You Want to Ban WHAT?

We all have special causes that we support.  Things that we feel so strongly about that we send in money, or we take a pledge vowing to do something.  I took a pledge to never use the r-word and to teach my children to do the same.  I support my friend Drew and his mother and their efforts to support research to find a cure for childhood cancers.  There are hundreds of thousands of causes out there.  Most are very important and deserve more attention than they receive.  Others….not so much.

The newest “cause” sweeping the interwebs is this new effort to ban the b-word.  Nooooo, not bitch.  Bossy.  Yes, I said bossy.  Go ahead and roll your eyes and then come back to me.

According to, bossy is defined as  given to ordering people about; overly authoritative; domineering.  Sounds like my girls (and their friends, and my boys, and every other kid you come across) any day of the week.  

I get it, truly I do.  We need to empower our girls and help them to be confident and assertive.  We want them to be leaders and we want them to be strong.  We want them to succeed and achieve all the goals that they have set for themselves.

#banbossy has pulled out all the stops.  They’ve recruited Beyoncé and Jane Lynch.  Even Condoleeza Rice is on board for this.  All strong, confident, successful women.

Women I’m sure have all been called bossy a time or two and judging by their level of success, I’d be willing to bet the word fits.  You just cannot achieve all that these amazing women have achieved without ordering people about and being overly authoritative.  If you think otherwise, I’ve got three million dollars with your name on it.  All I need is your bank account number and social security number and I’ll deposit it into your account by tomorrow.

Beyoncé said it herself in this promotional video.  ”I’m not bossy. I’m the boss.”   Um….hello pot, kettle calling.   Boss (n): a person who makes decisions, exercises authority, dominates.  

How interesting.  We should not tell our girls that they are bossy (domineering), but instead they are the boss (one who dominates).  I’m no genius here, but something is a little off.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am not a big supporter of this cause.  It’s absolutely redonkadonk, so I thought I would put together a list of things that should be significantly more important than the drive to #banbossy.  (in no specific order)

  • Making sure my children are fed, clothed, and loved.
  • Feeding the homeless
  • Finding a cure for cancer and hundreds of other diseases.
  • Farmer Bob really needs some new work jeans.
  • Educating our kids to be respectful and kind to others.
  • The fact that I shaved my legs yesterday.
  • Atrocities around the world.
  • Will winter ever end?
  • Will my kids have math homework tonight?
  • I need to go grocery shopping.
  • Chin hair
  • Pharrell’s new album
  • Cleaning my toilets
  • Creating jobs
  • Helping those in need
  • Teaching our kids right from wrong
  • What should I cook for dinner tonight?
  • I really should call my mother today
  • Why does oil-pulling sound so gross?
  • How can these little people have so much gas?

The point is, what in the hell are we doing here?  There are so many other solutions to this *cough* problem.  Maybe we should just take a minute as parents and look in the mirror.  Our kids are our responsibility.  It is our job to teach them and to guide them.  We cannot wrap them in bubble wrap and expect them to emerge from their plastic cocoon as functioning adults.  I feel like Susan Powter “STOP the INSANITY!”

When I asked my eleven-year-old her thoughts on this, she looked at me with that look of “are you freaking kidding me?” and informed me that it’s dumb.  Her words, not mine.  She will openly admit that she is bossy and she has no problem with that.  Confidence….she has some.

So instead of trying to ban the word bossy, maybe we should focus more on instilling in our girls (and boys) the self-confidence that they need to succeed in life.  With self-confidence comes the ability to succeed.  It doesn’t matter if someone thinks you are bossy.  I bet Beyoncé would agree with that.

You Want to Ban WHAT?--You Know it Happens at Your House Too

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I’m Not a Bitch and Neither are You

I will never forget that moment.

The moment in which I sat in my bedroom, phone cord stretched through the kitchen, across the hallway and into my bedroom.  Stretching just far enough to allow me to close my door, and sit just inside the sanctity of my room in order to scheme with my friend in private.  The exact plans are moot today, but I am willing to bet the farm on the fact that they included alcohol, boys, and post-curfew plans of sneaking out through my bedroom window. As we plotted and solidified our teenage debauchery, the knock came and I heard the words that no teenager wants to hear on a Saturday night.

You have to stay home.

I remember flinging that door open so fast that the phone shot across the kitchen like a bullet from a gun.


She wouldn’t budge.  There would be no gallivanting for me on that delightful evening and I was beside myself with  a weeks worth of pent-up teenage angst.

Didn’t she realize how difficult it was to secure an evenings worth of alcohol when you are sixteen?  Didn’t she know how tedious it was to plan out an all night drink-a-thon complete with a post-curfew pick-up schedule?  She was ruining my life.

I mourned the loss of our illegal evening with my partner in crime, trying to hide in the corner of the room so that my mother couldn’t hear what I was saying about her.  There was no way I was going to show her how much she had fucked up my evening.  I was going to play it cool.

