Momsie is a G rated blog. And she’s recommending an (almost) X rated Netflix show.



WAIT. Just stay with me, here, Ok?

This was me about five minutes prior to posting this:


Y’all. I’m not gonna write about puppies.

With the help of Netflix, I’m going to get serious with you.

I meant to post about some great Netflix shows for kids and teens and other heartening options, because yes, there are many there. I have gobs and gobs of things on Netflix that I watch that warm my soul and make me smile and make my children chortle with laughter…

Today is not such a day.

Today, I am recommending this:maxresdefault.jpg

Guys. This show broke. My. Heart.

Two years ago I spoke at the Whole Women’s Conference – a gathering for women who felt broken, lost, addicted, and all of the above. There, I met Annie Lobert, an ex porn star who had found Jesus, and whose mission is to offer assistance and ministry to women stuck in this industry.

And, yes, “stuck” is the right term.

I think… I think this post is going to upset some of y’all. I am so sorry. I’m going to post it anyway.

In this era of social media, amateur porn is blowing up. Did you know, Twitter still has NO sorts of filters, so basically anyone who has a Twitter account can access porn, free and easy, whenever they like?

The minimum age for a Twitter account is 13. The average age for a person to be exposed to porn? 11.

That’s in three years, for my oldest.

Amateur porn is here, and here’s one of its spokespersons:

“Amateurs come across better on screen. Our customers feel that. Especially by women you can see it. They still feel strong pain.”

So, here’s the deal. This show does not take an easy look at this. It’s not clearly anti-porn or pro. It is fairly unbiased. And for that, I am kind of grateful. Because… the girls’ faces. They don’t need to ask the leaning questions or mess with the dialogue or twist the events or MESS WITH IT AT ALL. THE GIRLS’ FACES.

Nobody really wants this life. And yet, it’s happening.


The website Fight the New Drug tells us: The main job for these girls? To look young. “Teen” is one of the top keywords in porn searches.      (

Guys. The IWF tells us: “Child porn is one of the fastest growing online businesses.”

It. Is. Everywhere.

I’m not a fan.

Maybe… you disagree. Maybe you see it as a choice, as a part of healthy human sexuality, as a part of expression and just being plain honest with ourselves. Maybe it’s empowering.

Maybe. But. Just look at their faces, ok? And, there’s so many of them. These girls. They don’t look like victims. They’re smiling. There’s hundreds of them. Or more. So… how can they be victims if SO many of them are signing up to be a click away for someone?

Just watch Hot Girls Wanted. And, there? Just look at their faces.

I do warn you – there is nudity and all the rest of it here. The film does not show the porn in action, but yes, nudity happens.  It’s not an easy film to watch. But, I did. And I cried. And, then I asked God three things:
I have two boys, and I cannot help but wonder – what will this industry be like when they are 11?
And also,  is there any way I can help those girls? Is there any way I could just hug on them, and tell them, somehow, what they’re worth? What they are really, really worth?
And, God, there are so many. Why? Why did we let this go for so long? Why weren’t we paying attention?
Ok, finally.
I read up on the definition of “exposed.” You know, to reveal, to uncover. To leave cold.
The antonym for exposed is “protect.”
And the final definition? Waaaaaay down the page, at the bottom, where you would miss it unless you’re an English teacher like me and kept reading?
Exposed: to leave a child to die.

I Just Wub You.

My kids. They used to be so cute. Allow me to show you:


I  mean, that is some good genes right there. They have my looks and also, my adorable ability to make paper Valentines Hearts.

The cleft chins come from their papa.

All in all, my kids’ insane ability to blow the cuteness meter all out of the stratosphere is MOSTLY DUE TO ME. IT’S ALL ME PEOPLE. I MAKETH GOOD BABIES.

Yes. I know. Back away from the coffee, Momsie.


But, did you know? I used to kinda hate this holiday. As a bit of backstory:

I didn’t get married until I was 36. I know. I was so old I could barely make it down the aisle. They had to set me up with some oxygen and one of those scooter thingies. Also, I don’t think Brian remembers the event at all because HE WAS A WHOLE YEAR OLDER THAN ME AND I WAS ALREADY REALLY OLD so… you know. For him, dementia had set in.

But anyhow. We were married. And it was freaking awesome. Even though we were so old.

Also, though? Kind of not. Kind of not awesome all the time. In fact, today, even, as I tried to make conversation with two wee cherubs at 6:30 in the morning about whether or not they can have chocolate for breakfast… And I’m there in my robe and praying for the coffee to perk faster so it can catch up with the nutball children who TALK SO MUCH IN THE MORNING… I thought, “The awesomeness is not strong today. But hopefully the coffee will be.”

