Happy, Calm, Focused (aka My Middle Names)

If I had the mental capacity to make coherent sentences come out of my mouth and the desire to wear something other than leggings and old maternity shirts, I might apply for a job outside of our home. And, if I applied for a job outside of our home, and had to describe myself in three words on my job application, I’d probably choose “happy, calm and focused.”

Hahahahahaha. Jk Jk.

Hahahahahaha. Jk Jk.

Okay. So, maybe not. But, that’s why I was so glad when my girl Kathy asked me to try out a bottle of Happy, Calm, Focused; a super sweet supplement with vitamins, minerals and amino acids to help energy, mood, focus and so much more!

Alright. First things first I’m the realest, let’s get the cons out of the way. I’m a bad-news-first kind of person.

Bad News 1: Kathy sent me a 90 count bottle and I was instructed to take three capsules once a day. That means one $40 bottle lasts for 30 days. Now, that’s every so slightly rich for my blood. Especially if I’m planning on taking this for more than one month. But, then if I’m all happy and calm and focused for a solid month, am I really going to let $40 stop me from being happy, calm and focused for another month?! (I mean, yeah, probably.)

Bad News 2: The capsules themselves are intended for small elephants or large cows, I’m pretty sure. I gagged many a morning trying to get these suckers down. I never barfed so I guess that’s a win?

And that’s all I have for bad news! That’s a good sign, right?!

Good News 1: There are no jittery, sleepy, headachey feelings associated with this supplement. No gas, either. Something we can all be thankful for.

Good News 2: It’s about to get really real up in here. I started my month long HCF journey on antidepressants and using food as a way to cope with anxiety. I am now completely med-free and have developed several more healthy and helpful ways to cope with anxiety. Also, my anxiety is at an all time low! Now, I’ve had a lot of personal breakthrough during this time and, while I can’t completely and without doubt attribute that to HCF, it’s enough to make me want to continue trying the supplement (even if it is $40 a month).

So, overall, I give HCF a thumbs up. And, if you can weasel an Amazon gift card from someone, I’d give HCF two thumbs up. Check it out on Amazon for more details!

Is This a Paper Cut or Am I Dying?

One thing I love in this world is tattling on myself so, please, excuse me while I shake my tattle tail for a minute or twelve.

I am, what they call, a hypochondriac; a person who is abnormally anxious about their health. Or, as Mayo Clinic (one of my bffs) puts it, one who suffers from hypochondria has an “obsession with the idea of having a serious but undiagnosed medical condition.”

Yes, Jesus. I gots all of the undiagnosed medical conditions. Every last one.



I had outrageous and ungodly heartburn two weeks ago and got my affairs in order. I was coming home, Jesus. After Googling, Web MD-ing, Mayo Clinic-ing and rando hippie health blog-ing, it was determined (by me and my Internet Search Bar Doctorate degree) that I was on my way to the heavens above via cardiac arrest. My heart was done with this world and going to seize it’s way right through the Pearly Gates. I called my mom, my husband, Oprah, Tom Cruise. Everybody. I had to say goodbye. My time on the earth had come to and end. After I alerted the media and prepared my eulogy (to be read by William Shatner to the music of Eye of the Tiger, fyi), I realized I was, in fact, not having a heart attack but wicked heartburn courtesy of some Louisiana hot sauce. Yeah. But it COULD have been a heart attack.

My husband, every time I announce my latest ailment.

My husband, every time I announce my latest ailment.

In addition to the numerous heart attacks, I’ve had about 875 brain aneurysms. In fact, every time I have a headache with a noticeable point of origin, it’s a bulging blood vessel in my brain waiting for the most inopportune time to strike. Strike me right the freak down to my grave. My OB showed me a trick to relieve pulsating pain in my head by pressing on my temples a certain way. That usually works. But, when it doesn’t, it’s an aneurysm. I just know it.

