The 9 Stages of Grieving the Brangelina Breakup

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s divorce news is hitting me hard, yo. Longtime readers may remember that my second blog post ever was actually about Brangelina being “Carriage Before Marriage” just like me. Our weddings took place the same year. I pretty much assumed we’d all be planning a special trip together for our 10-year anniversaries. And now they’ve gone and ruined it.


So excuse me if I’m in a bad mood. If you’re feeling crushed, let down, and disappointed like I am, here are the 9 stages of grief you can expect to experience over the next few days:

1. Intense Curiosity

For the first few hours, I’m just clicking links. Page Six claims there’s another woman. TMZ blames Brad’s substance abuse and anger issues.  Twitter is blowing up with Jen Aniston memes. But I need more. This might be the week to swing by Walgreens and buy all the tabloids.

2. Smug “I Told you So” Attitude

I can’t help it – the words “once a cheater, always a cheater” are ringing in my ears. What did Angelina expect after she fell for a married man?

3. Guilt

What am I, a monster? They have 6 kids together!

4. Denial

This can’t be happening. Maybe they’ll get back together like Megan Fox and Brian Austin Green?

5. Anger

Dangit, I defended you guys! When everyone else was Team Jen, I said Noooooo, can’t you see they’re perfect together?  That Mr. and Mrs. Smith chemistry cannot be denied. The mutual passion for do-gooding. All those tattoos. Genes that could make this face:


I had your back! Why you gotta make me look like a chump?

6. Assigning Blame

You know Brad, when I pictured us together, you were the guy from Legends of the Fall. Or at least Moneyball. But it turns out you were Floyd the stoner from True Romance all along. Six kids. Get it together, Brad.

7. Assigning Blame, Part Deux

And Angie, I know you’re a badass and all, but sole physical custody?  What happens if they all fall asleep in the car and need to be carried upstairs? Dads are nice to have around, even when they annoy us.

8. Depression

I guess that’s it. Love is dead.

9. Acceptance

Is Taylor Swift dating anyone new?

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Dear Husband, Please Stop Getting Hotter


Dear Husband,

I’m not trying to pick a fight, but there’s something you’ve been doing for a while now that really gets on my nerves, so I need to say something…

You’ve been getting hotter.

And it’s a problem.

When we first got together seven years ago, you and I were roughly equal on the attractiveness scale. If anything, I had the edge because I’d already perfected my “style.” (You needed a wife, a.k.a. me, to do that for you.)

Now that we’re both in our 40s, I’ve noticed an alarming trend. My looks are gradually fading, and yours, well, aren’t. In fact, you seem to be getting more attractive.

For example, you’ve been adding a few gray hairs to your otherwise dark, wavy mane, and they are literally the perfect salt to your pepper. Like, Patrick Dempsey and George Clooney wish they knew your hair secret. Me, I’m at the salon every 10 weeks desperately tinting and highlighting. Nobody wants to see the dishwater situation I’d be working if I let my hair go au natural.

Continue reading at…

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That Time My One-Year-Old Locked Me Out of the House With Her Inside

How do you know when your baby has become a toddler?  Some would say it’s when they begin walking and talking.  I’d say it’s when they start making mischief.

The other day, I was home with Chloe (16 months) and my mother-in-law.  We stepped outside the front door for some fresh air, with Chloe toddling just behind us in the doorway.  So there we were, chatting away, enjoying the balmy weather, admiring the progress on the new house being built nearby, when Chloe got a big idea.


Before I could say, “Wow, look at those gross motor skills!” she slammed the door in our shocked faces. Did I mention the door locks automatically? Did I mention our keys were inside?

The next 10 seconds felt like 30 minutes. My baby. Alone inside the house. With no way to get to her. Here comes the panic!

I paced the walkway while trying to kick start my sleep-deprived mom brain and run all the possibilities: Could I get in through the garage? Nope, locked from the inside. Any open windows today? No, A/C on full blast. Who else has our key? Nobody close enough.  Chloe interrupted the spinning top in my brain, plaintively calling for Mama from behind the door. I bolted to the nearby construction site.

