Posts Under: DIARY


True Romance

Empty bed = the dream.

We've finally managed to get our children out of our bed at night (at least for the first few hours), but what that means is that we now have to "snuggle" until each of them falls asleep. And Kendrick is fun, so they don't fall asleep with him, which means that after he's done being the cool parent I have to be the "GO TO SLEEP" parent, and which also means that I spend about an hour and a half every night of my life snuggling trying desperately not to fall asleep in toddler beds (because toddler beds are extremely bad for grownup necks, and also because I am seriously behind on American's Next Top Model).

I don't always make it; there is many a night that I wake from a dead sleep and realize that I'm crunched up in 1/8th of a 3-foot-long bed with a baby foot planted firmly in my eye socket (which was sealed shut with makeup anyway because I hadn't been planning to actually pass out). And the reason why this happens with such frequency?


I Think They Call This “Phoning It In”?

Yesterday afternoon I had all sorts of elaborate post ideas percolating and was just about to sit down and start writing, except then a massive crew of men and machinery arrived to destroy my driveway and replace it with a series of ten-foot-deep holes (but not before charging me $3,500.00 for the pleasure!). And my plans changed. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about re: the $3,500.00 disaster, oh please go to my Snapchat.)

And this morning I have a follow-up appointment at my dermatologist to determine whether or not the large and creepy rash on both of my feet means that they're about to fall off, or whether I might just be in the need of some extra-strength cocoa butter.

If how the last appointment went is any indication, I'm in for an exciting morning.


Killing 2017 So Far

jordan reid and daughter on new year's eve

Snapchat @ramshackleglam

When you fly across the country in the company of delays and cancellations and unexpected overnights in random cities, you are tired by the time you get home. You want to have an actual good night's sleep. You want a shower. You want, perhaps, not to have raw sewage coursing in waves down your driveway.

I thought something smelled weird when we dragged our kids and our bags into our house around 11PM on Sunday night after a week in Ohio and two days trying to figure out how to get back home, but I figured it was...I don't know, our dogs. Or our luggage. Or us.


Until Next Year (A Poem)

My (single, with no children) friend Billy posted the best rant on Facebook the other day. "Dear All Parents with 'Elf On The Shelf,'" he wrote, "Make that shit a priority. I don't want to hear any more whining about 'I forgot...' or 'I'm a bad parent.' Pretty soon your kids won't believe in Santa Claus and his annoying little elves, and it's your job to make them wonder. It's like 24 days. Suck it up. I still believe in Santa, and I'm 35."


I mean, don't get me wrong: I love Elf on the Shelf season. But I also have a tendency to pass out in my daughter's toddler-sized bed while "snuggling for a minute" and then wake up three hours later with my eyelids mascara-ed shut, at which point I commence the shuffle towards my own bed only to be shaken awake by my brain, who is yelling at me to MOVE THE ELF SO YOU DON'T DESTROY THE MAGIC.