Do I know you? Do you want to look at my room service pictures anyway?

Blogland slowed down for a second, because, to be honest, I got a little freaked out.

When I started a little blog in 2008, all my friends had one. It was how I communicated with friends and family prior to Instagram.

My readership has increased since then, especially since I’ve been trying to promote it to find writing opportunities. I can’t believe it! Frankly, I’m stunned that anyone stops by here, but it’s awesome!

It’s just…who are you?

Are you someone who cares to know that my post 9:00 PM time management is terrible, and I complain about never getting laundry done as I pick my face for an hour?

Are you someone who finds it interesting that my husband legitimately accused me of forgetting a burrito in our bedroom a few weeks ago? (It DID smell like Mexican food in our room for a couple days, and it IS a valid hypothesis, but I did not. I haven’t eaten a burrito in our room…for years. It left me offended and hungry.)

Are you the type I can confide in that I feel completely overwhelmed, and recently bit off more than I can chew? Are you the kind friend that will put an arm around me and tell me that’s just life? And to stop wasting time picking my face?

Are you a person that doesn’t mind if I post no-makeup, not professional pictures occasionally?

As a reader, I enjoy elements of raw emotion in writing. That will inevitably bleed onto Fluent in Blonde (unless I see a therapist for my emotions, or something), and I spent a week debating my level of not-child-related caution in what I share. By no means am I controversial, but I have a personality, you know? What if I offend someone? What if I unknowingly make myself way too vulnerable?

…buuuuut coming from a girl who can pound an entire pack of Springtime Oreos, I probably weigh too much to walk on eggshells.

I’ve also concluded that sharing my thoughts with you is less detrimental to me than it is to you. My overexposed emotions is probably more like…a flasher. A streaker. Okay, maybe something more mild, like mooning. As a verbal (or more traditional) mooner,I can’t feel vulnerable if I’m intentionally expoooosing myself to you.

Obviously, my sweet ninos are a different story, but writing with emotion? I think I’m okay with you reading it, you. Whoever you are. (I’m glad you’re here.)

Here’s what I’ve been doing while ignoring you:

It was brought to my attention by an online Zappos customer service rep that April 20th is National Cheese Fry Day. There was no questioning eating animal fries, animal fries know no shame. That’s why I unapologetically ate them in a swimsuit. It was also the first time everrrr that my little angel babies were being little angel babies in the kids’ pool. I sat on the side eating 3000 calories, and they just played! Gloooooooooooo-ria.

I enjoyed a one night vacation with my friend, Taylor. I never enjoy leaving any of my boys, but laying on a beach all day? Sleeping in until 10? Room service? Not currently physically attached to a baby? Well, okay. I’ll go for one day.

No vegan, gluten, dairy,or sugar preferences here.

Alwaaaays happy to be back home and wake up to my little loves snuggling in my bed.

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Taxes are the Worst Because my Math is the WORST

My only questions in math classes were, “Can I bring Kleenex for extra credit? Is that once QUARTERLY? If not, when is the last day to transfer out of here?”

I definitely lean towards the arts. If only it could fill my bank account like it does my soul.

Or help me with taxes.

Unfortunately, no one is interested in Transcendentalism and other fascinating methods of literary criticism during tax season.

Instead of writing, I’ve been working on taxes the past few nights I’ve had off work. Alright, I’m not even “doing” my taxes, just preparing our eleventh-hour submission for our accountant. Just looking at all those numbers is still exhausting and terrible, though.

It gives me flashbacks to math classes and I can almost smell the pencil shaving aroma of classrooms. Ugh. Is this PTSD?

Let me reminisce about my math class career path, or as I recall it, a walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

After the alphabet began adulterating math problems, and imaginary numbers were discussed (excuse me? they’re pretending?), I banked on passing high school math with Kleenex and other extra credit opportunities.

My ACT/SAT scores didn’t include math scores, just skulls and cross bones in the shape of a sad face.

Luckily, I still attended college and began basic math.

Or so I thought.

The first day of my freshman year math class, we discussed decimals. And then the next week, we talked about decimals. And the next, and the next, and…and then I looked around and realized that most of my classmates seemed to have special needs. (I don’t mean “most,” actually.)

And that’s cool. They were way nice. Except, it was going to take me three semesters to work my way up to entry level Math 1010.

