💥Crashing & Burning🔥 Hello, Thirties

If you’re in your twenties, enjoy your youthful looks and resilient body, because one day, that shit’s gonna be gone, and no matter how much you fight to get it back, your metabolism, AKA Beth, is gonna straight up laugh in your face and add a flab of fat underneath your neck and give you a whole new perspective on the word ‘jowl’. To add icing to that ham-hock neck of yours, if you try to run like you used to, your once-upon-a-time resilient muscles, AKA Jane, is gonna make you think you have it in you, then she’s gonna shred your muscles like it’s pulled pork, and you’ll be out of commission for weeks… if not months.

Getting older is painful. Beth and Jane don’t cooperate like they used to. If you even look at a cupcake Beth slows down, pops five pounds on your right ass cheek, and wipes the sweat off her forehead like she performed some great mission that saved mankind. Jane isn’t much better. If you lift your leg in an attempt to use a stepstool, Jane freaks the f*ck out, and yanks on your hamstring. You land with a resounding thud on your derriere as you scream like a toddler clinging to a toy they can’t have. 

Shit gets real when you creep toward your forties. 

Your medicine cabinet, the one you barely used, gets crammed with medicines and ointments you’d never heard of before. The Pepto commercials you laughed at… that pink shit’s now your right hand girl. Tums turns into a nightly event. Bengay becomes a new, smelly friend you use like deodorant. 

The funny thing is… if you’re reading this and you’re in your twenties… you think it’ll never happen to you. 

You run five miles a day. 

You eat healthy.

You drink water.

You’re invincible. 

Bwah ha ha ha…saddle up, cowgirl. 

I used to be you. Then Beth and Jane showed up and showed out. Now, I’m hitting up a swimming pool to avoid Jane rupturing my muscles. I’m eating Built Bars and tracking my food on an app as I try to out maneuver Beth’s fat-adding wand that she swishes around like it’s magic fairy dust.

Your thirties are the years you began crashing and burning. You realize how frail you truly are. You’ll have dumb nights where you think you can drink like you did in your early twenties, then Ronda shows up and smacks the shit out of you, giving you a hangover like you’d never had before. Your stomach’s on fire and churns twenty-four hours later, your head pounds, your freakin’ eyeballs hurt. 

So, I’m going to enjoy the last few years of my thirties with Beth, Jane, and Ronda as I try to mentally prepare myself for what’s to come in my forties. 

If you’re in your twenties, live it up, y’all.

~Ms. Write Life~

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Not Today, Glitter Tits

My eighteen-year-old is exhausting. He was once the five-year-old who asked question after question after question. We would be stuck in the mother*ckn car for TEN hours, and he would ask a question. I would answer it. Then, I would hear this: 

Why?

👀🤯

I would smile, take a deep breath, and answer his question.

Silence. 

I sigh with relief, open a book, and…

Why?

🤬 <- That’s what was going through my mind.

That cute, blonde-headed boy with blue-green eyes was exhausting. I should’ve realized it was a sign of what my future would look like. He’s the hugger who leaves a dust of shit clinging in the air, suffocating you as he walks away. He’s the person who clicks his pen the entire time you’re speaking with him. Annoying. As. F*ck.

Recently, I made the decision to get the Covid vaccination. I’ve heard all the conspiracy theories… I’m getting the devil’s mark injected into me… I’m going to die in six months… population control at its finest… Yada, yada, yada. Look, y’all, I don’t care if you choose not to get vaccinated. I follow the beat of my own drum, and I’m gonna do me. Period. Like it, or leave it. IDGAF. 

Anyway, after I tell my eldest son… the annoying gremlin… that I’m getting the Covid vaccination, this is the text I get:

I had just taken a drink, and I splattered that sh*t all over my car. F******ck.

My kid’s annoying, but he’s funny… sometimes.

After a scheduling fiasco, I was eventually stabbed in my arm. Afterward, I sat in the chair, and I somehow managed not to pass out. #score

Later that night, my annoying gremlin wants me to pick him up from my sister’s after I explicitly told him earlier in the day I had homework, and I wasn’t going to pick him up hours later. He was either going home with me, or I’d pick him up tomorrow. And… this is the text I get:

I snorted. Rolled my eyes. Not today, glitter tits. Not today.

