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Weird Shit Women Do When Trying to Lose Weight

Weird Shit Women Do When Trying to Lose Weight

I spent a good chunk of my pubescent years in Weight Watchers meetings. I can remember listening to blue-haired biddies’ latest shish kabob recipes while I scribbled notes on Lisa Frank notebooks hoping the mere act of writing would burn off some of the Coke I drank that day.

I can remember, as a middle schooler, laying spread eagle on our dining room floor telling my mom I felt faint. She (seriously) told me it was because I ate some vegetables and my body wasn’t used to it. I was astonished. Wasn’t I supposed to feel better? Coke didn’t do me wrong like that.

Since then, I have been in a constant battle with the scale and surrounded by other women trying to lose weight. Ask any woman and she will tell you her goal weight faster than she can tell you her own birthday. It seems every single woman in the world has had this number in her head her entire life and once she sees it on the scale, she will take over the world. In her tried and true attempts to reach her goal, there’s some weird, dark, sad shit that races through her brain. Shit she only tells her friends who sob to her about their latest midnight rendezvous with their freezer cheesecakes. Shit that she has thought day-in and day-out for as long as she can remember.

Here are a couple examples:

  1. She considers an eating disorder. At some point during her many attempts at losing that dreaded muffin top, she considers what it would be like to have an eating disorder. Probably not the one that you don’t eat, but maybe she could eat and then puke it up? Or what about laxatives? Then, she remembers the women out there who really have these diseases and feels immensely guilty. She adds this thought to her laundry list of issues to discuss to her future therapist.
  2. She doesn’t hate being sick. Vomit and diarrhea have a little bit of a silver lining during diet season. While she sits on the toilet with her puke bucket in hand, she Googles how many calories she earned back from being sick. Even if it’s just a cold, she is grateful for the time asleep instead of in front of the fridge.
  3. She misses things about her fat body. She’s doing it! She’s losing the weight! The numbers on the scale are becoming tolerable. But, what’s this? Where did these wrinkles come from? Since when does her arm jiggle like that? Now that she doesn’t have the extra plump, her body is shriveling and she is having flashbacks to Fat Bastard’s thin body and wondering if she would rather be fat and less shrivelled.
  4. She takes not-quite-before pictures. Her iPhone is loaded with pictures of herself in her skivvies in the most unflattering of angles. However, they are never quite at her heaviest since she wanted to make sure she was actually going to lose weight before snapping photos of her FUPA for the world (or even just herself) to see.
  5. She spends a lot of money. Obviously, she needs a Ninja for her smoothies, new Tupperware for her meal planning, 14 new pairs of yoga pants, running shoes, a Fitbit, a veggie noodle-maker, gym membership, a new purse for starting this journey, Spotify membership, sports bras, Absolute Nutrition visit, Whole Foods run, 5K entry fee, some “goal jeans,” and the list goes on and on. Don’t question her. Hell hath no fury like a woman on a weight loss mission.
  6. She considers everything exercise. She skips the elevator to the second floor and checks out her calves for definition in the break room mirror. She is more interested in sex after reading the Cosmo breakdown of how many calories each position burns. She obsessively checks her Fitbit after each trip to the bathroom.
  7. She feels invincible. Every woman who’s making strides to get healthier glows like a beam of sunshine. She is determined. She looks like Michael Phelps at the starting line. Ain’t nobody knocking her down. This is her time. This is the last time. She is woman. Hear her roar.

What weird shit do you do when you’re trying to lose weight? Let me know in the comments!

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Gettin’ that Worm: The Life of an Early Bedtime Mom

Gettin’ that Worm: The Life of an Early Bedtime Mom

It’s 6:25 pm.

All four of my kids are asleep.

This is how it has been most nights since my twins were born. Hell, this is how my life has been for as long as I can remember.

In high school, my best friend was a night owl. As soon as it got dark, she would want to eat fudge, watch scary movies and carry on until dawn. I barely made it past dusk and fell asleep with a chocolate mustache. Then, I was up with the birds reading Seventeen for hours until she cracked her eyeballs open.

Not much as changed, except replace best friend with husband and life has come full circle.

There’s not much I can do. By the time 3 pm rolls around, I can barely function. It’s movie time for the kids and my brain is mashed potatoes. I barely ever follow through with the promises of dinner not out of a can and board games. We are all in our pajamas by 5 pm. If my husband’s home, the kids will stay up until 8. If not? I am crashed with them by 7.

Now, that’s not to say I don’t get up before the sun every day. My kids and I are kicking the day in the face by 5 am. We all leap out of bed like we are auditioning for a musical and seize the shit out of the day. I clean, play, sing, dance, and exercise before my husband wobbles to the bathroom.

