Sit down...

Last Friday was a day. I worked of course, starting my day at the store at six in the morning. Yes, I said six. I worked until almost two, and then rushed home to change with little time to spare before picking up Caitlin. Of course I got side tracked by old Greys on Lifetime, so the next thing I knew we needed to leave right that minute to get to pick up. And because it's still hot as the sun here, I forgot to grab Capri Suns for the girls. So there we were after school, burning and overheating in the sun. How do we remedy this situation? Starbucks of course.

Let's do some real talk right now. Some of you reading this may be new to this blog, and I realize that you may not know of all my downfalls as a mother. One of the biggest, in the Hubb's eyes, is that both my daughters drink sweet tea. They have been drinking sweet tea since being in utero. Even when my other mama friends were giving up caffeine for their entire gestation, I was sneaking off to Starbucks twice a day for Venti Black teas, extra sweet. After they were born, and twice daily trips to the Bucks was no longer an option, I started making tea at home. So while most of your kids were getting milk and apple juice in their Dora the Explorer sippy cups, mine were drinking sweet tea. And if we ran out while out of the house, they were drinking talls with green straws.

So my girls have known the magic that is Starbucks for as long as they have had memories, so when I asked them what they wanted to drink after school Mackenzie yelled, "Starbucks!!". Now up until this point we have all been getting black teas. It's been like our cool club, but Friday Caitlin asked for a Mocha Frapuchino with out coffee, with whip and caramel swirl. I swear, she said that is verbatim. Looks like Grandma has been teaching her somethings while I have been working. Ok, let's order it. You're in second grade now, get that frap game girl!

We got our frap and our teas, and cookies on the side, because hello, I'm already batting a thousand in the motherhood department, and we went to the grocery store. We get to the store and I put Mac in the cart with her tea, and Caitlin is carrying her frap and her cookie and her face is full of crumbs and her hair is wild and Mac starts asking for powdered donuts because Starbucks cookies aren't her jam today. Whatever. It's Friday. I'm not cooking no matter what happens. So I get what I need plus Lunchables and some powdered donuts and we cruise the store. I break open the donuts and give Mac two. Everyone is happy and sugared and caffeinated within an inch of their lives. Perfect.

As I'm using the self check out I notice another mom. She is there with her son and daughter and they are getting a few things, I don't even pay attention to what. What I do pay attention to is the fact that she keeps staring at me and my children. So I smile, and she gives me the stink eye. The Stink Eye. She gives me the dirtiest look. I haven't gotten one of those in awhile. So I take a minute to regroup. What am I doing that is offensive? I haven't used the eff word. I'm not wearing a cleavage bearing top. My kids aren't being complete assholes in the grocery store. What gives?

Then I look at my girls. Mac has a white powdered ring around her mouth, as if she has been doing blow. Next to her in all her powdered sugar glory is her tall Starbucks cup. Then I look at Caitlin with her wild hair, her shoe boot for her broken toe, and her half drank frap. That's when it hits me, I'm being judged. I'm totally being judged.

I smiled my best, "eat-your-heart-out-bitch smile", stopped and let my kids pick out a lottery ticket (which is pretty much illegal since they are nowhere near 18), and I roll our asses out. But all I really wanted to say was,

"Sit Down".

Sit down lady. There is no coffee in that frap. My kids do just fine with sugar and caffeine and nitrates. I know what you are thinking Jude Judy, you're thinking that I'm breaking all the rules. You're thinking that I didn't read any parenting books to get me ready for this role. But you would be wrong. I did read those books and they made me feel bad about myself. They made me feel like shit. So I threw them out. And if a friend sent me more, I gave them to Goodwill. And yes, I'm breaking all of your rules, but I'm not breaking a single one of mine. Because if I want to feed my kids McDonald's for the rest of the month I will. And if I decided to give them ice cream for breakfast I'll do that too. Because these are my kids. Mine. So I decide. You raise your brats. I'll raise mine. Deal? Now go sit the eff down.

As a side note, my kids looked way happier than her kids. I bet she makes her kids eat kale. Clearly I'm the one doing it right. 

This A-hole in the drive thru

Can I ask you a question? Are we turning into a nation of Assholes? Don't laugh. I'm being very serious. Ok, maybe asshole is harsh, maybe I should ask if we are slowing dumbing ourselves to the point of idiocy. I can't put my finger on it, but I really feel like we are slowly turning ourselves into those "humans" in Wall-E. Where everything will soon be decided for us... Case in point:

This Asshole.

Let me set the scene for you. I woke up incredibly early for a meeting at work. Since I'm part of the Management team, I couldn't just roll up as if I had rolled out of bed. Trust me I seriously considered it. But I woke up at an ungodly hour for a Saturday, went to and participated in a meeting, and then as I was leaving decided to take my family breakfast. Because I knew two things for sure, one: there was no effing way I was going to cook breakfast, and two: McDonald's was still serving breakfast for another half hour. Score. My kids can't get enough of high fructose corn syrup and nitrates. So I booked it to McDonald's which isn't really that far from my house and realized that I wasn't the only person on my side of town boycotting the kitchen. The drive through was backed up, almost to the 7-11 in the same parking lot. That 7-11 will have some significance in a minute, I promise.

