Who Am I Raising?

My kids are weird. Emily and I colored for a while and then she spent five minutes smelling the paper and telling me it smelled bad because it smelled like crayons… but she couldn’t stop smelling it.

I, of course, was disappointed because I teach art and love the smell of crayons so clearly she cannot be my daughter.

Then Nicholas and I were together and I accidentally farted (or did I?). Nicholas didn’t hesitate and went around and smelled my butt. Wtf?

I seriously cannot handle the weirdness. There is nothing else to say except that I am raising weird children and Nicholas is just weird and gross. I think they get it from Joe’s side of the family. Yeah… Joe’s side.

Until next time,

I’m going to go smell my husband’s armpit.


Wtf. I May Have Been Drinking.


When you went to a kick as Sader dinner for your aunt who is Jewish…

Awkward moment #1: when you cheers your husband and say ‘yay Jesus.’

Awkward moment #2: when you are drunk from drinking so much wine at the dinner that you think it would be awesome to be Jewish and then you ask your husband to get you chocolate and he brings you chocolate covered blueberries. Wtf?

Get me some fucking drunk chocolate.

Until next time,

Next time at mass,  I am drinking all of Jesus’ blood. Yay Jesus.

This post is dedicated to my favorite, Jewish, Aunt Paula and Uncle Mike. Thank you for sharing your tradition and your wine.

I’m Not Betty

That awkward moment when you come home from therapy and ask your husband what he and the kids had for dinner and he says, ‘leftover barbecue chicken.’

Then you look at him because it’s a meal you made earlier in the week and ate it with the whole family and you just stare down your husband and gently correct him… ‘it was pork.’

Then he has an aha moment and says ‘that’s why it tasted weird!’

Until next time,


Beware of the Teachrent

Vincent had some homework to do the other night. He had to do math, read a few pages in a book and then write down all the words that had the ‘ow’ sound in the story.

A few months ago, Mr. Smarty Pants figured out that all the answers to his book homework are on the front cover of the book and he just has to copy them down.

I told Vincent he needed to start his homework… five minutes pass and I hear the, ‘I’m done.’

…Uhh, it takes me longer to read the directions…

And that’s when the teacher/parent part of me kicked in and meshed into one interrogative mega bitch.

‘Oh… you’re done?’ -me

‘Yeah.’ -Vincent

‘So… you read the whole book?’ -me

‘Uhh… yea.’ -Vincent

…and then it became a scene from a bad cop movie… Vincent was sweating, there was a single light hanging from above us just gently swinging. And then I just spouted off questions… it was so fast that the kid needed a sip of water to help with the dry mouth he was getting from sheer panic…

‘OK Vincent, then what was the book about?’ -me

‘A boy and his dog.’ -me

…OK smart ass, that’s the picture on the cover…

‘What’s the boys name and the dogs name?’ -me

‘Sam is the boy and Max is the dog and they go for a walk.’ -Vincent

…lucky guess…

‘What else do they do?’ -me

‘Uhh…’ -Vincent

‘Exactly! You didn’t read the book did you?’ -me

‘Well, no. I read the first page and wrote down the answers.’ -Vincent

…yeah you did… I’m not an idiot. I teach high school for God’s sake. If I can guess that a student is lying, sad, upset, angry, happy or cheating on my damn photography project, I think I can figure out that you are cheating on ‘Sam and Max.’

And, you’re grounded forever.

Until next time,

I am a human lie detector bitch.

Death by Boob

So let’s cut to the chase; I have big boobs. I am basically two boobs on legs just bobbing around in life trying to get through the day.

I mean, I’m not complaining- I love my boobs and my cleavage but I wouldn’t mind if they were smaller because it would help with losing weight. I would probably lose a hundred pounds and be the weight of a small child if I got rid of some. Those ladies out there with small boobs, you want big ones and I want slightly smaller ones- the grass is always greener. However, let me explain to you my boob struggle.

Problems with the twins:

1) last night I was sleeping on my side and I was trying hard to fall asleep but I kept feeling like I couldn’t breathe. Naturally, with my mental health issues, I thought I was having a panic attack. Nope- it wasn’t a panic attack… my boobs were up so high that they started to strangle my neck and cut off the air to my windpipe. It was a scary moment… I almost went into the white light.

2) to stay with the sleeping issue… You want to feel sexy in the bedroom. However, sexy is not when your boobs fall to each side and hide under your armpits.

