Momaical is a humorous look at trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Cursing & copious coffee involved.

Momaical: [mom-mahy-uh-kuhl] = (Hybrid of Mom and Maniacal.)


With Love from the Lavatory

I’d like to take this opportunity to extend an ecstatic thank you to my 2-year-old.  She continually goes above and beyond to discover new ways to publicly humiliate me.  She doesn’t stay with a standard meltdown.  No.  That’s far too prosaic for her taste and abilities.  She’s constantly fine tuning her craft and striving to reach the upper echelon of mortification.

We have spent the past few days at the beach with my in laws.  One of the many benefits of having them in town means I can split potty duty in public restrooms with my mother-in-law.  It is SO much easier to navigate this foray into filth with only one child in tow.    My husband refuses to take the girls because “For fuck’s sake Tracy!  Have you ever seen how goddamn disgusting a men’s room is?  It would take me an hour to make a bird’s nest and Emmeline touches everything.”  So, I’m usually on my own with public potty duty. Except for this brief respite with my MIL – I have only one to worry about touching things like the feminine hygiene receptacle, the under carriage of the toilet or trying to wear a garbage can as a hat.  As Emmeline is constantly up my ass sideways – she goes with me by default.

Typically the impetus for the restroom visit is a tiny toddler potty dance. Although my girls seem to be collecting data for a coffee book table chronicling every restroom in the state of California with all the bathrooms they visit.  As to avoid any whizzage in the pantaloons, Emmeline is ceremoniously deposited on the throne first.  And, since I frequent the lavatory 70 million times a day – I take advantage of this opportunity as well. 

Emmeline has grown several inches in the past month.  She can now reach the lock on the door – and I am without Lena to run interference.  With a warning of “Me are big now! Hooway!” she opens up the door for the entire world to cast their eyes upon this most private of moments.

Sometimes she dashes to the sink because “Me need soapy!” Other times she gives color to all the legions of observers “My Mommy needs stickers in her bunners! Her says it’s cause her’s all gwowed up.”  Because everyone needs to know about my pantiliner necessity, clearly.

She has chosen to embrace the freedom of the unlocked door on multiple occasions in the following locations:

The extremely crowded lavatory at the Ghiardelli factory.

The single lavatory at a classy restaurant that opened up into the waiting area during a very busy dinner hour. 


The hotel lobby at check-in
Our hotel room where my father in law had a terrific view of the events unfolding.

The very busy lavatory at the beach which was packed with fellow vacationers.

For an ephemeral moment I debate crawling under the walls to the stall next door.  But there’s no escape – as the free world is watching to see how I react to abject humiliation.  Literally being caught with my pants down, I am forced to address the default voyeurs with a quip:  “I’ll be available for autographs in just a moment.  Please speak with my tiny blonde manager should you wish for speaking engagements.”  Then I head to the sink to wash my humiliation down the drain along with the copious cooties of the past patrons of public facilities.  


Christmas Festivities with The Rockwells

The shed door creaked open and revealed a wonderland of Christmasosity. (It's a word, dammit).   My husband carried plastic tote upon plastic tote of decorations, festivity and joy.  The day to decorate our tree had arrived - and not a moment too soon.

Trimming the Tree: the Norman Rockwell Version:
The family put up the tree, decorating and singing lovely classic Christmas carols.  Hot chocolate coupled with laughter rang through the household.  The dog sat by the fireplace, his alabaster fur warmed by the caresses of the crackling yule log.  Mom baked cookies sprinkled with candy canes.  The family wrapped a few presents to house under the Douglas Fir to kick start a beautiful holiday season.

And...then there's our version:
My husband was unloading the overloaded shed. It had been raining all week and we didn't want to track the mud all throughout the house.  So the porch doubled as a halfway house for wayward ornaments.   Which the girls immediately began to rip through all the boxes of breakable ornaments, crèche, wrapping paper and whatever else was stored for the holiday season.  I was getting increasingly agitated with each shred of the paper towels that protected my special keepsakes.  After screaming "Stop touching the ornaments!  I will let you open them when it's time!!!!" for the umpteen billionth time - my husband finally kicked the girls off the porch.

Ever flexible in their pursuit for entertainment, the two took to the trampoline for a steel cage match.  The trophy: A silver and pink sparkly bejeweled tiara.   Blood was spilled. Shirts torn.  Hair pulling (albeit illegal) was rampant.  Tears from both sides.  The referee had seen enough.  He physically separates the contenders and ends the match by breaking the coveted prize into pieces and dividing them up:
There.  A big and a little piece for each of you. 

