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10 Ways Autumn is Awesome AF

10 ways Autumn is Awesome by Frugalista Blog

For those not in the loop, ‘AF’ means,’As F**k’.

So when something is really cool, awesome, or wonderful, if you put ‘AF’ on the end, you’ll be one of the cool kids. Sorry to be so blunt. I gotta throw around some major street cred, I’m serious here. Fall is Awesome. Say it with me, “Awesome AS F***.” Maybe because it leads into Christmas, maybe because it actually relieves me of the heat rash on my feet from the entire month of August, but it’s just the best. And here’s why.

1. Back to School.

Honestly, I have a love/hate relationship with back to school. Deep, deep down it gives me massive anxiety when I think of how my children are growing up. It’s weird now that I’m a parent and every time my kids go back to school it reminds me of how they’re getting older. Almost more so than a birthday, it really shows the passage of progress and how they’re inching towards leaving that nest. Dammit. I want them to leave the nest, but then…. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? It’s okay. Really.  But why I love it-  it means new cat sweatshirts and polo shirts with popped collars. At least that’s what my 7th grade back to school outfit was. Yours? Oh, and the kids out of my hair during the day!! AMEN!

10 ways autumn is awesome by frugalista blog

And flannel shirts too- another reason autumn is awesome. And these kids look hella cooler than I ever did.


2. Pumpkin stuff

Not real pumpkins. Those are gross. The guts and seeds smell like a slimy old sponge. Ew. No, I like the artificial pumpkin shit. Give me Pumpkin Spiced Waffles, Pop Tarts, Pepperidge Farm cookies, Fiber One bars, lattes, candles. Am I forgetting anything? I do like real pumpkin pie that my mama makes. But that’s because it’s full of cinnamon and spice and sugar and whipped cream on top! Pumpkin stuff leads to Gingerbread stuff that leads to Eggnog stuff. And all of it is bomb. Sorry summer- you just don’t have those heavy hitters. Uhm, cucumber? Nah. Oh and all this ‘stuff’ leads to baked goods. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Yeah. This is pie season folks. And cookie season, and bread season and all baked goods season. And elastic waist pants season. But don’t worry because #4 goes well with those pants.

3. Socks

I love socks. I like wearing socks to bed and with pajamas. In the summer time I just sweat so I can’t wear socks. Hence the heat rash on my feet. Wearing socks to bed is weird in July. But after September 21st- socks! Oh my gosh, I’m wearing socks to bed tonight!

4. Wearing sweaters

I have a collection of at least 20 cardigans. The entire summer makes them feel neglected. It’s wonderful to welcome them back in the rotation of my wardrobe.

5. Fresh air

Nothing feels like crisp autumn air. Especially when the entire summer has been drought-ridden and hot with poor air quality, or you have neighbors that keep burning their fire pit on evenings when it’s 90 degrees out and the smoke comes in the house like a campfire! Once September rolls around, I like to open the windows and let the rainy air in the house again. But then after awhile, close them and crank up my Venta Air Washer to purify the room air and replace the proper humidity. Venta has now released a collection of essential oils to use in their Air Washers.  Now that they have an aromatherapy collection, I can create cozy scents that smell fresh and clean like lavender and vanilla, without smelling artificial and perfumy. My bedroom smells like a spa. With every purchase of a Venta Air Washer, mention my blog and you get an aromatherapy pack for free. Maybe pick the Winter Dreams one, I really like it. (No they don’t have Pumpkin Spice. Sorry) Call them at 888-333-8218. (I wasn’t paid by Venta for this post, but they did send me product to try, which I love!) venta airwasher aromatherapy 6. We’re closer to Christmas

Now when I watch the Little House Christmas episodes I don’t get weird looks from the family. Well, I still get weird looks, but not as many as when I watch those DVDs in June.

7. Football

Yes, I like football. Not every woman doesn’t, you know. I also like the other football, European soccer. This time of year both are in full swing and there’s at least one game on at our house in the background. Go Hawks!

8. Movies

The movies in the theaters around this time, step it up several notches because as we wind down the year, studios want the Academy to notice. So this is the good stuff. More than the summer blockbuster craziness, this is the creme de la creme level of the Daniel Day Lewises and the Johnny Deppses. Hello Oscar contenders!

9. Boots

Han Solo season has begun. Let every soccer mom show up with quilted vests and brown boots to Target, Starbucks and Whole Foods, practice fields, school pick-up, etc. You know what I’m talking about.

10. Shorter days, darker evenings

It’s time to light a fire, light some candles (pumpkin scented, duh) and get cozy with a blanket and your dog snuggled up. You can’t do this in July, so this feels delicious. I love it. Put on some socks too.

When you sh** your pants at Tiffany’s

First of all, I’d like to clarify that I wasn’t the one who did the pants shitting. It was Emma. Second, this was last year and not when she was in diapers. Third, she gave me permission to tell her story. Because she’s awesome and it’s funny.

