The Hero We’ve Been Waiting For. The Hero We Deserve.

OhMyGoodness Guys.

I have SUCH GOOD NEWS.

For the past two years, nearly everyone, on all quadrants of the political spectrum, have been living in existential dread. Overwhelming percentages of people have expressed a grave distrust in our political situation, and the entire world seems to have the same problems: political systems are hopelessly corrupt and no party seems to have the answer, nor do they have a single good-hearted candidate to bring people together.

But you already know all of this. It’s been a painful 18 months for all of us. So let’s not rehash why we need a hero in these trying times.

But I have delightful information to share with you.

We.

Have.

That.

Hero.

She’s come from a faraway place to save us all. She has a secret plan, and she’s going to unite us when no one else could.

That hero is Miley Cyrus.

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That’s right. Miley has put to bed her twerking, ball-riding, body-baring ways. Miley has mounted a knight’s steed on springs, and she is sure that she will be able to help her solve all our problems.

In a recent interview with Billboard (warning – she has not put away her language), Miley has shared that she is so committed to her cause of saving the world that she’s even sacrificed her adoration of drugs to do it. She’s completely clean, she exclaims, shocked at her own superhuman abilities…

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That’s right, y’all. TWENTY-ONE days of self-sacrifice from the depths of her heart to assist in saving the nation. But why Miley, you may ask? What is it about her specific set of skills that makes her our perfect hero? In her words (re: the day after the election)…

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That’s right. She’s gonna glue this place back together with her magical talent of being from the magical state of Tennessee. God did not give us very many people with this set of abilities. Thank goodness Miley is willing to use hers for good.

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And HOW exactly is she going to accomplish rebuilding our nation into one of likemindedness and American Utopia with her Tennesseean Superpower? Well. I hate to unearth Miley’s ground-shattering plan, but since she’s already done it, I’ll share it here with you, in the words of the great political commentator, TooFab

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It all makes perfect sense. All we have to do to change the world is have a 24 year old superhero be willing to jump into her phone booth and transform from this…

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To this…all for us.

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All of American Goodness and Sanity is wrapped up in one woman’s clothing choices. And I, for one, have never seen a dress that made me more willing to agree with someone’s every political opinion. This is the answer we’ve all been waiting for.

Miley for President, y’all.

Diary of a Tired Mom: New Year, New Rambles.

Musings, stories, and random observations of a tired mother don’t always promise to make sense.


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Saturday morning, as I was driving to my favorite place to run, which happens to be in the middle of Birmingham’s fanciest suburb, I saw a fully grown man,

with a salt and pepper beard,

skateboarding down the road,

in a bathrobe,

that was printed in a fine leopard print.

I took a picture of him as I drove by.

I swear he posed an especially serious face just for me. Because he KNEW I’d have to take a picture.

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For that one moment, finding him was better than finding roadkill.

You be you, sir. You. Be. You.


Later that afternoon, I was attempting to make my way quickly through the drive-thru at Starbucks. I was behind a little car with a large “I Love My Labradoodle” sticker.

The Barista asked through the loudspeaker, “Can I help you?”

“I just need a few minutes to read the menu, thanks.”

I watched as the few minutes turned into more few minutes, and pondered to myself that perhaps this was not why drive-thrus were invented. You shouldn’t have need to read the whole menu if you’re choosing to stay in your car.

Finally they drove forward, and I quickly gave my order, assuming the Barista needed some decisiveness in her life.

As it became the Labradoodle LoveMobile’s turn at the window, I watched in horror as the Barista brought all the lunch options, fanned out in her hands, and held them out the window, three at a time, to show the indecisive driver what the options were.

SHE HAD TO SEE THE ACTUAL LUNCH OPTIONS, y’all.

And then she didn’t purchase one.

If you need to see actual food before ordering, please for the love of all that is even 1% right in the world, GO INSIDE TO ORDER.


What if you substituted “pelvic floor” for “dance floor” every time you heard it in a song? I found this is a fun pasttime, until I realized that “why don’t you kiss me on the pelvic floor?” is a somewhat bizarre question, and Michael Jackson’s “Blood on the Pelvic Floor” is just a really unnecessary topic to sing about.

