"There are some who can live without wild things and some who cannot." (Aldo Leopold) Apparently, I cannot.


Guest Post: Dating Rules for Single Moms Who Are 40 and Older (From PP at The Precious Princess’s guide to Bananaland)

Happy Monday, everyone. Hope you enjoyed a great weekend. We are now in our new house down in VA and still have a few days (optimism, people!) of unpacking ahead of us. BUT? We finally have the internet working here (first world problems, I know), so I can finally get my last guest post up that I had wanted to share last week. Woohooo!

Today’s post comes from my friend over at The Precious Princess’s guide to Bananaland. She is a funny gal and always puts a smile on my face. She tells it like it is and doesn’t mince words, which is part of the reason why I like her so much. The other part . . . she is also one of the nicest people I don’t know personally (although she’ll try to tell you otherwise). I asked her to share her thoughts on dating as a mom, and she came up with some important rules . . . 

Dating Rules for Single Women Who Are Older Than 40 and Have Kids
By: PP, The Precious Princess’s guide to Bananaland

Dating in and of itself is an awkward, and somewhat bizarre activity. You meet someone at a bar, online, at the grocery, whatever and…you make a “date.” A date is defined by the free online dictionary as :

a. An engagement to go out socially with another person, often out of romantic interest.
b. One’s companion on such an outing.

My definition of date? An awkward outing with someone you barely know.

Getting back into the dating scene after 17 years of marriage (2 husbands) is overwhelming and completely humbling. I mean really, it’s hard enough to date when you’re 22, single, and hot. 38, overweight, divorced twice, and a kid? Absurd.

young hot single chick

Here’s just a few rules I came up with for the over 40, with kids, newly single woman…

1. Sleep with whomever you want, just don’t let your kids know. Don’t get all freaked out. You’re single now. Every date does not have to be “the one.” Sometimes, a woman just wants a lil somethin’ somethin’. We have needs. Use protection, be smart, and have some fun. Do NOT, however, become the chick people are talkin’ about in the bathroom at the bar. This? Is all bad. It sucks when you hit the next PTA meeting and Barbie and Babs are over in the corner acting like you’re the sleazy chick.

2. “Practice” date. I did this. A lot. I met a buncha nice people on websites. Yes, the online dating thing can be totally creepy but you can weed through the creepers fairly quickly if you’re smart. (I could write for hours on the whole online dating dealio, that will be a whole other post). I knew these men wouldn’t be “that guy” but some were nice and guess what? I wasn’t sitting home on Friday & Saturday nights. The guys who sucked taught me all about what I DIDN’T want so that was awesome too. I was meeting people and learning how to communicate with opposite sex without having sex. I don’t regret any of these dates cause I was learning. Learning is key. This shit is tough. So a few wasted hours here and there? Totally worth it.

Seriously? These are valid questions!

Seriously? These are valid questions!

3. Don’t eat sushi on the first date. It’s just weird. Trust me, I experienced it. It’s that whole “share” the sushi thing and all that. Plus, that whole raw fish & chopsticks thing can really be awkward. Really.

4. Make sure you ALWAYS answer your phone when your kid calls. Even if you’re just getting ready to get hot & heavy. This avoids embarrassing early drop offs. It happened to me. Trust me, I know. You don’t want to have to explain who “so&so” is when your kid gets unexpectedly dropped off two hours early. All because you didn’t answer the phone. ALWAYS answer the phone. Trust me. I know stuff.

5. Don’t shit where you eat. Sorry to be so blunt about this one, but do NOT engage in dating with a co-worker, a friend of friend who you see on a regular basis, the waiter at your favorite restaurant, or the local cop who directs traffic at your kid’s school. All of these are a no-no. It seems great at the time but when you can’t go back to your favorite restaurant ’cause the waiter you went out with had Mommy issues? It blows. It’s also all bad when your kid asks “why can’t we go to Auntie so&so’s house anymore”? You really can’t answer with “Well, honey, I banged her brother and shit is awkward.” So, just don’t.

6. Make time to date. I know this is tough. It was easier for me ’cause my kid went to her Dad’s house every other weekend. I could plan ahead. Lots of you don’t have this option. But, seriously, if you can find a friend, family member, co-worker to watch your precious punkins for at least an hour here and there, you get out of the house. You get to meet people. It’s coffee. Or lunch. It doesn’t have to be a production. Just do it. It makes you feel better. I’ll be real, sometimes it makes you feel like a giant turd, but for the most part, it is way good for the self-esteem. I know stuff.

7. Never look your best on the first “meet.” Seriously. I’m not saying to go out with your hair undone, cut-offs and dirty flip-flops or anything. You know? Don’t dress like you’re going to be on the People of WalMart website. I’m just saying, look good. Not great. ‘Cause let us be honest here for a minute. We don’t look all good & cute & stuff MOST of the time. So look good. Not great. Also, if the guy is some kinda yuck? You haven’t wasted your time gettimg all purtied up. And, if he isn’t some kinda yuck? You have the chance to knock him on his ass with all your hotness on a 2nd date. Or 3rd. See? I know stuff. Really.

8. Be comfortable on your dates. There is no need to break out the leopard print spandex and create a hole in the ozone with your hairspray. Especially at our age. Don’t try to be someone you aren’t. (Unless of course you go for the whole role-playing thing.) Do not wear your brand-new linen pant suit. Scratching your nether region and wrinkly pants? Huge turnoff. I’ve heard. Dressing like your 21 again? Doesn’t help with dating. It will get you many offers that you probably aren’t interested in if ya’ know what I mean? Not to mention, if your kids happen to see you looking like a damn fool? Remember that naked bathtub picture you snapped when they were 5? You’ll never be able to use it. Your kids? Will have the upper hand. And that just can’t happen. So, don’t. Look like an old (or young) ho.

Ummmmmmm, NO!

Ummmmmmm, NO!

9. Your kids are #1 in the dating scenario. If your kids have issue with you dating? Hide it from them. Who said parenting was easy. In the long run, happy Mommy = happy kids. That being said, if your kiddos don’t approve of who you’re dating when & if they finally meet them? Run. Your kids are smarter than you think.

