Yellow Back Seats

keep-calm-and-pee-your-pants-4I want to apologize for not really being around. Besides my little Jeter post the other day, I’ve been out of commission. I’m not sure most of you know what happened. I talked about it on my Facebook page but I know not all of you follow me there.

The Kid was struck by a car a couple of weeks ago. She’s okay now. We had a scary night in ICU where I lost 20 years off my life, but she is a miracle really and is doing really, really great. So, now it’s back to normal. It’s good to be back.

I was reminded of a story from a very good friend of mine. This friend has been in my life since 1979. Probably the one person, besides my family, who I have known the longest.

As you know, I was supposed to be on the Dr. Oz show. I commented on my Facebook page about how I was going to pee my pants because I was so nervous. This has nothing to do with anything about what I am going to talk about, but since when do I not get off topic at least once during a post?

I never made it to the Dr. Oz show because the accident happened the night before. I know, tough decision. The Kid or Dr. Oz. Hmm. I mean I was in the city anyway. I’m kidding people.

So, getting back to my pee story from my youth. I have several pee stories but this one is particularly funny.

I was about 15 years old. I was hanging out with my oldest friend when her mom offered to take us to the local high school parking lot to let us practice driving. Yes, we were underage and without a permit but I think because of statute of limitations or something, all involved are protected.

My dear, oldest friend was a terrible driver (sorry J, but you did fail your driver’s test, remember? Was it twice? Hmm?). I was in the back seat, J and her mother were in front. Driving with J was like being on one of those bucking bronco guys set on the highest setting. I was being thrown all over the backseat (yes, this was also before seat belts were a big deal. And yes, I’m that old).

I tried so hard to hold it in, but I just couldn’t. I never laughed so hard. Okay, so that’s a lie. I have laughed as hard and peed too. Because I have a problem. And the problem has gotten worse since I bore my child because we all know what children do to our bodies.

Anyway, I let it out. All of it. All over the vinyl seat. But I didn’t worry. I knew it would dry up nice since it was vinyl. No one would notice. Except it was my turn to drive. When I got out and J’s mom climbed into the backseat so me and Jen could be up front, she saw it.

And gave out an, “Oh Mo! Not again!” Yes, again. I had done this before on her dining room chair, in her yard, on the floor. My friend J has this ability to make me laugh hard. Even now I have to strap on a Depends if I’m going to see her. Her laugh alone makes me lose it.

So yes, I have a problem. And I have many, many more stories just like that one. So please. If you are going to plan on being funny and making me laugh, just warn me ahead of time so I’m prepared. I should probably just start carrying around a diaper bag. Should I have it monogramed?

As far as my friend J is concerned? I hope you all have a J in your life. J’s are awesome. Love you girl.


What Is a Captain Clutch? Or Do You Mean Captain Crunch?

It’s Derek Jeter’s last game or season or something like that. Do I care? Maybe a little. Look, I’m an American. I know that baseball is an All-American game. So, I do sit here during all the commercials and Facebook posts and say, “aww, Jeter’s retiring (he is retiring, right?). He must be sad.” I do.

Really, it’s like anybody else who retires though. I would imagine most people who leave a job they’ve been at for years and have to say goodbye to their co-workers are sad. It comes with the territory. So, yes. It’s sad. I wonder what his pension looks like? I’m just curious.

But basically I feel the same way about baseball as I do about football. And hockey, and basketball and whatever other sport there is out there. I.don’ Period. I know. It’s totally un-American of me. I’m sorry. No, no, actually, I’m not. It is what it is.

I know I’m kind of taking my life in my hands here by saying these things. Look, baseball is really the only game I understand. Because it’s easy. So I appreciate that. But I don’t sit around and watch it. Sometimes I’ll check the score if I know a game is on because I know that more than half the country is watching and I don’t want to feel left out. I know, not a good enough reason. But it’s the truth.

Oh, and why do they call him Captain Clutch? What does that even mean? I never knew that until tonight while I was watching a commercial with Frank Sinatra singing “I Did It My Way.” Actually, that’s a lie. I did see it on Facebook a couple of days ago. Thank God for Facebook. It’s where I get all my news.

His butt does look good in those striped pants though. I guess it’s a good thing for me that I didn’t pay much attention to him. Because then I may miss those striped pants. There’s a positive.

See, this guys likes his butt too.
See, this guys likes his butt too.

Hey, happy retirement Derek Jeter. Enjoy your yachts and your vacation homes and all that jazz. You’ll probably be back. Don’t they sometimes come back? Wasn’t there some big basketball player who did that? Wait. Maybe I’m thinking about Phil Collins. Never mind?