~Tiff~

Gremlin Wars

If you’ve been following my blog for a minute, you know I’m stuck in a house filled with testosterone. I’m flying solo. When you’re the only estrogen in the house, you have to do some dirty sh*t to survive. For example, when the eldest gremlin is annoying me and is being a straight up dick, I tell him I’m flowin’ hard as I shove my hand down my underwear, pull it out and attempt to wipe it on him. Sounds disgusting, right? It absofuckinglutely is. That’s the point. His @$$ got up and moved. He left me alone. My hand might’ve smelled a little fishy, might’ve been tinged pink, but I had peace and quiet. #winning

After the eldest gremlin’s shenanigan’s this past week, I’ve turned up my game. B*tch ain’t gonna know what hit him. I’m struttin’ around like, What? You wanna take a shitty picture of me and draw a motherf*ckn dick in front of my face? That’s cool. I got you.

After I came up with brilliant idea to shave my feminine area, keep whatever came off, and sprinkle that sh*t like fairy dust over him while he’s asleep, I’ve used that sh*t to mess with his head. Here’s a snippet of the first conversation:

In the last picture, he’s trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or not. Doesn’t matter. It’s in his head, and every time he finds one of his wiry beard hairs in his bed, the thought’s gonna cross his mind that it might be from his momma’s nether regions. Bwah ha ha. Get some, punk.

This morning, I’ve been busy. I’ve been in meetings. I have a job. I don’t get to look at my cell phone every second of the day. This fool has been sending me text messages to call the school to let him check out.

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Boy, please. 

This morning’s conversation for your reading pleasure:

Needless to say, I didn’t call the school. 

The moral of this blog is… Don’t f*ck with your momma, bruh. She’s ruthless. #GremlinWars #MommasGotGame #FairyDust

~Tiff~

Glam On

Growing up, I had a rockin’ Grams who had a bright, beautiful soul that radiated kindness. She was unabashedly who she was, and she accepted people for who they were. There are so many instances that I remember her going into a store, seeing an employee who was having a bad day, and she made it her mission to cheer them up. Her bright blue eyes twinkled, she smiled, and her cheerful British accent floated throughout the store. She could call someone a dickhead and make it sound nice. She was an unconventional grandma, but she was absolute perfection.

 It wasn’t abnormal for her to tease a family member and call them a ‘bloody bastard’, which would be appalling by some community standards, but it incited laughter and love. She was the one person that we could all go to, leave our souls bared, and she would love us regardless of how many poor decisions we made. That’s love in its purest form. 

As human beings, we put so many restrictions on others around us – how they should act, what they should say, what they shouldn’t say, how they should look, how they shouldn’t look – and it’s absolutely exhausting. I’m at the point in my life where I’m stripping away the layers of who everyone else thinks I should be or need to be. I’m going to do me. Be me. Accept it… or leave it. 

 I live in a small community, and yes, there are a few people with small minds. But… there’s a whole lotta good people, and sometimes, it is easy to let those few small minds cast stones that stick with us for longer than they should. I personally believe that if someone is gay, transgender, or… whatever they are, they should be treated the same as everyone else. They are not pariahs or outcasts. If a young girl isn’t married, and she has a kid, it isn’t the end of the world, and she doesn’t need criticism and judgement. She needs encouragement and love. If there’s a mixed kid, they don’t need to be ostracized or made to feel like they are less simply due to their skin tone. Their mom and dad are free to love each other – regardless of what race they are. When you see a kid’s surname, do not write them off, and label them based on the actions of other people in their family. See past all the bias. Just live and love. It’s that simple. 

I also don’t believe women should cater to men simply because they feel obligated to. We are no longer staying at home and solely taking care of our families. We are in the workforce, and bringing home the bacon, so why should we have to cook and serve a man? It’s just not in me, y’all. My gram’s blood runs thick in my veins, and I just can’t do it. My marriage is a partnership, and I have a sexy @$$ husband who isn’t afraid to wash clothes or load the dishwasher. You want to get laid by your wife? Keep the roses, and wash the mother*ckn dishes, bruh. 

#micdrop

I’m choosing to live my life according to my own rules. My grams was unconventional, but she was freakin’ awesome, and she’s glammin’ her angel wings. Now, I have one of the last voicemails she left me embedded in a sign on my wall. I can listen to it by simply scanning the QR code. How freakin’ cool is that?

To those feeling suffocated… stop being oppressed by people who will never be part of your life, anyway. Be you. Do you. You’re beautiful. You’re enough. If you’ve experienced feeling judged or have been treated inferior, feel free to drop into the comment section. I’d love to hear about other people’s experiences.

