Category Archives: Martini Madness

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity

Ah, Summer. It’s warm, wonderful, and I can luxuriate in the sun like a cat. But, while I am a woman who loves Summer more than my husband loves bacon, my hair tells a different story.

I have been blessed/cursed with a magnificent mane of curly hair. On my best day, it resembles bouncy, beach waves and on its worst, I am rocking a mane worthy of the king of the jungle.

To tell what kind of day I’m having, I rate my hair on a scale of, “Normal to Simba.”

1. Normal, beautiful and bouncy.

2. Beyonce with her hair in the wind. Who am I kidding? I don’t look like Beyonce on my best day, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity | Ponies and Martinis

I wake up looking like this.

3. A sweet baby chick. Fluffy, but still manageable and adorable.

4. Alfalfa. The Little Rascal, not the sprout. One of the great mysteries of the universe is, “Why is there always one curl that won’t behave?” It’s like your hair is taunting you. What a bitch.

5. Pre-makeover Anne Hathaway from The Princess Diaries. “This is as good as it’s going to get. Sigh.”

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity | Ponies and Martinis

Shut. Up.

6. A full hipster beard, or unshaven poon tang. Lingering question, “Is there really a difference?”

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity | Ponies and Martinis

Fluffy, wispy in places. Nope. No difference.

7. Justin Timberlake with his ramen-haired 90s look. This usually happens when I get a little too liberal with the curl-shaping mousse. Nothing compares to audibly rustling every time you move your head.

8. Pom-pom with google eyes. On particularly bad days, I lose my peripheral vision and can only see my fro. I tend to bump into a lot of things.

9. Troll doll. I call this look, “I overslept and tried to crunch a little water into my curls to get them to lie down, but had to run out before doing anything real to my hair, and this will be in a bun as soon as I can fund a mirror and 50 billion industrial strength bobby pins, and even then it’s a crapshoot because my hair is liable to repel the bobby pins and I’ll end up putting someone’s eye out.”

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity|Ponies and Martinis

What is the troll to hair ratio here?

10. Simba. Naaaatsavayna….. babanitzivana… I am the Queen of Pride Rock, bitches, and don’t you forget it. (And if you point out that only the men have manes, I will take you down. And I’m not lyin’.)

My Curls Lose the Fight Against Humidity | Ponies and Martinis

I own this jungle, dammit.

No matter where do you fall on this scale today, I hope you have more good hair days than bad, and the power to give zero fucks on the days when nothing in the world is going to make your hair better.

Simba out.

photo credit: Closeup of Bluebell via photopin (license)

GIFs from Giphy

photo credit: Man with Beard via photopin (license)

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Ten Ways to Tell Spring is Not Your Season

Ah, Spring! Is there nothing more delightful? The snows of winter have melted, the tulips have emerged, and the world seems fresh and new.

But, there are a select few that may not be cheering the beauty of the season. Here’s how to tell if you are one of them.

  1. When you get into bed, your heels scratch the sheets and you briefly wonder if your child has ripped the velcro straps on their shoes.
  2. You go to shave your legs and realize the hair you remove would make a very healthy donation to locks of love.
  3. Opening the windows in your home is problematic because then all of your neighbors would hear you yelling at your kids.
  4. Hoarders called. It wants to help you take care of your spring cleaning.
  5. You’d rather sweat than give up your supply of cashmere sweaters and hot cocoa.
  6. Is that lice? A reappearance of snow? Nope. It’s the trail of ashy skin flakes you leave behind you when you walk.
  7. Damn, baby. Are those your hooves? I think your sandals just ran away in terror. Get yourself a mani-pedi stat.
  8. The thought of researching and selecting summer camps for your kids makes you break out in hives.
  9. Yoga? Piyo? Oh, hells no. You’d rather let that layer of warming winter fat linger around your midsection.
  10. When you go to pull the folding camp chairs out of storage, you cry a little because you know it means it’s time for another season of sitting next to bug-infested soccer fields.