My mother-in-law, bless her, sang nursery rhymes through the door to keep Chloe from wandering off to find the kitchen knives.  I returned with a burly construction worker carrying a crowbar.  “Break it!” I shrieked, pointing to the front window.  He shattered the glass, then helped me climb through, miraculously without cutting myself.  I snatched Chloe and opened the door.  Glass everywhere, but not on the baby.

When I called Dave, it was partly to inform (broken window, repairs needed) and partly for TLC.  My heart was still beating out of my chest.  I wanted him to stroke my emotions and chill me out.  And when he was done fixing me, I wanted him to congratulate me on my quick thinking and give me a medal, or at least a World’s Best Mom coffee mug.  But that’s not at all how it went.  It went more like this: “Wait, what?  How could that have happened?  Wasn’t there a smaller window you could break?”

Not only was he not impressed with my superhero-like reflexes, but he clearly thought there was something less destructive–and expensive–I could have done to solve the problem.

That’s why it was totally amazing when the very next day–I am not making this up–Chloe locked Dave out of the house.  It was less dramatic, since his keys were in his pocket (and even if they weren’t, he could have easily crawled through our now demolished window).  But it proved that this sort of thing could happen to anyone, not just me.

High five, Chloe.  You’re a toddler now.

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11 Things I’m Doing the Second I Finally Wean Baby off the Boob


I’ve been pregnant, trying to get pregnant or nursing for most of the past six years. So rather than owning and occupying my own body, I’ve been renting it out to some rather unruly but very adorable tenants. At 15 months old, Baby #2 is still on the lease, nursing on demand with great enthusiasm, but I’m making plans for her eventual eviction. It’s not that I don’t love breastfeeding—I do. It’s just that I also really like vodka.

Here’s what I’m gonna do as soon as I get that last baby weaned:

1. Wear a turtleneck. Or anything else in my closet that restricts access to my breasts. I’m sick of my neckline-limited wardrobe. Even my husband is tired of seeing my cleavage!

2. And all the jewelry. As every breastfeeding mama knows, dangly earrings and necklaces are just convenient baby toys and all the yanking and breakage ain’t worth it. When I get my body back, I’m decorating it.

3. Smell fabulous. It always seemed rude to spray perfume right where the baby is trying to breathe, so I’ve mostly smelled of breastmilk, which is not something you ever see marketed by Chanel.

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My Tushie’s in Traffic

I knew two kids would be harder than one kid.  I just didn’t know why.  The problem is car seats.

With one kid, the car seat was installed in the center, and I could extract my daughter from either door, whichever was most convenient.  Now I’ve got the baby on the right side and Viv (age 5) behind me, on the left.  Since we’re all jammed into a small SUV, there’s no room to walk past the rear-facing baby seat, which means I’m putting Viv into the car from the driver’s side, often in heavy traffic.

That was a lot of words.  Just imagine me in this photo, but with angry bikers, city buses and cement trucks whizzing by, threatening to crush me with my own car door:


So on an almost daily basis, I am risking life and, well, butt, as I wrestle my girl into her Britax, which shouldn’t be so difficult, except (1) Wait Mommy I dropped my sea horse and (2) Ow! I’m sitting on a barrette and (3) But I just need my snack and (4) I don’t want to get in my car seat! and (5) Juliette has a booster it’s not fair and (6) By this time I’ve been run over and I’m dead. It’s very sad.

No, but seriously, I can feel an actual breeze on my arse from the “Wide Load” van driving way too close for comfort as I beg, plead, negotiate, threaten, bribe and otherwise lose the battle of wills with my stubborn daughter.

I remember reading some parenting article that said when all else fails, try humor!  And that is how I ended up writing an original country and western song entitled “My Tushie’s in Traffic,” which I will share with you now:

My tushie’s in traffic

Oh no, I’m in trouble

Cuz my tushie is not flat

It’s shaped like a big bubble

My tushie’s in traffic

Cars they are a coming

If my tushie does get smushed

Then I really will be bumming (butt pun!)

So now, when I’m parallel parked and Viv is dilly-dallying, I start singing.  The tune is imprecise – I just give it a little twang and a wail and she laughs, which gives me just enough time to buckle her in and slam the door.  This is what it’s come to, friends.  Country songs about my butt.  I’m working on an album. I’ll let you know when we tour.  For now, at least my tushie will live to sit another day. Read More »

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