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Month: September 2013

I Say, Only Spank When You’re Angry


I was talking to a friend – a childless friend – and she was saying that spanking kids was child abuse. My body bristled at her words. I had never had someone inadvertently imply that I was a child abuser before, so I sarcastically replied, “Oh, I don’t believe in spanking,” and I paused for effect, “except when you’re angry.”

My friend was aghast. She went on a long spiel: “No that is exactly when you shouldn’t because you will only hit harder and blah, blah, blah.” I rolled my eyes and wondered if my friend had no sense of humor, or was hitting children really not funny? [i]

I tried to explain why I said what I said. “I’ve only spanked two times and it was when I was extremely overtired, overwhelmed and out of my mind.”

“Well, that’s child abuse” my friend reiterated.

Then call DCF, because I’m guilty.

Like my friend, before I had kids, I said I would never spank. Not that there is anything wrong with it. I was spanked. I never felt abused[ii].  My parents thought they were being easy on me because they didn’t use a switch or a belt (just a wooden spoon). And their parents thought they were being easy on them because they never sold them to a child labor camp.[iii]

Punishment is a personal choice. It should be discussed before you have kids. Then re-evaluated when your sweet baby turns into a demonic 2-year-old, because seriously, some kids only listen to spankings. If you do choose to spank, the one thing that they always say is: Never Spank in Anger. Of course, I see the reason that they say this, but I could literally never conceive of hitting my child at any other time.

The first time I spanked my oldest son, he was 1½, and we were out of town. My youngest son was 2 months old and was freaked out about being away. He wouldn’t nap. He wouldn’t let anyone hold him. He stayed awake until 10 o’clock every night, and then he would wake up every hour to feed.

I    w a s   l o s i n g    m y    m i n d.

I was tired and hysterical and trapped. Finally, on the third day, I got my baby to nap. All three of us, my oldest, the baby and I, were in the bed, but my oldest was still crawling around. The baby was sleeping in my arms, so I was afraid if I moved I would wake him. Instead I whisper-screamed, “Get over here. Come lay down. Please lay down. I am so tired. I need you to nap. Please.” Then he found the TV remote. “No! Don’t touch that! Get back here.” Then he turned the TV on — full blast. And woke the baby.

My eyes turned red, my head spun around, and Beelzebub screamed, “You lay down right now!” I grabbed him and spanked him hard on the back of the thigh.

I’ll never forget the horrific look of surprise in his eyes. My son lay in my arms and cried. I held him and cried. The baby cried, too. And nobody slept, the darkness of my actions swirling over us, slick like a thunderstorm. Never hit in anger.

A few weeks later when we were at my pediatrician office, she asked how things were at home. “We are surviving,” I guiltily joked, “but there’s some screaming.”

She looked at me with no judgment and said, “It is OK to make mistakes with your children. One of the most important lessons we can teach them is that it’s OK to mess up and how to ask for forgiveness. Use your bad behavior as an opportunity to sit down with your child and explain to him that you did something wrong and ask him to forgive you.”

But I hate to admit I am wrong, I wanted to whine. I spend my free time inventing reasons why everything I do is right. Yet, if I took my doctor’s advice, I could take a wrong and make it a right. Right? And then I would keep my flawless reputation of perfection. “Well son, I only make mistakes to teach you humility.”

Since that day in the doctor’s office, I try to practice her advice. Each time I suck down my pride, admit to being wrong, and ask for forgiveness, I tell myself I’m demonstrating a valuable skill. And while I do hope that my children are able to easily forgive me of my mistakes, more importantly, I want them to be accepting of their own faults and that asking for forgiveness will become a lifelong habit.[iv]


[i] (My sense of humor lies pitch-perfectly between raunchy and lame, so it had to be the former.)

[ii] (lie)

[iii] Admit it. There are some teenagers out there that you really want to slap. A literal reality slap.

[iv] Boys, if it’s 2032 and you are reading this after discovering an ancient portal to the fossilized Internet, please know this is all fiction. … (No. That is a lie. I’m sorry I lied. Please forgive me.)


Living the Mundane Life!


Mundane Life copy

Popping up across the coasts of Florida, like a lionfish infestation, is an automobile decal that proclaims the owners’ proud participation in the: Salt Life.

