Category Archives: rant

Angry (Sex) Birds


My girlfriend, Grayce — yes, I realize I’ve been writing about her a lot, but she doesn’t mind being blog fodder, and I’m not one to turn down free material — decided to have angry sex with her husband. Let me back up a sex here. Sec here. Grayce is married with kids. Those of you who are also married with kids know that, to put it in the most absurdly general terms possible, the amount of sex you have is inversely proportional to how many kids you have, despite all evidence being to the contrary. That is, the more kids you have, the less sex you have, even though you’d think if you have all those kids you’re a fuck bunny. There are exceptions to this rule, but I don’t hang out with those women because they’re too busy going to pilates while managing Fortune 500 mergers on their iPhones as Baby #47 nurses in an ergonomically correct sling made of organic fairy hair.

Maybe if Grayce wore this to bed…

At the moment, Grayce’s sex life is vacillating somewhere between Carole Brady and Michelle Duggar, even though she only has two kids. So that blows monkey chunks if you ask me. And if you ask her. Which you can’t, so trust me when I say Grayce  is not nearly as perky about her marital non-relations as those two Xanax Zombies, so mama needs to get some. I offered to give it up for her, but she doesn’t swing that way, and I’m still not so sure my stem-cell-research-based lesbian scheme is going to work out, so it was really just an “I’m here for you, dude,” offer, although she is pretty hot, so maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because Grayce doesn’t want to fuck me. She wants to fuck her husband. But the less they do the dance with no pants, the less she wants to do it because the more she resents her husband for choosing Angry Birds over what would, at this point, be very  angry sex. Read the rest of this entry

Lez-Be Friends


I’m seriously considering becoming a lesbian. Why the hell not? Women seem to be an infinitely better option right now than men. I’ve already got my minions and, even if I don’t like it, I’m pretty good at killing my own bugs, so men are of limited usefulness to me at this point. Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I am just not gay, as much as I wish I were, and that being gay is not a choice, so I really have no say in this matter. Aside from that, why the hell not?

Let’s take this from a practical, if ludicrously generalizing, perspective (haters, start taking notes here):

  • Women are better at multitasking, so they can, oh, you know, hold babies and text, take phone calls, or poop at the same time.
  • At least real kiwis ALWAYS taste good.

    Women are sexy most of the time, even when we don’t feel sexy, if only because society and marketing have programmed us to see women as sexual objects by barraging us with sexualized images of women 24/7, because “pretty is as pretty does.” Men, on the other hand, look like deflated kiwis that need to go down the disposal when they bend over naked in the bathroom. They can’t all be Northman or Tyler Durden. We can’t all be Cindy Crawford either, but somehow we’re still generally more attractive than they are. Maybe it’s because we aren’t likely to fart, pick our noses, grab our crotches, or be otherwise generally disgusting outside the aforementioned bathroom.

  • Women aren’t as afraid of their feelings as men. They like you or they don’t. They love you or they don’t. None of this, “Well, I really like you, and I want to fuck you, but let’s just keep it casual, k?” crap. The flip side of this has a lot to do with the third-date U-Haul jokes my gay girlfriends tell me. I used to think it meant lesbians do it in trucks on the third date, but apparently I was wrong.  Read the rest of this entry

A List of Shit That Pisses Me Off


It’s been a while since we had ourselves a good, long rant here on the blog, and I think it’s about time to rectify that. So here’s my list of shit that pisses me off. Notice that it’s not “Shit that’s pissing me off today.” No, this is a list of all the things that are constantly pissing me off, and it’s not in any particular order or level of severity. It’s just in the order that I thought of it. Lazy, I know.

  • This is my new word of the week.

    Facebook: Facebook is pissing me off a LOT. WTF, Facebook? I post to my page “fans” and only 15% of them get to see the post? WTF kind of lamesauce are you asshats cooking up over there? This means business/blog/professional pages will just overpost to compensate, and ultimately that will piss off standard Facebook users. Duh. What, you go public and now it’s time to piss everyone off? Because if that’s the goal, well played, douche canoes. Well played.

