Bringing Sexy Back

 - by TheOCPDiva

I tried to sell a Baby Bjorn on Craig’s List.

Do you know what rhymes with Bjorn?


Bless her heart.

She isn’t exactly the buyer I had in mind.

I could never sell my rejected belongings to someone who looks lives like this. I was willing to overlook her misspellings and lack of punctuation, but her complete disregard for cleanliness simply can’t be ignored. It would be irresponsible for me to release my gently used item to someone so careless.

Her supple breasts and toned ass are the least of my worries.

The clothes strewn across the floor and the pile of dirty laundry are reason enough for me to deem her unworthy. Finding the right second hand owner is something that I take very seriously. Sending a half-naked picture with a sloppy bedroom in the background is a lot like submitting a hand written resume on a used napkin.

You only get one shot at a first impression, and she blew it. Sadly, this is one blow job that won’t earn her a crisp Benjamin.

Now, onto her unconventional friend request.

I don’t like this broad. Mainly because she is wearing shear thigh highs topped with a delicate red satin bow. Her overt sexuality has left me feeling jealous, and has forced me to cope by belittling her intelligence and mocking her lifestyle.

Simply put, I just can’t be friends with someone who owns lingerie and looks good wearing it. She certainly isn’t married with three children. Which means, her version of sexy is far different than mine.

While she dreams about strutting down the runway in heels and wings as a Victoria’s Secret angel, I dream about making my flip-flop debut onto the cold tile floor of the YMCA with just one of those small, thin, coarse white bath towels wrapped around my body.

While she lathers her tanned winter legs with scented shave gel and prepares for a razor to smooth her walking limbs, I fumble clumsily to detangle my fingers from the shedding of my winter coat and try to prevent a clogged drain by smearing what looks like evidence from the murder of Bigfoot on the shower wall.

Then, while her boyfriend client offers a premium on her services for the maintenance of her landing strip, my husband shakes his head in disgust as he is greeted in the shower by black-hair from the previous day’s crime.

We might both squeeze into the affordable knock-off trends from Forever 21, but the only difference is that I am eleven years past my prime.

She probably got tattooed by a punk rocker with a crotch rocket and an inked sleeve, while I was branded by my children with a lovely brown line down the middle of my post, post, post baby pooch.

Her idea of multitasking is sexting with her regulars while replacing the batteries in her vibrator, and my idea of multitasking is taking dinner out of the oven and nursing a baby at the same time.

At the end if the day, her biggest accomplishment is trading sexual favors for methamphetamines, while my biggest accomplishment is remembering to feed the dog (maybe).

Unfortunately, the above criticisms and assumptions that were made about this wanna-be lingerie model have left me feeling less like a 36-24-36 and more like this:

Meredith The Hut

So, the first step in getting my groove back will be legally changing the spelling of my first name. The double consonant seems to be working quite well for “S”upper “S”exy LarSSon.

Introducing, the new MereDDith…same girl, but with twice the disposable nursing pads.


That isn’t sexy, AT ALL.


Hooray, Hate Mail!

 - by TheOCPDiva

Finally, I’ve made it.

My very own disgruntled reader. Who knew a girl could be so lucky?!?

Dear Meredith,

I don’t know you, but you seem to be a nice, funny, and interesting person. I like your articles and think you deserve to have a wide audience for your writing.

What drew me to the blog in the first place, though, was shock that someone would call herself “OCPDiva”.

I have several immediate family members with varying combinations of OCD and OCPD. I’m used to people saying, “Oh, I’m OCD about that,” or, “He’s being OCD right now,” or something along those lines. I don’t usually think twice about it because those people are expressing temporary dysfunction using hyperbole. I know they don’t mean that they actually have OCD, nor are they necessarily making light of the disorder.

You, however, are absolutely making light of something that is very serious to me and, at many times over the years, has been life-threatening to my family. You may have OCPD, but I seriously doubt it. Even if you did, you’re still acting as though “obsessions” are indicative of the disorder and that your silly quirks are the only real consequence of having OCPD. If anything, you are showing symptoms of OCD, although I still doubt from reading this blog that you have any obsessive-compulsive disorder.

If you want to write a blog about being quirky, great! If you want to write a blog about a serious and sometimes funny struggle with a difficult mental illness, also great! But I am begging you: please do not contribute to the popular perception that obsessive-compulsive disorders are funny or commonplace or easy to live with. It makes it that much harder for my family to be understood and live their lives, and it is infuriating to see someone joke about something that has cost us so much and may cost us so much more. You wouldn’t have a blog called or unless you had actually struggled with those diseases, would you? Please don’t keep calling yourself the OCPDiva unless you intend to write meaningfully about your own mental illness or really are comfortable with contributing to an uphill battle for those who actually are mentally ill.

Dear OverreactingDiva,

There isn’t going to be anything nice about this. But, it should be funny and interesting because I am half way through my first glass of wine, and I am already drunk.

I am flattered that my silly little open letter to Pampers inspired such a passionate response from you. Since you lack a sense of humor, you don’t exactly fit into my target demographic so I am comfortable losing you as a reader.


Wait! Before you go, there are a few things that you should know.

First, your attempt at eloquence didn’t hide your contradiction. In one sentence you approve of my writing then, several sentences later you desperately beg me to change. Also, big words don’t scare me. If you are going to make references to rhetoric, please educate yourself on the definitions before doing so.

Hyperbole Definition EDIT.jpg




Allow me to clarify something for you. I have never fed my children their weight in prunes nor did the city confiscate my recycling bin claiming corrugated box abuse.

Whatever you do, don’t read this.

Now, onto my next point. How is the spoken word different than the written word? You openly admit that you forgive people who verbalize similar exaggerations, yet you deny me the same consideration. That makes you a hypocrite.

In regards to my mental health, your opinion means absolutely nothing. Yes, the entire premise of my persona is based on a self-diagnosis. But, just because a medical professional hasn’t been consulted doesn’t mean that you get to call bullshit on my OCPD-like tendencies.

For the majority of my adult life, I searched for a way to define the personality traits that control my thoughts and actions. After a friend helped me accurately identify my symptoms I was finally able to admit the severity of my perfectionism and embrace the OCPD label which followed.

With that, came relief.

My decision to dramatize the events in my life is an introspective means to achieving true comedic effect. Despite my stable-ish mental health and non-celebrated female singer status, I reserve the right to laugh at myself. Humor is an extremely effective form of therapy (second only to retail therapy).

Perhaps my biggest concern is the negative connotation you associate with the word “diva.” Just as you so easily blamed me for society’s misconceived perception of OCPD, you are equally as guilty for contributing towards the unfortunate stereotype cast amongst strong, intelligent, and successful women.

I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.

Or, a clever play on words.


TV Critic(al)

 - by TheOCPDiva

If you are new around here, there is something you should know about me. I like to watch TV. More specifically, reality TV. Not the political, societal or economical type of reality that is broadcast on the nightly news. But more of the singing/cooking/dating/sewing/weight loss/modeling/survival/dancing competition type of reality that is programmed on my DVR.

Democrats vs. Republicans? Boring.

Local murder, kidnap, and robbery? Too sad.

Dow Jones? Who cares.

I really don’t have any time for something as silly as current events when there are rose ceremonies, battle rounds, three part housewife reunions, and tribal councils to catch up on. Over the last year, however, the precious DVR storage that was once reserved for all things Andy Cohen has slowly been replaced by a blue dog, kiddie pirates, a curious monkey and a big ass talking cat.

Now that, is a news worthy tragedy.

I may be a rookie stay at home mom, but don’t count me out just yet. The learning curve is pretty flat when it comes to knowing how much TV a toddler should watch.

Answer? As much as possible.

The pride I once took in allowing my children to only watch a half hour of TV everyday wore off around day two on the job. The key to my parenting success revolves solely around how many different cartoon characters can keep them preoccupied long enough for me to complete important social media tasks.

Tell the truth. Do your children watch too much TV? Come on, I promise not to tell anyone. Consider this a safe place…it is just you, me and the internet.

My relationship with TV has made me the cynic I am today. Without it, who knows what I would have become. A philanthropist? A member of the laity? A vegan?

For years, TV has been a loyal friend to me. It has been with me through thick and thin, always offering a remote control to cry on and never once judging me for secretly watching Jerry Springer against strict orders from my parents.

We’ve been through a lot together.

