage

I remember a few years ago when Al and Tipper Gore dropped the big bomb on us. Apparently, it was top news that after 40 years of wedded bliss — after popping out several kids, rockin’ the robot dance at the inaugural ball to Aerosmith’s Dude Looks Like A Lady and displaying one chillingly awkward public kiss — their marriage was over.

Al and Tipper Gore Dancing at Inaugural Ball

“But it can’t be!” people cried. “How is this possible?” people gasped. “Oh! But it’s so sad! They were married 100 years! And to end it after all that time? It just doesn’t make any sense! Such a shame!”

Shame? I’ll tell you what’s a shame — that we aren’t admitting what really happened to their relationship.

We all know one day Al was lounging in his silk bathrobe in his king-sized bed, smoking a cigar and writing his upcoming book, Hanging Chads, Climate Change & Other Big-Ass Bummers, when he turned to look at Tipper’s green mud-mask-caked face and said:

“Hey, honey? …we’ve been together what…forty-odd years? Well, for forty goddamned years I have had to wake up and see your goddamn fucking face every goddamn fucking morning. And you know what? I am sick of this shit. I am tired of watching your mouth flap on and on and on. I have finally fucking had it. It’s over. This shit is done. Finito. Peace out, dude.”

Then he carefully took off his reading glasses and shuffled into the kitchen to knock back a shot of Metamucil and call his lawyers.

It’s true. This is definitely what went down in their marriage.


At the beginning of every relationship, we all manage to hide our own deep personal shit. Stuff we cram down and try to bury with either sex or booze or chocolate. Stuff we bring to the marriage from our own bad childhoods. Most of us are basically more than a little screwed up from the get-go.

Then we bring this shit to the table. We show it to our spouse, but slowly over time so they won’t run away in horror.

But you can’t hide it forever can you?  That’s when your spouse realizes, Hot damn! You have some serious messed-up shit!

The longer your relationship,  the more you reveal. Then your spouse starts to think, Oh no! HELL no. This is WAY too much shit to deal with! I got my OWN shit! I can’t handle YOUR shit too!

This is often why people get divorced. It’s not just because someone cheated. It’s not because of arguments about money or parenting or crack habits. It’s simply “Hey, y’know what, honey? I’ve been thinking things over and….um…I have come to the realization that I am officially bone-ass sick and tired of you and your shit.”

For some couples this takes a few decades. Others, only a few months. It’s that moment of clarity when it hits: I am sick of you. There’s no shame in this. Don’t beat yourself up. It’s only natural. And very likely your significant other feels the same way.

It’s really not a question about love. Do you love your spouse? Of course you love them! This is why marriage can suck the life blood out of you.  It’s all the little daily annoyances that build up over time. It’s more a question of “how much shit can I stand and for how long?”

It’s your sanity versus loving your partner. One chips a little bit away from the other. You have to ask yourself the hard questions:

  • Does your love override the fact that they leave nasty shitty food in the sink?
  • Does your love overcome the fact that they fart in their sleep?
  • Does your love trump the fact that you have to sit there and watch the same M*A*S*H episode for the 1,500th time?
  • Can you just once get out of the fucking shower, Hunnicutt?
  • For the love of God, can you for once stop sucking down that martini, Pierce?
  • Can we finally admit that’s all M*A*S*H is — people wearing various drab shades of green standing in outdoor showers drinking martinis?

But I love my husband, so I suffer on through it.

And he puts up with my severe, unpredictable hormone-fueled mood swings and extreme hatred of Alan Alda.

I think it’s a fair trade.

People that have been married 50-60 years — we celebrate them. We think, “Wow! they must really have their shit together!” We are in awe of these couples, we hold them up as a high standard that we one day hope to achieve. “Damn! They must really love each other! They must be soul mates!”

Oh no. Sure, they love each other. But y’know what it is, really? Why good ol’ Martha and Frank are still together after slogging it out day after day, year after year, decade after soul-sucking decade?

Because those two can really put up with a whooooole lotta shit.



Embrace Your Inner Bah Humbug

In all my childhood photos, I was always grinning at the camera like a fool.

IMG (2)
Wahoo! Ribbons! Life is good!
Even with four older brothers, I could barely contain my excitement. Or maybe I just farted. Yeah, it was probably that.
Even though I had to deal with four older brothers, I could barely contain my excitement. Or maybe I just burped. Yeah, it was probably that.

