More Drawings, A Little Less Talk, and a Whole Lot of Poo’

Hello Readers! Are you still there? It has been a while. I’m happy to report that I have not abandoned this blog.

I’ve been meaning to do a blog post since September, but then I got ridiculously pregnant, and everything I was writing and drawing was a total pile of crap. Normally I am pro-crap piles, but only if it’s intentional (if you know me at all, you know how much I love a nice steaming pile of poo’).


No kidding though, I really have been busy these last few months. I have good reason for not posting a new blog entry…and yes, I do believe in the art of presenting believable excuses for not getting jack shit done.

Back in September, we went on our first “vacation” as a family, to Florida. I’d like to say that all my planning really paid off, but nothing could resolve the fact that we were traveling with a toddler.

The fun began at the airport…I made Ben carry the car seat in a special car seat carrying backpack, which I had read on some mommy blog is absolutely necessary for travel. This picture doesn’t even come close to accurately depicting how awkwardly huge it was (I was too lazy to redraw it). It looked like the backpack was wearing him. Ben’s whole body was lurching forward, and he never stopped sweating.

I highly recommend it!


Liam nursed the entire plane ride there and back. He’s off the charts for his height. In the world of mommy blogs, he’d be described as “absolutely thriving,” which is great and all, but it looked like I was nursing an eleven year old.


We did not purchase a seat for Liam, so we had the joy of being crushed by his large body for the duration of the flight. He had a great time harassing fellow passengers and repeatedly opening and closing the window shade and tray table. I know the bald gentleman in front of us loved it, because he kept peeking back at us between the seats, obviously yearning to join in on the fun.


When we got to Florida, Liam decided to stop sleeping. We quickly realized that a vacation with a toddler is not really a vacation, but rather a constant reminder as to why you should never leave your house again, and instead,  just live vicariously through travel magazines.

So you may be thinking, “Wow, really? You’ve been too busy to write a blog post because you went on a vacation back in September?”

NOOOOOO, obviously not. I’ve got plenty more excuses!

I also spent an ample amount of time looking for programs to watch on Hulu. I watched a documentary about the horrors of cow’s milk (bear with me)… which led to a documentary about slaughter houses (seriously, I’ll get to the validity of this excuse)…which led to my husband, our toddler (Liam), and I all going vegetarian. You might not think that’s a viable excuse, but I’m telling you, it is. Changing our diet was incredibly time consuming because I had to spend a lot of mental energy worrying about our protein intake and making sure my husband wasn’t gonna grow man boobs from eating too much tofu. Here’s a fun drawing about being vegetarian (so you don’t hate me too much for it).


I’d like to point out that the vegetarian guy drawing is not a drawing of my husband. He saw this picture and was concerned that I thought he had tofu man boobs. For the record, he does NOT have tofu man boobs.

We also survived the holidays – Thanksgiving, Halloween, Christmas, and even a family reunion, all while not eating meat, which is downright humiliating in the company of family, who looked at me like I had just tucked my skirt into my underpants. We’re talking looks of disgust, as if not only my underpants were showing, but that they were also covered in prominent poop stains.

The thing that has kept us the busiest, though, was the fact that we moved across the country to Pittsburgh, PA. Yep! We packed for a month, put all our crap into moving pods, and got the heck out of Los Angeles.

Everyone knows moving is unpleasant, so I’m not going to go into the details, but let’s just say that there were a lot of panic attacks, tears, sleepless nights, early labor signs, bed-rest, toddler tantrums, vomiting, and fights with family members about a cat who shit and peed on a bed (true story not worth reliving).

Anyway, we made it out alive.

I was 9 months pregnant when we got to Pittsburgh, and spent a good part of each day feeling sorry for myself, which was a lot of fun for the whole family. I think my husband enjoyed it the most. This pretty much sums up that last month of pregnancy:


On Friday, January 22nd, I finally popped out a baby. We named him Henry.

I would go into all the details of the labor, but honestly, I reeeeeeallly don’t want to.

Instead, I pledge to post a drawing of the moment Henry’s little head popped out of my vagina. Don’t worry, you won’t have to see anything too obscene. Maybe just a little bush…

Okaaaay, probably a lot of bush.

