Dating Someone With Kids: What You Should Know

I think it’s a fair assessment to say the stigma of single motherhood as far as the dating pool goes has decreased drastically. More men seem to be open to the idea – especially since we’re seeing more single fathers. But if you’ve never dated someone with children you probably have no idea what you’re getting in to – and you should, because kids are kind of a big deal what with them being tiny human beings with delicate little brains and all.

So here’s a heads up that will, with any luck, enable you to make an informed decision as to whether or not you’re equipped to handle it.

1. No one is more important than the kids.

This should be a no-brainer, but when you’ve exclusively dated the childless, you get accustomed to being numero uno in your partner’s life. And it’s not like you have kids, so you don’t really know what it’s like to be in a relationship where there is a mutual understanding that the kids have top billing in this show. But it’s true. Don’t take it personally. Or go right the fuck ahead and take it personally – there are other fish in the sea.

2. There are “kid snacks” in the house, and you don’t fucking touch them.

This isn’t a college dorm, where a box of cookies is fair game. No, bitch. Those go in lunch bags and are used as negotiation tools to persuade the little bastards to leave the room for ten minutes so you can finish this week’s episode of The Wire. If it’s a food item advertised on Nickelodeon, you better grab a fucking apple and hit the bricks, son. (The one exception is if there is a disproportionate amount of goodies to children. Three bottles of apple juice, two kids? Well, you have to drink the third one. That’s just family politics.)

3. Shit gets loud.

If someone is a normal parent and not a goddamn Nazi, they don’t subscribe to the belief that children should be seen and not heard. Kids are going to run, jump, shout, sing, yell at each other, cry, bitch, moan, nag, laugh, and be generally obnoxious – but it’s all in good fun (usually). Even if you’re inside and they’re outside in the yard, they’re going to come in the house every five minutes with a question, a request, a complaint, or to get something that they absolutely need right this very minute. They will accidentally slam doors, drop things, fall down, and cry dramatically to get their sibling in more trouble than they deserve. Parenting is a constant struggle between getting them to the shut the fuck up and letting them be kids. Get some earplugs, some patience, and remember how sweet they are when they laugh.

4. Shit gets messy.

The reality is that the house is not going to look like a magazine 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Shit happens, and it’s happening constantly. And sometimes it’s not even the kids. My girls clean their rooms every day, and are responsible for putting their toys away. But there are days where I’ve worked nine hours, driven home in shitty traffic, stopped to grab groceries, came home, made dinner, given them a bath, and gotten them in pajamas and in to bed at 9:15, do you actually think I’m going to vacuum the floor right now? Do you think I give a shit about the toothpaste smiley face they drew on the bathroom mirror at this very second? Fuck off or clean it yourself.

5. Sometimes we’re boring.

I’m not old, you guys. I’m 29 for Chrissakes. But my idea of fun has changed dramatically, and even men my age without kids don’t understand why I think spending the day at the river having a picnic and walking along the shore is a great time – especially since there’s no liquor involved.

I’m not saying I don’t still enjoy the occasional party, that I don’t go to the occasional bar, that I don’t stay out until two having dinner and drinks with friends. But those times are few and far between, and I like it that way. I like that my weekends are spent at parks or science museums or taking road trips up to the Redwoods. And I cherish those weekends that are spent doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing at all.

6. Sometimes we’re tired.

Don’t get insulted if we don’t want to stay awake after to kids go to bed and watch a movie. We aren’t avoiding you. We are fucking exhausted. Wake us up in an hour. Maybe then we’ll be rested enough for sexy time.

7. We don’t need you to play mommy/daddy.

In situations where the other parent is an active, positive role in the kid’s life, we do not, in any way, expect, require, or even want you to step in. Don’t spank my kid. Don’t ask my kid to call you daddy. Work out with the person you’re dating where the line for discipline needs to be drawn so you are both perfectly clear as to what that entails. Obviously, you should be someone the kid can depend on, who can fix boo-boos and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But if you want a kid…make your own. 

8. Domestication isn’t so bad.

It’s kind of cool, having clean laundry all folded and put away huh? Clean dishes? House smells nice? Holy shit, are these linen napkins?!

