Plunged into Plucking

By Tonia

"No, no, not by the hair on my chinny chin chin." – the three little pigs

At 62, my bad hair days no longer have anything to do with my hairdo. That happened in the ‘80s …. every …. single …. day. No, my bad hair days are when the multiple hairs on my chin have grown over night like they were fertilized and I don’t have tweezers. That is my new bad hair day. So while the hair on my head is thinning, my eyebrows are thinning and, hell, even my pubic hairs are thinning, I’m growing chin hairs! Mother Nature and Father Time are fucking with me – and not in a kinky, fun way. I’m starting to remind myself of a 14 year old boy sprouting his first beard. New dating rule: No dating anyone with less chin hair than me.

I mean, just as my eyesight is going, I have single, dark hairs emerging all over my chin that I can’t see. Is this some kind of cruel joke? How am I supposed to fix this??

So I’ve purchased a 1000x magnifying mirror for my Search and Destroy missions. And I carry tweezers with me everywhere. Tweezers are no longer just for the bathroom any more. I have them in my purse, in my desk drawer at work, in the glove compartment of my car and even outside with the gardening tools. The second I feel one of those tiny little stiff hairs trying to poke itself out of my skin, I rip it out. But sometimes the hair isn't long enough to pluck, so I just have to sit and rub it, trying to get it ready to pluck (Hopefully, I just look like I’m rubbing my chin in deep contemplation).

Sometimes I’m driving along in my car and I see one that I’ve missed. Then I start to panic. How many people have seen it? Did they simply think it was a stray hair from my make-up brush? Did my make-up camouflage it enough? WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME???

I’ve thought about shaving them but, if I shave my chin like I shave my legs, I’ll end up bleeding like I’ve amputated something. And those tiny pieces of toilet paper stuck to the bleeding spots don’t always match my eye shadow.

I’ve also considered the over-the-counter creams. They dissolve hair but they don’t always work on coarse hair and, if you leave it on too long, it can dissolve your skin. Great. Melting skin. Just blend it in with the wrinkles.

Then there’s waxing - hot sticky wax that rips hairs out by their roots leaving scarlet, angry skin behind. The trouble here (besides the angry skin) is that you have to let the hair grow out ¼ of an inch before you can remove it. Uh…..no.

I guess I may look into laser or electrolysis……..or just join the circus.

For your next girlfriends’ get together, consider checking out your area’s Groupons for spa deals! Smuggle in some white wine in your water bottles! And to those unruly chin hairs, I say, “Well, pluck it.”

Jacking with Packing

by Tonia

"Home may be where the heart is but don’t ask me which box it’s in.” – me

I’m relocating to Santa Fe in a few weeks. Moving was such great idea ….. until I started packing. Holy Hoarder! For every one box I pack, 3 more boxes worth of crap appear. My moving date is approaching faster than a speeding bullet and there’s no Superman here to save me from this cardboard crisis. I guess I’m going to have to quickly make a LOT of new friends before my moving date (preferably really buff ones from a gym). Then I can have a packing party. I'll serve alcohol but it will have to be BYC (Bring Your Own Cups) because I can’t find mine.

I tried to get rid of some of this crap at a Yard Sale a few weeks ago but every time a friend dropped by to see how I was doing, I had to grab an item she had given me and hide it. I ended up with a huge pile of gifted crap in my shed. People can be so touchy, ya know?

A few years ago I had a house fire and lost most of my possessions. Frankly, that sounds pretty damn good about now. Maybe when I get just a little more tired of packing I’ll convince myself that I really don’t like the rest of my things and just leave them.

The other day I was packing up some of the crap and heard my cell phone ring from inside a box. It took me 30 minutes to figure out WHICH box because ….. of course ….. it quit ringing after a few seconds. And god only knows where I’ve packed the dog’s leash. I had to improvise with packing tape wrapped around his collar…..even made myself a cute little handle. 

I think I’m developing symptoms of Relocation Psychosis (RP – not RIP…..yet): auditory hallucinations of popping bubble wrap; nightmares of boxes climbing in the windows to entrap me; complete disorganization; difficulty staying on task. Is there medicine for this?

For your next girlfriends’ get-together……well, crap, I have no ideas. I’m too busy trying to stay away from the creepy boxes trying to get me........

The Selling of the Yard

by Tonia

I’m getting ready to move out of state so I needed to get rid of some crap and shit. And, since its Yard Sale season (when entire neighborhoods have the opportunity to judge you for your belongings), I decided to join the ranks of the Yard Sale entrepreneurs. Not that I’m any kind of sales person, mind you. Hell, I couldn’t sell a bra to cross dresser. Or sunscreen to a nudist. But I needed the cash…..

