Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Your Kid's Halloween Costume is Putting Them in Grave Danger

I love Halloween, you guys. Maybe it's the excuse to wear fishnets with minimal judgment. Perhaps it's the offering of free candy from strangers. Either way, Halloween just speaks to my inner bad girl.

Instead of sharing offensive costumes or asking you about your favorite scary movies, I'm going to do something much more important. I'm going to save your sweet, little cherub from being drop kicked on October 31st.

That's right...I'm saving lives.

Halloween safety checklist:

  • Form a buddy system. Hold hands, tether to one another, or strap them into one of those kiddie leashes. It's one of the few times no one will judge you for walking your kid like he's a Boston Terrier.
  • Make sure your child's costume, shoes, and/ or treat bag have reflective stickers on them. Bring a flashlight so you can spotlight them like deer.
  • Walk safely on sidewalks and not in the road. My grandpa is 96 and still driving. Any questions?
  • Trick or Treat in safe and familiar areas. Unless it's a rich neighborhood. They give full sized candy bars.
  • Check every piece of candy before letting your child eat it. Keep all the Reese's Cups for yourself. It's called quality control, not theft.
  • DO NO, I repeat, DO NOT dress your kid in any of the costumes below.

Here are 6 kids nobody wants to bump into on Halloween. Or ever.

Forget about killer clowns or your mother in law. They've got nothing on these miniature monsters.Tell me I'm wrong. I'll wait.

This post may be linked up to these kick ass blogs:

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Shit I've Learned From Motherhood

I'm not a Mommy blogger.

You're totally shocked. I know.

But I am a Mom. I've been around the proverbial block. I've come out on the other side for the most part.

I'm qualified. More than 20 years in the industry, even. I've seen some shit, you guys. Being a mom is like no experience in the world. I say that both lovingly and as a warning.

The seasoned vet that I am decided to share a few things that I've learned about motherhood. Write them down. Learn them, love them, live them.

You're about to embark on a lifetime journey of chronic worry. This will never go away. Until you die. Congratulations.

Your feelings will cycle rapidly. From a swelling pride to absolute shoot me now in 2.5 seconds. This is called parent induced bipolar disorder. (This is just a theory of mine. After all, I'm a doctor with credentials from WebMD.)

All dignity goes out the window. Shy about your body? Don't worry. By the end of your nine-month pregnancy journey, your vag will have been handled by a rotation of obstetricians and medical students. When the time to push comes, you'll give zero shits about who's sitting courtside. (P.S. make it count by insisting friends and family pay a cover charge. Just food for thought.)

You'll briefly look like a homeless woman.

Remember that pregnancy glow you had? Forget about it. Don't worry though, your hair will have the most vibrant, greasy sheen. Dry shampoo can't even save you. That flawless nail game you were so notorious for has been traded out for naked nails. The horror. If you're really lucky, diaper rash cream will get lodged under your nails and give the illusion of your beloved French mani. You'll live in your sweatpants and every shirt you own will have at least one baby vom stain.

Once you get through the sleep deprivation, you'll turn a corner. You'll master the three-minute shower, because Shower Schizophrenia.

Speaking of the powder room, all your bathroom breaks will be televised. Possibly in front of a live studio audience. You won't urinate in private again for a few years. But you'll be okay. You lost modesty in the delivery room, remember?

Before you know it, your kids are potty trained and you've finally upgraded your urine stained sofa. You even manage to paint your nails. Life is good.

Then school starts. Your perfect, sweet, round-faced angel will come home with what I call school onset asshole'itis. Yeah, I said it. It's about to get a whole lot worse, too. They start rolling their eyes. AT YOU. Often. These eye rolls are a test designed to break you. Stay cool. This is just to prep you for what's to come. You'll call for the same patience you mustered on those long, sleepless, colic-filled nights. You'll pick up the phone and call your Mom to apologize for being a complete dick. (If you haven't called your mother yet, you will.)

The teenage years, though. Those are the ones that are going to completely throw you off your game. Your sweet little baby is now a ball of hormones. They hate you, they hate school, they hate red meat, & they hate the chevron striped bedroom you painted proudly for their eighth birthday.