His Pyrrhic victory was met with a set of complete and total meltdowns.  As a result - all three were put in time out because they were giving me a headache the size of Egypt.

I dug out the only Christmas CD I have and turned it up very loudly to drown out the sounds of sobbing over the ghost of tiaras past. Too bad it was to Christmas in Hollis by Run DMC because the only holiday album I own is A Very Special Christmas Album.  From 1987.  Reverend Run was preachin' to me - which was far superior to the wailing wafting down the stairs.

So, all alone, I fluffed the freakin tree.  Which takes a million years and causes my arms to break out in hives - even if I have three layers of clothing protecting my arms.  At this point Lena has stopped crying and has come down to "help."  And by helping, she is opening up all the ornaments and I'm panicking because I don't want her to break the few important ones - so I bait and switch with the silver balls.  Nothing like handing your 5 year old a big ole pack of balls to keep her busy.  Don't forget the pointy, sharp and dangerous things to hang them with!  Oh, we ran out of those?  Ok, here are some paper clips.  Go to town.

Within 27 seconds she decorated the tree with every thing she could put her hands on.  This includes hair ribbons, dolls, pictures of herself ("So Santa knows who I am, Mommy) and random toys. The bottom 4' of my tree are chock-a-block full of shit.  The rest of it is sparsely decorated with my few cherished pieces. 

I am fighting the OCD urge to move everything and space it out. But, Christmas is for the kids - I keep reminding myself.  Even though it's killing me that she's putting it there! No! Not there! There!  Be careful.  Ugh.  Don't drop that....fuck. 

Meanwhile Emmeline has changed into a gymnastics leotard and is stealing candy canes from the tree.  She has found the animatronic singing Christmas atrocities that my mother sends annually to rob me of my will to live.  Emmeline is on round 469 of "Siwver Bears" (Silver Bells) I'm still in the midst of unwrapping ornaments.  Then it's quiet.  Way too quiet.  I tip toe into the closet where E has sequestered herself to discover she has covered all of my shoes in stickers.

Dees is pity, huh Mommy?

Lena has finished decorating the bottom half of the tree and has decided to help me wrap. Again, why does "helping" create SO MUCH FREAKIN MORE WORK FOR ME????

My husband has really taken his time out to heart and has been hidden in his office for hours (lucky bastard). Lena has wrapped all of the presents for my in-laws and in doing so has used 3 rolls of wrapping paper and 47 rolls of tape. 

Mom - I need MORE tape!  I only used two rolls on this!

My OCD is making me twitch.  The ornaments are scrunched up.  The wrapping is messy.  Emmeline is flying around the house, fueled with sheer sugar from Jolly Rancher Candy Canes sent by my best friend Beth.  But, it's the season for kids - not control freak moms - right? Right?  Crap. Take a deep breath and chase it with a Fireball shot.

I let Lena wrap until she had used up all the tape in the Bay Area.  And, I handed Emmeline a broom.  Because if she's going to fly around the house - she may as well be cleaning.  I made hot chocolate for all three of us (and added a little bit of Butterscotch Schnapps to mine) and sat next to the tree with my baby girls. My girls added pounds of marshmallows to theirs - what's a little more sugar at this point?

Not to be left out - our new puppy came in and gave the tree his seal of approval by taking a crap under it. 

Crappy Holidays Mom!

Here's to wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and hoping for peace on Earth.  Or, at least 45 minutes of no fighting over the last bubble gum flavored candy cane. 

Oh, and if you haven't seen my post about Flocking Around the Christmas Tree yet - check out Families in the Loop:


Bending God's Ear

Dear God:

Hey.  Tracy here. Yeah, the one usually asking for chocolate to make you lose weight.  Listen, I know you're all busy with your son's birthday coming up and all.  You're probably planning a huge ripper and caught up with who to put on the invitation list. I mean, yeah - some are obvious - wise men, Mary, Joseph.  But, how do you choose others?  Do you need to make room for ALL the disciples - or are you sticking with just the Apostles and a few friends from work?  And what about the people who may act all nice to your face but you KNOW they're all talking smack about you behind your back?  You're omniscient - so I guess you probably have it all figured out.  I'm just glad it's not me.  Remember the whole "wedding planning debacle of 2006?"  Yeah.  Let's not revisit that grand ole time. 

