Things They Can't Say: Holly's House

I think I stumped this week's featured blogger at first, because there's not much she can't say. She's snarky and hilarious... and has a big heart under it all. Please welcome Holly of Holly's House: Not a Perfect Mom's Blog.

I'm not ashamed of anything I've ever done in my life...

I honestly think all of life's experiences happen for a reason, whether it's to learn, to grow, or just to have a good time...

That being said, there are a few things in my past I'd prefer my kids to never find out about...you know, because I'm the mommy...and mommies make good choices...

And so this is a list perfect for the Always So Lovely Shell, the things I can't say on my blog...the things I never want my kids to know I did...

1. I was suspended my senior year of high school for a week after passing out drunk at a football game and being taken away in an ambulance. As a result my principal nicknamed me Chugs for the rest of year*...

2. After my mother gave me the okay to pierce my ears 18 times, my tongue, my nose, my bellybutton, and allowed me to get a Marilyn**, she put her foot down at the thought of her 15 year old daughter walking around with nipple rings...so I went to my piercers house and had him do it on the sly without her knowing...

3. I had a fake ID I used to get into clubs and drink before I was legally allowed to even be in there...

4. I vowed to never have children...

5. I lost my virginity on my 14th birthday, something I never ever want my daughters to know...

6. When I was 19 I started dancing at a gentlemen's establishment under the name Mackenzie simply because I had perky breasts and no one to tell me it wasn't a good idea...

7. I never tried in school, A's and B's came naturally with little to no effort...I want my kids to push themselves to do the best can...

8. I dabbled with bulimia all throughout middle school...

9. I hit a pregnant coworker's car when I was 17 and totally scraped up the side, but drove away and parked across the lot...I was scared I would get grounded and my cool 1987 Astro van would be taken away...

10. I have a favorite child***...

So there you have it...the things I can't say on my page...but all things that have made me the fabulously awesome person I am today...

*my mother actually got a kick out of that, especially since I was a straight A-never even had a lunch detention kind of student...

**a diamond stud where Marilyn Monroe had her mole

***please! what kind of person do you think I am!? Of course I don't have a favorite child...I just like a well rounded out list so I made up the last one...



Please leave Holly some comment love here and then go follow her blog Holly's House. You can also find her on facebook and twitter @notaperfectmama.

Things They Can't Say: The Adventures of Daddy Runs a Lot

In the almost 18 months that I've had a Friday guest, I've only featured one other guy besides today's feature. Because for the most part, this is a community of women. But, it's nice to hear from the "other side" now and then. And today's guest fits in so well in the mom blog world. Please welcome John from The Adventures of Daddy Runs a Lot.

On the whole, I'm not a worrier. Typically, if I am worried about something, we've moved beyond the point where worrying would be proper and we've moved onto the stage where worrying is useless and action is required.

But, lately, I've found myself worrying. More specifically, about two years ago, I started worrying. What's worse is that I've been worrying about stuff that, well, you absolutely can't control. Worrying, typically, is useless . . . but, sometimes you worry over something and you come up with a plan to actually change the course of the thing you're worrying about. But, there are tons of things that will just play out - and worrying about them is just pointless. Of course, it's those things that I worry about.

I worry about my job. I worry about the number of hours that I spend working it. I worry about losing it and how I'd provide for my family. And I worry, just as much, about keeping this job for forever, because I don't have the "this isn't really work, but I get paid for it" vibe that I once convinced myself that I'd have . . . and that I hope my children grow up knowing.

I worry that the line between "daddy" and "husband" gets blurred and lost.

I worry that I don't do enough at home. I worry more that I find myself longing for "peace and quiet and just a minute to myself" when I am at home. So, there are times that I get home and try to do everything - and long more and more for just that minute of silence. And, once that minute of silence is attained, I worry that I'm being reclusive.

I worry when I reach for a beer or a glass of wine - both in the fact that I might not have any more beer or wine, or that there's some part of me that feels that I need it.

I worry that something will happen to me, and my kids won't remember me. So, I work out in the extreme early morning, and over lunches, to try to make myself as strong and healthy as possible.

I worry that my "five year plan" is nothing more than "let's wait and see," but, honestly, I can't see much past the next week.

I worry that I'll lose my phone, and with it, lose any track of the weekend commitments I've made to my band, or couples getting married, or community theaters needing a musician. You'd think I'd keep better track of my calendar because of this (ask me, some day, about my photo backup strategy if you want to see a fully anal-retentive John), but I trust worry to do it all.

I worry about my two year old son not speaking yet. I worry that he's well on his way to becoming a superstar athlete, and I worry about the constant worry I'll face about him getting hurt because that.

I worry about the speed at which my daughter figures things out, and the way that, even at 17 months old, she's quite clear about what she does not want. I worry about her being far smarter and more motivated than I am.

I worry about my kids having their hearts broken.

I worry that I'm not doing enough for their future educations.

I worry about my kids finding out just what kind of student I was.

I worry about my kids becoming fans of the Dallas Cowboys. Or worse, the Oakland Raiders.

I worry about the way I eat when I worry, which makes me want to reach for another donut, which makes me worry more, which makes me daydream of nachos.

I worry that I now want nachos. Badly. And maybe some wine. After a donut, of course.


