New Website!

Hey guys!

I just wanted to quickly let everyone that subscribes to this blog know that I’ve moved it. I have a new website and I combined my blog with it. If you head over to my website and then hit the blog tab, you’ll be able to resubscribe there. Everything was transferred over to the wix platform and they’ll be hosting my blog from now on.

This blog website will be deleted in a few days.

Thank you,


My goat needs a bff.

Mini farm update time! I know everyone has been waiting anxiously to hear what’s up at my animal filled house. Boulder’s tummy is so much better. Now he’s gaining weight and getting chunky.

And he’s spoiled beyond belief. He paws at my legs, asking to be fed and picked up. This goat literally loves to cuddle. We’re still weighing our options as far as what to do with him ball sack wise. I want to band him and make him a pet, or leave him intact and stud him out. That’s right, I want to be a goat pimp.

But my husband keeps reminding me that my original idea was to get a buck, a couple of does, and make some goat babies. Goat breeder vs. Goat sperm dealer. Anyone have any thoughts? Any goat life insight? It would be greatly appreciated.

Now on to those horrible chickens. Ugh. They are getting so big and so dang gross y’all. They’re losing all their downy feathers which, luckily, means it’s almost time to transition them to a chicken coop. I’m so ready. They poop on each other and act really sketchy every time I have to change their food or water.

The funny looking one my husband had to have is hands down a rooster. I can tell by the wild look in his beady eyes. And by his ornate feather and super extra tail. It looks like it’s forming a dang pony tail.

I need a mini farm guru, someone to tell me what to do with Boulder’s man parts and how to keep my chickens from attacking me when my back is turned (which is what I think their plans is).

Help me.



Mini Farm Mishaps

This last week has been all about learning. Lots and lots of learning people. But I promised to tell y’all about my fear of chickens first, so we’ll start there.

Like most of my fears, the chicken one is a little irrational. They’re smaller than me and their brains are minuscule. But still, they scare me. I don’t like unpredictability, and to me, chicks are extremely unpredictable. I never know what they’re thinking or what they’ll do next. I can’t judge their movements…all of it scares me. This week when we cleaned out their cage, my five year old had to move them from one box to another. I have no idea what’s going to happen when they are full grown.

On the Boulder side of things; we’ve got tummy issues. At first I thought it was the move or the new stuff he’s grazing on in our yard. But it got real bad. It is still bad. This little spoiled man gets like two baths a day. I read that goats don’t like baths. Well google, this one does. He loves bubble baths to wash his tush. I’m starting to think he sh*ts like Tasmanian Devil on purpose.

I did learn this afternoon that we need to switch the milk we give him. Apparently formula is really hard on their tiny tummies. And it’s also the reason he’s still so small. Now, Boulder’s milk is the most expensive milk in the fridge. We switched it yesterday, fingers crossed by tonight he’ll be sh*tting like a normal goat.

Side note: Is this TMI? Like a new mom talking about her kids poop is TMI? I’m throwing out some things I’ve learned in case any of you lovely people decide that goats are your next good idea, that’s all.

We also attempted to get Boulder a lady friend. Roadie {Stoli named her} was a silver buckskin and she was super prissy. She was dam raised {meaning she’d only nursed off her mom and had never had a bottle} but the people we got her from assured us she’d make the transition just fine.

Well as any mom will tell you, that’s not always the case. And that wasn’t how it went with Roadie. After three days of her refusing to eat, screaming for her mom, and me about to collapse on the floor and cry…I received a text from the couple we bought her from. They were asking how she was and when I told them what was happening, they offered to give us our money back and come pick her up. Apparently her mom was running around the field crying for her baby. Broke. My. Heart! They said Roadie was her first kid and they didn’t know how it would go. So…we quickly got Roadie back with her momma.

Now I’m not sure what I want to do. Boulder is such a pet at this point…I don’t know how he’d react if we tried to put him in a pen with another goat. He’d probably get pissed and promptly ask someone to go fetch his warm organic goats milk bottle.