  • Facebook users: Facebook users who can’t take the time to type properly or, apparently, the time to take a fucking English class despite having been born in this country and having spoken and written English their entire lives, piss me off. You know, maybe I should just stay off Facebook. It’s not helping my stress level. But seriously, who are these buttmunches? They post shit like, “i am so shur they’re not even lisining to what your saying u shoud definately say sumthing its ridikulus.” The grammar and spelling (and lack thereof) are bad enough to keep me up at night. It is damn near fucking impossible for me to read a single page of updates without having the skin-crawling heebie-boo-jeebies as I imagine a whole generation of text-speaking illiterates attempting to run our country as they submit new legislation to Congress called the “Billz of online Rites LOL.” May Mr. Coffee help us all.
  • Women who say “hubby” all the time: Seriously? WTF, ladies? He’s your husband, not your “hubby.” Does he call you his “wifey?” Because let me fucking tell you, if he DOES, you should A) Keep that crap to yourselves and B) Stop it. Stop it right fucking now. You’re annoying the crap out of EVERYONE. If you don’t care, then rock on with your annoyingness. If you do care, you’re fucking welcome for the smack upside your figurative head.
  • Or at least hide you from his newsfeed. I sure did.

    More Facebook users:People who post nothing to Facebook except a constantly updated stream that is basically an unfathomably long progression of variations of the exact same thing:

    • People who post hourly scripture passages, reminders to people of how blessed they are because Jesus loves them, and calls to lift up entire families in prayer annoy me. Yes, I’m happy for you that you have something that makes you happy and helps you make sense of the world. I’m sure your constant Facebooking while you ignore your kids/job/pets is definitely earning you all sorts of metaphysical brownie points with Jesus who will save you a good seat on the fast track express bus to the good neighborhood in Heaven.
    • People who use Facebook for their passive-aggressive and/or co-dependent thinly veiled cries for help. You need help? Fucking ask for it. Don’t post shit like, “Throwing in the towel. Can’t take this any more. Bye,” or “What’s the point? Unbelievable.” This is both uncomfortable and annoying. You need help, ask. You don’t, then just fucking say whatever it is you’re trying to get people to ask about before you’ll say it and skip the middleman. Basic economics, asshats.
    • People who post nothing but pictures of their dogs, kids, or food: cut that shit out. Occasional pics of any of the three are interesting. A running diary of any of the three is not. Also, once the food is mostly EATEN, fucking stop taking pictures of it, weirdos.
  • Even more Facebook users:
    • People who just post idiotic images they think are funny but really aren’t, if only because the same images have been around for so fucking long that these people just look even more idiotic for posting some thing so old and thinking it’s incredibly original.
    • People who repost shit that Snopes can tell you is BS in about 2.4 seconds.
    • People who “like” EVERYTHING you do on Facebook. Everything. “I was late for my meeting this morning after Janie spilled chocolate milk all over my silk blouse right as I was walking out the door and then Joey puked in my hair.” {LIKE!} Fuck you.

What the fuck am I doing on Facebook? Apparently it just annoys the shit out of me.

And then, there are some other people I find as annoying as forks in the spoon section of the silverware drawer, but I deleted that part because this was getting too long and the part I deleted wasn’t funny enough to merit a damn online novel. You’re welcome.

You know, that’s still a long fucking list and it did not take me long to think of it. That’s a lotta pissed off for someone who’s still in her jammies. Sweet Jesus in Birks. I really do need to get laid.

Well, that sucks.


Hey, y’all. I know, I know. WTF have I been up to that I haven’t written. Well, the truth is, I have a pretty fucking crazy life at the moment, and it’s even crazier than usual, and not in a good way. Not in the “I’m too busy having crazyass sex every night to sit up and blog for you people,” way. More like the, “I’m too busy working my ass off and taking care of my minions while moving and dealing with a bunch of family crap,” way. So, you know, fun.

And now it’s summer vacation, and with the minions off school for the next year and a half (well, it FEELS like summer lasts that long!), I just don’t know how much blogging I’ll be doing. But, you awesome web dwellers, you deserve more than to have me vanish into the ether, so here’s an little snapshot of Cathy’s World at the moment.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Coffee. Praised Be.

