Category Archives: Humor

Can’t Make This Sh!t up

You may (not) have noticed I’ve been absent from blogging the past few months (just humor me and gush about how much you’ve missed me…).  I thought I’d give you a tiny glimpse into some of the daily shit that keeps me from writing.  Literally.

Last week we got home from an evening that had already included a concussion (Jimmy)and an injured knee (Jake).  Right after Jimmy went downstairs to bed, he called me and exclaimed that he was walking through water.  Was the bump on his head was worse than we thought?  Alas, no.  He wasn’t hallucinating.  (If he was, I suppose he would have envisioned walking ON water.)

Our hot water heater had busted and flooded our basement.

basement poolThe bad luck fairy seems to have visited our family a lot this past year.  I’ve been trying reaaaalllly hard to avoid turning into a “glass half empty” type person, so attempted to look at the bright side: (1) It was clean water, (2) most items in the storage room were off the floor because Jim had built shelves, (3) no walls or furniture were damaged and (4) we had a giant carpeted kiddie pool.

After we looked up our (way too high) homeowner’s insurance deductible, we decided to try to salvage the carpet instead of submit a claim.  We (“we” meaning Jim) pulled up the carpet, threw away the padding, sucked up the water, repeatedly steam cleaned the carpet with anti-mildew cleaner.  Then we installed new padding and put the carpet back.  Two days ago.

Fast forward to today.  I was taking my daily nap when Jimmy burst into my room to tell me water was pouring all over the storage room.  I stumbled downstairs thinking something must be wrong with the new water heater.  However, what I found appeared to be water spewing out of the OLD water heater which was still sitting in the storage room.

Even in a half asleep stupor I knew that it couldn’t be possible for an empty, unattached tank to be spraying water. Could it?  No, it couldn’t.  Upon closer inspection, I figured out that the water was pouring down through the ceiling.  It was splattering off the top of the old water heater and raining all over the room.  And then it hit me…the room directly above the storage room?  The bathroom.shitty day

I ran upstairs and water was pouring out of the toilet.  The clogged toilet.  The clogged, shit-filled toilet.  The clogged, shit-filled toilet that requires a “handle jiggle” to stop filling with water.  The clogged, shit-filled, jiggle-required toilet that had obviously been “filling” during my entire nap.  (I won’t name the little shit who admitted to the…not so little shit that clogged it.)

So much for the glass half full attitude.  This time it was NOT clean water.  And everything that was “safely” on the storage shelves had been splatted with shatted water.  Ew. Ew. Ew.

Shit just got real.  Too real.  Glass half full half empty

I don’t need to worry about my glass being half full OR half empty.  I think my glass is broken.  That’s not seven years bad luck like a mirror, is it??

At least we didn’t make a claim for the first flood.  That would have been an awkward phone call. “Hi again Mr. Insurance Man.  Remember me?  You just replaced our carpet two days ago.  Can you enter a claim of ‘ditto?'”


Funny side story…

I was worried about the carpet having a mildew smell so wanted to check it one more time after the final cleaning (from flood #1).  I was wearing pink PJ pants with turtles on them and a purple sweatshirt.  I put on shoes – black ones that were by the front door –  so I wouldn’t get my socks wet.

Jim (seeing me putting on shoes): Where are you going?

Me: Walmart.

Jim: Oh, ok.

I guess he thought I’d fit right in.

Facebook has changed it’s policy for posts to Facebook pages, like my Momopolize page.  They are only showing posts to a small number of the page “fans” unless the page administrator (me) pays to boost the views, which this administrator (again, me) won’t be doing.  The best way to make sure you will see future blog posts is to subscribe by email (upper right corner).  I usually don’t post more than once a week (and, you know, sometimes as little as once every 3 months) so I won’t be FLOODING your inbox with a bunch of emails.  Go subscribe now so you won’t miss any of my shitty posts! 

You can also go to my Momopolize page, hover over the “liked” button and select get notifications.  Then you will see the little red number show up when I post on the page.  This will notify you of all status updates, not just blog posts.

The biggest compliment is seeing a blog post shared!  Won’t YOU share??

The Mother Of All Meltdowns – Memories and Review

I was thrilled to be asked to be part of the blog book tour for “The Mother Of All The Mother Of All Meltdowns Book CoverMeltdowns” because:

  1. Over half of the contributors are my wonderfully talented blogger buddies!!  (The contributors are ALL talented.  I just haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know the other half.  Yet!)
  2. Who doesn’t love to hear that other Moms have full blown conniption fits too?!

This fantastic compilation of stories had me yelling at the book, “Yes!” “Me too!” “Exactly!” “Been there done that!” and “I’m glad I’m not alone!” Yes, I actually yelled at the book.