If your soul hasn't been crushed yet, hang ten. Mother nature hasn't missed you because dating is on its way. Now it's you that is filled with hate. You hate your daughter's boyfriend, "Lo". His real name is David and he drives a beat-up minivan....with a mattress in the back. You'll hate your son's "serious" girlfriends. All six of them and he's still a freshman in high school.

But whatever you do, don't you dare let them know your disgust of their flavor of the week is real. It'll only make it more appealing to them. It's basic psychology.

It's not too late to rethink your home security system, you know?

Your baby will get his/her heart broken. Over and over again. You remind yourself that prison isn't your bag and you'll spend all your extra energy giving your kids sage advice. Sage advice that they'll wipe their ass on. Sage advice that they won't listen to until they have babies of their own. Only then will your words become the gospel. In the meantime, let's just drink about it.

*This post may be linked up to these kick ass blogs:

Saturday, October 14, 2017

6 Things More Terrifying Than Jason Voorhees

In the spirit of Halloween, I decided to share some things that will make your skin crawl and have you checking the locks on your doors tonight. Okay, probably not. But would this post be authentic if I didn't act overly dramatic?

1. Squiggle Eyebrows. I can't believe this is even a real thing, you guys. But it is and I'm horrified. I can't make this shit up.

2. The Kardashian's are reproducing at alarming rates. Another generation of vocal burn and an unrealistic waist to ass ratios are happening. Get ready.

While Kim has confirmed a surrogate is carrying she and Kanye's baby, Khloe and Kylie are still playing coy. (Until Momager Kris lines up overpaid photo shoots for all these baby bumps, I guess we'll just have to keep speculating.) This brings the Kardashian/Jenner pregnancy count up to 3. I'm going to go ahead and call a fourth pregnancy in the family. Kourtney, I see you. In any event, how is anyone supposed to keep up? Don't drink the Calabasas water, y'all. 

3. Fidget Spinners.

Hate them. DUMB. I'm not even sorry. When I see a kid with a fidget spinner, I secretly want to knock it out of their hands. Harming small animals is a pre-requisite to being a serial killer. This shit is, too. Watch and see. It's a gateway toy.

4. Participation Trophies.

Don't get all twisted, hear me out. I love my kids, too. I want their self-esteem to be higher than everyone on Snoop Dogg's tour bus. But I also don't want them to be disenchanted. It's important that they fail. Failure builds character. Still want your kids to get participation trophies? Call me when your son is forty. He'll be living in your basement, wearing a cape, playing Call of Duty 32.

5. This app called Sarahah. It's an anonymous messaging app and a popular one, too. (95 million users and growing.)

On the other hand, this is a great app if you're a really lonely, sadomasochist.

6. This website wins for everything I fear, wrapped into one dot com.

(Not actually me. I'm way more attractive, obviously. I just don't want you to hate me. So I'm using this stand in.)

I am however legitimately eating a cheeseburger in my panties as I type this.

Are you sporting squiggly brows? Tell me what things terrify you. Inquiring minds want to know.



Saturday, October 7, 2017

Feed Me and Tell Me I'm Pretty - Drunken Gummy Bear Edition

I've missed doing Feed Me & Tell Me I'm Pretty, you guys. Probably because I'm the opposite of an emotional eater. The more turmoil in my life, the less I eat. I'm fairly certain this qualifies as some form of an eating disorder. I can say this because nobody has spent more hours on WebMD at four a.m. under the influence of Ambien, than myself. That's for a whole other post and a session with my therapist, though.

Anyway, I'm on an upswing and my pants are getting a little snug. It's almost Halloween and I know I'm always down for an excuse to buy candy. (And booze.)

Introducing: Grown Up Gummy Bears for 5 types of people.

Mommy needs her juice Gummy Bears
Yep. Wine Gummy Bears. Red, White, and Rose. Oh, my!

I'm in college Gummy Bears
You can't go wrong with the traditional Rummy Bear.

I'm hardcore af Gummy Bears
Fireball Gummy Bears = Don't forget your bail money.

I'm classy, but fun Gummy Bears
Champagne Soaked Gummy Bears (Betcha Oprah partakes.)

And my personal favorite goes to:

I'm going to lose my panties tonight Gummies.

Come on. Who isn't down for Tequila Gummy Bears?

Which gummy bear is your intoxicated spirit animal?

This post may be linked up to these kick ass blogs: