Friday, October 29, 2010


I've been slacking on the blog. My apologies. I will post more soon. I am in, what you call, Birthday Party Panic Mode. 
Patience, grasshoppers, patience.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

She's crafty..oh oh..she's crafty

I'm not a crafty person. At all. I would like to be, but I'm just not. I'm creative and have lots of ideas, but I just don't know how to implement any of them. That, and I'm terribly impatient. I thank my dad's side of the family for that gene.
I told you that, to tell you this: Saturday, the salon where I get my hair-did was holding a fundraiser. They had food, and door prizes and vendors.  There was a vendor there that made little homemade t-shirts that she sold on her Etsy page.  They were super adorable - and the price tag reflected it at $18 a pop for a appliquéd t-shirt! No way. I could totally do this myself. (It is important to note that these words almost always precede an event so horrific that could most accurately be described as infernal regions on earth.)
After being antsy all weekend (none of the craft stores were open on Sunday) I got the afternoon off on Monday and trotted down to Hancock's. What an overwhelming place that is.  Good grief.  I went in "looking for something cute" - which in that place was about as vague as it gets.
I spent a decent amount of time going up and down the massive aisles with my little cart, looking at all the different fabric and generating new creations in my head. That would be cute on an apron. Oh, wait. I can't sew. 
To make a stupidly long story short, I found some remnant fabric and bought some plain t-shirts.
This is what I made:

For Grayson:

For Jackson:

Here's Jack modeling his new one-of-a-kind designer-chic onesie (and showing off those two new chompers)

I have to admit, I was throughly impressed with this project. It was perfect for me - no equipment to buy, and I can be as creative as I want to be with it.  I'm going to do Grayson a birthday t-shirt, and of course, I already have ideas for Christmas stuff dancing around in this brain of mine.

I'd love the practice, so if there's anything you want me to try, let me know!

Monday, October 25, 2010

All I Want for Christmas

is a maid!

No, seriously.

I mean, I can get the floors mopped and vacuumed and the bathrooms clean each week, but the other stuff...the dusting and the cleaning the windows... yeah, not so much.

There are cobwebs hanging in the corners and I'm pretty sure there's a dust-bunny ranch in operation under our bed.

And the laundry... sufferin' succotash... I can get it washed and dried, but it ends up piled in a clean mound the size of the Matterhorn on one side of my couch, just waiting for the Magic Laundry Fairy to swoop in and fold it. I hate folding laundry. It's the one chore that my husband totally does by himself.  (No, no, he's a good husband, he does other chores, too, but this one is solely his job.)
I mean, it seems like all I ever do is clean - and it's not even cleaning to have a spotless house. (I live with 3 boys for crying out loud - that's never gonna happen.) 

I can't keep up... 

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Sunday Funnies

Got this in an email years ago. I still think it's funny.

How to Shower Like a Woman: 

Take off clothing and place it in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights and darks.

Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

Look at your womanly physique in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.

Get in the shower. Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.

Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.

Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.

Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced.

Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.

Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.

Rinse conditioner off hair.

Shave armpits and legs.

Turn off shower.

Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.

Spray mold spots with Tilex.

Get out of shower.

Dry with towel the size of a small country.

Wipe up any water that got on the floor.

Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.

Check entire body for zits, tweeze hairs.

Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown
and towel on head.

If you see husband along the way, cover up
any exposed areas.

How to Shower Like a Man............ 

Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.

Walk naked to the bathroom.

If you see wife along the way, shake wiener at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.

Look at your manly physique in the mirror.

Admire the size of your wiener and scratch your behind.

Get in the shower.

Wash your face.

Wash your armpits.

Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.

Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.

Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.

Wash your butt, leaving those coarse butt hairs stuck on the soap.

Wash your hair.

Make a Shampoo Mohawk.


Rinse off and get out of shower.

Partially dry off.

Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of tub the whole time.

Admire wiener size in mirror again.

Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.

Return to bedroom with towel around waist.

If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake wiener at her and make the 'woo-woo' sound again.

Throw wet towel on bed.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Saturday Shout-Out

These are prisoners from a men's prison somewhere in the Philippines.

Friday, October 22, 2010

The Dating Game : OB/GYN Stories

I got hit on by a woman. 

Okay, well, I guess if you really knew me, then you would know that's not really a big deal to me. I used to work at the gay bar in town and I have several gay and lesbian friends.  So, it doesn't make me uncomfortable at all. 

Most of the time. This was the exception.

I got hit on by a woman in the waiting room at my OB/GYN's office.

Kinda awkward, right? But, wait. It gets better.

I got hit on by a woman at my OB/GYN's office when I was like 19 months pregnant with Grayson. 

See? I told you.

Okay, so maybe I wasn't exactly 19 months pregnant. I'm no elephant with a 22 month gestation period. But, you get the point. I was pretty far along. My doctor's visit's were now occurring weekly.

Everything with the pregnancy was going smoothly at this point, so I was alone for my appointment on this particular day. I walked into the office,  made small talk with the receptionist who knew me well by now as I signed in, and took a seat.

I was the only one in the very large waiting room.  I had managed to successfully position myself in the world's most uncomfortable chair when the door from the hallway opened.  It was not the nurse calling me back for my exam as I had expected.  It was a girl who looked to be about my age. She was dressed in a tank top that was easily two or three sizes too small and a denim skirt that was so short that the doctor wouldn't have had to put her in stirrups to see her cervix.

She was loud and chatty - that kind of obnoxiously loudness that shares way too much personal information with everyone. She was mad. And apparently she had a "really bad yeast infection that just wouldn't go away."   And she was coming directly at me. Awesome. There were literally like 30 other seats available. I was the only one in the waiting room. And was going to sit directly next to me -not even putting the courtesy seat in between us.

"Hi. I'm Michelle.* " (names have been changed only because I have no idea what her real name was. It was like 3 years ago, people.)


"I can't believe this. I just had a c-section, like 11 months ago, and now I have a really bad yeast infection and it's taking for-evvvver to get anything done here. They're really nice, but they can be kind of slow. Oh-em-gee! Are you with child?!"

Is this girl for real? I don't know her, do I?  With child?!  Did she just ask me that? No, I'm smuggling cantaloupes under my shirt. "Guilty."

"Aw. That's so awesome. I just had a baby, too. Are you married?"

"Yep.  Just over a year now."

"Are you married to a man?"

This is ludicrous. Okay, there is a hidden camera here somewhere and someone is laughing at me. I am being filmed.  Is Ashton Kutcher gonna come out from that door with cameras? (Remember, this is 2007, people.) "Um, yeah. I'm married to a man."

"So, is the baby his?"

Who in the holy hell is this girl? And more importantly, this nitwit has a kid!?! Oh, dear god.  "Yes. It's my husband's baby."

"You're really beautiful. You have that pregnancy glow about you. It's really nice on you."

Is this really happening? Is she....hitting on me? REALLY? This is awesome. I'm getting hit on. By a chick.  Who has a yeast infection.  Oh, Swoon swoon! Be still my heart! 

"Oh, uh, thanks."  

"So, I guess that means you're straight then."

Yes! Didn't I make that abundantly clear when I said I was married to a man!? Isn't that how it works?

"As an arrow."

By this point, the receptionist had an idea of what was going on and rescued me by calling me up to the desk.  I got up and the girl next to me said,  "Well, honey..." She leaned in way too close for comfort. "If you ever decide to go the other way and switch teams, you just give me a call. The lady there at the desk has my number."

I didn't respond. I didn't know how. This was honestly one of the few times that I was dumbfounded with absolutely nothing to say. Nothing nice or polite and there wasn't that narrative of my usual thoughts and insults running through my mind that I could inappropriately blurt out.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Why is it...?

- So hard for a man to change a trash bag when it's full? Do they think it empties themselves?

- That Grayson can figure out how to use my iphone and the apps on it but he still can't figure out to use the potty?

- There's no punctuation for sarcasm?

- If evolution really works, moms only have 2 hands?

- That Nickelback just won't quit making crappy music? (I'm sorry. It's true. It's crap. It's all crap.)

