The Day Yoga Pants Ate My Life


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.
Continue reading → The Day Yoga Pants Ate My Life

Rain Cloud


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’

My Debut Video Parody (Or, Why I Never Made it Big in Nashville)


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.

So-So Social: Genuine Conversation is Refreshing


Despite my love of writing, which I do not often have oppurtunities to indulge in as I find myself occupied digging large holes in the sand looking for pirate treasure, being tossed and twirled on carnival rides, and failing miserably at arts and crafts (who could have guessed that “Neon” paint is not the same thing as “Glow- in- the-Dark paint?), I am not what many would consider “social” and have a tendency to be cynical most of the time. In fact, the typical “in person” chat with me can be downright awkward.

In the last article I described the new business that I had begun. I’m not going to lie, I actually have not made money at it yet. I am still ordering business cards and such for times when I am out and about. Per usual, I cannot rely on the Facebook crowd either; consequently this forces my hand. I must be social.

I panic when I know that I have to address strangers in general. Today, however, restored my faith in people and what it means to be truly genuine and candid. I had numerous errands to run because I am the type of gal who waits until the day before a major event (i.e. my oldest daughter’s 12th Birthday party) to buy everything I need. First stop was The Dollar Tree and as we left the store my 10-year old son began fighting with my 7-year old son over $1.00. As the quarrel intensified, I began (in my best growling, motherly voice) to reprimand the two.

At that moment a middle-aged lady getting into her car said,”Oh honey, I had three myself and they are 35, 30, and 28 now. I just lost a Grand-baby two weeks ago.” The lady was nearly in tears so I gave her a big hug and she told me to, “Just keep enjoying those babies, but also keep being firm with them.” She gave my boys another $1.00 (usually I wouldn’t allow it, but letting her do this cheered her up) and went on her way with a smile.

After a grueling, 2-hour montage of Michael’s, The Sweet Factory, Party City, and Home Depot (don’t ask), guess where we found ourselves; Wal-Mart.

Were you really that surprised?

While in the parking lot, one of my sons began to run through the spaces as a lady driving a green Expedition pulled in. I hollered at my son to stop and the lady also stopped. When she exited her car she came up saying, “I saw him, I was stopping.” I told her I had saw that but was afraid my son would just keep going. She continued,”I had little ones myself. Not as many as this though, they can’t possible be all yours.” When I told her that they were, she too gave me a big hug. We talked for a good while and she continued into Wal-Mart.

Finally able to drive home, I realized that even more valuable than my bottom-line, was realizing in this world, there remain strangers that are genuinely good and I don’t feel as afraid to strike up the occasional conversation with another person.

Perhaps genuine and candid conversation with complete strangers should be celebrated more than  monetary success.

–Just sayin’

When It’s Too Quiet Around the House


Today is one of those cloudy days. The type of day where, even though it wasn’t planned out, I wish I were soaking in the salty ocean waters, watching the kids dig for sea shells and clams, and shooing off the seagulls who fly closely overhead determined to make my cheesy hot dog theirs. Okay, well maybe not shooing off seagulls (by the way, those guys can get pretty mean).


It’s one of those days where I felt more tired than usual and a bit lost. My husband, being the stellar person he is, undertook the task of wrangling 6 screaming, bored children to Wal-Mart and I’m here, alone.

In an unprecedented occurrence, I walked down the stairs without nearly breaking my leg on a small piece of Lego and after writing the piece about relishing my children as babies, I began thinking about the day when they all grow older and move out the house. They’ll have careers, families, or both.

Would I sound as mad as the Hatter to say that I might just keep the Hot Wheels and Legos and place them on the stairs and down the hallway to recreate the chaos that I would no longer find myself living day to day?

Perhaps, as I mentioned the other day, my oldest daughter is nearing twelve and my oldest son turned ten a few months back. I was thinking about the day outside my Grandma’s porch when she began screaming the shrill screams of a toddler who just saw a boogie-man. Her large brown eyes widened as her face turned from red to purple and I watched in horror as Grandma started laughing.

“She saw her shadow,” Grandma said.

I will reiterate that while I enjoy every stage of my children, I love the innocence and freshness of a toddlerhood. It is only in their wide-eyed imaginations that unicorns can poop Hershey bars and fart rainbows, it is only in the voice of my “Threenager” that I can piece together a stream of consciousness fit for a toddler, and it is only in their untainted and beautiful minds that a shadow could be scary or piling into a cardboard box and riding it down the stairs serve as an altogether safe pass time.

Admittedly, I was very uptight (and even that is an understatement) with my first two children; everything had to be perfect: birthdays, holidays, clothing, hair, and development.I worried so much that many times I failed to loosen up and just have fun.

By the time I gave birth to my third child, a curly-haired, blue-eyed little girl I was wondering if the local looney-bin had any openings. Luckily, I loosened up and realized that them little ones are more durable than I thought.

My motto quickly became: If nobody is hurting anybody else or themselves then what’s the problem?

Now, I find myself just as excited as the kiddies to go through the Krispy Kreme line, or watch the latest Pixar movie, or even to go on kiddie rides and slides at theme parks (some of which I have been kicked out of for being too big). I don’t find myself worrying to much about the dishes. They’re not going anywhere, trust me, I’ve let them alone for quite some time and they’ve never moved. The clutter? It doesn’t go anywhere either.

The realization that I have come to is that my babies aren’t picky eaters they are simply training as food critics, they’re not stubborn they are opinionated, and all the screaming (??) what of it? They are merely exercising their little lungs on the off chance that they might one day be invited to sing on Broadway or perform at Carnegie Hall.

The most important realization is that when the house is quiet like it is now and I find myself with ample time write without a baby sliding across the keyboard or a fight over which color of Angry Bird someone gets to be this time is that while all the clutter and dishes aren’t leaving anytime soon, my children are. They leave for school, summer camp, and one of these days they will leave home forever.

People I Want to Punch (a list poem)

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.

Once Upon a Time in Suburbia: Because Winter


Once upon a time in suburbia came an evening of bitter cold; and even through the screams of my threenager which were shrill enough to crack the ice cubes in my 7-11 Big Gulp full of Mountain Dew, I was able to hear the sharp fingers of the trees tap against the not so extraordinary insulated siding of our humble home which is strangely reminiscent of a dwelling one might come across while sitting in front of his or her plasma television, eating a Big Mac, and watching a rerun of “Three’s Company.”

My glistening yellow snuggie proved fallible that evening, as I watched small bumps rise up on my arm reinforcing what I already knew to be true: I was, indeed, cold (the fact that I was indulging in a triple chocolate Magnum bar may or may not have acted as a contributor to my current state of misery).

Panicked, I hastened to my thermostat. The temperature was already set to 70*. My dilemma seemed impossible:

crank ‘er up one more degree or suffer?

I could feel beads of moisture rising on my forehead as plainly as I could feel the dollars coming out of my checking account as I turned the temperature up not one degree, but two.

I spent the remainder of my evening drooling over Ian Sommerhalder with no shirt on while simultaneously indulging in a bag of Lay’s potato chips and French union dip balancing my checkbook and reworking my budget.

The End.