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My Vagina Is Free of Steam

Greetings friends! I am featured over on BLUNTmoms with a saucy little piece about the very best things I think should be invented for my (and every woman’s) vaginal use.

Here’s a little preview to entice you on over to the BLUNTmoms site.

Back in the 90s, I wanted to be Gwyneth Paltrow. I rocked dark brown lipstick, a Sliding Doors pixie cut and had a mean crush on Brad Pitt.

As the years rolled on, the love faded and the annoyance washed in. With every one of her macrobiotic diets, $250,000 “must haves,” and that conscious uncoupling, my eyes rolled a little further back into my head. 

What sent me into a Little Orphan Annie, nothing-but-the-whites-of my-eyes roll, was Her Royal Goopness’ pronouncement that we must steam our vaginas, because there is something in that magic steam that will make your uterus squeaky clean.

I don’t know about you, but there are many things that my lady-land needs more than a steam bath. 

What do we need? Read more over on BLUNTmoms. Thanks, love y’all, mean it.

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Getting Rubbed the Wrong Way

Once a year, my husband I take a weekend to ourselves. No kids. No work. Nothing but the two of us in a cabin, relaxing in a hot tub. It’s heaven on Earth.

This time, my husband decided we should have a couples massage. I was a little ambivalent about this. As a longtime lover of massages, I am picky about who rubs my body. I have also been spoiled by a magnificent masseuse, whom I also call a friend, who can work out a knot from across the room.

Seriously. She does this thing with my wrist that hurts like hell and then releases my tension. I would marry her if we weren’t committed to other people.

So massage day arrives, and I can’t help but compare her to my longtime love. I mean, regular massage therapist.


Massages are supposed to be relaxing. You lie in a darkened room, listen to Enya and get lulled to sleep by the smell of lavender. You should not lie in a sunlight living room with Zamfir and his pan flutes playing in the background. Zamfir, shut your flute hole.

Just say no to Zamfir!

Just say no to Zamfir!


I like chatting with M, my favorite rubber-downer. We talk about her family, my family, and when it’s time to relax, she knows when to take a moment of silence. This bag of personality said nothing. Oh, wait. I think she asked if there was anything she needed to work on. Then, it was nothing. I could hear crickets chirping.

It’s hard to relax when you feel like you should say something. Anything. Weather? Nope. It’s cold as balls. There’s nothing exciting there. Hobbies? Kids?

Radio silence.

Well, alrighty then.

Well, alrighty then.

Working things out

When I finally decide to shut up and enjoy the massage, I can’t. She rubbed my neck and somehow she found every hair along my neckline and tugged on it. I know I am a hairy beast, but shouldn’t she know how to avoid my errant wisps?

And when I say I like a little pressure to work out the tension I am carrying in my shoulders, please do not press all of your weight on my body and grind your elbow into my spine.

I feel you, man. My back hurts too.

I feel you, man. My back hurts too.


Did I mention, I am a little on the fuzzy side? Well, somehow I didn’t think about shaving or doing my toes before the magical massage. So, as she starts in on my calves, all I can think is, “Oh, dear Lord, she probably thinks I am the missing link. Sasquatch’s cousin has come out of the woods for a weekend in the hot tub….. Is she going to massage my feet? I am so glad I showered…. When was the last time I had a pedicure? I can’t remember…. Yup. That’s my callous. I really need to sand that down. I might scratch The Hubs in the middle of the night….”

I am a furry, relaxed kitten

I am a furry, relaxed kitten

This goes on and on until she FINALLY moves along to another part of my body.

I did doze off, which was nice, but then I felt really self conscious about the drool that pooled around my mouth. I can only hope that she didn’t notice. Even if she did, I am OK with that, because the rest of my weekend was spend in a hot tub with my husband.

I did not fart in the hot tub

I did not fart in the hot tub

It’s love. True love.

I went a little GIF happy with this. They all came from


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Clash of the Couples

Hello, friends! I’ve been away in the wilds of Kentucky doing a lot of family bonding that I shall detail a little later once I’ve had some time to get the stink of caves and bourbon on me. So, until then, I am sharing some very exciting news for a few blogger friends of mine. They are going to be featured in an upcoming anthology called, “Clash of the Couples.”

