Craig and Barbie

I inadvertently risked my best friend’s life to make my daughter happy. She picked up a Barbie Dream House that I purchased off Craigslist. I came across an odd post while searching for the Dream House.


What the hell is going on here? If your husband or boyfriend has some and you’re sick of them being around the house… What? Is this a common problem? I can guarantee you I would get rid of that guy before I went online to sell his dolls. The person who posted this ad will settle for Barbie as long as she is dressed like a whore. Don’t you dare try to sell him Teacher Barbie, Veterinarian Barbie or Politician Barbie. He doesn’t want Handicapped Barbie either. The arms and legs must move. I down want to know why either.

Trust has to be earned unless it involves saving money. Then, we will meet a stranger in a dark parking lot in a violent section of town. This particular Barbie Dream House retails for nearly $300 online. It was listed for fifty bucks. Unfortunately, it was an hour drive from my house. My friend lives ten minutes away and agreed to pick it up.

My daughter has several bins of Barbie dolls. It is ridiculous and not my fault. There is a simple explanation for her overindulgence: she is the only granddaughter. However, she rarely played with these dolls because (cue a Sarah McLachlan song) they were homeless. They were living on carpeted streets while Sofia the First, Little People Princesses and the Fisher Price Loving Family lived in the lap of luxury. Even Dora had her own house because, I surmise, her mother and father are in prison for child abandonment.

Ulysses S. Grant bought more than a dream house. I purchased extra chores. I had to pack up toys and re-arrange furniture to make room for the house. The only thing I didn’t move was the book shelf because it is strategically placed to hide a stain. You don’t realize what a slob you are until you move things. Then, it’s impossible to ignore the dust. Did God create dust as another form of punishment for Eve? It wasn’t enough that women bleed for seven days? We also have to vacuum corners.

My daughter and I have played with that house for hours. I love this child with all my heart, but Barbie isn’t as much fun as I remember. I want to play for a few minutes and then I want Barbie to sleep. My boys were capable of playing alone when they were her age. Little girls are so needy and she knows how to lay the guilt on thicker than Lorde’s ankles. I’m talking about the singer and not the man above who apparently spends his time helping professional athletes win games. I am allowed to joke about cankles because I live in that hood. I have (re-cue Sarah McLachlan music) struggled in my life to zip boots or take off skinny jeans.

My daughter doesn’t always ask me to play. She will lower her head, sigh and say, “I just wish I had someone to play with.” Of course, I offer to be her playmate. “You don’t have to.” Then, before I know it, I am begging her to play. She is that good. Girls are needy and bossy. “Now, you say this .” “Now, you do this.” “Put your doll here.” Why the f*ck am I even here if this whole thing is scripted? I blame Craig.

Please pull ahead sir

I just wanted a bagel. I don’t ask for much. I am lucky if I eat most mornings. I am too busy feeding everyone else in this family. For once, I wasn’t running late and had time to stop for food. I cheerfully ordered a pretzel bagel with cream cheese on the side. I have convinced myself there are fewer calories that way. I have no intention of eating less cream cheese. I will lick that container clean.

The sky was a crystal blue that morning with clouds scattered like a Bob Ross painting. I took a deep breath and thought ‘appreciate what you have.’ I received news recently that a friend’s father passed away. It puts things into perspective.

The sun was shining. ‘This was going to be a great day.’ Then, I heard a cough. It was a deep, phlegmy, cough. It was the kind of cough you would hear during a Bridge tournament at a senior center. A worker inside the bake shop was hacking into his hand. Please don’t wait on me. Please don’t wait on me. Please don’t wait on me. Sure enough, Mr. North Korea grabbed a napkin, threw it in the bag and passed it through the window. My heart sank. Thanks a lot. There was no way in hell I could eat that.

I decided to go next door to McDonalds. Ronald wouldn’t dare bring a virus to work. I got in line behind a rusty white pick up truck that was one rain storm away from falling apart. This truck was at the order screen for five minutes. Was he ordering sandwiches for an entire village? I had to know. I opened the window to hear the cashier say, “Your total is $3.24.” What? It took that long to decide on one item? Did this man just get out of prison? Is he filming a show on TLC about people with Aboulomania? I placed my order in five seconds, but still had to wait. The passenger in the pickup was screaming at a McDonald’s worker. His arms were flailing as he tossed f-bombs her way. The cursing continued to the pick up window. I asked the pregnant McDonald’s employee who cashed me out what was happening. Yes, she was pregnant and he was screaming at her because of the prices. Did she just leave a board meeting at corporate headquarters? She doesn’t dictate the prices.


