Linking up with my Friday peeps today at Five Minute Friday.

The theme?


This should be a post about how every day I am practicing intentionality in my parenting.

But instead I would rather talk about my cats.

For the past few days, I have been under the weather.

Note: This phrase bothers me. What does it mean? Is the weather a big blanket? Is it the boss of me? Do I need to ask it to move over?

Anyhow. I have had this weird sickness that keeps rotating slowly through all of my body systems like a wrecking ball. And whoa, now I’ve got Miley Cyrus in this post which really proves the point that I am a bit woozy.



I have had a lot of time to ponder things.

In my job, couches, and blankets, and weather-related idioms are common. I write, and therefore sitting down is kind of part of the deal.

But, the trouble here is that my brain has been wrapped in the funk of sickness, and my writing has been sort of like this:

Article 1 on my desktop:

Children hard and parents don’t like them.

Different article:

Once there was a woman. And.

Another attempt at any other article, take your pick:

It was a dark and stormy night. And?


And so on. When I am well, and all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed*, writing from home still doesn’t have a solid structure to it. Most days I get up, work out, read a little bible because I need the Lord after working out, drink forty cups of coffee, and then boom, I sit and write. And write some more. Plus, more writing. Then, I really mix it up and I re-read what I wrote, hate it, edit, and then write some more.

Mix this all up with fun household chores and me saying, “Do you need to go outside?” to my dog about five million times, and you get the idea.

The past few days? With the sickness? I get up.

Yes, that’s all. Sometimes I drink one cup of coffee, but since one of those systems that has been affected by this horrible bug is my digestive one… coffee tends to bounce around in there and cause problems.

I have never felt the sting of wasted time more acutely than when I started writing “for real” with my first book, Bottled. Every day was in my head, just me and my words, and found out something rather daunting: I am totally lazy. I am just not very good at a structured schedule.

This is fine and all, because I allowed inspiration to drive me, so writing at 11 pm while both boys are smushed up against me, mouth-breathing, in one bed because they had a bad dream, together, simultanously, and I have no boundaries? That was a writing thing.

Also, writing a blog post while I cook dinner that is brilliant and funny and is all just in my head? Also a thing. And I mean the blog post, not the dinner. The dinner was mediocre at best.

Writing an article that is due tomorrow, tomorrow? Totally a thing.

When I got sick, the deadlines didn’t offer me some Tylenol and left me totally alone. Also, I had no inspiration because I am sick, dude. My inspiration was shoved up under the weather, along with most of my excretory system. This was unpleasant.

And so, I give you this:cute-melted-animals-9-58beb620da23d__700.jpg

This is not actually my cat. This is some preshus cuddums I found on the internets. I wasn’t able to use a picture of any of my cats being totally lazy. They’re all sleeping upstairs and I’m too tired to walk up there.

So, did you know? Cats embrace laziness.


They don’t care. If they need a nap – they find an impossible location and it’s ON.


What have I learned from this? What is the furry take-away?

Dude. If you are sick, be sick. Rest. Email your editors ask for an extra day. Drink hot tea and sleep in cute, furry poses that make people squeal, “Ohhh! Preshus!” and lunge for their cameras so they can post you on the instagrams.

No. No, I don’t suggest the pictures part. Me and my wack-job bodily functions have not been all that photogenic lately.

Intentionality is intentionality, even when your intention is to do absolutely nothing but drink clear fluids for three days. It’s ok.


This illness has made me miss the days when I actually had the brain capacity to write.I won’t waste that. My intention is to make those days count. It’s a great reminder.  Perhaps that’s why we get the flu – to remind us about how, once, we were well, and how grateful we were for those days, when we could walk down the hall in a straight line without feeling like we’re floating, in a dead fish kind of way.

So I woke up this morning and I felt… better. Like, not totally over the weather, but just…next to it. Like, the weather and I were giving a side hug. And thus, this post. It’s not a Pulitzer, but I’ll take it. A woman who writes about cats on a regular basis is not a Pulitzer woman. She’s just funny, sometimes, and writes things that hopefully make people smile.

And that has always been my intention.

Oh, and also this. The best explanation of intention that I know.

Quotes-to-Help-Overcome-Addiction-Intention-POSTER.png*Note: this phrase also bothers me. What does it mean? 


The Committee In My Head Held a Meeting. Here’s the Result.



Ok, let’s call this meeting to order.

We can’t. She’s not here yet.

Oh geez. How hard is it? We’re in her head. It’s not like she has to walk down the hall… Ok, are there donuts? Someone always brings donuts.

Maybe she’s in the bathroom?