A little teaser from the head compiler, the wizard behind MommiFried:

Coupledom. Fact or fable, Adam and Eve birthed the perpetual relationship drama as seen on TV today. Despite the serpents, this couple HAD IT MADE. Luxury real estate, lush gardens, and privacy out the yin-yang. Life was glorious until the bare-bottomed babe could no longer resist temptation. Despite her better half’s warnings and threats to sleep in a tree, she tasted the forbidden fruit. One bite of that seductive, juicy contraband and the stage was set for eternity— a nibble that has blossomed into an endless supply of tiny tidbits that divide lovers to this day!

Taking a cue from the naked explorers of authentic sin, Clash of the Couples is a new anthology featuring a collection of completely absurd lovers’ squabbles and relationship spats. Think couples fight over kids, sex, and money? Think again! Furniture, the last beer, and where to store the placenta are what genuinely ignite our feuds. And no argument is off limits. This book has it all!

Inside you’ll find a gut-busting compilation of stories such as: “I Can’t Believe You Ate My Sandwich,” “Never Assume Anything,” “Only I Can Talk About Me,” and “You Want Some College Boobs?” from forty-three fearless writers. Prepare to laugh, roll your eyes, and shiver in suspense. While Eve may have had the first bite, we ate the whole tree. And made pies.

Published by Blue Lobster Book Co., Clash of the Couples launches loudly and obnoxiously on November 3, 2014. You’ll hear us coming, but look for it on Amazon, B&N, Apple, and other places where you typically buy books. For instant updates, follow along on Facebook!

My own marriage is not nearly as uproarious as what you’ll find in this book. My husband and I fight over leaving him leaving his shoes out, how I never (ever) replace the paper towels when they’re out, and who should do the dishes after dinner. See? Not funny. These friends are funny.

The lineup includes:

Andrew S. Delfino of Almost Coherent Parent
Crystal Ponti of MommiFried
Camille DeFer Thompson of Camille DeFer Thompson
Kimberly Morand of Anchor Magazine: Navigating Depression, Bipolar, and Anxiety
Meredith Napolitano of From Meredith to Mommy
Chris Dean of pixie.c.d.
Linda Roy of elleroy was here
Kevin Zelenka of Double Trouble Daddy
Sarah Cottrell of Housewife Plus
R.C. Liley of Going Dad
Mary Widdicks of Outmanned
Marie Bollman of Make Your Own Damn Dinner
Ginny Marie of Lemon Drop Pie
Mike Reynolds of Puzzling Posts
Leigh-Mary Hoffmann of Happily Ever Laughter Blog
Lisa Petty of Lisa R. Petty
Lynn Shattuck of The Light Will Find You
Jeff Bogle of Out With The Kids
Stacey Gustafson of Are You Kidding Me?
Angela Godbout of FRaPS
Courtney Conover of The Brown Girl with Long Hair
Jenny Hills of Express Bus Mama
Marcia Kester Doyle of Menopausal Mother
Julia Arnold of Frantic Mama
Jessica Azar of Herd Management
Susan A. Black of I Like That
Dave Lesser of Amateur Idiot Professional Dad
Sarah del Rio of est. 1975
Nicole R. Wildhood of Naught Be All Else
Angela Keck of Writer Mom’s Blog
Alexa Bigwarfe of No Holding Back
Brian Sorrell of Dadding Full Time
Kathryn Leehane of Foxy Wine Pocket
April Grant of 100lb Countdown
Bev Feldman of Linkouture
Jodi Flaherty of The Noise of Boys
Scott Rigdon of Three Five Zero
Lydia Richmond of Cluttered Genius
Allie Burdick of VITA – Train for Life
Michelle Grewe of Crumpets and Bollocks
Barb Godshalk of Co-Author of Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey
Jonathon Floyd of One Funny Daddy
Amanda Mushro of Questionable Choices in Parenting
Chris Carter of The Mom Cafe

Here is the scintillating cover for you to ogle:

Clash of the Couples cover

Nakedness and snakes! Oh my!

I personally know Lisa Petty, Kathryn Leehane and Sarah del Rio, and am virtual blogger friends with many of the others. They are hilarious, honest, and more importantly, real. When this book comes out, I’ll be reading every story, and you should be too. Plus, you’ll own a book with naked people on the front. Awesome!


