Who Cares About Bristol Palin




This is in response to Huffington Post article referenced here:

Dear Huffington Post,
First, Bristol Palin really should stop talking about birth control. She could make the most eloquent and intelligent statement of all time (not likely) and still no one will take her seriously at this point. It isn’t that she has been a teenage mother. It isn’t that she is pregnant with her second child out of wedlock. I am sure there is a story behind that, but I don’t keep up. It is that she is a hypocrit and a liar. She doesn’t practice what she preaches and judges others for the same. Plain and simple. So Huffington Post since she won’t stop writing, why don’t you stop promoting her ignorant rants? You are above this. She isn’t the story here.
This is the real story. I am assuming the facts and data you provided within the linked story above are correct. This program is successful? How many ten year olds were pregnant before this program began? Eleven year olds? Twelve year olds? When there is a program is treating sexually active children that young with or without parental consent, no matter the form of birth control, that is absolutely the definition of a bandaid fix. Ten year old girls are most likely not having sex with ten year old boys. Is the goal truly only to keep these children from getting pregnant? How about allowing these children to actually be… children. Are social services called in? Do they have counselors? Are these cases investigated? Or is this truly a don’t ask, don’t tell policy? Do they just set these 10, 11, and 12 year old girls up with an IUD, give them a lollipop and send them on their merry way? Goal accomplished, they won’t have a child. They are in all likelihood  being abused, molested, raped, possibly in the sex industry, they have no chance at a normal life and will not be able to psychologically cope with the trauma, but the program is a success because they won’t get pregnant. We have not even touched on the topic of sexually transmitted diseases!  Or should we just go back to how Bristol continues to make an ass of herself? She’s not the one I am concerned about. I hope I am not alone. 

Share the Love!


How to Chop an Onion….


…..With possible OCD and ADHD “tendencies” and maybe a slight bit of a “temper”:


  1. Stare at onion. Realize how much you hate cutting onions. They make you cry, but not the reason normal people cry.
  2. Recheck recipe and make sure the onion is absolutely necessary. If you can cancel the onion, read no further and carry on about your business.
  3. Recheck bank account to see if you can justify ordering in.
  4. Onion Powder! Don’t think it works that way and who knows what the conversion is for that.
  5. Ponder on already chopped frozen onions. Decide they are too watery and tasteless. Plus, that would involve a trip to the crowded store full of people. Negative.
  6. Maybe they have fresh chopped ones there? But, it’s still the store and that’s pretty lazy and wasteful.
  7. Think about getting down the food chopper. Decide against it when you realize you would have to get down the step stool. Plus, the food chopper itself is just something else to wash. You’d have to be quick to wash, dry and put up the blades before a kid catapults themselves on to the counter and stabs their eye out. I mean, anything could happen. Always be prepared for the worst case scenario. If it isn’t completely dry when you put it away, you are opening up your home to an insurgence of mold and mildew.
  8. Stare at onion. Pep talk! You can do this! You’ve cut up an onion a million times! You’re an excellent cook! Just go for it!
  9. Self doubt. Your husband says you’re the worst knife picker ever. That you always pick the wrong knife for the wrong situation. Wonder why your mother never taught you to chop correctly. Remember it was because she said your left-handedness was like a black curse hovering over her kitchen.
  10. Decide you are going to do it by hand. You love your family and they are worth it!
  11. Pick up the onion and carefully carry it to the trash can.
  12. Getting as low as you can in the trash can without getting too close to the sides or other trash, shake and pull all the skin off you can. Again, as close to the can as possible (without touching!). Those stupid pieces of skin like to float away in the air like dandelions. Then it will land on the floor, get picked up by someone’s sock, and the next thing you know you are sleeping with onions.
  13. Pick the correct knife. Hopefully. Make sure no one is watching.
  14. Cut the hair off both ends of the onion. Roots, whatever. Looks like hair to me.
  15. Go back to trash as carefully as before. Make sure every piece of skin is off. If it remains on the onion it will be in the skillet. Once in the dish, they are much easier to notice than their innards. The kids will detect onion and the gig is up.
  16. Peel off another layer, just to be sure.
  17. Rewash cutting board and knife. Wash onion. Cross contamination is real and it is unacceptable.
  18. Pick up knife and half that sucker!
  19. Stare in awe at the natural, geometrical beauty of wonder found growing in an onion.
  20. Calculate the correct positioning and angle needed to achieve maximum yield and symmetrical, tiny pieces of onion with the least amount of cuts.
  21. Recalculate
  22. Begin chopping you amazing chopper, you!
  23. Once a quarter way through, stop and admire the Baby Jesus of perfect onion pieces you have created. Decide there is too much on the cutting board and the chopped pieces must go into the skillet before you can continue. You can’t leave them there, because they are in your preferred chopping area. If you just move them, it will affect how you hold your knife.
  24. Leave the un-chopped pieces of onion on the cutting board. Don’t just sit them on the counter! Cross contamination! Remember! You don’t want to dirty up another plate or waste a paper towel for a 10 second use. Green is in, you trendy chopper!
  25. Gently hold the cutting board over the skillet and with your knife carefully scrape your flawless onions into the skillet.
  26. Drop half of the chopped onions on the stove.
  27. Cuss.
  28. Drop the un-chopped onions on the damn kitchen floor.
  29. Cuss some more.
  30. With your hands, throw the onions on the stove into their intended destination. The heat will cook off any germs or leftover crumbs.
  31. Pick onions up off floor. Wash them off.
  32. Consider starting over. Decline.
  33. Put the onions back on the cutting board and realize there is no way to find your perfect angle and direction again. Half of them fell apart anyway. Desperately try to accept these will not be uniformed.
  34. Pick up knife and start swinging it like the Swedish Chef.
  35. Recognize there are huge chunks that survived your bork bork bork chopping. Decide not to care.
  36. But the kids will notice and then they won’t eat.
  37. Yes they will! You are their parent! Make them!
  38. But do you really want to set yourself up for a dinner like that? Sounds stressful. You’ll just give in and let them eat something else. It will probably be processed and unhealthy.
  39. Why are you even talking in my list? This should be separate dialogue.
  40. I know, but I don’t want to break the continuity of the pretty, ordered numbers. Just try chopping one more time. You know you want to!
  41. I don’t care! They’re eating it! They can pick up the damn chunks and throw them at me for all I care at this point!
  42. Read next ingredient in recipe.
  43. Realize it involves peeling potatoes.
  44. Cry.

