Be careful. I might bake at you.

liwAlmonzo, you’re cute and all, but we need to upgrade all the appliances. You can do that, right?

Last week, the hot water heater died at our house.

It died when I took a shower. Yep, it waited for me… patiently… and then WHAMMO, it decided to unleash its NON hotness on me whilst I tried to bat the water away and made squeaking noises in the shower.

This in fact happened twice. I attempted to take a shower on Friday night because, well, cleanliness and all, and noticed that the water was taking a bit longer than usual to heat up. Like, forever longer. I was actually so tired that I figured it was some glitch in infrastructure, that I needed to inform the hubs, and I squeegeed myself off in twenty seconds and went to bed.

Then, as my brain sort of works like Congress, as I was STANDING in the shower the next morning, my head went: “OH SNAP I WAS SUPPOSED TO TELL THE HUBS THIS IS SO INVIGORATING I THINK MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE WITH VIGOR.”

I mean, the frontier women showered like this pretty much every morning, right? If Laura Ingalls Wilder can do it, so can I.

No. Nope. No, I cannot, Laura. I’m sorry. Plus, you married someone named Almanzo, for Pete’s sake. Your life is weird.


My sweet Not-Almanzo called a friend of his, and together they installed a brand new water heater that, you guessed it, pours REAL hot water into all the faucets! Like, whenever you turn them on, there it is! A modern miracle!

The biggest miracle of all…??

I made them cinnamon rolls as a thank you, and they actually turned out ok. The rolls, not the men.*

I think I have mentioned to you that I am a bit baking-challenged, right?

Case in point:

The famous Poo Cupcakes, circa October 2012, for the hubster’s birthday. He likes chocolate and peanut butter. Voila, I made him chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting. The finished product was… interesting. In desperation to camoflage the poo, I sprinkled peanuts on top. This only increased the Wow! factor.

famous poo cupcakes.

It’s ok. The hubs ate them, with vigor. His life is weird.

My baking ineptitude occurs, I think, because I enter pretty much every baking venture with this ideology:

“What… three cups? I’ll eyeball it. Hmmm… a teaspoon? Lemme just eyeball it. Huh, sifting. I’m gonna eyeball that. Brown frosting the consistency of the inside of a diaper after baby ate a jar of molasses? Sure, I’m not gonna think that one through at all. Let me just eyeball it!”

You get the idea. Lots of eyeballs. Not a lot of skill.

So, THIS time I tried something different. I found my mom’s REALLY REALLY OLD cookbook (sorry Mom, kinda threw you under the elderly bus on that one) and I found a recipe and… (drum roll)…


And lo, it was good.

Which just goes to show… I’m not so half-baked after all.

(Half-baked used to be my thing. But that’s another post for another day.)


*The lawyer added an eye roll here and would like to note that this is the point in the blog post where becomes All About Me. I tell him it’s my favorite topic. I tell him, it’s the only way.

Beautiful relief.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today!

The theme:

Screenshot 2015-04-10 12.51.06

This morning, I went for a quick run on the treadmill before Red woke up. The air was cool and crisp outside, and spring has sprung itself all over out little town. So I did the most logical thing and went down into our scary dark basement and ran on a strip of rubber for 30 minutes while staring at some cinder blocks and a dead cricket.


After the run, I felt all proud of myself and well, studly, and started to sprint up the stairs to the kitchen, all full of vim and vigor and saucy good feelings. “Hi, you!” my muscles all shouted to me, “You cutie pie! You are going to CONQUER THE DAY, I tell you, you saucy thing!”

And then I missed a step because my muscles were too busy talking, and I fell down the stairs.

Let me clarify – our stairs are STEEP and NARROW and rather Silence of the Lambs treacherous, and if you start to fall down them, for some forsaken reason it is rather hard to correct yourself and UN fall.

Or even, really, slow down with all the falling.