There’s a whole new level of adult-type-shit that goes along with having kids. It’s the difference between having color-safe bleach and fabric softener and, well, not having those things. It’s having every size and shape of bandage in an organized First Aid kit. It’s always having a pen, always having snacks in your glove compartment, having dinner at 6PM every night at an actual table. It’s a porch light always being left on for you. It’s coming home from a night out to someone who fell asleep watching Investigation Discovery on the couch so they could kiss you hello, no matter how late it is. There’s a sort of comforting normalcy that goes along with the hectic-yet-structured schedule of having kids.

9. You will never be on time for anything again, ever.

We try, dude, I swear to god we do, but all it takes is one lost shoe, one broken toy, one stumble down the steps, one little asshole kid who refuses to turn the fuck around in his carseat because he’s mad at you for not letting him have another popsicle. Then BAM the whole fucking trip is set back half an hour. We even attempt to build time in for these little snafus – how many parents have said “I’ll say I’ll be there at 4:30, even though I should be able to make it by 4:00, that way I’m covered”? Except what happens? There’s a fucking gas leak and your garage explodes and oh shit, you just ran over your neighbor’s cat OH FUCK YOU FORGOT TO GET THE KIDS IN THE CAR IN THE FIRST PLACE.

But I swear, we try.

10. There will be times that we are lazy parents, and we don’t give a shit what you think.

Wouldn’t we all love to say we never let our kid watch cartoons, eat candy, or talk back? That’s the fuckin’ dream, isn’t it?

Yeah, well, that doesn’t happen.

Sometimes a Dora marathon is the only way I can clean and reorganize the closet, or finish a chapter I’m writing. Sometimes a lollipop is the only way I can get them to shut up so I can have an uninterrupted conversation with my banker. Sometimes my kid will get smart with me and I will get so pissed off that I literally cannot speak, because the only words I can think to say are “go fuck yourself, you little shit.”

We love our kids, don’t we? We love them madly. But sometimes cutting them a break means cutting ourselves a break, and if you want to get all judgey for that, well…just wait until it’s your turn.



Stop Posting This On Facebook

Exploiting the Children of Strangers
You understand that if you post stuff like this, you’re an asshole, right? That someone basically took a stock photo of a REAL deformed/injured baby and added a bunch of lies to the bottom (like I just did with the above image in MS Paint)? You know that Facebook isn’t giving anyone a fucking dime, don’t you? And did you know if you took, like, five seconds to use Google you could have found this out for yourself?

Promoting Fear Campaigns

Again, do your goddamn research. If you want to hate Pop Tarts for valid reasons like the fact that they’re disgusting and over-processed and don’t even remotely resemble a traditional tart, more power to you. But don’t go spreading nonsensical bullshit that has absolutely no basis in reality.

Misquoting Dead Hollywood Starlets
As much as you would like to believe that Marilyn Monroe was constantly spouting nuggets of truth to justify the actions of crazy bitches, you are mistaken. Marilyn Monroe may have embraced her nuttiness, but she was also fucking a president and knew how to keep her goddamn trap shut. You should try it sometime, after you stop posting these nonsense memes.

Memes that Inspire Me…to Kill MyselfImage
Your Facebook wall should never look like the drab, beige walls of a call center manager’s office. I’m all for inspiration and uplifting crap but I’d also like to make it through the day without throwing up in my mouth if you don’t mind.

Asinine Shit Masquerading As Real News

For every idiot article like this that you share, I demand you share at lease three articles of relevance. Politics. Economics. Human rights. Science. Technology. Something that actually makes a difference in the world. This kind of shit is not what journalism was supposed to be about. Then again, neither was making up arbitrary lists about shit that pisses you off on Facebook.

This Stupid Fucking Candle
Much like the deformed baby, you are doing nothing for any cause whatsoever by sharing a stock picture of a cylindrical bit of wax that someone has lit on fire. There are millions of ways you can help the causes you hold dear, and if you’re not doing any of those things, then stop sharing this kind of shit to make everyone think you are. It takes effort to give back to the world, and that effort goes beyond the scope of clicking a link.

Until Proven Guilty

See that title up there?