Dr. Oz Here I Come. No, Really. I Am. In Two Days.

Official Documentation

OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO BE ON DR. OZ!!! “What’s that you say?” I said, I’M GOING TO BE ON THE DR. OZ SHOW! It’s true. I am.

Am I being interviewed? Nope. Am I the guest of honor? I wish, but nope. Am I going to be in the audience? That would be a “Nope” again.

Here’s the deal and I need you all to pay close attention because I need your help. And then I will tell you quickly how it got to be that I was asked to sit ON STAGE with Dr. Oz. I promise.

Dr. Oz will be having a segment on moms and antidepressants. This Sunday, Dr. Oz is going to tweet something that we, the chosen mom bloggers, will be retweeting. And then we have to Twitter something about his segment. Oh geez, it’s “tweet” isn’t it? My bad.

(Everyone knows that I am a Twitter degenerate. So, I need to get myself acquainted with that bird, pronto. This is one time that I am so happy I have a teenager.)

Anyway, we will be pretty much having conversations with you. I will have my laptop on stage, with the Dr. Oz. So you can tweet a question or comment for Dr. Oz and you can receive an answer from the big guy ON THE AIR! You can get to the Doctor through little ole’ me. How cool is that?

There will be other mom bloggers on stage too. It will be a mom blogger convention! We may have to all go out for cocktails.

I digress. So, here’s where I need your help. If you have a Twitter account, go over there and start following me. My handle (I may be getting that jargon confused with trucker talk) is @momfeld. (I even made it easy for you, just click anywhere in this whole entire sentence and it will bring you right to me.)

If you don’t have a Twitter account but would like to partake in the action, go create one. It’s fast and easy. Remember, I have one. Which translates to “anyone can do it.”

Make sure you go and check your tweets (or notifications???) starting this Sunday, September 14 at noon and keep on checking through Monday morning, so you can participate.

Now, back to how I got asked. As you all know, my friend boss Susie, is a pretty popular blogger ( and the nice producers of the show approached her. Susie, because she loves me so, asked them to contact me and they did! (Susie’s twitter handle is @mom_not_average. You know, for double the chances to be on the air.) Tell your friends too!

So, there you have it. Go follow me on Twitter (@momfeld) and join in on the conversation. The show will not be live, but they will be telling us when it will be aired at the end of the segment and I will be sure to let you know as soon as I have that bit of very important information.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I think I have diarrhea. Hope I don’t make an ass of myself by peeing (or poo’ing) or something. What? It can happen. Because it has. Stay tuned for that story.

Pasta with “Homemade” Irish Sauce

Here is #3 in the installment of recipes I would like to share with you that are my favorites. In case you missed the other two, here’s #1 and here’s #2.

I call this “Pasta with Homemade Irish Sauce.” I say “Irish Sauce” because I am irish and I do not make homemade homemade sauce so don’t get all excited and think that there is some cabbage or mashed potatoes in there.

I make it out of a jar. It’s very hard actually. Unless you have one of those jar gripper things that help you open the lid. Then it is easy.

Pasta with “Homemade” Irish Sauce

  • 1-16oz box of pasta of your choice (I choose something hardy like ziti or rigatoni or cavatappi (so the meat sticks to it I think)
  • 1 pound of ground beef (or turkey or chicken if you prefer to make it healthy)
  • 2 cloves of garlic, sliced
  • Some chopped onion (I do not use an entire onion because I am cheap and can use the other half or 3/4 to make something else and also too much onion is too much onion. But do what you want. The great thing about my recipes is there are no rules!)
  • 1 big jar of whatever the heck marinara sauce you like. This time I used this and it was delish, and on sale:photo 3
  • Black pepper and basil to taste (again, I don’t measure because ain’t nobody got time for that. And I use the dried basil in a plastic container that you get in the spice aisle of the grocery store because, hello? Have you met me?)


  1. Put on a big pot of water to boil and then add the pasta (after it boils, because if you are like me and no one tells you otherwise, you won’t exactly know). Cook to al dente, blah blah.
  2. In the meantime, brown your meat with the onion. Have you ever seen one of these things? photo 2It’s Pampered Chef. No, I am not getting paid to say this. I just love their crap. This number really breaks up the meat good. You can certainly live without it though. I did for about 20 years.
  3. Drain out the fat because, eww.
  4. Add in the sauce, garlic, black pepper and basil.
  5. Let it simmer for a little bit so the flavors all mix in together. I let it simmer for at least until the pasta is done. Because I’m always in a rush and if I’m not, I’m just impatient.

