One Of These Days, Siri…One Of These Days.

I yell at Siri.  A lot.  Not as much as I used to, but still more than I should.

At first we didn’t understand each other:

“Siri, call my mom.”

“I don’t know who your mother is.  As a matter of fact, I don’t know who you are.”

Hand to heart, that robot bitch said that to me.  Can you get your feelings hurt by a computer?  Apparently.  I said some horrible things to her about where she could put her ones and zeros and then read my owner’s manual.  Well…flipped through my owner’s manual until I found the part that told me I had to program my own info into the phone.

Oh.  Sorry Siri.  I take back the part about shoving your you-know-what you-know-where.

We still had our ups and downs.  It was all very Hollywood celebrity like with public declarations of love and jokes (Haha, look everyone!  Watch what happens when I ask Siri where can I hide a body!) during the good times and lots of cursing and name calling with me asking where to hide HER body during the not so good times.

My children began to pick up my phone and yell at it.



Even now, when Purple hears Siri speaking he’ll give an indulgent head shake coupled with a soft chuckle…”Oh Siri…”

We kind of have a messed up relationship.  I am actually for real worried about hurting her feelings so I will pick up the phone and apologize to her after I yell.  Because I wouldn’t want Obama to think I was rude.

So it wasn’t too strange when I recently asked Siri:

“Siri.  Look up acne after finishing Prednisone.”

And she said,

“Acting after Beethoven.  I’m not sure.  Shall I look that up for you?”


“Acne without predictions.”


“Finishing predatory accounting.”


I hauled my butt over to the computer and managed to type in my question.

“OH YES!” said Google!  “Lots of problems with acne after finishing Prednisone!”

Because this was happening to my face.


Oh the eyebrows! Oh the horror!!

And this was happening on the other side:


I can’t even with this face…

And it was on my chest and arms.  Not nearly that bad but still there.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m can’t say I haven’t fallen asleep before without washing my face but this…oy.

(Also can I say…steroid swelling almost totally gone!  Yippee Von Skippie!)

I made an appointment with my baby dermatologist (not a derm for babies…literally a very young doctor.  With silky smooth skin that I try not to stare at too much) and was lucky enough to get in the next day (mostly because I think my doctors are fascinated with my weird skin and the chance that I may not be wearing underwear…IT ONLY HAPPENED ONE TIME!)

So there I was at my appointment (pants on, thanks very much!) kind of hoping the doctor would walk in and say, “Oh gracious!  You’re reverse aging!  Lucky you!  Look, you have the ass of a 22 year old girl again!”  And I would say, “Oh doctor, you rascal!” and pinch his adorably smooth cheeks and saunter out to drink a cup of ranch (as one can do in their 20s).

Instead he walked in and said, “Well that looks like a lupus rash.”

Excuse me very much, Doctor?  Don’t you know that I JUICE?

Guess who has 2 thumbs and got her cocky, little(ish), still regrettably 39 year old butt taken down a notch.

This girl!

Because I honestly forget that I DO have an autoimmune!  And though I manage my symptoms (cough cough *incredibly* cough) well, I still HAVE it.  And therefore am subject to some of the rules.

Like…stay out of the sun!  It’s autoimmune sun rash!  Sumbitch.

“Have you been out in the sun a lot?” asked the doc.

To which I answered:


“First one to give mom a hideous rash is the winner!”

Those bikes.  They have new bikes and they want to ride them 24/7.  They jump on me at 7 freaking a.m., prying my eyelids open and yelling, “LET’S GO RIDE BIKES!” Middle of the day?  “BIKES!” Before dinner. Bikes. After dinner. Bikes.  I’ve replaced vasculitis for bikeulitis.  But of course I’m not going to complain.  Ride away.  Wear yourselves out.

Except that we live on the surface of the sun.

When the doctor asks, “Do you wear sunscreen?” I do what any normal person paying hundreds of dollars a month for medical insurance would do and I lie.

“I sure do!”  Because I mean, hello!  My moisturizer has some spf in it!  And sometimes I remember to put it on!  And then my makeup has it too so that’s practically like wearing a spf spacesuit, right??


