Category Archives: Martini Madness

Love, Disney Princess Style

When I got married almost 10 years ago, I thought it would be a Disney princess, happily ever after story. I mean, we were young, stupid, and madly in love. Why wouldn’t it be picture perfect?

I’ll wait for the laughter to die down.

The pee-soaked diaper of reality slapped me in the face 10 months later when my first child was born, and every high and low since then has flown in the face of storybook perfection. But, it wasn’t a nightmare; it was actually pretty good.

Sadly, over the past few months, my marriage has struggled against villainous tests and there were moments when I thought I’d have to go through the horrors of dating again. I mean, divorce is easy compared to entering the dating pool again. Even in the shallow end, I would be devoured by douchebag-shaped piranhas.

I have leapt free of the piranhas, and learned a few choice lessons about what makes a good relationship.

Books are the way to a woman’s heart. I fell in love with the Beast when he took Belle into his library. There is nothing that makes a woman’s panties drop like a thoughtful gift. For me, yes, it would be a magnificent library, or even a few books. When it comes to literary gifts, it doesn’t take much to get me off.

Love, Disney Princess Style | Ponies and Martinis

When you feel sexy, you are sexy. Cinderella had some hot glass slippers that took her outfit to the next level. Once she put those things on, she felt amazing, looked amazing, and got the man of her dreams. Or, at least the guy that could pull her out of that rat trap of a home she shared with her stepmother. So, find your slipper. A sexy skirt, some hot red lipstick, whatever it is that gets your mojo running and work it harder than a pimp turning out his most profitable trick.

Sometimes you need a little extra help. Did Snow White singlehandedly clean the dwarves’ cottage? No. She had some chipper little woodland creatures to help her. They used their tails and wings, and worked that shit out. The cottage was shiny and Snow White looked like a hero. My chipmunks were the maid service my mother paid for after my son was born. My home was clean and I got to nap with my kid. Lemon-scented cherubs filled my dreams and carried me away on clouds of sanitary sweetness. Oh. Hell. Yes.

Not speaking the same language is OK. John Smith and Pocahontas learned to speak with all of the colors of the wind, but even if you don’t have a talking willow tree as your own Tower of Babel, it’s all good. Once upon a time, I traveled abroad to visit a friend who lived in France. While she was in class, I was left to my own devices. I must have looked like a lost sheep because this ever-so-helpful Frenchman took me under his wing and showed me around Lyon. My French and his English were equally as awful, but he was hot and I was young so it was all completely magical. Le Mew, Le Sigh.

Take a catnap to work out your issues. Sleeping Beauty had a lot on her mind. The women who raised her were not her parents, she found out she was a princess after living out in the woods for 16 years, and there was a curse hanging over her head. Can you blame her for taking a powder? I would have too. Also, I never bought into that whole “don’t go to bed angry” business. Sometimes, you are angry and tried, and you’d rather sleep than face that cocksucker you married. Mostly, because he’s being an ass,  but you also know that sweet somnolence is restorative, and in the morning, your sweetie will seem more like the sexy beast you married. At least if he knows what’s good for him.

Ah, love. Spectacularly twisted. I am slowly finding my way back to the land of sparkly, twinkly, unicorns prancing through rose-scented aphrodisiacs. To get there, I shall strap on my favorite heels, brush up on some French, and prepare for some amazing sex atop a pile of books.



Filed under Martini Madness

The Greatest Day of My Life, So Far

The Greatest Day of My Life So Far | Ponies and MartinisToday, dear friends, I was given the most glorious gift a mother could ever receive; a trip by myself to Target. I laughed, cried tears of joy, and even pranced down the aisles.

You may wonder why this is a big deal. If you do, then you are probably not a parent. A typical trip to Target when you have kids starts with whining for Starbucks hot cocoa, continues with desperate grabs for My Little Pony plush, and ends in a full body meltdown when all entreaties to buy every single Skylander figure is denied.

An expedition to Target with kids is yeoman’s work and I am usually sapped of all energy when I leave.

But today was different.