Oh hey! Hi. Hi. Hi! I’m here.

Wow. You really are bringing the whole casual Friday vibe.

It’s Wednesday.

It’s Friday somewhere? Right? Har har har.

No. No, actually it’s not.

Ok, guys I’m sorry. I haven’t changed clothes in two days. I know. I have the whole Hoodie of Gloom thing going on. But look, pink jammy bottoms! Also, I brushed. I think.

Teeth or hair? We can’t tell. Har har har.


ALL RIGHT. We need to get going on this meeting. I’ve got yoga at noon. Or at least, I have yoga on youtube. Or, well, I have youtube at noon. Or earlier. Maybe earlier.

Yes! Meeting! Let’s DO THIS. Why are we meeting?

We’re discussing why you haven’t blogged in crackamillion years.

Oh… You used hyperbole! That’s so cute. That’s my thing.

I know. You USED to write them, like a million of them. Crackamillion years ago.


Ok, onward people. Let’s just throw some ideas around for her to post today, mmmmkay? This is a collaborative group and we’re here to…

Stop, drop, collaborate?

And listen?


There was a horse blanket that sold for five thousand dollars.

I KNOW, right? Like, do you think the other horses were all, “What are you wearing?” And he was all, “Dudes it’s couture.” And they were all-


I’ve got an idea.

Yes, Momsie?

How about I write about my kids and I getting sick for the second time, all of us, in one month and how we are all steeped in despair and Mucinex and so many essential oils that we smell like an Aveda salon blew up in our house?

Brilliant. I’m so sure that no other mom blogger in the history of time has ever written about her kids getting sick.


Done. Let’s go get the donuts.

Seriously, did you see the lady who brought in the necklace and it was like 20 million bucks and she just smiled and said, “That’s so interesting.” What is WRONG with these people? Are they like Stepford Roadshow people?  I mean, I would puke. I would just puke right there all over Mr. Antique with a Bow-Tie guy. Just spew it. But in a highly cultured, PBS kinda way.

Annnnnd thanks so much for that visual. Meeting adjourned.


The Battle of the Tater Tot Casserole


55af89a9f7ba6273f1c0108faa467211.pngGuys. It’s been interesting over here.

But, I must qualify. I am never one to leave a vague adjective uncontested, I tell you. So… by “Interesting” I don’t mean in a “Season cliffhanger of Sherlock on the Netflixes” kind of way.

I mean in a “Wow, I didn’t know puke could really be that color,” kind of way.

It’s a small difference, but you know.

And, I’m thinking, if you are Sherlock, you are really, really happy for that difference.

Anyhow, let’s get into this.

The Attack of the Killer Flu Part One:

Characters: Red and Momsie. Down for two days. We did fine. We puked. We got over it. Lots of laundry was done (I would like to note here that MOMSIE did the laundry. Yep. That’s right. SICK Momsie. Momsie was still able to get laundry folded AND put away, whilst erpy and for THAT I believe I deserve a huge parade. But it won’t happen because of pay cuts and, as all moms know, we continue on. It’s our thing. Even sick. The only parades we’re having are in our heads.) Red was rather non plussed about the whole flu thing, and by that I mean he SLEPT through throwing up THREE TIMES and when I had to get him up at three am, he asked for VISUAL PROOF OF THE PUKE-AGE because he didn’t believe me. The fact that I was dressed in a Hazmat suit didn’t deter him. He just eyed the stuff, cheerfully got up and headed to the bath. Like a boss.

Killer Flu Part Two:

Setting: The dinner table.

Characters: Blonde and Big Blonde (aka the husband) and one irritated Momsie. Also, some tater tot casserole.

Momsie, sets the casserole in front of Blonde kid who immediately regards it as if it were the plague-food.

(I would also like to state that Red has started in on the plague-food with his usual gusto paired with a total disregard for silverware.)

Blonde: I… can’t… eat… this.

Momsie: I clocked out from Mom-ming about five minutes ago. I can’t help you.

Husband: (shoveling in large bites) Blonde! You’ll love it! It’s really good! Also, bland! It’s like really, REALLY bland!

Momsie: Uh… ok…

Husband: Like, SO BLAND. This is so bland it’s AIR, son. It’s like AIR with TATER TOTS SPRINKLED ON TOP!

Momsie: Ok. You made your point-

Husband: The blandness here is really almost it’s own seasoning. It’s bland with a subtle hint of oaky blandness.


And then the battle was on. Blonde’s stubbornness is rather epic. It’s the Stonehenge of stubborn. Unmoving, and kind of mystical. People could traveL from all over the world, just to study him and find out his stubbornness’s origins, but really?

