Thou Shalt Not Judge


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It’s almost impossible to not judge.  As humans, that’s how we supposedly evolved – we judged that the asshole lion chasing us looked hungry, so we ran.  Or something like that.

I try to not judge – honestly – because I’m a naturally judgmental person who comes from the world’s most judgmental family (I write that in a loving and clearly hyperbolic way.)  Now that I’m a mom, I think I’m a little less judgmental.  If you breastfeed or not, that’s your choice.  I don’t know your story and your history so I’m definitely not judging you.  If you work or stay-at-home, that’s your choice.  Again, I don’t know your reasons why and it’s none of my damn business.  If you do the attachment parenting thing or neglect your child… wait a sec.  If you neglect your child I’m gonna judge the shit outta you, but you get it.  Now that I’m a mom, I don’t judge other women as much because, well, I realize it’s hard for all of us.  It’s not hard in a “serving your country / Bradley Cooper sniper movie” way hard, but it’s hard.  It’s wonderful and it’s hard so I’m not gonna judgement (most of) other mom’s choices.

So, I am a little less judgmental now that I’m a mom… but sometimes judgment still creeps it’s little self-righteous head.  Take today in yoga class.  Now, I don’t go to yoga every single day because I work (and I’m lazy… mostly because I’m lazy.)  So, I go to this class that I’ve gone to exactly once before (two months ago) and everyone knows everyone.  This is kind of nice – I like to be the fly on the wall of the ashram (well… the stinky YMCA.)

When you are a newbie and the other woman know each other, and all of you are slightly awkward, you don’t introduce yourself and, instead, listen to their conversations like a huge creep.

This is what I heard this morning:

Mom One: “The parking lot has gotten soooo… I don’t know!  It’s like they’ll let anyone in here.”

(It’s a YMCA… a frickn’ YMCA)

Mom Two: “I know, but if I don’t get my yoga my skin looks so old.”


Mom One: “Do anything fun this weekend?”

Mom Two: “Soccer games.  The Oscars.”

Mom One: “Oh, did you watch the Oscars?”

Mom Two: “Oh yeah, no, I didn’t.  I didn’t watch the Oscars.”


Mom One: “I heard Doogie Howser was funny.  And that Patricia Arquette said some stuff.”

(Yes All Women???)

Mom One: “But what I wanted to tell you is what I DID this weekend.”

(Clearly she was fishing when she asked the other woman what she did.)

Mom Two: “Did you watch the Oscars?”

Mom One: “No.  We don’t have Cable.”

(She’s VERY proud of this.)

Mom One: “No, Rachel and I went Downtown. Downtown, Los Angeles.”

(She says this like she went to Iraq and hung out with ISIS.)

Mom Two: “Why on earth would you do that?”

Mom One: “It was fun!  So artsy.  It’s sooo different from when we first moved here.  It’s like all these artists moved in and all the homeless people moved out.”

(The…. fuuuuuuuuuuu?????)

I almost yelled at these two strangers – that’s how insane I am.  I almost yelled at them in a yoga class about how they clearly don’t understand homelessness, or people, or anything really.  Instead, I chuckled to myself and wrote this post.

Every day, I try to judge less; but the problem is, people do really funny stuff all the time.

Gone Girl and Mom Blogs

I’m late to the Gone Girl parade.  I haven’t seen the movie yet (I know… I know!  It’s good but I’m a mom and therefore don’t see any movies ever anymore), but I did read the book on my Kindle.  Da-yum – it was a fun read (as long as you enjoy reading about two sociopaths in a terrible marriage.)  But it was well-written, acerbic, and fun… except…

The main asshole in the book (because let’s be honest, they’re BOTH gigantic dicks) is Amy and she attributes a lot of her jerkiness to her parents.  I mean, of course, because everybody blames their parents for their bullshit no matter what; but what was interesting about Amy’s blame is that her parents wrote children’s books in which she was the main character.  She was this perfect child in these kiddie lesson books called Amazing Amy – and it messed her up.

I thought, “Uh oh!  This is exactly like the numerous mom blogs out there and holy shit!  Am I creating a future sociopath by making a mom blog?”

And here’s what I think – and I know it might not be popular with fellow mom bloggers – but here goes.