I’m still “seeing” Northman virtually. Things have cooled off between us a bit. I think the novelty has kind of worn off. We’re close. We’re good friends. We have rockin’ Skype sex. He’s funny (not as funny as I am, but you know, nobody’s perfect). We have a solid connection and good chemistry. But the fact is, he’s there and I’m here, and even though we still plan to get together later this year, I’m not so sure it’ll be the fuckfest we had initially planned. Above and beyond all else, we want each other to be happy, and so I’m happy for him that he’s been dating someone who actually lives a car ride (and not a plane ride) away. I’m not even jealous or envious. I love him. I want him to find happiness, even if that means I never get to sleep with him. Although sleeping with him — and let me be clear, I mean fucking him — would be awesome. 

Jerry is still around here and there. He’s still kind of a douche canoe sometimes — so cocky — but he’s also a good guy who’s fun to hang out with. Work is busy with clients both interesting and boring as dirt. My minions are little Fonzies. Coolest fucking people you’ll ever meet, but without the leather jackets. Mr. Coffee died and was reincarnated at Target in a stainless steel body. Penny is up to her usual chicanery, always calling because she’s stunned at the idiocy and inefficiency of the average American only to have me remind her that she’s just so much smarter than average that what seems like common sense to her is Advanced Calculus to a person with a 100-point IQ. She hasn’t made me laugh into tears lately, or you’d have heard about it. But it won’t be long.

Oh, and I did read the new Sookie book, and I thought it fucking sucked. But I’ll live because the new season of True Blood starts in four days. Sookie better get some Northman sex. I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks. At least one of us should.

Douche Canoes: Some paddling necessary


In honor of the two-month anniversary of Confessions of A Sexy Mom and the phenomenally overwhelming response y’all have shown me via your THREE THOUSAND PLUS site hits in that time, I offer to you a little vocab lesson, Sexy Mom Style.

A Douche Canoe is such an ass-hat as to be eligible for President of the “Summer’s Eve Product Impersonator Club.”

Douche Canoe: Damn near always a man, this term describes someone who far exceeds the range of and capacity for arrogant obnoxiousness common to the far more typical douche bag

  • Known for frequenting overpriced bars with emo bouncers and holding up single fingers to any approaching women so as to Tweet their disinterested followers from their Crackberries®, these exceptionally notable ass-hats are ideal specimens for those researching the very upper limits of douche-baggery in humans. 
  • One who is such a gargantuan douche bag as to necessitate a vehicle no smaller and less unwieldy than a canoe to tote around the figurative amount of douche-baggery he carries in his literally tiny brain.
  • Using the term in a sentence: That douche canoe just cut me off while simultaneously texting and smoking, causing me to slam on my brakes and get stuck behind his smog-spewing ass-hat-mobile. And when the light turned green, he was so busy texting that he took too long to notice, causing me to have to sit through another light cycle. THAT is a douche canoe.
  • Alternate terms include fuckwads, ass-hats, ass-clowns, and anyone who refers to himself as an “agent.” For further definition of “ass-hat” or “ass-clown,” refer back to our friend the pre-first-date barking man.
    • Y’all know I love Jenny Lawson, AKA: The Bloggess, and I first saw this term on her blog, so props to Jenny for improving my vocabulary and giving me a word to describe men who think all women should look like Victoria’s Secret models even though only five men on the planet look like Armani underwear models.

      Even David Beckham doesn’t actually look like this. So why do these douche canoes think women should always be in matching bras and g-string panties (Note: Not always smart for a given outfit) with DDs and less than 4% body fat?

Skype Sex: This activity involves two (or more, I suppose, but that’s just not how I roll, web dwellers) consenting adults engaging in mutual self-gratification via an Internet video connection. During said event, each participant actively facilitates the achievement of orgasm(s) by his or her partner by speaking, moving, behaving, or otherwise performing in a manner the partner finds sexually desirable.