Me. His stubbornnes is from me. It’s all me.

So, on and on went, our battle of the tater tot casserole.  It was nerve-wracking, like watching four-star generals try to plan their next attack for victory, but with some corn and hamburger.

Finally, Blonde surrendered. He managed to eat three teeny tiny bites, he really did. But the entire time, he swore to me, it was killing him.

Momsie won.

Because, that’s parenting. A constant hashmark of who won what and why. I keep a journal where I record all my victories and often refer back to it when I’m feeling needy.

And so… nope, it didn’t kill him.

But he sure as heck did yak tater tot casserole all over the second floor of our house about two hours later. So, there’s that.

So, after I decided there wasn’t enough Lysol in the world to deal, and that perhaps just burning down the second story of the house was the answer, which will work out great for Brian and me when we get older anyhow… I realized something:

That whole “Is this the mountain your want to die on?” line really takes on a whole new meaning when dealing with piles of puke.

Yep. You’re welcome for the visual.

Disclaimer: No, I don’t usually regard my children as creatures to conquer. And no, I’m not one to make a different meal for Mr. Picky. But that night? Some toast and a hug would have been a good idea.

Lesson learned.

It Is Quite Possible That I am the Worst Wife Ever

In this life some things do bear repeating:

  • Hearing “I love you” at the end of the night.
  • Fried Chicken Mondays at our local grocery.
  • The sunrise.
  • This album:


Screenshot 2014-05-13 21.21.35











However. In this life, some things should NOT be repeated.  Things like:

  • Grease 2. (I know, I know, a sequel, blah blah, isn’t exactly repeating, blah, you get you get the idea)
  • The Mc Rib.
  • Justin Bieber interviews.
  • Instructions I give my toddlers at bedtime.  See shrill in Websters dictionary.  Or just watch the trailer to Godzilla and you’ll get the idea.


With all that in mind, let me tell you a story.  It’s called:


The Flu That Came to Our House and Stole Momsie’s Will to Live.


It all started with the husband.  A week or so ago, he was up all night with the heaving jeevies, and then slept the entire next day.  I would come up, administer Sprite and a few Saltines, and then high tail it outta that room because Momsie  Cannot Get Sick Or Someone Will Pay.

And then… all was well.  It was quiet.  Too quiet.  And, as often happens in those bad horror movies where you think, wow, the bad guy came, was killed off with a lot of bleach and Lysol spray, so we’re all good now…

BAMMO, bad guy’s not dead! He’s still ALIVE!  Like in Friday the 13th part 2 and 4 and 12, etc!   He KEEPS COMING BACK. And, what’s even MORE scary is that PEOPLE KEEP BUYING MOVIE TICKETS TO SEE HIM.

But, I digress.  And,  I am ruining the suspense.   Stay with me.  We’re on rising action:


Another week passes.  We all are just living life, eating food, you know, breathing.  We have no clue.

Then, Momsie gets a funny little twinge at about 2 pm on a Monday  (I know this because Daniel Tiger was on.  We always watch Daniel Tiger.  And now? I can’t look at his fuzzy plaintitive face without getting erpy.)

2:15 pm:   Every bodily function I ever had looked at each other, shrugged, and just up and left.  The jerks.

I stayed in this state of extreme duress and confusion, me in one tiled, cold bathroom, all bodily functions vacationing off somewhere in Costa Rica or some such place, until the hubs got home, sprayed me down with Lysol and a shower, and got me in bed.

And then it was just a matter of time.  The flu took Blonde next, reducing him to a series of truncated questions at 1 am:


“When am I gonna-?

“I think – ”

“Is this ever-?”

“Wat’s DAT?”


Poor darling.  Usually he has such long-winded and multiple choice questions, but really, I totally understood him.  Know why?  I was still blerghing all over the place too.  So there we were, a moist, feverish mass of vacated bodily functions smooshed into one truly miserable bed.

The husband had long ago abandoned me for the kids’ room.  Smart move, I guess, but still…  where’s the camaraderie?  Isn’t there something in the marriage contract about “No one gets left behind”?  So,  let’s just say, if I was the U.S. and he was, perhaps, some tiny foreign country wanting trade deals?  Embargo zone.  For a long time.

And then, after Blonde started to maybe, just maybe, feel a weensy bit better?  That’s when Red got it.  Of course.  Probably because he wanted to cuddle with his so-called father, a man I now refer to as Disgusting Germ Carrier Ground Zero Guy Who Contaminated Us and Then Left to Go Sleep Somewhere Else.

