The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Category: marital bliss (page 1 of 4)

Welcome to Camp Mom!

It’s the last day of school for my kids, and I’m already crying.

No, no…not just because I’m completely unprepared for summer.

Mini-Me and her teacher

Mini-Me getting loved on by her 4th grade teacher yesterday…while Mrs. J. strategically avoids eye contact with me, per the terms of her restraining order.

I’m crying because my two elementary school-aged kids are sad to say goodbye to their beloved teachers and friends today, and when they are sad, I am sad. 

Seems like just yesterday my little Bucket Head was getting on the school bus for the first time.

And it didn’t take long for Mini-Me’s teacher to figure out that I was not operating on all six cylinders. Ah, memories.

Where does the time go?!

Aaaaand, there I go. Getting all sad and nostalgic again. Oy. Hormones. When in doubt, always blame the hormones. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Hey, it’s also my anniversary today, which is a sweet way to end the school year. Sixteen years. Yowza. Feels like sooooo much longer. (Just kidding, Honey…kinda.) We’re going to simultaneously celebrate our marriage and our last day of school-year-freedom by having lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant. Then we’re going to fill up a bunch of water balloons so we can ambush the kids when they get off the school bus and help them forget how sad they are to end the school year. Wish me luck on that one…hopefully it doesn’t backfire and make them even more sad that their parents are such insensitive dicks. (Tune in on Instagram later for an update!)

Read Me In the Powder Room!

But in the meantime, I’ve been brainstorming about some of the things we can do this summer to maintain a modicum of sanity and have a little fun. Spoiler alert: bathroom humor and manual labor! It’s over In The Powder Room today. Join me, won’t you?

Here’s to a great summer!

I’m using art to cope with my husband’s Man-Flu

Leslie The Bearded Iris as a fed-up cartoon wife via Bitstrips on Facebook Man-Flu.

Twice in one month.

Do you feel me, ladies?

I could just stop there and know you’d all be like, “Aw HAYLE NO. We’re starting a vacation fund for you.”

But I’m going to tap into my pain like a true artist and really explore my feelings through a variety of creative outlets…

Like drawing:

Man flu through the eyes of The Bearded Iris

And haiku:

Husband sick…again.
But God said “Thou shalt not kill.”
I wish I were gay.

For real. Lesbians are smart. They can share clothes and hair products, and purchase their tampons by the cubic ton, and their bathrooms are much easier to clean. (Seriously, Ellen, call me.)

I’m actually not as heartless as I may seem.

In fact, just ask my husband! I am a picture of the perfect wife every time he is on the verge of dying from excess mucus under the weather…

dealing with man-flu

Source: Pinterest

I guess instead of wishing he’d just shove a manpon* into his achy mangina, I should be thankful for the material, because all his hacking and moaning have inspired me to research and write about the origins of marriage vows In The Powder Room today—in the unique form of two medieval priests having a conversation over beers (which was surprisingly fun to write). Because if I don’t find the funny, I will be drawing sad little stick figures in a maximum security cell block with no hope for parole.

So, go. Read. And pray for my husband’s health and my sanity. We both thank you.

With Love and Lysol,

*Special thanks to my editorial consultant Angela who makes me laugh daily and teaches me words like manpon and mangina.

PS – I asked my husband if he would be okay with me making fun of his Man-Flu on my blog and he said it was fine, but that if he goes to the doctor and finds out he has The Bubonic Plague, I am going to have to issue a public apology. I’ll take that risk.

She tried to kill him with her WHAT?

So, it’s Valentine’s Day.

And to celebrate, I wrote a little something about a news story that piqued my interest the other day. It’s a story about marriage, sex, and foul play—emphasis on the foul

She tried to kill him with her WHAT by The Bearded Iris In The Powder Room

I had a hard time coming up with a suitable title.

Here are some of the ones that didn’t make the cut:

International food recall scares vagitarians

Tainted Love – Are you gonna eat that?