I would have shown you a pic of the finished product, but my family is such a big pig that it’s all gone already and I only made it yesterday. A whole entire pound of pasta for three people? Geez.


Confessions of a Slob

I have a confession to make.  I am a slob.  A pig.  I really, really am.

When you come into my home and I say to you, “excuse my dirty house.” I’m not lying. I’m not saying that to fish for compliments. It is dirty. Well, to the naked eye, it may not appear to be. But people, I promise you if you get too close, you will see what I’m talking about.

If you’ve been to my house, you have said, “Mo, your house is so clean all the time.” No. No, it’s not. Do not come over here with your white glove because you will be sorely disappointed. Also, you better call first and not do one of those “I was in the area” kind of things because you will totally catch me and feel like our friendship has been a complete sham.

I had a conversation with a friend recently. We were talking about cleaning and how much we hate it. I commented to her that I haven’t cleaned my house, like really, really cleaned it in quite some time. She’s been to my house. I had to go retrieve the shovel out of her garage to pick up her jaw.

I have a secret weapon. Actually, I have 2 secret weapons. Secret Weapon #1 is DH. He abhors clutter. He is always “straightening” up. Picking up crap that I or The Kid have left all over the house because I don’t care what. If it’s been a long day and I come into the house with crap, I will drop that crap right wherever I am standing and worry about it later. Like way later. Like, if I didn’t have DH, it would still be there, later.

Secret Weapon #2 are those cute little Lysol wipes that you can buy in Costco in a three pack. Here’s how it goes: My phone rings, “ring, ring.”  “Hello,” says me.  “Hey Mo, it’s Justin Timberlake. I feel like I want to pop on by. Are you free?” “Hells yes, JT. I’m always free for you.” I’m all panicky inside for a moment. But not to worry because I have SW2 (Secret Weapon #2) sitting in just about every closet in my house.


Look, JT is all "damn girl, your house is clean."
Look, JT is all “damn girl, your house is cleeeeen. Yeah.”

I whip out a canister and go to town. I wipe down the counters, the bathroom sinks, the heating baseboard thingies, I even stick my hand in the toilet and wipe clean those unsightly, nasty rings in there. Why does that happen? It’s so gross. But don’t worry I wash my hand real good before I make you a ham sandwich.

Oh wait, my rug. Damn, that foyer runner gets dirt and paper lint and whoknowswhatelse all over it. But have no fear! I have the cutest little vacuum cleaner that doesn’t even need to be plugged in that hubby bought back some time ago.

I go retrieve that from the little mud room and VOILA! It’s super powerful and super fast and I don’t have to worry about unwinding the cord and finding an outlet and tripping all over it and then winding that bad boy back up and then shoving it back into a closet that has so much crap in there that it’s nearly impossible to close the door.

I guess I really have 3 Secret Weapons. Okay, sorry about that.

So, by the time JT gets here, my house not only sparkles, but it smells clean too. Even if he is just at the corner, I have literally cleaned my house in 37 seconds. But the trick is to not give him a tour of the ranch. I make sure the upstairs is off limits. You know, make up some little white lie like “we’re having the master bathroom renovated and there is just dust everywhere. I’m telling you. Those damn bathroom renovator guys are so sloppy.”

Here’s the thing:  life is too short for cleaning all the time. I can’t see a reason to be on top of it.  So what?  I’m pretty sure no one has actually died from having a less than perfectly clean house. I mean I never actually did any research on that subject, but I’ll bet I’m right.

When I was first married, I was really good at keeping the house clean. Once a week no matter what, I’d clean the house from top to bottom. Even when The Kid was born. I would strap that baby to the front of me in one of those fake Baby Bjorn things and go to town.

And then DH asked me what I wanted for my birthday one year. “A housecleaner” came out of my mouth without thinking about it twice. This was when I went back to work as a temp so it was justified. It was heaven on earth. Every other week this house would get a scrub-down. And on the other every other week? Eh. Why bother? The housecleaner was coming in 7 days.

Then I lost my job. And DH and I thought it was an expense that we didn’t need to have especially since I had all this new free time. Now? Well, I just told you. The end.

Wanna come over? JT will be here any minute. Oh, wait. He didn’t really call, did he? Never mind, you can’t come over. The house is a mess.

Sportster I am Not

tumblr_maiay7h8EL1qeq7r2o1_500 I think today or yesterday was opening day of football. How do I know? Because people on Facebook and everywhere I go are totally pumped up about it.

