Once upon a time, I had a beautiful Greyhound named Tashi.

She was the love of my life, and I still get all teary when I think about her. I was so devastated after she died that I vowed that I could never own another Greyhound again. And then last week I was thinking about her and how she would have been great with Alice and Big Pussy and Homeslice and Girlfriend and so I made a phone call to Greyhound Pets of America and got an appointment to look at some Greyhounds.

It was EASY. They answered the phone on the first ring and said we could come any time to look at the dogs. Nobody ignored me. Nobody treated me like I was inconveniencing them, and nobody was going to stand me up. No more messing around with these Rescue groups. This is a national organization and they don’t mess around.

On Friday, we picked Girlfriend up from school instead of waiting for the bus to arrive, and made the hour long trip on a cold and raw day. The adoption coordinator kept the kennel at her house, and was very sick that day. She kept having to go inside to throw up due to some heavy medication she was on. She could have canceled, and had good reason to, but she was there with a volunteer, dedicated to finding a home for one of her dogs. They stood out in the cold and the damp with us, discussing and choosing the best 5 candidates out of 28 dogs to show us.

We spent time with each and every one of them, and they were all wonderful, but one in particular hit us all in the chest. This one showered Homeslice with kisses and walked nicely with Girlfriend on the leash.

And when I bent down to pet her, she kissed my face and put her head on my shoulder and leaned into me.

It was all over at that point. AFC’s Allison, fresh off a track in Pensacola Florida was destined to be ours. We went home and started making preparations to bring her home with us the next day. Girlfriend picked out a brush and a fluffy bed.

We even got her a seat belt for the car ride, which, by the way, was pure comedy.

It was exactly like trying to stuff a giraffe into briefcase.

Greyhounds aren’t great at sitting down, and so it took massive effort to get her to sit in our front seat. The adoption lady had walked us to the car and was standing there the whole time watching us trying to stuff this mass of gangly legs and claws into our clown car. She had concerns, I could tell, but she still let us take her.

Allison didn’t stay seated for long and preferred to spend her first ever car ride standing up, panting in Mister’s face and stepping on the center console window controls. When she wasn’t doing the windows up and down, she was farting. When she wasn’t doing that, she was trying to wiggle out of her seat belt to come and sit in the backseat with me and Homeslice and Girlfriend. She was all legs and claws and drool and farts for the entire ride and we had to pull over to re-situate her. And of course there was traffic. And of course, Homeslice thought it might add to the occasion by screaming her head off for 40 out of the 60 minutes. And Girlfriend kept asking the kind of ludicrous questions only a five-year-old can come up with.

We finally got her home and introduced her to Alice, which went well, but as soon as we got into the house and she encountered the hard wood floor, she was exactly like Bambi on ice. Her legs splayed out all over because she’s never been inside a people house before. Shiny, slippery wood is not a surface she’s ever walked on.

She’s still struggling with that three days later, but she’s getting better. She kind of skates from carpet to carpet. We still have to carry her up and down the stairs because she’s never seen those before either. She’s desperately thin with chunks of fur missing and lots of scabs and scrapes just starting to heal from track life. There’s fur missing from around her eyes and behind her ears from where the muzzle rubbed it away, and she’s kind of depressed. This is like a re-birth for her and she needs time to adjust. She hasn’t had one accident in the house and is really good at holding her pees and poops.

We feel privileged to have the opportunity to help her learn how to be a spoiled and beloved pet instead of a money making slave. She is a sweet and gentle soul and we are already madly in love. She’s standing next to me right now with her head in my lap. How cool is that?

Alice likes her, too.

And Big Pussy doesn’t give a crap one way or the other.

The only problem we have is that her name is Allison and every time we call her, Alice comes running, but we’re still calling Allison and poor Alice is like “I’m here! Why are you screwing with me!?! WHAT IS HAPPENING???”

So, we need a new name and you, marvelous Queefies, get to help us. You can vote for up to two names or leave us a suggestion if you think we suck with our old lady names.

So I was just sitting on my bed with Homeslice looking at some books and magazines when she picked up the Victoria’s Secret Holiday catalog and pointed to the chick on the cover and said “mommy!”

I did not argue with her even though I’m so much hotter than that chick.

And then she picked up Better Homes and Gardens and pointed to the turkey on the cover and said “daddy!”

Mister, apparently our daughter thinks I’m an underpants model and you are a turkey.