Lo and behold, I had a neon green flyer on my windshield one day with bold print: DO YOU HATE MATH?


Because my dad pitied me for being such an idiot, he was willing to sponsor my enrollment in “,” which was an intense, six week independent study program that guaranteed (or your money back) your passing Math 1010 and transferred the credit to your school.

I took the class with ten other Kleenex-clinging people, and was taught what the squiggles on graphing calculators mean. The day of my final, I had a cold, but popped a DayQuil, plus one more to be safe, and then realized I’d opened the wrong end of the two-in-one box.

I’d taken two NyQuil.

I somehow earned the highest grade I’ve had on a math test since fifth grade (which wasn’t that high) (87%), passed Math 1010, dropped my remedial math class, and got a free shirt that said, “EASY” on the front.

Annnd that’s why I pay an accountant to do my taxes. Cue hair flip.

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My Hypocritical Distaste for Blogs and a Question for You

Hello. I have some statements and questions for you.

Consider this a diary entry regarding my qualms about recently and wholeheartedly diving into blog land.

In general, I dislike blogs. There are a smaaaaall handful that I follow and enjoy. You can consider me a total hypocrite since I’ve been writing on a blog since 2008.

Since then, blogs turned into bloggers, and (many) bloggers turned into some kind of narcissistic subculture of social media.

And now I have this twitch anytime I say I have a blog.

But—aren’t all blogs essentially the same? Travel, fashion, food.

They all consist of the same few things, packaged up slightly differently.

Not unlike: Taco Bell.

It’s just the same handful of ingredients in a variety of shells (chalupas being my favorite).

Haven’t we had enough, America? Aren’t you sick of this stuff?

Nope. America can never have enough. Beans, Crunchwrap Supremes, Mexican pizza, processed nacho cheese, bloggers posting aerial view pictures of themselves drinking coffee in bed with a laptop, all of it. America EATS IT UP.

So, do I have to have the same ingredients to gain traction? Is that the secret to success? My traveling is to Costco, I like fashion BUT, and food I could never photograph before I eat it.

Also, I don’t care. (I would hope to still be considered a chalupa shell, though.)

That leaves one element of “blogging” (twitch)…photos.

My question to you: do I have to have pictures? If so, can I just look down and away in them all?

I’ve nixed all the rest of the blogger secret sauce trifecta (food, fashion, travel), and respectfully disregarded all my paid-for mentoring advice. (An aesthetic for my feed with a color matrix? Who has time for this?) I reminded myself that I’m spending one year out of the nine I’ve “blogged” actually trying, and I won’t let myself shy away from this completely, so I did have my friend Jess take some photos for me today. Thankfully, she knows I’m super embarrassed having a photo shoot of myself, and makes me feel a whole lot less stupid. She even drove twenty minutes away to an undisclosed location, because I would be mortified if anyone I knew saw it all in action.

Wow, yeah. Jessica Cannon, you’re super nice.

Have I emphasized enough how awkward posting photos of myself makes me? I had to remind myself of other uncomfortable situations I’ve been in (albeit less self inflicted).

Liiiiike having my luggage searched on my honeymoon.

Or having Gus give a loud play by play of (and usually applauding) everything going on in my stall when I’m using a public ladies room.

Pursuing goals often tiptoes out of your comfort zone, right?


If you’re telling me photos make blogs more enjoyable, it’s important to me that you know this: I’m not taking photos because I think I’m awesome and living some fabricated life. I don’t care if YOU think I’m cute, but I would crawl away in shame to an Amish town if you thought *I* thought I was cute. Okay? Like Uncle Jesse says, “Capisce?”

This little chalupa shell will sleep a lot better tonight getting this clarification of her chest.

(Somewhere, an old boyfriend is feeling so relieved that he sidestepped a girl that is making Taco Bell analogies at 11:30 PM.)

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International Women’s Day. Some Interrogating and Some Thoughts.

First of all, this is meant to be lighthearted and politically neutral.

I am a woman, I admire women, and I am blessed to have more strong, incredible women in my family than most Thanksgiving tables have seen. I respect women, and I’m all for women’s rights. I work, I contribute to my family’s finances, and I’m all about building people up. What was even the point of me listening to Spice Girls if I didn’t support “gi’l powah”? (Said like Ginger Spice, the best Spice Girl.)

