Rudolph the Red Nosed Car

I drove to work behind someone who dressed their car as a reindeer. It had antlers and a red nose. I don’t even have time to wash my car let alone dress it. My first car did wear a bra. Do you remember those? It was a Dodge Daytona with a spoiler and a bra. No, I did not grow up in New Jersey. It was the 90s and it came with it. Are people who decorate their car just trying to spread holiday cheer or is it a cry for help? There is a man in my town who glues decorations to a board and attaches it to his car every holiday. What better way to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus than to superglue giant plastic eggs to the hood of your Jeep Cherokee?

I know I sound like a grinch. I’ve had a rough few days. I couldn’t zip my boots and nearly knocked myself out trying to take off a sports bra. The boots are several years old. They were snug to begin with. Designers don’t take cankles into consideration when making boots. I am a little bit thicker, let’s say more muscular, than I was when I bought this particular pair. I got it halfway up and the zipper waved a white flag. Fast forward that evening and after an intense workout I was in a similar situation. Sports bras are difficult to get on, but even harder to take off. It would even stump Fonzie.

I look nothing like the commercial of the sexy woman undressing and more like a clown in the circus. I was spinning, wiggling and twisting, but couldn’t get the damn bra above my shoulders. This is an artist rendering of the entire fiasco:


(Yes, I lost my nose in the process and grew another finger.)

At one point I tripped and landed on my keister, unable to catch myself because one arm was stuck in the bra. I almost cut the damn thing off. I would have, but I am too cheap. The girls need support and mama needs to save her money for Christmas. The man driving the car dressed as a reindeer isn’t going to come down the chimney on December 25th.

Teacher sends home letter about smelly students

A pre-school teacher is being criticized for a letter she penned to parents. Take a look:


I don’t see anything wrong with it. Sure, it would have been more professional to speak to the parents face to face. Perhaps, she suspected the parents would become argumentative or even violent. Maybe she couldn’t find them. Calling social services would probably be a waste of time. Would you take offense if your child was well taken care of? I wouldn’t.  She clearly wrote this note while being held hostage because there is no way a teacher’s handwriting can be that bad.  I don’t agree with the fact that she wanted the children to read it.  I also find it odd that she expects a 3 or 4-year-old child to sign his/her name?  Is that part of Common Core?

I heard someone say the teacher should expect to have children in her class with dirty clothes and/or bodies. After all, the school is in Buffalo, NY, a high poverty, urban community. My grandmother, who raised six kids alone after leaving an abusive relationship, always said, “being poor is not an excuse to be filthy.” They didn’t have much, but they had self respect. They bathed, clothes were washed and their house was clean.
When my husband and I were first married we didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He was a private in the U.S. Army. I think the cashier at McDonald’s made more money. We used a futon for a couch. At times, I washed clothes in the bathtub. There is no excuse.  Yes, there are good people who end up in bad situations.  There are good parents who have no where to turn.  If that is the case I hope they get the help they need.  However, after there are many more parents who just suck and should not be allowed to have children.

These children deserve better. They don’t want to, nor should they have to walk around looking like Pig-Pen. Perhaps their parents should trade in the flat screen TV for a bar of soap. Maybe they should spend cigarette money at the laundromat.

Kudos to this teacher! I hope the district doesn’t punish her for doing what is best for these children.

Too old

I had an epiphany while strolling down an aisle in Target. I am too old to wear Uggs. Two teenagers were steps behind me when I overheard one say, “If my Mom wore Uggs I would throw mine in the garbage.” They both let out an evil cackle. I was crying inside. I still feel like I am in my twenties, but alas, I am not. Was I dressing appropriately for my age? It’s not like I am running around in a half top. I rocked that s**t in the 9th grade, but those days are gone. Mama has a stretch mark maze on her belly.

A podiatrist made the decision for me. Apparently, at my age, I need a shoe with “more arch support.” I might as well stock up on nude, knee-high panty hose. It’s only a matter of time before I will be sporting polyester pants and hanging out in the lobby of the YMCA. You want yourself a silver haired beauty? Hit up the Y around 10 a.m. It’s like a geriatric rave.

I hawked my Uggs on a virtual garage sale site and bought a new pair of jeans. It is my first pair of skinny jeans. I’ve lost a few pounds and inches on my cankles. I used to struggle in the dressing room. I think wrestling a crocodile would have been easier. Grunting, huffing, tugging, wiggling, etc. It wasn’t pretty.

I felt like a million bucks in my new jeans. (…which I bought on clearance. Boo-yah!). Well, that is until my 6-year-old questioned, “What are you wearing? Those are way too tight.” That’s how they are supposed to look! Honey, I am a damn supermodel at Walmart.