The best thing about the book for me was that so many stories brought back memories of similar incidents that have happened to me.  And I realized that I can now LAUGH at most of them, even though they seemed mortifying at the time.  (I say most because some will ALWAYS be cringe-worthy.  Toddler tantrums ain’t got nuthin’ on Mommy meltdowns.)

One particular memory that was dredged up happened when I read the story “From Goldilocks to Dreaded locks.”  It reminded me of a time Jimmy gave himself a haircut.  With boys, self-inflicted hair cuts aren’t a huge deal.  Just give them a short buzz cut and you are good to go, right?  But one particular “trim” was a little more traumatic for this Mom.  My husband still hasn’t lived down that this happened on his watch.

I was out for the day and came home to find Jim having a work meeting in our dining room, with Jimmy in the next room doing “crafts.”  Crafts with glue and scissors.  I went to say hello to Jimmy and thought he looked a bit tired but was soon distracted by that fact when I saw piles of hair on the table.  And a large almost bald spot on top of his head.  I remained calm (I didn’t have a choice since Jim was having a meeting) and took Jimmy up to his room for a time-out and lecture that cutting your own hair leads to a life of crime.  Or something like that.

Since he looked so tired, I wasn’t surprised that he fell asleep during his time-out.  However when he still looked tired after his punishment induced nap, I started to worry that he was sick.  Closer examination of the problem made ME feel sick though.  He looked tired because he had CUT OFF HIS EYE LASHES!  (I should add that Jimmy was the toddler who had to-die-for lashes.  So long that celebrities would pay thousands for fake replicas.  People would comment on them DAILY.  And now they were GONE.)  Fortunately Jim’s meeting was over because I completely flipped out.  I would like to say that my first concern was that he could have stabbed his eye with the scissors, but that was a distant second.  I was so upset that the lashes were gone.  THOSE lashes.  Those PERFECT lashes.

I screamed.  I cried.  I paced.  I Googled “do eyelashes grow back??”  (The answer “in seven YEARS” wasn’t very comforting.)  It was horrible.  I think my head may have actually spun around.

About 13 years later, Jimmy’s eyes are still his most talked about feature.  But the lashes?  I swear they never completely grew back.Wait Until You See What I Cut This Time

While that will never be a “pleasant” memory for me, I can at least chuckle at the absurdity of it now.  The book brought back many other ridiculously funny (or just ridiculous) meltdown memories such as getting locked out of the house by an angry child, cursing “the most magical place on earth,” the boss who insisted on knocking on my office door EVERY day when I was pumping, the moment of being told it was too late for an epidural…the list goes on.

I will have to tell those stories another time, but for now you MUST go read the stories in The Mother Of All Meltdowns.  The stories are short enough that you can read one while waiting in the carpool line and finish another before the kids find you hiding in the bathroom.  Or you can get sucked in like I did and read the entire book in one sitting.  I promise you will laugh (and even cry) and most importantly…feel NORMAL for coming unglued now and then.  The stories will make you feel like you are right there with “a bunch of hot mamas losing their cool!”

P.S. I received a complimentary copy of the book to review, but all opinions are 100% my own!

Top 20 Dumbest Injuries, Part 1: The Wonder Years

You know those people you see in a cast and when asked what happened they tell this fascinating story of how they were competing in a triathalon or jumping from an airplane or saving a kitten from a tree?

I’m not one of them.Injury ecard

Whenever I get injured, it is always some ridiculous story that is too humiliating to share.  Except here, of course.  Nothing is too foolish or embarrassing to blog about.

I’ve never had stitches (except during surgery) or a cast (My breaks have been in spots that are uncastable.  <—That should be a real word.).  So I never considered myself “accident prone” until I started listing this series of misfortunate events.  These are just the ones that came to mind quickly.  I think I should start wearing bubble wrap.

1.  My Little Pony (age 9) – I got a concussion from being thrown off a horse.  And by thrown I mean slid off because I was riding without a saddle.  And by horse I mean itty bitty pony.  My head managed to find the sole rock in that field.

2.  A Real Cliffhanger (age 10) – I was hiking on a mountain with my girl scout troop, carrying a heavy backpack.  I’m not sure why we had backpacks.  Probably to earn a patch of some sort.  We were walking along the edge of a cliff and a sudden gust of wind knocked me over (Or I was just clumsy and slipped.  Same thing, right?).  I wouldn’t have plunged to my death or anything but it would have been a painful, bumpy slide down a very steep rocky hill.  Plus there was a major highway at the bottom of the cliff.  As I hung on to a boulder, I just started laughing hysterically (I’ve told you before I joke at inappropriate times.).   The leader grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Everyone just stood there staring at me like I was a freak for cracking up at the thought of the rocks cracking me up. (And lest you think this is one of those childhood memories that gets exaggerated in the mind, I still drive by that cliff.  Laughter was definitely NOT the proper response.)