Please leave John some comment love here and then go follow The Adventures of Daddy Runs a Lot. You can also find him on twitter @daddyrunsalot

Things They Can't Say: Letters for Lucas

This week's featured blogger is Tonya, who writes beautiful, heartfelt posts at Letters for Lucas.

Just Us

He brought home flowers last week.

White and yellow gerbera daisies.

They made me smile.

The flowers were a very small token of his generosity and his concern for my mental and physical well-being.

As I lay on the table with needles stuck all over my body, trying to calm my mind and visualize healthy eggs and a new wonderful addition to our family, all I could think was: when was the last time I told him I loved him?

Isn't that awful?

I couldn't remember the last time I spoke the words: I love you to my husband. It must have been on the phone yesterday. Our calls always end with an "I love you". But when was the last time I said it to his face?

I'm a terrible person.

Sometimes I feel as though I am a much better mother than I am a wife.

Our two-year-old son, Lucas always comes first.

But the two of us? We come and go like two ships passing in the night.

Lucas consumes the majority of our time together, leaving very little left over for just us.

Our conversations are about our son, the latest funny thing he’s said or done, an outing we have planned, his days at pre-school. We spend a lot of time sitting cross-legged on the floor laughing, singing and playing with cars and trains, puzzles and Play-Doh. He brings so much joy and goodness to our lives.

As of late, our attention has also been focused on adding to our family: fertility treatments, fertility expenses and fertility appointments.

As I tried to relax I knew exactly where I was headed after my acupuncture appointment was over.

I desperately needed to see my husband. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him.

I needed him to know that no matter what the doctor told us today, no matter what life had in store for us that I loved him and we would be okay.

We would be okay and I would be okay.

It may take time, but we would figure out what to do next.

Together.

We have faced worse.


We are strong.


And we are lucky, so very lucky.


I love you.

As soon as the needles had been removed, my next session scheduled, I said all that and much more.

Please leave Tonya some comment love here and then go follow Letters for Lucas. You can also find her on twitter @letters4lucas and on facebook.

Things They Can't Say: CA Girl

Lourie is the incredibly sweet and sometimes sarcastic blogger behind CA Girl: CEO, Writer, MD, Lawyer, Ref, Taxi...Mom!

I am often behind the camera instead of in front of it because I am the photographer and because that means I won’t break the camera.  I am painfully shy and yet, I love the idea of performing.  Let me explain that to you.  Being on stage and pretending to be someone else is a great escape from reality.  I do not have to be me.  Or at least, I can pretend to be the person everyone thinks I am not.  People think I am so quiet and reserved.  They also will tell me I am so calm and even-tempered.  My only response to that is:  oh honey, you just don’t live with me.  As for the quiet and reserved, well you haven’t stepped into my comfort zone.  Once you are there you know I am not either.

Unfortunately for you and for me, I make myself to appear quite unapproachable.  I am not one to sit in the middle front row at church—more like the back corner or near the exit to make a clean get away.  Likewise, I will not seek out new people at mixers(like I go to any) or church functions(more my speed) I either search out the one person I know or hang with the one I came with—meaning my husband or my mom if husband happens to be working that night.   I am not a cold fish by any stretch of the imagination.  All you have to do is draw me out.  Once you have done that you are golden.  And you will see that I don’t bite…usually.

So if we ever have the pleasure of meeting, and it is filled awkward silences, rest assured it is totally me and not you.  Just keep the conversation going.  If you can do that, I am sure we will hit a common ground and I will open up.  Then I will start talking, and probably not shut up open up and that awkwardness will melt away.   

Are you shy or outspoken?  Do you reach out to people or hope people will seek you out?

Please leave Lourie some comment love here and then go follow CA Girl. You can also find her on twitter.

Things They Can't Say: Mama Wants This

Meet Alison, the incredibly supportive and friendly blogger from Mama Wants This: 

I Can't Say This On My Blog Or In Real Life


I have two brothers. Which means I have two sisters-in-law.

By and large, I have nothing against them. My sisters-in-law that is.

However, there are a few things I wish I could say to them. But I can't, and I probably never will.

So I'll tell you, the Internet, instead.

Here goes. *gulp*

Sister-in-Law #1,

Please stop inviting me to your daughter's birthday parties. I love my niece, but I hate parties. I hate parties that are held in places where getting there will take me an hour, finding a parking spot will take me even longer, and having to hang out with your friends will probably make me want to throw cake at someone.

Please don't pretend to chat with me online, only to ask me for favors, such as helping you out at events your company organizes. I have an idea, why don't you PAY someone to take event photographs for you?

Please eat more, you're almost two-dimensional. Rest assured, you're skinnier now than before you had your child.

Please don't change plans last-minute when we've already made plans weeks before. I have a toddler who's a routine junkie, and any changes throws us both off.

Your Husband's Sister

Sister-in-Law #2 (to-be but what's the difference?),

Please don't tell everyone I'm organizing your wedding. I am not. I merely said I'll do what I can, while sitting on the couch. That means Googling for information and sending that to you. Period.

Please don't ask for my suggestions on your wedding dress when you keep shooting them down.

Please don't presume my business is your business, and blab stuff to my mother, when I specifically told you not to.

Please don't talk about me or my husband behind my back to my parents and cousins. I thought we were friends?