  • Point of interest: All douche canoes are dickheads, but not all dickheads are douche canoes. You know, like, all politicians are liars, but not all liars are politicians.

    Using the term in a sentence: Waving your dick around, jacking off in front of a webcam, and then getting dressed does not constitute Skype Sex, but it does mean you are a dickhead who is also a gigantic douche canoe.

  • Alternate terms include cybersex, video sexting, and Date Night With Northman (But he’s not a douche canoe. Ever.).
  • See Skype Sex 101.

Friends With Benefits: Sometimes abbreviated as FWB, this relationship is defined by the involvement of a sexual component into an otherwise platonic friendship.

  • Without the commitments or obligations inherent in a monogamous relationship, nor the expectation on either friend’s part that such a romantic involvement will result from said encounter(s), two (or, again, more, but not in my book) consenting adults engage in sexual activities up to and including coitus (why are you still not watching The Big Bang Theory?) while maintaining and often enhancing their friendship but having no further expectations or obligations from/to one another.  
  • Paramount in this arrangement is that the two people involved actually be friends before entering such an arrangement. If they are not friends, it’s just casual sex. That is, you can’t be Friends With Benefits if there are no friends involved upon whom to bestow those benefits.
  • Using the term in a sentence: I have an acquaintance who wants to be Friends With Benefits, but I simply cannot have Skype Sex with him because he is a raging douche canoe.

Can you tell I’ve kind of had it with preening, self-important douche canoes this week? Write in and tell me about the ass-hats in your life. And let me know what you want to hear about in the coming month. Thanks for reading, web dwellers.

As usual, please remember to “like” me on Facebook (see link on the right) and “follow” COASM by clicking “follow” where you see “Get Email Updates From The Sexy Mom!” Then you’ll get an email when I post, which is awesome. But I won’t spam you because I hate spam. Also because I don’t know how. And you know, if you read and don’t share this stuff via social media, you’re stealing the blog like people who listen to NPR and watch PBS without ever making donations. Oh, shit. That’s me. Crap. Never mind.

Please Don’t Spit On My Fries.


Why do kids always have to pee when you’re alone with them in the middle of a restaurant in the middle of lunch? If it’s a kid place, like “Windy’s” as Minion #1 calls it, and we get up to pee, odds are someone will throw out our food while we’re in the potty (They have decent service). Or spit on it (People are fucked up). But in today’s world, you can’t send a 7-year-old into a public bathroom alone, nor can you leave a 5-year-old happily eating what passes for chicken at these pseudo-food factories, either.

It's a food-like substance. It counts. And they think I'm cool. For five minutes.

Before y’all start jumping on me for A) being overprotective, or B) letting my minions eat McFood, let me first say this, web dwellers. Haters gonna hate. I just had to say that once. And you know what? It definitely sounds as stupid when I say it as it does when I hear other people say it. So I won’t say that again. And you shouldn’t either. Anyway. If you’re a “hater,” kindly go do that shit somewhere else, please. Be gone, haterific trolling flamers (Not the good type of “flamers.” I like you year-round-Disney-pass-owning, Justin-Beiber-downloading, single, kid-less, self-proclaimed flamers. Y’all kick ass and I love the shit out of you. I’m talking about the web flamers, and they suck. And not in a good way.)

The rest of you, this is what I have to say about letting kids eat the occasional French fry: Fries and “chicken” nuggets are for kids what martinis and cheesecake are for adults. That is, they’re completely unnecessary in theory, but somehow they’re also totally essential for a happy life. My minions eat organic cheese from happy, organic cows and get free-range chicken grown without hormones or steroids or rap music exposure, and they drink arsenic-free $6-a-piece organic fruit juice boxes from apples picked by organic-cotton-gloved virgin Israelites on blessed, untainted land in Jerusalem. They somehow live static-free lives despite my refusal to coat their clothes in toxins via dryer sheets, and they get slathered in $12-a-bottle PABA-free, allergen-free, aiuhpiuasf-free sunblock every summer because if they’re going to have their skin anointed with chemicals all day to avoid skin cancer, we should avoid sunblocks that have chemicals in them that cause cancer. Otherwise, what the fuck is the point? And no, aiuhpiuasf isn’t a thing. Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.

In short, I am “that mom.” I am trying to feed my kids healthy foods and use healthy products on a budget without having them be the weird kids in cruelty-free Birkenstocks with organic llama-hair rainbow knee-socks and German-import lunchboxes. And that means learning moderation. We eat the good, healthy stuff 95% of the time. We get treats 5% of the time. So, yeah. My kids eat McDonalds’ chicken-free chicken nuggets and fries in the funky red boxes. And they fucking love it. And they’re healthy. But I still won’t let them have soda because caffeine is for Mommy. Period.

As for Part A: the overprotective mom who won’t let her 7-year-old pee alone? Let me tell you, web dwellers. Last week, I read a story about a 13-year-old kid who raped a 5-year-old girl in one of those giant hamster maze play areas at a fast food place last year. It’s not just freakshow pedophiles in trench coats we have to worry about anymore. Other fucking kids are dangerous now. Yeah, I know it’s a one in a million deal. Odds are there aren’t any predatory nutjobs right this moment, right in this bathroom. But there is one in a bathroom somewhere, and you can’t un-ring that fucking bell, people.

I may seem overprotective to some, and that’s fine with me. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a high-flying trapeze of a fuck what people think of me, especially when it has to do with how I raise my kids. Because, honestly, they are MY responsibility, and they are mobile little pieces of my soul walking around making goofball kid decisions. My own happy little oblivious horcruxes. So, when it comes to my own little minions, there is no such thing as overprotective. Short of moving to the middle of Amish country and locking them in a tower with nothing but an organic farm to sustain them, there’s very little I won’t do to protect my kids from this fucked up, crazy, whack-a-doodle-infested world we’re living in. Except stop taking them to McDonald’s, because we all need some of Ronald’s fries once in a while. Including Mommy.

But they DO have a lot of pictures of Eric I joined.

So, there we are, in the middle of “Windy’s,” (damn, that was a long tangent), and Minion #1 has to pee. Well, shit. Our food is hot, our drinks are cold, and we could not be sitting further from the potty. What to do? I scan the room. SCORE. Right behind us, a mom. A non-frazzled, not-overly-distracted, friendly looking mom who has only as many kids as she had hands. Oh. Manicured hands. A mom who pays attention to detail. Shit. Her hair’s done all cute. And she’s smiling while her kid happily eats the kid meal with apples without begging for fries. Oh, damn, dude. She’s probably one of those moms who makes daily art projects with her kids, then posts her commercial-quality step-by-step photo instruction blog about each project on Pinterest. I fucking hate those women. But she’s a mom, and I’ll take what I can get.

Me: Excuse me, would you mind watching our food?

Normal person: Watching your food?

Me: Yes, well, we need to pee and you look normal. You know, like you wouldn’t spit in our food.

Normal person: Why would someone spit in your food?

Me: Well, you know, or throw it out. You wouldn’t throw it out.

Normal person: If you’re done, I think you’re supposed to throw out your own things here and put the tray away.

Me: No, I mean, if we go to the potty, you wouldn’t accidentally throw out our unfinished food before we got back.

Normal person: Of course not. I don’t work here.

Me: Right, that’s why I said, you know, you wouldn’t spit in our food. The throwing it away part is more for someone who works here.

Normal person: Uh huh.

Me: So, would you please watch our food while we go use the potty?

Normal person: Please go away.

Me: I’ll take that as a “yes.” Come on, minions.

So we walked to the potty together, and Minion #1 said to me through the closed stall door (you know, I do allow privacy, just not privacy for psychos), “Mommy, that lady thinks you’re crazy. She looked at you like you had a zombie head like in Plants vs. Zombies. Braaaaains. Braaaaaaaaains…”


I don’t know about y’all, but zombie humor cracks my shit up. So I said, “Braaaaains. Eat braaaains!!!” and Minion #2 about peed on the floor laughing, and then all three of us had to pee, and finally we were all done laughing like maniacs and got our hands washed up and walked out of the potty without touching anything (ick), and headed back to our table only to find that our new friend and her two progeny had fled the premises, presumably so we wouldn’t eat their brains, but our food was right where we’d left it and you can bet your booty my minions chowed down like a couple of zombie lawnmowers.