In the meantime, here’s a crappy baby drawing I did in one of my earlier posts, Failed Drawings Part 1: Scary Babies:

creepy baby grocery cart





We All Have Buttholes, But We Don’t All Love Ass Play

butt sniffer

Sometimes I wish people were more like dogs or cats. If we were more like dogs, we’d all be people pleasers who greet each other with a friendly butt sniff. If we were more like cats, we’d all be equally selfish and experience great pleasure from sticking our buttholes in each other’s faces. Either way, our personalities would be a lot less complicated, more compatible, and having a butthole would make everyone a winner.

Unfortunately, people are all so different, and just because we all have a butthole, does not mean we all love ass play. This makes finding a mate quite challenging. I’ve wasted many years with the wrong guys, and reading self help books about love. Of course, I had to experience the duds in order to appreciate and discover who and what would work for me in the long term. I just wish I had thought to go to the library self help section instead of dropping hundreds of dollars at Barnes and Noble on titles like Why Men Love Bitches and How To Be An Adult In a Relationship.

It turns out I needed to find someone who had similar interests and a similar outlook on life. Maybe that’s not a necessity for everyone, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t agree with me most of the time. I hate to admit this, but I was the person in high school who lost their shit in debate class, and then spent my early twenties in coffee shops, arguing with regulars about politics. I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with a person if they disagree with me. I’ve managed to tone it down over the years, when I realized I was annoying everyone, including myself. Rather than getting angry, I just respond with mild shock and outrage. Maaaybe not my best quality, but unfortunately, like Larry David, I pride myself on my obnoxious character traits.

During my years of shitty relationships and self help, I came across a book called The Five Love Languages. It’s written by some guy named Gary and I’m pretty sure he believes in Jesus. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve had my fair share of exposure to the Christian faith, so any mention of God in this book didn’t really bother me. I say if you want to be a good Christian, great, just don’t make me accept Jesus into my heart.

Actually, I already did accept Jesus into my heart…when I was about 9 years old, because my mom’s super Christian boyfriend at the time told me that if I did, the angels would rejoice in heaven, in my honor. So I whole heartedly accepted! Who doesn’t want that kind of validation?!

After that, I was extraordinarily stressed out because my dad wouldn’t accept Jesus into his heart. I was like, “Um, dad! If you don’t accept Jesus into your heart, you’re gonna go to hell. HELL, like, the worst place ever.” I thought I had a very convincing argument, but he didn’t seem swayed.

Luckily, my mom broke up with the Christian guy, I didn’t have to go to children’s church anymore, and I could stop worrying about my dad’s ill-fated soul.

Anyway, back to my original point about the 5 languages of love…it’s a pretty insightful book. The idea is that we all show our love to people in 5 different ways, as is implied by the title. Typically, the way in which we show love is also the way in which we feel loved by others. For example, I have two love languages – acts of service and physical touch. I like to give and receive, but if I’m completely honest, I mostly like to receive.

With acts of service, I like when my husband does menial tasks for me, such as fetching a glass of water or making me a delicious and nutritious meal. I can literally be moved to tears of joy when he takes apart the toilet and scrubs every nook and cranny without my asking him! It happens about once a year, but it is truly a delight. Sometimes I go too far, for example, when I ask him to tuck in the sheets on my side of the bed, when he’s already under the covers on his side. He knows when to say no, though, because he has a backbone, and that’s why I love him.

As for physical touch, well I am a glutenous, bottomless pit for any kind of non sexual (although that’s nice too) physical touch, and it doesn’t have to be from my husband. I enjoy anything from a hefty foot rub to a body oil rub down that lasts for hours. If a stranger on the street offered to give me a shoulder massage, I would accept. If a friend or family member gives me a brief, loving squeeze on the shoulder, I will bow my head in ecstasy in hopes that it will turn into a lengthy massage. I’m a physical touch WHORE.

According to this book, if two people are struggling to feel loved in a relationship, they most likely have contrasting love languages. In theory, once you’re aware of someone’s love language, you can show them love in a way that they appreciate, and vice versa.

It’s a nice idea, but basically it doesn’t fucking matter. The relationship is either going to work, or it’s going to be too much work, and ultimately end, depending on each person’s threshold for pain and misery. I think most of us have a hard time finding a person that doesn’t make us miserable. Like they always say, “there’s someone out there for everyone,” unless you’re an exceptionally miserable asshole, in which case the chances of lifelong happiness with one person are pretty slim.

