Listen to Your Mothers

Happy Mother’s Day!

I had a truly magical experience yesterday as I took the stage at Town Hall Seattle alongside eleven fabulous, courageous, amazing storytellers. Together we comprised the 2016 Listen to Your Mother Seattle cast and in all honestly, we kicked ass.

Left foot out, chin out, bend at waist. "You'll look totally natural," she said.

Left foot out, chin out, bend at waist. “You’ll look totally natural,” she said.

It was hard to believe that by showtime I had known most of these women for less than 24 hours and yet, I felt the kind of kindred connection I hadn’t experienced since meeting my dorm mates freshman year of college. (A similar amount of booze may have been involved too.) These women made me laugh (oh man, did they) and tear up (more than once.) I can honestly say I am a better mother because of it. It was inspiring to say the least. Everyone’s story was so beautifully told and while all different, we were all connected by one common thread: motherhood. Is there anything  stronger than that? So yeah, when a mother talks, you should definitely listen.

If you have a chance to see a Listen to Your Mother show in your town, do it. Man, woman, mother, father, or child, you will be moved and inspired. You will also see some of the most fabulous footwear in your life.

Best. Mother’s. Day. Ever.



Dum-Dum Alert!

I know this will come as a shock to you and I don’t want you to panic, but there’s an asshat on the internet.

This one comes in the form of that big Dum-Dum*  who thinks maternity leave is a big, fat vacation. I know, I know, didn’t the internet talk about this like days ago? Haven’t way more articulate people ripped into her already? (Yes and yes for example.) Why are we even helping promote her stupid book anyway? 


You know right where that arrow is going.

But I can’t stop thinking about her Dum-Dum remarks. This has to be a publicity stunt by her publisher, right? I mean, no self-respecting woman who came to this Earth by way of a mother could seriously have those antiquated, far-fetched, Trump-like thoughts, could they? WTF does this little Dum-Dum think new moms are doing on maternity leave? Why is it she thinks she deserves in on that action– without the whole “having a baby thing”, of course.

First, a little background in case you managed to avoid this Dum-Dum and the ire of smart, educated, supportive men and women around the world. This dumbass “worked hard” as an editor at a “popular magazine” and was “jealous” when her co-workers with kids “left the office at 6:00 to tend to their children.” Unless this Dum-Dum thinks, “leaving the office to tend to children” is a euphemism for “going to drop loads of discretionary income on a wild night on the town” I’m totally confused by her envy.

But jealous she was and she parlayed her covetousness into a novel and then coined the World’s Most Annoying phrase:  “Meternity leave.”

What the snot sucker is “Meternity Leave,” you ask? Great question. Here’s how the Dum-Dum describes it:

“A sabbatical-like break that allows women and, to a lesser degree, men to shift their focus to the part of their lives that doesn’t revolve around their jobs.”

A sabbatical-like break! NAILED IT! That’s exactly what maternity leave is like! I mean, what the hell do new mothers do with all that free time!

Wait. Maybe she’s right and new moms are totally screwing up this precious time being all stressy and maternal and KEEPING THINGS ALIVE and not shaving their body parts. Let’s see how the dictonary defines a sabbatical:

“Any extended period of leave from one’s customary work, especially for rest, to acquire new skills or training, etc.”


I was definitely granted an extended period of leave (12 weeks) from my customary work. And I definitely acquired some new skills and training. Let’s see, I learned how to function on 2 hours of sleep, dress an 8 pound human in tiny polo shirts and jeggings without breaking his bones, and figured out the best app (of which there are many) to track another living thing’s poop and pee. I was trained in the art of coaxing a magical, life-sustaining elixir out of my body simply by attaching my sore, chaffed, cracked, swollen body parts to a hospital grade, high-speed suction machine at least EIGHT TIMES A DAY. I got to spend hours upon hours with nice doctors, nurses and occupational therapists trying to figure out why my child couldn’t eat like a “normal” baby. Life skills, baby!

Rest? Well, that’s probably not a big part of a sabbatical so we’ll move on.