She taunted me:  If you have something you want to say to me, just say it.

I bit my tongue and continued to whisper into the handset.

Why don’t you just say something? Tell me how you feel?

It came out of my mouth before I could stop it:  YOU.  ARE BEING.  A BITCH!

At that very moment time stood still.  I had just called my mother a bitch.  To her face.  I saw my life flash before my eyes.

I had absent mindedly dropped an f-bomb in front of her before, but I had never said such vile things about her where she could hear me.  Sure I had said it behind her back, hello…..teenager.  Never to her face.  NEVER.

I think of the fear I felt.  Not only for my quickly diminishing social life, but for what I had just done to our amazing relationship. I had crossed that line and  the disappointment I felt in myself for calling the woman who gave me life such an incredibly disrespectful name sickens me to my core even after all these years.

If you use a dictionary, you will find that a bitch is defined as a malicious, unpleasant, selfish person, especially a woman.  If you prefer to use Urban Dictionary, you will find that a bitch is defined as a modern-day servant; A person who performs tasks for another, usually degrading in status. 

Sure I am unpleasant at times, I am always a woman, and at times I am selfish.  I suppose if you put that all together, there are days in which the term bitch would define me perfectly. A few days each month, I wouldn’t even argue with you if you placed the term ‘raging’ in front of it.   We all have our moments in which we are being an actual bitch.   Days that we are deserving of the term,  it fits us to a T.

Degrading in status, that is the part that gets me.

Why do we, as women, feel the need to continue to use this word as a term of endearment?  Not just the term bitch, but words like hooker, hoe, slut, and whore.  Do we not think enough of ourselves and the company that we keep?

Some will argue that those words are slang and the definition has changed.  That those words, when used in the proper context, are meant to show other women that we enjoy spending time with them.  That they are our friends.

Maybe in my old age I have lost a bit of my sense of humor and I need to relax a bit.  Maybe I need to grow with the times and get hip with the slang.  Maybe…

I have never enjoyed being called a bitch, and I’ve been called one (and acted like one) many times.  For me it is a reminder to take a look in the mirror and examine my behavior.  That I am acting in a way that is not becoming and that there is a good chance that I have hurt someone in a way that I should be embarrassed about.  That I am in no way, shape or form acting like a friend.

As women, it is up to us to lift each other up.  To encourage and support, to demonstrate to our children how to treat each other.  Not to knock each other down and demean each other with derogatory names, no matter how entertaining we think we are being.  Just like text-speak and poor grammar, the use of words like bitch, hooker, and whore become acceptable terms of endearment only if we let them.  I may be old-school, but I refuse to bend.

Like a tree in the Kansas wind, when we bend our core weakens and before we know it we are broken beyond repair.

I think about that night.   The look of disappointment and the hurt in my mother’s eyes.  Knowing that my use of that one word had cut into her heart like a knife.

Her ability to forgive me only proved that she wasn’t the one being a bitch.  I was.

You Know it Happens at Your House Too: Bitch Please


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Hello? It’s My Boobs I’m Looking For

Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental soldier?
Do your boobs. Hang. Low.
~Credit:  The middle school playground

Let’s cut to the chase.  Boobs are what I’m talking about today.  Just typing the word is funny.  Boobs.  Breasts. Titties.  Funbags. Mammaries.  Bewbies.  Jugs.  Hooters.  Tatas.  They have many names, but there is something about the word boobs that makes me giggle.  Yes, at times I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy, but you have to admit that it’s funny.  BOOBS.  You know what isn’t funny?  The shape of my boobs post helping-my-children-survive-their-first-year-of-life and serving as the Dairy Queen.  It is not a pretty picture.  NOT. PRETTY.

Hello?  It's My Boobs I'm Looking For

Let’s reminisce for a second.  I know you girls are with me on this.  Remember when you could leave the house without a bra on and your perky little mammaries were right up where they belonged?  Remember the days when you didn’t have to pick those bad boys up just to wipe the pool of sweat out from underneath in order to prevent chafing?  Remember the days of looking in the mirror and thinking to yourself, damn I have a spectacular rack?

Five kids later I’m left looking in the mirror and wondering what in the HELL has happened here.  Now instead of a couple of fabulous melons,  I’m left with a couple of shriveled up deflated balloons left over from a birthday party that occurred in 2002.  I used to think  that the old vagina really took a beating from pushing out five watermelon-sized nuggets.  Not true my friends.  Not even close.  The boobies are the ones that have suffered the most dramatic long-term effects from years of misuse/overuse. These poor girls have taken on an entirely new identity and their own spot on the couch.  Sorry vagina, you no longer get all my sympathies.

Do you sit around and say things like damn, I think I dunked my floppy butterfly in my coffee this morning.  No, you wonder how in the hell could you possibly be lactating?  You aren’t lactating you dumbass,  your tits ended up in your coffee as you sat on the couch reading an article on your laptop.   We don’t brag to our girlfriends that we actually went out without pants and no one even noticed our vagina whipping in the wind.  No, we know we are living on the edge if we have to run a forgotten lunch up to the school and we don’t even put on a bra first.  Will they see those nippies peaking out if they look to see what kind of shoes I’m wearing?