Forgive me, but there’s some back story here. I want to give a quick run down of how I have always wanted a little something something from Tiffany’s. You know, the fancy American jeweler with the little blue box. Dammit all- they have good packaging. And marketing. Because Audrey Hepburn wasn’t in a movie called Breakfast at Ben Bridge. Or Breakfast at the Sear’s jewelry department. When there’s a movie called Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it sort of makes the place iconic. Not sort of. It does.

James hates Tiffany’s. Like with a passion. He sees it as over priced and unnecessary. I see it as beautiful craftsmanship, classic, heirlooms. He sees it as a rip-off. We’ve been together 20 years and I told him that one day, if I could just get a little blue box, it would be so nice. And not a ring. Or diamonds. Like, find a key chain or something. But for gosh sakes, put it in that blue box!!

So before last Mother’s Day, when Emma was 14, I told her the story of my blue box wish and how her dad was not into it. We were actually shopping at the mall and she said she would talk to dad about Mother’s Day for me. Bless her heart! I needed a blue box ambassador!!

The morning of Mother’s Day the kids presented me with cards and tea and goodies from Teavana. Oh yay! My favorite. And then, oh what do we have here? James comes in with a LITTLE BLUE GIFT BAG!! OH MY GOSH IT’S A DREAM COME TRUE!!! In it was a little box, and in that box was a little necklace with the initial R on it. Perfect. I was thrilled.

So I ask Emma privately if she helped. Of course she helped! And she said, “now I can tell you the story I’ve been dying to tell you!”

Let’s also mention the fact that Emma was on heavy drugs for her ovarian cyst issues she was dealing with that spring. And also a combination of laxatives and such to help regulate her with all these drugs.

She said that while she and James were browsing in Tiffany’s, she felt the need to fart. Yeah, sure. No biggy. So she goes to a corner of the store that she feels safe enough to just you know, toot toot. Well, you know the phrase, ‘don’t trust the fart’. Sure enough this was more than a basic flatulence. She’s in the corner and the fart is well, it’s a solid fart. Yep. A turd exited.

The horror. The panic. What to do?? She’s all in her head, “I’m in Tiffany’s for GOSH SAKES!!”

She goes over to James who is with the sales person. “Hey, yeah, dad, uhm, I’m going to need to go to the restroom. Where’s the nearest one?”

Salesperson, “Oh it’s upstairs through Nordstrom.”

James, “Honey, I don’t want you going by yourself, just wait.”

Not sure the extra paranoia on James’ part considering at 14 I was at the mall with friends all the time and went to the restroom by myself. But okay, whatever.

Emma chooses not to argue and watches the salesperson painstakingly tie the white ribbon on the box. At this time, I think Emma was resenting Tiffany’s as much as James’ debit card was!

When they were done, Emma proceeded to walk a little less normal towards the restrooms. She tells her dad that she legit pooped her pants. He looks at her like, what? And she’s all, “I shouldn’t have trusted the fart.” He’s all, “I don’t want to know.”

She takes care of whatever she can at the Nordstrom restroom. And all is well.

Whenever I wear that necklace, not only do I think of the love and dedication of those closest to me, but that Emma pooped her pants at Tiffany’s. And honestly, that’s a high class poop, right?

And that’s how I got my first Tiffany’s gift. And I truly love it.

Frugalista Blog humor, tiffanys, mothers day

Holding down the fort

holding down the fort by frugalista blog


McSweetie and I went away for a weekend without the kids. It was nice. I mean, except for the 5 hours of bickering in the car or how he doesn’t wear his seatbelt for the first 30 seconds of driving, WHY? and then his tendency to take 10 minutes to figure out which beer on tap he wants when we order at a restaurant worse than Sally in When Harry Met Sally. BUT OTHER THAN THAT, we had a great weekend. For real.

The kids are 15 and 12. Still too young in my opinion to leave alone over night. Right? I was wondering this and wasn’t sure what the rule was. My kids are mature and have been left alone quite a bit during the day or whenever we go out. But overnight? That seems weird, right?

We had my sister in law and niece stay with them for the first night. They were in town visiting, so I designated them as their babysitters. It worked out great! Thanks Katherine! They got to do fun stuff during the day and then she was the designated adult to stay in the house.

So what if Emma forgot how to turn on the dishwasher and had to text me for directions. That’s a minor detail. Okay. Let’s be real. My kids are really bad at housework. They need constant prodding to do laundry or pick up after themselves. They never clean the cat box, although Emma is really good at looking after her hamster. For 15 and 12, they are behind when it comes to household tasks and knowing how to do them. Is this because I’m a control freak and only like the way I do it? Shhh. We can talk about that another day.

What I’m trying to say here is, I had really low expectations while we were away.

The second night we were away, they slept at my parent’s house. My folks brought them back home before we returned. This was good so that they could let the dog out to pee, and settle in and it saved us a trip to get them.

It was so nice to come home. The kids were greeting us enthusiastically, and even the dog was happy. She was dancing on her back two feet. We hugged and danced in a circle for a bit. And that wasn’t even the best part.