Anyway - back to me.  I was hoping you could help me with a little patience. (Break for a Guns and Roses chorus....and we're back).   See, this morning I was in Lena's room. I was changing the sheets when I noticed a plastic rectangle of bubble wrap from a gift we had received.  It was in the corner of the room.  The girls were playing "puppy" this morning - which can be cute as well as make me want to bludgeon myself with a blunt object once they start yipping.  Upon closer investigation I see that Lena had labeled the plastic sheet.  She's BIG TIME into spelling and labels everything.  Here's what she wrote:

My first reaction: Aw. That's cute.  Lena and Emmeline made a potty for playing puppies. 

Then I picked up the plastic square.  And something poured off of it.  After an initial few terse words (which shall not be repeated - I mean, G-man, I will show some respect) I folded up the rectangle and tossed it in the garbage. 

Then it dawned on me what the heck may have trickled through my unsuspecting fingertips and onto the Berber.   I took a few deep breaths and counted to 7,642.  Then I took a few more deep breaths and called the girls up for an inquisition. 

Under the hot fluorescents coupled with a call to Santa - what was divulged was someone urinated on the "potee".  But, no one would admit to which one it was - and blamed the other.  Both girls were relegated to their rooms to think about all the wonderful gifts they might have received had they made better choices and I'm left behind to clean up the poorly designed litter box. 

Right, God?  I mean, ew.  So, anyway right now I'm up to my elbows in Nature's Miracle - and I'm bending your ear for another divine one.   I'm asking for a little patience so I may find the humor in this tidbit.  Because right now I'd like to hang them up by their 2T and 5T My Little Ponies big girl panties right next to the stockings.  Even our Elf on the Shelf is hanging her head in shame.  Because even though this is the season for love and forgiveness I'd like to open up my industrial sized can of WhoopAss. 

Ok, well, thanks for listening.  I'll let you get back to planning your birthday bash.  And, yes, we know: what happens in heaven, stays in heaven. 

Thanks for all the blessings you have bestowed upon me. Amen.


My Ass Has Been Tagged - Twice

I have been tagged.  It's kind of like when you bring your dog to the vet and you think they're going to get a check up and suddenly $3,000 later you walk out with a robot that looks like your pet.  Because they're all lojacked up.  And may double as a Terminator dog.

Or maybe it's more like when you go to a "party" at a friends house but it's really an Amway Cult Convention and they try to suck you in and sell stupid shit to everyone you know under the guise of becoming an overnight millionaire but really you are just giving your savings to purchase a bunch of cleaning supplies that no one wants.

Anyway - the point of this is that I went to check out my girl Jen's blog and I walked away with homework.  I was also tagged today by the ever inspiring Bleu Eyed Girl:

Now, because the fabulous SONny Side Maven is an overachiever - she has chosen to make 10 wishes for this holiday season. (Go read them - I'll wait - they're hilarious in true Jen form).  And Bleu Eyed Girl has some really beautiful wishes - so check them out too!  Once you're back I'll get into mine.

The rules of this tag are simple: you must make 5 wishes for yourself and then tag 5 suckers, jackasses, fellow bloggers to follow suit. 

Okay - Here are my five wishes:

1. Health and Safety:
Every single day I pray for my family to be healthy and happy, safe, sound and secure. Now, more than ever, this seems like a critical mantra for my tiny people.  My biggest fear in the world is something happening to my girls.  So, if nothing else ever comes to fruition in my life - as long as my people are ok then I am rich and so very blessed.

2. Time for Vanity
Most days I walk around looking like a bag of smashed assholes.  Typically I am too tired to care. And every time I think TODAY is the day I will dry my hair and perhaps slap on a little mascara - the kids decide that they would like to reenact their version of the Hindenburg meets Godzilla.  In the 37 seconds I am lathering up my frazzled locks, they have: undressed themselves, trashed the upstairs, given each other a bloody lip and let the dog free to run around the neighborhood.  Needless to say - I am a VISION of loveliness as I screech down the street after 5 pounds of fluffy Maltese in a robe and flip flops with bubbles streaking down into my eyes (creating an even hawt-ter me).  At least I get in some cardio, right?

3. Exercise
Now, I do believe that crippling anxiety is a really good cardio workout.  However, my cellulite seems to be immune to the benefits of panic attacks. As a result it has moved past "squatter" on my inner tube of fatulosity and into "Full time resident".  I have finally come to terms that I no longer have the metabolism of a mouse on crystal meth.  Therefore I need to find inner motivation to stop hating that middle aged mom staring back at me in the mirror and transform her back into the diva she use to be.  Or, at least be able to put on my Hudsons without first rolling around in Crisco and propelling myself down the slip and slide to attempt to get them past my thaves.