These decals taunt me. They wag their tongue and heckle me, “Hey lady, what are you doing on your weekend? Grocery Shopping? Cleaning? Taking kids to T-ball practice? Hahaha. This SUV I’m applied to is getting filled up with gas right now so we can go out on the boat all day… in the Keys. That’s right. My owners spend their exorbitant amount of free time fishing on their boat, and drinking margaritas while listening to Jimmy Buffet.”

I suspect that these bumper stickers are usually more of a wish than a reality, but I feel like they feed our problem of being more interested in giving the impression that we have a perfect, amazing life on Social Media, rather than actively participating in our real life.

I want a bumper sticker that says: Mundane Life. Because that is what my life is: dull, boring, ordinary. My weekends are filled, not with salt (on the rocks) and jet skis, but with the school projects and vacuuming. Sometimes, on a rare Saturday night, I might get taken out to a restaurant where kids eat free. YAY!

That’s my life. Not thrilling.

I’ll admit that my exasperation at bullying bumper stickers might be a sign that I am a tired parent.  (Drug free) exciting lives don’t usually involve kids. Dragging children around on adventures makes everything long, tedious and exhausting.

Are you living the Mundane Life? Some other parents offer their view.

You know you a parent who is living the Mundane Life when:

Gregg: Folding laundry for 30 minutes is the most relaxing part of your day.

Kevin: You have to schedule sex.

Jennifer: You don’t notice the constant screeching.

Amy: You now call the restroom the potty.

Jen: You are awake at 6 am on weekends.

Chris: When you wake up in the middle of the night and find a person standing by your bed staring at you, you sigh from frustration instead of screaming in fear.

Jaime: You never, ever pee alone. Ever.

Jenny: Having a boob out while shopping doesn’t get you a cameo on, “People of WalMart.”

Gregg: The one time your kid sleeps in, you have to get up anyway to check that they are breathing.

Gregg: You find yourself saying things your parents said, and swore never to repeat. They seem like great ideas now.

Kevin: You only react to certain types of screams.

Ashley: You hang out in the bathroom for a couple extra minutes just to get some alone time. (Of course, only if you were lucky enough to be in there alone.)

Ricky: You have to tell another human to not put their hands in their mouth after they just put their hands in their poop.

Gregg: You argue over who GETS to go grocery shopping.

Mark: You talk about poop. A lot.

Cash: When you hear another child cry, your first unconscious reaction is not concern, but rather elation because it is not your kid.

Gregg: The song you are humming at work is Barney’s theme song.

Alison: Travel takes 33% longer because of all the stops to feed the kids and use the “potty”.


What are the signs that you are living the Mundane Life?

I Wish I Had a Uniform

oldmensignI wish I could wear a uniform every day.

Go ahead and do it[i].

I would, but the weak-minded child inside me thinks that people will talk behind my back.

General Public: “I think she wears the same clothes every day.”

I don’t mind being thought of as uncreative, but I do mind being thought of as dirty.

You shouldn’t worry what others think about you.

I’ve been told that before, but truthfully no one likes to be around someone who doesn’t care what others think…because they are assholes.

If I did wear a uniform, maybe I could put a sign on the back of each shirt that differentiated it. No, not something cheesy like the days of the week. Why? Because what if I put the Thursday shirt on really late Thursday night and then it was basically still clean Friday morning, and to save water I just put the Thursday shirt back on? Huh? What do you think about that? I don’t think you should make comments until you’ve thought them through.

What I’m talking about is a sign that just says, “No, I’m not wearing the same thing as yesterday. This is my uniform.”  

I like signs that answer the questions we all have in our head. I think we need more signs for everything.  I’ve always imagined if I was ever in a wheelchair I would have a big sign right on the back saying “Hit by a teenager who was texting “LOL” to her frienemy.” Below it would say: “Don’t text and drive.” And below that, written smaller, “And don’t drive without insurance. This sign brought to you by Geico.”

Because seriously you have to admit the most awkward part of talking to a stranger in a wheelchair[ii] is trying to concentrate on what they are saying over the screaming questions in your head. What happened? Were you born this way? Are you a Lady Gaga fan? Was it an accident? Was it something stupid you did, or something stupid somebody else did?