But wait, maybe she was looking at a different definition of sabbatical. Like maybe this one?

“A period of time during which someone does not work at his or her regular job and is able to rest, travel, do research, etc.”

Oh yeah! That’s more like it! Travel? We did that! Almost daily to the pediatrician’s office and a few times to the nice lady doctor who snipped tongue-ties in her home. Sometimes I even made it to a Weight Watchers meeting.

Research? Did that too! How do I increase my milk supply? Will I ever bond with this tiny human? Will a tongue tie kill my baby??? 

Focused on another part of my life that didn’t relate to my job?” Hells to the yes! Wait, unless my job was caring for a tiny, helpless newborn. In that case, FAIL. But, nope. This Dum-Dum sounds like someone who has never cared for anyone but herself so I’m pretty sure “another part” means something like “doing your nails, learning a new language, taking a cooking class in Portugal.” In that case, NAILED IT again! Damn, Dum-Dum! Are you sure you’re not a mother?

Well, shoot. There’s that rest thing again. Obviously I screwed up my sabbatical– I mean, maternity leave–oopsie again. I mean Meternity leave.

My mom recently asked if I remembered those early days of motherhood. I do, but mostly because of the old pictures stored on my phone. The memories I have aren’t the ones I thought I would cultivate before I had a baby. Quinn was born in July so naturally I had visions of lazy days by the local saltwater pool and sipping coffee on flagstone patios with my unemployed friends. Quinn and I would grow closer in those 12 weeks than we were the 40 weeks and 3 days he occupied space in my belly.

Imagine my surprise when the mere thought of changing his diaper or putting a him down for a nap sent me into an anxiety-ridden inferiority complex.

Every time I hear our neighbors in their backyard I’m taken back to a time in the seemingly darkest part of the night, when I paced back and forth in the living room awkwardly trying to comfort a crying baby back to sleep and not wake Bart who had to get up in a few hours to go to work. I remember having the windows closed even though it was mid-August and hot because god forbid anyone hear the sounds a baby makes. I heard laughter, saw the raising and lowering of plastic martini glasses, smelled cigarettes and barbecue. Life was going on all around me. Talk about envy.

I remember watching a lot of Bravo television. Like a lot. (Which is totally what I would do on a real sabbatical.) I remember sitting in the living room in the middle of the warm, sunny afternoon with the blinds drawn so my neighbors or the lawn guy wouldn’t see my bumbled attempts at nursing or worse, me attached to the breast pump.

I remember being awake at 4 AM and watching Quinn lying on the blanket I picked up at a garage sale for $1, cooing, eyes wide with delight at the new things surrounding him. I remember thinking “this is my life now. This is how it will always be. Upside down and turned around. I want to sleep so bad.”

I remember binge-watching Orange is the New Black with my husband, trying to relax and pretend things were normal again but really we were waiting on pins and needles for the alarm to go off. Every time Quinn woke up, we were sure we’d never get him to sleep again.

I remember really wanting a glass of wine, but the math of trying to figure out when was the exact right time to have alcohol between pumpings and how long I had to drink it was too exhausting. 

I remember wanting to close my eyes, but I dreaded being woken up.

I remember thinking everyone else was way better at this crap than I was. I remember how I used to not care about things like that (see: admitting math is too exhausting) and mad that this bothered me now.

I remember feeling incredibly alone even though my husband was right there and my friends were always on call.

I remember feeling disappointed when my doctor declared me perfectly sane and said all these feelings were “normal.” Sigh…I guess this was just me then.

But it wasn’t just me. I mean, it was and always will be. It was normal and healthy and scary and terrifying and thankfully temporary. But it wasn’t a sabbatical.

So yeah, Dum-Dum, Meternity time sounds like a hoot. Self-reflection up the ying-yang. I do hope that one day Ms. Dum-Dum finds someone willing to procreate with her so she can make her co-workers pureed-pea-green with envy when she clocks out at 6 for some R&R with a newborn. And I really hope she spends her meternity time self-reflecting on the ginormous asshat she once was.


