A Word, Please….

Ladies, ladies, ladies…it is high time we have a come to Jesus regarding these Sketchers cellulite destroying shoes.

What is it going to take to get the message out there? These are NOT magic shoes. And only magic shoes could possibly zap the cellulite from behind our thighs.

Really, I know how easy it is to be wishful in this arena. I would love more than anything to be able to have a pair of magic shoes do my dirty work while I simply tool around the mall or watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I hate to break it to ya…Ain’t. Gonna. Happen. So let’s stop wasting our money on hideous shoes (not to mention, there are grown women wearing Sketchers out there) and lose our cellulite the old fashioned way–by purchasing magic creams.

On another subject, if you happen to be a person that goes to a gym class wearing light gray cotton pants with no panties (KZ-this is not directed at you) then please hear this: everyone in class can see the sweat in your booty crack and worse yet, your lady biz. I wanted to hug the girl in Body Pump today who FINALLY decided to go with the black pants instead of the gray. I was getting so embarrassed for her.

Just file that under “good to know” and “dri-fit”.


Okay…I am not even kidding.

I swear to you that last night when we were out with some friends, a girl I know (who I like very much) totally felt me up to investigate whether or not I was wearing Spanx. She kind of sidled up to me and put her arm halfway around the bottom of my waist and ran her hand against my back.

Let me save you the trouble…I do, in fact, wear Spanx. The secret is out. Okay, not so much of a secret…I’m a 35 year old mother of two.

But I will say it loud and proud…I AM A SPANX LOVER. I want to kiss the hand of the woman that invented them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t like to advertise it by letting the seams show through my clothes (it sort of ruins the illusion) but I’m not ashamed to say it: I need a good old fashioned girdle sometimes. Having two babies (and gaining an average of 50 pounds each time…oops) tends to shift things around in the middle section. I say, why not take advantage of the genius of spandex to help smooth things out a bit.

It’s totally worth the suffocation and circulatory distress for the muffin top not to jiggle when you walk in heels (my big girl once asked me why my “booty was so jiggly” and I had to refrain from shaking her and yelling “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!”).

So…young, childless girls, next time you suspect that a mom friend of yours is wearing Spanx, instead of giving her a TSA security patdown, just play along and tell her how good she looks. It will brighten her day otherwise marked by tantrums, poopy diapers and sending little peeps to timeout.

One day, you’ll struggle to get those jokers on and walk around all day breathless but tight in all the right places and appreciate the reciprocation.

Water Fountain

I am an unabashed germaphobe.

I flush public toilets with my feet, I only touch elevator buttons with my elbow or pinky, I use my own pen at the pediatrician, I haven’t touched a bathroom door handle in years, I can’t bring myself to put my fingers in the e. coli infested holy water at church, Port-A-Potties make my heart race, and I am utterly terrified of dirty knives and cross contamination in restaurant kitchens.

Last night, I was making fajitas and I thought a little speck of raw meat juice may have possibly splashed on my chin so I rubbed a huge gob of hand sanitizer all over it (but I did it in the corner so my husband didn’t see me. I try not to advertise my crazy). Anyone who knows me well knows that this is just the tip of the iceberg.

But there is another thing that is the stuff of my nightmares: water fountains. Water fountains are repulsive to me. I NEVER drink out of them. I could be hallucinating as a result of dehydration and I wouldn’t touch a water fountain with a ten foot pole.

Not only do I think the actual fountain part is disgusting, even the button gives me the heebs.

And today, I was slapped right in the Purelled face with the reason why.

That reason would be grimy, sweaty little children.

When I picked up my girl from school today, I watched in horror as a little boy literally mauled the water fountain with his mouth and tongue. Inside I was screaming, STOP!!!! PLEASE STOP!!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!! STOP!!!!!! I had to refrain from tackling the little boy who was next in line from drinking after this water fountain molester. It was revolting.

