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Mother’s Day Payback: Love You, Mom

Mother’s Day Payback: Love You, Mom

Here’s the thing you should know about my mom and me. We have a weird relationship. I mean, she is my best friend and has been since…well, literally forever. However, as much as I want to write a long-winded diatribe about how I will never measure up to the size 7 shoes she fills, I am not. Well, that’s not true, I would never fit in a size 7 because, like many things genetic, I inherited none of her dainty, beautiful traits. I got all the big-boned German from around the world and look nothing like her.

My mom knows how much she means to me. She and I talk at least once a day every day. If I know my mom, the one wish she has had for every Mother’s Day since she had a tween, it was that I would one day have children exactly like myself. She sat smugly through every one of my pubescent tantrums, sipping her tea and awaiting her turn to say, “I told you so.” However, my kids have been bittersweet for my mother. While she loves them to the ends of time and would seriously set up a kill room if anyone so much as accidentally tripped one of them, she must be somewhat disappointed at how well behaved they all are (So far! For the love of God! So far! Don’t jinx me).

That’s why I’m convinced my mom recently adopted two dogs. You see, my mom has had the same decrepit Boston Terrier for 14 years. Suddenly, last year, my mom decided to adopt a Bernese Mountain Dog and a chocolate lab. Well, the lab was a few months ago.

Anyway, today, my mom dropped off her wolf pack for me to watch casually while she ran some errands. I was leery as she left and her Bernese, named Rookie, took running leaps against my patio door causing the house to shake. She assured me, once she was gone, all would be super swell.

All was not super swell.

First, the baby gate I had in place to keep the dogs outside was blasted into a million small shards.

Then, as I was attempting to piece together the mayhem, I went to find the lab, Spice, who was halfway under the back fence like Chance in Homeward Bound. 

As I sweatily hauled boulders to cover the holes (did I mention I am also watching four children and my own dog on top of this?), Spice squeaked through the fence and pranced around the yard. I had dirt smeared across my brow as I lunged at her and got her scared enough of the bedlam in my eyes to scoot into the house.

When I got her inside, I could hear my son screaming, “Mom! This is an EMERGENCY!” And I tripped over five dogs to get to the back door where he was covered, and I mean covered in hot, fresh dog diarrhea. Under his nail. Bottoms of his feet. Smeared all over his clothes.

I stripped him down to nothing in the backyard while he screamed, “Mom!!!! Are the POLICE GOING TO ARREST ME FOR BEING NAKED?!!!!” Over and over until the hushed whispers of my neighbor’s Mother’s Day party on the other side of the fence assured me everyone was aware of the situation.

When I got back in the living room, Spice had escaped the leash I tied her up on and pranced around with the glee of a thousand pigs in shit.

So, here I sit, awaiting my mother’s return. One glass of wine in. Four sleeping dog at my feet and thanking the shit out of my mom for putting up with 10 times this on a daily basis from my brother and me. You are an angel and I would do it again. Maybe, like 10 years from now? 20? Either way, love your guts and would do anything. You bring the wine next time.

The Christmas Apron: Becoming a Cooking Mom

The Christmas Apron: Becoming a Cooking Mom

This year, my husband and I decided we weren’t buying each other Christmas gifts. We were just going to cut to the chase and buy our own gifts. This circumvents the lackluster present giving we are known for. I still have a snake-skin planner in the back of my closet from 2012 that has yet to be opened. We just would rather do our own thing.

The problem? The minute my husband gives me the green light to spend money, it is spent. Let’s be real, most of the time, it’s spent before he gives the all clear.  So, that night I was headed to a craft fair. I had a fire in my pocket and was ready to make it rain.

Continue reading my guest blog featured at Only in My Crazy World. 


30 Flirty and Thriving: 6 Reasons Why Turning 30 is the Shit

30 Flirty and Thriving: 6 Reasons Why Turning 30 is the Shit

Nearly every morning while I sip my coffee trying to suck the life force back into my withered soul after a night of 15 sleep spurts, I talk to my fellow BFF blogger, Cassandcastle. This year, the hot topic was sobbing to one another about turning 30. We had the pleasure of hitting this milestone less than a month apart from each other. Every single morning we would whimper about how dreadful the big 3-0 was going to be.

