A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: real conversations…really bad parenting

Just the Tip Tuesday: Have Fun with Your Leftovers

Do you like a good underdog story? Then please “like” The Bearded Iris at Babble.com’s list of the Top 50 Mom Blogs.  Three months ago I was ranked at #891. Today I’m #10 (OMG!!!). My readers are THE BEST. Just sayin’.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled blogging…

Last week I was trying a new crock pot recipe for chipotle beef tacos. It wasn’t great; totally not worth sharing, unfortunately. However, I did come up with a great kitchen tip in the process that might be of use to you.

But first, it’s time for another riveting installment of:

Real Conversations, Really Bad Parenting.

Her: “Mom? Why is there cat poop in the freezer? Is Gracie okay?”

Me: “That’s not poop.”

Her: “Looks like poop.”

Me: “It’s not poop. ”


Me: “It. Is. Not. Poop.”

Her:  “Then why does it look like poop?”

Me: “It looks like poop?”

Her: “MOM! Please. You know that totally looks like poop!”

Me: “Does it?”

Her: “MOM!”

Me: “Not my poop. I eat a lot of fiber.”

Her: “Ew. Mom! TMI! It looks like CAT poop. Sick cat poop.”

Me: “Great – you’re hired. Since you are such an expert on cat poop, you can scoop Gracie’s litter box from now on.”

Her: “Ugh. Mom. That’s not fair.”

Me: “SNOT FAIR? Ew! I’m totally not buying a raffle ticket there, I’ll tell you that much.”

Her: “MOM!”

Me: “Honey, will you please hand me one of those cat turds from the freezer? Mama’s making soup.”

Her: “I’m running away.”

Me: “Take your brothers.”

* * * * *

I know what you’re thinking. “Iris wrote about poop. So unlike her!” In my defense, totally not my fault. SHE started it. My kids are so gross. Must get it from their Dad.

This all fits together, by the way. Stay with me. I know it’s a stretch.

The recipe called for 2 tablespoons of pureed chipotle peppers in adobo sauce. I had a can of these, but it was a big can…way more than I needed.

So I pureed the whole can in my blender, scooped out the two tablespoons I needed, put the rest in a quart sized baggie, and was about to chuck it into the freezer for future use.

That’s when it dawned on me, “Wait…how am I going to access two tablespoons (or so) of this stuff the next time I need it if it’s all frozen together in a big clump?”

I thought about spooning it from the baggie into a plastic ice cube tray and freezing individual portions like I used to with fresh baby food, but I’m too lazy to wash ice cube trays after the fact and that oily red adobo sauce stains like a mofo.

That’s when a great big eco-friendly compact fluorescent light bulb appeared over my head.

I know! I’ll just cut the tip off the baggie and squirt individual portions onto freezer paper and freeze the blobs. Once they’re frozen, I’ll store them in a freezer baggie!

So that’s what I did. And it totally worked like a charm.

And I think it’s just an added bonus that the blobs totally look like sick cat poop.

These are the blobs before I froze them. (Anyone humming the Diarrhea Boom Boom song?)

One frozen blob of the chipotle pepper puree.

Bag o' frozen blobs.

By the way, two tablespoons of this stuff is pretty flavorful and spicy. I’m thinking one tablespoon would be plenty of seasoning the next time I make something chipot-licious. I’m pretty sure I can use a sharp knife and cut those frozen pepper puree turds in half though, easy peasy.

Sure hope I don’t find any tapeworms in there when I do.


© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.

And that’s why Speech Pathologists are bad mofos.

Today was Bucket Head’s first day of Speech Therapy for the new school year.

It seems like just yesterday he was referred for a speech screening… the day I accidentally wore two pairs of underpants to church. Ah, good times. And let’s not forgot the IEP last year where I made all those dick jokes. There must be a special place in Heaven for Speech Pathologists who have to work with the children of parents like me.

I’m thrilled that he is going to get the help he needs, but I’m also sad at the thought of losing his adorable little Bucket Headisms. That kid sure does make us giggle (secretly) with his unique way of speaking.

It will be good though when he stops saying things like:

“I wanna rape.” (Which means “I want a grape.”)

“I yuv cheese dicks.” (“I love cheese sticks.”)

And my personal favorite:

“May I have a douche bag?” (“May I have a juice bag?”)

Bucket Head’s Speech Therapist is my new hero. She’s so sweet and positive and patient…with both of us.

And the more I’m exposed to it, the more I’m convinced that you have to be a pretty bad mofo to be a good Speech Pathologist.

Not only do they have to frequently work with unstable parents, but also, they have some of the coolest and most dangerous lingo you’ll hear in an educational setting.

Take my sweet little Bucket Head, for instance. The phonological processes he is in need of help with are:

Cluster Reduction
In Speech Pathology, that’s what you call it when someone reduces the number of sounds in a blend, like saying “ream” instead of “dream” or “wack” instead of “black.” This can be a dangerous speech impairment, particularly if one lives near the ‘hood and/or near overprivileged suburban white kids who speak in an urban dialect for show. For instance, saying “That boy’s shirt is wack,” could be misinterpreted as a dis which could lead to violence.

Personally, I would like to use the term cluster reduction in regards to my extended family life, which can often be one big cluster f*ck, particularly after adult beverages have been consumed. So now you’ll know what I mean when you hear me say “Shoot y’all, we need some cluster reduction up in huuuur,” at the next Beard Family Reunion.

To a Speech Pathologist, this means that a sound that is normally made with the middle of the tongue in contact with the palate towards the back of the mouth like /k/ or /g/, is replaced with a consonant produced at the front of the mouth like /t/ or /d/. Bucket Head says “titty” instead of “kitty.” That’s always a real crowd pleaser.

However, in other circles, “fronting” means you are acting like you are more, or you have more than what really exists. As in “Prudence wore those fake Chanel earrings like she was made of money, but that bitch was straight up fronting.”

If you are a Speech Pathologist in an urban area and you tell a parent that their child is “fronting,” you better be prepared for a response like this:




In Speech Pathology, “gliding” means someone replaces the “liquid” consonants /l/ and /r/ with /w/ or ‘y’. So when Bucket Head says “I yuv yickin’ yemons, Mommy,” he is gliding his liquid consonants.

However, according to the Urban Dictionary, “gliding” is short for “glidin’ dirty,” an unhygienic form of “homie gliding,” which is defined as a sexual act between two male heterosexual friends, usually involving alcohol, lubrication, and too much free time.

Thus, I would strongly encourage Speech Pathologists in urban settings to avoid using the term “gliding” at all. Mmmmkay?

Just something to thing about.

Now go hug a Speech Pathologist! They deserve it!

Signing off, without a lisp, thanks to MY speech therapist many moons ago,


Have you hugged an SPL professional today? They have one of the most gangsta jobs in any school setting. Read why one suburban mom thinks Speech Pathologists are such bad mofos!

© Copyright 2011, Leslie Marinelli, The Bearded Iris. All rights reserved.

Our dinner with “The Vaginas.”

I’m having a hard time coming up with a title to fully capture the mirth we experienced last night at our annual St. Patty’s Day dinner party with our friends Jim and Nora.

I was tempted to title it “We had The Vaginas for dinner last night.” But no… that’s just askin’ for trouble, like the time I mentioned those stow away undies that hitch-hiked their way to church with me in the back of my jeans. Who knew there were so many people who google things like “dirty panties”??? {Ewwwww.}

Why don’t I just tell you what happened and you can help me come up with a better title.

But let me just preface it by announcing that it is now time for another installment of:

Real Conversations, Really Bad Parenting™

It was late afternoon. I was preparing the corned beef and cabbage for our dinner party, and I was trying to get the kids to help me tidy up the family room at the same time. The clock was ticking and I was running behind.

Me: “Kids, I need you to help me straighten up the house. We’re having friends over for dinner.”

Kids: “YAY! Friends for dinner! Who’s coming?”

Me: “Our friends Nora and Jim.”

A Kid: “Do they have kids?”

Me: “Yes, but their kids are grown. It’s just Nora and Jim coming for dinner… no kids. Would you please just go put your stuff away?”

Another Kid: “Well, do we know them?”

Me: “YES. {sheesh!} You’ve met them a million times. They live right around the corner. They come over every year for St. Patrick’s day. Please… enough chit chat. Go clean.”

Nature Boy (the 11 year old): “Are they bringing anything? Dessert?”

Me: “YES. I’m sure they will bring something. Go clean. I’m trying to chop cabbage and you are distracting me. If I sever a finger it will be the worst dinner party ever.”

Mini-Me (8 year old girl who struggles with telling time): “What time will they be here.”

Me: “Six o’clock. GO AWAY.”

Mini-Me: “Is that when the big hand or the little hand is on the six?”

Me: “Little. The big hand will be on the twelve. Scram.”

Nature Boy: “What is their last name?”

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Are you trying to torture me? Fine… let’s do this. Their last name is Vagina.”

Mini-Me: “WHAT? Mom, are you serious? Their last name is seriously Vagina? Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!!!!” (and then she literally started doing the Daffy Duck bounce all over the room, she was so consumed with laughter.)

Bucket Head (4 year old): “Re-dy-na.” (giggle giggle giggle!)

Nature Boy: “Their last name is VAGINA? Seriously Mom?”

Me: “Yes {oh my God… can I take that back?}, but don’t say anything to them about it because they are very sensitive and have been teased all their lives.”

Nature Boy: “I think she should have kept her maiden name.”

And… end scene.

So anyhow, that is what went down BEFORE the dinner party. Just in case you are as gullible as my children, their last name isn’t actually Vagina. It’s not even close.

Thankfully, Nora and Jim are both wickedly funny and truly enjoyed the retelling of the story. In fact, don’t be surprised if Jim decides to change his Twitter handle to @Jim_Vagina.

And here is how the dinner party came to a close:

(Cue the semi-nekkid preschool super hero.)

Jim and Nora Vagina, thanks for another great evening. And if anyone reading this is an expert in the field of Tourettes Syndrome, call me. I think I’m ready to negotiate a treatment plan.


© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris. All rights reserved.

Organized Minutiae, Precocious Puberty, and Mommy Tears

So while I’ve been stringently organizing the minutiae of my life like DS cartridges and Legos, my little girl has been growing up behind my back.

Which brings us to another frightening installment of:

Real Conversations, Really Bad Parenting.

Girl Child: “Mommy, my nipples hurt when I press on them.”

Bad Mommy: “Well don’t press on them.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Two days later, she complained once more about sore nipples, to which I again suggested the obvious, and most likely with the “duh” sound tacked onto the end for effect.

Then yesterday during dinner, she said, “Mom. My boobies still hurt. Are you sure I’m not going through puberty?”

To which I dismissively clucked, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re only 8 years old.”

Which spurred Nature Boy, her 11 year old brother and official validator, to chime in: “Yeah, sometimes my man-boobs hurt. It could be puberty, Mom.”

Then we all just cackled like hyenas about Nature Boy’s “man-boobs” and someone asked someone else to pass the peas and that was the end of that.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cue my daughter’s guardian angel who whispered in my ear later that evening “Pay attention… she needs you.”

And so at bedtime that night, Mini-Me and I sat down on her bed for a heart to heart. She lifted her pink cowgirl nightie, took my hand and placed it on her chest, and said, “See? Do you feel that?” And sure enough… there was a little bump under each nipple. I suddenly remembered her bursting into tears for no reason on two separate occasions the week before, and then all the pieces of the puberty puzzle magically came together, and…




How can this be?

She’s only 8 years old.

She still enjoys playing with Fisher Price Little People and Legos. All she wanted for Christmas was a Penguin Pillow Pet and snow. She’s too young for breasts. And I’m totally not ready for this.

It reminds me of a comedienne I once heard who said “People used to tell me, ‘Don’t blink, or your kids will be grown before you know it.’ And so I’d go home and blink, and blink, and BLINK!” I sooooo get that. I blink A LOT around here. And organize Legos. And drink wine from a box.

But I thought I had more time.

You see, every time I look at her, all I see is this:


and this:



and this:


Dear God, is it too much to ask to keep her just like this a little while longer? I promise I’ll stop with the Lego sorting, if you’ll just give me another chance.

Well I’m off to google things like “puberty” and “normal breast growth” and “does watching iCarly lead to hormonal abnormalities?” Wish me luck. And please tune in tomorrow to see if I’ve invented a legal way to stunt my daughter’s growth.

Oh, and if you happen to hear the sound a grown woman weeping to the tune of Cher’s If I Could Turn Back Time, it’s probably coming from my house. Sorry about that.

Dazed and confused,


© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.

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