Do I have to like sports? No, I don’t believe I do. But somehow I feel like a big idiot, and an anti-American whenever I have the conversation with other people. Or more accurately, when other people have the conversation with me. “So, who do you root for, the Yankees or Red Socks? Ice Hockey is so awesome, isn’t it? Did you go to the US Open?”

Umm, my answers? The Red Socks is baseball, right? I wouldn’t know, and the US Open of what? I come from a long line of bathletes. I just made that up…Bad Athletes. Clever, right?

Neither of my parents are good at sports. My mother took I-can’t-even-tell-you-how-many-years of swim lessons but yet she sinks like a rock (my dad can swim, he was Captain of his swim team in high school. Forgot about that. One point for dad).

My dad threw a ball around to my brothers, pretending to know what he was doing. I never played anything unless I was forced to in gym class but then still didn’t because I either feigned illness or just cut the class.

Once, when I was 20, I was on a softball team for a corporate event at work but I ran away from the ball when it was coming toward me instead of running toward it.

DH was quarterback on his high school football team. His father was a coach. All 3 of his brothers are absolute die-hard football junkies. DH hates football. He doesn’t follow baseball. Or basketball. Or hockey. Or golf. He does like motorcycle stuff and some race car stuff and a little cage fighting. But I get the feeling that doesn’t really count either.

What I’m saying is I don’t have, nor have I ever, had any teachers. So, I sit at the sidelines of The Kid’s field hockey games looking as if someone just tried to explain quantum physics to me.

“Why do those referee people keep blowing their whistles? What the hell just happened? If someone hit that ball into that net, does that mean we scored? Wait. Which net is ours? What color is ours? Why is everyone clapping? Did I miss something again?” I suppose if I stopped treating it as a social event I might understand the game a bit more.

Why is The Kid on a sport’s team in high school if there really isn’t much athletic ability in the family? Well, in my side of the family. DH I’m sure is good at sports, I’ve just never seen him in action. But he has no desire. Get my point?

We kind of made her pick something. She’s not bad. She’s not star quality. But she’s not bad.

I got off topic a little. I hate sports. It bores me to tears. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. People get together for football games and baseball games and all that jazz and me and my family just don’t, and have no desire.

Do I feel bad? Kind of. I mean, not enough to lose sleep over. And when all those women become football widows or whatever it is, I’m always so grateful that I’m not one. But, maybe I should know about one sport or another? Perhaps.

What is my pointless rambling all about? Nothing really. Just that I don’t like sports and that I feel stupid. Why is that? I don’t know. I suppose I should be at peace with it and embrace my bathleticism.

So, how about those Harlem Globetrotters?  Can’t wait for the Super Series. Hope they hit a goal. Honestly, I really do like that half show. It’s epic.

Another Recipe By Mo

Something happened to me when I posted that recipe I made up last week. I suddenly have this insatiable desire to share, share and share some more.

I get the feeling that more than less of you are like me. Maybe you don’t necessarily hate cooking per se. But perhaps you are just too busy with life. You know, kids, work, grocery shopping, girl’s night.

You know who you are. Like me. I know who I am. Sure, I’m busy with all that, but I just hate to cook. But to prevent myself from sounding like an actual broken record, I’ll stop there.

This meal is perfection. It’s faster than a speeding bullet. It’s a crock-pot number so that means put it together in the AM and when you return home in the PM from whatever it is you were doing, dinner will be ready.

It’s not healthy. That is my warning. But it is full of yummy goodness and once in a while you can splurge. So, consider this a treat.

BBQ Pulled Pork

  • 1.5 pound Pork Loin (more or less depending on who you’re cooking for…go ahead and shove a whole big loin in there if your pot allows it)
  • 1 liter of B&W Root Beer (it has to be B&W or it just doesn’t taste the same. I know because I  tried to save 20 cents and it was different, it just was.)
  • A bottle of your favorite barbecue sauce


  1. Place the loin into the pot. Pour the root beer over the loin until it is fully covered. (I just pour the entire thing in there because otherwise I will just have about an inch of soda left over and no one will drink it so it will go to waste and I really hate wasting anything.)
  2. Cook on low for 8 hours.
  3. Take the pork out of the pot and place on a platter. Using two forks, pull that business apart.
  4. Add your favorite barbecue sauce to your liking. I like it nice and wet and moist (that sounds weird, but you know what I mean if you get your head out of the gutter).
  5. Serve on a bun.

Done. I always make some steak fries on the side. And a can of corn for veggies even though corn really doesn’t have any nutritional benefits and just comes out in your poop even though you think you chewed it up nice and good.


