Here are a few stories that caught my attention while surfing the World Wide Web this morning:

Shoplifting Mama

An Iowa Mom who was busted for shoplifting claims she was beat down by police. This chick, Brandie (with an ie not y)Randall, stuffed $388 worth of clothing into her 1-year-old daughter’s stroller. Now, she is crying foul claiming police brutally attacked her in a store office. Do you smell a lawsuit brewing? Correct! Brandie (with an ie not y) is working with a Chicago-based civil rights group, Living and Driving While Black Foundation, to file a lawsuit against the officers. Redell is Caucasian. She should be suing the person who gave her this haircut.


I got a bad Dorothy Hamill cut in 1999. I was 7 months pregnant and not thinking clearly.

Are we supposed to feel sorry for Brandie (with an ie not y)? She used her baby as an accomplice to commit a crime. It’s not like she was busted stealing food to fee her family. She wanted new clothes. I want to smack her upside the head.

Beyonce Gets a Haircut

Isn’t it silly that people actually give a s*** that Beyonce got a haircut? I can guarantee you Bey didn’t go to the same salon as Brandie (with an ie not y). People think she chopped off her naturally (cough, cough) golden locks after a mishap at a concert. She was singing an emotional rendition of Halo when her hair got caught in a fan. How the hell am I just seeing this video today?

You Gonna Eat That?

Are you ready to lose your lunch? A new App is coming out that connects cheap people with unwanted leftovers. Leftover Swap allows you to take a photo of what’s left on your plate and allow someone to claim it. As if we don’t see enough pictures of lunch on Facebook. Do you really think the guy who dumped you in the 11th grade cares that you’re eating a salad today? You would have to be really desperate or a very trusting person to download this sucker. There is no way in H-E-Double hockey sticks I am not going to chow down on a stranger’s half eaten burger.


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:


Stroll for Strong

I finished a charity walk today looking like I ran a 5k. It turns out pulling a 6-year-old and 3-year-old in a wagon, up hills and across rough terrain is not easy. I was dripping with sweat.

Today’s event raised money for Golisano Children’s Hospital in Rochester, NY. This hospital and its staff are a vital part of our community. They do amazing work for a lot of families. I walked in support of my dear friend, Jennifer. Last year, her daughter Grace, born with CDH, was one of the hospital’s “Miracle Kids.” Grace passed away in February at just 17-months-old. I got teary eyed when I saw a poster of her at today’s fundraiser. I thought to myself, I can’t believe Grace isn’t here.

The Stroll for Strong is like a carnival complete with face painting, magicians and a dunk tank.



There’s food, ice cream and bounce houses. My kids spotted the play area the minute we pulled up. They sat patiently in the wagon until the walk was over. Then, they raced over to the play area. My 3-year-old daughter wanted to follow her older brother through the inflatable obstacle course, but was afraid. The sign said you had to be under 6′ tall and 250 pounds. I could go with her. We got halfway through before I realized it was a horrible idea. How was I supposed to squeeze through this carrying a toddler:


I decided to go first and pull my daughter through. I put my legs up, hoping to slide feet first. Well, my sweaty knees got stuck on the plastic. I did a face plant on the other side. My daughter, who apparently has trust issues, thought I abandoned her. “Mommy,” she cried. “Don’t leave me.” I didn’t leave her in the mall when she threw herself on the ground screaming. I didn’t walk away when she knocked coffee out of my hand in Starbucks. So, why would I choose to abandon her now? “I’m right here,” I mumbled. Each time I tried to stand my foot sunk deep into the plastic throwing me back on my ass. I was finally able to claw my way to a kneeling position. “Come on honey,” I signaled for my daughter to jump into my arms. “No. I can’t. I’m scared,” she screamed. I was about to have a panic attack. I had to get out of this damn bounce house.


It became a Bruce Willis movie.
“Listen to me. Calm down! You have to come with me,” I yelled, grabbing her arms and dragging her to safety. I met another woman at the exit who looked just as frazzled. We locked eyes and I said, “That was..” She finished the sentence, “Awful!” We both laughed. “We are the best mother’s ever,” she continued. I nodded in agreement.

I let my children play alone a bit longer. Then, we made the long journey back to the car. That is when it dawned on me. Grace was here today. You could feel her spirit everywhere. She is still inspiring people. Even on days when life seems impossible, Grace reminds us not to give up. She was even with me in that bounce house. Grace was and will always be in my heart.


Musical Theater Gone Wrong

My children are very dramatic. They love music and movies. My oldest is destined to be a Hollywood director. My youngest is constantly acting. No, I am not a stage Mom. However, I guess it pays to be one. I just read Honey Boo Boo is a hit in Europe. I am not a fan, but I would watch it dubbed in Spanish. What is the translation for “Sketti?”

My husband recorded my daughter’s recent performance. Stick with it because this skit goes from sweet to WTF?

A knife? Was this fairy tale written by Quentin Tarantino?

Read more: CynicalMother.com

Back to School

Across the country there are mothers drowning their sorrows in chocolate after dropping a child off at college. You may see them at the gym, eyes red and swollen, trying to work it off and avoid going home to an empty house. So, in comparison, my “problem” may seem trivial.

I’m having major anxiety about sending my second born to kindergarten. It’s to the point that I’ve looked into home schooling. There are two reasons I could never follow that path. First, I don’t have the patience. Second, I still count on my fingers and couldn’t name all 50 states on a map. (Those middle ones are tricky) How could I possibly teach?

So, tomorrow my sweet boy will head to class. Everyone keeps telling me that “He will love it” or “He will be fine.” I’m not really concerned about him. He is a smart, outgoing child. I am worried about me. I will miss having him come up to me during the day and say, “I love you Mom.” (Of course that is after punching his sister and spilling red Gatorde on my carpet) I won’t be there to see his dimple appear when he smiles upon discovering something new. Who will hug him if he falls or his feelings are hurt? I know, he’s not being sent to live at an orphanage with Annie. He will be surrounded by caring teachers, but it won’t be me.

I suppose having another child reach this milestone makes me realize how quickly time passes. My daughter will be next. She is already so independent. Then, before you know it, I will be comforting myself with chocolate, too.