4. Patience
Bahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!  Who am I kidding?  I have no patience.  And no amount of wishing in the world will change that.  Maybe I should set more realistic goals like: Allow 38 minutes for the girls to get out of the house instead of the usual 30.  And when it takes 45 minutes - try not to threaten to make them stay with the strange group of 2,725 Chinese people that live in the house next door if they take one more second to put on their shoes. 

5. Less Cursing
Because, motherfuckers, I love me a good F-bomb.  Now, I don't curse at the children - even when they're being total assholes.  Which is, shit, all the God damn time.  I mean, for fuck's sake.  I am not that much of a bitch around the little bastards.  Usually.

Ok, there are my 5 wishes.  Homework, complete!

Now for my victims.....mwahahaha....

Some of my Tweeples:
Sunshine Mommy:

Peanut Layne:

Happy Little Feet:

They Call Me Mummy:

Lucy Ball:

Ok, that's all for my wishes.  Next time I will be all greedy wishing for fame, fortune and sparkling white teeth. For a bag of Burberry to mysteriously arrive with all the new Spring collections.  For Louboutins and Choos and Kate Spades that fit and don't hurt my feet 23 seconds after I put them on.  For stretch marks to be the new hot and for thrown back, messy unwashed hair strewn into a bun/ponytail/thingy to be all the rage.  For whining to sound more like the soundtrack to Cabaret as opposed to making me want to pierce my eardrums with an ice pick.  And for fame.  And fortune.  And famous fortune.  And fortunate fame.

Yeah, I'm adorable now.
You won't think I'm so cute when you're chasing my ass down the street mid-shower in 45 degree weather.


Appropriate Behavior in a Time of Sorrow

In 2001 I was working in radio as a morning show host in Cincinnati, Ohio.  In April, race rioting broke out in the city after an officer shot an African American gentleman who reached into his pants while fleeing the police. Everyone was quarantined in their homes as several hundred people systematically destroyed our city. We were escorted to and from our vehicles because the general manager of the radio station was concerned that the attacks would turn onto the people in the media. It was a very scary time.

Over the next week as our city was being burned, smashed and looted - my morning show was still on the air.  It was our job to inform the public what was going on, areas to avoid, things that were closed, and when we were all sequestered into our homes because we had a "curfew."    We didn't know what to do for a while.  It was grim.  And we were Morning Show Hosts.  Our job was to be funny.  But we were not in funny times.  So we were serious - receding into our journalistic roots and reporting on the news and events.  We were sterile.  We were appropriate.  We were professional. We thought we were doing the "right thing" based on the current events.
See how serious we are? 
Which was rare because Danny and Zack are two of the funniest people I have ever known.
Oh, and meet "Paige Hunter" - my alter ego. 
Then we started to get the calls from listeners to our show.  They weren't looking for more news.  They were looking for an escape from the treachery that was going on around us.  They needed us to be funny so they could have a small bit of relief from all the hideous and fear.  They could get bad news everywhere.  But not funny.  So, that's what we did.  We brought the funny - even though we weren't feeling it.  Because that was our job and it was what people needed. Thankfully I was teamed up with two of the most hilarious and intelligent guys with whom I have had the pleasure to work.

This past Friday's events at Sandy Hook Elementary School have shaken the United States to the core.  I have had a difficult time keeping myself together.  I keep "what if-ing" and panicking and worrying and fighting depression.  I am smothering my children in kisses, hugs and snuggles.  The arguments and whining are slightly more tolerable because I know those parents who lost their babies in an unthinkable, senseless, hideous manner would take a lifetime of fighting for a moment more with their loved ones.  And the why will never be answered. 

I haven't been able to think - let alone be humorous.  I can barely wrap my mind around it.  I am scared to send my kindergartner back to school.  I'm afraid to leave my 2 year old at the daycare for one hour so I can walk on a treadmill.  But today I remembered that people needed a break from the sadness.  There are enough tears and sad words.  Now is the time to support each other to help get through this atrocity. I realized that if ONE person finds a bit of relief from the fugue of depression clouding the United States by reading my words - then I have done my "job" to help aid in the battle against the evil in the world.  

Tuesday is to be a day of Blogging Day of Silence to show respect, love, support, comfort to the victims of the Sandy Hook massacre.  I will be observing it and disengage from all electronic media.  But, after that I will be pulling myself up by my Uggs and trying to do my little part to help people recover from this.  Because there's enough news.  But, no where near enough laughter in a time of year that is supposed to be enveloped in love. 
Plus, I still have yet to tell you about getting ready for Christmas with the Rockwells.  This morning we enjoyed breakfast with Santa. Afterward the girls each took a turn speaking with Santa. He asked Emmeline "Have you been a good girl this year?" Emmeline responded " Me haven't."

