Child Haters Don’t Drink Coffee, Obviously

“Having kids means a family has more love and happiness than other people.”

This was according to my eight year old son during his daily morning ramble on the way to school this morning. Naturally, because I am a horrible wonderful mother, I decided to address this grave misunderstanding sentimental view. When I asked for clarification on what he said, he told me that families who decide to have kids are generally happier and love more things than a family without kids. In fact, a family without kids doesn’t actually fall under the category of “family”. Again, because I’m horrible wonderful, I asked, “You know there are people who don’t like kids, right?”

If my son had been driving, we would have been in the ditch for sure. My question brought out a response from him similar to if I had just lobbed a baby deer at his head. Evidently the thought of someone NOT liking kids is completely unfathomable to small children. “Mommy! We are fun, and snuggle, and play with toys…everyone likes kids!”

You guys are also loud, and obnoxious, and messy, and smelly, not to mention expensive! You know how I threaten to eat you in the morning? *shining mom moment* I asked, “That’s how some people feel about kids all the time. You’re lucky I only feel this way about you before I’m done with my coffee or when I’m really tired.”

As per usual, my daughter chimed in with the perfect response, “Maybe those people should just drink more coffee.”

There you have it, child haters, drink more coffee and you’ll like kids.

Dirty Filthy Animal

As a mom I like to pick my battles. “I’ve already told you not to jump on the couch, and I don’t feel like telling you not to trap your sister in the over-sized bucket. Carry on.” “By all means, eat your sandwich in the bathroom, but whatever you do, don’t draw on the table.” Perhaps I don’t always pick the right battles, but if I fought every battle I would have no time in life for the important things. Such as vodka, nachos, and sex. I would like to think this is a common practice among most parents, or this could just be me trying to make myself feel better. We’re parents, it’s what we do.

Even when I’m picking my battles, I’m not necessarily paying attention to what is coming out of my mouth. Perhaps I forget I’m talking to tiny people. Maybe I think I’m saying it in French. They would look at me with the same bewildered look anyway. Maybe I don’t realize I’m talking at all. I have been known to lack a filter from time to time. Either way, I turn into mommy robot. God only knows what is bound to be said, and I don’t always remember it. Typically it’s pretty standard. “Stop that.” “Don’t bite the cat.” “Put your pants back on.” “I will eat you if you don’t quit it.” “You want hurt? I’ll show you hurt!” “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Ops normal, and we continue along our merry way.

The other night, while at the dinner table, my elegant little princess daughter forced out a belch my father would be proud of. *robot mommy engaged* “Pheobe, we don’t burp at the dinner table. It’s gross.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok mommy,” another loud belch.

*robot mommy engaged* “Whaw whaw animals whaw whaw. If you do it again, you can whaw whaw outside whaw.” *robot mommy disengaged*

“Ok, sorry mommy.”

Three minutes pass, and the tiniest, daintiest little burp escapes from Pheobe as she suddenly looks at me in fear. I desperately try to remember what I told her would happen if she did it again. I look at Steve for help, but he looks just as fearful as Pheobe. I know it was something about animals and outside. Shit! What was it?!?! Oh no….”Only dirty filthy animals burp at the table. If you do it again you will have to eat outside like a dirty filthy animal.” I’m going to hell. What do I do?!?! I had to follow through, or my entire dinner would be a series of belches. I’m sure I looked totally calm, cool, and collective not nearly as panic stricken as I felt when I looked at her and said, “Go get your coat, hat, and boots on, you’re eating on the porch.” Fuck! I am totally failing as a parent!   This is where all the helicopter parents chastise me for making my 5 year old eat outside like a dirty filthy animal in January. You know what, helicopter parents, I followed through and that’s what counts! Never mind the possibility of frostbite and hypothermia. There were no complaints from her before, during, or after this whole ordeal. She simply put on her winter clothes, grabbed her plate, and went out to the porch. Still at the table, I could see her little bundled up face through the living room window, taking bites of her burrito.  After five minutes, she was done. Inside she came, and I asked her if she was going to burp at the table again. She said no. Problem solved, all was well.