Sometimes, well a lot of times, this can mean we miss out on a lot of stuff. Activities that take place at 6 pm make me weak. There’s no way my family of early birds can do more than watch Homeward Bound after 5 pm let alone swim laps in a pool.

There’s times when it pays off. Like for my bi-monthly mom group that starts at 845 am. I am the first mom there with all four of my kids who are dressed, fed and fully prepared to enjoy every ever-loving second of play time. Other moms will roll in with feathers from their pillows still in their buns casting me confused looks like I have a hard drug habit in order to arrive early let alone on time.

So, before you judge me for having my sugarplums nestled before Jeopardy, know that if it comes to an early morning showdown, the Mommy Mack clan has this shit locked down.

What’s your bedtime/wake-up routine? Tell me about it in the comments!

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Christmas Gifts for Mom: What We Really Want

Christmas Gifts for Mom: What We Really Want

I am a member of my local Mother of Preschoolers (MOPS) group. We meet twice a month to finally talk to another adult and drink coffee that isn’t cold with a Lego in it. Last week, we met for our only December meeting. The look of bewilderment, exhaustion and overall twitchiness I felt from these mamas was pretty universal. We planned a day of games, all things sweet and relaxation. It felt a bit like military R&R as we headed into battle this holiday season.

Even the speech was ominous. Our fearless leader spoke of how the idea behind our holiday party was to let loose one last time before we took care of everyone else in the home. I looked around the room at many thousand yard stares and relished every second of our time together. We were ready. It was time.

We suited up with our infinity scarves, leggings, knee-high boots and headed out into the wintery weather to face the Christmas music.

As I climbed into my minivan, sweaty from wrestling four children into their car seats but glowing from mommy-time, I wondered: what about us? What’s on our Christmas lists?

Then, I knew. I got you, girlfriends. Here is the universal FREE list for mommy’s whether they’re naughty or nice because cut us some fucking slack we are held together with tinsel and Starbucks at this point.

Here you go, ladies.

  1. Hot coffee. It doesn’t even have to be good coffee. Our mouths are singed from gulping down the first and only hot sip we are allotted per day, anyway. We just want a few days per year that our coffee is eternally warm.
  2. No bitching about our Priming. Dear men, we really don’t care if you buy us anything. Most of the time, we would prefer to pick out our own shit. So, for one year, please just shut your pie hole about the mountain of Prime boxes on the doorstep. Most of it is toilet paper and bleach, anyway. So what if we sneak a few pairs of leggings in there? We deserve it, damn it.
  3. Time to wrap. Let’s face it. We are all way too neurotic to actually give up control when it comes to Christmas wrapping. But, it would be nice to have it done before the 11th hour on Christmas Eve. Maybe take the kids anywhere so we can handle this shit in the daylight.
  4. Go to sleep without World War II. Oh, we know, Christmas is so thrilling. We are gaga over matching PJs, hot cocoa, cookies, meticulously laying out said cookies and milk, 867 pictures in front of the tree and reading The Night Before Christmas at least a dozen times. However, when mom says it’s time for bed, let’s haul ass without a hassle. We all know we decided to nap instead of wrap presents when we had the chance so we have  at least 8 hours of wrapping and maybe one trip to Target before sunrise.
  5. Don’t change your mind.  My dear, darling son nonchalantly mentioned to his great grandma that he wants a Mickey Mouse airplane for Christmas. I quickly retorted, “But you asked Santa for a blue and white airplane. There was no mention of Mickey Mouse.” He whispered in my ear, “Maybe I will change my mind.” You bet your sweet ass I am going to be bragging up the pros of flight for blue and white airplanes as opposed to the cheaply made communist plane driven by Mickey Mouse. That, or I will have a heart attack and be at Walmart at 2 am December 24th. Please, don’t do this to me, I mean Santa, this year.

And that’s it. Five simple things that will make moms’ lives a million times easier this season and won’t cost you a dime. This means more Happy Holidays and less merry fucking Christmas!

The Very, Very Common Cold: Life with a Sick Family

The Very, Very Common Cold: Life with a Sick Family

Will it ever end? Is there life out there? What does the world smell like without the faint burn of Vicks in my nostrils? It seems a sick family is the only one I will ever have.


Preschool is seriously a cesspool. I don’t know why they even go through the charade of washing their hands upon entering the classroom. They might as well walk in, lick each other on the face and get this shit over with. Otherwise, we are just in this constant game of Hot Potato but instead of tossing around a potato, we are just handing the flu and Hand Foot and Mouth to the weakest link.