I think we need more signs, like bumper stickers saying, “I drive like a wanker because the chemo makes me angry.” I feel like if we understood people’s back story, we would be more compassionate about their behavior. If my kid was ever killed by a drunk driver, (if I publish this that guarantees it will never happen, right? Fingers crossed. 1,000 prayers. Kiss my Saint Nicholas statue.[iii]) I would put a bumper sticker on my car saying, “A drunk driver killed my child.” My sticker would act as a reminder to people of the real consequences of drunk driving. Of course, then I would be probably get rear-ended three times a day by someone crying in their car over my sticker.

On this drunk driving note, have you ever heard Florida’s anti drunk driving slogan “Decide before you drive.”

Decide what?

That is all I think when I see that slogan. What am I deciding? To drink and drive?

Who are you talking to, slogan? Are you asking drunk people to decide if they should drink and drive before they get behind the wheel? Because drunk drivers always decide to drive before they drive.

Or are you talking to sober people before they go out? Decide to not drive under the influence before you leave for the night? I am pretty sure every sober person tells themselves, “I am going to take a cab home tonight.” Three hours later, when they are no longer sober, they say, “Just this one time. I’m ok. I’ll be ok to drive.” And only the next morning, when they are sober again, will they admit, “I really shouldn’t have driven.”

But no matter what you do, you have made a decision. Decide before you drive. Did we pay millions of dollars to come up with this vague statement? Why did we stop saying, Don’t Drink and Drive? How about: Take a Cab.

Maybe the slogan is saying decide on a designated driver before you drive. But then shouldn’t it be, decide before you drink? The problem with designated drivers is they have a tendency to change their mind half way through the night. The only reliable designated drivers are pregnant women.

I think there should be a free taxi cab service that is run by pregnant women. It could be the Zip Car of taxis.  Instead of walking around their houses in the middle of the night cursing at their sleeping husbands, pregnant women all over the country could be out driving drunk people home from bars. They could also hand out condoms and point to their belly and say, “This is what happens when you have sex while intoxicated.”

People would probably be sober by the time they got home, partly because pregnant women drive really slow, and also from the yelling, “Look at me. I’m swollen. I can’t sleep. I’m being kicked in the ribs.” (Hysterical sobbing.) I bet pregnancy rates from one-night-stands would plummet. Yelling Pregnant Woman induced sobriety would also help in case any of these women went into labor and the passengers had to drive her to the hospital.

Decide before you drive. Stupid Florida.

Maybe Floridians should have to wear a sign to identify themselves. “Talk slow, you are speaking to a Floridian.”

Signs could eliminate society’s need to ask stupid questions. Maybe signs should be required:

  • Tall people should have to identify if they play basketball or not.
  • Koreans could identify themselves as not Chinese.
  • Pregnant women could wear a band on their arm.

We could even do it for religions. Jewish people could wear…hey…wait a minute. Delete. Delete. Delete.

I’m not talking about collared shirts and khaki pants here. (Do you see what I just did there: switched back to my original subject of uniforms with no transition? This is wear the kneed for a editor becomes xtremely a parent. Are you anal-retentive and work for free? Call me. 555-867-5309[iv]) No, I am saying I’ll find a flattering style that was popular back when the 1970’s were reinvented in 1991 and just wear that every day. I basically do that anyways.  Hey, this is a different black cotton t-shirt and pair of out-of-style bell bottoms.

Hmm, if only I could let people know that, like on a sign or something.


[i] Yes, I am reading Dad is Fat, by Jim Gaffigan. How did you know?

[ii] “Really it’s awkward for you? How about the awkwardness of sitting in a wheel chair forever?” Hey! I just admitted I am a self-obsessed child. What more do you want? Compassion?

[iii] Did you know that Taxi cab drivers have their own saint? Saint Fiacre. I wonder if he looks after pregnant temporary cab drivers. Why do I ask? Keep reading.

[iv] Jenny, I got your number. But I’m serious. I need help. Email me. 

My Letter of Complaint to the Easter Bunny

The Easter Bunny’s hideous job this year has driven this mother to mail in a list of grievances.

easterHoliday Character Complaint Department
Easter Island and N. Pole Corp.
Bentonville, AR 72716

RE: Easter Bunny Performance

Dear HCCD,

I’m writing this letter because of the unsatisfactory experience I recently had with your employee, the Easter Bunny. When I awoke on Easter morning I initially didn’t notice that anything was wrong. My children’s Easter baskets were nestled outside their bedroom doors, filled with treats, as expected. In that regard the Bunny’s work was timely and discreet.