The rise and fall of the Dillon Panthers, twenty-two broken Bachelor and Bachelorette engagements, Meg Pryor’s debut on Bandstand, Christopher and Paulie fighting over a ketchup packet ,my crush on Jordan Catalano, and the Felicity/Ben/Noel love triangle.

Who am I to stand in the way of my children creating the same long lasting memories? Plus, TV costs significantly less than a babysitter.

Humans as child care providers are totally overrated.

As a mother, it is my duty to foster diversity within my children’s lives. Some parents encourage this through community service, athletics, or books. Not me. Everything my children will ever need to know, they can learn from Nick Jr.

See that? I’m not totally reckless.

I am responsible enough to know that regular old Nickelodeon is TOTALLY not age appropriate. If my children’s brains are going to turn into mush, you better believe that I am going to have a say in it.

And now, some deep thoughts on these DVR consuming criminals:

Blue’s Clues

Now this is what you call a low budget piece of shit. Poor Steve, the host, wears the same damn green toned rugby shirt, braided leather belt and pleated khakis every episode. In this half human half cartoon production, Steve can be found prancing around in front of poorly drawn backdrops while chasing a blue dog named (get this) Blue, drawing shitty pictures in his Handy Dandy Notebook,  talking to various pieces of furniture or breaking into an occasional song and dance. I don’t need a f*cking Thinking Chair to think this show sucks.

Jake And The Neverland Pirates

Yo Ho! Did someone say treasure? A deserted island inhabited by only kiddie pirates is indeed a treasure. How many Goldablooms will three one way tickets cost me? Instead of using pixie dust to defeat Captain Hook, those little idiots should use it to refill my wine glass instead. Because I am going to need a few more rounds if I have to watch another waterfall magically start and stop to reveal a supped up pirate ship or listen to another Aye-Aye-Matey jingle performed by two middle aged wanna be pirates with bad accents.

Curious George

Parents, lock your doors. There is a creeper on the loose. Any single well groomed man wearing a yellow hat, a yellow shirt, a yellow tie, and yellow pants that refers to himself in nickname only MAY (or may not be) a pedophile.

Or, gay.

Or, suffer from OCPD.

Or, all of the above.

I once saw an episode where the Man With The Yellow Hat returned previously worn yellow shorts to the store because they turned “saffron” after just one wash. He pulled the I-have-an-important-presentation-to-give-and-I-have-to-know-my-shorts-are-yellow excuse on the store employee.

Really, that works?

Good to know.

It’s about time I replaced the my-son-ripped-the-tag-off-before-I-could-stop-him excuse.

Cat In The Hat

I hate cats. The talking and singing kind are the worst. I wouldn’t want my young boys go, go, go on an adventure with this cat and his thingamajigger. See, it sounds creepy!

The economy might be in the shitter but you won’t find this red and white hat wearing cat in the unemployment line. As if hearing his crazed voice every morning wasn’t torture enough, now my regularly scheduled evenings in front of the TV are ruined too.

Just when I thought Old Navy commercials couldn’t get any worse, they did.

I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to identify the man behind the voice. The horrifying truth is that his pale skin and red hair may haunt my dreams more than his voice.

God Save The Gingers.


Dear Pampers

 - by TheOCPDiva

You had me at “Color Changing Wetness Indicator.”

For the last four years, I’ve covered three dimply sets of butt cheeks in the quilted, blanket-like softness that you claim to be the number one choice of hospitals. From Swaddlers, to Cruisers, to Baby Dry, to Extra Protection, to Splashers, I’ve remained completely loyal to your brand.

Well, sort of.

I ran into some difficulty while potty training my oldest son. You see, he wasn’t too interested in your Easy-Ups mascot. In a world where Target has 110 Cars themed products, maybe you can understand why it would be difficult for a toddler to settle for Diego.

If you were given the choice between an eight year old Latino environmentalist and a rusty tow truck with a hillbilly accent, which would you choose? Exactly.

Advantage: Huggies Pull-Ups

Before I could even demonstrate the Easy-Upness of your product, Immigration Services knocked on the bathroom door and deported Diego’s Spanish speaking ass.

Adios amigo.