So here I am at McDonald's now 23 minutes before they forget how to make pancakes and only know how to make chicken nuggets. I'm starting to panic, because if my kids don't get these pancakes, I'm going to have to go home and use my toaster for frozen waffles and that is just an atrocity that I'm not equipped to handle at this moment in time. At 19 minutes before lock down, I have to make the biggest decision of my adult life... Which drive through line to pick. Because my McDonald's has two, to make sure more Americans are getting their McDoubles and hot apple pies. How do you choose? If I go left the right with go faster and if I go right, well vice versa. Well shit, here goes nothing.

I choose right, and I immediately know I've made the biggest mistake of my Saturday morning. I have a feeling that the car in front of me has no idea what is happening, since it sits there for a three car count. A. Three. Car. Count. Which in real life is like five minutes. I look at the clock and realize it's been eight minutes and I break out into a sweat... Eleven minutes until lock down. Eleven.

I'm not sure what the issue is, so I roll down my window with every intention of "helping". I'm not above "helping". And by helping I mean, getting out of my car and walking up to his window and ordering for him. But I refrain when I hear the following...

"Uh, well, I'll have a large Sprite..."

A large Sprite? A fucking large Sprite? Dude. There is a 7-11 literally twelve fucking feet away. You drove right past it and if you had looked out your passenger side window as you sat in this very long and slow moving line for the past, oh I don't know 13 minutes you could have Big Gulped your ass outta my way.

It gets better.

I can hear him and the order taker discussing the menu items offered at breakfast. Then I realize that the order taker is actually explaining and breaking down breakfast sandwiches for this asshole. Sir, excuse me, Sir? Have you ever been to a McDonald's? I mean are you new? Are you an infant? Are you a vegan who has fallen off the wagon?

Then it hits me. This has to be the stupidest person in the world because there are pictures on the menu. PICTURES. And not just pictures of people enjoying food, but pictures of the ACTUAL FOOD TO ORDER. Even better McDonald's has taken out the hard part of having to memorize the names of the food, because they have provided numbers. NUMBERS and PICTURES, of the food. So you can order with ease. So you can order despite the fact if you have a brain or not.

I wish I was making this up. I wish.

So my question is, are we there? Are we to the point that we have dumbed down even the most simplistic things that we are beyond help? Have we some how reversed and become beings that regardless of pictures and numbers still can't even order an Egg McMuffin with hash browns and a coffee? Even if we have no idea what it's called, but we can see it looks delicious and beautiful, and so we yell out a number and then the cashier yells out another number, and then we use our fingers and toes to count out green paper rectangles and metal circles so we can eat our designated number?

Are we really that stupid?

Don't ask me I proceeded to order the wrong breakfast for the Hubbs using the wrong number and picture on the men, and then they shorted me a hash brown because, well it's fucking McDonald's.

Then I went to Starbucks and waited in line for and paid over two dollars for iced tea.

Who's the idiot now?

My abs will never be flat {wore}

I worked out this morning. I even went on a run last night. But I'm not here for you to tell me how amazing it is that I work out. Because I don't work out. Not really. Sure I'd love to be healthy, I'd love to wear a bikini at some point this summer, I'd even love to run a marathon one day. But if I can be totally honest with you, I'd just like to wear pants that button with a tank top and not look like a busted can of biscuits.

I will never have flat abs, because I'm lazy. I can finally admit that to myself and my blog. I like to sit in our old recliner and watch re-runs of Grey's Anatomy. I like to sit at our kitchen table and read. I like to check my Instagram feed, then Pinterest, and then Instagram again. I like to sit at my lap top an write the day away. When I think about working out, I think, there are not enough hours in the day.

I know my abs will never be flat because I lack the dedication. For the last three months, since the world started to defrost, I scroll past post after post of virtual friends working out. Showing their results and what they ate that day. I don't hate it, in fact it is inspiring. For about five minutes and then someone else posts something like a banana split and I'm like "Hell yes!". I'm proud of my virtual friends that have made a positive change in their life, and I'm kind of jealous that I lack the same dedication and commitment in my life. But really, I will never have flat abs. And I'll probably always jiggle.

Last week I saw a post of someone I follow on Instagram. She was showing off her amazing washboard stomach. The kind you only see in movies or Victoria Secret catalogs. She included her weight loss story along with it and commented that it took her two years to get her abs in that shape. As I read her post it struck me that I don't want flat abs that bad. I can't even stick to a regimen of running or working out three days a week, how on earth would I try to flatten my abs over a two year period. For one, it sounds like a lot of work, and two, I just ain't got time for that. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again, working out doesn't really do it for me. Sure the results are great, but I usually quit before the results are amazing. Aside from trying to live a healthy lifestyle and setting a good example for my girls, I'd rather be writing or blogging. I'd rather be reading or Instagramming. I'd rather be doing anything else, than jumping jacks for Jillian Michaels. 