Thank the Lord I found someone who thinks the way I do, so we don’t have a whole lot to disagree on. He’s not an asshole, and neither am I (not that I’m aware of anyway).

It just works.

As for where we stand on ass play? Ummmmmm, that’s none of your business!

cat butthole 2

Boobs, Bush, and The Creative Process.


“To stimulate creativity, one must develop the childlike inclination for play”

-Albert Einstein

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

-Pablo Picasso

For six years, I worked at a wine bar called Lou, which is where I met my husband and my best friend B (the one who just had twins). Sadly, it closed years ago.

My poor coworkers patiently endured my quarter life crisis (aka my twenties). During that time, I was dumped by my fiancé right before our wedding, I moved apartments an average of twice a year, and I suffered form a severe case of self-hatred and self-doubt. I also kind of hated waiting tables, which didn’t always make for a pleasant work attitude. I don’t like to admit that I was pretty unhappy.

The real problem was that I was an artist who didn’t produce very much art. I was unable to tap into my creativity. I feared I had no imagination and had nothing to say.

Despite my mental and emotional problems, we all really enjoyed our time working together at the wine bar. Things were out of hand most of the time. I can’t imagine what customers must have thought of us. We gave each other a nightly shoulder massage (our boss included), scavenged scraps of farm-to-table food from the kitchen (every restaurant these days is farm-to-table), sat down with the regular customers, danced, cried, argued, and took way too many smoking breaks.

At the end of every night, our boss would subject us to strange American standards from the 60’s like My Bathroom is a Private Kind of Place and sappy tear-jerkers from the 70’s like Send in the Clowns.

One evening, at the end of my shift, I was sitting at the bar doing the close out and counting our tips, when I found myself with a serious urge to doodle something obscene. So, I utilized the only art supplies I had at the time – a tip envelope, and one of the few pens that wasn’t swiped by some thieving customer.

The first thing I drew was a naked woman roller skating, while being propelled through the air by a presumably noxious fart, with an abundance of breast milk spraying from her nipples, and a sassy turd left in her wake. I’m pretty sure the idea came from a combination of a conversation I had with my boss about making cheese from breast milk, my friend B flashing me her pubes during a girly bathroom rendezvous, and odd memories from childhood supplied directly from my subconscious.

I continued doodling every night, until it occurred to me that these weren’t just doodles. They were masterpieces. I was meant to draw boobs, bush, farts, breast milk, and poop. Is it juvenile and repulsive? Yes! Is it lady-like and feminine? Absolutely not. Is there a deeper message that I want my audience to grasp? Mmmm, I’ll just let the viewer decide.

The point is, I found a way to make art that makes me happy. I’m not constantly questioning whether it’s good or not, because it doesn’t matter. I enjoy the process.

I’m not going to act like I’m fulfilled all the time, because I’m not. It’s easy to slip into doubt, and question my self-worth as an artist. Especially since I am doing drawings that primarily consist of ladies taking a crap, and weird fat babies.

I can easily doubt my abilities as a mom too, when I’m bored out of my skull by having to hold Liam’s hands as I walk him up and down the sidewalk for the hundredth time.

Then, I surprise myself and come up with a new idea for my art, and I get to wonder where it came from…

and I notice how cute it is that when Liam practices walking, he looks like he’s drunk…and he holds my fingers so tight, they turn purple.

Bitchez Be Eatin’ Cheeseburgerz

This week was a little rough. I’m pretty sure it was worse for my husband. He really gets the short end when I’m feeling emotional and crabby…and by crabby I mean a raving bitch – aka PMSing, but it’s safer not to use that term. If I use that term about myself, then my loved ones will think it’s acceptable for them to use as well, and it’s just not. I repeat, NOT OKAY (by the way, I’m still PMSing, so don’t challenge me).

The thing that really put me in a foul mood though was the four hours I spent on Thursday night, doing an extremely shitty drawing. Nothing frustrates me more than making art and realizing it’s god awful. It was so bad that I still can’t look at it, and I certainly can’t post it. So instead, here’s a doodle I found, which I did a few years ago.

pouring water on vagina

It’s probably more disturbing than my post about badly drawn babies. I’ve seen it make some people actually feel physically sick.