3) I do not own one clean shirt.

4) when I take off my bra, half my dinner falls out. BAM…Wasted money.

5) I may be the average size in pants but if I buy a dress, I can’t get my average size… I have to check all the tags for the largest size just to fit my boobs. Have you ever tried to look for the tag in the department store that says ‘tent size?’ I just stopped looking for those types of dresses. Now I save time by going directly to sporting goods.

6) buying bathing suits… it should be some kind of horror movie. I literally go around the store and feel up the swim suit top. Have you ever seen a woman feeling all the cup sizes in the bathing suit department? No? Well, that’s me. And people look at you like you are nuts  Sometimes I compare the boob cup to my face- if my face is too large for the cup, then I can’t get it because that’s how big my melons are.

7) attempted murder. Yeah, the thought has crossed my mind; especially while I was breastfeeding. I would breastfeed my kids and fall asleep out of pure exhaustion sitting straight up in the rocking chair. When I would wake up, my baby’s face would be engulfed in a boob. Sheer panic would set in… ‘can you breath under there? Did you lose consciousness?!’

8) have you ever seen Baywatch? Yeah, I don’t look like that when I run. When I run, it’s called attempted suicide.

9) my kids try to hug me but when they look up at me with their beautiful, brown eyes, they are practically living in my cleavage. It’s like my boobs gently frame their face but it’s less adorable and way more awkward.

10)have you ever been dead asleep and someone is trying to gently wake you up? Yeah… that has never happened. I am literally passed out from exhaustion and my kids are trying to wake me up to do the following: tell me their nose is running, hand me their boogers, show me that their pajamas have pockets and how the pockets operate, hand me earwax, tell me they have to go to the bathroom, ask me if it’s 7am, tell me they are hungry, tell me that they are thirsty and/or that they had a nightmare. And the way they do this is by slapping my boob because it is under my armpit. But they hit me directly on my giant nipple. It’s dark as hell and it’s like they are playing battleship… A2… yes,  direct hit to my nipple… I’m up. Let me hold your boogers and check out those pockets.

Until next time,

Giant boobs can be fun but proceed with caution because they could also kill you.

The Drip in My Sink

I have been trying not to talk about depression too much. One, it’s depressing and two, I don’t know if you want to hear about what I am going through.

I do, however, write about it for two reasons; one, I found that I like to write and it helps explain my current thoughts and two, if I help one person, it’s worth it.

Today’s topic is anxiety. Anxiety isn’t just stress for me; it is something darker and deeper than that.

We all have stress; will I meet this deadline? How am I going to do this project? Will my smelly kids get a bath this week? But for me, stress is worse.

It starts out as a thought just like you. The only way I can explain my anxiety is it starts like a drip in your leaky faucet- drip… drip… drip. Then that drip becomes a leak and that leak floods your bathroom, which floods your house, which floods the neighborhood, which floods all of North America, which floods the world and then we are all dead. That is my stress pattern. That is a representation of my running thoughts.

Having Borderline Personality Disorder¬† (BPD), is hard because life and anxiety is intensified. I take one instant in my day and I obsess about it- did I do that right? Should I have done this differently? Why did I say this? Dos and don’ts; shoulds and shouldn’ts. Just on repeat… over and over.

Right now my thoughts are the noose around my neck; every moment it becomes tighter. Every thought chafes my neck a little more making it bleed. My windpipe is being crushed, the air escapes my lungs for the last time.

I struggle to find a way out- therapy is my knife cutting the noose. Little by little, I chip away at the rope; little by little I can feel the fresh air try to reach my lungs. Little by little, I will perhaps, live again.

Until next time,



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Is this a Subject in School?

Today I was taught about agricultural by Emily, who is three. All this learning over spaghetti and meatballs…

“Hey mommy?” -Emily

“Yeah?” -me

“Did you know birds eat food and then they poop? When they poop it comes down and down from the sky and it has seeds in it. And that’s how our food grows and that’s how we get our food…” -Emily

“So… birds poop and makes us food?” -me

“Yup.” -Emily

Mmm, so appetizing.

Until next time,

I have to go harvest my back yard for dinner.

Ps- this post is dedicated to all the ag teachers out there… especially, Karen, Kelly, Brandi and Sarah. Thanks for teaching kids about the animal life cycle, food, and poop.