Now, I try REALLY hard not to let my fear of germs rub off on my little girls. And I wince in terror when my big girl wants a drink at a park or the mall. If I didn’t bring anything for her to drink (which you know is rare because we have already discussed my preparedness) I usually let her. But you best believe we have had many discussions about how to properly drink out of a water fountain, including how we NEVER touch our mouths to it (we also drilled proper toilet seat nest building and good hand washing technique in the days leading up to kindergarten).

So moms, whattaya say we make a pact?

Can we all just talk to our little people about the correct way to drink out of a fountain that doesn’t involve any mucous membranes coming in contact with common surfaces? I would greatly appreciate that. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

But just in case, my girl will be showing up to school tomorrow with her own personal water supply stashed in her tote bag.

If you think I’m joking, think again.


I have said it before and I’ll say it
again: I am not the best mom out there.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my children beyond words. I don’t love them any less than any other mom loves her children. That being said, I’m not winning any trophies if you know what I mean.

See, I sometimes subscribe to the “whatever it takes” method of parenting. And sometimes I stoop pretty low. Like for example, I haven’t been feeling well for the last two days. (I have a little “wirus” as my doctor put it. Nothing major, sore throat and body aches but it’s just enough to put me into the “whatever it takes” mode).

Tonight, my terrorist (okay…that’s in kind of poor taste, but we had a Vietnamese neighbor in Colorado who told is his daughter was a “terrorist” instead of a “terror” and we thought it was so damn funny, we haven’t been able to let it go), wasn’t diggin’ what we served her for dinner. So she came over and demanded some crackers. I got the crackers out, but she wanted “cracker bag” so, what the hell, I gave it to her. Just please, baby, take your crackers and go see what Elmo’s up to.

She came back and handed me the crackers. What was left was less than a half of the sleeve. She ate like 20 saltines. I was afraid she was going to dehydrate from the salt. But whatever…she was quiet for a few minutes, so I’ll keep my eye on her for any swelling.

Here’s another example: I carry a handful of Dum Dum lollipops in my purse for emergencies. You know, emergencies like being at the post office and your baby tearing 25 greeting cards out of the display (actually happened) or on an airplane and a woman is sighing loudly behind you due to the high pitched screech (actually happened. More than once).

So we were at the pediatrician the other day and the baby is yelling over the doctor as he assures me that my big girl isn’t dying and does not, in fact, have the Hodgkins disease with which I have Google diagnosed her and I am trying so hard to listen, I just dug in and gave her a sucker. Then it takes me a couple minutes to notice that she’s running back and forth in the exam room with a Dum Dum stick hanging out of her mouth. So I sheepishly say to the doctor, “I probably shouldn’t have given my baby a lollipop. And then let her run with it IN FRONT of her doctor,” to which he says flatly, “no…probably not.” Oops. My bad.

But sometimes for me, it’s just about survival. My kids eat a lot of stuff and do a lot of stuff I probably should not let them eat and do. But it’s just easier on those days when you’re exhausted and your husband’s out of town and your hair hasn’t been washed in days and you flooded the front courtyard with the hose to let your kids eat Lunchable Nachos with a side of potato chips for dinner then have a “wipes bath” before letting them watch Nick Jr. until they fall asleep.

Because, by golly, I will live to see another day.

And so will they.

Duck Face

This one’s gonna be short, but I’ve got something on my mind.  Ladies…I do not understand the phenomena that is the duck face.  Can someone please explain to me why girls post pictures of themselves all over creation while sticking out their lips and making a duck face??  What I really want to know is who is telling these girls that this is cute.  ATTENTION YOUNG WOMEN OF AMERICA:  the duck face is anything but cute.  I promise you that your regular smiley face is WAAAYYYY prettier than that weird duck face.  It’s not hot.  Did some pimply boy tell you it was?  When did this photo pose sweep the nation?  No one was making duck faces when I was in my 20’s (although I could have stood for someone to tell me to pull the waist of my pants down from my boobs a little and thin out my eyebrows just a tad).  I’m just sayin’ girls…lose the duck face.  You’ll thank me when you’re 35 and your lip stick isn’t bleeding into all those little wrinkles from the constant pursing of your lips for photo ops.


