The Mormon Diet Plan Journal Day 1: I Will Not Suffer Alone

By now, you are probably wondering what ailment I have, and checking my Facebook page for my DOB to see if I am under the age of 75. Well, those of you that give a shit. And this time...let me tell you ladies and gents, the “suckage factor bar” has been raised. Apparently, I have done an amazing job of ignoring a raging sinus infection, and some sort of acid reflux. The doctor was soo impressed with my denial and avoidance that he offered me an award for all my needless suffering. You know, like they do for new moms that decide to have a natural delivery. Part of my treatment involves some bitchin’ steroid nasal spray, antibiotics, and some other drug that I have never heard of....but has a shit ton of refills, so I have plenty of time to figure out what it is that I am putting into my body. The other part of my treatment is a simple diet. Yes, simply restrictive. I have dubbed this new diet: The Mormon Diet Plan. And from now on, I will be recording my daily distaste for what I am denied. Here is what I can no longer have...well, at least for the next month or so. Drinks: No alcoholic beverages, coffee, tea, any soda or carbonated beverage, no caffeine, and no citrus juices. So, just apple juice and water. Cue Pac-Man dying sound. Food: No eggs, dairy, red sauce, or chocolate. And no eating after 7:30 in the evening or at least three hours before I go to bed. This fun little rule also applies to drinking ANYTHING in the evening. It may be time to turn to a pill mill. Activities: No whispering, and no sex without a condom. Shhhh.... The point is, I will not be suffering alone. My children will have deal with my mood swings from caffeine withdrawals, and my husband will have to revert back to the hassle of putting on a prophylactic.

It Hurts When You Can’t “p”

It all started with a wet bathing suit. About a month ago, I had the bright and unrealistic idea to schlep my Mac down to the pool while my kids frolicked with friends in a water wonderland. Let's just say that I was drinking the supermom Kool-Aid that day.

Anywho, one of my adorable offspring thought that I would get a real kick out of being squirted with one of those soft foam water blasters. Kids love the shit of using these things. They’re kind of cross between a Nerf ball and a bazooka and the blast radius on these bad boys rivals that of a nuclear warhead.

I never cared for having water squirted in my face, and I have to say it wasn’t funny in it’s heyday in the 1920s and it’s not fucking funny today.

Long story short, the most miniscule amount of water that did land on my keyboard shorted out the “p” key and ever since then has caused me to have to copy and paste a “p” each and every time a word or phrase has called for the use of this letter.

I have never put a strong emphasis on this letter in particular. I guess if my name was peter, paul or.......perry, I might have noticed it before. And for pc users this may not seem like a huge pain in the asp, but for those with a Mac, the “p” in Apple falls very far away from tree.

This is issing me off!

Definition: Blog Tease (noun)

I searched the internet far and wide for a definition of what I was called this past weekend, a "blog tease." So I decided to write the definition myself. This blog is dedicated to Megan Hood. Here’s your definition.

Blog Tease: (noun)
One who provokes or disturbs their online audience through witty or sometimes crappy written content posted to their blog site on an infrequent basis; Unlike prick or cock (tease) most commonly associated with this term, this person frustrates its current and potential blog readers by posting infrequent short stories and further torments those readers through shameless self promotion on social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter and Google+ without returning for an undisclosed period of time. A blog tease can best be characterized through an uncanny ability to tell good stories both online and in person without notice of when they will return again.

See: Angela Cavallari Walker

Motherhoodintheraw is back and mediocre as ever

Your Motherhoodintheraw blog is back and just like the "Rocky" movie series will hang around longer than it should but will bring you stories that you would rather forget. Either way, it's an escape. Which is why you are reading this or maybe you are really bored and your annoying facebook friend that is a new parent posts anything with the word "mom" on it. Hey, I'm not knocking. I love you gals!

Upstairs, I can hear the awful sound of a cavernous plastic bin mixed with mega-blocks, Legos and a bastard brand of Legos, spilling out on the floor. This sound is more unnerving to me than breaking glass. I am a self-confessed neat freak. However, I never know what's going to set me off. For instance, every morning a pack of determined spiders spins the most intricate webs on my kid's playset. To me it's beautiful and reminds me that I should never give up on my dreams no matter how many times my hours of work is destroyed the next morning.

Which brings me to the bin of blocks. I know that making my kids pick up every block is what I should do. And I do try. I even make idle threats about throwing away the scattered chaos on the floor. For effect, I grab a garbage bag and sway back and forth. What always stops me is the memory of buying this shit and that in a few weeks my almost four-year-old daughter will look for a small plastic princess comb from a fucking happy meal toy that she took from the lunch box of another preschool classmate. ~Breathing break~

But being a neat freak is not always a bad thing. For one, I recognize the origin of each item in my home. Mind you, I can't remember to buy coffee filters or peanut butter on a trip to the local Kroger. But I can recall that I bought that knock-off brand of sunblock (that was not the continuous spray kind) at the Walgreens around the corner from my parents house in Florida. I know when to pat down a child after a playdate or when to pat down mine.

