Celebrating Divorce

Ok. I’m going to say something controversial: Celebrating marriage feels outdated to me. Not celebrating your own marriage but celebrating marriage in general. For example: why do we applaud if a couple has been married for 50 years? We know nothing about that couple except divorce papers were never legally filed. What if the guy was abusive or an addict and/or the woman is a sociopath? Are we still clapping and saying “Yay! Look they stayed with someone who was ruining their life and making them unhappy because of some arbitrary idea that divorce is failure or because it’s too scary to make changes.”

I don’t want to celebrate that. I want to celebrate people who are are happy. Period. If they are in a relationship that makes them happy and fulfilled: Great. Pop the champagne. If someone left a tough marriage that was draining them emotionally, physically, or financially, I also want to celebrate that. More Champagne!!! (Also, none of this is about me trying to drink more.)

It’s just frustrating to me that divorce is still perceived as a failure when it’s not. It’s an end to something that wasn’t working. It doesn’t mean the relationship or time spent together was meaningless. A relationship’s worth is not measured in the quantity of time but in the quality of time you had together. The happy memories don’t disappear because you are unable to find a way to make new ones.

I love my husband dearly but I’ll never be someone who goes around saying “Divorce is not option.” Of course it’s an option and I honestly believe that makes our relationship stronger. We chose each other everyday because we want to not because we have to.

Marriage is a choice, a choice you make everyday & there is enormous power in viewing it as a choice.

It’s like when Harry Potter finds out there is a prophecy about fighting to the death between him & Voldemort. How he views the prophecy plays an enormous role in how he fights. “It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to fight a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew- as do I – thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents- that there was all the difference in the world.”

If you view marriage as this thing that you have do or commitment you can’t leave: you are not walking into the arena with your head held high. You’re not in the arena because you want to be there. But if you view marriage as a choice, a choice you make everyday: you will fight harder for it.

Also, I get that I just compared marriage to a fight between good vs. evil that is to be fought to the death.

Anyways, if you’re in love and you found a way to grow with the person you married and make each other happy by all means celebrate. As I learned from going to too many Dave Matthews concerts: “Celebrate good will cause life is short but sweet for certain.” And if you left a marriage because it was not the life you wanted to live you should still celebrate cause life is still short but still sweet for certain.


How to wean a baby.

How to wean a breastfeeding baby: Do zero prep. Lie to people caring for your child about the amount of prep done. Go to Vegas.

Ok. So if this isn’t clear: I did no prep work for weaning my second. I was pregnant or nursing for almost 4 years straight so when my daughter turned one: I was DONE.

So I dropped my kids off in Michigan with their grandparents and met two girlfriends in Vegas. Things could have not been more fun: we saw shows, drank, danced, slept in, basically the perfect girls trip minus the leaky boobs.

We stay a beautiful hotel the first night. I was feeling a bit guilty about doing this trip, so decided to downgrade my hotel for the second night (my friends took a red eye back & I was on my own 2nd night).

This is where things get weird. The 2nd hotel is the stuff of nightmares. It’s like a sadness convention and trashy convention were happening simultaneously. I check in (which takes 2 hours) & go to my room. Don’t have a breast pump with me (long story) and have to hand express into some plastic hotel cups. Just when I’m feeling like the winningest winner around I hear a LOUD banging on the door and someone yelling “Let us in!” Not from the outside BUT THE ADJOINING DOOR!! I was frozen. Couldn’t say a word. Hand on boobs. Ready to fight them off like the fembots from Austin Powers but with breast milk. I finally manage to yell something like, “Wrong Door.” and they apologize. I start to calm down and then it happens again. I yell something incoherent and start making an exit plan. I wait a few minutes and then sprint towards the stairs. I run like they are chasing me (they are not) & finally make it to the front desk.

To make matters worse as I’m running I realize: if there is a Law & Order SVU based on my death at this seedy hotel that Christopher Meloni would not even be a god damn detective in the episode.

At the front desk I explain my situation they give me an “upgrade” to the “less likely to get murdered suite” and I stay up all night thinking about things I should of yelled things like: “I know karate” or “I have a machine gun.”

In retrospect they were probably just drunk kids getting the doors mixed up but I’ve watched enough crime shows to take no chances.

So that’s how I weaned my daughter. It wasn’t always pretty but it worked. I also learned that my own money issues caused this fiasco. I could of stayed in the other hotel. I mean really what was I saving $50 at most. I didn’t because of my own guilt. Guilt that was self-imposed. So when it’s come to guilt I will take a lesson from that cold hearted bitch Elsa and just let it go. Life’s too short to feel bad for having fun and wanting to stay in hotel that isn’t made from sadness & full of potential murders.

Resting B-Face Vs. Resting D-Face

I don’t suffer from Resting Bitch Face, in fact I’m pretty sure I suffer from the exact opposite: my face looks like I’m constantly riding a unicorn over a rainbow into a ocean made of jello. I fight my ADD with REALLY trying to listen to people and try to look the part of being an engaged human.

And it’s not easy. It’s an active fight to keep my mind from wandering to marshmallows and ginger beer or the time I tried (and failed) to silently fart in 6th grade.

It’s truly an effort for me to look engaged, focused and happy when in social situations.

However my husband does suffer from this affliction: as his Resting Dick Face is STRONG. My husband is not afraid to look annoyed, bored, or sit in total silence with other people. All of which terrifies me. I thought this was a new phenomenon with him until I discovered his 2nd grade photo and discovered his RDF is REAL and has been there since day one.

So here’s my sweet husband living his best, most authentic 7 year old life and ACTIVELY trying to scowl for his 2nd grade picture:


When Husbands Fidget Spin.

My dear sweet husband went on a Fidget Spinner bender after having a few drinks. This is me explaining it to a friend.

ME: “If Devin buys another Fidget Spinner, I think it’s grounds for divorce.

Friend: “How many does he have?”

Me: “He told me he bought 7 but they seem to just keep coming.”

Friend: “7? WTF. I want one. Maybe he needed an extra one for his dong.”

Me: ” I meant to bring you one when we had dinner the other night. Devin claims he “forgot”. I think he didn’t want to part with it.”

Friend: “So he really doesn’t love me.”

ME: “He just loves Fidget Spinners more.”

Friend: “Dick.”

Me: “Don’t feel bad, I don’t even have my own spinner.”

Friend: “Wow. He doesn’t even love you. But 7 for himself. Amazing.”

Me: “He claims he was drunk when he purchased them. It’s so annoying to think you are getting a package and it’s your husbands 6th fidget spinner.”

Friend: “Screwed twice by a drunk Devin.”

Me: “I’m going to buy 7 dildos and be like, “What…I was drunk! …Wait, are fidget spinner’s dildos? Jesus. Now I’m confused.”

Friend: “If you do get 7 dildos can I at least have one of those?”

Me: “Sure. Next dinner party you will either get a fidget spinner or dildo.”

Friend: “It’s like Christmas!”

Me: “Covfefe!!!”

Insane Clown Texts from Dad


My Dad recently sent a text that said “Soon to be ex manager of Resource Depot driven mad with hopeless longing.” Attached with a picture of him in the scariest clown mask I’ve ever seen. My first thought was, “Oh no. Dad’s gone full serial killer.”

When I called him it turns out he just wanted to quit his job so he could travel more. A strangely mundane story considering it’s my dad and a creepy ass clown mask is involved.

Our conversation continues:

Dad: “You should take it for Augie, it’s a really expensive looking mask.”

Me: “No thanks Dad, I don’t want Augie to grow up to be a murderer or worse an Insane Clown Posse fan.”

Dad*hearing nothing*: “What about for an early birthday present?”

Me: “As much as a four year old wants a used killer clown mask the answer is still no.”

Dad then lists other people he could give the clown mask to, including a pastor at his UU church, so I’m sure this will end well.

I did have some fun with the mask: I put the picture of my dad in the mask on his birthday cake captioned, “Never looked better.” Sooooo I’m sure I’m on some sort watch list at the Stop & Shop bakery. So far I’ve done a Golden Girls, Judge Judy & now scary clown cake, each one promoted more & more concerned looks from the bakers.