Anyway, so Thursday night, my husband got home from work really late, and he walked through the door just as I realized I had wasted my entire evening on this sucky drawing. So, I did what any woman in her not-so-right mind would do…I unleashed the beast…on my husband of course. Who else?!

When we finally got into bed, I told myself, “Tomorrow is a new day.” But when I awoke Friday morning, I still felt lousy. I knew what had to be done. I said to myself, or I guess to Liam (my one year old son), because he was sitting right there staring at me, “I need to get a goddamn cheeseburger.” Just the thought of getting a cheeseburger started to make me feel better. There’s something to be said for eating your feelings.

Liam and I ate at a restaurant in Culver City. I ordered our food and he stared at the couple sitting behind us, as if hanging on their every word. Our food arrived promptly, and I began the process of cutting half of everything on my plate into little bite-size pieces.

Liam was a joy! When he wasn’t shoving food in his mouth, he was waving at everyone who walked past our table. He sat in the high chair, as still as a saint, with the posture of a dancer. I couldn’t believe it. He has never made it through an entire meal at a restaurant without whining, climbing, or throwing food on the floor.

The burger was epic! It glistened with juices that ran down my chin. My eyes filled with tears of joy as I experienced the crisp crunch of the iceburg lettuce. The brioche bun was the yin and yang of sweet and salty. Someone had made that burger with love.

A beam of light peaked through the clouds from heaven, and shined down on us. Little angels burst from specs of dust and swirled all around our table. I mean, really. It was amazing.

Needless to say, the day really turned around. When we got home, I put Liam down for his nap. Then, I sat on the couch and embraced my food coma. I even left my muffin top untucked.

Headbands, Ugly High-Waisted Pants, and The Camel Toe Dilemma

trendy girl

When it comes to fashion, I’ve never been one to wear anything outlandish – excluding the time in 5th grade when I used to wear crocheted vests and Troll earrings.

I like to feel comfortable in what I’m wearing. I just make sure my stomach isn’t hanging over my pants and that I don’t have four-boob (which is the unfortunate outcome of wearing a bra that is too small for your boobs). That pretty much sums up my fashion sense these days.

As a result, I don’t follow fashion trends, but I can’t help but notice the problems there are with some of the things I see famous people wearing. I know I’m not an authority on fashion, for the reasons I just mentioned, but if you’re a discerning, shit picking person (which obviously I am), it’s easy to spot these hideous fashion trends:

1. The Headband – The one that is worn over the hair, across the forehead, and after an hour of being worn, it makes the hair poof up around the crown of the head. Please don’t do this. If you are reading this and are presently wearing one of these headbands, you must immediately remove it. No one likes this look but you. I bet if you really searched your soul, you’d find that you don’t really like it either. Maybe you started wearing it when it was more socially acceptable (the first five minutes of when the trend started – maybe not even then), and now you feel naked without it. I promise you’ll be okay.

2. The Clown Makeup – This is a pretty simple thing to avoid. Heavy eyeshadow must only be applied if being worn with a nude lip, or at least a very pale color. Same rule applies if you want to wear dark lipstick. If you are wearing dark lipstick, you have to go easy on the eyeshadow. You can’t wear dark lipstick with heavy eyeshadow, unless, you wanna be a ho or in a Robert Palmer video.

3. Pointy Witch Nails – They’re scary. Just don’t. (Unless you’re my friend whose name starts with the letter B, then it’s just mildly scary, but mostly cute).

4. The Useless Decorative Button – Unless you’re Michael Jackson, which you’re not for obviously reasons, you shouldn’t have these on any item of clothing. Only Barbie can wear decorative buttons, because if she wore real buttons, the button holes would be too small to actually be buttoned by a full sized human, or even a small child.

5. High-Waisted Pant with Midriff – Why is everyone doing this?! (JLo and Kim Kardashian) All I can think when I see this is, “why would you intentionally make yourself look like you have no torso?” Even on the most toned person, the midriff skin flap ends up hanging over the pant (the ‘s’ was left off intentionally). A high-waisted pant should only be used as a place to tuck-in your muffin top.

