My Mom Was Like a Mother to Me

By Tonia

"When your mother asks, 'Do you want a piece of advice?' it is a mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it anyway." – Erma Bombeck

Estrofests is a blog written by my two daughters and me. But there is another generation of Estrovite women – my mother. Let me tell you about her.

My mother was always cleaning. I used to try to tell her that vacuuming weakened the carpet fibers but she didn’t believe me. She not only cleaned at her house, she cleaned at my house. (They say housework can't kill you, but I don’t like to take any chances.) Sometimes she would put something away while I was still using it. If I tried to take the rag/mop/vacuum out of her hand, she would just start organizing something in my cupboards. It was embarrassing when people came over and thought she was my cleaning lady.

Crossword puzzles were like crack cocaine for my mother. I guess it’s what she used to get all that cleaning done. God help you if you got between her and the morning paper’s crossword. Then there would really be cross words!

My mother also loved to talk. Sometimes, if I was on the phone with her, I could lay down the receiver and take the dogs for a walk and she would still be talking when I got back. If she ran out of real things to talk about she would tell me about a TV show she had watched. I can tell you all about Dancing with the Stars and I’ve never even watched the show.

For Christmas and birthdays she would make things with our names on them – hats, t-shirts, sweatshirts. Someone needed to tell her that my sister and I were in our 50s now and didn’t need our clothing labeled any more. None of us (kids or grandkids) wanted to wear those things. We would rather wear dirty clothes or go naked than wear them. On the rare occasion when we HAD to wear one and then washed it, the letters would fall off and we ended up with something like this:

Tonia = Ton 

Anna = na

Rachel = ache

As you might guess, she was also addicted to the glue gun. Waaaaay too much DIY TV. Frankly, I think we need stricter glue gun laws. You know, like background checks and 5-day waiting periods on purchases. Some people, like my mother, just can’t control themselves. We suggested Glue Guns Anonymous to her but you know how addicts are. Denial.

My mother really did drive me crazy much of the time. But two years ago this week she passed away. She took care of me at the beginning of my life and I had the privilege of taking care of her at the end of hers. I had the bigger diapers to change but I also have the bigger shoes to fill.

I miss her every day. Her playful spirit, her generosity, her support for all of my endeavors, her tolerant amusement of my shenanigans, her passion and sacrifices for her family ….. and, yes, I even miss those damn sweatshirts with my name on them.

Love you, Mom. Always will.


Doris Anne Ryan Caselman 1928-2009

Colonoscopies: Lookin’ in the Backdoor

By Tonia

“Just when you figure you must be totally empty, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.” – Dave Barry

Recently I took one of my girlfriends to have a colonoscopy – which, in my world, means you get to be the butt of one of my blogs. It was her second ass-meddling. Not sure why one would return for this kind of procedure but she did. I was the designated driver - new role for me.

A colonoscopy is one of the fabulous perks of aging – you know, like mammograms, mole checks, bone scans, hearing tests, stress tests… ☺ I’m thinking that, since my girlfriends and I are spending more and more time at doctors’ offices these days, there should be a bar at the receptionist’s desk. That way we could order martinis with our procedures. Oh! And charge it to my card – my insurance card.

My friend was mostly worried about spurtage during the procedure. I don’t know why. It sounded like her super-turbo laxative not only cleaned out her colon, it REMOVED her colon. I reassured her that anyone who made a living with a hiney camera going through  intestines the wrong way had to be used to a little shit. She didn’t seem comforted.

The nurse called her name and had her sign a bunch of forms acknowledging that whatever bad thing might happen was not the hospital's fault. Then they took her away. I grabbed some reading material and discovered that a colonoscopy includes filling your colon up with air before shoving the butt-cam in your backdoor. That gives “blowing smoke up your ass” a whole new meaning for me.

When my friend came out she kept bragging about the drugs. I think she just used them as an excuse to make a pass at her gastroenterologist.

I personally haven’t had a colonoscopy yet but my friend is on my ass about it. She thinks they’ll find my head in there somewhere. When (if) I go, I’m going to draw a bullseye around the target. I don’t want the doctor mistaking one of my cellulite dimples for the entry spot.

In honor of my girlfriend's colonoscopy, here is our Filthy Dirty Martini recipe. Thanks to Gourmet Delights for turning us on to 1888 – created by pressing Spanish olives in order to get the true flavor of olives and not just salt water. Be sure to check out their other yummy goodies.