- That people who do not have children feel the need to offer thier input on how to raise mine? Pets do not  count as children - no matter how much they are a part of the family. Once you have actually constructed a human inside your uterus and then pushed something the size of a small gourd out of a hole the size of a walnut (or had your abdomen sliced open to pull a human out of your body), then you can offer constructive criticsm. Otherwise, shut your piehole.

- That there's not a "delete" button for people in real life like there is on Facebook? It would make the world so much easier.  Just a quick mouse click, and no more access to your life.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010


Dear Cabana Boy From THIS POST,

You really perturbed my husband. I have to say, it was funny seeing him get his panties in a wad about you since our first and last meeting was, like, 8 months ago. And you were just serving me drinks. And you're gay. Oh, and you're not real.  
I think it's in your best interest if you don't weasel your way into my dreams like that anymore.  Thanks for your phenomenal service. Maybe someday the husband will accompany me on the beach and you can serve me again. And perhaps you can pull some strings and have Morgan Fairchild bring him beer.

Thanks for everything,

PS - I'm totally kidding, husband! Really! I am! I'll have him bring Diane Keaton.

PPS - I love you. I tease you because I love you.  Wheaton's Law! Wheaton's Law!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Aw, nuts.

I am brilliant.

I am hilarious and insightful and a freaking word-smithing-savant!

All in the middle of the night when I have to get up to refill the inevitable cup of milk . Aaand then I don’t remember any of it.

Frick frack.

Last night I wrote a great post in my head. I mean, it was EPIC. The words just came to me and they swirled and slid into perfect order, creating a funny and relatable story. It was an anecdote full of smart little witty phrases to delight you, loyal reader. One sure to entice a real LOL, perhaps embarrassing you at work or cause for a confused look from your significant other.

But it’s gone. Pffft.  Just like that. I can almost recall it. It was good.  

Surely my problem could easily be resolved by the placement of a pen and notebook on my table beside the bed. But with so much genius going on in this brain, I never remember to get those things and put them there. And besides, Grayson would just take them and I'd never see them again anyway.

So, I’m sorry. It was really a good one too. You would have loved it. You probably would have tweeted it and facebooked it to all your friends and I’d get, like, a gazillion new readers. Damn.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Pay the Toll

Okay, so I've been writing my blog for a while now, and I am not getting any feedback from you, loyal readers! (I know you're there! I check my stats.) This makes me sad. And sad = writer's block. So, if you want more, you gotta pay the toll.

In an effort to get some feedback, I am going to post a survey. If you read my blog, take the survey! It's 10 measly questions. C'mon. Don't be a party pooper.  It'll be fun. I promise. And you can sign your name anonymously if you want to. Just do it. It's the hip thing to do.

Okay, ready?

Here we go! 

What's your middle initial?

How old are you?

Where are you reading from?

Do you have any children? What are their names?

Do you have any pets? What are their names?

What was your favorite job you've ever had?

Do you have any weird superstitions?

What was the last thing you purchased?

Can you play an instrument?

What do you dip a chicken nugget in?

The Degree Debacle

My kid ate a stick of deodorant. He didn't have just a taste, or just a bite, even. He ate the whole stick. It was brand new - still had the little plastic piece over it that you remove before your first use.

Okay, so before everyone starts in with the "What were you doing while he was doing that? How could you leave him unattended for that long?"  First of all, my kid is like The Flash carrying a jackhammer. He's quick. He's loud. He's full of energy. And he destroys whatever in his path. (RIP Christmas Tree.)

Enter Exhibit A. He did this to my laptop while I was transferring a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer.

Exhibit A:

Enter Exhibit B. I caught him trying to fool me into thinking he had jaundice while I was washing my hands after changing a diaper.

Exhibit B:

I was very pregnant with Jackson when The Degree Debacle took place. It was late one night, and in an effort to get more than 30 minutes of uninterrupted sleep, I waddled from our bed to the couch.  I had finally achieved my blissful slumber and was lying on a secluded beach somewhere tanning my no-longer pregnant physique and being served blackberry mojitos by a cabana boy that was probably gay, but still fun to look it nonetheless.