As we settled in, Emma told me that when they got back to the house, Owen emptied the dishwasher and put away the dishes, and she had noticed the dog had a messy backside after going out to poop. Wiping the dog’s butt with paper towels was only making it worse. So she needed to bathe her. She put her in the kitchen sink, which the dog hates, and had to keep her from jumping out. She hollered orders at Owen to grab a big towel (he came back with the largest beach towel ever) and hand her the soap. She said they were a tag team like in surgery. She said it was fun. I was thrilled to hear they didn’t leave the messy dog around with shit smears for me to clean up!

I was impressed! Emptying the dishwasher, and a washed dog? I’m the luckiest girl ever!

Emma shared that once Owen was done in the kitchen, and had finished his dish duty, and the dog was drying, he sat down on the couch and let out a long breath. It must have been from all the messy dog excitement.

He announces: “Being a mom IS the hardest job. I only did one mom thing emptying the dishwasher, and I’m already tired!”

No kidding buddy.

It’s stuff like that that when you hear it, it just makes this whole mothering thing worth it.

Did Emma smack Owen in the arm at dinner when he got in her way over the milk? Yeah. Oh well. Kids are still kids. They are not perfect. But it’s good to know that left to their own, I can count on some things getting done!

We just need to work on the laundry stuff next.


Why I deserve the greatest Mother’s Day of all. And you do too.

I know, I know. You’ve heard it before. We (moms) think were goddesses and fucking saints for pushing watermelons out of our easy bake ovens. And if you had a C-section- power to you. Because stitches through five layers of tissue makes any guy whining over a vasectomy look like the pansy ass douche he is.

Where was I? Why am I so angry? I don’t know. I mean, maybe it’s the PTSD from the pre-epidural catheter they gave me in the labor and delivery room when I went hypertonic trying to birth Emma. Hypertonic- abnormal muscle tone. Sadly, my over active uterus did not leave me with 6 pack abs.

Maybe it’s the bloody nipples I got a week after she was born because I spent those 7 days with her latching on improperly while trying to breast feed. Then cried when I was pumping milk sitting on the toilet in our cramped little bathroom because I felt like a failure.

Yeah. Moms unite! Bitches get shit done. And you know what? We get birthing done.

When I gave birth to Emma, there was a story that week in the news of some natural disaster in Africa ( I can’t remember because part of the brain that holds memory and reason comes out with the after birth. It’s true.)  that caused a woman to give birth in a tree. A GODDAMN TREE! By herself. Her and her baby were there for a good day or so before the rescue choppers got her. Did she worry about saving the placenta later because her MOPS group wanted to make smoothies out of it and then paint pretty pictures on canvases while drinking wine? NO! She did what she had to do.

And gosh darn, I was laboring in a comfortable first world hospital bed and I thought of her. HER. And she was my hero. But also, it kind of scared the shit out of me because the way things were going with Emma, I would have died in that tree and she with me. So yay, modern conveniences!

So I’m sorry if my wish for this Mother’s day is to be treated like royalty by the subjects of the house. But dude! I earned it. It’s been 15 years since all that happened. But still.

Not that you want to know this, but one of the first times I got up to go to the bathroom after I had Owen, I thought I had birthed a second child. I had been lying down in the bed for several hours. It was so scary, like, I paged the doctor  and all and told her that a pile of left over something and I think it had teeth and whatnot had just smooshed out of my cooch and did they need to weigh it or take it for a biopsy, because that twin baby looked like I was bleeding to death. It was frightening.

She laughed, sweetly, and said, you know, most moms forget that their vagina is a long tunnel that fills up with all kinds of good stuff after the baby is born. It was just waiting to come out. Sometimes the muscles contract and it doesn’t until you get up to go to the bathroom. And then I was all, “Like a JELL-O mold!” And she’s all, “YES! You’re fine!”

Oh phew! I thought I hemorrhaged. And so does every other woman who just pushed an 8 pound bag of potatoes with a 90th percentile head out of a hole the size of a golf ball.

Let’s not forget the old days when our mothers and their mothers had babies. When they gave them enemas, shaved their pubes, and knocked them out with drugs. You know. Because it’s easier for the doctor. The male doctor. Oh boo on him for dealing with female pubic hairs. Thank GOD when they changed that. Even though now everyone’s got a Brazilian, so who cares. And I’m all for drugs, but I’d rather NOT wake up two days later to find out if I actually had the baby or not.

Ugh. Men.

“Waa. Let me whine some more because my wife snores when she sleeps and insists on sleeping with a body pillow we’ve named Phil. She never wants to do it anymore. WAAA.”

Someone call the whambulance, because I’m sick and tired of men complaining. I’m sick and tired of men complaining about their vasectomies and that their wife doesn’t want to have sex. Oh, and then newsflash. She’s not going to want to have sex with you after because, well. You’ve seen the Hindenburg disaster. Who wants to fly after that? We need some time. And by time, I mean at least, at LEAST 6 months post partum. And lube. Lots and lots of lube. And probably booze. And the promise of a nap afterwards without a baby attached to my body.

And again, sorry for the graphic nature of this- but if you had hemorrhoids, you don’t want your man down in your crotchal region with anything other than some nice cotton or microfiber breathable underpants. Stuff changes. It’s not the same.

