Five Reasons to “Even”, Today

Many people can’t on Monday’s. In fact, I’d bet a big fat George Washington (a quarter, not a dollar, and that’s only if I can find one under this cushion I’m sitting on), that Monday is number one of the list “Days That Simply Cannot Be Even-ed”. And, if I’m being quite and painfully honest, (which is my curse on this earth), it’s nearly 5pm and I haven’t been able to Even all day. I have tried to Even several times and in various ways to no avail. My attempts at Even-ing have been more of a crash-and-burn than Heidi Montag’s music career (who, you ask? EXACTLY.). But, I’m a grown up, now, AND a mom. And I don’t actually have the luxury of just not Even-ing for a whole day. An hour? Yeah. The length of time it takes to watch four back-to-back episodes of Gossip Girl on Netflix? Possibly, under the right conditions. But, a whole day? Wake up and smell the familial demands, lady, because you’ve got Evens to Even! So, in an attempt to get it together, here is my call to arms; a list of five reasons to “Even”, today.

  1. Ants and Stink Bugs. What. Yes, that’s right. Despite my meticulous sweeping, mopping, and bleach assaults, our home is suddenly and overwhelmingly infested with ants and stink bugs. Again. Ants are obviously annoying but I’ve come so accustomed to them being EVERYWHERE that I don’t care too much about them; except for when their creepily organized and clearly defined roadways disturb the pristine whiteness of my white tile kitchen floor. I don’t like it. And the stink bugs-help me, Father-are DEMONS. They smell like rotting diapers in a hot car and like putrid cilantro. HOW CAN THEY MAKE TWO SEPARATE AND HORRIBLE SMELLS. And they sound like miniature poltergeist-powered helicopters when they fly. BUT! BUT, they aren’t fleas. Which we’ve done before and-DEAR LORD-I will take almost anything over fleas. So, because we do not have fleas, I will choose to Even.
  2. State of Weather Clickbait Hysteria. *Eyes rolling clean out of my head, down the street, hopping on a plane and landing at your front door.* So, our Governor declared a State of Emergency for a hurricane that never came anywhere near our state. It’s good to be prepared. I get it. But, it’s also good to not be hysterical alarmists. “Our models show Hurricane Joaquin heading 875 million miles per hour, directly to your bedroom window, and snatching your people up. If you don’t buy 9,000 gallons of water, rub a purple rabbit’s foot 3 times in a counter-clockwise motion, and share that Facebook chain letter your grandma posted, we’re all going to die. Oh, and minor detail: the European and far more accurate model shows it missing us entirely and completely but STILL. STILL.” Go ahead and put Joaquin in your “win” column, European model forecasters. So, while that hysteria is super annoying, our state was not struck with a pretty intense hurricane, and, for that, I will Even.
    Just drawing lines, now.

    Just drawing lines, now.

3. Out Came the Sun and Dried Up All the Rain. After 1000 years of rain (okay, like, 5 days), the sun showed his glorious and radiant face, today. Rain is wonderful until it floods your yards and roads and drains the vitamin d straight out of your body like a kid at those fancypants Coke machines with a thousand types of soda and a million flavored syrups to add. Another great thing about the rain shutting it’s big, fat mouth; my bangs won’t curl and poof all on their own which means I won’t be sporting the ever chic and flattering “Third Grader on Picture Day” look. Always a reason to Even.

Not today, Jesus.

Not today, Jesus.

4. I Exercised Today. I have no idea how it happened. It’s like my body was independent of my brain and emotions. But, it somehow wiggled itself into workout clothes and did work for a whole hour. My feelings were crying out, with fervor and without ceasing, to be eaten but, by some mysterious force, I exercised and have yet to eat a feeling. Which is reason to celebrate (and, perhaps “Even”) because there are, at the very least, 2,641 feelings begging to be eaten. I have overcome 2,641 cries for doughnuts and chips. I think we can all Even over this victory.

5. #yolo. (Yes. I did that.) I’m not really the “You better eat that because there are starving children in Africa” line of reasoning kind of girl, and “YOLO” is only ever a joke in this house but, I feel like it kind of applies in a non-mocking way, today. There are 52 Mondays a year (probably, right?). If I couldn’t Even for 52 days of the year just by default for the simple fact that those 52 days are Mondays, what kind of life would I be living? And there I’d have to add all the other random days of the year that I couldn’t Even, for the many and various reason that take away my ability to Even, I’d be left with, like, what? 12 days of Even-ing? Maybe? Can’t nobody live like that. I have to make a choice, and I choose to Even.

Sorry, Sam.

Sorry, Sam.

Now, never mind the fact that no one has napped, everyone is angry and the feelings that are begging to be eaten are getting a little loud and violent with their demands. Nah. Forget that and keep your head high, you Monday Masters. Find your reasons to Even, today, and shout it from the rooftops. (Or, like, type in the comments. Whatever’s easier.)

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 Seriousness of Stick Families

There is an all-out assault on the family in America, today. Wars are daily being waged on the streets of this great nation. Literal streets. As in, the road that we drive on with cars. And our families are the casualties of this war. Our stick families, that is. Our small, white outline, sticky, window clinging, stick figure families.

You’ve seen them. You may even carry them on the back of the minivan you grew up swearing you’d never buy (but, DID buy because they’re so dang practical). There’s a stick figure window cling family for everyone! Even those (crotchety) people that hate your stick figure family.

Turns out there are people out there that have some strong feelings about your stick figure family. In fact, your stick figure family is so offensive to them, they’ve located, PURCHASED, and placed their own anti-stick family on their own vehicles to…uh…upset you? I don’t know. Prove they’re cooler than you? Establish some kind of social dominance over you? I really do not know. Before we get into the “why’s”, let’s examine their hostility through pictures and sarcasm.

So, here’s the average happy and peaceful stick figure family, just minding their own business, strolling down Main Street along the rear window of their Honda Odyssey.

Harmless, happy, and about to be eaten by zombies.

Harmless, happy, and about to be eaten by zombies.

And then comes along a loud-mouthed F150, most likely with those “really cool” dog testicles dangling from the trailer hitch in the back, with their own window sticker. Because they’re cool and they can.

Where'd you get a T Rex, bro?

Where’d you get a T Rex, bro?

Like, why u mad, Pick Up Truck? Why is Mrs. Honda Odyssey’s stick family making you so salty? Do you hate sticks? Families? The color white? WHAT IS IT?!

And then there are Walking Dead fans that just can’t pass up an opportunity to Zombify anything.

You guys were obviously not prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.

You guys were obviously not prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.

This guy. He’s driving around with zero chill. “Listen. Three things I can’t stand: 1) Obama. 2) Nickleback haters. 3) Stick Figure Families. That order.”

You need Jesus, man.

You need Jesus, man.

I took to social media just this past week to address the stick figure family crisis in America and to point out the hypocrisy of hating on window stickers by USING WINDOW STICKERS.

#thinkaboutit #themoreyouknow

#thinkaboutit #themoreyouknow

So, why do the haters hate so hard? We may never know. My best guess is that they just hate families. Or stickers. Maybe they have stickerphobia. Pittakionophobia. It’s a thing. I don’t see how placing angry stickers is going to help you heal from your phobia. But, I’m no doctor, so…

If you are a “My dachshund ate your stick figure family” kind of guy/gal, let us know! Answer the age old riddle: how much sticker hate could a hater hate if a sticker hater could stick their own sticker? And WHY?!

Also, go “like” The Mom in Black on Facebook!

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 Car Rider Line: A Hard-hitting Tell-All

First, I’d like to apologize for being a unpredictable blogger. A new follower informed me just last night that it’s been months since my last post. It would be wonderful if I promised to be more faithful in my posting. So wonderful. But, like, I can’t. I will say that I will try to do better. Definitely better than one post every three months. (Insert iPhone embarrassed emoji face)

Now that that’s over…

Monkey recently started school and I recently started a new routine of analyzing the different types of people in the car rider line at drop off and pick up. I must say I’ve come a long way over the last year with my anxieties, gaining ground and celebrating victories every day. Very proud of that. Yet, while I’m overcoming little by little every day, I thought it best to avoid testing myself and potentially relapsing into an anxiety-ridden oblivion with the terror that is the public school bus. I’m just not there yet, Jesus. So, I drive Monkey to and from school. While it is occasionally inconvenient, it is always a glorious reminder of the strange birds out there in the real word and how much I love to watch and try to understand them.

I’m clearly not the only parent unwilling to let my baby chicken(s) out from under my wing only to be consumed by the hungry viper that is that big, yellow vehicle of destruction, for there are many cars in this car rider line. Many. So many that the line wraps from the front of the building and through a snake-like pattern through one parking lot and out onto the main road. And, in this long and winding baby chicken retreival line, there are several types of mother (and father!) hens. They are as follows:

  1. The All-Nighters. I swear these people live here. Like, in the parking lot. The first week of school, I was determined to be first in line (loser) so I left my house in order to be there FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLY. School was 45 minutes from dismissal and there were already 12 cars in line. TWELVE. Like, what time did you guys get here?! Did you camp out overnight? Is there money in being first? What did you do? Drop your kid off this morning and then circle around, put the car in park and take an eight hour nap? I CAN’T COMPETE WITH YOU. “Hey, guys. Loved our breakfast meeting this morning but school ends in five hours. Gotta hit that car rider line!” My presence is not in that high demand but even I have things to do that prevent me from living in the parking lot.

    I woke up like this. (In the school parking lot, I mean. Because I live here.)

    I woke up like this. (In the school parking lot, I mean. Because I live here.)

  2. The Premier Members of the “I Don’t Get It” Club.There is a clear, distinct and very well known pattern to the car rider line. The snake pattern I mentioned above. Everyone knows. Children, animals and inanimate objects even know. Yet, there are at least three cars, every single day, that get wild and try to go against the flow of the car rider line. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? The line is so well established that I take my foot off the gas, my hands off the wheel and shut my eyes because my car drives itself into position. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. And, no. That is not a question. That is a statement because no one is above the pattern. Figure it out or GET ON THE BUS.
  3. Team No F**cks. These people know and they don’t care. They are, as the current terminology goes, fresh out of f**cks to give. They have been out for some time, now. Most of us keep the line to the right lane of travel. Just standard auto operating decency. These guys, usually in some kind of massive vehicle, don’t even know where they are in relation the road. They have no observed traffic rules. Team NF members sit right the freak in the middle of the road and don’t move until they’re ready. Sometimes somebody leaves the line or the line inches forward for no other reason than the drivers ahead just decided to scoot forward an inch or two. Most of us play along and move the negligible amount forward. But, these guys are like, “Nope. Don’t even look at me. And if you honk, you will meet Jesus before the horn finishes.”
  4. image
  5. The Bloggers and Snark Sharks. These are my people. We’re texting our friends about the I Don’t Get It Club and Team NF members. We will also probably not have any friends at school after this. (Insert iPhone shame emoji face)
Please click this. I'm on like, page 9,000 or something.

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

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.