A Mother and her Shower


I dropped trou and step into the steamy goodness. The workout I just had was my first in several weeks. My look of lumpiness was hitting my ego with a baseball bat so I needed a boost. What I got was a reality check.

That first workout after missing in action is always the hardest but I did it…and this IS MY REWARD.

And also the losing some weight thing. But that’ll come later. 



silence. just me and this water and ugh, I need some serious ladyscaping…

No!! Back to…bliss. silence…


I have goddess hair. I am Lady Gaga on a white horse *whips wet hair across face*

Lady Gaga is way more graceful. BUT ENOUGH OF THAT!! This is my time. *lather scrub lather* aaaaaa…eucalyptus and spearmint. Bath & Body Works, you are my muse….SUGAR!!!

I smell like mint and herbal awesomeness. All the sweat and toil of that 25 minute…okay, 10 minute workout, is just fading awa….   


So much for my time….


Maybe she doesn’t hear me…as water jets down on the tile….



I love you!!!

..awww…looks like I just caught another kind of shower….puffy hearts everywhere…


…Right after I tame the wild Winter Chewbecca that’s gotten out of control….

Come to mama…..

The mind wanders when you take a shower. Your worries become strong demons that you need slay. Being in the shower make it easy to slay demons. Demons hate water. Remember the Wicked Witch? Water was not her friend. I can use my back scrubber to slay my demons. 

No steady job?!? SWISH!

Getting a bit lumpy around the middle?! CLANK!!

LEAVE ME, DAMNED DEMON!! I have armpits to make smooth and supple like the girls in the Dove commercials!! 

Where was I?



I really should buy the edited versions of these songs so I don’t feel like a mama failure when my daughter sings “LOVE ME LIKE YOU DO” from the 50 shades of grey soundtrack. 


oh man… I’m a shitty mama. 

Okay. I’m probably clean enou…



I’m firsty!!

It’s funny how she still can’t say thirsty. Okay, I’m done here. No random hairs. My mane smells of rosemary. My skin smells of spearmint. My body could be rung into a salad. 

….That’s an odd think to say…

Until next time, sweet shower. The girl is super “firsty”.


You’ve Been Given A Gift. And It Looks Like Some Naughtiness.

So? I’m not crazy, right?

My friend Kim laughed as I held up the object in question in front of me during our Skype session.

That clinched it. I’m not crazy.

To start my story properly, I must go back a few days to when my mom was visiting. She has magical powers over me. While she is present, I end up cleaning, baking, cleaning some more and purging the house of excessive crap. This visit was no exception and after a day of washing more laundry than the Beverly Hills Hotel, my feet were screaming…screaming. I could say that I need to wear better shoes or shoes in general around the house but it’s not going to happen. My toes need to be free. I’m a card carrying member of the barefoot club.

But due of my pig-headedness about wearing shoes while doing chores, my tootsies needed some love. I grabbed my biggest bowl, added hot water and bubbles and got ready to sit down and soak the screams away.



….aaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Bliss….

All the pain from running around cleaning and laundering was whisked away. I vowed to set up my “spa” on a daily basis. It may be slapdash but it did its job.
During the week of being Cinderella and “spa-ing”, a family member, who will remain nameless, gifted me this:

Bath salts, body scrub, lotio…. Hold on a tick…

This. This object which completes the bag of goodies. The wooden ridgey thing. I know what it is. It’s not about that. It’s what it looks like. Or better yet, what it could be used for. Call me immature. Call me what you will. That thing was given to me, although naively, by A FAMILY MEMBER!! I didn’t notice it until I took all the items out of the bag they came in. I held it up and thought….hmmm….blog post.

There was a reason this piece of “equipment” was now in my hands. Did the giver intend to give the intended some lavender bath salts to go with some Kama Sutra book and FORGOT the book??
Does that sound weird and creepy?!?

It is creepy. It’s bizarre. It may be a foot rolling massager in reality but it’s a freaking sex toy in the mind of the brave and adventurous. Not that I am either. *clearing throat*

Of course, I didn’t say anything. I probably will though. I can imagine the reaction….

Laughter. Tons of laughter.

I can tell this story at campfires (after s’mores) and Fourth of July gatherings…like tomorrow. The gift giving family member must be present, of course. My children, however, will not.

I can start out with….My foot soaks have always missed that something….special….




A Love Affair In The Morning.

You are more to me than just a breakfast. You are what makes a day worth being a part of.

I’m very blessed. My days get to be filled with something that truly gets me.

Your crunch muffles the sound of my kids fighting or the latest episode of Dora The Explorer. All I hear is rainbows forming and birds tweeting in their nests.

You hold up my ego as you hold up my spoon. If I’m not devouring your joyfulness fast enough, sometimes you let me down. Yet I can’t seem to quit you. I just try again with more of you.

You’re not jealous of my coffee. You get that I can only enjoy a mug or two during the day. But with you, I can spend some time in the middle of the night. It may be sneaking around but I don’t care. You make me into a bran-loving whore.

You don’t seem to care about how my hair looks or if I’m wearing makeup when I hold you. It feels like love when I hear the dink dink as you hit the bottom of my bowl.
Each spoonful fills my soul with kinship. I don’t worry about my family or the stressors that come with living out of suitcase. Or that we need to keep our son on top of his curriculum so he doesn’t fall behind.