*Edited because when I read this back the word I used to describe her was too mean even for me. So you know, I’m all class, baby.

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

We all know newborns are–shall we say challenged in the art of sleeping through the night. I mean, come on babies! It’s not rocket science. It’s so easy even a baby could do it, right? It’s so easy I could do it in my– well, you get the picture. (Taking candy from a baby is actually much harder than I was lead to believe, however.)

Did you know that toddlers can occasionally mess up this very natural, instinctual body function too? Older does not always mean wiser when it comes to the art of shutting ones eyeholes. 

Blessedly our child is pretty good at this sleep thing (knock on wood, knock on wood so freakin’ hard) which is why I’ll probably never get mad at him for doing terrible future things like flunking biology or stealing nips from Mommy’s clementine vodka.

“Did you eat Mommy’s Weight Watcher chocolate caramel mini bars? Delete an entire season of Southern Charm on the DVR? Put a top rack only platter on the bottom rack of the dishwasher? Did you?! Well, that’s pretty shitty, my child, but at least you still sleep through the night.”

Those days of waking up every 2, 3, if-we-were-lucky-4 hours a night were rough. Ugh, the worst. Dark days, I tell you. We thought they were far behind us, but then this past week happened and reminded us again of why Quinn will be an only child.

Here are just a smattering of the reasons our sweet angel woke us up in the middle of the night last week:

  • He wanted to know what we were doing
  • He needed water
  • His sock monkey fell out of bed
  • He can’t find his mimi (binky) in his bed (because it was in his mouth)
  • The covers fell off of him
  • The covers fell off his sock monkey
  • He doesn’t like his sock monkey
  • He doesn’t like covers
  • His leg itches
  • His other leg itches
  • He can’t find his shadow
  • Mommy left the water cup in his room
  • He wanted to watch Fantastic Mr. Fox
  • It was wake up-time. (It wasn’t. It was 4:33AM)
  • He wanted to know if it was a school night
  • He didn’t wake us up. We woke him up.
Umm, could someone please wake the child so he can wake the parents so they can put me back on the bed and under the covers?

Umm, could someone please wake the child so he can wake the parents so they can put me back on the bed and under the covers?

We didn’t wake him up, for the record. He’s clearly a liar, but for that he won’t get in trouble. So long as he stays asleep.

Trouble on the Tracks

I’m was in Florida visiting my parents accompanying the golden child on his annual spring pilgrimage to see his grandparents. I was there eight days before my dad finally hugged me and said hello.

As per usual protocol when visiting grandparents vegetables are eschewed, bedtime routines are blown off, and hands are forever coated in a sticky, gunky, sugary type substance that resembles  a combination of frosting and maple syrup and most likely is comprised of frosting and maple syrup.

There's calcium in frosting, right?

There’s calcium in frosting, right?

There is also no shortage of rewards and incentives on a typical Grandparent visit.

If you put on your sunscreen you get 38 Paw Patrol books.

If you can show us how to log into Netflix on Mommy’s phone without waking her, you get a 17 pound chocolate bunny.

If you can fit all 826 jelly beans into your mouth-hole without spilling any we’ll take you to Build-a-Bear.

Thus, the weeks post-vacation we enter the “Recalibration Phase” where Bart and I explain that   the completion of basic human functions like brushing teeth and pooping in a diaper instead of a newspaper in the corner does not warrant a reward.

One night on vacation (where the aforementioned things did net a reward) said child received an especially exciting gift. While my mom and I pawed through pawed through merchandise at the Sak’s Fifth Ave outlet (if you like long lines, apathetic dressing room attendants, and cashiers who appear to be too strung out Canadian Sudafed (a.k.a. THE GOOD STUFF) to scan a coupon then this place is for YOU!) my dad whisked the child away to the blessed and strategically placed Toys R’ Us outlet. During my search to find someone to let me into a dressing room, my dad sent videos of the holy child running through aisles packed with toys featuring his most beloved friends from Paw Patrol, Thomas the Train, and Daniel Tiger. There were giant stuffed dinosaurs, plastic construction trucks, and oversized Star Wars dolls action figures. My dad chased after his grandchild like he was the paparazzi chasing a drunk, wardrobe-malfunctioning Jessica Simpson through the streets of Cabo. My mom and I looked at each other and noted how much trouble my dad was going to be in.