Dating is a risk . . . do it anyway.

Dating is a risk . . . do it anyway.

Thank you PP! To get your daily dose of The Precious Princess, please check out her blog–she’s currently dishing on things that piss her off . . . it’s looking  like it’s going to be a long series, and sure to have you laughing–and her Facebook page.


Guest Post: My Kids Are a Couple of Talkblockers! (From Vicky at The Pursuit of Normal)

Today’s guest post comes from my friend Vicky at The Pursuit of Normal. I was supposed to share this with you on Wednesday, but we’ve had problems getting the internet connected at our new house. We still have no internet, but I was able to sneak over to my parents’ house (who are now only 20 minutes away instead of 8 hours!) to get this up. Thanks so much to Vicky for sharing this hilarious story about her kids and for her patience while she waited for me to finally post it. 🙂 

My Kids Are a Couple of Talkblockers!
By: Vicky, The Pursuit of Normal

UnknownThere’s a language that exists among mothers that desperately needs to be studied by both linguists and social archaeologists. I believe it could be the basis of a cultural revolution of epic proportions. Better yet, it is something the military should look into. Thousands of Special Ops Soldiers could become even more, er, special if they were trained to speak in the code that only mothers understand.

You think I’m kidding? OK, let’s try it out. When I say “cracked,” moms will reply with any of the following: nipples, lanolin, breast milk, “I’m on the verge of” or vodka. Maybe I’m making that last one up…? Let’s try another. When I say “Boppy,” moms respond with: nursing, tummy time, comfort, vodka. Wait, what? Why does that keep coming up in my research? How about “shower.” Typical responses are: “what’s that,” crying alone, shave or conditioner?, never alone, vodka.

Unless you are a mom or married to a mom you probably don’t understand any of these strange word associations. But if you are a mom, you’re nodding your head right now in an “Uh-huh, I hear ya girl!” Or maybe you’re just snickering. Whatever. But you get what I mean. The list of Mom’ese goes on and on: pee pee tee pee, breast pad, umbilical stub, inverted nipple, snuggie, football hold, reflux, diaper explosion which includes an “up the back”, etc. It’s the language of motherhood. It’s not taught in any college around the world, nor is much of it discussed in The Books or Bringing Home Baby classes. But go to any park around town, cruise the aisles of Target or pass by the open door of any pediatrician’s office and you’ll hear more about nipples and feces than you ever thought possible. As I said, it’s the language of Motherhood.

So imagine my excitement when I realized that I quite possibly created a new word to add to The Dictionary of Motherhood. I’m proud to say this isn’t the first time I’ve been a lyrical genius. Remember this post? This was the famous Mojito Muffs. Yes, I coined that awesomeness. It was basically the mothers equivalent to Beer Goggles. Beer Goggles make chicks hot and Mojito Muffs make your kids sound less irritating. Brilliant, if I do say so myself.

Well, I’m please to announce I’ve done it again. Now I’m nothing if not thorough so I had to do some in depth research to make sure that I did, in fact, create this word. I spent hours pouring over ancient texts, combing the halls of prestigious libraries and scanning the pages of Webster’s finest and then hopped on over to Urban Dictionary (where real words are archived). I have to admit, that I was disappointed to find my newly created morpheme masterpiece has actually been used before. But wait! There is still hope! According to the genius (and clearly childless) employees at Urban Dictionary, although the word has been used before, it has not been used within the context I created. Therefore, in my opinion, I get credit for inventing this verbal treasure…

Have you ever been in the middle of an important conversation with a friend while hanging out in the park, when your 2 year old little darling interrupted you by asking you to push her on the swings? Have you ever been on the phone with a friend in need, only to have your 5 year old approach you with a repetitive “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mommy”? Or have you ever finally found 4 minutes- in a row, no less- to chat with your spouse about who’s taking which kid to what event on Saturday, only to have your 9 year old yank the conversational emergency brake by asking 27 useless and unrelated questions? Let’s not forget the 3 hours you spent at a friend’s house for a play date, whereupon driving away you realize you only completed 4 sentences, yet started approximately 32 of them. Unfortunately the constant stop and restart because someone needed a drink or a snack or to go to the potty made it impossible to finish any one of your sentences let alone remember what the hell you were talking about in the first place!

If any of these things have happened to you.. You, my friend, have been TALKBLOCKED.


Honey, I love you.  But if you interrupt me one more time I’m going to rip your tiny arms off and beat you over the head with them, K? Thanks.  Love you!

And who are the ultimate TALKBLOCKERS? None other than our sweet, precious, adorable little children. No one can strip you of your conversational mojo quite like your own kid. It doesn’t matter how many snacks are on the table, trips you’ve already made to the bathroom or random questions you’ve already addressed. Your child will inevitably need something from you the moment you are approximately 9 words into any really important conversation.

According to my hours of research few minutes on Urban Dictionary (where I go for all things wordy) the words TALKBLOCK, TALKBLOCKER and TALKBLOCKED have technically been used before. However, because they are severely lacking in staff over the age of 18, the current definitions need some work. Here is how these non-parents define TALKBLOCK:

  1. When having a talk about deep matters and you don’t want others to hear and abruptly someone comes to hear what your conversation is about.
  2. The act of impeding in (I’m impressed they used this correctly) on a conversation, essentially killing any vibe that may have been present.
  3. To interrupt someone when they are talking to someone of the opposite gender whom they are interested in pursuing a relationship with

All good definitions, and quite accurate, I believe. But none really seem to be Mom-Friendly, wouldn’t you agree? Well, if you are a mom looking to hook up with a potential baby daddy only to have your efforts dashed by some clueless friend who hijacks the conversation, then they definitely have the definition for you. But for the rest of us who are happy with our current baby daddy and are simply trying to finish a freaking sentence for the fourth time, the current definitions are don’t quite meet our needs.

And so, Moms of the world just trying to have an adult conversation only to be thwarted at every turn of phrase, I feel ya. I have spent the last 8 years of my life being TALKBLOCKED to the point of learning how to speak to my husband and closest friends using an intricate series of eyebrow movements and blinking.

