Mangos in Albuquerque

You know what would make being an adult much easier?

Not having to spell the word Albuquerque.

That was one of my first thoughts today. A friend from college is moving there, and all I could think was “How the fuck do I spell that?” I was lost in that little thought just long enough to forget the world has turned into a giant dumpster fire. I have been finding it harder to summon the motivation to do much of anything. I read the news, look at Facebook, and suddenly want to hide under the mountain of laundry in the living room for the next couple of years until this all blows over. Thanks NPR, for reminding me that everything sucks. I am solidly rooting for the viruses and antibiotic-resistant bacteria now.

Getting into fisticuffs with people on Facebook makes me feel good for a short period of time, but then I realize that they are all surrounded by an impenetrable wall of dumb. They cannot be saved. I look at my children and worry about their futures. I worry about how I am going to explain all this to them when they are reading about it in school. How President MangoFuhrer came to be? How we let the country turn into a laughingstock? How we have decided that people who don’t look like us are immediately the enemy? I get anxiety thinking of them reading about this time in their textbooks.

My husband and I have talked about things we can do. Actual acts of kindness we can participate in. Just writing a status on Facebook is not going to help, but acts of kindness might. We have talked about taking in refugee children while they wait to see their parents futures. We have discussed building a bomb shelter in the backyard to keep us safe when President Tangerine Shitgibbon pisses off the wrong person, and there is a motherfuckin’ comeuppance. I wonder how many children we can save in our underground bunker?

Mister Rogers once said, “Look for the helpers.” I keep looking. I see them. Helping refugees. Feeding children. Organizing marches. This gives me hope that if the chapters in my children’s future textbooks paint this time in pure darkness, I can tell them of the helpers and how they let their light shine.

*REVIEW* Joyaltee Upcyled Kids Clothes



2 year olds.  Cute.  Mischievous.  Ruthless.

Trying to put clothes on my kid is like trying to put pantyhose on an octopus, equal parts hilarious and just damn ridiculous.  An average day in our home consists of the adults chasing a half-naked toddler around while bargaining with any deity who will listen to help us dress this tiny maniac.

I get it kid, pants suck.

I hate wearing pants as well, but modern society frowns upon the Walter White look.



I have found myself on a quest for clothing that is both cute and covers my kid’s body.


Enter Joyaltee Upcycled Kids Clothes.


I was recently introduced to this company by another mom in my social circle.  The clothes are “upcyled” from other previously worn textiles. I am all about reusing already available resources and supporting small businesses.  I was completely intrigued.  Comfy pants?  How could my kid say no?!


Joyaltee was founded by Alix Joyal, a stay at home mom of 2 kiddos.  Alix has been a seamstress for over 25 years and has a Bachelors degree in Textile Development and Fashion Merchandising from the Fashion Institute of Technology in NYC.  She decided to combine her love of sewing, upcycling, and her kids to create a business that allows her to spend time at home with her children.  Her website boasts a blog that showcases her work and family.




Let’s talk about the pants themselves:  *SEE PHOTOS ABOVE*

“Every single pair of pants that I create are made using genuine upcycled textiles that come from vintage dresses, old t shirts, and a various assortment of other preexisting and previously worn garments.” –Joyaltee

I was lucky enough to get a couple pairs of pants for my kiddo during her last sale.  2 pairs were made from t-shirts, one was made from material that Joyaltee tie dyed, and the last pair was constructed out of a men’s button down shirt (I apologize as I did not get a picture of these… yet).   All pants were true to size.  I was surprised about the length of the pant legs.  They were actually long enough!  My fairly narrow, long inseamed child throws a tantrum when pants are too short and his ankles feel a draft.  We have struggled with buying pants and ultimately having them be too short.

All of the pants were incredibly soft and the designs were adorable.  Joyaltee makes “Harem” pants and bell bottoms (at the time of this post).  I think the harem style is incredibly cute.  My husband didn’t agree, and regularly called our son Charlie Chaplin and MC Hammer, but what does he know? Our son got regular compliments on the pants (especially the tie dyed pair) when out in public.