3.  Ice Ice Baby (age 14) – A friend and I routinely took a shortcut after gym class.  Instead of maneuvering through the crowded hallway to our next class, we took the gym’s outside exit which included a large flight of concrete stairs.  One day we stepped outside onto a sheet of ice.  My friend slipped and bounced to the bottom of the stairs.  I slipped but didn’t bounce.  Unfortunately, my elbow stopped me.  I couldn’t get myself off the stairs – not because of the pain – but because I was laughing so hard (Shocker.).  By the time I got myself up and to the school office, my pants were completely soaked (from the ice, my bladder control was fine.  Then.), I was in excruciating pain, AND I was in trouble for leaving the school building (Oh, did I forget to mention that taking our “shortcut” was against the rules?  I guess they thought someone may get hurt or something.  Psshaw.).

4. On The Fence (age 14) – While riding my bike on a gravel road, I did a perfect flip over the handlebars, landed (on my back) on a fence, flipped again and landed (on my butt) on the ground. Cirque Du Soleil would have been impressed.  I’m sure this was my coolest looking mishap ever, but I had no witnesses and not a single scrape or bruise to prove it.  I didn’t even break the fence.

5. Dope on the Slope Part I (age 16) – I went on a youth group ski trip.  I suck at skiing and struggled on the bunny slope all day.  When it was almost time for the bus to leave, a friend convinced me to try the medium slope before left.  “I can’t handle skiing next to the 3 year olds on the almost flat snow and you want me to go on the big hills?  Sure!!”  (I suffered from ITSInvincible Teenager Syndrome).  To make matters worse, we got on the wrong lift and ended up on the advanced slope.  With the reeaaallllyyyyy big hills.  I wiped out getting off the lift and my “friend” left me in the dust snow.  I crawled around to gather my skis and realized I had no idea how to get them back on.  The lift operator finally took pity on me (and stopped the lift!) and came to help.  I then had no choice but to ski down the enormous hill, alone.  I was doing ok until my skiis fell off again and I realized I STILL didn’t know how to get them back on.  I had visions of being left behind by the bus and found days later by a St. Bernard with a mini barrel of water around his neck.  I actually attempted to WALK down the hill.  Slippery snow, slippery boots and remaining upright?  Impossible.  As a last resort, I sat on my skis and slid the rest of the way down the hill on my butt.  I got a lot of strange looks, but that was the most fun I had all day.  It wasn’t until I was safely riding home on the bus that I realized my wrist was swollen.  I’m not sure which of the (many) falls caused the injury.

6.  The Frat Splat (age 17) – My very first weekend at college my Freshman year, I tore ligaments in my foot at a fraternity party.  There was…ummm…soda…spilled on the floor and I slipped while rocking out to Mony Mony.  (Well, I don’t know what song was playing but Mony Mony played at every single frat party ever so it’s a safe bet.)  My suite mates – whom I had known for all of about 4 hours – started helping me hobble back to my dorm until the kind campus police stopped to see what all the hopping was about.  They gave my roommate and me a ride (to the dorm, not the station).  My roommate kept whispering emphatically for me to hold my breath.  I must have had the hiccups or something (It was definitely not because I had too much soda.).  The next day my roommate went with me to the ER and kept running my foot into walls and door frames while pushing my wheelchair.  I think it was subconscious payback.  Surprisingly she didn’t request a room assignment change.

7.  Study Break or Study Broke? (Age 20) – I was lying on the floor studying for a college final when something popped in my lower back.  I spent the next 6 months recovering from a slipped disc.  From studying.  Those text books need a warning label.

8. Dope on the Slope Part II (age 23) – When Jim and I were dating, we went skiing.  Jim used to be a ski instructor so thought he could teach me.  He underestimated my suckiness.  While trying desperately to snow plow, I ended up completely off the course.  I landed – doing the splits – in the muddy woods.  Muddy because they don’t bother to put fake snow that far over since they assume no idiots will go there.  (You know what happens when you assume?  Well, unfortunately this assumption only made an ass out of ME.)  It took me so long to try to get unstuck from the mud (and unstuck from the splits) that the rescue sled came because they assumed I was injured.  Luckily the only thing hurt was my pride.  And Jim’s eardrums.

Sadly my misadventures are too long for one post.

Tune in next time for Dumbest Injuries, Part 2:  The Mrs. Years.

“Calamities are of two kinds: misfortune to ourselves, and good fortune to others” [Ambrose Bierce The Devil’s Dictionary]

I bring you much good fortune.

injury while yawning


Guest Post: I Need a Vacation from Vacations (My Life As Lucille)

On the heels of my Vacation Fails post and during the last “official” days of summer, this is the perfect guest post for this week!  It is by my wonderful friend Lucy Ball, who is just as funny as her namesake.  I’m sure you will agree and by the end of this post will also be saying “I Love Lucy!”  And now I present Lucy…she’s got some ‘splainin’ to do! 

