And I’m never gonna die.

Photo by Cici Hung on Unsplash

At first, there were lots of us: cheap pet store goldfish, filling your tank with moving, living bursts of color. Visitors were duly impressed; their mindless young entranced by our beauty. And while most of us croaked quickly and were unceremoniously flushed (yeah, I know about that), a few lived for years, growing larger and stronger.

And you, air-breather — you just thought you were so cool with your massive tank, didn’t you?

Then you started to realize what a bitch this thing is to clean. And just how quickly the water gets funky again. And how ungodly heavy it…


Turns out, parenthood is more than just frolicking in fields.

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash

The internet is jam-packed with curated, highly staged photos of dear little ones, beaming delightedly, the lighting perfect. Tanned, athletic moms have the sun just peeking over their shoulders in star-shaped flares. Floppy hats abound. Motherhood is a blessing, they say.

Well, sure. But it’s also a shitnado. This is the story of a diaper change. Details have been altered to protect the unbelievably guilty. I think we’ll call him “Bob.”

It was just another diaper change, or so I thought. But Bob here had other ideas. First, he knew he took a shit, but he chose to just chill…


Let’s talk about trust, baby

Photo by Wesson Wang on Unsplash

I’ve been a B2B marketer basically my whole career, and for pretty much that entire time, I’ve hated it. Why? Well, for the same reason everyone hates marketing (and marketers). We’re snake oil salesmen…right?

This is personal. It’s why I rarely talk about my career. It’s why I write instead about stupid things like the dead squirrel in my living room or my awkward run-in with a stripper. There are already too many marketers writing about marketing. But big things are shifting in my industry, and I have an opinion. So now, I write.

I wish I was special…but I’m a creep

As digital marketing took hold and…


Somehow, this story only gets worse from there.

Photo by Chris Karidis on Unsplash

The year was 2010. Iceland had battled a blanket of ash. The iPad was brand-spanking-new. The wheels were only just starting to come off Charlie Sheen. And I was embarking on my first trip to Europe. I was traveling to meet French coworkers for the first time. I was young, excited and just a little nervous.

Cue a series of ridiculous events.

I caught a nasty cold on the flight. I’m someone who can hear someone else sneeze fifteen rows away, and disembark with a three-alarm sinus infection. I escalate quickly.

It was early December, and Paris was expecting accumulating snow, which is fairly unusual. …


Dementia means saying goodbye again and again

Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

The first time was maybe six years ago at a family gathering. She called my sister the wrong name — and not my name, either. A completely random one, with no context at all. She caught herself and made a joke. We were grateful to wave away the awkward moment and move on to other topics.

Then, nearly five years ago, I gave her a call on my way home from dinner with a friend, just to check in on her. She asked where I’d been, who I’d had dinner with, and whether we’d had a good time. I’d answered…


I’ve committed strawberry genocide, among many, many others

Photo by Neslihan Gunaydin on Unsplash

I need help. Roses, tomatoes, cacti, ferns, palm trees, orchids, begonias, countless unidentified decorative plants: I’ve killed them all. Yet I’m drawn to their beauty. I’m afraid I’ll never stop.

I long for a house full of vibrant greenery and fresh air; a yard packed with a chaotically beautiful cottage garden and tons of homegrown vegetables. I dream of building a greenhouse that smells like spring year-round.

Instead, I have endless collections of empty, dirty pots and planters, and stone-edged garden beds full of desiccated corpses. …


Please, step into our office.

Photo by Franco Antonio Giovanella on Unsplash

We once hugged the round bellies of wine glasses and the sweaty curves of beer bottles. We proudly bore the smudgy stamps of rock shows held in smoky, cramped bars, back when such things existed. We packed overnight bags for road trips and rolled board game dice until 1am. We sifted sun-warmed sand between our fingertips.

Now we spend every day scrubbing dried food particles from dishes and peeling clingy socks away from static-laden sheets and changing shit-packed diapers and wiping up spittle. We look in the mirror and hardly recognize ourselves for all of the wrinkles and cracks we’ve…


Why my journey to feminism took nearly three decades.

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

As a 90s teen, I heard “girl power” crowed almost daily. Never mind that it was hyper-commercialized and leveraged the worst stereotypes. In my teens and early to mid twenties, I claimed that feminism was dead; that we’d achieved equality and needed to move on to other causes. I honestly believed there were no substantive differences between how men and women were treated. Surely not so, in our “modern” times.

I was born in 1984, and grew up believing the hype that girls could do anything we wanted. It’s what I was always told, even as my strong-minded mother also…

An open letter & handy reference guide for those men who send unsolicited “surprises”.

Photo by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash

Dearest Sir,

Yes, I suppose you may be delighted if you were to receive surprise boobs in your inbox. Hetero men seem to never quite get enough of those. Fine.

But we ladies (and in this case, I am going to go ahead and speak for all of us) are decidedly less excited to see some rando dick pop up unexpectedly on our devices. Your penis is not cute. No, we don’t have to see it first to judge, and also no, that doesn’t make us prude. It’s just a fact.

I’d thankfully been more or less spared your general…

We know all about Ring around the Rosie. But what’s the truth behind these?

Photo by Artem Kniaz on Unsplash

Ding, Dong, Bell

This lovely rhyme tells the story of a young boy, Little Johhny Thin, who puts a cat down a well, and another young boy, Little Tommy Stout, who swoops in and saves said cat. On its face, this seems like the heartwarming tale of a sadistic child attempting to murder an innocent animal and being thwarted (with some judge-y subtext about the kids’ weight), but there’s more to the story.

The true story:

Things aren’t what they seem. Little Johnny Thin is actually being haunted by the evil spirit of a Victorian spinster-turned-murderess, who, in death, jumps from body to…

Stephanie Stocker

Freelance writer. Reader. New mom. INTJ. Lover of puns & odd people. I write absurdist comedy and about life, quirky history and sometimes Harry Potter.

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