It was only when my children started opening their candy-filled eggs that I discovered three problems, specifically with the choice of candy, a discrepancy in quantity and lastly a more delicate issue that I will go into later.

Before I explain what went wrong with the candy, I feel like I should note that I do appreciate the hard work that the Bunny does. And it may sound ungrateful to complain about her choices, but she brought my kids spiced jelly beans. Now, I’m not sure if she knows this, but kids will eat almost anything with sugar in it … except spiced jelly beans.

If it had only been the yucky beans, I may have been able to overlook her performance, but she also gave my kids two very different amounts of candy. She filled one child’s basket with three bean-filled eggs and the other with only one. (Luckily, she slighted my 3-year-old, and he isn’t exactly the sharpest crayon in the box. In fact, he counted his one egg and said, “One, three, four. Hey Mama, I know my letters.”)  Also, because the jelly beans were so atrocious, my oldest son was more than willing to share.

My third concern, as I mentioned before, is of a more delicate matter. After the children dug into their baskets, I looked over and in my kitchen I noticed a half drunk … well, more like 3/4 drunk … Fine. I don’t know why I’m covering for her — an empty bottle of cheap Carrot Wine on the counter. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, and maybe the Bunny shared it with friends, but was her poor choice in candy and her inability to count caused by inebriation? It was highly upsetting to think that the Bunny may have been drinking and delivering.

In conclusion, I am willing to overlook this if it was an isolated incident, and I sincerely hope that next year the Bunny will have her act together. On the other hand, if many other families had similar experiences then I suggest that you consider looking further into this matter.

Thank you for your time.


Chris Sansbury, mother of M and O.

P.S.  Is the Easter Bunny also supposed to hide eggs for the kids? If so, do I leave her a note asking her to? My children thought that she should have hidden some, and I was at a loss for words on how to answer.

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Talking to Strangers Isn’t Always Dangerous

The truth about how to really make your kids safe from kidnappings.

matty the perv

The evening after McGruff the Crime Hound came to my son’s pre-school — while I was cleaning up the living room and my son and my husband were on the couch, both enthralled with their tiny (wait for it …) hand-held devices (still sounds bad) — I asked my son if McGruff told him to never talk to strangers.

I continued folding blankets, having bitter thoughts of the male species and their inability to hear the specific range of decibels that contain the female voice, when my husband put down the newspaper (read: Blackberry) and looked over at my son and said, “No. McGruff teaches how to prevent forest fires, right?” Was my husband listening to me talk? I was impressed.

“No, that’s Smokey the Grizzly,” I replied.

“Bear,” my son corrected, also apparently listening. Maybe men only listen for mistakes.

No matter what animal was doing what, I was still left wanting to know if McGruff had inoculated my son against getting kidnapped by a leery-eyed stranger with a shaggy 1970s beard, offering candy, a puppy, and a ride in his windowless van.

These “Sterotypical Kidnappings,” as they are called by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, are the ones of our vivid imaginations and our deepest fears. They make our hearts pound when our children are out of our sight for a second at the grocery store, or even alone in the front yards of our very own houses in our very safe neighborhoods. We imagine the world like a police training simulation video: Behind every bush or car there may be a bad guy waiting to pounce. Did McGruff give my son the armor to survive in the wild streets of America? (That he has never been allowed to roam.)

After a little Internet research, I believe McGruff talked more about bullying than not talking to strangers, possibly because the chances of being kidnapped are so much smaller than being bullied. In fact, the likelihood of your kid being the victim of a “stereotypical kidnapping” is so infinitesimally small that you would have to leave your kid outside (buckled into his car seat and out of direct sunlight) for 750,000 years before he would be taken. At least, that is according to the math of Warwick Cairns, author of “How to Live Dangerously: The Hazards of Helmets, the Benefits of Bacteria, and the Risks of Living Too Safe.” (In Florida, the statistics may be more like 300,000 years, but still …)

I know you must not think that is true because of the thousands of pictures of missing kids at the entrance of every Walmart, but the majority of those kids are runaways or were kidnapped by a parent or a relative in a custody dispute.

