Crying over Apple

I cry every time this commercial comes on television and (every time) my 6-year-old says, “Mom, you do know it’s a commercial about Apple.  They make phones and Ipods.  Why does that make you sad?”  It’s hard to explain.  It’s the same reason I cry at the end of Toy Story 3 and while reading “Love You Forever.”  He doesn’t understand yet, but someday he will.


Just Because

Everyone has that Facebook “friend” who is always bragging about how perfect her life is.  #Liar     There is Facebook and then there is the truth.  You’re not going to post the argument that ensued after he left his socks on the floor again.  You’re status won’t include complaints about her spending and his daily lunch tab.  The bouquet of flowers he got “just because” are probably because he came home really late without bothering to call.  I can’t remember the last time I got flowers “just because.”   So, I was tickled pink when the fine folks at offered to send me a bouquet straight from the farm.  I was happier than a Kardashian in a mirror.  I wish Ryan Gosling had hand delivered them, but I digress.


This is the “Bundle of Joy” bouquet from  It’s as sweet as having a newborn minus the dirty diapers,  overnight crying and leaky breasts.   If the flowers sucked I would tell you.  I cannot be bought.  Well, unless it involved a new Michael Kors handbag.

The flowers arrived in a few days in a box.   There wasn’t a tacky vase or glittery heart on a stick.  It was just a simple bouquet of gorgeous flowers.  They came to New York from California, but you wouldn’t know it.  They smelled sweet and lasted over a week.  All of their bouquets cost 40 bucks and shipping is free.  I am all about supporting your local florist, but this is another option.  You won’t have to worry about sending flowers out of state and having it arrive looking like the centerpiece at a firehall wedding reception.

If you want to order use this link:    THISLINK



Walmart song

Walmart attracts some unique birds. I am not sure where these people live, but they scare the hell out of me. I once saw a couple, with four teeth between them, haul a huge flat screen TV out of the store and put it in the trunk of their rusted car with duck taped windows. It was the dead of winter. Priorities? Apparently, there is only one way to catch the “falling prices” : You must be wearing filthy pajamas. The dirtier the better. If you can throw on a tank top and expose tattoos Billy gave you in the kitchen of his trailer that is even better.

It pisses me off. There is no reason to be dirty. I don’t care if you have to wash your vagina in the Walmart bathroom. Clean yo’self. My husband’s answer is, “Well, just don’t shop there then.” He can’t be bothered with my bitching. I am just trying to make a difference in the world one Spongebob pants wearing person at a time. Besides, I have to shop there. 1.) It’s cheap. There is no denying it, the prices are good. 2.) I feel like a supermodel.

There is a website dedicated to Walmart shoppers and now there is even a song. You won’t find these folks at (what my daughter calls) “the red store.”

Minivan mix

I finally made a mixed tape for the minivan. It had a variety of songs from different genres: pop, rock, country and jazz. I overheard my 13-year-old and his friends listening to Billionaire by Travie McCoy, Featuring Bruno Mars. I think Bruno Mars has an incredible voice. Travie McCoy is from a small town in my neck of the woods. I added it to the playlist thinking that would impress a teenager who is impossible to impress. Song four played on the van’s CD player. (It’s a six disc changer bitches. That’s how I roll!) “I want to be a billionaire so f-ing bad!” (rhymes with trucker) I guess that means he really, really, reallywants to be a billionaire. My 6-year-old gasped. My daughter threw her hands over her mouth. I fumbled for the volume control. “Mom, what are you thinking?” he laughed. “There are different versions of that song.” I won’t pretend that I never swear in front of my kids. I try not to, but I worked in a newsroom for a decade. It’s a hard habit to break. To make a long story short, I am making another mix for our road trips. I heard Miley Cyrus has a new album. Hanna Montana doesn’t cuss, right?

“We Can’t Stop”

I have said this a million times while driving. It is usually followed by, Can you hold it until we get home?

It’s our party we can do what we want

So, off the bat I have to explain to my kids that just because it’s your party doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. There are still rules.

(no drama)
It’s our party we can say what we want (Mike will made)
It’s our party we can love who we want
We can kiss who we want
We can sing what we want

Who is Mike?

Red cups and sweaty bodies everywhere

If it’s that hot inside and everyone is sweating, you may want to turn up the AC.

Hands in the air like we don’t care
‘Cause we came to have so much fun now
Bet somebody here might get some now

Get some? I can hear the question now, “What are they getting Mom?” Potato chips. What’s a party without potato chips, right?

(Okay, fast forward….)

And we can’t stop
And we won’t stop
Can’t you see it’s we who own the night?
Can’t you see it’s we who ’bout that life?

Bout? She should have proofread the lyrics somebody else wrote for her.

A short period of intense activity of a specified kind.
An attack of illness or strong emotion of a specified kind.

attack – fit

( fast forward….)