Murderous Mustache Rider remains silent…her lips are sealed.

Connie Lingus, that murderous c*nt!

You can read the whole story at my other home, In The Powder Room. I think you’ll get a kick out of it. At the very least, you’ll probably learn some new euphemisms…my Valentine gift to you.

Go now and love each other. Love each other long and hard—today, and everyday. And try not to murder anyone with your poisoned apple (pie).

Most affectionately yours,

I’m fighting the winter blues, one juicy page at a time

Welcome to The Bearded Iris

Hello friends! (::sniff sniff, wag wag, lick lick::) I’ve been missing you!

Sorry to stay away for so long.

I’m totally engrossed in a book.

It’s a book that I’ve read at least twice before, maybe three times.

But it’s one of those books that beckons me back every now and then. (And inspires me to use fancy words like beckons in my blog posts.)

Apparently I’m not the only one. This book (and the subsequent series) has legions of devoted fans.

It’s Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon.

It takes place in the very unhygienic mid-eighteenth century and it’s inspired me to write a list of the Top 5 Things I Could Never Live Without. It’s In The Powder Room today. Please join me over there and we’ll discuss fun things like thunder buckets and camel balls.

And if you are up for some more fun, check out this piece I wrote last month and never got around to sharing. But be warned, it includes my favorite viral YouTube video from 2012 and it is totally addictive!

I’m so grateful you are here with me and I hope to share many more laughs, tears, discussions, and fresh smelling bear hugs with you in 2013!

Yours truly,

The first rule of PMS Club…

Just because Halloween’s over doesn’t mean all scary things have to be packed away.

Picture this: it’s a cold, dark, rainy night. I’m in my jammies, on the couch, under my favorite blanket, watching the election results and playing Words With Friends during commercial breaks.

My husband gets up to grab a snack. “Want anything?” he sweetly asks.

“Yeah. How about a handful of Peppermint Patties from the freezer. And a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Hey, do we have any beef jerky?”

“Oh.” His tone drops. “Okay.”

We’ve been married for fifteen years. He knows what this means.  

The Bearded Iris: PMS - its coming from inside the house!

As if me bursting into tears earlier that day over a Folgers commercial wasn’t enough of a red flag.

And then this happened on Twitter…

Just teared up at the commercial for the Abraham Lincoln movie. PMS and this election really have me jacked up.
Mary Burt-Godwin


And I was all, “Oh Thank GOD I’m not the only one.” Which is reason #472 why I love Twitter so much. Instant support group. Fo’ free!

In fact, a bunch of other gals jumped right in to reply to Mary’s confession and we started our own impromptu PMS Club…as hormonally charged women are wont to do:

Seriously. THIS? This is how you make new friends on Twitter, for those of you who have told me you just can’t get into it. Just look for opportunities to interact. Sometimes people respond, sometimes they don’t. But when they do? It can be really fun, and/or comforting.

A few more gals appeared with great offers for what they’d like to bring to our burgeoning PMS Party. @JulieTheWife was ready and willing with her T-Pain microphone and a flame thrower. HOLLA! That girl clearly knows how to par-tay. @JustUsChicks and @AuthorJenTucker chimed in with things like Fritos and wine. Someone may or may not have offered to bring a chainsaw. A screening of The Notebook was planned, complete with spooning. And at one point Mary shared that she has a gold tooth. It was off the hook, y’all.

And all of it was way more fun than biting my nails over the electoral college or skinning my husband and wearing his furry pelt as a cape. (Animal prints are so hot right now, don’t you know.)

But it got me thinking. We should probably establish some rules to our new PMS Club. Here’s my first draft. It might sound a little familiar…

First Rule of PMS Club: You do not talk about PMS Club.

Second Rule: You DO NOT talk about PMS CLUB.

Third Rule: If someone yells “stop,” goes limp, or bursts into tears, just back off.

Fourth Rule: There are no wrong food combinations, only insufficient quantities.

Fifth Rule: If provoked, use one weapon at a time, ladies. And try to make it look like self defense or an accident.