I think a lot of people, too many people, kind of glaze over that incredibly important phrase. And they shouldn’t because it’s a vital part of how our criminal justice system functions. The problem is that people would prefer to convict in the media, sheltered by the comfort of public opinion, all while they blatantly ignore the rules of law and the responsibilities of those charged with prosecuting or defending the accused.

Let’s look at a few of the cases that sent everyone in to a frenzy, both during and post-trial. Casey Anthony, remember her? The party/girl baby killer? And we can’t forget George Zimmerman, the racist douchecanoe that shot an innocent teen boy. How about we kick it old school and bring up O.J. Simpson?

Do you know what they all have in common? 

If you’re like most Americans, you’re going to say they were guilty as sin but got off without so much as a slap on the wrist. And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re right. Maybe they lucked the fuck out. 

But that’s not their fault, and it’s not the fault of the jurors. There was no conspiracy. No one was bribed. This has nothing to do with race, and it has nothing to do with money. It has everything to do with how well the attorneys did their fucking jobs.

Take Simpson. That goddamned glove not fitting was the linchpin of the case. Holy shit, the glove doesn’t fit! We really must acquit, you guys!

Except it was a leather glove, and leather will expand or contract depending on the temperature. A smart prosecutor would have mentioned that, would have objected, would have done something besides sit there with his thumb up his ass.

But that didn’t happen. 

And Zimmerman? You know, yeah, he’s probably a bit of a racist prick with a bit of a Napoleon complex. But he wasn’t prosecuted under the guidelines of his personality. He wasn’t on trial for being an asshole. He was tried and acquitted using the current laws and statutes that were relevant to his case at that time. And under the letter of the law, which is all that’s fucking important in a court of law, he should have gotten off.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t like the law. It doesn’t matter if you think it’s fucked up. We do not convict based on personal opinions. That’s why the jury selection process is so goddamn vital in trial law. 

Sometimes laws don’t work, or they’re too vague, or they’re obsolete, or they’re antiquated. We fix them, or repeal them. But until that happens, counsel, jury, and judge are bound by them.

As for Miss Anthony, I’m pretty sure she killed her kid. Oh, you betcha. And it was very likely an accident and she freaked the fuck out. But if I’m sitting in that courtroom and I’m listening to what both sides have to say, am I convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt that she was guilty of first-degree murder? No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

The prosecution failed miserably in showing that the death of that child was a) murder and b) pre-meditated. It doesn’t matter what it looks like. I know a girl who looks like Kirsten Dunst. She ain’t Kirsten Dunst. And they didn’t prove, effectively, that Casey Anthony planned, with malicious and criminal intent, to murder her child. 

Frankly, Florida if you’re going to put the death penalty on the table with your fucking track record, you might want to bring your fucking A game as far as attorneys go. 

It would be nice if people looked at these high profile cases with their heads and not with their hearts. It’s not just about the facts of the case, it’s about how those facts are presented, fleshed out, substantiated. It’s about how the defense rebukes them. It’s about so much more than how guilty the person looks. It’s not always that cut and dried, and even when it is, it can still be hard to prove.

I’ll conclude with the tale of Justin Wolfe, a rich white kid from an affluent town in Virginia. 

At 19, Justin, who sold decent quantities of pot, was charged with the murder of his supplier, Danny Petrole. The prosecution’s primary piece of evidence was an IOU sheet found in the deceased’s home that indicated Justin owed him something like $35,000 for product. Justin maintained this was par for the course in their business relationship; you got a front, you sold the product, you paid it back, you kept the profit, you got another front, and so on. And compared to some of the other names on the list, Justin didn’t owe that much money.

The prosecution’s case was weak as fuck, with virtually nothing tying Justin to the murder. 

A jury convicted him and recommended life imprisonment.

The trial judge wanted to make an example out of Justin and prove that being rich and white didn’t always get you off the hook for your crimes.

Not even old enough to buy a beer in a beer, Justin Wolf was sentenced to die. He was 20 years old.

Fast forward a few years, and we learn of prosecutorial misconduct and evidence suppression – another kid actually admitted to the murder, and they turned that kid in to their star witness against Justin, alleging that Justin had paid the kid to murder Petrole. They – the police and the prosecutors – were so hellbent on nailing this kid that they lied, cheated, and fabricated evidence all to promote their own political and career agendas. There was a huge public outcry to nail him to the fucking wall, and they were only happy to oblige.