When we lay down in bed at night do we have to scooch our vagina out of our butt crack because it flopped right on over and set up camp?  No, we have to dig our bewbies out of our armpits just to avoid any major night-time nippie tweaks.  When you can’t find your pillow at night, do you bend over and rest your head on the pink taco?  No, you  pull one of those milk duds right on up and lay your head on it.  It may be the old flat hard kinda smelly kind you keep tucked away in the linen closet in case of emergency, but with some well placed deodorant and a little fluffing it would get you by for a night.

Do your kids walk up to you and use your chooch-a-roni for punching bags?  No, they walk up and try to go three rounds with the twins.  At this point they are down on a three-year-old level and bear a similar shape to a punching bag, so you might as well let the little bugger get in a workout.  The tube socks are flexible and if you do it right it could entertain them while you get some laundry folded or the dishes put away.  Not to mention  it really teaches them some dexterity and helps with speech development as they stand there and repeatedly say PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH as they are working out.  Gives an entire new meaning to the word “funbags”.

When was the last time you looked at your va-jay-jay in the mirror and thought where in the hell did that hair come from?  Unless you are twelve, it’s probably been a while.  Now what about your boobs?  Be honest here ladies, you know you have been giving the girls their monthly fondle (you DO perform a monthly fondle don’t you?) and you suddenly scream out, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?  Then you realize that where there is one, there is two.  HOLY SHIT, there is THREE!  What do I do now?   Pluck the bastards?  Braid them? Leave them alone?  Are they like grey hairs and if you pull them out three more appear?  AM I TURNING INTO A SASQUATCH?

So to my dear boobs. cans. jugs. hooters. punching funbags.  chesticles.:   I am sorry for the years of neglect.  I’m sorry for taking you for granted and not always offering you the support you need.  You have accomplished so much and I have been unfair in giving all the credit to your southern neighbor. You have worked hard and the years have not been good to you, so from here on out I promise to lift you up when you are feeling down.  I promise not to diminish the impressiveness of your  work resume and I will quit comparing you to the cavernous being that was once my vag.  I will try to erase the memories of your youth and perkiness and embrace your now floppy and elongated appearance.  Together we have done amazing things, so please quit hanging your head.  Chin up butter cups, we have some good years left in us.

Oh, one last thing.  Could you do me just one more favor and go ahead and cancel the rest of your trip to the southern hemisphere?  If you could make that happen, that would be simply fab.  mmmmmmkay?

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank some of my best girls for the inspiration for this piece.  Once again you are a reminder that we are never, EVER alone in our thoughts and feelings.  I would be curled up in the fetal position ashamed of my saggy titties if it wasn’t for you.  I LOVE YOU.


The Power of Girlfriends

This weekend I received a lovely surprise visit from my Bestie.  We have been best friends since 1987 so I am quite certain that she knows more about me than anyone else on this planet.  She was there when I met Farmer Bob, she was there when I married Farmer Bob, she’s always there when I need her to be.  Always.  As we were talking above the screams of our children  it dawned on me how much we all need that one friend, or group of friends, that simply understand.  That listen without judging or criticizing.  That give advice without being condescending and that laugh when we need them to laugh.  That aren’t afraid to tell us to shut the hell up when we aren’t making any sense.  That may not always agree with what we are saying, but are willing to listen anyway.   That give us that little reminder that we aren’t alone.

The Power of Girlfriends

Before you get all worried about Farmer Bob and his feelings, I’m not talking about significant others here.  I’m talking girl. friends.  Farmer Bob does many of those things (especially telling me to shut my pie-hole), but you know as well as I do that there is just nothing like venting to a girlfriend about “things”.  He doesn’t want to talk about my saggy boobs and my menstrual cycle.  He doesn’t give two shits about what kind of laundry detergent I use or what I put in that salad. Unless it has to do with tractors, grains, cows, or sex he just doesn’t really care.  I probably shouldn’t say he doesn’t care because he does, but you girls know what I mean. <speaking of shutting my pie-hole…NOW, do it NOW>

There is something relaxing about sitting on the couch or around a table with your girlfriends.  Something that releases those tight muscles and loosens the tongue, and I’m not just talking about the effects of the wine.  You lose some of your inhibitions and the words start to spill out of you like the milk out of the jug when your toddler drops that  full gallon on the kitchen floor.  When it’s just you and your amigas, nothing is off-limits.   Only with the girls do you feel comfortable talking about the post-childbirth floppy butterfly, or the fact that you have to pick up your boobs in order to fit them securely in your bra.  No one else but the girls can relate to the fact that while you may be losing hair from the top of your head, you are finding it on your lip, or your chin, or your <insert random body part here> .