It’s called a “Mom blog” for a reason – it’s there to connect to fellow moms and share our stories.  We are adults and made the choice to share our funny / sad / truthful stories with the Internet.  They aren’t called “Children blogs” because, well, our kids don’t really have a say in whether or not we put them out there to the world.

So… and I know I might get flack for this… our blogs should focus on us and not the kids.  I know, I know – pictures of our children are adorable!  But should we be posting them on our public blogs?  It made me think of Amy in Gone Girl and how incredibly messed up she was from her parents’ actions.  Of course, Gone Girl is fiction and, yes, all the characters in it are terrible pieces of human garbage, but maybe their is some truth in it.  Maybe we should keep our children’s lives public and then share whatever the hell we want to about ourselves; because we are the authors here, not our kids.

So Finland is Basically the Best Country for Moms

I just read this article on BBC News.  I had heard about this box that the Finnish government supplied every expectant mother (read EVERY Finnish mother.)  Finland has a low mortality rate, generally healthy kids, and many of these kids sleep in cardboard boxes.  That’s right!  Cardboard.

Here’s the article.  I recommend reading:

I’m a Woman Again!

In the interest of T.M.I. (because this is a blog and isn’t the whole reason for a blog “Too MUCH information?”) I just got my first period after having my daughter.  It has been over two years since I got a knock on the door from Dear Aunt Flo and, man oh man, did she arrive with a vengeance.  It’s like she came with three suitcases and demanded to take over the house – that’s how much this first period disrupted my life.

I got cramps, bloating, weight gain – you name it.  It’s like the 9 months of my pregnancy plus the 14 months of breastfeeding accumulated into 23 months of terrible period.  I was a bitch to my husband (well more of a bitch than I normally am); I forgot to do things because my brain was cloudy; I was moody like my cave-lady toddler; and, as aforementioned, I felt fat as fuuuuuuuuck.

The only good thing about my period is that I’M NOT PREGNANT AGAIN.  Yay!!!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter, I love being a mom, yada yada yada – but my husband and I have been lax when it comes to birth control so… you know… come ANY TIME YOU WANT, AUNT FLO-RIDA.  You can stay an extended stay, I can get fat, who cares?!  As long as I am not pregnant – we cool.

How To Lose Those Pesky Final 10 Pounds


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Why do all stock photos of weight loss include a naked white lady with a tape measure?

Why do all stock photos of weight loss include a naked white lady with a tape measure?

There’s a lot of conflicting advice when it comes to taking off holiday weight, but I have sifted through all of it and cultivated the ultimate “New Year, New You” weight loss tips:

1. Starve Yourself.  Duh.

2. At the same time you’re eating roughly the same amount of calories as a svelte hamster, make sure you DON’T starve yourself. You need to keep your metabolism going so eat constantly.  I’m not talking like eating “every two hours” – you need to shove a constant stream of snacks down your mouth-hole or you will get fat.

3. If this doesn’t work, eat like a French person.  And by this, I mean of course you need to move to France, kill a French person, and use their skin as your own (like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs.)  You’ll be so preoccupied with the horrible act you committed and the chunks of French-person-skin falling off your face, that you will have no time to eat.

4. Get a personal trainer.  They’ll cost roughly half of your income so you won’t have any money left to eat (See Tip #1 – Starve Yourself.)

5. Do yoga.  My understanding of yoga is that you actually become Yoda and he’s so old and so lonely out in Dagobah that he has no time to farm and, therefore, he has to eat space-rocks and those have like zero calories.  Yeah, he wastes away to nothing but he looks so frickin’ HAWT doing it.

6. Do the Mediterranean Diet.  This requires moving to the Mediterranean, becoming a Mermaid (or Merman) and swimming all day in the Mediterranean sea.  The only problem with this is that King Poseidon lives there (he moved from the Caspian sea last Easter) with his bitch-daughter Ariel who will probably steal all your thunder with her annoying singing.  The Mediterranean Diet is a hard one to accomplish so probably just starve yourself.

7. Try the Paleo Diet.  This means you take out half of your brain in a painful surgery that leaves you as dumb as a caveman.  Then, after you’re an idiot, you eat meat and nuts to the point at which you want to kill yourself.  After you’ve committed suicide, your body will slowly decompose and, after you’re only literally skin and bones, you will be so damn skinny even Bethenny Frankel will be all jelly of you.

8. Become a heroin addict.  This was super cool in the 90’s (think Kate Moss heroin-chic.)  Why not bring it back now that 90’s fashion is cool again?!  Hello!  This is essentially the “Doc Marten” of diets so just go to a bad part of town, lay down some cold hard cash, and shoot up.  You’ll look ridiculously emaciated (read SEXY) within weeks.

9. Try a Juice Cleanse. Lots of people love juice cleanses because they swear by the “detoxifying” effects.  Fuck that shit.  Do a juice cleanse because it will make you hangry as hell because you’ll wanna stuff a burger down your pie hole.  When you’re extremely hungry, you become a bitch (men included.)  When you become a bitch nobody wants to hang with your mean-ass so you end up feeling lonely and depressed.  Weight loss is a KNOWN bi-product of depression so… there you go!  Also, you’ll use that expensive juicer you have in your pantry that you’ve never used and re-purposing is like so 2015.  If you can’t find it, it’s right by that bread maker you received from your sister back in some Christmas you were too drunk to remember.

10. Literally cut off half of your body.  Yeah, you’ll still look chubby in photos, but when you go to your dreaded yearly physical, your B.M.I. will be skinny thanks to half of your body being absent.  You won’t be able to exercise in this scenario, but who likes exercise anyway?!  Think of it as a win-win situation (while you are lying motionless in bed, unable to even accomplish the easiest tasks like turning over.)

HAPPY NEW YEAR everyone!!!!

I hope you all have beautiful, starvation-filled years!  Now, I’m going to make myself some toast with extra butter because I’m on a diet called, “I Could Give Two Shits Diet.”  Bye!

My Mother-in-Law is Martha Stewart with a Thick Rhode Island Accent


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We are at my husband’s parents’ place in a remote, mountainous area of Virginia for a week.  This means I am doing NOTHING.

When some people say they are doing nothing, they’re actually doing things like cooking, cleaning or showering; but I am actually doing nothing.  Okay, okay, technically I’m writing this blog entry so I’m not really doing “nothing.”  I get it, Mr. Attorney-Man!  Yeesh… I guess I am doing something but the point is I have been incredibly lazy and I LOVE IT.

At my in-laws’ house they cook us gourmet meals with fancy things like “truffles” and “actual meat” in them, take care of my daughter so I can catch up on sleep and then cook us more incredible food.  My Mother-in-Law is a domestic goddess.  She makes bread from scratch, cookies from scratch, and bacon-friggin-jelly from scratch.  Then, she goes to her art studio (yeah, she has an actual art studio) and paints beautiful oil paintings of the lovely landscape. My Mom-in-Law is Martha Stewart without the nasty felony on her record.  She’s incredible.

Some people might feel intimidated by this, but I lap it up.  It means I get to eat good food and get fatter.  It means my daughter gets to do crafts with a woman who actually understands what “crafts” are.  Seriously, I am the LEAST crafty woman on the planet.  This means, I get to be the laziest pile of laziness ever when I am in her home.  I’m utterly useless.

I offer to clean, I offer to chop up stuff and she will have none of it and that’s totally cool with me.  Honestly, I was just offering so I looked like a less terrible human being than I actually am.  I didn’t want to.  Sidenote: nobody who is a guest who offers to do something actually wants to do anything.  They’re just trying to not be a jerk.

I’m loving this doing nothing thing so much that I have no room to feel inadequate.  I simply cannot feel “less than” because I’ve already acknowledged I’m “less than.”  I’m not a perfect Mommy; I’m not a perfect wife; I’ve never made homemade bacon jam in my goddamn life.

And that’s fine… because I can still eat bacon jam and then have enough energy to play with my daughter and, yes, write a blog entry.  I’m liking the start of this year, even though it means my skinny jeans will be more like sausage castings for awhile.

Happy New Year everyone!

Packing Before and After Baby


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My actual sad suitcase.  The cute clothes in there? Not mine.  My baby's clothes.  I have a pair of underwear.