So while I'm writing and blogging, I'll leave the cardio and flat abs to the dedicated. I'll cheer you on and like your crossfit videos. I'll be jealous of your amazing "Whole 30" dinner, and I'll even pin the recipe so that maybe one day I'll be motivated enough to cook. All I ask in return is that you cheer me on when I do my cardio... 

Get yo self one of these fancy tanks HERE!!

Which is this. Blogging is my cardio.

Thanks to Katy of Handmade Escapade!!

Blogging tank here!

Her amazing shop here!

Oh for F**k's Sake! {stupid parents: dance class edition}

Saturday started out normal.  Simple.  We were running late for dance class even though we woke up early.  The kids couldn't eat anything for breakfast unless it included the words "dough" and "nut".  I was tired from watching old episodes of Parenthood and crying my eyes out.  So you know, it was just a normal day.  And I was totally and 110% prepared for it to stay that way until...

Excuse my French.

I am not making this up.  This is a true story that still, more than 24 hours later makes my blood boil.  There I was, sitting on the bench, playing Candy Crush while keeping one eye on Mac (kind of), when the people next to me started talking, urgently.  Then quickly "Grandma", ran into class and swiftly took a tiny dancer straight to the bathroom.  I asked if everything was ok, and the "aunt", not really sure who she is but she's part of the family unit I guess, says that she thinks she's going to be sick.  I was horrified because I hate all things vomit, but I was like, that's awful, because getting sick anywhere that isn't home, is awful.  So I was in full sympathy mode until she says:
Well she threw up this morning so I guess she's sick...
To which I replied: And you brought her anyway??? Insert non resting, totally controlled, bitch face.
Well yeah, she wanted to come.
Are you EFFING kidding me?  First of all let's talk about the fact that you and "Grandma" knowingly brought a sick child to dance class.  A dance class that is being taught in a box.  With no air flow, with no window, and half the time the air isn't on.  So now dance class has turned into the Box of Bubonic Plague/Armageddon of Stomach Flu Death.  That's the first thing that I thought.  The second thing that went through my mind was, don't you have any effing common sense and know that you can't send a child to school if they have thrown up within the last 24 hours.  Then I realized that no, they are probably the same "parents" that do that shit.  Because we know you are out there.  You can't hide from us.  We know.  And by we, I mean all of us parents with effing common sense.  The third thing to cross my mind was that these people were here because they paid for the class, and nothing, not even vomit, will come in the way of getting their money's worth.
As you can plainly see I was disgusted.  First because I hate vomit and I hate to vomit.  I couldn't even watch Jackass because I just knew that at some point there would be vomit.  My husband and I almost got divorced because while I was pregnant and on the brink of vomit every minute, he watched a show I asked him to change because I was pretty sure the guy was going to vomit.  And when he did, and I said "I told you so", world war three almost broke out.  So as you can see, I am diligent in the war against the stomach flu bug.  I Lysol everything within an inch of it's life, and I don't clean even once a week.  I will not use a toilet that someone who has the flu has used, even if it means peeing my pants.  I even nursed the husband back to health last year in a mask and rubber gloves.  
Now besides the fact that I hate vomit.  I also had to pause and think about the fact that they brought her to class, regardless of her germs because SHE WANTED TO COME.  Oh, well, then of course.  Because she is five or six and knows exactly what is best for her and her health.  It's good that you are letting her make decisions for herself now, so that in 10 years when she wants to have sex with her boyfriend, or quit school, or I don't know, wants to try crack, you will totally be on board with that.  Good, that's the perfect way to parent.  Thank you.  Thank you for showing me WHAT NOT TO DO.
Here is the best part of this story.  Are you ready?  Are you sitting down?  Instead of coming back to the benches and gathering their things and leaving, they waited until class ended so she could GET HER STICKER.  Let me paint the picture:  Little girl covered in sweat, wet paper towel on her head, Grandma gathering bags, all while BREATHING ON EVERYONE ELSE, so she could get her sticker.  Listen, if you really need a happy face sticker, I will go to the store tomorrow and buy you a pack of 500.  I mean if it's life or death,  OR THE PLAGUE,  I'll happily get you all the stickers you want.
Are you serious? Is this real life? I couldn't make this up if I tried.
I didn't say anything face to face, but I did leave a message for the Director of the studio.  Because you know, stupid people are the ones who need specific instructions.  They need a flyer posted to say, "If your child has a fever or is vomiting or has done so in the last 24 hours, please keep them home".  Maybe we should record it and play it for them?  Set it to song?  Create a dance number to it?  Because obviously knowing that dance class is no place for dry heaving isn't an easy lesson to teach.
 So please, parents, we are all on the same side here.  Let's do what we can to minimize germs, especially less than a month into school.  Let's work together to make our kids healthy and happy.  Let's teach them to respect others and to share most things, except for germs.  Let's teach our children that they don't always know what's best for them.
Because if you bring a sick kid to dance class, school, or a birthday party you are doing a disservice to your child and the children around her.  You are also infuriating the parents around you who have enough common sense not to bring their vomiting kid to the party, dance class, or whatever.   And in addition to looking stupid,  you are also being a complete and total asshole.
Yak Pack giveaway still live. Knock yourself out.