Nope. This was a full-out, Gone with the Wind, Scarlet O’Hara tumbling down in her hoop skirt kinda dramatic moment, except I was in some ratty running shorts, plaid socks, and a t-shirt that has holes in the armpits. Don’t know why, really. Evidently when you keep t-shirts for as long as I do, and run in them over and over, they eventually give up on you and disintegrate.  Oh, and I don’t speak in a southern accent or have a penchant for saying, “Fiddley-Dee!” When I was done with all the falling, I should have, perhaps, tried for a “fiddley-dee” but all I could squeak out instead was something unsavory that rhymes with “Sam it! Sam it all! SAM SAM SAMMITY SAM!”

I sighed with enough gusto to blow a few cricket carcasses across the floor, gathered myself from the very unladylike contortion at the bottom of the stairs, wiped off the dust of forty billion dead bugs from my hiney,  and clomped up the stairs.

Not so saucy, anymore, are you? I thought, as my dignity and I limped up to take a shower.

And then, I spied it. A reflection. Of me. In the full length mirror right outside our bathroom door. A very saggy, sore, plaid socks wearing, with bad posture and a bad attitude to match, version of me.

Now let me tell you two things:

1. DON’T ever put a full length mirror right outside your bathroom door. There are just too many incidents where slinking out with a towel, or less, happens, and who really needs to see all that in the garish light of day? Or anytime, for that matter?

2. But, if you DO catch a fleeting glimpse of a sad Momsie, all worn out by life and a treadmill and evil stairs, give yourself a break. Laugh a little. Not in the mean way. More like in the way that those Dove commercials (the soap, not the chocolate) would want you to do.

Why? Well, the part that the Dove commercials always leave out is this: God MADE you. And He is the most beautiful, creative Father… like EVER. So, it follows that: He makes beautiful things.

Is it NOT a huge relief to know this? Especially on days like today.

It is a relief. To know we are so loved. And we don’t have to fix or mend or try or gain or lose or even be balanced and basically graceful.  We can just be loved.

I am relieved. I have no merit badge I need to earn. This is a profoundly good thing, because if my gracefulness was part of the bargain with God? Perish the thought. Sometimes I can’t even walk down a hallway without bumping into a wall. I don’t have to be graceful to have grace. Thank you, Jesus!

And stairs? Stairs are hard, people.

(Oh, yes. Pun totally intended. I may lack the ability to manage straight lines, but, as God is my witness, I’ll never go pungry again.)





Throw Back Thursday: “Y is for “Yes, Jesus Yubs Me”



The other day I was practicing some drills in Mom Surveillance.  This means puttering about in the room next to my sons as I eavesdrop on their conversations.  I do this to monitor if they are normal, not weird, children.  I have a chart:




I also have night vision goggles and I know how to use them.


As I pretended to clean the cat box, I overheard this:

Red:  Dis is MY train, stop takin’ it!

Blonde: Red, dats MY train, it was a birthday present and it is VERY SPECIAL TO ME.  (Blonde often claims about 90% of the toys in this house, broken or not, are birthday presents and thus, VERY SPECIAL.  This is a fat load of horse poop, because he barely gets anything for his birthday.)*

Red: (unfazed) Thata is not da truth.  This twain is MINE.  Grandpa gave it to me.

This riveting back and forth session sucked about four minutes out of my life, and since I aim for brevity let’s pick up here:


(Dramatic pause…)


Yep. Somebody got whacked.  Not in the Italian mobster fashion, thank goodness, but in the toddler smiting fashion.

So…  you know the drill…  we all go to the timeout area, we talk about why.. blah blah blah, somebody says sorry… blah blah… the enthusiasm for the whole thing about equals when I pretend to clean the cat box.

The boys are left to timeout to “think about what they’ve done” (which means = I am going to walk away before I lose it, and they’re stuck there, so blessed containment).

After a bit, I hear it:

Blonde:  RED, OBEY your parents because it PWEASES DA LORD.**

I froze in my tracks.  A tough thing to do because I was actually trying to hustle the litter box refuse out the door (no more pretending).

My son, my sweet, darling, adorable son had just quoted scripture to his brother.