No one but other mommas ‘get it’ when you mention something about your desire to tell your kids to quit being inconsiderate assholes or wanting to scream at them to just PICK UP THEIR SHIT.   The dads, they get it, honestly they do, but it’s different.  They have a gift that we just don’t.  The magical ability to ignore.  Ignore all the asshole behavior until the magnitude of assholeyness has reached a level that even the hubs himself could not surpass.  Asshole level:  Defcon 5.  This is not going to be pretty.  One massive explosion of orders and dad has his offspring cleaning faster than a crew of Merry Maids.  If I were to attempt to use this method,  PITA would probably flash me a quick view of his wiener and run off and dump out a bucket of  Legos while laughing his cute little meniacal laugh.

When we are having one of those shittastic mothering days or feeling like a less than stellar wife, it is hearing those equally horrifying stories from your friends that make you feel less like a failure and more like a normal person.  It is knowing that you aren’t the only one cleaning boogers off your television or walking away from lunch because your toddler is throwing a tantrum over the way you cut up his hot dog.   Realizing that your friend also shoves Cookie Crisp in her mouth as she’s walking out the door because there wasn’t time to eat a better breakfast.  Having that ‘A HA’ moment when an amiga tells you that she just doesn’t feel like being touched in a sexy way after being groped by an octopus all day long.  There is a feeling of normalcy that overtakes you knowing that your kid isn’t the only one to take a dump on the sidewalk or that you aren’t the only one that gets tired playing cruise director and party planner.

So I guess where I was going with this is that if you don’t have you some girlfriends that you can dish with, you have GOT to get you some.  As my bestie said so eloquently after our visit, “ just a few hours with my bestie is like a massage, therapy session and a Xanax all rolled into one”.   You don’t get better than that.

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Cake in a Glass? Yes, PLEASE!

Girls night out. They don’t come very often, so when they do I like to make the most out of them.  When my cousin, the Enabler, asked me to run away with her for an entire child-free evening for a visit to our Alma Mater I just had to make it happen.  Childcare, check.   Bags packed, check.  Cash in hand, check.  Legs shaved, oops.

We quickly forget how lovely it is to escape every once in a while.  Eating a hot meal without having to cut up something for someone or stopping halfway through to take someone to the potty.   To enjoy a nice summer beer while you properly chew your food instead of  taking a bite and choking it down while you chase your three-year-old across the restaurant.  To sit and enjoy adult conversation instead of taking half of your meal home to eat later because your kids can’t keep their hands off each other and they are crying because you flicked them all on the ear (I would never do that, but I’ve heard of it happening <ahem>).

To shop without chasing kids through the racks.

To go to a bar and enjoy a beer (or three).

Then you wake up and it hits you.  Something big is coming up soon.  It’s sneaking up on you like all your kids’ birthdays.  You can’t quite put your finger on it.  It’s a holiday you are pretty sure, but all the days run together so that is a total stab in the dark.


Oh. Snap.  Easter is coming.  Soon.  Ham, potatoes, all the fixin’s.  Easter baskets.  Candy.  Peeps.  Crap.

Are we required to make Easter crafts?  Do we need cute little centerpieces and fancy place mats?  What exactly should I be doing in preparation?  Should I be baking cookies and planning out a fancy cake? What will we eat?  What will we drink?  Will the Easter Bunny bring good stuff for the kids’ baskets?  Can I put out my own basket and he will fill it with special gifts just for me *wine/chocolates*?

I started thinking about my kids and what they always hope the Easter Bunny will bring them.  The usual suspects; chocolate bunnies and Peeps. Toys and books.  I am always un-prepared and usually over-purchase and we end up eating Peeps for weeks.  Normally not a bad thing, but since I am trying to loosen my jeans instead of make them tighter,  I needed to come up with a way to thin out the Peeps.  My way.

I started doing some basic research.  I was imperative to come up with something creative and after watching this video for Peeps,  I started asking myself  what is MY “Peepsonality”?  Go ahead.  Watch it.  I can wait.  WATCH IT.  *taps toes*

I decided to take it to the next level and go to the Peeps website for ideas and had a hard time finding something to fit me.  You all know me well enough by now.  I don’t do crafts, kids with scissors and glue guns scare me.  I bake, but my jeans advised me to pursue other options.  What is something that I can do?  Hmmmm…. Well,  I do  like to enjoy a nice drink at night.  Maybe I’m on to something here.  Sometimes it is wine, sometimes it is a beer, but for Easter I needed something good.  Like a dessert in a glass.

I decided to take my idea to the bars while out with my girls.  Would something light and fruity work?  Nope.  Something sweet and sugary? Nope.  Something chocolaty and delicious?  Ladies and gentlemen, we have a WINNER!!!!

I needed a professional’s assistance, so with a little help from our very young and charming with a stellar taste in music bartender Tony at Porter’s bar in  Manhattan, Kansas (when I say young I really mean that even though Tony and I graduated from the same high school, it wasn’t in the same century young) we came up with the idea for this delightful beverage.  There was some intensive research involved in this process both at the bar, and at home.  I can only hope that you appreciate all the hard work I do for you all.

