Friday, September 27, 2013

Queen Of Klutz

      As I'm waiting in the emergency clinic to get my injured hand stitched up, I'm wondering how the heck I got here in the first place. FACT #1: Baby gates, pugs and glass mugs don't mix. FACT#2: I'm a klutz.
     I rarely get sick or have injuries, but when I do, I go big. When I was a little kid, I pestered our family German Shepherd one night while he was eating.... and he decided my face looked like a pork chop. Four stitches just below the eye taught me never to come between a dog and his Alpo.
     In high school on the eve of an important band competition, I got bit by a spider on my arm. I knew if I told my parents, they would never let me go to the out-of-town competition, so I kept my mouth shut. The next morning the bus driver had to stop frequently to let me ralph on the side of the road. All dignity was lost at that point, but for once I didn't care how green or disheveled I looked to the others on the bus. My arm felt like it was on fire and all I could think about was finishing the competition and getting back home.
     When the contest ended later that day, I pulled back my sleeve to reveal angry, red tracks drag racing up my arm toward my heart. "Um....excuse there a doctor in the house?" The green infection that the doctor drained from my arm looked like something an alien would spew after eating our GMO enhanced foods.
      My freshman year of college I decided to get sporty (or at least look like I was) and invited my roommate to play Frisbee on the front lawn of our dorm. I'm about as athletic as an elephant on the U.S.  Olympic Swim Team, but I had an ulterior motive--- to attract the attention of some M.U. males who strolled across our campus. It was all fun and games until my 150 pound friend tackled me for the Frisbee and fell on my left arm, snapping both bones in half. Good thing shock set in when I saw the middle of my arm curve into a backward "L" like a misshapen piece of pasta. A metal plate, five screws and one pin later, I had a bionic arm that set off all the alarms at the airport.
     Fast Forward two years---same college, different friends. I slipped down a flight of icy stairs and busted up my ankle. Back to the same hospital, cast and crutches complete. My fall had absolutely nothing to do with the "hunch punch" served at a certain sorority party. I figured I might start a new fashion trend that spring when I attended a formal affair---nothing speaks sexy more than a college coed hobbling through a line dance with a cast on her leg.
     A few months after my graduation, I ended up in the same E.R. for a third time with a fractured elbow from a fall in a parking lot.

     Things remained quiet for several years until I decided it might be fun to experience labor pains. My mother popped out babies faster than a bubble blower, so I assumed it would be the same for me. WRONG. Four kids and four c-sections later, I am the proud owner of a belly that looks like I have a road map to The land Down Under stamped across my skin.
      And then there was the infamous Night Of The Living Dead experience. Imagine a romantic anniversary celebration at a resort with candles, flowers, champagne....and a wife with her head in the toilet, yacking up Kung Pao Chicken and imported Italian chocolates. I had one of those creepy, out-of-body experiences where I gazed down and saw myself curled into the fetal position (with an uncanny resemblance to a gray, uncooked shrimp) on the bathroom tile. The paramedics arrived just in time to pump my body with the elixir of life and cart me off to the nearest hospital.

     You know that part in your wedding vows where you SWEAR you'll stick by your spouse through sickness and in health? I gave that vow a run for its money that night in the hospital. What didn't come out of my mouth came out the other end and even the nurses refused to handle me since the doctors were unable to identify what virus I had. I knew it was bad when the staff kept coming in with masks on their faces and spraying my area with disinfectants and air fresheners. The Hubs never left my side and cleaned me up when no one else would. That, folks, is someone who takes their vows seriously.
      Today as I leave the emergency clinic with eight stitches, I wish I could tell you that the nasty condition of my zombie-looking hand was due to a bar fight. And that the other guy's face looks much worse than my hand. Sadly, my accident can only be blamed on my klutziness. Hopping over a baby gate with a glass mug in my hand while trying not to step on two, sleeping pugs is a recipe for disaster. I have to keep reminding myself that despite all my booty shaking in Zumba class, I am long past the age of twenty and not nearly as agile. I tripped and fell when my toe caught on the gate, causing me to land on the shards of glass from the broken mug. I never realized how badly a hand injury bleeds---my kitchen looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse.
     As the doctor stitched me up, he apologized for the scar it would leave. I laughed and showed him all the others I have. The way I see it, each one is a new story to share with the grandkids some day.
     And in typical blogger fashion, I took pictures of my bloody, stitched-up hand for the blog post that was already taking shape in my head.
     When we left the emergency clinic, I told The Hubs that I thought I deserved chocolate for my ordeal. He smirked and said that at my age, what I REALLY needed was a Life Alert necklace.
     I've survived not only these injuries and illnesses but multiple hurricanes and plenty of car bring it on, Mother Nature and Murphey's Law. This Queen of Klutz might take a fall but she always lands back on her feet.