_____My Life as Lucille

Hello, friends and fans of Momopolize! My name is Lucy and I blog randomly over at My Life As Lucille.  I can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.  I write about whatever pops into my head plus all of the ridiculously crazy family drama that keeps me seeing my therapist on a weekly basis. Nice to meet you!

It is my great pleasure to be a guest writer here today. I LOVE Momopolize! I hope you enjoy the following description of our family vacations. It’s sort of appropriate, especially now that I’ve done it up right once again by rolling our van and camper this summer and completely totaling them both. Yah. It’s how I “roll.” Ahahaha! Hope you enjoy!

This post was originally published here.

I Need A Vacation From Vacations

I get around. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And I’m convinced that my family is cursed when it comes to vacations. My family was plagued by bad luck and misfortune.

For example, my sister and I were heading to South America when we accidentally locked our keys and passports in the car at the airport. Someone in the parking lot managed to fish the keys out of the door, which was slightly ajar. When we arrived in South America, we had a mix up with our bus reservations. We ended up on a completely random bus driving through the Andes in the middle of the night. With zero cell phone coverage. With no way for our family back in the U.S. to locate us. And only a slight handle on Espanol. We managed to survive in spite of ourselves.

There was the rental car in Panama City when I was in high school. Our car would randomly stall in the middle of the street for no reason. In order to restart it, my dad would have to pop the trunk and push a button inside next to the spare tire. This happened SEVERAL times on that trip.

And then there was the Royal Crown Family Restaurant in AZ. After hours of negotiating our rental car reservations and driving through the foothills at midnight, we finally found a restaurant to grab a bite. We hadn’t eaten since lunch and were all starving and cranky. Unfortunately, our waitress was more interested in sitting in a booth with a trucker and slurping on beer from the 12 pack of Schlitz he had on his table. We watched with ferocious anticipation as our plates sat under the warming lamp for no less than 45 minutes.

We ended up eating Red Hot Burritos from a Stop ‘N’ Go gas station down the road at 1:30 AM.

The next day, we visited Montezuma’s castle while in Flagstaff. After paying $75 to get in, the first sign inside said:



We have locked our keys in rental cars. More than once. We’ve boarded an airplane looking for our seats in Row E. There wasn’t a Row E since we were on the entirely wrong plane.

There was the DEEP SEA fishing trip when we all ended up sea sick, hanging over the side of the boat as it rocked and tipped spraying sea salt on our sun-parched faces. For 8 freaking hours.

While in Italy, I managed to get myself locked in a stairway in the hotel with no way out but the emergency/alarm exit.

Still, I wouldn’t trade any of them for the amazing experiences I’ve had. Probably.

After all, the BEST part of any vacation (mishaps and all) is when I pull up in the driveway, breathe a sigh of relief that we’re all in one piece, truly glad to be home.

Hope your summer vacation was far less exciting than mine was!


P.S. Lucy and I should NEVER, ever, ever go on vacation together.  Although it would make for one heck of a blog post.  😉

Our Top 12 Vacation Fails

Disclaimer:  Our vacation for the most part was incredibly relaxing and rejuvenating.  In fact it was deemed the “best vacation ever” by all 4 kids within a few hours of arriving. That is great for me, but boring for you.  So you just get to hear about the non-Rockwell moments.

Since I was sick before our vacation, I did very little nothing to prepare for our trip.  I told everyone they were responsible for packing for themselves.  Jim made sure all the bags were ready to go and loaded all the luggage in the car.

Except his.  He had 2 shirts and 2 pairs of shorts for the entire week.

But we wanna' be with you guys.

We folded down the back row of seats in our suburban for the dogs to ride.  Except for a cooler, they had the entire back area of the car.

They instantly jumped the cooler to cram themselves on top of the suitcases.  And Greg.

“We just wanna’ be wif you guys.”

#3 – SWEET OR SOUR I’ve always been a mosquito magnet and couldn’t step out of the wooded lake house without the little buggers instantly finding me.

Me: “I must be really sweet. The mosquitos just won’t leave me alone!”

Greg: “That’s why I love you Mom…”

Me: <<Smiling – thinking he’s agreeing that I’m SOOO sweet>>

Greg: “…Because you keep them away from ME.”

This is what the nuclear power plant looks like.
This is what the nuclear power plant looks like.

We made the mistake of telling the boys that the water temperature was 91 degrees because the lake was built to cool a nuclear power plant.

They were convinced we were swimming in toxic waste.

Boating toward the nuclear power plant
All Greg heard was nuclear.

#5 – DEEP DISH FISHING Despite many fishing attempts during the week, nothing was caught.  On the last day, Jim stuck a leftover pepperoni on his hook on a whim.  He instantly caught a fish.

The fish must have heard that someone ordered a pizza with anchovies.