“Should we pull the car around to the loading dock?” I asked. “Or do you think they have someone to help get a pallet to the car?”

When we met up again, Quinn was hugging a Thomas Track Master expansion pack containing 47 pieces of shit we’re going to lose three days after we return home.


Seriously I never saw him this excited about anything. It was the same reaction I had about 14 minutes prior when I found a pair of Joe’s skinny cargo jeans for $39.99. SCORE! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY LOOK WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! LET’S GO HOME AND CHANGE OUR PANTS RIGHT NOW!!!

Now, if you know anything about this Thomas racket, you know how there’s 3 different types of tracks and the trains that go with them. Of course the tracks and trains are not compatible with one another. Of course not.  They’re close enough to completely frustrate a child because his train won’t stay on the track although it looks like it should and confuse a grandparent because why the hell would there be THREE DIFFERENT TYPES OF IDENTICAL LOOKING TRACK? But because I’m a Thomas the Train savant, (and I work in marketing and have written my fair share of misleading box copy,) and I have witnessed an abyss-opening tantrum because some asshole copywriter made me think I had purchased something whole and complete only to later find a crucial component was woefully absent, I knew enough to check the fine print to see if this particular product came with at least one train.

“Of course it does!” my dad shouted. “Why wouldn’t it?”

Oh Dad. Have you totally forgotten this whole parenting thing?

“Look, Mommy!” Quinn said. “There’s Gordon and James and Percy and Edward and THOMAS!”

Indeed there they were. Photographed right under the words: ALSO AVAILABLE.

“There is no train in this box.” I hated having to tell them this. It was like when I had to tell my dad scarfing 12 inch Meatball Marinaras seven times a day was not considered the Subway Diet. “He can’t play with this. We don’t have compatible trains.”

“He needs a train,” my dad stage whispered so the kid cradling his new Thomas track wouldn’t overhear us talking about this grave oversight. “He has to play with this.”

“Umm,” I said, looking around. Store clerks were shutting doors. Pretzel makers were pulling in sandwich boards.

“GET HIM A TRAIN RIGHT NOW!” my parents yelled in unison.

The mall closed at 9:00 PM. It was 8:56 PM. Of course Toys R’ Us was at the opposite end of the mall.

“GO!” the grandparents shouted, shoving credit cards and wads of bills in my hands. “GET US A TRAIN!”

Clutching my Saks shopping bag I took off, running past Banana Republic and Calvin Klein and ooooh, Le Crueset. I didn’t know they had one of those here. I would love a good deal on a French oven. But how would I stuff that thing in my suitcase– Oh right! On a mission!

I got to Toys R’ Us with at least 32 seconds to spare. I found the Track Master compatible trains of which they had Percy, Emily, Sampson and James. Hmm…he does like Emily and who doesn’t love that pompous asshole James. No freakin’ idea who this Sampson character is. Can’t really go wrong with Percy, right? He’s Thomas’s best friend. He’s sweet and earnest. And this particular model talks (which I will later regret as I’m still hearing Percy’s “I must deliver the mail ON TIME” affirmations in my dreams.) so it’s the obvious choice, right?

I returned the car where Quinn was misbuckled in his car seat and still clutching the box of track but none the wiser.


It took my mom and I an hour to put that damn expansion track together. 49 minutes of me swigging wine right out of the bottle while throwing plastic pieces around the living room and 11 minutes for my mom to sit calmly and quietly with the instructions and complete the project. Quinn was wildly in love with the track and watching Percy chug up the hill commenting about what a God damn busy engine he was and down the corkscrew hill worrying about getting the mail delivered on time. When it was time to put on his pajamas and do stories Quinn insisted Percy came too. Grandpa laid next to Quinn, shooting the shit, talking about trains and how useful Percy was because he DELIVERED THE MAIl ON TIME. With no track in bed, Quinn improvised and used his Grandpa. Percy chugged over grandpa’s belly, to his shoulders, up the back of his neck to the top of his thinning hair. Percy is a dedicated little engine with a strong desire to please. He is also a battery operated masochist who promptly grabbed each precious strand of my dad’s hair in his spinning wheels and ripped them from the follicles like the wretched, should-be-banned-in-all-states Epilady torture device of the 80’s. (Someday I’ll tell you about my one and only run-in with that bitch and how no hair dares to sprout on my left ankle bone.)

“HELP!” my dad shouted. “MAKE IT STOP!”

Although I was sitting right there and plainly saw Percy gathering and eating hair, and heard my dad call for help for the first time ever in my life it didn’t make sense to me. What was going on? What was my dad asking me to do? Could that be a toy train devouring my father from the noggin down?

Here’s the deal. I’m no good in crisis. Once when we thought Bart had shut Quinn’s finger in the car door, I ran behind our yard waste bin, clasped my hands over my ears, bobbed back and forth and screamed, NO NO NO! until Quinn came outside to ask if I knew where the Pirate’s Booty was. And other times when bad things happen I laugh. I know it’s wrong. My brain tells me it’s not an appropriate response. I want to help. Yet, I laugh. In this case, my response was the latter. I laughed. All the while my dad was yelling to turn the damn thing off!

Oh right. The train!

“I don’t know how to turn it off!” I laughed. This Percy had a different off switch than the Track Masters I was used to and I couldn’t locate it because I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Also my find motor skills were compromised due to laughing so hard.


“I’m trying to find the off switch!”


“Bust my buffers! I’m a really busy engine!”

“SHUT UP, PERCY!” We both yelled.

I finally found the switch but the damage was done. Each of Percy’s wheels were wrapped around my dad’s sparse locks like a tight perm on a roller. Every time I moved the train, I pulled my dad’s hair.

I must get this tuft of hair to Sir Topham Hatt on time.

I must get this tuft of hair to Sir Topham Hatt on time. Chug Chug!

“MOM!” I yelled. “We need help!”

And because I get my caring, compassionate nature from my mother, she basically told us to eff off, she was busy playing Words with Friends and she hates April Fool’s Day.

“It’s not a joke!” I laugh-yelled, thinking what an awesome joke it would have been. Her refusal to help make things even funnier. I mean, I could see her sitting at the dining room table like 16 feet away, punching letters into her iPad.


“Seriously, Mom, we need you!” Oh this was too much. I was doubled over, busting a gut and dislocating my shoulder because every time my arm moved, my dad winced in more pain. Finally the two year-old sought and received help. The little Lassie-in-training ran straight to Grandma Juju and demanded she put down her iPad and come help his Gekky.

“Oh fine,” she complied. “But this better be good.”

“Hold Percy right here,” I said, putting her hand firmly next to my dad’s almost scalped scalp. “Be right back!”

Quinn threw his arms around his grandpa and started whimpering.

I returned seconds later with my phone and began snapping photos for this year’s Shutterfly retrospective. Naturally. This is why you should never ask me to be your emergency contact. Or your partner on Naked and Afraid for that matter. While you’re pulling maggots out of your butt crack, I’ll be Instagraming that shit.


I did this for you, people.

Once satisfied with my photo documentary, I resumed the task of untangling my dad’s precious strands from Percy’s determined wheels. It was an effort in futility which my mom recognized immediately. Quinn was sobbing and clinging to my father’s neck and of course that made me feel terrible. I’m not a total monster. I laughed harder.

“Mommy’s not really crying,” I tried to explain. “I’m laughing so hard tears are coming out.”


“Oh! Mommy just peed a little!” I told Quinn. “See? Funny, funny!”

My mom returned with scissors. She would make a wonderful Naked and Afraid partner if it didn’t involve being naked. Or afraid.

“Move,” she directed and got to work.

Percy was freed seconds later. My dad was relived. Quinn stopped crying. Facebook got an earful.

For a minute I thought Percy’s fate was sealed. He was the train who hurt Gekky. He would be cast off, banished to the Rubbermaid bin of misfit toys along with slip proof baby kneepads and Touchy Feely Elmolester. But the next day the great debacle was all but a distant memory. My dad combed his hair in such a way the shoring was barely evident and Percy was back to DELIVERING THE MAIL ON TIME. We were just sitting down to coffee and homemade biscuits when Quinn approached his grandfather, Percy in hand. My dad’s face paled a bit when he saw the little engine that could pluck a bitch coming towards him.

“Gekky?” Quinn asked. “Can you get the hair out of Percy’s wheels please? It’s gross.”

Train Toupees now available! Trains sold separately. Duh. Everyone knows that.

Train Toupees now available! Trains sold separately.

I mean rude, right? Leaving your hair all tangled up in a train’s wheels?


*Quinn’s nickname for my dad. No one knows why.






Harvest of the Peeps

Tis the season when we welcome back the Peeps. The real Peeps. Not the pumpkin Peeps or the Christmas tree Peeps. And god no, not the Peeps Nog that made me vomit a little behind the day old bread display at Safeway. Even my pallet is more refined than that.

How is this twice anything? Math is hard.

I don’t get it. How is this twice anything? Math is hard.

We keep it real in my family. I won’t name names, but there are two of us (my dad and I) with really good taste (and exceptional wit and freakishly strong legs) who love Peeps. What’s that you say? Peeps are gross? WRONG! You probably hate candy corn too, don’t you? (WRONG AGAIN!) But Peeps are divisive. I get it. They’re like the Gweneth Paltrow of delicious marshmallow seasonL confections. If you hate Peeps I am sad for you because clearly there was a noticeable void in your upbringing: You never learned the proper way to consume one.

But fear not. It’s never too late to learn. I’m re-posting an excerpt from The Harvest of the Peeps entry. Consider this a Public Service Announcement.

The Harvest of the Peeps

In my family we have many traditions but very few rival the tradition I share with the only other person who appreciates peeps as much as I do—my father. I grew up hearing my mother saying, “You are your father’s child.” I’m not sure if that was ever in question or if it’s meant to be some sort of endearment or maybe even an insult. There’s no denying my dad and I look alike. We have the same sense of humor, same “riiiiiiiiight, that’s what you think smirk,” same legs (is that weirder for him or for me?) and same philosophy of practically knighting the people in our lives we adore and putting the others through some sort of Jack Bauer-esqe mental decapitation trial before declaring them trite and unworthy like a discarded kitten toy shoved under the sofa. Fortunately those people are few and far between.

Our other similarity is we are both Peep aficionados and will agree there is only one kind of Peep: The Yellow Chick. Stop with the pink bunnies and green trees and orange pumpkins. Who’s running the product development department over there? Lucky the Leprechaun? My dad and I are old school. It’s all about the yellow chick and more importantly, the little chick’s head. As in, it’s always the first to go. It’s just so darn…bitable.

I remember a freezing spring day in college (it was upstate NY hence the freezing Spring) when a package arrived from my parents. Inside was the usual random array of lipstick castoffs from Estee Lauders latest free gift with purchase, cocktail napkins with funny expressions printed on them like “Put your big girl panties on and deal with it,” a spatula, pair of earrings, Reese’s peanut butter eggs, Cadbury Cream Eggs, black jelly beans—all from Mom and a 10-pack of yellow Peeps from Dad.

“Ew!” My roommate squealed. “Why are your parents sending you damaged candy? Couldn’t they wait until the day after Easter if they wanted a discount?”

She didn’t get what so many others don’t. What she was referring to was the knife slit across the top of the Peeps packaging. That was no accident, I explained. My dad was harvesting the Peeps. It was damn near the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

It takes one connoisseur to another to understand this delicate process. You can’t just bust open a package of Peeps and go at them. No! Peeps need to mature. They need to acquire just the right amount of staleness in order to achieve greatness. It’s a delicate balance and one that weighs heavily on instinct. When you’ve had a properly harvested Peep, you know it. And it will change your life. My dad was saving me the time and effort of harvesting my own Peeps. They were primed and ready. Prêt-à-Porte Peeps.

This year my Peeps arrived from Florida where my parents spend the winter. The harvest had begun early but alas, when the Peeps arrived there were two problems. Not to be an ingrate, but my much-anticipated package of 10 only had 9 Peeps in it. When I brought it up to my dad he had an interesting theory.

“The Peep flew the coop,” he said matter of fact. “Perhaps he flew South somewhere over Missouri?”

“Well his friends sure do miss him. I just can’t believe he’d up and leave like that.”

“It happens,” he said. “There’s a bad egg in every bunch.”

The second problem was the Peeps were nowhere near ready for consumption. My dad was shocked, as he had started the harvesting days before the Peeps went in the mail. We blame the humidity of Florida for a slow harvest. I wonder if anyone in Florida has had a properly harvested Peep. Probably not and that makes me sad.

The Peeps are currently residing on my desk at work where I check their progress every morning like a kindergartener checking on her mummified apple project. My co-workers claim to hate Peeps but yet they seem very interested in the status report.

“Soon, Grasshoppers,” I say. “Soon we shall harvest.”

So I implore you, fine people of the internet, to give the Peeps a second look when you see them surrounding you in the aisles this season. Reserve your judgment and your snide remarks. Why not give the harvest the chance? And remember to keep it real. The best Peep is a yellow Peep. Unless you’re decorating a cake in which case anything goes.

Happy Easter!

I shall call this: Peeps in the Garden

I shall call this: Peeps in the Garden

Listen to ME!

Mom's always right. You know that!

Mom’s always right. You know that!

This may be the most exciting thing to happen to me since I discovered pretzel M&Ms were only 4 Weight Watchers points.

Listen to your Mother is a national show featuring live readings from fabulous women about motherhood. This is the second year it’s in Seattle (thank you, Jennifer and Jill!) and this year I GET TO BE IN THE CAST.

You guys, if you know me at all you know this is right up my ally. I live for this stuff. Stage. Audience. Reading. Surrounded by fabulous women writers and mothers? Umm, yes, please. I’m in. All in. I could not be more excited to be part of this event and incredibly grateful to Jennifer and Jill for inviting me to participate. It is going to be a great show. You need to come and bring your favorite moms.

Check out the announcement here.


Back to Reality

Well actually that’s a lie. I haven’t gone back to reality. I’ve gone away from it. The Bachelor is over and has left me rudderless in reality TV land. I have withdrawal. It’s Monday and I should be about 1,100 words deep in a Bachelor recap and wondering how I’m going to cull all that stuff and nonsense down to 500 words. I should be all bitter and angry listening to my husband brush his teeth because I know that means he’s about 4 minutes away from falling asleep with an iPad on his chest. I should be pondering why attractive women in their 20’s think acid wash mom jean cut offs are an attractive look. No f’ing way. Ladies, camel toe is not a gynecological miracle. It’s a perfectly preventable eye sore, not to mention really freakin’ uncomfortable. Pull that shit out of there and put on a  pair of skorts for goodness sake!

But alas, The Bachelor is over so Mother Rose Best is on hiatus. While focused on the love lives of delusion strangers, I feel like I missed out on a whole crop of important news and therefore missed sharing it with you. You were out there in the real world without important bits of knowledge clouding your frontal lobes. Rob Kardashian lost like 50 pounds. The Spiralizer is tearing up the Amazon sales charts. The deadline to enter the Peeps diorama contest is THURSDAY! DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH TIME?! I am sorry I let you down. Allow me to catch you up on some very worthy bits and product updates you might have missed:

Washi Tape: So this article would imply that washi tape has been around since 2012. Hooey, I say. No way would this crafting-for-non-crafters tool have existed for 4 years without me knowing about it. Where has it been all my life? Not sure, but I know it’s available in that amazing mini-dollar store found at the entrance of Target. Get some. I can’t stop taping things.