Last night, at the dinner table again, Pheobe burped. My eyes rolled back into my head. One warning is what she got, and not another burp was produced. Farts, on the other hand, were a different story. It may have been a musical dinner that night.

I live in the Twilight Zone where every day is Groundhog Day. I will now slowly slip into insanity and await the day I can comfortably rock in a corner. Please, don’t follow my parenting examples.

Furry Testicle Scarf

I’m going to start off with a question. I’ll let you decide if it’s hypothetical or not. What on earth is the purpose of a long skinny knit scarf? Four inches wide and five feet long…why? I guess it could come in handy if you partake in S & M, enjoy the occasional restraint while being sexual aroused, or need a last minute lasso to catch a runaway cow.  I’m also sure a crafty murderess has used her homemade skinny scarves to strangle her prey or to tie her cheating ex husband to a chair. However, aside from the obvious reasons stated above, I see no reason for a long skinny scarf. I have had fears of the scarf getting caught in the paper shredder, accidentally strangling myself as I get tangled on a nearby fence post, or even worse, having the ends fall into the toilet. I see absolutely no valid reason for someone to purchase said scarf, let alone waste their precious time knitting one.  Naturally, with all that being said, I spent four hours of my kid less weekend knitting one.

I’ll have you know that under normal circumstances, I never would have made such a thing. I like my scarves thick, bulky, warm, and useful. However, my mother bought me three skeins of this strange chenille-like pom pom yarn for Christmas. By pom pom I mean large fury testicles. Picture 90’s testicles before manscaping was a thing. Now pretend it’s cold. That’s what these so called “pom poms” feel like. It’s a continuous strand of chenille with a furry testicle every half yard or so. I’m no stranger to testicles, and I do admit they are fun to play with, so knitting a scarf covered in fury testicles shouldn’t be an issue. I was willing. I was ready. I was about to rejoice, when I opened the package. The pattern was for a long skinny scarf. Fuck. Cast on eight stitches; knit six rows; knit another; on the eighth row, knit two, purl four, knit two; repeat the last two rows three times; repeat pattern to the end; ending with six knit rows. Squares, I’m knitting two inch squares into bulky chenille yarn. That’s like drawing in watered down corn starch! No matter what you do, you’re not going to be able to see it. One might look at the scarf after a couple pints and think, “Hmm, it almost looks as if there is a design in there, but it’s probably just a flaw in the stitching.”

Let’s recap, I am about to sit down on a kid less day to knit a long skinny chenille scarf, covered in furry testicles and invisible squares. The only thing that could make this less enjoyable would be having my kids home to torment me as I curse the idiot who came up with this pattern. Enter the skein of yarn. Long and soft with a furry testicle every half yard, all wrapped up into a tight little hank. For those of you non-knitters, you don’t knit directly from a hank, and it usually gets tangled as you undo it and wrap in into a ball. Spoiler alert: You can’t wrap testicle yarn into a ball because it is already covered in balls. Hanks usually get a bit tangled as you undo them. Add testicles and you get a mother fucking shit storm tangled mess of biblical proportions.

