My name is Piper Benjamin. I live in Salt Lake City, Utah, with my two kids and a husband who puts up with some crazy shit. I like to write and I like to make people laugh. I’m not scared of much these days, except maybe Orrin Hatch, irritable bowel syndrome, and bear attacks.
I usually have something to say about a bunch of things nobody really cares about. Like the Wiggles, strange celebrity crushes, blow job injuries, and bowel movements. I share way too much information about myself. That’s OK, I suppose. Too many people don’t share enough.
I was born in Washington, DC and moved around the East Coast with my mom and stepfather until we landed on Fire Island, New York. If you’ve never heard of Fire Island, it is a lovely strip of beach near Long Island as well as a wonderful mecca for gay beauty pageants. My stepfather was the Superintendent of Fire Island National Seashore, and we lived on the island year-round – which meant my poor little sister was my only friend within two miles during the winter. I’m sure she got very tired of being bossed around. We had a little eight-seat school bus that drove on the sand right near the edge of the ocean that offered good views of frolicking naked people playing at the water’s edge. I loved it.
I was the type of third-grader who was always pissed off because I wasn’t allowed into Fire Island’s gay discos with my parents. They also didn’t take me to barbeques at Calvin Klein’s beach house. I will forever hold this against them. I wanted to be fabulous like that.
You can imagine the slight culture shock I received when when the Park Service transferred us to Utah at the end of the fourth grade. I showed up for my first day at Lowell Elementary in a rabbit fur vest and gold moccasins. It’s fair to say I didn’t blend. Good thing I didn’t put that feathered roach clip in my hair.
After high school in Utah, I set off for the Midwest, where my biological dad (Big Hands) lives to attend college at the University of Tulsa. There I learned how to two-step, shoot pool, and paint sorority banners. I also learned that if a boy sleeps with his shirt on, he most definitely has a hairy back and you should escape as quickly as you can. I earned a B.S. in Deaf Education, and after fantasizing about moving to either Alaska or a remote island near New Hamphire to teach school, I ended up back in Utah to start life post-college. I almost took a job in Logan, Utah. Good for me I didn’t. Because if I did, I’d probably be celebrating my twentieth wedding anniversary and my sixth pregnancy – or quite possibly a long stay in a mental institution.
Here we are now, after nine years of teaching deaf kids, a Master’s degree, retirement from teaching at age 34, two kids of my own, fucked-up episodes of depression with a smattering of panic attacks thrown on top, certification as a Pilates instructor, opening a small studio with a friend, pounds gained, pounds lost, a gall bladder removed, three colonoscopies, a drug-free birth, some skin cancer, and lots of cocktails.
In my spare moments, I like to organize closets, bake cupcakes, waste time on YouTube, think of ways to land an important movie role, read magazines, tease my husband, and send my friends text messages about my favorite rap songs.
Thanks for stopping by.
I’m classy like that.