Did you have an episiotomy? Or how about a 4th degree tear? Do the words ‘transvaginal mesh’ send you into flashbacks of trauma similar to a combat veteran’s? You didn’t know what a ‘taint was before, but now you do.

Yeah. So lay off dudes. We deserve pie, and croissants. We should have long leisurely baths alone without people asking to climb in the tub with us. That goes for little kids AND husbands. STAHP. If I wanted a bath with you, I would have said so.

Plus sex in bathwater leads to UTIs and nobody got time for that.

Happy Mother’s day mamas! May you get all the worldly goods you deserve. And peace.


Frugalista Blog in the Pee Alone Trilogy

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Gwyneth is a ‘common’ woman and Eva says never wear sweatpants or your husband will divorce you

Folks. I can’t help myself. When a celebrity opens their mung bean hole and says words that make me want to roll my eyes back to Christmas, I have to write about it. It’s what I do.

First, let me talk about Gwyneth. That’s GP if you didn’t know. She recently was talking about her Goop website. Goop must be her nickname for her initials GP. Because Goop sounds like a very unassuming website of maybe crafty supplies, like glue, and rubber cement.

But it’s not. It’s a ‘lifestyle’ website of things to buy, like alpaca chin hair place mats and pigmy goat dyed wool culottes; recipes on how to make huckleberry lip scrub and the latest on laser hair removal for your coochy.

It’s all very relatable. <coughnoit’snotcough>

It's only $1425. Mortgage? Or leather jacket? Courtesy of

It’s only $1425. Mortgage? Or leather jacket? Courtesy of

Gwyneth, oops, GP, sorry, forgot, has been under fire before. She has this condition we like to call foot in mouth. She places her Prada clad hoof in her quinoa gob a few times throughout the year. It’s like blogging fodder the blog gods just rain down on us. I don’t want to make fun of her. I don’t. I’m not here to ridicule or judge. No. I do that on wine night with my girlfriends. But I just HAD to address the idea that GP wants us to think she’s like the common woman every where. She is just like us. The same hopes and dreams. The same fears and pleasures.

GP- So relatable. Even with side boob.

GP- So relatable.
Even with side boob.

GP, if you want to feel like the common woman. Let me help you-

When you wake up in the morning, and you see a random dried up cat turd that rolled over from the laundry room where the cat box is to the top of the stairs- step over it. Highly achieving, exceptional women take a piece of toilet paper and pick up the cat turd. But no, folks like me, just yawn and take your Dearfoam slippered foot and just lightly tap it back towards the cat box where you will probably scoop it up later. And by later, I mean in a couple of days when you remember.

Start packing the kids’ lunches with regular white bread, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even better, use cold cuts that probably have nitrates in them. Us common folk need to have our fill of nitrates and preservatives to carry on with our day.

Smack your Keurig machine a couple of times to get the thing to work. Or if you’re like some of us, remember that you were supposed to remember to buy pods the day before, but forgot. So dig out one of those pods from yesterday morning and reuse it. Don’t worry. It’s okay because you will probably get interrupted 50 million times before you get to drink your coffee and you’ll forget it in the microwave before you leave the house.

Oh, that reminds me! Check the microwave and just drink yesterday’s coffee and you don’t even need to worry about using the day old pod in the first place! Genius.

Being common is fun!

Now load up the kids in your 12 year old minivan with 160,000 miles on it and goldfish crackers stuck in the seat from 2007. Make sure your minivan has some dried milk in the cup holders, some juice stained on the floor rugs and has enough dirt and grime on its exterior since November. It rains here in Seattle. We only wash our cars once a year in July.

When you get to the bus stop and see the neighbors, name drop some cool names, like, you know, the principal of the middle school, the president of the homeowners association. Name dropping Jay Z and Beyonce is so last month’s Oscars.

So GP, how’s it going for being common? It’s only 9 am and there hasn’t been any time for yoga with Madonna or pasta making with Mario Batali. In fact, none of that will happen, because you’re going to need to run to the grocery store and get a frozen pizza for dinner since your boss needs you to stay late for meeting. And you might as well forget seeing your kid’s soccer practice because the commute home from the office will set you back an hour.

And then guess what? You get to do the whole thing again tomorrow! Yay! When it gets really tough and you feel like each day is the same as the one before. Don’t sweat it. Vacation is ahead. Not some villa you get to share with Elton John in Versailles. No. But a La Quinta Inn with your in laws. Fun!

Thanks GP. I hope you enjoyed that you could relate to being common and recognize how much we’re similar.

My next celebrity to school that opened her pie hole is Eva Mendez.

Now Eva. Eva Mendez thinks that the reason for Americans divorcing is that the wife wears sweatpants.

Excuse me, but I need to get my corset off the clothes line and starch my bloomers since apparently it’s 1890 again and someone is telling me how to dress to keep a man!

Eva, Eva, Eva.

Eva says look like this so your husband won't divorce you. Sweat pants are a gateway to divorce.

Eva says look like this so your husband won’t divorce you. Sweatpants are a gateway to divorce.

Let me tell you something sweetie. I know you just had a baby. And that’s awesome. And you’re with that hottie Ryan Gosling who has the photoshopped chest in the adorable movie, Crazy Stupid Love. BTW, I LOVE that movie! I bet you do too.