"Mmm. Thank you, Cabana Boy. Yes, keep 'em coming."  This cabana boy smells familiar.  And I swear, the ocean waves sound like they're saying "Mom."



Where do I know that smell from? It's kinda feminine. Aha! You are gay, Cabana Boy. My God, man! Do you have a glandular problem? Lay off the women's deodorant, buddy. I know that smell.


"WHAT!?!" My eyes sprung open to find my 2 year old standing in front of with his face about an inch from mine, whispering.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm sleeping. Why are you up? What are you do- What is that smell? What is that?" I rolled off the couch (that's the only way I could get upright) and stumbled/waddled for the nearest light source.  Once I got the light on, I saw chunks of white chalky matter leading from my bedroom to the living room where my toddler was standing.

Oh my God. He has gotten into my deodora--

And then, before he could answer my battery of questions,  I heard the most horrid, revolting, odious sound known to man.  It was the retching of my son.

He was blowing chunks. Literally. Chunks of my deodorant.  Naturally, I FREAKED.  I screamed. I awoke my husband, who was probably sleeping better than he had in months since there wasn't a person next to him kicking or getting up every 15 minutes to pee or munching on Tums.

As Grayson heaved, I found what was left of the deodorant and immediately turned it over hoping there was instructions for idiots that needed instructions on what to do if it was ingested. There it was, but my eyes focused on two words: POISON CONTROL.


I made it to the computer where frantically typed in "Poison control phone number" into my Google search bar. I know I should have already the number for Poison Control posted somewhere - but I didn't. And let's face it, Google is much faster than me digging through the junk drawer (because everything in the free world ends up in our junk drawer. Lost something? Ask me. I bet it's there.)  at 3 in the morning searching for a scrap piece of paper with a phone number on it.

After being put on HOLD for one of the longest three minute stretches in my life, the lady at the other end of the line spoke.

"Poison Control."

"Hi, yeah, my kid just ate deodorant."

"Excuse me?"

"Deodorant. My kid. He ate it."

"How much did he eat?"

"The whole thing."

"The whole thing!?"

"Yes. It was a new stick. I was asleep. He ate it. All of it And now he's vomitting."

"Okay, hang on just a second," she clicked. *Insert really bad hold/elevator music here.*



"He'll be fine."  Is she laughing?  "He might have dry mouth for a few days, but it shouldn't hurt him."
She IS laughing.  Seriously, this can't be that funny or weird. I mean, this is Poison Control.  NATIONAL Poison Control. People must be eating bizarre stuff all the time. And she's laughing at DEODORANT?! 
My thoughts drowned her out, but I caught "If he's not himself in 24 hours, you should take him to the nearest emergency room."

We watched him the rest of the night, and of course he was fine. And he never experienced any dry mouth. 

So, you know that thing that your kid did that's kinda funny but you're ashamed to tell anybody what they did for fear of looking like a bad parent? Well, just remember - my kid ate an entire stick of Degree for Women Powder Fresh Deodorant. And the Poison Control woman laughed at me.

Yeah, I'll go ahead and take that Mother of the Year Award now, thanks.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Saturday Shout-Out

I have decided that Saturdays will be "plug day."   I'll post something that I think is worth sharing.  

Here's my first:

My hunk o' man husband singing at a show earlier this summer. He's good. This song always make me *swoon*

Go HERE to read his blog and leave feedback!

Friday, October 15, 2010

"It'll Put Hair on Your Chest!" And Other Parenting Idiocies

Today at work, I overheard a mother tell her blubbering toddler, "Be quiet or I'll give you something to cry about!"

I smirked to myself at the absurdity of such a statement. I'd had that one used on me before. I always wanted to ask my mom "So, do you want me to stop crying? Or do you want me to cry more? I'm confused here, Mom. You're not being very clear." (In case you're wondering, she gave she something to cry about.)

But that mom telling her kid she'd give him something to cry about got me thinking.(I know, I know.)  I don't know about you, but my parents said a lot of dumb things when I was growing. (Who am I kidding, she still does.)  Sometimes she'd ask me, "Do you want a spanking?"

