There Goes the Mommy-hood

{There is a knock on the door.  A woman with a fake-looking disheveled blonde bob, wearing a miss-buttoned cardigan and pearls is standing on the other side when you answer.  Aaaand she may or may not have just hiccupped.}

Hi!  I’m Tiphi!  It’s short for Tiffany with a “ph” and an “I” just to be annoying. Welcome to the mommy-hood!  We are all so happy you moved in.  It’s a great place to live, really.  I would have baked you a cake or some cookies but I’m so lit exhausted that at times my husband thinks I’m dead.  So…..

Anything you need please holler!  We are all very supportive of each other here. 

{Unless you do really weird things with your kids.  Then we will all make fun of you.  Also, don’t sell on my turf poach my babysitter.  Or look at my husband.  And if you drop the baby weight quicker than I did, I’ll stab you in the throat.}

A little info to help you fit in:

All of the mommies in our mommy-hood only give our kids gluten-free, grass-fed, paleo-approved organic tofu, sugar-free bamboo shoots, and unwaterized water. 

{You’ll want to do the same or your kid will be ostracized by all of us and no one will let their kids play with yours.}

Also, have you thought about pre-pre-pre-pre k yet?  What am I saying, of course you have!!!  (fake laugh, fake laugh, fake laugh).  I started my Buphi (Buffy with a “ph”) at 9 days old.  I held her back because I wanted to wait until she was ready to learn.  I didn’t want to push her.  She goes to the Academy of the Sacred Saint Tiger Moms.  It’s pretty competitive but I’m sure you already know that!  (fake laugh, fake laugh, fake laugh).  Soooooo…. 

I have a fantastic nanny that I found through  I highly recommend them.  Being a mom is SEW EXHAUSTING.  You’re going to need help.  Like just yesterday my nanny’s assistant’s secretary picked my Buphi up from school, Latin lessons, swimming, karate, cello, chess, and fencing and the little monster actually wanted me to get off the couch to give her a hug!  Ugh.  I’m beyond tapped.  Two-year-olds are so DEMANDING!  Am I right?!

So, not to salt a wound, but I noticed yesterday when you were bringing your baby home from the hospital that she was wearing d-i-a-p-e-r-s.  I have someone who can help with that.  My poor Buphi was still wetting herself at ONE MONTH.  Poor thing.  She’s still in counseling over it.

Oh!  Just in case you’re interested we have a mommy-hood wine party every morning at 2:30 PM after the nannies drop the kids off at school and we have the chance to get Botoxed.  It’s pretty fun.  We really just sit around and talk about how much fun we were before we had kids and drink too much to function.  You know, though, I just wish the school opened a little earlier than 5:30 am.  I feel like I never have enough time to do the things I need to do!  Anyway, this week we’re having a pill swap cookie exchange so let me know if you want in!

Also, my husband is always with his mistress works in sales and is out of town a lot but we would love to have you guys over for dinner some time! 

{I’m not going to throw out any dates or times because it’s just an empty offer to make myself feel better and seem nice.  Plus, when I see you at the pool looking better than me I can tell the other moms that you must be a bitch because I invited you over but nothing ever came of it.}

Anyway, I won’t keep you.  I know you’re probably cray-cray busy managing your housekeeper, night nurse and nanny!  (fake laugh, fake laugh, fake laugh).  Seriously, though.  Here is my fake number that I will never answer.  Please don’t call me if you need anything at all.

Sew great to meet ewe!  We’re gonna be frenemies BESTIES!!!  I just know it!

My fellow moms out there have had this encounter.  You know you have.  If you haven’t, chances are you are Tiphi.  Don’t worry.  It’s not too late for an intervention.  Friends don’t let friends be Tiphi.

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Words to Kill Time

Justin Beiber is a girl. I’m totally convinced and no one can tell me any different.
The other day I got really excited because one of my “II” wrinkles between my eyes was going away. Then I realized no. It was just an underground zit. Now the dam thing won’t go away. I want my wrinkle back.
I’ve had my blonde chihuahua for 9 years and love her dearly but her hair gets everywhere and shows up on anything dark. I usually avoided dressing in dark clothes to make up for it. We just rescued a black lab who leaves a fur puppy behind anytime she is anywhere that shows up on anything light. I’m screwed.
I’m really bad at parking my car. So I got a bigger one that’s even harder to park. Cuz that makes sense.
If there were a contest for strangest things found in a purse I would win. Right now I have a plastic dolphin keychain flashlight that chirps in my purse. And it’s broken. I also have a medicine dropper for my dog. In my purse.
I would marry Greg, screw Peter, and kill Bobby.
I’m in awe of the speed with which people who snore fall asleep.
Sometimes I get to work and wonder if I had an hr long absence seizure while getting dressed.
My kids are addicted to sweet tea and it’s all my fault.
If I were in charge of Oscar nominations the world would be a much different place.
I would love to make a movie about my life. But with my luck it would end up on Lifetime and not Showtime. That’s my nightmare.
Speaking of Lifetime, can I sue the network for bringing Leigh Ann Rhimes and Eddie Cibrian together? Every time I see a news story related to them it makes me puke in my mouth a little.
My kids smell fear.
When I grow up I wanna be a trust fund baby.
Cats are alien spies.
I thought I was a good mom. Then I started coaching. Now I know that compared to some others I’m a GREAT mom.
I’ve heard a lot about arsenic levels in rice, but has anyone heard, “…died yesterday due to arsenic from eating too much rice”?

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Walkers Killed Sunday

Sundays are strange. Not like, “OH! She has purple hair and a sleeve tattoo. That’s strangely intriguing.” Strange like, “Hi, 9-1-1 dispatcher, my great-grandmother has dementia and she’s running around nude. Yeah, we can’t catch her and she needs to put clothes on because she’s scaring the kiddies. Op, um, her left boob just put a hole in my wall. We need help.” In a word: dreadful.

I used to enjoy Sundays. It’s the last day of the weekend. The day that I just want to lie in bed with my family all day and soak them all up.

{Until Bella decides she’s had enough snuggles and it’s time to put on her Elsa dress (which she can’t find so now it’s my job to find it) and Roman decides it’s time to practice Karate on the dogs. Or my nose. And/or our new lab pees in the floor and our chihuahua has a seizure and poops in a shoe. Aaaand I’m awake!}

A nice morning at church followed by a lovely, leisurely brunch, then maybe the park… Ahhhhh.

PLUS, I knew that even though I’d end my Sunday with 1,000 loads of laundry (because procrastination is the one thing I EXCEL at), I would get to watch The Walking Dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love that show. I could binge watch for days.

{You know those stories you hear every once in a while about the addicted gamers who forget to eat and their friends find them dead with the video controller in their hand??? Yeah, that was me when I discovered The Walking Dead on Netflix.}

Sometimes I forget it’s not real. In my mind I’m the machete wielding Bad Ass. When someone cuts me off in traffic I think to myself, “DID THAT REALLY JUST HAPPEN???? He honestly has no idea what I’m capable of! Didn’t he see me take down, like, a thousand zombies last night?! Guess he doesn’t want to live…”

When I go to the movie theater I check out the exits so that I’m prepared in the event we are invaded, not in the event of a fire.

{A crazy madman with a gun? NO! Let’s be realistic. Zombies.}

Wanna go for a hike?


Honestly, that’s popped into my mind. Luckily, I catch myself before it comes out of my mouth. Don’t want people thinking I’m cray-cray.

But now The Walking Dead is on hiatus. Sundays are different. Instead of being the last fun day before dreadful Monday, they are the dreadful day before mundane Monday. Like the day before traffic court. Or the day before your step-aunt’s boyfriend’s funeral.

{Did you really know him? NOPE. Don’t even remember his name. Aunt Edna called him “Poo Bear”. Pretty sure that isn’t what’ll be on his tombstone.

If you don’t go, you’ll hear about it for the rest of your life. Might as well suck it up (that’s what she said) and make an appearance.}

That’s what I expected, at least.

Turns out, the first Sunday without my show this season was AWESOME. My hubs and I took our little bunnies ice skating (in 70 degree weather in GA it was more like swimming), we ate frozen yogurt, did a little shopping and at the end of the day, when all the babies were in bed (an hour after the bedtime ritual began), my hubs and I actually TALKED. WHAT???

It was incredibly lovely. Don’t get me wrong; I still miss The Walking Dead. But I don’t dread Sundays anymore. I do, however, still hate Mondays.

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Here’s Proof that We’re All Beautiful

“You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.” –Dita Von Teese

I’m convinced God made beauty subjective so that every woman has the capacity to feel beautiful; for everyone who doesn’t think I’m beautiful there is someone out there who does. God did that to make up for all the shat we have to deal with (ammarite, ladies???).

It doesn’t matter if you are single with no kids, single with ten kids, married with no kids, or Michelle Dugger. Sometimes women get shat on.

{Yes, I’m sure men do, too. But I’m not a man so I can only speak for my kind. If you are a man and want to talk about it, start your own blog.}

Por ejemplo (See! I AM fluent in Spanish!):

I usually wake up at 5:30 am (ACTUALLY… I hit the snooze a time or two or three so it’s more like 6 am by the time I roll out of bed. Seriously, I ROOOOLL out of bed. Not a morning person). Anyway, by 7:30 am I’ve been an alarm clock for two kids, a stylist for 2 little rock stars, I’ve been verbally accosted several times by both a three and six year old (in true rock star form), I’ve been a cook,

{GAH! Stop looking at me that way! Ok, ok, you got me. I don’t “cook” breakfast. I’ve been a pop tart warmer (that’s what she said)… FINE! I take the pop tarts out of the bag and plop them directly on the table. Not even on a napkin… HAPPY NOW???}

I’ve been a (I don’t know what you call someone who feeds dogs), a chauffeur, and I usually get to work around 7:45. At this point, I sit in my car and put on my makeup (yes, that’s me), wipe dog slobber and sticky hand prints from my suit (I’ve stopped trying to guess what the sticky is from… I think it’s best I not know), and try to pull it together enough to look like I know what I’m doing for approximately 9 hours.

{Mostly, it’s 9 hours of listening to employees bitch about not getting a raise or wonder why their $50k bonus check wasn’t $60k. #firstworldproblems}.

Then, I pick up my two little love nuggets, endure more verbal abuse as they scream at me from the back seat of the car (AND maybe Roman throws a shoe) after I’ve informed them that I’m cooking dinner and not taking them to Chick-Fil-A for the third night in a row, and try to contain the chaos as much as I can until my hubs gets home so he can stand in the kitchen and wonder why the refrigerator door is open, a chandelier is falling down, and the back of our house is missing.

All of this to say that no matter what shat gets thrown at me, I know that at the end of the day I can shower it off, stand in my closet wearing my skivvies after everyone is in bed and in certain light the cellulite and wrinkles go away and I KIIIIIIIIND OF resemble Nina Dobrev. That’s when I feel beautiful: standing in my closet by myself in front of the mirror with one tiny light on pretending I’m on the CW hit show Vampire Diaries. Stop laughing. The circumstances don’t matter. I can say I feel beautiful. That’s what counts (for the purposes of this post, anyway).

Slight Tangent Alert: ever sat on your couch on a Saturday night after a break up and wonder how the Mama Junes and Snookies of the world find love and you haven’t? (Yeah, no, I’ve never done that either… I was just checking to, um… Never mind.)

STOP IT. Seriously, no one likes a whiner.

{Just kidding. I’m no good at the tough love thing. I will ALWAYS lie to you and tell you what you want to hear (that’s what he said). I love you. Please don’t leave me.}

We should ALWAYS feel pretty knowing that there will ALWAYS be someone more unfortunately proportioned, less attractive, meaner, dumber, more annoying, and with more sticky hand prints on their suit. So put a smile on your pretty face and go conquer the world. I’m gonna start with Roswell… or at least my house.

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