Upon entering, I noticed the great red bullseye glowed brightly overhead. It sang to me a melody of peace and joy as I selected the cart that I wanted, not the unwieldy two-seated monster my daughter begs for and then uses for a solid five minutes.

Marching toward the dollar section, I make the stunning realization that I don’t have to walk up and down those aisles debating the merits and virtues of Frozen socks versus Barbie sandwich keepers.

Of course, I enter the land of cheap anyway, because it’s obvious I need to stock up on $1 gift bags, hand lotion that smells like plastic, and animal crackers. The frosted ones.

Tearing myself away from the Panda cookies, I spy a My Little Pony stationery set for The Girl and Ninja Turtles lunch accessories for The Boy. I squee with delight, because the kids would LOVE them. Actually, my daughter would also love the cheap Elsa headband, Palace Pets puzzle, the ratty felt fox, and broken basket on the bottom shelf. But, since she’s not there, I DON’T CARE.

Tossing my cheap goodies into the cart, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the women’s clothing section. I only have vague notions of what this couture wonderland contains as it’s usually passed in a blur of voices crying out, “This isn’t the toy section! It’s so boring!”

Instead of bidding the cotton confections adieu, I stroll leisurely past the clothing racks, fingering the items that are 50, and even 70, percent off. Sighing with joy, I find a striped, long-sleeved shirt on sale for $6. It’s such a good deal, I could buy two, and have a little left over for pants. Not wanting to get too crazy, I hold myself back and promise to come back for the striped shirt’s friends when I can get another day away.

Hide yourself sweet distressed jeans, mama’s coming for you soon.

I make my way over to the other part of Target that is forbidden with children; the lingerie section. I could walk through there on a typical shopping outing, but then I have my son trying bras on his head or listening to him and my daughter snicker at the sight of thong underwear. “Where’s the rest of it?!?”

Sadly, I have been known to ask myself the same question.

Bypassing a few choice items from the Gillian O’Malley hooker collection, I ogle some underwear whose comfort is masked by lace and a modest bow. I love a sexy pair of pantaloons, but for day-to-day wear, I need something that I can wear for longer than an hour that won’t rub my ladyland raw.

It’s the little things in life that make me happy, like an un-chafed vagina.

Of course the comfiest britches are on racks that face the aisle, so I get to stand in the middle of Target rubbing my paws all over silky underwear to find my size. Nothing to see here folks, just a lady fondling the crotch covers.

Floating through row after heavenly row, I savor the scent of those weird little soy candles, imaging where I’d put them and then remember that they would sit there and get dusty before I’d light them; planning parties that would need star pinatas, of which there should be none because those things make an ungodly mess; and eventually I wind up in the $5 movie section trying to talk myself into Scrooged because I loved that movie at one time, and IT’S ONLY FIVE DOLLARS! How many people can buy happiness for $5? Me! I can!

My time at Target comes to an end, and I even enjoy the checkout line. No one begs for Pokemon cards or Snickers bars, and I get to make pleasant chit-chat with the teenage checker.

Walking out, I let the majesty of the big red bullseye wash over me. Target is my motherland, and it is even better when I get to savor each and every nuance all on my own. It’s better than sex, I tell you, and no one can ever tell me differently.

Viva solo shopping!


Filed under Martini Madness

Goldfish, Cleanses, and One Popular Pony

Goldfish, Cleanses, and a Popular Pony | Ponies and Martinis

Hello, friends! I come with glad tidings; I am featured on not one, but TWO fantastic websites today. I don’t know who I owe a handjob to for this tremendous honor, but I will do my best to not find out because I am not an enthusiastic dick wrangler.

And with that bit of TMI, let’s get to the previews, shall we?

First up is a piece I wrote for BLUNTmoms, called A Hate Letter to a Cleanse. Yup. It’s about how I went on a cleanse and suffered the most embarrassing moment of my life. Feel free to laugh at me; I do it all the time.


Over the years, I have tried many different diets, and exercise regimes… whatever I thought might make me thin or healthy (or both). One of the most memorable was the time I tried a 10-day cleanse–not only because I couldn’t have a glass of wine for 10 days, but because it resulted in mind-blowing embarrassment.