Jake is a hat guy but forgot to bring any on the trip.  He searched for a “souvenir hat,” but we couldn’t find any tourist-y shops.  He finally found a baseball hat with a pirate skull at a little country store.  Since it was the ONLY hat around, I said yes without really looking at it.

Later I noticed there were words under the pirate skull.

“Surrender the booty.”

Aaaaargh, not the best choice for a 14 year old.

#7 – GAME OVER During a game of Battleship, Greg called an incorrect guess by Jim a “close miss.”  Of course, Jim’s next guess was a hit.  He tried to explain to Greg that by calling it a close miss, that was a clue that the ship was probably next to that spot.

Greg replied,

Loose lips sink ships must be about this game.”

We rented a boat for the week.  The agreement stated “no water sports” which we interpreted as “we have to say that because we don’t want you to sue us if you get hurt.”  So we attached a tube to the boat anyway.  The marina called Jim’s cell while we were in the midst of tubing to tell us they could see us.  Oopsie.

We tied the tube to the kayak.
Motor boat, kayak. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

Note to self:  When breaking boating rules, don’t ride back and forth RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE MARINA that RENTED YOU THE BOAT!

Since the marina threatened to take the boat away for violating the rental terms, we followed the rules…until the last day.  You are going  to confiscate the boat now?  Thanks!  Now we don’t have to return it in an hour.

In the mean time we improvised and invented “kayak tubing.”

I’m terrified of water.  Not as much the water necessarily as what I can’t see IN the water.

Why do they have to call them “bodies” of water anyway??  And I know sharks are only in salt water, but I’m sure there is SOMETHING in that lake just as scary.  Like a mutant toxic waste fish-snake-lizard.

The boys kept asking me to go tubing (before we got busted) and, not wanting to look like a pathetic chicken in front of them, I hesitantly agreed.  The tube had already taken quite a few trips behind the boat.

Tubing fun

I jumped in and instantly thought it felt too squishy.  Everyone poo-poo’d my concerns as paranoia.

Again, not wanting to be a chicken, I decided to go with the flow.  The boat started moving and the front of the tube instantly went under and the entire thing filled with water.

My worst fear!  I was sinking!!  By the time they pulled me back to the boat, the tube was completely submerged and almost completely out of air.  And everyone was laughing hysterically.  At my hysterics.

I wasn’t amused.  Jim will damn well make sure the thingies where the tube is inflated (what are they called anyway??) are tightly plugged next time.

After my titanic experience, I was definitely scarier than any mutant sea creature.

Speaking of titanic...
Speaking of titanic…

One night we boated to a restaurant for dinner.  On the way back, the engine overheated.  We spent the next two hours waiting for the engine to cool, and then moving full speed for about 30 seconds before it would overheat again.  Did I mention that the lake is 17 miles long?  And that of the 4 cell phones we had on the boat, 3 had dead batteries?

The lower the sun went, the higher the stress level went.  I tend to inappropriately joke when I’m stressed.  So even though I was envisioning spending the night on a pitch dark lake surrounded by the Loch Ness monster, I made up songs.  The skipper and Gilligan would have been proud.

“The Dad was a mighty boating man.  The mother brave and sure.  Six passengers went to dinner that day.  For a three course meal.  A three course meal.

The engine started turning off.  The tiny ship was stuck…”

The favorite was to the tune of 70s song “We need the funk. Gotta have that funk. Ow.”  Click on the link to listen so you can visualize us on the boat singing…

“We broke the boat.  Gotta fix that boat. Ow.”

We didn’t really venture further than that for those lyrics.  Everyone just joined in right away and sang that same line over and over.  And over.  I never need to hear that song again.

When the engine would get too hot and cut off, the boat couldn’t be steered and would just drift.  As we approached a bridge, Jim was trying to time it to make sure the engine didn’t overheat too close to the bridge so we wouldn’t drift into the bridge supports.  It was at that moment that I realized just how much Eric is like me.  He broke into song to the tune of “I love it” by Icona Pop (again, feel free to click on the link so you can sing along)…

“I got this feeling on a summer day when we’re afloat.  I crashed my boat into a bridge.  I watched, I let it sink.  I threw the engine into a bag and pushed it in the lake.  I crashed my boat into the bridge.  I don’t care, I love it.  I don’t care.”

That’s my boy.Paddling the broken boat

We finally got someone to answer the phone at the marina as the sun was setting behind the trees and the response was “You really need to get the boat off the lake.  It’s almost dark.”  Gee thanks.  I wish we’d thought of that two hours ago. Then we were given the option of calling a $350 tow boat.

Jimmy pulled out the paddles instead.

Lupus and the sun don’t mix.  We rented a boat with a canopy so I could stay in the shade.  Unfortunately, when we were stuck on the lake on the broken down boat, the sun was too low and there was no shade.

Lupus and stress also don’t mix. Apparently when you put the three together, it’s no bueno.  As the sun crept below the canopy, whatever area of my skin the beams would reach almost instantly broke out in a burning rash.

