Night terror

I woke up to my 8-year-old son screaming in the wee hours of the morning.   When I ran into his room he was sitting upright and staring straight ahead.   He has been sick the past few days and was restless.   I immediately knew what was happening.   He was having a night terror.  It’s basically a nightmare, but  his eyes are open.  It only lasts a few minutes, but it is terrifying.   I tried to calm him down, but nothing helps until he goes back to sleep or wakes up.   He was crying and repeatedly yelling, “I just want to tell you what it’s going to be like.”  What?    “I need to tell you what’s going to happen, what it’s going to be like.”  He was basically whispering, “I see dead people.”  My heart was racing.  I was on the verge of calling a priest.  I had to know what he was talking about.  “Tell me how what is going to be like? What are you talking about,” I questioned, wiping the tears from his face.  He screamed,  “I have to tell you what it’s going to be like…… when I score a goal!” Phew.  False alarm.  He isn’t Bruce Willis or Carol Anne after all.  


After scaring the hell out of me he woke up.   I got him a drink and tucked him back into bed.   He won’t remember a thing in the morning.  

I could not fall back asleep after that episode.  I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the latest news.   What did our parents do when they couldn’t sleep?  Did they write a letter on the typewriter or play Ping Pong on the Commodore 64?  I saw a picture online of the White House showing its pride.  

That’s neat, but one question came to my mind.  They have a rainbow assortment of light bulbs on hand?  I wouldn’t even know where to buy a purple light bulb.  I can’t find a clear lightbulb when I need one.  I end up moving bulbs from the less important lamps to the main living areas until I remember to buy a pack at the store.  By month’s end my family needs night vision glasses to make their way through the house after the sun sets.   

The comments below the story on the gay marriage ruling were appalling. I am constantly amazed by internet trolls.  Where do they get the time?  Are they actually awake when they spew hate through their keyboard or are they typing during a night terror?  Let’s pretend it is the latter.   


My 5-year-old daughter asked a question today that I am not ready to answer.  “Why do you have to wear that?”  She wasn’t referring to make up or deodorant.  Her little finger was pointing to a bag of maxi pads in my shopping cart.  In my opinion, she’s too young to know that women suffer for seven to ten days every month for most of their lives.  She doesn’t need to know that once a month it feels like your vagina may fall off.  Not only is the cycle uncomfortable, but women have to deal with ignorant men who cannot understand PMS.  Hint: that would be a great time to pick your socks up off the floor.    I told her that older women have to wear them.  “Ewww, you’re gross,” she replied.   It is gross.  How many menstruating women do you see on a daily basis laughing as they skip down the street?  Advertisers make maxi pads with wings sound appealing.   Let’s put stickers on a pair of boxers and see how men like it.   I mistakenly bought super maxi pads while shopping with my daughter. I saw this label and was sold.    
Ten hour leak guard protection? These would be great if I were menstruating and trapped in an elevator or lost in the woods.  I had no idea how LONG the pad would be.  Perhaps this picture can put it in perspective for you.   This is a medium sized teddy bear.  
If you need a pad this long a visit to the emergency room is in order.  You may be bleeding to death.  It’s longer than a size 8 1/2 shoe.  


Or your favorite catalog.  Good luck wearing this super absorbent boat and that bathing suit.  

Was the company hoping women would walk in a conga line and share the pad?  There is nothing comfortable about a diaper that stretches from the back of your neck to your belly button.   That is the ugly truth I spared my daughter from learning.  

It is amusing

I spent another glorious day with my children at the amusement park.   Nothing screams fun like getting motion sickness and swimming in filthy water with strangers. 


Actually, my children had a great time.  I nearly had a panic attack on the log flume.  Not only am I afraid on high, fast-moving rides, I get really sick.  It’s just another way women are punished for having children.  A mother wets her pants with a sneeze, her abs look like Droopy’s face and her equilibrium is shot.  

There is no denying that a visit to an amusement park is a learning experience. Here are a few things I learned yesterday: 

1.) One size does NOT fit all 

2.) Tube socks are still a big seller 

3.) A lot of people make really bad decisions at tattoo shops. 

4.) It is possible to have a worse haircut than I had in the 3rd grade. 
5.) Childhood obesity is a real problem

6.) Your life is in the hands of a teenager who ‘could care less.’    

7.) A fishnet can substitute as a shirt.   

8.) A child will have to poop when the only option is a disgusting bathroom full of people who, if not stuffed into bathing suits, would be wearing pajama bottoms.

9.) Some people have no problem with PDA. Apparently, there is nothing sexier than a Ferris Wheel. 

10.)  “Yous” is the plural of you


Once upon a time…..

