Mommy’s Little Helper Monday – Tax Day Edition

It’s Monday, but it’s not just any Monday– it’s Tax Day Monday. It’s the day all of the procrastinating folks sift through mountains of receipts and try to figure out how to convince the government that their new bass boat is a business expense and that their dog, Mr. Fluffy-nuts, is actually a child they adopted from Russia (it was the radiation from Chernobyl that made all the kids over there grow extra legs and lick their own butts). For all of you that get healthy refunds and still use an EZ form, I got a special public service announcement for you…

bum giving finger(See, I told you I look horrible before my Monday liquor coffee.) But for the rest of us who aren’t already scoping out new flat-screens, eyelash extensions, and other necessities to spend our refund on, today is a day that feels a lot like a violation. For us it feels like when creepy uncle Gary’s wondering hands get a little too friendly at the family reunion.

So if you’re one of the folks who will be taking a shower all Crying Games style after today, or if you’re one of those lucky people awaiting a refund, there’s plenty of reason to drink this Monday. And on that note…

The Libation:

If you’re doing taxes today you ain’t got no time for fancy drink making, so I’m making this easy enough to do even after hours of brain-draining tax shit. Step 1: drive your ass to your local Sonic. Step 2: Order yourself a slush. Step 3: Pour some vodka, rum, PGA, or whatever else floats your boat into it, and enjoy.

There are 398, 929 possible drink combinations at Sonic (according to them), so if you can’t find something that tastes good with liquor, there is something horribly wrong with you. And because today is tax day, why not be patriotic and order a blue coconut, ocean water, watermelon, strawberry or cherry. And because we’re feeling it in the old pocketbook or bra (yes, I’ve seen women who keep money in their bra), I’m passing on this little hint: All day today you can get your mixer drink half off!! Tax Day Happy Hour, baby!

Maybe you can try a “Why didn’t I keep that !*%&*#$ receipt watermelon cooler”, or a “Can I claim that keg party as a charity event? cherry smoothie”, or even “Uncle Sam kicked me in the (blue) coconuts slush.”

sonic tax (2)

And speaking of hints…Duh- I Already Knew That Helpful Hint:

Apparently there are plenty of other big businesses out there who want to ease the pain of paying taxes (something they don’t know much about) and offer freebies today. Arby’s and Cinnabon are just two of the places who are willing to throw you some salve in the form of carbs. Here is a link for other free crap to help you get through Creepy Uncle Gary’s Groping Day (I laughed quite a bit over the free Trojan Vibrator give-away for L.A. and San Fran citizens…they’ll be the ones smiling at the post office). Another link is here.

So to all of you hard-working, tax paying readers out there, Happy Monday from me and Uncle Gary.

Uncle Gary

Confessions (of my inner White-trash)

I have enough embarrassing photos of my children to keep my life with boys series going for a decade, but I get bored pretty easily (You did catch that whole ADD thing about me, right?). So I’m going to mix it up and embarrass myself, too. While rummaging around on the internet for healthy recipes to cook for my family (I can hear my husband laughing all the way from his office), I came across this little thing called a Challenge Meme. Essentially it challenges a blogger or anyone with an internet account that gives them the ability to annoy others from great distances (Facebook, Twitter, and the particularly horrifying Twilight fan fiction sites–we must never forgive them for birthing 50 Shades of Grey), a prompt to write about everyday.

There are lots of them out there ranging from the mundane to the insanely specific. We’re talking everything from writing and drawing challenges, to crazy shit like organizing and green smoothie challenges, to the little bit pathetic ones like Justin Bieber and Spongebob. I’m not sure I really want to know what’s involved in a 30 day Justin Bieber challenge and I’m pretty sure that 30 days of green smoothies would also be classified as a 30 days on the toilet challenge. But back to my point, this idea appeals to me. My ADD loves it some lists. It wants to be organized and a list with specific, attainable goals, tickles the shit out of it. It gets all giddy like when it used to take tests in school. There was no way my ADD could make it through hours of mind and butt-numbing homework, but it thrived on tests. They were short and required hyperconcentration. If my ADD hadn’t rocked it out on the ACT I would have never gotten a scholarship, which means I probably would have never gone to college, which means I could have very well ended up a stay-at-home mom with a blog…Uh…hmmm….Just give me a sec to run down to the liquor cabinet and numb that pesky part of my brain that likes to do things like make realizations….