To give you a little context, a cleanse requires eating clean, or not eating anything you can’t pronounce, taking a variety of supplements that expel the toxins in your body, and probiotics to restore what has been flushed out.

It’s as awesome as it sounds.

Read the rest on BLUNTmoms.

Second, I am featured for the first time on Crayons and Collars, a great site for families juggling pets and kids. My story is called What Happens When Kids Pet the Fish, Or Why Carnivals Are Evil. This not a how-to for goldfish, so please do not do as I do, or, more precisely, as my kids do.


When I took my kids to the school carnival, I didn’t think anything bad would happen. We had been in years past, and it had always been the same; eat a hot dog, win horribly cheap prizes, and come home with face paint that’s impossible to scrub off.

This year was different. This year, there were goldfish.

All I can say is, “Poor Fishy.”

Check it out, and as always, enjoy, share, and then share again.


Filed under Martini Madness

A Conversation With My Collegiate Self

When I graduated from high school, I flew straight from the parental nest to college. I expected to learn all I could about archaeology, meet a hunky guy who would sweep me off my feet, and above all, have fun.

If I could reach back through time, I would have a long conversation with myself, starting with the basics, like learning how to balance a checkbook or dressing for Ohio winters. Then, I’d move on to heartier words of advice.

Just because you know his name, doesn’t mean you know him. You know that cute guy who smolders in your Romantic Literature class? He’s only talking to you about “The Law of Love” because he wants to get in your pants. It’s not because he finds the combination of Puccini and dramatic fiction to be compelling. So for the love of all things sacred and holy, know this and BE SMART.

Really? You decided to go on a date with Mr. Sensitive? You know he’s a douchebag, right? Christ on a pony.

Please use a condom. And birth control. You don’t know where that boy has dipped his tender wick, and you do not need to pick up whatever cooties he has. If you ignore this advice, and then feel like you have pop rocks in your panties, GO TO A DOCTOR. Get that shit cleared up.

Note to my younger self: This advice is the same if you are sleeping with a woman. Pubic pestilence does not discriminate based on gender.    

There were times, when I might have tried to drink my feelings when I was in college. Younger me, let me give you a few more words of wisdom. I know the pain that’s coming, and it’s not from the boy.

Do not drink from the trough of alcohol. The hairy buffalo may seem delicious, but you don’t know what is in there. It may be alcohol, but there could be roofies, or even worse, germs. Do you know how many people have put their cups into that booze? What if they have herpes? Or they are slobbery drinkers? For all you know there could be syphilis floating in there. Open your own drinks. You’ll save money on antibiotics.

Now that you’ve ignored my advice and drank more than you can handle…

Fresca and Chinese food will cure any hangover. The carbonation will settle your stomach and the grease from the Chinese food lubricates the system to carry all that alcohol out of you. You may end up pooping out your insides, but that’s a lot better than nursing a hangover. With a hangover, your head is stuffed with cotton, your eyes can barely open, you feel nauseous, tired, and your head spins when you close your eyes. So, which scenario sounds better to you? Right. Poop. There’s my smart college girl.

Now that you’ve worked that man out of your system, there’s something that can cure what ails you.

Get more than three hours of sleep. It may horrify you to hear, but you can leave a party early to catch a few well-needed winks. There will be another party the next day, and the day after that. I promise. There’s even a whole week of nonstop partying called Spring Break. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Who knows? You may even find that studying is more important than a fraternity party.

I laughed along with my younger self on that one.

You know what’s most important? Your girlfriends. These are the women who will hold your hair when you vomit, hug you when you’re heartbroken, and will be there for you long after you all have been given your diplomas. These women will be your backbone.

Stock up on aspirin, ramen, and condoms. That’s the holy trinity for college.

Major in something you love, but have a backup plan. Yes, spending four years with Degas or Jane Austen is mentally fulfilling, but it won’t bring you a paycheck when you graduate. Minor in something substantial, like basket weaving, so you can have a trade when that whole reading-books-for-a-living thing doesn’t pan out.

