Nine months sounds like a forever long time when you’re pregnant. Without the comfort of booze, sushi, caffeine, or soft cheese, it’s as if your life is in a holding pattern. A holding pattern of watching your body become the less-purple Grimace from the Ronald McDonald gang — and let’s all take a moment to thank the cheese gods that big macs are still on the table (thank you, processed cheese gods!) But in reality, nine months is nothing when you’re gearing up for a new job. And that’s really what motherhood is. A full-time job, without pay, health care, or a benefits package, and, after having the baby, you aren’t even the boss but more like a lowly member of middle management. Why? Because your baby thinks he’s the boss — just like the cheeky little brother in the new movie The Boss Baby (out March 31) — and acts accordingly 24-7 by doing these things.

1. He makes a mess. You have to clean it up. When your boss at work makes a mess out of something, the burden falls on your shoulders to clean it up. With your baby, instead of redoing a flawed purchase report (which, of course, needs to be filled out in triplicate), the mess is undoubtedly more graphic, exponentially smellier, and cleanup will often be met with great hostility.

Read More →


“Do you think they have soft serve in internment camps? Golly gee, billy, I hope so.”

Started at the bottom now we… back at the bottom.
I attempted to explain to my Trump supporting friends why Trump’s rhetoric about “vetting” certain peoples scares the shit out of me as a Jewish woman who has Jewish parents and grandparents, and Jewish children.
Me: Because it’s so Hitleresque, and once we start minimizing and categorizing people by the place where they were born or the G-d that they worship, we are doing the same thing that Hitler did in Nazi Germany.
Friend: But why are you scared? No one is talking about Jews.
Because Hitler was able to find out whoever was a Jew through, * “census records, tax returns, synagogue membership lists, parish records (for converted Jews), routine but mandatory police registration forms, the questioning of relatives, and from information provided by neighbors and officials. In territory occupied by Nazi Germany or its Axis partners, Jews were identified largely through Jewish community membership lists, individual identity papers, captured census documents and police records, and local intelligence networks.”
*Credit Holocaust Museum and Education Center of Southwest Florida
And now Trump can find out whoever anyone is, just through the use of DNA. And if he thinks he can build a wall and have Mexico pay for it, then he sure as hell thinks he (and the government he hopes to be) can vet anyone. No matter what they look like, No matter where they live, no matter who they are, where they worship, or whomever they love.
So, yeah, this kind of talk hits me on a whole other level.
A. Jewish. Level.
Never Again.


My eldest son just turned 11. And it’s almost like his hormones were all “holy shit, we’re 11. We get to be complete douche bags now,” and his tweensanity has been on the forefront of life.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Boy Wonder, as I’ve so aptly named him, is a phenomenal kid; an excellent student, a loyal friend, a die-hard athlete, but he is still just a kid. And kid’s haven’t fully hatched yet into grown-up thoughts. Shit, I know some grown-ups who haven’t fully hatched into grown-up thoughts, I’m sure you do too, so, I don’t expect him to be rational with the rules around here. We have one new rule in the house that he thinks is completely stupid, and he has no problem voicing that at every turn.

Boy Wonder is a computer dude. If he had his way, he’d spend every waking moment on his computer. He’ll probably be one of those guys who figures out how to rig a catheter and blend all his meals – hey, I guess we’ll find out when he goes to college – but right now, I’m his mom.

And. That. Shit. Ain’t. Gonna. Fly.

Read More →


Um, yeah. Little Bunny Foo Foo grew up. Into a Pulp Fiction, bat wielding, badass, who ruins cheese.

We don’t go out to eat much. In the interest of common decency, we tend to spare the outside world from the onslaught that is three boys surrounding a table. ‘Cause it’s a fucking shit show. And that’s just what happens in our house. We have doors there to separate our insanity from the general population of random people walking the earth.

But sometimes, even common decency gets thrown by the wayside, and I find myself texting the hubby, “Can we please go out to eat tonight?” And he’s all, “Sure. Somewhere classy.” And I’m all, “Of course, I’m a lady.’

And that’s how our family of five ends up at Hooters.

Read More →


“Mommy, I want an Umpa Lompa. I WANT AN UMPA LUMPA, NOW!”

If you’ve glanced at a newspaper or a television or the internet in the past 20 years you’ve realized that there are many people walking around who shouldn’t have children. Like, “maybe forced sterilization isn’t such a bad idea or an inhuman conclusion,” sort of people. I watch the news. I read the horrible stories of abuse and neglect that seem to occur on the daily. These insane situations are the types of thing that just a headline can send your mood into a tailspin.

So here’s the problem…

While there are human beings out there that are abusing their children, not every parent is abusive. Just like not every person likes donuts (although I’d have to believe if you don’t like donuts there is fundamentally something wrong with you) and some people don’t like cheese (again, these people are most likely insane and should probably be kept away from the rest of us, normal people) but just because I have children, and at times they get upset or unruly in public, that doesn’t mean I am abusing them. Read More →


“Now, THIS, is a reason to hit the gym!” “Yup, but his dick is the size of my thigh gap.” “Ohh, BURN.”


It’s that time of year again. Yeah, bae, the resolutions were made and now every mother and her mother’s mother is hittin’ up the local Crunch Fitness like it’s her job. At this point, I just refer to all the new faces I see after New Year as Felicia, ’cause by February, that bitch is gonna be all sorts of bye. Here’s a point of reference for the resolution moms you’ll meet at the gym.

The Prom Queen

This gal makes a Kardashian look like just some lowly hoe vying for attention. She dresses like she owns the place, catwalks like Gucci is watching and is never seen actually working out. If your gym has a juice bar; she’ll be there, surrounded by her adoring subjects. She’s also been known to cry and walk out the first 10 minutes of Power Yoga because the instructor overlooked a namaste in her direction. Read More →