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Teachers Are More Competent Than Me

Hello, friends! I am making a stop over at BLUNTmoms today, writing about the unbelievable joys of keeping my kids mentally stimulated over the summer. I would make an amazing teacher, you know?

That’s a lie. I would make a terrible teacher. I have no patience and my own children drive me insane. Can you imagine how I would fare with 20+ wee people? It would get ugly. Fast.

So, take a hippity hop over and visit me, and all the other awesome writers, at BLUNTmoms.

As a preview, I offer you one way I fail as a teacher:

1. Even when I am right, I am wrong. I tried to help my son with a math packet he has to complete before school starts. He was having a problem, and I, being ever so helpful, tried to explain it to him. His response? “You don’t know how it’s done! And now, it will be wrong! And I’ll never get the right answer!” Yes, I meant to ruin your academic career, tiny human.

You know you want to read the rest, so start clicking!



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My Kid’s Friend is a Punk

Overall, my son has very good taste in friends, but there is one kid who I am sure is a ticking time bomb.

The boys met at the start of the school year, and pretty quickly, I started hearing about lunches with Jackson, trading Pokemon cards with Jackson, how many Skylanders Jackson has… you get the picture. The bromance wanted to spread beyond the school walls, so I threw my doors open wide for the new buddies.

At first, it was just like any other playdate. They battled with their Beyblades and had a heated debate about which Pokemon was better, Mewtwo EX or Reshiram. Then, they paused to replenish their tanks with chocolate milk before chasing each other with light sabers.

Jackson was running after my son, and I heard him bellow, “I’ll put your head in a fryer!”

Did I hear that correctly? A 7-year old boy just threatened to put my son’s head in a deep fryer? I was stunned, and outraged. I don’t think I had ever been so angry at a child before. Even my own.

Before I started spitting fire, I decided to let it go, because I didn’t want to be the mom who overreacts. Sometimes I really regret being so reasonable.

This kid definitely had a HUGE cup of anger.

This kid definitely had a HUGE cup of anger.

For some reason unknown even to myself, when my son asked if Jackson could come over again, I let him.

AND IT HAPPENED. AGAIN. That punk of a kid menaced my son. In my own home. Oh, hell no.

I heard the kids playing together in my son’s room. He ran out, with Jackson right behind him, shouting, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

It was a deep, passionate anger that came out of him. He was a child unhinged. His eyes were wild and he was solely focused on my son. He kept charging after him, saying over and over, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

It was unnerving. There was so much rage coming from this small boy, and somehow my son did something to unleash this tiny beast.

Of course, I picked the kid up by his ear, tossed him out on the front porch, and told him to leave my sweet little boy alone.

Okay, I didn’t do that, but I really wanted to. What I did do, was send him home and begin to stew. What could I do that would not come off as 50 shades of crazy? I really wanted to release my inner mama bear and let the fur fly.

Mama bear. Get it?

Mama bear. Get it?

First, my husband and I wanted to make sure our son didn’t have any permanent scars from this kid. We had a very long talk about how what Jackson said was wrong, and blah, blah, blah. Pretty much it went in one ear and out the other, because he had no clue what happened. He thought Jackson was just playing around.

At times, I am grateful he still has his innocence.

Second, we had to solve this issue. Now. I absolutely hate conflict, so the thought of talking to Jackson’s parents made me want to vomit. What I wanted to do was keep the boys apart and never have to deal with the situation. Seemed pretty mature at the time. But, no, my gallant husband wanted to talk to them.

I would rather have walked up and down my street naked.

Now, here’s the weird thing. The parents are normal. Well, mostly. The mom has been working on a bottle of wine for over a month. I don’t think this explains the kid’s psychopathic behavior, but it’s definitely suspicious.

What would I even say to them anyway? “Hi, your kid is most likely going to become a serial killer, so you may want to keep an eye on that. Anger management might help.” I have a feeling that’s not going to go over very well.

I could try, “Wow! Jackson is feisty, isn’t he? He’s more energetic than the other kids. Ever notice that? That he’s more intense?”

It might be too subtle.

They haven’t played together since their last kerfuffle. I am going to keep it that way, because if that boy threatens my son again, well, his parents are going to find a “Resources for Troubled Kids” pamphlet into their mailbox.


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