No, Men Will NEVER Really Understand You

During my puberty years and beyond, I found myself constantly asking one question (and no, it wasn’t “when will I ever get boobs?”)– will boys EVER get less frustrating?

I know, I know– we’re always told growing up that females are the complicated gender, but, if you’re a female, you know that’s not really the truth.

Boys were always flaky, aloof, seemingly uncaring, and absolutely 5,000% oblivious. I swore that they were complicated by their own ignorance and that wisdom must come with age. The more you’re around the other gender, the more experience you have, the more sense they must make, right? So adulthood would be a piece of cake. Men wouldn’t be so frustrating, and I wouldn’t feel like I was always talking to a brick wall. Maybe I’d even end up with sage wisdom to pass down to future generations on how to avoid this long and complicated stage altogether. Even just a little would be immensely helpful.

With over ten years of marriage under my belt, I feel I can finally, properly, give the answer young me was always looking for.

My family leaves for our annual Disney vacation in under 2 weeks, and I’ve been trying to get back in shape after a nasty injury for months now. It has been a very frustrating battle. My husband knows this. One of my main struggles isn’t the exercise- it’s food. I love food, probably a little too much, and I have trouble refraining from eating things I “shouldn’t”, and I’m not awesome at moderation. My husband also knows this. I’ve been really cracking down on myself lately, because there’s not much time left, and it’s basically put me into a constant state of hangry. My husband is VERY aware of this. Breakfast and lunch, I’m great at. I’ve got the whole “healthy eating” thing down pat, but when it comes to dinner where I’m cooking for an entire family, it’s much more difficult. Healthy food is boring, I’m not a great cook, nor am I creative one, so keeping things interesting AND healthy is a struggle. And if you think I’m going to make two separate meals so that I can stay on track while my family enjoys slightly less healthy but far more delicious foods, you’re insane. Like, legitimately batshit. That’s never gonna happen.

Dinner is a bitch. Should I put so much pressure on myself? Hell no I shouldn’t, but I am- so, let’s continue the story, shall we?

By dinner time each day, I am a level of stabby that shouldn’t be poked. This came to a head on Tuesday night. I couldn’t find anything decent to eat. The one idea I had sounded disgusting, but at least it was an idea. Lightbulb! Since these ideas were so nasty, but still sounded like I was at least putting effort into finding something to make out of the ingredients we had already in the house, I’d send the idea over to my husband, dripping in so much distaste he’d nix the idea. Why not be direct? LOOK, PEOPLE. THIS IS MARRIAGE. SOMETIMES YOU KNOW YOU CAN GET WHAT YOU WANT WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR SPOUSE THINK IT’S THEIR IDEA, OKAY? STRATEGY! Think smart!

Me: All we have are turkey meatballs. We don’t have buns. Just burger buns. I guess I could make meatball sandwiches. ugh.

Him: That could work







Son of a bitch.

I go to the kitchen, and pull out the meatballs. There aren’t enough for meatball sandwiches, y’all.

Me: Okay, so, fuck. There are only 9 meatballs. That’s 2 1/4 per sandwich. That’s not enough.

Him: We could make that work

I just. Can’t. With. This. Shit.









I go back to the kitchen and angrily dump the meatballs into a crockpot and then go to grab the red sauce. There’s only 1/8th of a jar, DEFINITELY NOT ENOUGH for meatball sandwiches.

I stomp back to the computer

Me: There’s no red sauce. I can’t make this crap. Not that I wanted it, anyway.

Him: Well, I’m sure you could make your own red sauce…

I just……………

Me: I’m not doing that.

Him: Yeah… it’d make too much sauce anyway.

Oh, so is he finally starting to get it?

Him: You can just make turkey burgers










Me: Isn’t the meat frozen? (crosses fingers, tossing salt over the shoulder)

Him: No, it’s thawed in the fridge.

I swear to all that is holy, y’all. I swear. This man is about to have ground turkey smashed in his face like a creampie.

Me: I mean. I don’t want that, but I GUESS SINCE IT’S ALL WE HAVE.

All he had to do was take the hint. TAKE THE HINT THAT THERE IS NOTHING I WANT IN THIS HOUSE. Actually, let me stop letting him off easy. It’s not even a hint at this point. We’ve been married for ten years. He knows me. He knows what I’m going through. He knows when I’m basically pointing his ass to picking something up because we’ve been through this exact scenario seven hundred and ninety three times, and yet still

Him: Okay, so do you want fries with that?


He shows up with a bag of frozen fucking french fries.









The answer is no. Men will never understand you. You will never understand them. I’d tell you to save yourself the trouble by being direct, but that just makes too much sense and relationships are weird.

