Go Ahead...Drink the Kool Aide.

Hello world...I know it's been a while but I'm back for a short moment and I would love nothing more than to catch you up on the Mouthy Mommy's misadventures. The problem is that my brain is so over crowded with work stress that I can't manage to get one coherent thought that isn't related to healthcare. So I decided to fill you in on one of my favorite work moments. I know. I know. It's your lucky day!

I would like to start my story like a shit cupcake. I'll start with the bad(the frosting if you will) and end on the high (a little devils food cake)... Also, is anyone else loving the term "shit cupcake" as much as I am? It's genius! But I digress...

A few months ago I was FIRED from the company I worked with for roughly a year and three months. Was I upset? Sort of. Was I scared about having to start over? Kind of. Was I surprised ? Not even a little bit. You see, the problem with being a Mouthy Mommy( Or Mouthy Account Executive in my case) is that you tend to fly right in the radar zone. And it turns out that Corporate America would very much appreciate you keeping your trap shut and your opinions to yourself. I guess if you're a mindless sheep or a complete dip shit this is a suiting environment. If you're a mouthy opinionated bitch...Not so much.

So, like so many, many, many times in my life, I was called into my bosses office and asked to turn in my badge. Only this time instead of crying and begging for my job, I felt a strange sense of relief and pride. In part because I manged to be a lady and not tell a single person in the office to go fuck themselves on my way out the door, but also because I needed a reason to leave that miserable place and there is no way I would have left on my own. After all, I have a serious shopping habit to support! As well as a kid and a husband...

For three unemployed weeks I reflected on where I went wrong. Why was I so miserable there and why did they let me go? Well, the misery part was easy. I just didn't enjoy working for people who expect you to fail and give you all the tools to do so gloriously. If you force me to do things "your way" and then blame me for not being successful, you really are just the worst type of asshole and I will be sure to tell you so. And there my friends is the "why" part. I think I sealed my fate the day I called my boss Hitler during an argument and then topped it off by stating that the CEO has a Messiah complex that requires more Kool Aide drinking than a Jim Jones movement. I may have also suggested that we start sacrificing a goat Monday mornings to a statue made in the likeness of said CEO all in the hopes that his mightiness would be pleased and keep me and the rest of the bottom feeders employed a bit longer. Needless to say, my manager was not amused and it was exactly 4 days later that I received the boot.

I hear when people are laid off there's a small bereavement period. A time where you cry and morn the loss of your weekly pay check. I gave myself exactly five minutes to feel sorry and sad and not a minute more. I knew that I would find something new and I knew that from that point on I was no longer going to settle for being miserable at the hands of those I work for. In the words of a good friend and colleague of mine "healthcare is a motherfucker of an industry". It is a soul crushing, constantly changing monster filled with pressure and failure. One month you're on top and the next you're on the chopping block all while you pound the pavement in 6 inch heels, knocking on doors in the hot Florida sun. Doors that have already been entered by 352 of your competitors who have not only been doing it longer than you, but who also buy better lunches and give away nicer pens. I guess the same could be said about anyone in sales, but for someone like myself who sells a healthcare "concept" instead of a tangible product, I cant help but think that selling vacuum cleaners door to door would be a cake walk.

Now to wrap things up quickly, here my friends is my happy ending...

I now work for people I love. I've been here a few months and yes, I still struggle to meet my goals. This "motherfucker" of an industry has chewed me up and spit me out. I am working my ass off everyday without reaping the rewards I feel that I should. Today my 352 competitors kicked my ass and I did not receive as much as one new referral. As disheartening as that is, tomorrow I will get up, strap on my 6 inch heels and pound the pavement in the hot Florida sun. I will be told "NO" far more times than yes and I will take it all in with a smile. Then God willing, I will wake up the next morning and do it all again. Why? Because I love who I work for and I know that they care about me. It's cliche' I know, but I promise it is a fact, that when you work for people who build you up, it makes it a hell of a lot harder for the industry to tear you down. That said, I'm also not an idiot...If anyone's interested my resume can be found on Monster.com :)

House Wars

I know it's been a while and at this point you've all probably forgotten that the Mouthy Mommy ever existed. I want all of you to know, that it's not because I have nothing left to say- because believe me I have lots- it's just that I've literally have had no time to myself to sit and write. This working mom thing is turning out to be a giant pain in the ass and my "me" time is long over due. So, that said, I've managed to carve out some time (I'm sitting in my empty laundry room with the door locked) and give you all a taste of the Mouthy Working Mommy's chaos.