Please don't go crying to my brother and making it all about you, when it's not. I have a right to be mad when you go blabbermouth on me, after you said you wouldn't.

Your Former Friend

*For the record, I'm still very civil to my sisters-in-law. I repress my resentment and anger, letting it bubble over, then spilling it all out on someone else's blog. You'll still love me, right?*



Please leave some comment love here for Alison and then go follow her blog Mama Wants This. You can also find her on facebook and on twitter. 

Things They Can't Say: Vinobaby's Voice

A wine glass in one hand and a soccer ball under the other arm: oh yes, I can relate to this week's featured blogger! Meet Kerry Ann from Vinobaby's Voice. 

I am scared to death of kids' birthday parties. Attending them is bad enough. I cringe thinking about having to smile and make small talk with strangers while trapped by dozens of screaming munchkins in Chuck E. Cheese or bounce house world purgatory.

But what is worse is having to host one.

I am the embodiment of the anti-Martha Stewart;  I was born missing the gene essential for throwing  parties. Whether it is a specific link of hostess DNA, lack of social savvy, or maybe I just have a low threshold for tolerating dozens of children running around with pinata sticks while on a sugar high — the thought of planning and executing my own Kiddo's birthday party nearly gives me a panic attack.

This year I had an easy out. Legoland, my son's wildest fantasy come true, opens a week after his birthday.  Yes, I will gladly drive an hour and a half each way, cough up the cash for the three of us to go get in, and be a part of the opening weekend madness instead of hosing a party. No question.

So why am I so terrified of throwing my own kid's birthday party?

My mom gave me a birthday party each year until I was about eight or nine — but they were little shin-digs, a bunch of neighborhood buddies kicking it up in our backyard sandbox or pool.  Parents dropped off kids back then.  A homemade cake and ice cream, a jug of apple juice, maybe a bag of chips and the buffet was complete. We were thrilled to get special plates and cake in the middle of the afternoon. We were basically caged in the back yard running wild, playing Marco Polo in the pool with maybe a game of pin the tail on the donkey or penny drop. And we had a blast.

Now birthday parties are a competitive sport. And I have always sucked at sports.

You have to rent bounce houses or water slides or ultimate video game buses. Princess and pirates are hired to stroll through the party, painting faces and handing toddlers swords or tiaras. Photographers snap the scenes for photo books and immediate broadcast across the social media streams (and if it is REALLY good, it may even end up on Pinterest).  Dress codes are often mandatory; come in your fairy gown or as your favorite superhero or you may as well not come at all (so parents have to buy costumes or risk being the object of ridicule).

Parents must stay the entire time for social hour, gossiping and grazing on the lavish buffet offered to impress them while their kids complain about the food (because they are all picky eaters now, right?).

I just can't get into this scene.

First off, I am far to cheap frugal (shh, it's in style now). I cannot afford to host one of these fancy-schmancy fetes. I bake the birthday cake each year — yes, I try to decorate it in a way which will make Kiddo swoon, but it's hardly a professionally decorated masterpiece. My cakes are lopsided, from a box, but full of (hours worth of) love.

And in real life, I am really kind of shy.  What if I threw a party and no one came?  That is one of my biggest fears. Am I passing it down to my child?  Remarkably, he did not inherit any of my shyness. He is friendly, popular, and seems to be a pretty cool kid. But what if the other kid's parents knew I was a terrible hostess and no one showed up? I couldn't bear to see my Kiddo's little heart break.

I  gave in and threw him a big party for his 5th birthday.  I rented a pavilion at a local park, bought a ginormous Costco cake and a pinata, and carefully ordered proper goodie bag treats. I invited tons of his friends from playgroup and preschool.

I was in over my head.

The festivities almost ended in the E.R. before the party began. The "Daddies" decided it would be fun to race down the massively steep hill in our wagon and ran over the Birthday Boy. He was okay, and my Mom was able preserve me screaming at the Big Boys on video for posterity. Then the kids didn't want to do any of the games I so painstakingly planned and a couple of them went at the pinata a little to over-zealously and we had tears and ice packs.

A mom I had never met before saved my behind by helping cut and dish out the cake to the hungry monstersmasses.  Rarely had I ever felt so out of my element. There is a reason I am not a party planner or a teacher: hoards of hyper kids absolutely terrify me.

Kiddo had a great time. But I will never do it again.

Does that make me a bad parent?It's just a small family get together for us this year and hopefully an amazing day at Legoland.

Maybe next year we can do a slumber party for a friend or two. I can handle that, right?

Please leave Kerry Ann some comment love here and then go follow Vinobaby's Voice. You can also find her on twitter @VinoBaby1 and on facebook.

Things They Can't Say: Grumpy Grateful Mom

I'd so be IRL friends with this week's guest blogger. I love her approach to being a mom. Please welcome Janae from Diaries of a Grumpy Grateful Mom. 

I've had some amazingly embarrassing moments.

Like when I got the great idea to limbo under a volleyball net back in my junior high gym class.  My braces caught on the bottom net wire, came unglued and made a loop above my upper lip.   The orthodontist exclaimed, "In all my years, I've NEVER seen anything like this!"