In addition, Justin’s own attorney was later disbarred…for mishandling cases.

He spent ten years in prison before this all came to light and his sentence was vacated. Justin, now 31, awaits a new trial – still in prison, as he was denied bond in January. 

Like I said, folks – sometimes, it’s not as simple as it looks.


Learn more about Justin Wolfe’s case here, and help if you can:


I Like to Live Dangerously

I live on the edge, you guys. I’m crazy. Wild. Daring. The fucks I give are nonexistent.

Get like me.


order french fries, but grab slightly fewer ketchup packets than you’ll actually need and see if you can make that shit stretch. Thug life.

-don’t use a coaster. YOLO!

-flip off that person who cut you off, even if they’re bigger than you. Dickheads.

-buy the shitty, plastic, 99 cent lighters instead of a Bic at the gas station. BECAUSE FUCK CAPITALISM.

-put your mascara on at a red light. Corneas are fucking overrated.

-while showering, decide at the last minute you’re going to wear a dress so now you have to shave your legs. Schedules are for punks.

-paint your nails and don’t use a clear coat. I ain’t afraid of no chips.

-eat a bag of M&Ms in front of your kids and don’t share. Fuck those greedy bastards.

-wear white after Labor Day. I don’t subscribe to societal norms.

-hug your mailman. The fuck’s he gonna do about it?

-put a nickel in a the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. I’m rich, bitch.

-let your phone die and don’t recharge it for like, an hour. These hos ain’t shit.

Don’t Be A Girlfriend – Be A Bro!

Ladies, if you haven’t heard, men are no longer interested in girly girls with painted toes and pretty dresses. Men want a girl who can drink. Men want a girl who likes camping and fishing and getting dirty. Men want a girl they can show off to their friends and party with.

Men don’t want to date a woman. They want to date a bro.

Here’s how to give them what they want.

1. Burp and fart a lot.

Men love a gassy woman. In fact, if you can find a way to fart on them, that’s even better.


2. Enjoy sports.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t care about them, don’t have a favorite team, or can’t tell the difference between an orange bouncy ball and the oblong brown one. If you want him to put a ring on it, you jump on his team’s bandwagon and you fucking like it.


3. Drink beer, preferably from a tube or funnel.

Real women don’t use glasses and they sure as shit don’t drink wine. They drink the fizzy, delicious man nectar otherwise known as beer, and they drink a lot of it at once. Then they kick ass at beer pong and throw up in a potted plant. Then they start taking shots while listening to Lil Jon.


4. Fuck manners.

Only pussies don’t act super obnoxious in public. Don’t use your napkin! Remember to burp! Impede on the conversations of everyone nearby by loudly discussing tits and how smashed you got last weekend!



5. Stop putting so much effort in to your looks.

A bro can be showered, dressed, and ready to go in under thirty minutes, especially if he has the complete line of Axe products. Shower, shit, and shave, then throw on whatever doesn’t smell like last night’s vomit. Deodorant optional.


6. Rid yourself of all girly paraphernalia.

Fuck your fluffy pillows and your Egyptian cotton sheets; get yourself a futon for fucksakes You don’t need vases of flowers, you need ashtrays and all of the liquor bottles from previous parties on full display. Is that a fucking chaise lounge? What the fuck is a chaise lounge? Get a goddamn tiki bar and take down any pictures of Marilyn Monroe that don’t show titties.


7. Watch better movies.

No one wants to see “White People Fall In Love Then Someone Dies” based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks. Drop all your bitch-made notions about movies and go watch SuperMegaFuckYou Lords of Domination and Dat Ass, Part IV. You’ll thank me later.


(Chuck Norris doesn’t need a fucking meme, bitch.)

Fellas, if you don’t really find any of that to be particularly appealing when it comes to your mate, maybe you should start appreciating the other ways in which your partner can be your best friend.


Musicians I’d Like to Punch in the Throat

1. Iggy Azalea – Because shut up, that’s why.

2. Arianna Grande – Your stupid singing voice has infiltrated all of my mid-day dirty thoughts about you. I liked you better when you didn’t make “music” come out of your facehole.

