Recipe to Knock Muffy's Holiday Socks Off!

Confession. Tacky Princess loves to bake. Yep! It's true. And does that make me a muffy? Well, you be the judge, but I daresay it doth not! I had a cooking show on yesterday while doing a million other things around my cramped kitchen. Not cooking, mind you! Our home, I believe, is like many other American homes. The kitchen is the center of the universe, you see. As you come in from the garage, everyone and their dog deposits everything they own directly onto the stove. Yes, the stove. It's one of those radiant heat, flat top jobbies. Love it (though would totally choose gas next time around...), but since it's a flat surface, it tends to get eaten up with our J-U-N-K, JUNK! Just to the right of my stove lies my desk, if you can call it that. My desk is a neverending nightmare of papers, mail, magazines, broken toys, spare batteries and things that we're forever looking for but cannot seem to find. Once in a blue moon, it's cleared off enough to see the top of it, and ahhh, what a pleasant split second that is. . . Every eon or so. . . Other than the bar in the kitchen (read: another flat surface to throw our crap on...), the rest of the house stays relatively tidy a good deal of the time. Except for my "office", which looks like the Wicked Witch of the West rode through on her broom, looking for Toto. Thatwithstanding, our house is pleasing enough, if a little on the smallish side. But I digress. So, getting back. I was trying to tidy up in the kitchen from hell, when I was struck with an idea! Give our dear WTM readers a little ammo against the muff's. And why not? We all need a little help now and then, right? So, I had these finely chopped pecans leftover from my favorite cookie recipe. They're not toasted or anything, so they really don't taste like anything special. And I had this epiphany! I love nuts (being one and all...), and I'm always using them in various ways in salads for dinner. Anyway, one of the ways I love to make them is by cooking them on the stove with a little sugar, to carmelize them. I do it with sliced almonds all the time. Then, I just keep them on hand. Great on a salad with a little balsamic. So, here's your recipe to keep the muff's at bay... to knock their jingling holiday socks off! Take some as a hostess gift to your next "function". Wrap with L-O-V-E, love. :) I'm calling it Reindeer Chow (or if that's just too muffy for you, call it Pecan Nuggets!): Reindeer Chow 1 cup finely chopped pecans 1/3 cup sugar 2 t. butter or butter spread (your call) Pour pecans into a medium skillet. Heat over medium to medium high. As pan begins to warm, add sugar. Stir almost constantly. As the sugar starts to melt / carmelize, add the little bit of butter, mixing it in. Reduce heat to medium low. Continue stirring, until nuts start brown and the sugar is carmelized. (Taste if you need to!) Remove from heat. Spread onto a cookie sheet with a piece of wax paper on it (hate cleaning...). Let cool. Kazam! You've got Reindeer Chow! Eat it by the handful. Toss it into a salad. Use as a topping over ice cream. Add it to your favorite breakfast cereal. My daughter had some with her sliced apples and caramel dip after school yesterday. She was diggin' it, let me tell you! Just a little gift from me - Tacky Princess - to you. When the Muffy's ask for the recipe (which they invariably will do, I assure you!), just tell them you whipped it up, and you're not sure you could duplicate the recipe! Which is truly what I did, so if measurements are not perfect, sue me. Throw tinsel on me. Tie me up with garland. Cheers!

WT Mom Holiday Survival Tip #2

Dear WTMs, As discussed, we are going over tips for holiday survival as a WTM. Imagine you are at a school holiday event when suddenly you are surrounded by 2 (or more) members of "the muffia". If there is no graceful way to immediately excuse yourself from the situation, I recommend pulling out HOLIDAY SURVIVAL TIP #2. Holiday Survival Tip #2 If you are backed in a corner with several muffia members, take a deep breath and think of your beautiful children you are doing this for and sweetly ask the muffia members to tell you about their______________. Ask the muffs to tell you about their favorite thing-----it is fairly obvious what that is when you look them-----one "muffy" might be driven totally by status, another might be all about looking perfect and young, yet another "muffy" could be a total workout queen, etc.. Let me give you some conversation icebreakers: "Bitsy, I have always loved how natural your make-up looks. Do you mind if I ask you what brand of skin-care products you use?" "Muffy, I noticed that your Prada bag is an unusual color. Did you get it here in the United States?" "Bambi, your arms are spectacular! How do you stay so in-shape with your busy schedule?" Survival tip number two is really a strategy you can use all year! Because there is nothing that the muffia likes more than talking about themselves (and how much more superior they are). As Bitsy is launching into her twenty minute speech on how she puts on her moisturizer, you can blissfully smile and know that you, a good WTM, are doing your duty as a mom by playing NICE with the other moms.

A Closet Full of Goodies!