What I didn't expect {S@HM}

Disclaimer: This is a (hopefully) humorous attempt outline my findings after being a Stay at Home Mom for six years.  This is in no way a well executed strike to enter myself into the mommy wars.  

I only know this side of the story.

Also this is a reblog, it originally appeared on Nay's first blog a year ago.

Years ago, I thought I knew what being a stay at home mom would be like.  I had this preconceived notion that it was play dates and martinis.  I will freely admit that I was under the impression that stay at home moms were so 1950s.  Didn't my mother and her friends burn their bras so I could be a working mom?  These are the 2010s, and I'm very able and capable and it's my right to "have it all", nay "do it all".  Or so I thought.

The reality is that being a "home economist", "domestic diva", or the "CEO of a family", is a job that is so incredibly hard it rarely gets its due.  Most of us are viewed as "non working", as if changing diapers, breastfeeding, or picking up the same damn toys every hour on the hour is a cake walk. I have learned these last 5 years, that being a stay at home mom has it's perks, it's blessings, and it's rewards.  However it's not at all what I expected.

Yes!
Now you have it all...
Pinterest via Lorrine Blanchet via googleglassproject

Here is what I now know about the hardest job I never interviewed for.


There are no bon-bons, martinis, or personal trainers.  There are however, soggy goldfish crackers, half full juice boxes, and snot on your sleeve.  SAHMotherhood is not glamorous, unless you are famous and/or independently wealthy.  Unless you have an entourage of "people" who help you get ready for the day, you are most likely never ready for the day.  And by "people" I don't mean the short people running around like a pack of wild dogs, trying to break the world record of how many times "mom" or "mommy" can be uttered in a minute.   

My kids always freak when my eyebrows are done!
someecards

With the glamour gone you will find your uniform.  Yoga pants and Uggs, Jeans and Toms, sweats and Nike's.  Whatever.  Easy becomes the fashion trend you adopt, because really why waste a great ensemble on 2 kids under 3 who will most likely drool, vomit, or grab your white pant leg with Cheeto hands.  If I were to offer advice here I would say shoot for yoga pants and a tank top.  This way all the people in Target will think that your hair is greasy from working out, and not from skipping another shower because your toddler started screaming as the water started running.

There is always tomorrow.  This is a motto my friend Krysten's grandma told her.  SAHMotherhood means that there is always tomorrow, so if you are anything like me, you live in a constant mode of procrastination.  I can always start (insert housework chore here) tomorrow.  That's why my laundry looks like a mountain range, my base boards look like they were painted greige on purpose, and that gourmet dinner I pinned, is literally going on the back burner.  As in, I'll just get to that tomorrow.  Tomorrow being when I'm out of mac and cheese, the kids are out of pjs or we're hosting a birthday party at our house.


Cooking is optional.  Before I became a SAHM, I really thought that I'd be the mom that made everything from scratch, daily.  Pancakes for breakfast, some kind of vegetable dish for lunch, and an award winning dinner.  Not so much.  For starters, breakfast in our house is a term used very loosely.  Sure, I have been known to bake some cinnamon rolls a morning or two (always from the can), or whip up some chocolate chip pancakes.  Why not?  But I have been also known to toast some french toast sticks, open some string cheese, and on some desperate mornings dole out Oreos.  Because some mornings are harder than others, sometimes lunch is chips and Capri Suns, and sometimes dinners are grilled cheese sandwiches.


Cooking is also redefined.  If you have to microwave it, use a pan, or boil something, you my dear have cooked.  Remember that, repeat it, write it and post it on the fridge.  Grilled cheese involves cooking, chicken nuggets require a microwave, and poptarts can be toasted or not.  But if you are using an appliance before presenting it to your child, you are cooking.  Now pat yourself on the back.


Someone is going to insult you.  Be ready.  There will be someone who will say, to your face (yes, to your face) that you are "just" a SAHM.  Don't take offense.  Or, take offense.  They likely have no idea what you do all day.  There will also be someone, famous or otherwise, who will think they know everything there is to know about (insert mothering speciality here), and it will make you feel like a bad mom.  Don't let some celebutant bully you into to thinking less about yourself of your mothering abilities.  Someone else will talk about how you don't really work, because you don't leave the house in order to clock in and out.  Fine.  Whatever.  Ask them nicely if you can drop your kids off for 24-48 hours.  Then see what they think about your "just" a SAHM-ness.


SAHMs don't get breaks, holidays, or hazard pay.  Like a doctor without the paycheck or the good drugs, this stay at home mom gig is a 24 hour shit show.  I'd love to take a 15 minute break every 4 hours but it just ain't gonna happen.  You also don't get real weekends and Fridays will come to mean nothing more than another day of the week. When you stay home with your kids, you are at their disposal.  Whether you like it or not.  It's a 24 hour round the clock job that requires you to be alert, patient, kind, motivated, and perky.  Although I never manage to be all those things at once.