Sending a warm virtual hug to your family and you during these sad times.  


The Day I Lost My Innocence

15 brave bloggers submitted a topic and in turn were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own blogging style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts. 
My “Secret Subject” is: What's the most trouble you have ever gotten into that few people know about? Oh dear.  Confession time.  Ok, here we go...

And there it was right in front of me: the jeweled crown that I coveted.   I wanted it SO badly but was in no position to procure it.  I tried to ignore it's siren song but resistance was futile.  "Traaaaaacy.  Trrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaccccyyyyyy."  I closed my eyes to block the temptation but desire overrode my senses.  I needed it.  I HAD to have it.  Logic: jettisoned.  All that existed in my world was an oppressive urge to claim this as my own. I knew it was wrong to desire this possession but at this moment in time I didn't care.

But how?  I didn't have one penny to my name.  I was as poor as the day I was born.  It didn't matter.  It needed to come home with me and it needed to come NOW. 

Relying on my peripheral vision I scanned the area surrounding me.  Was anyone looking?  Not that I could see.  Another cursory glance and I was ready.   My heart palpitations threatening to tattle on me.  This is wrong.  This is so wrong.  I grabbed it and tucked it into my sleeve.  This is...oh, it's in my possession.  Oh, my God.  I'm going to jail.  This is not ok.  Everyone can tell.  Can anyone tell? Can I do this?  Yes.  I can.  No I can't.  Unless I can...

No one notices me. No one pays one bit of attention to me.  I have blended into the crowd.  This baby is all mine!

The doors slide open, freedom was in my grasp. It's too late to turn back.  It's now or never.  I shuffle behind a woman outside. A few more steps and I was home free.  I'm euphoric in my post-theft adrenaline rush.  I HAD DONE IT!  Oh my goodness. It was mine! 

I sit back in my seat, nerves splintered in the power bequeathed unto me by this ultimate act of rebellion.  I was on fire.  My face, never a mask of ambiguity, was electrified in the moment of overcoming the odds.  Nirvana!  My pulse finally slowed to a normal rhythm now that I was home free.

But I was mistaken. 

An arm yanks me out of the car.  I'm starting to panic as I'm being propelled back towards the store. My brain is turbulent as thoughts careen against each other: What's my story?  What have they seen?  What can they prove?  Am I allowed a phone call? Do I need a lawyer?

I'm unceremoniously deposited into a hard plastic seat in a small windowless room in the back of the store.  The light is blazing above me, causing droplets of sweat to cloud my vision in my personal Spanish Inquisition.  Oh, God. What have I done?  Are they going to cuff me?  Send me to jail?  I want to vomit.  I want to run away and pretend this never happened but a giant man in blue blocked my escape. Will this go on my permanent record? What am I going to tell people? Why...Why...Why was I so dumb? This was SO not worth it.

A traitorous tear rolls down my cheek. A second and third follow, sealing my fate.  I come to terms with the fact that I have to face the gruesome reality: I got caught and now it's time to come clean.  Begrudgingly I recount my tale that led me to this diminutive position.  Now permanently branded as a thief - I might as well tattoo a scarlet T on my forehead.  Life was no longer as innocent has it had been mere moments ago. And I can't turn the clock back to right the injustice I had committed.  I am a criminal.

After being read the riot act, tucking my tail between my legs and admitting wrongdoing, I was let off with a warning. 

I am led back to the car.  Tears have left a sodden trail down my face.  Witnesses turn their eyes, sheltering their embarrassment or disdain for my lapse of judgement.  I am lower than low. 

My mother turns to me and says "Have you learned your lesson Tracy?"

Very quietly I respond "Yes Mommy.  I pwomise wiw neber steaw gum fwum da gwocewy stow agen."

My mom buckled me into my seat and silently we drove home.  I served my time out while silently laughing at the "11-Chocolate-Cream-Pies" Guy roll down the stairs on Sesame Street. 

I was a hardened criminal before the age of 3 thanks to an irresistable pack of purple Hubba Bubba bubble gum and a Mom who turned me in because I was a sucky criminal who chewed the pungent evidence in the back seat of the Subaru.

Ok, this concludes my topic of : What's the most trouble you have ever gotten into that few people know about? Learn from my mistakes people!


The Hoarder Mouse Clubhouse

It's the Hoarder Mouse Clubhouse
Come inside - it's a mess inside!