I ask you. How DO they talk so much in the morning? How? It’s a medical mystery.

Here’s my point (The lawyer, who has been absent a lot from my posts lately because of paycuts, gets to finally, FINALLY, add his “WELL IT’S ABOUT TIME.” to this post):

Valentines Day is a day to express love. The apex of love is NOT marriage. It’s not even kids although we all know they can be rather consuming in that department. I mean, did you SEE the picture above? Who could NOT love that? But also, might I add? The blonde one just spent a better part of this morning, walking around the house in aimless circles singing the Star Wars theme but with the word “Poop” interjected as lyrics. So… not so cute, huh? This moment was also accessorized by Red bending over and adding sound effects and you will thank me for not going into any more detail than that.

I’ll just let your imagination fly.

Ok, so back to my point. Valentines Day.

Love is not about sex or making babies (also sex ) or getting married or even, dare I say, the passionate weirdness I feel for my cats that means that every time I pass them I must grab them and hold them close, to check their furry status and all that. This is harder to do with Bob, the small nervous one who tenses up so much when I pick her up that I think she might break into a million tense and furry pieces.

ANYHOW. What I’m TRYING  to say, is that Valentines Day is about recognizing where all that love comes from. God created us to be like Him, after all.Which means…

He loves us like crazy. And, as I had observed this morning with the Poop Musical going on in my foyer, His crazy love is very apt for what He has to deal with on a daily basis.


Also this: When my boys were little they used to come up and hug me and say, “I just wub you, mommah.” It’s one of those sweet things I remember, as a well-folded, frayed at the edges Valentine that I keep tucked away in my memory. All moms do this. We store them up, a memory box of adorable reminders.

I wanted you to know that I wub you too, my readers. You have been such a blessing to me.

And a tiny extra shout out to:

My dad. Who reads each and every post.

My mom. Who reads each and every one and then writes me letters and comments back. 🙂

Christy. Super Friend. Super Editor. Super Everything.

Julia Putzke. Super Friend Who I Have Not Actually Met Yet But Thank You Internet for Introducing Us.


I just wub you!



It Ain’t Over ‘Till the Sick Momsie Sings

Things have been a little sickly over here.

I’ve been a bit, uh, under the weather. This is code for: Y’all. This is bad. I haven’t showered in over five years and when I cough I sound like a seal ate a bullfrog and then it  got a side of the plague.

Aches. Pains. Chills. Hacking cough. No sleep (due to cough and, also, due to resentment at husband because he has slept peacefully through me practically DYING, so I just stare at him and snot-wheeze and get bitter. By the time morning comes, I am an old, dried up lemon of bitterness and phlegm. Lovely.)

So, basically, what has been lurching about here lately has been the little girl from The Ring, only with a load of laundry under her arm.

Screenshot 2016-03-23 13.55.13.png

Poor dear. She really needs to say hello to Mr. Comb.

Oh, and on top of ALL of this, along with the constant requests for food (EVERY night. Every NIGHT my parasitic family wants to be fed. If I had KNOWN that FEEDING them CONSTANTLY would be part of the deal, I would have… Well. Ok. I would have not changed anything because I also eat. But sometimes it’s nice to vent a bit, eh?)

Sorry, on top of ALL of these constant badgering about being a responsible adult, I have been asked to read and review this book:




Ah, Universe. *knocks Universe in the shoulder with fist* Ya big lug. I get what You’re doing here.

So, as I slowly , Ring-girl creep back to normalcy (this, as we all know, is a relative term used only because “nutball” is already taken) I am reading Alison’s book and taking notes, and guys! I am super interested in what this book has to say about women, our health, and nutrition! And you KNOW I don’t use the ! lightly!

First of all, she uses the word “vagina” like 57 million times. As one who has always used the terms “lady bits” or “fine china” for this part of my anatomy, I am finally paying attention, and, also, deciding it’s time to act like a responsible adult.


There. I said it. Completely out of context and all, and I’m sure my dad is now hiding under his desk at the office, but heck! I am an adult! I will shout “vagina” from the rooftops if I need to!

Nope. Not gonna do that. Our roof is waaaayy too slanted and I just don’t want to have to explain all of this to the neighbors.

It’s hard. The adulting thing. But since I managed to keep my family alive this week while I was sad, pale, sickly Ring girl, I think I have earned my Adult Merit Badge. On to some more reading!

See you Friday for the full review.

Also, I leave you with this, because I have to:


I told you I had earned the Adult Merit Badge. I didn’t say I would have to ACT like it all the time, OK?