It took a few tries to get the right combination.  Luckily Farmer Bob, the chocolate connoisseur, was available this weekend to be my official test taster.  Some were too chocolaty (is that possible?).  Some were too vanilla-y (is that a word?).  After some trial and error, and a few shots just for good measure, we settled on this recipe.  It really is like a slice of black forest cake in a glass:


Peeps in the Forest

Equal parts UV Chocolate Cake and Cherry Vodka 
Splash of UV Vanilla Vodka
Dr. Pepper to taste
Make sure to sugar your rim.
Dip Peep in chocolate and use as garnish and to nibble as you drink.  It adds just the right amount of sweet!  
Make sure to have a few extra chocolate covered Peeps on the side.  I realized just one wasn’t enough.


Just be careful…this sucker will sneak up on you in a heartbeat.  You’ve been warned.  May it make your Easter dinner just a little less stressful.  Enjoy.

*This post is sponsored by Peeps, but all the words and thoughts are products of my own brain.*


So This is Really Happening…

Living in the country we have days in which the UPS man pulling into the yard is the most traffic we see all day.  I had been waiting and waiting to see that brown truck this week and every day that passed with nothing was another day I sulked just a little.  Today he came and he had boxes.  Two of them.

My heart skipped a beat and I brought them in and put them on the table.  Since I knew what was inside I couldn’t bring myself to open them right away.  I was nervous.  I had heart palpitations and sweaty palms, I may have even let a little fart slip out as I jumped up and down in my excitement.  Then the reality sunk in.  Inside these boxes are books.  Not a bunch of books that I ordered to read for my own enjoyment.  Books.  THESE books:


<cue the tears>  These are books that contain my words.  Some of them may be dirty and to some inappropriate, but they are still mine.  My thoughts.  My words.  ACK!  It wasn’t real until I saw them and held one in my hands.  Now it’s official.  This is REALLY HAPPENING!

I grabbed the top one and opened it up and glanced at the table of contents and I think my knees buckled just a little.   To look at all those names of so many amazing women all in one place, with my name among them, was something that simply took my breath away.  It isn’t like it is a new development, this book has been in the works for months.  Some of these women I knew before.  Some of them I had read but didn’t know personally.  All of them I am getting to know better and better every day.



Since I operate on full disclosure and honesty I feel that I have to tell you that I have actually NOT read this book yet.  Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m afraid to and I didn’t have a copy.  When asked to contribute the list of other contributors was not disclosed.  I knew that Jen (People I Want to Punch in the Throat) would put together an amazing list of contributors and that alone made it difficult to write anything somewhat coherent.  I struggled for a month to write my piece for her and after a TON of editing I closed my eyes and hit the send button.  Once I discovered who all the incredible writers were that were going to be joining me on this adventure,  I may have thrown up a little.  These are some of the most talented and hilarious women on the interwebs.  Now I am in print with them.  Mind. Blown.

What I do know without even reading one single page is that this book is AMAZING.  To have thirty-seven amazing women all together inside one cover, brilliant.  To see thirty-seven women working together to make it succeed, brilliant.  To see thirty-seven women who may not necessarily share the same sense of humor or writing styles or beliefs do something so incredible is eye-watering.  I’m honored to be a part of this incredible adventure and can’t wait to see where it takes us.

I am in awe of their abilities.  I am humbled to be considered a writer of their caliber.  I’m still shittin bricks that my name is in that table of contents with all of these lovely ladies:

People I Want to Punch in the Throat
Insane in the Mom Brain
The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva
Baby Sideburns
Rants From Mommyland
The Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess
My Life and Kids
Bad Parenting Moments
Let Me Start By Saying
Frugalista Blog
Suburban Snapshots
Ninja Mom
Four Plus an Angel
Honest Mom
Binkies and Briefcases
Naps Happen
Kelley’s Break Room
Toulouse & Tonic
Hollow Tree Ventures
The Fordeville Diaries
Mom’s New Stage
Nurse Mommy Laughs
The Dose of Reality
The Mom of the Year
Life on Peanut Layne
Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine
Confessions of a Cornfed Girl
I Love Them Most When They’re Sleeping
Random Handprints
You’re My Favorite Today
Funny is Family
My Real Life

So, let’s cut the sappy shit, fricken PMS.  Who wants to win a copy?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller? Bueller?  (Sorry, couldn’t resist)  I’m going to give away at least one copy of “I Just Want to Pee Alone”.  It will be the winner’s choice of either a paper copy or a Kindle copy.  Depending on my mood and the number of entries, I may decide to do more copies you never know.  The winner(s) will be announced on Tuesday morning.  The more entries there are, the greater the chances of more copies to be handed out…for FREE!!!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Don’t want to wait to see if you win?  Want to buy a copy for your sister/girlfriend/wife/mother-in-law/OB-GYN/most hated enemy?  It won’t even cost you your first born child.  Here is all the info.  Once you read it, be sure to express your love for the book with a positive review on Amazon.  We will worship the ground you walk on if you do :)