****Meno Mama is featured over at The Sadder But Wiser Girl blog, revealing her reasons for being called, "The Squirrel Whisperer." Stop by and say hello!

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Wacky Wednesday Writers Guest Post By: Sorry Kid, Your Mom Doesn't Play Well With Others

 My guest today is another one of my favorite funny bloggers, Ashley from I met Ashley last year after several people told me about her hilarious blog. Once I started reading her posts about the daily shenanigans that occur in a house with six kids, I was hooked. I've been telling her ever since that she needs to write a book---the stuff that goes on under her roof would keep readers laughing for a long time.
     I am so thrilled to be able to feature Ashley here---please welcome this talented, funny writer to Meno Mama's blog today!

Why be a Supermom when you can be a...

Being a supermom is completely overrated. Pinterest moms are the new and improved June Cleaver's of the world. Hair is perfect, clothes match, teeth are white- possibly lacking all enamel, but soap opera actress white. So damn skinny my 4 year old could hoist them on his shoulder and caveman them hostage for a super-organic-breastmilk-spinach-and chia seed-fortified juice box. And that kid is small for his age.

Everyone thinks I have it all together. It is a lie.  I am no Supermom, I am a Survivalmom and I get sh*t done...

Here is the real behind the scenes into my life:

It is 4:50 on a summer afternoon. It has been a lazy day, because tomorrow will blow. Three kids have games at two different places. But I'm good, that's tomorrow. I feel like I am on top of this parenting ish because the chicken is thawed at 4pm. 

And then the phone rings...

It's the hubs. He can't make it to pick up the kids for the 6:00 game. No babe you are good, the game is on Wednesday. And then he said it...Today is Wednesday.

The profanities that spewed from my face were uncountable. The kids stopped at 37, half of them were hodge podged together to make new and improved profanic words, so that threw the count off a bit. The baby looked at me, unimpressed.

We had to leave no later than 5:20. Uniforms had to be fished out of the dirty laundry, dinner had to be cooked, kids had to be dressed, baby had to be fed, kids had to eat. I needed to be presentable. I am prone to nervous diarrhea.

I start the chicken, hand it off for the 9 year old boy to watch. 
Start the 4 year old sawing off ends of the green beans with a butter knife. 
Run upstairs to tell the 11 and 14 year old girls to get their stuff together and get ready. I grab an extra outfit for the baby.

Run downstairs to check on dinner and realize chicken and green beans won't cut it. I boil water for macaroni and start the green beans, pass food watching to the 4 year old with instructions not to touch ANYTHING, just watch and if he sees smoke or flames to blow my whistle. Yes, I carry a whistle.

Run back upstairs to help 9 year old to find uniform.

Whistle blows. Run downstairs, 4 year old wants to blow out all my spit from the whistle. Whatever. Run back up. Uniform found, shake it off and rub it down with a dryer sheet and a baby wipe. Back downstairs to flip chicken and stir some crap.

Back upstairs to find uniform for 6 year old who is currently staring at the baby to make sure she doesn't run off. She was 2 months old clearly the kid wasn't going anywhere, but I am not paying that kid's babysitting fees. He is a pricey little fella.

Find the uniform...And we have a pisser... Oh my holy water and eucharist. The kid had wet the bed IN his uniform. Fill the tub, squirt some shampoo and tell the 6 year old to step in and start stomping and swishing around the urinated uniform.

Run downstairs. Check on dinner. Hubs calls... Don't forget the equipment... I tell him not to trip on shoestrings and quite possibly call him a pet name that shouldn't be repeated without a censor..

9 year old can't find his socks, they are not in the upstairs pile, run down check on dinner and look through the downstairs laundry pile. The dinner referee decided to take an unannounced break to chase a bird or something. He is now blowing the whistle at bees. Fantastic. I go out to bring him in and SCORE, there are the socks. Is that mud or crap? I hold my breath and start rinsing, and throw them in the tub with the urine-iform.

9 year old is not ok with his socks being in the same water as the urine-iform. He gets undressed, he states he is no longer going. Awesome. Pull the socks previously saturated in an unknown substance out of urine-iform bubble bath, which the 6 year old is no longer swishing because he has decided to run through the house with the 11 year old girl's cleat.

Drain the tub, rinse. Put formerly urine soaked uniform in the dryer. Teen girl is now watching baby and dinner and screaming at all the ridiculousness. I inform them that they are lucky I don't believe in child abuse. The cleat is now over the fence and the 4 year old is naked because 9 year old sprayed the back of his leg with windex and told him it was pee. Because pee is always blue and smells like a clean window.