Remember how I said earlier I spent four hours knitting this scarf? Well, for those of you thinking I’m a knitting moron for taking four hours on a skinny scarf, two and a half of those hours were was spent untangling the mother fucking shit storm mess of yarn and testicles. A couple times through all this I broke out into a cold sweat as I swore profusely and cursed the makers of the yarn. There was even a dark moment when I felt like I was a character in a Saw movie. I would soon be impaled by a thousand 1mm knitting needles if I didn’t cut off my right hand to escape. This was my hell, and I was living it. I pulled and yanked, twisted and tucked for two and a half grueling hours. By the end of it all I had cut  the yard in three different places, tied it back together, discovered curse words I never knew existed, and contemplated selling my first born to the devil to make the madness end, and wrapped it neatly around the handle of a large basket. Pro tip: Testicles do not like to be shoved through small holes. Take that advice as you will. Alas, I had untangled every last bit of yarn without Steve calling the cops or me strangling myself. So I started to knit. Cast on eight, knit six rows, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Three invisible squares and two testicles in, I’m seeing red. This pattern is stupid, senseless, and a pain in my ass. Who the hell knits squares into chenille? No one! At least no sane person would. So, I started knitting straight through, one row after another, because I just didn’t care anymore. Fuck you testicle yarn and your invisible squares, I’m done! We’re breaking up. Ha! I just taught that yarn a thing or two! I have never been so mad at testicles in my life. By the end of the four hours, the scarf was finished and my frustrations were over. I could now go rope cattle with my long skinny testicle scarf, or tie Steve to the bed in sexual excitement. Instead, I threw the scarf on the floor and drank a beer, of which I drank so fast I didn’t even taste it. The rest of the night was a blur. When I woke up in the morning I remembered I still had two more skeins of testicle yarn. Therefore I recon I will be venturing back out onto the ledge soon, as i can’t just let the yarn sit there and collect dust. Yarn is made to be knit, with or without testicles. However, if you hear of me checking myself into the asylum, you will know it is because the testicles made me do it.

Side note, there will be no invisible squares on the next two scarves, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend an eternity shoving testicles through tight spaces again. It gets tangled? I’m chopping it up into tiny pieces and throwing it in the yard for the birds to make nests out of, testicles and all!

Surprise! Vagina!

Come one, come all!

You are cordially invited to the annual viewing of:


Join local doctors and medical interns as they gather around my vagina and discuss labia lengths, cervical displasea, HVP, the effects child birth has on the average American vagina, and so much MORE!

The cold hard plastic duck lips will once again be the guests of honor as they force themselves down the deep, dark cavern to the magical jewel, the cervix. Their escort for today’s viewing will be, once again, hospital grade lubrication.

Please feel free to bring a cotton swab to poke around with, as this is the most anticipated moment of the show.

Curtains will open at 1pm-ish

Unfortunately, alcoholic beverages will not be allowed during the show, but are welcome promptly afterwards.

So, if you’re free; slap on a med coat, grab your PAP kit and prescription pad, and get on down to my doctor’s office. This is an event NOT to be missed! I look forward to seeing you all there!

Breasts-Truth From Lies

Breasts, tatas, pillows, speed bumps, fun bags,mammories, gazongas, melons, titties, chest puppies, chesticles, mosquito bites, rib bumpers, bazongas, udders, air bags, bosom, boulders, hooters, and jugs. No matter what you call them, we all have them.

My breasts. I love them…or I did love them. It’s really a rather difficult thing to deal with, breasts. Once pert and near perfect, they now seem to lack the luster of their younger years. As you grow older, and become a mom, you expect certain things. Like grey hair, you expect them to succumb to gravity a tad, form stretch marks, and keep pace with your growing hind end. As women, we learned about these kinds of things while growing up and watching our mothers. We watched their bodies changed in curiousness as we went through our adolescent years and onto the trauma known as the teenage years. But, just like watching a car crash, it’s never what you expect until it happens to you. That’s exactly what my breasts have become, my own person car crash.

I really thought I was prepared to get older. “It’s a piece of cake!” I thought to myself. I smiled, and accepted my grey hair coming in at a rapid pace and the dimples on my butt. It’s all a part of becoming a mature woman. I was READY damn it! Bring. It. ON! Well, my breasts brought it. They brought it with a vengeance. Over time I suddenly found myself having to sort out the truth from the lies when it comes to your breasts and aging.

