I was 19-years-old.

I was young and in love.

I was swept up in a very romantic story.

I had little girl dreams of a white dress and then, of course, a white-picket fence.

I didn’t care that we were still in school.

I didn’t care that we were just babies.

I just didn’t care.

I wanted to take that leap.

And here I am, fifteen years later.

Married to my best friend.

So ridiculously happy that I leapt.

Today over on Yummy Mummy Club, I’m talking about being an Unstoppable Mom to my Unstoppable Girls (and Boy!). I have been incredibly moved by the messaging of this—when I heard it discussed at Mom 2.0, when I watched the videos, when I look at my children.

This was an important one to write, it’s an important one to read, it’s an important one to talk about. I’d love it if you’d do some leaping of your own today and leap on over there and give this one a read.

The post 15 appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

You can go ahead and be jealous, I understand how much of a gift that was. Truthfully, though, I’ll let you behind my great and powerful curtain and let you in on a secret—it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I had just gotten finished with some sort of stomach gnome issue and had just canceled on an event I was excited to go downtown for—it included Bethenny Frankel and cocktails—but I just wasn’t feeling 100% (I was at a good 42%) and didn’t want to risk it. I had just finished a giant PMS-y blow up at my children for things like homework and not brushing their teeth enough and wanting too many breakfasts and never putting their laundry away and being afraid of the shower. And they were all in my room and I was just done. So I left them all complaining and whining in my bedroom and found the perfect relax-y spot on my family room couch.

And the next thing I knew it was morning. And I was in my bed.

12 hours unaccounted for.

(Which is interesting because this morning I woke up with immensely sore heels, the kind I got while I was attempting to train for the half marathon that I never ran—due to said sore heels. So, maybe I was sleep-running? Mystery!)

I obviously needed those surprise hours; I’m probably fighting something other than my children and PMS. But now I will be cursing all of the work I didn’t get done during those 12 hours. That’s always the way with people who only know how to multi-task, right? It’s always the way with people like us—the ones who burn the candles at both ends.

We stay up late into the 1ams working on our laptops while catching up on Game of Thrones (and just trying to beat one more level in Candy Crush) and drinking tea.

We wake up early during the 6ams working on our laptops while catching up on the news and the weather and drinking coffee.

It’s cyclical, really. We overdo it to get it all done. And then we get sick because we have overdone it. And then we get mad while we are recovering because we are forced to not overdo it.

Welcome to my head, folks. It’s a messy, messy place. Just like my kitchen right now.

See what I did there?

Anyway, let’s talk about something more interesting.

Want to talk about Gatsby?

Oh, you must know Gatsby.

So, yes. I saw The Great Gatsby in 3D on Saturday night along with the rest of the Toronto nosebleeds. We were early, over 30 minutes, and yet forced to sit in the third row. You know, the row that all the way at the front of the theater—the row you pray that you never have to sit in? That one. I had expected this one to be a dud. I had read a few reviews—and had seen the sad, sad little 49% on Rotten Tomatoes.

And yet. I sat with my mouth agape throughout the entire movie, trying desperately to soak it all in.

I loved it, you guys.

I’m the 49%, I guess. And I’ll own it.

It was such a beautiful film to look at—the costumes, the scenery were perfect. It was appropriately cast for me—even Tobey Maguire.

I loved the book when I read it at least a dozen times in high school.

I still have my copy, complete with notes in the margin and underlines.

Now look, I get it. It’s not for everyone. I have read all the “Why I Hate The Great Gatsby” articles—the characters are flat and completely unlikable, the writing is crappy and superficial, the plot is boring and uneventful, the timelines are inconsistent. These readers aren’t alone, of course. The Great Gatsby, when it was published in 1925, didn’t sell very well. Fitzgerald made just $2,000. People didn’t really care about it, not until years later, during World War II, when it had a bit of a revival and then stayed revived, for, um, ever. So, I get it. It’s not for everyone.

I mean, you guys, I didn’t really like The Hunger Games, I REALLY didn’t like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and I couldn’t even make it through The English Patient no matter how many times I tried to read it. Hint: it was many. And, I watched Life of Pi over the weekend, and I am struggling with this one, because while I found it a beautiful film visually (and it was, it really was) it was only sort of okay for me—not life-changing like it was for many, many people. I liked it; I didn’t love it.