I’m pretty sure I’ve swallowed more sneezes tonight than I did actual food. The plus side, when I don’t hear my three year old beating the snot out of her brother I know she is frozen somewhere in the house with a six inch snot rocket hanging from her nose. Apparently she has absolutely no idea what to do with a runny nose so she just stands there until it either falls on a cat or I arrive with a tissue/body part to wipe it on.


Once I finally get 10 days of antibiotics in one mouth, I start the next round. Then, another mega strain hits and we are all on our asses again. I took my daughter to her annual doctor’s visit today and the doctor said, “Did you know she has an ear infection?”


“Well, she just finished taking antibiotics for one. So, I might have known about it if it’s the same one,” I said.


“Let’s give her a stronger antibiotic. Except this one, if you don’t give her food before she will puke all over you,” he said.




It also seems as soon, as the antibiotics need to be dispersed, the husband curls into the fetal position under six comforters and wheezes out, “It got me,” right before passing out into a three day coma. You poke him with your toe every couple of hours in hopes to revive him, but he moans and let’s you know he is seeing the white light. He apparently caught the only fatal strand of the common cold.


Even though I feel like loading bleach in a fire hose and blasting this house clean, there are some upsides to mass sickness.

  1. Everyone is super cuddly. Little warm foreheads in the crook of my neck almost make it worth being used as a human Kleenex.
  2. We get to watch all the best 90’s kids movies because the kids have no energy to fight me. They lay there and fall in love with Home Alone, Beethoven and Aladdin.
  3. They don’t complain about meals because popsicles, ice cream and slushies are dessert after every meal. Ate your breakfast? Let’s have a sundae. I feel bad for you.


That’s really it. I mean, 90’s movies, cuddles and ice cream seems like my dream come true. But, I am willing to give it all up to have one day that I’m not wearing boogers.


Here’s to hoping.


Mom Phrases: What She Says and What She Really Means

Mom Phrases: What She Says and What She Really Means

Guest Blog by Busy Mom Diary

As parents we do so much for our kids. We spend hours searching the house for the blue sippy cup like it’s an Academy Award because it’s the only damn sippy cup that your child will take with them for a nap, and for the love of all things holy, we are never skipping another nap time. We let our children paint their own nails and tell them how fantastic it looks on their tiny nails as we try not to wince as the nail polish finds its wan onto the carpet. We build their self-esteem by telling them how amazing, smart, funny, pretty and handsome they are throughout their childhood.


But then there are the times when they’ve asked us the same question 100 times in a period of 5 minutes, we’re reached our limit and we have so much to say but we really shouldn’t say it so directly. So we say something completely different to what we are really thinking.


You know the words and phrases that I’m talking about. You have probably heard your own mother say them and you likely even use them yourself from time to time.


Like these select phrases…


Maybe: The answer is no and you better stop asking me before you get in to serious trouble.


I will think about it: I really don’t have the time or the energy to argue with you and I’m hoping that you will forget about this conversation all together.


Let’s see who can be the most quiet until we get home: Please zip your mouth, I’m trying to concentrate and drive because I have no idea where the heck I am going.


What? I’m pretty sure that I heard what you said, but am giving you a second chance to change your mind on that comment.


I’ll be there in 5 minutes: Crap, I forgot I was suppose to pick you up and I’m now just putting on my shoes.


We are leaving in 5 minutes: Where are your shoes? Get your jacket, we are leaving right now.


Where is your dad? You are annoying me and I’m bout to lose my shit, please go find someone else to annoy right now.


We’ll see: I’m not sure at the present time but you can bet that your attitude and behaviour over the next 24 hours will help me decide an answer.


One second/In a minute I’m busy watching TV or doing somethin’ and I’m not moving from this position until a commercial or until you shout at me again.


Wow, really? I can’t believe you just did that or said something, but I’m kinda also proud and I’m trying not to smirk.


Uh-huh: I’m not really listening and I’m hoping you’ll stop talking soon.


About This Busy Mom

I am a full-time working, potty-mouthed and tempered, home-cooking, thrift-finding thirty-something mom on a budget. I live in Ontario, Canada with her cancer-surviving husband and their two children, aged 12 and 14.  I started this little blog as a hobby but now it is being used it as a platform to talk and speak out about my personal family experiences, my daughter’s challenging time with mental illness, parenting adventures and anything else that comes to my attention. I also occasionally share product reviews and recipes.


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!

Bushwacked: When I Didn’t Bikini Shave Before My C-Section

Bushwacked: When I Didn’t Bikini Shave Before My C-Section

There’s enough shit you have to remember before going into surgery and leaving with an infant. Walking in, you have a luggage rack full of: Boppies, diaper bags, diapers (both adult and baby), and so.many.fucking.clothes.