If you don't know I am currently working for a Medicare service provider while juggling motherhood, domestics and most recently, home ownership. I've managed to make peace with the fact the the world of Medicare has an uncertain future and that my kid is growing up to be a know it all asshole but, the home owner thing has thrown me for a loop.

It seems that everything you want to do in your new home requires some sort of 12 step program and an ass load of cash. And if that's not enough to drive this type A budgeter over the edge my husband has decided to put in some "sweat equity". Now a normal woman married to normal handy man may not be alarmed by an offer to paint a bedroom or slap on some crown molding but, unless my husband started taking some night classes I don't know about and attained his general contractor license there is NO FUCKING WAY I would ever be comfortable with him wielding a paint brush or something as sharp a a mitre saw. He also has zero concept of what things cost. Here's a perfect example:

Him: We need new carpet in the master bedroom. It should only be about $200. I'll go to Home Depot and get a quote.

Me: Are you sure? That sounds really cheap. Maybe we should just use the extra carpet and have them patch the bad spot.

Him: I'll see what they say, but it going to be cheaper to replace it. I'll call you in a few after I talk to Home Depot.

A few hours later...

Him: OK. I found a carpet place called "Rape your wallet extravagant carpets and more" and they said we need grade A+++ carpet and it will cost $900.

ME: Wait, what happened to home depot and $200? And why exactly would you shop at a place with a name that screams rip off? Please just get a quote from a normal place to patch the goddamn carpet!

Him: STOP CONDESCENDING TO ME! I know what I'm doing. The guy is coming tomorrow to give me a better estimate. I'm pretty sure he had his math wrong.

Me: So we are going to hire someone to do work in our home that lacks third grade math skills?

Him: CLICK.........

I wish I could say that this was the only time in the last few weeks he's yeld at me for being condescending bitch, but sadly this has become a daily ritual and truthfully it's all my dads fault. I grew up in a home where I had a father bright enough to know his limitations when it came to handy work. For example, dad could change a light bulb, pressure wash the driveway and install a night light but, anything beyond that was handed to a well researched and priced professional. I grew up believing that this was how it worked. When I saw men fixing things in their own homes I would think to myself, Your wife's going to be sooo angry when she comes home to a giant fucked up mess? Why? Because that's what I was raised to believe. How does that poem go? Children learn what they live. If a child lives with a dad who hates manual labor, she will learn to hire a handy man. Now ask yourself, "With what is my child living?"

Apparently my hubby comes from a long line of do it yourselfer's. I've never seen them do anything themselves, but he assures me they do and that he too has inherited part of that genetic code...As usual I have to call "BULLSHIT" and also a licensed contractor.

Merry Christmas

It's that time of the year when we all over extend ourselves and buy a bunch of shit that no one really needs. Ah, Yes- it's Christmas!

I remember how exciting this time of year was when I was young. My mother would decorate our house with magical Santa replicas, mini towns and snowmen. It was fabulous. Then the week before the big day mom would start counting down the sleeps till the jolly fat bastard arrived to deliver the loot. "Five more sleeps till Santa comes," she would say. And I would snuggle into bed each night and pray that this would be the year Santa would give me the one thing I always wanted. The gift of being an only child.

If your wondering, he never did. Eventually my family even expanded from two girls to three and I just learned to deal with the fact that Santa and God fucked me... But now that I'm older and have given up on childhood fantasies like Santa and singleton living, I am starting to realize that my sisters are two of the best things that ever happened to me.