Have you read the fairy tale about the princess who lived happily ever after with an inmate who escaped from a maximum security prison?  I missed that one.   Joyce “Tillie” Mitchell apparently thought she was watching the Disney Channel, but it was MSNBC and a rerun of “Locked Up.”  Tillie is the woman in New York who helped two murderers escape because she was in love.  She actually had sexual intercourse with both men, but the fella who is serving time for decapitating his boss stole her heart.  Tillie should have watched a few episodes of Law & Order before committing a crime.   After her arrest she was singing like a bird without a lawyer present.  

You’ve probably seen her on the news.




She was the older woman wearing shackles and a neon green shirt.  I would’ve chosen a neutral color to wear the day of my arrest.  Perhaps, add a pop of color with a necklace or bracelet.   Also,  there is a cutoff age for neon colors.  Just because the kids are wearing something doesn’t mean grandma should.    Nobody wants to see the ladies at the Bingo Hall wearing Daisy Dukes.  Tillie was sticking out like a sore thumb in the courtroom.  Tillie also needs to adjust the straps on her brassiere and lift those girls up.

I have been mesmerized by this story.  Why would anyone risk their freedom to help two criminals?   I realize the show “The Bachelor” would make one think there is only one man on earth, but there are other fish in the sea.  

How does a mother prevent her daughter from becoming a Tillie?  I use the ‘scared straight’  method of parenting.  I plan on spending 18 years scaring the hell out of them and hope they are too afraid to commit a crime.  I turn down the radio and demand their full attention every time we see a prison.   We aren’t taking staycations to correctional facilities.   There is a prison on the way to the orthodontist’s office.   I explain how, if they commit a crime or do drugs, they will have to live behind the wire fence forever. There is no such thing as parole in my speech.    “There aren’t any video games, TVs, candy or chicken nuggets in there.”   I know that is not true, but they don’t.  I’m not going to tell them how criminals in the United States are living large.   Good ole’ Tillie  is about to find out exactly what it’s like.  

Movie ticket giveaway

I am having a giveaway.  A few of my readers will be disappointed that the prize is not lady deodorant or Hot Pockets.  The rest of you will be thrilled to learn I am giving away movie tickets.  No, you don’t have to suffer through a sequel to Mall Cop.  I am giving away passes to a screening of the 2015 Sundance Film Festival hit, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl.  The screening is in Henrietta, New York.  You suffered through a long, cold winter and deserve a break.



Date:  June 18th at 7:30 p.m.      

Regal Henrietta Stadium 18    525 Marketplace Drive  Rochester, NY 

Download your passes here: Fox Searchlight Screenings



Here is the disclaimer from the folks at Fox Searchlight Pictures :  “Passes are limited and seating is first-come, first-served and not guaranteed. Please arrive early to increase chance of entry.”  They are talking to people like me who always arrive at least 15 minutes late.  All this time I thought the saying was first-come, first –serve (singular).   You learn something new every day.

I am hearing great things about this movie.  I have yet to see it  because I have three children who don’t want me to be happy.  So, I have to use my hard earned money to watch cartoons or movies about dinosaurs.

You will have to buy your own  popcorn, candy and soda.  So, take a second mortgage out on your house as soon as possible.



















Here is the studio’s description of this film:

ME AND EARL AND THE DYING GIRL is the uniquely funny, moving story of Greg (Thomas Mann), a high school senior who is trying to blend in anonymously, avoiding deeper relationships as a survival strategy for navigating the social minefield that is teenage life.  He even describes his constant companion Earl (R.J. Cyler), with whom he makes short film parodies of classic movies, as more of a ‘co-worker’ than a best friend. But when Greg’s mom (Connie Britton) insists he spend time with Rachel (Olivia Cooke) – a girl in his class who has just been diagnosed with cancer – he slowly discovers how worthwhile the true bonds of friendship can be.


His thing

My oldest son could barely hold a crayon when he started pre-school.   He was my first child.  I thought that was normal for a 3-year-old.  When the pre-school teacher suggested I have him evaluated I blew a gasket.   There is nothing wrong with my son!  I soon realized he wasn’t at the same level as the other children in the class.   After a few appointments it was determined that he would benefit from both occupational and physical therapy.   I was embarrassed.  I shouldn’t have been, but I was young and quite frankly ignorant.  I didn’t want the other mothers to judge us.  I just wanted him to be “normal.”  Normal is easy.  We are taught to be normal.  Normal isn’t ostracized.    

As he grew older I encouraged him to play sports.   I wanted him to be an athlete. I did.  Athletes don’t struggle to make friends. They were always the popular kids. A quarterback is treated like a God in high school even if he looks like a ‘before picture.’   In fact, we  live in a society where a man is admired after he knocks out his girlfriend and drags her from an elevator as long as he can catch a ball. 