Take heart, Spring-avoidant mother. The season will soon be done, and you can spend the summer stressing about the high cost of the school supplies coming up in the fall.

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Am I Senile Or Forgetful?

Did you know that today is Cinco de Mayo? You did? And so did everyone else? Interesting.

I did. And then I didn’t. And then I did.

Sometimes I think I am related to Dory from Finding Nemo.

Here’s my train of thought:

“Hey! it’s Cinco de Mayo. I should have a margarita and some guacamole.”

Five minutes later…

“What am I going to do tonight? I think The Boy has Cub Scouts. Maybe The Girl and I can get frozen yogurt.”

Sees post on Facebook on how people who aren’t Mexican will be celebrating Cinco de Mayo.

Am I Senile or Forgetful | Ponies and Martinis

Tiny, the Chihuahua says, “What the heck? Remember my heritage, you crazy gringa!”

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot. I must remember to teach the kids about the Battle of Puebla.”

Later in the day…

“If I stop at Kohl’s, I can return those toys and pick up something for myself. Maybe that pencil skirt…”

I see an article about the best tequila on the market.

“Right. Cinco de Mayo. I used to drink an f-ton of Mexican beer to celebrate the holiday. I wonder if I could do that now…. But then I’d have a hangover, and who can work with a hangover?”

And so on and so forth until I’m at home, drinking a glass of Sauvignon Blanc on my couch and binge watching Daredevil on Netflix.

Seriously. I am amazed at myself. Where is my denunciation of the French? It’s certainly not stated in my wine choice. I might as well have said, “Gee, I wish the French had won the war. Let’s raise a glass to them.” Ugh. What the actual fuck?

(PS: condescending history lesson… Cinco de Mayo celebrates the defeat of the French in a key battle at the hands of the Mexican army)

So, what day is it again? Maybe I’ll have one more glass of wine before I go to bed. It’s not like anything is happening today, is it?

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Only Trollops Shave Above the Knee is Here!

There has never been a more complicated relationship in my life than the one I have with my mother.

When I was young, she was my womanly goal. Do you know, she could put on lipstick, WITHOUT A MIRROR? Yeah. Badass.

She also let me push in her cigarette lighter in the car, get her pieces of gum after she smoked, and she wore an exquisite white eyelet cardigan that I covet to this day.

Only trollops would read this book. (I AM A TROLLOP!)

Only trollops would read this book. (I AM A TROLLOP!)

Then, as I got older, when hormones and teen angst consumed me, I became a raging bitch we no longer saw eye-to-eye.

The teen years were a blur of slammed doors and heaving sighs. It wasn’t until I moved out that I realized she was still the cool mom I had known as a kid; I had just been too self-absorbed to realize it.

Over the years, we’ve become closer. It hasn’t all been unicorns and rainbow poop, but I know that she would bury a body for me, and I’d cut a bitch for her. Now that’s family.

I am celebrating my mother and the advice she has given me in the new anthology, “Only Trollops Save Above the Knee.” I am honored to be included in this hilarious book, which is the brainchild of the talented Crystal Ponti.

The book is now on sale on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and the Apple book store. Check it out and feel free to buy a few copies for the hilarious and inspiring mothers in your life.

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When You Lie Down With Dogs…

When I fantasize about taking a nap, I like to picture my favorite furry friend, or three, with me. They are cozy and cuddly with a touch of lazy, so they would seem to be perfect partners in sleep.

But, I’ve found that when trying to snuggle up with my pups, naps are anything but relaxing.

I love sleep. I always have. My mom said I used to put myself down for a nap until I was five. Now that I have two very active children, naps are pretty much nonexistent.

When You Lie Down With Dogs | Ponies and Martinis

Tiny. Doesn’t she look like a great sleep partner? It’s all lies!

But, every once in a great while, at the time of a great solstice, when the planets are in harmony, and I perform an intricate dance ritual, I get to take a nap.

Oh, it’s glorious.

I approach my bed reverently, and slipping in between the sheets, I rest my head upon a soft cottony cloud, releasing a sigh of pure happiness.