I’ll figure it out, simply because I have to. He’s my goat…and they’re my chickens. And this is my circus. Hahahaha get it?

Also, in my messages someone mention how much they enjoyed the shirtless men I usually put at the end of my posts. So. You’re welcome.



Our Newest Adventure

You know how, as people, we tend to have issues? And we tend to kind of self medicate our issues any way that works for us? If you’re shaking your head no, then kudos to you my friend.

I self medicate my inability to have more kids, with baby animals. I know I do this. I have a long history {three dogs, a cat, and a failed rabbit experiment} of doing this. In my opinion, knowing you have a problem is the first step in recovery. I obviously haven’t figured out the second step yet.

Enter Boulder, the Nigerian dwarf buckling. He’s ten days old and he needs to be bottle fed. Yep. Bottle fed.

Now, I’m not completely insane. Boulder isn’t my first bottle baby goat. I had one in high school, who I LOVED. I’ve always wanted another goat {ask anyone} and now I have one. He needs a couple lady friends and then we’ll be all set.

All set for what? You might ask. For my tiny farm of course. I didn’t just get goats, that would be silly. I also got some baby chicks, four of them to be exact {one didn’t make it}. I’ve never had chickens before. Never wanted to, they terrify me. So I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants with lots of help from the internet.

So we’ll have baby goats and fresh eggs and goats milk…We’ll be a little bit self sustainable. It’s going to be fun, our daughter is THRILLED. Thomas? He’s the most patient man in the world.

Join us next time to hear all about my very real fear of chickens.



Just one of them days.

Y’all remember that song by Monica?  Just one of them days, that a girl goes through…I started singing it when I decided on a title for this post and now it won’t leave my head. I’ll probably dream about it tonight. Ugh. 

Anyway. I’m having one of “them days” today. Everything started out okay. I got a lot done this morning, had a great work meeting…but then somewhere between school pick up and taking off my strapless bra off when we got home from ballet class…I got cranky AF. Not at any particular thing or event. {Even though my kid and neighbor kids decided to mix puppy poop with water to “fertilize” the grass and that would have given me reason enough to get pissy} But either way, everyone in my house just started to bug me. I needed everyone to shhhhhhhh. No one wanted to though. Certainly not the six week old foster puppies. So I powered through with my teeth clenched, muttering under my breath, because #momAF.

But as my house finally got quiet and I made my detox tea {in my mind, detox tea will make me thin} I got to thinking about mom tantrums. I threw one today, only in my head of course, but I still threw one. My daughter gets cranky. It happens when she’s tired or over whelmed or if she has to eat vegetables at dinner. And what do I do? I keep her mood in mind. I work around it and try to help her through to the other side. The sane side. I get her in bed a little early, I ask a lot of questions to make sure something’s not bothering her. I give extra cuddles and pick my battles. Does she return the favor? Nope. But she’s only five so I’ll cut her some slack. For now.

My daughter doesn’t care if I’m cranky, my husband just gives me a wide berth…My mommy fits don’t matter. I don’t get to kick and scream and demand chocolate. Or wine. I don’t get to stomp up the stairs and slam my door. That would bite me in the ass within 24 hours. No one is going to check my forehead to make sure I’m not getting sick as an excuse for my craptastic behavior. 

All those little thoughts lead me to this spectacular one. We’re the mom’s. We’re the fixer of fits. Why aren’t we fixing our own? We know what we need, right? We know everything. So, it’s time we start mommin’ ourselves ladies. I just put myself in bed early. I have old Grey’s Anatomy reruns on the TV, hot tea on my night stand and my biggest dog cuddled right next to me. 

My cranky mommy tantrum mattered to me. I noticed it. And for once, I’m fixing it. 😉 If anyone comes in here to bug me…then I’ll try the door slam. 

Love, LP

Welcome to it. 