STEP 1 was the terrorizing task of actually going through all my crap and shit. Instead of DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE, it was separate piles of CHUCK, CHUCK, SELL – through every drawer and every closet. I even ventured into the attic….which requires a ladder….which got knocked over when I threw down some crap and shit. And, even though I was physically above it all, the expletives coming out of my mouth were definitely beneath even me. Motherf^*ker! So I sat and sat up there until my sister happened by. She laughed hysterically and threatened to leave me up there ….. until she saw the stuck-in-the-attic-crazy-eyed look on my face.

STEP 2 was pricing everything. Ugh. What dilemmas! I couldn’t decide whether to price things according to my emotional attachment to them or to get them the hell out of my sight. I mean, how do I price Japanese toothpicks decorated as Geisha?

STEP 3 (well, not really STEP 3 but it really happened) was my girlfriend coming over the night before the sale with food to cook on the grill. Since we might or might not have had too much to drink, we ended up with some of her singed bangs on the meat. Later, when she went into the bathroom and found a pair of scissors, I heard her yell to me, “I guess it’s not a great idea to cut my bangs when I’ve been drinking!” Step away from the scissors, my friend. Just slowly back away……  And THAT was a Bangs Rescue.

STEP 4 (or 3 or whatever) was getting up at 5:00 a.m. for an 8:00 a.m. Yard Sale - and that awkward first meeting of the neighbors when your best friend shoos them away for being too early. Anna and her boyfriend ducked out of that scene to hang signs, but they either took a Tour of Tulsa or went to breakfast. She’s not telling. We didn’t see them for hours.

As we set stuff out, I considered throwing a sex toy in the mix just to see people’s reactions, but decided that the 2 blow-up men and kinky board games were probably enough.

STEP ?? was the actual sale. Lots of interesting people came by, including my 90 year old neighbor who bought shelves and talked a total stranger (another Yard Sale shopper) into carrying it to her house for her. (I took notes on THAT pick-up!) She also told us that the best thing about being 90 was that no one asked her for a ride or babysitting any more.

As the day worn on, Anna got into the Spirit of Selling (otherwise known Poverty’s Desperation). She started selling homemade cupcakes and a Dollar Store12-pack of water for $1 each. She proposed that I advertise $20 lap dances, but one really can’t do a decent lap dance with a Yard Sale money apron on. 

What I REALLY wanted to sell were the bags under my eyes, the hairs on my chin, and the flaps under my arms, but I may have to PAY to get rid of those!

For your next girlfriends’ get together, try a Lavender & Ginger Vodka Spritzer: 
Put lots of ice in a highball glass. Add:

3 oz. vodka
5 oz. soda water
1 drop of lavender oil or 2 sprigs of fresh lavender
1 slice of fresh ginger

Stir and drink!

My Mammogram Call Back

by Tonia

"Scientists now believe that the primary biological function of breasts is to make males stupid." - Dave Barry

I got a call back after my mammogram this year. That’s like an encore, right? Because the girls did so well? Not exactly. There had been a “change” in my right breast since my last mammogram and an ultrasound was needed in order to rule out…you know….

All kinds of things started to run through my mind. My mammogram tech and I had previously negotiated a safe word: could I use the same one with the ultrasound tech, would I have to create a new one or would I even need one at all? After all, rubbing my tit with some kind of object just seemed like kinky foreplay. Would there be handcuffs or ties on the table, too? Would I have to remove my glitter pasties? I just had so many questions!

I was supposed to make an appointment. But first I had to check my calendar to make sure there weren’t any big events coming up I wanted to be in a good mood for. Geez! I didn’t want bad news about my ta-tas to ruin a good time!  So I checked my calendar and made the GD appointment. 

As I was laying on the table flashing the ceiling, I started making promises to the Universe. “If this ultrasound is OK, I promise I’ll quit fantasizing about the lawn boy. I’ll quit texting and driving. I’ll stop posting inappropriate things on Facebook.” I’m not sure which promise worked but it turned out that the “change” was only a cyst – according to the dictionary, “a membranous sac or cavity of abnormal character containing fluid.”

“Abnormal character,” huh? Bahahahaha!

Extra “fluid”? Woo hoo! Fill me up! I just need a cyst on the other side now so I can save myself some money on implants!

Soooooo for your next girlfriends’ get together (great for breast cancer awareness month or if a girlfriend is going thru breast cancer treatment), play FREEING THE TA-TAS.

Directions: divide your guests into two (2) teams. Have one member from each team put on the exact number of bras as she has teammates – on the OUTSIDE of her clothing (for example, if there are 3 teammates besides her, she will put on 3 bras). Have the Bra Wearers stand about 20 feet away from their lined up teammates. When someone shouts “GO!” one of the teammates from each team runs to her team’s Bra Wearer, unhooks one of the bras with only ONE hand, takes it off and outs it on herself (using 2 hands this time) and runs back to her other teammates. The next woman in line then runs to the Bra Wearer and does the same thing. Continue until the one of the original Bra Wearers no longer has any bras on and the last team member has returned to her teammates. First team to accomplish this wins!

Colonoscopies: Giving a Shit

by Tonia

I finally decided to get a colonoscopy. Eleven years overdue, I’d run out of excuses. I know what you’re thinking – how come she has all the fun? Ugh. I’ve been looking forward to this about as much as a root canal or an IRS audit - even being buried alive in sand with ants crawling all over my head somehow seemed less dreadful.

But I did my research and found the cutest…..I mean, most competent gastroenterologist I could find. He had excellent reviews. Too bad he was just going to see me as an asshole.

I told some of my girlfriends I was going (BIG mistake). They joked that they couldn’t tell the doctor to go boldly where no man had ever gone before because that just wasn’t true. Dammit! I tell them WAY too much……

So the time got close and I started on my day of clear liquids. Chicken broth, tea, apple juice. Vodka. (KIDDING!) I can’t tell you the number of times I went to the pantry and ‘frig to get something to eat and then remembered that I was grounded. Grrrrrr…. Anyone who says fasting draws attention away from physical needs to spiritual concerns didn’t have MY growling stomach!

Then came the time to drink my first prep. Holy Mother of God, that shit was DISGUSTING! It tasted like some kind of salty, fermented cyanide……except that I didn’t die. I only wished I could.

And it was about then that I realized something was wrong with my car and I needed to call a tow truck. It took the guy awhile to arrive and during that “while” my intestines began to explode. Seriously. It made my most urgent urine stream seem like cute little dribbles. I can only describe it as the kind of force that one sees when testing fire hydrants. If I had been outside and bent over, it would have knocked down large pets and small children.

But the tow truck guy was knocking at my door. As soon as I could, I got up from the toilet and explained where I wanted my car to go. I said I would not be accompanying him, however, because I had to stay close to the bathroom. And THAT understatement, my friends, ranks right up there with Astronaut Jim Lovell’s, “Houston, we’ve got a problem” when Apollo 13’s oxygen tank exploded.

I’ll spare you the description of the next 14 hours but, let’s just say that at the end of it, no one could tell me I was full of shit. It just wasn’t true.

Anna drove me to the procedure. I wanted to draw a bull’s-eye around the target so the cute doctor wouldn’t mistake one of my cellulite dimples for my asshole. Or, at the very least, I wanted to write a message on my ass, “This isn’t my best side.” But, alas, it all happened so quickly that I had no time. I woke up and it was over.

So I did it. My results were good. Now everyone can get off my ass about it!

And, in honor of colonoscopies, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a Healthy Gut potluck. Ask everyone to bring fiber-rich foods, citrus fruits, and foods that contain probiotics (yogurt, miso, etc). Then honor the wisdom of your “gut” by talking about times when your gut feelings were accurate despite evidence to the contrary!

Don't Eat Me

by Tonia

“I would not drink bottles of water at my mom's house because I never knew how long she'd been refilling them from the sink and putting them back in the refrigerator.” – Dan Fogelman

Instead of a boyfriend I have a refrigerator. I have romantic moonlit walks to meet up with it secretly in the middle of the night. We understand one another.

But sometimes relationships have their ups and downs, ya know? Like boyfriends, the ‘frig looks cute and clean from the outside…….but, after awhile, deep within its compartments, it's just bad.

So the day I was fasting for my colonoscopy I decided to clean the fucker (cleaning out the insides of both of us). I would do a little more than just wipe off the front of the shelves. And, for the record, I do try to clean my ‘frig occasionally…..well, maybe 2-3x a year…..OK, maybe less. I don’t know. Let’s not get hung up on the details.