11 year old girl takes 4 year old to get dressed. Baby is crying, I feed her while I load up the baseball equipement into the back of the car. I pretend not to notice the two 12 pound Pinterest moms from my kid's elementary school whispering as they walk by. I know they can see my baby leftovers hanging out. I know they are having a friendly discussion about it...

6 year old can't find cleats or socks. Apparently dad had found the pissy socks but didn't think to search out the matching uniform... High five... I find the socks hanging over my shower, not rinsed, so I throw them into a sink in my bathroom. Baby farts. I feel warmth...

Dinner is done, kids start to eat thanks to the two oldest girls. I put the baby into the other sink, soap her up, redress her. 5:16... 

Kids are goofing around at the table, no time to eat so I grab a coffee filter and put it in each of their hands and dump their food in it, we are eating in the car peeps. I use my shirt collar to brush my teeth and tinted lipgloss on my cheeks to attempt to deflect the fact that I have heinous bags under my eyes and get everyone loaded...

5.19 ... I made it. I mean we were drying socks out the window on the ride over but we made it... We showed up on time, everyone was presentable and nobody had a clue. I did have my "painting" clothes on but we were all good.

Like I said, I am no Supermom, I am a Survivalmom. It may not be pretty but it is done. I want other moms who feel the stress to be a Supermom and leave it behind. You have mismatched or ratty clothes, throw some craft paint on them and call yourself an artist. 

Keep Wal-mart bags in your car and fill them in the pick-up line at school, shove everything in them and throw them as far back into the car as you can, nothing falls out when you open the door. You don't have to take garbage and dress it up to make perfect storage compartments for everything.

Drink coffee, have a beer, eat a steak. Stop letting an online dream world make you feel less than you are. 

You are enough. Unless you wear winter boots with bikini bottom sized shorts, then you are just stupid.

When people ask me how I do it with 6 kids, all in sports, with a husband who works an insane amount I just smile.

In reality, it is caffeine and adrenaline...shhh

Ashley is a mom of 6, ages 14 to 4 months. She writes about her crazy family and sometimes stupid stuff she sees at Sorry Kid, Your Mom Doesn't Play Well With Others. Her friends and family compare her to Amy Duncan, from Good Luck Charlie, while she does not see the resemblance she sees it as a better choice than being compared to the mom on Honey Boo Boo or Sarah Palin, mainly because she refuses to eat roadkill or shoot moose or meese, whatever. If you go visit her website consider yourself warned that she has a colorful vocabulary...

Friday, September 20, 2013

Fly On The Wall In Bonkersville

 It's everyone's favorite blog post time of the month---Fly On The Wall, hosted by Karen from I might as well rename this post, "Mosquito On The Wall," because we still have armies of the tiny, blood sucking vampires camping out in our yard. They're privy to everything that goes on in Bonkersville, and no matter how much Deet is sprayed, they keep coming back for more. They're harder to exterminate than the zombies in The Walking Dead.  But before I reveal any family secrets, please show Meno Mama some love by visiting my NEW post being featured at Remember the one I wrote last time about raising teenage boys? This is the sequel---a humorous spin on raising teenage girls! Those little Facebook, Twitter and Google + icons at the bottom of that post---click on them and please SHARE, SHARE, SHARE!! Meno Mama needs your support. Thank you!

     Here are some snippets of conversation a mosquito (or fly) would have heard if he was lucky enough to survive a day in my home:

*  "You're the only kid I know who would go on a cruise ship and play the Titanic theme on his recorder as the boat was pulling away from the dock."

*  "When I returned the wood shelf to Lowe's, the clerk asked me what was wrong with it. I told her it was too wide and too long....and that normally I don't have that problem...."

*  "Nap? Of course I didn't get to nap! How was I supposed to sleep next to a farting pug who wears a pee-soaked doggy diaper?"

*  "Turn up the fan---I have clammy butt syndrome."

*  "What were you doing at Dairy Queen?"
     "Trying to inflate the spare tire around my waist."

*  "I have a stomachache---like hot, burning gas. My butt feels like it's on fire. What does that mean?"
    "Lay off the Mexican food."

*  "No, I don't want a hard boiled egg and a grilled chicken breast in my salad. That would be like eating the mom and her baby on a bed of lettuce."

*  "Why does the house always smell so bad after you vacuum it?"
    "Because somebody was too lazy to wipe up the dog puke and decided to save time by vacuuming it  instead.  It's no longer a vacuum. It's a dog barf sucker."

*  "Why did you buy Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Cereal? That stuff is my kryptonite!"

*  " I ran into Bob at Lowe's today. He asked me what I was doing in the hardware aisle. I told him I was looking for food for our new, pet goat."

*  "I'm not getting out of this bed until my minions bring me some coffee."
    "Honey, we don't own any minions."
     "Yes we do----they're called children, and the chief minion's name
is "Husband-Who-Runs-With-Coffee."

*  "If you keep eating those pumpkin donuts and drinking those pumpkin lattes from Dunkin' Donuts, you're going to end up with pumpkin thighs."

*  "Did you just throw up?"
    "I had to. That chicken sandwich I ate earlier sprouted wings and needed to fly."

*  "I had so much whiskey last night that I almost went to the free clinic to donate my hemorrhoids for scientific research."

     Now that you've been privy to the craziness going on in Bonkersville, please check out all the other bloggers brave enough to participate in today's Fly On The Wall series!                                      Baking In A Tornado                                 Just a Little Nutty                           Follow me home . . .                Stacy Sews and Schools                               The Sadder But Wiser Girl                    Menopausal Mother             Moore Organized Mayhem                             The Insomniac’s Dream                                        The Momisodes                       Spatulas on Parade                      Searching for Sanity                                  The Rowdy Baker                         Writer B is Me                 Sorry kid, Your Mom Doesn’t Play Well With Others

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Wacky Wednesday Writers: Guest Post By The Insomniacs Dream

     Today on Wacky Wednesday Writers I'm doing the happy dance because my special guest is Starr Bryson from She's an incredibly gifted writer, and I'm obviously not the only one who shares this view since her work has already been published on numerous sites. I love reading Starr's blog because I never know what to expect---I just know it's going to be something GOOD. Some of her blog entries have me laughing until my sides ache, while others are so painfully poignant I've wept over the beautiful imagery of her posts. We share a common bond of loss that cemented our friendship months ago. We've always understood each other, and I am honored to call her my friend.  Please welcome this amazing, talented writer to Meno Mama's blog today!

                        A Survivalist Guide To Loving a Writer

So, you live with a writer.  Whether you married her or moved in together, you're now stuck cohabiting with a rare species of human that is quite possibly the hardest to live with. 
But you chose her, whatever your reasons.  Whether you were in love, thought it would be amazeballs to run around telling the world you're shacked up with a writer, or just thought being with a writer was a novel idea (pun intended).  You're stuck, unless you want a divorce or plan on moving out.  
I've got some survival tips for you.  Pay close attention, read carefully, and heed my words if you're in this for the long haul. 
1.  She doesn't live in the real world
Once you come to understand and accept this, you'll be a little more forgiving.  You won't mind repeating yourself to her ten times because she was spaced out.  You'll get it when she's "not here".  She has a lot going on in her mind.  She checks out on a regular basis and retreats inside her own mind to visit her fictional characters, write tomorrow's blog, or simply take mental notes for later use.  She is not like you, and you can't expect her to be. 
2.  She is going to write everything down.  Everything.  
You'll have to get used to this one relatively early in the relationship or it will never work out.  Sometimes she'll remember to bring her journal and her pen along when she ventures out of the house.  Other times, she'll forget and write on napkins, receipts, or her arm.  She may grab something of yours and write on it when an idea strikes.  Accept it.  Deal with it.  
3.  She is going to take a lot of pictures
Of everything.  You may think that's just a display at the store, but she sees more than that.  She sees a story.  You will have to adjust to life moving slowly.  If she's not stopping to write it down, chances are she's taking a picture.  Don't make sudden moves or walk fast.  And never, EVER, start eating anything until you know for sure she doesn't need a picture and has told you it's okay to begin eating.
4.  She's forgetful
See #1.  This means being forgiving if you come home to a messy and cluttered house.  It means you'll have to be alright with eating take out a little more than you would like because she lost track of time and forgot dinner again.  Whatever you do, don't mention how she smells or that her hair is standing on end if she forgot to shower that day.  Just smile and kiss her hello.  If she's busy writing, don't talk and land the kiss on her cheek so you don't get in the way of her computer screen.  Accept her grunt as a greeting and go out and get that dinner.   It is never okay to tell her the pen she can't find is in that rat's nest of hair.  
5.  She doesn't sleep a lot
It is a proven fact that a lot of writers are also Insomniacs.  Even if your writer does not suffer from this sleep disorder, if a great idea strikes her in the middle of the night, if she gets a writing bug up her ass at bed time, or she's on a deadline, she'll pass up sleep to write.  You're a big boy, you can go to bed alone.  Don't whine and bemoan her that she doesn't go to bed when you do. If she sleeps half the day after an all night writing binge, let her sleep.  It is not okay to wake her up early just because you're awake.   
6.  She forgets to eat
It is quite acceptable to check on her and make sure she is eating.  It's very common for a writer to get so wrapped up in their world they don't eat.  No, you ass, don't interrupt her to ask if she ate today or lecture her.   Simply drop some food off on her desk where she can see and smell it.  She'll eat it.  I promise. 
7.  She will have erratic behaviors
Lack of sleep, being disconnected from the real world, and having amazing ideas at all the wrong times will lead up to odd behaviors in your writer.  She may pull the car over and frantically search for a napkin to write on, jump up from bed at two in the morning yelling, "THAT'S IT! THAT'S HOW TO FIX IT!", or even jump out of the shower and stand dripping wet and naked writing on the mirror with her eyeliner.  These are all things you will have to adjust to and learn to live with.  
8.  She will deal with a lot of rejections.  A lot.
And she will be sad.  Never say, "I told you so," or "Get a real job."  Always support her and tell her she's alright,  her writing is wonderful, and there's a next time.  Feed her food she loves, bring her wine, let her binge out on a Netflix marathon of her favorite show.  
9.  She will enjoy a lot of successes
Some big, some small, but for her each one is a big deal.  This is her world.  Never make her successes seem small.  To a writer, reaching 1,000 fans on FB is just as exciting, just as much a milestone, as the first comment on her blog or publishing the first book.  It all means a lot to her.  Celebrate with her and be happy for her.
10.  She loves you
Your writer loves you.  She appreciates everything you do to support her, she understands what you put up with, and she knows how hard she is to live with.  Sometimes her projects will eat her world and she's disconnected.  She'll always come back down to Earth (eventually), straighten up the forgotten house, and sometimes she'll cook for you.  (If your writer is a food blogger, you're lucky!)  
She's not easy to live with and she's damn near impossible to love.  But she's your writer.  Nurture her creativity, support her, and you will bask in all of her success with her.  
Next time you come home to a cluttered house to find your writer at the keyboard in the same clothes as yesterday, hair askew, ignore the mess.  Push aside all those crumpled bits of paper and wadded up napkins, sweep her into your arms and tell her you love her.