So. Different strokes. It’s not just an 80s tv show.

And this is why I get that the movie adaptation isn’t everyone’s cup of Baz Luhrmann tea.

But it was mine.

Good god, it was mine.

I loved it. Even if the rest of you didn’t.

The post I’m the 49% appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

Ali, I’m so proud of you.

OH MY GOD WHY?

Ali, I love your nose, it’s so adorable.

WHAT?! It’s completely asymmetrical and weird.

Ali, that dress looks so great on you!

Yeah, well, it’s because I’m super great at covering up my lumpy stomach bits.

Ali, your post was so funny.

Yes, I’m only funny accidentally and online. I’m horribly un-funny in real life. Sorry.

You compliment me, and chances are more-than-high that I’m going to downplay it, and deflect your attention. Oh look, it’s a squirrel in a funny hat! Try me. It’s like a fun little game.

On Friday morning I showed up at the Global Morning Show studio—un-coffeed and un-madeup, not bright-eyes and bushy tailed, unfortunately—to participate on a pre-Mother’s Day panel to discuss the portrayal of moms on television with two other lovely mom bloggers. I was excited. I mean, if there’s anything about which I could talk your head off—it’s pop culture. And I did.

And then there were compliments.

You did awesome!

Really, I looked so uncomfortable because I was trying not to lose my mic—there were some issues getting it attached to my dress and I spent the entire segment willing it not to crawl down my back.

You hair looked awesome.

Oh really, it was so big from the rain that I had to put it in a clip—what a nightmare!

Your dress looked so great.

Oh yes, well, that’s because it’s THE DRESS. It has nothing to do with me.

Let’s talk about your amazing shoes.

Oh well, they are, like, 3 years old and were probably $49 from ALDO.

You were hilarious.

No, I wasn’t. I said weird things about leggings as pants and I think I spoke too long about fascinators and I probably insulted women who wear fascinators in pools.

You were smart.

No, I wasn’t. I said weird things about my kids thinking that I’m a control freak like Claire Dunphy.

SEE? COMPLIMENTS AND I DO NOT MIX.

“Mama? I saw your segment.”

“Yeah?”

“It was awesome. You looked great, you talked well, you were funny, and you even mentioned me. You are the coolest mom on the planet.”

“THANK YOU EMILY.”

I didn’t argue, I didn’t deny it, I didn’t deflect. I simply thanked her.

Because she really, truly meant those words. She really did think I was great—she wasn’t just being kind.

And I want her to feel and know that when I tell her I’m proud of her, or how great I think she is, or how talented I know she is, or how beautiful she is both inside and out that I am not just being kind either.

I want her to know it, I want her to feel it, I want her to believe it, I want her to own it.

And I’m going to learn to do the same.

The post My Kryptonite appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

He is growing a beard for me, mostly because I really, really miss watching Sons of Anarchy. Also, because beards are seriously appealing. Not like, uh, Duck Dynasty beards where food and other trinkets could potentially get lost—those are not appealing and a little bit frightening for a germophobe like I am. Of course I am.

He is growing a vegetable garden for me.

And, well, he is also growing a thick skin for me because he is indulging me these days. I am almost fairly certain that I don’t really ever want to eat meat again.

Yes, my carnivorous chef of a husband has just nodded his head and is okay with the fact that I don’t want to eat his delicious ribs or steak or chicken or the homemade sausages that he is planning to make with his brand-new sausage-maker toy. Oh yes he does have one.

Last week I was pretty much thrown completely over the edge. I have always fancied myself somewhat of a flexitarian. I don’t know if I actually coined this term, but, well, let’s just say that I have been straddling the line between meat and no meat for many, many years. It was likely a commitment thing—I’m not the best at it. I have enough trouble choosing a breakfast cereal, let alone an entire eating lifestyle choice. It’s too much!

Also, there’s this wee problem of all the damn allergies. Oh yes. Try being a Pinterested vegetarian when you are allergic to all nuts and avocado.

It can’t be done.

Everything has nuts and avocado. Or both.

But last week, you guys.

I opened the freshly bought raw chicken to make dinner. I don’t often make dinner that isn’t my famous homemade cheese sauce or grilled cheese and tomato soup or breakfast-for-dinner night. You see, when Daddy is a chef and never makes the same thing twice, the kids count on Mama to make the staple comfort foods. Sometimes you just don’t want to eat homemade Indian food because, well, you have training the next morning and you just know that this might not end, uh, well. But I was making the chicken!

And then there was a smell.

“Josh, come here and smell this.”

“Uh.”

“Does it smell kind of funky to you?”

“Uh.”

“Well, is there an actual smell because sometimes I think there’s a smell and I’m really just being kind of a crazy person so I’m not really sure. You know how I am about milk, sweetie? Daddy isn’t here so I need you to just smell it for me, k?”

“I’m not sticking my face in that. And you shouldn’t either.”

And my 10-year-old son was absolutely right.

If I need to be sticking my face into raw animal meat to see if it’s actually good or maybe, possibly off, I probably shouldn’t be eating it at all.

So. Well. There it is.

Commitment.

I started this post as a non-vegetarian and I finished it as a vegetarian. Ten years of writing on the Internet and I am still full of surprises.

But now I just need to find some recipes on Pinterest that don’t have avocado. Or nuts.

And refuse the homemade sausages this weekend.

But I love a challenge. So.

The post I’m Pretty Sure I’m A Vegetarian Now appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

On the 17th of this month I will be celebrating 15 (!!) years of marriage.

On the 22nd of this month I will be celebrating 35 (!!) years on this earth.

It’s a big month, you guys.

When I returned from Mom 2.0, there was a box sitting right beside my bed.

My husband was off dealing with a wee bag kerfuffle.

Do I open it? Yes? No? After 15 years, it’s surely impossible to surprise me, right? I should just open it. But, I mean, the man went back to the airport for me, the least I could do was wait for him. Plus, he’d know. I’m crappy at lying and/or keeping secrets.

I didn’t open it, for the record.

When I did, I nearly passed out.

It seems that it IS possible to surprise me, even after 15 years together.

Do you know what it is?

He says. This makes me laugh. Do I? DO I.

It started with a tweet.

It looked like this.

And I searched and searched and searched.

And came up with nothing.

No “Kelly Ripa cream-coloured knot dress.”

No “Kelly Ripa Juno Awards dress”

No “Kelly Rips sings Titanic with Michael Buble”

I couldn’t find it. And I’m really good at this. I’m a fashion blogger, for crying out loud. I did an entire series for Mamapop on how to dress like people on television.

But he could.

HE COULD.

And it’s mine.

And it’s Valentino.

And you can bet your ass that I’m wearing it right now in my home office singing “My Heart Will Go On” into my hairbrush. To my dog.

Because I can.

Because I married right.

The post That Time I Got to Be Kelly Ripa. A Valentino Tale. appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

But, of course, before I share those stories and photos, because I am ME, I have to share a ridiculous story with you first. Of course I do.

I own this suitcase.

It’s not pretty, it’s not me, it’s not special. It is, however, what one would call unique. It’s grey and bright orange and blue. There was reason for this, of course. If you have a suitcase that no one else has, it’s really easy to spot in the airport. I’m not an excellent flyer, really. I am not squeamish about air travel in general, as in, I’m not worried about turbulence or crashing into large mountains or possible water landings (I mean, haven’t you seen the safety instructions—water landing are full of fun slides and smiles—totally not scary at all!) but sometimes I suffer from a wee bit of claustrophobia and an even more wee bit of vomit-phobia. So, sitting in the middle seat is kind of my own special nightmare.

All of this is to say that once I get off the the airplane, let the Nexus booth take a snapshot of my eyes (please step back a little), all I want to do is escape from the airport as quickly as possible. So, you can see why having an all-black suitcase may prolong the time spent in the baggage claim area, yes? That’s why I have one that’s BRIGHT! and different and odd-ly shaped and weird.