Trailer 3

…Ok, all better. Back to this challenge idea. I’ve decided to do a 30 post challenge about confessions. I’m not sure why that’s what popped up, maybe it’s the new Pope; but I think it could be fun. I can embarrass myself and my family, and you get to laugh and be thankful that I’m not responsible for your care. So let’s get down to business with my first installment.

Confessions of my Inner White-trash

I was born in Tennessee and raised in Arkansas. I’ve never lived in a trailer or a shack. We were poor but we weren’t poor white trash. I had shoes I just chose not to wear them as often as I should have, and we certainly ate beans and cornbread on occasion. People assume that all Arkansans are hillbillies and rednecks, but I’m going to give you a quick lesson on the classification system of Southern crackers (white folks, not saltines).

Country: People known as “country folks” are good people who’ve come from a long line of people who made their living off the land or doing manual labor. They may not be educated but they’re smart, often wise. They love God and their family above all else. They typically aren’t very worldly but they don’t see a need to be. They enjoy simple things but they are not above leaving cars, old washers, or even school buses out on the back of their property to rust away. My extended family would be classified as this (including the school bus).

Rednecks: These are country people who like the finer things in life, which mostly means things with big wheels that you can drive through the mud. They are louder and more brass than country folks. I even dare to say that many lack some of the manners of the country folks. They are more apt to be in your face, sometimes with a gun. What they lack in refinement they make up for with ingenuity.

Trailer Trash (AKA: poor white-trash): These folks are pretty much the dumb cousins that the country folks and rednecks couldn’t stand to be around. They don’t have the wisdom of the country folks or the drive of the rednecks. They don’t need no school or nothin’! They like their life of government cheese, brawls with gas station hookers who stole their money, and visiting the jail more than once a year. Not all people who live in trailers meet the qualifications to be trailer-trash. It takes a special brand of stupid to make this cut. (side note: there are way more trailers in Florida than Arkansas.)

Hillbillies: Take the poor white-trash, move their trailer to a mountain and replace their Pearl beer with some moonshine. Give them a possum coat for good measure.

Now, I don’t think I fit into any of these categories but you can’t grow up in this rainbow of diversity and not have it rub off on you. So, here is the proof that somewhere down deep inside there is a Country-Redneck-White-Trash hybrid that occasionally gets my ADD drunk on some canned Coors and influences its creativity. And here is the proof that will probably provoke my husband to go into hiding:

When your inner white trash gets a hold of your ADD it will tell you that a perfectly good substitution for having to drag your kids, a caravan of shit, and your bloated self down to the pool is to create your own waterpark in the back yard…

Come on down to Wild Bucket Country! Free pork rinds with every admission.

Come on down to Wild Bucket Country! Free pork rinds with every admission.

When you actually get snow in Dallas (which never freakin’ happens), your inner White-trash will help you engineer a snowsuit from hand-me-downs and recycled crap from the garage…

"Mama, I'm goin' back to the igloo-trailer for my possum blanket and a hot beer."

“Mama, I’m goin’ back to the igloo-trailer for my possum blanket and a hot beer.”

(Yes, those are latex gloves from the garage over his mittens secured with masking tape. Target bags over his double-socked feet with more tape. Ain’t no snow gonna keep my boy from havin’ fun with his cousin-brothers.)

When Christmas comes around and you have a toddler who wants to pull the Christmas tree down over and over again, your inner white-trash will help you rig that sucker up to withstand a F1 twister with nothing more than a Lego table, an empty crate, and some twine. Your children will then dress for the theme…

"Mama, can we make more of those fancy ornaments out of fishin' lures and beer cans?"

“Mama, can we make more of those fancy ornaments out of fishin’ lures and beer cans?”

Well, there you go. You can take the girl out of Arkansas but you can’t take Arkansas out of the girl. If you want to witness the depths of my inner white-trash please go buy a copy of Fifty Shades of Puddin’. Who doesn’t want their erotic love stories to take place in a trailer park? (Yes, another shameless plug so I can support myself when my husband divorces me.)

Mommy’s Little Helper Monday

Yes, it’s Monday again. I’m still struggling with that fact myself. My coffee hasn’t worked nearly fast enough and I look extra lovely today wearing a nightgown Holly Hobby would find too conservative and a robe that has an honest-to-God zipper up the front. Add in my it-was-wet-when-I-went-to-bed hair and my dark circles and I pretty much look like Medusa if she was living at an assisted living center. And because I look like this, I guarantee that our contractor will pop by to check on our bathroom situation. So, before I permanently scar the psyche of some young man, let’s get to the good stuff…

The Libation:

The Colorado Bulldog

"Seriously, you can cancel my neutering appointment because I'm pretty sure those suckers froze off an hour ago."