I had my son wear each pair for some of his most regular activities.  He could run, jump, and play without any problems.  His daycare teachers were asking if Joyaltee made adult sizes.  His teachers also mentioned how much they like the style of pants because it made diaper changes “a breeze”.  My son is notorious for rolling around and doing everything in his power to make it difficult to change him and get his pants back on.  His teachers said that if every kid wore such comfortable (and “friggin’ cute”) pants, their diaper time in the classroom would be cut in half.

Washing the pants after use was very easy.  I just separated by color and washed with the rest of my laundry.  I did not notice any shrinking or color transfer.  This is most likely because (in theory) the fabrics have already been worn and washed many times before being turned into pants.


All in all, I (and my child) really enjoy these cute additions to his wardrobe.  I would HIGHLY recommend them to any parent.

There are various ways to purchase recycled and re-purposed kids clothes.

Joyaltee has a 5 star review rating on their Etsy shop. (

You can check check out the INSTAGRAM page for flash sales, cute baby models, inspiration and behind the scene pictures.   @joyaltee  and

You can also shop the website at

The fun part, is that each sales outlet seems to have different styles and are updated as new items become available.    Go take a look!




So This Is Christmas


This time of year makes me all warm and (whatever is between my “usual prickly self” and “not quite fuzzy”).   It warms my cold black heart.

I just happen to love the Holidays.  Not because I feel the need to put Christ back in Christmas or because I just happen to love pumpkin pie more than I love most humans.  No.  Because I love knowing that for a least a short time each year, people are a little nicer, a little kinder, a little warmer. I love the traditions, the movies, the music, the visiting friends and family, the yummy food, and the cheesy décor.  I love the smell of snow and fresh pine. I love the feeling of wrapping the perfect gift and the looks on their face when they open it.  I love falling asleep on the couch by the light of the tree.

You may not share my enthusiasm, but I am ready for this holiday season.  I embrace it.  So bring on Santa, Rudolf, Heat/Snow Misers, Clark, Cousin Eddie, George Bailey, Ralphie, Frank Cross, Bing Crosby and Danny Fucking Kaye.

So This Is Christmas.


Sometimes I write words down on paper and stare at them for what seems like hours.  I have never considered myself a writer, but a person who sometimes writes.   In those times, I can occasionally be funny.  I will never consider myself a comedian.  That would be disrespectful to those I hold dear to me who ACTUALLY are comedians.  As I sit here and write whatever emotional word vomit that comes out of my hazy hung-over brain, I can’t muster humor.

Donald Trump is our new president.  Oh for the love of all things holy.

Yesterday was the first time I have ever felt actually scared in my own skin.  AND I AM WHITE!  Let that sink in.  America voted for a president with zero political qualifications and has bragged about sexually assaulting women (among about a million other terrible qualities).  I am terrified for the children of this country who are told to emulate this very person.  This is how we get bullies/Hitler/Satan.  How do I tell my friends, with beautiful brown skin, to not fret about the wellbeing of their children in this hostile climate?   How do I come to grips with the selfish thought of “oh thank god my kid is a very white male”?  I am sick to my stomach.

Almost half of those who voted felt their only option was Trump.  And as much as that frightens me, it makes me 1000x more dejected to think they are really that lost.   These voters are so upset with their current environment, they actually think a Trump is the answer. I have very few Trump supporting friends.  Nor do I tend to gravitate towards the populous that voted for Trump in a social setting.  Maybe this is why I was so shocked at the results.  My very particular self-cultivated social circles didn’t provide me with much exposure to those who were finding solace in a possible Trump presidency.  I wish I would have allowed myself to see those struggles and possibly help.  This election just proved that we are so separated.  So disillusioned.  So scared.  We all want what we believe is best for “me/mine”.  We forget that we are all part of this together.  The sad truth is that this election is only going to tear us apart even more.  We are not one for all and all for one. Social media and technology is partially to blame.  This election kept us in separate silos of information.  We got news from our friends, family, and other like minded individuals.  And the sad part, is a lot of the information was WRONG.  On both sides.  We were all so set to ride off into our delusional sunset, we forgot most of the information we were reading was nothing but propaganda.  Lies dressed as truths in cheap suits.