Last night I was tired. It was almost 10pm and I had been traveling almost all day, including a 4-hour flight from SNA where I had to sit in between a chatty Cathy and a man who picked his nose with abandon and ate a homemade stinky sandwich. I just wanted to get home. I grabbed my bag and booked it straight to the passenger pick-up zone.

When I am almost home, I get the call. “Oh hi, Mrs. Martell, we have your suitcase here in the United terminal. You took the wrong one. Can you please come back to the airport for a hasty switcheroo?”

Yes. YES.

I left the airport with someone else’s bag.

Not mine. Not the blue and orange and grey bag that was filled with 7 different branded water bottles and notes written on The Ritz paper and my pretty, pretty dresses. Nope. Not mine. Someone else has this ridiculous bag.

WHAT ARE THE CHANCES, you might ask?

Well, when you are me, the chances are high. Because everything ridiculous happens to me.

So, a hasty switcheroo on my part was in order.

But, replace “on my part” with “on my saint of a husband’s part.”

And replace “hasty” with “incredibly time-consuming.”

The lesson learned here is this:

No matter how hard I try, I am not that unique.

I don’t know why I didn’t already know this.

Tip of the day: Always check your luggage tag before heading home.

The post Not Unique appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

“Dear Diary, Mama made me cry this morning by daring to brush my hair and because I, yet again, didn’t put my lunch box in the kitchen. I got a new bike with gears, but shhh, don’t tell anyone, all I really care about is the bell. I might grow up to be in the Olympics for ice skating. Or maybe for hula hooping. That’s a thing, right?”

See, the thing is, I cannot begin to imagine what she writes about in there, because I don’t really want to. Those are her important, private thoughts. I realize that she’s only seven years old, but the same will go for her when she’s eleven and thirteen and fifteen and seventeen. That’s her space, her place, free of her older siblings, free of her daddy, free of, well, me. It’s her right to have that—her right to privacy. I move it when I change her sheets and always make sure to put it right back on top of her second pillow and underneath her penguin pillow pet.

Children and privacy is such an interesting thing, though, isn’t it?

My children, merely by nature of being humans, have a right to privacy.

But as a Mama Bear three times over my number one priority is keeping my children safe and secure.

So while yes, I believe my children have a right to privacy, and they do, they so, so do—they have the right to keep their private thoughts private, they have their own rooms in our home that are left unsnooped—we cannot ignore that there has been a tremendous life-changing shift in our world since I grew up.

When I grew up the only form of social media was that beige phone with the giant cord that hung on the floral-wallpapered wall in our kitchen. Or, you know, on the school bus and the playground.

My mother and my father and my stepmother and my stepfather didn’t have cell phones, texts, instagram photos, Facebook streams, and twitter feeds to worry about. Online safety meant “let’s try to keep our children from murdering each other in line to play putt-putt” and not, let’s make sure our children are making smart decisions because they are leaving behind a giant internet footprint.

Because, in addition to my role as lunch-maker and chauffeur, one of my roles as a parent is to teach my children to be good people, to not suck. In the same way that I teach them to use their manners and to treat people with respect, I want to teach them about safety on the web. We have had many, many conversations with our children about putting anything in writing. In a world where words can be COMMAND + C and COMMAND + Z, and words you write can even be manipulated, things can come back to bite you in the heiney.

We toss around the word appropriate. A LOT.

But there are so many words we can use, so many conversations we can have.

Kids are kids.

So.

We have an open-book rule with social media.

We have Facebook passwords.

We have access to instagram.

We are allowed to look at texts and imessages and emails.

And the kids are okay with this—they have willingly given us access.

They know that we aren’t snooping into their private lives—WE WOULDN’T READ THEIR JOURNALS OR DIARIES—because if they have learned anything from us, none of their private lives should show up in their texts and imessages and emails. And I pop on to check their phones every once in a while, and their texts are filled with a lot of KKs and acronyms and emoticons. They can be taught, it seems.

I guess you could say that in our family, our children have the right to personal privacy, but they don’t have the right to internet privacy. Not yet, anyway.