That being said, WHAAAT?? Women’s Day?

New holiday, who dis? I have questions.

Is this from a Beyonce song? Or is this about Hilary again?

Is someone going to bring me flowers for being a woman? What about chocolate covered strawberries? A doughnut, anything?

Was this celebration fueled by love, or anger?

Were there enough marches that someone at Hallmark said, “You know what, Miley? Here. We will just give you a day, okay? We’re sorry that Hilary lost and Trump is creepy and has terrible hair, but calm down. We’ll throw in some inspirational key chains and limited edition Beanie Babies.”

Did Donald Trump really write those tweets? That’s not a question, actually. Donald Trump did not personally tweet well phrased formalities about gi’l powah, or his name isn’t Donald Trump. (Sorry, Donald, no back pedaling now.)

Was I expected to make an Insta-tribute to my mom, like Mother’s Day?

Am I supposed to be teaching my sons to open doors for girls, or is that going to offend everyone?

Were all my friends serious about missing work for the corporate world to experience life without women? If so, was it like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, or is this serious? Is this a good representation of women? I hope the ladies at least went to IHOP’s Free Pancake Day. (What a coincidence!)

In conjunction with that, did any men notice their absence? It is March Madness time, and if I know men…

International Men’s Day is November 19, just for the record. Very unfortunately for them, it’s not during March Madness, but maybe Buffalo Wild Wings will have some kind of promotion for men celebrating manhood.

I became so intrigued about Women’s Day Instagram posts that by 9 last night, I had to look it up. According to Wikipedia, International Women’s Day has been observed since 1909. It was started by a socialist party for anti-discrimination/gender equality. I read all about it.

WELL. I’ve been alive since 1986, and I’ve never heard of it. I’ve heard of National Everything Day by now, thanks to social media. Best Friends Day, Sibling Day, Doughnut Day (am I hungry?), Associate Day, but International Women’s Day doesn’t ring a bell.

So, I am circling answer D.) Hilary started the fire in November to highlight all things pro-women.

…which is cool.

I don’t feel suppressed, and I haven’t personally felt victimized of sexism. Yet, I believe it exists, and promoting awareness is great. Plus, I like any opportunity to give kudos to awesome ladies.

I do want a heads up next time so I know to burn my bra and not go to work.

It got me thinking, what would happen if I called out of my mom job for the day? Let’s see how the house would run without a woman in it. MUAHAHA!

Then, I realized I’m an idiot and I leave for a couple days at a time for work EVERY single week…and it’s fine. Everything is just fine. I have an awesome husband who can run the house perfectly, and is probably a lot more fun than than I am. My kids LOVE their daddy days.

I didn’t let that ruin my spirit of “muahaha,” and it fueled me to organize a trip with my girlfriends.

I’m now planning to be here in April. “Women’s Day” inspiration at it’s finest.

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Big day, friends. Big day.

A coupla things.

First of all, I’ve decided that I really enjoy writing in my closet. It could either be because there are minimal distractions, or because there is a really comfortable pile of laundry that I lean on. It’s like a Love Sac, you guys. It just forms right to you. Reason #28 why I’m never finishing laundry. #closetwriter

Secondly (which should be the real first, as it trumps my pants and socks swaddling me right now), everyone is feeling better! Gus’s ear is all recovered and normal, as I would sure hope it would be after $200 ear drops. Even though they’re hard to keep up with, I love my boys’ little personalities and energy back full throttle!

In other news, we bought a new car today! Well, not new. Used. New to our driveway. My favorite part of our new purchase is knowing how hard Brian’s worked the past eight years. That “working independently” route is a bumpy one. My being a financial contributor in our family makes me appreciate his work so much more. It’s tricky to balance the stress of both your home and job! I’m not a car person, but I’m kind of obsessed with Brian’s new purchase now, and so proud of him. It won’t feel like this car is really, officially OURS until one of my kids throws up in it, though, so I’ll let you know when that happens.

Brian has been shopping around for a little while, but I’m always sentimental about seeing past cars go. Brian has owned the same car the entire time I’ve known him. That’s the car that picked me up in for our first date! It drove me to my college graduation ceremonies, cosmetology school, and to the hospital to have both my babies. It’s the car I squealed in right after Brian proposed, and where I sat to call my out-of-state parents and telling them all about it. I don’t know, I have an emotional attachment issue. I’ll see you on Hoarders.

This evening, I thought we might celebrate our new addition by going out to dinner, but then I realized we probably spent all our money. Plus, Brian was busy. I don’t see him often these days!

That seems like a really stupid thing to type as I’m laying here in a pile of his clothes.

Wait, is this a diary entry? Is that what this blog is? An online diary? Just wondering, now that I’ve announced it on Facebook to an awkward pool of past boy-things and people who aren’t really my friends anymore…

The seven year old me, locking my Lisa Frank diary, would be mortified.

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It’s like not wasting money when you’re kind of wasting money.

I’m a sucker for stamp cards and loyalty rewards. I don’t know if these incentives really save me that much money, but it is sure exciting. Café Rio, for instance, is like, “Thanks for dropping $150! For that, we gift you this aluminum tin filled with beans and rice.” The generosity for my loyalty may be underwhelming, but I’m so tickled by it, I’m tattooing an entire sleeve of Café Rio’s house dressing on my left arm.

I may cool things off with Café Rio now that I’ve found eBates (which reinforces that whole “don’t get tattoos of loves” thing).

My best friend Jessy recently told me about eBates, and I can’t believe she held out on me so long. It’s essentially a search engine that pays you a percentage of purchases made after starting on their page. Lululemon? Nordstrom? Nike? Amazon? Yes. All of it. We are all idiots for not using it.

You just sign up, hop on to, and search for your favorite online stores, click on it, and it takes you to that site! That’s it! Shop like usual! Quarterly, eBates sends you a check for a certain percentage of what you’ve spent using their search engine.

But really, a check.



And I didn’t even have to wrestle anyone into a car seat to get a stamp card punched.

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Most Beautiful First Lady, Though.

Does anyone else’s face hurt from having a scowl all day today?

Regardless of your presidential nominee of choice, you have a little crease in between your eyebrows, right?
Because today was weird, right?

Either your candidate lost, your face was rubbed in anti-Trump everyyyything all day, or you were struggling to get your Canadian immigration papers together.

Luckily, America, there is Botox for these types of days.


I was unsure of my vote until the eleventh hour, but I headed to the poll (conveniently right before dinner time) (alone) (hehe).

I told Gus I was going to vote. He asked, “A BOAT?!”
“V-v-vote! For the president!”
“Oh! YEAH! Row, row, row, mama!”

I am not completely confident in the candidate that I row, row, rowed my vote for. Regardless of who I supported in the eleventh hour, I AM confident that I would be publicly attacked if I voiced my opinion via social media. I AM confident that I would retaliate by tagging my attackers in unflattering pictures. Get outta here, Becky!

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3-0 and Basically a Blonde Confucious


Well, here I am. THIRTY. Since I am saving speaking in parables for my 40th birthday, here are some bullet pointed little nuggets of wisdom for my “What I Learned in my 20’s” chapter of my pamphlet. (See end for pamphlet details.)

After changing diapers in airport lavatories, I’ve realized the likelihood of The Mile High Club existing on commercial airlines is doubtful at best. Unless we’re talking about underweight contortionists, there’s just not much room, and personally? I wouldn’t want to miss the peanut handout.

Flip phones are indestructible.

After being the ring leader of all boy bashing for several years, I was put in my place when I became a mother of boys. Boys, actually, are not stupid, or weird. Girls, actually, are emotionally charged, and can get a little crazy.

If you choose to wear a bikini to a waterpark, odds are good that everyone around you will get only a slightly more conservative view than the one you give your gynecologist.

I am not the only person that can care for my children.

Hold on to your best friends. They’re hard to find.

Although lack of sleep can really mess with your brain, and has been used as a form of torture during wars, you cannot die from no sleep. There were no recorded deaths at the time of my last baby, anyway, when I Googled it to check. (I was relieved to put my will on hold.)

Dinner tastes better when you don’t have to look at a dirty kitchen.

In case you’re interested in dabbling in online identity or banking theft, I’ve discovered most people have the same password to everything. There is a good chance that password is related to a dog they’ve loved. I’m not sure why I know this or why I’m sharing it…

I’m not the only person in the world that secretly likes Filet O Fish. (Stop making that face.)