My kids constantly block my talk. Freaking Talkblockers.
That’s just my normal.

Thanks again, Vicky. This is one of my favoritest posts! If you’d like to stalk Vicky, too, please check out her blog and follow her on Facebook and Twitter! Just don’t talkblock her! 😉


Guest Post: The Bat Mitzvanera (From Pete at Dadmissions)

Happy Monday everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful weekend. Today is our big move, so I’m likely in the middle of that crazy last-minute frenzy where we try to get every leftover random thing packed up and in the moving truck before the movers decide it’s time for them to take off. 

Just as I did last week, I’m sharing three guest bloggers this week while my family and I make our way down to VA and begin the process of unpacking. (That’s the part I actually like!) Up first is Pete from Dadmissions. Pete found me just after I started blogging, and I was so gobsmacked that such a professional and well-known blogger would even take notice of little old me. Needless to say, I’ve been a fan of his since we first connected, and I’m so happy to share one of his posts with you. It touches on families with mixed cultures and religions, and it’s one of my favorites!

The Bat Mitzvanera
By: Pete, Dadmissions

Deck the halls with matzah balls
Fa la la la la la la la la…

In a nutshell, that’s what is like being in a home with mixed religions and mixed cultures. It is a constant blending of traditions and a constant teaching process. It can be challenging but very rewarding as well. Translation: “What did I get myself into?”

Dadmission: Gloria is Catholic. I am Jewish. Gloria is Latina. I am white. Officially, that makes Alicia and Andreya Judeo Christian Rainbows… Or confused.

When we took Alicia in for the pre-op appointment for her tonsils, they asked us what our “religion of preference” was. That really threw me. We didn’t know what to answer. Gloria is more religious than I am. What I really wanted to tell them is we prefer the religion that guarantees us a 100 percent surgery success rate and no nasty bills from my HMO. In the end though, we just left the line on the form blank. Right now we choose to expose the girls to both religions and that’s what we prefer.

The girls find eggs at Easter and afikomen at Passover. They celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. They know Jesus and Moses and people in between. And I admit it: I love that time of year when we have a fresh cut Christmas tree decorated in our house surrounded by our lighted menorahs. I cherish that one old gold menorah my family has had for decades. The menorah tilts to the left, frail from age, and you can smell the candle wax of generations past. The girls love lighting that menorah, decorating the tree, baking Christmas cookies, eating candy canes and making potato latkes.

With the traditions come the toys. No question, being a mixed religion family can be a budget buster. Adam Sandler sang the Hanukkah song about getting gifts on eight crazy nights. Now add the mother lode of gifts you get on Christmas. Then add the gifts from every other family member and the kids’ room resembles FAO Schwarz. Here’s the equation:

T= A + A x 8 + 2 (Toys equals Alicia plus Andreya times 8 plus two.) Two is the number of aspirin to handle your headache after.

Gifts aside, the blending of religions has made for some very proud moments like Alicia’s baptism, when she was dressed in her Tia Vanna’s baptism gown and sprinkled with holy water. In Boston, we got the tremendous honor of being there with my mother for Alicia’s Hebrew baby naming. We chose “Ellie” as Alicia’s hebrew name after her brave cousin in Israel who battled cancer. And some day soon, Andreya will also be baptized and will also receive her Hebrew name. My hope is that we can raise the girls with an understanding and appreciation of both religions and even others. One day they’ll gravitate towards the religion they identify with most.

I know Alicia, Andreya, their mom and their abuelita would like to host quinceaneras some day, the coming of age rite for young Latina girls. I’m Jewish, and I know my side of the family would love to see the girls have bat mitzvahs.

So I’ve come up with really the only logical conclusion… Wait for it…. “bat mitzvaneras.” Yes that’s bat mitzvaneras. Say it ten times fast.

It’s an original… Documenting a Latina-Jewish coming of age party could be MTV’s next big hit… The perfect Wilgoren Party. It’s the Torah, hora, Latina, pupusa, all-purpose party. They can do the quinceanera routines and then the Hava Nageela and never need to leave the room. We can do knishes, empanadas, Manischewitz and Sangria. Bat mitzvaneras… Think about it.

Along the way, Gloria and I have learned from each other about our respective cultures and we’ve passed these nuggets on to the girls. I got to teach them about my love affair with Jewish delis. There is nothing like a corned beef omelet, LEO (lox, eggs and onions) or a pastrami sandwich with brown mustard piled a mile high on a bulkie roll. In Jewish culture, you can trace your family roots by the delis you’ve been to (my first job was actually at Steve’s Deli in Sharon, MA, washing dishes and bussing tables for four bucks an hour). I got to teach them about the wonders of fresh baked challah bread. There is nothing like picking up a warm bread on Friday morning and ripping off that first chunk to eat. Unfortunately for me, the girls always “canoe” the bread and rip out the best inside part, leaving only the outside. And I’ve shared my love of fried matzah and butter with the girls although they don’t love it. With all the deliciousness comes the acquired tastes. When it comes to tongue, chopped liver or herring, I choose to Passover! I did very briefly introduce Gloria to the Jewish delicacy of gefilte fish. It’s one of those foods that tastes good if you don’t think about it too much. If you don’t know what this is, imagine a Jewish version of Fear Factor:

Recipe for Gefilte Fish

  1. Take a bunch of various fish
  2. Mince them all up into a big pile
  3. Form odd oval shapes out of them
  4. Dare to eat those odd oval shapes

Gloria’s family has its own rich food tradition from El Salvador. She introduced me to carne asada, a marinated flank steak grilled just right and never burned. It is my weakness. There is arroz con leche, quesadilla (in El Salvador this is a cheesy bread) and sweet vs. salty tamales (there are ones with prunes and ones without. Hint: I like the ones without). A family favorite is the pupusa, a thick handmade corn tortilla filled with cheese or pork or in my case, just beans. Gloria’s family knows exactly which Pupuseria makes them just right from scratch. And her family makes some killer Christmas turkey sandwiches, too. They make the turkey sandwiches with lettuce, radishes and this special sauce that her mom created which is incredible. And don’t forget the rice and beans. Yum yum yum.