It was very bizarre.  I could actually watch my skin turn red and splotchy within 10 seconds of the sun hitting it.

But I tried to keep singing anyway.  (It ended up lasting for weeks.  The burn/rash, not the singing.)

The lake is in a town called Bumpass.  Four boys in a town by that name…the jokes are endless. End. Less.

Vacation win though?  When your kids are misbehaving, it is perfectly acceptable to say

“You are being a pain in the Bumpass.”

P.S. Don’t leave yet.  At the bottom of the photos is a vacation video you don’t want to miss.  It’s pee your pants funny.  Trust me, I found that out the hard way. 😉


Cute photo, huh?

Group boat shot

I had 247 rejects such as this before I got them all to smile at once.

Group boat shot goofy

Restaurant texting

Restaurant Greg

Little piece of paradise
I ended up with 12 fails but, yeah, you get the picture (pun intended).

Sorry, I don’t think I can post videos here so you have to go view it on my FB page.  It’s really worth the extra click though!  Click here —> VIDEO OF THE SPINNING CONTEST.

Guest Post: It’s Been a Hard Day’s Night, and I’ve Been Working Like A Dog

Today’s guest poster is Hilary from Feeling Beachie!  Hilary is a CFO by day, writer by night.  She wonders if she likes to find the humor in life or if it just finds her.  She dated a guy so commitment-phobic she was able to write a book, Dangled Carat,  about their relationship which will be published this September.  Hilary can also be found on the Feeling Beachie Facebook page, the Dangled Carat Facebook page, and on Twitter.
This post was originally published here.

My friend’s children came home from school and she told them that if they wanted a snack they needed to get one quickly as they soon had to leave for soccer practice.  Her son didn’t waste any time as he questioned if there was any chocolate milk left.  She told him that there was and he grabbed a glass and filled it to the rim.

Her older daughter announced, “Chocolate milk isn’t good for you.  It contains high fructose corn syrup.”

My friend agreed, but said, “True, but it is fine for a recovery drink after exercise, like Gatorade.”

Her son was paying no mind.  He was just enjoying his beverage.

“Then why are you drinking it now?” The girl questioned her brother.  “It is a recovery drink, and you didn’t play soccer yet.”

He took another gigantic swig of his drink, clearly relishing in the taste before answering.  “I am recovering.  I had a very rough day at school!”


Now go visit Hilary and wish her luck on her book release!  🙂

Happy Birthday Momopolize (and the Real Reason I’m Obsessed with the Numbers)

Not many blogs get a birthday party.  But mine did.  Jim came                                            home with Momopolize First Birthdaycupcakes and a card.  OK, ok.  We look for any excuse to buy a cupcake, but still.  He definitely got brownie points for that.  Or cupcake points I suppose.

Some of you know that for the past couple of weeks I have become a bit “overly concerned” about some random goals I had set for myself.  OK, maybe it was more than “a bit.”  I couldn’t figure out why I was putting so much pressure on myself to meet these goals.  No one made me set them.  They were just numbers I chose.  Nothing was going to happen if I didn’t make it.  And nothing was going to happen if I did.  I couldn’t figure out why I cared so much.  

But now I do know why.

The goals I set were:

  1. > 1,000 Facebook Fans
  2. > 1,000 Twitter Followers
  3. < 100,000 US Alexa Rank

I became pretty obsessed with these numbers.  Just these three.  I didn’t care about the numbers for Pinterest, Google+, Bloglovin’ or any of the other 247 social media sites out there.  I didn’t even care about my number of email subscribers (which is arguably the most important).   But why?

A couple of weeks ago, it was pretty obvious that #1 was not reachable.  I was way more bummed about it than I should be.  But why?

With only a few days left, I decided I couldn’t throw in the towel.  I pulled out all the stops and asked for all the favors possible in a last-ditch effort.  I just HAD to get there.  But why?

My blogging buddies and real life friends came out in droves to share my page with their followers and friends.

And I made it!  The moment I hit 1,000 I immediately went running to my kids to tell them.  And THAT was the moment I realized why it mattered so much.

It was the look on their faces.

I spend so much of my time feeling guilty over being the “sick Mom.”  The Mom that my kids hear talking about doctor’s appointments and naps and aches and pains.  Others get to see the well-rested out-in-public me but my kids have to see the Mom that comes home exhausted.  I worry that one day their childhood memories of me will consist of only that.

They never got to see the businesswoman me or the musician me or the anything-that-would-make-them-proud-of-me me.  Until Momopolize.  They think the blogger me is pretty darn cool.

Facebook fans impress them.  Having more Twitter followers than them impresses them.  Being ranked in the top 100,000 out of the 650,000,000 websites that exist in the world impresses them (Alexa ranks all websites, not just blogs.  Google, Facebook, Amazon and the like are in the top 10.).  Yeah, I really have no idea if that is the actual number of websites but that was the number I saw most often in a search and it sounds good to tell them I’m in the top .01%-ish.

