Author Archives: Raeleigh Jane




I have been here for a long time not saying anything.


I’ve been listening.


The projections dance in front of my eyes, the bullshit, the blame, every last excuse cascading all over me tearing away bits of my flesh as they fall.


I comforted myself with lies and laughter.


I made up stories.  Stories to distract all of us, stories made for nights around the last glowing embers around a fire a thousand years ago. Stories to make you forget that night was closing in and we were very much lost. Stories so loud you wouldn’t hear the imposing storm or the pack of wolves whose cries were getting closer. I told them for you but I told them for me too. I told them to drown out the scream of the wind. I told them to forget this ship was slowly sinking.


The real story was not my own to tell.


Plagiarized by life, sickness and neglect, an undeniable sense of entitlement.


It became my story too.


I put that book up on the highest shelf and promised I would never open it, never realizing how many parts of myself I left up there in it’s tattered pages.


I imagine what it would truly feel like to know that the touch of your flesh, the taste of your mouth, that one moment of escape in your arms would be worth risking everything for.


The numerous you’s that know you were worth more than my heart.


I want to feel what that feels like.


I bet it feels really good.


I’m stepping up in the world. From now on you can find me at…

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Moby Dicks



Thank god for local carnivals.

There is nothing quite like the sheer surge of adrenalin that you experience when you happen upon a gentlemen suitor from your misspent youth and realize that you dodged the shit out of a very fat bullet.

Seriously, time and gravity waits for NO ONE.

Personally I like to run a little slide show through my own head of what may have been had shit panned out in any meaningful way.

It generally looks a bit like The Notebook but then at the end Ryan Gosling gets enormously fat and Rachel McAdams has fake breasts and is teaching Conversion Therapy for the Demure.

Except in my version Rachel McAdam’s has a memory like a steel trap and is also a bit of a whore.

Basically at the end of the slideshow, I feel like Willy Wonka himself just handed me the Golden Ticket, my tumor is benign and I somehow escaped the Chlamydia epidemic of ’98 all rolled into one.

Basically what I am saying is this shit makes for a very pleasant evening.

The best part of this is that I am also entirely sure that said past gentlemen suitor is very likely thinking similar shit about me.

When I leave the privacy of my own home I generally do so after looking at whatever I happen to be wearing, thinking that I look like a homeless person and then yelling LET’S DO THIS.

Clothing is something that slowly happens to me during the course of a normal day.

Yesterday for example, I started out in a dress.

Then it was pretty cold so I put some jeans on underneath it.

Then I had some shit to do outside so I added a pair of wooly socks to the mix as well as some dirty moccasins.

Before we left for the fair I added a hoodie to this schizophrenic recipe and right before I walked out the door I laced up the hood tightly under my chin so my head looked like a penis with a face sitting atop a significantly dramatic garment fail.

So outwardly I could be a homeless person who is wearing every item of clothing they own or a Kindergarten teacher.

Basically the chance encounter is a win/win for fatty as well as myself.

When I was in my late teens I happened upon a book called ‘Naked Photos of My Ex-Girlfriends.’

It was fucking brilliant so I decided to keep a similar log of people who I decided to drape my vagina all over.

It is very similar to ‘Naked Photos of My Ex-Girlfriends’; only my book has a lot more penis and is… How can I put this delicately?

A considerably longer book.

Like Encyclopedia Britannica longer.

Like deciding to read it is similar to cracking open War and Peace or Suitable Boy.

Like Moby Dick if Moby Dick contained acres of footnotes.

Moby Dick.

I am hilarious.

I am totally referring to it as Moby Dicks from now on.

I always found it remarkably credulous of dudes when they were willing to let me obtain nude photographs of them in a variety of sensitive sets of circumstances.

Honestly have you met me?

I am like the last person I would trust with a naked photograph of my own self.

The foremost concern of that being my intense appreciation of the joke that is forcing people who would never want to see a certain individual naked see them naked.

That shit never gets old.

My little brother has personally logged hours studying artful close up iPhone images of my husband’s testicles trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at.

It is like those books when you were a little kid where you have to match up the detail image to the animal to which they belong except at the end instead of yelling IT’S A ZEBRA you are just really fucking offended.

