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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What Do You Mean, There is No Easter Bunny?

When I decided to propagate the myth of Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the rest of the pantheon of fictitious characters with my children, I knew there would come a day when the lies would have to end.

I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

The real Easter Bunny

This guy, is totally real

It started a few weeks ago when my son asked at bed time if Santa was real. He wasn’t as concerned with how long it would take Santa to deliver the presents, or even the manufacturing of said presents. It was the cookies.

“How can Santa eat all of those cookies and drink the milk? He would be really fat and unhealthy.”

I had prepared answers for the presents. Thanks to the Doctor Who Christmas special, I could claim that Santa was really a Time Lord and that the sleigh was bigger on the inside, thus enabling him to carry all of those presents around the world.

I was not prepared for milk and cookies-related queries. Maybe a vacuum that would suck them up so he could eat them later? Elves that came with him and ate them? Or, maybe parents did help with the cookies part? I liked the last option because with that I could angle for some parent-friendly beverages and at least get a little wine out of the situation. I’m lactose intolerant and I really take one for the team when I down that mug of milk. I’m surprised my horrendous gas has not given my away yet.

No dice. Apparently his friend saw his parents wrapping presents that were from “Santa.”

I screw up a lot when it comes to my kids, but I have been on top of this whole stealthy ninja stuff. I steal teeth, move plushy elves, and stuff a mean stocking. I need other parents to keep up. Their slacking is ruining my efforts.

I did a little song and dance and managed to put off revealing any truth, but I knew my time was running out. Then, just one day before Easter, I overheard my son talking to one of his little friends who was over for a playdate.

His friend was saying, “Yeah, I saw my mom with some Easter-themed Skylanders under her rug, so I know there’s no Easter Bunny.”

My no-longer innocent child replied, “You know, there’s no Santa either. My other friend saw his parents wrapping his gifts.”

To pour salt on the wound, my daughter was in the room with them. I can’t have two kids lose their faith on the day before Easter!

Pouring myself a large glass of wine, I steeled myself for the inevitable. I was going to have to tell my son the truth, and try to save my daughter from finding out as well.

I also cursed the other parents again. Sweet son of a Triscuit, why couldn’t they be more like ninjas?!

Using my best, “We have to talk voice” I pulled him aside.

“So, I heard you talking about Santa and the Easter Bunny,” I started.

“Yeah, I don’t believe in them.” He flippantly replied.

I tried once again to go through why he doesn’t believe and refuting his “evidence” but he kept reiterating that he didn’t believe in magic, and so he didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny.

Even though it could have backfired on me, I threw the only curveball I had.

“What about Jesus? You can’t see him, but you know he’s real.”

Heavy eye rolling ensued. “Mooooommmm…… that’s a totally different story.”

Knowing I was defeated, I threw in the towel and leveled with him. No, there was no Santa. Or Easter Bunny. Or Tooth Fairy. He looked excited to have been right, but there was a hint of sadness too.

The next morning, my young man played his part for his sister and enthusiastically opened his basket while declaring, “I love the Easter Bunny!” He tossed a not so subtle wink my way, but all things considered, my still-believing baby girl was none the wiser.

Honestly, I’m glad it went so well, but I can’t help but feel a little sad that this piece of his innocence has faded away. What’s next? Will he say that he won’t be going to Hogwarts? Or that he’ll never be a Pokemon trainer? I might need a hug and a stiff drink when that happens.

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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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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.

L’amour.

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