My doctor is too polite to challenge me (because he respects his elders) and instead exchanges a raised eyebrow with his nurse which I believe is medical for, “BUUUULLLLSHIIIT.” He also tells me to buy some protective clothing and hats and to be good about staying out of the sun during peak hours, dumbass.  Okay, he doesn’t SAY dumbass but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking it.

So now I’m THAT girl in one of THOSE hats.  And sun shirts.  And I’m not one of those people that carries off a hat with aplomb (SAT word!).  I think I’m going to look like this:


Just the hat. Not the rest…I’m not crazy.

But instead I look like this:


Fact. She still looks cooler than I do.

But dorky is still better than that rash!  Brutal!  And I guess no one in their 60s ever said, “Oh I wish I’d spent more time uncovered out in the sun.  This creamy, unlined skin is the WORST!”

And Kyle is super duper extra sweet and SWEARS he loves me in my hats…I knew never making fun of his CROCS WITH SOCKS(!!) would eventually pay off.

Besides none of it really matters because you and I both know…it’s all Siri’s fault.


Today I’d like to talk to you about a serious problem.

A problem that affects 99/100 parents around the world.


PoopJacking occurs when a small child opens their bedroom door during nap time to tell you, “Mommy, I poo pooed.”

The juice made me do it.

I’m sorry…the juice made me do it.

And when a nap is PoopJacked more than 20 minutes in, the results can be devastating.  Just enough sleep to feel rested.  Not enough sleep to avoid channeling Nick Nolte by 5pm.

Haha!  Just kidding!  I'm freeeee, suckers!

Haha! Just kidding! I’m freeeee, suckers!

Signs that you’ve been PoopJacked may include the following:

  • Unfinished coffee (with the weird milk skin on top).
  • Unfolded laundry.
  • Desperate calls to your spouse to ‘please just pick up a pizza!!’
  • Greasy hair.
  • Unwritten blog posts.
  • Changing a diaper with your eyes closed to try and convince the toddler that, ‘Look!  It’s still sleepytime!  Everyone is sleeping!  See??  ZZZZZ!!’
  • A 2 year old that will be awake for 13 consecutive hours and is wired like a spider monkey on crank.
  • Uncontrollable crying.  You, not the kid.

But there is hope.


In 16 years, your toddler will be ready for college and you will finally be able to get stuff done.  Unless your husband has retired because then you’ll just have a different bored person following you around.

Until then, just stuff the kids with cheese and hope for the best.

PoopJacking.  Funny name.  Serious condition.

P.S.  I was compelled to write this after I really changed a diaper while pretending to sleep.  Lame.

Snakes On A Blog

Snakes.  This blog post contains snakes.  SNAKES SNAKES SNAKES!  Well…one snake.

You’ve been warned.

Oh.  And maybe some dead rats too.

Now you’ve been doubly warned.

Still here?  Okay, good.

So…we have a 10 foot long boa constrictor.  And by we, I mean Kyle.  And maybe it’s ‘only’ 8 feet…but does that really matter?  BECAUSE THERE IS A GIGANTIC BOA CONSTRICTOR LIVING IN MY LAUNDRY ROOM!


I feel like she’s judging my dingy whites.

It all started out so innocently.  About 8 years ago, Kyle adopted this SMALL snake from another teacher at his school.  Small.  Key word here is small. He mumbled something about projected growth and lifespan but I was still in the throes of newlywedness where I thought that all of his ideas were adorable.

Oh foolish girl.  If I’ve learned anything in my 9 years of marriage it’s that you don’t let your husband bring home questionable pets.  Or pick out paint colors.

Back to the snake.

I was okay with it.  I’m not afraid of snakes.  It was going to live in Kyle’s classroom throughout the school year so it would only be an occasional visitor.  I even named it.  Apple.  Get it?  Garden of Eden.  Snake.  Apple.  I love naming animals.  That is why we have 2 newts named Fig and Sir Issac.  Fig ‘Newt’on and Sir Issac ‘Newt’on.  I don’t care what you say, that’s greatness.

Flash forward and I’ve now discovered that not only does she have a projected life span of 35 years but that because ‘it’ is a ‘she’, she will get even bigger. And Kyle is no longer a school teacher which means the snake now lives with us.  All. Of. The. Time.

YAAAAAAY!  Said no one ever about a gigantic, continually growing snake living in their laundry room.

And in case you’re interested in how you find out if your snake (that I hope you don’t have) is a boy or a girl…well you just take them over to your nearest snake specialist and have them sexed.  That’s right.  You sex up a snake.  I’d like to think there was some Barry White and a nice box of chilled chablis but APPARENTLY it involves a guy (who I am assuming resides in his parent’s basement) picking up the snake and SQUEEZING it in the genital regions until some thorns pop out.  Or don’t.  And that’s how you find out the sex of your darling, slithery baby.  Also, if I was the snake I’d be pretty pissed there was no wine involved.


Ever since Kyle had the snake sexed, they’ve had a strange relationship.

“Hey Kyle.” says I. “Maybe we should think about donating our lovely friend Apple here to the rescue zoo.  They’ve just built a nice, new reptile house, she’s used to being around kids and there was one other thing…whaaaat waaas it?  Think think think…oh yes.  I DON’T WANT A SNAKE LIVING IN MY LAUNDRY ROOM FOR ANOTHER QUARTER OF A CENTURY!”

“Hmmmm…” he says. “I’ll think about it.”

Well think about this, Mr. Snakey Pants.  There is a good chance that at the reading of our will one day, the sentence ‘and the care of the boa constrictor goes to…’ and both boys will shout ‘NOT IT!’ at the same time.  And that’s not how I wanted the reading of our will to go.  I was thinking more along the lines of a dramatic video where we reveal to the boys that their loving father never read their loving mother’s blog.

And that’s a good thing.  Because now we can put my sneaky plan into play.  Which is…if you know Kyle then the next time you see him you should casually toss out something like, “Hey Kyle, did you know that it’s a proven fact that people with snakes are 50% more likely to cause the Cowboys to have a horrible season?” or “Hey Kyle, did you hear about the guy with the boa constrictor and no wife?”  I kid.  Sort of.  Also, if you know any Swedish supermodels be sure to have them casually run into Kyle and say something like, “Ooooh guys that donate their boa constrictors to rescue zoos are soooo sexy!”

Seriously.  I’m reaching.

Why.  Well let’s see.  As I type this I have 3 gigantic, dead rats residing in my freezer.  That’s right.  Have you ever reached into the freezer to pull out something for dinner, picked up a package thinking, “Hmmm what’s in here?” only to realize that you are holding the tiny, frozen claw of dead rat?  Have you??  Well I have.  And it’s skeevy.  Also…what if rats have ghosts??  What then??


That’s a bagful of rats. Beside a package of blood worms for the newts. Where the hell is my wife of the year award??

And how would one thaw out a tasty rat for the snake’s dinner?  Why in a bucket, silly you!


So let’s examine the facts:

1. We own a gigantic snake.

2. We have a dog that is 50% pit bull.

3. My husband drinks Natural Light from a can.

4. My kids run around in their underwear/diapers about 90% of the time.

5. We own a 25 year old pick up truck that occasionally emits a black cloud of smoke when started up.

6. I paint new toenail polish over my old toenail polish.  I have a layer of toenail polish that dates back to the Cretaceous age.

7. We have rats in our freezer.

All of those things on their own aren’t too bad (well, the toenail polish thing is pretty bad).  But add them all together and…


So let’s all agree that we will continue to harass…errr…I mean we will make loving suggestions to Kyle that he should donate his boa constrictor to the rescue zoo.

And if you run into me and I’m wearing snake skin boots?

Well, don’t judge.


Hmmm…that snakes look like woman’s size 8.5 shoe…

P.S.  If you are a snakey person, please don’t get your panties in a wad.  This is (mostly) a joke.  Just calm down and go have your mom make you a sandwich.