Get it delivered to your door via Amazon:  I Just Want to Pee Alone

Download it to your Kindle here: I Just Want to Pee Alone

You Nook users can download it here: I Just Want to Pee Alone

You can even get it from iTunes here:  I Just Want to Pee Alone

Don’t Let the Guilt Get You

I screwed up.  Not in a “I used salt instead of sugar in those cookies” kind of screwed up.  More like a  ”I now feel like a total asshole mother” kind of screwed up.  It wasn’t over anything major, but to my fifth grade daughter it was kind of a big deal.  Now I have this immense feeling of guilt.  Mom guilt.  Different from any other guilt you will ever feel and it sucks.

This isn’t the first time I have dropped the ball on something.  I have forgotten to take someone to a birthday party, or missed that meeting about an activity.  I have forgotten to call little Susie’s mom to see if Susie can come over for a sleepover.  As parents we have unlimited opportunity for failure.  Every second of every day presents us with an opportunity to fuck something up.  There is no other job on the planet that you can enter into with absolutely no training whatsoever and then be left to deal with the pressure, the guilt, and the repercussions of not doing something right.

When I took that first job flipping hamburgers, I wasn’t allowed to start cooking the hamburgers right away. Hell no.  I had to master the potato peeling and onion chopping first. I had to be able to make perfect patties and golden brown french fries before I could be trusted with the spatula and a hot grill.  I received on the job training before being entrusted with the important tasks.  There is no on the job training that comes along with parenthood.  Sure, there are thousands of parenting books that you can peruse.  There are millions upon millions of magazine and internet articles that you can sort through and read.  Most likely you have friends or acquaintances that you can ask for advice.  The thing is, your parenting skills will be completely different from everyone else’s.  Don’t fall for the ideal of being the “perfect” parent.  You are just setting yourself up for disappointment.  You will be a GREAT parent, but there is no such thing as the “perfect” one.

At some point we have all royally screwed up something for our kids.  Maybe we have that day that we didn’t make the time to play that board game.  Maybe we forgot to write that letter of encouragement for them to read before their state assessment tests.  Maybe we were taking a few seconds to read an email instead of watching them go down the slide.  Maybe we were busy writing a piece for a book and didn’t spend the afternoon giving our kids scissors and glue guns. It doesn’t mean we love them any less or that we wish that they didn’t exist, it just means that we as parents are so consumed with trying to prove to everyone else that we can do everything when in reality we are drowning in our own sea of over scheduling and pressure to overachieve, present company included.

Am I a failure as a mother because my kids are currently parked in front of the television long enough for me to finish this post? No I’m not.   Do I feel a slight twinge of guilt that I am doing that?  Absolutely.  Does it mean that I am lazy parent who only focuses on her needs instead of the needs of her children?  No effing way.  It means that I deserve to take some time for myself.  To do the things that I enjoy and that make me a better mother.  It means that I have things that I  like to make time for besides wiping butts and playing Chutes and Ladders for the five millionth time.  It means that in order for me to be the parent that I need to be I have to take the time to tend to myself, even if that means locking the door just so I can poop in peace.

If you can honestly look in the mirror and say to yourself that you don’t have needs.  That you are the ideal parent.  That your sole purpose in life is to be the beck and call girl for your kids.  That you don’t ever make mistakes and suffer from mom guilt.  You are full of shit.  I mean, you have it oozing out of every orifice.  Instead of filling yourself with these unrealistic expectations, why not tell yourself that it is OK that you forgot to make that phone call.  That you aren’t ruining your kids if you let them have pop for lunch.  That it is OK that you forgot to do something.  That they won’t be traumatized for life if they have to go out into the backyard and play by themselves for fifteen minutes while you switch the laundry or eat that bag of M & M’s that you’ve been hiding in the cabinet.

We all make mistakes.  We all have the guilt.  We all have those days where we want to pack our bags and run away to the Bahamas with Johnny Depp.  Well, I do at least.  We can’t sit around criticizing each other and ourselves for the choices that we make for our own children.  We can’t constantly attack each other because we do things differently.  We can’t look in that proverbial mirror and beat ourselves up because we have those moments of doubt.  Because we forgot something.  Because we made a mistake. Because we just wanted to take a few minutes for ourselves.  Guilt will eat you alive if you let it.  We need to support each other despite our differences.  We must have the belief in ourselves that we are doing something right.  That we have one, or two, or five little people who think we are better than sliced bread.  That these kids will turn out just fine.  Have faith in YOURSELF.  You’ve got this.  WE’ve got this.


Have you bought the book yet?  NO??  WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR????  Talk about a good way to remind yourself that we aren’t perfect.  Go ahead and get a copy for yourself and feel free to get a copy for all of your mom friends too.  You will laugh, you may cry from laughter, you will definitely no longer feel alone.  All positive reviews will be sprinkled with glitter in celebration.  Get all the details right HERE. 