Twenty-nine years of life have brought me not only heart attacks and aneurysms but hernias, diastasis recti, ulcers, stomach cancer, glaucoma and 5,000 other eye conditions, arthritis, Lupus, blood clotting disorders, cervical cancer, elephantitis, Mad Cow Disease, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, dysentery, malaria, smallpox, male pattern baldness, the bubonic plague (we had fleas for a while; you NEVER know!), Stay Puff Marshmallow Man disease (I had to invent something to diagnose myself with that time), ADD, ADHD, anxiety, depression, bipolar, Amy Poehler, Kohler, lint roller. All of that. All. Of. The. Diseases. Both known and yet unknown. All.

Me, pregnant with our first. Couldn't have been the pizza. Had to be a diagnosable disease.

Me, pregnant with our first. Couldn’t have been the pizza. Had to be a diagnosable disease.

But, they say this is a condition all it’s own. The preoccupation with disease and self-diagnosis. It’s hypochondria. And I am a walking case study.

And I feel like the Internet gets me because I Google my symptoms and Dr. Google’s all, “Well, it could be a popcorn kernel stuck between two teeth OR you have mouth cancer and you’ll be dead by morning.” Google’s like, “Let’s be practical, but, let’s also be irrational and monger some fear!” You know. Just like me. Practical and insane all at the same time.

So, at the moment, I am professionally diagnosed with nothing. For now. But, wherever there are symptoms, there also shall I be making mountains out of molehills and turning canker sores into cancer.

In conclusion, I need a tranquilizer.

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

I Like Bold Leggings and I Cannot Lie

If you were a citizen of the Internet a few months ago (coulda been longer-I don’t know-I have no concept of time), you, no doubt, saw the world abuzz over one woman’s decision to put an end to her wild legging-wearing days. The blog post itself was whatever but it had the Internet like…


I respect Girlfriend’s right to not wear leggings. I care not with what she clothes herself and it’s funny to me that the earth shed a tear over her rather tame post. However, mama likey the leggings. Listen. I get what you’re saying No-Leggings-Girl (NLG, as I call her). But, yeah. I’m on that leggings game like ev-er-y-day.

No mom on the corner got swagger like us.

No mom on the corner got swagger like us.

(Before things get cray, I get that people were miffed that NLG made it sound like women are responsible for men’s self control. We’re not and that’s gross but I also don’t think that’s what she meant. I don’t know. At least, I hope not.)


As I was saying, I like leggings. Mmm. Love, actually.

FullSizeRender (1)

Okay. I only wear leggings these days. Yes. This is my life. I wear ridiculously patterned leggings with crazy leopard shoes and long, flowy shirts. I am dressed and ready to roll into my southern Florida assisted living home at a moment’s notice.

Being the peach that she is, my friend Mary sent me my newest pair of bold skin paint  leggings in addition to a sweet oversized tunic and floral skirt from her LuLaRoe collection.

My grandma keeps asking me if they're painted on. I keep telling her they're tats. Full leg tats.

My grandma keeps asking me if they’re painted on. I keep telling her they’re tats. Full leg tats.

FullSizeRender (2)

Me and these leggings are basically bff because they don’t play favorites with the rollercoaster of widths contained on my legs. It is patient with my generous thighs and the gentle hug of an old friend to my baby flamingo ankles. Why I have these traffic-cone-turned-upside-down legs is a mystery to me but LuLaRoe is here and isn’t asking any questions. She accepts me the way the good Lord made me.

Try not to be distracted by my sassy Latina midriff and take a little peek at my leggins.

Try not to be distracted by my sassy Latina midriff and take a little peek at my leggings.

The oversized tunic is a medium so don’t go crazy when you order from LR. When I say “oversized”, I am, for once in the history of this blog and my time on this earth, not exaggerating. And that angel sweetie little skirt has a wide folding waist band so you can control the length to some degree. When I get a real waist again, I will be wearing this skirt much more often. All three pieces are also mind-boggingly soft and will make your other leggings (if you haven’t sworn them off) feel like sandpaper.

So, if you’re like me and love patterns and colors tattooed to your legs, contact m’lady Mary on her Facebook page and see what she has in store! I bet even No-Leggings-Girl would break her leggings fast for Mary. *wink wink*

Please click this. I'm on like, page 9,000 or something.

Please click this. I’m on like, page 9,000 or something.

Lawn Gnomes and Cycling Parrots

What. The. Fresh cut grass.

So, I’m driving down the road and come to this house I’ve passed plenty of times. These people either run a home daycare or have 1,000 children of their own because they have a whole metal swing set museum in their front yard. Not beautiful, in my opinion, but also, not my house. In other words, you do you.


I pass by today expecting to see nothing more than the usual rusted metal extravaganza, and, what do I see, but a wind sock thing. Of a parrot. On a bike. Wearing a sombrero.

I have a few questions, if I may.

1) What.

2) WHAT. No, seriously. What?!

3) Where does one even purchase such an item? I don’t go to Walmart very often but I have not been seeing some sombrero-wearing bike-pedaling parrot windmill thingy.

4) And who thought of this? I wish I could have been at that round table.

“Okay. Listen up, people. Our vinyl windmill sales are down. We need something new. Something fresh. Something NOW. Who’s got it? Brian? Let’s see what you’ve got there. A Mexican parrot on a bike?! GENIUS! Pack your bags, Brian. You’re moving to the 12th floor!”

5) Then, you, homeowner. Upon gazing over your playground graveyard, what made you go with the parrot? Obviously, the deepest landscaping places of your heart were unsettled, still, and you longed for that ONE decorative lawn ornament to bring it all together. Why this particular piece? Why not a gnome? Or one of those glass ball things that people have (seriously, wth even are those)? Or the wooden cutout that looks like an old ladies big round hind parts digging in the garden? Shoot. I would have even gone fake deer or oak tree face over the parrot.

A PARROT. On a bicycle. Wearing a sombrero.



But, hey. Different yard strokes for different yard folks. Parrot Guy may drive by our house and be like, “Why would they keep their yard so naked? So without? So unadorned?!” We’re more of the “grass and plants” yard type and not so much the “every trinket under the sun” kind, but, that’s just us. Not asking anyone to change who they are.

We used to be the “giant mud pit surrounded by dandelions” kind of folk but we’ve come a long way. Who knows. Maybe one day we’ll have our own Mexican parrot on a bike. My husband’s Mexican so we could call it “getting in touch with our heritage”. You know. Because I’ve heard bike riding parrots are big over there.

Anyway, I hope the parrot playground people are at peace when they swing on their rusted sets and the parrot’s little windmill bike wheels flap in that warm summer breeze. I also hope they have up to date tetanus shots.

*Should anyone be interested in their own cycling parrot, here’s the link I found. And, if you buy one, I need pictures of it in your yard IMMEDIATELY.

I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.

The Eight Types of Facebook Friends

Listen. We all fit into one (or eight) of the categories. Acceptance is the first step.

1) The Proud Mom

“My five week old little Princess Rainbowsparkle just walked across the room! Trust me. I’d MUCH rather have her meet her milestones at the significantly slower rate of her peers but she’s a go-getter just like her mommy! #oneproudmama #princessrainbowsparkle #fiveweeksold #advanced #harvardherewecome”

Be serious. If you’re a mom (or dad or aunt or grandma or creepy distant relative), you’ve posted a baby brag or 12 at one point or another. I have! (Although, I stopped having things to brag about after Monkey learned how to walk. #underachievers #teamnomilestones) But, let’s get even more serious. Before you post that picture of your four month old squatting on/falling into the potty, ask yourself a few questions;

  1. “Is anyone going to see this picture on their news feed and say, ‘Yes! YES! I am so glad he/she/it/they posted this picture! I needed this!”
  2. “Would I post a picture of myself taking a big ol’ steamy dump on Facebook?”

No? Well, okay, then.

2) He Who Must Not Name Names

“Some people just don’t know the meaning of friendship. You know who you are and you know what you did and, from now on, Imma do me. #notimeforhaters #shakeitoff”

#what #vaguebookingatitsfinest

Let’s talk about this one. What’s the goal, here? What’s your end game? Obviously, you want the “you know who you are” person to see your nameless rant so that they may be virtually cut (hopefully not actually cut. No cutting.), right? Or is it to get everyone fishing for more details while pretending to offer condolences? Because, honesty time. As soon as I see a vague Facebook post, it could be about literal, actual nothing, I get a deep and burning pain in the social media file in my brain until I have all the details. I NEED ANSWERS, YOU FACEBOOK VOLDEMORT.