Dadmission: A home filled with two religions makes for one big waistline: mine. Translation: Don’t blame my big butt on me.

Now the Latinos have some acquired tastes as well. They have menudo — and i’m not talking about the 1980′s super group. Picture a cauldron of animal insides mixed with broth. It is slow cooked and served on the weekends like some sort of special event. Thankfully, this is not a tradition in Gloria’s family, so I’d like to just move on.

The Wilgoren cultural exchange program extends far beyond the dinner table. In Gloria’s culture, she taught me about a tradition where newborn babies sleep with lettuce under their heads to ward off the evil spirits. In my culture, I taught her about a tradition where babies get the foreskin of their penis cut off. I prefer the lettuce story. In my culture we have the tooth fairy who collects teeth. In Gloria’s culture there’s the Ratoncito, a little mouse who collects teeth. In Gloria’s culture they eat grapes on New Years for good luck. In my culture, we order pizza and drink.

I learned about the wonders of the piñata from Gloria. You go and hang a candy-filled paper animal from a tree and take out your aggression over the cost of the party on it. When the candy falls out, your therapy is complete and the children are happy.

Gloria learned about the wonders of the Hora from me. You go and defy the laws of gravity by taking the adults at any Jewish party, hoisting them high off the floor on an unstable folding chair, and then dance around at a high rate of speed until they fall off or your back goes out.

Her Selena is my Jazz Singer. It’s J.Lo versus Neil Diamond in the culture clash of the ages. I have Yentl and Fiddler on the Roof. She has her novelas and Sabado Gigante with Don Francisco.

We can still learn a lot from each other. Already the girls speak fluent Spanish. And when the dishes are done and the food is put away, we can sit and relish in the uniqueness of our family. My sister reminded me of a time when Alicia was younger where she said, “Mommy is brown, Daddy is white and I’m pink.” Maybe Alicia was the original Pinkalicious. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thanks so much, Pete! You love him now, too, right?! To read more from Pete, please check out his blog and his Facebook page. I promise, you’ll be happy you did. 🙂


Guest Post: Hack Crafts for Ghetto Crafters (From Sam at RealMomofNJ)

Our last guest post this week comes from my friend Sam at RealMomofNJ. Sam and I connected I think the week I started blogging. I don’t remember exactly how we found each other, but I am so glad we did. Sam has been nothing but super supportive and incredibly helpful as I have tried to find my way in the blogging world. And not only does Sam provide me with good belly laughs daily, but she’s also my go-to mom for advice on green and healthy living. But it’s Sam’s crafting skills that really drew me to her. I think her how-to post that I’m sharing with you today will become the guiding principles for my Too Tired to Try Tuesday series. Enjoy!

Hack Crafts for Ghetto Crafters
By: Sam, RealMomofNJ


While I might be an ace at cooking wholesome meals and saving the planet with the kids, I am a GD zero at crafting. I’m a ghetto, wannabe crafter. Even before there was Pinterest to make my desire 10,000 times worse, I was desperate to be crafty in any way possible. Sewing, knitting, DIY furniture restoration, decoupage, whatever. But I got nothing. I can’t even copy other people’s craftiness, that is how impaired I am. If P and I attempt a project, it’s hard to tell which is hers and which is mine. It’s sad. I want to craft so. damn. much.

Is this you too? Well, my friend, I’ve found a few remedial things that even we can do to relieve our crafting itch. Nothing pin-worthy, and maybe some of these ideas are technically art and not crafts, but they do the job. If the best it’s going to get for us is ghetto crafting, let’s take what we can get, shall we?

Here are my favorite hack ideas that allow me to delude myself into believing I’m a real crafter. They’re sure to help you feel better, too. And have your kids join in, as these ideas are all really best suited for toddlers and not grown women trying to channel their inner Martha.

You Too Can Feel Crafty By:

  • Gluing stuff on paper. This is right up my pathetic artsy alley. You can use anything from cut-outs from magazines to dried pasta, and more you glue the fancier it gets. There is even a name for your masterpiece: a collage. It’s absolutely real art if it has it’s own name. This is a big-time activity for little kids, so you’ll get plenty of excuses to get your craft on with this one when your youngen is young.
  • Edging with pattern-edging scissors. Give something a wavy edge and BAM. It’s a craft. There is no denying it. The scraps can then be glued to paper. You know how I like to reuse and recycle, so this is a double winner.
  • Punching holes. This is my favorite. There is almost no way for me to eff this up, and there is a ridiculous variety of cute hole punchers that transform this from an administrative task and into a craft. I have hole punchers in shapes ranging from Christmas trees and hearts to Mickey Mouse heads and the state of California. Not only do I feel crafty punching holes in things (like card stock, so I can make my own gift tags to tie on gifts), but I can collect the confetti and P and I can glue it on paper or throw it around for Baby N to find and eat later when he’s crawling under the table.
  • Glitterizing. Like fancy edges, adding glitter to anything makes it a craft. It makes an insane mess because kids and half-assed crafters like me use it a bit too liberally and enthusiastically, but it instantly transforms something ordinary into sometime fabulously artsy.
  • Stamping. Don’t get cocky with this one, Ghetto Crafters. This is an advanced skill. You must apply even pressure to the stamp on both the ink pad and the paper or it turns out crappy. After you get the hang of it, however, stamping is totally a legit craft.
  • Applying washi tape to anything. This shit is all the rage on Pinterest lately. WTF is it? It’s this Japanese paper/plastic tape hybrid that is rippable but strong and comes in a bjillion colors and patterns. It’s generally used to decorate things. Here’s a slue of ideas for what you can do with it. I promise, using washi tape will make you feel crafty because it looks great and like most awesome crafty stuff, it’s not the least bit practical.

Ta da! You’re a crafter now! Don’t you feel awesome? You’re welcome!