Seriously – this book has a lot to say about really crucial health topics for women like:

  • nutrition and mental health – what are the links?
  • hormones – I don’t have to hate them, do I?
  • sex and well, hormones and aging and all of that “gettting older business” – Help!
  • medicine  – do we over-prescribe? What are the alternatives?
  • how can I be more “in charge” of my health?


And on and on.  Stay tuned for a more in depth review on Friday!

If you are interested in ordering a copy of Alison Buehler’s book, click here.

Also, here is a short book trailer. Enjoy!






You and Me Could Write a Bacon Romance.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today. The theme?

Screenshot 2015-10-30 08.58.42

No. I’m not kidding.

So, here goes.


This is what I know about marriage: if there has been a fight, and it’s just a teensy bit possible that YOU are the one that is the most, er, culpable, and you are really, really lousy at apologizing?

Bacon. Just make some bacon for dinner. Bacon that problem right there.


Bacon makes you more intelligent. It takes away wrinkles. It will clean the grout in your bathroom. Bacon will, one day, WIN THE WAR IN THE MIDDLE EAST.

Oh… I know. Went too far, didn’t I?

But, wait, there’s more! Bacon could be its own Viagra ad! Because, you know, since I went too far with the whole war thing I might as well go hog wild and carry on. (I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO POINT IT OUT YOU SAW IT I CAN’T EVEN.)

Viagra ad:

Hey! Do you want to take your honey for some weird date where you’re rowing in a boat together and smiling all coy and knowing because sex! Maybe soon! In the rowboat! Should be totally comfortable!

And then, you’re chopping vegetables together again, all coy and knowing because NOTHING is more sexy than chopping vegetables! Sex! Right here ! On the kitchen tile! Even if it’s cold! Just make sure to wash your hands!


If you want this weird lifestyle where you are doing stuff together that is just not normal, and then sex happens because of it, FRY UP SOME BACON.

But. Ask your doctor first. If, you know, you’re healthy enough for bacon.

Sigh. Ok, this post has taken a rather abrupt turn but it’s all I’ve got this morning. And for some reason, I really, really want to go find my husband and play tennis, or take a road trip in a convertible and look, you know, all coy and knowing at him while we stop at a roadside antiques dealer and fondle something shabby and chic.

Oh, and, somehow, NO children will be allowed within a 100 mile radius.

Because, as you mommies know, babies are begat by all that coy and knowing business, all those saucy looks, and then, once you HAVE the babies, they circle you like flies at a picnic for the rest of your lives. ESPECIALLY if there is bacon involved.

And that, my friends, is how I can tie bacon to sex.

It’s my own version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Yes, this is a thing. Click here.

Sex, Digress to Crispy Bacon.


If this post doesn’t get a Pulitzer I quit.


This post is about sex! And friendship! Which sounds really weird! Stay with me!

137So recently my friend Rae had the audacity to move away.

Her hubs got a job in sunny California and she just LEFT me. LEFT, I tell you. I ask you, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THIS WORLD WHEN FRIENDS MOVE AWAY BECAUSE  MARRIAGE?

I know. Marriage is a holy union and all that but now… WHO will I send snarky posts about husbands?

(Backstory: Rae also has a husband who is adorable and wonderful, like mine, but at times we like to laugh at them via text. Because we can. Also, because it’s a fallen world and oh don’t send me an email, I’m working on it. Admitting it is half the battle, y’all.)

Anyhow. The lawyer is sighing heavily and reminding me rather tersely: We can STILL text each other.  California does have texting, I’m pretty sure.


I had tried everything to get them to stay. Whining. Random sniveling. Prayer group sabotage. That one didn’t work at all, even thought I thought for sure it would. We were all gathered around Rae, praying over her trip and her move and all the stressers and other nonsense she was going through, and I entered in with this epic invocation:

“Dear Lord, I pray also that she just STAYS HERE THIS IS CRAZY. Could you, like, smite their U-Haul? Nicely?

But, okay, Thy will be done and all. I guess. Not really in this situation, but OK. Maybe.”

Strangely enough, the Lord didn’t follow through on this. I will talk more with Him about this later. The cute little hipsters, Rae and Sean, and their cute little kids, packed up and left me.

And so, I did the next best thing:

I decided to be selfless and wonderful and clean their house!

Actually, the lawyer is AGAIN asking me to clarify: I didn’t come up with the idea. My legitimately selfless and wonderful friend, Alissa, suggested we do it, and I just kinda horned on to it, and told everyone it was my idea.

I know. I have not, EVER, tried to establish that I am anywhere near perfect in this blog. But this post really accentuates all that, doesn’t it? Does this blog make me look fat, too?

Hope not.

So, I cleaned. Alissa watched our umpteen million small children. I think I got the better end of the deal.

And, while I was scrubbing away… I found… THIS (small flourish, and audible gasp!):


*Bad selfie.

* Yes, I know this picture kinda looks like I am cleaning without any clothes on. Or maybe, that’s just me thinking that, and you didn’t really go there at all. Shows you how my brain works, doesn’t it? It’s a bit wonky. I guess, the whole “My heavens! Is she topless?” question is kinda fitting because of the subject matter. But, you know, it’s not that kinda blog.

Actually, I think sweet Rae left them for me. It’s a deck of cards. About Sex. Aptly named: “Sex!” The marketing team really went all out on this one.

It is the kind of thing you get when you get married and your hokey friends like to give you wildly embarrassing gifts all har dee har har, nudge nudge, wink wink, etc. And then, you put them in a drawer and forget alllll about ’em.

Until you move to California and you decide, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll leave these here. I have two kids under the age of 5 and I think I’m good on the whole nookie thing. I know! I’ll leave ’em for my friend! She’ll LOVE them!”

So, now they are at my house, shoved waaaaaaaay in the back of MY drawer.

For my children to find.**

Thank you, sweet Rae. My impossibly wonderful, tiny, fit friend. I will miss you. So very, very much.

Screenshot 2015-05-19 11.03.16

Group selfie. Dressed. Alissa on left. Rae on right. Notice picture of Jesus in background. We are super spiritual. And, I never seem to know where to look.

** As every married couple seems to get at least one of these goofy types of presents, you can be sure that:

1. We did. It was something with feathers and edible glitter and my gosh that just seems like a lot of work.

2. I didn’t toss the gift. Even though the likelihood of me using a feather during nookie is very slim. Unless I wanted to dust something. I know.

3. Red found it. And wanted to talk about it. A lot.

4. I scheduled an appointment with my therapist that afternoon.

Going Off the Grid with The Plan



Linking up with Five Minute Friday!

The word for today?


Huh. As in… “That’s not part of the?”

Show of hands, momsies: How many of you sooooo like to have a plan?

I cart around with me a very ratty, scribbled mess of a spiral notebook that I use as a planner. It’s not pretty. It doesn’t have nice pockets or cute script or even a place to store stuff. But this system has worked for me for over… well, since high school.

I like to call the spiral: Master Control.

Lord help me if I ever lose it. I might not be able to dress myself.

I love to have a plan. I have lists, ya’ll. Lists OF lists. I have maps that explain the contents of closets. I have a daily cleaning chart, AND daily breakfast chart, AND I’m pretty sure I have a chart of my charts. It is also possible that at one point and time I scheduled, um, special time with the hubster. Like, I PUT IT ON MY MASTER CONTROL.

I did use code for it, but still, it was there, in pink sharpie.

(Total tangent: Once, my sweet Red walked in on me and the hubster starting in one negotiations for special time. Now, let me be clear: we were not hitting the Rated R late night viewing category yet, not even close. At this point, we were still in pre game talks and it was all rather PG. Anyhow – Red walks in, I squeal, this confuses Red a lot because squealing is not really my thing – I don’t do it often and now, I SWEAR, someday when he really GETS what was going on in our bedroom he’s gonna think= squealing, and it’s all my fault. Hubs, of course, is totally non-plussed because he NEVER gets PLUSSED about anything, and calmly says: “Hi Red. Mommy and I were just wrestling.”

Sooooo…. then Red goes to His Kids the next night and the teacher asks: “What are some things your parents do around the house?” and Red says, “Sometimes my mommy and daddy like to wrestle.” And from there I don’t know but THAT comment sure leaves a lot of room for interpretation… But if you’re me, you interpret it the saucy way because you are immature and a bit off kilter.

Anyhow. I will never make eye contact with his teacher again.)

Where was I?

Oh, having a plan. Sharpies. Lists. Plans are my happy place.

Except, once in a while, when they are not.

For some reason, every once in a while, my Master Control gets put away. I lose the box of sharpies. I take a break from The Plan.

Because, I don’t know… my brain says, “Wing it, Momsie. Live. Throw caution to the wind! Use glitter! Don’t color code your linen drawer. At least not today! Just for today? Un Plan!”

And I do. For an undetermined amount of time, for an unknown reason, and with really unimaginable results, I go all willy-nilly.

Now, granted, I do make sure to, like, wash underwear and cook things to eat (although frozen pizzas do turn up often), and I even remember to floss in there. Sometimes.