I am in better shape than I have ever been in my life.  That is not to say I am in “great” shape.  I hate when people on Facebook brag about how much exercise they do.  It is so irritating.  Once when I ran a race, my friend tried to make me post my time on Facebook.  I told her no way.  Anyway, that is not what this is about.

I HATE to exercise.  I dread it like nothing else.  It is not my thing and I am very unathletitic (funny considering I am married to an athlete).

But you wanna know why I am in the best shape I’ve ever been in?  Two words, people:  FREE BABYSITTING.

We joined an awesome health club in April and they have an even more awesome kids club where I am allotted two and a half hours a day of PURE FREEDOM.

Now, people who know me well must know that when my big girl was a baby, I would no more have put her in a gym nursery than dangled her over an erupting volcano. But that second kid is a game changer (all you three plus moms, seriously…kudos).  I throw my little one in there and run for my life even though I am beyond repulsed that she plays with all those nasty toys and almost constantly sucks her thumb.

Let me just tell you, my 20 month old baby is a terror on two feet. She is basically rendering me home bound. Carts, strollers or any other type of constricting devices are not in her repertoire. She runs away from me in the mall while old ladies look on in horror. She takes off in Costco screaming for cake.  I frequently get pity laughs in public places because she is so wild.  She is more than what you’d call a handful (I put the blame for this solely on my husband who is the stuff of legends in the behavior department).

Anyway, it is getting very difficult to go anywhere with her.

And what’s worse than exercise??

Staying home all day with a restless little monster who is capable of having me 5150’d all by herself.  So sometimes, I go to the gym when I don’t really feel like it. Just so I can be alone. To waste time, I wander around observing group fit classes (which begs the question:  where exactly does one purchase one of those tinkly Zumba skirts?), I sit and have a coffee, I play on my phone, I talk to my friends. Sometimes I just walk on the treadmill and watch reruns of Lost. I go so slow that I might as well be eating a bag of Sour Patch Kids on there.

But sometimes exercising is just the lesser of two evils.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually do productive exercise there most of the time. But if I have time left over after my workout, you better believe I’m sitting in a chair in the lobby drinking a Coke while checking Facebook and watching the clock to see when my time is up. I even have the option of full salon services–facial, pedicure, massage. That place is the holy land.  It is my saving grace. It is my sanctuary.  Even though I am totally not into health and fitness. I “work out” a lot for a person who despises exercise.

Okay, it’s time to finish this up because I’ve been informed that my dog is tied to a chair outside as a punishment for eating a piece of a grilled cheese.



Let me ask you this: Is it HORRIBLE of me not to want to sign my daughter up for Daisy Girl Scouts because all of the moms seem so utterly uncool?

Except for my sweet friend Ozzie. She’s legit.

I mean, I’m not the coolest gal around, but I think I’ve still got a little swagger if you know what I’m sayin’. These moms were just so…well…I don’t know…? Just not chicks I think I’d ever text to ask them if they can believe what just happened on Bachelor Pad.

I’m totally going to hell.

One of them was a MAJOR know it all type, complete with nasally voice, LOTS of Cub Scout experience and wretched breath. So I’ll go ahead and also label her as the gaseous one. Someone was just letting them rip during this meeting. It was burning my nose hair.

Anyway, they call an “information meeting” at 6:30 on a school night. These ladies clearly are unaware that my house is like a freaking war zone at that time of the evening. So, I had dinner cooked for the husband, two short order meals prepared for their excellencies, dishes all done, real clothes put on and even a little makeup applied for good measure. I left one screaming baby and a hungry husband who is a walking zombie as he got home from a work trip at 5:40 this morning.

As I peeled the little one off of me, I yelled, “You’re going to have to use cookies!! Offer her a cookie!” and I ran out the door. It was an occasion to pull out the big guns.

So…first of all, I get there and realize, oh…I forgot my kid. I didn’t get the memo that I was supposed to bring the prospective Girl Scout. But there was no way in hell I was going back for her. I barely made it out as it was. I could only save myself.

So after a lot of time wasting and waiting around and a lovely video about Girl Scouts, they separated us into groups by age (now is the appropriate time to say that I think the Girl Scout organization is fantastic. I feel very strongly about the value they have for little girls. I think the principles of the Girl Scouts are unfortunately not ingrained enough in kids today. I was so happy to hear that they haven’t taken the word “God” out of the Girl Scout promise as I had expected. I LOVE the Girl Scouts. I ain’t knocking the Girl Scouts. Shout out to Juliette Lowe).

So I went to the table of kinder moms waiting for this information I had come for. What I really wanted to know was how big of a time commitment it is. That’s all. If someone could have told me that, I’d have packed up and walked out.

The first thing the lady tells us is that, well, sorry, this troop has no leader. Right then, the record stopped. It was like someone asked who farted. All eyes went down and no one wanted to make eye contact with anyone else. Then one nice lady volunteered, as long she has an assistant. Great…let’s get down to the information, please. It’s bath night and I have a shit storm brewing at home:

Where are the meetings? Well, that depends. It’s hard to reserve the MPR.

When are the meetings? We don’t know yet. It depends on the leader’s schedule.

How long are the meetings? It depends on the activity.

How many meetings per month? Well, it depends…sometimes one, or maybe a field trip, but none in December or January.

Is there a commitment on the weekend?

Wait for it….IT DEPENDS.

So, there you have it folks. The only information I left with is that there might possibly be a Daisy Troop, it may or may not meet during the week, I may or may not have to commit to the weekends, and they sell cookies. Oh, and also, it is obvious they haven’t caught up with the Boy Scouts in the preparation department.

This One’s For You Jodi….

My old ZTA pledge sister (and former White Violet winner, I might add) had a status update today that involved lunch packing. And in the comments someone suggested she pack a Lunchable (I like this chick’s style).

Then Jodi asked if a Lunchable consisted of 1 serving of protein, 1 serving of grain and 2 servings of fruits and veggies.

Now, I’m not gonna lie, at first I was thinking I might drive out to Ohio and give Jodi a little punch in the teeth for still being such a White Violet, but then she dropped the bomb on me, the SCHOOL is requiring this.

Um, pardon me, school, I don’t think I heard that correctly. Didn’t you mean to say that you should pack whatever you can throw in the lunchbox that you think your kid has a shot at eating even if it’s two Gogurts, a bag of chocolate chip mini muffins and a Capri Sun**?!

I have a problem with this. A BIG one.

I’m all about health and taking care of our children. I know there is a huge problem with childhood obesity. I exercise and try to eat healthy (okay, that’s a lie…I eat enough candy to put an elephant in a sugar coma). But seriously, I get it. I understand the reasoning.

But I do not like it when other people try to replace my judgement with theirs.

Our school also has very stick in the mud rules about food. Snacks must be “healthy” (we don’t pack lunches for school, but we do when we go to afterschool care–that’s right–school isn’t long enough for momma so I put her in Kids Country for an hour a day, sue me). There is no food allowed at all for birthday or holiday parties. But you are welcome to bring some books to donate to the classroom to celebrate your kinder’s birthday. Really? Great. ‘Cause we all know how much a six year old likes giving gifts to others on HER birthday.

It all seems a little bossy to me. I probably shouldn’t tell the school principal that I let my kids eat ice cream for breakfast on their birthdays.

And while we’re on the subject…when did schools become so strangely P.C.?  I was so confused at orientation when I asked if the kinders would have P.E. and they told me no, but then during the first week of school, I was informed they would be having “psychomotor” on Wednesdays and she would have to wear tennis shoes.


What’s so wrong with the word P.E.??  It’s a hell of a lot easier for kinders to say, that’s for sure.  Mine calls it “cycle motor”. I am baffled by this oh-so-California name for P.E.

So here’s the point. You pack your lunch, I’ll pack mine.

The kids can work it off in cycle motor.