Warm fuzzies, ya’ll. Somewhere a bell rang, an angel got his wings, St. Peter high-fived Paul, and Jesus said, “Ch-CHING! Momsie!  Your children are so spiritual!  And I should know!!!!“


The end!


What. WHAT?  (The Lawyer, aka, Mr. Pain in the Tuckus, is here.)

Well, I KNOW it’s not really the end of the story but I don’t want to bore them-




Can’t I just?


Don’t pull that whole “journalistic integrity” thing on ME.  That’s only for people covering the war, or something.



Ok. Sigh.  Here’s the rest of the story:


There is the possibility that while in timeout, the Party of the First Party kept leaning slightly towards the Second Smaller Part of the Party (or something like that; I’m not so good at this legal speak stuff).  This “leaning,” I guess, qualified as a crime against humanity and resulted, thusly, in what I term Extreme Whining, which made the Third Party lose her cool and bellow at the top of her lungs at Both Parties:


Yep.  Nothing like shooting scripture AT your children, lobbing it like a big, fat, cannon ball of God’s Biblical Truth. BLAMMO.



So later that day:

Red and Blonde are in the play room.  Momsie is skulking about as well. As always.  This time, she’s pretending to clean the bathtub.

Red:  Here’s da bible!  Dis is our bible, wite?

Blonde: Yep.

Momsie starts to glow with pride.  They’re gonna talk about the bible!  Jesus moment!!!  I feel like a bird watcher who just spotted a SapBellied SapClucker or something.

And then:

Blonde: Wait…  no… that’s MY bible.  It was a birthday present and IT’S REALLY SPECIAL TO ME!

Red:  No!!  It’s MINE!

(Dramatic pause…)


Yes, you know the rest.

One of my kids hit the other one.  With the bible.

And lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth as the result.  From the kids too.


* Don’t email me.  The kid gets loot galore from his grandparents.  Generally all the toys that kids really love that drive the parents crazy.  Payback and karma and all that.

** Cowassianss 3:20.  It’s a good ‘un.  Bible is full of ’em, by the way.

*** Rogers 12:20 – This one makes a lot more sense if you don’t screech it.  At anyone.



kitty 2




Tired. Both the person and the writing.

ExhaustedMomQuoteThe old “but it’s a good tired,” is here.

This is like telling someone in Hell that it’s a dry heat.

I am so tired I am typing this through sheer will and a last spurt of final dying breath to get the word out to you, my readers, that I love you, and it’s been good and all, but holy hot sauce, this Momsie is no more. I have ceased to be. I’m expired, late, stiff… bereft of life. THIS IS an EX-Momsie.

If this were a Disney movie, we are all at the last twenty minutes of Old Yeller.

Or. I’m the mom in Bambi. Or Cinderella. Or that fish movie where the mom bites it right at the beginning and my children freak out and never let me watch any more of it, even though I try to talk them into it with, “It’s a Disney movie, y’all. It’s gonna end happily, I promise!” because I think it’s funny. And they’re all looking up phone numbers for local therapists because the MOM DIED in the movie, how in the world does a happy ending blossom out of that?

Yep. I’m that mom.

Well, wait, that’s confusing. Am I the dead fish mom, or the one who wants my kids to watch the dead fish mom, you know, because it’s funny?  Well, both, of course.


I’m so tired the thought of making dinner tonight made me sob a little. I considered microwaving some hot dogs but oh good gravy that means ketchup and I just can’t. I can’t.

Please don’t make me get the ketchup out of the fridge. It will be the end of me, and I mean it.

And also, I have to now look up the spelling: ketchup. Or catsup?

Oh, I can’t even go on.

I’m so tired. My son just spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, came out, all nonchalant with his underpants in his hand, and then proceeded to plonk his tiny white Hazmat-situation bum all over my oriental rug in the living room, and all I did was flutter a hand at him and then I looked away. “The horror…” I whispered. But, did I get up, grab my Lysol, and start squeegeeing him? No.

I’m just so tired.

I’m so tired I don’t even think I can write this. I have to put two boys to bed and I am not. I am so not. They’re on their own.