Filthy Dirty Martini
3 oz. vodka
1 oz 1888
Splash of dry vermouth

Garnish with LOTS of green olives

Camping Virgin

By Rachel

“Camping is nature's way of promoting the motel business.” - Dave Barry

Our family recently went camping with some of my girlfriends’ and their families. We had four moms, two dads (2 dads backed out - begged their employers to work overtime) and 10 rambunctious kids. Since we had never been camping, we borrowed a tent from another friend - which seemed smaller than our sleeping bags. But what do I know? She explained that her larger tent’s poles were broken as light sabers during her kids’ last Star Wars battle. On the bright side, a smaller tent should be easier to put up!

Now I should tell you that my husband has spent very little time outdoors; he couldn’t even figure out our kids’ play tents at home. But when we got to the camp site he suddenly insisted on setting up the tent – guess it was the manly thing to do. Well, he finally got it upright….but backwards. The front door faced some kind of thorny bush on steroids. The kids cried every time they had to go in or out of the tent. I looked like I had been making out with a porcupine. My husband simply said that is how he feels when I don’t shave my legs. Note to self: next trip leave husband at home and rent a camper.

I guess we all looked pretty incompetent because the Park Rangers kept coming around to check on us. They must have thought we wouldn’t survive for a whole weekend away from home. However, I noticed that after a few hours the visits stopped. Maybe it had something to do with every time they came around we asked to borrow something and the kids (all 10 of them) begged for more candy. That will teach them not to carry candy in their little trucks.

As we were heading to bed a copperhead snake appeared. My husband freaked out and wanted to find the Park Ranger. I’m surprised he didn’t try to call 911. Finally got the snake out of the campsite and headed to our tent to sleep. We were so cramped I think I would have had more room if I had slept in the cooler. Woke up and thought my neck was broken. I’m hoping that someday I will be able to hold my head straight again.  

I’m thinking that my next camping trip should be with girlfriends. And, when we go, we’ll take along this fabulous snack – Campers’ Caramel Popcorn. It's delicious!

Campfire Caramel Popcorn

½ cup butter

½ cup corn syrup

2 cups brown sugar

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 ½ quarts popped popcorn

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter. Stir in the brown sugar, corn syrup and salt. Bring the mixture to a boil, stirring constantly. Boil without stirring for 4 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla and baking soda. Warm the popcorn in the oven and then place it in two large shallow baking pans. Pour the brown sugar mixture over the popcorn, stirring to coat. Bake in the oven, stirring every 15 minutes, for 1 hour. Remove from oven and let cool completely. Break into pieces and serve!

Foot in Mouth Disease

by Tonia

"Don't put your foot in your mouth, because then you can't talk...and you can't walk." - Milton Heide

Putting your foot in your mouth is not to be confused with shooting yourself in the foot – although, if particularly skilled, I think you could probably do both. I have done both.

Recently I walked into my hair salon without an appointment and asked if I could get a hair cut and a blow job. Embarrassing, but at least I didn’t scream out the wrong lover’s name during an orgasm. The receptionist ignored me and my hair dresser threatened to hold my head under water at the wash basin. 

Another time during graduate school, I needed an author’s permission to use a questionnaire, but found out that he had passed away. In frustration, I whipped off an email to my professors stating that I was going to have to hold a séance to get permission from the GD dead author. One of my committee members responded – she gave permission. It was her deceased husband who was the author of the questionnaire. I wanted to drop dead.

The next story didn’t happen to me – but to a friend of mine in high school. She had applied to several colleges but was desperate to get into Cornell. She thought about Cornell her every waking moment. She finally got an interview on campus, and was nervously lining out things to say. She planned on asking, “How many of your students go on to get a master's degree?" Instead she said, "How many of your students masturbate?" Needless to say, she did not get in.

If putting your foot in your mouth could earn air miles, I think it might look something like this:

Putting foot in mouth                         1,000 miles

Swallowing pride                               5,000 miles

Opening a can of worms                 10,000 miles

Picking up the pieces                         2 free trips 

I know I can’t possibly be the only one gnawing on my toes. One of the great things about girlfriends is that you can share these stories without judgment – just an acknowledged “been there, done that” laugh. Tell us your foot-in-mouth stories.

