As I am typing this, I am in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. I am about to embark upon the rarest of adventures… A night on the town without my children. I am determined to write my blog this evening and get it out on time, even if my makeup suffers the consequences. I was a day late putting it up last week, and as I have learned from my dieting history, if I start letting things slide they will quickly turn into out of control Wilde-beasts rampaging through the cupboards and submitting things late left and right.

As I was getting ready this evening, twirling (the clumsy version) in front of my husband, and asking his opinion on my outfit, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I have a real shirt on, I’m not wearing yoga pants, and thus far I have no stains on my clothing. And not to toot my own horn or anything (but, toot toot!) I am wearing makeup and jewelry, which is practically unheard of.

Then I happened to wander past a mirror.

The discrepancy between the way I think I look and the way I actually look is alarming to say the least. It truly frightens me that I can be so delusional because it makes me feel as if I’m losing my mental capacity as well as my looks. Here I am, prancing around, thinking I look like my college self, and when I prance past the mirror I am jarred into the reality that I am, in fact, thousands of pounds heavier than I feel and a million years older. As I was gazing mournfully in the mirror, I came to a horrible realization… The way I look now when I’m all dolled up is the way I used to look when I had a really bad hangover in college. Right down to the puffy bags under my eyes.

I have been telling myself since the birth of my youngest (three years ago), that I’m just tired and I’m not getting enough sleep and if I could just get a couple of extra hours I would look like a million dollars.

I got ten hours of sleep last night and guess what, this is just how I look now!!! I am mystified.

I don’t think of myself as being particularly old, I am certainly youthful and vibrant in my own mind, so what’s with my face and body deciding to age??? I am sincerely angry about it. How dare they betray me this way?!? Especially considering the amount of money and I spend on face creams, devices, wrinkle eliminators, and sunscreen trying to keep my face looking like it’s former self.

It’s nights like these, when I’m caught in a spiral of “my body is dying all around me” thoughts and visions of myself using a walker and having purple granny hair that I am grateful for the unrelenting advances of my husband.

This man cannot let me bend over to pick something up from the floor without trying to grab my butt… And when someone treats you like some sort of sex object all the time, you can’t help but feel at least a little sexy on occasion.

For instance, when I marched out of the bathroom this evening and said to him, “You said I looked great! I look like a sister wife!!!” he calmly replied, “Well, you do… But you are a SEXY sister wife.”

Well, hopefully this made sense and contains no typos because I am leaving it as it is, much like its author, in all of it’s imperfect glory, because I will NOT be more than five minutes late for my girl’s night out.

Have a wonderful week everyone!!!

The Dirty Mouths of Babes

So, I detonated the dream bomb last week… After all of my freaking out and paper bag breathing, everything was okay, nobody pointed an laughed at me (at least not publicly), and you were all so sweet and supportive about it I wanted to cry. I didn’t though, which I feel is a step in the right direction considering my proclivity for unnecessary waterworks.

In case you’re wondering, the update is that I need to have 4-5 minutes of material ready for my open mic debut. Holy hell!!! I’m a talker, as everyone knows, but that just seems like a daunting amount of material to prepare… Freaking out again? No, not yet, but trust me I will be soon. I’ll occasionally update you all on this stuff, and until then rest assured that I will be entertaining (???) you with my semi-coherent ramblings about whatever pops into my little brain.


This week it has become painfully obvious that my children love to curse (in our house this includes the words “fart”, “shut up”, “stupid”, and many other staples of childhood humor). They love it more than anything in the world. If they had to choose between the lives of their beloved stuffed animals (which have all been named, imbued with sparkling personalities, and dubbed their “children”), and never uttering another curse word, they would choose cursing without hesitation.

I can’t explain it. I have absolutely no idea why they derive so much satisfaction from using the “forbidden” words they know shock and humiliate their mother. I don’t roam around my house like some sort of deranged sailor (that’s my husband, haha), dropping f-bombs like socks out of the laundry basket. Is that even a saying or did I just show my frump again? I know that most kids end up saying a naughty word at some point, much to the horror/ashamed amusement of their parents, but this is something else… This isn’t casual experimentation with language… This is… Gleeful.

I am by no means saying that my kids curse all the time. They don’t at all. What I am saying is that when they do, they enjoy it. Those kids savor curse words like I savor five minutes of peace and quiet.

Why?!? Why do they love it so much?!? Is it because they are 1/2 sailor on their father’s side? Is it in their DNA? Do they somehow sense that once upon a time I, too, thoroughly enjoyed peppering my sentences with those four-letter gems when my mother wasn’t around? Sorry Mom, but I did. I, at least, had the decency to wait until she wasn’t around.

