The Internet thinks I have a drinking problem.

I have recently discovered that the internet thinks I have a drinking problem. It all started when I was browsing my suggested books list on Amazon one day. Once you buy and rate enough books through the site, Amazon starts recommending other books you might like. Pretty sweet, right? Yeah, not so much. You see, while I was scrolling down through the list, I started to see a pattern to their recommendations. What was that pattern, you ask? That Amazon thinks I am an alcoholic.

The books Amazon recommended where 12-step AA books with titles like, “Learning to let go, one drop at a time” and “Drinking won’t cure the sads”. These are made-up titles, of course, but you get the drift. SO not cool, Amazon! What are you trying to imply? Just because I pop bottles like models and enjoy me a good box of wine every day now and then, doesn’t mean I have a problem. I can quit any time I want. Like right now. Or maybe tomorrow, today has been pretty tough. Actually, next week is much better for my schedule…

I figured out that because I was reading a bunch of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, both of whom share an affection/affliction for alcohol, Amazon assumed that I was drinking like a successful writer. HA! I wish. I can’t even drink like a moderately successful copywriter, let alone keep up with the likes of those amazing two fuckers. Anyway. I thought that this was maybe just a silly mistake until last night, when my phone told me I was a shitty drunk…

While I was upstairs cooking dinner with girlfriends, I went to text my husband and his buddy, who were downstairs doing whatever men do when they are alone in a room full of power tools, that dinner was ready. As I typed in the “di” in “dinner”, my phone automatically prompted to help me by spelling out “DUI”. Um, what the fuck, Siri? Not only am I an alcoholic, but now I am such an asshole that I would actually get drunk and DRIVE!?! Me thinks not. Ever. Siri, you toothless whore, I know you are after me, what with your blatant autocorrect fails and shitty directions, but this has gone too far. This means war, you electronic slut. Bring it.

Needless to say, after all of these baseless accusations of alcoholism, I need a drink…


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Children's Books That Blow

I love me a good children's book. I could read Giraffe's Can't Dance and The Pout Pout Fish a million times. But not all children's books are created equally. No, some children's book make me want to punch the author in the neck just for writing such an asshole-y book. Such as: 

Goodnight Gorilla.
Dude, if I wanted to make up a story, I wouldn't have bought a book. There are like 25 words total in the whole book. The rest you have to explain. Often times to a child who knows the word, "Why?" Ain’t nobody got time for that. Even worse than Goodnight Gorilla? This one: Tuesday by David Wiesner. Seriously, I need words after a long day of work and momming. Help a mutha out, will ya!?!

I'll love you forever.
"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living
my baby you'll be."

Adorable, right? Not so much. Why?

"Because that little boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was a grown-up man. He left home and got a house across town. But sometimes on dark nights the mother got into her car and drove across town. If all the lights in her son's house were out, she opened his bedroom window, crawled across the floor, and looked up over the side of his bed. If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth."

Yes, the overall "chorus" of this book is cute, but the lady fucking breaks into her grown son's house, sneaks into his bedroom, takes him out of his bed and rocks his ass to sleep. Hell-to-the-no you crazy old bat. I am calling the cops. Then I am calling ADT to install a new security system and then I am welding bars on my bedroom window. Stay the flock out, you old coot, I mean mom. Shivers.

Guess how much I love you.
"I love you right up to the MOON," Little Nutbrown Hare said, and closed his eyes.

"Oh, that's far," said Big Nutbrown Hare. "That is very, very far."

Big Nutbrown Hare settled Little Nutbrown Hare into his bed of leaves. He leaned over and kissed him good night.

Then he lay down close by and whispered with a smile, "I love you right up to the moon - AND BACK."

Man, that dad is a one-upping mother fucker. Every time his kid tries to tell him how much he loves him, the dad has to say it the exact same way but just a little better. He even waits until his son is asleep so he can one-up him and Little Butbrown Hare can’t fight back. Asshole.

 Fox in Sox.
“When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles...
...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.”