Five years ago, my sister was there when I gave birth to my daughter. I told her from that point on that she owed me a birth. So, she finally paid up and I got to watch my nephew come into the world. I have two books that need to be written, a house full of neighborhood kids and two new foster puppies that need to eat. Since I also needed to make a blog post, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. Lots of twos in that sentence…

Dear my strong stubborn beautiful smart baby sister,

As you know, I didn’t watch Stoli (my daughter for those of you who don’t know her name) make her debut. I has too busy pushing and scrunching my eyes closed so I didn’t see my vagina explode. Remember that? They had to stitch me back together. Anyway, that was what I was gearing up for when they told you it was time to push. I was nervous and scared and excited. There was no blood or gore though. Watching my nephew being born was very calm and clean. I’m not saying I felt slighted or anything. I’m glad you’re not currently being held together with thread… You were a rock star and Aaron (her husband) was kind of cracking me up. I will never forget him highfiving you after the baby was born. I cried, just as much as I did when I met Stoli for the first time. I was in complete and total awe. And the awesomeness only continued.

I know I was kind of an asshole after Stoli was born. I was cranky and exhausted and very unsure of any and everything. Not you though. You took to motherhood like you were born for it. Seriously, I was so proud of you. Proud of you and also slightly scared of you. You’ve never been afraid to speak your mind or be vocal about what you need. I’ve always admired that. I was also a little jealous. You’re my baby sister, and I wanted to lock you me and the new little man in a room. I didn’t want to share y’all. I mean, Aaron could have come visit but everyone else could go fly a kite. 

When Stoli came up to meet the baby and was instantly obsessed, you simply smiled with tears in your eyes. When she sang to him, over and over, you encouraged her. You were so patient when you let her help you feed him. Where I would have gotten flustered, you were nothing but calm and kind. Stoli loves you so much. She adores you. And you made sure to treat her the way you always do, giving her affection and attention even though you had a thousand other things on your mind. Where I would have been terrified to leave my infant alone for the first time, you guys waved and went to bed. And I got to hold my nephew for HOURS during his first night home so y’all could sleep. If I wasn’t already completely smitten with him, I was after watching him snooze in my arms. Where Thomas (my husband) and I were divided and he called me crazy and hormonal and made me want to slit his throat in his sleep, you and Aaron were united. He had your back even when he didn’t completely agree. *cough* pacifier *cough*

Because I’m your typical first born, I like to think that you learned from my mistakes. I like to think that by being by my side during the first week of your niece, your first love’s life, you knew a little more of what to expect. And how to prepare. How to cope and how not to act like a sleepy crabby butthole. But in reality, it’s just who you are. You’re strong and patient and capable. You and Aaron have been a team from the get go, and you didn’t let the stress of being new parents separate you. It was more than admirable. 

Now, I’m not writing this to put myself down. Not at all. I was a first time mom, I was young and I was terrified. Eventually I figured it all out, learned my new normal and I became myself again.

I’m writing this because I just needed to share how proud I am of you and Aaron. SO PROUD. And I can’t wait to watch the two of you keep slaying this parenting thing. And I’m writing this so that everytime you start to feel like you’re losing your cool, or like you want to strangle your husband, you can read this. You can read it and know that I’m on your side, and I think you’re doing great. Also, thank you for paying up on your birth debt and giving me the worlds cutest baby as a nephew. I love you guys ❤️


Yesterday I was sick. Not like I-have-the-flu-I’m-dying sick, but I was feeling down enough that all I wanted to do was lay in bed and take a lot of cold medicine. Which I did. However, I announced to my husband on Saturday evening after a full day of errands and birthday parties and work stuff that I was taking a sick day on Sunday. I felt the need to warn him in advance. I like to lay out my expectations step by step. This helps me in two ways; one, he can’t act shocked when I refuse to get out of bed at 6:00 am and make my five year old oatmeal. And two, if he does act shocked, I can be super pissed at him for not hearing me the day before. 