Only I make it with garbanzo beans because sausage is yucky. And, I’ve had a loaf of rye bread rising since yesterday so tonight’s dinner, while comprised mostly of cabbage and bread, will be pretty kick ass and Polish-y.  Not to mention that we don’t even have $30 in our bank account right now so even if we wanted to eat something other than cabbage and bread, we couldn’t.  I’m also just now wondering if I have Sauerkraut in the pantry because I’m fucked if we don’t.  I could prolly scrape up enough change from around the house to run out for a can of that, I guess.  Just don’t tell Mister I bought anything, okay?

Being po’ sucks ass, you guys.  We tried to re-finance our house, and as it turns out, we can’t do it because we are upside down because the fuckers who bought the gigantic, gorgeous old house behind us got it for a song and it really hurt our property value. We now owe more than the house is worth.  Last year, we were up $100,000.  Sucks.  But the good news is that we can still pay for our house and if we have to have cabbage soup sometimes at the end of the week on mortgage check week, so be it.  There are worse things.  Like we could be out there pooper scooping and making a lively Shadoobie Stew out of Alice’s ultra processed dog food.  Now THAT’S how to reduce, reuse, recycle, amiright?  And if we get another dog, that’s more food for us!  It’s like money in our pockets!

You’re not hardcore, unless you live hardcore.  I’ve been telling you guys that for years.

Actually, I’m totally informing the next dirty hippie I see that we do that, and also that we fertilize the garden with the contents of my Diva Cup.

I love watching people slowly step away with their hands out in that “I don’t want any trouble, I’m just going to back away quietly” stance.

It’s cute, and it makes them go away.

Did you Queefs know that Mister is 1/2 Polish and I’m 1/4 Polish and so that makes Homeslice and Girlfriend….what?

Polish + some other crap.

Is my math right on that?

I’m not so good with The Math.

What I do know is that at this very moment Homeslice has a handful of Girlfriend’s hair and she (Homeslice) is shrieking like a Howler Monkey because she wants to sit next to me and Girlfriend is in her way. Ironically, Girlfriend, in an attempt at self-defense, is beating Homeslice in the face with the book The Philosophical Baby.

The Polish are a jealous, violent, and shrill people.

On second thought, I’m not sure feeding them the food of their ancestors is such a great idea after all.

So yesterday I was out in front of the house admiring the orange pumpkin lantern Halloween decorations Mister was busy putting up when some Ass Monkey came flying down our street in his Maxima.

And I had Homeslice by the hand and she was struggling to get away and Girlfriend was skipping down the sidewalk and Ass Monkey totally saw us but didn’t slow down in the least, so I yelled “SLOW DOWN” at him and do you know what he said to me?

He said “FUCK YOU!!”

HE DID!!!

The nerve, right?  I mean, here I am, Queen of Fucking Everything walking down the street with the two Princesses of Fucking Everything, and this reject from Planet Douchewagon in his used Maxima (why is it that 20-something year old boys in Maximas think they’re the fucking shit? What is up with that? I means seriously, it’s a fucking Maxima.  Get yourself a Lamborghini and we’ll talk about who’s the shit, okay sweet pea?  Until then, put your fucking baseball cap on straight and get over yourself.) has the balls to yell “FUCK YOU” to me.

Well.

Mon! Dieu!

I’ve got a plan for the next Maxima Ass Monkey who dares try to break the sound barrier on my street.  I’m going to get a big bucket of baby dolls from the dollar store and every time a Maxima Ass Monkey comes by, I’m going to throw the baby doll at him.  Did I mention the baby doll will first be filled with dog crap? It’ll be Tequila’s dog crap too because there’s plenty of that around my house.

I just get really fired up when these young guys (and sometimes girls) speed around with no regard for what could happen.  What if Homeslice managed to wriggle out of my grasp?  What if Girlfriend tripped and fell into the street? He would have creamed her, and I would have had to make it my personal mission to make sure his life was a living hell forever. I’d make sure he wound up in a tiny jail cell with a big huge guy with a large penis and a thing for little Ass Monkeys.

So yes, I am officially the kind of woman who shouts “SLOW DOWN” at young dudes driving by my house.  Any further suggestions for how I can help them make good choices would be welcome in the space provided below.  The police around here don’t care about our speeding problem, so it’s basically Martial Law at this point.