Tacky Princess here. Have you recovered from your Tryptophan comas? Sorry for my little hiatus. We spent the holiday out of town at my brother and sister-in-law's house (my kids call it a mini-mansion!). Sis-in-law is a domestic goddess in every sense of the word. House is gorgeous, gracious and homey. Food is to die for. Recipes are used when felt like. Alcohol is served in appropriate quantities. Due to the home's size, it never looks cluttered like mine. Here's the key, though. Sis-in-law is no Muffy. She is warm and funny and (though overworked on weekends like these) the consummate hostess, without doing anything to try to make you feel minimized. LOVE her to death! If it weren't for these wonderful qualities, she and their charmed life would be very easy to hate / envy! HA! My brother's house, then, is a nice retreat when it comes to a holiday like Thanksgiving. The family joke is that we don't see the kids (except for the scrumptious meals!) from the time we arrive there until the time we pack up to leave. Some would find this to be objectionable, but we tend to call it BLISS - - or a few days of H-E-A-V-E-N - that's right, heaven! This time, my husband and I got our college-aged niece's quarters, which include a nice sized room with a queen sized bed, large sink / vanity area, huge walk-in closet and access to the bathroom shared with the next room over. A very nice retreat, indeed. The five youngest cousins sleep altogether in the room we call the studio - a 1,000 square foot multi-purpose room on the second floor. They set up a tent, and two or three sleep in there, while the others sleep on a large, older sectional sofa. They LOVE being altogether in the one big room! So, back to the huge walk-in closet. My niece's closet represents every teenager's dream come true. Yes, it's like a fairy tale closet, if you will. There are assorted prom / cocktail / homecoming dresses from the last many years, most of which, while definitely well worn, are still in great shape. I found 6 red dresses, alone. There was the cow costume from her early youth. Not to mention the scads of books to pore over. There's even a chair in there in case you get tired while going through her things! Now, you may be thinking, "spoiled brat", but there, my WT friends, you would be wrong! Not only is this niece not spoiled, she is an absolute delight, has an almost full academic scholarship for college and has a job, earning more already than most college grad's are earning. If you are thinking "charmed life", I'll grant you that one. Smart, ravishing and sweet as can be. She and her fiancee are "waiting" until they are married to do the "wild thing"! Hard to believe in this day and age. I only hope that my kids grow up to be half as nice and successful as she is bound to be. Getting back to the fairy tale. Next the vanity. It's like being in the cosmetics department of a combo drug store / department store. Only everything's unwrapped, and you can try it all! I always tease my niece that half the fun of visiting other people's homes is getting to use all of their cool stuff! Well, staying in her room is what I imagine it would be like to visit Oprah! All of the coolest stuff you've been dying to try - right at your fingertips, and with her blessing, no less! Bed Head Super Hard Spray for Dummies (or somesuch!), conditioner for your FACE. Yes, your face. You put it on after you cleanse to replenish the moisture - before you moisturize. Sugar scrub for your hands (love those!), sugar scrub for your feet, millennium magic for your eyes, seven different kinds of mascara. You get the picture. At one point, my husband came upstairs looking for me. He found me sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by tulle, tiara on my head, half my face made up one way, the other another. He said I looked like Cyndi Lauper! With glazed eyes, I grabbed all of the product in front of me and snarled, "Mine!" He didn't know the danger in which he'd put himself! I didn't know so many different types of hair straightener existed. Or lipsticks. Or lotions, potions and colognes. amazing what a little pampering can do to a girl. Truly amazing. My inner princess got nurtured - - just for a weekend. Before we left to come back home, I filled my niece's car with gas. I don't know. She's such a great kid. I just felt like doing something nice for her. I guess she's just one of the many things for which I am thankful. Hope your weekend was equally wonderful. Back soon!

WT Mom Holiday Survival Tip #1-Trapped by the MUFFIA

The soccer games are over, the PTA mixers are usually so crowded and loud so you don't have to really "mix" with the "MUFFIA" for longer than it takes to SMILE AND WAVE---and then DASH. You are pleased. You think you are safe. THEN THE HOLIDAYS ARRIVE. The holiday season can be a potential minefield for the "WT" mom. There are TONS of holiday gatherings...both at the school and outside school. You may dread it but buck up, because this is what you signed on for when you became a parent of a school-aged child. So like the good WT MOM you are---you make lemon out of the proverbial lemonade. I will give you MY TOP FIVE Holiday survival tips in the next few days. Please add in and share whatever survival tips or stories that YOU have as well. The readers of this blog are HIGHLY creative (ex: Miss Minnesota's Halloween costume) so I look forward to hearing your feedback! White Trash Mom Holiday Survival Tip #1 You are at the 3rd Grade Mother/Daughter Ornament Exchange. It is a Sunday afternoon two weeks before Christmas. Naturally, only a member of the EVIL MUFFIA would schedule such a stupid time for a party. So you and your daughter are at the party and two of the MUFFYS surround you over by the drink table. As you are trying in vain to get the last of the alcoholic egg nog out of the punch bowl, KACKY and NONNY fly in for the kill. "Kack" starts discussing her perfect family and their upcoming trip to Bermuda over the Christmas holiday. Nonny chimes in how she her shopping done in July for Christmas--except for the handmade quilts she sews every year for the homeless. The muffy twins look at you, expecting you to either try to a)top their stories OR b)come up with a story from YOUR life (that will clearly be inferior). Instead of feeding into their evil plan---you use WT Mom Survival Tip #1-BORE THEM TO TEARS WITH A HIGHLY COMPLEX CRAFT STORY. Yes readers----a highly complex and long winded story about the obscure craft that your family does every holiday will do two things. First, it will drive away the muffia in about 3 minutes, as if by magic. Second, it will allow YOU to have control of the situation, rather than trying to play THEIR evil REINDEER games. You will of course have to do your homework, pre-holiday parties but it is SO worth it. One of my favorites is FLOORCLOTHS. Example: Floorcloths have been in American homes since the Revolutionary War. They were quite fashionable and sought after, mostly made in England from sail cloth and painted in traditional designs. You get the picture. Now remember---it has to be something rather obscure but not too "wild'. The point is to get them to GO AWAY---not give them more fodder for their evil plans. I have included a link to a craft online resource in the title of today's blog entry. Look for needle-point/hand loom/spinning items. Making the "no-sew" blankets that you get at JoAnn's fabrics does not count!

Holiday Letter to Martha from ERMA

Dear WTMs, Even though the MASTER of all WTMs, Erma Bombeck, is no longer with us, we still have some of her old columns to help us laugh. This is a holiday letter from MARTHA STEWART to ERMA BOMBECK...and ERMA's response. It is too funny! Enjoy it and Happy Thanksgiving!