Dude, seriously? Fuck you. I can't even get this nonsense to make sense in my head, let alone have it make sense when it comes out of my mouth.

Anything by Walt Disney.
Dude, stop putting it into my kids that their parents might die and that we will leave them alone with the worst relative we can possible find. Seriously. Just stop.

These are just a few of the children's books that make my eye twitch. What are some of yours?

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

How do you love me? Let me count the ways…

I have never been a girl who wants her man to show affection by buying her shiny things. Every time one of my ghosts of boyfriends past bought me some piece of fancy, shiny jewelry I would just think, “Wow, this guy doesn't know me at all."

Ain’t no shame in love that is bought by the carat, but I’m with the kind of girl who falls head over heels when her husband gets on Etsy and buys her a necklace that reminds her of her brother who she lost.

Instead of, “My man loves me this many carats,” I prefer, “My loves me love me this many shitty diapers.” My husband loves me so much he emptied the dishwasher and trashcan without me nagging. He loves me so much he spent an extended stay at my parents house and didn't complain once. He loves me so much he watch the kids so I could go on a girls weekend.

Roses die, chocolate just makes my chubby ass even chubbier and where the hell am I going to where a fancy pair of diamond studs? I prefer more humble displays of affection, like giving me a second opinion on whether this mole looks funny to you, or rubbing my crusty, non-manicured feet while I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

If I came home to a house lit with candles, chilled champagne and Barry White, I would ask my husband who the hell he was expecting and immediately set out to seek vengeance on the tramp. But if I came home to a house where a frozen pizza was already in the oven, a load of laundry was spinning in the washer and the kids were happily entertained watching an episode of that terrible little bastard, Caillou, I would jump my husband’s bones the minute those kids hit the sack. Or not. It’s been a really long day and mama's tired…

But I guess Marilyn Monroe wouldn't have been as famous had she sang, “Cleaning up my cat's puke is a girl's best friend."


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So long, five second rule

Let me start this whole post off by saying that I am about as far from a germaphobe as you can get. I have eaten “found” Skittles off a dorm community room floor, tinkled in many a porta-potty and raised two kids past the age of two. I have seen, smelled and touched things no man should ever have to see, smell or touch. But when my babies were babies, I was a tad more sensitive.

Now, did I hose every person that dared entered the breathing space of my precious babies down with hand sanitizer and offer them a respiratory mask? No. But I was more cautious than I am now, where I often see my kids chewing on mystery items they have “won” from the couch cushions.

Back in the good ol’ days, when I was wrangling screaming infants, a dropped paci could result in both me and my baby losing our ever-loving’ schmidt. But nowadays, there is a new sheriff in sanitation town: Bert & Bratt, a portable sterilizer developed by two moms that instantly de-icks your baby’s goods.

DUDE! Where were you ladies back in 2009 when I was scalding myself with hot water to clean my daughter’s pacifier while she made all of Target think I was torturing her in the bathroom?!?!

Anyway. The Bert & Bratt sterilizer is ridiculously easy to use, super cute and small enough to fit in your diaper bag (all things that these moms totally get are important). Just take your baby’s paci, sippy cup top or small teether, toss it in the opening, close it, hit the start button and BOOM: four minutes later your have a germ-free way to talk your tot out of embarrassing you in public.

Paci placement

Let the light show begin

Dude, it is so tiny and cute and weighs NOTHING!

And the best part? The ladies at Bert & Bratt are so awesome they even want to offer one of you a free sterilizer! Just enter below and I will draw one of you lucky duckies to have one of these beauties for your very own!

a Rafflecopter giveaway
 
This post was sponsored by Bert & Bratt but you Boozehounds know I would NEVAH EVAH subject you to anything I didn't think was amazeballs on my own. For realzies. 

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An end to a tragic tale.

Today I face the demon that I have been fighting since April 23, 2012 head-on. I will look my brother's murderer in the face today when he pleas to a mere 25 years for taking my brothers life of just 43 years.

I miss you, brother.

So today I need your help.

First, I need you to keep my family in your thoughts and prayers today. We will need them.