I actually have a theory about what happens to food in refrigerators - it gets sucked into a parallel refrigerator universe, not to be seen again for months…..or, in my case, years. Then it gets dropped out of that alternate universe and left for dead in the very back corner of the lower shelf.....and the middle shelf.....and sometimes the upper shelf. 

So, as I was cleaning and playing What’s That Vegetable, I wondered: when exactly does the edible become the inedible? When it changes colors or when it grows things or when it starts to smell? And at what point does a single woman’s refrigerator start to look like a frat house’s refrigerator? And why hasn’t someone invented disposable refrigerators? I pondered these things as I pulled my arm off some sticky stuff on the ‘frig walls.

In my cleaning, I discovered things from 2003 (threw those away). There were also Tupperware containers I wisely decided not to open because I had no gas mask readily available. I just pitched them, containers and all. I can buy more Tupperware later.

How does one know when it's time to clean the frig? Here are some clues (you're welcome!):

·       -----No light escapes when you open the door at night

·       -----You’d rather be hit by car than open the refrigerator door

·       -----You think you had an Elvis sighting in there

·       -----The vegetable drawer looks like an undiscovered rain forest

·       -----Something pulls the door shut from the inside

And, now that I'm finished cleaning the 'frig, I like to go into the kitchen just to open the door and see the brilliance! Maybe I’ll tackle the oven next……….uh..........well........nah!!

And, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a tacky left-over dinner party. Ask girlfriends to bring their left-overs or any food with the word “product” on the label (i.e. “pasteurized prepared cheese product”). Set out foods in aerosol cans (i.e. whipped cream, Cheez Whiz, etc.) and serve some kind of potted meat. Drink heavily!!

Angry Birds

by Tonia

For several years sparrows have been nesting under the eaves of my roof. This “home inside my home” may be home-grown but it is NOT homey! It is an intrusive declaration of war - a survival of the fittest.

Those fucking birds are like dive bombers coming through the patio. I’ve had injuries trying to take cover.

And the incessant chirping of hungry baby birds at 4:00 a.m. is enough to make me want to be a gun owner.

And did I mention the bird poop all over my patio furniture? It’s like my patio table is an avian shit magnet!

And, my favorite fowl remnant - the occasional “dumping” (splatting) of a least-favored newly hatched naked baby onto the patio – usually in the early morning hours - so that I can step on it as I start my day. Yes, I’m a bird hater.

I’ve tried to keep those birds from nesting. Really. I’ve tried -

-- I’ve stuffed tubular inserts into the cracks of the eaves. RESULT: tubular inserts removed  and tossed on my doorstep as humiliating evidence of my defeat.

-- I’ve taped reflective psychedelic flapping-in-the breeze ribbons to the eaves to scare them. RESULT: wild dance parties with a disco ball and loud music.

-- I’ve put garlic and other bird-repelling herbs under the eaves. RESULT: garlic-belching birds flying by thanking me for the new bird food recipe.

-- I’ve tacked wire mesh over favorite nesting spots. RESULT: wire mesh reconfigured as a barbed wire fence to keep ME out.

-- I’ve left them notes that they are going to have to start paying rent if they don’t leave. RESULT: shredded notes as part of the nest.

But this year, with unseasonable warm weather for February, I decided I’d better declare war early. With just a few pieces of straw protruding from the eaves, I climbed up on my shaky ladder and caulked every single tiny GD space I could find under those eaves. It now looks like my roof has been glued to the house by a 2 year old.

After my caulking frenzy, I looked up to admire my handiwork and there were two birds sitting on the guttering near their former nesting spots. Glaring. No, SERIOUSLY glaring. I mean, PLOTTING REVENGE glaring. I ran into the house as fast as I could. I’ve created my very own angry birds. God help me.

For your next girlfriends’ get-together, have a slumber party and, in the middle of the night, instead of TPing someone’s house, move those bird nests to your arch-enemy neighbor’s eaves!

Overlay

Estrofests is thrilled and privileged to host guest blogger, Meg Myers Morgan. Meg is author of "Harebrained: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time." She recently gave an inspirational Tedx Talk "Negotiating for your Life." 

by Meg Myers Morgan

When my husband and I first started dating, Jim planned a romantic evening out for us. This included dinner at a restaurant I had promised myself I’d never patronize again. While Jim’s default is to always let me have my way, that night he refused. He drove us to the restaurant with me protesting the entire way. When we pulled into the lot, he put the car in park, shut off the engine, turned to me and said, “I’m about to give you an overlay experience.”