And, at your next girlfriends’ get together, ask your friends to write down some of their verbal faux pas on index cards. Make sure that they include their names. Read these out loud without the names and see who can guess which girlfriend belongs to each big mouth blunder. Create a Foot-in-Mouth Award for the biggest blunder.

And, if you’re feeling particularly creative, make some of these chocolate and peanut butter feet candies. Simply buy the mold, melt the candy (I like the microwaveable kind), pour into the mold. Stick it in the freezer for a couple of minutes and then pop them out! 

HAIR TODAY; GONE TOMORROW

By Tonia

"Without fame, this haircut could be mistaken for mental illness." - Russell Brand

I’m having a midlife hair crisis. I’ve always worn my hair long but now that it’s thinning (damn aging), I’m thinking maybe shorter. The only problem with shorter is that I won’t be able to do those nude pictures and have my ‘girls’ covered <insert eye roll>. I want a hairstyle where people can’t tell if I’m having a bad hair day or not.

Like most women, my hair has gone through several developmental stages. A perm so tight it resembled a brillo pad; a bouffant so high it challenged Marge Simpson; bangs so thick they could shield me from a bullet; layers so “feathered” birds eyed me suspiciously. I’m currently trying to avoid the helmet look….and the mushroom cloud.

I actually remember my mother trying to protect her hairdo by wrapping it in toilet paper before she went to bed. That must have made for hot nights between she and my dad. Probably a miracle I was ever born.

And have you ever woken up, looked in the mirror and decided that your hair had to be cut TODAY? And, because you couldn’t get a salon appointment, you took the scissors to it yourself? Yep, afterwards I looked in the mirror and thought, “Mental patients and condemned prisoners have better haircuts than this”....and made an appointment at the salon.

Every woman has her bad haircut story. Please tell us about yours. We want to be able to laugh at with you.

And, for your next girlfriends’ get-together, we suggest you ask everyone to bring photos of themselves with various hairdos over the years and tell stories of bad hair days. Then, for those of you who are my age, you’ll enjoy watching this old video of HAIR – THE MUSICAL on YouTube - CLICK HERE.

Finally, try these shots in gummy shot glasses sold at Vat19 – CLICK HERE to order. You won’t care WHAT your hair looks like after a few of these!

Gummy Hair Shots

1part apple schnapps

1part cranberry juice

1part peach schnapps

The Screaming Snake Whisperer

By Rachel

You know how everything is supposedly bigger in Texas? Well, big drought in Texas right now. Our swimming pool has become the new Safe Place for nature's at-risk vermin - think Quik Trip for creatures running away from home! We've rescued turtles, aquatic frogs and snakes......

As I was cleaning our pool a few weeks ago I saw a small snake in the water. As I began fishing it out, our dog completely lost her mind, flipped out, lost her balance and fell into the pool. Most dogs know how to swim. Not ours. Ours is so fat she simply sinks. So I had to jump in to rescue her. Big pool party! Me, the d^#n overweight dog, and the snake.

After I got the dog and myself out of the pool I rescued the snake and put him in my daughter's small aquarium so we could keep him for a day and then let him go (too bad we couldn't do this with some of our existing pets). As I was trying to get the snake out of the aquarium to play, the f*^#er kept trying to strike at me! The kids and I tried to play with it for a few minutes and then I finally gave up. Guess he was in a pissy mood.

When my husband got home I showed him our new temporary pet. He began grabbing his chest and breaking out into a cold sweat... He started yelling and talking so fast I thought he was having a psychotic break. He told me that I'd caught a baby water moccasin (which is extremely venomous) and grabbed the aquarium out of my hands. He then spent the next hour on the internet printing out pictures of venomous snakes that live in our area and posting them all over the house. He now quizzes me on what markings belong to venomous snakes and refers to me as the "snake whisperer!" Next venomous snake I catch is going on his side of the bed.

The next time you and your friends get together to gripe about the "snakes in your life", make this fabulous drink! It's one of my favorites...

Chocolate Snake Bite

1/2 oz. Bailey's® Irish cream
1/2 oz. Kahlua® coffee liqueur
1/2 oz. brown crème de cacao
1/2 oz. Goldschlager® cinnamon schnapps

Mix all ingredients in a shaker filled with ice. Shake well and serve in a chilled glass. Make more as needed!