And there you have it. That’s how much I love my minions. I’m willing to have people think I’m a crazy lunatic and eat overpriced, cold food(-like substances) no one spit on (that I can tell) even though I have this irrational fear of something weird happening to my unattended food. So please, let me have my moments at McDonald’s being a cartoon zombie with my kids. They’re only going to think I’m funny for a little while longer. And if we ask, please watch our nuggets, and don’t spit on my fries. Thanks.

Oh, I Am Pissed.


Fuck you, Russell. I hope you get liquified and run down a garbage disposal.

This morning, I got all excited when I saw that there was a “True Blood Season 5 Teaser” trailer to watch (Yes, click there; WordPress won’t let me post a video). Let me tell you something, web dwellers. To be a trailer, it has to have some fucking video content. Not just some words. And I’m all about the words. But these words didn’t even include “Northman,” so now I’m just annoyed.


(Don’t read this if you haven’t watched True Blood Season 4 and plan to. And if you haven’t watched TB4, you should plan to. Unless you have poor short-term memory, in which case this really won’t fuck anything up for you.)



Is it me, or is this a really fucking creepy image of C. Meloni? Something about how he's about 45 years too old and/or the wrong gender to be posing on a fuzzy rug like that.

So, whoop dee doo, Russell Annoyington is returning from being imprisoned in concrete below a Herveaux Construction parking garage for all of Season 4, even though it was supposed to take him 100 years to get out of all that silver and recover from being turned into a Kentucky Fried Vampire. Duh. We knew that at the end of last season. And according to the article, Steve Newlin’s back. Thank you, Captain Obvious. This is so not news, as we saw that happen on Jason’s front porch at the end of Season 4. And Chris Maloney is on the show. Again, not news. And he better not suck because L&O: SVU is worse without him than American Idol was withPaula Abdul and her drunken monkey clapping. So if he fucks up two shows I love, I will have to stop watching tv, and I really don’t want to have to start drinking more to fill the time. It’s expensive.



HOW did I even know to look for a Season 5 non-trailer? I was trolling some WordPress blogs I like, including “Eric And Sookie Lovers,” (yes, click there to see their video, which is a different one, and which also has absolutely zero new TB footage) which sometimes has a good scoop on the show and always makes me feel less abnormal for my Northman fixation. I’m starting to think I don’t even need to take down that semi-naked ceiling poster with the glow-in-the-dark fangs. I mean, if these people can have a whole blog dedicated to True Blood and the perfection that is Eric♥Sookie, then surely I can have one Alexander Skarsgard lifesize cardboard cutout in my powder room, right? It goes with the towels.


Helllloooooo, Mister Harper.


So, here. Because I love you web dwellers more than my big heavy blanket I use for hiding on the back porch while I praise Mr. Coffee, here’s some actual news I found: Following the Sookie Stackhouse book series story line, it looks like the Pelt family will start looking for their little psycho in Season 5, which should start riiiight around the point at which Sookie blew her freaking head off after Debbie whacked Tara (Presumably,  she’s dead. I mean, unless some vamp comes running in and doses her with serious amounts of V juice in the first 2 seconds of Season 5) while trying to kill Sookie. Again.

Good morning, Mr. Underwear. Er, Underwood. Oh, shit. Wood. Damnit he's so sexy I can't speak. Type. Whatever.


And if the Pelts are looking for Debbie, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, we’ll get introduced to Quinn (not my Quinn, he’s mine, web dwellers) but that better not be who Chris Meloni is supposed to be because you sir, are no Quinn. Quinn looks like Shaft. Quinn is tall, black, strong, muscular, and gorgeous to the point of being painful to look at with crazy beautiful eyes. Quinn is like… Hill Harper or oooh! Blair Underwood. Yeah, baby. Quinn is NOT an Irish cop from Brooklyn. Sorry, Chris.