Today, perhaps even as you are reading this, I will be putting Girlfriend on the bus headed for kindergarten, trying desperately not to cry until it rolls away. I don’t know where I’m going to pull the strength from, but I have to find it so I don’t freak her out.

I have issues with the bus, Queefies.

I’m quite certain that somehow there is a black hole that exists between the bus and the classroom that sucks unsuspecting kindergartners in, never to be seen again and unlike some people, I actually want to see my kindergartner again.

There’s also a black hole in the ventilation system at the mall, you know. I never look up when I’m in a big mall because it reminds me to be scared that I’m going to be sucked into the vents and then POOF! Bye, bye, Crissy.

Shut up.

It could totally happen.

Maybe all those people you hear about on the news who go missing at the mall are alive somewhere in the ductwork over Banana Republic.

I don’t really think Girlfriend is going to get sucked into a black hole. Don’t worry. It just seems totally weird and really bad mommyish to just put my baby on a bus and not see her again until much later in the afternoon and just assume she’s fine.

Like, isn’t somebody going to call me to let me know how she’s doing?

Like, can’t I call the school to check on her?

Like, can’t I stand outside the classroom window and tap on the glass and wave “hi” to her?

No. I cannot. I don’t want to be that asshole even though I really, really want to be that asshole.

And so Homeslice, whom Girlfriend calls “The Little Bother,” and I, who she calls “Fuss About,” will walk her to her bus stop and put her on the bus. Hopefully, she will get on it without one of her diva style incidents she’s so famous for, and then we will go home and figure out what we’re going to do without her stealing toys and making messes all over the house. Perhaps we’ll even have time to write our blog and wouldn’t that be something?

Maybe I will find my sense of humor again now that I’m not spending my days refereeing fights, denying eleventy million requests for a “treat” and re-capping markers?

I’m trying to look at all the positives here.

I bought her a Good Luck bear necklace to wear today.  She’s wicked into Care Bears. When I give it to her I’m going to tell her that when she feels nervous or scared, just touch her necklace and Good Luck bear will surround her with luck.  She has a good imagination.  It might work.

And my sweet, wonderful friend Ms.Darkstar made her some special First Day of School perfume!  It’s in solid form, like lip balm, and she sent three scents–Blueberry, which is Girlfriend’s favorite, Honey Rose, which is my favorite, and an amazing Berry Peach.  You guys need to get some of this stuff because it’s not loaded with chemical crap and you’re not gonna get body rot from it. There’s seriously only like 5 ingredients and they’re all stuff I recognize, so I have no problem putting it on my kid.  She feels so grown up to have her very own perfume!  It’s really cute.

So yes.  If it’s about 9:00 when you’re reading this, say a little prayer for your Crissy that she can manage to hold the water works until Girlfriend gets on the bus.

And it’s a Toy with Me day today!  I’ll get you that link in a sec.

HERE IT IS:

Dating For Ugly People

Wake up at 5.
5:15: Suck down horrible tasting coffee before giving up 1/2 way through despite desperate need for caffination because it tastes that bad. It was like someone jerked off in my coffee. Fuck you, Dunkin Donuts.  FUCK. YOU.
5:58 have two minutes to put on work out clothes, brush teeth, and check email. Computer crashes. Skip email. Put on work out gear and get ready to do Brazil Butt Lift for toned,tight, and high bum bum guaranteed!
6:02: Pick up toys from work out area. Cannot find Brazil Butt Lift DVD.
6:07: Locate Brazil Butt Lift DVD, put into player, DVD does not work.
6:07.5: Chuck piece of shit Brazil Butt Lift DVD across the room.
6:09: Sit on the floor and cry.
6:15: Settle for Turbo Jam instead, begin workout.
6:30: Mister leaving for work, hands Homeslice over to me.
6:55: Have paused Turbo Jam approximately 7 times to pull Homeslice off couch, dining room chairs, kitchen chairs, and train table, wipe Girlfriend’s ass, get her a pre-breakfast snack, and find “cup.”
7:15: Head upstairs for shower. Drag Homeslice kicking and screaming into the bathroom with selection of toys which she ignores in favor of standing with both hands on shower doors while screaming.
7:30: Dry off, get dressed in mis matched skirt and tee shirt from giant pile of laundry still waiting to be put away since motherfucking Saturday, change Homeslice’s poopy diaper while she writhes, twists, screams, and kicks at my face with shit on her heel. Brush Girlfriend’s hair while she screams bloody murder and Homeslice climbs up my leg, also screaming.
7:45: Homeslice finds horrible coffee left on my nightstand and dumps it all down her dress, my comforter, my bedskirt, and the floor.
7:47: Change Homeslice’s dress, mop floor, strip bed.
7:49 Discover that while I was cleaning the coffee mess, Homeslice has opened a bag of cotton balls and shred them all over the place. There’s also one in her mouth.
7:55: Girlfriend, for some reason, has taken off all her clothes and gotten back into what is left of my bed. I now have to fight her to get her to put them back on.
7:57: While fighting with Girlfriend, Homeslice finds the 1/2 full beer Mister left on his nightstand and dumps it into a basket of library books.
8:00: Wipe down and fan out library books.
8:20: Prepare and serve breakfast. It actually goes okay.
9:30: Go back upstairs to gather laundry. Pick up basket, carry down to first landing. Back up stairs, carry Homeslice down to landing. Pick up basket, carry to next landing. Go back up, carry Homeslice, repeat three more times until laundry is finally at washer in basement
9:55: Clean cat box, find that he’s eaten a good length of satin ribbon, gather Mister’s dirty dishes and empty beer cans from basement, collect Girlfriend’s shoes, get laundry out of washer.
10:15: Repeat stairs procedure and head out to clothes line to hang clothes out. Pull Homeslice off deck stairs approximately 897 times, give or take. Stop her from eating chalk. Stop her from walking through Alice’s Meadow Muffin Mine Field.
10:50: Go out to the garden to pick 8 million cherry tomatoes. Put 8 million cherry tomatoes into large silver bowl, while stopping to pull one out of Homeslice’s mouth about every other tomato.
11:00: Homeslice trips and falls into the bowl of 8 million cherry tomatoes, spilling the entire thing and sending them rolling all over the garden.
11:30: Re-collect tomatoes with Girlfriend’s help. Bring tomatoes in to sink to wash, open under sink cabinet to throw away paper towel and bottle of cleaning solution tumbles out of cabinet, onto floor and spills everywhere. Cleaning solution not safe for hardwoods. Douse floor with water while keeping Homeslice at bay with foot. Fail miserably, must now bathe Homeslice to get cleaning solution off her hands and arms and legs after she splashed in it.
12:13: Blogging about my morning which has been pretty typical actually while Homeslice, after a busy morning attempting suicide, is asleep in her organic freeze dried bananas. Girlfriend is having croutons and pickles for lunch and I’m totally understanding why those moms in the 1950’s were shit faced by 1:00.

Shhhhh!

Lynne and I are going on a stakeout. We spent all day planning it yesterday.

This is what we’re wearing:

Except we got so excited planning it, we forgot why we were going on a stakeout. I doesn’t really matter though because just getting a chance to wear some pretty kick ass outfits is justification in and of itself as far as I’m concerned. And we can hide in the bushes and then, at that critical moment, we can jump out and shout “AH-HA!!!”

That’d be cool.

Also, we’ll bring snacks like Ring-Dings and Twinkies so we have them in case we get hungry because if you leave a stakeout to go do drive through you could miss the thing you’re staking out and then you’re fucked.

Maybe we’ll just pick some random person’s house and just go hide in their bushes. It would be a shame to waste our outfits and delicious snackfoods.

Let’s see…what else did I want to tell you guys?

Oh!

I’m trying to find a babysitter for Homeslice for one day a week and it’s harder than it seems, you guys.

Remember the scene from Mrs.Doubtfire where Daniel calls Miranda and does all the voices to scare the shit out of her?

That’s EXACTLY what it’s like!

They’re all either

Too religious: One lady gave me her entire religious history and then was just like, “oh, and I love children!” I can’t have her turning Homeslice into a CATHOLIC. “Ev-ry sperm is sa-cred, ev-ry sperm is great, if a sperm is wa-st-ed, God gets quite i-rate” is not my favorite nursery rhyme.  NEXT!

Too illiterate:  If you don’t know the diff. between your and you’re then ur not smart enough to take care of my kid.  Is it too much to ask for some basic literacy skills?  Yes.  Yes it is.

Too young and stupid:  Your profile pic should not be of you making SEXYFACE with your cleavage hanging out. Save that shit for MySpace, kay sweetie? I cannot stress this enough.  Also, see above re: your/you’re.