And I remembered how much I missed writing this blog. Not because anyone asked me to start it again. But because I was watching Oprah's final episode air and I remembered that I was watching her show when I first started this blog four years ago. Which makes me feel freakin' neat to share my mundane thoughts with you. Thanks for coming back. Now move your finger off the trash button.

What I learned about life from refinishing my front door

I have no idea what possessed me to even take on the arduous task of staining and refinishing my front door. Ok, I'll fess up....$$$ oh, and that my hubby said I couldn't! Over the last year or so, I have made it my mission to tackle DIY projects. Today shrouded in the warm rays of spring, I busted out the sander, paints and a drive to succeed.

My hard work payed off but turned out to be a much larger scale project than I anticipated and just like my door was caked in layers of frustration and resolve. In the end, the door turned out beautifully. I celebrated by downing two beers and stood in the middle of the street to admire my handy work. I was struck by a deeper parallel to refinishing my door and life's little lessons. Here is what I learned:

Lesson # 1 Don't be afraid to step outside your comfort zone of knowledge.


Lesson #2 In order to get to the heart of the problem, you have to entirely scrape away at the old layers.


Lesson # 3 Ask for help.


Lesson # 4 Don't be afraid to start over.


Lesson # 5 When all else fails read the directions.

Play by play playdate

I remember watching commercials as a twenty-something for popular headache remedies and never being able to connect. The commercial would open with a Mom clutching and rubbing her temples. The scene behind her was always wild and chaotic with several children literally bouncing off the walls and furniture. Internally I would laugh and dismiss this scene as ridiculous. Not me. Bullshit.

btw, I have a headache THIS BIG, and it has crazy fucking kids written all over it. Here is why:

10:37PM -Cries erupt from my 2 year old daughters room. It seems that she decided to sleep in the buff again. My husband was kind enough to clean her up and leave me a ball of piss-soaked bedding on the floor.

10:51PM - Deposited the crumpled mess into the washing machine and retired to my bed where my husband and our little screamer were already asleep. By this time the only thing left to watch on the boob tube was crappy home improvement shows like, "Clean Sweep."

5:22AM- Goldendoodle puppy started his freedom campaign.

6:02AM-6:41AM Total blur. No coffee yet.

6:53AM- Coffee has slowly begun to kick in. Maternal instinct also kicks in and I manage to make a bowl of cereal for my son.

7:28AM- Carpool arrives. Hug and kiss my son.

8:02AM- Screaming 2 year old is now awake and looking for me. Spend the next few minutes on good morning hugs.

8:03AM- Spend the next few minutes pinning my daughter down to brush her teeth. Manage to avoid bloodshed by the skin of her teeth.

8:07AM-8:31AM Zone out in front of computer updating my Facebook and Linked In profile while 2 year-old zones out in front of Dora The Explorer.

8:33AM- Realize that the piss-soaked sheets are waiting for me. Open washing machine to find that the pissy pull-up was part of the crumpled mess from the night before. Strange gelatinous chemicals coat my sports bra and daughter's sheets. It smells worse that it sounds.

8:39AM-More fucking laundry.

9:02PM- Dog begins his daily mission of chewing the shit out of everything that does or doesn't move. His only criteria is that it be something very precious to his owners, and has not been touched by himself or any other canine.

10:00AM-11:37AM- Neighborhood parents meeting. Perfect opportunity for me to bitch about my day. Leave the meeting with my screaming daughter tucked UNDER my arm like a cheap piece of luggage.

11:37AM-12:31PM- Whining continues from backseat until I am finally strong-armed into turning on Spongebob for 30-50lb passengers. Make a mental note to workout and crack a few beers after the kids go to bed.

12:32PM-3:14PM- Experience some relief thanks to daughter's nap and son's playdate. Decide to update my blog.

3:18PM- Enter puking puppy. Clean up mess and count the minutes till my husband arrives home. Must get outside and run my ass off.

3:19PM- It starts raining. Scratch plans to run outside.

3:30PM-Panic begins to set-in after several feeble attempts to fix plastic cockroach fail.

3:43PM - Husband surprises me with a brand-new Dyson, to which I exclaim, "You KNOW how passionate I am about vacuuming!" (seriously...and I'm NOT being sarcastic.)

5:00PM- Made it to the gym. This would be the only time my kids DON'T seem to need me to do much of anything. Must be the fact that they are parked in front of Yo Gabba Gabba aka visual crack for kids.

6:40PM- Arrive at Chick-Fil-A for a fundraising event in sweaty workout clothes. Managed to run into EVERY fucking teacher from my son's school. Either they think I am some sort of a gym rat, or I work on a alpaca farm.