Then there was the short-lived time I was a TV news anchor and accidentally started laughing hysterically on the air.   Surprisingly they fired me, excuse me, I mean didn't renew my contract.  Also embarrassing.

I can laugh about these things now, though at the time, I believe those incidents were worthy of my embarrassment.

Yet, there are other everyday happenings that are not so worthy of my embarrassment.  I try to be open about some of my faults, though I feel that if people knew too many of my shortcomings, I might have to hide under a rock.  But I don't want to waste any more energy feeling this way.

So For Now,

It's OK that I'm a bad--actually terrible--home loveliness maintainer.  Those extra germs build immunity, right?

It's OK that I ate more junk food than healthful food yesterday.   I did cut back from three bowls of ice cream to a mere two.  Woot! Woot!

It's OK that I haven't made it through church ONE time without having to take one or more of my kiddos into the hall for disorderly conduct.  They'll make it through someday, at least by the time they're adults.

It's OK that sometimes I have a hard time focusing in church too.  That one may even be normal.
It's OK that I don't make close friends easily.  Feeling completely comfortable around someone takes time for me.

It's OK that I still don't know how to tweet from my phone.  I'm certain I will bravely conquer this task in the distant future.

It's OK that I've been too lazy to make sack lunches for my daughter this year and that she tells me, "I'm the only one in my entire class that NEVER takes a sack lunch!"  Hopefully, she'll still grow well on her lunch diet of french fries and chocolate milk.  Scratch that.  I may have to change this soon.

I'm not good at thank-you notes, or staying in touch with extended family.  I'm not crafty or budget abiding.  I put my foot in my mouth all the time, and I only bath my children when they start to smell.

I could go on, though I'll stop here, before I truly embarrass myself.  I still want to improve in these areas and progress, but I don't want to be ashamed if I'm not the healthy, organized, sweet, and domestic epitome of motherhood perfection that I would like to be.  

I'll get there.  And if I don't, at least I'll have my ice cream to console me.

Please leave Janae some comment love here and then go follow her blog Grumpy Grateful Mom. You can also find her on twitter @GrumpyGrateful and on facebook. 

Things They Can't Say: These Little Waves

Not only is today's guest an incredible writer who is able to pour such emotion into her words, but she is also one of the most supportive women in the blogosphere. Please welcome Galit from These Little Waves.

The moon etches white. A slim glow in our living room reflects the laundry, the mail, the dust.

I sit on the yellow couch. My shoulders, slumped. My hair, ponytailed. My face, tear-streaked.

My first newborn, Kayli, is cradled in my arms.

I hold her close, although if I dig deep (deeper), what I really want to do is pass her off. Take a shower. Reclaim my body. Let someone else -anyone else- take care of her.

But I don’t.

I nestle her in and allow my tears to graze her cheeks.

Jason’s eyes wash over us in shades of helplessness and worry. But when I look close (closer) I glimpse something else coloring them in.

It’s the stubbornness that we share. He wants me to continue nursing our baby, and he’s going to ensure that I do.

*****

That night was was seven-or-so years ago and I’m happy to report that Kayli, Jason, our marriage, and I all survived it.

He did push me to nurse because we made that decision before she was born, before I was pregnant, and probably before we were married!

That’s how it goes in the early rays of love, isn’t it?

You find peace somewhere between passion and friendship and laughter and dreams.

You make your way towards the sacred Middle Ground, plant your feet firmly, and just be together.

Except sometimes, that Middle Ground is hard to reach. And when new love sets and children and finances and schedules and commitments rise, those disagreements shed their light.

And it’s hard.

*****

Jason and I have a beautiful marriage. I am so very lucky to be linked to him.

But sometimes we disagree about our parenting.

Of course we do- we each have our own baggage and upbringing and education and moods. And remember- we share a deeply rooted stubbornness.

But these moments, are when I feel torn.

I want to be on the same team as my husband and present a united front to our children. I want them to feel the sweetness of this security.

But I also want to show them that I’m on their team -always, unconditionally.

Everyone deserves to have someone like that in their lives- someone who will cheerlead for them when they’re not their best.

So I take their side as their mother, not as his wife.

*****

When it’s just the two of us -still sitting on that same yellow couch with that same moon sliding into a different set of windows- it’s easy to hold that disagreement in the palm of my hand, inspect it, crumple it up, and throw it away.

But in the light of day when we’re immersed in the mess that is a family, I am torn again.

Torn (luckily) wrapped up in happily married, soulfully committed, impossibly stubborn, and equally matched.

*****

Thank you so very much for having me here today, Shell. I'm honored! And thank you for reading my heart. I'm thrilled to meet you.


Please leave Galit some comment love here and then go follow her blog These Little Waves. You can also find her on twitter @GalitBreen.

Things They Can't Say: The Mommy Therapy

Leslie, from The Mommy Therapy, has three kids 5 and under. She's honest, sarcastic, and hilarious. I'm thrilled she was willing to share a recipe-ish here: and you get to see what on earth that is-trust me, you'll love it. Please welcome her as this week's featured guest.

We have a serious problem on my cul-de-sac.

 

It's scary. I'm not sure how this is going to go down, but there will be tears and there will shame.

 

Most likely from me making a total ass of myself, but that's not important.