My son wasn’t very coordinated.  He gets his athletic ability or lack thereof from me.   He tried, but he couldn’t get the hang of baseball. He played a little  basketball, but settled on soccer.  I registered him for a summer league year after year.  I wanted him to experience the comradery that comes with playing on a team.  It was good for him to socialize.  Plus, they can’t keep you on the bench if mom pays for you to play.   Trust me, his last coach learned that lesson the hard way.  I think he scored twice in seven years.   It wasn’t his thing.  He joined drama club and shined.  That is not his only talent.    He will be receiving an award next week for his artwork.   This is just one of his pieces.  One half is a photograph.  He drew the other side.  

I got very emotional when I saw this picture.  I am so proud of him.  I am happy he found ‘his thing.’ The little boy who could barely hold a crayon is an incredible artist.  He is also a kind, loving and funny teenager when he isn’t talking back.   I am sorry I ever wanted him to be something he is not.   He is better than normal and always has been.   

Little Pink Pill

Last week,  a federal advisory panel recommended approval of what would become the first drug to treat a lack of sexual desire in women.  



 There has been an intense lobbying campaign to get the little pink pill approved. Over 60,000 people signed a petition launched by a group called “Even the Score.”  I have never been passionate enough about something to sign a petition or buy a bumper sticker. That is a real commitment.  What if your child isn’t an honor student next year?  Then, you’re a liar.   

Many women do not need medication to treat their “headache.”  We are usually more turned off by your behavior than your  “Dad Bod.”   I am not buying into the “Dad Bod” craze anyway.   Women would not choose the guy with the beer belly and white New Balanace sneakers over Ryan Gosling.  

I have compiled a list of things men can do to increase a woman’s sexual desire.  It’s a prescription without a co-pay.  

1.) Pick your socks up off the floor.  

2.) Don’t eat anything that crunches around her.  Ever.  

3.) Empty the garbage can when you can no longer put garbage in the can.  

4.) Remove the empty toilet paper roll and replace it with a new one.   

5.) If something runs out (ie. milk, bread, etc.) stop at the store and buy it.   The time it takes for you to send her a message you could’ve milked a cow.   

6.) Offer to let her sleep in.  I know there is a good chance it won’t happen anyway, but pretend it’s a possibility.  

7.)Put your dirty dishes in the sink.  The sink and the dishwasher are two different things.   

8.) Put your phone down when she is talking to you even if the Fantasy Football draft is in progress.  A  fake team that you will pretend to own for several months won’t keep you warm at night.  

9.) Clean up after yourself.   

10.) Ask her about her day and listen.  There will be a quiz later.  

In the very least following the directions above will keep you alive.   I don’t think you will find that health benefit written on a bottle of pink pills.  

Sons & Mudders

I will admit I was not pleased when this flyer came home from school. 


Every year, the elementary school holds a father and daughter dance.  This event is for mothers to bond with their sons.  I secretly hoped thunderstorms would roll through and the race  would be cancelled.  It was another thing to put on my calendar between a dance recital, soccer practice, guitar lessons, tennis matches, school field trips etc.    I know it is a first world problem.  I don’t need those of you still sporting a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker or building wells in Africa to lecture me on how good I have it.  I know I’m supposed to wear this cape and go through life smiling.  Sometimes motherhood is overwhelming even when you have running water.  

I knew my 8-year-old son would want to go.  What kid his age would turn down an invitation to play in mud?  I am not exactly a nature girl. I refuse to camp unless there is room service.  The only place I hike is to the clearance section at Target.  However, I do enjoy gardening.  Actually, I love to garden, but I like being clean more.   My first born son was never dirty.   If I have one regret it is that I didn’t let him be a kid. (Well, I also regret getting a Dorothy Hamill haircut in 1999 when I was 8 months pregnant.   Weight gain + looking like a figure skater from the late 1970s = bad idea.) I didn’t allow my first born to jump in puddles, roll down hills or sit in a sand box. We had a sand table.  I was always worried that he would get hurt or ruin his clothes.  I loosened up with the second and third child, but I still enjoy a good bar of soap.  

If we went to this race I would have to do more laundry and scrub sneakers.  It would take forever to clean the dirt in the car and off the floor.  We signed up anyway.  I poured myself into a  pair of yoga pants, put on the most supportive bra I own (one doesn’t need the girls to clap when running) and pretended to be excited.  Then, something happened tonight when I got to the school.  I saw the joy on my son’s face and stopped overthinking everything.


I jumped, slid and crawled through mud.  It was cold!
We laughed a lot.  My son was filthy.  I had mud in my hair, ears and in between my toes.  It was great! Actually, it was perfect.


We finished the race together.  According to my son, we came in second place.   More importantly, he got to witness me doing something I need to do more often: enjoy the moment.  Now, can anyone tell me how to get mud stains off a shirt? 

Forever 21

I went to a birthday celebration this weekend for a friend who turned 40.  She is smart, funny and a pediatriac emergency room doctor.  For a hypochondriac like myself that is a gift from God.  

