It was a week before suburbia strangled me, with its Mayfair filtered landscapes that garnished cropped homes and bottles of Domaine Georges & Christophe Roumier Musigny Grand Cru  on Bunko night. It was the week Yoga pants seduced us all with the way they forgivingly stretched to accommodate  an evening spent with too many gas station nachos, the way they move softly with our thighs as if to say, “Hush now, I know it’s Monday and your kids have to be at school at 7:30 A.M. for special projects they signed up to do and following that you must make a trip to the bank, gas station, and grocery store with three preschoolers in tow. Eat that victory doughnut, I got you girl.” It was because of this unwavering assurance that yoga pants began dominating the world, turning all women who dare give in to their siren-like lure of seductive comfort into nihilists who were willing to forsake all meaning in life simply because of wearing these pants that could best resemble the pull of Medusa.



I’m taking a short break from poetry. In fact, I should be finishing up the second book in a series that I haven’t bothered publishing yet. This afternoon, I have decided to table my “to-do” list consisting of scraping oatmeal off of the floor with an ice scraper, prying horse riding helmets out from under the backseat of the Suburban, and scrubbing marker off of the wall. Instead I will be regaling all two readers with a recent tale of woe.

Although I have a Facebook account I generally use it to post pictures of my children, keep in touch with friends from the good ol’ days, and promote my business and writing. I’m not typically one to post every meal I eat or every aspect of my day. But all of that changed one evening when I discovered a unique feature on my app that allowed me to post about the specific book I was reading or movie I was getting ready to watch. Pretty cool, huh?

In all of my excitement I let it be known that I was getting ready to settle in to my lengthy and on-going routine of rocking my two-year old to sleep. I had searched “OnDemand” and found the movie “Titanic”. I was pretty excited about this and I posted about it in a narcissistic attempt to gain ‘likes’ I thought that perhaps my friends would be as well.

All was going great until a ‘friend’ decided to announce Publicly (!) that the boat sinks at the end. Really? Can a girl just binge eat an entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and watch a movie without a spoiler alert?

In the end, it was my bad for posting about it and I still haven’t finished to several hour long cinematic production.

Worry not! I don’t believe everything I read on social media.



I laughed,

because I always laugh

at poorly executed jokes,

and drowned as Armani cologne

soaked. His shirt,

didn’t match.

But I’m not one to judge fashion

or drink too much wine

while he recited facts

Googled–probably while

he was in line at a scummy gas station

buying condoms

as though I wouldn’t

put him out like the orange end of my

Marlboro Red, stuck between lips

then thrown down.

I stomped it with the heel

of my stiletto,

this ensured the flame

was quite



I interrupt my regularly scheduled posts which, as of late, have indulged themselves in the Sci-Fi realm, only to bore you with the bizarre happenings of my day (no, I wasn’t up at 4:00 A.M. digging my car keys out of the dumpster, again). I am very familiar with the sketch of a little boy, navy rain boots and a matching umbrella, standing underneath ae raincloud while the rest of the world soaks up the afternoon sun. On days I have to commute to class, I am in desperate need of an “I Survived” t-shirt. For example, “I Survived Monday” or “Hug Me, I Survived Wednesday”. Particularly on Wednesdays when I have to be at the elementary school at 7:45 A.M. so that my little ones can nurture their creative side via elementary school chorus.

I realize, that to many who work 7:45 A.M. is no big deal. Yeah, add 6 children all with missing shoes at 7:30 A.M. and get back to me on that one. This morning I felt pretty good about myself: I had my wallet, a pen, and my poetry assignment. Yay me! Unfortunately, I forgot my French book. Of course, before I realized that I had forgotten it at home, I had to get out at the carpool line and dig through the sub-crustaceous layer of Mc Donald’s bags and Tae Kwon Do uniforms to ensure it wasn’t merely buried. I didn’t find my book, on the upshot I made .50. This only meant that I, with the already pressing time crunch of dropping off my preschoolers at their babysitter’s house,  had to detour back to mine. As always I looked forward to the 2.5 mile excursion down a connecting road that happens to be a residential area, yep 25 mph. I’m sure that watching a sloth cross a river probably doesn’t take as long as getting stuck behind a car going 15 mph in a 25 mph zone.