So those numbers weren’t important to me because I want to achieve fame and fortune (well, a little fortune would be nice).  It wasn’t to get that elusive book deal or attract bigger advertisers (well, yeah that would be nice too.).

Those numbers were important because for that moment I wasn’t sick Mom.  I wasn’t even average Mom.  In their eyes I was famous Mom.  And maybe THAT will be what stays in their memory.

I mean, I KNOW those numbers don’t really mean all that much.  I know of widely successful blogs that don’t even have a Twitter account.  And others that have a huge Facebook following but only a few of those fans ever click on their blog posts.  And my Alexa rank just shows me there must be a whole heck of a lot of websites that never ever ever get viewed.  Like, ever!  (You’re welcome for the Taylor Swift song that is now stuck in your head.)

But – shhhhhhhh – don’t tell my kids any of that.  Let me be famous Mom for just a little longer.

Oh, and in case you are as easily impressed as my kids, when I started writing this my numbers were:

  1. 1,047 Facebook Fans
  2. 1,772 Twitter Followers
  3. 114,117 US Alexa Rank (I didn’t quite make it under 100,000 but we are just going to gloss over that for now and celebrate, k?)

And my goal for the coming year?  To Momopolize the entire Blogiverse!!

(Or at least make my kids think I do.)

<insert evil laugh and cue world domination music>


P.S. My next post will be more about my first year of blogging and the wonderful community that is out there, including a shout out to those who answered my plea for help on Facebook.  (I intended to include that list in this post but have to leave for an appointment for a sick kitty, sorry!)

P.P.S. For those who have been around for a while, you know that 47 is my favorite number (Always has been.  No idea why.).  Anytime I talk about any kind of numbers, I will add 47 to the end.  When I saw my Facebook number was ACTUALLY 1,047 it was like a blog birthday gift.  I guess I’m easily impressed also…

Happy Blogiversary

Guest Post: Update on Battle of the Archenemies: Sugar, 1, Mommy, -3476 (Home on Deranged)

Even though summer break has ended for some of you, my weekly(ish) summer guest posts are still going strong!  I still have a couple of weeks before the most wonderful time of the year the first day of school.  Plus I still have many fantastic posts that my blogging friends have graciously agreed to let me post for your viewing pleasure!

Today Melissa from Home on Deranged is being sweet enough to guest post for me.  She and I share a love/hate relationship with sugar. 

Melissa can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

This post was originally published here.

They say hindsight is 20/20. I figure a good pair of glasses is 20/20, but what do I know? I try to learn lessons from my past, but let’s face it, I continue to try and wear clothes that I know are a little too small, turn on the vacuum during Max and Ruby, dust (because 5 minutes later it’s back. Seriously, where does it all come from??), and most of all, I try to lead by example in the healthy living department.

Um, yeah. One long list of epic fails there.

First, I brought in somewhat healthy Cheerios for snacks, which eventually evolved into breakfast time food. Then, I kind of, sort of, maybe, possibly let the Honey Nut version slip into the routine. No biggie. But then, the Frosted Cheerios looked so good, we had to at least try them. Now, for some really weird reason that I suppose can only be explained by the presence of wild fairies in our kitchen, the pantry now has Cap’n Crunch with berries (that counts as a fruit, right?). This must have happened while I was vacuuming that one time.

Then, I said okay to pudding and Jello. But, I bought the sugar free kind of both, that way at least my kids and husband (and me, let’s just be honest here) wouldn’t be subjected to my sworn enemy – SUGAR. But I love her. No, I hate her. I really love her. After I delivered my firstborn, the first thing I ate was a brownie. The chocolatey good one with frosting made by the bakery with a kiosk in the hospital lobby. That means the hospital totally sanctioned what they were selling. Swear.

However, if you were to peek in the fridge now, you’d find full-on sugary Jello and Swiss Miss vanilla and chocolate swirl pudding cups. Yes, they really are as good as they sound. Excuse me while I wipe the drool off my chin.

One of the first sign language signs that Annie, our 2 year old, could show you was “cookie.” Oh yeah, that educational video totally paid off. If you give Leelou, the 1 year old, a drink of an Icee, she will drink so much, so fast, that her little forehead crinkles because you know she’s having a brain freeze moment.

And so this weekend, because why would I want to slow this rolling downhill freaking freight train I’ve got going, I introduced my family to s’mores. As a Girl Scout, this was always the best part of a camping trip weekend. Way better than snipe hunting, which I am particularly good at, thank you very much. I remember plenty of times around the campfire with our marshmallows, gobbling up possibly the weirdest concoction of a dessert invented by the evil SUGAR. (Oh, I love her so much.)

My husband has said several times – after seeing the various s’mores products now on the market – that he’d never had one (what the what???), and obviously our daughters had not yet been introduced to the graham cracker-marshmallow-chocolate goodness that they produce.

So Saturday night at the Walmart (oh yeah, we know how to party on the weekend!), there’s a huge endcap display with all the fixings you need to make s’mores. Thomas says, we should do that. I say, are you going to build a fire? He says, we have a gas stove. Duh. Of course we should use a live flame to roast marshmallows in our kitchen. Why wouldn’t you do that?

Fast forward to Sunday night (hey, trips to Walmart are long and involved). We’ve had a good day of play, took a swim in the pool, ate dinner with vegetables AND fruit (holy crap, why didn’t I take a picture?), and watched the last 15 minutes of Cinderella, the Disney version, natch. Time to introduce my little crew to s’mores. And here’s what we got:


I am totally waiting for my award for best mom from the Healthy Living Moms people.

Do you have a romance with SUGAR? She’s a saucy minx. Commiserate in the comments.  (And then head over to Home on Deranged for s’more great posts!)

I Want to Be a Limbo Mom

When Jimmy was little, I was the over-the-top kind of Mom.  I wanted to do it all.  Be it all.  Have it all.

For Jimmy’s first turn being “snack person” in preschool I made an entire solar system out of ball shaped cupcakes for crying out loud (I will post a photo when I find it.).  If there was a volunteer need at school, my hand was the first one up.  Birthday party themes were meticulously planned from the plates to the games down to the piece of junk toy in the goody bag.  I wouldn’t think of having a meal without a vegetable.  (And if we went somewhere where there weren’t veggies, you could be sure I’d shove a carrot in Jimmy’s mouth when we got home).  We had TV “coupons” that had to be earned for any screen time.  I bought cute mix and match outfits from Little Me.  And so on.

The problem was, I set the bar so high there was no way I could sustain that level.  I stood on my tippy toes for as long as I could, trying to keep it up there.  But I quickly realized I was in over my head.

The bar slowly slipped down, down, down.

Now the bar is just laying on the floor.  I didn’t drop the ball, I dropped the bar.  Now I’m completely a slacker Mom.

I feel bad that Greg never got to see the Mom who pole vaulted that bar.  Without a pole.

He gets the Mom that was secretly relieved when the school stopped allowing class snacks to be brought in.  The Mom that isn’t in his classroom frequently enough to know his classmates’ names.  He didn’t even have a party for his past two birthdays.  When the doctor asked at one of his check-ups how often he eats vegetables, he answered “Hmmm.  I don’t know.  Maybe once a week.”  (It’s really not THAT bad.  He got quite a glare.)  Video games are his babysitter some days.  He wears wrinkled/stained/torn hand me downs because I haven’t shopped.  (Sometimes they even fit.)

I don’t really WANT to go back to how I was when Jimmy was little.  I’ve realized that I wasted many, many hours then obsessing over things that didn’t really matter in the long run (like a solar system that was eaten in 30 seconds.).  The earth didn’t stop spinning when I stopped doing those things (See what I did there?  And come to think of it, I’m surprised I didn’t make the planet cupcakes rotate around the sun cupcake…).

BUT I also don’t want to be the bare minimum Mom anymore.  I want to do the things that make me a good Mom.  Not the best Mom.  Not the worst Mom.

I need to figure out a way to pick that bar up off the ground.

limbo dance school
Photo modified from Ernie Freeman’s Limbo Dance Party album cover

I may not be able to jump over it anymore.  But maybe I can limbo under it.

Now THAT is the kind of Mom I want to be.

The easy-breezy-don’t-worry-be-happy-life’s-a-party Limbo Mom.

The Limbo Mom: Where lowering the bar is a good thing.

(Not too low though.  My back will go out.)


After I wrote this, I read “I used to be that Mom”  on Our Small Moments.  It is a beautifully written piece that you should go read also.  And Courtney is going through a very rough time right now so she could definitely use some easy breezy vibes sent her way! 

Not the Brightest Bulb in the Chandelier

The lights are on, but nobody’s home.

Our orange cat, Rayo, is sweet.  And handsome.

And dim.

The following scenario has happened THREE times…

Greg’s black stuffed animal dog ends up on the floor.  Ray sees it motionless.  He circles the dog, moaning the most horrible mourning meow you’ve ever heard.  Then he lays next to the dog, continuing to howl until someone picks it up.

Why, you ask?

Because he thinks it is our black cat, Mushu.  And he thinks he is dead.

Ray and the stuffed dog

That’s right, he can’t tell the difference between a stuffed dog and a real cat (who he has lived with for 3 years).

We named him Rayo for “rayo de sol” which means ray of sunshine in Spanish.

Unfortunately, it is always a bit cloudy in his world.

On second thought, maybe I can understand the confusion…

mushu on back

We do love our “Cloudy with a Chance of Rayo” cat.