Don’t get me wrong, cartoons laced with educational information are the epitome of toddler trickery and deserve the upmost respect. Who needs Rosetta Stone when you’ve got Diego and his gaggle of sidekicks mumbling one Spanish word for every siete cinco English words?

Spanglish is totally a language, and my children are fluent in it.

On behalf of my son, I would like to apologize. Not only did his indiscretions threaten my brand loyalty, but they cost me an estimated 450 Gifts To Grow points.

Oh, I am sorry. Did you assume that my commitment to your products is based on quality alone? Unfortunately, it is for different reasons entirely. I am ashamed to admit that I have fallen victim to your lame marketing ploy.

It started off innocently enough with casually collecting small stickers off of the packaging and perhaps even discarding a few 15 digit codes in the trash unintentionally. It didn’t take long for my efforts to intensify into an unhealthy obsession.

Have you ever heard of OCPD?

Google it.

Suddenly, paying a premium for Pampers was justified by my need to enter another difficult letter and number combination into my online account. That is when my priorities started to change.

Late night diaper runs for just one more hit. Empty economy 234 count boxes strewn across the house exposing my addiction. Plastic packaging left in piles on the floor ready for a game of who-can-suffocate-first. Excel spreadsheets used to defy mathematics and generate fake codes in an attempt to earn more points. Days spent in the darkness of my bedroom trying to silence the voices luring me to Buy Buy Baby and Babies R’ Us. Forcing my children to eat their weight in prunes.

At 5,770 Gifts To Grow points I hit rock bottom. I lost everything. The city confiscated my recycling bin claiming corrugated box abuse. Local businesses banished me for attempting to pay with Gifts To Grow points instead of money. Other parents refused to let their children play with mine because somehow they didn’t think that dumpster diving for glorified coupons was an appropriate play date. My family and friends no longer recognized me as the daughter, wife, and mother that they once knew.

Earlier this year, I agreed to be in a documentary about addiction.

I did not know I would soon face an intervention.

Cameras followed me for weeks capturing footage of actions that I am not proud of. Alone and with nothing but my Gifts To Grow points, I agreed to get sober. If it wasn’t for my sponsor Mrs. Procter Gamble, I would be dead. As a recovering addict herself, she was the only one who understood how difficult it would be to cure myself of this debilitating illness.

After months of therapy at a rehab facility in an undisclosed location, I am now 178 days sober. The temptations continue to test my willpower. Like when I found an unused code in the pocket of my jeans. Or, when it was announced that the Gifts To Grow program would be extended until December 2013. I can’t even watch an episode of Sesame Street without getting the shakes.

Sesame Street On Pampers.jpg

You left me with no choice. On May 3, 2012 I quit cold turkey. The character-less Target diapers adorned an adorable assortment of gender neutral, green and blue circles are now the standard in my household. The twelfth and final step in my recovery will be the most difficult. Now, I must redeem my Gifts To Grow points.

Only, there seems to be a tiny problem…I can’t decide which shitty gift to choose from.


Seriously? These are MY f*ucking points not someone else’s.


Oh, yes…definitely! I will take some laundry detergent in exchange for a loss of self-respect and dignity.


Come on, I don’t need any more of this sh*t around my house.


Now this doesn’t look the least bit annoying.


Do these come with a matching Walkman?

I’ll make you a deal. You can buy me a new set of boobs and we’ll call it even.

What do ya say?


RRR: Like Mother Like Sons

 - by TheOCPDiva

Logo EDIT.jpg {originally posted on June 5, 2012}

Do you remember this post with the same(ish) title?

Just because my OCPD diagnosis has yet to be confirmed by a professional doesn’t mean I can’t seek treatment in the form of self deprecation (e.g. this blog).  I have also found it therapeutic to issue other bogus OCPD diagnoses on close family members. Specifically, my children

said it once, and I will say it again. Misery loves company.

Since my last update on this topic, you may be shocked to learn that Choo Choo is still exhibiting OCPD-like tendencies. As stated previously, his behavior has in no way been a direct result of my instruction. Rather, a possible unfortunate side effect from observing my actions.

For example, getting Choo Choo dressed in the morning has become quite an ordeal. Nearly every day starts with a demand to wear a t-shirt with Lightening McQueen, Finn McMissle, Max Schnell or various other Cars characters on it. Current inventory indicates that there are exactly four t-shirts in his wardrobe that meet his strict criteria.

On the four days in which a Cars t-shirt is clean, he also demands matching Cars underwear. Current inventory indicates that he has exactly three pairs of Cars underwear that meet his strict criteria.

It gets worse.

On the three days in which a Cars t-shirt and Cars underwear are clean, he also demands matching Cars socks. Current inventory indicates that he has exactly two pairs of socks that meet his strict criteria.

On any one of these days in which the Cars stars align, you will find Choo Choo triple dorking it in this:


If I am lucky, he will be focused on Toy Story one morning every week.


Have I lost you yet?

Essentially, this means that three days per week Choo Choo doesn’t throw a temper tantrum while getting dressed. Now that we are experiencing summer time temperatures, even those three days are getting compromised with tears, flailing arms, and overall disobedience. Choo Choo is having a hard time grasping my strict no-socks-with-flip-flops policy. My child may be guilty of overusing the latest trademarked Cars fashions, but he will not be THAT kid.

You know, the one with a sock tan line in August.

While getting dressed the other four days of the week, I am met with an extreme amount of resistance. The process nearly takes twenty minutes from start to finish and often includes a time out, a loss of privileges or my angry departure from his bedroom. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever have to follow up on my empty “If you don’t pick out a t-shirt and shorts in three seconds, you are going to get in the van with nothing on but your underwear” threat.

Dear God, please don’t let it get to that. Unless, of course, I don’t have anything to blog about that week…then, it is ok.

Proof of Choo Choo’s early onset of OCPD is also exposed every time he washes his hands.


Water on…


Water off…


No, wait. Now the water is off!

Do you see the difference? Yep. He can’t stand to have the faucet in the “off center” off position. He corrects himself, and me, every time.

While Choo Choo’s OCPD symptoms have remained consistent, Bam Bam’s have developed out of nowhere. Just recently, some of his actions have caught me completely off guard. What other child do you know would completely ignore this four level soft play structure?



This kid.


For the first half hour we were at Java Gym last week, Bam Bam made me totally regret paying his $3 admission. All he seemed to be concerned about was cleaning up the mess left behind by another sloppy toddler. He made the trip from the dirty ground to the garbage can fifteen times.

Yes, I counted.





When I finally had enough of this nonsense, I literally shoved him into the play structure against his own will…kicking and screaming (loudly). My hope was that he would find his brother and not come out for another two hours.

I brought my book porn and I had some reading to do (which is Fifty Shades Of Inappropriate to read in public).

Not three minutes after Bam Bam resentfully entered the play structure did he return to janitor duty. This time, he took it to a whole new level. I sat in awe as I watched him walk towards me, grab my diaper bag, open the wipes and wash the floor. The excitement of watching your toddler unnecessarily clean in public is ALMOST as exciting as reading about Anastasia Steele’s most recent orgasm.



The good news is that Bam Bam’s sudden obsession with civic cleanliness has translated into orderliness at home. If you are a stay at home mom, then you might understand how our family room goes from this…


To this…


…in a matter of minutes.

No matter how hard I try to enforce the one-mess-at-a-time rule, the boys always seem to manage multiple messes at once.

I love being a stay at home mom!

I have successfully silenced the OCPD voices that were once telling me to pick up toys multiple times throughout the day. Allowing myself to leave the house and ignore the after breakfast Lego tsunami has been extremely liberating. Unfortunately, since FEMA doesn’t consider residential toy box explosions a natural disaster, I have been forced to rely upon the aid of, Matuna, the only non-OCPD family member for help.

At 35 weeks pregnant, I probably shouldn’t be complaining about anyone that is willing to fetch the never ending collection of Duplos from underneath the couch. But it is nearly impossible for me to sit back eating frozen Peanut M&Ms and ignore the fact that the Duplos are being mixed with the Legos and the Tinker Toys are being mixed with the Magnatiles.

Legos and Duplos are TOTALLY different!

Watching Matuna “clean up” is pure torture. Last night, he had the nerve to put Rod Redline and a Lego in the a dump truck that is clearly only for Duplos.