I thought you were awesome in Ghost Rider also. Your level of sexy mixed with brains was perfect next to Nicolas Cage’s devily skeletor motorcycle riding persona.

But telling women that we can’t wear sweatpants because our husbands will divorce us, is not cool. You know how much I would love to just run around and look cute 24/7 in pencil skirts, heels and little tight sweaters? I mean, because that is what hubs would dig, right? Or let’s just walk around in a satin negligee and a robe when I want to relax. It’s just that, hmmm, how do I say this? I WANT TO BE COMFORTABLE!

I own cute clothes. I do. I wear them from time to time. Usually out of the house. But my job as a SAHM, Stay At Home Mom, calls for me to be hanging around the house a lot. I walk the dog, scoop the cat box (sometimes, not always, see above), I fold laundry, do dishes, empty the recycle bins, sit around and blog….sweat pants, or yoga pants, allow me to sit comfortably, heave up a laundry basket, squat down to scoop the cat box, bend over to shove a frying pan in the cupboard. All those things that Betty Draper did while wearing a girdle and crinoline; but she had to. Lycra hadn’t been invented yet.

I can look cute, sure. I can make my husband’s jaw drop on date night, no problem. But if you think divorce is caused by wearing sweatpants, which implies you think that most of us have just let it all go and Costanza’d our way through life, then you will be sadly mistaken.

My parents have been married 56 years and my mom wears mom jeans, and my dad wears faded Wranglers from a time when Matlock still was making new episodes. To assume that the strength of their relationship has been related to their wardrobe is missing the value of their commitment, hardships, and dedication.

How about this- when you and Ryan are still married 10 years from now, I vow to not wear any yoga, sweat or lounge pants for an entire year. That will be a great way to celebrate my almost 30 years of marriage by then. How many years have you been married? Oh, that’s right. Zero.

This concludes Frugie’s portion of Putting Celebrities in their Place.



I tried Bullet Proof Coffee and it was gross

photo from

photo from

Picture me scrolling through my feed on Facebook. I happen to come upon all this chatter about coffee that makes you lose weight.

<sound of record screeching> Back up. I can drink coffee and lose weight? Hell yes! Can I have a scone with that too? No? Damn you!

If you’re having a hard time keeping up with all the food trends, Paleo, Raw til 4, juicing, caveman, lemon water…. don’t worry. So am I.

I’m trying really hard to lose the 20 pounds or so I’ve packed on in the last 3 years while blogging. Yes folks. Blogging makes you fat. If I had taken up farming, or bowling, I probably would be a supermodel by now, but no. I decided to sit on my couch with cups after cups of tea and write about laundry and cat puke. It hasn’t done much for my derriere.  Except make it flat. And wide.

So when I saw all this stuff about Bullet Proof Coffee is great to replace your breakfast, give you loads of energy during the day and forget you need to eat so the pounds magically melt off (I added that part) you can pretty much bet your flat bottomed dollar that I’m going to give it a try.

The Bullet Proof Coffee or BPC recipe is as follows-

Take organic non-GMO, only harvested during the full moon fair trade coffee beans, or Folgers. You pick.

Brew a nice strong cup of joe. Instead of adding your usual, you know, Coffeemate, Half and Half, Splenda, whatever shit you put in to coffee to make it taste good, because dammit, coffee doesn’t taste good black. It doesn’t. Just sayin’.

Take a tablespoon of grass fed unsalted butter and plop that in the hot coffee. This is important. Don’t use Country Crock or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, or even just regular butter, the grass-fed aspect of this is important because it’s what gives the butter the aminos and nutrients, blah blah blah, that give the coffee its bullet-proofness.

Take coconut oil. Pure organic of course. A tablespoon will do. Plop that in the hot coffee too.

Watch in disgust as the two make an oil slick not worthy of drinking and start dreaming of a nice foamy latte.

Don’t give up yet. This is where you either put it in a blender (nobody got time for that) or take a little hand mixer or hand held frother (that is not a sex toy) and whiz it up in your cup until you’ve emulsified the fats with the coffee.

Now drink.

If you don’t gag first.

You will feel an oily slick on the roof of your mouth and your lips will feel coconutty soft. This is an added benefit. But also an aspect of this that might catch you off guard because it will feel like you’ve been in a pork chop eating contest instead of sipping your espresso.

Now the beauty of this whole concoction is to give you a great coffee buzz while buffering your system with the fats for the coffee to be absorbed and divvied up through your system over a longer period of time. You get a high and a fullness without all the calories of breakfast.

Like most things in our great country, people have decided to do this with vigor and gusto. Tell people that putting butter in their coffee will help them lose weight and you’ve got them drinking Venti sizes of the stuff.

Not so fast bitchachos.

Just don’t forget to actually eat. You know. Food? The stuff that gives you vitamins, nutrients, sustained energy, antioxidants and actual calories to burn? Yeah that.

To be honest, I wanted to like this. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get over the butter slickness of the beverage. Yes I blended it but it was still like an oil slick down my throat. And I couldn’t get over the weird feeling of being jacked up on fat and caffeine. It gave me a headache.