Second, I need you to help others who will face the same things that I have by donating to the Crime Victim Advocacy Center. The Crime Victim Advocacy Center is an amazing agency filled with even more amazing people. They spend their time helping people who have been victims of violent crimes, sexual assault and domestic violence, just to name a few.

The Crime Victim Advocacy Center has helped me in ways that I can never repay in the last year and a half. They have provided me with incredible counseling services, advocates to help me navigate the murky waters of the legal system and countless other priceless services--all for free. Without the help that the Crime Victim Advocacy Center has provided me, I am not sure that I would be here today.

So please, help the Crime Victim Advocacy Center help others like me. You can donate here.

Thank you!

The Sally Struthers of PTSD


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Losing your parental shit.

 We all lose our shit as parents now and then. As documented by this most awesome video blast from the past:

 

Your know what that mom is? Normal. Not a terrible mother who made her sweet, innocent little boy cry and ruined his entire life, but just an everyday, normal mom.

We all lose our shit every now and then when it comes to our kids. This lady was just unfortunate enough to have it documented on video and honest enough to share it with the world. Goof for her!

Watching this and appalled by this mom’s actions? Girl, please. You have either been blessed with the patience of a saint or enough medication to be oblivious to all outside annoyances. Kudos to you either way, but give us regular ol’ mamas a friggin’ break. We need it. Along with a box of wine and a truckload of chocolate. Because we can’t all be perfect. Though we try our damnedest every day thanks to the pressure we feel from you wondermoms.

My idea of perfect is being able to do my best and not beat up on myself for falling short every now and then. Because my kids don’t need to see their mom struggling to live up to someone else’s expectations of her. They need to see her stumble every now and then. They need to see her make mistakes. They need to see her apologize for her actions when she does something wrong. They need to see her being real. Because perfection is not reality and I don’t want them to believe that it is.

 My children know that I am the best mom that I can be and that I love them more than anything in the world. They know that I would kill a tiger with my bare hands for them. They know that I would sacrifice my life in a heartbeat if it meant savings one of theirs.

So losing my shit on them every once in a while? Not the end of the world. Neither is giving them a Happy Meal when I am too exhausted to cook. Or plopping them in front of the TV for an hour because I have to get things done around the house.

Moral of the story: try be the best mom you can be. Not the best mom in the world. Everyone will be happier in the long run.

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If OBGYNs were brutally honest

I recently watched this video and snort-laughed the whole way through it. It is beyond a winner. Take a look and see all of the glorious funny it has to offer:



HIGHlarious, right? Well if got me to thinking of a few more things that would be funny if your OB was brutally honest about, like:

There's a chance that once the baby comes out all the puppy dog rainbows feelings you were eagerly awaiting won't happen. You might actually look at your kid and say, "Fuck, I have to pay for this thing's college?"

Pooping for the first time after delivery will be like giving birth all over again: painful, a struggle to push out and blood will most likely be involved.

If you breastfeed, there's a good chance your nipples are going to feel like they were attacked by a group of angry pirhanas. And that's the positive note. Let's not even go into milk duct infections that will make it feel like an infected watermelon is trying to escape out of something the size of a pinhole.

And if you decide not to breastfeed, when your milk comes in your hooters are going to get the size of cantaloupes and then hurt more than anything you've ever experienced in your life. They are going to make pushing that watermelon out of your lady bits feel like a joyous Christmas morning.

Just looking at the guy who knocked you up for the first few weeks after birth might induce rage strokes. The mere sight of his stupid fucking face might make you want to punch a kitten. Repeatedly.

Postpartum sex for him is going to feel a lot like throwing a golf ball down a hallway.

Postpartum sex for you is going to feel a lot like throwing a razorwire covered bowling ball into a mouse hole.

But the good news is: all of the horror stories you have heard about birth might not happen to you at all. Including the ones you have just read. Good luck!


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A blast from The Quiet Contemplator's very gassy past..

Thought I would share one of my favorite videos of The Quiet Contemplator as a baby. She takes after her mama... Enjoy.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.