“No more Netflix marathons in our underwear,” I would sniffle. “It’s just not cute or feasible anymore.”

“I haven’t even had kids yet!” Cassandcastle would exclaim. “I don’t have time for Netflix! I need to use these ovaries before they turn into California Raisins!”

Ever single morning we would stare at our calendars wondering how many more nights of: dancing on bars, sleeping until noon, eating Taco Bell without the need of Maalox we could squeeze in before our inevitable spiral into the nursing home.

But, you know what? We became 30 flirty and thriving last spring (against all our prayers to stumble upon the Fountain of Youth) and we fucking love it. I’m serious. We talked about this not too long ago. Since turning 30, we feel like we finally got shit handled. Things seem less cloudy, more grown-up and we love it.

Here are the ways life has improved since becoming 30 flirty and thriving:

  1. My premature gray hair suddenly isn’t weird anymore. Due to my bone-crippling anxiety, I started turning gray right out of high school. This was a regular Greek tragedy 12 years ago. Now? I am fitting right in amongst my fellow silver sisters.
  2. Money isn’t as tight. The other day, I asked my husband how it happens that we now have four kids but seem to be less stressed about money than we were in our mid-20’s. His response? We no longer have to support our binge drinking, delivery food ordering and nights on the town. Also, yoga pants are a lot less money than jeans. Hooray to no social life!
  3. Taking care of shit. I finally realized, in my wise old age, that if I avoid doing things my parents aren’t going to swoop in and save the day anymore. That means actually paying my bills before they are due and cleaning up my house before the mice take over. This has stupendously alleviated my anxiety. Who knew?
  4. Eating better. Turning 30 might not seem old to some of you, but to me it was an eye opener. I’m not some young number who has all the time in the world. I am a silver-haired mother of four with a sickeningly low amount of life insurance. I needed to take care of my body before I was on My 600 Pound Life. Again, putting a vegetable in my mouth in place of a french fry has also cleared up a lot of mental instabilities. Apparently I should have a listened a wee bit in health class, eh?
  5. Mom bras are in style. When you’re 20 and wearing those embroidered bras that come in a box with straps the width of duct tape, you’re not really the cutest. But, when you are well-endowed a lot of times box bras are all that fit. Now that I’m 30, I feel that my cone boobs are a badge of honor. Get it, girl.
  6. Confidence. Being 20, especially in your early 20’s is kind of like a giant panic attack. You’re thrown into the world head-first and have the figure out who the hell you are. You kind of know what you want, but not really. You kind of know who you want to be with, but not really. Now? I actually have a five year plan. I don’t apologize for who I am anymore. I accept and know who I am, what I want and what it will take to get there. Eyes on the prize. Let’s Jennifer Garner the shit out of this 30 flirty and thriving-style.
Dear Jealous Women, Let’s Stop Hating Each Other

Dear Jealous Women, Let’s Stop Hating Each Other

I love reality television. My husband and my guilty pleasures are Survivor and Big Brother. We watch every single season and it never fails, early on in every season the women want to have an all-girls’ alliance. They grab hands all teary-eyed and lift up their Rosie the Riveter fists and exclaim, “This will be the year the women’s alliance succeeds!” And it never, ever fails, one or two episodes later those same jealous women who held each other in that Hands Across America moment tear into each other like hyenas on a carcass. I have yet to see women successfully join together without ripping each other apart.


I am just as guilty as the next woman. I have had many, many moments of hating the woman next to me for being prettier than me, smarter than me, skinnier than me, more annoying than me, etc. There are many, many women I would love nothing more than to bitch slap and only a select few I feel I can tolerate. I will talk shit for DAYS, but I am not perfect.


So, I find it just as hard as the next woman to wrap my mind around banding together with my fellow ladies. This morning, however, I felt a real sense of pride for the women in my social circles. I see women every single damn day trying to better themselves. Just today, I watched a video from a very passionate friend discussing the benefits of a supplement she sells. I saw another mom singing “You Are My Sunshine” to herself in the mirror to pump herself up for the day. I have another friend hosting a class to teach women to become empaths. I see us all growing and learning and teaching and becoming something.


So, let’s stop being jealous women.