So. My husband got up with our daughter on Sunday morning and took her to get dough nuts. Which was adorable because she got all dressed up like they were going on a date.  Then he proceeded to hang out with her the rest of the day while I did nothing but sleep and binge watch The Office. {Long side note: I say “hang out” b/c I REFUSE to say he “watched” our daughter. I hate that. He isn’t a baby sitter, he is her other parent. When I spend hours with her at home while he is working I don’t call myself her nanny.}

I knew my daughter had an awesome day with her dad, mostly because she’s a very loud child and I could hear her having fun. Neighborhood kids came over, the kiddie pool was filled up. My house was over run with giggles and the sound track to Trolls. Of course through out the day I had crying children in my bed. Sometimes only mom’s will do and I completely understand and embrace that. 

I as I clicked “hell yes” on my 1,000th espisode of The Office around 4:00 that evening, I was so in love with my husband. I even sent him dirty text messages, promising all kinds of things later that night. He gave me a whole day of saying Go ask your dad and it was glorious. I was feeling refreshed, my allergy attacks had died down and I could move without my head throbbing {the headache was probably pro longed due to my Netflix binge}. 

And then I left my room.

The house looked like a damn bomb had gone off. Dishes, dress up clothes, tea party riminents, barbies, crayons, and one lone bowl of popcorn. There was shit everywhere, and my daughter’s room was even worse {I’m talking bad people, even a baby doll broke and those filler beads were everywhere}. Now, all the other mom’s out there know how I felt at that moment. It was an odd cross between extremely pissed and left over euphoria from my day in bed. Should I scream? Should I just be happy I got this day to rest? Should I thank my husband and then start screaming at him? 

You all know what I did, b/c it’s what we always do.

I calmly told my daughter to was time to clean up before bed time. Then I spent the next 45 minutes getting my house back in order. My husband helped, he’s a smart guy. Now, I’m not a saint, I talked the whole time about how the mess was just proof that all I do all day is pick up after people. B/c it so freakin’ was.

In the end, I love my family more than I love my sanity, my well being, and a clean house. My husband rocked it, my daughter had an amazingly fun day, and I’m up to season 4 🙌🏼 

Love, LP ❤️

Here’s the truth

Last week was my wedding anniversary so I talked about marriage and making it work. I figured this week, we could kind of stay on that subject a bit. I’m getting older {not old} so my single friends are few and far between. But I do have a couple. And when I went to dinner with one of my favs the other night she asked me the age old question; how did you know Thomas {my husband} was the one? 

I have always been {and will always be} honest with you guys. This blog is real life. My honest answer to her was, he didn’t try to sleep with me. Not joking. I know it may seem so odd or crass even. But it’s the truth and I can explain. I met my husband at a wedding. The drinks were flowing, the dance floor was packed. I thought he was so cute, and I adored his glasses…recipe for a post wedding hook up, right? Wrong. 

I was a {small} bit of a hot mess when I met my husband. I was partying all night, working all day. Thursday through Sunday I was in the sun, sippin’ something strong. My friends and I danced all night, non stop. We were young and wild and crazy. I loved every second of it. But, I tended to attract a certain type of guy. And that type of guy? Only wanted one thing when the night was over. 

After the wedding where I met Thomas, we went to another party. We stayed up until it was almost dawn. But then he made a pallet on the floor and laid down. He held his arm out and snuggled me up to his chest. He kissed my forehead and he told me good night. I can remember falling asleep feeling almost in shock. He was unlike anyone I’d ever met. He was happy to just be next to me. He wanted to watch movies and hold hands and run errands. He wanted a life with me. Not my body. And I instantly loved him for it. 

I went on to tell my friend to look for the guy that’s unlike anyone else. The guy that’s genuine. The guy that treats her like she matters. With respect and compassion. That guy? That’s the guy you marry. I’m not saying my husband was a saint, because he sure as hell wasn’t. But when we met, when it was right, everything was different. For both of us. It was like everything fell into place, it clicked. And for me at least, it all comes back to that very first night together. The night he just wanted to hold me while I slept. He just wanted to be near me. 

Seven years later? Still in love, still sure I made the right choice. And he’s still content {most days} to simply hold my hand. 

