Dear I93 Hooksett Rest Stop People,

Really I apologize for what must have been the earliest recorded shit show to throw down at the ever popular mega barn of booze and sea of gas pumps on the freeway. I blame Fireball. From Saturday night. That shit has like a 10 day shelf life in your brain.  Typically I don’t plan on encountering ANY

Lunch. Is. Served. Crispy. (And by crispy, I mean black)

This morning I was looking around thinking holy shit I need to clean my house and wash all the basketball stink off the kids sheets before an army of bed bugs eats our faces off and get the 987 receipts and parking tickets blowing around my car organized for taxes and…  Then Ryan handed me a scribbled post-it note message that

Cherub of Stupidity.

Every day, no matter what time of day, Will asks me if we can go to McDonalds. Like it could be 5 a.m., and we are trying to make it to the airport for a flight to the moon that we have no chance of making, and his only concern is procuring a $1 colitis sausage patty that after ingested feels

What Does Ryan Even Do?

People ask me this all the time: “What does Ryan even do?” And really it’s difficult (and by difficult I mean extremely boring) to explain, so usually I’m just like, “I don’t know. Something with drugs.” And Ryan’s all, “You can’t tell people that because it gives people the wrong idea.” And I’m like, “Anyone who has ever spent five minutes with

Red Light Distric/Brothel House Snow Melting

  Update: The portable work light snow melting contraption (if sticking a light bulb in the snow can really be defined as a contraption) broke AND the whorehouse speakeasy Red Light district light doesn’t melt shit. Probably because you aren’t supposed to leave a $3 made in China Home Depot light on day and night for

How To Get Your Shit Together.

It’s not that I don’t want to be one of those super-organized perfect moms who wear a bra (and pants that aren’t pajamas) to the grocery store. The miracle matriarchs who balance their checkbook and don’t drink a bottle of wine each night and don’t get calls from the coach that their children are standing alone on

Boobie Walkway.

Snow removal is one of the things Ryan and I disagree on. And by disagree on, I mean fight about. Loudly. Often in our driveway. With a lot of cussing (I do a lot of cussing while Ryan runs away from me and puts on those huge wife drowning-out headphone thingies like the people who direct planes into

Bobcat Coyotes in the Ceiling.

Excuse my language but really this is where I am right now: F*CK. THIS. HOUSE. This house was obviously built on some Poltergeist pet-cemetery, black bear hibernation cave, mice/squirrel bowling alley, homicidal werewolf bobcat gang headquarters, and really I cannot take it any longer. Last night about four minutes after Dillon went to bed, he came sprinting into

Shit the Puppy Ate

Murder @ Our Haunted House

  So when you pull up in your driveway at dusk unaware that a gang* of homicidal bobcats just massacred a pack of deer in your yard and suddenly your white snow looks like stabbing and surgery and death. But you don’t notice it until much later when you are dumb enough to let your 10 pound