Hi Erma, This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to. Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom, and made a blanket in peaches and mauves. Then to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it, from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room.

By then, it was time to start making the place mats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I'm serving the old standard Stewart twelve-course breakfast, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand.

Before I moved the table into the dining room, I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling. Then, while the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.

Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes on the dress I'm wearing for breakfast. I'll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I'll be making.

Hope my breakfast guests don't stay too long, I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves before my speaking engagement at noon. It's a good thing.

Love, Martha Stewart

Response from Erma Bombeck:

Dear Martha, I'm writing this on the back of an old shopping list, pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains. I'm 20 minutes late getting my daughter up for school, packing a lunch with one hand, on the phone with the dog pound, seems old Ruff needs bailing out again. Burnt my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries, how DO they do that? Still can't find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes, tried using an old disposable razor ... trashed the tablecloth. Tried that cranberry thing, frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave. Oh, and don't use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute in that Rice Krispie snowball recipe, unless you happen to like a disgusting shade that resembles puke! The smoke alarm is going off, talk to ya later.

Love, Erma

Found My Sense of Humor Again

Dearest WTMs, You may have noticed that my last few blog entries have been rather serious and RANTING in nature. While that is fine and good, I did want to inform you that I have, once again, FOUND my sense of humor. It was behind the tampons and the toliet bowl cleaner in my bathroom. Now that I have found it, I vow to only rant on a monthly or quarterly basis. I started WTM with the idea of finding some humor and fun in a world full of "muffies" and crazy expectations. Just wanted you to know that the ranting and serious blogs are officially O-V-E-R and it's back to the usual snarky but fun blogs. With the OCCASIONAL rant. As for the blog entry on "LISA-PREZ of PBK & Momof3", most of the response was positive for the blog but some readers thought I was a little too mean. For those readers that suggest I was too harsh on Lisa---please look in your bathroom vanity. Perhaps you might find your sense of humor where I found mine.

Get Your Mammies Grammed

OK, so I know that this message should have come back in October, what with Breast Cancer Awareness Month and all. However, you know just as well as I do how the "system" works. After being slammed with pleas and urges to get my mammogram, I finally did get on the phone to make the appointment. Lo and behold, they told me they could fit me in around Easter. Well, that's not altogether true because they had a cancellation, and they wound up fitting me in for late November. That brings you up to speed on my tardy blog entry. Forgive me if I seem a little crabby. My boobs are still bruised from yesterday's annihilation. Let's just recount the tale, shall we? Now, I know that we women in the know aren't supposed to tell anyone that a mammogram causes any discomfort, but god almighty, geezy pete, cowabunga (threw that one in for good measure!), HOLY CRAP! I thought I was going to wet my pants! The first time I got one, they must have gone easy on me, so I'd come back. That was my BASELINE. Well, if that was the baseline, then this one must have been the homerun. I seriously thought the technician was going to pull off some of my breast. And what about that? Generally speaking, I think people in the healthcare field are saints, but who wants this job? Handling other women's breasts all day? Every day? Especially if you're in a center where that's all they do, which I was. I switched from the first place that did the baseline because I figured a center that solely does breasts has to be the best, right? The best equipment, the best technicians (with the best technique for not squishing my boobs flat like pancakes and then asking sweetly, "Is that ok?"), superior radiology department, etc. I thought I was doing myself a favor. WRONG! I know I'm venting here, but please bear with me. Therapy is in session. My mother died of cancer, after having both breast and ovarian, so the family history is there. I'm already doomed if I do say so, but I do my best to be proactive. First mammogram well before age 40 and my second now that I'm almost 41 (yes, I'll have bruised boobs for my bday on Sunday). Out front in the waiting area, they had this little pamphlet about their extra gentle equipment that was available. If you paid just $5.00 extra out of pocket, they would use the special apparatus that would spare you such discomfort. "If I pay $100, is it even better?" I asked. This was greeted with a blank stare. No bells. Forget it. Here's my five bucks, lady. Bring on the kid gloves. The room was freezing cold. The technician was syrupy sweet and about 11 years old. She reported that she was sorry but her hands were a little chilly today. "Then find a vat of hot wax to dip them in before my procedure!" I wanted to yell. Is this so much to ask? Is there not water in these offices? And a water heater? So, we start with the right breast. She tells me to put it on the little shelf thingie (OK, that is not how she said it, but that's what it feels like - like you're putting your breast on a shelf.) and lean as far forward as I can. OK, so that's where the special comfort was supposed to happen. Well, it looked to me to be a piece of felt. Yep. A piece of felt. That was supposed to make the whole experience like going to a spa. Uh Huh. So, I stick my boob on the luxurious piece of felt, half expecting it to heat up and play soothing music. (Nope) She then begins to push, prod, pull, squeeze and massage my breast until she seems satisfied that she has mauled me into submission. That's when she starts turning the vice wheeliemajig. And turning . . . and turning . . . and turning. Until I'm about to pass out. So, they tell you it's supposed to be uncomfortable, not painful. Yeah, right. Well, then I must have had a bad technician this go-round. Every so often I get the, "Are we doing ok?" with a sickening smile (who's this 'we'?) or the "How does that feel?" How do you think it feels, Nurse Ratchett? Then, finally comes the picturetaking. She tells me to hold my breath. Like I could be drawing breath through this ordeal? I swear if she had told me to smile... Then, the other side and then the side view of each breast, as well. But here's what I can't figure out. I have to say it again. Who wants this job? This woman literally had to squeeze my boobs, flatten them out to nothing, shush them around, etc. for about 15 minutes. And if you do the math here, she must do this approximately 20 to 25 times per day. EEEOOOW! So, I left the breast smashing center, knowing full well that I had 5 pumpkin pies to make to take to my domestic goddess sister-in-law's house for turkey day (no, she's not a muffy). I knew I was in a rush. I just couldn't get myself to get going. So, I stopped at a bakery, bought out what they had left, and then I stopped in my fav Chinese joint and treated myself to a late lunch. My hubby called later and asked how the whole experience went, and I told him it was SO GOOD for me, let me tell you! And then, I whined a little (ok, maybe a lot), and he listened and pretended like he could possibly understand (what more could he do?), knowing he wouldn't be getting anywhere near my knockers for a few days. Yes, dammit, they still hurt today. But WTM's, in spite of my bad experience this time around, am I going to continue to subject myself to the humbling and harrowing trial of the annual boobie stomp? You betcha! Because early detection is the key. And if we're smart, we'll steer our kids (the smart, sensitive ones, anyway) toward the field of women's healthcare. Perhaps, one of them will come up with a better way to do this. Until then, ladies, GET YOUR MAMMIES GRAMMED!!!!! (And then, treat yourself afterward like I did!)