6. Platform Shoes – They’re ugly, even on trannies. Same goes for goths with trench coats. I might make an exception for extremely short people, because if you wore heels high enough to make you look tall, the front part of your foot would eventually go numb, and then probably break off. Nah, even you shorties. I think you should just embrace your shortness.

7. Camel Toe – I am reluctant to add this to the list of Hideous Fashion Trends because a severe camel toe can be a lot of fun, both for the presenter and for the viewer. Of course this depends on whether or not the camel toe was intentional. I think I just added it to the list because I wanted to draw a girl with camel toe. My only regret is that it’s not as severe as I had hoped.

I don’t want to be a hater. I really don’t. The thing is I have recently started watching shows like American Idol and The Bachelor, and I’d really prefer not to see anymore chicks with those headbands. It would make my viewing experience much more pleasurable. Also, my husband wouldn’t have to hear me bitch about it, although he agrees with me. That’s right! He willingly watches these shows! In his defense, they’re probably not his first choice, it’s just that I’m pretty bossy with the clicker, (to you younger folks out there, I’m referring to the remote control).

The Truth About Going to the Beach With a One Year Old

farting on beach

Every week, my husband and I look forward to a relaxing weekend. Then, when Saturday finally rolls around, we are reminded of the fact that we have a 13 month old boy, who is like a goddamn wind up toy – you put him down on the ground and he’s on the move until you pick him back up again.

This past weekend, we had big plans to get a good night’s sleep on Saturday, and go to the beach early on Sunday. My brother in-law was going to come as well. The boys were going to surf, while Liam and I relaxed on the beach. For the record, I don’t do the ocean.

I grew up in NY, on Long Island….In the Hamptons.

Yeah! That’s right! The Hamptons!

No, I did not grow up in a mansion on the ocean and no, I do not know the Kardashians or Sean Puffy Combs or whoever else is hanging out there these days.

Anyway, the Atlantic ocean is like a warm bath with gentle ripples in comparison to the Pacific. Here in LA, the ocean is fucking cold and full of seaweed, with a congregation of the biggest douchebags on the planet (not that the people on the Hamptons’ beaches are any better). LA has some serious douche-baggers, especially on Abbot Kinney in Venice. I thought they were bad in Hollywood, but Venice is truly the worst.

After living in LA for over 14 years, I don’t have much hope for humanity….but, I will never stop hoping, that when Liam grows up, he will stay away from surfing, rock climbing, sky diving, and anything else that requires his feet to leave the safety of solid ground. I also hope he never turns into a douchebag, but the chances of that are slim, since I intend to have a pretty strict no douchebag policy in our home.

Anyway, back to the weekend…

Here’s what really happened (written in the style of Bridget Jones’ clever short hand).

Saturday Night:

8:30pm – Too lazy to make a real dinner, throw some frozen potstickers into a pan, and make a simple salad so as not to feel malnourished/like a fat ass.

9pm – Sit down to eat with husband and pour a glass of rosé, while watching Enlightened streaming on HBO GO.

10pm – Realize I’ve had 3 glasses of rosé and 20 potstickers. Feel fat and drunk.

10:30pm – Genuinely depressed to find out that Enlightened was canceled two years ago. Feel very out of touch with pop culture. Was this show even popular?

11pm – Make it to bed at a decent hour,  but need to check blog stats

11:50am – Cuddle with husband for a minute before falling asleep.

Sunday Morning:

2:30am – Liam starts crying, I go in to nurse him and wonder if I’m getting him drunk on my breastmilk. Decide it has been long enough to process alcohol.

2:45am – Google, “How to tell if my baby is drunk or just sleepy.”

4am – Woken up by massive earthquake. Jump out of bed to rush into Liam’s room to save him from falling debris. Turns out earthquake is only a 3.9

4:05am – Talk to husband about how it felt like the big one. Exchange our personal account of the earthquake, even though it only lasted a total of five seconds.

4:10am – Realize we aren’t prepared if/when the big one hits.

4:11am – Google, “what to do when an earthquake hits.” Reminded not to go in a doorway. Realize there’s no safe place in the house.

4:15am – Google, “where to buy an earthquake kit.”