Thanks so much, Sam! I do feel so much craftier now. Actually, this just goes to show that I’ve been a crafting boss my whole life! If you’d like to see more from Sam, please visit her on her blog and her Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest pages. 


Guest Post: The Ever-Growing Enrollment of the Bad Parenting Club (From RJ at Lessons and Love)

When I started blogging, I was so completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of mommies out there who could take pen to paper, so to speak, and so accurately and eloquently write about motherhood. What I didn’t realize right away? That there are a ton of daddies out there doing some amazing writing, too. And one of the first dad’s that I connected with was RJ. 

I first found RJ through his Facebook page 100 Things to Teach My Son when I saw all of these amazingly heartwarming lessons for his son popping up in my news feed . . . #11 – Have your cake, eat it, and don’t apologize for your happiness; #16 – Think things through before acting, and you’ll have less to apologize for; #34 – Freedom is a right not to be taken lightly. Execute, but don’t abuse; #75 – Your laugh warms my heart and it refreshes your soul. Do it again. And again . . . I couldn’t wait to see what the new lesson was each day.

Since I discovered RJ (wow, that makes me sound like some big wig music producer or talent agent) he has launched his blog Lessons and Love. There you can see his “100 Things” list and read about his take on parenthood and his life with his wife and two kids. 

But why wait? You can read something right here and now! And I think we can all relate . . . 

The Ever-Growing Enrollment of the Bad Parenting Club
By: RJ, Lessons and Love (100 Things to Teach My Son)

There’s a club out there for everyone. And now, with the expansiveness of the internet, if you’ve got an interest (no matter how strange or quirky it is), you can find others like you. That’s great for people who like to play chess underwater. It’s also great for us parents. Because, once we have kids, we belong to a club too.

It’s called the Bad Parenting Club. It’s an unavoidable fact that if you have a child (biological or otherwise), and you are responsible for raising them, you are a full-fledged member of the Bad Parenting Club. I’m a member twice over. In fact, I probably spend a good amount of time attending Bad Parenting Club “meetings.” I wouldn’t be surprised if the powers that be have considered making me chair.

I’ve been known to send our children on wild goose chases from time to time. I’m in a silent competition with myself to see how many pages of my book I can get through while they’re out on my dad-made distractions. I thought I’d finally outdone myself when I took them into the yard and challenged them…


Then, a couple of weeks later we went to the beach…


So, yes. I am a member of the Bad Parenting Club. Even if I wanted to, I’d be hard-pressed to deny it. My biggest problem is that I find my kids hysterical. This isn’t usually a bad thing, but the problem arises when I catch them doing something like this…


…and I just can’t help but take a photo before I put an end to it.

The thing about this Bad Parenting Club is while I wouldn’t say I’m proud to be a member, I’m certainly not ashamed. You (I’m talking to YOU, overweight-beer-drinking-softball-league-playing dad) have a better chance of pitching a perfect game in the World Series than you ever do of being a perfect parent. That’s not to say I’m not aiming for it. But I’m also realistic.

My children are three and two years old. I’ve just started this “journey”–the quotes are because it feels more like a spin on the Tilt-a-Whirl than a journey, but that’s what all the fancy writers always call it, so that’s what I’ll use – and I’m proud to be a dad. I’m even proud to be a member of the Bad Parenting Club because that means I’m trying. You can’t be bad at something you don’t at least try.

I’m also proud because I’m part of another club. It’s the Excellent Parenting Club. I’m far from a nominee for chair in this club, and I definitely don’t spend as much time attending these “meetings,” but I’ve seen the room they’re held in. I know what their coffee smells like. I know that I’d like to be a regular there. And that’s really the first step to becoming a member.

One day, I expect to be going to the Excellent Parenting Club meetings more, and the Bad Parenting Club meetings less, but I’m not there yet. I’ve still got some more things to learn and some more work to put in. But I’ll get there. In the meantime, I’ll continue riding on the Tilt-a-Whirl, hoping to slow it down once in a while.

Thank you so very much RJ for writing this piece to share here! And now, folks, please head over to Lessons and Love to read more (you know you want to)! While you’re at it, please also check out RJ’s Facebook and Twitter pages. I promise you won’t be sorry. And you’ll learn a good lesson or two (or 100)!


Guest Post: How My Daughter Changed My Body Image (From Amy at Funny is Family)

If you haven’t heard, my family and I are moving in a week–from CT to VA–so I’ll be spending most of my time this week trying to get the house packed up and most of my time next week unpacking everything. Because I’ll be so busy, I’m going on a two-week blogging hiatus. I know, I know. I’m going to miss you, too. But don’t worry, I’ve lined up six guest bloggers to share with you, plus I’ll still be hopping on Facebook now and then. You can’t get rid of me that easily!

First up this week is my friend Amy from Funny is Family. If you’ve been around a while, you probably know Amy by now because I pretty much stalk her and share her as much as I can without anyone thinking it’s too creepy. (We haven’t reached that point yet, have we?) What you may not know is that Amy and I actually know each other in real life. We met when we were both members of the same mommy group. I’ll never forget one of the first times we were hanging out at another friend’s house. Amy’s daughter (who was maybe 1 and a half at the time) had gotten into the cat’s litter box–and Amy didn’t overreact or completely freak out. In fact, she laughed (after some quick cleaning and sanitizing, of course). And I knew right then she was my kind of people!

So, here we go . . . 

How My Daughter Changed My Body Image
by: Amy, Funny is Family

daughter body image (1)

I’ve heard women say that after having a baby they felt powerful. That the experience of making and growing a whole human made them realize what they are capable of accomplishing. Not me. I wish I would have felt that way post-baby; instead I was dehydrated, lumpy, tired, and shocked. My entire pregnancy was a marvel of “I can’t even believe the shit that is happening to me right now.” Like how right before my baby shower, after choking on water from laughing too hard, I puked and peed my pants at the same time. I found pregnancy to be a total trip. It was fun and exciting, but I certainly didn’t feel like it was anything I was doing, more that it was something that was being done to me.

