This is my testosterone-laden life

A screen shot of one page of my iPhone - these are not your Momma's apps!

In my house I am the queen. That’s one good thing about being the only girl in the house. I tend to get some respect because no one else produces estrogen quite like I do. It’s my thing. It’s how I roll.

Sharing the house with three hairy-legged man-boys has it’s advantages. I don’t have to share my clothes with anyone. Well, okay, sometimes Nicholas wears my shoes, but he’s 4, he’s entitled. Warner on the other hand, well, that’s a different post.

I can pink it up and for the first time in my life, I have no competition, even the pets are of the T persuasion.

I am always the best smelling person in the house. Always. Guaranteed. You won’t catch Warner or Jacob smelling like Lavender Mint. Nick is in a league of his own so he doesn’t really count – I mean he eats his boogers. ‘Nuff said.

And being the odd girl out, I am considered the leader. Okay, maybe that’s my own take on things but I’ve often heard Warner say just that, “Ask your mom, she’s the boss.” There’s just something about breasts and ovaries that intimidate a man. I think it’s the whole I-can-grow-babies-and-you-can’t thing I have going on that gives me the upper hand, or at least the upper mammary gland.

So with all these positives that a queen like myself gets to experience daily what could possibly be the down side to sharing my kingdom with three people who check the other box on forms?

If you sit at my table and expect fine dining or even sorta fine dining or even that’s fine dining – as in you look just fine, honey, really you do – you’ve got another thing coming. The dinner table conversation runs the gamut from technologically driven monologues that even Nicholas understands better than me, to how do you force a burp Q & A sessions.  Meanwhile, just to add a little estrogen to the conversational fire, I always throw in a good “I like sparkly things” comment here and there.

Just the other day I was reminded that I am living a testosteronally-challengened life when I was browsing my iPhone apps.  I couldn’t recall the last time I actually played my Fart Piano or aimed my digital gun at a bad guy, in fact, I couldn’t recall ever buying those apps.  Jacob was the culprit – Jacob and his sidekick Nick.

And after looking at all the manly power apps that have taken up residence on my phone, for some reason I feel compelled to buy a Pink Sparkle Pony Sunshine App.   There is a Pink Sparkle Pony Sunshine App, right???

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Five Things Friday – Things I love about Warner (that’s my husband!)

Warner and Me

Today Warner and I have been married for 16 years! And while I’m not 100% certain just yet, I’m thinking of renewing the contract for yet another year. So what, you ask, makes this guy so great? Well, thanks for asking. Since this is FIVE things Friday and not a bajillion things Friday I’ll have to trust that you know there are way more than 5 blogworthy things about this man I call mine.

1. Makes me laugh – One thing I can say about Warner is that he always has a way of coaxing a smile out of me no matter how pissy I feel. As he always tells Jacob, “You gotta keep ‘em laughing.”

2. He can bring home the bacon and do the laundry! – How many men do you know that do the laundry and load the dishwasher without being asked? Warner always does that. He even cleans the bathrooms! And no, I have never hired him out, but I’m not beyond negotiating. Cash only.

3. He believes in my words – Warner has always told me to follow my dreams. He has always given me the space I need to make those dreams happen. His question has always been, “What can I do to help?”

4. He’s the geek to my nerd – What better match is there? He’s mister technology (he draws on the computer!), and I’m the word girl. He has helped me so much get this whole Moxie Momma up and running. If I have a question, he usually has the answer. I got the words – he’s got the pictures!

5. He’s got a soul patch – I don’t mean this in a metaphorical kind of way – my guy’s got that little hair square on his chin. And it’s really kind of cute.

If you know Warner….tell me what you think is so great about him. And if you don’t then head on over to his site and introduce yourself.

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Special Moxie Post: The “F” Club welcomes its newest member

New "F" Club Member Warner McGee

This is an extra special post for an extra special guy.  Today is my husband Warner’s birthday.  And I’d like to take a moment to welcome  him to a club that I have been a member of for a little over two years – the “F” club.  As a member of the “F” club you are entitled to an unlimited supply of joints, uh, I mean achy joints, although the other kind would probably ease some of the pain of being inducted as a member.

As an “F” club member you can look forward to other benefits such as the distinguished graying hair of a true gentleman, never being asked for your id when you purchase grown-up “juice”, the ability to rise slowly and with great drama from circle time at your child’s school, thus forcing the hot, young teachers to ask if they can help you sir, the pleasure of being your own percussion section as your bones creak and your joints pop in rhythm with your stride.

Yes, these and more await you in the “F” club.  A  few exclusive members, like myself,  have even received the highest honor – the title of Weatherbone.

So Warner, I hereby declare you an official member of the “F” club.  Happy birthday, Mister Man…I’ve been waiting for you.

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My Life in Letters – “D” is for Donny

Me and my ex-boyfriend

It’s hard to remember a time growing up when I didn’t have a crush. I was just that kind of girl. If you looked at me, I loved you. Which meant that I spent a great deal of my time in heartbreak because 9 times out of 10, well, actually more like 9.99 times out of 10 the crushee didn’t return the sentiment.

I remember my first crush, my first love. He wore purple socks, had perfect Chiclet gum teeth, and a voice that made my little girl heart beat out of my chest and I loved him more than any Barbie, more than any thing, I loved him.

His name was Donny. He never really knew me, but I knew him well. I watched him from afar and decided I would marry him one day because he had pretty brown hair and could sing songs about feelings I wanted to wear like a grownup. Feelings that wouldn’t really fit my 8 year old self, but I didn’t care because Donny understood “how a young heart really feels and why I love(d) (him) so.” I’m quite sure I played the scene out in my head over and over again as I fell asleep, his songs echoing in my hopeful mind.