I know that sounds cheesy, but after my mother died it hit me that these two people are the only ones that share the same blood I do. And because we have shared the loss of our mother, we are supportive of the fact that we may never get over her being so painfully absent from our lives.

Though Christmas isn't the same since my mom has left us, I find joy in the little ways we keep her with us at this time of the year. We decorate our homes with some of her favorite pieces. We count down the sleeps with our tiny boys and best of all, we get together and reminisce about how she made the day magic. I think she gave us the best gift of all...Each other.

Merry Christmas to all, I'll see you in the new year!

Three Is The Magic Number

Ugh! I am so sick of hearing people lecture me about having another baby. My family, my friends, even random people in the grocery store are insisting that torture myself- yet one more time- with the nightmare that is procreating. I don't know where it is written that you must have more than one child, but I do know that in china it's against the law and if it comes down to it-sianara suckers!

For the record, there could be nothing I deem more awful than getting knocked up again at this point in my life. And by "this point in my life" I mean, the point where I'm thin, happy and no longer a slave to a screaming, suicidal money pit (aka my kid). Not that I would trade him for anything. He really is terrific for a three year old and I must say that his love of swearing and fighting warms the center in my chest where- I'm guessing- my heart should be.

But honestly, it's not just my freedom and waistline that have me locking that second baby drawer tightly. I turns out that I am one of the few sane people who think that pregnancy is more awful than AIDS. Okay, maybe that analogy was in bad taste, but I promise you, it's at least as bad as Leprosy. Think about it- swelling, puking, weight gain, urinary incontinence, uncontrollable flatulence, shortness of breath, skin blemishes, constipation and then of course, the grand finally of distroying your vagina in front of a room full of people. (There's more crappy things, but I started having my equivalent to a Nam flash back and had to wrap it up.) To me those are all symptoms that should end in death, not the spawning of a "bundle of joy". So tell me, who in their right mind would willingly sign up for that? And do it twice? For this gal, there's just no fucking way.

I realize how selfish this all sounds, and sometimes I worry that my son may be missing out by not having a sibling. Especially when I catch him speaking to himself, while playing solo. But then I stop and think about how he will never have to share his toys, his parents love or a sibling ass whooping. He'll also reap the financial benefits, which may not seem like a big deal now, but it will when he wants us to buy him a car for his 16th birthday or if- fingers crossed- he goes to college and needs us to help him pay for it.

So, those are my non-selfish reasons. Do they top the chart of why this family of three will never expand from a fork to a tree?(nice play on words, right?) Of course not! Those are just the reasons I give to my in-laws when they start bugging me about giving my monster a baby brother. For me it's the selfish reasons that have me running for the morning after pill anytime my husband so much as rolls to close to me at night when we're in bed.

The bottom line is, it took having a kid to realize I really don't like them. And how much does it suck that most of us that feel this way have to bullshit people into believing that we do like them? All because we're told "good moms" love kids. When the truth is that most moms only love THEIR kid. Do you honestly believe that after you leave one of those obnoxious kid parties that the booger monsters mother starts developing postpartum because all the little nightmares went home?.. Nope! But I would bet you money that she sat down with her husband, or boyfriend, or girlfriend and talked about what a shit head your kid is and how she would jump off a 5 story building before signing up to parent him/her. For some of you that may be hard to hear but trust me at one time or another your kid was that shit head. Don't take it personally, my kid was one last weekend and it pretty much put the cherry on the top of my "no more babies" cake.

In closing I would like to leave you with some wisdom...We are genetically programed to love our young and as my mother would say to my sisters and me, "I have to love you, I don't have to like you." So at least for right now I love my kid and like him too (most of the time). I would hate to chance it and have another one that may or may not turn out to be a chronic shit head. If you want to risk it go right ahead, but me- I'm praying for early menopause.

The Bad, The Ugly and The Tenth Good Thing About Barney?

It's yet another drama filled week for the Mouthy Mommy and I have to say, I'm one mishap away from making my runaway fantasy a reality.



Last Friday my beloved mutt came down with an auto immune disease. I was absolutely devastated, but knew that if push came to shove I wouldn't allow her to suffer. I would do the right thing and let her go.

Sadly, push came and shove went. I stumbled through my emotions and did -in the end- what was best for me. I had test run and transfusions given. I spent money on ridiculous medications and have been hand feeding home cooked chicken- several times a day- to a dog who can barely lift her head off the ground. The funny thing is, that though I couldn't bare to lose her, it was my son that made me have the change of heart.


Sunday when my little monster returned from his grandmother's he wondered through the house calling for the dog. When she didn't greet him he asked me where she had gone...

ME- Watlie dog is very sick. She had to go sleep at the doctor's house to get better.

HIM- Does her tummy hurt?

ME- Yep....

HIM- Mom, I didn't give her any of my food! If she got some it was an accident.

He spent the next two days crying for her and asking questions like; "Did she drink the pool water?" and "Can she sleep here and go back to the doctor's when I'm at school?". I realized then that if I didn't do everything I could to save her, I would be left explaining the intricacies of life and death to a kid who, just a few weeks ago, stopped shitting his pants. He was smarter than I gave him credit for and I had zero idea how to tackle the meaning of death, heaven and God with a three year old.

I thought about how -less than two years ago- I had explained the passing of my mother. He was younger so it was simple: "Grandma died and went to heaven." He took the news as if I had just told him the sky was blue. It was a statement and nothing more. Later when his first fish died and then shortly after, the second too, I bluntly told him the fish died and went to heaven with grandma. To which his response was, "With Grandma and the cow that jumps over the moon? Ok, we'll buy a new one tomorrow." But now things have changed. He's inquisitive and wants to know why, how and where that heaven place is. Also he has an attachment to the dog, unlike the replaceable fish and his foggy memory of grandma.

As someone whose only religious connection is that I use the terms "goddamn it" and "Jesus Christ" a lot, I had a real tough time figuring out how to explain things without scaring him for life. I decided that because of my lack of knowledge and general distaste for all things holy, I should mosey down to his Jewish day school and ask for some support. It turned out to be a great idea because the director had loads of books to read that would explain these "taboo subjects" (her words, not mine) to him. The only thing she advised was that I read them first and edit out any things I deemed unnecessary or shocking. I did as she asked and have decided to share with you the good the bad and the ugly...


The good...

"God Looks like nothing, and nothing looks like God"
Because Nothing Looks Like God- by Lawrence & Karen Kushner

"Nothing that is alive goes on living forever. How long it lives depends upon what it is and what happens while it is alive"
Lifetimes- by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen

"It may be sad, but it is the way of all things, and it is true for everything that is alive"
Lifetimes- by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen

"They (all living things) have beginnings, and endings and there is living in between."
Lifetimes- by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen

The bad...

"God lives in your tears when you're sad or scared"
Where does God Live?- by August Gold & Matthew Perlman

"Grandpa, is not sleeping or away on a trip. He died and is never coming back."
Where Do People Go When They Die?- by Mindy Avra Portnoy

The ugly....

The Tenth Good Thing About Barney- by Judith Viorst

Basically this entire book left me slack jawed. The story goes that a little boy loses his cat Barney. His family decides to throw a funeral and bury him in the garden, but first the boy must say 10 good things about Barney. Shockingly, he only comes up with 9 things and is left to contemplate life and death with his neighbor, Annie, who has decided to come over and join in the festivities. Later over cookies and juice the two discuss what Barneys future holds. Annie is convinced the cat went to heaven, but the little boy disagrees. He shouts at Annie that Barney "is dead and in the ground" and pulls her hair. At this point his father interjects and tells Annie that there is a large possibility that she is wrong, because no one has proved there is a heaven, but that there is solid evidence that Barney is "dead and in the ground." Annie gets pissy and runs home, mad about having her faith questioned. The father now decides to take the boy out to the garden to plant some seeds on top of Barney's carcass. He tells the kid that the cat will decompose and help grow the flowers. He ends the conversation by saying "That's a pretty nice job for a cat." And truthfully, for a cat, he's right. The book ends with the kid telling his mother the 9 nice things about Barney and he adds the cat's decomposition to the list to make it an even 10.