Ain't No Silver Lining in Going Gray

By Anna

“Growing old is compulsory - growing up is optional.” ~ Bob Monkhouse

My 30s have brought gray hair, crow’s feet and bad hangovers. I was always told that a woman’s prime is in her 30s. I didn’t know that my prime would be so high maintenance. Hair dye, expensive face wash, and staying properly hydrated. Geez, it’s like a part time job trying to keep appearances.

I noticed my first gray about 3 years ago. I told my mother that I was going to give it to her to put in my baby book but she informed me that it was not the first gray hair I had given her. Ha, ha, Mom. Don’t know what you’re talking about. From what I’ve read about graying and heredity, SHE’s the one who has given ME gray hair!

One gray hair 3 years ago. But now I look in the mirror and see lots of little silver hands waving, “Hello, we’re dying over here!” Taunting me, the little f*#kers. It seems like I’m turning gray as fast as President Obama. So I pluck them - which is not good because then my trichotillomania starts to kick in. Some of the hairs I pull aren’t even gray but they are so shiny that I convince myself that they are. I know that bald is supposed to be beautiful now – but I think that is supposed to be for men, not women.

I mean, what gives? Have I partied and stressed my youth away? What a rip-off. Is this even normal? I’ll tell ya what’s not normal - not having a widows peak because I’m not sure if its gone gray or my baby blonde hairs have been singed from the sun. Either way they have been plucked away.

So what do I do? Got. To. Go. Buy. Hair. Dye. I even have to cut the coupons because now I must do it more frequently - or I will have a bald spots in addition to an absent widows peak.

My grandma used to say, “Growing old ain’t for sissies.” And in honor of my grandma growing old gracefully, and mostly without complaint, here is a blow pop martini recipe dedicated to her playful spirit…..which my mom, sister and I have inherited, in case you can’t tell! Enjoy at your next girlfriends’ get together with it!

Blow Pop Martini

Combine and shake:

1 part frozen lemonade concentrate
2 parts bubble gum flavored vodka
2 parts water
.5 part sour watermelon or sour apple liqueur

Then:
Rim martini glasses with pop rocks; pour drink into glasses and stick a blow pop in them. Totally delicious and fun!

My Other Life

By Tonia

 “Find out what you like doing best and get someone to pay you for doing it.” Katharine Whitehorn

Unless you’ve read my bio you probably would never guess that my day job is teaching at a university. Yep, even have one of those PhD things. Allow me to share with you my life in academia …

First of all, my office in no way resembles faculty offices in the movies - which are the size of small libraries with comfy leather chairs, beautiful volumes of books lining the walls, and a window that overlooks the loveliest part of campus.  Oh, no. My office is the size of a small closet. Boxes of notes and articles are hap-hazardly thrown around so that finding anything on my desk is like an archeological dig. And the view? The parking garage.

Aw, yes, and speaking of parking….unlike the real world, parking permits on university campuses do not guarantee you a parking place – they’re simply a license to hunt. I usually park illegally. This tends to get my car booted. Unlike cute car bras, car boots are ugly ball-and-chains that impair auto mobility. I don’t recommend them.

When you teach for a university there is also this thing called tenure. Highly desired, tenure creates the difference between being jr. faculty and sr. faculty –- kind of like the difference between being a Brownie and a Girl Scout. Well, not really, but close enough. Actually, there is a lot of pressure to get tenure because, if you don’t, you’re fired. The reality is that even God Almighty probably wouldn’t get tenure – after all, He only had one publication. And it wasn't even in a refereed journal.

As a rule professors are known to be a bit narcissistic and temperamental. You’ve heard the joke about how many professors it takes to screw in a light bulb? “Just one – he holds the bulb up to the socket and waits for the world to revolve around him.” Fortunately the faculty in my department are delightful – and have great senses of humor. We have a mechanical dinosaur that we send into each other’s offices with obnoxious messages in speech bubbles taped to its mouth. We have a skeleton that makes a Halloween appearance on the toilet in one of the women’s restroom stalls. We’ve even used crime scene tape to cover teaching podiums. And once someone (**whistling and looking away**) sat a life size blow up doll in a colleague’s class.

We even have ongoing theoretical discussions about why the chicken crossed the road. Yes, this is important research - I worked hard on my degree to be able to ponder such things. I’ll share a few of our thoughts with you here:

FROM PSYCHODYNAMIC THEORY

The chicken crossed the road because her Id said "Whoa, cool, go for it, Baby" and her Superego was on vacation.......

FROM COGNITIVE THEORY

The chicken crossed the road due to her irrational belief, “I am unlovable if I do not cross the road.” Ironically, becoming road kill was what made her truly unlovable.

FROM BEHAVIORAL THEORY

The chicken wasn't really sure why she had crossed the road - she just heard a bell and had to go......

So what does all this have to do with a girlfriends’ party? I have no damn idea, but here is Anna’s fabulous chicken salad recipe in honor of our research on chickens’ road behavior. Enjoy your girlfriends and no fowl moods allowed!

Anna's Chicken Salad - serves 2 generously or 3 skimpishly

2 small thawed & diced chicken breasts  

1 tbls minced garlic

1/4 tbls cracked pepper

1/4 tbls sea slat

1/4 chopped red onion

Saute in pan until chicken is cooked & onions are carmelized. Let cool.

Chop 2 celery sticks (rinsed with head & butt cut off)

Dice 1 large roma tomato

Dice 4 large strawberries

Put in bowl & mix in 4 tbls of real mayo & 1/4 tbls of celery salt. I mix with a fork to avoid any smooshing. 

When chicken mixture is cool, add to fruit & mayo mixture. Do not drain the chicken; there are favors in the juice. Stir thoroughly with a fork & chill in fridge.

When ready to serve you can top with green onion or nuts or both :)

When building your sandwich add iceburg lettuce for a cool crunch. Enjoy!

Gone to the Dogs Part 2

By Rachel

I bet I spend more money on my ONE dog than many of you do on several dogs!!

Truly, my dog is a financial liability. By the time I pay for her medications each month (for hip dysplasia, eye issues, incontinence, and some disorder that only occurs in 1 out of every 200,000 dogs) I could send my kids to private school AND to Europe for the summer. The latest medical emergency was her ears. She was shaking her head so hard I thought she was going to give herself shaken baby syndrome. Took her to the vet and heard smothered giggles as bystanders watched me break a sweat trying to drag my 80 lb dog out of the car. And let me say right here to that lady who was holding her phone up like she might be video-taping: I DO NOT WANT TO SEE MY BUTT ON YOU TUBE!

I finally got the damn dog in and had to endure my hundredth lecture on her weight. I let the vet know that she will NOT eat the green beans he suggested I use as “treats.” Hell, I can’t even get my husband and kids to eat green beans! The truth is that I bake chicken and mix it with her medicine. Yes, I cook my stupid dog chicken every morning. I’m pretty sure she eats better than we do - especially when I’m serving ramen noodles or pork and beans. I think she kind of shows off munching on her baked chicken.

So while we were at the vet, my daughter ratted me out and told the vet that I have given the dog table scraps for the past two days. Hey, I’ve been a busy lately and haven’t gotten to the store to buy fresh chicken – therefore, using table scraps with her medicine. My vet glared at me and told my daughter he was glad she was there. (Note to self: leave children at Tot Spot – or bus stop - when going to veterinarian’s office.) He then proceeded to lecture me for another 10 minutes on my dog’s diet and how I need to help her lose weight (my eyes are rolling to the back of my head).

FINALLY he checked her ears (the reason we were there) and informed me she has allergies. I now have to take her off all dog food with food dye and discontinue the baked chicken/turkey/beef products as it could also be causing the allergic reaction. Her “treats” are now supposed to be lamb or venison. Yup! Now I have to buy her expensive dog food AND feed her lamb or venison. I don’t remember the last time I ate lamb or venison. Guess I’ll take up hunting. But, we love her and think of her as our third - and most expensive - child. 

So, the next time you have a get together with your girlfriends’ to discuss the financial liabilities in your lives, make sure you whip up some Baked Parmesan Chicken to serve. It has been tested and approved by our dog, Coco!

Baked Parmesan Chicken

6 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves

2/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 cup Italian bread crumbs

 ½ teaspoon black pepper

2 teaspoons dried basil leaves

1 teaspoon dried oregano

2 cloves garlic, minced

4 tablespoons oil

½ - 1 cup grated mozzarella cheese

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9x13 inch baking pan. In a bowl, mix the oil and garlic. In another bowl, mix the bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, basil, oregano, and pepper. Dip each chicken breast in the oil mixture, then in the bread crumb mixture. Place the coated chicken in the baking pan, and top with any remaining bread crumb mixture. Top with mozzarella cheese. Bake for 30 minutes in the oven, or until chicken is no longer pink and juices run clear.