4:16am – Have visions of being crushed by ceiling. Imagine running outside to the middle of street. Consider the fact that I would be wearing nothing but underpants (big ones). Resolve to start wearing pajamas.

4:25am – Somehow end up on Facebook, sifting through various mommy posts about EBF, SAHM, DD, DH, and FTM. Curse to self about mommy blog acronyms.

4:30am – Just start to fall back asleep when husband starts snoring.

4:45am – Finally asleep

7:25am – Wake up to cat, with her butthole pointed directly at my face. Sudden sneezing fit from allergies to cat. Sneeze wakes Liam. Liam cries.

8am – Eat healthy breakfast of yogurt, berries, and granola to counter act hangover.

8:30am – Load everyone into car.

8:45am – Make husband stop off to get me a breakfast burrito because yogurt was too healthy/not filling.

9:00am – Finally arrive at the beach.

I had this idealistic vision of getting to the beach – with the sun shining and a cool breeze blowing off the ocean. I imagined lying back in my beach chair, while Liam played quietly with his toys, safely shielded from the sun in head to toe SPF 100 organic sunblock.

But, it turned to be an overcast day. I carried Liam, the diaper bag, burrito, and beach chair down by the life guard stand, to set up our crap. My husband and my brother-in-law stood by the car, in their towels, carefully not flashing anyone their junk while they put on their wetsuits.

After sweating profusely from carrying an entire human and a bunch of stuff to make the beach a pleasant/tolerable place, I set Liam on the beach blanket with his truck and plastic stacking cups.

I exhaled with relief, as I sat back in my beach chair with my burrito. I took a bite and dear god, if that wasn’t the best burrito I’d ever had. It was just egg, sausage, and hash browns…but it was perfect.

Before I could even swallow – Liam was crawling towards the water, across an accumulation of debris consisting of dead jellyfish, old seaweed, and cigarette butts. I had to pick him up and return him to his proper place on the blanket no less than 50 times.

Finally, I had the brilliant idea to share my burrito with him so he’d sit “near mommy, and let mommy relax.” Little did I know, as small as he is, he would eat most of my burrito – we’re talking one of those big thick burritos – the kind where when you’re watching the guy make it, you wonder how he will physically be able to roll it closed.

I know it’s terrible of me to want my baby to sit still, even though I know he is physically incapable of controlling his little body, and needs to roam free to explore.

Like right now…Liam is dying for me to be done writing this. Poor little guy needs to get out in the sun and be with other babies, so he doesn’t end up like Nell – babbling to himself in an abandoned house in the forest somewhere, because his mother didn’t get him out into the world to be properly socialized. On that note, I must be done writing for the day.

Bananas – The Worst Fruit

banana boobs final copy

Remember when you were a kid and you used to have pretend phone conversations into a banana? Those were the good ol’ days! I’m actually kind of pissed I ever switched to a real phone. It got me thinking (which ultimately made me a little depressed), about how my baby, Liam, might never talk into a banana.

A Few Reasons Liam May Never Talk into a Banana:

1. Pretend phone conversations with fruit have been replaced by the imagination-killing glow of the cell phone screen. Anytime Liam gets his hands on my iphone, he becomes irritable and obsessive. It’s actually kind of creepy. I don’t know why, but obsessive babies that have pent up anger remind me of Chucky – minus the red hair, facial scars, bad language, and propensity for violence and murder.

2. We don’t really eat bananas in our house, especially if I buy them. In fact, there are presently 6 over-ripe bananas sitting in our forgotten fruit bowl. I’ve tried to be more Pinterest-y and use over-ripe bananas for homemade banana bread, but they turn black in the fridge and then a month later, I discover them and wonder why I go through so much trouble for a fruit I kind of loathe anyway. In theory, what’s not to love? They’re convenient, healthy, sweet, fun to draw, and phallic. But the truth is that they aren’t juicy! Period! By definition, a good fruit is supposed to be juicy. They are the opposite of juicy. They actually make me thirsty. That’s reason alone not to buy them.

3. Bananas are soon going to be too expensive to buy and then become extinct. Can you imagine paying a dollar per pound for bananas?! Gross! It’s old news, but according to this article, we’re looking at only three more years of bananas.

I have endured a banana on occasion, but I have strict rules for banana consumption.