What I did feel after having Graham was GROUNDED. I was peaceful and content. I was also exhausted, and the sound of my baby crying made my heart and my gut and my boobs ache, but that was something that I understood. What I didn’t understand was my weight. I came home from the hospital weighing more than when I went in. I had just given birth, and I weighed more? I was sooo pissed.

I’ve never been small. I spent the bulk of my years as a size 8, from the ages 12-26. As a fairly sedentary person with a fierce love of bacon and beer, I knew I could weigh less if I wanted to get off the couch, but I couldn’t be bothered. My strong commitment to eating and not exercising was very apparent when my wedding dress had to be taken out three days before the wedding. If I couldn’t lose weight before my wedding, how was I going to take off the baby weight?

Well, I’ll tell ya. It took about six months for me to get cracking. Weight Watchers brought me back to my size 8, and after Lily was born I was able to lose the weight more quickly but not as thoroughly. Something else happened, though. After having a daughter, my feelings about my size and weight changed. Seeing my little girl whose tiny body had my exact pear shape made me realize that my shape is how I’m meant to be. I want to be healthy and fit, but I will never have lean hips. And that’s totally okay. If my daughter who bears a strong resemblance to me is beautiful, than I must be, too.

I started exercising and stopped matching my husband’s portion sizes. I lost twenty pounds and felt great. Almost two years later, I’ve kept most of the weight off, and at 35 I feel better than I did when I was 20. I know it’s not because of my size, but because I let go of unrealistic expectations. I sometimes still wish I was taller and thinner, but I don’t stand in the mirror and complain or put myself down. I’m sure that my daughter will learn that being dissatisfied with your appearance is what girls do, but I don’t plan on her learning it from me.

A big thanks to Amy for letting me share her post (originally published here). And if you’d like to hang out with Amy some more, please check her out on her blog, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. She’ll probably have some beer. Unless she drank them all. Oh, and you might want to go on a night she’s trying something for her Crock Pot Thursday posts!


Guest Post: Ted the Movie: Ted the Experience (from Joy at ComfyTown Chronicles)

Hello lovelies. Today brings us to our last guest post for the week from Joy at ComfyTown Chronicles. I fell in love with Joy at first read. She is terribly funny. I swear, I cannot read something she posts either on her blog or on her Facebook page without laughing. She probably thinks I’m stalking her based on the amount of time I spend liking stuff and commenting on her Facebook page. (Ok, maybe I am, just a little.) But seriously, I dare you to read anything she writes and not laugh. Really. I TRIPPLE DAWG DARE you. 

I actually gave Joy an  award back in March and had to come up with some questions for her to answer in a blog so that her readers could get to know her better. Here are a few of my favorites (CURSING WARNING):

Me: If you could marry a food, what would it be?
Joy: What, now FOOD can get married but two WOMEN cannot? Fuck you, America.

Me: Are you a tp folder or crinkler?
Joy: I don’t mess with teepees. Haven’t Native Americans been through enough?

Me: What is one thing you absolutely cannot leave your house without?
Joy: My babies. I’m pretty sure I read it’s like a law or at least a bad idea to leave them home alone or something.

Me: What is your favorite type of salad dressing?
Joy: Pizza
And she provided this awesomesauce graphic:


Me: Can you do the robot? Well?
Joy: Can I move to music like I’m made of rigid metal and not even human? Yeah I can do that. Like a metal ass boss.

Ok, before I reach record status for the world’s longest guest post introduction, I give you . . . 

Ted the Movie: Ted the Experience
by Joy, ComfyTown Chronicles

I started to watch the movie “Ted,” I posted on Facebook it was because my teenage son had rented it and left it in the DVD player. But deep down I just wanted to see if Seth McFarlane could take his brand of comedy, add swearing, and literally anything he wanted with the *m*a*g*i*c* of MOVIES, and make something I would find funny. He was funny during a roast, and in interviews, he might actually make a funny movie. If you’re a fan, don’t worry, it is NOT you. I am one of five assholes in America who don’t find him funny. I almost find him funnier than Adam goddamn Sandler (old SNL songs save him), but that’s a rant of another color. Yes, it is ME.

Movie. So this movie was a great idea, and had some great moments. Let me just say that. I sat through a good maybe 15 minutes of Ted before I got bored and started googling reviews (it’s what I do when I’m bored with a movie). None of the reviews made me lose my water, but I did find out that it’s not JUST me. TWO other people didn’t care for the movie. Most of the reviews confirmed that people for the most part, find this brand of stoner humor, heeee-larious. Like Family Guy.

It has its place in the world, don’t get me wrong. I LONG to laugh at the stupidity of it. Isn’t that why we watch TV? To turn our minds off and just be entertained? My problem is, I assume I am GOING to be entertained. But I don’t fry my brain on narcotics first, that is clearly my mistake. Isn’t doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results the definition of insanity? Fucking guilty.

I give it the ole try, but within 10 minutes of Family Guy, I mentally check myself into the Overlook Hotel, with a million monkeys typing on a million typewriters: “I am Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise” over and over and over until the lady that played Olive Oil comes in and I need to find my good stabbing knife.

People have screamed, “It’s so great. Give it another chance” they said. “Maybe you were in a bad mood.” I’ve tried and tried. Believe me, offended by their pushing the edge of the envelope, I am NOT. That’s the ONLY part I like about it. A sarcastic baby, that’s funny. Then he tells the SAME jokes over and over. Quagmire? Who doesn’t love a pervert? These jokes SHOULD be better than when LARRY GODDAMN DALLAS did all this SAME SHIT in Three’s Company. They’re way more perverted and disgusting this time around. The first time I saw the show it WAS funny. I may have laughed out loud.

But then there they are again. And again, the SAME jokes. And OH, there it is again. Same joke. Hey I know this joke, it’s the SAME joke as last time. Hi same joke, how are you? How are the wife and kids? Same? Yeah I know. You think they might think of a new way to be sarcastic, same. NEW pervert humor? SAME. A new way to torture his mother….SAME. Sarcasm can be different, right? No SAME. But maybe—-SAME. SAME. SAME. SAME. SAME. SAA-A-A-A-that-bastard-can-really-drag-out-a-mediocre-chuckle-A-A-A-A-AAAAAME.