Gone to the Dogs

by Tonia

"Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow." - Jeff Valdez 

Remember when families had a family dog? A single dog? What happened to those days? Americans now have family dog packs. A friend recently had a house-warming party—she didn’t even specify “pet friendly” and somehow there were more dogs than people in attendance. What is that about? We need more tail wagging in our lives? More holes in the yard? More shit? 

I have two dogs. Their names are Vodka and Cognac - aka Dumb and Dumber or Demon and Devil. They’re sisters but I have to admit that their IQ points did not get equally distributed: one is semi-mentally handicapped and the other is too smart for her own good. They are Siberian Huskies, but they high-tail it inside in the cold weather and shed like Mother F#*kers in the heat. You cannot imagine the billows of dog hair that dance across my floor like Texas tumbleweed. If I ever find a marketable purpose for dog hair I’ll be a rich woman.

Huskies are terrible watchdogs. For one thing, they don’t bark. And for another, they love everyone. A stranger is just a very, very new friend. If someone broke into our house, they would wag their stupid tails and bring toys.

Huskies also love to run - think Iditarod. Anytime the front door opens and we're not blocking their exit with all four limbs they take off like bats out of hell. They have explored several neighborhoods, parks, schools, shopping malls, banks, and convenience stores in our time zone. They even ended up on the World Wide Web when someone found them and posted ‘Lost Huskies’ on Craig’s List. They weren’t lost. They were just out socializing. They know the area so well they could give tours to the new dogs in the neighborhood.

One of our dogs loves chocolate. Loves it more than most women love chocolate during PMS. Yes, I know it's not good for dogs to eat chocolate. But this dog can find chocolate better than a chocolate GPS system. And she has discerning taste. One time we had some Hershey’s chocolate and some Neuhaus chocolate on the counter. Did she take the Hershey’s? Noooooooo…..she knew her chocolate. Ate all the Neuhaus – paper and all. 

So if a dog is man’s best friend what is a woman’s best friend (besides her fabulous girlfriends, that is)? Tell us what you think.

And, at your next girlfriends’ get together, order some DOG GONE WINE – a portion of the profits go to support a dog non-profit organization. Check out their Poodle Pinot, Basset Hound Blackberry Wine, Pug Pear Wine and Pomeranian Pomegranate Wine HERE.

The Honeymoon Period and It's Inevitable Demise

By Anna

“Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.” – Joan Crawford

My experience is that after a zillion I-would-rather-be-having-something-waxed first dates, I eventually find someone and have some chemistry. Hooray! I didn’t drown in the dating pool!

So then comes the honeymoon period. You know it. It’s when everything your partner does is smart, adorable, and perfect. It’s hilarious the way he leaves the toilet seat up; it’s  fascinating the way he talks about himself.

Relationship experts tell us that in early attraction our brains drug us with phenylethylamine (PEA) and oxytocin … impressed that I know these big words?  PEA is like methamphetamine, and oxytocin is like heroin.  I figure this means the best of both kinds of high – vigor/energy combined with dreamy/drowsy. Hell, I’m in! 

But, sadly, we build a tolerance to these brain-flooding “drugs” and start to “sober up.” Here’s how you’ll know you're sobering up: 

- You used to wear lacey thongs. Now it’s cotton briefs.

- You used to wear Victoria's Secret push up bra. Now it’s a tankini.

- You used to get the Brazilian wax job. Now you’re sporting a 70s bush.

- You used to call into work so you could stay in bed with your sweetie. Now you make excuses to work late.

- You used to make out until your face was raw.  Now you say, "Go shave!"

- You used to go to the gym several times a week. Now you’re stopping by Braums twice a week at 11pm.

- You used to quietly pee with the door shut. Now you're having full-fledged conversations from the toilet.

- You used to quietly sneak out of the room when he snored. Now you beat him with a pillow until he wakes up.

- You used to gaze into his eyes and hang on every word. Now you just roll your eyes.

My drink for you – The Upgrade

The Upgrade

1 part Bailey's

1 part Butterscotch Liquor

1 part Jagermeister

1/2 part Cinnamon Schnapps

Shake well w/ice & strain into chilled rocks glass. Drink up. You deserve it.