     Starr is a freelance writer and blogger. She works from home when she's not taking care of her two (often disgusting and always funny) boys. She's a little on the crass side, heavy on the snark and serves her writing up with a lot of swears. She writes humorous pieces typically, but sometimes she writes raw and gritty pieces. Never one to let life knock her around she is, "beautifully broken and writing the pieces back together one word at a time". In a life long love affair with Vampires, Zombies, and all things Horror, you can guess her favorite movie genre and what she would most like to write a book about. Her love of boxed wine is infamous. Starr loves to connect with other bloggers, writers, and chat with her readers.  Chat her up on FB or on Twitter. You can read her blog here:  The Insomniacs Dream

Friday, September 13, 2013

A Letter To My Younger Self

 You probably don't recognize me with these little lines around my eyes and a figure that went south after giving birth to five children. There's nothing to be ashamed of here; these lines by my eyes came from years of laughter and the scars on my belly are a badge of motherhood I proudly wear.
     When you get into high school, stop worrying so much about what other people think and be who you want to be, not who you think your peers expect you to be. Embrace your individuality---it will be the ticket to your success one day.

     Although the school years feel like nothing more than a popularity contest, in the end you'll be happier sticking with a small circle of friends who love you for who you are. They'll be the ones holding a catcher's mitt when life throws you some curve balls.

     Forgiveness. This is a tough one for you, but the bitterness will only weigh you down. Let go of the anger you feel towards those kids who poke fun at you. What you don't realize is how unkind their life is. Their spirit has been broken and they've learned the hard way how to protect themselves by preying on vulnerable people like you

 You waste too much energy berating yourself in front of the mirror. Society has fed you a warped perception of beauty---don't let its definition convince you that you fall short of everyone else's expectations. Stop punishing yourself with starvation diets and binge eating to mask what is really bothering you. The people who made you feel stupid and small inside were wrong. I know how much you're hurting; you just haven't figured out yet that inner beauty outlives physical beauty every time. The mirror is not your enemy; see yourself through your own eyes and know that others love you even though you don't love yourself.

     There will be some unimaginable losses in the years to come---don't be afraid to face them head on. You're going to walk through a valley of grief but you're going to come through the other side a stronger, braver woman. You'll need these experiences to hold up the others when life knocks them down.

     I know you feel as though your parents are judging every move you make and you hate living under a microscope. Strict curfews, lost phone privileges and being grounded from social activities may seem unreasonable, but your parents really do have your best interests at heart.  If they didn't love you, they wouldn't care what you did. Boundaries and rules are a sign of good parenting and tough love. You'll figure this out once you have kids of your own.

     Appreciate the time you have with your family. Those summer vacations in Montana won't last forever. Take your father up on that trip to Scotland before it's too late and spend more time in the garden with your sister. Don't assume she'll always be there for you because she won't. She'll be gone sooner than you think and her absence will leave a hole in your heart that time cannot mend.