**I actually did pack this one day.  But in my defense, let me explain.  My child pretty much only eats peanut butter.  That is no exaggeration.  Her food groups are basically peanut butter (protein), jelly (fruit), Ritz crackers (grain) and yogurt (dairy).  This poses a bit of a problem at a no peanut school.  So for school, we pack a small snack (the contents of which are scrutinized apparently) and for after-school care , we pack a big snack and she eats lunch when she gets home (where the peanut butter flows like water).  And also, we were low on groceries that day.


I did a very stupid thing today.

I took both of my girls to the mall.

I just wanted to kill some time and there was a watch I wanted to look at so we went.

SUCH a big mistake. I’m surprised Nordstrom security didn’t ask us to leave. Or that someone didn’t call DCFS because I was carrying a kicking, screaming, biting child under my arm like a football while pushing the stroller with one hand and yelling at the other child, “Come on!!! HURRY UP!!” I for sure looked like a kidnapper.

I’m also surprised that the risk management team didn’t appear with a waiver for me to sign after my big girl fell on a nail in a taped off construction area while chasing the little one for me and then dripped blood all over the shiny, newly installed tile. She screamed like she had lost a foot. I could not make this shit up.

But while we were waiting our turn at the watch counter, a woman appeared with a small dog. IN A BABY SLING ON HER BODY. (Seriously, lady?) Now, my girls LOVE dogs and they accost any poor dog to come in their sight. This dog was no different. So, we walk over to the lady and the girls are admiring the dog and I can tell the lady is a little annoyed. Umm…lady? If you don’t want to draw attention to your dog, here’s an idea, leave the dog at home and don’t wear him in a sling to Nordstrom.

So the dog is kind of shaking and I’m telling the girls to leave the dog alone and step away. Then my big girl asks, “Mommy, is he a puppy?” and then the uppity ass lady looks at her and says in a very condescending voice, “He was born with a neurological condition.”

Oh really? Well do you think a five year old knows what that means? Try thinking of another way to describe your midget dog to children.

And help a sister out by letting my kids pet your dog while I try on a watch.

The Greatest Smell On Earth

I took my big girl to the Ringling Brothers circus today. Talk about fodder for a blog…sheesh.

Anyway, as I pulled into the parking lot of the Oracle Arena, I was flabbergasted by the price to park.  This happens EVERY single time I go there. I think most people pay more for parking than for tickets. It’s a total scam, but one I am willing to play along with. Not one chance I’m trying to park my car in the ‘hood and walk my 5 year old to the arena/Coliseum in Oakland. It was TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS. Chew on that. So it was only fitting that the girl who took my money had 2 inch long acrylic nails in a French manicure style with dollar bills printed on the tips. Very classy. All I could think was, “Dolla…dolla…bills, y’all”.  (That is a Kenny Powers reference.  If you don’t watch East Bound and Down, don’t even ask).

So we were in our seats for no less than five minutes (AFTER running around like we were on The Amazing Race trying to find a bathroom, something to drink, cotton candy, a sno-cone and some stuffed circus animals) when a few elephants stepped out into the ring.

Then…3…2…1…”MOMMY!!  Something stinks in here!  What IS that??”

I KNEW this was coming. She has a ridiculously sensitive nose. She HATES stinky smells. So I was a little worried about the animal excrement smell that fills your nostrils at the circus.

But I am nothing if not prepared. I am exhausted by my own obsessiveness. But in times like these, it pays dividends. So I reached into my giant purse stuffed with sweatshirts and wipes (sno-cones) and candy and hand sanitizer (two kinds) and pulled out the perfume scented washcloth I brought for the occasion.

Yep, that’s right.

I sprayed perfume all over a washcloth and stuffed it in my purse so that when she started complaining of the smell I could shut her up quickly. And it worked.

I may have looked like Casey Anthony chloroforming my kid at the Greatest Show On Earth, but guess what? She put that washcloth up to her little sniffer and didn’t say another word. Crisis averted.

Who says I’m not a super mom?