At least my education reminds me that the pendulum swings both ways.  American history is smeared with events like slavery, genocide, witch hunts, the Trail of Tears, the Dred Scott Decision, the stock market crash, internment camps, McCarthyism, and a civil war.  We the people are stronger than all of this.  Progress will always find a way.

When Nouns Become Verbs

Adult. This word has now become verb. “I can’t adult today”. What the bloody fuck? You mean you can’t act like an adult today?  I understand the cute quip, but I can’t believe that I am hearing it in everyday conversations. Now that being said, I certainly failed at being an adult on more than one occasion.   In all actuality, I feel like I am failing at being an adult most days. Last week my husband asked me a very simple question and I completely balked at it. Our lives have been very chaotic the last 2 years. Moved, queefed a kid out, husbands residency, and about 100 other small (yet equally difficult) things have taken up real estate in our lives. This being said, the next 18 months leave a lot of opportunity for even MORE changes. Yay?!
The other night Kevin and I were enjoying “happy hour” (this is the hour after the kid falls asleep and we use toothpicks to prop our eyes open/keep ourselves awake for an episode of the walking dead) when he asked me the most simple of questions.

Kevin: “So if you could do ANYTHING… what would you do?”
Me: “Are you asking me what I want to be when I grow up?”
Kevin: “Uh, yea. I guess.”

I completely panicked. I didn’t have an answer. I almost lied. Writer? Baker? Candlestick maker? I suddenly found myself reciting nursery rhymes to disguise that I, in fact, didn’t have an answer. I felt like a grade school kid who had been called on to answer a question when the teacher knew very well that you weren’t paying attention.
Teacher: “Jenny, what’s the capital of Michigan?”
Jenny: “7!”

7 isn’t the answer to that question, and it certainly isn’t the answer to the one posed to me.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

When are you too old to decide what you want to be when you grow up?

Volunteer Admin

Everyone seems to strive to be the boss.  The boss at home.  The boss at work.  And now the boss online.  I’ve recently met the “volunteer administrator of a Facebook page”.   *face palm*

This persons job is to police the Facebook group and delete people and posts they feel aren’t following the “rules”.  These “rules” being made up by admins.  I got to experience this first hand while watching a friend of mine get banned from a group for questioning the “rules”.  She got the boot because she didn’t agree.  Of course she did it hilariously by posting a picture of herself holding BBQ sauce (you had to be there to get it… but believe me… it was damn funny).  During this exchange, I inserted the overly generic quip of “LMAO” directed at her picture.   Needless to say, she got the boot and I went about my day.  Fast forward 8 hours and I start getting notification after notification from said Facebook group.  I was now being called out because I had laughed at the joke.  I LAUGHED!  The volunteer admin had searched the page of over 900 people and told me “maybe this isn’t the group for you” because I laughed.   These people clearly don’t know how to Internet.  That’s why the internet exists.  It is here for porn and laughs.  Anywho, this person goes on to tell me that I should leave upon my own volition and I told her that I would be over in my corner of internet, looking at cat memes, and waiting for an apology.  This banter went on for a good hour.  Now, I don’t usually give an hour of my time to a volunteer admin for a random Facebook page, but the notifications woke me up and I was pissed.  I will say that this page isn’t out to solve the world’s problems, end suffering, or save orphaned animals.  It’s a group where people post there shit they no longer want and give it to other people who feel the need to have more shit.  It’s a variable smorgasbord of garage sale rejects.  I love this group for the ability to get rid of crap that is crowding my garage and to see what random crap has been *gifted* today.  I’ve seen everything from unused gift cards to Christmas wrapping paper in June. Ultimately this is why my friend got the boot.  She offered a resource for new moms in the area and information on social support networks as opposed to an actual item (*gasp! How terrible!). Hence the photo of her holding BBQ sauce, offering it up for someone, while adding the aforementioned public resource in order to “follow the rules”.