It’s funny how anything’s possible in a heart that still believes in fairy tales, still believes in princes and Quixote-like devotion. I knew we would marry. I would find a way for him to know me. I would be his “Puppy Love“.

Sadly, that day never came.  I clearly remember lying in my bed one night looking at my poster of Donny Osmond, his big brown almond eyes looking out into my room that I shared with my brother in that sad little ramshackle house on Causton Bluff. The home where I could hear Lupo, the German Shepard who had crawled underneath the house and positioned himself just under the tub where I bathed, throwing up some bad chemical-laden grass or maybe a foul river rat.

It was in that house, in that bed with my brother sleeping across the room underneath a poster of his crush, Linda Rondstadt, who wore hot pants and roller skates with her perfect cupid bow lips, that I finally realized it would never happen. I would never marry Donny Osmond.

And it was in that bed, one night that I cried myself to sleep for the love I had decided was mine before I even had it. The love I had to let go before I had even known it. Without even knowing me, Donny Osmond had broken my heart.

Flash forward many, many, years, crushes, heartbreaks and wonderful husband, later and I find myself watching Dancing with the Stars rooting for my former crush. He looks happy and I’m glad, because I am too.

Without my crush on Donny I might never have felt the early flutterings of my heart. I really believe that since the heart is a muscle it needs to be worked out.  My crushes were nothing but workouts making me stronger and stronger – preparing me for the real Donny whose name just happened to be Warner.

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Drumroll Please….First Moxie Giveaway Announcement!

Okay you Moxie readers gather round.  As many of you know I am writing a book.  I’m nearly done with the second draft and will begin looking for an agent at some point in the not too distant future.  If you know anything about the publishing business, then you’ve probably heard that I need to have a platform.  At first I had no idea what this was.  I’m thinking clunky shoes? An elevated deck of sorts?  Nope, it’s a bit more complicated than a trip to Shoe Carnival or Home Depot.  It’s basically something that says to the agent, “Yeah, I’m a writer and yeah people think I might just have something to say so you should tuck me under your little agent wings and fly me to the nearest publishing house because I am certain to make you enough money to buy that second home in Maui.”  Or something like that.

So here’s what I need from you.  If you like what I write and if you want your Moxie on a regular basis, and if you want to show me a little love then please subscribe via email to Moxie Momma.  I’ve  installed a spiffy plug-in on the right of this page that will allow you to do it with ease.  For those of you who are previous subscribers by RSS or some other way I have no clue about, please consider signing up to have your daily (well, mostly) kick in the sass delivered right to your inbox.  And if you want to spread the Moxie love then tell your friends.

And here’s what you could get in return.  Not only will you receive unadulterated Moxie, you will also automatically be entered in a drawing for a framed, full-color, professional caricature of you, someone you love, or someone you hate and want to make fun of, by the infamous Warner McGee.  I will choose the winner at random this Sunday.  For an even better chance to win you’ll receive another entry if you tweet this post using the button at the bottom of this post and add #moxiecaricaturegiveaway in your Tweet.  You can also Facebook (yeah, it’s a verb) this post using the button at the bottom for yet another chance to win.  Just be sure to leave me a comment on this post letting me know if you’ve Tweeted or Facebooked me!

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Saving Mother Girth one Girl Scout cookie at a time – Plus Moxie giveaway alert

photo credit: kalleboo

It’s that time of the year again.  Time to clear out the freezer to make room for those heavenly sugarlumptious cookies we all know and love – the blessed Samoa.  If you’re like me you can and usually do eat your weight in them.  Heck, I could probably eat my family’s combined weight in them in one caramel gorge fest. But whose counting, right?

And since they only come out to play once a year I often buy in bulk and freeze those little bastards so I can consume them at will.  And, oh I will!

In the past I have even gone so far as to rearrange the freezer goods so that I can hide my stash away from the greedy little sugar snipers who think that because they are blood-related they are due a portion of my cookie estate.  Sorry kids, these are momma’s cookies and woe be to you if one of my precious cookies goes AWOL.

But as the weather gets warmer and the clothes start to get more revealing, I wonder could it be that the belly that has invaded my jeans is a direct result of my unabashed Samoa consumption?  As a test of the EBS (Emergency Bikini System) I have decided to toss my cookies and bypass the bliss in favor of a different kind of happy come summertime.

But just because I’ve decided not to get my cookie on, doesn’t mean that the cookie pushers are giving it a rest. It’s as if these patched up perky scouts who taunt me in front of Walmart know that my resolve to run in real quick-like and just get the Splenda and Pull-ups is easily shaken by dangling that purple cookie box in front of me like it’s my reward for changing 7 diapers (2 of which were bio-hazards), cleaning up cat vomit from 5 different places including my pink satin pillowcase, and retrieving 4 dried up cat poop nuggets from the laundry room floor right next to my Leopard print Victoria Secret bra.  I kid you not.

But if I can forgo getting my cookie on this year, maybe, just maybe, I’ll lose that middle place I like to call my belly sugar, and maybe, just maybe I’ll buy that bikini my husband insists would look great on me, or maybe I’ll just belly up to the friendly purple box, take a big whiff and forget about everything else as I shove me some sugar down the cookie hole.  After all, I only get the chance to do this once a year!

P.S.  Apparently, the Scouts have renamed my favorite cookie Caramel Delights.  I like Samoa better because it’s just more fun to say, “Give me Some Moa!”

And finally here’s my giveaway teaser: