Dear Frozen Yogurt Bar Staff, Have I got a tip for you.

Ok…so last week I took the kids to this new frozen yogurt place down the street. When I walked in, I was immediately put off by the whole “Ikea Does Preschool” design. The mere idea of slurping frozen yogurt off a 10 inch high table, with my boobs resting awkwardly on my knees, created a kind of pre-digestion indigestion that I hadn’t known was possible.  But the kids loved it, so whatever.


We walked up to the high schooler behind the counter.

Me: “Hi. I’d like 3 small frozen yogurts. What flavors do you have?”

Him, seeming confused by my question: “All of our yogurt machines are on that wall over there. (points to 16 machines) We’re a self-serve yogurt bar, it’s what makes us unique!”

Nooo, it’s what makes you lazy. But tomato/tomaahto.

I then spent, what seemed like hours, assisting my children in building their idea of the most perfect frozen yogurt combination ever. Flavors were mixed with a 2:2:1 ratio, paper dividers (yes, paper dividers) were inserted into the bowls to isolate any contrasting, yet complementary, selections, and swirl dispensing techniques were compared, analyzed, and critiqued until the winner was the one not crying. I won’t lie, it was torturous. Yet, somehow, it paled to the angst created by the toppings bar.

To an adult, the toppings bar was a plethora of choices that could be easily whittled down by years of tasting experience. But to a child? To a child, those 50 containers laid before them like a vast new land waiting to be explored and plundered. And with no one standing behind the counter to push them along, my kids grabbed their spoons and ever. so. slowly. hovered above each and every topping for consideration. Honestly, I’ve given major life decisions less thought.


When I assumed we were finally ready to pay, the teenager, now texting behind the counter, reminded us that we had yet to choose our “wet” toppings.

Our what toppings?

“Wet toppings: caramel, fudge, chocolate sauce, strawberry sauce, marshmallow sauce, peanut butter sauce, butterscotch, honey, whipped cream, and magic shell. Choose as many as you want! Any combination!”

He obviously thought giving my children more choices would excite me. Bastard.

Once the wet toppings were poured over my kids and their sundaes, I attempted to hand him the mess for payment.

“No no no (waving me away). You’re supposed to go over there and place them on the scale, then you pay based on the weight. Oh, and don’t forget to grab yourself some spoons and napkins, looks like you’ll need them. hahaha.”

And so I did. And then I paid. And then I saw this…

Dear Self-Serve Frozen Yogurt Guy,  Let's be clear about bikini waxer, Tina, earns her tip, YOU do not.


So let me get this straight,

We put the frozen yogurt into our cups

We piled on both the ‘dry’ and ‘wet’ toppings

We grabbed our spoons and napkins

We put the sundaes on the scale

and We paid

Now you want a tip? For WHAT, taking my money?

Dear Frozen Yogurt Employee,

 How about you earn a tip by doing something that I’d actually tip on. Something that makes my life better. Maybe wax my bikini area?  Or clean the dog piss off my carpet? Take our car through vehicle inspection? Bikini waxing, part 2 (it usually takes more than one session)? Or,hey, I got it… here’s a real novel idea, what about MAKING ME A GODDAMN FROZEN YOGURT SUNDAE!?!?!

No, all you did was take my money, and that only made my life worse. Why would I tip you for that?

Stick that in your empty bucket.

*And I totally would have written that note too, if it didn’t require me jumping behind the counter to find my own pen.


The Weekend in Crappy Pics! 10/9-10/12



Let’s pretend for a moment that you’re super interested in my life and just can’t get enough. Ok? Good, because I’m about to start this weekend review on a Thursday.

Thursday, I organized a Ladies Bunko Night at the neighborhood clubhouse. It was well attended by almost 30 desperate-to-get-out-of-the-bedtime-routine women, and all of them in their pajamas! The pajamas thing was my idea because avoiding zippered pants is my newest hobby.

So as we’re playing, I receive this text from Brian:



My friend Lisa, who’s sitting next to me, says, “Is that Brian?”

Me: “Yeah, he wants to know when I’ll be home and where his charger is.”

Lisa: “Doesn’t he know we’re trying to have fun here? Give me the phone.”


I hand it to her and she replies to him:



and here’s his reply…



oh, shit. It was Collin.

Lucky for me, I’m well adept at dealing with horribly uncomfortable parental situations.


How to respond:

Step 1: Ignore it

Step 2: Repeat step 1, like this…


Hello, indeed. Welcome to a whole new level of awkward.