I blushed at his forwardness, but he then explained what he meant by “overlay.” He believed that all bad experiences can be redone, with the hopes of having a better experience the second time. So by taking me to a restaurant in which I’d had a bad experience, he was determined to overlay it with a good one.

And it worked.

We had such a fantastic date that night, the restaurant is now one of our favorite spots.

While this seemed small, Jim’s overlay idea became a substantial component of our relationship. We re-experienced numerous restaurants, trips, and movies together. But it also became somewhat of a philosophy of our life together: no bad experience is the final word. Sometimes the overlays were small: Jim re-watching Annie Hall with me and finally agreeing it had merit. And sometimes they were significant: the birth of our second child overlaying the experience of our first.

The experience birthing our first child was a bad one. Incredibly long labor, hours of pushing, extreme tearing (men, your life is a cake walk), excruciating PUPPS rash after delivery (Google image this, but not before dinner), no milk supply leading to my daughter’s severe dehydration and readmission into the hospital, the horror of trying to defecate after a vaginal delivery (seriously, as a gender we need to talk about this more), and postpartum depression.

The gamut of horrible experiences.

But on the eve of our second daughter’s birth, my husband assured me the experience would overlay the first. He even argued the more horrible the first experience, the greater the overlay.

And dammit if he wasn’t right again.

I hardly even noticed I’d delivered London. Short labor, only a handful of pushes, no tearing, no rash, no dehydration issues, and I didn’t even bat an eye taking a shit after birth. I came home with a quiet, sweet, sleepy baby who politely existed in our lives the first few weeks as if she didn’t want to bother anyone. This made me believe I was ready to take on one of life’s greatest challenges:

The family vacation.

We decided that an overnight stay somewhere close would be the perfect way to spend our first vacation as a family of four.  The night before we left, I packed more brilliantly than I’d ever packed before. I had all the baby’s gear; I had all the toddler gear; I had swimsuits; I had sunscreen. I had the double stroller. I had chargers for all electronic devices. I even had the fucking Frozen soundtrack.

The morning we got on the road at the exact time for which we had aimed and synchronized our watches. During the drive, the uninterrupted conversation and peacefully sleeping children lured us into a false sense of security.

And the first destination—the science museum—was a huge success. But before dinner, things started to unravel. It began with a slight burning in my right eye. My husband joked that I had pink eye. I laughed, until I looked over at Lowery and noticed her left eye was gunky. And pink. Luckily, my brilliant packing included every single medication in our bathroom, even a half empty bottle of antibiotic eye drops.

I’m not implying that trying to get eye drops into an uncooperative preschooler ruined the trip. But it sure worked up a nice sweat before dinner.

Once all infected eyes were treated, we decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. I had London strapped to my chest, and Lowery held my husband’s hand as we strolled out of the hotel to discover it was sprinkling. Slightly.

As we walked, however, the slight sprinkle turned into a deluge. By the time we got to the restaurant door, rain was falling in a manner most often seen during hurricanes. Or movies about shipwrecks.

I’m not implying that getting drenched with rainwater on our walk to the restaurant ruined our trip. But it sure cooled us off from all the eye-drop wrestling.

When we were safely inside the restaurant, we were told there would be a thirty-minute wait for a table. This didn’t worry me. In my brilliant packing I had managed to bring a small backpack filled with coloring books and stickers to occupy my three-year-old. But after we had been waiting more than an hour, all the stickers were placed and all the pages were colored. 

I’m not implying that waiting more than an hour for a table when there were clearly no other people occupying it ruined our trip. But it certainly allowed us time to work up an appetite.

Another hour passed before our meal was delivered. The only bright spot of the meal was a balloon artist who came to our table. Lowery was so excited that she leapt out of her seat to come show me her new animal, tripped over the balloon artist’s foot and collided with the concrete floor. She screamed a scream not normally possible from such small lungs. This awoke our infant, who promptly tried to rival her sister’s volume. I scooped up my three-year-old and headed to the lobby with both children screaming uncontrollably. With no option, I sat down on the floor to feed the baby while using my one free arm to wipe the blood off of my other child’s knees, all while my husband finished paying the bill.

The screaming from both children lasted the entire walk back to the hotel.

I’m not implying that the extremely awful restaurant experience ruined our trip. But I do think it was responsible for putting all four of us in a pretty foul mood.

Back in our hotel room and in dry clothes, Lowery was beginning to exhibit signs of mental instability. She pulled everything out of every bag, all the pillows off the bed and then ran to the bathroom and attempted to lock herself in. I tried to help my husband with her antics, but I was occupied by our inconsolable infant.