Go from drap to fab with 11 inches of tape!

Go from drap to fab with 11 inches of tape!

Gweneth Paltrow: Oh Gwennie. Why do you want people to hate you? She rocked a really terrible body suit that made her look like a ingenue with a “no nudity” claus in her contract en route to her first sex scene. Not a compliment, in case you’re wondering.

She looks like Barbie. For real. Barbie without clothes.

She looks like Barbie. For real. Barbie without clothes.

Gwennie also made news because of her alleged $200 breakfast smoothie. Come on, people. She only wants the best for you.

My Birthday: It was February 1st. It was a Monday so I got to scarf down dinner, read to my kid, watch The Bachelor and stay up until 2AM cutting 1,428 words out of my recap. Also, I got this card from my mommy:

Shelly, why are you the way you are? Oh. Never mind.

Shelly, why are you the way you are? Oh. Okay. Got it. 

Right? Fabulous. Love you, Mommy!

Good News: I got some really great news that I’m super excited about but I can’t say anything yet. So, umm, there’s that.

Can’t Dance: I also can’t dance anymore. No, I didn’t break anything. No, not doctor’s orders. No, not method acting for a Footloose audition. My son, a.k.a Boss Baby has decreed that Mommy is not allowed to dance.

Thomas and Friends theme song begins to play. Mommy gets up and dances. As usual.

“No, Mommy. Just me.”

Child puts hand up like a crossing guard halting a Volvo at a crosswalk before resuming dancing like the whitest boy at a wedding.

“Those are my moves!” says Mommy. “And I love this song!”


Mommy vacillates between acting like Joan Crawford discovering a wire hanger and every teenaged girl who ever watched Julia Roberts die in Steel Magnolias.

“Fine,” Mommy concedes. “But I got news for you, kid. I AM funny. You’ll see. Or rather your friends will when I burp the entire Thomas and Friends theme song at your 6th birthday party. BAM! 

Spaghetti Squash: It’s amazing. Try this recipe. Also, get a Spiralizer.

All Good Things

…must come to an end.


I’m going to miss writing these Bachelor recaps.

But, but, I love them both! Can't I have two rings, Mr. Lane?

But, but, I love them both! Can’t I have two rings, Mr. Lane?

You’ve got to check out the final installment of Mother Rose Best, Fools of Engagement, if for no other reason than to see the awesome Chris Harrison GIF the editors unearthed. It’s pretty fabulous.

Many thanks to the ladies of In the Powder Room for allowing me to crash the stalls once a week. What pure joy they are to work with.

Cheers to another match made in Reality TV heaven, where the booze flows and annulments are doled out like shots of penicillin. I’m sure it took me longer to write this post than for Bachelor Ben to realize he should have picked Bachelorette #2. Oh well. There’s always next season.

How many seasons is too many season? Asking for a friend.

How many seasons is too many season? Asking for a friend.


Mother Rose Best, Week 9

Remember this girl?

Sit and spin, bitches!

Sit and spin, bitches!

Spoiler alert! She’s still in the running to be America’s Next– oops! Wrong show. But yeah, she’s still in the running to be Bachelor Ben Higgins’ ex-fiance. Which is great because she’s helping today’s children become better citizens of tomorrow. How, you ask? Clearly you have not been reading Mother Rose Best. You best giddy-on-up over to In the Powder Room and check out the latest, Jamaican of a Marriage, right now. Why? Because I’m the mother, that’s why! And clean your room while you’re at it.


Be Offended

Facebook offers some really fun insights on pages you manage. For instance, after I posted the link for the latest Mother Rose Best, “Putting the Ho in Hometown“, 4 people either hid that post, hid ALL posts, reported me as Spam or unlike my page. Damn! Four?

What? Don’t hide me, my friends. Why do I offend? You’ll have to read it and and report back.