A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: humor (Page 1 of 21)

Hey kids, don’t stick your tongues in there, m’kay?


As part of a new series we’ll call The Best of The Bearded Iris, the following is my most popular post of 2013 (originally published January 9, 2013). 

Happy New Year, friends. Stay warm today! 


Damn. Parenting is hard.

Every day is a veritable obstacle course of responsibilities and decisions.

And just when you feel like you’ve gotten one part of parenting down because nobody got a cavity this year or burned down the house with their new chemistry set, something else goes horribly wrong. It’s the Murphy’s Law of Parenting.  Continue reading

The royal birth vs. my first birth

Hear ye, hear ye! The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge welcomed their first child, a son, on Monday afternoon in London!

The royal birth vs. my first birth…so many similarities, I should probably wear a tiara all the time.

Ah, isn’t she lovely?

Like so many others, I was absolutely glued to the TV and Twitter earlier this week anxiously awaiting the exciting news of the new little royal heir. And clearly, I wasn’t alone. Based on the news coverage, you would think this was the first baby ever born in the history of the world.

Can you blame us, soaking up the media drippings like thirsty sponges. This is no ordinary birth story. This is a real life fairy tale.

But actually, even though lovely Duchess Kate has just given birth with the utmost of pomp and circumstance to a child who is third in line for the British throne, her birthing experience was remarkably similar to mine.

For instance: we both had boys.

Both of our boys were born in hospitals, in the late afternoon.

Kate’s baby was 8 lb., 6 ounces; mine was 8 lb., 5 ounces.

We both had matriarchal grandmothers with questionable taste in hats eagerly awaiting the news.

We both had doting husbands by our sides. Although, in my case, my husband was actually lying by my side because he had thrown out his back playing 36 holes of golf with his buddies just weeks before my due date and was in too much pain to stand up for very long. (Motherfucker.)

We both pushed our little princes out of our royal vajewelry boxes and earned souvenir peri bottles and ice-pack-filled stretchy mesh undies.

Both of our sons have official titles. Kate’s son shall be called “His Royal Highness Prince of Cambridge;” my son was dubbed “Sir Cone Head of the Epidurally Paralyzed and Sluggishly Low Muscle Toned Birth Canal.”

We both had easels displayed shortly after our births to share critical information with the public. Kate’s was placed on the sidewalk and announced that she “was safely delivered of a son;” mine was placed outside of my hospital room and announced “WARNING: Extreme Post-Partum Sensory Disorder! Take extra precautions and avoid all physical contact. Patient requests that hospital staff remove all traces of perfume, scented body lotions, and hummus breath before entering.”

Both Kate and I enjoyed a celebratory 41-gun salute. Kate’s was performed by the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery in Green Park; mine was performed by my flatulent father-in-law’s pants every time he bent down to admire his newest grandchild.

And lastly, we both had a uniformed man outside shouting after the birth. Kate’s was a royalist dressed as the town crier. Mine was a hospital custodian shouting, “WE’RE GOING TO NEED HAZMAT SUITS AND EXTRA BLEACH…APPARENTLY SHE ATE SAUSAGE AND PEPPERS YESTERDAY.”

Originally published In the Powder Room

Love It, List It, or Laugh About It…

Summer is in full swing here and I’ve been busier than a cross-eyed air traffic controller.

Aside from having the three kids home all the time for summer vacation and being very absorbed with a huge work project for my other home, In The Powder Room.com, I’ve also been overseeing a pretty massive home improvement project. No, it’s not the master bathroom that I still haven’t finished. (Shameful.) We finally bit the bullet and hired professionals to put new siding on our house and do some upgrades to our homely front porch.

We’ve been in this house for 10 years and had never done anything to the exterior other than rip out all the overgrown meatball-shaped foundation shrubs that were covering all the windows on the main level.

Love-It-or-List-It-David-and-HillaryThe time had come for us to Love It or List It. And since Hilary and David probably weren’t going to show up and help me make that decision, I would have to take matters into my own ginormous hands and start making some improvements.

Either way, new siding and paint were a must.

The construction started almost one month ago on May 13th, the day after Mother’s Day. I’ll never forget that date because it was sooner than I was expecting it to start and I was not ready with my color choices.

The pressure! 

I did NOT want to be that house that neighbors walk by and shake their heads about, whispering “Bless her heart. She must have damaged her optic nerves in that tragic snapping turtle incident.”

So I obsessed.

And I spent more time on Pinterest than I did attending to my personal hygiene.

And I consulted experts such as contractors/decorators/friends/family/voices in my head.

And I spent more money and time on sample quarts than I’m prepared to admit.

And after probably way too much deliberation, I finally picked my color scheme!

“Hooray! This is going to be AWESOME!” I thought. After all, I picked the ‘perfect neutral’ according to several reviews on Houzz.com.

Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out the way I had hoped, which has been very disappointing.

Talk about first world problems…

I just had my house painted and don't like the color - waaaaah by The Bearded Iris

The painting is not even done yet, so I can’t show you pictures just yet. Maybe it will all magically come together and I will feel silly for being so upset that I just spent so much money making my house look like a giant nutsack.

At least I’m that much closer to having my next color scheme mapped out for the repainting we’ll have to do five years from now. (#SilverLining)

See? I’m almost to the acceptance phase of the grieving process.

Right now, I’m in the “look for the funny” phase, which is what my people do to survive unspeakable things like tragic loss and decorating mistakes.

So please join me over In The Powder Room today to find out Why I’ll never be hired by Sherwin Williams. Spoiler alert: penis.

See you over there.


Apparently yoga teachers shouldn’t do that…

Have I ever told you the story of the time a musky male yoga teacher who was twice my age tried to massage all seven of my chakras with his pulsating kundalini?

Oh sure, we can laugh now, but at the time I probably should have filed a police report, or at least demanded dinner first.

Anyhooo, I’m sharing that gem over In The Powder Room today and I’d love for you to read it. Bring a mat, a yoga block, and some pepper spray.

yoga humor

Namaste, hookers.


Dysfunctional Mother’s Day Cards

Ah Mother’s Day—a special day set aside just for us, and the women who ruined us.

Dysfunctional Mothers Day Cards by The Bearded IrisMom—wait, where are you going?

You know I’m just kidding, right?

(*cough cough cough*)

Sorry. I didn’t mean to wheeze on your St. John Knit. Sometimes I just have trouble breathing at my full lung capacity. Oh, no reason.


Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve just been so busy with my breathing treatments, and cranial reshaping therapy, and all. No—it’s okay! You didn’t know! It was 1970. Nobody knew not to pick babies up by their heads back then. No worries!

But my cell block mates and I have been working really hard on a collaborative article over at In The Powder Room today about passive aggressive greeting cards. It’s a series of Mother’s Day Cards that should exist! I think you’ll really enjoy it and possibly even forgive me for that time I quit graduate school and moved back in with you and bought a brain damaged pet store puppy who shit all over your house.

Please know that my one lung and I were totally not thinking of you AT ALL when we were brainstorming about the various mothers in our lives. You are a saint, and everyone in my shock therapy waiting room knows it.

With nothing but love, Mama, (and a teensy bit of pent up resentment for that time you “forgot” to come to my arraignment and went on a Booze Cruise with “Uncle” Paul and his battalion instead.)*


(*None of this is true. I just have an overactive imagination…probably because I was so grossly unsupervised** as a child.)

(**Again, I’m kidding. My mother is totally awesome and anyone who says anything negative about her is going to hear from me, my cell block mates, and a sock full of nickels.)


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