HEB is THE grocery store in Texas. Pro-tip: It’s pronounced by saying the actual letters, H–E–B. It is not pronounced Heb, like Jeb, and most importantly, it’s not pronounced Hebe, like the ethnic slur. H, E & B are the initials of founder, Howard Edward Butt. (Cue giggling children.)Read more
I have exciting news for you all – After 42 years on this planet, I have finally achieved my goal in life!
I know what you’re saying to yourself. “Wow, I wish I could achieve my goal in life, maybe I should work harder!” Maybe you should. Because then you could be like me, 42 years old without a single care in the world, living the rest of my life free and easy because I’m no longer burdened by my life-long goal of finding the perfect sugar cookie recipe.Read more
Any parent who has been in a toy aisle with a hangry toddler who’s tired from staying up too late the previous night hate-tweeting and binge-watching Fox News can empathize with the 116th Congress having to deal with our President’s border wall fixation.
Just like a three-year-old kicking and screaming on the floor because you won’t buy them the extravagant, over-priced toy that they bragged to all the kids in class that they were going to get, our toddler of a president is ready to prove to the world that nobody is better at throwing tantrums than he is.Read more
I was digging through an old bookcase today when this old, folded-up note fell out. I unfolded it to discover the six-page list of ‘guidelines and explanations’ (my own obnoxious choice of words) that I had written years ago for my mother and father-in-law when they came to care for our daughter while I took a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Italy with my mom.
This was eight years ago. My daughter had just turned one, plus we had moved into a new house the week prior. There were boxes everywhere, not to mention the general craziness of living with a one year old. Even with all that, my in-laws were kind enough to volunteer to fly from Arizona to Seattle to watch her for ten days, while my husband was at work, so that my mom and I could go on a food and wine tour across Italy.
I am still grateful that they gave us this gift of their time and in hindsight, am even more grateful that they didn’t either bolt for the door or laugh in my face when they saw what follows.
Gather around, children, while I tell you a little story about Halloweens back when I was your age, waaaayyyy back in the 1970s.
Ah, those were the days! Children wore costumes their mothers made from scratch, and store-bought costumes were much less slutty, (and much more flammable.) This period also marked the final years when it was acceptable, nay, encouraged, to raise awareness to the plight of the homeless by dressing your child up as a Hobo for the night.
Which brings me to Exhibit A, featuring my brother, the Hobo and me as Raggedy Anne. My mom made the hat and the apron and of course there’s the cute little red dress underneath. Look how sweet we are posing out in front of our house in Idaho.
There’s a good chance my in-laws think I’m crazy.
I miss 85% of their correspondence because I only check emails once a month.
It takes me approximately four months to cash the kids’ birthday checks.
There’s the time I left them SIX PAGES of crazy baby-care instructions while they were babysitting our (then) one year old daughter.
And then there’s the Pumpkin-Text-Fiasco of 2013.
I originally performed this piece live as part of the Listen to Your Mother Austin 2016 Show. I’m sharing it here again as just one example of why I believe that science-based, comprehensive sex-ed is important for all children.
When I was 8 years old, I became a walking after school special when I showed a neighbor boy my underpants in exchange for a fun-size pack of Life Savers.
I should have known he was bad news when he suggested we take his riding mower out for a joyride around the back pasture (not a euphemism). Our ride ended with the lawnmower stuck in an irrigation ditch and me in his grandpa’s basement trading a peek at my underwear in exchange for his hard candies (also not a euphemism.)
If you haven’t read the original Squishy Penis Post, you can find it here.
Dear Amazon –
It is with a heavy heart that I must remove one star ⭐, or eggplant 🍆, from my previous review of my Mochi Squishies Squishy Toys Squeeze Random Animals Stress Toy Kawaii Squishies by Shovan, 30 Pieces.
My Amazon Review for “Mochi Squishies Squishy Toys Squeeze Random Animals Stress Toy Kawaii Squishies by Shovan, 30 Pieces”
Dear Amazon –
I recently purchased your MSSTSRASTKSbS30P (aka Mochi Squishy Animal Stress Toys) for my son’s 2nd Grade “End of School” Treasure Box
As always, I relied purely on all of your completely legitimate product reviews to make my final purchase decision. Sure, I was a little suspicious that all of the reviews were 5 stars, in broken English, and submitted within the past month, but I was sold by Sunny’s critique about being “worried that the smell would be too heavy” but discovering that her “worry were superfluous” after receiving them.
If they pass Sunny’s sniff test, then that’s good enough for me!
When I was in grade school, I spent a year of my life distressed over the possibility that I could be pregnant, all because a boy saw my underpants and a friend of mine told me that that’s how babies were made.
My psychosomatic pregnancy scare has influenced the approach I take when teaching my own kids about sex. Since preschool, my kids have known that boys have penises, not “wee-wees,” and that girls have vaginas, not “front-butts.” They also learned that babies are made when penises enter vaginas, not when 10-year-old boys sneak a peek at your underwear.