Once in a while, just to liven things up a little, I like to pop a naked ex-boyfriend into the photo collage of grandchildren on my parent’s fridge and then just wait.

In these instances the waiting is truly the best part.

Writhing around just titillated with your own self, while you wait for the inevitable angry phone call.

Whence located my parent’s are always really concerned about how long Homeboy has been hanging out been all sorts of inappropriate in their very own kitchen.

So you have had company over a lot in the last couple weeks?

Frankie says relax.

He says relax while decorously grasping his own cock with a big fucking smile on his face from the vantage point of your refrigerator.

I am totally their favorite child.

Mushy Peas



Having any manner of surgery is always a bit of a treat.

For myself personally, the most enjoyable part is all the waiting that you get to do.

I had an appointment last week to get my tubes tied.

Since giving birth to the infamous Vasectomy Baby this seemed the only acceptable measure to safe guard my life from the evil supremacy of my ovaries.

It is an entirely bizarre feeling to throw a demolition tag on your own reproductive capacity.  I have to admit it has never really occurred to me before that my simple ability to make people had any measure in how I felt about myself.

It totally does btw.


This was all well and good until a couple days pre-op when I started to hemorrhage for absolutely no fucking reason.

My uterus is a total asshole.

So the day before my surgery I got to add a D&C as well as the cauterization of the inner lining of my uterus to my already thrilling itinerary.

I was all pale and shit.

Ghosting around the house feeling sorry for myself and slowly bleeding to death.

Just being a total drag.

Fists to the sky.


The doctor assured me that I was in no danger, bleeding out in the manner that I was, for the next 24 hours before my surgery.

He was eating a Snicker’s bar and seemed moderately distracted when he said this.

I was concerned.

He mentioned that the only thing that could happen, for which I would have to go to the hospital immediately, would be the very un-fortuitousness of me going into shock.

I asked how I would know if this had happened.

He said I would become delirious, combative and surprising strong.

The husband and I looked at each other in equal concern about how we would be able to distinguish these behaviors from my existing personality.

So obvious the day of my surgery I wake up at 5am.  Because I cannot eat or drink anything I spent the remaining 6 hours before my surgery sniffing and licking the inner mechanisms of my Tassimo like a crack whore incarcerated.

You have no idea how addicted you are to coffee until you can’t have it.

I honestly would have done ANYTHING.

It was like that back alley scene in Menace II Society.

‘I’ve got these cheeseburgers, man.  I’ll suck yo dick.’

I totally would have sucked your dick on top of the additional windfall of giving you all of my cheeseburgers.

My mom totally just rolled over in her grave.

She is not dead, that is just what I call her desk at work.

So we show up to the hospital and register and whatnot.

I get to wear a pair of those knee high green socks.

You know those socks?

Those things were made to fuck in.

I had totally forgot about those things and demanded of my soon to be drug induced self to remember to steal them at the end of my ordeal.

Really, it was the least I could do for myself.

So we are ushered in the surgical waiting room where I happen upon a solid 8 new best friends.

The given atmosphere in any surgical waiting room has a truly unique and magical air to it.

No matter how minor the procedure, everyone is sort of having a hard look at their own mortality.  This quality, coupled with the fact that everyone in attendance has taken a hair under the over dose quality of anti anxiety meds, makes for all sorts of excellent conversation.

I am pretty sure, that for even myself on a normal day, these are my people.

Shit got loose.

Even Granny, who had absolutely no problem whipping out the fucking goiter she was about to have removed from her wrinkly little ass, got loose.

It was god damn beautiful.

We laughed.

We cried.

It was better than Cats.

We were all sporting a variety of bleeding puncture wounds from the nurse on duty who was clear unable to find a vein to save her fucking life.

So I’m like bleeding even more than I was in the first place but honestly I could have hung out with those assholes all day.

Suddenly it is my turn and I am taken through a variety of elevators and corridors and into my own little cellblock where I climb into a bed and get yet another warm blanket.

That is when I hear David fucking Beckham whisper my name in his liquid sex accent from outside my curtain.

In walks the Anesthesiologist who is an absolute fucking ten.

It wasn’t even my birthday.

He is going to start my IV and literary I am 100% on board to let him poke me in any capacity that he is personally willing.

He chooses the arm on the opposite side of my body from which he is standing.

I am quietly thanking the vein gods for providing me with basically no expedient blood access on my left side.

So Glamour the UK Edition’s body is sort of strategically draped over top of my basically naked self as he far to efficiently establishes my IV.  In the process the upper portion of his scrubs rides up displaying his ridiculously delightful midriff area.

Let me tell you, there was nothing at all wrong with that view happening in the vicinity that it was occurring.

He said some other shit about the risks involved with general anesthesia but honestly I wasn’t really paying attention.

Then the surgeon and the nurses come in and I’m totally thinking WTF are you assholes doing here?

I am super duper busy consulting with my anesthesiologist currently and I am pretty sure we should delay the surgery momentarily until he is able to allay all of my fears.

No dice.

As they are putting me out my very last thought was the fact that this burning hot eater of the mushy pea was going to be totally present while the surgeon spelunked around in my ladybits and I totally bailed on my last laser hair removal appointment.


Welcome to the jungle.

So I am five days post op and things are really looking up.

I am as sterile as a fucking turnip and I will never have to endure another period again, which is sort of awesome.

Totally forgot to shop lift the green socks which is sort of lame because I can basically use them any time I want for like ever now.

Trying to think of a couple ways to land my ass back in the OR so I can spend some more time gazing lustily at the rolling English countryside but realistically that is totally not going to happen.

I fear the reaper far too much.

Dueling Laptops

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So my readership has in the last couple months gotten pretty enormous.

Trust me, I am more surprised about this than anyone.

I have always experienced pretty consistent growth in the whole North America region but awhile back I started to get quite a few hits from various countries in Europe.

In the interim these feeds have gotten really shockingly considerable.

I am not a computer person, so to speak.

My husband set up all of my media and sidebar links for me as well as the feeds that link to twitter as well as my FB page.

I have no idea how any of this happens.

My personal skill set includes cutting and pasting from word and pressing publish.

I am also aware of how to see my stats and how to log on to my Brazzer’s account.

That is about the extent of it.

So when this whole increase in individual views started happening I obviously asked my asshole husband why that could be because truthfully I don’t know.

He was equally alarmed that any quantity of human beings could willfully engage in reading my drivel and immediately dashed all of my little dreams by informing me that is was all just Bots.

Bots being those things that comment ‘Buy Visalus or DIE’ and ‘Experience Twelve Foot Erection with Generic Viagra’ and whatnot.

I have seen those comments pop up once in a while so I am aware that that exists.

So then I asked him why such a significant army of Bots would not be commenting their ads.

He assured me that sometime they don’t and that my security clearance – on my very unsecured free WordPress platform – would prevent that.


So then I asked why each Bot would be clicking through an average of 5 articles on my site and not doing their Bot job of posting ads.

He assured me that I was a total idiot and that I should probably bake him something delicious.

As I violently cracked open the tube of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, I asked him if he could see how many people were reading his own bullshit drivel and he informed me that it was significantly more than I was experiencing.

So then a couple days ago he informs me that he is going to add a journal to his website where he is going to write various silly shit similar to what I do but obviously better.

He has a few ideas of what to call it all of which are painfully un-entertaining so I suggest he choose the name of a classic diary or journal that would basically be a household name and then bastardize it.

He comes up with Love In A Time Of Cholera.

I woefully inform him that while that is a pretty epic piece of literature, it is not necessarily hanging out in a lot of people’s libraries.

While a few of us would get a chuckle reading ‘Love In A Time Of Chlamydia’ let’s face it there is a big sweaty pile of people (read: Americans) that probably wont be able to appreciate the joke.

He clearly needs something a smidge more recognizable.

It was probably best to choose a journal or diary that had been made into a movie somewhat recently.

I personally enjoy the shit out of a good Sylvia Plath joke and offered up ‘Welcome To My Bell Jar’, which I thought was pretty befitting to my oft-distressed husband.

He pooh-poohed it.

So then I mentioned ripping on The Motorcycle Diaries, which basically everyone knows about.

You should call it The I Don’t Own A Motorcycle Diaries.

He pooh-poohed that as well so I lost interest and wandered off.

So then yesterday I decided to go and check out his progress on said nameless journal and read this paragraph at the top of his first journal entry, mind you a journal that is entitled The I Don’t Own A Motorcycle Diaries.

“After we realized that my wife’s blog was getting more unique visitors we decided to change things a bit – as I’ll not be outdone by the person that washes my delicates.”

Mr. Good, if by delicates you clearly mean skid-marked boxer shorts than I need to assure you that the word delicate does not really apply in this instance.

That, and you are dead to me.

So here is the thing about people who read my poor husband’s shit.

A solid 58% of them are total assholes.

He can write something that is vastly less offending then something I would write with significantly better grammar and he is sure to get torn a new asshole by a multitude of people.

I, on the other hand, am greeted with open arms.

‘You adorable little troll.  I WILL wash my ass with wet wipes after I take a shit.  Keep on, degenerate, keep right the fuck on.’

I am pretty confident that this is a result of the whole ‘the more notoriety you have the more people feel entitled to be offended by you’ phenomenon, which exists on the web.

This is precisely why I have asked my husband not to under any circumstance leave any trail of breadcrumbs from his own personal nightmare to my hood at Textually Active where freedom reigns supreme.

He wont even follow me on Twitter.

So this has worked out really well for me for like 4 years.

My readers are very much my readers exclusively resulting from my me-ness and rarely do I have any bullshit to contend with.

So yesterday I had two – count that two – Google searches that related to ‘MG Wife and Blog’ end up on my doorstep.

Normally I would find this to be a cause for concern but then I remembered that they were OBVIOUSLY Bots.

I should probably go and bake something delicious.

Something deliciously laced with Arsenic.

Sexing The Forsaken: Article #6483-9 Of Why I am A Terrible Wife


I really like to have sex.

I am also the mother of three beautiful yet dreadfully time-consuming children.

These two things may be related.

We are fortunate enough to have a nanny during the majority of the daylight hours but when 5 o’clock rolls around we are very much on our own.

Alone and out numbered by our small army of demanding spawn.

We are also dumb shits who practice co-sleeping with our kids, which makes the evening hours particularly precarious.

For myself personally there exists two time periods in a typical day that I will generally attempt to line shit up in such a way that the possibility exists for me to procure sex.

I generally go into heat shortly after afternoon tea.  I am not sure why this happens only that it does and is clearly ingrained in my circadian whore rhythm.  The husband creature is generally more than willing to oblige but he is also painfully aware that our ability to do so is sort of contingent on a few key factors.

Firstly, any clear and obvious indication that we are mutually retreating to the privacy of our bedroom mid day while there exists another adult human being who is under our employ hanging around is sort of awkward.

Seriously our nanny has the worst job ever.

I am pretty sure our son employs some sort of organic radar that knocks him into obnoxious overdrive when he senses even a hint of a hint of a possibility that his parents could even be thinking about engaging in an act that could result him having to share his toys with even more people.

I am pretty sure it is some Darwinian shit for reals.

Little Homeboy does not like for anyone to go near any of his stuff.

Basically he is an enormous cock block.

I can tell you that attempting to engage in any personal activity that will directly result in chubby two-year-old fists hammering on a locked bedroom door causing a seemingly traumatized nanny to come and retrieve him is an exercise in futility at best.

‘Mom, mommy, mom, ma, mama, MOM!’

Annnnndddddddd I’m done.

Ain’t nobody getting theirs under the hail of gunfire of that variety.

So basically we could get a hotel room or try to find a secluded spot outside but you reach the point where aligning the stars to such an intense degree so you can simple fuck totally becomes more trouble than it is worth.

Also it is pretty fucking cold outside.

Generally the next time I will decide that we should probably have sex is while we are cooking dinner and particularly so if I have been unable to procure sex earlier in that day.

The kids have a strange tendency to leave us to our own devices while dinner is being prepared with the exception of popping by from time to time to tell us how hungry they are, or that we are taking to long, or that they don’t like what we are making or just a general comment about how we are failing them as parents.

So during this time with only a couple boiling pots and a preheating oven there to bare witness I will generally up the ante so to speak.

‘Oh weird I accidently spilled a bit of olive oil on my heaving breasts!’

‘I read an article is Cosmo about how olive oil is a really underrated moisturizer.  Maybe I will just rub it in slow motion while you watch.  Jesus.  I am such a klutzy cooking whore.’

‘This kitchen is just not big enough for two people to work in!’ I will digress while grinding my ass into his crotch in our very spacious kitchen.

‘Do you think they spray a lot of pesticides on zucchinis?  I am not sure best it is best to be safe then sorry, right.  I am going to just wash the shit of out this one with my bare hands in the sink.  Feel free to critique my zucchini washing technique.  I am sort of out of practice and this is a very, very dirty zucchini.’

On a typical day by the time dinner is cleaned up and the kid’s bedtime rolls around my poor husband is like a loaded gun.

This is generally when I will offer to put the kids to bed and encourage him to go and relax a bit before we are free and I can attack him blindly like a olive oiled up little mongoose.

She’s on the left; she’s on the right.

Weaving around that cobra like lightening.

Factoid:  The mongoose is the only natural predator of the cobra.

Ricki Ticki Tavi, Mutherfucker.

So I take the little bastards up to bed and we cuddle up and talk about dinosaurs and shit for like ever.

Keeping my son actually in bed is always a pretty heady chore.

He is extremely nostalgic about his personal belongings particularly at bedtime and will get up at various points – in which I am supposed to be having sex – to retrieve yet another armload of trucks and cars that apparently need to sleep with him.

I have actually started employing the development of his first fear, coyotes, to deter his consumption of my personal time in this manner.

Honestly what sort of mother tells her son that coyotes like to bite the bare bums of little boys who get out of bed at night time?

So I am lying there under a small mountain of Tonka next to little dude who is no doubt going to have epic nightmares about his ass getting eaten by coyotes and that is when I generally commit my EPIC FAIL of the entire evening.

I fucking fall asleep.

So my poor husband who is probably waiting this out by flexing for his self in the mirror and doing lunges and whatnot starts to wonder what the hell is taking me so long.

He comes in the nursery to find me unconscious and buried alive under a substantial pile of yellow metal and three children.

Here is the thing about trying to dig me out and rouse my cataleptic ass.

First of all, you basically need a Masters in Paleontology to successful unearth my dead dinosaur self with out disturbing the surrounding bedrock that is the three sleeping children around me.

Secondly, I don’t wake up well.

‘Not well’ is actually a colossal fucking understatement.

The truth is you are sincerely taking your life in your hands should you try to wake me up once I have fallen asleep.

I can get down right violent.

Think: Don’t poke the sleeping bear.

I am obviously using the word poke both literally and figuratively.

I generally say a lot of shit that doesn’t make any sense, will occasionally try to donkey kick you and then will have absolutely no memory of the altercation the next day.

The next day being a particularly awkward time for both my husband and myself.

Typically I will open my eyes, realize it is getting light out and immediately grasp the reality that HOLY SHIT I did it again.

Whether or not I am still buried under a pile of toys at this point is a pretty big indicator for me of just how much damage I have personally done.

If I have to dig myself out then it is generally all good.

I imagine he too passed out while posing provocatively on our bed and I can pretend that I didn’t fall asleep and he is the one who is a life ruiner.

Usually that is not the case.

The case being that I have been loving unearthed ala Tonka and he is likely sporting a few bruises.

I will valiantly attempt to redeem myself by making coffee, which I will present to the husband creature with a delightful ‘Good morning, you handsome, magnanimous and extremely forgiving man’.

I generally also serve up a green light to personally serve as the target of some bullshit lesson in geopolitics or what fucking Arsenal did that morning or something else I could truly not give a rat’s ass about.

If that is not openly permissible flogging I don’t know what is.

I digress.

Such is the sex life of parents of three.

So spring is here and the likelihood of developing frostbite in place you really don’t want to develop frostbite while engaging in recreational outdoor pursuits is basically at our doorstep.

So I guess what I am saying is it is really best if people call before popping by for a visit.

Ex’s With Benefits


I am butt-clenchingly tight with quite a few gentlemen suitors from my past.

I am constantly told how fucking weird this is and I am constantly finding myself having to defend these seemingly expired relationships.