You don’t care that my son’s outfit is mismatched or that my toddler is eating her nose candy. You just concentrate on me and my needs.
The pains and woes of my everyday disappear when I open my mouth and let you in.

You are so inviting….

so flavorful….

….and when we sit alone and I masticate you, I am complete. I am whole.

Oh cereal…. You are amazing.
Your puffs filled with peanut butter and understanding make me feel like I can do anything.

Like I can finish this blog post. Like I’m the princess and you and all your raisins are my princes.

Thank you for being a dollar off with coupon.



Write Post, Attract Trolls, Get Death Threats, Repeat.

Dear People That Make Cruel and Insanely Mean Comments On The Internet,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written…

Ha! That’s a bunch of crap. I’ve been wanting to write something about the phenomenon that is “trolling” for a while now. This won’t be hard…

You are all a bunch of cowardly, hide-behind-your-keyboard fucks…but I would never wish that you would die.

Based on the above statement, I’ve stooped to your level; speaking through my keyboard instead of face to face about something or anything I could’ve written.

Up to this point, I’ve pretty much been under the radar. I just write about my family, a few giveaways or reviews and for the most part lay low. I’ve have not sent any submissions to Huff Post, which seems to have become “troll central”, or any other website for that matter. I have my reasons for not submitting and frankly, you are one of them.

You guys are just hanging around looking for the next blogger to attack because of something you don’t agree with. I’m all for being a devil’s advocate, stirring up the discussion and disagreeing with the author, but your pitchforks never have lube. You make decent speakers never want to express themselves again. Fuck you hard for that. Not everything online has to be agreed upon. Or correct. Or perfect. Many times, you don’t understand the whole story.

You just react.

In all honesty, this letter is out of disgust over comments on a friend’s post. A post submitted to Huff Post. (No, I’m not posting the link) Comments saying that that blogger should die. Should. Die.. Over expressing their opinion. Telling a story.

Tell me, should you fucking die too, you piece of juvenile trash?
You expressed your opinion. Isn’t that the way it works?

Listen, it’s 2014. We should be moving on from this type of behavior now. Something more civil. Just the fact that we are that much closer to flying cars should give reason to let posts or articles that you don’t agree with just roll off your back.

Take a long look in the mirror. Really think about your actions. Is your life simply better by bashing or threatening another online? A person you have never met. A person you may never meet.

Just today, I read someone’s comment on a thread that read “You aren’t a real blogger until someone threatens your life”. Why is that a “thing”? Why does that have to be common knowledge?
Is it our fault for putting ourselves out there? Our fault because we choose to tell our stories to our computer?

Your bullshit drama does not make this world a better place. You are not
stopping anyone from writing or expressing their feelings.
Frankly, this is the shittest thing I have ever written. Or maybe not.

But it’s my right to write it. And it is not a reason for you to attack me verbally. Although, you and I both know that you can’t help yourself.

Let the bashing begin. Go ahead and prove my point.

A blogger that won’t ever stop writing.


P.S. Thanks in advance for the page views. 🙂

Dear Santa, My Underwear Is Trying To Find Religion

Dear Santa,

I need to vent..

I mean, I’m kinda venting already.

I don’t think I’m a greedy person but I like nice things. You know from past holidays that I’m kind of a gamer if by gamer means hours of Mario Bros.
Thanks for adding to my addiction, by the way.

I was the kid that wanted “want”, not “need”. Don’t give me socks or pjs. Please oh please oh please NO!
I, of course, would smile about the socks I got and the cute jacket that was not a new toy.

Sigh…. Times, they have changed.

I need underwear this year, Santa.
Not just any type of underwear though .
The “nice” (or naughty) kind.

Let me explain….
I have those ugly cotton granny-panties. You know, the if-they-get-messed-up-once-a-month-because-my-hygiene-products-have-failed-me-again ones?? I gots those by the pile load.

It’s the “other” type that I don’t have or can’t seem to keep…somehow.

They have all become religious.

They’ve all got holes in the crotch area. All. Of. Them.

Nothing happens to my old necessary panties.
Just the cute ones. The not t-backs or crazy lace in the crack ones. The pretty not granny style ones.
The ones I want to wear everyday but can’t because:


I’m not sure if it’s the material that can’t withstand the awesomeness of my vaggie or if I’m not cleaning them gentle enough (like maybe using q-tips and unicorn tears) I’m not sure what the reason. I could be an underwear yanker during REM sleep.
Either way…
I’m too old to go commando. That plumbing area has issues after I birthed my babies. Don’t be close by when I sneeze. Just sayin’


I’ve had to resort to using my destroyed and cut up chonies for other purposes…I’ve created marketing names for them in case I get desperate enough to sell the suckers.

The Sweet Infinity. 20131211-123046.jpg

The Olivia Newton.


The Emergency Room.


Santa, I’m sad. Can you see this dilemma I have? Obviously, it is a very strong need I desire this year. I hate wearing those wide full coverage parachutes that make butt feel saggier than usual. I’m a pretty lady. I want to feel like Maria underneath it all too.

Please Santa, I beg of you. If I can’t rely on you to cover my ass and pretty bits this winter in “fabulous”, who else can I rely on?

Thank you and I promise to leave out those “spiked rum cookies without the cookies” you like so much this year.

With love and a chilly vulva,

Blogger’s Note: Yes, I just wrote a story about my undies that included pictures. If I’m gonna tell a story like this on the internet now-a-days, it’s probably best to have some photographic proof.