The cursing continued at the young man at the next window. I was relieved when they drove away. Of course, I ended up beside those guys at the stop light. I tried to stay quiet. I really did, but couldn’t fight the urge. I gently honked the horn and rolled down the window. The man, who moments earlier was terrorizing people in polyester pants who work for minimum-wage, followed suit. He actually had to wind the handle. Apparently that is how gangstas roll. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said. “Is that how your mother raised you?” My heart was racing. I just disobeyed every piece of advice Oprah ever gave me. “Go f*ck yourself, b*tch! You don’t f*cking know me, you dumb wh*re,” said the angry Cheeseburglar. I may not know when to shut my mouth, but I know when to get the hell out of dodge. I gunned the minivan. My only regret is that I didn’t give him the diseased bagel before I left.

And the award goes to…..

You can add ‘made a tuxedo for a chipmunk’ to the things I never expected to do as a parent. My children are creative. I encourage it even when their ideas may seem a little wacky. My 7-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter wanted to have an award show for their toys. Alvin would be the host. Obviously, he needed a tuxedo. They came up with this idea after overhearing my oldest and I discussing Academy Award nominations. We saw “American Sniper” this weekend. Unlike many critics, I did not think it was a “slow-going movie.” It was intense, powerful. If I were at home I would have been convulsing, snot and tears streaming down my face.

There wasn’t a mad dash for the exits when the credits rolled. The audience sat in silence. Even the lady to my left, who spent most of the film shoveling popcorn in her mouth faster than Bill Cosby can slip pills into drinks, was quiet. Who in the hell decided popcorn should be a concession stand staple? I love buttered popcorn as much as the next guy. However, a quiet theater full of strangers isn’t the most ideal place to eat a loud, crunchy snack out of a paper bag.

Bradley Cooper nailed this role. He deserves the Oscar nod. No, I haven’t seen many of the other nominated films. So, I cannot predict who will win. I can tell you Rocky lost the trophy to Buzz Lightyear.


How does a space ranger beat a buff guy in shiny shorts? What was the Academy thinking?
Alvin got mixed reviews for his hosting duties.


I made a suit for a stuffed animal out of old clothes. Yes, this is my life. I will file this under ‘things to remind the kids of when they say you never do anything for them.’

I went to the craft store to buy materials, but they were closed. Three clerks stood at a register and watched me walk to the door. They didn’t wave me off. No, that would have been the humane thing to do. Instead, they giggled as I tugged on each door handle, frantically searched for a ‘closed sign’ before attempting to open the door again. Laugh all you want ‘Mean Girls.’ Someday, you will be the woman with no life buying glue and felt.

It wouldn’t be the last disappointment of the night. Vintage Batman lost out to the mass-produced Amazing Spiderman figure. There is no justice in the world.


My mother scolded me for not writing enough blog posts in recent days. Perhaps she finds my writing entertaining. Perhaps she takes joy in reading my stories and knowing I am suffering the same pains of motherhood. It could also be that she is trying to fill the void left by Erica Kane. Actually, I joke, but I’m lucky to have a loving and supportive mother. I could own a wire hanger factory and she would applaud. I am just exhausted. I have been guest co-hosting a local morning radio show. It may be one of the greatest jobs in the world. I am working with a radio legend and I get to talk without being interrupted. That hasn’t happened since my uterus went to work. However, being a morning radio show host is like having a newborn baby that doesn’t age. I have been going to bed at 11 and my alarm goes off at 4 a.m. Plus, my children have been taking turns waking up in the middle of the night. My 7-year-old creeps into my room and just stands next to the bed until I wake up. He doesn’t say anything because he “doesn’t want to startle me.” Instead, he sends me into full cardiac arrest. It’s really creepy. Mama needs to catch more z’s. If it was a permanent gig I would adjust my sleep schedule. In the meantime, I will walk around looking like Steve Buscemi.

I did read a few stories we must discuss.


“A Staten Island high school student is accused of bashing a classmate in the head with a metal stool for farting as he walked by her desk, a law-enforcement source said.”

I am sure many people can relate.
My living room or car transforms into a police station interrogation room any time a foul odor is emitted.

“Did you fart?”

“Who farted?”

“Who did that?”

My children aren’t satisfied until the offender is identified. I am not as bothered with smelly gas as much as I am chewing or heavy breathing. The only difference between me and the chick in Staten Island is a huge pair of gold hoop earrings and restraint. I want to punch people sometimes. I curse the day I bought an economy size bag of shelled pistachios. If it were up to me my family would eat nothing but soft food while sitting at a table in a sound proof booth. I am not alone. A friend of mine has to leave the room when her husband eats. When you’re a newlywed everything your spouse does is adorable. After a few anniversaries most women develop Misophonia. This is an actual text from a friend of mine.


If you’ve never heard the term Misophonia here is a definition from the internet. We know the world wide web is never wrong.

When a person with misophonia is exposed to a sound in their trigger set, it results in an immediate negative emotional response. This response can range from acute annoyance to moderate discomfort or go all the way up to full-fledged rage and panic. Fight or flight reactions are not uncommon. While experiencing a trigger event, a person may become agitated, defensive or offensive, distance themselves from the trigger or possibly act out and express anger or rage at the source of the offending sound.

I seriously want to break sh*t when someone eats an apple or carrot in my presence.


I show extreme prejudice to any product made with glitter. Glitter is Satan’s dust. There isn’t a handheld vacuum in the world that can pick that sh*t up. You will find glitter in your a** crack years after making a craft you found on Pinterest. It really is the perfect weapon. Well, unless you are Ke$ha. She loves glitter. She hates soap and water, but loves glitter. Unfortunately, less than 24 hours after this business opened online it temporarily suspended service. The owner couldn’t keep up with the demand. The following message was posted on the site:

Purchasing has been temporarily suspended. You guys have a sick fascination with shipping people glitter. We’ve received all orders & working through them. There was a tonne so be patient.

He underestimated the power of glitter. It’s too bad. Ann Curry was ‘this close’ to getting even with Matt Lauer. Plus, the girl in Staten Island could have gotten revenge on the gassy student by bedazzling him instead of assaulting him.

Happy New Year

A perfect stranger (opposed to the flawed stranger) wished me a “Happy New Year” today. It is January 10th. He was standing in line ahead of me at the grocery store. I gave a polite grin, but was puzzled. Did he accidentally delete the calendar app from his iPhone? Did he just wake up from a coma? Has he been trapped in the game Jumanji? Whatever the reason, he missed the window to wish anyone “Happy New Year!” After January 5th you have to settle with “Have a nice day” or “Have a good night.” Now, had he delivered the greeting prior to January 1st we wouldn’t be having this discussion. “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Easter,” “Happy Thanksgiving,” etc. are all acceptable leading up to the big day. Wish someone a “Happy Valentine’s Day” on March 1st and you will find yourself blocked on Facebook, labeled a weirdo or both.

The cashier was a bit of a Chatty Cathy. If you can talk and scan at the same time I will be your best friend for ten minutes. We can discuss world politics, your family issues or favorite cheese. Otherwise, you will have to save it for your therapist. The longer you talk, the more my child wants something from the candy rack. I would like to get my hands on the b*stard who came up with that idea. Sure, we could avoid temptation alley by checking out our own groceries. Good luck finding the SKU for vine ripe tomatoes. Plus, even the most sophisticated person looks batsh*t crazy mumbling curse words to a computer over an unexpected item in the bagging area. The only thing worse is wishing someone a “Happy New Year” January 10th.


C is for cookie

I have become that person. I returned a package of cookies to the store yesterday.
In my defense, the box was $7.


The blue frosting should have tipped me off that the cookies would taste like Windex. My organic-crazed friend is hyperventilating reading this post. She is convinced artificial flavoring makes children act like animals and causes every cancer. According to a new study by researchers at John Hopkins University 65% of cancers are caused by bad luck. (Two-thirds of all cancers are caused by random mutations and not genetics or lifestyle factors.) Are you kidding me? Years of walks, runs, etc. to raise money for research and the cure to cancer is “knocking on wood?” Oh, hell no. You’re not done. Get your a** back in that lab.

I never returned food when I was younger. If it was rotten or tasted bad I threw it out. Now, I nearly tackle my children when they take one bite of something and declare, “I’m done.” I will put that sh*t in a baggie and you can eat it later. Money doesn’t grow on trees. You don’t waste food in my house. Nor do you throw anything in the trash can in the guest bathroom. I don’t need another chore. It is just a decoration unless you are a guest. If you ever lived in my uterus, walk four steps to the the kitchen trash can and close the lid.

I walked into the store and was greeted by a clerk.
The wholesale club has a clerk guard the door in case someone tries to steal a case of peanut butter and 3 gallon jug of mayonnaise. Who the hell is sneaking out of the store with this merchandise? That person should be the Secretary of Homeland Security.

The guard inquired about my return and picked up a walkie talkie. She radioed ahead to let customer service know I was returning cookies. The announcement echoed throughout the store. I returned the cookies along with my dignity for seven bucks.


Here is another podcast for your listening pleasure. I am not pretending to be Howard Stern. It’s a work in progress.  I celebrate small victories. For example, I finished this podcast without a single child asking for food.  My children want a snack minutes before a meal begins and seconds after a meal ends.  I am convinced they have tapeworms.


It’s a hard knock life

Cameron Diaz owes me an apology and $48.50. She butchered the role of Miss Hannigan in Annie. Was the director out sick when she recorded her part? I haven’t seen that much overacting since Hillary Clinton walked hand and hand with Bill after the Monica Lewinsky scandal broke.