3) Facebook Vigilante

Oh, thank the good Lord above for sending us the Facebook Vigilantes of the world! Saving humanity one offensive Facebook debate at a time! Count on these social media super heroes every time there is a controversial bill being proposed, racial tension, national tragedy, large weather system or breaking celebrity news. On slow news days, you may even see them get down and dirty over things all you common non-vigilante drones would consider “not important” or “certainly not something to get worked up over” or “stupid”. But, that’s on you! Because justice doesn’t rest! Especially not on Facebook! Would you ask Batman to let the Joker Glasgow-smile everyone willy nilly? Would you accept Spider Man simply working hard at the Daily Bugle while the Lizard goes ham on the people of NYC? Would you allow Superman to stop…uh…superman-ing? Nope. NOPE. Let these powerhouses serve the people with their (often bitter) rants without judgment (and annoyance) from you!

Sorry. Can't talk right now. Busy superman-ing.

Sorry. Can’t talk right now. Busy superman-ing.

4) The No Show

Why are you even on Facebook, bro? You don’t post anything. You don’t comment on anything. You don’t respond to anything. I sent you an invite like, 30 years ago and, look at that, no response! Now, I’m gonna have to pick up my phone and email you the invitation because Lord knows I’m not even trying to actually call you (or anyone, ever). And, let me tell you, that better garner a response because, if it doesn’t, I gotsta haul my act all the way over to the mailbox to physically MAIL you an invitation. That’s like, paper, pens, envelopes, stamps, FINDING YOUR ADDRESS. No. You know what? Nevermind. You’re not invited.

Disclaimer: My husband is a serial No Show. He sucks at social media real bad. The only reason he gets invited to things is because he lives with a social media addict. And the only reason he still has Facebook is because he can’t figure out how to delete it.

5) The Sales(wo)man


But, also, #cantstop #wontstop.

Errbody selling something. If this bothers you, you may just need to move the freak on in your social media journey. I say this not as one with a home business but as one that just knows this is life, bro. This is where we are right now. If the seller is a good friend, give their posts a like or two here and there. If the seller is a “friend” you haven’t seen or spoken to in 15 years and they post about their business more than E!Online posts about Kimye, maybe just hide them from your feed. No harm, no foul.

But, to the sellers, maybe just try to be a real human some. It’d probably be in your best interest to keep some friends, right? Don’t walk on virtual eggshells but don’t post like you’re in a race to see who can be hidden from the most news feeds, K?

6) Great Grandma NoTact

You post a mild picture of a tame night out with your friends. Anticipated comments range from “How cute!” to “Aw, so fun!” Great Uncle Todd hops on your pic and says, “Pretty. Great Aunt Linda and I have divorced and she won’t be there for Christmas this year. Love you.”

Wth, Todd.

Why are you telling me this on Facebook and why specifically on this picture? No, really. I want to know your train of thought as you saw me and my girls at the Olive Garden and how that led to a Linda-less Christmas. Tell me. Also, sorry about Linda.

Great picture. Had to put Old Yeller down yesterday. I'm real sad.

Great picture. Had to put Old Yeller down yesterday. I’m real sad.

7) The Parenting Encyclopedia of Rightness

Before you post that news article on carseats, babywearing, vaccines, breastfeeding, formula feeding, sleeping arrangements, sleeping habits, toddler feeding, ANYTHING, think for a minute. When you got the undeniable itch to post this, did you have a certain person in mind? If you did, just tell them. And did you feel indignant when you read it? If so, DELETE. RUN. COME BACK WHEN YOU CALM DOWN. Are there people you care about that may have their feelings hurt by your posting? If you think there may be, talk to them first.

And if the link you’re about to link is a blog post, NO. (Unless it’s funny, of course.)

8) The Quiz Lover

“I got Ariel in the ‘Which Disney Princess Would Be Your Evil Twin’s Foster Child in a Disney/Real Life Bizarro World Mash Up’ Quiz! Who is yours?!”