Lo and behold, if I didn’t see a splatter on my windshield. But it’s sunny, right? God, nature–call it what you will, saw it fitting to provide me with my own personal raincloud that followed me all the way back to my house.

Just sayin’


I feel as of late I have been writing about some serious subjects. Don’t get me wrong, I do not mind being serious (when I have to and I mean, really, when there’s no other option but to be serious). So, last night on the way home from Wal-Mart, my “tween” was listening to Taylor Swift and I pounded out a fun little parody. So here’s the video from my YouTube account. I hope you all enjoy and remember: I am not responsible for deafness as a  result of my singing and this is what many would consider a low-budget production.

me punching adam

My ex-husband,

and still I wonder how many lady friends lingered

now that his child support and alimony

has reduced him to candlelight and Ramen Noodles.


My ex-husband’s mistresses,

life is not a Harlequin romance and he is not Hugh Hefner.

My ex-mother in law,

I guess I would be a troll too,

if I had nothing better to do

than hang out in my son’s basement

and peek upstairs to yell that the kids are too loud.

The lady who drives the blue minivan in the car rider line,

(keep honkin’, I can’t go any faster than the person in front of me).

People who leave flyers on my car,

if the silver crown appliqué reading, “Tiny Miss” doesn’t clue you in,

the bright yellow, “Baby on Board,” sticker should denote

that my demographic is not interested in attending the

green-laser trance party on Saturday night,

even if you are serving free beer.

The creator of Frozen,

more specifically, the writer of “Let it Go.”

Moms that look at me funny when I climb trees at the park,

let my children keep thinking that we go so that they can play.

The guy who hits on me at my kids’ Tae Kwon Do lessons

“Well, I haven’t seen you around this DoJo before,”

is not an effective pick-up line.

People who steal my chocolate,

my husband,

but only when he tries to steal my chocolate.

“Mom”petitors, I could care less about your 8-yr old’s full scholarship to Yale.

What concerns me?

The glowing green glob of mucus fresh from his nose

that he wiped on my child’s shirt.

The guy who bikes down Deacon road at 8:15 A.M. Monday through Friday

and refuses to stay in the bike rider lane.

That dimple-cheeked momma’s boy

who wears ironed socks and is never wrong,

who will try to make one of my daughters feel as though

she is no better than tiny pieces of dirt stuck on the bottom of his Nike shoes,

I will hunt you down.

and that preppy blonde who will tease one of my sons

and bitch at him because he said her name the wrong way,

as she strolls down a velvet aisle covered in hundred dollar rose petals

and her five-thousand dollar Tadashi dress.

I turn my grimace into a graceful smile,

bite my tounge,

and admire her boquet:


yellow roses.


Wanna see my Duplos?

I gotted them for Christmas,

Santa Claus comes when it snows

because he doesn’t come at ten o’ clock.

Do you want to see my batman cape?

I wore it yestertime,

Mommy washed it.

Batman goes fast

and him fly with his cape.

See my blue crayon?

I have red too.

Look at the wall,

see what I drawed?

I drawed my name:


Want to see my house?

I can showed you it.

This is the potty,

I pee in it and I get M&Ms.

Yestertime I stepped on the white floor monster.

I did not bitted me,

It bitted Mommy because her cries after her steps on it.

These are hats,

there’s two of them.

I wored them on my head outside

and Mommy gotted mad.

You can’t wored them outside

Mommy wored them under her shirt,

She hided them.

This is Gabby,

her’s my sister and hers a baby.

her likes to cry at night

and eat my toys,

her tooked my toys all day,

but it’s okay

her’s just a baby,

her doesn’t understand.


It’s the start of a new month and I think that I have finally figured out how to customize my blog. That needed to happen. If there’s anything difficult to read, aside from my horrid attempts at writing engaging material, let me know as I was not sure about the colors.

After a tedious Sunday morning of trying to get the children ready to go out and about, I slipped on the ice outside and decided that I was simply not that motivated.

I did, however, manage to get called lazy; after making a post about how a woman should never be made to feel as though she should be a domestic slave because her husband or significant other has decided that a “man” shouldn’t do chores, I was chided because how dare I assume that a hard working man should participate in household chores. I mean, I am the one who is home all day long, (except for when I leave at 7:45 A.M. and don’t get home until 6:00 P.M.) but all of those loooooong hours at home should be spent with me in domestic shackles happily dusting and humming show tunes because I have a big, strong man out working hard to take care of me.

…Please? Can we untangle those puppet strings?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that my husband is hard-working; but so am I and there is absolutely no common sense in the idea that because he works he is incapable of changing a diaper or switching out a load of laundry.

It was also asserted that my husband just must come home and do all the work that I have not done that day. If that were true that means that he comes home, bathes all of the children, coordinates their outfits, does their homework with them, swims through the stacks of fundraising slips balled up in their backpacks, wrestles them down to brush their teeth, feeds them breakfast, carpools them to school, does the dishes, drops the younger two off at the babysitter’s, picks the younger kids up from the baby sitter’s, picks the older ones up from school, drives to Tae Kwon Do lessons, wrestles with them to get them dressed and ready, fights with the baby to keep her off of the Tae Kwon Do mat, busses them all back home, cooks them dinner, does more dishes, switches laundry, cleans the floor, and puts away the dishes.

*whew* He does a lot, if anyone sees my husband, please commend him on his ability to hold down a full-time job and manage all of the rest as well.

Some men, and note the word some need to not interject commentary into issues that they simply cannot relate to. In other words, I pity this man’s wife. It really blows to have a husband who objectifies you and treats you as though you have no other abilities but to hum songs from Annie while you get down on your knees and scrub the floor by hand.

Men: You ALL need to realize that some women enjoy household work and others do not take a natural interest in it. We have other talents. This does not mean that we are lazy.


So here I am, Lil’ Ol’ me crunching on a bag of popcorn with extra butter while wearing a pair of navy blue yoga pants and a grey sweatshirt when I come upon an article that informs me, to my astonishment, that soon I could be a hardened criminal in the state of Montana.

Republican David Moore has submitted a bill that will make it illegal to wear yoga pants and speedos in public in the state of Montana on the grounds that it is indecent exposure. I had to smack my hand into my forehead because all these years I have been so confused, I always thought that indecent exposure was the guy with the hairy butt crack sticking out at the local KFC buffet or maybe those young folk who wear their breeches down to the top of their tennis shoes.

I am so relieved to know that there is one state out of fifty that has it so together that it can focus on guiding its citizens through their daily choice of fashion. In fact, I am going to assume that Montana has no homeless population, no poverty, a 0% crime rate…

OMG! We need to move to Montana: Utopia, folks! Right here in our humble clump of land, where one’s biggest preoccupation is, “what am I going to wear today?” and soon that won’t even be a problem because Montana’s government is going to tell us what we should wear.

I just have a few tiny concerns as to how far this law will go; in all fairness, are they going to also be policing the entrances of local Wal-Marts where one can basque amongst myriad offenders? What about string bikinis at swimming pools and lakes? Will one still have the ability to procure a copy of “Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition”?

What if I am caught wearing yoga pants because I am actually participating in a local yoga class? Will I then become an offender? On that point, does the practice of yoga become illegal?

These are incredibly important concerns regarding this law and since the legislature lacks more pressing concerns, I hope that they take the time to clarify these points for all of us folks ready to pack up and move!