People thought of me as an extremely happy child. In report cards, teachers always said the same thing:

Darla is such a quiet and shy child–but always smiling!

I had a certain zest for life back then. Overall, I still do even now, in spite of what the news tells me to feel.

But this time of year, I start to get grumpy. Things begin to get on my nerves. My dark side comes out. Maybe it’s because of the lack of sunlight. Maybe it’s the pressure of everyone telling me to be “merry and bright”. Maybe it’s their insistence that I spread “holiday cheer” and “spend time with loved ones” or “stop yelling at Charlie Brown to buy a real f$#@ing tree for once.”

My therapist tells me it’s good to get these negative feelings out in the open. Own my anger. Clear the air. Be “more real”.

And I think it’s about time I listen to my six year old daughter’s sage advice.

My Christmas Confessional

  • Actually, I didn’t love the movie Love Actually. Not even a little bit Like, Actually.
  • Candy canes are pure evil wrapped in cellophane. Never hang them on your tree or you’ll hear the kids asking you for one morning, noon and night. Opening those suckers without breaking them is impossible. Scissors won’t work. Usually after tearing at them with my teeth for several minutes, I like to grab a hammer, then smash them into peppermint shards and yell, “You want a candy cane? Here! Have it! Merry Christmas! Make sure you stick it in your sister’s hair when you’re done with it because I have the scissors handy!”
  • I think Christmas trees are way too safe and boring nowadays. Whatever happened to stringing up those old lights with the frayed extension cords and the giant bulbs that could melt solid steel? Where’s the lead-laced tinsel? What is my dog supposed to eat now? How will I dispose of her poops by grabbing onto the little tinsel pieces and slinging them over into my neighbor’s yard?

    Hmm... dem purty silver things sure do look mighty tasty!
    Hmm… dem purty silver things sure do look mighty tasty!
  • Why do I fall for drinking egg nog every year? Why does it always taste like nutmeg-flavored milk of magnesia? Why is there never enough rum mixed in there to make me like the movie Love Actually?

    Not enough rum in the world.
    Not enough rum in the world.
  • All I want for Christmas is to never hear Mariah Carey sing that song again. Along with Taylor Swift’s We Are Never Ever, Like Totally, Ever, Like O.M.G! Getting Back Together.
  • Sledding? Overrated.

    Also excruciatingly painful.
    Also excruciatingly painful.
  • Spending the holidays with the in-laws? All hype.
  • I think Santas that are hard of hearing should be fired.  When I was seven, I told him all I wanted for Christmas was a Raggedy Ann clock. He yelled, “What did you say, little girl? A wagon and a rock?! You want a wagon and a ROCK?!” and the entire department store burst into cruel laughter as I cried behind my ugly tortoise-shell eyeglasses. As soon as Santa bellowed those terrible words, spraying spit and tobacco fumes into my sweet angelic face, I knew my Christmases would be forever doomed. My brothers gift wrapped a wagon and a rock for me every year after that fateful day. I never got my Raggedy Ann clock. Thanks for nothing, Santa.

    No! Are you deaf, Santa? Not a rock! Nooooo!!!
    No! Are you deaf, old man? Not a rock! Nooooo!!!
This is why I need therapy.
Sniff. This is why I need therapy.


Whew! Ah! That was so invigorating! I feel so much better now! Thanks for letting me vent. I think Scrooge was onto something.

How about you? Anything you’d like to get off your chest? Any juicy rants about the holidays? Past childhood traumas? Gifts you never received as a kid? C’mon, let ‘er rip, ’tis the season! I won’t judge! Much.


Exasperation, Brain Freeze and Adam and Eve

freeze brain
Here comes the pain again! Image by Mr. Wright via Flickr

The other night, as I was watching 60 Minutes (okay, okay, Jersey Shore) I reached into a can of nuts when my thoughts naturally wandered to the one and only, Andy Rooney. Today I decided to give the poor guy a rest and come up with my own list of annoyances about life’s more pressing mysteries. Besides, I’m feeling smug, cranky and exasperated, so what the hell.

WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH….? Continue reading “Exasperation, Brain Freeze and Adam and Eve”