"Bitch, don't even think about it. I'm not worth the trouble."

“Bitch, don’t even think about it. I’m not worth the trouble.”

Last month, the family said goodbye to our beloved family pet, a 3-year-old Beta fish named Kelme. Kelme lived a shit-ton longer than any fish I’ve ever had, but yet, he too inevitably met the same fate as countless goldfish from the County Fair before him. As Kelme swam over the rainbow bridge to that great toilet in the sky, I promised the kiddos we could get another fish when we came home from vacation.

Unfortunately for me, the kids cashed in their fish chip today.

Look, I’m not a horrible mommy, I want my kids to have a pet. But I am completely allergic to anything with fur – besides my husband – and while a fish is the lowest possible maintenance for a pet alive, there still is some maintenance. Maintenance that gets added to my plate because I know my kids would completely fuck it up and I really don’t feel like throwing money down the toilet (pun intended) on buying a new fish every month because they can’t figure out how to correctly clean a bowl.

So off to the pet store we went. Once there, my older 2 kids couldn’t decide on a fish unanimously which was a pain in my ass not much of a surprise. As we needed a new bowl too – because I threw out all reminders of Kelme upon his death –  I realized that my best option would be to pacify everyone. 2 fish, for 2 brothers. Yay. Problem solved. Happiness ensued. The end.

Nope, not that easy.

After purchasing everything it would take to keep 2 overpriced fish alive for as long as possible, we settled into the car and started the trip home.

“So guys, what do you want to name your fishes?” I questioned. The 4-year-old spoke up first, “I’m calling mine Dog. Because I wish that’s what he was.” Touché, kid. “Dog… nice. Good name. How about Fido? That’s a dog’s name.” Then he rethought, “Actually, I think I’ll call him Sushi.”

Sushi? OMG, the laughter came from my gut in waves. “A fish called Sushi! That’s an awesome fish name. You are so funny, buddy!”

The 10-year-old was holding back his laughter as he said, “That’s a terrible name. It’s so offensive.” I laughed even harder at that. Something about offending a fish seemed a bit hysterical.

“It’s not offensive,” the 4-year-old balked. “I like sushi and I like my fish.”

“Dude. Sushi is fish. It’s made from raw fish.”

“Is that true, Mom?” I looked in the mirror to see wide 4-year-old’s eyes, filled with horror.

“Yeah, buddy, that is true. But that’s what makes the name super funny.”

Once again my 10-year-old’s voice of reason cut me off at the pass, “That’s like getting a pet pig and naming it Bacon, or a cow named Cheeseburger. OFFENSIVE!”

At this point, I didn’t even want to look at my preschooler’s face. I could just picture our next family meal. He’s not currently a good eater and now that he’s been introduced to The History of the Origin of Meat, Part II, I couldn’t see that stage coming to an end in anytime soon.

I shouldn’t have been worried.

“Wow, Mom! So we can get a pig?”

Oy Vey.

PS. The fishes are very happy in their new home and have been nameless for 12 hours. I’m really pushing for Bacon and Cheeseburger.

"Bitch, don't even think about it. I'm not worth the trouble."


Failure isn’t fun. I don’t think anyone sits around and says, “I’d like to really suck at something today.” Yeah, that doesn’t happen. It is in our nature to want to succeed at every task we attempt. Unfortunately, that’s not the way the world works. There will be times where you attempt something that doesn’t pan out. A failed business, or relationship, or maybe even a hobby that just wasn’t your thing. As adults, we have a better understanding of failure. Kids? Not so much.

My oldest son is very smart. Borderline ridiculous smart. And he’s the one I worry about the most. Because being smart might make things easier for you in certain situations, like, understanding quantum physics, but you still have to apply yourself in the trying of the things.

Smart to my kid is beginning to look like he has everything in the bag just because he’s smart. And as adults, we know that isn’t quite the case. Practice, dedication and hard work are still paramount no matter how smart you are. And with his high IQ comes an overwhelming sense of fear when it comes to failure. It seems he would prefer not to try if the odds are he might fail. This is bad, and I’ve been worrying about this more and more.