Raise Your Glass, and Repeat After Me...

It's 3 AM Saturday night, and I am sitting at my computer, thinking of all of you. (Don't you feel special?) Imitrex for last night's migraine has worn off, and now I can't sleep. No, I'm not one of those superwomen who springs out of bed, elated with the extra time this is giving me. It's more like, "Well, guess I'll drag my insomniac a** out of bed see if I can do something to actually make myself tired enough to garner the bliss of sleeping once more." I do have to say, though, that it's kind of nice at this hour. No rug rats hounding me. No dog, whining for my attention (doesn't know I'm up!). No phone interruptions. Kind of peaceful, really. So many ideas have been running through my head - - what to talk about next? Well, first, I must speak to Queen of WT's post re: PBKids' Laura - Pres - mother of 3. May I just say here, "Right on, Queen!" Leave it to the multi-millionaires to preach to us out in the trenches how to enjoy our holiday season, all while maintaining the perfect life, hair that's nary a strand out of place and House Beautiful all of the time. Making a mental note to have my gal call her gal to set her straight. HA! Though I confess to still enjoying the holidays, I must also say that the mere thought of lugging the 90 pounds of holiday garb up from the depths of the basement is more than a bit daunting. And while I do enjoy certain aspects of decorating with said garb (I'll have to get back to you on what those are...), I have come to dread the activity a little more each year. So, let's just make a little pact here, shall we? WTM's, raise your glasses and repeat after me... I, WTM and damn proud of it, do solemnly swear that this holiday season I will NOT, under any circumstances:

• Find it necessary to plaster every square inch of wall space with "Santa Is Coming" motif decor.
• String cranberries by hand for my tree. I will respect my fingers and therefore not poke them repeatedly with a needle doing this needless activity.
• Guilt myself into individually hand crafting little trinkets for every Jane, Jan and Jackie that I have ever known (c'mon, you guilt-ridden crafters know who you are...).
• Put up that God awful decoration my friend gave me last year, just because she gave it to me and I don't want to hurt feelings. Yes, I hereby give myself the permission to accidentally pass that along to some other poor soul. (Don't you just love re-gifting?)
• Buy my kids even close to everything on their lists...(Is your glass still raised?)

Just so we're clear here, these are things WE WILL NOT DO, even though it may make us squirm, sweat and slobber not to.

Moving right along...(raise that glass again, WTM's!)...I will NOT:

• Flit from one party to the next, in an effort to make an appearance at everyone's, regardless of whether I want to go. I hereby give myself permission to politely decline an invitation - and without the 30 minute explanation, "Well, see, my cat died and my best holiday sweater got eggnog on it last year, and I'm really having a bad hair day. Oh! And little Jimmy isn't feeling so hot after eating all that crap at his holiday party and barfing at school today." A simple, "Thank you so much for thinking of us, but we won't be able to make it this time" will suffice. Practice it before you call.
• Require myself to have a different outfit for every holiday event I do attend, just in case I see any of the same people. If my friends judge me by the extent of my wardrobe, they're no longer my friends. Period.
• Ever purchase (again?) a sweater with Frosty, Rudolph or Santa riding his sleigh on it. At the risk of getting hit with a massive rockstorm, WTM's, these little gems have seen their day (and it was dark), and it's time to moveon.com.

Finally, let me just say this...If you have to ask yourself: "Is this over the top?", then it probably is. Let's preserve just a bit of our sanity this year.

Is your glass still raised? OK, now repeat after me (this is the last one, I promise!):

"I am a White Trash Mom and proud to be one. This holiday season, I vow to stay sane by following the steps above. I know that I can do it. I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And by golly, people like me!"

Now sit down, kick your feet up, down whatever it is that's in your glass (milk, eggnog, hot toddy, cosmo, vino, screaming orgasm - oops, sorry, you're probably at home, not a tavern..., cocoa, cider), and take a break. All those pre-holiday resolutions have probably made you tired. Toss back a few bon bon's. Back to bed for me! Thanks for the warm glass of milk effect! Who needs therapy when we've go each other?!