“Seriously, you can cancel my neutering appointment because I’m pretty sure those suckers froze off an hour ago.”

I have no idea why they call this drink a Colorado Bulldog; all I do know is that they taste a little like a chocolate shake, go down too easily, and influenced many of the stupid decisions I made in my 20’s. They are essentially a White Russian if that Russian has been Americanized in the south by becoming addicted to trailer park protein shakes, also known as Coke (or is that Mountain Dew? I get confused). Here’s what you need to make your own:


You’re probably wondering about the little illustration instead of a beautifully staged photo. Honestly, it’s a lot faster for me to doodle this out than find all of the ingredients, clean a spot to take the photo, and stage it to look like something you’d see on Pinterest instead of a crime scene photo from an episode of Police Women of the Appalachians. The other thing you’re probably wondering about is who the hell would mix vodka and milk? Trust me, I thought that too. Give it a try, and all will be good.

Directions: Get out your prefered drinking recepticle wether that’s a camouflaging Starbucks cup you can take with you in public or a blinged-out pimp cup that says “Mommy’s a Crunk Be-otch” or whatever. Drop in some ice and your jigger of vodka– you know, that weird little two-sided funnel you thought was some Martha Stewart brand eggcup for quail eggs you got as a wedding gift (Seriously. Who the f%ck eats quail eggs?) . Add a jigger of Kahlua, and your jigger or two of milk (cow, soy, almond, hemp, goat, yak, whatever). Mix that up. You can even use your fancy martini shaker if you think the sound might lure Daniel Craig over. Once the White Russian part is in the glass, add a splash of Coke and your done. Yay for vodka! Now this is not calorie friendly ( I only drew the recipe with a Diet Coke because I like to look like I care), but neither are those tater-tots you just scarfed off your kids plate because you didn’t want them to go to waste.

Speaking of eating your kids wasted food…Duh–I Already Knew That Useful Tip:

We’ve all done it, and most of us have felt guilty about it. We’re moms not vacuums, but for some of us with OCD tendencies (raising my hand over here), it can be hard to see food go in the trash. I’ve caught myself more than once eating something off my child’s plate instead of letting it go where it should. If I was a person truly qualified to give advice I would be giving you a tip on how to tell yourself you’re worth more than those extra calories and all that other great bullshit, but I’m not. Instead I’m going to enable your behavior because…well, because misery loves company. So, here is my “helpful” tip. If you are facing down a Spongebob bowl half-full of Krap Kraft Mac-n-cheese and you can’t squash that overwhelming desire to eat it, sprinkle some Sriracha sauce on it. Seriously! It was pretty good, but I guess if you numb your tasetbuds first, everything goes down easier (I bet that Bizarre Foods idiot person carries ass-loads in his suitcase).

If you manage to lure Daniel Craig over with your martini shaker, let us know if he's wearing these under that suit.

If you manage to lure Daniel Craig over with your martini shaker, let us know if he’s wearing these under that suit.

Now, I’m supposed to give you something funny to keep you going on this Monday, but I feel like my funny bone is having to work hard today. Maybe all that spring cleaning yesterday broke it? I don’t know. I guess I could scour pinterest or Facebook or I could be really lazy and just post some random photo from my files. Yep, that’s the winner because I’m actually really, REALLY behind on my current novel and have to get my ass typing (my ADD just shoved an image in my brain of ass cheeks typing…Ahh, I love my ADD). So here you go, a photo I took of some fabric that I swear on a bottle of rum was being sold at JoAnn’s…

Are you beating a drum or are you just happy to see me?

Are you beating a drum or are you just happy to see me?

Yeah, I noticed that there seemed to be a theme to todays post, too. Not sure why. Anyway, here’s the “cover my ass” portion of the blog also known as credits and disclaimers: Medusa is still going strong and doesn’t need a retirement facility even if she is getting a little incontinent with age; the bulldog photo was found here; trailer parks don’t actually allow protein shakes on their grounds; Police Women of the Appalachians isn’t a real show but totally should be; Martha doesn’t sell eggcups for quail eggs (she carves them by hand and gives them as favors at her annual Spring Equinox parties); I’ve never seen a mommy hide liquor in a Starbucks cup (its hard to type that without thinking lightning is going to strike me);  Daniel Craig is probably not going to fall for the martini trick…again; and you can actually buy those undies here.