"Uhh, is this a trick question?"

Or (here's another good one) "This is going to hurt me than it does you." Uh no. Not true. Not even a little bit. It most definitely does not hurt the parent more. I've been on both sides of that fence. It does not hurt the spanker as much as the spankee. Just sayin'.

I'd make goofy faces all the time. And you know what my mom would say? Say it with me, everyone. "Your face is going to freeze like that!" And she'd say it all seriousness, as if she actually believed it herself. Have you ever seen a person with their face frozen with their eyelids pulled up, their fingers stuck in their nostrils, and their tongue hanging out?  Didn't think so. (Unless you count that crazy guy that hangs out on the bench outside of Wal-Mart, but I'd bet money that's not why he looks like that.)

I was a picky eater as a kid. I would never eat the crust of my bread. My Memaw would tell me, "Eat the crust! It'll put hair on your chest!" Yeah! You know, because that's what every five-year-old girl wants - a hairy chest. "Hair on my chest??? Really? Awesome! Can I eat yours too, Memaw!?"

And finally, there was the famous, "If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too?"
"Maybe. Just how long do you plan to stay with this line of questioning? KIDDING! I'm kidding, Mom. I wouldn't jump off a bridge to get away from you. I mean, I wouldn't jump off a bridge just because my friends were doing it.  So..does that mean, no, I can't go to the Aerosmith concert that everyone else is going to?"

"Dream on." Ha! Clever!

Yeah, that's what it meant, all right.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Ex - Part II: Tales of a She-male Porn Loving DJ and His Pro-Bowling Aspirations

After my college boyfriend, I decided I needed a new scene.  A whole new type of dude.  I stumbled upon a radio dj.
We only dated for a few months before everything went kaput - and for good reason.

He was from a wealthy family from St. Louis.  One weekend, while he was off being a Citizen Solider, I decided to be extra awesome and clean his apartment.

That's when I found a giant stack of burned cds in the closet that weren't in sleeves or cases.  *STOP*  I know every jealous girlfriend, wife, fiancé,  whatever has said "I wasn't snooping," when in fact, she was snooping - but I really wasn't snooping! I was simply putting away the folded blankets in the bottom of the closet when I knocked over this stack of loose cds that I didn't even know was there. I picked them up and noticed that they were labeled with my initials "S.M" and after my initials, each was numbered 1 - 16 respectively.  Yes, 16. Remember that number. It's horrifying.

Interesting, I thought.  Since he worked at the radio station, I assumed (and you know what they say about assumptions - so true) that these were discs he'd made with my favorite music on them.  Awesome! Something to rock out to while I clean! 

WRONG. Oh, I was so wrong. 

Since he was a dj - he was poor. He didn't have an actual cd player so we used his dvd player for our musical needs, too. I popped one of the suckers into the disc tray excited about the music that was about to fill the room.  I was curious to see what songs he had put the discs. Since I have musical ADD and feel the need to listen to the first 15-20 seconds of each song on a new cd, I got comfy on the floor in front of the tv preparing myself for the inevitable amount of awesome that was about to be played at a  high volume.

And then, the tv screen came to life.  Which is odd, I thought since music cds didn't do that.

Oh. My. God.

Oh. My God.

The tv flickered. 

Whoa. Wait. Did I just see boobs...? that a ....? Wait... wha-?  What?  WHAT!? That's a chick....No... no... that's NOT a chick....definatley NOT a chick....

And then, it hit me like a Mack truck.


Yes, those were my initials - but these cds were clearly NOT for me.

And you remember that little number behind each set of "my initials?"  Oh yes. There were 16 of them. One six. Sixteen. Six plus ten.  Eight times two.  SIXTEEN porn videos that starred chicks with di--  err... male anatomy.

Needless to say, we broke up shortly thereafter. A while after our break-up, he announced on his myspace that he was now pursuing his dream of becoming a professional bowler (it's important to note here, that we never ever went bowling or even entertained the thought of going bowling the entire time we dated) and how he was "putting all of his eggs into that basket."