Looking back now I think I like this story- my version at least.

Space To Face...

Today is going to be 10% life lesson and 90% about me. The 10% life lesson today will be on the importance of personal space and respecting other's. The 90% about me, is simply because I'm self centered. You should all be very familiar with this by now. I'm honestly shocked if you're not.

Ok, now that you know that I am about to educate you, I need you to take a moment and put your listening cap on ( or foil helmet if you wish). We are going to start today's lesson with an exercise.

First, I need you to take a deep breath and slowly rise from your desk. Stand fully erect- arms at your side- and slowly raise them to chest height. Now that you look like a complete asshole, let's take it one step further and have you spin around- slowly- with your arms still raised....Hit anyone?..If you did, don't apologies. Just let that eagle smack be a lesson to the space invader next to you about the importance of breathing room. Then sit down and be thankful that as a Mouthy Mommy reader, you didn't have to learn the hard way like that schmuck... As always, you're welcome.


The point of the exercise is to give you an idea of where your personal space is. Anything within that circle you made is all yours and you have every right to protect and defend it. This goes for everyone. So, if you're guilty of face talking or hovering, it's time to check yourself and face the reality that no one on this earth is interested in being just one flap of skin short of a side show attraction with you. This is a fact. If you don't believe me, you can Google it.

Now to the important part, my story and the reason for this lesson...

Earlier this month I entered a building a few paces behind a physician that I have been trying to get business out of for months. When we got to the elevators, I cheerfully said,"hello". Doc in reply to my nicety nodded and smiled as he stepped closer to inspect my name badge. At the time I thought that he was trying not to be rude and wanted to get my name before continuing our conversation. Well, I was half right...It turns out that Doc is your run-of-the-mill face talker and instead of backing up and starting a conversation, he straightened himself out of his- badge studying- crouch and began speaking to me right where he stood. In my face, arms gently pressed against mine. My first reaction was to reach for my rape whistle, but then I remembered how crummy my numbers were for the month and decided to ride out the space invasions until the elevator opened and I could make my escape.

It was after only a few quick exchanges that I heard the "ding" of the elevator as it opened and I all but ran to the small space that was to be my freedom. Unfortunately, Doc had somehow managed to become one with my button down shirt and like my very own parasitic twin-followed me in. If you couldn't tell by now, I am not a fan of physical contact. And I don't discriminate, this goes for everyone, friends and family included. So because of this you can just imagine how the breath of a stranger smacking across my face, while my body is gently being caressed by a white lab coat would have my stress level rising to amazing heights. I took everything I had to fight back the urge to shove him out of my face and scream "BACK THE FUCK UP", but I decided to take one for the team and quickly found a new- business friendly- way to escape. You see, he was going to the 5th floor and now because of our exchange and his general proximity- I wasn't. I rerouted and got off on the 2nd. I had no business there, but I would be damned if I would smell his breath for another four floors.

Though it seems that I am -on most occasions- just being a bitch, I actually did my research this time and found a great article that explains why so many people- crazy and kind alike- have an issue with face talking space invaders. I urge you all to check out Time magazine's article, "Problem with Close-Talking? Blame the Brain." Here's the link if you are interested http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1919910,00.html ....I told you it was a fact and because I love you so much, I did the work and Googled it... Again, you're welcome!

The Shot, The Fall and The Overflow.

"The best thing you have going for you is your willingness to humiliate yourself."- Simon Bishop, As Good As It Gets





This has been a week of drama for me. Not like "Oh, Lordy. He's sleeping with my dead momma drama", but drama as only I can create it. For those of you who don't know me personally, I would like to give you a few fun facts about the Mouthy Mommy before I get on with my story. A) The Mouthy Mommy has a long list of things that petrify her. On the top of this list are doctors and shots (because I always think I'm dieing and I don't want confirmation) B) The Mouthy Mommy is about as graceful as a drunk water buffalo loose in a china shop, and C) The Mouthy Mommy sometimes like to refer to herself in third person because it sounds better when read aloud. Now on to my humiliation.