Photo cakes might be the best & worst thing that ever happened to me.


My deep seated (slightly weird) love of Mr. Rogers

Mr Rogers is everything I wish I could be. He is the wind beneath my wings, my #parentinggoals and my personal hero. I love him in a non ironic, non hipster sort of way. I adore him the way sports people adore their sports idols. He’s my Micky Ruth.

I remember where I was when I heard he had passed. I was in science class my junior(ish) year of college. My science professor & I had worked out a nice mutual ignoring of each other, until she informed the class that he had died. I was immediately shook. My professor and I made rare eye contact and even rarer conversation about how sad we were.

Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go on a deep dive of Mr. Rogers you will not be disappointed. Start with the book: “I’m Proud Of You”  by Tim Madigan, it’s about a guy (Tim) going through a mid life crisis and he forms an unlikely friendship with Mr. Rogers. During his mid life crisis he realizes that he has never heard his father say “I’m proud of you.” and that has a lasting effect on his life. So he asks Mr. Rogers if he’s proud of him and Mr. Rogers tells him he’s very proud of him and then signs every letter they write to each other with I.P.O.Y. (I’m proud of you.). It’s such a great story. Tim also fully realizes the weirdness of a grown man asking another grown man to tell them they are proud of them but it so profoundly effected his life that it didn’t matter.

Honestly, I doubt Mr. Rogers ever thought about the weirdness. He just saw a need, did something wonderful and didn’t care if it was normal. He wasn’t normal. He was better then normal. He was helpful and kind and that’s all that mattered to him.

Also, this book does have a bit of a religious slant to it. As did Mr. Rogers. Truthfully, I don’t have a religious belief system. I don’t have an understanding of Universal Intelligence, higher power, a grasp of heaven or hell. Basically anything existential is above my pay grade. Not having a fully formed answer to the why and the how of the universe can sometimes be a lonely place. Particularly lately when it feel like the world is on fire and the death eaters are winning. When I start to feel pretty bummed about everything I remember Mr. Rogers. He existed. He was good and kind and wanted to help. And there are so many people like him. One of Mr. Rogers most famous quote talks about this need to remember the good:  “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.”

The Dalai Lama states, “Our prime purpose in life is to help others, And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.” For me, Mr. Rogers is the best example of a helper. He gave his life to make children feel connected, less scared, and wanted them to know that he loved them just the way they are.

So as I worry for our children’s generation who seem to have so much more turmoil and uncertainty, I am comforted that Mr. Roger’s legacy continues. Our sweet children don’t get him physically but they will damn sure get his messages through the lives he’s so deeply & proundly touched.

So thank you, Mr. Rogers and I know where ever you are you are being the very best neighbor.

When clay figures go wrong

My son recently made a King & Queen clay figures. He wanted everyone to know one was male & one was female, hense the anotomy. I sent the pics to one of best friends.

Me: “Augie made a King & Queen. If you can’t tell who’s who he gave the Queen a HUGE vagina.”

JW: “How does he know what a vagina looks like?”

Me: “Him & Anna bathe together. Plus he’s a huge fan of that kid from Kindergarten Cop. Apparently the Queen is the Queen of India, we all know how she got that job.”

JW: “You’re offensive.”

Me: “I know, I shouldn’t slut shame a clay Queen snowman. With a HUGE vagina.”

JW: “Some of us have to birth humans naturally. Large vaginas happen. And matter.”

Edit to Add: *I fully support the BLM movement and am in no way making fun of it. *I guess I also support large vaginas but am kind of making fun of them.

School Photos round 2. Augie’s perfected the hungover Frat guy look.

Me: “School Photo. Augie looks progressively more hungover. He def. lost his real estate license.”

RE: “You’ll know when he hits rock bottom.’

Me: “Next year’s photo he’ll be shirtless.”

RE: “It’s always spring break in Augie’s book. Does he love wearing newsies caps?”

Me: “YES. And his new favorite thing to say is “Come at me, Bro.” I think I’m in trouble.”

RE: “You should get him shamrock tattoo for his next birthday.”

Me: “Done. I need someone in the family to have a tattoo equivalent to my 1998 butterfly tattoo.”