On Friday night, we went to a restaurant where my Aunt Charline gave Collin an early birthday card. Here’s the front:

photo 3 (9)My mother says she helped pick out “the cute little robot”.

Here’s the inside:


Hmm…I’m guessing this didn’t come from the Kid’s section of Hallmark.

So, after learning the phrase “she’s my bitch” and receiving a birthday card suggesting that his penis and nuts will fall off with age, Collin felt he was now a man and commemorated the moment by ordering his first cup of coffee- hold the cream.

photo 3 (10)

Meanwhile, Ana’s been drinking coffee for years.

Saturday, Brian and I hired a babysitter and went to a Brew Fest. That’s where I found my new favorite beer:

photo 4 (6)

On Sunday, we had Collin’s 11th birthday party, inviting 10 children to our house. It was a completely unstructured party, partly because I believe children should use their imaginations and create their own fun, but mostly because I’m lazy.

How did that go? Well…

Flickin’ Chickens were flung onto my ceiling

photo 2 (11)

mustaches were applied to family photos and television screens

photo 5 (5)

a rousing game of Ebola Tag was invented


Can you blame me for opening a bottle of wine?

And an impromptu game of Charades was played.

Ahh, charades, good old fashion fun. Sounds harmless enough, right? WRONG.

Ease dropping, I heard the guesses, “Illuminati” and “cleaning up after your drunk husband”. That’s when I stepped in and supplied them with my own clues. And, not coincidentally, that’s when children started going home.

On Monday, I thought I stepped in dog shit and nearly threw my hip out trying to wipe the gushiness off my shoe.  Turns out it was a damn Flickin’ Chicken.

photo 2 (13)

How was your weekend?

Exhausted Mothers everywhere, here’s my answer to the horrible Bento Box Fad!

Well, it finally happened, the thing I’ve been dreading…yesterday, my precious daughter rolled off the school bus bitching and moaning about the lack of artistic effort that I’ve been putting into her packed lunches. My first thought, “Oh shit, has she been on Pinterest?” My second thought, “We need to update our parental controls to include Pinterest.”

But no, it seems that some better-than-me mother (who, I guarantee, does have a Pinterest account) has been sending her daughter to school everyday with a lunchbox full of “love” in the form of Disney inspired entrees and Chicka Chicka Boom Boom carrots. And Ana has taken notice. Thanks a lot, lady. Thanks. A. Lot.

According to my daughter, Wednesday’s lunchtime was spent watching little Hayden nibble on Elsa’s certified organic noodle braid, while Ana despondently ate from a zip-lock bag filled with pretzels and an enormous amount of apathy. Her tale of woe was really quite heartbreaking. So, like any guilt-ridden mother, I decided to give this stupid Bento Lunch thing a try.

I promised Ana an Olaf lunch, but when I read the first three ingredients: Japanese Nori noodles, purple seaweed, edible modeling clay, I was all, “Oh heeeellll no!” Packing a lunch should not require me to source food from various specialty shops and craft stores. I haven’t shaved in four days and THAT needs to happen before I start driving around town seeking out cuisine for my 5 year old to throw out.

How’s that Meat Loaf song go?

“I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that. Nooooo, I won’t. do. thaaaat.”

But I promised her an Olaf lunch, so it was on to Plan B. Unfortunately, I had no Plan B…at least not until I drank a couple glasses of 2009 Cabernet from the Napa region- that always loosens up my wheels.

And so, exhausted, not-so-perfect mothers everywhere, I’d like to present my “Damn you, Hayden’s mom!” answer to this crazy, expensive, and time consuming lunch fad:


The “I ain’t got time for that. Here’s some lunch money” Bento Box

Step 1: Get lunch money from your purse.

Step 2: Arrange money and tape down

Step 3: Use a Sharpie to draw the rest.

Olaf says…don’t “flake” on your test!

Tired of sculpting carrots and molding eggs into an edible Mona Lisa reproduction? The "I ain't got time for that. Here's some lunch money" Bento Box.  #AntiBentoBox


Screw making little broccoli trees with an “I love you!” tediously carved into their stalks with an X-Acto knife while freebasing your blood pressure pills and trying to remember your insurance provider’s Mental Health co-pay. No thank you. Besides, unlike a scene from The Lion King made out of graham crackers and Russian caviar, my “I ain’t got time for that. Here’s some lunch money” Bento Boxes provide the perfect canvas for real communication between you and your child:


Confronting potty issues:

Tired of sculpting carrots and molding eggs into an edible Mona Lisa reproduction? The "I ain't got time for that. Here's some lunch money" Bento Box.  #AntiBentoBox

Offering friendship advice:


Tired of sculpting carrots and molding eggs into an edible Mona Lisa reproduction? The "I ain't got time for that. Here's some lunch money" Bento Box.  #AntiBentoBox-


Calling them out:

Tired of sculpting carrots and molding eggs into an edible Mona Lisa reproduction? The "I ain't got time for that. Here's some lunch money" Bento Box.  #AntiBentoBox -


I realize the “I ain’t got time for that. Here’s some lunch money” Bento Box still requires a minimum amount of effort on your part, which is something I’m normally against, but just think of the look on your child’s face when they open their lunch box and see something like this:

Tired of sculpting carrots and molding eggs into an edible Mona Lisa reproduction? The "I ain't got time for that. Here's some lunch money" Bento Box.  #AntiBentoBox -

Arachnophobia, cured. “Thanks, mom!”

Ladies, even if your child doesn’t buy lunch, I’m here on my linoleum floor, begging you to step away from the melon baller and to embrace the beautiful quadrilateral simplicity of a square cheese sandwich. After all, you don’t need to win the “MOM OF THE YEAR” title because, as far as your child is concerned, you already have it.

Please send me your “I ain’t got time for that. Here’s some lunch money” Bento Box pictures so I can pin them to my Pinterest “I ain’t got time for that. Here’s some lunch money” Bento Box idea board!

Snow Day: The Devil’s Dandruff


Motha’s Log: Snow Day #576

6:00 am– Just received the call that school is cancelled again. I lay here in the quiet darkness and wonder…how do those white flakes, which fall directly from the depths of Hell, not immediately melt? Maybe that’s what rain is, snowflakes that stayed in hell a little too long?

7:43 am – Dehydrated from the crying.

8:00 am – Judging by their energy level, the kids are hopped up on a combination of Pop Tarts and adrenaline…and a shared belief that today’s the day they’ll finally succeed at driving me over the edge. I hear plans being made.

8:59 am – They’ve built an elaborate fort using couch cushions and three of my now emptied laundry baskets. Clothes are everywhere and my favorite black bra is currently waving on their flag pole. I asked them to take it down but they couldn’t hear me over their new national anthem “Oh, say can you C-cup…”

9:42 am – Ordered a new bra on and signed up for Amazon Prime. I think it’s a good investment considering it gives me free 2-day shipping, free streaming movies, free kittens, free…dear god I’m losing my mind.

10:05 am– I was quietly huddled in the corner of the bathroom when one of them slipped this under my door:

get well

Funny…I don’t feel sick.

11:13 am – I’ve spent the last hour testing different hiding-in-plain-sight methods, and charting & comparing their effectiveness.

Method#1Covering myself head-to-toe in aluminum foil and pressing my body against the stainless steel refrigerator.

Method#2Dressing in all black and curling my body around our black dog, syncing my nervous panting with his.

Method#3Safety pinning random pieces of laundry to my pajamas and blending in with the clothes strewn around the room.

Method#4Smearing 1 hour bronzing cream all over my body then laying on a bronze colored couch…and not breathing.


I’ve created a bar graph to illustrate my results:

Online Graphing
Create a chart


12:17 pm – Bought my airline ticket for my trip to Florida next month. Instead of buying it as a “round trip”, I bought 2 “one-way” tickets.

12:23 pm – Printed out and showed the kids my “one-way” ticket to Florida. Told them I plan on flying away and never coming back.

1:13 pm – The way they’re jumping on the exposed couch springs like olympic trampolinists, tells me they’ve recovered from the shock of my impending abandonment. I am both proud and saddened by their resilience.

2:25 pm – The 4 year old has convinced me to take 10th Anniversary Edition Holiday Barbie out of the packaging so she can see if she’s wearing any underwear. I’m a little curious myself.

2:38 pm – Barbie is NOT wearing underwear. Can’t blame her, panty lines are a bitch.

2:48 pm – It only took 10 minutes for Barbie to lose all of her collector’s value. So long, college tuition.


4:12 pm – It seems that “Baby” is the new F-word. For the last hour they’ve been screaming things like:

“You’re a BABY!”

“Go BABY yourself, BABY!”

“You son-of-a-BABY!”

“MOM! He called me a baby!”

4:48 pm – I can’t take it anymore! I told them both to kiss my “baby” and hid.

9: 16 pm – Imma all outa tequilaaaaa—————wahhhh

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