So instead, every time you’re watching some serious movie or the news and you hear the term IED, replace it with IUD. The Korean terrorists throwing intra-uterine devices at Jack Bauer is downright pleasurable to imagine.


I realized the other day that I’m lash privileged. I’ve always had extremely thick, long eyelashes because my body hair grows approximately an inch an hour.

But. I allow my lash privilege show when I scoff at all the outlandish things other people do to have long eyelashes.

Fake lashes? So much trouble. And you would put those on for work? How is that a worthwhile operation?

That prescription that may cause heart failure as a side effect? Really? Are lashes worth all that??

But I’m not allowed to have an opinion. Because I’m lash privileged.

However I am not, apparently, eyebrow privileged, as I have one eyebrow that has decided to go prematurely grey. Yes, sadly my left eyebrow has gone rogue and keeps growing multiple white hairs, despite the tenacious grasp of youth that my right eyebrow maintains. I find this quite upsetting.

Maybe my entire left side is weird because I also have one rogue hair on the left side of my ribs that will grow to the floor, except that I yank it out for fun and amusement twice a year. And also if I rub the inside of my left elbow, it makes the left side of my jaw tickle-itch in a horrifically annoying-yet-fascinating way.

Do all left-handers deal with such body trauma as this?


Those matching underwear ads on Facebook draw me into their made-up fantasy every time. Chris and I need matching underwear. Look how frolicsome their lives look! But what are the chances that mine and my husband’s matching underwear would be clean at the exact same time? And furthermore, that the kids wouldn’t be totally weirded out by us wearing no pants at the dinner table?

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Has anyone named their kid hashtag yet? Because the ability to easily refer to one’s kid’s actions would be really fun. #Poop #Jerk #Mess #TimeOut #ScrewedUpAGAIN


Noah likes making up gibberish, and pairing words and phrases that he feels like sound good together.

Trouble is, he has some seriously refined taste.

He’s played with the word “Dammit” on many occasions.

(He swears he made it up.)

We had to forbid all made-up words that began with the letter f last month because they all tended to include the same four letters.

(He’s never heard that word.)

On Friday, he was repeatedly calling me, in a sing-song voice, “Hot Butt.”

(He’s never heard his father call me that.)

And on Saturday, as I was chasing him up the stairs while teasing and goading him, he screamed out, “Somebody get this Nasty Woman away from me!!”

(He’s never heard our president call an opponent that.)

I feel like he *may* have a supernatural power of word and phrase osmosis. That or he’s getting up in the middle of the night and watching television.

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But my bet is that the kid is a foul language savant.

Hate-Fueled, Lovingly Crafted Christmas Cards.

A couple of weeks ago I got served some sponsored posts that made me very angry.

It was an illogical anger – holiday-induced-insanity even – but it happened.

The first one occurred on Instagram.

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First let me say that I do not follow Melissa Joan Hart. I do not follow any celebrities (with the exception of The Big Bang Theory Cast because they’re funny and I do not really know why I follow them but I do.) The fact that I was getting sponsored posts not from brands but from celebrities really irritated me. At first I didn’t know why it angered me so intensely, until I got the second one – this time on Facebook.

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I don’t follow Melissa Joan Hart at all but I don’t follow Tori Spelling even harder.

Getting two in a row, from different social platforms, really helped clarify what I hated about these ads. Even more helpful was discussing them with Not-Crazy-Renee. Being each other’s Spirit Animal often enables us to articulate the whats and whys behind what the other one is currently hating, even when it’s petty and ludicrous.

So let’s bullet journal the reasons my heart was overflowing with holiday hate.

● I have enough angst and guilt over my short-lived season of family photo Christmas card making (was it 2012 and 2013? Or maybe 2011-2013?) that I do not need celebrities I don’t even like showing up in my feed to humble brag about theirs and remind me that I don’t have it together enough to make that happen.

● Really, Tori? You’re unveiling your holiday card? As though there is a crowd gathered around you with bated breath, just dying to see your Christmas card? Oh wait – I guess since you sponsored the post, that answers the question. You’re going to force us to attend your unveiling whether we want to or not.

● The name of the company that is underwriting these ads – Simply to Impress. Yes, that’s the holiday spirit we’re all trying to get back to. That’s why we send Christmas cards. That’s the Reason for the Season.

● The leather-couch-outside thing is so 2013, Tori. Everyone knows that leather couches do not belong in the grass, especially when accompanied by perfectly coiffed humans in formal wear. And if you’re going to do the leather couch thing, at least do it in a large field, the place where leather couches seem to be indigenous (at least that’s what cultural anthropologists will think when they study their excavated collection of 2013 Christmas cards.)

● And Melissa – it’s super obnoxiously cute that your friends and family know you’re actually Melissa Wilkerson and not Melissa Joan Hart. It’s a good way to show that you’re totally a real person, and not a celebrity bot living a perfect life and sending out Christmas cards simply to impress.

● Tori, how embarrassing was it for you to have to go into your Facebook and BUY a sponsored ad? Isn’t the point of being a B-List celebrity that you have the world’s attention? I mean sure, Simply To Impress reimbursed you for your social media sell-outedness, but tell me – was it worth it? Did that little paycheck really make an even more lavish-on-the-leather-couch-outside lifestyle that much more attainable?

● I love how you both sound exactly alike in your accompanying flowery descriptions. I wonder which lucky intern got to write the copy for both of your posts. (“All you have to do, Tori, is copy my email, hit CTRL-C, and then go to Facebook and hit CTRL-V.”) (“Hey Tori, can you go in and edit your post and take my email address off the very beginning of it? That’d be great.”)

● Who, exactly, are you trying to reach? Are their people out there that will go buy the identical Christmas Card design so they can tell their friends “Oh yes, I have the same Christmas Cards as Tori McDermott. That’s Tori Spelling, for those of you who don’t know her legal name. #SimplyToImpress”

I spent a week hating on these posts in the darkest, least Holiday-Spiritest parts of my soul, then another week hating on myself for not winning at Christmas enough to send out my own Christmas cards. Also because I really LOVE to address Christmas cards all fancy-like. It’s a favorite holiday tradition.

And then, in a flurry of inspiration and dark-mindedness and manic preparation and fancy writing, I decided that I would, indeed, send out a small batch of Christmas cards.

I took my list from the previous years and pared it down a good bit, then asked my blog readers if they would like a Christmas-Ish card. Because really, these Christmas Cards had to be wantedthey best arrived anticipated, not out of the blue and unexpectedly.

I hurriedly ordered a new batch of my favorite creation of 2016 and then ran over to Hobby Lobby and bought decorative stickers.

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Then, attempting to make each of the cards unique, Noah and I set out on a holiday deco-fest, while Ali preferred to watch in wonder.

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Sloppy the Squirrel and Crunchy the ‘Possum were redeemed, one by one, into a beautiful celebration of the holiday season.

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Because nothing says Jolly like a ‘Possum and her oils.

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I have never in my life had so much fun with Christmas Cards, giggling as I created each one – especially when I realized that Crunchy was able to hold a small gift.

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My envelopes were just fancy enough to hopefully hide the unexpected turn of events that would be found within,

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And I knew that my goal was to add some levity amongst all the cards that my friends and blog readers would be receiving this season.

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Lest you miss the gravity of the moment, this is a story of redemption. Because just as Crunchy and Sloppy had been redeemed for the holidays, so had Melissa and Tori, along with my Happy Holiday Heart. Because yes, I despised them and their obnoxious sponsored posts, but ultimately they drove me to the cheeriest Christmas card making of my life.

So thank you, Melissa.

And thank you, Tori.

And even thank you, Simply to Impress.

I am certain that this outcome was your exact intention.

Editor’s Note: If you didn’t receive a card from me this year, I apologize. I sent out a much smaller batch than usual due to the labor-intensity, the limited number of cards on hand, and not wanting to cause any queasiness in those who hadn’t been slowly immunized to my sick sense of humor. If you would like to receive a card, albeit late, email or message me your mailing address. Maybe Crunchy and Sloppy can be repurposed for New Year’s, Valentine’s or Easter. If you would like your own set of non-holidayed Roadkill Note Cards to send out to your friends and family, they can be purchased here – with 100% of the profits being donated to The WellHouse.