The shindig started at a restaurant with cocktails and h’orderves.   It was a delightful grown up party.  Gone are the days of celebrating your day of birth by twerking in the club.  Dinner was at a local country club.  Yes, they actually let me in.  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t intimidated.  In these situations I always feel like Molly Ringwald in “Pretty in Pink.”  I’m waiting for Blaine to tell everyone I’m from the other side of the tracks.  I grew up going to weddings at firehalls where blue jeans was considered formal wear.   Levi isn’t allowed in a country club.   It is my own insecurity and no reflection whatsoever on the group of people I dined with.  They were actually lovely and very welcoming.  The night was full of great conversation and laughter.  The meal was incredible. There wasn’t a half price munchie in sight.   Everything the chef cooked was a work of art.  I’m just still trying to figure out which fork to use.  

More and more of my friends are reaching this milestone. People can tell you 40 is the new 20, 50 is the new 30, etc., but things change as you age. For example, you cannot dress like you did twenty years ago.  You can pull off just about any look when you are a child, teenager and even in your 20s, but shopping for clothing gets more difficult as you age. I recently realized exactly how difficult it can be.  I want a pair of shorts that are longer than my vagina.  I don’t want a shirt made with sheer fabric.  A friend of mine said she saw cute shirts at Forever 21.  I begrudgingly logged online to browse their catalog.  Do you remember when catalogs came in the mail?  My best friend and I would clip outfits we wanted to wear when we grew up.  We carefully glued each one to construction paper.  It included accessories and a purse.   If I dressed like the 10-year-old me envisioned I would be walking around in a lot of polyester dresses, shaker knit sweaters and brightly colored hoop earrings.    Sure, there are some shirts at Forever 21 that I could wear without being a laughing stock, but the following looks prove you are not 21 forever:

Do I wear seashell crop top to a parent teacher conference or to my daughter’s recital?

Nothing screams ‘mom’ like a good ‘Hustle’ shirt, daisy dukes and tube socks.


I wouldn’t have to worry about hot flashes if I wore this on the class field trip to the museum.


Maybe I will wear this shirt the next time I am invited to the country club.  If there is a next time.    



“Please don’t hit it to me, please don’t hit it to me, please don’t hit it to me! ” The same thought went through my head every time someone stepped up to the plate when I played softball as a kid. I was usually stuck in right field and for good reason. I am not athletic.   I tried out for a lot of different sports in school, but never made the team. The only time I was on a roster was when my parents paid for it. The summer league can’t cut you from the team. I wasn’t really concerned about winning games. I only cared about the free soda we got from the concession stand after the game. This was way before the food police banned sugar, gluten, carbohydrates, etc.  It was awesome! 


I may not have cared about sports, but I was competitive when playing games with my siblings. It got real when the Monopoly board came out. However, I don’t believe I was ever as competitive as my youngest two children. With them, everything is a race. The first one in the house wins. The first one up the stairs wins. My daughter is 5-years-old and my son is 8. They are constantly bickering.   The racing only makes matters worse. They accuse each other of cheating or change the rules once the race is over. They took it to a new level last week when my daughter said, “Whoever licks their hand first wins!”  Whoever licks their hand first wins? What animals am I raising?  I was in the other room and, honestly, I didn’t want to know if my son accepted the challenge. The minute their heads hit the pillow that night I poured a glass of wine and cranked Billie Holiday on my Ipod. I drank the wine out of a fancy new wine glass. It was included in a bag of goodies I received from Oscar Meyer about a week ago. I know the glass is expensive because I made a white trash move and googled the brand.  I couldn’t help it.  The dishes I own were purchased on clearance when Kmart was going out of business.  That’s what happens when you don’t have a registry  and your maid of honor is the secretary at the court house. 

I still remember the words to the Oscar Meyer commercial.  I can’t remember why I walked into a room, but I can belt out that song.  


My Bologna has a first name,
It’s O-S-C-A-R.
My bologna has a second name,
It’s M-A-Y-E-R.
Oh, I love to eat it every day,
And if you ask me why I’ll say,
Cause’ Oscar Mayer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A!

Every Thursday was sandwich night at our house when I was growing up.  That was the day my dad went grocery shopping. We ate Oscar Meyer Bologna or ham and American Cheese on white bread.  We also got to have potato chips.  It was simple and inexpensive. I have such fond memories at that kitchen table.  

The bag from Oscar Meyer was part of its #Sanewich (Get it?) promotion.  It included slippers and a pair of noise cancelling headphones by Bose.  Where have they been for the past 15 years?  I am going to put those suckers on the next time there is a hand licking competition in my house. 

*for the record Oscar Meyer sent me a care package for free.   They did not ask me to write a blog post, but it was too good not to share. The only thing I ever got for free was an appetizer at Applebee’s when the waitress missed her greet time.