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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 Goop.com

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

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 www.freestockphotos.biz

photo from www.freestockphotos.biz

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!

See?

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’M ALWAYS TRYING TO GET ATTENTION TOO!”

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!

 

Conversations with old married people

Effective communication is the touchstone of a good relationship. Listening to what the other person has to say. Actually hearing their words and not just spouting off when you want to hear yourself speak, but actually letting the other person tell you what’s on their mind.

Sometimes it takes a teenager to point out what you might be missing in this area. Sure, you’ve been married 17 years, your daughter is only 14, what could she possibly know? Apparently she just has better hearing.

It’s Sunday evening. We’re both with blankets on our laps, laptops on those blankets and on separate couches.

 

Me while sipping peppermint tea, shouting to McSweetie in the other room: “You can come in and watch football now. I’m done with my show.” (That show happened to be Les Miserable.)

McSweetie: “That’s okay, me and the cat are here napping.”

Me: “Why are you taking a nap at 8′oclock at night?”

McSweetie: “I’m norphn nea bate gluck”  (I don’t know, I couldn’t hear him.)

 

Emma walks in.

“That was the dumbest thing between you two just now. When you asked dad if he wanted to come in and watch football he said, ‘I’m hanging out with the cat’ and then you said something about taking a nap, and then he said ‘what time is it? It’s 8 o’clock’.

“You guys are the worst old people and you’re not even that old.”

Oh didn’t you know? Forty is the new seventy.

40 is the new 70 by Frugalista Blog

 

The deformity I didn’t even know I had

Ladies- you thought your muffin top was a problem, wait until you start obsessing over your banana roll.

Banana rolls are a thing by Frugie Blog

photo credit Vox Efx

What’s a banana roll? Well, contrary to what you might think it is not the latest Pinterest treat to enjoy with your pumpkin spiced latte.

Although that does sound tasty.

It is the latest body obsession that we can thank bodacious babes like Nicki Minaj, Kim Kardashian and Iggy Azalea for. In the year of the butt, which let’s face it folks, has been every year for me, (ahem) we not only want to power out our lunges but now we can surgically take our upper thigh fat and place it in our booties. Well, not ‘we’, but plastic surgeons can.

A banana roll is an ‘unsightly’ (gasp) roll of fat just under the butt cheek. Because butt cheeks are made of fat. Duh.

Let’s just sit on this for a sec. Big butts are in. That’s cool. I always have appreciated a Kardashian backside. I will watch Keeping up the Kardashians just so I can feel better about my proportionally larger posterior.

But(t) not only are big butts in, a certain kind of ass is in. A large, perfectly round ass that has no folds or flaws that sits atop skinny thighs. Because THAT’S realistic (sarcasm font). A lollipop of a butt on a skinny leg. If you tell me that all of this is obtained WITH a thigh gap, I might have to punch someone.

What’s a thigh gap? Never mind.

The problem with celebrity culture bringing out ‘trends’ in body type is people become obsessed with unreal objectives.  These objectives achieved with plastic surgery, in the form of liposuction, that could be dangerous or reverse itself over time, aren’t worth it. Y’all know that Nicki Minaj got butt implants right? That’s not even her real ass! So if you’re trying to undo your banana roll with just your normal non-bionic butt, you’re probably not going to get the results you want in the first place.

According to the UK’s Daily Mail, some surgery clinics have seen business triple when it comes to sucking banana rolls from women’s backsides.

Well, it’s comforting to know the ladies of London have just as much insecurity as the rest of us. Geezus.

What is wrong with a flat ass? There’s a whole continent of folks with flat asses.

Let’s all mourn for the poor thing that thinks her butt is ‘deformed’ that posted her question on realself.com. The picture she posts shows a perfectly formed booty in my opinion. Nothing deformed about it!

You’ve read my rantings about body image before.

I can only handle so much the media, celebrity culture, and superficial masses are dishing out.

You’re thinking, “Gee Frugie, why not just shut up about it, ignore it and go on with yourself?”

Aww, where would the fun in that be?

Folks. I will not be getting lipo for my banana roll. Sure, it’s a stubborn bump of fat that sits under my butt cheek. Guess what?
You know what else is under my butt cheek? Cottage cheese.

Not like the real cottage cheese, but the proverbial dotty clumpy cellulite cottage thigh cheese. Yes, so pretty, I know.

I have been doing lunges and squats like crazy lately. Not because I want some pop star booty, but because working my glutes is a major muscle group that burns calories and gets my heart rate up. Plus, it makes my legs strong if I have to squat over porta potties in an emergency. I got me some serious butt game, no surgery.

I like to think of my body as a buffet; from my chicken-wing arms, to the muffin top cupcake fold in the middle, the now-labeled banana roll and of course, cottage cheese thighs.

And guess what- it’s all delicious THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

 

 

Motherhood is hard. You Have No Idea

Sometimes at the fork in the road of motherhood, you see your toddler thrashing about the floor in a tantrum, raging over a denied cookie. You think back to when they were tiny, helpless infants. That was easier right? If only I could follow that other path into a time machine, go back when it was simpler.

Oh, that’s called Mommy Amnesia. An actual Web MD condition. Okay, not it’s not. You just think it was easier then. It wasn’t. Remember the midnight feedings?

You think it’s going to be easier when they’re older. It has to, doesn’t it?

But what happens when you turn over your keys to your 16 year old? That’s as hard as crowning during childbirth!

Oh “YOU HAVE NO IDEA”.

All the stages of motherhood have been covered in this video. Tell me what stage you relate to most!

This video was created for the loving promotion of Jen Mann’s book People I Want to Punch in the Throat: Competitive Crafters, Drop-off Despots and Other Suburban Scourges

Frugalista Blog in the video You Have NO Idea