I am quite sure that were anyone else to give themselves the opportunity they would find that carrying on a friendship with their dreaded ex is basically the most crucial and sincere secondary relationship they could obtain.

They trump the shit out of pure friendships in a variety of ways.

They Know The Shit Out Of You

Generally these assholes have seen you at your best as well as your very worst.  They know precisely how far you can be pushed before you, say trash your significant other’s apartment or intentionally drive their new car into a tree.  They are familiar with your O face and usually know what floats your fucking canoe as far as what you want out of life.  This informal and seemingly endless source of personal knowledge can seem at first like it would be better chopped up and drenched in lye in a hole in your backyard but I implore you to consider using it as a sounding board in your current life.

Ex’s of the male variety typically have two crucial traits that make their advice, should you solicit it, significant as balls.  Firstly, they have already fucked you and shit didn’t pan out.  If they are not retarded they are not looking for a repeat performance.  (Drive my Range Rover into a tree once, shame on you.  Drive my Ranger Rover into a tree twice, shame on me).

They’ve been there, done that.

They have the fucking T-Shirt… or the scar from that knife fight or the STD you gave them.

You following me?

The simple fact that these assholes are not trying to weasel their way into your J Brands is enough to assure you that the words that are coming out of their mouth are in no way serving to butter you up.  The non-Ex variety of friends are not generally apt to tell you things that are likely to rattle you to your very core.  Friends by nature want to be nice to you because they like you.  Emotionally they are more than likely to serve as a sounding board in as far as they feel they are telling you things you want to hear.  They will climb up on your high horse with you and help you point fingers at everyone else that are not necessarily to blame for the current headlines in your bullshit life.

Ex’s don’t do this.

Unlike your friends they don’t just like you.

They loved you.

They loved you and that shit never really goes away but rather just changes forms.

The simple fact that they still have you in their lives and that you are even having this conversation means you still care and clearly respect each other.

They are usually not about to stomach you filling your reality with smoke and mirrors, let alone engaging in or encouraging it.

They will tell you how it is and how you are and it might sting but in the long run it is what you needed to hear.

Embracing these individuals and allowing for this type of self-realization takes a lot of balls but it can shorten the duration of whatever your current existential crisis is all about and makes room for personal growth to happen in a timelier fashion.

I love efficiency.

Secondly, having the Ex not serve a life sentence as a POW as far as your family and friends are concerned is a very nice thing to do for the people in your life.

Sure there is going to be a certain degree of tense time allotted for the dust to settle but once it does let’s do everyone a big favor and stop being self indulgent and act like grown ups.

I mean, if your Mom misses me and I miss her I don’t really see any reason for us not to have a relationship.

It’s not like I fucked her best friend.

But in all seriousness, the people in your lives are responsible for bringing to our attention plenty of new people.

Some are awesome and some are not.

When you get an awesome one I don’t feel it is fair to assume that that subsequent relationship should hang in the balance of whether or not shit pans out between the two of you.

It is unfair to expect your friends and family to mourn the loss of someone rad just because you have decided to.

I consider myself pretty lucky because in my current relationship situation my partner thinks it is lovely that I have not only the capacity to but also the desire to carrying on friendship with my Ex’s with benefits.  Not only is he accepting but he is envious of the raw and true nature of these relationships.  We can both see how beneficial and awesome having these attachments serves me personally and I totally encourage him to foster that shit in his own life.

Befriending your ex is by no means an easy task.

This is not a fresh new person in your life and a certain degree of consistent and laborious coercion is going to be required on your part.

Generally you are dealing with someone who at the time may not like you very much.

If you are me, they might downright loathe you.

The degree of wooing involved will no doubt exhaust you more than landing them in the relationship you shared in the first place.

Regardless, keep staggering on little engine.

When they see you in a public forum and attempt to avoid eye contact and run away that is clearly when they need a hug from you the most.

‘HOLY SHIT it is ME!  WTF am I doing here?  I’m loving you that’s what.’

Tackle and then bear hug the shit out of them until they give up and stop struggling.

Eventually they will have to laugh because sincerely you are a fucking riot and hell you guys should probably be friends.

Next thing you know you are all frolicking though a field of daisies together shooting from the hip.

Life is better here.

Trust this.


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