Open Letter to Lisa, President of PotteryBarn Kids

So yesterday's influx of holiday catalogs included a "special" catalog from PotteryBarn Kids. It has a new little section called "STYLEHOUSE" with a letter from the president of PotteryBarnKids, Laura Alber. Right under her name and title, it says that Laura is a MOTHER OF THREE. If you click on the title to this blog entry, it takes you to a page on the PBKids website that has a letter from "Laura-President-Mother of Three". I almost did not write this blog entry because as a woman and as a woman in the businessworld I really believe in supporting those women who have acheived business success. It is very hard to do, even in these "enlightened" days of the 21st century, to be successful in business world as a woman. It is even harder to be successful in business without a penis if you are a woman with CHILDREN. Let me also state for the record that "Lisa-President-Mother of 3" is darling and let me also confess that I have purchased items from "PBKids" many times and while it is pricey at times, it does have some good products. Okay---now that I have said all of the nice stuff, even though I really wanted to be NICE---my evil side won out which is why I am writing this blog entry today. I just wanted to say to LAURA to PLEASE STOP THE MADNESS! In my fantasy conversation with her over coffee or even an alcoholic beverage, here is what I want to say to "Laura-President-Mother of Three": Laura, while I think it is totally great you have done so well with your company, I think you could serve your target customers of MOTHERS much better if you would be a bit more REAL. The reason, "Laura-President-Momof3" is because while I am sure this was not your intent, your claim to be a president, a mom and a mom that decorates the tree the entire day after Thanksgiving is one of the major things wrong with our world right now. Because all the moms look at you and then berate themselves for NOT being able to do it "all". I just think it would level the playing field a bit (if you don't mind) if you would have a small disclaimer under your letter that includes some answers to the following questions: How many people do you have on your staff in your home? Do you have a maid? Do you have a nanny? How old are your kids? Who got OUT the Christmas decorations, you or the help? Did your husband actually help you guys or was he really watching football while you put on ornaments? What do you do about Grandpa who is staying at your house over the holiday and is sleeping off his hangover on your living room couch? Then once she answers these questions, I would have her answer the following questions and put the answers in the "disclaimer" under her letter: If you really are "doing it all" without the help of at least 3 full time staffers at home, HOW are you doing it? Does your husband actually help? Is he a robot? If he is not a robot, how can we clone him? Do you sleep at night? Are you taking "speeder" medication or maybe just your kid's ADDERALLXR? Are you perhaps a VAMPIRE? If you are doing it all, would you please make a video/book for the rest of us on how you are doing it? How many times a week do you go to therapy? Laura---while my methods seem harsh, I am only trying to help spread the message of REALITY to the modern moms. As a former "six-figure" executive/mom, I had a full-time nanny, a maid and a fairly modern husband helping me "do it all" and I about lost my mind. I am not looking to bring you down if you are actually the one in a million people who can pull it off. But I am just tired of perfectly sane and hardworking women beating themselves up for not being able to do the job of 3-4 adults at the same time. I know women can work outside the home and have a family. But since being a mother IS a full-time job all by itself, please give us the real story. Because the "Martha Stewart-ish" myth that it is EASY is what really brings ALL of us down. Let's hear your views, my WTM's!

Still Ranting...

Helloooo WTMs in the Field, Got a huge kick out of a lot of your comments from my very much over the top rant from last week. I kind of had that "no more wire hangers" kind of scary tone in my last blog. Well, it ain't going away. Today's rant has to do with HORMONES. Okay, how many of you WTM's out there have, since the birth of your children, felt a bit "tired". Run down? Exhausted? Okay, me too. So, I have been going to my MD and my Gyno and a few other doctors telling them this, only to have them put me on Prozac (which is actually quite nice) and then trying to put me on just about every other "cue-ti-cal" under the sun. So basically they all just said it was in my head. But a few months ago, I started noticing that I was gaining weight in my belly (really, like I was pregnant or something), I was craving sugar, and a host of other symptoms that were really really weird. Luckily, I go to a GREAT doctor (and not just because he gave me drugs) who told me that MY THYROID HAS PRETTY MUCH SHUT DOWN. Oh. That. Okay, that might explain how I go to sleep at 730pm. And I am cold when it's 70 degrees. And little stuff like that. I really am going somewhere with this WTM's but basically....DON'T GIVE UP ON YOURSELF. DO NOT LET THEM TELL YOU IT IS FINE. The MD I am now going to says this has probably gone on for about SEVEN YEARS. AHHHH! So I rant today with a purpose. If you feel bad like I did or feel bad in a way that I didn't----listen to your body and don't get pushed around. I can't tell you how much better and more like myself I am feeling. I have energy I have not had in YEARS. I wish I could have found the doctor I am seeing now a few years back. He did some thyroid tests/hormone tests that the other doctors did not do to discover my lack of thyroid. I will find out which ones and tell you. I realize this is quite a serious moment for a blog called WTM but dammit I really thought it was MY FAULT. That if I just was a little more perfect, was more of a trooper or something----then I could pull myself up by my bootstraps and start really feeling better. Only, I forgot that you can't pull yourself up by your bootstraps if you have NO BOOTS. So call your doctors. Demand better tests and of course demand drugs. Promise to come back with a fun blog next time about the holiday HELL that is the Holiday season.

Spandex and Christmas Jes' Don't Mix!

Did you know that it's already Christmas in the Ozarks? That's right, folks. We were there last weekend, and Santa and the whole kit and caboodle are all there, too. Ahhh, Christmas in the Ozarks. . . what does this conjure up in your minds? Well, if you're the Tacky Princess, let me just tell you... :) Christmas in the Ozarks is going to the amusement park to go shopping. That's right. We paid $215 for a family of five to get in the door, and then it was like a big outdoor mall - with oodles and oodles of cheesy stuff. Like fried pickles. And Walking Reindeer Dolls. And pennies that have been flattened to look like Santa. Uh-huh. For real. And fuzzy Christmas dice (one red, one green). And don't forget the tree stumps that look like reindeer hooves. How happy would you be to open up one of those on Christmas morning?

After partaking in the "cram as much food in your face ritual", we commenced our search for the best rides. After all, we'd all taken our motion sickness med's. We were armed and ready for F-U-N, FUN! Bypassing vendor after vendor with hot chestnuts, fresh pork rinds (eeeooow), country skillets out the ying yang (ok, I admit, those were awesome, home-cooked food!), anything you could possibly think of putting on a stick, pig's feet, taffy, fudge, fudge and more fudge (did you see the part about the pig's feet???), we were dazed by our fruitless search.

Oh, I'm just getting started. It was like that feeling you get when you're absolutely overwhelmend and stifled by the crowd at a fair. So, we're walking around in the shopping hell, going, "Uh, point me to the roller coasters, please," when the lady in front of a "theater" accosts us and implores us to, "Come on in for the lahvnaytivtee!". "I'm sorry, the what?" "The Lahv Nay-tiv-tee! It's jes' gettin' ready to start up. It's real nice!" "Oh, the Live Nativity. How long does it last?" "About 15 minutes. The kids'll love it!" With that, we're in. That's when it dawns on me that we haven't seen a single person of color since setting foot in the amusement park. As if this isn't disturbing enough in and of itself, my husband leans over and whispers for me to look around at the general demographic here. Now, I'm trying hard not to be a WTM snob here, but it seemed to me that we were surrounded by people over 50, many of whom were dressed in spandex, Christmas sweatshirts (you KNOW the kind I'm referring to...) and cowboy boots. Some had suspenders. We were in a freakin' amusement park. You know, rides, cotton candy. It was an unseasonably balmy 81 degrees. Almost 50 bucks apiece just to walk in the door, and we're sitting waiting to watch a second-rate showing of the birth of Jesus. I popped another Dramamine, and the show began. Now, here's where writing surely can't do justice to the scene. To their credit, the "set" was pretty cool looking, though I don't think they had shiny pottery in biblical times. Stone looking structures. Live donkey. Authentic costuming. But here's the thing. This guy comes out - like the narrator. He's all dressed the part in robes and bare feet. He's gesturing dramatically, and words are coming out of speakers somewhere, and he's mouthing words, but they're obviously pre-recorded. CHEESY! They go through the whole story of the birth of Jesus, no room at the inn, etc. I seriously thought they might end with an alter call and a group dunking. Let me just interject here that I consider myself to be a Christian. My faith has gotten me through many a twist and tangle over the years. I don't know if you other Christians consider us Catholics as one of your own, but I do. I know, I know. For years, we Catholics thought we were the only ones up there (you know where I mean...), but we relented way back in like the early 70's and recognized that it would be extremely haughty of us to continue to believe that. So, here's where I'm going with this. From now until the holidays are over, this amusement park - and let's just get it out in the open. Silver Dollar City in Branson, MO. There. I've said it. Sue me! So, SDC has what they call An Old Time Christmas in Silver Dollar City. The entire park is decorated for Christmas. Elves walking around. All the staff dressed in Christmas finery. There are nativity scenes everywhere, and carols are piped in 24/7. (Can you imagine working there every day?) Here's my question. . . Aren't they being just a little bit exclusionary? I know it's the Ozarks, but Geezy Pete! Heavens to Betsy! Golly Moses! Judas Priest! Couldn't they devote even one little area to the Menorah or something? It just seems so narrow-minded.I don't know. Maybe I'm just in a particularly devil's advocate sort of mood. I say unto you. Let thou amongst you without sin cast the first stone against me. Or, as usual, come sit by me. The water's fine. Maybe not so holy, but fine, nonetheless!

Every Mother is a Working Mother

Please excuse me White Trash moms but I am on kind of RANT this week. First of all, let me say I am sorry that I have not been writing. I am sorry for ME as much as ANYONE but cause it is such a healthy outlet for me (and a way to connect with some other moms so I do not think I am crazy). But I am B-A-C-K because I love doing this blog and I really LOVE getting all the responses from all of you WTM's out there. WE ARE NOT ALONE. OKAY---so I have been kind of busy lately with my job. I own my own business so it can go in cycles, up and down but lately it has been very busy (which is good) but it kind of took me back to the "bad" old days a little bit. The bad old days were the days in which I still thought I could do it all and EVEN berated myself for wondering WHY I could not get it all done. The days when my now 11 year old was a toddler and I had a new baby. And I had a mother with cancer. And I had to travel for work via plane. And my husband traveled for work. I know it sounds like I am about to WHINE but please read on. I promise I am making a point. The last few weeks have been enough of an "ass bust" to give me the flashbacks to my early years of motherhood BEFORE I realized the idea that one human could do the job of three humans was simply impossible. Anyway---my husband, who was there for the insanity described above (and really thought things were just fine at the time) ALMOST tried to complain to me during my busy few weeks of work. ALMOST. But when he ALMOST complained about how HE had to: a)Actually get up, before the children to prepare them for the chaos of the day or b)Had to make arrangements with someone for picking up or taking children to a specific event/lesson or c)Something equally mundane as tasks mentioned above that I do daily while also doing a million other things WHEN HE ALMOST COMPLAINED...he was greeted with the GO TO HELL IF YOU EVEN MENTION WHAT I THINK YOU ARE GOING TO SAY LOOK. You ladies KNOW the look I am talking about. It is laser focused, you eyes turn a different color and you get that kind of demonic/satanic facial expression. This stare is VERY CLOSE (but not quite as mean) to the look you give your kids in the car, you know the "I HAVE TO STOP THIS CAR ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR TO GOD YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN" look. So...I gave my husband the look. Well, I gave him "the look". He didn't complain. Not a peep. Which is good because I have to tell you if he would have made much of a fuss you would not be reading about me in this blog but reading about me in USA Today. SO that is why I am ranting today (and will be for awhile). Because it really is a total scream to see someone else try to do my mom job for a few days. I really don't care WTM's if you "work" outside the home or just "work" inside the home. Dammit----every mother is a working mother! I LOVE being a mother but the crap that is expected as "status quo" from mothers today is a joke. I will now send all of you $75 for the therapy session. I feel refreshed. PS-Once I had a therapist (this is true) and one of my best friends went to the SAME therapist. We would call or meet after sessions to go over what the therapist told us in our sessions. Naturally we found out that she told us....THE EXACT SAME THING (swear it, I promise). It was sooo funny---we quit going to the therapist and then from time to time would send the old quack postcards saying "I HEAR YOU, I UNDERSTAND YOU...THAT WILL BE $75". Of course, that was in the 80's so I guess it would be more like $125 per session now. Now I can't afford therapy because I have kids and even if I could afford it I couldn't go as I DON"T HAVE TIME. Besides that...I have a BLOG. PPS-I guess that is kind of stalking but at the time it seemed okay. But that was back in the days when I drank alcohol regularly.

Muffy or Granola? Or Somewhere in Between?

Tacky Princess Advisory: You may want to grab a Triple Soy Latte - whatever temp you like. I'm a little (ok, a lot) verbose today! I appear to be at a loss for material here, it seems. So, I thought I would regale you with a tale from my sordid past.

That's right, my fellow WTM's. There was a time when I, too, could have gone either way - WTM-hood or the ever so dark side of Muffia-dom. In the early 80's, I was even known to wear my Izod and Polo collars up, and pink and green were two of my fav colors to wear together, especially with complimentary striped belt and Chinos. Yup! That was me. And dare I admit this to you...my friends had a nickname for me. It was (gulp)...MUFFY. I kid you not. So, how, might you ask, did I escape the clutches of true Muffia-dom? Well, that's where my story truly begins, my little WTM prodigies. That's where it begins. I was straight out of college and working in a typical straight-out-of-college sort of job. You know the kind. . . where you are so thankful to get the paycheck that allows you to make the minimum payment on your credit cards each month? The kind where if you slept with the boss (think short, balding, even with the hair plug implants, paunchy waist, bad breath), your chances of advancement would increase dramatically. EEEOOOHHH! So, I was coasting along in this sales job (office equipment), biding my time, really, just to get my feet wet in sales and get the experience that everyone looks for on a resume. I was engaged to be married to my honey of a hubby, when lo and behold, Bad Breath Baldy fired me! Guess sleeping with him would have saved my hide - - and I say again . . . EEEOOOHHH! So, I did what any fashionable, college-educated, getting-married-next-month girl would do. I went into retail, managing a semi-upscale ladies clothing store. I worked for peanuts, often putting in 12 hour days, all for the clothing discount. I got cost on all of my clothes. It was unbelievable, really. At any rate, I spent more on my clothes on a monthly basis then than I do now (even with the discount...). I became completely obsessed with clothes. I was oh-so-dangerously-close to Muffia-dom. A year and a half into this (and my marriage), I got pregnant and found myself getting vericose veins at 25, due to working on my feet so much. Tired of working for what we would now consider spare change, I was getting desperate for a way out of the situation. But then, the miracle occurred. My husband was offered a temporary transfer (just about a year) to Oregon - timber country, Douglas Firs, fresh air. Better pay for him, no more long hours for me on my swollen, pregnant feet. Sounded like Kismet. So, we moved. We didn't sell our house, since we knew we'd be back in a short time. So, we rented. It was the beginning of summer, and the realtor told Hubby that we wouldn't need air because it only got over 90 degrees there 3 or 4 times per year. No biggie. So, we rented a townhouse on the outskirts of the small lumber town where Hubby would be working, and we moved a few weeks later. Whoa, Nellie. Talk about culture shock! Now, you have to understand that we both grew up in large metro areas - suburbs, but part of a large city. Moving to a city of population 11,000 was, to say the least, a big change. But here's the thing. We didn't own enough plaid to live in this community. These people there were like Muffia and Biffia only for lumberjacks. The only things we had going for us were:

• We weren't any of "them Treehuggers from the North." (God Bless Timberica.)
• We weren't from California. Period. (Apparently, that's a cardinal sin in and of itself.)
• We weren't planning to stay. (They literally breathed sighs of relief.)

And then, the weather. It was the hottest freakin' summer in the history of the state. That summer of '91, we did everything we could to get into a/c. We saw every movie that came out except Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead (hey, a girl's gotta have SOME standards...). We even went bowling when I was seven months pregnant. And let me just say here, DO NOT DO THIS. I repeat. Do NOT go bowling in the last trimester of your pregnancy. Ouch! The day in OCTOBER when I brought my daughter home from the hospital, it was 103 degrees! I am not exaggerating. 103.

Then, there was the laundromat. Oh, Lord, the laundromat. Did you know people actually talk to each other at the laundromat? And they want to tell you their life stories? Talk about a captive audience. Well, this woman thought it would be fun to tell me all about how they used to live in tents there. Tents. In the 70's. OMG!

Finally, there was the whole prenatal class thing. You know how we have to pay to take the prenatal classes before we deliver our children? Maybe $100 or something? In the little town where we lived (which happened to be the county seat), they actually paid YOU to take prenatal classes. $100 right off the top of your hospital bill. Apparently, they had like a cajillion women coming down from the hills, in labor, saying, "I thaaank A'hm havin' a BABY!" For real! They were completely unprepared for childbirth and were total disasters for the medical staff as a result. So, offering the $100 got them to come in to the hospital for the class. Never mind that they wouldn't be paying their hospital bills anyway, thank you very much. Whatever works, I guess.

So, the prenatal class was kind of a combo of LaMaze and Granola teaching. They taught us to breathe. They taught us gun safety. Yes, gun safety. That was a requirement to complete the class and get your 100 buckaroos! And our town was so small that there was not even the slightest possibility of getting an epidural. IV drugs were it. And they made you feel bad if you took those. So, that's how I came to have my kids with no drugs. No, WTM's, I'm not kidding. And my girls never even fit into the newborn clothes. At 8 lbs, 13 oz and 10 lbs, 2 oz, I'm lucky I even remember the experience!

So, how does this relate to not moving over to the dark side of Muffia-dom? Well, I think the whole granola experience of living in the self-proclaimed Timber Capital of America kind of made me re-evaluate what was important (like grass in my yard instead of sawdust or wood shavings - uh huh, for real). Did I become like them and start wearing Birkenstocks with heavy socks and no makeup every day? No. I still like to look nice. But I'm not going to kill myself if I'm seen out in public with no makeup or imperfect clothing.

There are far more important things in life. Like making the store-bought cut-out pumpkin cookies look homemade by putting them on a pretty platter. And then letting the Muffia ooh and ahh over them like I slaved. And relishing that charade. A little too much, perhaps. Sorry this post is so long. Hopefully, you took the Evelyn Woods Speed Reading Course, and it didn't put too much of a dent in your bon bon eating time! Have a fab weekend!

Watching a Muffy on the Brink

I am a room parent.
I am only a room parent for my daughter's school because they were totally desperate. However, at our school the room parent gig is a fairly easy one. The return on investment of time for being a room parent (okay, let's just call a spade a spade---a room MOM) is quite high. At the school where I am a room mom, it basically signs you up for a few holiday parties and then you are free the rest of the year.
This year, my room parenting duties are with another WT Mom, as well as a "newbie" to the Room Mom gig. She is a very nice and young mom with several small kids. She is...as we say...a mom on the brink. She could go either way----to the dark side of the Muffia or to the light of the WT Mom philosophy.
When we saw the assignment sheet for Room Moms this year, the other veteran & WT Mom asked me about her. "Do you think we can turn her?" asked Wise WT MOM/ROOM MOM. "Only time will tell," I answered gravely. "The first test will be...the craft issue." Now, don't get me wrong about crafts. I actually LIKE doing crafts with my kids. I especially like doing craft things with my kids if I want to talk long distance with a friend or do anything for myself, by myself for more than 15 minutes. Crafts are an excellent way to keep children in one place for more than 5 seconds and keep the horrible mess contained to one area of your home or yard. Anyway----the point is, crafts are good at HOME. BUT crafts during a holiday party at school...that is another story.
Crafts at a holiday party at an elementary school are fine... if you have a bomb shelter in which to do the craft in or if you cover the children from head to toe with plastic trash bags. But to put any kind of glue or paint in the hands of 25 Second Graders who just ate chocolate cupcakes...that is INSANITY. As the Halloween school party approached, the two veterans (myself and other WT Mom) tried every way we knew how to talk the "Newbie" mom out of the craft thing during the Halloween party, to no avail. Newbie mom thought it would be "fun" and it was "easy". So the day of the Halloween party came. I brought several trash bags, extra wipes and paper towels for back-up. The other WT Room Mom brought some Xanax left over from a root canal, in case things got really bad and we had to use sedation. Well, WT Moms...THEY ATE HER ALIVE. Twenty-five little demons, high on sugar, tore into her as soon as she started to "show" the craft and what it was supposed to look like. The scene was so ugly but we stood by on the sidelines, watching it all in horror (and a little bit of snarky laughter). "Shouldn't we help her?" I asked, not moving. "If we help her now, she will never learn. This lesson could help her from turning to the dark side," said my wise WT friend. She finally gave up after about 20 minutes. She left right after that, saying she thought her child was feeling sick and she needed to take him home. We nodded silently, acting as though we believed her story. Will she turn to the dark side or embrace the light? WT Moms, we will keep you posted after the next Holiday party.

Miss Minnesota Help and HELL-O-WEEN

First of all, thank you so much my dearest WT Mom bloggers, for all of your awesome feedback regarding my "Miss Minnesota" problems finding a costume for my 7 year old for Halloween. With your suggestions and feedback I was able to pull together a costume that: a)Did not make my 7 year old look like a hooker b)Did not cost over $15.00 (including the Final Net hairspray) If you have no idea what I am "blogging about" please see my blog from 10-16 regarding Miss Minnesota and my discovery of CHILD beauty contests. EEW. Thank you to all of you and THANK GOD that HELL-O-WEEN is over. Do any of you remember Halloween as a kid? My mom would throw a pillow case at me, give me some cheap costume jewelry and declare that I was a "gypsy" for Halloween. I was ALWAYS a gypsy. Then, my friends and I would wander around our neighborhood for hours (usually with no adult supervision) getting candy and sometimes causing trouble in general. Today, Halloween is different. There are decorations, lots of halloween parties AND as if THAT weren't crazy enough....my husband does his annual HAUNTED BASEMENT. This is a huge hit with my kids and their pals. But we're not talking one of those "dip your hands into the noodles that feel like brains and the peeled grapes as eyeballs" type of haunted houses. This haunted house is a highly technical, special effects laden EVENT. Naturally, we add in "treats" in the form of cocktails for the adults and the whole thing turns into a huge party. Very WT, of course. So the day after Halloween the children have their usual post-Halloween sugar detox----and we have hangovers. Happy Halloween.