Admittedly, I’m a sucker for a good Buzzfeed quiz. Well, and a bad one, too. Okay. I’ll take literally any internet quiz. Well, maybe not any. I’ve seen some real mind bombs out there and I’m not interested, sir. But, if we’re being real, I’ve taken the Which Inanimate Object Are You quiz. Yeah. (Hanger, btw.)

But, some of y’all are running up on Facebook posting every result from every quiz in Christendom. Is there a prize for posting your results that I’m missing out on? Do you get Farmville points or something? Do people still play Farmville? I don’t know. I hid all the Farmville people. #itsnotyou #itsfarmville




So, who are YOU?! Post your results for Farmville points!


Please click this. I'm on like, page 9,000 or something.

Please click this. I’m on like, page 9,000 or something.

The Case for Tuesday

Here am I; resurrected from the mom-ashes like a social media phoenix, after being virtually aslumber for a hot 525,600 minutes (plus or minus), to establish The Case for Tuesday (and to neglect sweeping and mopping the aftermath of Hurricane Breakfast for just a bit longer).

Tuesday is the best day of the week. Hear me.

Obviously, Monday’s so beaten down that it can’t lift it’s bloodshot eyes in the general direction of “Best Day of the Week.” We don’t even have to tell Monday to go home because he already took himself out of the running. Wednesday’s “Hump Day”. Cue middle aged women posting painful inuendos on Facebook and that immediately rules that day out.

Thursday is a heavy hitter, though. Thursday is basically Friday: The Prequel. Thursday night is like, “I don’t even care! Tomorrow’s Friday, which is basically Saturday, which isn’t a workday so Imma do me. If I show up to work an hour late with no pants on, so be it.” Thursday would be inclined to not go down without a fight except for one problem. Like Thursday previously stated, Thursday doesn’t care. Thursday lost it’s very last crap to give on Wednesday around 7:30pm and it’s all, “I’M OUT.”

Thursday be like.

Thursday be like.

Now, Friday is a clear front runner for best day of the week, and I can’t/won’t deny that it has every right to be there. If Thursday doesn’t care, Friday is already packed and in it’s bathing suit. Friday has a margarita in it’s lunch thermos and it’s not even trying to hide it. Friday’s like, “I’m here. And I’m beautiful. Move on.” Sure. Friday has to “work”. But, let’s be honest. Friday’s not really doing anything. Friday’s trolling its’ coworkers on how-old.net and emailing screenshots to the whole department. Friday rolls deep.

Saturday is cool but sometimes has too many requests. Like, get off my back, Saturday. What are you? Monday’s mom? I don’t want to dust my shelves. CAN I LIVE?!

Sunday uniform.

Sunday uniform.

Sunday. I really dislike Sunday, y’all (it’s not you, Jesus). Sunday is Monday’s prologue and nobody reads the prologue. Sunday is catch-up day before you slip into the dread coma that is Monday. No. Thank. You.

So, we have Tuesday. Good ol’ Tuesday. Tuesday’s a solid worker but not bogged down with the fear, dread and general depression of Sunday or Monday. And Tuesday has a lot of things going for him! Kids around America are eating free on Tuesdays which means mama’s not cooking (aka a win for everyone). Taco Tuesday is a thing and, therefore, all the people said, “AMEN!” Dominoes has Tuesday pizza deals (although, Dominoes is butt so I guess that falls in the “cons” category). In fact, many businesses get a little loose on Tuesdays. They’re like, “Whoa. Monday nearly killed us. Quick! Put something on sale lest we perish!” Basically, if you like to eat and save money, Tuesday is your day.



Also, this Tuesday happens to be Cinco de Mayo. I don’t know what that means but I do know it means we’re having tacos, margaritas and fried ice cream. And that’s what I like to call a win. Thanks, Tuesday. And Mexico, I think.

In conclusion, go ‘head, Tuesday.

It's whatever.

It’s whatever.

The Parent Mealympics

I almost died today. I wasn’t playing in traffic or fending off killers or running with scissors. I was eating. And not anything like that weird Japanese fish that can kill you if you don’t say the right voodoo chant before digging in. Just plain old regular McDonalds food (okay, okay, it WAS McDonalds but I do NOT want to hear your “Well, that can kill you, too” fiction because mama’s not listening). I was just having some lunch (at 10:45am. Gosh. This is getting embarrassing.) and almost ended my time on this earth.