Posted on August 10, 2017 by Holdin' Holden 0 Comment

Dear Play dates, It’s not you, it’s me

I wasn’t blessed with girlfriends who had kids the same time as me. I never had a group of friends who would hold playdates together and gossip while the kids did whatever the hell it is they do at whatever the hell age it is that they are. I’ve never been to a mom’s night out. I don’t honestly even have mom friends. It’s not that I don’t have friends with kids, I do. I just don’t have a group. A “Squad” as the kids call it these days.

I’m like the black sheep of moms. Or at least, I feel like I am most days.

This isn’t me lamenting over it. I’m not sad. I’m not really even lonely. Sure, I’d love to hang out with humans other than my family some time… but only if the kids aren’t involved.

I’m totally serious.

I see pictures of these awesome themed gatherings. Moms posting smiling pictures hanging out with the kids in the background. Hear of weekly get togethers, cookouts, picnics, but I have no desire to participate.

I’m just. not. interested. in. playdates.

For days I’ve tried to figure out how to explain why. I don’t particularly dislike other people’s kids. I don’t particularly dislike other moms.

Okay, that’s a lie. I do, and I do. Maybe I’ve just been searching for a better way to explain it without sounding like a horrid bitch, but I came up with nothing.

The fact is just this and there’s no softening it: I don’t want to hang out with other moms and their kids. I will, if I have to. I won’t even hate it. I’ll be personable, and nice, and I might even have fun, for the sake of the kids- but if it’s my choice, I’m not playdating.

It’s not that I think I’m too good for it. I don’t think that I’m too “cool” or that other moms aren’t “cool” enough (trust me, I know a hell of a lot of moms far cooler than me). I’m not too judgy for it, or any other reason I can think of that might make “sense.” For me, playdates are like dentist appointments. If I HAVE to, if it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll grin and bear it. Otherwise, even though I know it might be good for me, it’s not happening. Because I simply don’t want to.

Some might argue if I had better/different/more mom friends, I might change my mind, and I can’t deny that you might be right, but I doubt it.

So just remember- if you ever ask me on a playdate, and I’m all

It’s not you, it’s me.

Posted on August 7, 2017 by Holdin' Holden 0 Comment

I Hit my Parenting Limit. Here’s how I Survived

Sometimes I feel like I write blogs just so that in possible future therapy sessions with my children, if they claim shit went down a certain way that scarred them for life, I can pull up my website, go to a specific post, and say “NAH. THAT ISN’T HOW IT WENT DOWN, LIAR.”
Probably causing more issues, and even more need for future therapy sessions, but I digress.


It is 9:56 am on August 2nd, 2017, and other than the sound of my fingers slamming the crappy keys on my crappy laptop, and the whirring of my air conditioner blowing air through the vents as it kicks on and off repeatedly, as it can’t seem to regulate the temperature because it’s hotter than the underside of Satan’s tit outside, my house is silent.

School doesn’t start for over another month. My kids aren’t away at summer camp, nor are they at friends houses, and NO, I didn’t pretend to start a game of Hide & Go Seek and just never do the whole “Go Seek” part, though that is incredibly tempting. They’re here, in perfectly good health, of sound body and mind. Me? Not so much.

Even though they only have each other to play with most days (we are summer homebodies), and they play within very close range of one another (inches to feet), they feel the need to constantly say each other’s names when speaking. Everything they say starts with the other’s name. And I do mean EVERYTHING. I named them, yes. Which means I love their names, yes. But I didn’t expect to hear their names on repeat, in different shrill, whiny, and yelling tones 47 times in 15 minutes this morning as they fought, yet again, over trivial bullshit. I should have, considering they do this every single day, but something in my head this morning just went NOPE. NO MORE. I CAN’T. There’s only so much one person can take, and #47 of “Par-KERRRRRRRRRRRR!” was it for me.

I am weak. I accept this.

Desperate, and barren patience times call for desperate measures. I did something I wouldn’t usually do. Something I would never even consider, because it’s usually more of a punishment for myself than it is for the kids– because I KNOW that by doing this I am essentially dooming myself and kissing the scraps of patience I had left goodbye, but I knew if I didn’t take this decisive action immediately, I’d be taking the kids down to the Social Services office and changing their names to “Whiny McTurdBreath” and “Sassy VonButtFart”

I guess in a way, I was also saving the last shred of my human decency and maturity as well.

That’s right- I banned the kids from speaking to each other. In fact, I not only banned them, I told them that if they DARED to speak one more word to each other for the entire day, I’d take a dollar from their allowance bank per word. They know I mean business when I start messing with the money they’ve been saving to buy more Legos to embed into the bottoms of my feet. Seriously– that’s all they ever buy. They don’t dare risk the precious Lego money.