The post On Progeny and Privacy appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

The timing of these changes is a little funny, actually. This coming weekend I am speaking at The Mom 2.0 Summit in Laguna Niguel. The topic of my session is “Raising the Stakes: How to Keep Blogging After It’s All Been Blogged” and I’m sharing the panel with two other bloggers who have also been doing this storytelling thing since the dinosaur ages of blogging—2004, for me.

One of the many “experty” (who are we kidding, really) things I will be speaking about it is this sort of blog re-invention that seems to happen as some so-called mommybloggers like me move from writing stories about breastfeeding and potty training and crying it out and strollers and baby carriers to having children who have their own lives, their own stories, their own instagram accounts (HOLD ME). In some it comes naturally—you may not even notice the stories changing, the focus changing, the actual site changing. I think that’s how it was with me.

My site started as a virtual baby book of sorts, for my two tiny ones and my tiny one to-be. I was never very good about keeping up with the actual books—they are collecting dust in the basement somewhere filled with probably nothing more than a hospital bracelet and the date of a worst word. On my (free) website, I could publish my words (for free!) and I could complain, commiserate, and occasionally brag about my offspring. But someone along the line I realized that I’m so much more than words about these little nuggets.

I am a mom, sure, but I have many skills and interests, so this space over here became a lifestyle blog, where I talk about pop culture and fashion and food and exercise and biking and television and travel and photography. I still talk about my kids, of course, since they are such a huge part of who I am, but the focus is just a wee bit less about their sleeping habits and, well, bathroom habits. And I don’t really want to talk about them in the same way anymore—I want to tell MY STORY, and sprinkle them in there.

So, there are constant, small re-invention-y things happening around here and these design changes are a big part of that. As I realize that maybe I can do more with this blogging thing than be a storyteller—I can speak at conferences, for example.

(See what I did there?)

At my very heart and soul I will always be a storyteller. That will never change—that began when I was in 6th grade and would write poems and short stories and novels in many, many spiral-bound Mead notebooks. That continued throughout high school as my written word moved from pens and pencils to my fingers and my keyboard and my notebooks became word documents. That continued up until now, when my written word lives here, at this very website. I have so many things to talk about, so many hilarious, weird, sad, bizarre, happy, interesting, not-as-interesting things to share.

Recently, through the magic of Twitter, I spoke about that time in high school that I may or may not have owned (and worn) both a Shawn Kemp and Latrell Sprewell basketball jersey. With a tremendous amount of teenage basketball fan pride. My friend was shocked—I didn’t know this about you, alimartell! See? That’s the thing about storytelling. Even though I have shared and overshared in this space since 2004, there are still things I haven’t told you—there’s still more to share and overshare.

But, I’m more than a storyteller I’m realizing, just as I’m more than a mommyblogger.

I’m more than just someone who works behind the scenes as an editor-in-chief of an online space—a kick-ass online space.

I’m more than just someone who is on no one’s radar—I’m putting myself on the radar. Putting the coffee money I make monthly from this space where my mouth is and doing something about it, if you will.

There are new things I want to try, there are new places I want to go. I want to work with other people more, work with brands more. I want to speak more, discuss more, do more, connect more, BE MORE. I want to tell you about the things I love—and the things I don’t love as much.

And I really just want to find myself a really good under-eye concealer for those really unfortunate raccoon eyes.

So while I have always been here telling my tales, and I will likely always be, expect some more, expect some new, expect some different.

And, well, for those of you who don’t deal well with change, I’ll tell you that I’ll probably never write an SEO-friendly title around here. So, there’s that.

The post Afoot at The Circle-K. And Around Here Too appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

Look! They are cute! And are looking surprisingly calm, considering that they just got the no-I’m-not-curling-your-hair-because-it’s-raining blow. “Fine, then just give me the Aunt Jemima meets Rosie the Riveter.” Fine, Isabella, I will.

Moving on.

My kids like to talk about ridiculous things over breakfast.

What happens when someone is hanged, drawn, and quartered? Sure!

What’s the difference between a macaroons and macaron? Well, I’ll tell you.

How do eggs actually work? And what came first…the chicken or the egg? Why not? Let’s discuss.

“Mama? Can we talk about GOD?”

It’s not the first time my son has wanted to discuss the holy one, blessed is he.