 

Teenagers have moved in at the end of my street and what used to be one teen that could be weakened with a glare and a fist shake has turned in to six, yes six, driving teens and all their punk friends.

 

Fine, I don't know that they are all punks but chances are good that I'm right.

 

I remember being a teenager like it was yesterday. I was 17, driving my Honda Prelude around town with my girlfriends, sipping soda pop, driving slowly through residential areas and always lowering the volume on my Cypress Hill when I drove by small humans. I always gave my boyfriend an enthusiastic handshake and a non-chest touching hug before heading inside my house, never past 10.

 

I think I skipped rope a lot too.

 

I'm reasonably confident this is an accurate memory.

 

Recently these kids, it's important to add the "these" so they sound more guilty, are speeding up and down the cul-de-sac at all hours of the day and night. They are making out in their parked car close to midnight when they should be inside making friendship bracelets to show the opposite sex how much they care. Then the other day one of them threw a half-empty, or half-full if you are feeling positive about this situation, Sonic milkshake cup out of the window of their car right in front of me.

 

I am 5'4 and 120 pounds of fierce rage; they must be some bold ass kids.

 

I even gave them the traditional "What the hell?" gesture of raising my arms with upturned palms into a V, I'm sure you know exactly what I mean. They didn't even turn to show me that they were scared, much less stop and pick up their trash while begging for forgiveness like they should have.

 

What is a suburban Mom of three to do?

 

There are nine kids under the age of 10 on this cul-de-sac. Since I'm on the corner, I feel a strong sense of responsibility to protect my street. If you aren't familiar with the corner house's level of responsibility you need to read up on your neighborhood's HOA rules, I'm sure it's in there....or I might have made it up, I can't be sure.

 

Either way, action must be taken!

 

I decided I must try to connect with someone that these kids could relate to in their irresponsibly youthful state. So, I felt like my only option was to write a recipe-ish for Mac & Cheese for Ke$ha and ask her advice.

 

Clearly there was no other way.

 

If you've never read a recipe-ish, you might be wondering if maybe I'm insane, or a recreational drug user, but you are wrong. I'm just doing what the little voices inside my head are telling me to do.

 

I write to a different person every week, giving them a recipe...sort-of. Here are some of my previous recipe-ish posts. Here or here or here.

 

Let's just get this party started. I think that's what Ke$ha would say.

 

Dear Kesha,

 

I hope you'll forgive me for leaving off the '$' in your name and going with the more traditional 's'. I tried to keep typing it, but it's annoying. Or ridiculous. Or annoying.

 

Seriously, what is going on there?

 

I really connect to your music though. Some other very enthusiastic Moms and I danced the night away at a wedding recently to your "We R Who We R" song and that "Tik Tock" hit.

 

(Sidenote: I know you earned your GED, but your spelling concerns me for the validity of that program. Would it be so difficult to spell the word 'tick' correctly? I can only assume you texted the title of these songs to someone and there was a miscommunication about shorthand versus actual spelling of the title. LOL.)

 

I'm sure some women in their late 30s jamming to your songs were exactly what you were imagining when you wrote about brushing your teeth with a bottle of Jack or boys trying to touch your junk. Motherhood is rough; you obviously were trying to reach out to us. It worked! These situations are our lives.

 

I felt like you were holding a mirror up to me when you wrote about wearing hot pants, eye glitter, and stockings ripped all up the sides. That screams carpool line and poopy diapers.

 

Fine, perhaps these topics are slightly outside my current life, and at times I find you mildly offensive, but you do make some great dance music. I also think you could do a bang up job with my current problem.

 

("Bang up" means good. Do people your age use that phrase? Do people my age use that phrase?)

 

You must really resonate with the teens these days. I read that you didn't really fit in during high school because you wore purple velvet pants and stuff like that, it must be nice to now be a role model for young women, encouraging the masses to wear hot pants and ripped stockings. You've come far. Congratulations.

 

Would you like a chance to reconnect with some teens in my hood?

 

I'm sure you are a little idea factory with all your creative spelling and allegedly ad lib rapping about getting drunk and other equally intellectual topics, so I thought you might think of a way to help school the teens on my street.

 

While you are thinking, I've come up with a few options of my ideas of how you could help to really transform these teens’ thoughts on their behavior.

 

In exchange for your assistance I've written you a delicious, though pretty ambiguous, recipe for Mac & Cheese that I make for my kids. I figured you might like it since you were born in the late 80s....which really has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that it makes me feel old.

 

Here are my ideas.

 

• You pen a slammin' hit (I assume this is appropriate usage of the adjective "slammin'") about driving safety in neighborhoods and/or how much it would cramp a teens style to oh...say, run over a kid.
• You lend me some of your concert wardrobe so that I could wear it at the end of my driveway while holding a large, "STOP YOUR HEAVY PETTING BECAUSE THIS WILL BE YOU SOMEDAY SOON" sign, hoping that the fact that I haven't worn a bra and my boobs are closer to the belly than my shoulders, and my scary pregnancy spotted face makes me look more like a serial killer than their friendly neighbor, will end their late night car humping. A little glimpse at motherhood, and how you cannot under any circumstances wear hot pants regardless of your fitness level after three kids, might get me some sympathy mixed with raw fear for their late night make out sessions.
• You and I perform your hit Tik Tok. You perform as yourself and I will act as JLo in a choreographed number that would BLOW THEIR MINDS. I figure this has no benefit to our cause, but it would be really fun for me. 
• You start a movement about how littering has nothing to do with, and actually is the complete opposite of, (in some random, not really connected, but make it seem connected sort of way,) youthful irreverence. I'm pretty sure youthful irreverence is every teen's goal and you mentioned once that your goal as an artist was to produce albums about that. On behalf of every parent, thank you by the way.