Labor Day is Really for Moms

by Tonia

"Giving birth is like taking your lower lip and forcing it over your head." - Carol Burnett

Labor Day. I’m thinking it should be a second Mothers’ Day. A day to acknowledge the labor exerted to shove children out of vaginas – not to mention the labor exerted to raise them. It certainly felt like labor to me - the overwhelming urge to crawl out of my body to get away from my uterus; pushing seven-pounds through an area that had formerly only held a one ounce tampon and a six ounce penis.

I remember my very first Labor Day. I had stopped by my obstetrician’s office to inquire about some “cramps” I was experiencing. The doctor informed me that I was almost fully dilated and needed to get to the hospital ASAP. I was in labor.  I thought, “Well, damn. This is not the day I planned to do this. I have too much work to do.” But no choices here – today was my own very special labor day.

The impregnator drove me to the hospital. After hitting several bumps and seams in the road I told him he’d better f#%king slow down. Well, I may not have said it that nicely. He knew it was better to listen to me and deliver an infant in a car with no leg room than to get to the hospital and have to live with a crazed wife for many, many years.

But, despite the 10 mph snailmobile ride, we did make it to the hospital in time to do paperwork. The admissions folks wished me good luck as I was whisked away to Labor and Delivery. Now, why would someone wish a laboring woman good luck? It’s not Las Vegas, for God’s sakes. It’s labor. I don’t want luck. I want a holiday – and drugs.

And while labor is laborious, delivery ain’t no picnic either. All that pushing and pushing and pushing to get a basketball size head to emerge. No mood for humor. No sireee. This is labor. Pushing that baby out is hard work and, when you finally get it out, your baby tunnel looks like a crime scene and feels like a bomb exploded. But what lies in your arms is precious beyond words. A human life that you made. A miracle. It’s good to savor the moment….because it’s going to be at least 18 more years of labor. Happy Labor Day, Moms.
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Martini Madness Contest

I love martinis - for lots of reasons - the glass, the vodka, the effects... Just about any martini becomes a Panty Dropper for me. But that's another blog. In celebration of martinis, we would like to offer the game, Martini, as a prize for the funniest martini story. Simply:

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YIPPEEE!!: International Women's Friendship Month

By Tonia

“A really good friend,” she said, “Makes you SNORT when you laugh, and will still hang out with you when do it in public.” Curly girl design

September is International Women’s Friendship Month. And while men and women certainly can be friends, it is our female friends who know us the best; they are the ones who we share our most intimate secrets and moments with - things like PMS and sex and childbirth and shoe sales and spanx and hot flashes and the black hair growing out of one of my boobs (oops, TMI)…… Our girlfriends get us. That’s why it’s hard to get together with girlfriends for more than five minutes without some kind of exchange of personal information and laughter.

In celebration of International Women’s Friendship Month we at Estrofests have a three question quiz for you to find out what kind of girlfriend you are, along with a list of our favorite ways to celebrate women’s friendships. (Click on the links and it will take you to the blog that described the game or recipe.)

QUIZ

(1) If you and your girlfriend were having lunch in an expensive restaurant and you noticed that she had lettuce in her teeth, would you… (a) just ignore it and hope to God it’ll slide down her throat soon, (b) reach over and pick it out yourself, or (c) offer her more salad to go with it?

(2) If your girlfriend was in the hospital recovering from surgery, would you… (a) bring a shaker of Martinis, (b) grab a wheelchair, sneak her out and go get some decent food, or (c) change into a matching hospital gown so that the two of you can moon the doctors together?

(3) If your girlfriend asked you to go with her for a 2-for-1 Botox special, would you… (a) ask, “When’s the appointment?” (b) accuse her of entering the two of you in some kind of Joan Rivers look-alike contest, or (c) suggest that another wrinkly friend go with her?

PUT THE ZEST BACK INTO FEST: Party ideas to make memories

Games:
Bad Girl Charades
One Step Forward for Womankind
What Would Girlfriends Do?

Drinks:
The Pale Pussy
The Dildo Drop
The Raging Hormone

Recipes:
Chocolate Cupcakes
Party Dress Veggie Pizzas
Chocolate Addiction

Tell us what you are doing to celebrate your girlfriends this month!