If you love this method- by all means- go for it. I’m not putting anyone down who does it. But if you’re curious like me and tried it and didn’t like it, then now you know you’re not alone.



Jump on in, the water’s fine.


frugalista blog jump on in the water's fine

You’re standing on the edge of the high dive. You look down. It feels like 50 feet, but it’s only 15 feet. Your palms sweat. Your breathing staggers.

You back up and climb down the ladder! Holy shit, I’m not jumping from that high!

Don’t blame me if I wouldn’t jump off of a diving board, what with my fear of heights and the fact that I don’t like swimming? I can’t handle it!

But I did do stand-up comedy last weekend, which is practically the same thing.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m a theater major, I perform all the time. What’s the big deal?

The big deal is I’VE NEVER DONE STAND-UP!

Sure, I’ve hosted MamaCon, hosted BabyFest, performed in plays, made my zany YouTube videos; but nothing compares to winging it in front of a live audience trying to be funny, hoping you hear laughter and not quiet cricket chirps.

And to be fair, how does one measure their success performing in front of an audience? Laughter? Applause? Because I heard both. Maybe folks were just being nice. Or they were drunk. So, job well done, right?

Sounds good to me.

I think though what means more to me is how I did something that would scare a lot of people shitless and I lived to tell the story. Some folks handle snakes, some folks jump out of an airplane, ride their bikes off of a ramp, whatever for a thrill. I’m starting to think that performing in front of an audience is my mid-life crisis antidote. It’s the cocaine upper to my every day ordinariness. I like it. I hate it.

When I’m asked to do something, I usually say yes. If I’m asked to address an audience, I don’t scare off easily. If someone asked me to sing the Star Spangled Banner at a Seahawk’s game I would be scared and say no. There’s only so many talents in my wheelhouse!

I met Joanie with Spilt Milk comedy two years ago at MamaCon. She said that one day I should come to Portland and perform with them. SUUUUURE. I can do that.

So back in November, a Facebook message with Joanie went something like this:

Me: Why haven’t you asked me down yet to Portland?

Joanie: I thought you were busy and didn’t want to. How about January?

Me: January? As in for real?

Joanie: Yes. January. We have a Friday show I could use you for.

Me: What should I do?

Joanie: Anything you want.

And then I decided that I wouldn’t just read a blog post like I had done at some other events. I would do some stand up. Like talk to the audience and make them laugh. And then I would put on Spanx. In front of them. On stage. Because somehow, THAT’S easier than telling jokes! I know, I know. I’m weird. What’s the big deal? It’s not underwear. It’s Spanx.

I spent my days and nights running through what I thought was funny, in my head. I muttered to myself while walking the dog. I talked to the mirror alone in the bathroom while blow drying my hair. It’s a process folks. The creative process is complex. I’m sure this is what Sarah Silverman goes through each time. Before she lights up her cannabis pipe, right?

Sometimes, I would lie in bed with my eyes wide open staring at the ceiling while a cold sweat prickled my skin. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I COULDN’T DO THIS! I would yell inside my head. Not outside my head, because James was sleeping next to me.

There was that part of me that wanted to give up. The part of me that was my lower descending colon that would gurgle and bubble every time I thought about trying to get up in front of a crowd just to ‘be funny’.

But I’m no quitter! Who’s a quitter? NOT ME!

Is that from the movie Rudy? I don’t know.

Sometimes what we fear most, makes us stronger and free in the end. I read that on a motivational poster at the KINKOS I went to in the 90s.

I picked a wing man. You know, a buddy that would support me. My wing woman Betsy joined me for the 3 hour drive and split a hotel room with me for the night. She’s been a huge supporter of my blog and books since day one, and I just needed someone to tell me honestly if I sucked but in a nice way while bringing me a soy latte. Or tell me that she peed her pants and she thinks I’m the funniest ever.

I love that when we got to the hotel room that afternoon with a couple of hours to spare before the show, she let me go by myself for a tea at the corner Starbucks and get my thoughts in order. She may not be a performer, but she gets ‘the process’. Some may think a shot of whiskey would have been good for the process, but honestly, I needed to be sharp.

I’d have a gin and tonic before I went on stage anyway. And lots of french fries. Why is it when I get nervous I want to eat?

The intimate little bar held about 60 people. There was a little stage, a microphone and a stool. We even had a green room. You know, the space between the dining area and the restroom backstage. Like all performance venues!

I was to go after Nikki Schulak. Nikki does readings and is a humorist. She always cracks me up. Her book, “My Mid-life Thong Crisis” is a hoot. There’s some body hair and dimpling involved. I like that Nikki read about diets and Prozac and eating her way through Europe.

I decided that during her set, I should probably stand up and get on deck. I felt my legs wobble. Was I capable of this? I mean, what the hell was I doing? I didn’t have anything written down. I had a few jokes that I felt packed a bit of a punch. Hoped they at least would giggle. Maybe snicker under their breath.

So up I went with my package of  Spanx and nerves of steel.

I threw out a couple of labia jokes and used a few choice phrases, and oh my gosh- they laughed!

