Six Years Later

In  2009, I was told to start a blog to help search engine rankings for my website. (The cool people call it SEO.) So I bought this really hip domain name and set out to entertain bored internet surfers around the world with my quick wit and engaging stories. It didn’t last long. Apparently quick wit is too much work for me and I really don’t have that many engaging stories.

For my first blog, I planned to introduce my 14 year old daughter Jamie so I got all painted up to take a selfie of us. (Back in that day we called them “pictures of ourselves”.) After many shots, I finally got just the right angle to make me look beautiful. Unfortunately for Jamie, it was not her best shot. In my defense, she was going through that awkward stage AND really didn’t care that I was starting a blog and wanted a nice photo of us. “That is so loosery Mom”. So I felt justified in not consulting her about the photo choice.

Me and Jamie (Because "Jamie & I" sounds rediculous)Paybacks are a bitch.

Six years later and Jamie is beautiful in even her worst shots. For me, it has become almost impossible to get just that right angle. Jamie says not to worry. “I have mad skills in Photoshop Mom.” Good thing because I hate my neck.


Never buy a bathing suit that comes with instructions.

The tag said that I would look 10 lbs thinner instantly! All I had to do was follow the instructions. Instructions? For a bathing suit? Ok, this couldn’t be too hard.

“Bunch the suit as if you would a pair of pantyhose.”
OK, so far, so good.

“Step into the suit and ease the bottom portion up to your waist”
Got it.

“Bend over and place your arms into the arm holes and over your shoulders.”
This was a bit tricky getting the puppies into their allocated area. But doable.

“Stand up”
Oh, look at that. Maybe 10 lbs thinner. Certainly is snug.

What they don’t say on the instructions is…”
“Be aware that you will have to pee in the pool since there is no way to repeat this process once the suit is wet.”

How long did I struggle in that bathroom? It felt like hours.

A Christmas Story

My daughter was three years old. It was her first year of Sunday School and Christmas was on its way. I picked her up from class and she asked, “You know all about Kristen, right Mom?’

“Who’s Kristen, Honey?”

“You know, from Sunday School.”

“A girl in your class?”

“No, the one who makes leaves and sticks. She lives at the North Pole… or South America. I forget. She has a lot of houses. Her birthday is Christmas.”

“Do you mean Jesus?”

“That’s it — Jesus. Her last name is God, right?’

No more Ms. Nice Guy.

My previous blogs have been safe. I haven’t been political or politically incorrect. I haven’t hurt any feelings or felt bad about anything that I wrote. I’ve been cute, clever and kind. 

Not any more. It’s time to make some enemies. I’m going to start with Academia. For a bunch of smart people, they really have some stupid ideas. In today’s regional Sunday newspaper, there is a three-page article about universities reshaping their mission so the graduates are ready for the work force. 

Really? This is a new idea?

Yup, here’s a quote: “We are determined to provide a relevant education to all students and we’re making sure that we offer programs that are seen as leading more directly to jobs. 

But not everyone agrees. Here’s another quote: “What good is a professional education that trains you for your first job but not for the ones after that.” Hey Einstein, if you can get the first job, you gain real experience and that trains you for the future jobs. If you don’t get that first job there are no future jobs.

 The Princeton Review surveyed students and found that 55% went to college for jobs and income potential. The other 45% just wanted to get an education. Hmm. I sure hope those Moms and Dads have no plans of retiring and moving to a smaller house. There are limited positions for future Academicians.

R.I.P. Oreo

Oreo 2001-2009

My beloved Oreo died suddenly 5 months ago.  It’s been a difficult loss. Losing a pet is never easy. The depth of this grief surprised me. The following is excerpt from Geneen Roth’s blog. Thank you, Geneen. The healing has begun.

“Do not grieve for me. I am in a place where tuna fish juice flows like water, where I can jump like the wind and every place is soft and sunny. If you must, grieve for what you won’t allow yourself to have. Grieve for all the ways you separate yourself from this radiance: from laying down in a patch of sun at two o’ clock on any old day, from knowing you are beloved on the earth.” — Geneen Roth

The Chicken Story

The Chicken

When my daughter was seven years old, she and my husband went to Florida to stay at my in-laws for a week. It was not a good visit. My in-laws had no interest in varying their routine and my daughter was not comfortable in their house and had no idea how to occupy herself. My dear husband was clueless.

Jamie called me many times a day in distress. Food was the main problem. There was never enough or there was food she was not familiar with. One conversation went like this:

“Mom, we’re having something disgusting for dinner. Do I have to eat it?”

“What is it?” (My MIL is an old-school hard-core Italian cook. I’m thinking tripe or pig’s knuckles)

“I don’t know but it’s kinda white with bumps all over it and it’s the grossest thing I have ever seen”

“Put your father on”

“What’s up?” He asks (clueless, as usual, that there is a crisis).

“Jamie is tramatized about the dinner food.”

“The chicken?”


“Yeah, Grandma’s making roasted chicken.”

“Put Jamie on.”

“So I don’t have to eat it, right Mom?”

“Jamie, it’s roasted chicken just like we eat all the time.”

“But your’s isn’t disgusting like that.”

“Honey, mom buys it already cooked from the deli. Grandma is going to cook it herself.”

“Yuck, that’s what it looks like before they cook it? I’m never eating chicken again.”

The New Princess Movie


I hear the rumblings. African-American women are upset. They finally get a black princess and she spends most of her time as a frog. To make the situation even worse, she ends up with a white prince.

I get it. Really I do. But come on ladies. The more important question? Does she have a mother? A dead mother? Does the mother die during the movie? Or is she simply non-existant? I haven’t seen the movie but I’m just *dieing* to know.

The last movie I took my daughter to see was Finding Nemo. I think she was nine at the time. Not only does the mother die on screen but there was some sort of brutal attack by a gang of killer fish. My daughter is scarred for life. She has never been to the movies since. Oh sure, she says its because she hates sitting still for so long but I know the truth. The image of that dead mother fish is burned into her brain. Being in the movie theater brings back the traumatic feelings.

Does anyone know if this new movie is safe for sensitive teens?

We didn’t see Little Mermaid 3 but I understand they go back in time just so we can find about the brutal crushing death of Ariel’s mother.

And Bambi? Was that movie really rated G? Rugrats is rated PG because there are poop jokes. Really? Poop jokes need parental guidance?

I wore pink to the Biker Expo.


Not sure what I was thinking. Guess I wasn’t. There I was… standing amidst a sea of black and chrome and suddenly it occurred to me… pink was a strange color choice to wear to the biker expo.

I expected to be the only one without a tattoo. I even expected to be the only with blond highlights but it never occurred to me that I would be the only one not wearing black. Could have gotten away with navy or brown but nooo… I decide to wear pink. There was one other person there in pink… my daughter.

As we walked proudly past the Hell’s Angels’ recruitment table, I thought to myself, “That’s right, you wear your colors and we’ll wear ours.”

I am such a rebel.

Lottery Losers Might Just Be the Big Winners



New York’s Mega Millions is up to $325 million dollars. So I bought my ticket and then I had a “disagreement” with my husband about how to spend the money.  I felt that $325 million was just too decadant and hoped we wouldn’t win. He thought that was rediculous. But I’m not so sure. Don’t all the big winners get divorced? They buy a big house. The wife has an affair with the pool boy, the husband gets hair plugs and the kids become drug addicts. Right?

There is something about easy money that just brings out the worst in people.  Even the idea of so much easy money caused turmoil in my marriage. We were actually fighting about money we would never win… and we didn’t.