Doctor’s Orders.

It’s Friday night, which means it’s time for Virtual Happy Hour! My children are glued to glowing screens and my husband just ran to the store because I have PMS and want to drink chocolate syrup directly from the bottle.


This thing holds 25 OUNCES. Thank you for my favorite glass, Kate!

This thing holds 25 OUNCES. Thank you for my favorite glass, Kate!

If I was a true professional with professional-grade tools, I would have edited out my facial blemishes. But I’m not a professional, nor am I a responsible adult, so I’m just going to sit here with my enormous glass of wine and zitty face and chill.

Today I downed two cups of coffee, went to Zumba, came home, logged onto Facebook … and saw my napping body plastered all over social media. That was jolting. Modern Mommy Madness made the list AGAIN! Now the whole nation will know the miracle of Napilates.

To all of the tired women everywhere: just lie down. As long as you have your workout wear on, it’s all good. You’re totally working out, it just looks like you’re not. If someone wakes you, tell them to HUSH. You’re EXERCISING.

In other news, Robbie has high blood pressure. This comes as no surprise, as I have witnessed him consume more vegetables in the past 6 months than he consumed in our entire 12-year relationship. Even still, it’s upsetting. I married a man two years younger than me. I didn’t sign up for hypertension.

I called and made him a doctor’s appointment, because what I may lack in bedside manner I make up for in pragmatism. I nervously waited for him to come home, to hear the awful truth of his situation. He walked in with a very serious look on his face.

“Well?? What did the doctor say?” I asked nervously.

He took a deep breath. I waited.

“She told me the only thing that will make me better is to get more blow jobs from my wife.”

I immediately said it was time for Napilates.

Disgruntled Gypsy.

Last Friday night, Robbie took me on a date …

Wait for it …

That he arranged all by himself. My husband is awesome about doing that on occasion. I am very lucky in that respect, but unfortunately for him, I am not the date I used to be. At all.

On this particular night, I was exhausted and emotional and not very much fun. I tried to rally. I was there, wearing real clothes, standing upright. We had dinner, went to see Guns N’ Roses and Metallica cover bands, and didn’t get home until after midnight.

On the surface, it appears that I rocked that shit. But I think we all know better.

20150109_204111 1. My toddler bit me on the shoulder twice this week. If you look closely, you can see the bruises. If that’s not sexy, I don’t know what is.

2. Since I was going to be in a classic rock-type situation, I tried to channel Gemma from Sons of Anarchy. I quickly realized that I lack the leather, the attitude, and the body type, so I went with disgruntled gypsy instead.

20150109_225543 3. Despite the fact that I constantly tell myself I’m not out of touch, every time I leave my house and go to a place outside of my corner of suburbia, I am slapped in the face with the fact that I AM OUT OF TOUCH. I haven’t seen the inside of a collegiate music venue in so long that I got all weird and made Robbie retrieve the free draft beer because I didn’t want to have to ask the bartender for my free draft beer. “It feels rude,” I told him. When he hesitated, I made my disgruntled gypsy face.

4. Youths make me nervous. I don’t know if it’s because they draw attention to the fact that I’m yawning every 5 minutes (they aren’t), or because I’m bitter that I’ll be up at 6:00 a.m. with small children (they aren’t). When one got near me, I scooted closer to Robbie, but not too close, because …

5. I am officially at the point where I can’t even muster energy for sexy time on date night if I’m tired. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. Up until this point, I could be the tiredest I’d ever been, but if it was date night, it also meant sexy time. Those days are now over. What used to be “the tiredest I’d ever been” is now my normal resting state. My “tired” has taken on a new level. See #6 for details.

6. Apparently, when I’m as tired as I was last Friday, I get weepy and weird and even though I try really hard not to talk about our children (because, date night), I JUST CAN’T HELP IT. I ended up bringing up a stressful topic involving one of the kids and working myself up over it on the one occasion that I didn’t need to think about it. Because that was clearly the sensible thing to do.

7. When a girl ran onstage and flashed the audience, I gasped in horror. She escaped the security man and popped back up later. I kept thinking about her mother. This is how I know I’m not the date I used to be, because I stood there thinking, if my daughter ever pulled a stunt like that and I heard about it, I would be equal parts mortified and concerned and OMGWHATWOULDIDO?!

