A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: itpr (Page 2 of 12)

Are your kids on Instagram?

Hiya! I’m In The Powder Room today sharing the six REALLY BIG reasons why my ten-year-old daughter doesn’t have an Instagram account. It’s a PSA with humor and heart. My gift to you.

Instagram is no place for kids by The Bearded Iris In The Powder Room


Listen, y’all, I lurve Instagram. It’s one of my favorite ways to connect with friends. If you are on Instagram, let’s hang! I post pictures of everything from my prized Hosta collection to the sparkling inside rim of my freshly scrubbed toilet seats. Yes, I’m THAT fascinating.

But I’ve been using this app long enough to have found some pretty skeevy things about it that all parents really should consider before allowing their children to Amaro their American Girl Dolls or Hefe their hopscotch games. Which is exactly what kids this age should be doing instead of gazing at naked men or horrifyingly violent comments.

Trust me, you don’t want to miss this one.

With care and concern, and a big vat of eye bleach,

‘Tis the season to order business cards…

I’m talking about business cards over In The Powder Room today.

Business Cards 101 by The Bearded Iris In The Powder Room

It’s a good read, and I share some links for free and discounted business cards of your own, so check it out!

If you do decide to design and order your business cards through Moo.com, where I get mine, you can help me earn some free goodies by going there through my refer-a-friend link. Thank you kindly! But no big whoop. This is not a sponsored post. I just really like their products and wanted to share.

And yes, that really is how I organize and store the hundreds of business cards I’ve amassed over the years as a blogger—one ring per conference. It works. Don’t ask me where my kids’ immunization records are right now, but when it comes to the insignificant minutia of my life, I’m an organizational ninja. Sad but true.

Okay, go read. Or at least ogle my custom-made business card holder.

Kiss kiss,


Because computer shit happens…

Here’s how I spent a big chunk of my time this week: nursing a sick iMac back to health.

sick mac

Hey, computer shit happens. It’s unavoidable. But this problem, I fully believe I brought upon myself by tempting fate and pissing off the Techno Gods with my devil-may-care-attitude, scrambled priorities, and unmanaged adult ADD. There’s a valuable lesson to be learned though. And Lord knows I loves me some life-lessons from the School of Hard Knocks, where I am a visiting professor with tenure and a key to the good teachers’ bathroom.

But there is a silver lining…

Dat Ass by The Bearded Iris


More details about that story In The Powder Room today. Read it. Learn from me. Don’t tempt the Techno Gods.

With peace, love, a pinch of unoriginal humor, and endless gigs of safe data storage,


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.


Welcome to Camp Mom!

It’s the last day of school for my kids, and I’m already crying.

No, no…not just because I’m completely unprepared for summer.

Mini-Me and her teacher

Mini-Me getting loved on by her 4th grade teacher yesterday…while Mrs. J. strategically avoids eye contact with me, per the terms of her restraining order.

I’m crying because my two elementary school-aged kids are sad to say goodbye to their beloved teachers and friends today, and when they are sad, I am sad. 

Seems like just yesterday my little Bucket Head was getting on the school bus for the first time.

And it didn’t take long for Mini-Me’s teacher to figure out that I was not operating on all six cylinders. Ah, memories.

Where does the time go?!

Aaaaand, there I go. Getting all sad and nostalgic again. Oy. Hormones. When in doubt, always blame the hormones. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Hey, it’s also my anniversary today, which is a sweet way to end the school year. Sixteen years. Yowza. Feels like sooooo much longer. (Just kidding, Honey…kinda.) We’re going to simultaneously celebrate our marriage and our last day of school-year-freedom by having lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant. Then we’re going to fill up a bunch of water balloons so we can ambush the kids when they get off the school bus and help them forget how sad they are to end the school year. Wish me luck on that one…hopefully it doesn’t backfire and make them even more sad that their parents are such insensitive dicks. (Tune in on Instagram later for an update!)

Read Me In the Powder Room!

But in the meantime, I’ve been brainstorming about some of the things we can do this summer to maintain a modicum of sanity and have a little fun. Spoiler alert: bathroom humor and manual labor! It’s over In The Powder Room today. Join me, won’t you?

Here’s to a great summer!

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.


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