“Kids,” I say weakly, “Go on up. Put on jammies. Get in bed. Go to sleep. We’ll meet again, soon. Until then,” I flutter my finger at them and croak, “I’ll be right here.” I aim for my heart but there’s still some ice cream on my shirt as I look down, so I instead swipe it off and lick, which makes Blonde suspicious:

“You’ll be where? On your shirt? And… And what’s that? What IS that?” he starts to approach, his nose all quivering like an ice cream detecting drug dog. Red, always able to hone in on dairy, also starts my way. Steve the cat, a pathetic follower, well, follows.

This is it. This is the end. My children and the cat are now slowly approaching me because I smell like butter pecan and some chocolate jimmies, and they’re gonna eat me. It’s the Walking Dead. With sprinkles.

I am just so very, very tired.

Too tired to write this.












This post was sponsored by: too many pop references to count.

Window of Opportunity









We had a few thunderstorms last night.

Now, before you’re all, “Wow. She’s so low on material that she now has to write about the weather,” on me, know this:

There were thunderstorms, AND:

  • Oregano oil
  • PBS Kids
  • Multiple cups of baking soda
  • A window
  • Ringo Starr
  • Marital strife

Wow. I KNOW. ALL that in one night?

I bet you can’t wait to read one. So (deep breath) here goes:

Thunderstorms started around three am, because, why not? Everything of import happens at three a.m., otherwise, WE COULD GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE.

Immediately, Blonde comes in to bedroom and pokes his index finger right between my two sleeping shoulder blades. “Yep, that’s the thunder,” he says, all matter of fact. “Move over.”

Let’s stop here for a moment. Please don’t judge me. I know, I broke the rule #345677, allowing the child to sleep (thrash about, stick his foot in your face, steal all covers, freak out the cat, etc.) with you.  Well, sorry. I allowed it. What I mean by that is, I was so sleepy I don’t remember much and then later I woke up to a small person all shellacked to my side, and at that point I just gave in because he was stuck to me. I was so tired I think I would have let Sasquatch try to horn in on our king size bed. “Sure, Fuzzy,” I would have muttered. “Just don’t shed on the bed.”

Then, there’s Red. Red did an unfortunate thing.

*Reader’s condensed version:

Because Momsie sometimes just totally blows, she left the oregano oil sitting on the dresser in the boys’ room. She uses oregano oil once in a while, when she remembers to,  and then she feels very smug and crunchy and all natural and stuff. And, it makes the room smell like a pizzeria and who doesn’t like that? Red, for some toddler reason stuck wayyyyy down inside his strange little head, got up at 3:15, OPENED the oil, and proceeded to taste it. It does make a bit of sense, I guess. Maybe he wanted Stromboli?

Yes, I know. There was screaming and crying and he actually said: “It feels like a poinkypine quills in my mouth. But, da NORTH American one, not the African Crested one because der quills are much biggerrrr!” Thank you, Wild Kratts!

That was solved with some milk and a popsicle which he ate, in awe, due to the fact that it was now close to 4 AM and my goodness, first Stromboli now da popsicles. What next? Cashew chicken?

Nope. Baking soda.

I know. You’re on the edge of your chair, right?

So, Red, all tired and spicy by the Baptism of Instant Burning Pizza, fell fast asleep.  I crawled back to my room. And then Red got up, curled up in the boys’ huge lounge chair where we read books that cost a hundred frackillion dollars (this is foreshadowing) and proceeded to pee ALL over the expensive (did I mention? A frackillion?) upholstery. SOAKED it. Evidently he drank a Big Gulp and some decaf before bed.

Now, you ask, HOW did I KNOW this happened? (Maybe… you’re not actually asking this. Maybe you’re just waiting for this to be over. But I can hope.)

Ahem, WHY? You ask? Because the hubs was now trying to open our storm windows. He had loudly announced to me, just as I was finally drifting off, “I am so HOT. Are you hot? Dear? DEAR? ARE YOU ASLEEP? I THINK WE NEED TO DISCUSS THE TEMPERATURE OF THE ROOM RIGHT NOW BUT I DON’T WANT TO BOTHER YOU IF YOU’RE SLEEPING.”

