Tag Archives: motherhood

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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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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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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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!

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New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep

New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep | Ponies and Martinis

I resolve to be more beach-friendly this year.

With the very best of intentions, I start off the new year with an ambitious resolution or two, like working out every day or not yelling at the kids. And slowly, but surely, I fail to keep them. This is why I still carry some baby weight and my kids are deaf.

This year, I have come up with a few resolutions that I know I can stick with.

1. Wear yoga pants more often. I have kept my yoga pants isolated to the gym, but I think I have been severely limiting my comfort. Have you ever worn those things? It’s like rolling in butter and lying in velvet all at the same time. I won’t wear them out in public, like one of those people from Walmart, but, I’ll wear them for lounging, kid drop-off, and girls’ night. Maybe I’ll buy my friends a pair or two too.

2. Drink more wine. I love, love, love wine, so when the kids go to bed, I pour myself a glass. Unfortunately, life gets in the way of me enjoying it. There’s laundry to fold, dishes to do, and eventually, it’s time for bed. Sometimes, I don’t even drink the whole thing. I know! It’s the saddest story in the world! There will be no more sad stories in 2015. God as my witness, I will finish my wine.

3. Act like an idiot with my girlfriends. When I had kids, I stopped going out with my friends. Oh, there would be brunch or coffee, or a night in, but nothing like the bacchanal we’d had in our 20s. I miss those days, when we’d go out looking super skanky, dancing like the rhythmless white girls we are, and knocking back a few Manhattans. We’d sing along with Bon Jovi and do things that I am really glad were not captured on video. Of course the next day would be hell, but it was worth it. I need to do that again. But, this time with a better hangover cure.

4. Enjoy mindless entertainment. I finally read The Grapes of Wrath, a few fascinating books by Bill Bryson, and watched the Ken Burns documentary series on Prohibition. I am so much smarter now than I was 12 months ago. But, dammit, I want to take my edumacation down a notch. I won’t go to the dark side and start watching the Kardashians, but I need more Amy Poehler, Doctor Who, and Arrested Development. The Joad family is way too depressing. Sweet baby Jesus, someone find them a Habitat for Humanity house and a union to join.

5. Nap. Oh, naps. How I do love thee. With every fiber of my soul, I worship you, O, great nap. This is a no-brainer. And to accomplish this, I will…

6. Stick to the basics with housecleaning. Scrub the toilets, vacuum up the tumbleweeds of dog hair in the hall, wipe down a few jelly smears, and call it a day. Dirt can only help my kids, right? Build up their immune system and stuff? And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll burn my house down and start over. Perfect.

7. Lose my filter. For most of my life, I have worried about what other people thought of me. I always had a frank personality that I kept locked away like a crazy aunt in the attic. This year, she is breaking free and taking over. Here comes the crazy, and it’s going to be good.

I may not manage to keep any of these resolutions, but I am going to do my damnedest to try. I mean, seriously, how fun is this year going to be?

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Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World

I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am the Worst Mother in the World. It’s true. I have been given this honor by my darling daughter for a growing list of offenses.

You may wonder, “How cruel to her daughter could she be?”

Oh, it’s pretty bad. Children’s Services may be knocking on my door once they’ve read this.

Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World | Ponies and Martinis

I am pretty fierce with my cubs.

1. Give me chocolate, or I will burn this house down. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and if it were up to my daughter, she would fill her tank with chocolate. She’s not picky about what kind of chocolate. It can be delivered via the chips in cookies, chocolate covered popcorn, or the random miniatures that we still have left over from last Halloween (or was it Easter?). Since I love to torture her, I make her eggs, oatmeal, or pretty much anything that isn’t chocolate. She usually greets her breakfast with a whining, “I don’t want it! It’s gross! I am going to die if I eat this!” I pause. Will the whining stop then?

2. I want ALL THE THINGS! Can you imagine anything more hideous than not buying a child every toy they desire? It must be torture to be taken through the grocery store, walked past boxes of Elsas, plushy ponies, and all of the other little plastic shit toys they have on the shelves, only to be told that they are not there for toys, but milk. Who needs milk when you can have a pull-apart Olaf? Priorities, people!

3. Thou art a villain, Mother! Heaven forbid I try to do anything for her. Despite the fact that she can’t tie her shoes yet, she insists on trying. How is that bad? She doesn’t want to learn HOW to tie them. She twists the laces into knots and bursts into tears when they don’t magically pop into a bow. After 20 minutes, her shoes are soaked in tears and I’m ready to let her wear slippers to school. Maybe that’s her point.

4. Her royal highness does not allow jeans to touch her body. I love a good pair of jeans, sadly that love has not been passed on to my daughter. They rub her belly, grip her non-existent thighs, and steal her strength. Instead of having a full meltdown every morning, I have invested in leggings of all colors and fabrics. Of course, the pink leggings are superior to all other leggings. Bright pink, preferably, with or without animal adornments. Kittens are acceptable, turtles are not. Heed the rules, or there will be mutiny!

5. I don’t need to learn how to read. Why are you making me? My daughter is in kindergarten, and she is learning how to read. Not that she believes in learning anything. If she can’t read a word correctly the first time, she storms off, pouts, and refuses to return. When I drag her limp body back to the table, she gives me answers in monosyllables until I finally release her back into the wild. Obviously, it is a cruel mother who makes her learn how to read unimportant words like “they” or “have.”

6. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Me. Me who? Me, who will never let you pee alone again. It’s silly, but I like to use the bathroom by myself. I don’t care if I’m in there for a minute or an hour, I WANT TO BE ALONE. My daughter knocks on the door, and laughs when I lock it. She picks the lock and bursts in on me home-invasion style. Instead of robbing me of all my toilet paper, she insists on staying in the room. “I won’t look at you peeing, Mommy. I promise,” she says. When I kick her out and throw myself against the door to keep her out, she cries, lamenting my vile nature. “All I want to do is see you!” No, she wants to play in my makeup, paint her toes, soak herself in my perfume, and wind up looking like the main harlot in a French whorehouse.

7. You are killing me! It took my daughter 2 years to finally grow something that vaguely resembled hair. Since it was nothing more than peachfuzz for that time, I didn’t get a lot of argument when I brushed it. As it got longer, her resistance to my ministrations grew. If you ask her, the detangling spray is poison, the brush rips her hair out, and her soul dies a little with each stroke of the brush. The only reason she lets me near her tresses, is because I threaten to cut it if I don’t get to untangle the knots. This doesn’t prevent her from cutting it herself, though.

So, as you can see, I have earned my blue ribbon for Worst Mother in the World. I’ll wear it with pride because it means my daughter will be able to read and won’t look like a harlot. At least not until her college years.

Lion image is from the Wikimedia Commons

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