Ha ha!  Hi everyone! I'm Hoarder Mouse! 
Today we are going to sort through Lena Mouse's Backpack. 

Backpack, backpack...oh, wait...wrong cartoon.

But we're going to need a Mousekatool to help us prevent contamination: Oh Toodles! 

The choices are: A Haz-Mat bag, Opera Length plastic gloves, tongs, and a mystery Mousekatool.  Well, since this is one scary place, we'll take the first three. Which is totally against the normal Toodles protocol - but with extreme cases one must take extreme measures.

Mouseker Hey. Mouseker Hi. Mouseker Ho.
Mouseker Ready. Mousker Set. Here we go!
You're a Hoarder and a Collector Through and Througher
Mouseker Me. Mouseker You. Mouseker Ew-er.
Here's what we discovered in Lena Mouse's Backpack today:
  • 3 Desiccated gigantic tree leaves
  • 2 turkey feathers
  • 3 acorns
  • 2 pine cones
  • 1 Ziploc bag of smashed raspberries
  • 1 Ziploc bag of smashed blackberries
  • A small bottle of hand sanitizer (absconded from God only knows who)
  • A melted Chapstick
  • A small stuffed lion
  • Papers with random drawings from other girls in the class (Note from Mom: "Because the markers smell awesome! Smell em Mommy!" - Which leads me to assume they're all sitting around the coloring station sniffing markers, possibly glue and potentially cocaine.  Because, as we all know, markers are a gateway drug.)
  • A charm bracelet
  • Random scraps of cut up paper
  • A folder with work from school shoved into it   
  • A bubble wand
  • Pink fingerless gloves
  • Sunglasses

  • A Horder Mouse lunchbox - which held the following items:
    • A half eaten Granny Smith apple
    • small peels from the Granny Smith that she must have chewed up and put back in the lunch box
    • Random pieces of bacon and a bag of bacon (snuck to school by Hoarder Mouse)
    • A thermos that is spilling everywhere
    • A leaf
    • An acorn
    • A wrapper from a Fruit Roll Up (not her snack)
    • A half eaten Twizzler (also not hers)
    • A snack sized Ziploc bag - empty
    • A plastic McDonald's toy
    • A spoon
    • A paper towel

The bag has been emptied, finally. The only thing we didn't find in this disaster was a hot dog.  But that doesn't mean we can't still do the hot dog dance!

Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog!
We've got ears it's time for cheers! 
Hot dog, hot dog, the problem's solved! 
Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog!

(For those of you who don't watch the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on a regular basis - this post sucks for you. And, maybe for those of you who are forced to watch it.  Sorry about that! The next one will be pure genius. Ok, I really shouldn't make promises I can't keep.  Sigh...)


PV Body Workout Gear - For Serious Athletes Like Me

Recently I was approached by PV Body to check out their goods. It's a website with all kinds of fabulous workout attire.  Obviously they could tell what an awesome worker-outer I am and therefore anxious for me to check out their wares.  Brilliant, on their part, really.

It's a pretty cool concept - you pay a monthly fee of $49.95 and get shipped a brand name top and bottom based upon what kind of exercise you enjoy.  Much less expensive than going to the store to get the same pieces and you can do it by sitting on your couch.  Which is excellent.  You take a quick survey about the sizes, styles, colors, fit etc. so PV Body can ship what you like.  They didn't have my exact favorite kind of exercise to choose (sitting around the house blogging and reading) so I chose yoga.  Which, according to my husband, is practically the same thing.

At the end of the survey it was declared that I am a Workout Warrior.  Which, just happens to be my middle name.  It's like they know me. Cool.  And a little creepy. (Pause to look around for the hidden cameras. Flash sultry smile - just in case.). 

A few weeks after I signed up I received a bright pink package in the mail.  It contained my first shipment: an Alo navy blue racerback top and a pair of gray stretch pants. 

Excited about my new present to myself I ran up the stairs to put them right on.  (Ok, so I stopped half way to catch my breath.  Don't judge.  There are 14 entire stairs!)

I couldn't wait to check out my hotness.  I was SURE I was going to look just like the woman on the website.  And....yeah.  Not so much.  I called up PV Body to complain - and the very kind woman on the other end of the line explained that I had to work out to actually look like that. Which is crap.  Just crap.

So, I worked out.  For hours.

Caffeine speeds up your metabolism, right? 

And hours.
This is a really intense scene.  I must have burned at least 700 calories reading it.

And hours.

I thought I just crashed my entire blog.  Paralyzing anxiety is great cardio!