If I went on like ^THAT^ for another half an hour? You MIGHT know how I feel watching Family Guy. I want to punch myself in the FACE *hard* every time I watch it. Then Seth McFarlane. Then myself again. Then him AGAIN and then slooooowly……almost gently…..methodically REPEAT this for at least TWENTY MINUTES so he gets how long, mundane and BOOORING his show IS TO ME! AAAHHHH!!!! STOP WATCHING IT, JOY! It NEVER gets better! Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll get control back from Sam Kinnison.

Ok. Phew.

Anyway, back to Ted. Once I had finished checking my email, making some notes to myself, and reading literally ALL TEN PAGES of reviews on Ted on rottentomatoes.com, just so I had something else to focus on, I knew the self punching was about to kick in. I could NOT sit there, pretending to ignore it. ALL of my kids were either sleeping or otherwise detained, did I really want to spend this PRECIOUS time trying not to pull the muscles involved in eye rolling? I literally got UP, went into my basement and began wrestling my treadmill out of the laundry room, to put it back. We moved it for a family party, and it needed to go back.

To put it back, I needed to move several laundry baskets, throw rugs, take down a folding table and six folding chairs, move our basement dining table and chairs, basically rearrange the basement room and push, pull and at times SHOVE my old treadmill out of one room, down a looong narrow hallway, and through another narrow door, banging my hands 10 times along the way. (Shouldn’t MOVING a treadmill burn more calories? I mean, the swearing alone got my heart rate up.) Anyway, all that just to then work out. And THAT? Was sooo much better than watching that damn movie. Maybe the last half got better? I dunno. It’s not worth kicking my own ass to find out.

That concludes my review of this movie. It was an overall great experience for me and my home.

Thank you for the motivation to get up and be productive again after the holidays, Seth McFarlane, movie maker, motivator, life coach.

Seth McFarlane, you’re my hero.
(Ferris Bueller reference. It needed just ONE more vague movie reference, don’t ya think? I thought so.)

I laughed more watching potty training videos with my toddler:

talking toilet paper roll

I hope the fact that I laughed my way through Ted doesn’t affect our friendship, Joy! Thanks so much for stopping by. If you want a little more Joy in your life, be sure to check out her blog and her Facebook page. Just make sure to take her anything scifi or fantasy related. She loves that stuff. She’s a geek. And she knows it. Oh, and if you feel the need to bake her some goodies (she loves food), just make sure it doesn’t include any honey or cinnamon; she hates that stuff. Weirdo. 

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Guest Post: Just One More Day (from Meredith at The Girl Next Door Drinks and Swears)

Today I’m happy to share a post with you from my second guest blogger, Meredith from The Girl Next Door Drinks and Swears. Having had a goody-goody image her entire life, Meredith finally had enough. She started a blog, The Girl Next Door Drinks and Swears, where she comes out of the closet about her love for swear words and wine. When she’s not acting as chauffeur for her kids, you’ll find her avoiding laundry by playing on Facebook and Twitter.

Meredith and I have a lot in common as well, especially the belief in the romantic notion of soul mates. (I know, I know.) She met hers when she was 9 and a new family with a little boy her age moved in across the street . . . and after that boy proclaimed a year later that he was going to marry her one day, it actually happened. And their parents still live across the street from each other to this day! 

Oh, and Meredith is a “master of sarcasm and smartassery.” 1) I love her because she’s not afraid to admit this, and this is another similarity we share. 2) I love her for using the term “smartassery”! 

In this post, however, Meredith waxes more nostalgic than either sarcastic are smartasstic (yeah, I just made up that word)–and I think it’s something we can all relate to. Enjoy!

Just One More Day
by Meredith, The Girl Next Door Drinks and Swears

We’re done having kids. Like done. D-O-N-E.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little heavy-hearted about it. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of blogs by women who are currently pregnant or have newborns. I’m going to have to stop reading their posts so my uterus will settle the hell down.

I’m content in my decision to stop at two, but in all honesty, it makes me truly sad that I won’t experience some of those precious times again. Now wait just a minute. I said some.

One of my first published posts was about all the things that I thought sucked about being pregnant and having a baby. It was fairly extensive, but in no way all-inclusive. Even so (believe it or not) there were some moments that I would give ANYTHING to do over. If only for a day.

I did not have easy pregnancies. Neither was I “the cutest little pregnant person you ever did see.” The only part of it I really enjoyed was feeling the baby move. Once I got past how alien-like it was, I loved it. I could usually tell if it was a hand or a foot or a head I could see pushing against my enormous belly. I rented one of those monitors that allowed you to hear the heartbeat. I could sit and listen to that “badump badump badump” for hours. I wish I could have just one more listen.

I was one of the lucky ones that carried my babies to term and they came out pink and screaming and healthy. I got to hold them right away. Charming and I oohed and aahed over the new little life we miraculously brought into this great big world. And we freaked out just a little that that life was ours to take care of. Each night in the hospital I couldn’t wait for the nurse to bring me my new bundle for a middle-of-the night feeding. I really did look forward to it. I spent the wee hours of both of my children’s lives studying every inch of their tiny bodies. Listening to their coos. Learning their cries. And falling in love over, and over, and over again. I wish I could have just one more night.

I loved watching my babies sleep. I still do. But, they are now too big to rock and cradle in my arms. I took advantage of as many nap times as I could – not to dust or fold laundry – but to sit and hold them while they slumbered. Many times dozing off along with them, their little heads on my shoulder, breathing their hot sweet baby breath on my neck. I wish I could share just one more nap.

The exciting firsts. The first smiles, the first words, the first steps, the first “momma.” I remember them for both of my children. We still have many “firsts” to go, but they seem to get more serious…and a little bit scary as they get older. I wish we could witness just one more sweet first.

Don’t go thinking I’m getting nostalgic enough to do this baby thing a third time. Practically nothing would make less sense for our family. It’s just sometimes hard to accept that this time in our lives has come and gone. But as will every stage of parenting, it has. And one day we’ll look back at the days we are in now (at least I hope so) with happy memories and wish we could have just one more day.