  • After you have children your breasts shrink back.
    • Bullshit. They don’t shrink, they grow. They grow as if you have been slathering them with fertilizer. They will indeed grow to unruly proportions so you will no longer be able to see your feet, and may even end up taking over your entire body.
  • One breast will grow slightly larger than the other.
    • I am one bra purchase away from spending a small fortune extra on custom made bras. As it stands now, my left breast is a full two sizes bigger than the right. I have been walking with a port side list for the past two years, and it’s almost impossible for me to lean to the right.
  • Over time, gravity will cause your breasts to sag.
    • It will also cause your nipples to point directly at the bathmat when you get out of the shower, and make you feel as if small demons are swinging from them as they try to rip the flesh from your chest.
  • The weight of your breasts could cause shoulder pain over time.
    • Have you ever carried a five year old on your shoulders for eight hours? Yup, pretty much the same feeling.
  • Breast pain may increase as you get closer to menopause.
    • No shit Sherlock! Although “pain” in not necessarily the general word I would use to describe the sensation I have when taking off my bra during PMS. I might as well turn to Steve and ask him grab a hold of these bad girls and give them an full out yank because that’s what if feels  like when they are “set free”.
  • Breasts may become more tender.
    • I’m assuming this refers to “pain”. Please see above. This is a sore subject for me. Pun intended.
  • Increased sensation.
    • Bread crumbs in your bra become thorns, and the popped under wire…..well you might as well lob that bitch off because that’s exactly what it feels like. On a positive note, nipple sucking in the heat of the moment…..that’s pretty much my most favorite thing on earth now.

As you can see, my breasts and I hate don’t like each other. It’s a daily struggle to maintain the status quo. I curse them as soon as I stand up in the morning to the time I tuck them back into my armpits at night. In turn, they retaliate with pain and uncharted growth spurts. I miss my toes and dream of running down a white sand beach in a bathing suit without fear of injuring those around me. My breasts are a pain in my ass, and if they keep growing I will be able to wrap them around to my actual ass. I can’t wait. Yet as I sit here in a granny bra I can’t help but worry about them. What if I find a lump? What if they get sick? What would I do if I actually “lost” them?

Breasts are a constant battle for women, they’re too big, they’re too small…….my implant popped, etc.. No matter how frustrated they make you, remember, you have to take care of them. Do a self check every month. Let your doctor have a go at them at your physical. Let your partner have a feel for you. Your breasts are the one thing you can’t feel enough! So, as we lumber through the month of October toward winter, whip them out and give the girls some love. Take five minutes to give them a little squeeze and a rub down. If you feel something suspicious, call your doctor. It’s always better to be safe than sorry when it comes to your breasts. Guys, you should do this too. Breast cancer isn’t sexist. Once you’ve given them some love, you can go back to cursing them. I know I will.



Dear President Obama

Dear President Obama,

I am a veteran of the United States Coast Guard. It was the Coast Guard that taught me true love for my country. A service where brotherhood was strong, no mater what your gender, and you learned what it meant to be part of the greater good. I am not a highly religious person, but the Coast Guard taught me that the love of God would get me through the toughest of times. Before I joined a branch of our coveted military, I was wayward and lost. The Coast Guard taught me about structure and how unity can make even the weakest, strong.

I know it may sound strange, but the Coast Guard taught me love. I consider myself a moderate conservative. I believe in gay rights, and women’s equality; but I also believe in the right to bear arms, and putting a stop to illegal immigration. I know that, at one point in time, this country was great. When you first ran for office, the liberal side of me, wanted you to be the change you talked about. I wanted you to make a difference, and make our country even greater than it was. However, the conservative side of me, doubted your ability as a junior politician to lead our country to that greatness.

Today I find myself, a Coast Guard veteran, disappointed in what I see in you. You’re despondent and seemingly uninformed about what is really going on. News stations are reporting that you have attended less than half of your daily briefings. As a military member, I would have been court martialed for a dereliction to duty. I understand you prefer to read what is being presented to you, so that you can have it all in writing. I am also one of those people who prefer to have it all “e-mailed” to me so I have a constant running document of what is said and expected of me. I will not fault you for this.

I have to admit, that I often find myself questioning what my real issues are with you. It’s not that you’re black. It’s not that you are a “junior” politician. It’s not that I feel you truly don’t know what kind of danger this country is in. So what is it? What is it about you that I don’t like? What part of your presidency rubs me the wrong way?

Tonight I sat down to really think about it. I asked myself these questions:

  • What is it about influential bosses in my life that stood out?
  • What did the Coast Guard teach me?
  • What stemmed my original love of this country?