I’m Not a Medical Professional, but I Play One in This Post


Today I re-started my workout regimen.   Never fear, it isn’t a hardcore heavy-duty workout that will take away from my precious writing time, but it’s a workout nonetheless.   I  have been on a hiatus and ever since that break started all I have done is watch my middle rise like a batch of yeasty bread.  Since I am pretty sure it has risen until double in size, it is time to punch it back down, only this time I don’t plan on letting it rise again.  It’s only flat-breads from here on out.

I have missed running.  I never thought those words would come out of my mouth, but I miss the way it makes me feel afterwards.  You know, having energy.  Tight-ish abs.  Less junk in my trunk.  Less jiggle in the thighs.  You get what I’m sayin’.   I also miss those few minutes with just me and my music and my thoughts.  Whatever I want to listen to without having to skip a few songs due to their explicit nature.  Sorting out the various thoughts swimming about in my brain.

I think Mr. Nordic Track has forgiven me for taking such a long break from our relationship as he was remarkably kind to me this morning.  Too bad the kids were not as supportive of my endeavor, attention seeking little animals that they are.   As I was plugging along trying to ignore them, I came up with this list of suggested things to do before/during/after your workout.  I can only hope that it helps at least one of you.

Before the workout begins:

  • Decide you are going to actually workout
  • Have another cup of coffee
  • Answer a couple of phone calls while catching up on Facebook
  • Have a bowl of cereal
  • Pee
  • Have another cup of coffee
  • Switch the laundry
  • Read a blog or two
  • Pee again
  • Put your workout clothes on
  • Ask three-year old if they have to pee before you get started
  • Pee again (next time  consume less coffee)
  • Lock the fridge so that kids can’t sneak up and help themselves to a snack mid-workout
  • Answer another phone call
  • Pee again
  • Dig out treadmill from under pile of toys/clothes/junk
  • Try to remember how to turn on the treadmill

During the workout:

  • Make sure you turn on the treadmill.  This is very helpful.
  • Make sure you set treadmill on the right speed.  It is painful when you eat shit on a fast-moving belt.
  • Don’t forget to jump over the toys that the kids send down the belt. They like to test your cat-like reflexes.
  • Turn up your music.  It drowns out the screams.
  • Remember that dance-walking burns more calories.  This will also cause your children to shoot you odd looks and most likely cause uncontrollable laughter.
  • Don’t forget to stop the treadmill when you have to get off to take the three-year old pee because he didn’t go before you started like you asked him to.
  • Don’t forget to go pee when you take the toddler pee.  Your pants will thank you later.
  • Smile and clap for the four-year-old’s musical performance, which thanks to the headphones you didn’t have to endure since it involved a tambourine, jingle bells, and maracas.
  • Don’t push yourself too hard,  you will be required to move tomorrow.  As in your body.  Out of the bed.

After the workout:

  • Stretch.  This will help the movement that will be required later in the day.  While most likely this will be painful, especially to your psyche as you attempt to bend down and touch your toes and decide that your thighs are close enough.
  • Hydrate.  Preferably with water, but depending on the time of day of your workout your beverage of choice is totally up to you.
  • Take tea-party breaks in-between stretches.  This serves two purposes; 1.  you interact with your kids that you have been ignoring for the last thirty minutes, and 2.  it gives you extra time to get up from the previous stretch before moving on to the next one.
  • Give yourself a pat on the back for surviving another workout and try to fight the urge to stuff a couple of cookies in your pie-hole.

These are only some suggestions derived from my own personal experiences.  I do not claim to be a medical professional and can only say that I cannot accept any responsibility for injuries that may occur if you choose not to take these suggestions to heart.  I will also not accept any responsibility for any wet pants that occur due to either the ignoring of these suggestions, or from the laughter that you just enjoyed from reading this post.  I have enough laundry, next time invest in some Poise.


Me, Pioneer Woman?

This post was originally fed to the 50 readers I had back in March.  So much has changed since then, including my writing.  I have to tell you, I had to edit this one a bit before re-posting.  Trust me, you should be thanking me for that.  I’m sure most of you have NOT read this one yet, so enjoy.

Today Farmer Bob put me to work stacking firewood.  At first, I was NOT excited about this task.  Why yes Farmer Bob, I would LOVE to spend my Sunday doing manual labor.  Trying to find some positives out of this, I started thinking and thought of two things: 1) I’m getting in some cardio AND weightlifting all at once, BONUS and 2) could I have been a pioneer woman?  I have to blog about this.

I am one of those people that loves to drive around and picture what the landscape looked like before the power poles, the roads, the fences, the housing developments.  I look at rotted out old houses and imagine what it would have been like to live there.  I dig it.  I wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder when I was a girl.  It is when I wake up and come back to the now that  I realize I am nuts.  I couldn’t live like that.  N-E-V-E-R.  I am way too spoiled with my modern conveniences.  Here are just a few of my justifications as to why I could NOT be a pioneer woman.

every morning.
I like being able to say this!