Sixth Rule: No bras, no shoes.

Seventh Rule: PMS will go on as long as we say it does.

Eighth Rule: If this is your first night at PMS Club, you have to bring enough Percocet for everyone.

What am I missing? And what are you bringing to the PMS Party?!

By the way, if you’re looking for some funny women to follow on Twitter, I highly recommend the founding members of the PMS Club. You can follow all of them here. And please join in the fun! If you’ve ever dipped Slim Jims in melted chocolate, cried over a Today Show segment about holiday crafts, or wondered about the pros and cons of premeditated homicide, you’ll fit right in.

Now please hand me my hot water bottle and get the hell out of my way before I cut you.


What drives a woman to kill her husband with a coffee mug?

I don’t watch a lot of news these days.

It’s a conscious choice. My soft little brain simply just cannot tolerate all the negativity and fear mongering. It brings me down. Big time.

So I go about my business most days, pretty oblivious about breaking news stories. It’s usually not until someone asks me point blank “Are you going to boycott Chick-Fil-A?” or “Can you believe that douche canoe said women can’t get pregnant if they are ‘legitimately’ raped?”

And then I usually go scrambling for the Google so I can at least marginally participate in all the pithy banter going on around me in cyberspace and the carpool line.

But as fate would have it, I was passing through the family room this morning while The Gatekeeper was watching the news and I couldn’t help but hear the tail-end of a story about a 70-year-old high-ranking umpire on the U.S. professional tennis circuit who allegedly bludgeoned her 82-year-old husband to death…with a coffee mug.

True story. Couldn’t make it up if I tried. Lois Goodman was arrested yesterday and charged with murder. She was in New York at the time to officiate the U.S. Open tennis matches.

There I was, eyes and ears riveted to the TV, standing behind the love seat, right next to my husband’s big bald head…and holding a coffee mug.

It was my second cup of French Roast and it was damn good.

He sensed me standing there behind him, holding that coffee mug, and looked over his shoulder at me like “Don’t even think it.”

But of course, I had already thought it! How could I not? I was holding a coffee mug.

It was like his big bald head had a red target on it.

Luckily for him, my cup was full and I have my priorities.

So instead, I just snickered and said a quick prayer that Lois gets a judge and jury of women who have been married for 50 years.

I mean really.

Girlfriend used A COFFEE MUG…

…to bludgeon her octogenarian husband…TO DEATH.

I’m just trying to imagine what led up to that ultimate moment when she snapped and decided that repeatedly bashing his liver-spotted melon with a coffee mug was the best course of action.

Some possible scenarios:

Him: “Hon, we’re out of Splenda again.”
Her: “OH SUCK IT, Alan. If you want Splenda, put it on the God damn grocery list. I’m not a fucking mind reader! No, you know what? Fuck that fucking shit. I’ve got your Splenda right here, Bub.” {WHACK WHACK WHACK.}

or perhaps…

Him: “Wait, Lois, where are you going? You have another match today? I thought you were going to take me to get a hair cut at the Walmart.”
Her: “Hair cut? Jesus Christ, Alan. Didn’t we just get your hair cut two weeks ago? Ugh, I am so sick of being your damn taxi driver. You want a hair cut? YOU WANT A HAIR CUT?! I’ve got your hair cut right here, Bub!”  {WHACK WHACK WHACK.}

or maybe…

Him: “Lois, what’s a 5 letter word for bother?”
Her: “I’m trying to get out the door, Alan. I’m going to be late for my match. Get the Thesaurus, okay? I’ll call you later, bye.”
Him: “Oh fine. But could you please stop on the way home and pick me up some Metamucil? Oh and also, we’re out of Popsicles. I don’t like the generic ones. Get the real thing this time.”

or the most likely scenario:

Him: “Good morning honey.”

Yeah, it’s probably good I don’t watch the news more often.

Now where the hell is my husband going with all our coffee mugs?

Men! {sigh}



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