Recently, the five of us were at Chipotle when Mr. Black and I realized something. We were halfway through our meals before we realized we hadn’t looked up or taken a breath in a good 25 bites. There we were. The five of us scrunched into one booth, kids doing Lord knows what and mom and dad heads down, elbows up and the food-to-mouth conveyor belt set to super mega overdrive (PS: if Monkey could read, I would have just gotten 856473 mom points for working two Power Ranger series into that one sentence. #coolmom). We just happened to briefly glance up and catch each other’s eye and we came to for a sec. We realized we were racing some subconscious clock, a toddler time bomb. Until this realization, we hadn’t spoken to each other or the kids since we sat down and quite possibly could have even blacked out for a second in a Great White-like feeding frenzy. We weren’t even THAT hungry. No. It wasn’t hunger. It was the Parent Mealympics and we were going for gold.

Us with our burrito bowls.

Us with our burrito bowls.

It was then that I realized that this is a thing. Being restaurant lovers, we used to go out all the time. It wasn’t so much a solution to the “what’s for dinner?” question or the “we’ve both worked all day and no one feels like cooking” dilemma. It was just fun. Eating dinner at a restaurant meant we were sitting at a real table and not in front of Office reruns. It meant we weren’t having chicken. Again. As fun as it once was, it seems the more children you add to the equation, the less fun and more task-like it becomes. Eating in general is a real circus act. My eyes used to get their serious roll on whenever a mom was like, “I just completely forgot to eat today!” I was like, “Lies.” You can only ignore the hunger beast for so long before things get real. And with one child, I never “forgot” to eat. With three children, I’m like, “Did I eat today? I know I ate pancakes on Tuesday. Is today Tuesday? If so, yes. I ate today. If not, well, I don’t even know where to go from there…”

Look at us. We used to smile at restaurants and eat slowly and take pictures of ourselves. *Sigh*

Look at us. We used to smile at restaurants and eat slowly and take pictures of ourselves. *Sigh*

We had instinctively gone into survival mode in that Chipotle. We were determined to find nourishment without regard to such luxuries as “tasting our food” or “chewing” or “enjoying ourselves”. Because, see, in the Parent Mealympics, only the strong get the prize. The rest get screaming children, angry glares, social anxiety and their food “accidentally” tossed to the floor.

So, fast forward to today. Monkey, Bear, Princess Lady and I had just dropped some $$ at the bank (thank you, Jesus, for the new drive through teller!!), picked up some almond milk and stamps at the store and camped out in the McDonalds parking lot for 15 minutes so Monkey could get his “Happy MealS toy” (with an “S”, always with an “S”). After successfully securing food from the lunch menu, we headed home to eat. I don’t know if anyone other than a mom of several really knows the emotional and physical struggle of getting everyone out of the car and into the house. Add a few grocery bags and McDonalds meals and mom’s about to cry. Through the veil of tears, though, I managed to get everyone in. Princess Lady was more than ready for a nap, the boys were doing some kind of weird toddler tribal hunger chant, the dogs were producing their own strange and altogether awful “we need to pee” sounds and my stress-o-meter was reaching critical mass. I knew I had a small and unusually shaped window of time to wedge my postpardum self through before everyone released a collective wail of dissatisfaction. I scrambled to get the dogs out, toss Bear into a high chair, dole out just enough sustenance to stop the whining and sit myself down at the table in such a way as to throw more morsels of food as needed, feed myself and nurse a baby lady. And then I reenacted that day at Chipotle until a large ball of unchewed burger stopped me. I paused just long enough to dectermine whether or not I was having an actual heart attack or just needed to give chewing a shot. I’m still alive so I’m going with the chewing theory.

But, like I said, with all these kids “needing” things and having such “personalities”, who the freak has time to chew?! I’m in a race and I WILL win!



I'm sure I'm on page 897 so please vote. Or don't. Whatever.

I’m sure I’m on page 897 so please vote. Or don’t. Whatever.