I won’t spoil it for you. You can watch the videos here.

When I was finished, I felt like I climbed fricking Mt. Everest! Tired and winded? Sort of. But mostly exhilarated. I did it! I faced my fear and I did it!

You know what? It felt fucking awesome.

I might do it again. We’ll see.

What ladder to the high dive will you climb?

Is there something you’re afraid of but really want to do? Do it.

Just fucking do it.

frugie blog in spanx




My dirty little secret

Why is this hard for me to admit? I have a secret. And it’s literally a dirty one. And I’m not saying ‘literally’ incorrectly in this case. Like, it’s legit dirty. I’m a sucky ass housekeeper. I thought I was okay, but I’m not. I am so not okay.

my dirty little secret by frugalista blog

Here’s another thing that’s hard to admit. We hired a housekeeper. This is a twofold emotion. 1) I feel amazing euphoria about the idea of someone cleaning for me and then coming home to what looks  like magic elves worked and made my house sparkle. 2) I feel enormous failure at doing what I’m supposed to be doing as “homemaker” and I feel terribly self conscious about my filth.

Apparently I don’t feel awful enough about reason #2 for it to make me forget reason #1 and just do the work myself.

You see, I thought I could handle it. I can’t. The cleaning part, I mean. I dust sometimes. I clean bathrooms, sure. And I’ve been known to clean my shower naked (settle down), but scrubbing baseboards, wiping door knobs and cleaning under the stove? Those are all foreign to me.

How am I supposed to feel when poor Marta (names have been changed to protect identities) picks up my electric stove burners and there’s crusted, charred food remains? I was walking by her to get a glass of water just as she did that. I gasped. I told her I was sorry and didn’t know that those things could come out. Well, truth is, I did know, but I think something happened that caused me to have amnesia about it, because I haven’t done that in well over a year and never in that year even thought to.

This is after she’s taken over 2 hours to clean what I thought was the ‘clean’ part of my house. The living room where no one goes in that just has our Christmas decorations. I figure, what’s a little bit of dusting and vacuuming? She cleaned the blinds, the light fixtures, polished the piano… it exhausts me just typing this. I never saw her stop and check her Instagram or sit on the couch with a donut and coffee.

Which face it- is what is primarily my house cleaning problem. I’m like a two year old and I get easily distract… OH look, something shiny!


Or Doug in the movie Up, I just can’t seem to….SQUIRREL!

I haven’t been diagnosed with adult onset ADD but there’s a slight possibility I range on that spectrum.

I’m pretty sure Marta passed her non ADD quiz with flying colors because I left for the store and 30 minutes later she was still scrubbing that stove. She doesn’t get distracted but continues with a job until it’s done. Even this blog post took me several hours to write because I kept getting interrupted. With my mind.

Apparently she does take water breaks. I offered her some because I didn’t want to look like a complete asshole while I sat on the couch with my laptop, and she said she brought a water bottle she drinks from. Well, THAT makes me feel SOOO much better. Considering while she worked, I sat on my couch, drank a Starbucks chestnut praline latte, ate a piece of ginger bread loaf and then later for lunch had a burrito. I am the worst white mom cliche of the burbs if there ever was one.

In my sheer mortification over the messy state of my house, when I thought it was clean mind you, I went upstairs to start cleaning my bathroom before she got to it. I had picked up all the junk and bottles and lotion and shit, around the bathtub and the counter, but I was feeling terrible. Now this probably is not even a dent to the clean that was to become of my bathroom. And yes, I know you’re thinking, “so you paid someone to come clean, but you cleaned first?” Yes. Yes I did. Now maybe in two weeks when she comes again, I will not pre clean, but just let her go to it and it will be done lickity split because it won’t have 10 years of crud stuck to it.

When she was finished, things sparkled. Blindingly. I couldn’t even see my shower doors and almost walked through them.

Who are these magic cleaning people? Are they even human?

Now I understand when I go to someone’s house and I see how spotless their home is. They must have magic superhuman cleaning people.

My dusting and scrubbing is sub par to Marta’s. Which begs the question, “What do I do all day?!”

If she was paid in how many times I apologized or told her to just ‘give up’ on a particular area already and move on, she would be dripping in Ben Franklins.

But the beauty in all this, is not just to cast a light on my horrible housekeeping that would make Ma Ingalls shudder in dismay, but to motivate myself to be better. I want to be tidier. I want to keep things clean. My kids do too. We’re just lazy about it. Now we’ve got a great start and motivation to see things how they should be, and to maintain instead have to completely overhaul.

Oh, and just for the record, I’m never cooking in that kitchen again. It’s too clean to mess up.  I can see myself in the reflection of the appliances. Amazing! And I can’t bear to sit on the couch because there’s vacuum track marks along the upholstery. Have you seen such a site?


Say what? The world’s chocolate supply might run out by 2020. A call to arms.

At first Emma told me casually like it was the weather report, “Hey mom, did you know that the world is running out of chocolate.” She could have easily been saying, “did you know it’s going to be 50 degrees out with partial clouds” based on the tone of her voice. As if, life can go on casually.