This left only me for them to speak to. A heavy burden I chose to bear to stop them from annoying the ever-loving shit out of me with their incessant petty arguments.

It’s now 7:06 p.m. and they have not spoken to each other all day.

Did we learn anything from this experiment of sorts? No. Will this change the boys’ behavior in the future? Probably not, let’s not be delusional. Did it make me feel any better moving forward? Not really.

We all have our breaking points, our hard limits, our points of no return. I certainly don’t feel bad about it, because I know I could feel a hell of a lot worse had I allowed it to continue beyond the line I’ve carved into the hardwood.

My only advice, the only thing to really take away from this is to recognize your moment and be okay with having a “shitty” parenting moment to reset yourself. Tell your kids they can’t speak to each other. Play Hide & Go Seek and maybe don’t “Go seek” for a little while. Hide in the closet if you have to. Then take a deep breath, and brace yourself, because you’re probably going to have to do it all over again, and hear about it later when your kids bring it up in therapy.

Posted on August 2, 2017 by Holdin' Holden 1 Comment

20 Parenting Memes & Tweets that are just Honestly the Ugly Truth

There’s nothing more frustrating & rewarding than parenthood. The frustrating part being…. well, everything. And the rewarding part being able to laugh about it once we’ve survived yet another 483 hour long day.

Here are the memes and tweets that have made me laugh the MOST over the past month because they’re so stupidly true!


























































































































































































































Posted on July 28, 2017 by Holdin' Holden 0 Comment

When the Get-Along Shirt Doesn’t Work

I’ve found the most effective way to parent unruly small children is to find the one thing they love…. and crush it.

Wait, hold on. Maybe I’ve set that up wrong. I’m not some kind of monster. I don’t mean their hopes, or their dreams, or even the one stuffed animal they absolutely can’t sleep without.

I have to give my kids credit where credit is due– when they go, they go all in. They don’t half ass anything except for their chores. For everything else in life- it’s the whole ass. Especially when it comes to being Grade A Buttpickles.

Yeah. I said BUTT. PICKLES.

Would you prefer me to type “ASSHOLES”? ‘Cause I could have said that, too. But I didn’t. And now you made me.

They’re total buttpickles. Always getting themselves in trouble by arguing, or whining over nothing, or complaining about nothing, or being overly sassy, or chewing with their mouths open IN MY EARS. But the worst over the past few months has been their fighting with each other. It’s… I’d say infuriating, but we’re beyond that point.

When it comes to punishment for their buttpickly crimes, I’ve tried just about everything. They’ve gotten grounded. Taking away internet access doesn’t work because they don’t use the internet. Their rooms didn’t seem to do the trick because their rooms are full of toys they enjoy, and let’s be real, I’m not going to waste the time to remove the things they enjoy from their rooms, and I really don’t feel like spending MORE time arguing with them over forcing them to do it. No thanks. I’ve tried grounding them to places with no toys to try to bore them into brotherly respect. Nope. I’ve put their toys in prison and forced them to do chores to earn them back (this really only works with gifts around Christmas, in my experience)- and they are STILL. BEING. BUTTPICKLES. FIVE. MINUTES. LATER.

Don’t you tell me to try the “Get-Along” shirt. My kids are immune. The little one LIKES putting his hands on the older one. Tell me again how that is going to be effective? I can take away dessert for the rest of their lives and they’re still going to do the stupid stuff they do to get themselves in trouble, and no one is happy. Everyone’s snappy and sassy and miserable. That’s not cool, dudes. Why should I be punished when they’re the ones in the wrong? it’s one thing to be a mediocre parent (Hi! Nice to meet you!) but I refuse to be ineffective.

That’s why I had to bring out the “big guns” so to speak.

I finally figured it out. At long last, I found the one thing they loved more than anything else in the world. The ONE thing that would utterly dessimate them if I took it away and force them to stop being buttpickles. maybe not once and for all, but at least for a little while.


Out of all of their toys, all of their possessions, all of the things they like to do, the thing they like the most is playing games on the tablet. So simple. So small. So effective. They never should have let on that they loved it so much. That was their first mistake. Actually, their first mistake was repeatedly fucking up enough for me to be devious enough to seek and destroy their happiness, but THIS IS WHAT IT HAS COME TO.

Trust me when I say that when you find the ONE thing they absolutely DO NOT WANT TO LOSE, and they start down the path of ultimate buttpickle-ness, and you dangle their love over their head, threatening to take it from them for the rest of forever, they have the tendency to fall in line rather quickly. It may not be lasting. It may not be permanent, but it’s enough to shut them the hell up for a couple of seconds. That’s enough for me.

Posted on July 26, 2017 by Holdin' Holden 1 Comment