Ok, there’s more. Next, I discovered the soaking wet Red – I am a bit fuzzy on this part, but I think I had left our room in a huff because so tired and storm windows squeak and I had had it with life. Leaving in a huff, incidentally, doesn’t work on my husband. He didn’t notice which I think made my sleepy huff even… huffier. “But,” you say with rapt attention, “finding the pee?” Well, I also chalk THAT up to my natural ability to find any sort of disgusting mess in our house so that I have to clean it. It’s like my life is a big Where’s Waldo of finding day old vomit on the wall (THE WALL) behind Blonde’s bed and knowing, somehow, that a putty knife and a loss of appetite for about twelve hours were the only things that would take care of that solidified awfulness.

But wait, (*weakly*) there’s more. My enthusiasm is waning, but I’m locked in now, so I gotta finish this.

Walked a sobbing Red down the hall to the darkened bathroom to help him wash off a bit. Once we got into the bathroom, we found ourselves wedged in with a window. A window, and my husband. So, me, Red, a window, and a six foot two dude are now trying to negotiate a bath for a sobbing toddler and I am all, “My darling sweetheart husband, would you be so kind as to take the DAMN WINDOW OUT OF THE BATHROOM WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM I HATE EVERYTHING.”

So, got Red squared away and carried him down the darkened hall to find a husband, standing in the boys’ room WITH THE WINDOW AGAIN. I KNOW RIGHT. HE LOVES THAT WINDOW. “What, why? Do you just carry it with you wherever you go now? Are you and Window friends? Can you please take that thing somewhere else? I know, put it in our bed. That’s a good spot since I’m heading there next. I HATE EVERYTHING.”

The window went away. I think the hubs finally stored it on the kitchen table or under the car or something. I don’t KNOW. Is this not the most fascinating thing you have ever read?

Ok, so then I decide to pour baking soda all over the brown chair. Didn’t try to soak up pee or do anything else, just dumped it. Voila, baking soda, fix it! And then walked down darkened hall to wash hands. Came back to find Red CURLED UP IN PEE COVERED BAKING SODA. HE WAS LIKE A DISGUSTING POWDERED DOUGHNUT.

I gave up, died a little inside, dusted him off and led him back to bed. Considered taking a match to the chair.

Um. Ok, where am I?

Oh! So then this morning, over a bleary cup of coffee filled with despair, I eyed the hubs with derision. “I had a dream about you last night,” I told him. It’s surprising, really, that I had the time to have a dream at all, in the forty minutes of actual sleep I got. But, I did. And it went like this:

“I dreamt that Ringo Starr came up to you and asked you to be a fifth Beatle, and you DID. You just LEFT. And, he put you in a Sergeant Pepper’s coat and hat and my word, YOU JUST UP AND LEFT ME. I am so mad at you right now.”

Hubs, blinks rapidly, processing that he was a Beatle, and now he’s not.

“Was I a fifth or a fourth?” he asked. I narrowed my eyes. “Was I taking John’s place? Because that would be crazy. I would be booed off stage.”

“I am sure that you were a FIFTH and would be booed anyway. Marriage Wrecker.”

The hubs is very still. At moments like this, he knows not to move, or speak, or even think. This comes easily to him.  He has the sensibility of a possum in situations like this. A true Australian possum, not the North American opossum, by the way. (Thanks, Wild Kratts!)

I hate him, and his silly fringed Sgt. Pepper’s hat too.  “I hope you were happy with your little band and all.”

“Well,” he says, “At least I have my Window.”


















* I know, I know. If that’s the reader’s condensed version, how long was the original? Epic. Epic, I tell you. It was War and Peace. With a window.



Clearly, I Have the Most Intelligent Children in the World.

It’s nearly MAY, my friends. This is crazy sauce.

School is out in a MONTH. Well, a month and a half, but I always round up to my advantage. Let’s just say I’m a bit excited. Like the time I found out Netflix had added Dirty Dancing to its streaming options, excited.