3. Katy Perry – Any grown woman that intentionally dresses like a Sugar Plum Fairy deserves to get punched in the throat.

4. Pitbull – There is nothing redeeming about you, sir. Nuh-thing.

5. Jon Legend – Your voice is stupid and so are you.

6. Pharrell – You know what would make me happy? If you’d SHUT THE FUCK UP.

7. Kanye West – You’ve married a Kardashian. Please retire, then promptly die.

8. Taylor Swift – You’re not America’s sweetheart. You’re an emotionally stunted, overrated hussy.

9. Lady Gaga – We get it. You’re controversial. You wear meat dresses. You can go away now.

10. Ke$ha – The fact that you replaced the letter S in your name with a dollar sign makes me think you don’t actually know the alphabet. So does the fact that you’re a vapid twat.

11. Justin Bieber – You’re a little fucker, and I look forward to watching your rapidly approaching descent in to irrelevance, most likely amidst a storm of cocaine, cheap whores, and hip hop artists dumb enough to collaborate with you.

12. Eminem – Get back on drugs. Your music didn’t blow ass then.

13. Alice in Chains – If you don’t have Staley, then why the fuck are you even bothering?

14. Nickelback – I am appalled that none of you have been murdered, but John Lennon was.

15. Miley Cyrus – What the fuck are you gonna do when people stop caring about your clothes and that stupid thing you always do with your tongue?

Why Home Depot Is Popular On Memorial Day

Yesterday I made a wrong turn and decided to flip myself around in a parking lot. This parking lot just so happened to belong to Home Depot

This place was fucking poppin’. There were goddamn people everywhere. And I’m going, “sweet Jesus, is it suburbanite Christmas?”

I don’t personally spend any amount of time in or around Home Depot unless it’s to flip a bitch in their parking lot or I’m there with my friend Jessica who is one of those committed do-it-yourselfers that always wants to go get coffee and then look at tile and flooring. (And you go, because you want coffee.) So naturally, I have no idea what the fuck could possibly compel people to go to Home Depot on a holiday.

Which means the obvious thing to do is for me to dream up scenarios that would necessitate going there.

1. Your alcoholic cousin Jim decides the meat would taste better grilled in shots of Johnny Walker. He ends up setting the grill on fire and the only way to save your Memorial Day barbecue is to go buy a brand new grill, stat.

2. Ancient Aunt Betsy decides to leave the house for the first time in a fucking decade, but she wants to bring all 4 of her labradoodles with her. This would be fine, except she insists that little Muffin is deathly allergic to pansies, which is the flower you’ve chosen to border your patio. Aunt Betsy is rich as shit and you definitely want to be in the will so you rip out all your pansies and make a run to Home Depot to buy a more hypo-allergenic plant, thus securing your potential inheritance.

3. Your brother-in-law wants to bring his new girlfriend to the festivities, and you agree without knowing this bitch has like, eight kids. You don’t have enough seating and must dash to the Depot to grab some lawn chairs.

4. You accidentally wind up poisoning all of your guests and need to bury the bodies in the backyard. This requires a wheelbarrow, a shovel, and wine. The first two you can get at Home Depot; the latter you will hopefully have on hand so you don’t have to make two stops.

5. Your next door neighbor is super hot, so you invite her to your barbecue/pool party so you can see her in a bikini. The pool filter stops working just hours before the festivities, so you run to Home Depot to buy an above-ground pool because, seriously, this chick is hot.

6. A swarm of hummingbirds are attacking your guests. You buy 15 hummingbird feeders to placate them.

7. Your husband hates mowing the lawn so much he left you the night before Memorial Day but for some reason he took the lawnmower with him, probably out of spite because he was always a malicious dickhead. You need another lawn mower. And another husband.

8. There’s a  huge thunderstorm and you’re stubborn. Rather than disband or take the party inside, you go to Home Depot and buy all of their patio umbrellas then demand that your guests have fun.

9. You really want your deck rebuilt and your new neighbor is a contractor. You buy a shit ton of lumber and nails and whatever else you need to build a deck in hopes that he’ll see all the shit is already there so, pfft, why not just build it for you!

10. The little asshole kid down the street came in to your yard in the dead of night and stole all your garden lights. It’s an evening party so you have to replace them. Seven-year-olds suck.