Yep, 24/7
Pinterest via Nipajaai Naulneda via .someecards

Find success in the small things.  If I'm being honest I will tell you that 6 months into being a SAHM I felt like a failure.  I was home all day, with just one child and most days I didn't even shower.  I felt like there weren't enough hours in the day.  Slowly I realized that the little successes of the day, motivated me for the bigger ones to follow.  For example my kids ate veggies today.  A meal was actually cooked on Tuesday.  A load of laundry got washed and dried on Thursday.  Sometimes happy kids, who ate 3 squares, who were on their best behavior at Target (while sipping on Icees), and who are now quietly playing while the Fresh Beat Band sings in the background is a MAJOR SUCCESS.  The laundry will be there, the dishes can wait, and I have yet to inspect a baseboard of another mom while visiting her home.

I'm not the expert on being a SAHM.  I'm just one of many, who tries to navigate my way through the ups and downs of a demanding job, with a demanding schedule, and 2 very demanding bosses.  Maybe I have a problem with priorities, some may say I'm lazy.  This is just a little look into what I have discovered doing the hardest job that requires no license, no application, prerequisites, or an interview.  Which is a blessing, because I would have never gotten past the panel interview.


 
  PS: I have no idea what it's like to be a working mom. I've worked part time in the past and I'm horrible at it. If you are a working mom, your job is harder than mine. Don't let anyone tell you any different. I can barely get my kid to school on time, and usually I'm in my pjs.

Cactus Panties {Brazillian Wax recap}

A week ago, I was ready to sing the praises of the Brazilian wax.  I had gone through all of the comments on my Raw Chicken post via email, and felt that maybe I had led all of you in the wrong direction.  Maybe I had judged my raw chicken too quickly.  Perhaps I was just blinded by the pain to really weigh the benefits of the raw chicken.  I even alluded to just how "o"-mazing the benefits of the wax could be (multiple times over if you catch my drift) in my Vegas recap post.  So I felt like I needed to come back and do what my BF called an Editors Revision.  Because I will always tell it to you straight.  I will always be completely honest.
And honestly I woke up two days ago with a cactus between my legs.

For the love of all things holy.  Remember when I said that I got waxed in places I didn't know had hair?  Well guess what, that hair is coming back.  And it's angry.  It's exacting revenge. It's making me hate the idea of the Brazilian Wax all over again.  
I feel like my vajay has multiple personalities at this point.  First she hates the Brazilian.  Then a few days in she loves it.  Now we are back to the hate.  Regardless, I will forever stand by the fact that the wax itself feels like hot molten lava on your lady bits.  Apparently according to Heather on this post at Baby Central Blogs, the wax should be warm, and not scalding.  Could it be I just had a bad wax experience?  Maybe.  But just remember no matter how hot the lava, that shit still has to get ripped off.  You will also have to do some crazy yoga acrobatics, and your aesthetician will almost give you a PAP.  All of those facts together make it quite the experience for you and your vajay. 
These 5 facts I uncovered about the Brazilian Wax are still true: One:  Bitches who say Brazilian waxes aren't that bad are liars.
Two: People who do wax vajays in such a way should also be licensed to do pap smears.   I mean, when in Rome...
Three: Neither my husband nor my OBGYN have gone to the places the waxing lady went to on Tuesday.  Like seriously I didn't even know there was hair there.
Four:  Brazilian wax literally means from your belly button to your tail bone.  Hence the downward facing dog requirement.
Five:  Brazilian waxes were invented by bored rich white women who needed another beauty treatment to add to their routine.  They are also the women who bleach their butt holes.

Now I will admit that the Brazilian has it's benefits.  I didn't have to worry about my bikini line.  Or any line for that matter.  It made the husband very happy.  Very happy.  Like shop in Vegas, let's get a limo, let's pretend we are in college happy.  It made my vagina happy.  For reals.  The wax hurt like a bitch because that area is very sensitive.  Well take away the buffer of hair, and that area is like infinity times more sensitive.  My vagina was as blissful as her formerly 22 year old self.  She forgot how fun she could be.  So despite the pain, I was completely on board to do it all over again.
Until two days ago.  My gal Kristin asked me if the itching had started.  Uh, yeah.  And there is nothing graceful or lady like about itchy vajay.  Feeling like I'm sitting on a cactus pillow, is serious business.  It taint nothing to joke about.  Ok, that was a cheap way to make you laugh, but it's what I really wanted to title this post.  Then I remembered I'm a classy lady, if only in my mind.
So I'm sorry if I steered you all in the wrong direction.  Brazilian waxes are still the biggest conspiracy in the the history of vaginas.  At least in my opinion.  I have decided to stick by my original stance and say that I hate them, and they are the devil.  And I don't really believe that women actually like them, they just tolerate them for their benefits.  That said, I'm scheduling my next one.  No I'm not crazy, but I like the benefits.  The Hubbs likes the benefits.  I'm way too lazy to DIY this kind of shaz.  I'm also hoping it won't always be so bad (regardless of the downward facing dog).  And finally I'm going back for another, because despite my vajay's outward appearance, she feels like a new woman.
Until then I'll be over here with my arm up my maxi dress. Like the classy bitch I am.

My vagina is too old for Cosmo

Yes.  Yes I did buy this copy of More magazine.  Without embarrassment.  Almost recklessly.  Melissa McCarthy is my hero, so it was without shame that I slapped this on the conveyor belt at Target two weeks ago.  What's to be embarrassed about right?  It's Melissa McCarthy.   I read it.  Ok, devoured it.  And I found it to be refreshing.  The women in that magazine looked like me.  They are worried about anti aging and acne at the same time, like me.  They are trying to appropriately integrate some neon into their fashion life, just like me.  It was amazing.  It was comfortable.  
And I loved every bit of it.
Then, last Monday I had an hair appointment.  To cover my grays it takes an entire hour of sitting with dye on my hair.  Which is perfect for me.  It's like a mini vacation.  It bliss.  It's the perfect time to catch up on all the rags in the hair salon.  Which is usually the icing on the cake.  Until it wasn't.
I spent no longer than five minutes flipping through a Cosmopolitian magazine before I came to the screeching realization that I have outgrown the once sought after rag.  Better yet, I think it's safe to say my vagina has outgrown Cosmo.  The models look 12, possibly 14.  They are modeling for articles about young baby girl worries.  Like how to care for your vagina after a one night stand.  Or how to appropriately initiate a one night stand.  They are about pleasing your man, in bed, at a bar, on the subway.  Seriously.  I'm sure at one time "college mommy", as my Hubbs likes to refer to my former self, was really interested in such issues.  Sure, there is a right way and a wrong way to exit a one night stand.  There is a certain way to handle ones self in the work place after romance.  There are certain things your vagina should and shouldn't do.  But I'm 35, and my vagina doesn't go on such adventures anymore.
Favorite titles from their recent issues online and in print include: How To Please Your Man; Happy Birthday Sex, Seven ways to blow out his candles; Why Isn't He Texting You Back; and Things To Do Before Graduation.  Look, my younger former self, and self's much younger vagina, would have embraced all of these titles.  These days, seven ways to blow anything seems pretty daunting.  As a comfortable 35 year old wife and mother, I know exactly how to please my man.  I say yes to sex when I would rather sleep, watch True Blood, or read the latest issue of More.  I also know exactly why he's not texting me back.  It's because I'm a nagging bitch and want to know what time he's getting home from work, or if he can stop at the store for that one damned thing I forgot.  As for the graduation article I was really confused.  My graduation?  My kids graduation?
I knew something was brewing when I renewed my subscription to Redbook and not to Glamour.  Alas, we've (vagina and me) outgrown Glamour too.  It's sad.  Youth really is fleeting, but I can't read another article on how you should act at a summer wedding when you are still the last of your friends to get married.  Or what to do when you drink too much at an after work function.  I'm not saying these issues aren't important to today's generation of women.  I was once one of those women.  Now, I need a magazine that understands I want to read about resetting goals after 30.  I need a magazine that isn't going to try and convince me that wearing high waisted booty shorts is a hot look for 35 year old me.  I need a magazine where the women in it look like me, sound like me, and know how to handle their vaginas.
So I'm sending in that annoying card and subscribing to More.  Because I need More in my life.  My crows feet need More.  My grays need More.  My vagina, however, just wants to read the articles.

The mess that is my life.

Clearly my lack of focus is forcing me to post a recap of my Absolute Life via Instagram photos.  My BF posted on her Facebook a few days ago, that a young person at her work (and by young I mean born in the early 90s, I know gag), told her that she doesn't really use Facebook anymore because it's filled with old people.  My BF told her to watch out because we are taking over Instagram too.  And we are so watch out you young ins.  Now on to the show, which is more like a circus.

I took advantage of Vintage Sunshine's Insta hoop sale.

It's for my BFs baby.  

Because she needs it in her life.

Only in America are Twinkies and their comeback front page news.

I mean this is serious fat status.

I'm only saying that because I'm jealous.

I can't eat Twinkies.

Dumb intestines.

I was co hearsed into participating in a neighborhood 

garage sale.  There is nothing more satisfying than 

waking up at the crack of dawn,

on a Saturday morning, and selling your Nine West 

sea foam green pumps for five bucks.

That's right five bucks.

But seriously I couldn't stand to look at them

anymore since they were clearly a size 7 posing as an 8.

These are strawberries from the Salinas Valley in California.

I challenge you to find a better tasting strawberry.

These smell like my childhood and taste like home.

Nom.

This is my new personal Hell.

In my day (insert old lady nagging voice), Leggos were simple building blocksin primary colors, 

sent to stimulate young minds.

They were not construction jobs, 

with 40 page instruction manuals that required

an engineering degree to complete.