When my daughter was born, it was my second c-section. The first was a whirlwind of an emergency after three days of labor and I barely remember it. Walking in, I thought I was an old pro. I was ready for anything. My pubes, on the other hand, were a different story.

When my husband and I arrived at the hospital, my mother was impatiently waiting to get the show on the road.  We were all glowing with anticipation to meet this little girl. I’m pretty sure we all walked into the hospital room holding hands with happy tears in our eyes. This was the moment we had all been waiting for.

I quickly flopped on the bed in my starchy gown ready to experienced one of life’s most precious moments. During my first c-section, the time between the announcement of necessary c-section and the moment I heard my son’s first cry was less than 10 minutes. I was expecting this type of urgency during round two and was sadly mistaken.

The elderly nurse that would be preparing me for surgery waltzed in immediately and cut to the chase.

“Did you shave?” She croaked, no doubt just stepping in from a cigarette break.

“Huh?” I said, quickly glimpsing at my loved ones’ bright red faces seated next to me hoping she was talking about my armpits.

“Your bikini area, did you shave it?” She asked again, this time with much more vigor in her turkey neck.

“I was not told this was necessary…” I whispered, hoping I could avoid this impending doom.

“No problem. I will take care of it,” she said and with the whirl of one liver-spotted hand she had a hedge trimmer between my thighs.

Did I mention my mother is still sitting right next to me?

“Holy hell!” I squealed as I watched the scene before me unravel.

“The Packers play tonight, eh?” My mom quickly questioned my husband at ten octaves higher than normal in order to be heard over the landscaping that was taking place. I’m not sure my husband ever answered her as he was vomiting up giggles so hard he couldn’t function.

While I stared at the ceiling, pinching the fat of my thighs willing this moment to be over, I heard the trimmers stop. The room grew silent with happiness as the awkward cloud began to dissolve.
Before I could let out the pained breath that was gripping inside my rib cage, I heard ol’ Turkey Neck screech, “We need another clippers in here!”
She screamed this out the open door of my room to apparently awaken every person in a coma in the floor above us.

My lack of a beauty regime in the prior nine months was wielding a monster that could not be tamed by one go-round with a trimmer. My mother’s face was puce as she looked on from her rocking chair. A chair she, no doubt, envisioned holding her granddaughter in for the first time, but instead watched a Barbie wig pile at the feet of a nurse who should have retired during the Clinton Administration.

My lower half burned while this woman wrenched, tugged and buzzed every inch of my bits. We could have eaten dinner off my loins that evening. She didn’t give up though, not until 30 MINUTES passed and I whimpered in pain. Pain for both my bikini area and shriveling pride.

If it wasn’t for the distraction of the surgery and soon-to-be newborn, I am sure I would have died more than once of embarrassment that afternoon. Moral of the story is: even if you can’t see your va-jay-jay for six months, it still needs to be at-the-ready no matter what the circumstance.

What’s your embarrassing birth story? Huge bush? Poop on the table? I want to know! Tell me about it in the comments!

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Shit Show: The Day My Kid Ate Poop

Shit Show: The Day My Kid Ate Poop

Please don’t judge me.

Yesterday was the worst day I have ever had as a mom. It made me rethink my decision to procreate.

Let me take you back…

I had just gotten home from work and was just getting ready to relax. Kids got their kisses and hugs and ran off to play. As I stretched my weary body I said to my husband, “Isn’t it so nice now that the kids can play together alone?” Feeling like I had just jinxed myself, I peeked in their room. Adorable playing was taking place and my heart felt like mush. How precious! What cherubs!

About 3.5 minutes later, all hell broke loose.

I sat back in the living room and heard my son shut the bedroom door. I should have went with my gut and went back in. But I waited two minutes and opened the door to pure horror.

My son had taken off his diaper and my one year old daughter had one turd in her hand and one turd in HER MOUTH. The worst part? She was smiling.

I stood there. I froze. Bile rose in my throat as I looked at her poopy lips and my son’s poopy butt hiding in the corner.

What. The. Ever-loving FUCK.

Quickly, I leapt to action after swallowing my dinner back down. I screamed for my husband who threw the Poop Gifter in the tub as I dug my finger in the Poop Eater’s craw.

I have never gagged so hard in my life as I called Poison Control and had the most embarrassing, yet reassuring conversation take place. People sure are nice on that hotline and, apparently, unfazed by my heathen offspring.

Now that the shock has worn off, I think the most horrifying part was the gleeful expression on my daughter’s face. She liked it! What the hell have I spawned?!

What horror stories do you have? Tell me in the comments!

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