Yesterday, my nephew was celebrating his birthday at a local roller rink. Although he’s been roller skating before, coordination tasks aren’t really my oldest’s favorite activities and he stated on the way there that he wasn’t planning on skating. When we got to the party I talked him into getting on some skates, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I posed. “I could spend the entire party on my butt,” he countered. “True, but you’ll spend it on your butt with skates on your feet as opposed to wearing your shoes in that chair over there.”

Mom: 1, 10-year-old: 0.

And that’s when the most miraculous thing happened.

He skated.

And he sucked, and he fell, and then he sucked less, and then he fell less.

And before he even realized it, he was having fun. With every completed revolution around the rink he’d call out to me, “Mom, I only fell once that time,” or “I haven’t fallen in the last 15 laps.”

The smile on his handsome tween face lit that skating rink brighter than the florescent lights bouncing off the disco ball. Watching him try with the fear of failure looming in the background was a moment I will always treasure, and remind him of over and over again when he attempts to back out of shit.

‘Cause I’m a mom like that.


My Cheeseburger Bombs bring the boys to the yard, and they’re like, HOLY SHIT IS THAT DEEP FRIED BACON?

We have survived the first week of summer. Barely. Actually, less than barley… minimally. Look, I love my kids, and camp doesn’t start for another week, so I’ve been grasping at straws trying to keep the peace and have a good time. Sadly, I am failing.

But that’s okay.

We are still alive, we haven’t needed any medical intervention (fingers crossed) and today is a new day. Today, I decided to chuck the everyday peanut butter and jelly lunch in an effort to wow my kids. “See, look kids, mommy does care, she really does! She fried shit with bacon on it for you! LOOK, bacon.” Okay, the conversation didn’t go quite like that, but they were impressed, and thankful, and quiet for a whole 7 minutes because they were chewing.

It. Was. Glorious.

I know what you’re thinking, “Amy, please… I too, want to be an MVP mom today. I too, want to knock my kids socks off and have 7 minutes of chewing silence.” Well bitch, you’re welcome. Here is the holy grail for no-school-day lunches and tailgate parties… Bacon Cheeseburger Bombs.


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This is what you need.

Bacon Cheeseburger Bombs
Adapted from Pillsbury

1 can (16.3 oz) Pillsbury™ Grands!™ Flaky Layers refrigerated original or buttermilk biscuits
1 lb lean (at least 80%) ground beef, cooked or 16 frozen (thawed) cooked meatballs (I use ground beef)
1 block (8 oz) Cheddar cheese, cut into 16 cubes
16 slices bacon (One pack)
Long toothpicks or skewers
Canola oil for frying

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Let them help, but make sure they wash their hands first. Kids = Gross.

First things first, pop open your can of biscuits, separate them into 8 individual biscuits and cut those suckers in half. I used a serrated knife and just went to town. At this point the kids are going to want to help. LET THEM. Shit, you guys don’t have anything else to do today, might as well milk this for as long as you possibly can. Once the biscuits are cut you can have your sous chef use his hands to press them into a circle about 3 inches in diameter. You can fix them all when he gets bored and walks away. Trust me.

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“You stink. You smell like beef and cheese! You don’t smell like Santa.”

Now this is getting really fun. Next, place 2 tablespoons cooked ground beef (or 1 meatball) and 1 cube of cheese in the center of each circle. Wrap the dough to completely enclose beef and cheese; pinch seams to seal. Don’t worry if your dough rips or anything. Messes are delicious too.

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Bacon makes my heart go pitter patter.

Now that you have 16 little “bombs” of awesome you should put your canola oil in a 3 quart heavy saucepan or deep fryer. Heat oil to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. MAKE SURE your oil is not too hot. You don’t want to have the outside of your “bombs” burnt to a crisp while the inside dough is raw. That would be bad – not that I’ve ever experienced this or anything (okay, I’ve totally experienced this). While your oil is getting hot you are going to wrap each stuffed “bomb” with one bacon slice – I told you this was health food – and gently secure the loose bacon with a toothpick by inserting it through the bacon and halfway through the “bomb”.

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Ouch, that hurt.

By now your oil should be 350. Make sure to check that shit, and fry stuffed “bombs” 4 to 5 minutes or until dough is golden brown on all sides. While you’re frying, this is usually the time the kids are getting hungry and start throwing random shit at you, like, a metal shopping cart. Just ignore them and fry away. Place fried “bombs’ on paper towels to cool. Repeat with remaining “bombs”. Serve warm with ketchup and mustard, if desired. I guess you can also bake the “bombs” but I’m all about go big or go home over here.