Lord knows I have curbed my tongue since having children to a painful degree, and I feel my self control should have earned from my girls at least some modicum of shame when they pop off with a swear. I mean, seriously, nobody wants to scream, “Cheese and crackers!!!” when they stub their toe. Nothing takes the pain away like a well-placed cuss word.

So you might be asking yourself how I came to this horrid conclusion in the first place. The sad answer would be that when my kids accidentally cuss, they don’t gasp in horror nor do they even look guilty. They glance slyly at one another and burst out laughing. They laugh their little guts out. They literally hold their sides, roll around on the ground, and chortle until they can barely breathe. It is beyond appalling.

Each time it happens, I lecture, reason, beg, put them in time out, take away their dessert, tell them their Grandparents would be horrified, or take away toys, and nothing seems to make it any less funny. I am at my wit’s end (apparently it is quite a long wit because I have been teetering on its end for quite some time now). In fact, I get the distinct impression that punishment adds to the mystique and hilarity of cursing. This has led me to ponder the obvious… The unthinkable… The punishment that must not be named…


When I cussed as a child (when I got caught anyway, haha), that is exactly what happened to me. And everyone else my age. I will never forget the taste of that blue Dawn from the bottle. It tasted so wretched it had to have cleaned every word that came out of my mouth for at least a month. I have to say, it worked like a charm. I only remember ever having to taste that soap one time.

So the question is… Could I? Should I? Do I dare apply this punishment to my babies?

Uh… No.

I just can’t do it. I don’t have it in me. I can’t imagine putting soap into one of their tiny little mouths. I mean, they kiss me with those mouths. That’s not to say that I think it’s wrong to do… I mean, I got soap in the mouth and look how great I turned out! I’m just saying I’m a weenie.

So, for now, I will have to comfort myself with time outs, lengthy lectures on decorum, and the saying “therapy helps, but screaming obscenities is faster and cheaper.”

That being said, I am seriously considering shipping them off to the Cuss Control Academy. It’s a real thing, look it up.

Hope you all have a wonderful week filled with fun and laughter that is not induced by saying words you know you shouldn’t.

Detonation Complete

Well, it’s that time of the week again… Time to neglect my household duties for who knows how long, let the things that need to be done around here scream at me as I pointedly ignore them, and type my little fingers to the bone.

I must admit that I have been absolutely dreading this week’s blog. I feel like what I’m about to do is the emotional equivalent of showing you all my horrible naked body or something. I would never do that to you, don’t worry… After all, you wouldn’t be able to read my blog if you went blind. Or mad. Or both.

So, here I go, about to detonate my dream bomb and then sift through the wreckage of my possible mortification. Incidentally, I felt I had been using the word “humiliation” too much and thus looked it up in the thesaurus… Mortification has sort of a ring to it, don’t you think?

I know I am drawing this out to a ridiculous length, but really, I’m super nervous, cut me some slack!!!


The thing I have always dreamed about doing that I am going to just go for, try, possibly fall on my face in public, can’t wait to do (yet it makes me nauseous to think about), and that could forever be a source of embarrassment for me is…

I sincerely hope it lives up to the hype, but I realize that the more I hype it the less likely that is… Especially when several of the guesses of my loved ones were much more interesting and important. Things such as going into politics, writing a book, or trying to become the next Taylor Swift (Can you tell I’m stalling? No, of course not, I feel like I’m being pretty subtle).

Anyway, my dream is:

Stand up comedy.

Ridiculous? I know. Crazy? Most likely. But I’m doing it anyway.

I realize it’s kind of a strange thing for a chubby stay at home mother of two to dream of doing, but I can’t help it. I realize this next sentence is the cheesiest thing anyone has ever written, but I feel it in my heart. I have been obsessed with comedy ever since I can remember. I have been rolling this around in my head, picturing it, and okay, I’ll admit it, secretly writing comedy bits in a notebook labeled “MANDY ONLY!!!” for years.

Side note, the strangest thing about the notebook (aside from it’s existence) is that a notebook labeled “MANDY ONLY” has somehow managed to acquire an alarming amount of children’s drawings in it… Ah well, as long as the kids don’t read my crazy ramblings and tell their father that he is fodder for my comedic barbs I can’t object too much.

So it’s out there now… My poor little dreams are just shivering in the cold without the safety of their secrecy clothes.

I thought maybe you all would like to see the journey so I’m going to write about it. Not every blog mind you, cause that would get boring. But the culmination of this journey (God, I’m making it sound like I’m taking the ring to Mordor or something) is going to be me performing at an open mic night in Billings and posting the video for you guys to watch. They have one every Wednesday and the date I am shooting for is April 4th… I need to give myself time to prepare, but I don’t want to set it out there too far into the future or I may chicken out. Actually I’m feeling a little chicken-y right now….

Eeeeeeeeeeek!!! I’m freaking out!!!

But I think that’s a good thing.