To my home girls here with the big butt
Shaking it like we at a strip club
Remember only God can judge ya
Forget the haters ’cause somebody loves ya

If they loved ya they would give you something other than dollar bills.

And everyone in line in the bathroom
Trying to get a line in the bathroom

Hanna Montana! Listen to Nancy Reagan and Just Say No!

Then, there is a part where she stops singing about illicit drugs and screams like a goat. So, we won’t be adding Miley’s new song to the minivan mixed tape.



If I wore tacky t-shirts mine would sayI took six kids to an amusement park and didn’t lose my mind. It was actually my idea to load my kids & nephews (ranging in age from 3 to 16-years-old) into the minivan and drive 50 minutes to Sea Breeze Amusement Park. It is a locally owned park in Rochester, NY. It has all the rides of a chain establishment with much shorter lines.

My small army walked single file through the gate. ( Cue: theme song to Rocky) I tagged behind, pulling a red Radio Flyer wagon carrying a cooler of food, a heaping pile of towels and clothes. My kids know the drill. Mama ain’t about to spend a fortune buying junk from a concession stand. Men looked at me like I was a leper. Are those all her kids? Women gave the I couldn’t do that, you’re the shit nod. My uterus is tired, but I didn’t pop six kids out of this womb.

I kept the younger two with me at the kiddie water park while the older boys went down the monstrous slides. They didn’t want me to tag along. The most difficult part of parenting is not caring for a baby or chasing a toddler, it is having to let go when they grow up.


This outing wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows. My 3 and 6-year-olds whined for the first 30 minutes. “I’m hot.” “I’m hungry.” There was minimal complaining after I gave the you keep this up and we will go home speech. The speech is only effective if delivered with your teeth clenched. They snapped out of it and were soon laughing hysterically on rides. It was contagious until I rode the wooden roller coaster with them. As we walked toward the exit I overheard another kid asked his friend, “Did you hear that old lady screaming?” Old?

At the end of the day my kids were begging to stay. My nephew, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of there. He lost his lunch on a ride called the “Whirl Wind.” I am just glad I didn’t pay for it.

Run, Forest, Run

A lady who bears a striking resemblance to an Old Maid card kicked my ass on the high school track. I went for a run yesterday to train for a 5k. The race is today. I am used to running on a treadmill. So, I figured I should introduce my sneakers to pavement. I usually try to avoid exercising in public because I sweat profusely. It was 8:30 a.m. and the track would be empty, right? Wrong! After one lap grandma jumped in lane two. Ha! I thought to myself. Eat my dust grandma! A little healthy competition is a good thing.

I threw on’s “T.H.E The Hardest Ever.” and ran like I was being chased. (William obviously failed the lesson on punctuations) J.Lo sings the chorus, “You can go hard or you can go home…” I am going hard grandma! I sped up putting a good distance between us. It didn’t last long. I got tired and slowed down. Grandma and I were neck and neck. Sweat was pouring down my brow and into my eyes. I could barely see the track. You cannot lose. Grandma smirked as she passed by. Then, the bitch taunted me. She started with a side step, threw in some high knee kicks and even ran backwards.


I made frequent stops for water, but not grandma. She is some sort of camel because she didn’t stop once. When she finished running grandma hopped on a bike and rode home. I would have shaken grandma’s hand or bowed down to her, but I couldn’t catch her. So, I got in my minivan and left. I will be participating in the charity walk and stick to running 5k’s indoors.

Home Alone

I try to tell my children a million times a day how much I love them. (When I am not screaming at them to stop screaming.) Seriously, I want it to be the first thing they hear in the morning and the last thing I say before they fall asleep. Well, last night, my 5-year-old wasn’t having it. “Get away from me,” he cried when I went in for a hug. “I love you,” I said, trying to steal a kiss. He ducked under the covers. This kid was pissed, but I didn’t do anything wrong. He was the one who, moments earlier, knocked his sister to the ground. She is only 3-years-old, but knows how to push his buttons. She was taunting him singing, “Baby, baby, baby.” That being said, he cannot hurt her. So, I put him in time-out. Personally, I think it is a dumb punishment, created by people without kids. It doesn’t work. Imagine telling criminals, “If you rob another bank we are going to make you sit in an uncomfortable chair for 5 minutes!” I am guessing they would be repeat offenders.

He went to the chair, but proceeded to express his disdain for me. “I hate you.” Excuse me? “I wish you died-ed.” Clearly, I can’t go anywhere because he hasn’t mastered the tenses of the English language. “You don’t mean that,” I said. It turned into a scene from Home Alone. “You’d feel pretty sad if you woke up tomorrow morning and you didn’t have a family.” He wasn’t budging. So, it was time for bed. He fell asleep holding a grudge. I couldn’t sleep.