Thanks so much for sharing, Meredith! If you’d like to read more from the girl next door, be sure to check her out on her blogFacebook, and Twitter. She’s from Texas, ya’ll, so if you do stop by, make sure to take her a Dr. Pepper–I hear all Texans love Dr. Pepper. And of course make sure it’s ginormous because we all know that everything is bigger in Texas!


Guest Post: How My Husband Keeps Me Up at Night (from Michelle at You’re my favorite today)

Since I’m out of town all of this week, I’ve lined up three great guest bloggers for your reading pleasure. Each of these bloggers is on my short list of blogs that I make a priority to check out if I have limited browsing time. They all share a good mix of funny and honesty, and most importantly, they are all sincere and not afraid to be themselves. And I can honestly say that they are a great inspiration for me as I continue on my own writing journey.

First up is Michelle from You’re my favorite today. Michelle and I have a lot in common: Neither one of us has ever had a speeding ticket, we both have a B.A. and a master’s degree, we’re both carb-a-holics, we both love Ellen, we both taught ourselves how to crochet, and, perhaps most importantly, we both love diet Pepsi. All of our similarities, and the fact that Michelle is super hilarious, allows me to overlook the fact that she does not like cilantro (what?) or tequila (double what??). Also, I’m hoping that one day she will invite me to come play at her cabin in Minnesota.

Now, without further adieu . . . 

How My Husband Keeps Me Up at Night
by: Michelle, You’re my favorite today

Husband is a little concerned he’s becoming my blog’s “foil.”
I can’t imagine why he feels that way. I mean, think I’ve made it pretty clear that I adore that man and his ‘Bachelor’ lovin’ ways (exhibit A).
And it’s a damn good thing I do. Here’s why…

If there’s one thing I love better than Target, John Hughes’ movies and John Stamos, it’s sleep.
My answer to the question, “Are you a morning person or a night person?” is (without pause) – “Neither”.
I can, and very often do, nap every day.
On weekends I will sleep until 9 or 10:00 easily if I don’t have to be somewhere.
As soon as the girls were old enough to chew we trained them to come sit between us on our bed – silently – when they woke up at 6 a.m. on weekends and let them go crazy with a box of Fruit Loops and cartoons so we could sleep until at least 8 or 9 (whatever. They obviously turned out fine. There’s fruit in those loops. duh).

Lately, like the past 6 months lately, my precious sleep has been interrupted by Husband’s new fun trick – snoring.

I’ll be honest. It sucks.

But before I go any further, I must post this disclaimer (disguised as a loving letter to my Husband):

Dear Husband,
First of all, I love you. Now then….
I realize you cannot help your incessant snoring.
I know you feel badly about it and am grateful and appreciative that when I punch you awake you immediately apologize, grab your pillow and head for the couch, leaving me the comfy bed (most nights).
Thank you for trying the Breathe Right strips, the $50 mouth guard (that didn’t work and probably not because you took it out in the middle of the night) and even for contemplating surgery to remove the flappy skin at the back of your throat.
I apologize if the words you are about to read regarding your unfortunate condition are in any way hurtful.
your wife who loves you despite this condition but who would be happier if she was more well-rested.

Okay, so back to me.

Me who loves to sleep.

I can remember when my girls were babies and toddlers and I’d be all sound asleep, pillow perfectly pluffed (it’s a real word), cat curled up on my chest, and they’d start crying out in their sleep, slowly at first but gradually escalating to a screech that would make the cat leap in the air and make my stomach lurch and would almost always cause me to cuss like a sailor as I was jolted out of my sacred sleep.

The snoring is a lot like that.
Seriously, I feel like lately I’ve had the god-awful baby-to-toddler sleep patterns that I’ve spent like 7 years trying to block out.

What’s funny is that like one night a week the snoring is mild (meaning it wakes me up <4 times) and so we get all optimistic and think HE’S CURED! IT WAS ALL A FLUKE! HAPPY DAYS (and nights) ARE HERE AGAIN!!

So we go to sleep all happy (“night!” “night!” kiss kiss blah blah blah) and within 5 minutes, Husband’s breathing takes a turn for the worse.
Becomes heavy.
Usually contains a sound like the syllable “k” on the exhale.
That’s when I know.
That’s when I start to feel a panic deep in my tummy.
That’s when I start to whimper and cry (only on the inside…only on the inside).
And sure as shootin’, the “k” sound decides to stick around for the inhale.
And then it’s all over.

At this point, one of two things usually happens:
1) I begin lightly jostling Husband on his upper arm until the snoring is interrupted. I thankfully try to quickly – very very quickly – fall asleep before it starts again.
2) I don’t…It does…and the “light jostling” turns ugly, Husband groggily says, “was I snoring??”, I grump say “YES!!”, he grabs pillow and heads for the couch.

Some nights one of us will just concede defeat and start the night on the couch, avoiding the whole scenario.

So Husband is currently battling a cold/sinus infection.
And last night, while I was trying to go to sleep (as I felt was evident by the fact that my light was out, my eyes were closed, my cat was settled on my chest), I hear something that sounds like either

a) a cat giving himself a very thorough bath
b) small raindrops hitting the window

nope…neither…it was

c) Husband sucking on a lozenge, flipping it around and around in his mouth while he was playing on his iPad.

and then….then….

the incessant coughing/clearing the throat started.

Swear to god it felt like I was trapped in a hotel room again with my family.

Except now I could grab my cat and my pillow and escape. Which I did. Quickly. Before the snoring-that-reaches-new-decibles-when-he-has-a-cold joined the coughing.

No, really.
Please help.


Thanks so much for stopping by, Michelle! To stalk, errrr I mean follow Michelle, you can find her being all awesome on her blogFacebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. (Man, she really gets around, eh?) If you do stop by, please tell her I say hi, and take her a nice big diet Pepsi and a big, fat french baguette with garlic butter. (I’m serious about that trip to Minnesota, dontcha know!) 🙂