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Completely inappropriate Suburban Mom in Dallas, TX reclaiming her political power and sass after a decade in the Gulags of baby-raising. Cheers.

It’s called “Jammy Pants.” You read that right.

Imposter Syndrome in full effect. Here, you will notice a TikTok filter with Photoshop overlays.

I missed the blogging scene from earlier this century almost entirely.

The learning curve required to understand the elite technical wizadry to generate income from those things was, like, hella steep. Y’all, my brain cells tried and tried and, let’s just say I was a liberal-arts major FOR A REASON.

Also — and this is no small thing — I’m a woman on the tail-end of Generation X, which means that I inherited a low-level, all-encompassing hum of shame that clouds all my decisions and actions and thoughts about myself and entire approach to the world. To be fair, the legacy of woman…

It’s not like they even need it.

This photo represents my frozen desolation from this past week.

Boy howdy, there is nothing like a deadly, weeklong freeze in your state of 30 mil to remind everyone that government — good or bad — only affects those who can’t afford to escape the clutches designed for everyone else.

The rich don’t need government, don’t like government, sabotage government given the wisp of a chance. Government is awkward cousin everyone avoids at the rich-people family reunions. They interact with it only because they have to for appearances.

So, it’s time to do rich people in America a favor, because — goodness knows…

I’ll take tickets for a family of five.

Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash

I tell you what, if I never have to hear the words “America is more divided than ever,” I will die happy.

You know why? Good. I’m glad it’s more divided than ever. It should be.

Now, everything I have to say is my own opinion and anecdotal and I am not a good resource because I am busy momming and don’t have have time to research and provide valuable insights from reputable sources and studies.

This a front-porch, neighbor-to-neighbor discussion in which you and I may or may not have beverages…

Still have a mother of a hangover over a month later.


I slept like shit the night of the election.

Not because the networks hadn’t called the election for Biden. I had emotionally prepared to hang from that cliff by my goddamn fingernails for however long it took. Long-hauler, baby. These loins are made of steel.

My sleep was crap because I drank alcohol for the first time in a couple months. Aging has forced me to concede that alcohol stunts my sleep, and makes me more bloated and depressed than usual. Not a good condition for someone trying to do an adequate job at performative parenting. …

During The ‘Rona, I have one option to survive emotionally.

My daughter’s representation of her mother in the Emotional Witness Protection Program. Papa, can you hear me?

My “Get Through the Day” mantra has faced constant readjustment in these days of isolation.

Every day, standards of behavior and expectation must be whittled down to realistic degrees, the lowest of which are never low enough. Four and a half months into this, my mommy and womanhood have been reduced to only basic fundamentals of human existence and species success. Draw breath. Repeat.

When this is all over, I imagine I will feel as the wasted carcass of a female salmon, having swum rivers and seas, returned to her…

I know this is a weird post for Medium

But I need to type it out for some peeps to access it easily. As a mom o’ three, the time and space to produce a cutesy food blog is beyond the hours in my day.

First off, I’m a white momma from Louisiana and Texas. Not Cuban. I cobbled together my recipe know-how from scanning the various legit slow-cooker Cuban pork recipes online, trial-and-error, and embracing what worked with what I had available.

Cuban is one of my favorite cuisines. I’m a Cajun girl and a flavor freak. I dearly…

We are in a damn pressure cooker.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

The world is about to pop. Or maybe it’s just the U.S. or Texas or my marriage or maybe it’s just me and I’m completely projecting. Maybe all those poems and stanzas about our resilience are true and I just can’t feel it because, inside me, something is slowly building and I have no idea what it will look like when it ignites.

This is the eye of the hurricane and around me swirls chaos and despair, encroaching on my attempts to just get through the motherfucking day.

Ahead is an almost certain…

That sucks for the rest of y’all, but whatevs.

Photo by Enrique Macias on Unsplash

I don’t know if y’all heard, but Covid is skipping over the ‘burbs here in Texas.

Sure, babe, rumors fly about kids’ classmates’ parents and neighbors of neighbors and idiot college kids. But, it’s biz as yoosh for the rest of us aside from our hubbies working from the casa in their undies and us spending more time with our kids than is, like, humane. …

On reverance and reckoning.

Photo by British Library on Unsplash

In the June 2020 issue of Vanity Fair, the profile of Janelle Monáe was intensely inspiring. Included was this halting passage about Southern plantations: Girard Bush, who cowrote and directed the movie Antebellum with Christopher Renz, in which Monáe stars, says,

“It was an incredibly difficult experience for her. These plantations — where people are getting married — these are places that should be considered hallowed ground. It should be Auschwitz. You should walk this ground with that kind of respect for the suffering that took place on that land. …

Meredith Potyondy

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