For over an hour I worked to calm my inexplicably crying baby, while my husband resorted to every disciplinary tactic ever invented to try to calm down our wound-up child. Lowery is strong-willed and independent. But this night was like nothing we’d ever seen. She had gone full-on Linda Blair.

Meanwhile, our infant, who had barely uttered a peep in her first few weeks of life, was screaming as though she’d just realized she had exited the womb. At one point, the front desk called our room to raise concerns about the noise level. We could barely hear each other over the two screaming girls.

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists!” my husband screamed at one point as our three-year-old attempted to stick her head through a coat hanger.

“When is your vasectomy scheduled?!” I yelled over the high-pitched screech of our infant.

Lowery, who had opened the two complimentary bottles of water and poured them in the toilet, fought our demands that she get on the bed and go to sleep. She cried and screamed and pouted and, to my complete horror, spit.

Watching my child—my sweet, typically well-behaved child—literally spit at us made something inside of me snap. And I yelled. I yelled louder than the screaming children. Louder than I’d ever yelled. And when I stopped, Lowery looked at me, completely unfazed by my outburst, and yelled back, “I’m just not tired!”

With that pronouncement, she threw herself dramatically on the bed. And as her head hit the pillow, even before the rest of her body had landed, she was completely asleep.

My husband and I looked at each other in shock, not even realizing that London had miraculously stopped crying as well and had passed out asleep in my arms. Jim tip toed over to Lowery’s bed and covered her with a blanket. I laid the baby gently down in the crib. And we silently crawled into bed together, trembling while we held each other like Leo and Kate in the icy waters.

I’m not implying that our three-year-old ruined our family vacation, but she totally did.

The next morning, Lowery popped up looking refreshed and happy. She bounced over to our bed to give us kisses. We rose up like two hung over frat boys to kiss her back.

Ten minutes into our journey home, a mere 18 hours after the trip began, Lowery said she needed to use the bathroom. The last sign we passed said the next rest stop was 30 miles ahead. Lowery began to cry, yelling that she really needed to go and couldn’t hold it. We sped up, promising Lowery candy if she could hold it. (I wasn’t going up for Mother of the Year this trip.)

When we finally made it to the rest stop, Lowery bounced out of the car and ran next to me holding her crotch. She perched herself on the toilet, but I heard nothing. Pure silence.

“I don’t have to go any more,” she smiled up at me.

Rather than leave her there on the toilet, get back in the car and drive away, I’ll always praise myself for deciding to take her with us.

Back in the car and ten more minutes down the road, London began screaming. Loudly. We contemplated our options. Me crawling in the back seat while the car went 90 down the highway, or pulling off to the side of the road. Neither was advisable, so we drove another 20 solid minutes with our infant screaming in the dog octave.

When we finally stopped, I jumped in the back seat, and the moment I placed the pacifier in her mouth, before her lips could even seal around it, she fell asleep.

Back on the road again, Lowery softly said, “Okay, I really do have to go this time.”

What seemed like hours later, we pulled into our driveway and sat there with the engine still running and rain beating down on the hood. Both children were finally sleeping in the back seat. Tears began rolling down my cheeks. When my gentle crying became audible sobbing, Jim turned to look at me. At first his face was twisted with concern, but then it morphed into an enormous grin.

“Why are you smiling?” I said, as snot started to collect on my upper lip.

“Because,” he said with a laugh, “just imagine the overlay.”


For your next girlfriends' get together, play When I Say/My Kids Hear. Take several long sheets of paper and write a different "When I say...." sentence-starter on the top of each sheet. (Examples: "When I say 'Go to bed,' my kids hear _________" or "When I say 'Pick up your room,' my kids hear ________.") Pass the sheets around so everyone can write on each paper. After everyone has written on all of the sheets, read them out loud. 

Meg is a woman with too little time on her hands to write as though she's got nothing but time. Even still, she's written a humorous blog since 2010 and she has been published in print and syndicated online. Her book Harebrained: It seemed like a good idea at the time, came out in 2015 and ranked in the top ten humorous books on Amazon. She recently gave a Tedx Talk "Negotiating for your Life" (available online in March of 2016). An Oklahoma native, Meg received her undergraduate degree in English and Creative Writing from Drury University, and her MPA and PhD from the University of Oklahoma. Meg lives in Tulsa with her husband and two daughters. She works as an assistant professor of political science and writes feverishly in the minuscule time after her children go to bed and before her nightcap. 
Buy her book HERE