When I actually sat down to think about it, the answer was simple, confidence. Confidence in one’s self, and confidence in ones country. Yet, how does one come upon this confidence? We can’t buy it in a store, and it’s certainly not imported from overseas. So where does it come from?

Our president. Our president is the answer to those final questions. Not once in during your presidency have you given our country, our nation, a pep talk. Not a pep talk about what we have accomplished; a pep talk in what we CAN accomplish. You leave us all feeling unsure and afraid because you can’t give us a straight answer. Our country is young, and naive, we are like children. We need discipline and structure like five year olds do. We want it, we crave it, but what we crave even more is praise. We need to know that we are capable of greater things. We need to be reminded of what made us great once. We need that positive reinforcement you give your own daughter.

So please, President Obama, I ask you to give our beautiful country back her confidence. Reminder how wonderful she is, and what she can accomplish. You have neglected her for too long. She needs your support. She needs to know you believe in her. Stop passing the buck, and show us what you believe we can do. Your lack of support and confidence is ruining this country. The United States of America needs a pep talk from you. We need to believe in us again. It’s up to you to make us strong again. If you fail at this, you fail at your mission as the President of the United States of America.

I Pledge Allegiance I Promise to be faithful and true (Promise my loyalty)
to the flag to the emblem that stands for and represents
of the United States all 50 states, each of them individual, and individually represented on the flag
of America yet formed into a UNION of one Nation.
and to the Republic And I also pledge my loyalty to the Government that is itself a Republic, a form of government where the PEOPLE are sovereign,
for which it stands, this government also being represented by the Flag to which I promise loyalty.
one Nation under God, These 50 individual states are united as a single Republic under the Divine providence of God, “our most powerful resource” (according to the words of President Eisenhower)
Indivisible, and can not be separated.   (This part of the original version of the pledge was written just 30 years after the beginning of the Civil War and demonstrates the unity sought in the years after that divisive period in our history)
with Liberty The people of this Nation being afforded the freedom to pursue “life, liberty, and happiness”,
and Justice And each person entitled to be treated justly, fairly, and according to proper law and principle,
for All. And these principles afforded to EVERY AMERICAN, regardless of race, religion, color, creed, or any other criteria.   Just as the flag represents 50 individual states that can not be divided or separated, this Nation represents millions of people who can not be separated or divided.

Creativity Is A Process Best Served Uniquely

I’m staying home today. Unexpectedly, but I’m home. I drove to work with all intentions of actually working, despite the itch to create something. When I got to work, I worked, had a coffee, worked, blah, blah, blah. Still itching to create something. This may or may not be a common problem on Monday mornings, or all mornings for that matter. Oh well, work must be done so bills can get paid. Yet another morning was going to pass without so much as a hint of fabulous creation coming from my finger tips. My laptop at home will sit cold and dormant, my sewing machine will continue to collect dust, and my drawing pencils will remain unsharpened. I obviously have some sort of creating addiction. Good bye exciting possibility of creating THE thing that will make me famous. *slowly slides off of chair into a dramatic heap on the floor*

*Begin back story* I know I complain a lot some about my kids. It’s kind of a nature thing for parents to do. They’re up too early, they stink, they’re messy, they’re really gross, and they’re loud. You know, the usual. Truth be told, however, I friggin’ love those little bastards. I kiss them in their sleep and hug them every chance I get; but there are some days when I love them so much I could burst. Today, my friends, is one of those days. *end back story*

At 10:30, almost the end of my usual creative urge time, my phone rings. It’s the school and Theo is sick. I have never been so excited to deal with a nauseous child in my life! As I walked out of the office I cheered, “Hooray for vomit!” I’m sure my boss is now questioning why he hired me. So, now we’re home. Little man is in bed fast asleep, and I’m sitting on the couch fondling my laptop with my finger tips. I caught up with reading some other blogs, and have started to lay out a plan of action to better deal with this creative itch. I’m not sure how well my plan will work I often lack follow through, but I need to get this blog going I’ve said that way too many times before. I also need to draw more and have some intimate moments with my sewing machine. Now to tie them all together and become rich and famous. Wish me luck!