I digress.  I am only writing because I felt the need to vent.  I was told to not laugh because someone in the world of Facebook was offended.  Offended because I “Laughed My Ass Off” at a picture of BBQ sauce.    Sweet buttery Jesus.   You have chosen to supervise a Facebook group and get offended at a laugh.  You are like the elderly man in the neighborhood watch who yells at kids for running too fast and laughing too loud.  Equally pointless and annoying.

On hiatus is code for “I’m hiding”

Shit happens.  Life gets crazy….Or terrifying….Or a combination of both.


I had a kid.  He’s 11 months old now and rules my life.  I spent the first 6 months of his life learning how to put on a diaper and how to sneak naps in while standing up.  Being a parent is hard.  Fucking mind-numbingly hard.   I have been shit on, puked on, peed on, and sneezed on all in the matter of 10 minutes.   I laughed, because you have to.  That is the only way you will survive.  Laughter combined with alcohol.   So I have been avoiding everything for a ridiculously large number of weeks.  Writing was included in this list.  Hi, I’ve missed you.


Avoidance is something I have learned through familial observation.  I have 30 years of anecdotal evidence proving avoidance is the best option.  My parents have spent the last 31 years avoiding almost everything, especially confrontation and the basic heart to hearts.  This sucks and is awesome in equal measure.  The sucky parts consisted of my parents fighting like cats and dogs my whole childhood because they couldn’t actually confront an issue face to face.   Instead, I would lock myself in my bedroom and listen to them try to win an argument with shear volume.  Winning by “outlouding” the other person was almost an Olympic sport in our house.   The not so sucky parts consisted of me never having to have the awkward heart to heart talks that every kid tries to avoid.  The nightly news would come on during dinner and the topic would be “Teen Sex… Pregnant by 14!!”  My mom would look at me, nod like she was a B-list rapper trying to make a drug deal, and assume I knew she was psychically telling me “If you get pregnant, I will kill you”.  I would shrug and continue eating my meatloaf.


On the opposite end of the spectrum, I cannot wait to have the embarrassing heart to hearts with my son.  Why?  Well, because the idea of possibly making my child uncomfortable gets me so excited I can’t sit still.  I giggle at the thought of showing his prom date pictures of his naked tiny ass in the bathtub.  Every time I take a photo, I think “will this make for good blackmail?”  In our house, you better have a sense of humor, a sharp tongue, and quick comeback.   We are hoping to encourage through his early childhood so we can use inappropriate joking as a form of family bonding.  All’s fair in love and sarcasm.

Holy Shit. I’m An Adult.

I.  Am.  An.  Adult.

Has anyone else had this epiphany and after accepting this reality….. promptly had a panic attack?

I am suddenly struck with fear.  At the ripe ol’ age of 29, I have realized that I am an adult.  Are you fucking kidding me?

When did this happen?  When did people start giving me responsibilities?  As previously mentioned,  I can barely keep houseplants alive.  How am I expected to be an adult and keep myself upright and breathing when I can’t even keep a spider plant from keeling over?  People trust me with projects, day to day tasks, and occasionally children.  That last one should give you the heebie jeebies.  And now to find out that I am pregnant with my own mini me who will have no choice but to trust me to care for it.

I am allowed to drink alcohol, and this can’t be safe.  For me or the general population.  Not so much alcohol recently, but in the not so distant past, I was able to run amok without adult supervision.