Happy Monday– Ash

An “I-Only-Cook-So-The-Goverment-Won’t-Take-My-Kids” Recipe

I know it’s been awhile so I thought I’d dip my toes back into the blogging pond. But since my time is stretched tighter than Christina Aguilera’s bra, this will be brief.

My blog is humor-based and trust me that there is nothing funnier than me offering cooking advice, but that’s what I’m doing. I’m posting a recipe that even I can do (or a one-armed monkey with brain damage), and it actually tastes damn good. What makes this even funnier is that the recipe was given to me by my BFF (another person who would rather have her entire body waxed than cook).

When we were college freshmen the two of us survived on a barter system that consisted of her ironing our clothes and me making our sandwiches. When we didn’t have bread and cheese, we survived on the Phillips 66 buffet that consisted of beef jerky, Pringles, and whatever fountain drink we could mix our liquor into (that came to a stop when my father got the Phillips gas card bill and took it away).

Seriously!! This is all you need to make some kick-ass gravy.

Anywho…because I have never been able to duplicate my grandmother’s amazing pot roast, here is my version. Ready? You won’t believe this is going to work, but here it goes… One packet of Lipton Onion soup mix, one can of cream of mushroom soup, one roast, carrots, potatoes, and what ever you want (celery, onion, mushrooms, catnip- whatever!)

First, get your crock pot out and dust it off. Pour the can of soup inside, dump the packet of magic Onion Soup mix on top of the blob of soup, and stir that stuff up with a fork, spoon, Barbie doll leg- whatever is handy.

Now, you will look at this unattractive mixture and think, “There’s no freakin’ way this is going to work. It’s going to burn and catch my house on fire and I’ll still end up buying the kids Sonic just like I was going to do before I started all this ‘crazy’ cookin’ stuff.” Don’t fret. I promise that it will work!!!

Next, set the roast of your chews-ing (ok, that was lame) on top of the beige blob. I usually pick out a separate roast and all of the extras but then my husband brought home a sealed package of easiness and it worked just as well without having to cut onions or celery. It may have cost a buck more and didn’t come with all of the left over veggies, but it worked great and saved me a half hour in shopping and prep (that counts big time in my world).

A vacuum-sealed bag of “lazy”

Throw all of your veggies in, set the thing on low, and let it cook all day. It won’t look pretty, but it will taste damn good. The best part, it took five freakin’ minutes of actual work. Damn, I love crock pots.

Blonde Undone

Blonde (Collins English Dictionary definition) — Adj. 1.(of women’s hair) of a light colour; fair 2. (of a person, people, or race) having fair hair, a light complexion, and, typically, blue or grey eyes. –n. 1. a person, esp a woman, having light-coloured hair and skin.

Blonde (Ash Robbins definition for this blog)–n. 1. a woman who has attempted to embody the idealized concepts of perfection in both appearance and life through materialistic and shallow means in an attempt to win the admiration of strangers.

Undone (Collins English Dictionary definition)–verb. 1. the past participle of undo  Undo– verb. 1. to reverse the doing of 2. to do away with; erase 3. to unfasten by releasing 4. to untie or loose

Undone (Ash Robbins definition)– I’ll take Mr. Collins’ #3 and #4 on this one.

So there you have it; the fancy-smancy way of giving you the low-down on what this blog’s all about. Now, here’s the down-to-earth, girlfriend-to-girlfriend way of doing it– Hello, I’m Ash and I got tired of trying to be what I thought other people/society wanted me to be instead of being what I wanted to be. I’ve decided to stop conforming to things I don’t agree with just because I’m afraid of what other people will think. I’m untying the ropes of social and material trappings and reclaiming an authentic life and an authentic self. In other words, this blonde is coming “undone”, and this blog is here to chronicle my journey, encourage others to embrace their true selves, and to provide me with some therapy that doesn’t require a couch and an odd little man asking me about my mother.

Hulk has always been a nonconformist, but who knew he was a natural blonde…or had those C cups?

I don’t like labels (we’ll talk about that some other time), but for the sake of a quick description, I’m as ADD as they come. My thoughts are sporadic and seldom stay on track, so there’s no telling what I’ll be posting from day-to-day.  But everything will link to my personal makeover as I tackle my demons one by one. Those demons may be something as deep as retraining a broken thought pattern or something not so profound, like organizing my junk drawer (don’t take that lightly; junk drawers are evil little bastards not to be underestimated).