Pinterest Cheeseburger


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All dressed up and heading to NickMom’s Middle School to the Max party with Foxy Wine Pocket and The Keeper of the Fruit Loops. I wanted to kidnap these ladies and hide them in my suitcase.


It’s always best to begin at the beginning. From the moment, I decided to attend BlogU15 in Baltimore I was terrified and thrilled. The “bitch in my head” started to take over my brain and I did my best to quiet her. My flight would be leaving Florida at 6 am on Friday, which meant I needed to be awake at 3 am and in a cab to the airport by 4. Mornings and I are not the best of friends so when I sat straight up in bed at 1 am I decided it best to get dressed, add my last minutes things to my suitcase, and wait. That Tom Petty is spot fucking on because the waiting is the hardest part.

I watched a Harry Potter movie as the time ticked by. Because I was so afraid I would sleep through my cab honking his horn outside my window, I actually ended up pulling out one of the most epic 24 hours without sleep my adult life has ever seen. I’m gonna blame lack of sleep that day on all the biggest unfortunate incident that followed. My complete clumsiness had no bearing on anything – yeah right, on a good day I’m like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

My arrival on the Notre Dame of Maryland campus was a bit of a blur. Except for this amazing story with Audrey, of Sass Mouth. Southern lady, my ass. I finally got to meet (in the flesh) a group of people I’ve been interacting with on the internet for about a year. These women, these glorious and brilliant women, were all I expected and more, as my online world collided with my real life. Surreal would be putting it mildly. I pounded some 5-hour Energy as I would not, could not, miss one second of the precious 48 hours I would have at BlogU. “Sleep is for pussies. I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” was the battle cry on loop in my maxed out brain. And I was doing it too. I attended classes that afternoon, went to dinner, then a party and a fabulous open mic reading. I watched as some of the greatest bloggers of my generation read their masterpieces aloud in front of large crowds. I watched Allen Ginsberg do a live reading in Greenwich Village 21 years ago. The stories I heard at BlogU made Ginsberg seem like a hack. The energy was palpable. My decision to stay awake was the right one. At least until it wasn’t.

When the open mic finished I found myself with my girl, Toni Hammer, as we took an elevator to our respective dorm rooms. As the elevator door opened I fished my small metal room key out of my neck lanyard. While stepping out of the elevator onto my floor I said, “Night, bitch,” and attempted to flourish my right hand in some sort of strangely odd wave. Blame it on the sleep deprivation, or the excitement of where I was and what I was doing, or the fact that I have the coordination of a bear learning the pachanga… my key flew out of my Vulcan death grip and was now airborne. Toni and I watched in slow motion as that silver flash flew through the air and fell… right into the small gap that separated the elevator from the floor. We heard a little ping as it settled at the bottom of the old dormitory. It was a one in a million shot made by the whitest of white girls. I sure picked the wrong time to do a LeBron James impression.

The hour that followed was spent sitting outside my locked dorm room door, waiting for a security guard to let me in. He was a portly fellow who didn’t seem to appreciate the humor of the whole situation. Imagine that? Finally, after a great deal of begging on my part, he let me into my room, I fell into my bed and passed out.

The next day, between classes, I ran to the basement of the building hoping to find my sweet little key sitting there waiting for me. Even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day, but no. Lady luck had decided to flip me the finger as I was able to see my key, about 4 feet lower than where I stood. In the elevator shaft. Fuck.

Campus security made it a point to let me know the elevator company would be coming by to retrieve my key long after the conference was over, so I kept my door unlocked for the rest of the weekend and, not to my surprise, all of my valuables stayed safe and sound. Although, I do think someone stole the chocolate out of my swag bag. Which makes total sense because chocolate and coffee are more valuable to bloggers then someone else’s laptop and cash money.

In 48 hours I made a million amazing memories. My sides and face ached from smiling and laughter. Surrounded by women (and a couple of brave men) I was in my element. These people got me. And I got them. The relationships I solidified in such a short period astound me. I even won the class clown award, which is very surprising because I’m a really serious person who rarely jokes around ever – Ahem.

