Being a Mom Means…

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Being a mom means:

Being a Lego master and a fortune-teller.

A doctor and a wash maid.

A Mario expert and a cab driver.

A story-teller and a magician.

A human tissue and a dance party dj.

Being a mom means:

Staying up late on ‘date night’ only to get  up before the sun for couch cuddles.

Learning how to make pasta with butter 6 different ways to stimulate your senses but trick your kids.

Remembering to bathe your eczema ridden child BEFORE she starts to smell.

Making the grey areas come as close to black or white for your linear child.

Removing the make-up from your purse to make room for crayons.

Being a mom means:

Having sex in the bathroom because the bedroom is too obvious.

Having a locked box for your sex toys and porn.

Being able to make any sex position look like “mommy is just stretching”.

Putting an all new meaning to the term ‘quickie’.

Being a mom means:

Nighttime kisses.


Morning snuggles.

After school hugs.

Couch cuddles.

I love you’s.

Being a mom means:

Watching what you thought were your best years fade into what you know are going to be your best years.

Loving little people with your heart and soul as they become big people.

Being you and letting them be them.

Hoping you are doing as good of a job as your mother did.

Happy Mother’s Day to all my fellow mothers and mothers-to-be. Hug your children every day because it’s the best gift you could ever give each other.


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I grew up on nachos……bar nachos. For a while growing up my mother was a single mom having to deal with the stigma of raising a child on her own, living with her mother, and experiencing those times where there was no one available to watch your children. It’s because of this I consider myself lucky.

You see, “back then” women didn’t venture into the profession my mother did……bar tending. Now I’m not talking about the bar tending you party animals are thinking about where she slid shots down the bar to a bunch of drunk guys. She worked in a restaurant behind a large solid oak bar. And those are some of my fondest memories of my mother, the first female bar tender in the state of Maine.
I would go to work with her from time to time and have a little booth all to myself. I’d venture around the restaurant introducing myself to the patrons as my mother smiled at me from the bar. Once lunch time would come I’d sit back in my booth with my little toys and coloring books and wait for what would become my most favorite food ever……..NACHOS.
At 5 years old the mound of chips before me seemed bigger than life, but I’d sit there until the last drop of cheese was cleaned from my plate. To this day every time a plate of chips and melted cheese is placed in front of me I’m magically whisked back to my younger years of eating bar nachos with my mother smiling in the distance.
To me there is no better comfort food. Nothing brings me back to happy faster. I now make nachos out of everything. Chips. Crackers. Mini rice cakes. Goldfish crackers. You name it, I’ll make it into nachos.


Nipples and Nudity: Happy Mother’s Day

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Anyone who knows me knows that I am a bit left of center and blew the word ‘unique’ out of the water. So this Mother’s Day I feel that I should pay homage to my mother and grandmother who made me this way. So sit back and relax, I’m about to tell you how it was growing up in Maine under the influence of the women who raised me.

My grandmother was an art teacher. In reality I really shouldn’t have to say much more than that. We’ve all dealt with art teachers dressed in homemade clothes with their bifocals dangling from around their neck on a beaded tether. <= That was my grandmother. My first memory of her was when my mother and I were living with her in a small little New England home overlooking the ocean. I ran into the bathroom one day to get my pet hamster, isn’t that where everyone keeps their hamsters? and saw her with her underwear down to her knees bent over spraying them with perfume. As I stopped short in my tracks she simply looked up at me and said, “There is no reason for it to ever stink.” I now know that ‘it’ meant your cooter, but at the time I was convinced ‘it’ was your underwear and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why your underwear would stink.

Throughout the years I watched as my grandmother would shamelessly yank off her shirt in the midst of a hot flash in the middle of dinner and frantically walk around the house in her underwear. When I was in college we would have entire conversations about her boobs and how gravity had taken them south. When she would fart she would say that she was deflating, and we would be in tears every time she hugged someone due to the fact that every hug would inevitably squeeze a fart out of her. After she passed away in 2008 I found a bottle of her husband’s Viagra (he had passed a few years before) in the night stand on his side of the bed. Right then it was confirmed that up until 2006 my grandmother was still at least trying to have sex.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. They also say that your children are three times worse than you were. Enter my mother. She isn’t an art teacher, but she did want to be a hippy. Every summer growing up my mother would walk out the door in her underwear and start mowing the lawn. It’s quite possible I miss this the least since leaving home. Quite often more than I’d like to admit if my brother and I heard rapid footsteps coming toward the kitchen we knew that she would soon be sliding across the floor in nothing but her socks yelling “Ta-da!!!”

Summers growing up included happening upon my mother on the back porch sunbathing topless every weekend and winters being mooned by her in her ancient night-gown. The older I get the more stories I hear and the more comfortable she feels about going bra shopping with me for herself.

And that’s how it was for me growing up. Listening to their stories about sex and boobs, and wondering if I was ever going to have nipples like my mother. They were never shy about nudity and taught me it was a normal part of life. Even now I have conversations with my mother on the purpose of ‘manscaping’ and how an underwire bra helps to combat the look of gravity.

It’s because of them that I now  put on deodorant in that little area where my thigh meets my crotch cracks BF up every time he sees me do it, enjoy pants off Friday, encourage BF to motor boat me, and have taken my shirt off in public more than a handful of times…ok, that last one was probably due to tequila but my mother always taught me to never blame the alcohol. Therefore I blame it strictly on genetics. Thanks mom!*wink wink*

So this Mother’s Day I want to thank my mother and grandmother for molding me into the free spirited nudist I am today. Without the constant influence from them both I can only imagine that I would have become a stuck up bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about wacky sex and underwear perfume. I miss my grandmother every day and continue to be thankful every time my I come to realize my mother is becoming more and more like my grandmother. This means one thing….I am sure to stumble down the same path and so is my daughter. Watch out world, this mommy is undressed for a reason!