     You're going to fall in love several times while you're young, but be more conscious of the men you choose. Your happiness shouldn't depend on them. One will break your heart and in the process break his own. Others will come and go, but each one will teach you a valuable lesson in love that will prepare you for the man you're going to marry. Stay away from the sly one at the bar who asks you to dance. Noting good will come from this. His lies will hurt you more than his fists. He'll tear you down to keep you from standing back up but you will. You are a survivor. One day you'll meet your soul mate and he'll help you find your smile again.

     Life is full of twists and turns; don't be afraid to stray from the well worn path that everyone else is walking. Embrace the challenges you'll face and don't let the fear of failure box you into years of regret.  How will you ever learn anything if you never make a mistake? Trust your intuition, listen to your heart and fight hard for what you believe in. Stop wasting precious time running down hollow streets in search of happiness. You'll find its been inside you all along.

     Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. Slow down and enjoy the ride. Even though you are struggling with some tough, emotional issues, each experience is a small piece of the puzzle, a composition of the beautiful person you'll become.  Every day will be your happiest---live life to the fullest. It will never be this way again.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Wacky Wednesday Writers: Guest Post By Can I Get Another Bottle Of Whine

      Today on Wacky Wednesday Writers I am featuring the very talented, humorous blogger, Kate Hall of Her catchy blog name caught my attention a long time ago, and I have been chuckling over every post since I found her.  Along with her awesome blog, Kate writes some of the funniest Facebook and Twitter statuses I've ever read. The hilarious situations she finds herself in with her three children and husband make great fodder for blog posts that will have you snorting out loud and possibly in need of Depend undergarments. I love Kate's down to earth humor and writing style, and I'm certain you will, too!

What does the Word ‘Sexy’ Mean?

My three kids were playing with Play-doh on the kitchen floor the other evening. My soon-to-be nine-year-old nonchalantly asked, “What does the word sexy mean?”

I thought, Holy crap. How do I answer this?

“Umm…hmm. Let me think…hold on, let me ask dad.”

(I stepped over the Play-doh-playing kids and ran upstairs)

“Steve, your son is asking what the word sexy means.”

He chuckled, “What’d you say?”

“I didn’t say anything, I don’t know how to answer it. I told him I was going to ask you.”

He chuckled again, “Well…it means beautiful.”

“No. It’s not the same as sexy. I don’t want him going around saying, ‘You’re so sexy.’ or ‘That painting of those flowers is really sexy.”

“Good point.” He thought it over, “Well, we can tell him it has to do with sex appeal.”

“Then he’ll want to know what that is. Just Google it.”

(We walked into the office where the computer sits)

 “Be careful what you Google, you never know what’s going to come up.” I said.


Steve went to Merriam-Webster to get some answers. 

(It’s funny how I use the word “Google” to mean any information seeking whatsoever I’m doing on the computer.)

According to Merriam-Webster ‘sexy’ means:
  • sexually suggestive or stimulating (erotic)
  • generally attractive or interesting (appealing)

“Well, we can’t use definition number two. I don’t want him saying that to other kids. Let’s look at the synonyms.”

Steve read, “bodacious, dishy, toothsome…”

Toothsome? …”

Then Steve said, “Here, we can just use one of these related terms: nubile…foxy…” at that point I began laughing. “…vampy…sultry…studly…or…hunky.” Then tears of laughter came.

It says the word’s first known use was in 1912. Oh, and hey, it rhymes with the word prexy.”

“Prexy? What does that mean?” I asked wiping my tears.

“It’s slang for president, chiefly of a college. So, the school president could be the Sexy Prexy.”

We were both in hysterics and yet were no closer in knowing how to describe sexy to our son.

In the end, Steve trudged through the definition with Sheehan by going through the whole, you know how people make babies…and being attracted to someone in a I want to make a baby with you kind of way…but sometimes people don’t necessarily want to make babies…in the make a baby kind of way…they just do it because it feels good…and they’re attracted to them in that kind of way...

…and they’re beautiful?...

…and attractive?…

We weren’t sure which, but Sheehan’s response was either silent confusion or he just didn’t care at that point. But either way, this all happened just seconds before the neighbor girl came over to play…whose name just happens to be Lexi.

Kate Hall is a married homeschooling mom to her three kids, all of which were adopted from China, living in the lovely suburbs of Chicago. She enjoys reading, writing and growing vegetables in her garden. When she’s not answering bizarre questions or wiping poop off the walls, you can find her attempting to write jokes on Twitter (@KateWhineHall) and Facebook or other funny crap on her blog: Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine with My Morning Quiet Time?