And, if you need some awesome jewelry to go with your bad@$$ self, check out Unique Twist Jewelry here:

https://uniquetwistjewelry.com

~Tiff~

Gremlin Shenanigans

Y’all… my son, eldest gremlin, might die before he graduates. I’m in the midst of one of the hardest weeks of my MBA, creating book pitches, finessing query letters, yada, yada… you get the point. And this fool straight up takes a pic of me in my shittiest form – no makeup, hair all f*cked up, double chin’s pronounced, and my face – IDK what that look is. To make matters worse, he doodles on it and sends it to my mother*ckn sister who shares it with my mom… and this is the text I receive:

Sexy, huh? Jerk.

Anyway, that was the gift I was given after taking time out of my busy day to move the savings account out of my name and solely into his, and getting a checking account opened in his name. He has checks and a debit card now… sh*t’s getting real up in here. On the ride home, I was telling him he needed to keep some of the money saved to where if his car needs tire or breaks down, he can cover it. Momma’s not paying for repairs. Momma’s not covering overdraft fees, either. Welcome to #adulting.

After seeing the picture, I’m tempted to shave my feminine area, keep whatever comes off, wait until he’s asleep, and sprinkle that sh*t like fairy dust. *Boom* He thinks he’s got jokes. Momma’s been around a minute, and that b*tch plays dirty.

Game on.

~Tiff~

Game on.

~Tiff~

Non-Traditional Instruction – Gremlin Style

If someone would have told me a year ago that I would have my two gremlins at home, working on their schoolwork, and I’d be stuck re-learning some of my favorite subjects, I would have asked for something for the pain. A bottle of wine doesn’t. even. touch. it. Listen, to all the science teachers out there, I give you mad props, but this girl detest science. I want to cry, even kick, and scream a little, when my youngest gremlin comes to me needing help with it. I’ve been back through the periodic table, visited the world of neutrons, protons, and electrons, and guess what? I still detest science. No one in my family will be the ones to ever come up with a vaccine. We’re lucky if we know what H2O stands for. Seriously.

So, when the youngest gremlin comes to me needing help with his math work, I feel like I’m pretty decent at it, and I can be a shining light beaming down on him. This isn’t science. I so got this. I smile, and I motion him forward. Until … I see this:

12 Y/O Gremlin Writing

Like, what am I supposed to do with this? My smile faltered, and I just stared at him with a dumb stricken look on my face. Like, what the what? Are you even my gremlin? Never have I produced such an atrocity as this unorganized vomit spewed across the page.

I literally sat down during my lunch break to try to decipher what my kid had written. Who writes like this? It was equivalent to trying to read an alien language no human being had ever mastered. Is this a male thing? Does it get better when they’re adults? I dunno. I’ve seen my husband’s chicken scratch, and I’m going to bet our gremlins are probably screwed.

What’s even sadder is that I even turned the freakin’ paper as if that somehow was going to magically make it make sense enough to read. Luckily, I received an email from his teacher that he did really well on the math test, which was what the paper I was trying to decipher was. I had literally just resigned myself to having him open the quiz back up as I stared over his shoulder to see what the problems were. She was, and is, a heroine in my book.

There was a time that being a teacher had crossed my mind. My gremlins have completely shattered that thought over the past year. I’m not fit to be a teacher. It makes me grumbly. I’m like a toddler sitting in a corner with their hands folded across their chest as they pout. Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t get near me. I might even bite anyone who gets close. All the parents out there who are a little balder and stay quite a bit drunker now, I completely understand. Cheers to you, and cheers to the teachers who teach our offspring day in and day out. Bless your beautiful souls.

~Tiff~

Homeschooling Gremlins

The gremlins have been at home for a week as of Friday morning. I haven’t pulled my hair out … yet. I have another three weeks with them – two weeks that will consist of them doing schoolwork. The youngest is proactive and knocks out his work first thing in the morning. The eldest gremlin, well, he gets on my last nerve. He is the procrastinator. He wants to wait until the very last second, then rush to get it all done. Me? I cannot live my life like that. I like to be ahead of the game. I like to have room to breathe. I am a planner. I have learned over the past week that homeschooling gremlins can be maddening.

There were times in my life where the thought about being a teacher crossed my mind. Then I would think of the parents I would have to deal with and that was the end of that rambling idea. I think quite a few parents give teachers hell, but at what point do we look at our own home to see if the source of the problem isn’t the teacher, but us? There have been times when I had conversations with teachers about my eldest gremlin as he made his way through the school year. There was a point in time where he was goofing off all the time in class. I didn’t blame the teacher, y’all. Here’s what I did:

  1. I found an old school desk.
  2. Bought workbooks for his grade level – math, science, reading, etc.
  3. Placed the desk at the end of the hallway, facing the wall.