My actual sad suitcase. The cute clothes in there? Not mine. They are my adorable baby’s clothes. I managed to fit in one pair of clean underwear so I won’t smell too bad.

Tomorrow, we leave Los Angeles to see family on the East Coast.  This means we are flying… with a lap infant… again.  Why do we keep on doing this to ourselves?  Are we masochistic or just extremely dumb?  This will be Moira’s sixth round trip flight as a lap infant and the sixth trip I will be desperately requiring a huge glass of wine upon arrival.  Traveling on a plane with a lap baby ain’t fun – but I’ve already discussed that.

What I find amazing is that when you become a mommy, you stop packing for yourself.  When I traveled as a young, childless lass, I used to pack roughly twice as much clothing as my husband.  Now that I have my daughter, I pack some underwear, maybe a shirt or sweater depending on the weather, and a pair of jeans.  Sometimes I pack deodorant (read: “I NEVER pack deodorant.)  I’m disgusting now that I have a child.  On the plane, I used to have self respect and care what I wore.  Not now!  Now, I wear yoga pants, a top, a hoodie and ratty ass sneakers.  That’s it.

When you pack with a baby, you don’t care about what you look like.  You no longer obsess about fashion and what’s in; you obsess about having everything for the child.  Spoiler alert – you will ALWAYS forget something crucial no matter how many lists you wrote.  When you pack with a baby, although you’ll invariably forget something important like her favorite pacifier, you will remember TONS of things that you absolutely will not need.  This means, that while you used to have a full suitcase all to yourself, as a Mom, you will have roughly 1/8th of 1 percent of the suitcase to yourself.  You can maybe squeeze in a sock in your part of the bag – maybe.  Your vacation is no longer about you, Mommy, it’s about your darling little one.  Even using the word “vacation” is a misnomer – it’s more like a trip and this “trip” won’t leave you relaxed and rejuvenated like a vacay.  Nope!  You’ll be more tired when you get back home.

However, traveling with an infant is worth it for roughly two minutes of the flight when your cherished cherub nestles into your bosom.  So cute!  The rest of the time, you are trying to control an angry, screaming flight hazard.

So now I need to get back to packing.  I’m looking forward to the one sock I’ll be able to fit in my bag.  If my in-laws think I smell all trip long, it’s fine.  I’ll be stuck in the mountains of Virginia and nobody will care and, more importantly, I lost all self-respect a long time ago.

Romantic Dinner… for 3


I’m not one of those moms who manages to make a perfect, organic dinner every night.  I’m not even one of those moms who makes an imperfect organic dinner every night.  Usually, I just toast myself a bagel, slather on some salty butter, pour a glass of vino, turn on trash TV and voila!  Dinnertime.

Reasons for my failure at dinnertime are numerous: my husband often works nights and making a dinner for just myself is a little depressing; I’m lazy; making dinner with a one year-old crawling around, trying to electrocute herself at every chance is stressful; I’m lazy; and, did I mention that I’m lazy?

So last night when I made spaghetti and meatballs from scratch it was a bit of an event.  I even got a good bottle of Chianti (not the 3 buck one I normally get) as a sort of a romantic splurge with my husband.

And then, it happened – my daughter started screaming from her bedroom.  She. Did. Not. Want. To. SLEEP! AHHHHHHHHHH!

I tried to comfort her, I tried to rock her, I tried to shove my boob down her throat like any respectable, breast-feeding Mommy and nothing worked.

Thus, I brought my babe to the “romantic” dinner with my husband.  She had won.  I had lost.  Trying to be a positive fount of positive-positivity, I played it cool.  “Hey baby.  You think you can ruin this date night but you can’t!  ‘Cause you’re a cute kid and I’m totally fine with you ruining any semblance of sexiness in my marriage.”

We started to eat and things were going well.  Sean and I were trying to stay on adult topics, and I’m not talking about “adult” topics like “adult book stores from the 80’s” – I mean things like “what’s going on in the world… oh my god I’m a grown-up and I don’t always have to talk about our beautiful child” stuff.  Sean loved my balls, I loved the wine (duh) and then it happened.

Moira started pooping.

At the dinner table.

Now, children are prone to pooping whenever they damn feel like it.  It’s one of the most fabulous things about being a youngin’.  You get to drop a big ole’ numero dos whenever you please; but this was no normal poo.