Otherwise? I am prancing about, all nutty and free, and it’s great. My life is like a big handful of confetti, thrown to the wind, and fluttering about.

And my house becomes a total mess. “Look at my house!” I think. “It’s a total mess!” And then I flit off to not do anything important. I read in bed. I drink coffee at three pm. Sometimes I read IN bed AND drink coffee. I am an animal!

And then, one morning, I wake up and think, “All right. Enough of this crazy talk, where’s my scrub brush?” And I go hunt down my sharpies, find them in some random drawer, clutch them to me and lisp, “MY PRESHUS” and I’m off and running with Master Control again.

I call it The Every Once in a While, Kinda Loosey-Goosey, No-Plan, Plan.

And it works for me.

And by the way? You can actually Plan too much. See below. Can you imagine what the woman is thinking in the picture? I can. But I can’t state it here because it’s not that kind of blog.




My Marriage Rocks. The Non-Throwing Kind. Because: Humor.

The only way to survive marriage is to laugh a lot.

When you are shackled to another person for the rest of your life, all sorts of laughter counts. For example laughing at ones self is always a good start. That’s all self-deprecating and so, therefore, it makes you look like a good person, and so, marriagable.

But also: there’s the better kind: when you can laugh at HIM.

I so prefer the second option because, well, it’s just so much easier.

Also, you can just, like, laugh at other stuff a lot. This happens with us. We are so deeply wedged into marital bliss that we just wander around the house laughing our arses off at any old thing. Just paid three insurance bills that seemed about equal with the national debt? HILARIOUS.

Did you drop your coffee filter thingie on the floor again at six am, thus covering you, the floor, and cat paws with expensive, caffeinated dirt? I’M HOLDING MY SIDES, STOP IT!!!

Did your four-year old master the art of the nonsensical drop and wail about something so minute and weird you cannot fix or even, really talk him down from today? I SHOULD MAKE A YOUTUBES! LOL!!

Did you get both boys up an hour EARLY because Daylight Savings?

Oh, heck no. Well, some things are just not funny.


My marriage, it seems, is pretty laughable.

No, wait, that sounded bad. What I MEAN is:

We laugh at each other, and ourselves, a LOT.

Last night we had to go to a big, hoity toity dinner thing for Tall Blonde’s work. I do so love these things. Wanna know why? I shall make a list:

1. I really don’t love them I was being sarcastic.

I had to wear real clothes. And high heels. “Real clothes” means a dress, and good Lord, who thought up THAT nonsense? A DRESS? It’s been a while.

Sigh. When one stays home with two boys, writes from home, AND teaches an online class, one starts to think of “professional wardrobe” rather creatively. So, in essence, I put on the dress, and the heels, and then kinda felt like this:

Does this bowl make me look fat?
Does this bowl make me look fat?

At this point in the game, I was weak. And so, what I attempted next in marital relations is not recommended. It was a foolish move, I realize, and also highly risky.

I spotted the husband in the hall, and I said,

“Honey? Do I look all right?”

I know. I KNOW. This is the Red Wedding of questions. (If you don’t know what I mean about The Red Wedding, GOOD. You DON’T WANNA KNOW.)

What happened next is not for the faint of heart:

The husband looked at me and SHRUGGED.

Now, right here is when you have a crucial decision. You can:

1. Kill him.

2. Kill him in your head, because jail is bad.

3. Not speak to him for the rest of the night. When he finally catches on, tell him, “I’m fine.”

4. Withhold sexual relations until 2021 but offer no explanation.

5. Some willy nilly combination of 2-4.

6. Laugh it off.

I opted for #6. Actually, I did one better. First, I marched right over to him and poked him. “This,” I stared him down, all steely eyed and Clint Eastwoody, “This, punk, is when YOU say: ‘Yes, darling! You look ravishing. Absolutely perfect. And THIN. Did I also mention, smart? You, my sweet petal, are perfection.’ “

(NOTE: Students! Quote marks INSIDE quote marks! Grammar moment!!!! Squee!!!)

And then, I flounced away laughing maniacally. Flouncing, I found, only works so well when you are wearing four inch heels, so then I twisted my ankle and sort of gripped the wall for a minute, but then recovered and clomped away.

Erm. Like this:



By the way: the marriage is still intact. Tall Blonde has made a serious mental note about the shrugging. As the night progressed, he would whisper sweet nothings to me like, “You are beautiful. I love you. Here, you can have my ice cream. And, really, you’re hot. Can I get you more ice cream?”

Marriage. It’s all about communication, humor, and grovelling paired with caramel gelato.