I laid in bed fiddling with my phone and came across an account on Twitter that gave me pause. It belongs to a chronically ill woman. She tweets about living with cancer. She was told just months ago that she wouldn’t have long to live. The end is near yet she is incredibly positive. I wanted to wake my son and share her message. We need to enjoy every moment with the people we love. Who the hell was I kidding? Waking a sleeping child to have a conversation is like trying to unravel Donald Trump’s comb over. It cannot be done. (He must go through a case of Aqua Net a month.) My son is in kindergarten. He won’t learn that lesson for many years. Many of us don’t figure it out until it’s too late…. or until two burglars (one with a shiny gold tooth) try to break into our house, while the rest of the family is in France.

Egg hunt

My kids scored big at today’s Easter egg hunt. They walked away with a dozen or so plastic eggs. I have been to events in the past where it was utter chaos. Toddlers were plowed down by 10-year-old boys. Kindergartners left with empty baskets. The first time I took my son I criticized parents for acting like it was a competition. I had no idea what was at stake. If you don’t have a strategy your child will leave in tears.

Today’s hunt was well planned. Organizers had designated areas for each age group. I didn’t have to worry that my 3-year-old would get crushed by a size 9 sneaker. Still, we couldn’t sleep walk through the field. I could tell there were toddlers in our group who would cut a bitch for a tootsie roll. Take for example, the little blonde haired, blue eyed fella wearing baby Timberlands. He wasn’t there to play. I gave my daughter a pep talk. “See those eggs, you need to pick them up and put them in your basket.” (I know what you’re thinking, Was that speech written by Tony Robbins? It was brilliant.) She nodded. We had this in the bag.


A kind elderly man lectured the kids about being fair. “Make sure everybody has a chance.” Look, most of the participants in our group still poop in their pants. It’s every man for himself sir. “3, 2, 1!” My daughter took off like a bat out of hell. She picked up a few eggs, but passed up a dozen more. “You missed a few,” I whispered quietly. Inside I was screaming like a drill Sargent. She giggled each time she put another egg in her basket.

We waited until we got home to open the plastic eggs. Each one had a tootsie roll, piece of gum and a starlight mint… because what 2-year-old doesn’t want fresh breath?

Crisis averted. There would no temper tantrum today.

Monthly Rage

One week, every month, I want to rip my husband’s face off. (Hey grammar/punctuation police, don’t bother emailing me. I am an adult and will use as many damn commas as I want.) Now, don’t get me wrong, there are other times when my spouse annoys me, but this week I make Brandi Glanville seem pleasant. It just so happens in this cycle, PMS will rear its ugly head during Spring Break. No, that doesn’t mean I will be popping Midol before throwing my bikini top on a stage in Daytona Beach. It means my children are home from school for 10 straight days. I like having my kids home, but my hormones need a little peace and quiet. I am trying to keep the brood busy so they aren’t bickering inside the house all day. I took them outside this morning to play in the snow. (I am giving Mother Nature the middle finger)

It took about 30 minutes to put on hats, gloves, boots, etc. I was sweating like a Biggest Loser contestant at Old Country Buffet. (Don’t email me about this joke either. Honey, I have struggled with my weight for years. Lighten up.) The cool air was refreshing and I really needed a dose of all natural vitamin D. We played basketball, baseball and built a snowman.


Actually, we built a snow bunny.


Pretty damn impressive, right? We had a lot of fun. It was the perfect morning. Then, my 5-year-old nailed me in the face with a snow ball.


I decided to take the kids bowling today. My 3-year-old and 5-year-old were ecstatic. My son actually jumped up and down, “This is the best day ever!” Who knew floor wax and 1970’s decor could bring him so much joy? It was a monumental day for my daughter as well. This morning, I introduced her to the “spork.” It blew her f-ing mind, “Wait, it’s a spoon and a fork?” That’s right girlfriend, take some time to process that one. I forced my 13-year-old to tag along. He was not happy, but it won’t kill him to spend some quality time with his damn family.

The bowling alley in our town was closed for a tournament. So, we drove to another alley in a nearby village just 5 minutes away. It sounds very primitive, but it is technically a village. There is one stop light, one police officer and many of its residents only have one tooth.


The clerk, a man in his late 60’s, was slamming a bottle of beer when we walked in. It was just after noon. I suppose you need alcohol to get through a day of handling used shoes. He was less than pleasant. He scolded the kids for wearing their “street shoes” near the lane. We wouldn’t want to ruin the vintage linoleum. The ball got stuck a handful of times in the gutter which pissed him off even more. The funny thing is he wore his street shoes on the lane to get it. I am sure the polyester wearing, mustache donning, bowling Gods would frown on that move big guy. Mr. Personality was rocking the white New Balance sneakers which made me think of this movie clip:

I laugh out loud every time I watch that scene from “Crazy, Stupid, Love.” Then, I whisper “I love you Ryan” to my TV. I’m kidding about the last part. (Sort of.)

I had the highest score. I credit years of watching professional bowling tournaments with my parents. They were on every weekend when I was growing up. I scored an 86. Pete Weber who?