Friday, September 6, 2013

If I Were A Rich Man

 It's Secret Subject Swap time again, thanks to our host Karen at Twelve bloggers are revealing their answers today in response to twelve secret questions. My prompt comes from Sarah Nolan of Her question is: "Congrats! You've just won two million dollars playing lotto. What do you do with it?"
     This question is a no-brainer for me. I'd pay off my debts and donate a large portion of it to cancer research. But the whimsical side of me would also donate the money to a home for wayward squirrels....or "Bears, Badgers and Beavers Without Borders."
     As I contemplated this conundrum over martinis on the front porch with The Hubs, his tongue loosened up with each sip of gin. He knew EXACTLY what he would do with the two million dollars.

***Something you should know about the other half of the Meno Mama equation: The Hubs is a wannabe inventor. Most of his ideas are so far out there that NASA cannot retrieve them. But sometimes I see that flash of brilliance in his eyes and I know he's onto something unique. Or scary. I'll let you decide.


1.  Invent tequila laced ice packs for hot flashing, menopausal women.

2.  Create a testosterone teddy bear. Men would sleep with it and wake up as hairy as the bear. Stay tuned: next week he'll be introducing Veronica the Viagra Doll.

3.  Invest in latex underwear. It will be leak proof and won't get holes in it from excessive sharting.

4.  Build affordable army tanks for easy travel. You'd never have to worry about speeding tickets, door dings or expensive tire replacement. It would also come equipped with a toilet and a well stocked mini bar.

5.  Invent an underarm, automatic hair braider for men. It would alleviate the pain of armpit hair being yanked out by the root from roll-on deodorants.

6.  Start a new support group, "Burpers Anonymous," for chronic burpers. This would be a safe haven for burping freely without judgment. Carbonated beverages and spicy, bean burritos would be served at every meeting.

7.  Invent donkey fur toilet paper so people could stop making asses out of themselves.

8.  Create a robotic beer butler that would carry a mini keg on its back at all times with a tap at your disposal, 24/7.

9.  Start a chain of zip line courses that stretch across giant shark tanks just to make things more interesting.

10.  Open an underwater golf course. Instead of golf clubs, you would use spear guns with balls attached to the ends of them. No need for special golf attire----you'd wear a wet suit and fins. It would become a competitive sport in the Olympics known as "Snorkel Golf."

     I think it's time to hide the gin and slip The Hubs some Lunesta. Sweet dreams, Dear. I'm taking off with the two million to open a squirrel orphanage in Cancun with a bottle of sunscreen in one hand and a tequila ice pack in the other.

     Please be sure to visit all the bloggers participating in today's Secret Subject Swap!                              Baking In A Tornado                                   The Momisodes                              Just A Little Nutty                        Follow me home . . .         Moore Organized Mayhem             Stacy Sews and Schools                              The Sadder But Wiser Girl                                        Dinosaur Superhero Mommy                      Searching For Sanity                                         Crazy As Normal                       Menopausal Mother

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Wacky Wednesday Writers: Guest Post By Misplaced Alaskan

     Today on Wacky Wednesday Writers I'm featuring a special guest---Terrye Toombs from I met Terrye several months ago on a few blogger sites we both belong to and always got a kick out of her funny comments, responses and Facebook status updates. I started reading her blog and enjoyed her raw, witty sense of humor. Terrye is the real deal---she calls it as she sees it with refreshing honesty. Please welcome her to Meno Mama's site today and get ready for some chuckles when you find out how she met her muse!

 How I Met My Muse

It was a delightfully warm Alaska summer day in June of 2004 (no, really, it does, on a rare occasion, get above ass frozen cold there!). So warm, in fact, that the Mat-Su Valley where I lived was experiencing an unusually high amount of wildfires, caused by lightening. Which is just as rare as a virgin at a porn conference. Because of the fires, my friends and I decided that our originally planned camping trip was probably not a good idea. So, we changed our strategy to spend our upcoming weekend at one of our favorite watering holes:  Four Corners – a honkey tonk dive with an Alaskan feel to it. And one of our favorite local bands, “The Ken Peltier Band,” was playing that weekend. Double whoohoo!

After some ribbing from my friends Tiffany and Tammy, I decided I should probably get my hair done and at least attempt to look like a girl. I spent nearly two hours getting my hair cut and what seemed like a million little butterfly clips put in my hair to hold all the little twists of hair in place. Everyone said it looked fabulous; I just know the damn clips were annoying. Then I traded in my normal “Farmer John’s Wife” look for a pair of tight jeans, a maroon sweater looking thing (I at least wanted to FEEL comfortable), and some Mary Janes. Hey, I refuse to do heels.  I’m already 5’9” and can almost look most guys in the eye already. The last thing I wanted to do was look down on them. Physically, anyway.