Okay, fine, I haven’t had my coffee yet, but sure, now’s as good a time as any to get philosophical.

It turns out that in my household, at this very moment, there is a big believer, a semi-believer, and one who isn’t sure since he is a “man of science” and is finding many things about God to be, well, kinda troubling. OKAY. They wanted to discuss about a million things. They don’t think that the story of Noah and the Ark actually happened—”It’s probably more like a Disney fairy tale, I think, meant to teach us a big lesson, but it’s easier to teach the lesson through a story than through the actual truth. The truth was probably much more boring—like our life. No one would write a Torah about our family—no one wants to hear about the night we tried tacos or Game of Thrones or swimming lessons.” See also: The ten plagues.

They have a really hard time understanding how God could let something like the Holocaust happen—how their great Bubbie and great Zaydie’s brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and moms and dads died—because they were Jewish. They have a hard time understanding a God who would let small children die. They have a really hard time explaining medical miracles. They have a hard time knowing if God can hear them if they pray, especially if they are praying words from a book that someone else decided should be their prayers. They have a hard time understanding why turning on a light on Saturday has anything to do with their relationship with God. They have a really hard time understanding why there are so many different Gods and beliefs just in our family alone and “how do we know if our God is the right one?”

They have a hard time understanding a lot of the same things that *I* have a hard time understanding.

I made sure that instead of answering their questions, I responded back with more questions for them to think about, things for them to look up, things to talk with their relatives, their rabbis, their Hebrew school teachers about. I want them to keep this open dialogue happening; I want to help guide their free thinking. I want them to really think about these things, and not believe things simply because I believe them and most certainly don’t want them to believe things because I told them that they have to. That’s not the kind of Jew I am; that’s not the kind of person I am.

Smart kids, mine. Too smart, you might say. Since they are 12, 10, and 7. I was not expecting to use this much brain power at 7 in the morning. I was not expecting to use this much brain power until 2017.

I think I’d prefer to go back to when they thought God could be in your nose, could be Alanis Morrisette, and was the scary burny bush man.

Although after I have my coffee I’m going to be really proud of these three little humans.

The post DOGMA, Redux appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.

I opted to grow them a bit which basically means that if you see me in real life over the next month—and not hiding beneath my favorite instagram filters—and I look a little sheepdog-esque, don’t judge and attempt to keep your cackling on the inside.

Honestly, though, there was a point to this story, but since I’m a wordy, wordy beast, you got a preamble and a giant picture of my face. Aren’t you glad you stopped by today?

As I sat in my chair waiting for my tresses to artificially turn the color of my daughter’s natural hair color (unfair, I say!) I noticed a small boy sitting, bored-to-tears, to my right. He was obviously having a mental health day of sorts—since his bag full of snack and treats ruled out a stomach bug—and his mother dragged the sicknotsick child with her to her hair appointment. Her roots were on a schedule, people.

I checked my emails and then opened up Candy Crush. Ah…a blissful, uninterrupted 20 to 30 minutes of pure candy crushing magic.

“What level are you on?”

“I’m a little embarrassed to say. I’m kind of an addict.”

“I’m on 128.”

“Oh, I’m, *gulp* on 215. It’s a really hard one too. All sorts of crazy combination that you need to make. I mean…two sprinkle balls right next to each other? Unfair, I say!”

He laughed. I said balls.

So, a conversation about candy crush and balls with a small child.

He thinks I am also a small child.

My children all swim on the same morning. It’s takes a wee bit of juggling and work on my part, but there’s a lovely 30-minute overlap where all three children are in the pool and I’m on my own to do as I please within the confines of the viewing gallery.

(Candy crush, anyone?)

There was a little girl sitting a few seats away from me.

She smiled at me.

I smiled at her.

She smiled back at me.

And then.

“Are you here all alone? WHERE IS YOUR MUMMY?”

She thinks I am also a small child.

You know, I’d prefer if people mistook my almost-35 to be more like almost-25 and not, you know, almost-14.

But I’ll take it.

Once again.

And perhaps I should keep the bangs a little longer. They are obviously working for me.

The post Kid A appeared first on Cheaper Than Therapy.