And while these statistics may help the rational side of our brains feel better, the other half, using the same thought process that sends millions of us out to buy lottery tickets each week, thinks:but it could happen to me.

So what do we tell our kids to keep them safe and to calm our worried minds? My best friend told me she told her kid, “Never talk to strangers, unless you need help, and then find a mom and ask her to help you.”

Never talk to strangers unless…

It was better than just never talk to strangers, but not the perfect solution. I do want my kids to be able to call out to a stranger if they need help. Most strangers are good. Plus it is annoying when you are trying to introduce your child to someone and they refuse to talk to them because they are a stranger. Trying to explain to your kid when a stranger is a stranger, and when they are not is pretty confusing.

Then I read a great solution in the book “Free-Range Kids” by Lenore Skenazy. The book, for those of us who lean toward anxiety brain, is a sweet mantra of, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” I could feel the tension that I have held since the day my first son was born run out of my shoulder and neck as I read. I have been clenching my teeth for five years wanting to know, in our dangerous world, will my kids survive? Well, Skenazy says, statistically speaking, “Yes!”

In the book, psychotherapist Michelle Maidenberg said, tell your kids to NEVER GO OFF WITH STRANGERS. They can talk to strangers, and they can ask for help if they need it, but don’t ever go anywhere with a stranger. One of the other points that Skenazy emphasized in the book was to tell your children that adults will generally not go up to a kid and ask for help.Normal adults don’t need assistance to find their dog, or help smoking their candy cigarettes.

Oh, and one other thing, tell them: It is OK to run.

Finally, I have my own plan on how to teach my son to be safe, and that is good since it is apparent that I will never know if Smokey the Crime Dog did his job or not.

Now, I just have to figure out how to make my son listen.

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Is My Poker Face Sagging?


(And I don’t even mention Lady Gaga.) But seriously, you shouldn’t gamble with your mental health

The first step to coping with a mental illness is to admit that you have a problem, and today I am taking that scary first step. I hope you will be supportive of my decision to go public with my disease. It has taken great courage to write this, and it will be a shocking confession for my friends and family.

I suffer from a severe case of RBDD (Reverse Body-Dysmorphic Disorder). This disease makes me believe that I am much younger and more attractive than I actually am.

I can handle it on most days, as long as I avoid mirrors or photographs, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of myself, the disease kicks in: who is that 30-something mother with a soft tummy that sticks out further than her boobs?

Like most RBDD sufferers, I see myself differently than others:

“You look great for your age,” people say.

“Do you know any other 20-year-olds with lines like this?” I ask them, pointing to a recent picture of myself.

“But you’re 35,” they say, “not 20.”

“I don’t think so. I just graduated college a couple of years ago so I can’t be older than 23, maybe 24.”

“You need help,” they say, rolling their eyes.

It must be a genetic disease, because my mother suffers from RBDD also. Recently she emailed me to say that she was waiting in line at a fast food place and two octogenarians (a really annoying way of saying 80-year-olds) were standing in front of her:

I was waiting in a long line at Wendy’s, there were six teenagers ahead of two old men, then me.  I was busy watching the kids, girls with abdomens exposed, boys with low pants, underwear poking out. Then my attention shifted to the two old men. I was trying to surmise what they were thinking of the teenagers; you know your grandfather’s generation didn’t approve of sloppy dress and messy hair, or anything that wasn’t “proper.”  As I was lost in thought, one of the men whispered to the other, “Yea, remember when we could get beer in the backroom at Joe’s when we were only 16.”  The other man said, “Man, that was great, and I used to smoke pot out back.”  What a SHOCK! These men were not your grandfather’s generation; they were mine. To add insult to injury, the young man behind the counter gave me a 10 percent senior discount without even asking me.

I decided that I needed help to cope with my RBDD, and I went to the most reliable source in the universe: Google. I found a helpful website for regular ole body-dysmorphic disorder,, that recommended I try cognitive behavior therapy. This therapy would help me get back to my regular life of traveling and gambling. Gambling?

I’ll quote:

…the patient learns to tackle anxiety-provoking situations with a healthier outlook by analyzing her thinking process. She recognizes irrational thoughts…and can challenge them with rational, positive self-talk. She is then able to continue with her day, whether that means working, studying, playing online poker, traveling or spending time with family and friends, in a calm and upbeat fashion.

Seriously, playing online poker??? And the link connects me directly to an online website.

I’m no psychotherapist, but if you’re addicted to thinking about your face, then I don’t think it is healthy to be encouraged to enjoy alternate addictive activities. Why not also tell them alcohol can lessen anxiety and that cocaine can help shed a few pounds?

I can see the marketing people at Our perfect clients are people who don’t want to leave the house and have addictive personalities, so let’s advertise on websites for agoraphobia, OCD, BDD, NA and AA.

In unrelated news, this is probably going to be my last column, so I wanted to say goodbye. I’ve found a new hobby, and I know any day now it is going to pay off big. I’ve got that lucky feeling. I did have to sell all the kids’ toys in order to buy back in, but it doesn’t matter, because I will be able to get them even better toys when I win.

All in!

In order to get permission from my mother to print her story I had to promise to let everyone know that she is not in her eighties, or even her seventies. She is … let me do some math … I’m 23 and when she had me she must have also been 23 so she is … 24?

Please like Pen Name Jane on Facebook. We are desperate for outward signs of approval.

A Drama Queen Cries (Loudly) For Help

Drama Queen Spanish copyOne of the surprising things about being a parent is that sometimes you have a kid who acts just like you. And you never knew how annoying you were.

I wonder how I have any friends at all.

“I don’t want to play with you anymore!” my son and I yell simultaneously at each other and run off to our rooms, each slamming our respective door. We are two little mirrors, my son and I.

So after much family prompting and many tears (mine) I have decided to join DQO — Drama Queen Onymous. (Because we want people to know.)

A week later, I head to my first meeting. It is held in the one and only basement in Florida.

I’m dressed in my biggest wig and have painted my eyebrows out. For some reason I might have gotten it in my head that I was going to Drag Queen Onymous. (I blame this delusion on that fact that since I’ve had kids I’ve racked my brain so many times that it looks like a partially unloaded dishwasher.) In any event, I am sorely underdressed.

I walk into a room with nine other boa-wearing, wine-sipping humans and meekly take a seat. After some announcements we are each given a sheet of paper printed with The Twelve Steps of Drama Queen Onymous and we read them out loud together.

1. We admit that we are powerless over drama — that our lives have more twists than a Brazilian telenovela.

2. We have come to believe that a Director greater than ourselves could restore us to fame and power.

3. We have made a decision to turn our backs against the wall and only show our good sides. (Announce your good side now.)

4. We have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of our shoes.

5. We have admitted to God, to the universe, and to a crowd of human beings in a slurred and boisterous voice the exact nature of the wrongs committed against us.

6. We are entirely ready to have God (or whatever name you call your plastic surgeon) remove all these defects of body.

7. We humbly asked Him to remove our shortness.

8. We’ve made a list of all persons whose eyes, ears or brains had been permanently scarred by our charades.

9. We’ve made direct amends with such people whenever there was a possibility that they might be willing to sponsor a reality TV show featuring us.

10. We will continue to take personal clothing inventory, and when we’ve been wronged we promptly announce it.

11. We have sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with fame, as we understand it, praying only for knowledge of a long-term, multimillion-dollar modeling contract and for the body to carry that out.

12. Having had zero spiritual awakenings as the result of these Steps, we try and sabotage all other DQOs while practicing principle and vice principle affairs.

After we chant our 12 steps, we sit back down in our chairs and look at one another. It is quiet.


Next week, step two.

The Lady Who Does Not Eat Ice Cream

Ice cream

It was a beautiful sunny Florida winter day and my husband and I had taken the kids downtown forice cream: vanilla for my youngest, strawberry for my oldest, and chocolate for my husband. None for me thank you. I’m being good.

Good, but no fun.

We all sat outside in the warm sun, and they ate their ice cream. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb the sunlight. Then I snuck a peek at them enjoying their ice cream. I thought, who would want to hang out with me? I won’t bring myself to eat some ice cream? I realized what a grump I had been all weekend. I was pouting over some obscure disappointment that I couldn’t readily recall. (It may have had something to do with the dissatisfaction that comes from getting exactly what I wanted.)

I tried to hold onto the idea that I was not having ice cream because I was being good, trying to believe that I wasn’t a big lump of moodiness being dragged along as an obligation. No. I was being responsible; I was avoiding too much sugar.

Somehow I could tell that the sweetness in the ice cream was what I lacked in myself. I had no sugar, no honey, no agave nectar toward life that weekend. My sugar-free self was as cranky as an eggplant.

By taking the high road, was I missing the journey with everyone else? Was I deluding myself that it was the high road anyway? I’m just sitting alone here with my principles.

This year a friend of mine wrote that her New Year’s resolution was to have more fun. I was flabbergasted. I lowered my librarian glasses and looked down at her. Are we allowed to do that? I am pretty sure that we — the royal We — do not like fun.

I thought that I was so smart by having no New Year’s resolutions because they just lead to disappointment, but my friend took it to a whole other level. I was preventing disappointment. She was creating joy. What a concept!

I thought I was supposed to be headed toward a healthier, wealthier, rigid, and more scheduled life. I feel like I have a panel of experts (Angry Dr. Oz?) in my head judging what gets done every day. Is the laundry done? Are the floors mopped? Do I have at least three types of organic vegetables rotting in the fridge? The panel does not put joy as a high priority. It made the studious side of me uncomfortable that someone can come along and want to have fun.

Do I have to start forcing myself to have more fun too? Oh drudgery. Should I add Bozo the Clown to the panel of experts? (Or was it Pogo the Clown?) Do I need to add fun to the list of things I am not accomplishing?

But who wants to hang out with the lady who does not eat ice cream?

I know, I know. I can’t force myself to have fun. But fun seems like pressure. MORE FUN. Is this fun? I’m the first one to admit that I can ruin a fun time by trying to make it fun: WE ARE TRYING TO HAVE FUN HERE, SO HURRY UP AND ENJOY YOURSELF!

I don’t think fun is for me. I put back on my librarian glasses and pull on my blue wig. I bobble my head around a bit. Maybe if I call it silly then I can wrap my head around it. I can have more silly. I can have more laughs. I can fire the panel of experts. I can eat ice cream.

Family Dog Intervention: A Fake Charity that Should be Real



How am I supposed to protect them if I don't howl

They used to never leave the house without me


Nothing can compare to the cruelty and humiliation of a dog being demoted from a couple’s first child to just a family dog. 



Become a Sponsor with FAMILY DOG


Each year millions of dogs go from top dog to sleeping in the doghouse because of the birth of an infant. 350,000 human babies are born into the world each day, and with 44% of American households owning at least one dog, this means about half[i] of those babies go home to a newly neglected dog.

The cruelty will shock you:

  • Many of these canines were accustomed to barking as often as they wanted and now they are nudged in the ribs when they bark at the mailman in the middle of the afternoon.
  • Their whole life they slept in bed with their owners, how are they to adjust to a thin dog bed with zero thread count?
  • They used to get cuddled on demand, now their only physical touch occurs as they are pushed behind baby gates.
  • They go from regular walks at the dog park to being shoved into the backyard where they must defecate in a confined space with no new smells.
  • They used to enjoy eating the highest quality dog food three times a day, followed by a dessert of fresh butcher shop bones. Now they are being fed a pile of Old Roy on a paper plate every other Thursday.
  • Accustomed to weekly swimming in the ocean or at a lake, the family dog now only gets wet when they are forgotten in the backyard during a rainstorm.

I was so hungry I had to eat a lizardI used to have my own bed, now I sleep on the bare floor

At Family Dog Intervention .org we try to prevent the neglect of family dogs by providing new parents with a dog sponsor. As a nonprofit canineitarian organization, we strive to help dogs overcome the burdens of being in a family with small children. Become a family dog sponsor today and fight back against the inevitable neglect that new human children create.


Many of these dogs were adopted into childless families and became used to a life filled with rides in the car, daily walks, physical affection, routine vet care, grooming and regular feedings.

Luckily some dogs are freed from the entrapment of family life either because families claim their new children have allergies or because the dog’s “aggressive” reaction to their neglect.  Still a large percentage of dogs stay in the family household after being demoted to just a family dog. These animals are often forgotten for minutes at a time in crates, behind baby gates, and even horrifically, in the backyard.

How Sponsorship Helps

Your sponsorship ensures your sponsored dog receives support through every phase of his or her new human baby’s life:

  • the infant crying stage (also known as I get kicked a lot.)
  • the tail pulling stage
  • the trying to make the dog a horse stage
  • Finally the most insulting: “this dog is too old and doesn’t want to fetch with me. I want a puppy.” stage

Help me! They put me in the backyard during snack timeDo I look like a dog who should eat Old Roy generic dog foodWhat is Sponsorship?

Sponsorship is an incredibly powerful way to help one dog break the bonds of being a neglected family dog. It connects you with an individual dog that desperately needs your help, and lets you provide life-changing benefits to that dog for a low monthly contribution. Sponsorship is your chance to build a lifelong friendship with an impoverished dog, one that will alter the course of his or her final dog years.

Family dog sponsorship unites dogs in need with individual sponsors who wish to address the dog’s immediate and basic needs, and gives them the tools and opportunities necessary for success, like trips to the vet, regular walks, physical affection, and playing with toys.

Where Your Donation Goes

This sponsorship provides money that goes directly to the dogs so that they have groomers, walkers, petters, play mates and healthy food.

Don’t let another day go by where a family dog is forced to eat generic kibble. Become a sponsor today!


[i] Check our math. 44% of 350,000 is 154,000. 154,000 dogs become forgotten each day in America. That is 56,210,000 dogs a year, which is 75% of the entire American population of dogs in one year. So imagine in just 5 years, 281 million dogs will be neglected!  Unless you help now, that is a third of the whole world’s dog population that is at risk of neglect. 9677230218%^$#(*&)(&988-02e1241-0 (ß——-Look at these complicated numbers. We need your money! )

Sitting on the Laps of Mad Men

IMG_1956Recently, during the midday lunch rush, I found myself sitting on a strange man’s lap, drinking an old fashioned, while smoking a cigarette. With a scratchy sizzle, I crushed the tip of my Lucky Strike into an ashtray. In that moment I realized: I don’t have affairs, I don’t smoke. I don’t drink old fashioneds. What is going on?

I stood up, gingerly smoothing the pleats of my ankle-length skirt. I checked the bounce in my curls and walked back home. My heels clicked up the front stairs and I went over to our rotary phone. I dialed my husband’s number and confessed, “I think I’ve been watching too much Mad Men.”


It’s hard for me to acknowledge that I am so easily influenced. I’m newly shocked each time I find myself disappointed that the latest laundry detergent leaves my clothes just as dingy as they were before. Why do I keep believing in “New and Improved Stain-Fighting Power”?

When I was a kid, my parents (knowing my easily persuaded personality and probably holding each other in fear) would annoyingly recite the phrase to me, “Garbage in, Garbage out.”   Swayed by all voices but theirs, I never listened to them. (Sheesh, these people have never been kids before.)

For added humiliation they would sometimes sing “Garbage in, Garbage out” to the famous* Petra song “Computer Brains

Computer brains, put garbage in

Computer brains, get garbage out


As if singing Christian rock would help.

But even if I tried to listen to them, I didn’t really understand their point. How does not eating out of a trashcan relate to my desire to watch endless reruns of Married with Children? Plus, what does “Garbage Out” mean? You’ll poop garbage? Isn’t that basically what already happens?

computerBetween Petra’s “Computer Brains” mixed with my limited exposure to 80’s pop culture, the only thing I was getting out of the phrase “Garbage In, Garbage Out” was an image of the Garbage Pail Kid, Valarie Vomit gagging over an IBM 5150 personal computer.

It’s not until our thirties that most of us begin to admit to ourselves that the people, images, and ideas that we surround ourselves with have an influence over who we are. And unfortunately, this is right around the time that our kids start wanting to kill fluffy bunnies on video games and watch TV shows with plot lines centered around flatulence.

Just like our parents before us, our new understanding leads us down the fool’s path of desiring to spread our knowledge to the younger generation. Which in turn leads us to the idea of speaking to kids on their level.

And the next thing we know, we are sitting at the computer researching the name of the coolest, spiritually ambiguous, non-twerkable song on choosing good influences.

While our children roll their eyes at us in humiliation.

* to white, suburban, Christian kids in 1986