I haven't seen any results...yet.  But, it's the season for hope, right? The pants are super comfortable and are high enough on my waist to hold my post baby pooch in.  The top also is long enough to not point out all the hideous on me (but still makes me look like I'm rockin' some cleavage).  I look so good that I may actually GO to the gym without the embarrassment of wearing all my pre-baby stuff that no longer fits my body shape. 

The point is - if you like to work out (either at the gym or all fancy like I do) this is a cool site to join.  You can get awesome work out attire monthly for a fraction of the cost at the stores (my top at Nordstrom was over $50!).  You can skip a month, only get a month - there's no scary commitment and you don't have to give them your first born (although you may want to at this time of year). 

So, check it out!  There's something for everyone - even professional relaxers - I mean superstar athletes like myself.  
In fact, they'll even give you 20% off your first order for ordering through here.


Which is AWESOME so you can use that extra money for your kindle to increase your heart rate and burn big time holiday calories.  Just in time to start your new year resolutions for a healthier you - might as well do it looking hot!  C'mon...throw away those nasty sweatpants you've been rockin since sophomore year.  Graduate into big girl work out stuff that's not stretched out and destroyed! 

Look hot while tweeting about your cat and posting pictures of the crap you ate for lunch in a sweet new pair of yoga pants from! 

Click right there ------------->


He Said: She Heard

When I said those two binding words - I Do - I knew that for the rest of my life I was with my soul mate.  Someone who loves the melodious sound of my voice.  That never tires of my prattle and hangs on my every word.  Someone that really GETS me.  Life would be a Hallmark card wrapped in poetry and romance and stolen kisses. 

And, then I woke up and laughed until I stopped.  Because that is SO not the life I am living.  I "say" something - my husband "hears" something completely different.  Somewhere in the middle lies our reality. 

Introducing....He Said: She Heard and She Said: He Heard!

Jen from Life on the SONny Side (and fellow Epistolarian) and I decided to team up with some fine gents at Dads Round Table.  We came up with 10 things we ladies tend to say and the guys are then writing what they "hear" coming out of our mouths.  Brad and James sent the ladies their sentences and we both are interpreting them. 

So, without further ado, here's my take on He Said: She Heard.  Be sure to check out the other sites as well to see their versions of how the opposite sex interprets what each has to say as we all "hear" differently.

He Said: "I'll be there in a minute.  The game is almost over." 
She Heard: "Go on without me.  I’ll be right here for a few more hours.

He Said: "You're nothing like your mother."
She Heard: Except for the nagging, and bitching and…..
He Said: "I'm gonna stop by Brad's place after work."
She Heard: I’m still my own man and I’m going to spend time with my friends whenever I want. I’ll have a bunch of beers and then I’ll come home and grope you.

He Said: "No, I don't mind at all if your parents stay for dinner."
She Heard: Okay, but then I’m going to have a guy’s weekend to make you pay for this few hours with your parents.
He Said: "Of course I remembered to empty the trash from the upstairs bathroom." 
She Heard: It was only 2/3rds full.  You can empty it tomorrow when I’m gone on a business trip.
He Said: "Honestly, I'm not thinking of anything."
She Heard: I’m thinking about the hot blonde at Starbucks that I’d like to grope. 

He Said: "I really can't tell the difference between those two outfits."
She Heard: You look God awful in both of them.  Because you’re fat.  And no longer hot. Have you seen your stomach?  Which is why I’m thinking about the Starbucks girl and not you. Because you’re fat.  But, I’ll still grope you.  I’m good like that.
He Said: "The guys and I are going golfing tomorrow, we should be done sometime in the afternoon."
She Heard: Don’t plan on me for dinner.  Do plan on picking me up from the country club – most likely after the kids are already in bed for the night.  Oh, and plan on being groped.

He Said: "You mean, you’re not taking all of the kids with you to go grocery shopping?"
She Heard: You can’t seriously expect me to watch ALL of them at the same time, right?  Pick up some steaks and none of that disgusting grain horse food you eat. Oh, and make sure you don’t spend more than $50.  Because if you do, you'll owe me.  I'll take payments in groping.

He Said: "Yup, all done.  Except for the stuff soaking in the sink." 
She Heard: I took care of all the easy stuff but the difficult scrubbing and gross things are still waiting for you. Oh, and while you’re standing at the sink with your arms in bubbles up to your elbows, I’ll grope you because you’re defenseless.