 

These are just me thinking out loud. The first things flying out of my head. You brainstorm a little and let's talk.

 

While that's percolating a bit, let's talk Mac & Cheese.

 

My mother never made the Kraft box kind, because she loved me.

 

(I'm totally joking, but perhaps I just started a song for you? You. Are. Welcome.)

 

My Mom didn't make the box kind because she took a nutrition class in 1968 that she can't stop talking about and the box was not mentioned in said class. Hence...I have a strong love for bubbly baked Mac & Cheese.

 

My children do not share this love; probably because I never took that class.

 

My kids like the sauce poured over noodles variety....but they don't like the box kind because they are really smart and have new and diverse ways to make every single day challenging.

 

Hooray devious children!

 

So, this is what I make them and they usually love it. They always devour the whole thing.

 

Except when they don't and decide that they hate it, but that's how kids are...which is why you and every other child between 14-25 should probably put on a turtleneck and and some high waisted wool pants and whip up friendship bracelets until you are ready to take on children.

 

(Another song topic? Turtlenecks and wool pants are so HOT, here's a bracelet! Genius.)

 

Here's what you need:

 

1 Bag spiral pasta. (I know there is a real name for them, but all the kids these days are calling them spirals. Work it into a song. I am basically a hit factory for you.)
2-3 tablespoons butter
2-3 tablespoons flour
1-2 cups milk - live dangerously and use the whole milk
2 cups shredded Velveeta - do not be scared by the fact that the package calls this a cheese product and not just cheese. It's perfectly "natural."
1 cup Cheddar

 

I'm going to be honest about something Kesha. I am not too sure on any of the amounts except the noodles, the butter, and the Velveeta. Everything else I change each time I make it. There is a lot of room for creativity in this, which is why I like making it.

 

See what happens when you have kids? Your creative outlet is now mixing dairy products over medium-low heat in the hopes that small people will like it. Can you mention this to my neighbors?

 

Let's cook.

 

First, boil a big pot of salted water. My Mom doesn't believe in salting the water though (damn that '68 nutrition class!) so try not to make this when you guys are hanging out.

 

Add the noodles and follow the package directions for how long they should cook. I assume zero responsibility for the noodles.

 

Actually, I assume zero responsibility for any of this. It's a recipe-ish. The ish gets me out of any liability.

 

Seriously, I took the LSATs back in '04, I know what I'm talking about here.

 

After the noodles are done, drain them and put them back in the empty pot.

 

Hold it! I forgot to ask you the question that has been burning in my brain since I heard of you.

 

What is up with you tour being called the "Get Sleazy Tour?"

 

Seriously, you are not making my kind happy with that shit. I can't even imagine how much my husband will dislike you once Stella is trying to squeeze into hot pants.

 

Sorry for all the questions, I became spontaneously concerned.

 

Back to the cooking.

 

Get a medium size saucepan and melt the butter over medium-low heat. Add the flour and whisk it around until it's smooth.

 

(I could seriously crank out some hits. "Whisk it around until it's smooth?" I'm basically writing your next album for you.)

 

Add more flour or butter if there is excessive clumping or if it still looks like liquid butter.

 

Slowly stir in about a cup of the milk while you constantly whisk.

 

Keep whisking.

 

Add the cheese. Velveeta first and whisk until it is smooth. Now judge the consistency. Is it getting thicker or too milky?

 

Add 1/2 the cheddar first and then wait for that to become smooth. Now reevaluate.

 

See how complicated it is to be a Mother?

 

You can add more milk if it is too thick, or cheese if too milky.

 

Once you have a smooth, thick-ish sauce turn off the heat. Pour the sauce over the cooked noodles and stir it all around.

 

Voila!

 

I serve this to my kids with ham because they like ham. I find ham disgusting, unless it is on an Egg McMuffin of course, so I usually serve it with a large salad and a healthy glass of red wine for myself and my husband.

 

Did you come up with any good ideas for my teen issue during that?

 

I did. You are basically worthless to me right now.

 

Ask them to park outside the cul-de-sac and walk down the street?

 

Set up cardboard cut-outs of various children and dogs on the street that pop up spontaneously when they drive by, hoping the sudden fear they experience will be enough to change their behavior?

 

Talk to the Mom? HaHaHaHa....HaHaHaHa. (That's laughter. Wait. LOL) She would probably stab me.

 

I'll be making Mac & Cheese, glaring, and doing the "What the Hell" gesture until I hear from you.

 

Oh, by the way, I heard you are getting ready to write a “cock-rock album.” I don't know what that is exactly, but I'm, as a parent, already a little pissed at you. As a wedding guest, I can't wait!

 

Oh, and I was asked not to thank Shell for letting me guest post on her awesome blog today, but perhaps you could churn out a tune about that? Something with a drum solo and lyrics about sharing or kicking boys’ asses. It would mean a lot to me.