So if you want a safe place to hang out that’s full of honesty, humor, and, hopefully, some inspiration; come by and see what I’m up to. My hope is that it’s contagious and some other unhappy folks will find courage to change the things they want to change and be the people they truly are. Oh, and just to be sure you know, you don’t have to be blonde to join this club–hell, you don’t even have to have hair.

Come back and visit real soon-


Organization? Does that come with feta?


An organized life is as foreign to me as…well, a foreign country. In fact, I’m going to use a foreign country to help illustrate what I’m talking about. Let’s use Greece. Ahhh…Greece, a beautiful city full of crisp white buildings stacked against towering cliffs that overlook azure seas. All of the photos make it look so clean and pure, a place of perfection that I want to dive into.

That’s what the thought of an organized life does to me. I look at Martha Stewart magazines or wander the isles of The Container Store and I long to experience the feelings of everything being exactly where it’s supposed to be. I imagine that feeling would be close to the peaceful exhilaration I’d experience walking down the winding streets of Crete or Santorini.

Not Greece but just as foreign to me.

But I just can’t do it. My brain isn’t wired that way, and despite my best efforts, my attempts to organize fall from the sky like a led duck. I have what people label as ADD. My thoughts fire so rapidly that if I don’t grab onto them, they’re gone. So that means I flit from activity to activity without really finishing them. I may clean off my bed but then I have to get dressed for something and I try on 30 outfits. By the time I settle on something, I don’t have time to clean up and then I’m on to something else, and then another “something else”. I’m constantly running in circles.

When I do manage to hog-tie my thoughts long enough to concentrate on a task, my perfectionism attacks. I know!! I’m as shocked as you that someone as messy as me is a perfectionist, but according to a therapist, I am. If I can’t do something “perfect” I won’t do it at all. When I decide to clean off my dresser that looks like a ransacked isle at the local Goodwill, I don’t start by just clearing all the crap away. Oh, no. I start with a single drawer and it will go something like this…

Ok, I have 22 pairs of socks. I really need one of those little sock cubicle things. (Gets in car, drives 20 miles to The Container Store, wanders around for 2 hours, buys the sock cubicle, goes home, and back to drawer.) Oh, I really should put in some scented drawer liner. I think I have some from like 3 years ago! (Goes upstairs, digs through both craft cabinets and each kid’s closet until I find the roll hidden behind the boxes of baby memorabilia. Then line the drawer. Then roll each sock and puts in its new little cubby in groups of similar colors.) Wow, I still have half a drawer left to fill. Do I put my hose and Spanx in here, or my workout clothes? (Looks at clock.) Oh, crap-cicles!! I’m late picking up the kids!!

Aside from the use of “crap-cicles” instead of a creative string of sailor-worthy profanity, that is a true story. I made one drawer near perfect but I ran out of time, and pretty much willpower, to do the rest. And the worst part is that you couldn’t even tell that I spent 4-5 hours on that damn drawer. I could have just folded my clothes and closed the drawers and it would have looked a million times better. But now you understand my problem.

And now back to Greece (see the ADD at work here?). So as much as I long to experience Greece, if you took me and just dropped me off there, it would be an excursion of terror. I would be instantly lost, wandering in circles, and unable to communicate with people. I’d try very hard to act all casual about it, but inside I’d be a confused mess. “Spanakopita!! What the hell is Spanakopita??…Spanx!! What drawer should a put my Spanx in? Is there a special cubicle for Spanx?!?” See the relationship here?

And even if I get lost, I want to go to Greece and I want to have a simpler more organized life too. Oh, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to “cure” my ADD. It’s been a gift to me, but I want to figure out how to work with it and make my home less cluttered for me and my family. That’s what this is about, letting go of my perfectionism and just finding a way to organize my life. I’m going to have to take baby steps along the way, but I’m going to chronicle those steps here. Maybe you have some of the same problems I do. Maybe this will help you too, or maybe you have tips to help me. I want us to share. I want us to release our shame about not being “perfect” and concentrate on the important things. My sock drawer might not make it onto pinterest, but I can at least make it work for me.

“I pity the fool who try to put me in a sock drawer with sum Spanx”

It’s a stretch but I couldn’t resist a Mr. T sock monkey. Who freakin’ could? I found it here