Too foreign:  You know how I feel about  foreign people, right? Too much yucky white guilt when I have to shout en espanol at my nanny. No GRACIAS!

So maybe I won’t be getting a NEW NANNY like Mrs. Fancypants after all.

I found the perfect lady on a babysitter finder website thingy.  She’s 58, has 10 grandchildren, has been foster mother to 14 kids and won Foster Mother of the Year in 2007. I want her! But she’s not getting back to me because obviously she’s also a cunt. I spent $30 to get her email address, the least she could do is tell me to fuck off so I can stop fantasizing about Mrs. Doubtfire babysitting my kid.

HOLY SHIT!

THAT’S WHO WE CAN STAKEOUT!

And we can jump out of the bushes at her and hold up Homeslice and shout “why don’t you want to take care of my baby??”

Wait.

I just remembered who we’re really staking out. We’re supposed to stakeout the Facilities Manager over at Schmuckytown Pubic. She’s got men coming and going all day long and we think she’s running a whorehouse out of the basement. She’s such the type, too.

Homeslice pretty much says “cup” for everything and so Mister thinks we should have taught her “smurf” because it can describe anything and it wouldn’t make people look around for cup when what she really wants is something else entirely. It happens a lot. It’s kind of a problem.  Especially when the closest cup contains vodka and you give it to her before you realize.

It only happened twice, SHUT UP SHE’S FINE.

At least with “smurf” it could mean anything and we can keep guessing until we get it right and perhaps not alcohol poison her.

Also, I’ve been trying to sell some baby crap forfuckingever and nobody wants it, so I posted this ad on Craigslist and the only people emailing me are people saying I’m funny and that they’re sorry they don’t want my crap. The least they could do is flag it for “Best Of” because if I can’t sell my baby crap, I could at least become famous on Craigslist. (That was a hint, people. Go forth and do.)

Aaaannnddd it’s a TOY WITH ME DAY! It’s about smurfy smurfs smurfing. Enjoy!

Why is love and sex for the disabled such a taboo subject?

I love these little talks we have because I always sort of assume that everyone had the same kind of childhood and we ALL had lunchboxes and we ALL brought lunch to school.

But some of us were “buyers” as we called it at our school, and ate the provided school lunch. I was always jealous of those kids because my lunchbox was full of crap like whole wheat bread and apples and milk. My mom has always been a vegetarian, and as such, she had no clue how to make any sandwich other than cheese or PB&J. I remember requesting a bologna sandwich like everyone else had, and she made it, but she put butter on it. And my mom doesn’t screw around with butter. When she puts butter on something, she puts some motherlovin’ butter on it. Like, at least 1/4 inch or more.

Butter and bologna on whole wheat is an abomination. Everyone (except my mom) knows that bologna should be eaten on Wonder bread with trailer park mustard and a side of chips(preferably with ruffles) to be washed down with a coke.

Anything else is just stupid.

And in all my years of elementary school, nobody would trade a pack of Ring Dings or a bag of Doritos for a freaking pear. I was always totally stuck with my bullshit healthy lunch. I used to beg my mom to let me buy lunch when they had pizza or tater tots because those things were always kick ass and they came with a nice big spoonful of floppy salad dripping in oily Italian dressing. I loved the floppy salad and the pizza that looked like an old lady’s finger underneath the cheese.

I know I don’t have to say it, but tater tots are The Food of the Gods. I like them medium brown with mayo and a ton of salt because I’m a dirty girl. Slightly undercooked ones have to have ketchup though.

Everyone is totally craving tater tots right now, right?

Sorry.

But for all my complaints about the contents of my lunchbox, I have to thank my mom. Because of her, I have some good eating habits (and a raging butter addiction) and my lunchbox still has many of the same bullshit healthy things in it to this day. It’s a tradition of Torture by Whole Wheat I fully intend to pass down to my daughters. Also, packing lunches is a pain in the ass. It takes forever to pack a healthy lunch and so I have to say thanks for taking the time to do that, mommy!

When I do Girlfriend’s lunches, I’m not buying anything in a convenience package because we have to be green so we can be smug. I spent $26 on 3 little stainless steel lunch containers because I’m better than you. I also have pretty patterned cloth napkins I bought at Saver’s because I’m really, really better than you.

See?

Tradition of smugness.