And while it is fantastic that this set in particular 

is geared toward my six year old

daughter in hopes to inspire her to be an engineer, 

it's only inspiring me to

despise the brand, the miniature tiled blocks, 

and the time it took to complete.

Forty.  

Forty minutes is the time it took to complete.

Me and my photographer.

Because I'm so cool that I have a photographer.

Just kidding Laura is family, and I milk her talent to no end.

Thankfully she loves taking pictures and having fun.

Stay tuned for the pictures they are fabulous.

And they were taken under duress as 

Miss Mac screamed the entire time.

I know it's been weeks, but this was the best part of my 4th.

Plus this was the only firework that Miss Caitlin enjoyed.

And yes, she is clutching a flamingo.

Thank you Jesus for hats and Sunglasses.

Two day old hair.

No make up.

No sleep.

And no one on Instagram had any idea.

When I post this pic on Instagram I said we were having an 

ice cream sandwich luncheon.  

Because it's a sandwich and it has dairy which 

is a major food group.

And calling it a luncheon makes it a thing.

So it's a thing.

Not to be outdone, I also served a giant 

Oreo cookie ice cream sandwich.

Because a regular ice cream sandwich 

isn't enough when you are six.

Being six requires variety.

You know the story about this baby.

Let's get up to speed.  

She went with us to the Aquarium too, 

and was mistaken as an actual

baby since my mom was carrying her around.

Cue the hilarity as my mom had to explain why she was walking

around the Monterey Bay Aquarium with Black Baby.

Just for fun I'm adding this one of the Hubbs.

Who is in fact cleaning up and sorting all of 

Caitlin's birthday gifts.

As I sit on the couch comfortably and take pictures of him.

Then posting said pictures to Instagram.

And I could tell you that after I laughed 

and said "let me help".

But I'm not a liar.

Are you missing some serious sarcasm in your life?

You know it's one of life's greatest "asms".

Follow me on Instagram to get some.

I'm gonna chill with Jeanette today.

I am your motherhood cautionary tale.

Books and magazine articles have been written.  Characters in movies have been scripted.  Actors have portrayed that mother you have seen in the grocery store or at Target.  You know the one, with wild kids, begging and bribing them with high fat, high fructosed anything, just to calm them the eff down, so she can buy tampons.  And you sigh in relief at the tampons because you know for a fact she doesn't need one more kid.
She is a motherhood cautionary tale.  So am I.  I came to that conclusion this week, when after a full day of play and running errands, my kids were lapping me at 10:45 pm.  That's right.  It's summer and my kids don't have a bed time.  Let's be honest.  My kids have never had a bed time.  We have a time goal set, but we rarely hit it.  We rarely come close to it.  So my kids have been crashing anywhere between 10:30 and midnight.  Awful right?  
I know what you are thinking.  Put those kids on a schedule.  It will make your life easier.  Yeah, I've heard it all.  I even have a book that explains it in detail.  I plead the 5th on this subject.  Because scheduling takes time and effort.  Have we met?  Also I hate being a slave to a schedule myself, so that kind of boils over into my motherhood efforts.  Cautionary tale number one:  Put your kids on a decent schedule, otherwise your kids will be night owls and you will be wondering how much melatonin it takes to knock out a six year old.
Cautionary tale number two:  Don't use curse words.  Ever. Yesterday, my three year old used the eff word in context and in a complete sentence.  Your welcome.  It took me a minute because a voice that precious should be saying such words.  One glance at my six year old who was cracking up, told me that yes I had heard it correctly.  Well, hell.  Look friends, I try.  I really do.  But before I took this mothering gig, I was a foul mouthed sorority alumna trying to make it in the world.  Which apparently required lots of curse words.  Trust me, I've gotten a lot better over the years.  But, as my mother reminded me, I used the eff word in almost the same exact context last week while driving.  With my mom and both girls in the car.  So, don't cuss.  Fouled mouth toddlers are still cute, but quite embarrassing.
Cautionary tale number three:  Don't raise emotional eaters. I could write an entire post about this situation.  After reading this I fully expect divorce papers from my husband as this is his biggest fear.  Let me give you some truth.  I hate to hear my babies cry.  I'm sure you are shaking your head saying "aww, I do too".  But I hate crying babies for a different reason.  The crying is like nails on the chalk board for me.  I despise it.  It has, at times made me kidney punching angry.  So when my kids cry, whether it's from self injury (falling off the couch while illegally climbing), medical injury (shots, blood tests, urine samples), or fear/sadness/shame/what have you, I soothe with chocolate.  I know, call CPS right now.  I have been known to carry Hershey kisses to doctors appointments.  I have on occasion dropped chocolate chips into a screaming toddlers mouth.  I have been known to soothe a child who just tripped and face planted into a wall with a spoon full of cake frosting.  I cannot tolerate crying.   Plus if the professors at Hogwarts felt that chocolate was the only remedy for a dementor, why not a crying child?
So I completely expect that at some point in my children's life, we will be in therapy trying to figure out why my girls grab a sheet cake prior to working out their real issues.  I will just print out this post and hand it to the therapist.  There are two things I'm sure my future holds.  Orthodontia bills and therapy bills.   Maybe there is a groupon for that.
Cautionary tale number four:  Bribery is a short term solution I bribe.  I won't deny it.  I had a friend that swore to Buddha that she would not bribe her child.  She was also the first one to tell me how well it worked.  I started bribing early.  You can have these cookies if you stay in the cart and not try to become a "baby of Walmart".  You can have 4 M&Ms if you pee-pee on the potty.  Mommy will buy you that My Little Pony horse corral train wreck extravaganza if you drink all this zithromax for the next 5 days without yakking it up on the first try.  Bribes work, but not forever.  They are not long term solutions.  Case in point:  I've been bribing with money lately.  I know.  HORRIBLE.  Here's the thing, remember the "I despise crying"?  Ditto on whining.  And lately my three year old is wild about whinning.  So instead of doing any real parenting, I've been bribing my six year old to over look things like; the last Capri Sun, the last strawberry pop tart, and pushing the elevator buttons.  The six year old gets a dollar, and the three year old thinks the world turns for her.  Don't do it friends.  Learn from my mistakes.
Cautionary tale number five:  Turn off the TV.  Or don't. My TV is on all day if we are home.  Weekends included.  I'm sure you have heard that my six year old learned where babies came from by watching Kourtney Kardashian deliver her son Mason.  I digress, there are 101 articles that will tell you television is rotting your baby's brain.  That if they watch too much TV by two years old, they will grow up to be serial killers, or worse college drop outs.  I have read many, and each piss me off the same.  Look, most of the articles state that watching too much TV impedes on the imagination.  To which I call bullshit on "those researchers".  Come over to my house.  Watch my kids, watch them watch TV, then watch them recreate the latest episode of Super Why, Fish Hooks, or Jessie.  
After watching Cailou build a robot, guess what we built?  After watching Jessie have a talent show with Zuri guess what we did?  After listening to Kai-Lan speak Mandarin, guess who counted in mandarin first and then in English?  Yup.  So watch TV, or don't.  Just know that I know the title song to Fish Hooks, can name the entire Cailou family, and am still singing the damn song about Dora's map.
This is what motherhood looks like for me.  I don't expect it to look the same in your house.  I'm not an alpha mom, I' m not even a beta mom.  I'm a mom.  Some days are fabulous.  Some days are heartbreaking.  Some days are a total wash.  Whatever the day, I feel like you guys could learn a thing or two from me.  So whatever the fable of motherhood know this:
I am that mom at Target bribing with high fructosed anything.   Your welcome.