When he get home, he soon learned that his spring break was consisting of schoolwork. I used this moment to teach him a life lesson. Wasting someone’s time and not respecting it when they are trying to make you better isn’t kosher. Needless to say, he stopped goofing off in class. He knew that if he wasted his teacher’s time, mom was going to eat away at his free time with more schoolwork to make up for it.

It is easy to focus on blaming everyone else, but I think it is good practice to look at all the factors, including ourselves. I know I am far from perfect, and I know my gremlins are far from perfect. We’re human, and we’re constantly learning and evolving. That’s life.

After the youngest gremlin finished his schoolwork last week, I was duped into playing a video game with him. In the course of a few minutes, I believe I was killed a hundred times. Every time I would see the enemy, I would have to look down at all of the buttons on the remote. My brain was like sludge as I tried to remember what my eleven-year-old said each one did. I would end up hitting the button to jump instead of shoot. Then … I died. I even tried to use the youngest gremlin’s guy as a shield. The jerks would come from behind, and … I still died. After only killing a handful of the enemy in thirty minutes, I plopped the remote down, ruffled my gremlin’s hair, turned and walked out with my head held high. I figured I’d stop while I was ahead. I killed a few. I thought I had done well.

Later that night, my youngest gremlin came into the living room chuckling. Merriment sparkled in his dark eyes as he said to my husband, “Mom’s really awful. She died all the time. You really suck at playing the game, mom.”

I really wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but I could see my husband’s slow smile cracking across his face out of my peripheral.

“That bad, huh?” asked my husband, smiling so hard his cheeks had to be hurting. In my mind, I flipped him off, but instead … I just sat there, ignoring them.

“Yep.”

Y’all, I really need some estrogen in this house. Lord, save me from these gremlins.

~Tiff~ #momofgremlins

Self-sufficient Gremlins

I don’t always listen to my husband … ok, I almost never listen to my husband. He can preach about something for years before I decide he might actually be onto something. I usually nod my head, grunt once or twice, and pretend to be actively listening. Hey, stop judging me. Y’all know if your man starts spouting off about car parts or something else that isn’t revving your engine, your eyes glaze over and you stop listening. That’s just how it is.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah … he was definitely onto something this week. He had been saying it for months, but I just brushed it off … until I hit my limit with my gremlins. I work full-time, and I try to keep my house somewhat in order. After watching my kids come home from school and just loaf around, then pile dishes, laundry and junk all over the place – momma was d-o-n-e. Once the dishes were washed and put away, laundry was done, I had the discussion with said gremlins. They will wash any dish they dirty. If momma cooks, they get to wash the pans. They will each have a laundry basket in their room, and they will do their own laundry.

Such a good little gremlin.

So far, it has worked beautifully. This is the best my sink has ever looked. Neither one of them thinks it will stick, but it doesn’t benefit for it not to. It definitely won’t benefit their future spouse if I revert back to the way it was. The last thing I want is for my gremlins to expect that a woman is supposed to take care of everything inside of the house. Women are in the workforce and bringing in the bacon as well, so our ‘job’ isn’t to take care of the house, bring the man a drink when his runs out, cook, clean and iron his clothes. No, sir. When part of the bills are paid for by the woman, the man should step up.

I can almost hear men fussing about the lawn and what they take care of outside. Listen, women aren’t too good to mow a lawn or spray the weeds. Especially, when their man is doing their part with the upkeep of the inside of their house. It should be a partnership.

I personally just think it’s BS when a woman is judged by what the inside of her house looks like when she is pulling in just as much or more than the man. No woman should feel guilty that she didn’t make supper after a long, hard day at work. That’s why I’m determined to have two self-sufficient gremlins.

Here’s a tip for fellow moms of gremlins. If you have a router, check into getting the app on your phone. I have a Nighthawk from Netgear, and I love the little Device Manager button that I can click into and shut off a specific device in my home.

What? You didn’t wash your plate? Good-bye internet for Desktop-XXXX. Bwah ha ha. Get some, fool. I probably shouldn’t get as much enjoyment from it as I do. I was literally popping a Dorito into my mouth as I clicked the button and watched my son’s bedroom door from my desk. It didn’t take long before he went and washed the dirty plate he left sitting on the table.