1.  I like to cleanse myself.  I don’t like nasty week old funk.  I don’t want to smell it or smell like it.  I don’t want to see the fungus growing on you or your teeth.  I like deodorant, and toothbrushes, and soap. Smell good soap.  With matching lotion.  I like to wash my hands before I eat and wash my face before I go to bed.  I don’t have the time or patience to have to heat my water over a fire in order to make it warm in order to take a relaxing bath.

2.  I love refrigeration and ice.  Ice makes the world go round, especially the little rabbit turd ice that you get at restaurants. What is it about that ice?  I love ice cold water, soda pop, tea, coffee (not really coffee, but I was on a roll). I love being able to eat my food without the lingering fear of suffering through an intestinal armageddon.  The thought of eating something that has not been properly stored makes me shudder.

Uh…no thanks

3.  I love indoor plumbing.  #2 made me think of this one (pun totally intended).  Just imagine having a bad case of food poisoning and having to set up camp in an outhouse.  Take a port-a-potty and multiply the grossness level times one thousand.  We actually still have an outhouse here at casa de YKIHAYHT. It is not functional at this moment, but I keep threatening the littles that I’m gonna pop the top on that sucker if they complain again about not having enough bathrooms.  I could not imagine having to walk all the way over there when, to quote the Bridesmaids, “It’s coming out of me like LAVA!”  Dear Lord.

4.  I like automobiles.  Just picture yourself cruising cross-country to claim your little patch of heaven in a covered wagon.  I like air conditioning and soft seats. I like having music to listen to and heated seats in the winter.  How would I get by without being able to roll down the windows and crank up the music on a nice day?  Not to mention I like to get from point A to point B in a timely manner, with no bruises on my ass.  Let us not forget all the perils they would encounter.  Indians, thieves, not to forget they didn’t have coolers.  All their food for the entire trip was in that wagon, refer to numbers two and three. It isn’t like they had easy access to doctors or health insurance.  At least they didn’t have to pay for gas I guess.

Can you turn up the radio??

5.  I like pants, shorts, and flip flops.  I could not wear a long sleeve dress and bonnet every day.  While not having to worry about doing my hair and makeup would be quite lovely, the thought of being confined in a full coverage dress gives me the shakes.  I would have preferred to be in jeans, boots, and carrying a big gun.  These days if you ever find me wearing a dress, chances are it is summer, the dress is sleeveless and there will be a one hundred percent chance that there will be flip flops on my feet.

Yeah, I think not.  Especially while gathering buffalo dung.

6.  I L-O-V-E my bed.  If I wanted to sleep on hay, I would live in the barn.  I like snuggling down under my blankets in my bug-free comfort zone.  In my house, with locks on the doors and windows. Heat and air conditioning.

And the main reason…

7.  I’m WAAAYYY to lazy.  This is the bottom line.  These women busted their humps just to survive.  They couldn’t just run to Target to pick up some milk.  If they were lucky they had a cow, which they had to milk.  Farmer Bob keeps teasing me that he is buying me a milk cow.  No. Farking. Way.  I am not milking three times a day.  How ever would I have time to do that?  In-between phone calls,  laundry loads, and games of Candy Land?  After I check my Facebook account but before I get on Pinterest or check my email?

They cooked their own food, from scratch.  No box mix. Throw in some lard, some flour, some eggs if you had some and turn it into something spectacular.  They may have had the screaming shits after eating some bad meat, but they didn’t whine about it.  Life went on.  They had things to do, like gathering buffalo dung  for fuel and skinning those rabbits for supper.

They made their own clothes by hand.  No machines, no patterns, no Old Navy, Gap, or Gymboree.  If something got a hole in it, they fixed it because they didn’t have access to new.  If they were lucky they had shoes.  One pair.  Better hope they fit and they had better last.

They had how ever many babies they were blessed with.  They were not aware of their bodies.  No Tampax or Kotex.  They didn’t have access to birth control, or medical care.  They birthed until they just didn’t anymore.  No epidurals, no doctors, no maternity leave.  Squeeze that baby out and get to cookin.  They didn’t get nights out for drinks with the girls or dinners out at a nice restaurant.

Could I have been a pioneer woman?  Not only no, but HELL NO!!  Not now, I’m spoiled.  Sure, they didn’t know any different, that is just the way it was.  We (I) have become too spoiled with all our modern conveniences.  Would I like to give it a shot?   I’m not afraid of a little old-fashioned work.  I think I could survive until I had to gut the pig or dig a new hole for the outhouse. I would most likely go through some sort of social media withdrawl and would miss all of the comforts of home so I think I could only make it for a few days. I’m a pansy like that and of course by then, I wouldn’t be able to stand my own funk anymore.

What about you???