Category Archives: Humor

It’s back-to-school for First Lieutenant Room Moms of the New Motherhood Order

Something has radically shifted since I had my first child fifteen years ago. When I was pregnant with my first baby, preschool was a matter of personal preference. Optional. It was like: “You’re keeping her home, that’s cool.” Nowadays, you MUST put your child on a preschool waiting list. While you’re still pregnant. Because don’t you know? Preschool is the new college prep.

These days, if you tell people you’re not putting your kid in preschool they’re like: “YOU’RE KEEPING HER HOME????WHY WOULD YOUR RUIN HER CHANCES OF GETTING INTO HARVARD??” All-cap sentences and lots of question marks are ruining motherhood, I’m telling you.

Mothering is way more intense now than it was when my firstborn was a baby. Back then, I was a Good Mom for taking her to the park. Now, that’s not good enough. Not even close. These days, you’re supposed to play with your kids. And not just play but be totally, completely, utterly enmeshed with them.

Only Bad Moms sit on the bench and watch their kids play. And the WORST MOMS? They sit on the bench and look at their iPhones. In the New Motherhood, iPhones are the new cigarettes.

What baffles me about the New Motherhood is how quickly we’ve invented brand new ways of shaming women. Society now tells mothers that they must be 100% present for their children AND be 100% committed to keeping the ROMANCE ALIVE in their marriages. They must stay OFF their iPhones AND use their iPhones for taking lots of pictures for scrapbooks. Oh, also? Mothers must stay smokin’ hot, 24/7.

I’m sorry, but I am not a 24 hr. drive-thru. You can’t just roll up any ol’ time or day or night and get what you want in five minutes or less.

But still. This is what we ask of mothers today.

I saw this ad just last week that said: “She’s 53 but she looks 23!” I think it was the exclamation point at the end of the sentence that freaked me out the most. I mean, read that sentence without the exclamation point: “She’s 53 but she looks 23.” You read that sentence and you might think: wow, that’s weird. THAT’S not normal. But then you read that sentence WITH the exclamation point and you’re all: “WOW, she’s 53 and she looks 23? THAT’S AWESOME!” Poorly placed exclamation marks are ruining motherhood, I’m telling you.

This is the New Motherhood: you’re not allowed to get old. 40 is the new 20! 53 is the new 23! #StaySexyUntilYouDie

No, stupid world, no. 53 is NOT the new 23. I’ll tell you what the new 23 is: dim lighting. Who needs Botox when you’ve got candlelight? Nobody, that’s who.

Here’s the other thing I don’t understand about the New Motherhood: school is different. Time was, I dropped my kids off at school and yelled: “CATCH YA LATER, YO!” But not anymore. Oh, no. Only Bad Mothers do that.

Nowadays, I have to take out a 2nd mortgage just to pay for the first grade school supply list: 2  boxes Kleenex, 2 pkg. antibacterial wipes, 2 plane tickets to Hawaii…. OK, OK. I’m kidding about the plane tickets to Hawaii. Sort of.

I’m also supposed to be best friends with my kids’ teacher: I have to remember her birthday. Bring presents. Respond to all her emails. Make a scrapbook of all the special times we shared at school this year. Because this is the New Motherhood

Confession: I don’t know how to talk to a Room Mom without having a panic attack. You have not met a true solider until you’ve met a Room Mom with a color-coded spreadsheet. She wields that bad-boy like a weapon against your wallet. Before you know it, you’re drafted into cookie-dough fundraisers and deep inside basic training for the laminating machine.

The hardest part is that I can’t hate the Room Moms. I mean, they’re so nice. And they’re working for freeeeeeee. And they’re typing all these passive-aggressive emails like: “Dear Mrs. Esther, we would LOVE it if you could maybe bring12 mini-sized, gluten-free, peanut-free water bottles to the Jog-a-thon! Thank you sooooooo much. XOXOXOXO. Happy Face. Room Mom 1 and Room Mom 2.

I love these Room Moms, man. There is nothing they love more than the reply-all button. Sometimes I just pop a bowl of popcorn and sit there refreshing my email inbox and making bets with myself about how quickly the Halloween Party job assignments will be taken. I mean, I gotta sign up FAST if I wanna bring paper goods otherwise I’ll be stuck baking gluten-free Paleo cupcakes with sugar-free, hand-woven spiderwebs on top.

Sometimes, if I’m feeling really evil, I’ll type out an email: “Can someone check on whether the bottled waters from Costco are BPA and gluten-free?” Then I sit back and wait because someone WILL check and get back to me in five minutes or less.

Because THIS. This is the New Motherhood.


Melodramatic, attention-needy personality seeks public platform from which to spew her narcissistic exaggerations

Oh, hey.

So, I went on a blog-battical and got all spiritual with my unholy self and the one thing I learned about that was: it was boring. I began talking to owls. I am not making this up.

I have this paperweight owl and I gave him a name: Monsieur LaFarge. Then I crocheted him a cap and scarf. Yes, I literally crocheted a cap and scarf for my PAPERWEIGHT. Then I made up all these stories about Monsieur LaFarge and posted some of them on Instagram.

Screen Shot 2014-05-31 at 9.49.50 PM

BECAUSE I HAZ ALL THESE WORDS AND I NEED TO PUT THEM SOMEWHERE. It’s an affliction right up there with craving a cigarette when I’ve never even smoked. But I digress.

What I’m trying to say is that I was blogging on Instagram and it was NOT as satisfying as blogging here on mine own blog so I’m back here because doggone it, I like blogging. And no matter where I go I seem to blog. I blog in my sleep. I blog in my journal.

Speaking of my journal, last week I got a letter from my writing hand.

It was all: “Dear EE, As much as we, the members of your writing hand, think it’s super inspiring that you are taking a break from blogging and whatever, we ask you to please consider returning to it. We are cramping. We have calluses. We miss the good old days of clickety-clacking on a keyboard from the ergonomic comfort of that wrist-pillow-thingy. We like that pillow. We miss it. We are weary of waking at 4:30am to hand-write all your words into your journals. With all due respect, you have a LOT of words. We can’t keep up. We keep up better when we type, is all we’re saying. Just a thought. Just sayin’. Just in case, you know, you wanna blog or sumfin Much Love, Your Old, Middle-Aged Hand.”

The final tipping point came when I walked into a craft store because I was gonna re-invent myself as…..a porcelain doll maker. Why yes, I’ve always WANTED to be a porcelain doll maker, thankyouverymuch. I was the only person registered for the class. The teacher was 90 years old. The store looked like it had been frozen in 1982 right around the time denim jumpers got popular. I saw a huge, three foot porcelain doll decked out in yards of yellowed, dusty ruffles and I felt like I was seeing Miss Havisham frozen in porcelain flesh.

I yelled: “AAAAUGGGHHHHH!” which was quickly followed by a panic attack, sweating through my shirt and cramming like 5 sticks of gum in my mouth so I wouldn’t cuss and scare the kind, unsuspecting old ladies sewing cat quilts in the next room.

I drove home sobbing melodramatically about how I’m a failure at MAKING PORCELAIN DOLLS WHICH I’VE LOVED ALL MY LIFE WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? and then I was like: “Oh, cheer up ol’ chap! You’re not a failure at blogging!” (Why yes, I have a British man living in my head who speaks to me in an accent and says things like “cheer up, old chap.”)

So, then I stopped crying. Because British accents make everything better.

Because if I blog, then I won’t think about what an abysmal flop my book is. Ok, maybe Abysmal Flop is being melodramatic. Maybe I just want you to say: “Don’t beat yourself up, EE. It’s not a FLOP! Have you read all the thank you letters recently?”

OK, here’s the thing about my brain. I would consider my book an abysmal flop even if it was an NYT bestseller. THAT’S how awesome it is inside my brian.

I just wrote Brian. That’s how awesome it is inside my Brian. And I’m not even going to correct it.

And also, if I blog out my words then I won’t be so tempted to go read (and re-read and pace and bite my nails and then read them again) the Amazon reviews that SOME PEOPLE WRITE. You know, stuff like how I’m an annoying attention-seeking personality and also, how I exaggerate things and how I should be donating any money I’m making from my book to abuse recovery centers.

Allow me to correct one little thing (Ok, a few things): I HAVEN’T MADE ONE PENNY YET. Yes, it’s this thing called an “advance”–like getting pre-paid before you write the book. And then if–and ONLY IF–you manage to sell enough copies to “make back” the money the publishing house already paid you (which I haven’t), well, then maybe in like five years I’ll get some royalty checks. Also, if we averaged my advance money over the amount of time it took me to write the book—well, let’s just put it this way: I WOULDN’T STILL BE SERVING AS A WAITRESS IF WRITING BOOKS MADE AUTHORS RICH.

Rest assured, dear reviewers, that as soon as I make a penny on my book, I’ll make a donation to charity. By which I mean: I will pay for more therapy for MYSELF.

So, hey. I’m back. Back to my narcissistic blog. Back to my MELODRAMATIC ways. Oh, look. 5 people on Facebook are super unimpressed.

p.s. I don’t mean to exaggerate but NOTHING WHATSOEVER in this post is exaggerated.

p.p.s. also, I’m still thirty pounds heavier than I was last year at this time which just goes to show you that taking blog-batticals doesn’t make you skinny. WHO KNEW.

Complete Home Maintenance for All the Single Ladies

I think we need some levity up in this blog. Because WEEKEND. Today I’m thrilled to bring back the author of A Curvy Girl’s Guide to Buying Pants, Kat Ray. Her post has remained in my Top Ten Most Read Posts for nearly 3 years. I’m convinced Kat is an undiscovered comedic genius. She’s so super stealth she doesn’t even blog. Or, as she says: “I’m so hipster that I’m on some Internet platform you’ve never heard of, like FaceSnapChatBook, #yoloswag.” Today she’s writing about the hilarious perils of home ownership. Enjoy! xo. EE.

 : : :


All I wanted to do, honest to God, was just touch up some spots on my bedroom wall.

Tan. The color of my wall is tan. I’m a grown woman who has been identifying colors for most of her life, so certainly I can find some paint that MATCHES TAN.

Except I cannot. I’ve been on a month-long quest for the holy-grail of TAN PAINT because evidently, the color on my bedroom wall was blended by monks in Nepal with the blood droplets of unicorns.

It all started the day before I moved into my newly purchased condo. The former owner informed my realtor that the black headboard in the master bedroom was, in fact, attached to the wall, and didn’t I just want to keep it?

As I am not a swinging bachelor from 1978, no, I did not. 

So, the owner removed the headboard, leaving behind some pencil marks and dings on the wall. NO PROBLEM. I actually had a small can of brownish paint, and a small can of white paint. I thought: hey, I’ll just mix until I get the correct color, paint over the spots, and go on with my life!


The first time I mixed a batch and tried it on the wall, too light. Added some more brown paint. Still too light. Added a bit more brown paint. TOO DARK.

So, now instead of just some pencil marks, the wall looks like it has a rare form of Wall Disease. Fabulous. 

Next idea – color matching iPhone app! Take a picture of the wall, touch the spot that you want to match and….MAGIC! the app tells you what color to pick!

I take 492 pictures until I get one that is close to the actual color of my wall. Problem is, each time I touch a spot, the exact SAME spot on the picture, I get a different color recommendation.

Faint Coral. White Truffle. Intimate White. Gorgeous White. Unfussy Beige. Warming Peach. (Can we talk for a minute about these out of control names for paint? If there’s not a Tumblr called “Paint Color or Porn Star? You Decide.”, there totally needs to be.) 

In desperation, I email my realtor: Is there any way that the former owner remembers the name or the brand of the paint? He doesn’t, but she suggests that if I flake off a paint chip, a paint store can then match the color.

YES! I will just flake off a paint chip and match the color! 

Two quarter size gouges in the dry wall later, I take my baggie of paint chips down to the paint store.  The very nice paint color expert informs me that the PAINT CHIPS AREN’T BIG ENOUGH TO MATCH. I almost lie down and cry in the store.

Taking pity on me, the Paint Matcher Guy gets a folder of paint samples and tries to match the chips to the samples. We think we find a match. He mixes me up a sample jar. At this point, I am very familiar with sample jar. I take it home…..I put some on the wall……

IT’S TOO LIGHT THEPAINTISTOOLIGHT. I start cursing in languages I don’t even speak. My dog runs downstairs to post selfies on Petfinder in a desperate attempt to re-home himself. 

In my despair, I remember a suggestion from guy at paint store.  Most times when a room is being painted the light fixtures are removed and a bit of the wall that is covered by the fixture is painted. I could unscrew the light switch plate, cut out of bit of the wall with an exacto knife, and that would probably be a big enough sample to match.

I mean, this is a crazy idea. Nothing about my experience over the past few weeks says that I should attack my light fixture with an Exacto knife. So, of course, I’m totally going to do it.