Trust me, I kept my cool in front of her. I didn’t panic. I barely registered in my head what she had just said. Probably because I was checking Pinterest and Instagram at the same time while waiting for the oven to heat up for my batch of brownies.

But like a good mother, I didn’t convey my panic. It wasn’t until the kids went to bed and I googled that shit for myself. What in heaven’s name is she talking about? That sounds as ludicrous as when she told me Iggy Azalea was just a white girl from Australia.

So yes. It’s true. Scientists think we can run out of cocoa beans by 2020. Folks- that’s only in 5 years. Leading manufacturers of chocolate, Mars Inc. and Barry Callebaut say that over consumption and problems in farming have reduced us to this crisis. Apparently the westernization of China has caused them to eat more chocolate. The Chinese can be blamed for everything- lead in our toys and now the world’s chocolate shortage. Thanks China.

If you think you’re prepping for a zombie apocalypse, maybe you should be prepping instead for a chocolate apocalypse. (Typing apocalypse is hard.)

What’s a chocolate apocalypse (fuck, I need a new word) you ask?

Let me draw you a picture- half the world’s population rely on a certain product to get them through a certain time of the month. Now take that half and say that 20 percent of them are under the age of 10 and 30 percent of them are over the age of 60 (I have no clue, I’m just throwing out stats here people), then we have 50 percent of PMS aged females who will be wondering the earth for chocolate. They will have torches and pitchforks and heat pads and Pringles and it won’t be pretty. They will search the earth while carrying DVD copies of Steel Magnolias and The Notebook under their arm and they will be crabby.

That’s at least 40% of the world’s population (again, just making this up) desperate for chocolate.

Sure we’re worried about the bees dying, and Ebola, and polar ice caps melting, but this- this is serious folks. Do you know what this means?

Nutella will just be hazelnut spread. And that sounds disgusting.

Reeses peanut butter cups will be just peanut butter cups. Not as delicious at all.

Oreos will be only the cream filling.

No chocolate chip cookies. Just oatmeal ones or snickerdoodles.

Nougat will be considered acceptable.

No chocolate Easter bunnies.

Chocolate fondue fountains will run dry and rust.

No hot cocoa. You might as well float those marshmallows in just some hot water.

M&Ms? Forget it. Extinct.

What will Professor Lupine give Harry Potter when he sees a dementor?

If Willy Wonka were real, (Johnny Depp or Gene Wilder, you choose) I would appeal to him to unearth some kind of magic cocoa bean supply. I would hope his Oompa Loompas would be the foot soldiers to this cause.

And the problem is, we can’t stock pile chocolate. Because that’s gross. I’ve tried. It’s unpleasant.

Chocolate will be the new drug trade. Empires will rise and fall. Tourists will be kidnapped in Swiss villas for their advent calendars.

This is serious folks.

We need to save the chocolate crops now. I don’t want some scientific GMO frankenchocolate. I want regular chocolate.

So China- listen up- back off the chocolate. Everyone- we need to ration this.

If we keep calm and don’t go crazy, perhaps the cocoa bean farmers will be able to catch up to our demand with their supply. Maybe 5 years is enough time to sound the alarm and solve this before it’s a problem.

Can we do this? I think we can.

KEEP calm and save the chocolate by frugalista blog, world chocolate shortage, humor

If Kim Kardashian can break the Internet, so can I

Actually DID Kim break the Internet? I know she sure tried.  When one posts a naked booty shot all greased up, it kind of gets folks’ attention.

When I first heard about it, I totally rolled my eyes into my head. It was all over my Instagram feed and it didn’t take long for the crazy captions to start.

That Kimmy sure knows how to get our attention!

If you haven’t seen it yet, you’re probably wondering what the heck I’m talking about!

Wait for it…. Trust me. I’ll get there.

My first thoughts whenever Kim does something like this is ‘oh puhleeze, She’s always trying to get attention.”

And then, a light bulb clicked on.


I mean, right? I post goofy selfies, I promote the books I’m in, I put up YouTube videos. I write sponsored posts. I have a big posterior.

I haven’t gotten a perfume deal or a TV show, or even a million followers on Instagram, but I have gotten free curling irons, dog food, gift cards and Poise pads.

See? Me and Kim, were totally the same. Sort of. Just trying to make a buck.

And now, presenting how Kim #BroketheInternet.

Trust me, if my UPS man came knocking that day, he would have gotten a surprise.

I think I can say #frugiedismantledtheinternet

Noticed her oiled physique and my pasty dimpled one?

See her tiny itty bitty (photoshopped) waist, and look at my muffin top- they’re like twins.

Maybe I can get a champagne company to pay me to put a glass on my booty shelf like she did. You’ll have to Google that image, I’m too busy sitting here promoting my Amazon Affiliate store.

What am I thinking? I’ll be lucky if a toaster pastry company wants my booty in their ad. Well, it would be truth in advertising though.

Looking good Kim!

Kim Kardashian breaks the internet, frugie dismantles the internet, parody, spoof, humor, frugalista blog


Thank you to the talented Kim Bongiorno of Let Me Start By Saying who did my graphic!