The time finally arrived and I headed out to meet the girls at The Palmer Bar for a quick snack and drink with Tammy and her sister, Diane, the bartender. We were also killing time until the band was due to start playing at Four Corners. After half an hour of me whining and being antsy about sitting around a dead bar listening to an overpriced juke box, everyone finally decided it was time to head to the honky tonk and shut my happy ass up. Yay, about damn time!

A quick 15 minute drive and we were pulling up into the parking lot. Stepping out of the truck, I could hear the practice strums coming from Ken’s guitar. I started to get a little excited. Ok, I was getting a lot excited but not the “creaming my jeans” happy--yet. Tammy reigned me in while she brushed her hair and checked her face one last time in the rear view mirror. I think I might have been doing a “hurry the hell up!” dance next to her door, but I can’t be for sure. But I am sure she took her own sweet ass time walking up to the door of the bar cuz I beat her to it and stood there tapping my foot while I waited. She completely missed my glaring stare that literally screamed, “Don’t make my people have to wait to gaze upon my awesomeness!”

We swung the door open, and I made a beeline for the bar cuz I was parched and desperately needed a c’n’c (Crown Royal and Coke) after spending so much time crossing the parking lot. A few of the regulars waved or nodded in our general area as a welcome. Something suddenly distracted me out of the corner of my left eye in my rush to put in my request to Mary the not-so-friendly bartender. Truth be told, Mary is one of the orneriest old bats of a bartender I have ever had the displeasure of meeting (unless you had a swinging dick and wore a wedding ring). She was listed under the “Effed Up” column in my book.

As I turned my head to my left, there sat the most gorgeous cowboy I have EVER laid eyes on, hands down. I shit you not. And he was smiling the brightest shit eating grin. I was so distracted by that smile that I tripped over the damned barstool. But I was mesmerized. I was half bent over, holding the barstool from completely falling over, when Tammy rear-ended me. To keep us from crashing to the floor in a bundle of legs, ass and barstool, she grabbed me by the hips. Yes, we did look like a couple of chicks doing our best to mimic the doggie with our clothes on, without all the gyrating. That only caused the cowboy to laugh and raise his beer to us. Well, at least I got his attention.

“What the hell are you staring at?” coming from behind me snapped me out of my hypnotized state, but I was still speechless (rare, I know!). So, I pointed. Tammy took a look and whispered, “Oh.”
“Do you wanna meet him?” she asked me.

“As IF!” is what I wanted to say, but it came out as, “Yeah.”
“Ok, then put the stool down, sit on it, order a drink and wait for me. DON’T go anywhere! I mean it. Stay!” She knows me oh so well! And she left back out the door we had just entered through.

Meanwhile, I managed to find my voice and order a drink, the whole time not taking my eyes of the cowboy, who wasn’t more than 20 feet from me. I probably would have creeped myself out if I was even half conscience of what the hell I was doing. I blame the unusual June heat. Or maybe I was just IN heat. Yeah, that’s probably more like it.

A few minutes later, Tammy returned with a couple pieces of paper and walked up to the cowboy. She motioned towards me and handed the papers to him. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It could have been last month’s bar tab for all I knew. I held my breath. He read through the pages, looked at me, then at Tammy and nodded. Tammy motioned for me to join them at his table. My knees felt like they could give out at any moment as I walked over in a dream state. Never in my wildest fantasies have I seen, let alone talked to, a guy so damn hot. I was sweating bullets. And trying to remember if I had shaved my legs.

“Terrye, this is Adam. Adam, this is my friend, Terrye.” I think I smiled as I stared into the bluest eyes ever. Holy shit, was that an earthquake?!

“Adam has agreed to The Booty Call Contract. If you agree, sign it and then you two can get to calling on each other for some booty.” Oh HELL yes! I’d sign in my own blood if the pen went dry.
The rest of the night is a whirlwind of whisky, two-stepping, laughter, and me falling head over heels for the cowboy that would become my muse and so much more.


Terrye is a helpless romantic daydreaming about becoming a semi-famous writer. She spends her days catering to her non-verbal autistic son while trying to keep up with the chores and wishing she could get more than three words down on paper before her little guy needs something else. In the evenings, the Benevolent Benefactor demands food be cooked and doesn't understand why writing is more important than oxygen. 

Her superpowers include; [to be determined once the superpowers have shown themselves]. 

Terrye's hobbies include: ignoring a sink full of dishes, imagining horrific ways to pay back the neighbors for letting their dogs bark at 5am every morning, whining about being cold while living in the desert, and never letting her husband drive the family boat when enjoying a day out on the lake.

To read more from the lunatic known as The Misplaced Alaskan, check out her blog:


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