EE sings Lorde Remix: “{Blogger} Royals”

It’s been a long time since I sang for y’all. Yesterday I rewrote the lyrics to a hit song, adapting it for bloggers and had my son Jude record me singing it. You know, just for fun. JUST IN CASE YOU’D FORGOTTEN I’M A CERTIFIED GOOFBALL. Also, I like embarrassing my older kids who are just MORTIFIED that Mom is so weird. Mwah-ha-ha. So, without further ado, I present for your viewing pleasure: “Blogger Royals.”

Jumpin’ JaMamaPhat!

When I started jumping rope a year ago, I couldn’t do it for more than 5 seconds before wetting myself. You Mamas know EXACTLY what I’m talking about, amen? :) Pushing out babies=very weak pelvic floor muscles. I mean, for like a few years I couldn’t even sneeze without needing to cross my legs first. TMI? Yeah. YOU TRY BEARING FIVE CHILDREN.


Point is, jump rope is waaaaay better than Kegels.

It took me awhile to get my form right. At first I was jumping too high, too hard and screwing up my rhythm. The key is small, soft movements. Here’s an excellent, easy-to-follow video on how to jump rope with proper form.

The best part about jump rope is that you can do it anywhere! It’s the perfect exercise for winter because you can do it indoors. I’m always surprised at how exhausted I am after just 15 minutes.

I’ve started adding a few little tricks to keep it fun. I am VERY uncoordinated and flail-y. But it’s so much fun I keep trying. Here I am trying to do a succession of tricks and pretty much FLAILING miserably. It’s still a good workout—even if you FLAIL!

This wEEk in reads and twEEts

So, this was my day on Friday:




This is why you should follow me on The Twitter. Because I will answer personal questions. Also, I tweet about sex. Verily, verily I say unto thee, if you don’t follow me on The Twitter, YOU MIGHT GET LEFT BEHIND AT THE RAPTURE. Or miss my sex tweets. Same diff, amen?

Moving on to more EDIFYING conversation, here are some reads I enjoyed this week!

Tragically hip: privilege & the emerging church: “Having privilege doesn’t mean that one’s life is easy or that you’ve never experienced disadvantage or pain. It is not a personal indictment but an acknowledgement that social and institutional benefits enjoyed by some are denied to others.” (Man oh man, sometimes I am SO BLIND to my own privilege!)

Why children should not be on Instagram:  “We need to monitor what our children are doing online. Getting embroiled in this little drama between tween-girl fan sites has opened my eyes. I’ve seen accounts posting pictures of cutitng, I’ve seen pro-anorexia photos, and I’ve seen tons of girls running multiple accounts and sharing intimate details online. Most of them were using location services, even checking in at home and at school. Almost all of them had personal accounts that were not private.” (I seriously need to monitor my 13 year old’s Instagram account!)

Grace for the privileged, too?   It can be frustrating when I’m engaged in dialog with fellow feminists, eager to learn more and eager to bring my own experiences to the table, only to be raked over the coals after saying something “wrong” without even realizing it.  Often it’s because I am unfamiliar with the lingo and language, so I leave feeling kinda stupid and shamed. (I’ve felt this way so many times! I really want to learn but I often say the wrong thing–or I just unwittingly expose my blindspots and biases. Being humble has been really important for me. And I’m always grateful for the people who take the time to point me towards books, blogs or resources to help me gain a better awareness and understanding.)

Lastly, I’ve been taking lots of hot baths. This is what I’ve learned:

Yes, I am one of those wimpy Californians.

It’s been FREEZING cold here in Southern California. And by freezing I mean it’s been 55 degrees. I’ve been going around saying things like: “Can you believe I have to put a JACKET before I go outside??? This is INSANE!” And also: “I’m DYING of cold! WHEN WILL THIS STOPPPPP?”

I am such a wimp that when I visited my sister in Chicago a couple winters ago, I got all personally offended at the weather. I was all: How the HELL do people SURVIVE out here? This climate is HOSTILE to human LIFE!

I totally freaked out in the Chicago airport when it was full-on snowing and planes were still taking off. And no, I was NOT reassured when someone told me not to worry because they “de-ice the plane.” I was like: WHAT?! THE PLANE HAS ICE ON IT?????

Me and weather don’t get along. This is why, no matter how high taxes soar in Southern California and no matter how damn liberal we get, I will NOT leave. I likes my Mediterranean climate. I am Greek. We don’t do cold.

That said, I am a complete wimp.

At least, I’m not alone.

This past week, ALL of Los Angeles was freaking out about the “cold” weather. It got so ridiculous that Jimmy Kimmel did a whole segment on it. I got a good laugh out of this:

So, what’s the weather like where YOU are today?

