People I Want to Punch in the Throat


My Pantry Makes Me Cry

For months (oh, who am I kidding? It's probably been a year now) my walk in pantry has been nagging the crap out of me. It's an absolute hole. I couldn't even get in the door to throw one more jumbo pack of spaghetti sauce in there. I'd like to blame my neglect on the fact that I've been working long hours on my next book, but it was actually a pit before I even started the manuscript.

Betty might be able to get in, but she would never be able to get out!
It all came to a head the other night when I was sitting at Gomer's soccer practice and I got a random text from a number I didn't recognize, "Hi. Can I borrow a cup of flour?" 

Valentine's Day Response

Dear Hubs,  Got your letter.  I've changed the Blogger password - you don't get full, unedited access again.  What must people think of me?  First, I agreed to go on a date with you when you were a complete asshole to me and then I let you write a list where you air all of my dirty laundry for the blogosphere to read about - you really had to talk about my maintenance issues?   Anytime you're ready to get on all fours and get your ball sack and ass crack waxed you let me know and I'll book a double appointment for us to get a Brazilian.

Now everyone is waiting for my response and I don't know what to do.  Should I go for scorched earth and pick on everything from you buying me roses at Aldi and your belching problem (who wakes up and needs to belch at 7 am??) or kill you with kindness (tell you why I love you in spite of your behavior)?  Probably a bit of both.

Top 10 Reasons to "Love Me" or "Get With Me"

In honor of Valentine's Day this week, the Hubs has submitted a guest post for today.  He has no filter (this is the man who called our neighbor's 2 year old a liar) so this should be interesting.  I've given him absolute freedom to write whatever's on his mind without any edits from me.  So here you go:

Hey Girl . . .

I don't know about you, but I spent many a Valentine's Day home alone wishing someone would spend his allowance on a ridiculously over-sized teddy bear holding a plush heart that I could perch in the corner of my room as a constant reminder that someone loved me.

I've written a letter to that girl.

Dear Jenni [because you know, I was still Jenni in those days],

How's it going, girl? Happy Valentine's Day. I'm from the future. Yeah, your style doesn't get much better as you age. Sorry. But look how good your teeth look now! I know those braces seem like a real pain in the ass, but they're really going to pay off. And look at your hair! Amazeball invention: the straightening iron. It's like your very best friend in the future. I know it seems crazy to think you might actually want to straighten that glorious permed hair, but someday I think you might realize that you've got a face for straight hair - and hats (you might try a hat now). I'm not trying to be bossy or anything. It's your hair. But between the braces and the perm it's just . . . a lot going on. That's all I'm saying.

Even When the SHTF Men Have it Easier Than Women

Every woman, "I can't wear that thing, it will ruin my hair!"
Source: Pexels

I've noticed that with the climate right now there is a lot of disaster-preparedness going on. I'm in a bunch of private groups on Facebook where the discussion revolves around what to take when the shit hits the fan (SHTF for the pros out there), either man-made or natural disaster, and you've got to move out quickly.

Since I'm a bit of a worrier (and I have a shopping addiction) I decided that maybe we needed to be prepared. After all, we do live in Kansas and we're known for volatile weather. I started doing some prepping--not real prepping, mind you, I'll still be eaten by the first wave of zombies, I'm a suburban veal--and I quickly discovered that prepping for a disaster is a lot like packing for a horrible trip that no one wants to go on. I also discovered that even when the SHTF the men will still have it easier.

PIWTPITT Sports Bra Review - The Results Are In

I wrote a post bemoaning the dearth of supportive sports bras for anyone with a D cup or larger.

I had just started my new workout regimen and I was frustrated with the constant battle to keep my boobies in check while I did a jumping jack. My workouts sounded a lot like this:

"One, two, ow - my eye! Three, four, son of a bitch! Five, six - now the other one is free too?! Seven, eight - break! I need a break. I've got to put these suckers back where they belong."

Don't get me wrong, I'm always happy to find an excuse for a break during my workouts, but tit was getting ridiculous. (Did you see my Freudian slip typo there? I decided to leave it, because it's just so perfect.)

I wrote my post and hundreds - nay, a tad over a thousand once it made the front page of HuffingtonPost - came out to voice their lament as well and to offer support and suggestions for me.

Top 12 Lessons for My Kids in a Trump Presidency


Well, the inauguration is over. It finally happened. Some of you are jumping for joy and yelling "Praise the Lord!" Some of you are cowering in your basements, recounting your hoarded canned goods because surely this is Armageddon. But I would bet that a lot of you are like me: nervous, agitated, frustrated, emotional, all rolled into one exhausted ball. I feel like I've been living with a weight on me since November 8th. A weight of "What's going to happen?" Well, now we'll find out. Now we'll finally start our four years with Donald J. Trump. Now we'll see if he's all lies and smoke and mirrors or if he's going to do the things he promised (and threatened).