I got my eye on you

My mom’s kitchen has so many things. Period.

There are pans, gadgets and cake stands every where you turn. Or – behind every cupboard. She’s equipped for every possible party invitation, as a host of any theme, she’s ready to take on any baking assignment and will bat her eyes with modest appreciation when you compliment her on the arrangement.


Which is why it’s hard for me to out-right steal from the lady. Because if she didn’t love it so much, I would totally clepto my way to her equipment.

Those loaf pans? How many are there? At least 6. I have one. As in “Let’s learn to count, we always begin with ONE.” One.

I’m envious.


Muffin tins, griddles, baking sheet after glorious baking sheet.


Wooden spoons, I counted 3 wire whisks … spatulas that don’t crack and break. Rolling pins, oh my!

It’s not that I don’t have these things. I do. I have one of each of these things. What I don’t have is ample space to store extra’s, a dishwasher or a griddle. I don’t have one. I weep.

I equate this kitchen status to something like retirement. One day I’ll be part of this club. With cake stands and cupboards and a kitchen-aid. Until then … I’ll just take photos of my mom’s baking supplies, her organized cupboards and racks and racks of pie dishes, pyrex and bowls.

And I pet them when no one’s looking.

Lady Red

This title will alert only a few of you as to what this might be about: to the rest, consider this my disclaimer. I do not want to write about this, but soon you will know why I just have to. Also? If you’re a guy …. skip this one. Please. Pretend you don’t know me, do not ever bring this up. Ever.

Ever since this past summer when I skipped my period entirely and then freaked out over 8 failed pregnancy tests and blood tests at the hospital I finally returned to a regular scheduled working uterus. You’re so glad you know that, don’t you? Who wants the last 4 seconds back from their life? REFUND!

I should just let you all off the hook now, I am not pregnant. But thanks for working so hard at reading between the lines.

However that didn’t stop me from requesting that Aaron go on that special run to the pharmacy when I thought (by calculations done in my head while driving around, which is never a good idea FYI.) I should have already started my you-know-what.

Surprise, surprise … our birth control has yet to disappoint us and a negative reading we did receive. It’s a ritual now. Freak out! Test! Negative! Emotional roller coaster for 5 minutes! Starts period within 12 hours!

Hi! I’m extremely uncomfortable right now, you?

But this time it was different. I thought I learned my lesson about absorbency that one time in the 6th grade when my mom thought it was a good idea to buy me white jeans the same year I started my period; yet had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of how to keep track of said obligation for the rest of my life.

Talk about an awkward Homeroom Role Call. Jodi? HERE! No … uh, Jodi? You need to visit the ladies room. {Shrinks 17 inches below my desk and forgets what dignity ever felt like in a room of 12 year old boys.}

I am a twenty seven year old woman, I’ve given birth twice. I should have a black belt in Menstruation by now.

Yet, here I am, being all grown, and waking up to a tsunami godzilla period.

No worries! I’ll just clean up in the bathroom and then remember that all of my underwear are in the wash. Every single one of them.

Which is so convenient when the kids start crying and I have to check on them. Naked.

Don’t worry, parenting prepares you for this kind of embarrassment. Plus it was dark, what could they have seen? Exactly. I don’t want to know.

Fast forward to wakeful hours of the day and let’s get ready for a play date! In public!

Totally awesome that in the 45 minutes it took us to arrive I had already made a mess of my own situation. This morning should have taught me a valuable lesson. Forget extra clothes for the one in potty training … pack a pair for your self, woman!

This playground is special though, parents can get right in there and play with their kids! Which my son already knows, we’ve been there before. He wants Mom to come, too! MOM!! Why aren’t you playing with me??!!

Mommy has an owie. I can’t play today, dude. Sorry. You go though! Have so much fun, I’ll be right here … watching.


I made it to the end of the playdate, through the rest of our day and into the evening which happened to be Date Night!

Oh Date Night. We tried a new restaurant (strike one) and then went to see a movie (strike two) and then decided to browse a book store for a bit (I’m out).

I’m sitting there thumbing through some decor books when it hits me.

I have to use the bathroom.

Right. Now.

Aaron was on a phone call so I just dropped my book and bee-lined it to the bathroom. I actually tried to buy a tampon from the vending machine (only 10 cents!! What the hell? Why is the pad 25? Who uses the pad’s MORE!!!??) but they were out.

There was some weird creaky water dripping happening and after the movie we saw my senses were on overdrive, so I’m looking all over the bathroom thinking someone’s behind the door waiting to get me. I’ve assessed my exit strategy – looked for hidden cameras (gross) and made sure my door locked.

I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I had visions of having to send an SOS text to Aaron and him finding me on the bathroom floor.

Of course by this time I’ve already blogged this in my head and didn’t know how I was going to get this story to you had I ended up on the bathroom floor. It was not pretty.

So there I am trying to finish everything up before one of the employee’s comes in to check the bathroom for closing. Only I did not want that to happen, to have any kind of witness to what was going on in there (Hello, internet.) and I probably would have just spent the night in shame.

You know what you do? You wrap your underwear in the 1/2 ply commercial toilet paper and then get. out. fast.

But quick buy a book before you leave the store because there’s no possible way you can leave a note on the mirror with a $20 explaining how you realize this was never part of their job description.

On being 11

It’s been popular in the past to write your 16 year old self (or 21) a letter and wax on and on about how you should just accept that your ass is amazing already and wear those jeans for crying out loud. Smoke that cigarette – ride with all the windows down, kiss that guy/girl and say you’re sorry for once and for all.

Life goes on.

And gravity comes into play at some point and then you’re sitting there remembering when your bottom didn’t wave hello to your knee’s every morning or your upper arms stopped saying hello and goodbye when you did.

Tragedy that aging might be I have a letter to myself at eleven that I would now like to write.

Scene: 5th grade. The principle was actually my teacher as part of a job share with my best friends mom. It was an awkward last year of elementary school for me. My mom had started dating after divorcing, my dad had too. I was one of two little girls in my grade who had parents that had divorced.

I was good at math and reading – loved those subjects – but I struggled with history and geography.

Struggled should be read as: I did not understand the concept of caring about the past or where Aruba was. That light never came on for me.

But right now – I have an eleven year old to deal with. And she’s confused and a little worried about her life. Let’s hold her hand for a minute, shall we?

Dear self,

First of all, stop worrying about it (you are far too young to care yet) but a boy will some day want to spend time with you. You’ll even be kissed before you’re sixteen. You should be focusing on the capital of Florida. And where Arkansas is on the map. Also? Do you know who is your president currently? You’re right. Bill Clinton. Good job. You get 5 points.

Now back to those States that are United. You live there. Let’s chat about this. You have all your life and will continue to travel not only the States but the World. Stop eating those gummy bears and look at the map. It matters. In 16 years you’re going to be wondering why you still can’t place Minnesota on the map and why you’re always confused about Idaho and those other ones. See? You’re kinda dumb here, Jodi. And you are not dumb. You graduate high school early and audit out of your college courses.

You are not allowed to be stupid. (Also? You are not stupid at all.)

So, Self. There’s nothing wrong with being behind but you have to get this one under control. Having conversations about places around the world and thinking you’re in an entirely different continent (in the conversation) than you really are is very embarrassing. That’s a hard one to recover from. You’ll learn this as you get older.

But the good news is when you’re finally twenty-seven you’re going to buy yourself a map or CD or something and you’re totally going to Trivial Pursuit your way to knowledge on Geography.

You’ll most likely wait til you’re twenty-eight to tackle those current events. But you’re proud nonetheless.

Progress, self! You get 5 more points.

And your mom gets married again so does your dad. Shit hits the fan in more ways than one but not because of them. Get cozy and hang on, you’re going to quit sucking your thumb on one of the most pivotal evenings in your little history. You can do this, and you do … for at least the next 16 years.

You go girl.

Boys vs. Girls

It’s been a while since I’ve embarrassed myself in this manner which means it’s obviously time and way overdue.

I’m sorry Mom. And Grandma. And any guy who reads this. Ever.

My son is 2 1/2 and very inquisitive about his world right now.

I don’t ever get alone time, even in the bathroom.

Who knows where this is going?

And sometimes that’s difficult because there are certain times of the month when I just really want to be left alone in there and not get asked these questions:

Mom, is that for your bum?

Is that your bum band-aid?

Let me see it.

What are you doing?

Where does that go?

Can I have one, too?

Thankfully he has yet to announce these findings to anyone when we’re out in public, like, HEY Stranger! My mom has these really cool rocket band-aids!!! Wanna see??

Although, in fairness, I am waiting for that day.

I think I have Pink Eye

I think I have pink eye

What do you think?

I’m not really allowed to use the Internet to self diagnose any more. There was that one time this summer that I was positive I had Pituitary Cancer because there were certain Lady Things that had not happened and eight pregnancy (yes eight) tests later and a blood work up from the hospital all told me the same thing: I was not pregnant.

Obviously it was pituitary cancer. You see how this works right?

Not to mention it was, um, a stressful summer. Moving. Moving and oh we moved! Right on the heels of a conference I had co-planned and in the midst of saying “Yes! Please, can I pay you to buy this house??” … I was under some stress. Fair enough.

I had pink eye as a child and recently I remember hearing somewhere that one of the “awful” ways you get pink eye is being exposed to poop.

Well, shit.

That is the number one thing I am exposed to on a daily basis. Lots of it.

And we’re out of hand soap.

And we don’t wash our own clothes … or have any bleach in the house.

Pretty much we live in filthy filth every day and then we touch our eyes.

So I’ve been wearing my glasses today because it kinda sorta hides it … right?

I think I have pink eye

I think I have pink eye

And part of me wanted to wear sunglasses to church because a year or so ago (maybe 2?) Britney Spears made headlines because she and her boys were wearing sunglasses and people, GASP!, HORROR!, thought that meant they were hiding a case of pink eye.

Well, duh. If the paparazzi thinks it’s terribly disgusting and worth making fun of then it must mean I, too, am an awful parent for somehow contracting this little bacteria.

We’re all on the same boat here, aren’t we? Speaking the same language?

Just checking.

Anyway … I think I have pink eye and it’s probably because I haven’t boughten (bought?) new eye makeup brushes in years. Haven’t washed my pillow case in about 2 weeks and ran out of the sanitizing hand wash. (But not the gallon pump of the anti bacterial water free hand sanitizer!! Points for me, points for me!!)

If I’ve ever touched you, you should probably take cover.

I think I have pink eye

I have chronicled my wonderful housekeeping and total hygienic mothering here before: See here, and here, and please try not to see here.