And Red, only four, proceeded to shock and awe me not only with his stellar 3 a.m. lack of aim for anything remotely CLOSE to a bucket, and also with his really really deep desire to HUG me before, during,  and after each bucket attack.

Which, I understand.  Know why?  I TOO was still shellac-ing my house with my guts.  At this point there were NO MORE GUTS.   My guts HAD LEFT THE BUILDING.  THEY WERE LIVING IT UP IN COSTA RICA WITH ALL MY BODILY FUNCTIONS.

I’m sorry.  It’s a tough post to read, I know.  Pour yourself a Sprite and carry on.  I’ll wait.




So now, we will have what I would like to call the part of the plot called:

Falling Action.

This is, if you don’t know, the part my students always got wrong on their quiz questions.  And I can kinda understand.  For example, if you have just slogged your way through The Crucible, and all the good guys have ended up on the gallows saying the Lord’s Prayer, and prior to that your biggest issue that day was if you had enough money for a frappuccino after school, you do NOT really want to mess around with Falling Action. Falling Action is after the climax of the book and after that, really, don’t we just want to, BOOM, move on to the resolution and stop thinking about those poor people at the gallows?  Happy ending, Arthur Miller!  Please!

(“Well,” says the English Teacher, “No, not that you asked me, but I LIKE plot development  I happen to care about characterization and internal conflict and a rich story line!  I also like to think about irony and foreshadowing and all those other terms that I can throw at you in boldface, but that my students couldn’t identify on a quiz if their lives depended on it!”  (Hyperbole.  BOOM.) )

In this case?  With the flu bug as my antagonist who is all Hannibal Lecter on me and my guts?

Nope. I don’t want to mess with Falling Action either.



After two days and very long nights of this, the revolting quarantined awfulness that was our home finally calmed itself down, and we all ate a cracker or two  and started, you know, walking around.  Putting on clothes.  Breathing.  You get the idea.

Next day, we still took it easy but it was kinda sunny.  We went outside.  We sat in the shade.  I ate a slice of apple.  We continued breathing.  And lo, it was good.

Day after that, boys were running around, I was up to an apple and some soup, and an actual load of laundry was washed, dried, AND put away.  We were on the mend!  It was wonderful!  (Except for the laundry part. Laundry will never die.)

We were feeling better and better!  Kids ate steak for dinner!  I made homemade ice cream!  There was much rejoicing in the land!

And that night at 3 am Blonde came in, crawled in bed, got up ON the hubs (Ground Zero Guy) and copiously yakked all over him.

And deep, deep, DEEP down in my horrible, evil, snark-riddled mind I had this thought:

  Finally.  FINALLY.  Somebody threw up on him, and not on me.


Resolution:  And that, my friends, is why it is quite possible that I am the worst wife EVER.


The end.



This post was brought to you today by:






Thursday. Payback.

Highly misguided. But beloved.

Highly misguided. But beloved.

Ok, I told you that story (N is for Nookie) to tell you this:

I have the flu.  It’s the kind where you basically lose your tummy along with you lower intestines, spleen, your will to live, and anything else lower down.  My shoes maybe.  Perhaps the meal I ate last Thanksgiving.  Not sure.

My husband, in solidarity I guess, has lost his ever loving mind.

You see, the sweet man, misguided as he is, read my last post (thoughtful! supportive! involved!  wary!) and so, I guess, got hopeful.

I used to have a bird dog who would try to help my dad hunt (he had all heart, not the best brains) and then would go NUTBALL over anything that had been dead and decomposing for over a week – roll in it…  play with it… embrace it…  full on carcass LOVE, I tell you. That dog was… misguided.  We had to whack him a lot with a rolled up newspaper.

So is my husband.  I am seriously considering taking him outside and just hosing him down.

You see, here I am, lurching about, moaning, sort of a zombiefied version of Momsie, desperately in need of a shower, a bucket as accessory,  and please just some Sprite, and the man decides to…  (wait for it….) flirt with me.

I whacked him with a newspaper.

But…  I kinda think it’s endearing.  Misguided, yes.  A bit psychotic, true.  But endearing.  I mean, this is LOVE I tell you (or desperation).

He wants to hook up with Linda Blair.*  That’s commitment.

Happy Thursday ya’ll.  I’m going crawl over to the tv and put on some Caillou.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.


Nauseated? I can’t help!

*And no, I’m not posting any pics. Nobody needs to see that.  YOU google her.  I’m not gonna do it.

HOWEVER.  This post was sponsored by:

Screenshot 2013-11-21 09.23.22

Heh heh heh.