I guess bowling suits him well.  He gets to handle great big heavy balls all the time.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Ex - Part I: Napoleon is Using My Lady Schick

I dated a guy in college that I could not stand. I mean, everything he did, every way he looked, everything he said, - literally - everything about him got on my nerves. I honestly don't know why I dated him as long as I did. He was an athlete and into sports and meat (which I would find out later on didn't mean he was just into food) and a real "manly" man... (not really, but he thought he was)


He was little - not little, like a little person or like garden gnome little - he was just - petite.

I should've known then that this relationship would not end well. Hell, I should've known that it wouldn't start well. It was obvious be his behavior and attitude he had a Napoleon Complex in a bad sort of way.

He shaved his legs. It was because he ran, he said. Right - because around here in podunk Kentucky the competition for running 5Ks was so stiff that the difference between 1st and 2nd place was a matter of who had waxed the night before. I'm sure the hot pink loofah with the Skintimate Raspberry Rain Shave Gel improved his game, too.

I broke up with him after a 2 year relationshit (no, that's not a typo.) I just didn't like him. He decided that the way to win me back was to stalk me. He'd show up at my work. He showed up drunk in my parent's driveway more than once. I ended up having to get the county attorney's office to send him a letter threatening legal action if he didn't leave me alone.

I later found out that one night while he was drowning his sorrows he ended up at the gay bar. And went home with a good friend of mine at the time.
Of the male persuasion.

I'm not sure if this is flattering or demeaning. Sadly, this would not be the last time this would happen in my relationships...

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Essentials Every Man Should Know About Women

Beware the vagina, because it can read minds. You should also listen very closely to the vagina.
It is a storyteller and a dreamer of dreams.

We are less afraid of aging than of you watching us age.

We almost always know when you're full of shit.

Through a little practice and thousands of years of evolution, the female species has mastered the art of convincing men that it was you, not us, who made the last decision.

We're good at forgiving. Not so good at forgetting.

Cologne should be enjoyed only by the woman lying on your chest.

Occasionally we may dismiss your compliments on our beauty as mere obligation. Just know that even though we may not show it, your words still go a long way.

Making us laugh is sexy. Making us laugh while opening the door for us is sexier.

Let us catch you looking at us.

All we want is to be cherished and to know that you have our backs.

If you want to see us naked more often, turn up the damn thermostat.

We can pee standing up, but it's not pretty.

If you would just listen to us, we'd shut up.

You would be crazy, too, if your insides fell out every twenty-eight days.

You should show a mammoth appreciation for every square inch of our soft, hairless bodies. Waxing hurts like a motherfucker!

We think about sex as much as you do, maybe more. We are simply covert about it.

When we're fighting about the toothpaste cap, we're not really fighting about the toothpaste cap. We're fighting about that thing that happened three or four months ago at what's-his-face's house when you neglected that major issue we have—which, by the way, is fundamental.

We're actually stronger than you think, so even though we may cry more than you do, we're way more resilient.

When you tell us about a business lunch you had with a woman, it's a good idea to tell us that she's fat, ugly, old, or a lesbian. Preferably all of them.

PMS is real. It's chemical, and it sucks. If someone told you that every thirty days you were going to get jacked repeatedly in the nuts, you'd be pissy around day twenty-six, too.

Next time a woman is acting crazy, break into applause and see what happens.

You may be surprised to know that women were responsible for inventing all of the following: the circular saw, the signal flare, the space suit, the bulletproof vest, and the windshield wiper.

You're welcome.

Monday, October 11, 2010


As you can see, I have completely revamped my blog. You can thank my husband for the changes. He has taken up writing again by starting his own blog. His enthusiasm is contagious and inspired me to actually write something that people might find interesting. Sure, the whole "we're going organic" was an interesting gimmick - but we just financially couldn't do it. However, I still wanted to write. I don't know why...but I still feel compelled nonetheless.

I've been told on more than one occasion that the random happenings that occur to make up my life could be published in a book - and that people would buy it. But, that just seems like alot of work. And who has time for more work!?! Not this girl. So, I figured I would just blog about those random happenings. I promise to be honest. I cannot promise there won't be a fair amount of swearing, so if that's not your cup of tea, perhaps you'd better head over to our
family blog that's chalk full of pictures and other "G" rated things.

I have to say, I impressed myself with the title. It just came to me. - like a flowing fountain of regurgitated formula from a baby's stomach - literally. I was searching through free backgrounds and came across a section dedicated to layouts that featured shoes. I noticed a cute pair of stilettos on one thumbnail and made a mental note to "wear stilettos more often" when Jack - who I was swaying on my shoulder - erupted down my neck and back. "Thanks for the spit-up," I told him glancing at the screen of the beautiful shoes that I could never ever afford (not this background) and immediately put the two together.

Me being my over-analytical self, though, now can't decide if the "working mom" in the description along with the stilettos insinuates that I am a hooker. So I will take the time to clarify that now. I am not a hooker. I work in a vet clinic - which kind of contradicts the whole stiletto thing because I wear Nikes to work - but that's neither here nor there, really. You get the idea. I hope.

So, here we are. With a fresh face, a fresh title, and a fresh gimmick. If you read it, please let me know you stopped by and leave a comment.

The fat lady is singing

I think I can safely say that this experimental lifestyle change is officially on hiatus. And in all honesty here are the 2 reasons why:

1.) Money - Yes, I know, I know. I should be happy and willing to sacrifice things that make me happy so my family can eat healthier, less processed foods. But, let's face it. I'm selfish. I don't want to. I like being able to have manicured hands and eyebrows that are distinctly separated. These are things that I do for me. And I feel like I need that. I feel like I deserve that. It's what I do for myself. It makes me feel good. That's worth something, right? Does that make me a terrible mother? Truth be told, even if I did give up these things, we still wouldn't be able to afford to eat all organic foods. It is ridiculous how much more you have to spend to eat healthy. No wonder America is so fat. People are watching their money - and not their calories. Why pay $15 for one pound of organic free-range chicken when you can buy three times that in regular ol' chicken breast? It doesn't make any sense at all.

2.) The limited availability of organic foods here in Western KY. As I have stated in a previous post, there is one supermarket around that has a decent selection of organic foods. It is 20 minutes away from me and does not carry any of the other things I need when I shop for our household. My time away from home (and not working) without our two children is very very limited. I have to utilize what little time I get wisely. I do not have time to drive out of my way to this supermarket and then go somewhere else to buy everything else I need. I simply do not have the time to do this. And forget doing this with the two kiddos. Yes, it can be done. But it's not pretty at the end of the day. We do not have a Whole Foods or a butcher shop that sells organic meat. We do have local farms that sell beef by the whole or half cow - and we don't have a deep freezer to accommodate that much meat.

So, here we are. Stuck.

Ideally, yes, I want my family to eat what's best for them. At the same time, I don't want to have to choose food over something Grayson really wants to do because of monetary issues. I grew up on processed foods. I ate that $.79 box of macaroni and "cheese." I drank Kool-Aid loaded with sugar. I ate the "chicken" nuggets from McDonald's. I turned out (somewhat) normal. I think the most important thing here is that we are now reading labels. I am more aware of what I'm actually buying and feeding my family. I'm trying to lead them to make healthy choices of what they are eating. I am not naive enough to think that if I deprive my toddler of Cheetos that he will say "No" when someone else offers it to him. But, that same toddler loves fruits and vegetables. A few Cheetos with their neon orange cheese dust residue is not detrimental to the well-being and health of my kids.

We'll never be THAT family - the ones that are constantly turning down offers for backyard bbqs and that never go out to eat because we can't eat anything on the menu. It just doesn't gel with us.

We tried. It didn't work.
But we tried.

With that, I thank you for following me on our short-lived quest in going organic. I have decided to keep the blog, though, as a more candid look into our lives. An "R" version of our "G" family blog - if you will. The name will be changed, the content will change, the appearance will change, but it's still us.

Stick around. It won't be boring.