I still hate making the bed, but am expected to as grown up behavior.  This topic has had much discussion in our household as it is one of Kevin’s pet peeves.  I swear I’m doing better at it, if only to keep Kevin from having a nervous breakdown.  Our relationship is all about compromise.  I make the bed and he allows me to leave baskets of unfolded clothes in the bedroom.

I may be an adult, but left to my own devices, my entire nutritional intake would consist of Laffy Taffy, Toaster Strudels, and Crystal Light.

I barely act my age, and yet have survived this many years with out a parental figure caring for me.  I know, its bewildering.

I sit alone in my house and contemplate how the hell I got so far without serious injury, how I have not died of food poisoning or electrocution.  I am astonished that I have kept a job for a couple of months, let alone 6+ years.  And probably the biggest and most important thing thus far, I found a man who can stand to be around me for more than 10 consecutive minutes.    This man… this man should be knighted.  Or have a psychiatric evaluation…  whichever comes first.  He seems to have realized that he is stuck with me.  Stockholm Syndrome has never been more beautiful.


Praying won't help you.


Still, being an adult doesn’t come without its perks.  I can live solely on Toaster Strudels if I choose.  And even though it is frightening that I am allowed to consume alcohol…. it’s pretty fucking awesome!  With my mighty adult-like wisdom,  I have learned to NEVER press the “reply all” button.  I don’t have a bedtime and can still watch cartoons.  Being an adult means that you can wear lingerie with coordinating ears/tail/whiskers on Halloween and call it a costume. All of these reasons (and so many more) make the sporadic panic attacks worth it.

Of course I have telepathic arguments with inanimate objects. Don’t you?

This is a post I wrote a couple of weeks ago.  I was just free writing one night after finding out I was going to be squeezing a baby out of my vag in less than 9 months.  This was my way of coping.  Enjoy.

I got a card in the mail today.  I opened it thinking it was a birthday card as I will be turning 29 in only a few short days.  As I pulled the card out of its envelope, the baby bump adorning the woman on the front of the card said otherwise.  “You’ll definitely be a great mom” was written across the card in a bubbly font.  “You’ll definitely be a great mom”….. I stared at the card.     For a very very long time.    All I could think was “Fuck you card!  Fuck you!  You don’t know me!  You think you know everything don’t you?!?!”

I proceeded to open the card and read the sweetest most heartfelt message from Kevin’s mom.  She went on to tell me that she knows it’s hard but hopefully exciting.  She expressed how happy she was for us and how she’s there for me no matter what.  She ended the message by telling me how much she loves me.   I stood there wondering how to reconcile my hate filled rant with the new rush of mushy emotions.  I started to cry and put the card on my dresser.  I had managed to go a full 24 hours without crying and now my streak was ruined.  Defeated, I threw myself on the bed, grabbed a pillow, and cowered behind it…. all the time, staring at that card.

“You’ll definitely be a great mom” stared back at me.


“Shut up you stupid presumptuous card”


“You’ll definitely be a great mom” continued to stare back.


“Oh yea, tell that to the 57 house plants I have killed”


I laid there, glaring at a cute pink card.


“People actually think I can do this….” I thought while peering over my pillow shield.  “…but how do I explain the untimely deaths of Charlotte the spider plant and her other 56 family members who have perished while in my care?’


“You’ll definitely be a great mom”


“Oh what the hell do you know you stupid card?”



This is my world right now.  Yelling at a card.  How did I get here?  I mean I yell at my dog, but that’s easy when he decides to chew my coffee table.  But a card?  What is wrong with me?   I know absolutely NOTHING on how to care for a child and I am in a full panic.  What if I don’t like it?  What if I drop it?  What if I accidentally sell it to gypsies?  I am kidding about that last one… mostly kidding.  I don’t speak “baby”.  I am sure I speak dog better than I speak baby.   I mean, before I found out i was pregnant, I was really preoccupied with the idea of adopting another puppy.  So I guess the universe heard me say “puppy” and interpreted “baby”.  Maybe I’ll just give birth to a Labrador Retriever.

Enjoy that visual.