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How the F*ck Do I Become a Pampered Chef? (Except the pampered part.)

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The answer was “Pampered Chef Rockcrok .” “Ladies…I know you all got that one right,” the emcee noted. I was at a trivia event for a cause near and dear to my heart. Fortunately, I was also at a table that guffawed at this statement. I mean no disrespect to our beloved emcee. For the most part, he was playing to an old-fashioned crowd. A crowd that appreciated a dinner of pot roast and mixed veggies on the table promptly at 5:30 every night. And a mom that magically put it there. I am not that mom. Nor would I ever associate the word “pampered” with the kitchen. (In all seriousness, I can’t stand that word. Even when it relates to things that can actually be defined by it. See: massage, facial, eating peanutbutter straight out of the jar with a piece of Hershey’s chocolate as a spoon.) However, I’ll swallow my modern lady pride and say, I’d like to be a skosh more like that mom. BUT ONLY A SKOSH. And only because it’d make life a littl
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What the F*ck Do I Do with a Baby on a Plane?

When I learned I was going to be a mother , I decided upon two simple rules:       1)     No wire hangers.       2)     My baby would not board an airplane until she turns 72. One of these rules is about to be broken. Any guesses ? Turns out, there was an imaginary amendment. It was this: Unless the in-laws plan an awesome family trip and driving is not an option. Not gonna beat around the bush. I’m nervous. Real nervous. I mean, I’ve never seen a mom and a baby in an airport that don’t look like they might break-up when they get home.  Growing up, we were van family. And when I say van, I’m talking VAN . Eight track player? Yep. Carpeted walls? Mmm-hmmm. Zero seats in the back so the kids could jump around like lunatics while my parents looked at actual maps bigger than their bodies? You. Know. It. We drove to the Black Hills. We drove to the Grand Canyon. We drove to the Corn Palace. We kept our crazy cooped up . And it felt so very right. Oth
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