This was the biggest goddamn poop I have ever encountered in a baby.  Her face turned red and then – boom! The avalanche of shit started.

It filled her onesie.  It filled her pants.  It filled her high chair.

I’m pretty sure it filled half of Los Angeles County.

If there were a pooping competition for kids; she would win hands-down.  This kid was pooping as if her life depended on it… and it was while Sean and I were attempting a romantic couple’s dinner.  Great!

You won this round, baby.  Your big, fat-man-sized poopy won this round; but you shall not prevail.  Oh, no, young babe.  I shall smite thee of thy scatological prowess; mark my words.

Just kidding – she’ll probably just continue to poop at highly inappropriate times and I’ll find it hilarious.  This kid sure ruins the mood between my spouse and I, but she has the funniest timing ever.

I finally joined a gym… and I already look beautiful.

Thirteen months after having my daughter, I did it – I joined a gym.  It’s only 5 minutes away from my home so hopefully I go (I probably won’t. I’ll blame it on “working too much” and/or “being a Mommy,” but the truth is, I’ll be watching some form of the Real Housewives and stuffing my face with cheese.

A wise sage once said, “Beauty comes from within.”  Well… hopefully that’s true… because here’s my gym identification card photo:


I’m so sexy it goddamn hurts.  This is the face my husband looks at every morning.  It’s almost like I’m constantly daring him to still find me attractive.

Luxurious Ways for Moms to Pamper Themselves


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You’re a mom; life is hectic.  You need ways to unwind and relax – to honor yourself as much as you honor your family.  As a mother, you give so much to others that now it’s time to give something back to yourself.  Here are simple, inexpensive ways to bring the spa into your home:

1. When your child angrily hurls banana slices at your face, leave them there.  Go ahead and smoosh those bananas into a heavenly facial mask.  Nameste.

2. If you’ve been so busy that you had no time to go to the grocery store, pretend you’re on a juice fast with no actual juice.  Don’t eat anything and go to bed hungry!  You’ll cry all night and shiver for free.  It’s just like an expensive weight loss spa.

3. When your child doesn’t realize his own strength and hits you, pretend it’s innovative “Scream Therapy” and he’s helping you release all your inner demons.  Fun!

4. If you get your child’s feces on you while changing her, put that stuff under your eyes.  If you don’t vomit from the terrible smell, pretend it’s a mud mask.  This will require a lot of imagination on your part, so it’s like a creativity workshop and a spa treatment all wrapped up into one!

5. If you fall asleep on one of your son’s toys because you’re tired and you haven’t cleaned up in three days, pretend it’s a fancy massage chair and let it get those knots out of your back.  If you wake up and the toy has embedded into your skin permanently, call a doctor, and enjoy the serenity.

6. When your husband hasn’t seen you in anything other than an over-sized bathrobe that makes you looks like Cookie Monster’s fat cousin “Cake Bitch” – pretend you’re on a sexy Couple’s Retreat and the reason you’re wearing a bathrobe is because you just got out of a scintillating Couple’s Massage.  Then, fool yourself into thinking you haven’t had sex in weeks because you just had sex… because in your weird mind you are on a Couple’s Retreat and not just super tired from having a kid.

7. You probably haven’t showered in days so pretend that smell on you is really a funky musk you got from that woman selling essential oils at the organic spa.  You’re not “gross;” you’re unique and toxin-free!

8. You haven’t colored your hair since you got pregnant.  Pretend your weird gray-brown-black-blonde-red hybrid is actual a creative ombre and that you spent thousands on it.  Then, after you’re done pretending, put that hair up in one of your husband’s disgusting ball caps because you deserve it, gurl.

9. If your child scratches you with his kiddie-talons-of-death, pretend the blood streaming down your forehead is from acupuncture and you’re only one treatment away from total Zen.

10. Train yourself to think your child’s screams are a relaxing Nature CD.  Instead of howling wolves of the arctic, or calming streams of the rain forest, your child’s own screams of anger are your cue to relax into a smooth ocean of sleep.  If their screaming continues, just go further into a deep sleep, and then hope they don’t hurt themselves while you finally get a nap.