7:17PM- Kids are being especially needy which only ads to my level of stress. Work in a quick shower and shave. Exit the shower with streaks of blood on my shins. Frightened children.

7:59PM- Suggestion to brush teeth gets ugly. Pinned down dear daughter and managed to scrape just enough plaque off her teeth to stave off gingivitis.

8:01PM- Stormed downstairs in frustration. Husband took reins and put children to bed.

8:02PM-Parked myself in front of a bad movie and bought some downtime between last minute business calls.

10:42PM-Had strange dreams about my childhood memories.

6:02AM-Took no prisoners and popped an Excedrin. They may not be yellow or different, but they have my day written all over them.

Happy Hour

There's a place where your single life, and your life as a mother and wife collide. It doesn't happen often. Sometimes it's a high school friend, a weathered photograph, or in my case an antiquated playlist from a resurrected ipod.

There was a time when I looked forward to happy hour. What was once a time for loud music, libations, and high calorie appetizers, now became known as the "Five'O'Clock freakout." And why not? It's the pocket of time that hangs in the suspense of dinner duties and down time. This would also explain Oprah and Dr.Phil's air times.

It's not uncommon for me to try to recreate this festive atmosphere within the confines of my own living room. My kids get in on the action, and take to the dance floor a.k.a the foyer. But tonight to my dismay and utter disappointment my ipod (and for want of a better word) took a dump. So I fumbled through a mass of co-ax cables and phone lines until I found what I was looking for, my first ipod. Already a geriatric at the mere age of six, it's health took a turn for the worse last year when I went for a run with it on the beach. Honestly, electronics should be aged in dog years.

This was not just my first ipod, but my first playlist. Mr. Wendel by Arrested Development brought my children running from all directions. I love to watch children dance. Good or bad, they are going with it. Kind of reminds you of that crazy AND extremely drunk relative at your wedding busting a move to the macarena.

For the sake of experimenting I left it on the shuffle mode as I spun my kids in circles until they were too dizzy to stand up. Hey, don't knock till you've tried it! The next song was "It's All Been Done", from the Stunt album by the Bare Naked Ladies. I wonder what the hell happened to them? Oh yeah, they suck! Yet, at the age of 23 I thought their music not only spoke to me but inspired me. For me, music is a sort of time machine that transports me to a different place. Tonight I was surrounded by the promises I felt in my youth, and the reality that I am living them.

My "inner child" grew up on me

If you are ever unsure of your place in the world of demographics and marketing, simply take a stroll at your local shopping mall. These large enclosures, with their even larger "hub" department stores stand as a beacon to consumerism, illuminated by sunlight and greed. Ok, maybe I am being a tad too harsh. I mean come on, every once in awhile you HAVE to accept the fact that purchasing anything material can and does lift your spirits. What woman can deny the affect that a new pair of shoes can have? Even my most "natural" and "granola" of friends love a new pair of comfortable shoes or a good bag even if that bag is made from hemp and meant to carry rutabagas.

Personally, with the exception of the holiday season, I very seldom patron the mall. As a teenager, I was never "dropped off" to hang out with my friends at this larger- than-life hormone mecca. Maybe it's because my mother was not a BIG shopper, and if anything, had to drag me and my siblings through the now defunct Monkey Wards (that's Montgomery Wards to you.)

Yesterday, me and my family found ourselves caught up in its world of neon, food and apparel. My son immediately darted over to the "Great American Cookie", a franchise that sells,......well they sell cookies. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he picked out each treat that he planned on devouring in seconds. Luckily, malls are designed to keep you distracted so it was easy to move him away from those sprinkled snacks.

The magic of marketing had begun to cast a spell on all of us, as we ventured into a store called Hollister. Those of you over the age of 30, with teenage nieces, nephews, and offspring, have no doubt bought a few gift cards to this establishment. Maybe, you have even done a "pop wheelie" trying to get your stroller onto its steps for a peek inside its dimly lit interior. From the moment you walk in, the place smells, looks and feels like raw youth. Remember the old footage of funhouses from the 1920s, where one false step would send a whiff of air up a woman's skirt? At this apparel store, that whiff of air is their signature cologne, which also smells hip and young. And the lighting concept I mentioned earlier? Well, it is meant to draw your attention to the dark denim cropped jeans, and tight t-shirts which hug every curve of the size 0 mannequins. I felt 10 years younger from the moment I set foot in there. Even my 4 year old was captivated by flat screen televisions, fashioned to look like you are staring out through a window at the ocean. And there are speakers tucked into unassuming spaces blaring what sounds like a Green Day tribute/cover band. Which came in handy, as it drowned out my daughters impatience. Of course, I purchased those cuffed jeans, AND the t-shirt feeling like electric sex was rockin' through my veins.

Honestly, it just felt good to connect with my inner child (which I think is around 20 years old) that has been clawing at my mommy jeans to get out. Except this time, I am legal to drive AND "score" my own beer!