I couldn’t bear to go to bed knowing that such an injustice had occurred under my own roof. Just as I was rolling myself off the couch to correct Matuna’s blatant disregard for cleaning up the right way, I heard tiny footsteps from around the corner. It was Bam Bam. He took one look at the misplaced car and Lego and immediately returned them to their proper homes.

1 frozen Peanut M&M for Bam Bam, and a handful more for me.

I totally don’t encourage OCPD behavior. Nope, not me!


RRR: The Mommy Profiler

 - by TheOCPDiva

Logo EDIT.jpg

{originally posted May 22, 2012}

Young mothers with children between the ages of one and five should be on the lookout for a large pregnant woman with shoulder length brown hair and two extremely handsome and charming boys.


This woman is considered armed and dangerous.

Authorities believe that the woman and her family are new to West Michigan, therefore, specific details about the suspect are still unknown. Over the past month, she has been accused of harassing numerous Grand Rapids residents and attempting to form friendships. These attacks are desperate and considered to be a threat to our community. Victims have reported being approached by the “Mommy Profiler” at these previously safe locations:

Cherry Park

Hopscotch Children’s Store

East Grand Rapids Library

Township Park

Cascade Library

Bright Beginnings

Deanna’s Playhouse

Java Gym

Fuller Park

TOTS Playgroup

John Ball Zoo

The Children’s Museum

Blanford Nature Center

To avoid being targeted and forced into a lengthy conversation that includes an invasive line of questioning about where you live, what school your children go to, and which church you attend we suggest that you leave your Lululemon at home and opt for a less expensive yoga pant.

She has a type.

Anonymous tips regarding the whereabouts of the Mommy Profiler have lead us to local playgroups and story times where the following evidence was collected:


Poor man’s color blocking


Ugly stick beaten with an ugly stick


Three year old’s interpretation of stained glass


Half whale, half human?


No chance at catching air


Rorschach on drugs


Sick froggy


Sick froggy covered in his own vomit. How sad.

This shitty artwork is our only clue in the case and has left prosecutors wondering whether or not the children should be charged with a misdemeanor for disruption of peace.

That is one f*cking ugly whale.

If fact, witnesses indicate that the Mommy Profiler has been so disappointed in her children’s art abilities, that she took matters into her own hands and crafted this magnificent specimen:


What a beauty

In the time it took her to completely flatten a Pacific Blue Crayola crayon to color a proper paper plate whale body, she knowingly neglected her youngest child. In which time, he managed to decorate himself in stickers shaped as eyes. Unfortunately, that meant that the other children were now the proud parents of a f*cking ugly and blind blowholed mammal.


No one is safe.

The suspect was last seen driving a silver Honda Odyssey with the windows down carelessly singing along to the Glee: Season 7 soundtrack. Although the DMV has provided us with a listing of all the vehicles registered in Kent County that match this description, we have yet to make an arrest. A special task force has been assigned to the investigation, however, since Grand Rapids is ranked #1 in the United States for mini-vans per capitia, we are calling upon you for help. All suspicious Katy Perry, Justin Bieber and Adele impersonations must be reported to the police immediately.

While we continue to struggle to understand the motives behind the Mommy Profiler’s crimes, we are confident that justice will be served. Until then, we advise all families to remain inside from 9:00am -1:00pm. These are the hours in which we feel you may be most vulnerable.

The FBI is currently pursuing a lead that connects the Mommy Profiler to the Nap Nazi, another highly sought after criminal. At this point, it is extremely likely that they are the same person, living under multiple aliases. If what the authorities believe is true, we could all be in danger of befriending the wrong person.

She isn’t shy.

In the past, the Mommy Profiler has lured in her victims by exploiting her children’s good looks. Apparently, dimples and baby blue eyes are powerful weapons among the weak.

Last but not least, keep any comments about the circumference of her stomach to yourself.

Yes, her due date isn’t until July 8th.

No, she isn’t having twins.

No, she doesn’t have a blowhole.

She will cut a b*tch (new friend, or old).


Quote Of The Week

 - by TheOCPDiva

Choo Choo: “Mommy, who read a book to me last night?”

Me: “Daddy did.”

Choo Choo: “Why?”

Me: “Because he loves you and he likes reading books to you.”

Choo Choo: “But…I wanted YOU to read to me last night.”

Me: “Why?”

Choo Choo: “Because you’re cuter.”