He Said: "What do you mean I don't always have to try and fix the problem, but just listen? See, the way to correct this is..."
She Heard: I just don’t understand you and your needs.  So I’m going to stop listening to you and instead spew nonsense that proves I don’t understand you AT ALL.  Mostly I prefer the sound of my own voice over listening to you complain about that woman on your play dates.  Wait, you might want a hug…which means I get to grope you.  Sweet. 

He Said: "Did I miss my window again? Oh well, here's to better luck next Friday night between 8 and 8:30pm."
She Heard: I'll grope you until you give in or there will be no sleep for you tonight.

He Said: "It's only my 3rd beer."
She Heard: Did you think you were going to get some sleep tonight without being groped?

He Said: "I think the baby has a poopy diaper..."
She Heard: You need to stop everything that you’re doing so you can take care of this because I refuse to.  I can lose my arm in a chainsaw accident without flinching.  BUT. I. CANNOT. CHANGE. A. DIAPER. It is my kryptonite. So, you need to.........And then I’ll grope you.

Sigh...and that is a snippet of my corner or the globe.  Check out the other humorous responses from Jen, Brad and James as well as on The Epistolarians.

Meet the He Said-ers and the She Said-ers:

Tracy from Momaical @
I asked my amazingly funny fabulous friend Jen to write my bio for me (because I hate writing things like this). Here's what she came up with:
Tracy is WAY WAY funnier than you, so don't bother trying to compete. She's got two beautiful and hilarious daughters who are destined to follow in their mama's freaking fantastic-ass shoes. Her vocabulary will probably make you look and feel like you drove the short bus to school today and that you'd be better off wearing a helmet twenty-four hours a day. She's like a living breathing blogging legend. If she invites you to be one of her cyber pals, your online life will never be the same. She hates all men named Jan. With good reason. She's gonna raise the bar on the volume and quality of your content if you wanna run with her. She likes to be groped (so I've been told). Those who get to hang with Miss Thang are lucky as a leprechaun. Also, they better like swearing, (most cool people do). Lastly, she lives WAY WAY too far from Jen (Tracy's beautiful and hilarious partner in crime).
Jen from Life on the SONny Side @
Meet Jen...she's living proof that working full time and raising a tiny little troublemaker is enough to make anyone totally crazy. She's documenting all the ugly, terrifying, beautiful, hilarious, and heartwarming proof on her blog, 'Life on the SONny Side'. She understands that writing on the internet is like whispering on a crowded playground. But, she does it anyways, because she loves it. Her supportive husband and son are the limes in her Corona. Her amazing mom is their live-in nanny. Coffee and wine are her sister wives. She writes about motherhood, daughterhood, life, love and millions of other mildly interesting things.

Brad from Read Brad the Dad @

Brad Marmo is a contributor for the Dads Round Table. He was born and raised in New Jersey and lived there until he met his wife in college and moved up the East Coast to Massachusetts over 10 years ago. He currently lives in Chelmsford, MA and is a loving husband, proud father of two sons, and owner of a spoiled dog. Enjoy a unique, fresh, and entertaining perspective on parenting as "Brad the Dad" learns what it takes to raise two boys in today's world.
James from Dads Round Table @
James Hudyma. Dad. Husband. Teacher. Minivan. Some hair. Some gut.  Strong coffee. Guitars. Songwriter. Dads Round Table.

Photo by: Kozzi Images


A Vignette from The Zoloft-tini Chronicles

Act 4 Scene 6

Tracy is seated on the couch trying to get some writing done.  Husband comes downstairs for a cup of coffee. 

Tracy says to husband: "A few of the keys on the computer are really sticking.  I've tried using the air to clean out underneath but I still really need to pound the key to get the letter - especially the M."

Husband:  "That's because of all the crap you spill into the keyboard." 

Tracy's internal conversation: Yes, clearly I'm the one spilling crap into the keyboard.  Not our 2-year-old that insists on pounding the computer with her sticky hands and touching the screen like it's an iPad. No, it's all me.

Tracy's external response: "Ok, well, how do we fix it? Or are we going to have to get a new laptop?"

Husband: "You just have to take the keys off and clean underneath them."  (Sighing and rolling his eyes because wife is clearly only an evolution or two away from Neanderthal).

Tracy: "There's no way that I'm going to do this.  You know it will break and I will never hear the end of it from you." 

Husband commandeers computer with an air of superiority and rips the H out.

Tracy leaves to bring kindergartner to school.

Husband departs for work before wife returns.

Tracy returns to this:

End Scene

Act 4 Scene 7

Husband returns home from work with a box in his hands for his beloved wife.

End Scene

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