I'm a desperate housewife {reblogged}

It's July and I'm out an about, trying to be in the moment.  So while I'm out please enjoy this repost from my first year of blogging.  For most of you this will be new, and if not, perhaps it's been so long that you will enjoy it again!  XOXO and Happy Summer!

I’m a desperate housewife

I'm a desperate housewife.  Every day.  Consistently.  It doesn't take much for one to become a desperate housewife.  It's not as glamorous as it sounds.  There are no hot lawn boys.  There are no nannies.  There are no personal chefs.  No my friends, in my neighborhood, the desperate housewives are desperate for other things...

I'm desperate for a minute.  To myself, by myself, in other words alone.  Did I mention I want to spend time alone?  Lately I can't even pee alone.  You know what I'm talking about.  There is not one spare minute where I'm not up to my eyeballs in parenting.  So please pretty please a moment to pee, breathe, eat, sigh, read one stinking line of a book???

I'm desperate for my own housewife.  Yes, that's right.  I want a housewife at my own disposal.  I hate housework.  I loathe housework.  My house is constantly messy.  Dr. Seuss books in the pantry.  My Little Ponies on the kitchen table.  As we speak a kitchen table covered in crafting, a laptop, and tonight's McDonalds.  I could pick up all of this and put them in their places. But I know it will find it's way back out into our living room, and then back to the table. Really why bother? As you can see I need a housewife to call my own.

I'm desperate for one good night's sleep.  Just one.  Where I can sleep uninterrupted and wake up on my own.  I don't want to hear crying babies.  I don't want my 3 year old alarm clock to start whining about why I left her in her room, ALONE.  I want to go to sleep, IN MY BED, and wake up when I want.

I'm desperate for a day off.  A mental health day if you will.  A day to read a book, watch a Kardashians marathon, sleep the day away, and blog.  A day to save my sanity.  I want a day to do what I want to do, and not have to think about anyone else but me.  Sound selfish?  Sure it does.  So what, I'm desperate.

I'm desperate to be good at being a mom.  Desperate to be semi-good at being a housewife.  Desperate to be my best self.

I'm a desperate housewife, who is grateful to have things to be desperate about. Thankful that one day I'll get those moments alone.  Those days to myself.  The good night's sleep.  One day I'll miss being a desperate housewife.  Especially since I'll have to find new things to complain about...

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