8. Metallica, and their cover bands, terrify me.

9. Head-banging terrifies me. Brains should not be shaken like that.

By the time I got home,  I just wanted to put on my adult-sized fleece onesie, take out my contacts, and insert my earplugs. Which is exactly what I did.

Don’t judge me … you don’t want to see my disgruntled gypsy side.


Axl Rose impersonator, in his underwear.



This is why I fell in love with my husband, and why, despite all the things he does that irk the SHIT out of me, I still fall in love with him every day.

We don’t agree on every issue. We bicker. A lot. There’s a lot of eye-rolling. Even so, sometimes I step back and look at what we have been through in the past few years, and I’m really proud of what we have managed to overcome without completely falling apart.

According to the Meyers-Briggs personality test, we are opposites in every way (except that we’re both extroverts).  The things I may have found fascinating about him in the beginning of our relationship, before kids, now sometimes make me want to rip his face off.

But … this.

Back when I thought tanning beds were a good idea and we met while working at the grocery store on the corner of Perkins and Essen, I saw glimmers of what you see in this picture and I just knew. What makes us work, with all our individual and joint flaws, is the love that underscores everything we do.

Obviously there are things that make living with another person easier, like compatibility, disposable income, lack of family drama and overall health. But my belief is, when you strip away all the fancy words and put away the self-help books, LOVE IS REALLY ALL YOU NEED.

I can’t wait until I have the time and emotional energy to write about the long and painful road I traveled on my quest to find a husband, which ended when I finally gave up and said eff this shit.

And then, I found him.

I didn’t marry this man for money or power or because we were raised in the same religion and that is what you’re supposed to do.

I married him for love, and I’d do it again and again.

A Lode Of Honesty.

Oh, boy.

Let me preface this by saying, please don’t go any further if you are my mother, my grandmother, my mother-in-law (oops, too late) or anyone else who may be offended by inappropriate language and/or knowing about my naked body. Although, if that is the case, is this really the website for you?

(It is not.)

But for everyone else, HI! THIS IS A REALLY BIG DAY FOR ME! One of my essays got published on Mamalode, and I’m super proud of myself — but also cringing a little on the inside. If you read it, you’ll see why.


Some people have asked me, “Why are you writing such personal things?” Well … I really don’t know. I have a deep well of stories that just need to come out. I don’t really put a lot of thought into the why, I just know what I must do, and what I must do is write. I have so many things to tell. So, so many.

Just wait.

(Want to read my essay? Click here to check it out!)

Just Shut Up & Hold My Hand.

This morning I totally lost my temper in a crazy kind of way that I’d like to just pretend never happened.

Watch out

Sometimes … a lot of times … everything just bubbles up and it’s all too much. Women carry around a lot of things, you know. Robbie has learned not to say “Why are you so stressed out?” because he knows I’ll sit him down in a chair and TELL HIM WHY.

That terrifies my husband, the idea of being held captive as all the worries rain down upon him. It’s not because he is emotionally incapable of listening, or can’t handle being there for me. It’s because he can’t fix any of my problems. He can’t make Thanksgiving go away. He can’t make our kids sleep or travel well. He can’t make my hormones level out.

He can’t bake the cookies we’re supposed to bring to Alabama on Wednesday, because he knows they wouldn’t turn out right. He can’t fix the bathroom light or deal with the yard right now, because he needs to be at work. He can’t stop tracking dirt through the house, because THAT IS WHAT HE MUST DO.

He can’t guarantee that we will win the lottery or that I won’t scar our children for life or that they will maintain their virginity until they are very mature adults. Robbie can’t do anything except love me and tell me it’s going to be okay, even though both of us know that he doesn’t know that for certain. We hope it will be okay. We hope things will work out. We hope no one breaks an arm or floods the house.

All married people can do, I’ve realized, is hold hands and face life together with hope.

So far, it’s working out okay.

We’re Meant For Each Other.

I have a lot of new readers!

HELLO. I LOVE YOU. YES, ALREADY. I’m sorry if that scares you, but I really believe that when you know, you know.

I just have to share a few things with you today, and I numbered them so it’s easier for you to skim over because I know you have a lot of other things you probably “should” be doing right now. But you aren’t. You’re with me instead. See? Don’t fight it … we’re meant for each other.