We should be proud of each other. We shouldn’t be rolling our eyes every time we see a new makeup tutorial. We should be sharing the shit out of it because maybe you don’t want to splurge but maybe someone you know has four kids and one hour of sleep and needs nothing more than foundation that can cover a third eyeball.


Maybe we can all think a little differently. Watch one of their videos or read one of their posts. Look at the passion that most of them have. I just watched a video of the friend who sells health supplements, and while the inner bitch in me wants to be like: WE GET IT! I really took a look at that passion and that desire to provide for her family. That feeling of finding her own way in a world full of people ready to cut her down. How many times has she heard criticisms? Yet, there she is. She believes in what she does, she loves what she does and she is making it happen. And she is fucking great at it.


I have another friend who just started selling hats she is knitting every single day to try and sell. God bless her, she loves doing it and is really great at it. But, I can also see the nervousness. I can see how terrifying it must be to put yourself out there in front of hundreds of jealous women on Facebook unsure of what is being whispered about and who is doubting you.



There are so many of us. So many of us sitting in our sweatpants biting our nails over putting ourselves out there. We put off our big step for one more day, week, year. We are terrified of our fellow women. Well, let’s be that change. Let’s support each others’ passions. Whatever they may be. Maybe it’s taking three minutes a week to read someone’s blog. Maybe it’s not Amazon Priming all the Christmas gifts this year. Maybe it’s treating ourselves to mascara that costs more than $3 because we fucking deserve it.



Let’s do this for all of us, ladies. Share that status. Help them out.


Jealous women can make our own all-girls’ alliance.


It’s us against the world


Expert of Nothing: Why I Don’t have a Blog Niche

Expert of Nothing: Why I Don’t have a Blog Niche

Being a blogger it’s quite important to know your genre, your blog niche, your claim to fame. Know your audience. Have people who give a flying shit about what you have to say. Be someone that people want to know what you know.


I’m not one of those people.


The absolute hardest part about creating a blog, for me, was picking the blog niche. Seriously. There was no “Parenting Like Your Drowning” blog niche. I even checked for “Losing Weight Because Your Dinner Consists of Dried Edamame and Rotten Grapes” blog niche. Nada.


I have tried my hand at pretending to good at things I’m not. I’ve tried to squeeze my lazy ass in the DIY category but I just killed weeds once and then accepted weeds as part of my landscaping. I tried to write about parenting like I knew what the fuck I am doing. In the end all I had was something to make me laugh until I cried when my kids hit their terrible twos, threes and fours and turned into assholes just like everyone else’s kids.


Losing weight is probably the one thing in my life I have attempted more than anything. Currently, I am on the upswing of that battle being down 90 pounds from my highest weight. Does that make me an expert? Hell no. I am one crisis away from running naked in the streets with a Reese’s mustache on my way to McDonald’s.


For real though, I have never worked hard enough at anything to be considered an expert. I have this personality flaw that expects to be the best at everything and avoid all the things I know I’m not good at. In school I avoided all activities that required running. This discovery came in the second grade when teachers paired us up and forced us to race each other like an underground dog fight. For some reason, I remember my teacher on a lawn chair smoking a fat cigar with fist fulls of cash and a fedora, but (I hope) that can’t be right. Let’s just say I remember being grateful one kid had crutches so I wouldn’t face the humiliation of last place.


After that, I avoided running like the plague. I joined softball under the misguided notion running wasn’t really a necessary skill. The first day of practice the coach started us off running around the gym like quarter horses and I nonchalantly ran half a lap right to the locker room and back to the safety of my Dixie Chicks CDs and Cooler Ranch Doritos.


So, turning 30 this year I am determined to stop avoiding things that make me uncomfortable. I’m going to work hard at things that I’m not naturally talented at. I mean, the list is short, but I’m sure I can find a few new things (ha!). Believe it or not, two decades after Michael Vick’s long-lost love had us coughing up blood on the tennis court, I took up running. I still could get passed by someone with a broken leg, but I do it. Maybe it’s embarrassing to be running like Quasimodo with a piano on his back, but I like to pretend I’m a good example for my kids. Maybe they will see me and know if they work hard, one day they can run like Quasimodo WITHOUT the piano.