Like, Patrick Swayze, “The Time of My Life,” hip swivel, finger snapping, right down the middle aisle, kind of excited.


Summer approacheth! We are going to: go to the pool, ride bikes, you know, all the typical summer things. Popsicles. Air conditioning. Mom swimsuits.  Embracing the cellulite. The perfume of chlorine and sunblock. I AM READY. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER! Let’s do this!

My children, however, are torn. When I informed them both about summer’s quick approach, both were pretty stoked about the pool. But Red is kinda convinced his teacher will be there with him, poolside, doing projects with glitter and paint and other nuttiness. The other, Blonde, gets summer break and all. But also? He expects… projects. Crafts. He wants stimulating learning activities, my friends. He doesn’t call them that, of course, because that would be weird. He calls them: “Mommah, can we make a hydroplane? Like the kind that goes on the water? With glitter? And paint? And, we need to make sure its roomy enough for a pilot and one cat.”

Sure, honey, let me get right on that.

Let my clarify: my children are not weird. They just love homework all time. They live for tri-folded poster boards, people. They like charting things.

Ok, maybe they’re a little weird. But I prefer to refer to them as:

Ridiculously Smart. So Smart They Want to Chart How Many Poopies are in the Litter Box Today.

My house is covered in funnels, rubber bands, and strange bottles of murky liquid left in the sun that is a “Science Speariment.” We live in a gigantic Rube Goldberg creation, and I am forever dismantling “Da MOST important parts!” because, well the last one was utilizing the toilet flusher knob, and it was just kinda gross.

Something like, oh… THIS:

Screenshot 2015-03-30 13.13.21

If we’re going to survive the summer, I better up my game.

And by that I mean:


Once again, The Great Netflix has bestowed us with a show that we LOVE.

Screenshot 2015-03-29 22.00.44










I can’t really explain this show. It’s for smart people. You know, like my wonderful children. The show is a fast-paced, funny, often mesmerizing look at how our brain works.

I know, right? This stuff is so educational and fabulous I don’t know why I just don’t pull them out of school and make them watch this all day long.

Just KIDDING. Sort of.


So. To review, for those of you who have children who are not mensa bound: this show will still make you watch and then blink, and then tilt your head to the side, turn to your husband, and say, “What the WHAT??? Did you see THAT? This show is better than a gin martini!” (Disclaimer: Meaning, the show makes your brain all hummy and wonky. It literally “messes with your head.” But in a good, non-substance kind of way. You know that’s a post for another day.)

For those of you who have children painfully intelligent? They’ll watch it and then turn to you and say,

“Mommy, my synapses are firing all over da places now. And now I need some omega three foods to restore my DHA.”

“Well, here you go, dear. Here’s a salmon pop. But eat it outside; it smells like cat food.”

Thank you Netflix! You have saved my summer.


As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It's a great gig.

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.












And, I leave you with this. Because. It’s awesome. Embrace summer! It’s the Time of Your Life, so come in hot.


Beware the Sighs of March

Ya’ll. Spring is here.

How do I know?

Well, for one, it’s warmer. And there’s flowers all about. Bunnies. General frolicking.

But the main clue?


You can see me coming for miles.

And, since, I really don’t feel like wearing the Mom Jeans for the duration, the whiteness must out, ya’ll.



We’re gonna start in slow, with all this Spring stuff. Dip a toe in the water, so to speak. I simply CAN’T handle tank tops and tan lines and pedicures just yet. There is so much REVEALING of things that have been so nicely COVERED up and all COZY for so long – it’s jarring.

So, this week, I decided to tackle my eyebrows.

Dude, they were all:






Or, if you prefer a more sporty look:









And I was all: Be GONE fuzzies!

Don’t worry, I didn’t go overboard. We all know how the dreaded over-pluck can make us look forever… quizzical. I realize, also, that eyebrow manicuring can be the gateway drug. Next thing you know I’ll be spray tanning.


One can only hope.