Labor Day Equals Pineapple Juice?

This week’s writing prompt is brought to you (or me) by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. She wants me to describe what I did this Labor Day. So, here you go:

Labor Day weekend, to me, starts on Friday and runs all the way up through Monday (of course). I don’t usually work Fridays but I did last week because I traded one of my other days. Because something must have come up. Another of many millions of perks of My Job.

The Kid had field hockey practice until 4:30. Then Driver’s Ed until 8. So, I had to sit and behave and not have any wine because, well, drinking and driving don’t mix ever. But most especially if you have a kid that you need to pick up.

Friday. No score. No party. No fun. Damn kids.

Saturday was better. We had two parties on the calendar. The first one was an annual event thrown by good friends of ours. It’s always sure to be a great time, we can count on that. The host with the most at this annual party always serves pineapple infused vodka. I’ll get back to that in a minute.

The second one was a themed party. A “Redneck” party thrown by my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. This is also turning into an annual affair. Again, another great time.

I know you can't tell, but that's me.
I know you can’t tell, but that’s me.

Now getting back to the pineapple infused vodka. It’s delicious. And dangerous. I started out at the friend’s party drinking 2 glasses (maybe 3…okay 3) of the vodka. After about 5 hours we left there to go to my in-law’s party.

At that party, I drank two glasses of wine (no pineapple vodka because they didn’t have it, a blessing in disguise. They did have margaritas, my favorite, but I steered clear of them because vodka and tequila? Probably a “NO”). We stayed at this party for about 3 hours, then left to go home to our beddie-bye.

It’s late. I think I’m tired. On the way home, I get a text (or did I text her? Hmm.) from my friend with the vodka letting us know that they are still partying and if we’d like to come back.

Hells yes, of course. I am not one to turn away from a good time. Ever. I show up in my Redneck attire and guess what’s waiting for me? A nice cold glass of pineapple infused vodka. Also, it turns out I’m not tired at all suddenly.

I do not have one, but two more of these glasses of pineapple infused vodka for my enjoyment and everyone else’s because by now I’m three sheets to the wind (whatever the hell that means) and I’m at my best in the comedic sense, according to me. It’s a good thing I kept my clothes on.

Actually, I’m not known for doing that when I’ve had a few too many. Pee my pants? Snort a little? Dance up on a table or two? Say a little too much about just about anything? Sure. But the clothes, they always stay on. Pinky swear. But I may subject my peeps to something like this:

photo 2
This may or may not be my friend. Whoever this is has been dramatically changed to protect the innocent. Could it be Gene Simmons? Perhaps.

The night was a blur after — count ’em — 7 cups or something of alcoholic beverages in as little as 12 hours. Oh wait, that’s not so bad. That’s less than a drink an hour. And just so you know, I drank plenty of water in the in-between. In between what? Who knows. I just did. This I remember. Let’s just say I tried to pace myself. I really did.

Sunday was a day spent with The Kid watching old classics like The Breakfast Club (my fave) and Mean Girls (hers). It was a good thing too, because I needed the couch pillows to keep my head from spinning.

Sunday. I could say “bust” but it wasn’t totally because I spent it with my daughter watching movies. I ate nothing because a spinning head makes a girl nauseous. And I went to bed at 7pm. So let’s just call it a partial bust.

Monday. The actual day of no-Labor. Eh, let’s just say it was kind of a bust. I was still feeling a little funky (not horribly bad, I mean I could have mustered up the energy to do something, but glad I didn’t). There was a chance of rain, so we didn’t go on the boat. DH kept saying stuff like, “let’s do something” but then we didn’t because, well, I was still a little dizzy to think of anything and so was he I guess. Well, not dizzy. Just…I don’t know. I can’t answer that.

He did make a trip out to Kentucky Fried Chicken and came back with an extra treat called A Dozen Donuts. So, we ate our sorrows (or my sorrows for having too may pineapple vodkas that is not really juice even though it tastes like it) and I gained about a pound and a half past what I probably lost from not eating the day before.

Was the weight gain from the vodka? Maybe. But it was more likely the fried chicken, jelly donut and whatever went down the hatch on Saturday before the big spin. But it was good and it was fun and I don’t regret it. Except at my age, I really can’t hold my liquor like I used to. This I know to be fact.

So, there you have it.  Hope you all enjoyed your Labor Day. See you next year. Same place, same time, same freakin’ pineapple infused vodka I’m sure. Except next time I’ll only have 2 glasses. Maybe 3. Okay 4. Damn, do I love that stuff.

Mama’s Losin’ It