I swore I wasn’t going to see the new version of the classic movie. You cannot remake greatness. However, my 5-year-old daughter is young and her glass is still half-full. She doesn’t care about critics or box office numbers. She had to see this movie.

I wanted to like it. It would have worked if they stuck to the original script. They did not. They added new characters and songs worse than the tracks on a Kidz Bop album. Daddy Warbucks is a man named Will Stacks. He owns a cell phone company. Everything in his penthouse apartment is high-tech. At one point Annie says “Slow your roll.” Slow. Your. Roll. Annie, are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay Annie? They also search for Annie using Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and blogs.

It gets worse. A woman from the Social Security Office sings and dances. Have you ever been to the Social Security Office? It makes the clientele at Walmart look like high rollers. You would be lucky to get a clerk to crack a smile. She isn’t tap dancing.

Plus, Annie isn’t even an orphan. She is a foster kid. In fact, she corrects Will Stacks on several occasions. “Little Foster Kid Annie?” It just isn’t the same. Instead of being overcome with nostalgia I was nauseous and it wasn’t because I ate too much popcorn. However, judging by the loud and obnoxious chomping, the person sitting behind me may have.

I did see something this weekend that I really enjoyed. Sebastian Maniscalco’s comedy special “What’s Wrong With People” was on TV. The title alone made me happy. Here are a few clips. Enjoy!

Resolution, Schmezolution!

My New Year’s resolution is to finally throw out the Halloween candy in the cupboard. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s difficult for me to let go of perfectly good Tootsie Rolls. Sure, it takes longer to chew 6 months later, but it’s still good.  Two things will survive the apocalypse:  1.) Tootsie Rolls  2.) Peanut butter on a spoon in a sink of water.

I no longer hit the club or put on a gown to party on December 31.  Instead, I binge on high-calorie food with my family. There is no better way to end a year than with laughter and heartburn. Then, we watch musicians lip-sync, Ryan Seacrest admire Ryan Seacrest and Jenny McCarthy scream in stranger’s faces on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin Eve.

We went around the table last night and asked each of our children what they would like to change in 2015. My 5-year-old daughter’s New Year’s resolution is to move Christmas to summer.  It would be more convenient for her if our Lord and Savior was born during warmer weather.   Then, she can open presents and ride her bike on the same day.   I recommended my oldest make a resolution to spend less time using electronics.  He looked at me like I told him we were moving to an Amish community.

I will tell you who needs to make a resolution for 2015: Hasbro and parents who overreact.  Did you see the story about the Play-Doh toy that looks like a penis?








The plastic icing topper came with the Sweet Shoppe Cake Mountain playset.  The headlines were ridiculous.










Is it bizarre that the design of this toy made it to production? Yes.  Hasbro needs to stop hiring frat boys as designers.   Do I think a child was actually traumatized by this phallic-looking toy? No.  I doubt a single child made the connection.   If it ruined your Christmas you need to move to the Amish community with my teenage son.   The “outraged” parents interviewed in various articles need to chill the f*ck out in 2015.  Unfortunately,  a study shows only 8% of people people who make New Year’s resolutions actually reach their goals.   So, I am guessing an uptight mother will start a petition calling for Hasbro to shut down.   I doubt she will be buying her children Hasbro products for Christmas next August.


Technology is making parenting even more challenging. I long for the days when kids scribbled with rocks on cave walls. If children misbehaved mom or dad could just take the rock away.

Punishing my children proved to be much more difficult this weekend. The younger lads were playing a game on the Playstation 4 and fighting. This argument is not to be confused with the argument over what movie to watch, how loudly the other chews food or who was first in line to take a shower. I believe the video game argument started over which direction their Disney Infinity characters should run. Have you seen this game? It is some crazy Mork and Mindy sh*t. You place a character on a portal and it appears on the screen. It’s only missing Orson.

The creators of these video game systems are genius and not because the graphics are “beast.” (Beast is apparently a good thing. I guess it’s the “fly” of this generation.) These tech geeks are genius because they create game upgrades that require new parts that look exactly like the old parts. It’s a money making machine. We have four portals.

I warned the kiddos to stop arguing. We didn’t have this drama while playing Pitfall. I warned them again. Finally, strike three. I stomped my feet as I walked toward the TV to shut the game off. The punishment doesn’t have the same effect if you tiptoe. Unfortunately, my attempt to ‘show whose boss’ was an epic fail. Where the hell is the on and off switch on the Playstation 4? There isn’t a switch or a button. I frantically tapped, pushed and prodded around the machine, but nothing. I waved my hand over it like David Copperfield. I couldn’t get the damn thing to shut off. They giggled as I struggled. It’s like the time your mom tried to hit stop on your tape player, but kept hitting rewind, then play, then fast forward, etc. They giggled until I went for the switch on the power strip. The guys over at the power strip plant still speak my language. Click.