But just so you don’t have to go kill yourself because your virtue pales so in comparison to mine, just know that right now, Homeslice is eating a box of Nerds that she got for herself out of the bag of candy Mister keeps by the bed for his midnight munchie festivals and managed to open it by herself. I’m too busy blogging to stop her, so there. I’m not that much better than everyone. I let my kids eat Nerds for breakfast (it happened yesterday too).

It’s a TWM day!

I’m Not In The Mood For Sexy Time

This has been the longest week already and it’s only fucking Tuesday?  This seems impossible to me.  It should be Friday, shouldn’t it?  Thursday at least.

Anyone having anxiety problems and not sleeping?

I am.

Only last night it was thunder that woke me up.  It sounded like the house next door exploded (oh lord wouldn’t that be wonderful?) but it was only thunder and it scared the bejeezus out of me and I sat straight up, gasping, my heart pounding, and never went back to sleep.  I’ve been awake since 2:30 worrying about things that are going on in my life right now and periodically crying my guts out and waking Mister up.

I’m so much fun I can hardly stand to be around myself.

Part of the freakout is anxiety about kindergarten.  I’m freaking out because I’m letting my Girlfriend go out into the world where people can hurt her and I won’t be there to kill them.  What if some little fucker is mean to her?  There isn’t shit I can do.  What if she gets on the wrong bus?  Will she be lost forever?

Is it still cool in Kindergarten to wear a Care Bears shirt?

What about a Care Bears lunchbox, because that’s what I got her.  It has a rainbow handle and sparkles.  Is somebody gonna beat her up now?  When I was in first grade, Justin Lyons had a Star Wars lunchbox and it infuriated me.  I totally wanted to choke him for being such a dork.  I remember telling my grandfather about it, it was that big of a deal.

My lunchbox had Lassie on it which was much cooler, obviously.

I don’t want anyone to persecute Girlfriend for loving Care Bears,  I don’t.

And I’m signing her up for a yoga class and an acting class and do you think that will be too much for her?  Will yoga and playing pretend stress her out too much because that’s so not the point.

These and many other things are torturing your poor Crissy’s tired brain.

Plus, we’ve been to sooooo many parties that the past two weekends have been insanely busy with crap to go to and I haven’t had any head space at all.  I want to go hide under my bed because I’m not that social.  I’m really pretty shy and having to talk to people sends me right to the vodka.

Mister’s been trying to get me to take a Valium, but I’m scared of it because I’m probably the only person who can take a Valium and have a panic attack because I just took a Valium.

Psy-cho.

So yeah.  That’s all I’ve got for today, so I want you guys to tell me what was on your lunchboxes and if you got beat up for it.

I had a Holly Hobby, Lassie, Muppets, Strawberry Shortcake, Barbie and Smurfs.

Now you.

A while back, The Gonzo Mama, publisher of The Gonzo Parenting Zine and recent guest writer at Toy with Me asked me to review her book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House.

It’s taken me ages to finally do it (sorry Gonzo Mama!) because I’ve got my own Animal House going on over here.  In fact, I’m typing this with one hand while trying to keep Homeslice from falling off the bed and Girlfriend from kicking her in the face.  My life is pretty much a living hell 90% of the time.  And to think I’ve been awake since 2:30 am worrying about the welfare of these little crotchfroots! GAH!

But I digress.

This Gonzo Mama is truly a nutter.  She has seven children.

Yeah,  SEVEN.

As in 7.

I would totally kill myself if I had 7 kids, but this lady is a saint.  One little boy is her biological child, four others belong to her second husband, and two are adopted nieces.

Clearly, this lady knows a little bit about motherhood and marriage, and with that many kids running around, she’s got some funny stories!

This is what is says on the back of the book that had me lol’ing:

Raising kids is like living in a frat house.  There are too many all-nighters, there is never enough coffee or Top Ramen, the toilets are never clean, it’s no surprise if someone is puking and you never know who is going to be in your bed when you wake up.

The book is a collection of fun and entertaining essays which I read while sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the kids to finish their baths.  It would also make an, ahem, wonderful potty time book if you’re a potty time reader.  I’m not, but some people are (Mister totally read it on the potty).  Think of it as the Reader’s Digest of motherhood, if you will.

I think my favorite chapter is the one titled Divine Secrets of the Ma-Ma Sisterhood. What she describes there is spot-on, and it is exactly why Mommy Blogs exist.  You’ve gotta read it.

Go git yerself a copy and have some laughs, Queefies!