A Preemptive Parental Warning


A Preemptive Warning

I know there are many posts throughout this amazing world we call the Interweb about texting fails. Usually they are autocorrects. I am so extremely guilty of this. If this were a punishable crime, I would be doing life in San Quentin singing some Johnny Cash songs.

cash use

Nothing like saying you are getting tanned, but tanned is replaced with rammed. I tried to tell my husband to pick up toilet paper once. It ended up asking him if he were metrosexual. This is by far one of my favorites:


I told my BFF that a “big big storm” was rolling in. It said “big _ig storm” (First half of very derogatory word). Thank GOODNESS that one only went to her and she knows I’m not racist. Although it has been the butt of jokes for a while for us and she swears I need to leave the ghetto. How did my phone come up with that word? I have never used it! I have also never typed metrosexual. I was so much faster and more accurate when I had to press one, three times for C. I didn’t even have to look at the phone! Definitely not the case these days and heaven forbid I actually read something before I press send!


This though, is a warning about preemptive texting. Preemptive texting is when your phone suggests words you may want to use next based on your previous conversations. An office-mate was totally amused with this once when she was bitching out her husband. She came to show me. She thought it meant she was justified in her argument. I knew it meant that I got to now judge her forever for always being so crappy to her husband. That’s pre-emptive texting.

This warning is specifically for parents. Kids use our phones! It happens. Then you decide that texting and driving is a really, really, really bad thing to do. But you HAVE to text someone while driving, doing carpool, running to the store, picking up sippy cups, slinging your arm to the back hoping to make contact with a misbehaving thigh, blasting the radio, and rolling a doobie. A girl only has so many hands! What’s she to do? BAM! You got a kid! A 12 year old kid that can text! You seriously, never knew when this whole parenthood thing was going to pay off, or if it ever would and then this happens. It is like the heavens are shining down on you when you realize all the task you can now delegate. It’s a beautiful thing! Although, I am not sure why I trust him. Below is an example of a normal texting conversation we would have:


I was in the middle of texting extremely goofy things to my husband, because that’s what we do. This one started off with “I am now certain of two things. That the Anthony Bourdain sweepstakes was a hoax and Russian fishermen can’t read a map in any language.” Since this is very important, I needed my son to text my messages for me. He’s giggling a lot and I think it is just because I am hella amusing. Then he says “Well Mom! You sure do cuss a lot on this thing, don’t you?!” That’s it people! BUSTED! Busted by pre-emptive texting. The next thing I remember in my cloud of shame is my son saying “It won’t let me type ‘Duck’. It keeps ‘replacing’ it.”



Mom of the Year! #momoftheyear

At least it isn’t as bad as when my stepchildren had to call me from their mother’s phone about when to be at the airport. Apparently my name rhymed with “Hunt”. Super Classy.


Not Good in an Underwear Crisis



I had to take my 12 year old to get x-rays today on his knee. As we were waiting, I asked him if he had on clean underwear. He looked at me like I was a freak. Obviously he has never heard this before. I explained it is something moms or grandmas always tell you to do. “Make sure you have on clean underwear every day. You never know when you are going to end up at the doctor’s office.”

“You’re a mom! Why have you never told me that?” said my son raising a very good question.

“Do you have on clean underwear!?!?” I snapped.

“Well, yes.”

“Then don’t worry about it.” I huffed and shifted my shoulders away from him.

You see, I knew exactly why I had never told him this. It also reminded me of one of the last times I was at the doctor with my husband. So here it goes, hiding under this pen name, revealing things I should never reveal, to quite a few people who actually know me and interact with me on a regular basis.

I don’t wear underwear. In fact, I hate underwear. I always have! Ever since I was a little girl, if I can get away with not wearing them, I will. I don’t like the feel. I don’t like twisted bunches of fabric. They get hot and sweaty. I have always had a disproportionate sized booty. Whether large or small- the panties always ended up in no man’s land anyway. Then, there’s the all-tacky= pant lines. Ugh! I know many could argue not wearing panties in general is tacky. Touche my friend, touche. Rest assured, if there is a chance of the sun shining where it never should- I do have on panties. So we will just squash that curiosity right there. Next time you see me at the ballpark in a sundress, there is no need to push me into the sandbox for giggles. I will have on panties.

There is, however, one particular time I did not have on panties. I truly, truly needed them that day.

I have been having serious back issues for the past several years. It is debilitating. I was at the first appointment with who was going to be my last shot at a cure. This being a serious matter that greatly affected me and my family, my husband was there. We were meeting with a  different pain management doctor. I had been to plenty, they generally only want to dismiss you or get you hooked on narcotics. In my early 30’s, I refused for that to be the answer for me. This doctor, we will call Dr. V., was going to hopefully give me different answers. This guy was serious, intelligent, and EXTREMELY thorough. Extremely.

A sweet lady called us back from the waiting room. She showed us to an exam room, that didn’t quite look like any of the others. There was a stretcher in there, on wheels. When I asked about it, she only states that he is very thorough. (OK! I get it!) She goes through my meds, my complaints, why I am there, etc. She goes to leave and hands me a gown. A gown? I have back pain. I have on stretchy clothes. This shouldn’t be necessary. She assured me it was very necessary and to completely strip down to nothing but my panties. My husband’s face just lit up with excitement!

You see, he knows. He has known for years. We are married! We have kids! We have known each other for over 22 years. We were high school sweethearts. At this point in our lives, he knows I don’t wear underwear and he thinks this is just flipping hilarious.

I argue again with the nurse. She says when Dr. V. evaluates, he evaluates everything. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but I knew it made me nervous. She leaves the room before I could protest further.

So here I am in an exam room, told to strip down to my panties, and I have no panties. All I have is this asshole husband laughing so hard he’s crying. After attempting to kill him with my eyes, he straightens up and says, “I knew this was going to happen someday and I had just hoped I would be around for it.”

“Give me your underwear!”

“The hell I will!”

“Give me your underwear!”

“You are completely insane and I am not giving you my underwear.”

I tackle him. I’m going for the belt. I am getting this man’s underwear whether he likes it or not! He’s fighting with me. Sitting down, crossing his legs. I couldn’t believe it! Of all the things I have done for this man! I gave him children, dammit! I would give him my underwear if he needed it! Isn’t this what marriage is all about? Through sickness and health, times of undergarments and not. Why won’t he give me his underwear!? He is just going to literally leave me out to dry.

Aside of all the things I have done or would do for him, USUALLY this man would do absolutely anything for me, but not this. Apparently THIS is where he draws the line. Why? It’s not like anyone would be able to tell he wouldn’t have underwear on. I would give them right back!

I am whisper screaming all of these things as I am trying to wrestle his shorts off. Since he is over a foot and three inches taller than I am and weighs a hundred pounds more, I was getting nowhere. He accidentally kicked the door with his steel-toed work-boot, which prompted the nurse to snidely ask “Everything OK in there?”.

I responded with a deflated “Yes”.

I realize this man is not going to give up his underwear. I am making a mental note of the dissolution of marriage papers I am going to draft after I leave. “Not good in an underwear crisis situation. Irreconcilable underwear differences. And of course, just being a bad sharer!”

I am defeated and aggravated, yet I still refuse to believe there is not a solution. I start going through all of the cabinets in the room. As if there is an emergency stash of disposable underwear in there. I am out of my mind dealing with the impending embarrassment and doom. There was of course, nothing that could help me anywhere. Only my smug ass husband sitting there wearing not only shorts, but a perfectly good pair of underwear that he was keeping all to himself.

I will just end this by saying a few things. My husband kept his underwear. I kept on my gym shorts and prayed no one said anything. I now know the one thing I cannot count on my husband providing for me and I always, always keep a spare pair of underwear somewhere.