The Memoirs of Mommy Undressed

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I have the pleasure, used very lightly, to be taking an American Literature class with a bunch of…um…interesting human beginnings, one of which reminds me of a little boyfriend I had when I was 18 and in my first semester of college. Let me elaborate, he fancies himself rebellious and mysterious yet well read. AKA likes to blow smoke up your ass. He claims to have read all the great American authors and criticizes their work in a very generic cliff notes fashion. He saunters into our first class wearing a cheap cross earring that almost touched his shoulder and dressed all in black with the sleeves cut off of his t-shirt. Yesterday he walks in with the same damn earring but looking more like Don Johnson’s body double in Miami Vice. This douche bag kid is my definition of a typical 2nd year college student. He has just enough knowledge to have an opinion but not enough know differently from that one way he was taught.

So imagine my reaction when he declared yesterday, “People shouldn’t be able to write memoirs unless they’ve done something great.


My response, “I gave birth to 2 children, I think that’s pretty great.”

“Millions of women have given birth, that’s not great.”


This douche bag kid has obviously never pushed 7 pounds of human through 10cm…or known anyone willing to talk about it who has. So sit down douche bag, I’m about to tell you all the GREAT things I’ve done as a mommy and why my memoirs will rock your thrift store rebel earring off.

1. I shit out, not one, but 2 7-ish pound humans…without pain meds. I bet you cried when they stuck the needle through your ear.

2. I let both those humans hold my nipples hostage for months as they sucked the life out of them. Through all the chaffing, the thrush, the biting…I sat there for hours so that those 2 humans could grow and thrive. Nothing else was doing this for them, it was all me.

3. I read “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubans” out loud 5 nights in a row last week. Side note: children’s books should not be more than 15 to 20 pages long. I swear that fucking book is 1000 pages long. Fuck you Dr. Suess.

4.Recently there are meal times where I didn’t eat so that my humans could, just to make sure they had enough. Which makes the fact that I haven’t eaten them yet equally as great.

5. I’m a full time college student, working 25 hours a week, living over 5 hours away from any family, and doing it all on my own…with a $3000/a month budget…in Connecticut. AKA: Crazy Person Single Mom

6. 75% of the time I look as if I’ve been dressed by an angry mob of lesbians but I somehow still manage to keep my sex appeal. It helps that most of the men I’m around all day are heavily drugged…or at least that’s I want to believe.

7. Even in my 30’s  I still fuck like a porn star…well that’s not really true, and I’m not about to prove it. But it sounded good.

8. 90% of my time I make meals that my kids are actually willing to eat. They probably don’t know any better. Side note: In the words of my father, “Brandi doesn’t even know how to cook a bologna sandwich.

So there you have. I think I’m pretty fucking great. So top that douche bag kid. Let me know how many great things you’ve done as a human. I’ll make sure to mention you when my memoirs hit the NY Times best seller list. Mwah!

Pheobe and Papa’s Anytime Cookies

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In 3 days my ‘baby’ brother who’s 6’2″ is getting married, coming to the dark side. In preperaton for this event there was the typical Bridal Shower for my future sister-in-law, Kiki. I wasn’t able to travel the wonderful 5 and a half hours to attend said event but I still got an invitation…..and so did Pheobe. Now, I’ve never had a ‘proper’ wedding anything. And yes, that includes the wedding. The donor and I eloped. We’ve actually spend more money for our divorce than our wedding. I’m guessing by the invitations for the Bridal Shower that one of the ‘usual’ things to do is have everyone bring recipe cards.

Good idea right? I thought so. So I sent along my Cucumber Gimlet recipe because every married woman knows that it takes a lot of booze to stay married. But seriously, wtf kind of recipe is a 2 year old suposed come up with? Yes, she makes the best imaginary ice cream this side of the Mason Dixon Line as well as one hell of a mess in the house, but as for something recipe card worthy……that was a whole different story! Then my mother came up with a great idea.

Every time the Annex ventures to Maine to visit Nani and Papa cookies become the staple food for Pheobe and Papa. Cookies for breakfast. Cookies for a morning snack. Cookies for lunch. Cookies for just about any time during the day that may or may not require the consumption of food. So that was it. Pheobe needed to give Kiki her recipe for the cookies that she and Papa enjoy so readily when we are in Maine. So here it is for any of you who wish to endulge in “Pheobe and Papa’s Anytime Cookies”.

1. One Full Sized Pick Up Truck

2. One Papa (with wallet)

3. $4 (or less depending on taste)

4. One ‘Out Of Season’ Cookie Jar



1. Go through Papa’s wallet and find $4

2. Load Papa into the driver’s side of the pick up truck with the $4 still in his wallet.

3. Drive to the nearest grocery store or small market. For best results, have him drive at a medium to slow speed the entire way.

4. Once at the grocery store, point Papa in the direction of the cookie isle (usually the same isle as crackers).

5. *the secret ingredient* Find the cheapest cookies available. It is best to buy these around Christmas time and stock up for future use.

6. Purchase said cookies.

7. Load Papa back into the driver’s side of the pick up truck.

8. Head back home, again at a medium to slow speed.

9. Once home, pour cookies into the ‘Out Of Season’ cookie jar.

10. Sit at table with Papa. Dig in and enjoy! (Sometimes a glass of milk is a tastey addition)