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Hide yo wives, hide yo kids


Earlier this year I had to write a personal statement as part of a scholarship application for school. Apparently it didn’t go over too well because I was awarded a whopping $175 per semester from an undisclosed foundation; whoever you are, thank you for taking pity on me and my self-deprecating essay in which I might have described my “road to higher education” as “largely laughable.” Missouri State does not see honesty as the best policy, noted.

However, it was in writing this essay I realized that while by definition I’m definitely a hot mess, I’m more than just a “mommy”. I’m a published writer. I’m a daughter. I’m someone who struggles with mental illness. I’m a student. I’m a professional dancer. I’m a sister in the spiritual sense. I’m a former roller skating rink disc jockey. I’m many things, and if anything I’m a mom, not a “mommy.” As a matter of fact Rinn has never even called me mommy, it’s always “mom”. Sometimes “mom-ahhh” when he’s whining because I make him wipe his own butt, or a more aggressive “MA” (like Will Ferrell in The Wedding Crashers when he’s yelling for meatloaf) because he’s already called for me twice but I’ve employed my mom-superpower of selective hearing and didn’t hear his first few cries.

Furthermore, “hot” sounds pretentious. I lose no sleep over the way I look and even though I spend a majority of my time in front of a dressing room mirror I have often performed whole numbers with lipstick smeared across my chin because I forget to check my face after rolling around on the stage wearing a zombie mask. If asked to describe my looks I would have to say they’re “not offensive”, definitely not “hot”.

So with that, it was time for an overhaul of the Hot Mess Mommy brand and rather than make some lame attempt at self-discovery and reinvention I’m going my back to my roots with Someone Put Rum in My Milkshake. SPRIMM (not to be confused with sperm, although most of those posts probably detailed encounters with such) was my original blog from the days before I found myself accidentally with child. A blog I dropped like a watermelon covered in vaseline because I suffered from postpartum-paranoia and didn’t want to be judged for the fact that I might have, at one point, had sex for a grilled cheese sandwich. It was a weird time in my life sure, but that blog also landed me my first (hopefully not last) paid writing gig with Milwaukee Magazine, so I’ve come to accept the shame with the success.

While the pleasures and pitfalls of motherhood certainly saturate my blog, I also don’t want to feel that all-too-common mom-guilt when I write about things that have nothing to do with my role as Rinn’s mother. Like the time I tried to coin the term “fit-shaming” (as opposed to fat-shaming) because in the span of a week I was scrutinized for the amount of pizza I ate with a “where does it all go?” and after ordering a venti skinny vanilla latte and a cake pop at Starbucks the barista snidely said “you know the cake pop isn’t skinny right?” And let’s not forget about the elderly woman at Wal-Mart who stopped me to compliment me on my arms and asked me to flex for her. Thank you but what? No, just no. Now I’m free to share with you my thoughts on legalizing prostitution (a blow job is better than no job) and that in an odd display of fate, my embarrassing glamour shots from 1994 directly foreshadow the costumes I’m required to wear 23 years later. Don’t fret, for those of you who only come here to read hilarious stories about Rinn, there will still be plenty of that. This is the kid who amidst a bath decided to induce pure panic when he yelled from the bathroom that he might have swallowed marbles, I was sweating and ready to call 911 when he grabbed at his testicles (which he pronounces “tacticals”) and said “just look.”

So if I’m being honest (sorry to offend the people of MSU), the name “Hot Mess Mommy” always made me gag and it’s really hard to dedicate your time to something that triggers vomiting in your own mouth. With that, Hot Mess Mommy has been laid to rest.

Hide yo wives, hide yo kids and hide yo husbands because I’m writing for errybody up in here.


I must also take a moment and give outstanding credit where outstanding credit is due. All of the professional images on my site were taken by the incredibly talented Beckie Fairchild of TGC Photography. She took my vision, fine-tuned it and made it a wonderful reality while creating an unparalleled photographic experience for Rinn and myself.


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