1. Last night, Robbie happened to mention during a conversation that he “puts banana peels down the garbage disposal sometimes.” Is this normal? Have any of you done this? I was flabbergasted.

2. My aunt gave me this sign, and I can’t decide where to hang it. I stand in my kitchen wishing for this EXACT CONCOCTION on a daily basis, but if I put it up in a visible location, will people who happen to see it (i.e. my neighbors, the pest control man, random play date moms who I haven’t decided for certain if I like or not) think I’m an unfit mother?


3. Do I care if anyone thinks I’m an unfit mother?

4. Pepper (17 months) now hits and bites, which started this week. She sidled up behind me when I was standing in the kitchen wishing for a mocha-vodka-xanax-latte, and chomped down on the back of my thigh. The backs of my legs appear to be the most abused part of my body, because between bruises and varicose veins they are straight up blue.


Yes. I admit it. I took a selfie of my child smacking me in the face.

5. I’m boarding an airplane in the morning ALONE to go see one of my dearest friends and I absolutely can’t wait. But also, flying makes me so nervous since I had kids. The last time I flew, I had like 3 glasses of wine. My flight leaves at 8:30 a.m. so I’m considering mimosas. That’s classy, right?

6. Do I care about being classy?


P.S. Make sure to “like” my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, blah blah blah.



If you are easily offended by adult language, stop reading now because I’m going to say fuck.

I don’t use the F-word aloud very often because it’s unladylike and I wasn’t raised that way. When I was pregnant with my firstborn I told Robbie that I was worried he would say bad words around our kids on accident, and asked him could he please work on his language? Little did I know I would one day be a stay-at-home mom to three children and find myself fighting back F-bombs on the daily. Sometimes, no other word will do. Ah … irony. We meet again.

Sometimes people who have never met me feel like they know me because they read my blog or my articles online, and expect me to be a certain way. Then we meet, and they’re like “Oh.” I’m not that funny, angry, or even smart in person. I’m a calm, mild-mannered Southern girl who has to tamp down her emotions while she’s parenting, and all of that energy has to go somewhere. So I write it out. If I felt like it was acceptable to verbalize my every feeling, such as telling my kids I hate meal times in this house,” or, “You are annoying the shit out of me right now,” I might not have as much angst to channel through my writing.

Robbie’s last day in the car business was Thursday. He started out as a car salesman at a dealership in Birmingham, AL when Maverick was small, and I was still working at State Farm. I got pregnant with Asher and continued working full-time until he was born. Then, all of the sudden, I was a stay-at-home mom to a three-year-old and a very colicky newborn with a husband that worked 12-hour days. It. Was. Hell.

I remember tearfully telling him I couldn’t go on like this, and he agreed that we needed more help. We moved back to Baton Rouge, our hometown, and he got a job as a salesman at a huge dealership.

He quickly got a reputation as someone who could SELL. I got pregnant with Penelope when Asher was 12 months old, and all the while Robbie was working every holiday (except Christmas and Thanksgiving), every Saturday, and 12-hour days minimum. Pepper was born in June 2013, and Robbie was promoted the next day to Finance Manager. He continued working like he’d been, and I kept on doing what I’d been doing. We were surviving. We were making it work. But it was insanity.

I was grateful to be home with the kids, so I didn’t want to complain … but it was so hard. I kept telling myself it was a season, and all seasons eventually come to an end, right?

And suddenly, it did.

Robbie is now working at the business my grandpa started in 1950, and I don’t think it’s actually hit me yet that he will be home for dinner tonight. We have this entire weekend free! Two consecutive days! This is all new to us.

Here’s what he looked like last night when he got home from his last day. I thought he’d look happier, but I think he was too tired to put effort into it.

20140731_183212-1Yesterday morning before he left for his last day of work at the dealership, he said, “This is weird, it’s my last day and I’m not sure how I should feel.”

I stopped in my tracks and said, “I’LL TELL YOU HOW I FEEL. I feel like I could walk in there with you and do this.”


A job is a job and I’m grateful that we somehow made it through that impossible few years, but parenting alone all the time? What we’ve been doing?! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK THAT.

Carry on.