But, what am I the expert of? I would like to say I am the expert of my life and telling it like I really don’t give two shits what anyone thinks. Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe it is. All I know is I love telling my stories. I love when I see someone at the grocery store and they cackle about reading my bush shaving story. It’s fun. It makes life fun and, hey, what else can you talk about in the produce section besides pubes?


A Tale of My Most Embarrassing Moment.

A Tale of My Most Embarrassing Moment.

As I mentioned in a recent blog, I tend to have to go #2 at the most inopportune moments. Most of the time, I get that boiling feeling in my guts when I am as far away from a toilet as humanly possible. Also, I have the luxury of having no more than a one minute window between feeling like I’m going to shit my pants and actually shitting my pants. This is one of the many ways I charm my darling husband.

I have had emergency status poop pains countless times in my life. Restaurants are a biggie — patrons love the hot stench of diarrhea with their meals, I’ve heard. Almost always it’s an embarrassing situation where I have to rely on others to help me get to a toilet before all hell breaks loose (literally).

The absolute most embarrassing moment of my life comes with the memory of violent bowel pains. The year was 2002. I was 17 years old and a camp counselor for a week-long sleep-away camp for sixth graders. I had just gotten a vicious perm on my fried-blonde hair, my breasts weren’t awkward anymore and the biggest crush of my young adulthood was also a counselor. The odds were in my favor.

I spent the first half of the week up at dawn braiding my hair and practicing different ways to wear a baseball cap to impress this dreamboat I had my eye on. I was looking forward to a hike, appropriately called The Death March, that would take place the day before we left camp. This would give me the opportunity to stealthily slide next to this hunk and discuss Creed or Eminem or something else 13-years-ago-manly.

The morning we departed onto this six-mile adventure, the senior counselors gave everyone apples as a form of hydration to keep the tweens from getting too out of hand. This was meant to be held onto for the trip and eaten when we needed it, but being the instant gratification whore that I am, I gobbled it before step one.

I spent the first mile working up the courage and speed to get into stride with my crush. However, just as I was about to make my Night Moves, my stomach rumbled. This rumble was a mixture of under-ripe apple, empty stomach, teenage nerves and mild exertion. It could be heard 10 campers back. I wasn’t going to give up that easily, so I took a deep breath and paced on. I barely made it 50 yards before my guts clenched so hard I had to snap my butt cheeks together before an immediate evacuation.

I ran backwards toward the senior counselors.

“I need to get back to camp immediately,” I growled at this towering Home Ec teacher with a leather fanny pack.

“Oh, ummm, OK. Is everything OK?”

“I feel very sick and just need to get back. Which way is camp?”

“Oh, honey, I will show you. Let’s go.”

Since my head was swooning over the American Eagle model for the entire morning, I hadn’t kept track of how long we were walking or in what direction. I had no choice but to let this nervous woman skittishly lead me to a toilet.

After five minutes, I was sweating and swaying with the pain in my guts. Oh, and we were lost.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I stammered as though I had been shot point-blank.

“Well,” she said excitedly, “I remembered to pack a Kleenex! You can just go pee over there while I figure out where we are going.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t have to go pee.”

But, before I could sit here and hash out the graphic details with a woman I had to see second hour for the next two months of school, I snatched her Kleenex and raced up a hill to get as far away from her as possible. I was frantic and shit was getting real. I dropped my CK shorts and the noises that came out of my body were similar to the scene in Anaconda when the snake pukes up Jon Voight. 

You can hear it, can’t you.

After what felt like a lifetime of pain, I finally starting coming to. I looked to my right and to my absolute horror, my Home Ec teacher was standing 1.5 feet away from me. She had followed me up the hill to “stand guard.” She had seen, heard and smelled the most atrocious thing I had ever done in a closer vicinity than the tree I was splattering upon.

I whipped my head in shame in the other direction and glanced over the back of the hill. Not only was it NOT camp, trees or anything else I thought was on the other side of this hill. But, it was the entire sixth grade winding next to a river enjoying the fecal scenery before forging the river.

My one moist Kleenex was about the equivalent of using a Q-Tip to clean a severed limb, but I quickly attempted to clean up shop and raced back to camp. I sat in the moldy showers watching my shame and never-to-be love life swirl down the drain.

Now, you tell me. What was your most embarrassing moment? I sure hope it was shit related!

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