The Kardashians are taking over the world, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Self consciousness should be a worry of the past. Do you think anyone is even looking up from their phone? No one will even notice that your eyeballs are imploding while they are checking their Fantasy rosters and taking selfies with the dog Snapchat filter.

You generally get what you pay for…but I still heart Marshall’s.

Marry your very best buddy to make life a million times easier.

No one ever feels older than about 24.

Seek out adventures.

Speeding in a construction zone is going to be expensive, and may be a misdemeanor. That’s how Missy came to be Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott, I believe. Just flew right through the orange cones.

Vacations are worth the money for a dozen reasons.

Sometimes life’s biggest decisions are the easiest to make.

Hell will freeze over before Anderson Cooper ages.

Don’t check your bank account before bed.

Laughing at yourself is crucial to survival in general.

Lipstick is like caffeine for your face.

Peanut butter makes you fat. I also learned most people knew that before their twenties.

If you work really hard, and are nice, you’ll be okay.

College is the best.
Babies are the other best.

Pouring money into your car is a waste of money, unless you’re peacock-ing.

You’ll rarely be happier than when you make someone else happy.

I spent an entire semester discussing Aristotle, who claimed the greatest good man can achieve is happiness. For some reason, I think of that often. If that’s truly the root of goodness, do what makes you happy. Are you happy?

Seeing your first baby smile at you for the first time will change your whole life and all your priorities. That’s what I think the greatest good is, Aristotle.

Express gratitude.

This world is scary, but it’s still full of nice people.

Celebrate everything.

I can only stress about what I can control.

Contrary to everything I had been told, being a parent is so, so, so fun. I wish I’d had kids earlier.

(I’m considering making a list of things I’ve learned for every decade of my life, and publishing little pamphlets in sixty years for my funeral party favors. I plan to use my children’s inheritance to splurge for hardcovers. If you want to add your own bits of wisdom in the comments, I’ll make sure to quote you for my posterity.)

As always, if you feel inclined to share, please do!

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Finishing My New Year’s Goals Before Next New Year

I went to college in Hawaii for a second, and I’ve been running on island time ever since.

That’s a cute way of putting a lei around the phrase, “I’m usually a little late. Mahalo!”

After college, punctuality became much more important to me, but my two little sweeties put the brakes on that really quickly. It’s a law of motherhood that just as we are walking out the door, someone will need a new diaper, or a Kleenex, or throws up, or is missing a shoe, or remembers he misplaced a red Popsicle somewhere in the house…

Anyway, for the next year, I’ll get there when I get there, and things will get done when they get done, or I’ll lose my mind.

So, here we are in August, and I’m still working on my New Year’s Goals

Peter Pan is first on my list of original Disney stories to read. Indulge me while I nerd out, okay?

There are two separate books (both by the same author, J M Barrie) that count as the “original” story—one contains the first ever mentioning of the character within an unrelated storyline, and the other is the classic Peter Pan story that elaborates on the characters created in the first book.

I want you to read the first one, “Little White Bird.” I love the humor. It’s dry and a little twisted, but still charming and whimsical. Doesn’t that sound perfectly British, dahhling?

I’m slipping into an accent just writing about it, dahhling.

Goodnight Mooning, minus a few pages that are stuck together with apple juice.
Goodnight Mooning, minus a few pages that are stuck together with apple juice.
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Cannon Ball

Wow! THANK YOU for all the kind feedback from my last post! I am grateful so for kind friends, whose little emails and texts gave me an extra boost of encouragement.

I don’t have a lot of talents, so I guess I can demonstrate the importance of proper semicolon placement. (My mom used to tell me I was a good listener—that’s how I know I’m not especially good at anything. That’s fine, though, I got married.)

If you just couldn’t get completely dressed today, have a mountain of laundry, can’t listen to Lion King one more time, and have vowed to choke yourself with Spongebob fruit snacks if you see another pair of Valentino Rockstud heels on Instagram, I’m talking to you. You are real, and you inspire me.

I’m writing for you.


My little wrestling buddies and I hope to meet up with you here a couple times a week as you scroll through your phone in bed, or while you’re hiding from your family in your closet. Either way.

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