I started this week strong by bringing in 3 patients in two days. I was riding high on my accomplishment and thanking my lucky stars- that for at least this week- I had given myself job security. Nothing could get me down, except for what was waiting for me in my boss's office Tuesday afternoon.

At around 1pm I casually pirouetted into her office. She quickly acknowledged me and asked if I would take a seat because my general gitteryness- especially when standing- makes her nervous. Still twitching with pride, I followed her command and waited to be showered with atta-boy's. The praise was great and the cherry on top was that she asked me to sign up for a program that would allow me entry into the many glorious hospitals of Broward county. I would be like a Home Health Rep VIP. I was beyond stoked about this opportunity (because I am a huge dork), and quickly agreed to front the $150 annual fee and sign up for the program ASAP. It was only seconds after I submitted my credit card info that things got crazy...

Boss Lady- It says you need a physical and a tuberculosis test. Did you have chicken pox? Because you'll need proof or a vaccine too.

Me- What!?! I was told I didn't need those things to work here. I explained to HR that if I did I would not take the job.

Boss Lady- You don't need them here. You need them to go into the hospital. I'll have one of the nurses do the TB test in the office and you can get the physical next week.

Me- I'm not kidding. I wouldn't have taken this job.

Boss Lady- Stop being a baby. It's a tiny needle. It will take all of two seconds. Stop crying and I'll give you some candy.

Me- Awe come on!.. You know what? Fuck it, I Quit!

Now, my little Mouthinites don't be alarmed. I didn't really quit. I may have tried to run once, while crying and whining for my mommy, but I kept my employment and got the damn TB test. Though that part may seem like it was what caused my humiliation it wasn't the worst of it. The worst was listening to my boss give the highlights of our meeting to my regional manager and co-workers at a dinner later that night. Now everyone knows what a giant baby I am. Do you know how hard it's going to be to rebuild my hardassness when a 1/4 inch needle sends me hiding under a desk like I'm having a Nam flash back? It's pitiful, I know. I guess I'll have to get creative. Though I would really hate to have to shiv a Gomer to get my street cred back.

Moving on...

Wednesday was a better day. I got up. Checked my injection site-which was not raised or red- and thanked God for not torturing me further with Tuberculosis. After I marked TB off the list of things that may be killing me I went about my day harassing Doctors and their staff. It was at my last stop of the day when things -yet again- got ugly.

I had just finished speaking with a doc and was saying goodbye to the front desk gals through the little glass window in the lobby. I gave my closing line of "See you next week!" and turned to walk away like I'd done many times before. Then I pivoted quickly and began my walk to the door. I think I was maybe three steps in when my heel got caught in the weave of the carpet. At that point I had not fully made the connection that I was beginning a decent to the ground below, but unfortunately for me, one of the Gomers waiting in the lobby did. In an act of kindness, he tried to catch me before the fall got out of hand, but because I am apparently made of lead- failed miserably. Turns out that instead of helping me, said Gomer catapulted me into a small row of chairs and -since I have always felt it is best not to go down alone- I took three of them with me to the floor.

Miraculously the only thing injured in the tumble was my ego, but I was feeling a little down after all this drama and decided that the best thing to do was call my dad a whine like the clumsy baby I am. I was sure he would show me a little sympathy. He is my father for Christ sake! But instead of the "Hallmark" father-daughter moment, I got this:

Dad speaking to me while laughing uncontrollably-
"Awe, that's not so bad! Remember that time you worked in that doctors office and you took a shit a clogged the toilet so bad it overflowed and soaked the entire office, ruining the guys brand new carpeting? Every time I think of how angry that asshole got I die laughing. Didn't you quit after that?..(10 seconds of more uncontrollable laughter) Now don't you feel better?

Me- UGH! No, I had almost forgotten that one.

Dad- "You fell Jennie! Trust me, it's not half as bad as shitting on someones rug."

And you know what folks...As much as I hate to say this, he's right. I know from experience.