I still love you 

Today is my wedding anniversary. It’s been seven years, and I know this because my husband has our wedding day tattooed on his arm. It’s a sexy tattoo, all the dates that mean the most to us as a couple. The day we met, the day we married, and the day our daughter was born. One day I asked him what he’d do if we didn’t make it, he just shrugged and said he’d add the date our divorce was final. Humor. Humor is KEY to making a marriage stick in my opinion. Laughter, communication, and a shit load of hard work. 

Everyday hasn’t been ideal, but everyday has been ours. We’ve always been in it together, and have both always been willing to do the work it takes to make a commitment last. I was looking back at my Facebook page and Instagram account this morning. Searching through old pictures, trying to find a good one to post. And I just had to smile. My marriage is so much more than a collage of beautiful photos. There is so much more to us than filters and clever captions.  

There have been fights, and tears and sleepless nights. It doesn’t bother me to admit it, in fact it makes me proud as hell. We’re living a life together. And life isn’t always beautiful. Life is messy and complicated and hard to navigate.

But if the last seven have showed me anything, it’s that I picked the perfect partner to weather the storm with. He doesn’t give up on me, he puts up with my crazy. He’s supportive, even when I’m sure he wants to roll his eyes and go smoke a cigar. Obviously I’m not going to start taking snap shots of our fights to share with the world. But have never been afraid to tell the truth, that being married isn’t easy. 

If I could go back in time seven years and give myself some advice…I would say that not every day will be easy or perfect or beautiful. But that each day will be worth it. And to take comfort in that fact. I’d tell myself to keep being honest about what I need, and how I feel. To never be afraid to share those thoughts and emotions. He needs to hear them, and you need to admit them. 

I am more in love with him today than I was on the day we got married. I know him better, I understand him fuller. I’ve experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows and through it all, he’s been steadfast at my side. And I’d choose him again, if I had to do it all over. I’d choose him every damn time. 

Teach them.

I love words. I love the way they are put together to form thoughts, I love the way they look on paper. I love everything about them, including when they are sung out loud. 

As I am typing this, my five year old is one room away, sleeping peacefully. Finally. I had to sing her Into the Mystic by Van Morrison three times to get her there. But I didn’t mind. It’s one of my absolute favorite songs, and sharing it with her brings so much joy to my heart. It’s a song about love, about spirituality, about life and death. And all she knows is she likes the way it sounds, the way it comforts her.

You see, I’m bound and determined to teach my kids to appreciate the greats in life, the classics. And that’s not just literature and historical facts. That’s music too. 

Music moves us. It invokes feeling and emotion in a way that little else can. In two minutes we can experience life, loss, and love. It takes hours to read a book, it takes time (at the very least thirty minutes) to watch a show or movie. But music? Music delivers a punch in mere seconds. Who doesn’t get nostalgic when those opening bars of Bittersweet Synphony come through your speakers? Three seconds of sound, evoking emotion. 

And that flood of emotion stays with you, for eternity. You will forever recall how you originally felt, each time you hear a certain song. My daughter will always feel at peace, at ease, when she hears the opening melody to that Morrison tune. Even if she doesn’t remember exactly why. And she’ll sing it to her kids. She’ll turn the stereo up and sing along with a huge smile on her face. And they’ll smile too, and yet another generation will know who Van Morrison was. Just like my dad taught me about AeroSmith, Steve Miller Band and Lynard Skynard.

In my opinion, teaching your kids about good music is just as important as teaching them about good books. The written word, is the written word. Stories and poems told by music are just as spectacularly profound. Everyone was influenced by someone amazing that came before them. I want my daughter to find her own way, I want her to make an educated decision on what “rocks her gypsy soul”. And what better way to ensure that than to give her all the facts? To let her hear it all, the good and the bad. To let her be moved by whatever moves her. To let her feel, by whatever evokes feeling. 

It’s our duty as parents to show our children the beauty in this world. To show them the heart and soul of living. Music is a pretty great place to start. They may not always remember the things you said, but I promise you they’ll remember the way you made them feel. 

Love, LP