Finally, be secure in the knowledge that you’ll met a really hot guy, settle down, and pop out some exhausting, but wonderful, kids. It’s a wild ride, but well worth it.


Filed under Martini Madness

Busy Bees, Buzzing Toward Insanity

Greetings, friends! I am over on BLUNTmoms today, talking about the high-speed nature of everyone’s lives and how it’s all a bunch of manufactured crap.

A little teaser for you…

Once upon a time, I worked in a newsroom. There were long hours spent chronicling murders, arson, car crashes, and finding something to grab viewers by the throat when nothing else was happening.

To work 10 or 12 hours in a day wasn’t unheard of, and one of the favorite pastimes in the newsroom was to complain/brag about how many hours you had worked. Those who didn’t measure up in this contest were shunned. You got your work done in 8 hours? You took a lunch break? Oh! The horror! 

You might think this verbal dick measuring is isolated to the newsroom, but you would be mistaken. Take a look at the people in your life. If you ask an old friend how they are doing, the answer is no longer, “Fine,” it is, “I’ve been busy.”

Read the rest over on BLUNTmoms, and as always, comment, share, and enjoy!


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Weird Ass Crap I Found on Pinterest

Pinterest. I love and hate it all at the same time. The good: recipes I’ll probably never make, but REALLY want to, clothes that I could actually wear and look amazing in, and endless pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch and David Tennant.

Mmmmm… Cumberbatch…. Tennant…. I’m sorry. Where were we?

Yes, Pinterest.

And then there’s the bad. Anything crafty. I am crap at crafts. I have tried. Dear God, I have tried. And each time I am defeated in a humiliating fashion. It’s pathetic, really.

But then there’s a whole other side to Pinterest. There is a dark little rabbit hole of weird. And I don’t mean ironically weird. I mean weird weird.

Behold! The odd, creepy side of Pinterest.


Dude. What the hell? This is not normal.

The pinner said he wanted them for his birthday. You know what I want for my birthday? A purse, a massage, Not freaky-ass, nightmare-inducing gnomes. They are not gnomes. Where are the red hats? The cherubic smiles? NOT HERE.


Work it, sell it, own it.

So, this guy has fans. Over 200 of them. Fans who repin his photos and shower compliments on him. Really. The dude in daisy dukes and roller skates has more fans than I do. Let that simmer a moment. Maybe I should wear skates and daisy dukes…. Maybe not.


Yes, oils will stop snoring. And those weird foot pads really suck out toxins.

My husband snores like a freight train. I kick, pinch, pluck, and nothing works. He keeps on sawing those logs. So, you expect me to believe that oil on his feet will stop that buzzsaw? Really? I’d sooner believe my dogs are ninjas on the weekend. Just on the weekend though. They have naps to take care of during the week.


Veggies into pasta. Yes, that will happen.

Could you imagine turning vegetables into pasta? That’s dumb and weird. Not just weird. Seriously. It would never work. It would make a gooshy, stinky mess. And there is no way a child would ever eat that. Green pasta? Have the inventors ever met a child? Obviously not. Dumbasses.


Poor dog. Poor, poor dog.

It wasn’t enough to shave the dog to help him cool down. No. They had to shave a pair of overalls into his back. I should call PETA.


Barbie, the Dia de Los Muertos edition.

Barbie has many fine qualities. She’s an astronaut, a horsewoman, she takes care of her many sisters, and cleans up her dog’s poop. I am good with that. I don’t need to know what goes on behind the plastic skin. Especially not with the girly parts. Although, I wouldn’t mind knowing how her feet are naturally angled for heels. I would love that. My hooves would sport awesome kicks all day long and never be uncomfortable because that’s just their shape.


Nope. Can’t say that happens.

Yeah, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. Period. If someone offered my chocolate covered chocolate in the morning, I don’t know if I would be able get up and eat it. I’m that exhausted. Work out? I laugh in your general direction. Workout out in the middle of the night. Please. I might rupture my spleen with how hard I laugh at that thought.

So, you see, Pinterest friends, the world is a scary place. Weird, scary, and wonderful. Because, Benedict.


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