If Ke$ha wrote church hymns…

I think we need some levity up in here.
What say ye to a little genre-bending-mashup?
I say hit it.

If Ke$ha wrote church hymns:
“Wake up in the mornin’ feelin’ like D. Moody.”

If Josh Harris wrote cookbooks:
I Kissed Gluten Goodbye

If Niki Minaj rapped “Les Miserables:”
Don’t you fret Monsieur Marius, I don’t hear any super bass.”

If Mark Driscoll wrote feminist theory:
Surreal Marriage: the truth about sexual fetish and codependency

If Rihanna sang kids’ Bible songs:
“Rise and shine bright like a diamond.”

If Joel Osteen was on Dancing With the Stars:
Your Best Tango Now 

If Darth Vader sang the national anthem:
Oh, say can you see by the dark side’s early light?

If Fox News had a social conscience:
The O’rganic Factor

If Oprah ran Rick Warren’s church:
The Purpose Driven Aha Moment

If Tim Challies gave investment advice:
Total depravity of stock market sends mutual funds to Hell

If Ann Voskamp wrote crafting books:
One Thousand Gift Bags

If  the Pope wrote EE’s blog:
I Use My Infallible Words 

Now, it’s your turn! Hit it, comment box.

Giving our men their balls back? How old-school misogyny is still thriving among Christians.

Old-school misogyny is alive and well. Except now it’s dressed in hip clothing. It probably blogs. It probably gets its ideas from books rife with harmful gender stereotypes. And it probably uses edgy language like “giving our men their balls back…one day at a time.” OK, see. Let’s stop right there. I have questions.

  1. If you’re gonna give the balls back, why do it one day at a time?
  2. Why not give BOTH balls back on the SAME day?

I also need an explanation for this statement: “The Love & Respect book had a lot of sexist stereotypes about women but hey! Let’s talk about how awesome this book is!”

Well, that’s a paraphrase. Here’s the real quote:

I’m not going to promote or bash this book… it had some good points that have been eye opening and some HUGE stereotypes that made me crazy mad.

You know what makes me crazy SAD? I get so discouraged when, instead of refuting those HUGE, harmful stereotypes, Christian women promote those ideas by asserting that We Women–and I quote–”have essentially castrated our men.”

Well, thank goodness we haven’t literally castrated our men, amen? Because, ew. Also, messy.

My real problem, here, is that harmful books like these are still popular in Christian circles. What REALLY breaks my heart is that women who are sincerely trying to improve their marriages fall prey to harmful teaching mainly because the most popular Christian books on marriage are harmful!

Heck, this book has spawned Love & Respect-themed retreat$! There are workbook$!


Is this book really about helping people?

Because here’s the thing: any Christian book that claims to have discovered “THE SINGLE GREATEST SECRET to a successful marriage”  is highly suspect. It makes all my fundamentalist triggers go on high alert. It’s formulaic! If you follow steps 1-2-3, you, too, can have a Successful Marriage!

I mean, dude. How did couples ever manage to stay married before this book was published? THEY DIDN’T KNOW THE SINGLE GREATEST SECRET!

Just in case you’re wondering, the Single Greatest Secret for Marriage Success is that women need unconditional love and men desperately need unconditional respect. Yes, men desperately neeeeeeeed respect. It’s in the title. Love & Respect: the love she most desires, the respect he desperately needs.

I don’t know about you, but a man who desperately needs anything from me is also highly suspect. I don’t like neediness. Neither does my therapist. She has this fancy word for it: co-dependent.

Also, what is unconditional respect? To me, that sounds like a huge loophole for tolerating abuse. Like, hey, woman. NO MATTER HOW BAD I TREAT YOU, YOU MUST RESPECT ME!

Why is respect gender exclusive, anyway? Women need respect, too, yes? I mean, are we calling Aretha Franklin a liar??

R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Find out what it means to me! 

Ahem. I digress.

Point: I have a hard time believing there’s any Biblical support for “unconditional respect.” I COULD be wrong. Feel free to correct, exhort and rebuke me in the comment section. I will listen. Or delete you. Depends on whether you desperately neeeeed me to respect you. Mwah-ha-ha.

Multiple reviewers have noted that the book is ‘incredibly sexist“. So, why are Christians still propagating this stuff?

I just don’t get it.

Oh, wait. I do.

It’s all Eve’s fault!