Legendary dancing

A friend described my dancing at a recent party as “legendary.” Now, I’m not sure if that is a good thing. Perhaps, he thought I looked like a circus freak having a seizure. I don’t really care. If there is music playing I am moving. How on earth can you stay seated when “Jump Around” is blasting through the speakers? (Note to self: jumping around after having three kids isn’t always such a good idea) I have rhythm, but never took dance classes. I’m tall and awkward. I don’t care. I’m not dancing to win America’s votes. I like to joke around. I may even drop to the ground and do air guitar from time to time, but what civilized woman doesn’t after a few margaritas? (Maybe that is why I haven’t been invited to join the local Rotary club?) Anyway, here is a little girl after my own heart. I think this tiny mama may have snuck a few Red Bulls before hitting the floor. Holy high energy Batman!





Elvis Impersonator

Whenever I hear an Elvis song I think of my grandmother. I can still see her dancing around the dining room table while his music played on her eight track player. It was bitchin’. There was plexiglass on the bottom half and disco lights would flash to the beat. Rewind? Fast forward? Nope. You had to click around through each song. My grandma was a feisty red head. God, I miss that woman. My Mom has the same love for The King. She will get a kick out of this little girl rocking out in her car seat. Watch the whole thing. It is funny.

Insane in da brain

I thought I was going to lose my mind today. I didn’t start a fire in my neighbor’s driveway or tweet to Drake requesting he murder my vagina. I did start a load of laundry without adding detergent. I know, insane in the membrane. (Insane in da brain)

My children got on every last nerve. They were extremely whiny, teasing and fighting with one another non-stop. On an average day I get a brief reprieve when my daughter takes a nap. She didn’t sleep today. “He’s looking at me!” Really? I am supposed to punish your brother for looking in the direction you are standing? My 6-year-old was channeling Sally Field, crying at the drop of a hat. So, what do you do with two exhausted kids, a mouthy teenager and a mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown? You play volleyball!

It was probably the worst suggestion my husband has ever made. Family game night was invented by Satan. My daughter spent most of the game on the ground sobbing over nothing in particular. My 6-year-old wanted to serve the ball, but couldn’t get it over the net. His 13-year-old brother was really patient. I’m kidding, that would never happen. He huffed and puffed at every failed attempt. My frustrated 6-year-old covered his face, trying to fight back the tears. Then, he went into a rage chasing his teenage brother around the back yard. It was at that moment I declared “Game Over.” My daughter threw herself on the grass, “Why?” My highly competitive husband could not go inside without a victor. I would have gone alone if not for my daughter screaming, “Don’t leave me Mommy. Please! I will miss you.” I can only imagine how many neighbors called social services.

I refused to continue to play, letting the ball drop at my feet ensuring a victory for my 6-year-old. It wasn’t good enough. When I announced it was bath time he said, “You just want to put us to bed so you can go party with your friend Nikki.” You got me. I am going to drag my 38-year-old, cellulite ridden ass to every club this side of the Mississippi. Little does he know that my wild Friday night included Yoga pants, a bowl of Reese Puffs cereal and a Breaking Bad marathon. Before slipping into dreamland my kids gave me a big hug and said, “I love you Mommy.” …… and with that all was right in the world. Pound sign Countingmyblessings (It was and always will be a pound sign. #Kidsthesedays)

You scream, I scream

My kids have discovered the ice cream truck. I was outside weeding when I heard the faint sound of a bell ringing. It brought back fond memories of my childhood. The ice cream truck was nearby. I dropped my gardening tool and ran inside to grab my purse. Well, it was more of a speed walk. “Hey guys! It’s the ice cream truck!” My children had no idea what the hell I was talking about, but ran outside anyway, “What’s an ice cream truck?” I explained, “You can buy ice cream right outside your house!” I sounded like I was selling the ShamWow. My son was skeptical, “Real ice cream?” I didn’t have time to explain that there is everything from Bomb Pops to sorbet in the shape of Pink Panther with bubblegum eyes. The kids trailed behind as I frantically waved my arms. I looked like I was either drowning or a big spender at a strip club. A white pick up truck pulled to the side of the road. I can tell you Magic Mike was not driving. A man sporting jean shorts, black sneakers and white tube socks stepped out. His hair was a deep gray color with streaks of silver. I don’t think it has seen a bottle of Suave since the Carter administration. While my children were choosing an ice cream, panic set in. What the f*** was I thinking? I flagged down a strange man who smells like shoe polish to give my kids ice cream? My son and daughter skipped inside the house. Meanwhile, I was trying to memorize his face to compare to the local sex offender registry. I even tried to snap his picture.


Then, I followed the kids back inside and locked the door. I decided it was time for a little “After-school Special” speech while they enjoyed their frozen treats. “I know Mommy just ran to a stranger’s truck for ice cream, but you don’t ever, ever, ever do that,” I continued. “You don’t ever talk to strangers. Not even if they say they have candy or ice cream or anything. If a stranger calls your name or says they know Mommy or Daddy run and scream.” They nodded. “A stranger could kidnap you and you will never come home.” My 13-year-old shouted from across the room, “Yeah, cause he will throw you in his trunk and kill you.” Okay? Now, enjoy that ice cream!


There is no turning back. I did something that makes it impossible to deny being middle aged. I went to Bingo. This was the real deal. A handwritten sign outside the door directed you to the basement of a church. Elderly gamers got there early to set up. Dozens of rainbow daubers lined each table. Several players had stuffed animals for luck. You thought that toy you won at the carnival was junk? I bet you feel like a fool now. These ladies weren’t playin’. They brought dinner, dessert and snacks. My sister-in-law told me that one time a woman shit herself and played through. That is dedication or a person with a serious gambling addiction. The pot per game is only around 30 bucks. On this particular night there was a lot more at stake. The jackpot in a game to find the queen of hearts had been building since last July. You buy tickets and if your number is drawn you get to pick a card. You get the queen, you get the jackpot. Well, there were only two cards left. The jackpot was now over $15,000. Good Catholics know how to gamble.

My sister-in-law saved me a seat. The room fell silent when the first ball was picked. Gone are the days of across, down, diagonal Bingo. You can win with a postage stamp, Z, U, around the outside, etc. Plus, there was a bonus ball. My head was spinning. I had four cards to stamp at once.


The tension builds and builds.
Then, you hear it called somewhere in the distance, “Bingo!” Bitch! I was so close. After losing a handful of times I wanted to stand up and shout, “Liar!” At one point I thought there was going to be a brawl. A woman made the mistake of standing up during a game. Sweet old ladies wearing orthopedic shoes grunted, “Down in front!” I also learned waving dollars in the air at a Bingo hall is much different than doing it at Bada Bing! I didn’t win the jackpot, but I took this Bingo hall selfie:


Bag lady

I am a bad ass, a rebel. I snuck candy, popcorn and drinks into the movie theater tonight. Booyah! Okay, so I am just cheap. We took the entire family to the movies. It cost nearly 50 bucks for tickets alone. When I was a kid it cost between $3 – $5 to catch a flick. I also walked barefoot, up a hill and in the snow to the schoolhouse. Well, maybe not, but I feel that old. My husband took my 13-year-old to watch World War Z. I took our 3 and 6-year-old’s to see Monsters University. I hate scary movies. Actually, I hate anything scary and that includes Nancy Grace. I cannot watch America’s Most Wanted. Even the music on the commercials for Law & Order freaks me out.

I looked like I was boarding an airplane for a week long vacation. My purse was bursting at the seams. The aroma of buttered popcorn was seeping out the top. I managed to squeeze three brown bags of popcorn, a bag of pretzels, three rice crispy treats, Twizzlers, two juice bottles and two cans of soda in my pocket book. Suck it Space Bags ® ! You ain’t got nothing on my packing skillz.

I knew I had this when I saw the kid collecting tickets.


He was friendly and too young to give a s*** if I bypassed the concession stand.
My family was embarrassed, but nobody complained when I busted out the goods.


Of course, there was that Mom who tried to bring a baby and her young daughter to the movie. You could have the happiest baby ever and he/she will cry and scream the minute the lights go out. I felt bad and wanted to smack her at the same time. She probably dropped $30 on snacks and had to leave early. Rookie mistake.

Can you afford it?

Do you know what’s worse than waiting in a long line at Walmart? Loading a cart full of groceries on the belt before realizing your wallet is missing. Yeah, this happened to me tonight. Panic immediately set in. I scanned the store for Oliver Twist, but only saw a woman in pajamas and a man with star tattoos on his face. Did I drop it? I put my groceries back into the cart as my daughter questioned loudly, “What’s wrong Mommy? You don’t have enough money?” I use this excuse from time to time when she asks for a toy. Awesome. I may not be able to afford Diet Dr. Pepper, but I can pay for the Diet Dr. Thunder in my cart. Now, I was the one who looked ridiculous. It turns out my wallet was in my husband’s car. We did a little browsing while we waited for him to bring it. There are so many gift ideas for Dad in the store.


For the father who likes to drink hard liquor on the go.


The perfect gift for the Dad who is a real-life Archie Bunker.


This gift says Dad, you’re a fat ass.


This is a practical gift for a man who won’t ask for help. (Which is just about every man on earth.)