 

Muchas gracias.

 

Oh....a Spanish album!

 

 

Please leave Leslie some comment love here and then go follow her blog The Mommy Therapy and find her on twitter @TheMommyTherapy.

Things They Can't Say: My Front Porch Swing

A friend through blogging can become a real friend. Today's guest poster is pretty much my other half and the one who came up with the name of this new feature. She is "balancing life, marriage, parenting, and social media while pursuing the perfect glass of sweet tea."  Please welcome Ashley from My Front Porch Swing.

I sold my soul to blogging.

No, not really. In fact, it would actually be more accurate to say I sold my blogging soul- but only a little.

In the blogging world, there are innumerable posts that appear from frustrated bloggers. I just can’t keep up, they say, I can’t keep posting every day, visit all these blogs, and return all these comments. The overwhelming sensation that you are letting someone down in the community you find in blogging can be almost unbearable at times. Not everyone understands this; but then, not everyone understands this phenomenon. Not everyone can understand the need to spill your words out of your soul onto a computer screen before the flow of energy has stopped. Not everyone can understand the need to share things with the world you do not know that you just can’t quite share with the one you do.

Not everyone is a blogger.

However.

I started building my blog. In the beginning, I learned anything and everything I could. I lapped up knowledge from experienced blogs (The SITS girls being the place that kept me going and trying to understand) and devoured blogs as fast as I could. I would stay up late reading and commenting, read articles on how to be a better blogger. I saw my numbers climbing much more rapidly when I started applying the things I learned.

Then, I did a review for a company. It was not a compensated review, beyond a free trial of their product. But, it was a product I was genuinely interested in and wanted to learn more about its use. So, I dove into it as I do with any project, and focused my energy on delivering the best post I could. I enjoyed the staff members I worked with, as they were genuine and dedicated and answered all of my questions. In a few follow-up conversations, they had a few questions. I answered them, happy to take a minute to respond to a company that took such good care of their customers.

This led me to working in social media. It was part time at first, and more fun than I ever had earning a paycheck. I was suddenly in a new world of all of this and learning by the minute. Then my role expanded, and I got to experience the world of social media marketing at its craziest. And even that was awesome. In its own way. Working like crazy from home with two young kids is a challenge, but this position led me to being able to do just that. Although I eventually left this position, it opened up the door for other opportunities.

During this time? I didn’t return every comment. I didn’t respond to everyone. I didn’t blog every day. My numbers no longer do a fast climb as they did when I focused all of my time and energy on my blog –which is truly the best way to grow. They still inch up a bit here and there (and hopefully continue to do so), but when I get a chance to write and blog, I do take the time to respond at the very least, and connect with them in some way. Because finding people, connecting, that is what blogging is all about. Even if it is not at full speed ahead.

But if you are one who seeks opportunities and want to grow beyond your blog, do not feel like you have to always give 110% in every area. You cannot. Eventually, you will start to lost your mind. Blogging is amazing and something I love. Now, so is working on my own business with a few amazing colleagues- whom I met through blogging. Sometimes opportunities arise that are too great to ignore and something has to give. You shouldn’t feel guilty for that.

I’m a mom, a social marketer, and a blogger.

In that order.


Please leave Ashley some comment love here and then follow her blog My Front Porch Swing. You can find her tweeting as @porchswingmom and on facebook.

Things They Can't Say: Laundry Hurts My Feelings

Joann captivates me with her cleverly written tales. I could read her all day long. I'm thrilled to have her here to kick off Things They Can't Say. Find her on her blog Laundry Hurts My Feelings and on twitter @joannmannix

It was a little over a year ago, I discovered the amazing Shell and her fabulous blog. I loved reading her always fresh, always brave, always real take on life. And somewhere in between the blog comments we sent each other’s way, we became friends. And I can honestly say, I’d cut a bitch for this girl. Which says a lot, since I am afraid of stabbings and people who stab and of course, bitches.

We have much in common—the same sort of outlook on the world, our parallel lives, although she is sadly, much younger than me, and her three bambinos are boys while my little quesadillas are girls. (I’m super fluent in many languages, man.)

We have a few other commonalties, one of them being our undying love for Fabio Viviani, from Top Chef. She tweeted me from a field trip the day he followed her on Twitter and we both squealed through our Twitter DM’s like teenage girls at a Justin Bieber concert.

Fabio does not, for the record, follow me no matter how hard I try to lure him in.

Sigh.

It pretty much goes without saying that I adore this blonde soul sister of mine and so when she asked me to guest blog on her inaugural post series, I was as thrilled as if Fabio had sent me a DM on Twitter, proclaiming his undying love for me.

Thank you Shell, for having me. I’ll try not to be a boor.

I have been married a long time. A very long time. As in, I got married when Madonna was asking her Papa not to preach, The Karate Kid was only on Part II, a little something called Email was invented, along with another inconsequential invention called a laptop computer and most of all, my boobs were still so vivacious, they didn’t hang low and wobble to and
fro . . . yet.

And it hasn’t been just a marriage. It’s been a good marriage, actually, a great marriage. I’ll be honest, not every year was bliss. Everyone has their rough patches. When you’re first starting out and you don’t have the symmetry of a life together quite worked out yet, it can oftentimes be a tough battle. Especially when the children are small and their need is endless and he goes off to golf and you’re wondering when your break is coming as you scrub encrusted rice cereal off the floor and wipe away angry tears. Yes, we’ve had those days. Many of them.

But I think I can safely say most of our hard days are behind us. We now see the wisdom in keeping each other enveloped in happiness. We understand how pointless it is to waste time, wallowing in anger or bitterness.

Our three girls are halfway to grown, from teenagers up to college age and they are all quite busy with the headiness of youth and carving out their own lives. We now have come almost full circle, back to each other. I call these days of he and I together, our salad days—the easiest and happiest of times.

Not too long ago, someone asked me my secret to a happy marriage. I had to stop and really mull that one over, because a good marriage of longevity becomes like mastering a second language. You don’t even have to think about the words any longer to get it right. That’s right, senorita, I can order my queso without batting an eye.

But after much contemplation, it suddenly came to me. It’s all about one little detail in the man you pick.

A man who will buy your personal hygiene products without even flinching is the best kind of man—a good husband kind of man.

And my husband has always been the tampon buyer in our House of Estrogen.

I’d like to share with you all a few snippets of my husband’s foray into feminine hygiene purchasing, to show you exactly what I mean:

After we had our first baby, I sent him to the store to buy pads.

Now, he knew my tampon preference, but he had on idea about pads.

He told me he wasn’t sure which pad to buy, (this was before the days of cell phones) and so he had asked a salesgirl. As she was giving her two cents about the best pads, (she liked the extra long ones), another salesgirl came up and persuaded him wings were the way to go and as the two of them debated pad preferences, another woman entered the pad fray and told him the minipad was her sanitary napkin of choice.

He came home with a shopping bag filled with three boxes of pads in an effort to avoid a maxi pad smackdown, while trying to do his best for a post pregnancy wife.

Another time, we were on vacation in a small town nestled in the mountains of Tennessee, when I suddenly was in dire need of tampons.

My hubs popped into the local grocery store and grabbed my brand of tampons. When he got to the register, the cashier asked him, “Is that it?”

And being the funny guy he is, “Yep and I’m not even buying anything else as a cover for my tampon purchase.”

The cashier gave him a nod of approval and said, “That is just a downright righteous thing you done there. I need to applaud you for that.”

And applaud she did, stopped in her cashier ringing tracks and began clapping.

The cashier, next to her, asked, “Why you clappin’?”

And the cashier giving my husband a standing ovation said, “This here fella is buying his wife’s tampons and he ain’t even buying anything else to cover it up with.”

The other cashier said, “Well now, if that ain’t somethin’.” And she began to applaud my tampon-buying husband, too.

To this day, my husband is quite proud of that story.

But then there came the day when I had my uterus taken out—a slap-clapping, jig- dancing-in-the-street, moment in my life.

If he thought his tampon buying days were over, he was about to be sadly mistaken.

Three girls.

Three hormonal nightmares. Three girls on the same cycle.

It is why we drink wine.

Those girls count on their dad, just as I did, for all their tampon buying needs.

He called from Costco the other day, because that’s how we buy them now, by the pallet. I grabbed the phone the same time my middle girl did. Here’s the conversation:

Husband: (thinking he was addressing me) Hey, I don’t understand. Why do I have to buy the pink box for one girl and the blue box for another? Can’t they just use the same kind?

Middle Daughter: No, Daaaad. I need the pink box because my flow is heavy. We don’t all have the same kind of flow, you know.

Husband: Uh, I could have gone my whole lifetime without knowing that.

So there you have it.

A man who will buy your tampons is not afraid of what life with a woman entails. A man who will not hesitate to stand in in the feminine hygiene aisle contemplating pads, understands that happiness is borne out of the smallest, but most meaningful things.

The other day I moaned and groaned because I’d forgotten my flavored coffee creamer at the grocery store and I would have to use, heaven forbid, plain old sugar for my coffee in the morning.

The next morning was a Saturday and my girls all had friends who’d spent the night. My husband got up early to do his Saturday morning man things. I’m not sure what those man things actually are, but I know it always entails a trip to Home Depot. I think a trip to the Depot for him is like me in a shoe store, a fantastico experience. (I amaze myself with my fierce bilingual skills.)

He came home from his man jaunt with my flavored coffee creamer and two dozen doughnuts for the girls.

Before we’d even woken up.

I will advise my girls to always look for a man who will gladly buy their tampons.

Those men are the keepers.

Because tampon buying leads to hot doughnuts on a Saturday morning and the offer to get up with the baby in the dead of the night and flowers for no reason and a man who does the cooking without a complaint because he knows you hate to cook and the shoulder massage that doesn’t turn into a frontal massage within seconds.

Wait a minute, who am I kidding? My husband has never been able to last more than 5.8 seconds before the ole’ reach around. I know, because I’ve timed it.

But you get the point.

The secret for a good, strong marriage is in all the little things and a man who understands the wisdom behind the little things The little things add up to an “And they lived happily ever after” kind of life.

And it all begins with tampon buying.

If you missed the announcement about the switch from BFF to Things They Can't Say, you can find that HERE. Also, if you have been a BFF but would prefer the new "featured" button, just shoot me an email