My only complaint? There wasn’t enough time.

Until next year, BlogU. Adieu.

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What? What?



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They stuck this racing sticker onto the back of Heavy B’s shirt. I thought it was foreshadowing the obvious. I was wrong.

Two weeks ago the whole family went on a 4-day Disney Cruise, and while it was a magical and memorable time (even the worst meltdowns don’t feel so bad when you have a fruity drink in your hot-little hand) there was a single, massively disappointing moment in the family vacation.

The baby lost his first competitive race.

I know what you’re thinking. A race? He’s a baby. Where do babies race?

Apparently, they race on the high seas, surrounded by Disney characters and competitive eaters (okay that was just me, but whatever). Apparently, Disney runs a cute little race among the crawling babies on the day the boat is at sea. Apparently, it has something to do with the baby from the movie The Incredibles, but I never had to sit though that one because my mother-in-law took the kids.

Due to the fact that my husband and I, and my parents, and my brother, and his family, are the biggest group of competition people I know, we had to throw Heavy B’s sweat baby butt in the ring, or should I say, on to the track.

I mean, since the moment he could crawl, the baby has been trying to get away from us. Fast. Like, super fast. A crawling competition with a small plastic trophy at the end? We knew he was the favorite, “Baby! You’ve been training for this, YOUR WHOLE LIFE,” my husband murmured as he rubbed his broad baby shoulders.

Of course, with any plan for victory you need a fool-proof strategy. As the Master of Ceremonies announced the race rules, we were super excited when he said a parent should be at both the start and finish lines, and the finish line parent can hold anything they want to convince the baby to crawl to them.

We got this.

As I stood with Heavy B at the starting line, my husband, slowly and stealthily took his place at the finish line with our golden ticket. The key to sweet, sweet victory. He held in his hand… a single banana.

Listen, when you’re dealing with a 35 pound 15-month-old you know you can guarantee he is an eater. This baby can spy a banana at the top of Chiquita Banana’s hat, and scale that bitch to get to it. Surely this would be the secret to the victory dance, and the coveted diaper dash trophy, which I already had mentally built a new mantle in our house around. That triumph would be the feather in our competitive cap.

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The racing track. Could have been the ultimate victory.

That’s when my 10-year-old approached me with a new tactic to assist his baby brother with the win. “Maybe we should have some paper or plastic for him to chew on with Daddy too,” although an amazing idea, the baby does love to eat non-food items as well, we already had a game plan. “Stick to the game plan,” I hissed.

As the MC introduced the other racers I knew we’d have our work cut our for us but Heavy B had this in the bag. He was bigger and faster than any baby I’ve ever met before or since.

“Poor babies, they don’t stand a chance,” I muttered under my breath as I glanced at the other children being placed in the starting positions. Now a large crowd had gathered. Nothing better than cold libations on a huge boat while you watch a little friendly competition among a group of children that have yet to stand up right. I’m not gonna lie, I would have loved some side bet action, but I didn’t push it. After all, I had birthed the favorite.

As the verbal cues were uttered to signify the start of the race, I looked adoringly at my ginormous baby, and when the “Go!” was called I could almost see his fat little bottom as it crossed the finish line.

But the baby didn’t move.

He just sat there.

Between the noise, and the crowd, and the fact that his dad was holding a very small banana a very far distance away he just Didn’t. Go. Anywhere.

When that skinny little baby from Canada crossed the finish line I could barely see through my tears… of laughter. As my husband walked closer Heavy B saw the banana and his father coming in his direction and got really excited. We fed it to him as we issued a post race talk about winners and losers. How the next one was his for the taking but he had to want it. We knew we’d have to start training pretty hard when we got back home.

“We should have used the plastic,” my husband said as we walked away from the baby’s first of many losses.

“He coulda’ been a contender!” I yelled in my best New Jersey accent.

“Babe, this is the reason no one understands what you’re talking about. Stop quoting movies from the 1950’s!”

Whatever, he knew what I was talking about.

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That’s me. And I’m all like, “Hey, Heavy B, do you see Daddy over there with that banana?” and he’s all, “Shut up, woman. You’re not the boss of me.”

Diaper Dash