The Conditions Under Which I Will Consume a Banana:

1. Slightly under-ripe (so it’s not too mushy), sliced over cereal, with a good amount of milk. It has to be in a somewhat healthy cereal, though. Bananas look ridiculous in something like Fruity Pebbles or Lucky Charms. If you eat it in those types of cereals, you’re wrong. Also, for the record, Lucky Charms is a terrible cereal and Fruity Pebbles really shouldn’t ever be eaten, unless it’s on top of some frozen yogurt…and not just any frozen yogurt – it has to be Yogurtland.

2. In a peanut butter sandwich…again, don’t forget how un-juicy a banana is. When you pair it with peanut butter, you will desperately need something to drink. You cannot wash it down with anything other than water or milk, unless you want to be disgusting.

3. Running late for an afternoon appointment, shaking from hunger, with no time to stop for food – not even at a drive thru McDonalds or anywhere else equally as shitty…this is one of the two occasions a banana may be consumed without other food.

4. While extremely pregnant, low blood sugar, in need of potassium, with a strange craving for a banana. This is occasion number two in which a banana may be consumed without other food.

When the banana industry meets its maker, I will not mourn their absence. However, I will continue to draw ladies with banana boobs. I may not find bananas tasty, but they certainly are funny.

Milk Milk, Lemonade…


spraying milk color final

This post is dedicated to the poor souls who are accidentally getting pregnant while they’re still nursing their infants…

I’ve been hearing a lot about women who think they can’t get pregnant if they’re breastfeeding. Apparently, some obgyns are telling their patients that breastfeeding is a viable form of birth control! Who are these doctors?! I’m so happy my midwife is not a moron.

We are currently trying to decide if we should have a baby now or wait until Liam is a little older. As tempting as it is to wake up ten times a night with a newborn, while simultaneously attending to the needs of a tantrum throwing toddler, I think we’re going to wait.

My stance right now could have something to do with the fact that my son is currently piling his oatmeal onto his lap. It kind of reminds me of my great grandmother who, when she really started to lose her marbles, used to stuff silverware in her sheets. Ohhhh Grandma!

Failed Drawings Part 2: Crippled Horse Legs and The Fence Adding Technique

When I was a kid, I loved to draw. When I wasn’t drawing women in ball gowns, I was drawing horses. For some reason, I never managed to obtain a reference photo of a horse, and ended up with horses that had back legs that looked like someone had taken a crowbar and smashed the knees back in the wrong direction. Do horses even have knees? I don’t know. Seems to me like they bend in two places, kind of like a finger. Anyway, the pictures usually looked something like this:

horse crooked back legs

So, I could post images of a well drawn horse, but why do that when I can implement the discovery I made as a kid?! I found a way to avoid drawing certain subject matter. I call it the “Fence Adding Technique.” It’s a great tool to have anytime there is something you can’t draw or are too lazy to obtain a reference photo.

horse with fence

Notice when the unsightly, crippled legs are strategically placed out of site, the subject matter has the potential to be improved across the board.  In this case, the horse now dreams of some day becoming a unicorn, the details in the grass are more apparent, and there is even a pretty pink flower that has sprouted from the soil. Also, let’s note that this horse is decidedly more attractive than the first one with the crappy legs, all thanks to the “Fence Adding Technique.”

The same idea can be applied in different ways. If you are unable to draw hands, for example, then all the characters in your drawings can be wearing mittens. Same goes for feet – they can all be wearing socks…and so on. Just so it is clear, the idea is that you take something you can mostly draw and hide the parts that you have continually failed to render accurately. Let’s face it, drawing hands and feet really sucks. Plus, there is endless entertainment to be had with socks and mittens, especially if the characters you’re drawing are naked.

Crappy hands and feet

Or maybe you don’t know how to draw socks or mittens either. Just like the horse, you can have your characters standing behind a fence too!

girl with fence

Or Maybe you can draw the feet, but not the hands, then you can simply have your character standing with their hands in their pockets:

girl hands in pockets

or coyly placed behind their back:

girl hands behind back

Now, of course, if i wanted to improve as an artist and get better at drawing all things, I could reference a photograph, and practice. I have done this before and I can tell you, it wasn’t half as fun.