Then, I hear it. A persistent scratch at the bedroom door. It swings open and seconds later I feel the weight of three small dogs as they leap on my bed.

You’d think they’d settle down and enjoy a little cuddle, because my dogs are magnetically attracted to anyone in repose. You would be wrong.

First, Tiny rucks up the covers, making a little bed for herself. Drawing them toward her chest, kicking them back, she twirls around and flops into a tight ball.

Closing my eyes… I drift off… and…. *slurp* *slurp* *slurp.* Twilight, my filth-hating canine, cannot stand the stench emanating from Sparkles’ ears and commences a thorough scrub of her floppy sound receptacles. While I appreciate her dedication to cleanliness, I really just want to take a nap.

Tiny doesn’t want to miss any of the licking action, so she sneaks her way up to my arm and licks my armpit. Shoving her away, I roll over and cover myself with the blankets. Nudging at the covers, the little ninja slips in and starts to lick my face. To thwart her, I throw a pillow over my head. I can’t breathe, but I am going to nap anyway, dammit.

Slowly suffocating, but still napping, I feel something slamming against my thighs and I hear the soft warbles of play growling. Seriously? Chewbacca, aka Sparkles, wants to fight. I am about to throw down if I can’t have a nap, but I don’t think that is what Sparkles had in mind.

I growl back at Sparkles and she settles down. The nap has to happen now, right? No.

Something has drawn their attention, and the wee devils for whom I have boundless love begin to bark. Is it a leaf? Perhaps a squirrel has trespassed in our backyard. Or, maybe a mouse living in my wall farted, disturbing them. Who knows. I really don’t care. I am losing precious seconds of somnolence.

Giving them my best Mom glare, they FINALLY settle down and fall asleep. I join them, slipping languidly into the most spectacular sleep. Gliding through my dreams, I find myself on a desert island, feeling the hot sun on my face. I wake in a sweat and wonder what happened.

The source of the inferno is obvious. I am covered by a blanket made out of dogs, warming my entire body more effectively than any electric blanket ever could. While I appreciate the love, I am not a fan of boob sweat, and these dogs are making me sweat from my boobs, armpits and ladyland unmentionables.

Shucking off my canine companions, I stretch and bask in the afterglow. Licks, barks, sweat and all, I HAD A NAP. Awww yeah.

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Finding Love as an Old Married Couple, or the Difference Between Paris and Madrid

A vacation without kids, sounds perfect, no? Well, about five years ago I took a trip to Paris with my husband and it was. Romance, sex, monuments, and did I mention the sex? Fast forward five years to the beautiful city of Madrid and it’s a very different picture.

Paris: Long romantic walks along the Canal St. Martin, collecting Buckeyes and kissing languorously at every bridge.
Madrid: Holding hands as we stroll around the Plaza Mayor. Oh, hey, we should probably kiss.

Paris: Aw! Look at the babies! I really miss our kids. We need to bring them next time.
Madrid: Aw! Look at all of the puppies! I miss our dogs. Do you think anyone has a dog we can rent?

Paris: Three hour dinners, accompanied by at least two bottles of Bordeaux, while we make friends with the couple next to us and we all drink and chat until the restaurant closes.
Madrid: The Spanish eat at what time?! Oh, hell no. Let’s get some bread and cheese at the corner market and have a bed picnic in our room. Done.

Paris: Selfies at the Eiffel Tower, on the top of the Arc De Triomphe, next to some hobos.
Madrid: Hubs chases me with a camera, I take photos with my cell phone of every monument. Token selfie in front of a statue (maybe Christopher Columbus?!).

Paris: Ten minute commentary on the virtues of Caillebotte and how his paintings reflect the transformation of Paris from Medieval city to modern marvel.
Madrid: Let’s play guess the name of this famous painting in the Prado. I’ll go with, “Woman with a candle.”

Somehow, even though the conversations and French kisses are not as deep, they are just as romantic. Maybe it’s a reflection of the maturity of our relationship, or, more realistically, we’re too old to impress each other anymore. Either way, there is still l’amour. And sex.

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