Mom -1; Adolescent Gremlin – 0

~Tiff~  #momofgremlins

The Pooter Gremlin

I know it has been a few days since I blogged. Some of you might have been wondering if I survived the onslaught of male teenagers that invaded my home over the weekend. Somehow, I managed to live through it. Watching teenage gremlins interact is perplexing at times. There’s just a big part of me that wonders about their thought processes and maybe someone else can weigh in on it because I just don’t get it. While they’re laughing like hysterical hyenas, I’m looking at them like they’re all buffoons.

There’s a stupid, little black rubber device that makes farting noises when you squeeze it. It is the dumbest thing EVER. My adolescent gremlin has been ‘borrowing’ it from one of his friends for over a week, and I loathe the stupid thing. Y’all want to know what it’s called? Take a wild guess. It’s a genius name, or so I’m told. It’s called … The Pooter. Not. Even. Kidding. Within the last few weeks, I had the pleasure of watching the movie Idiocracy, and I wonder if that’s what our future generation is actually going to look like. Here it is, The Pooter:

So, as I was giving the death stare to The Pooter my gremlin was holding, he pulled out his cell phone and showed me a video. I watched it, and I laughed. I’m so mad that I laughed, but his friend’s reaction was hilarious. Here it is for your enjoyment:

I always thought I would have a girl, but I managed to churn out gremlins instead. I’m a little bit of a girly girl. I like fixing my hair, doing my make-up, painting my nails and all that jazz. I have lovely smelling lotions in every bathroom along with perfumes and pretty little bottles of deliciously smelling soaps. As I paint my nails, I get to hear my gremlins discuss the fact that I literally just painted my nails two days ago. I want to give them the bird, but I continue painting my nails and let it roll off because I know their sense of time sucks. It had been a week since I painted my nails, and I wasn’t going to be needled by gremlins that can’t find a massive bottle of ketchup in the fridge when it is literally almost smacking them in the face when they open the stupid doors. #micdrop

This is my life. On the bright side, when I have other gremlins over, I have the pleasure of listening to them “rap”. My gremlin says he’s the producer because he’s good at editing. I always tell them to shoot for the stars and to dream big, so I will never be the one to tell them they can’t do something because the odds are against them. That it’s impossible. I believe the impossible is possible. You will hear so many noes in your life, folks, but it only takes one yes. Life is about learning from your mistakes. It’s about chasing the impossible dream. Maybe these boys never make it rapping. Maybe I never make it writing. But, when we leave this Earth and take our last breath, at least we tried.

~Tiff~  #momofgremlins

Adolescent Gremlin

This past week held one of those crazy, hormonal days we females get blessed with from time to time. You know … the one where you know you’re being unreasonable and a little crazy, but your hormones feed on it like it is chocolate, so then you act even crazier instead of the sane, normal human being  you usually are. Luckily for my adolescent gremlin, the hormones were back to normal levels last night. You wanna see why? This. This is why.

Is it really supposed to be funny because it sounds like a fart? Does it make it even funnier to continuously make the same stupid noise over and over and over and over again? I don’t remember finding something so dumb so amusing at the gremlin’s age. Is that really how boys are now? I like to tell myself that girls are different. More mature. If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t be subjected to this dumbness. It probably doesn’t help that it gets under my skin. It’s like the person that constantly clicks their pen in class or in a meeting. Please, have mercy and just stop.

Oh, and by the way … this is the definition of clean courtesy of the adolescent gremlin. I am going to tag this post to every social media account he has. His guy friends won’t care, but I hope the girls rag on him hard. Go get ‘em, girls!

If you think there’s nothing wrong with the pictures, then your room probably isn’t clean either. Just sayin’. Maybe there’s some other mom out there to teenage boys who is whipping them into shape and their room is spotless because she is hovering over them, constantly checking their room, or whatever. Y’all, that’s just not me. I believe that at a certain age, we need to let our teenagers breathe and fall flat on their faces before we send them off into the world and they can’t do anything without their momma breathing down their neck. I hate micromanaging, and I want my kids to be self-sufficient when they leave home.

In my mind, if this is my kid’s worst offense, then I am doing well. He loves his momma … even when he’s an annoying jerk. Maybe he felt bad and that’s why he paid for a pint of chocolate ice cream for me last night? Maybe … maybe not. This evening, my house will be invaded by four adolescent gremlins, and I am not sure my heart or my nose can take it. If you have a spare moment today, whisper a prayer for me.

~Tiff~  #momofgremlins

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