Are we the only ones that think this is funny?

It’s been a crazy year. And we’re not gonna lie, we’ve been feeling a bit burnt out.  So what do we do when we can’t type another word?

We head to Maui. Together.

But before you get too jealous, we should probably mention that we were outnumbered by children on this trip.  Because nothing says relaxation like having 4 kids and a baby on a five-hour flight and in close quarters for seven days.

So how did we find a way to get our aloha on?  Read on to find out….

Thank Gawd for iPads

We may have been traveling with five children under the age of seven, but the flight was- dare we say… peaceful?! Thanks to, count ‘em four iPads and three iTouches. Thank you, Steve Jobs, and the brilliant people of Apple for this invention. And yes, even the baby played Angry Birds. Lisa officially sold her soul to the devil in exchange for five minutes of uninterrupted time reading about Nick Lachey’s wedding.

Liz teaching the baby how to get to the next level.

Pool Seat Wars

There’s nothing like going on vacation only to set your alarm to get up at the crack o’ freakin’ dawn so you can, what else? Get pool chairs! Because as much as we loved our resort, there were only two chairs with umbrellas that overlooked the kids’ pool. So each morning, one of us dragged our tired ass body to the pool with all of our crap pool toys (side note: if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, we can become sherpas!) to claim our spot that we wouldn’t return to for, um, a while. (Er, sorry to the folks who had to move our stuff. Liz and Lisa+no shade=burnt unhappy campers.)

Getting our sherpa on!

The love affairs

For Liz it was a middle-aged concierge with a bright smile and a serious gift of gab. For Lisa it was a far too young, boy-toyish paddle surfing instructor who bragged about how much money he made but made up for it by exposing his amazing set of abs. But hey, the pickins were slim at our resort so we were excited to get our flirt on with some decent looking men. Or for one of us, a boy.

Hi, I’m Julie McCoy, and I’ll be your cruise director.

We should’ve given Liz a clipboard, a perm and a really short pair of shorts because the second we landed in Maui, she became our cruise director. Our really anal, really controlling cruise director. The upside? She and her boyfriend, the concierge, set us up with a lot of really great activities like surf lessons and reservations at Maui’s finest restaurants. The downside? Let’s just say only our time spent in the bathroom wasn’t choreographed. Things got a bit tense when Lisa, in a moment of desperation, had to put the kabosh on the Luau. Where was Issac and a round of cocktails when we needed him?

Liz the lobster

Maybe it was the fact that she thought she had to be on her A-game because she was our cruise director, but Liz barely even glanced at a cocktail until the last day. And then, well, let’s just say she had a LOT of fun. But she forgot to put on sunscreen. Oops. Liz+vodka pogs+forgetting sunscreen= drunken lobster. But a really, really fun drunken lobster that let us all stay at the beach an hour longer than scheduled!

Where's my next drink?

Liz’s hidden talent

Lisa’s six-month-old daughter was awesome. She slept poolside, beachside and just about everywhere we needed her to crash out. So we had to deal with poopy diapers in all kinds of places. And Lisa is still somewhat of a rookie when it comes to all of this. So when there was only one wipe left, (in a serious situation that required a lot more than one wipe!) Liz took that wipe smugly and said, you have no idea the things I can accomplish with just one of these. Twenty seconds later, one clean booty and one highly impressed BFF!

The Booze Cruise

Desperate for some alone adult time, a sunset and some “free” drinks, we set sail on a sunset cruise (a.k.a. booze cruise). Things we learned:

1. There’s a fun game to be played called “Is she his daughter or his girlfriend?”

2. Even when it’s drowning in a sh*t load of pineapple juice, Smirnoff is not and will never be a proper substitute for Grey Goose.

3. We’re the only selfish parents who didn’t bring our kids!?

4. After a few really bad well drinks, everyone on the cruise seemed to morph into a character from an 80′s sitcom. (We thought we rubbed elbows with Eric Estrada “The Ponch” and Michael Keaton- not that Michael Keaton. We’re talking that dude from Family Ties!)

Nanny 911

Of course we love our kids. And, yes, we know we already went on a booze cruise without them. But let’s just say after six days and the reality hitting that we were about to go home, one of the adults-who shall remain nameless- begged for another nanny service our last night in Maui. And we have to say it was worth every penny of the million dollar price tag (um, why didn’t we become nannies in Maui again?) to be able to sit at a restaurant table for longer than two minutes without someone asking for a freakin’ SMOOTHIE!

Smoothie-free dinner at Duke's!

Tell us about your summer vacays and be entered to win a copy of one of our favorite beach reads of the summer, The First Husband by Laura Dave. We’ll randomly select the winner after 6pm PST on Sunday, August 14th!

Aloha!  xoxo, L&L

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Only "some" of our gear

I was a hot, sweaty mess. My heart was racing. My mind was racing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so scared…

No, I wasn’t about to give birth.

Nope, I wasn’t about to walk down the aisle and commit myself to one man for the rest of my life.

And no, I wasn’t about to get my first Brazilian bikini wax since the baby was born, er, three months before.

I was about to…

fly half-way across the country with my baby for the first time.

Cue dramatic music from something scary. Like Poltergeist. Or the Exorcist. Or The Nate Burkus Show.

You’d have thought I was preparing for a three-week cruise to the Caribbean the way I packed for my first four-day trip to California with the baby. The poor hubs looked like a Sherpa as he hauled our, count ‘em, twelve bags and various baby gear out to the cab. (In hindsight, we should have ordered two taxis as it probably wasn’t fair to make the hubs ride on the roof!)

You name it, I’d packed it- and then some…and some…and some.

Diapers? Forget the flight to Cali. I had enough to fly around the world.

Wipes? I could’ve wiped the ass of every baby within a two thousand square mile radius.

Spare Outfits? My daughter’s suitcase could’ve put Suri Cruise’s closet to shame.

But beyond being prepared for anything my baby could need, I was trying to be prepared for what type of traveler she would be.

What if she decided that thirty thousand miles up was the place she should have her inaugural public melt down?

Well it turns out my baby was a perfect angel. The kind that our flight mates remarked on at the end of the flight. Wow, you’re lucky. Is she always so good?

But her mommy? Not so much.

Turns out, mommy was the problem. Mommy who was so frazzled going through security that she practically offered her baby up to be body searched. Mommy who got upgraded to first class and after consuming her second glass o’ bubbly became obsessed with babbling baby talk at her baby.  Mommy who probably broke some unwritten rule of the friendly skies and changed her daughter’s diaper in, wait for it, the seat.

But if one of us had to be annoying, better me than her, right? *wink* *wink*

xoxo,

Lisa

PS: Leave a comment (and make me feel better about being such a “freak”) and be entered to win a copy of The Baby Planner by the fabulous Josie Brown. We’ll randomly select the winner after 6pm EST on Wed., June 1.

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

I’m baaaack. Did you miss me? ;)

It feels good to step out of the “baby cave” for a minute. To be doing something other than debating the merits of sensitive baby wipes vs. regular baby wipes or trying to figure out how to keep a burp cloth clean for longer than five seconds.

Since giving birth to my daughter thirty days ago, I’ve come to a very important realization. It doesn’t matter how many books you read or bad eighties videos you watch in your birthing class, until you actually become a mother, there is no way you can fully comprehend two words.

Sleep. Deprivation.

Sure, everyone tried to warn me while I was still pregnant. Get your sleep now. While you still can. And of course I didn’t listen because I was unnaturally obsessed with things like reorganizing the kitchen and cleaning out heating vents.

And now- a month later- although I’m basically running on fumes from the aforementioned lack of shut eye and all of the following things were written in a varying state of delirium (as this post is now), I’ve recorded some of my other observations from my first month of motherhood:

Day 1- Water breaks at 10:00 p.m. while watching Top Chef. Think I peed my pants. Ask hubs to help me figure it out (I’ll let you fill in the blanks on how we did this). Decide this is okay because if I truly am in labor, he’s going to potentially see a lot worse once we are at the hospital.

Day 2- If I could do it all over again, I’d skip the Five Guys Burgers and Fries cheeseburger with jalapenos. No fun to have the burger sitting in my stomach while in labor. Tell this story to everyone and anyone who will listen after I’ve been given my epidural.

Day 3- Nurses keep coming in and marveling at the fact that I’m not 300 lbs with all the Oxycotin I’ve been taking for my post c-section pain. Can you say Lisa Limbaugh?

Day 4- Totally, deeply and madly in love with my little girl. She is the best thing I have ever done in my life. Hoping when she’s old enough to weigh in on that, she’ll agree.

Day 5- We’re home. Talking to Matt. He says something about Maria. Who’s Maria?, I ask. The nurse who helped us every day at the hospital! he exclaims. Oops. Realizing that I don’t remember much of my hospital stay. See Day #3- Oxycotin.

Day 6- Up all night. Haven’t done this since pulling an all-nighter in college. But at least that involved lots of coffee and sugar and, er, I was only twenty!

Day 7- Check on the baby for the millionth time to make sure she’s breathing. Will I ever stop doing this?

Day 8- Decide I have the most beautiful baby in the world. Me and every other mother.

Day 9- Major accomplishment. Can Facebook and breastfeed at the same time. I feel 1/16 human again.

Day 10- Need to remind myself to stop bragging about how good Baby D is. Every time I do this, she decides to throw the schedule we’ve been keeping out the window as if to say, Don’t forget who runs this show, mommy!

Day 11- Discovered I can hide in the shower- if only for a few fleeting moments. Who knew a three minute hot shower could change my life?

Day 12- Thinking about the woman from Africa who’s in the documentary, Babies. She gives birth in a hut without medication and minutes later is breast feeding her baby in one arm and hauling water in the other. Remind myself not to get frustrated that my hospital grade breast pump doesn’t work perfectly and/or I can’t hear my Real Housewives of Beverly Hills episode over the pumping sound.

Day 13- Decide the hubs and I should have our own middle of the night reality show. We make absolutely no sense when we talk to each other because we are never fully awake. I think we’re hilarious but not sure anyone else would laugh. Might be worth taping ourselves to find out.

Day 14- Wake up in the middle of the night and frantically search the bed for my baby. This keeps happening. Baby is always safe and sound in crib. Has never slept in our bed. Not sure where this is coming from.

Day 15- Pediatrician called me Mom. I looked over my shoulder for the mom he was talking to. Guess it’s going to take a while for this new title to sink in.

Day 16- Is spit up the new black? I’m beginning to think so as it’s my main accessory with every outfit.

Day 17- Lying in a pillow covered in spit up. Too tired to care.

Day 18- Silently cried listening to the baby cry after I put her down for a nap. With tears streaming down my face, I sneaked into her room for the umpteenth time and peered into her crib without letting her see me. Feel like weird baby stalker.

Day 19- My poor mother is on the receiving end of a major sleep deprivation meltdown. After the hubs intervened and forced me to nap, I wake with no memory of the content of the meltdown. Scary.

Day 20- Liz arrives. She becomes my breastfeeding coach- determined to help me stock up on milk supply so I can sleep and someone else can feed the baby. Friendship taken to a whole new level when I attach pumps and pump with abandon right next to her on the living room sofa. Matters more to me to have milk for the hubs to feed baby than Liz seeing my areolas. But I do believe Liz was traumatized. Very traumatized.

Day 21- I was “that wife” today. Called the hubs at work to talk about poop. And formula. And nipples. Had to hang up mid-talk as I rose about my body and realized what I was doing.

Day 22- The baby smiled at me. I don’t care what anyone says, she didn’t smile because she had gas. She was really smiling!

Day 23- The baby burped a nice, deep, truck driver belch. Am more excited about this than when I was nominated for an Emmy.

Day 25- Baby asleep. Have the house to myself. Drinking coffee (shh…). Watching You’re Cut Off marathon (another gift Liz gave me while here- turning me on to such a bad TV show). Feel like I’ve won the lottery.

Day 26- Another major accomplishment. Played Angry Birds- with my left hand- while feeding the baby!

Day 30- Baby had to get a shot. Decide that if I were to get shot with a double barrel shot gun in the face, it would hurt me less. Welcome to motherhood.

xoxo,

Lisa, a.k.a. “Mom”?!?!

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

So far, I’m loving 2011.  I’m ROCKING those damn bangs like nobody’s business and Lisa’s bundle of joy arrived late last week. (More details from Lisa to come later this month-so all I’ll say is that both Mom and baby are healthy and gorgeous!)  The Bears are heading to the playoffs(this makes the hubs happy) and I’ve already lost those annoying Wii-induced 5 pounds that were giving me the worst muffin top EVEH. And we all know that it’s freakin’ IMPOSSIBLE to rock jeans with boots when you have muffin top.

So how did I lose them so quickly you ask?  Did I finally open up the P90X?  Did I decide to take the stairs?  Did I get swine flu?  Nope.  I lost the weight the old-fashioned way.

Stress.

Don’t worry-it’s not the things are going terrible and I can’t eat stress.  It’s more like I’m so busy that I can’t breathe or text or eat stress.  I knew 2011 was going to be crazy but it still knocked the wind out of me last week.  I found myself wishing for just one more hour in the day to get things done.  And when I fell into bed Friday night, I began daydreaming about what I would do with that hour.  Oh, the things I would get done! I would be so much nicer!  So relaxed!  Because let’s face it: An extra hour a day would keep the bitchface away. You know, that secret bitchface that lives inside all of us?  Don’t even try to pretend like you don’t have one.

And here it is, so just in case I actually ever get that extra hour-I’ll be ready!  Or maybe I’ll just play Wii. (Damn you Grandma and Grandpa for buying the kids that time suck!)

If I had an extra hour a day, I would….

1. Get a mani-pedi with extra massage. I’d even finally let them draw that flower on my toenail they’re always bugging me about.

2. Pour a huge glass of wine and watch the latest The Millionaire Matchmaker . (Did any of you see the one recently with the PR millionairess that looked like a crayola exploded on her face and the gold digger?  Dude! You. Must. Watch.)

3. Put on super cute workout clothes and pretend I was going to the gym and then find something else to do instead. Because it’s the thought that counts, right?

4. Take my new dog to an animal psychic. Because I just have to know why that bitch keeps running away.  She went from a cold animal shelter and horrible mange to belly rubs, treats, walks and two kids that worship the ground she walks on. I don’t know how to convey to her that it’s not getting any better than this.

5. Tackle my TBR pile. Oh Vey.  Super Mario Brothers has really set me behind on this one. But I have three ARCS that I’m excited to read in the next two weeks- Best Kept Secret by Amy Hatvany(out in July), The Violets of March by Sarah Jio(out April 27th) and Here, Home, Hope by Kaira Rouda(out in May).  Oh, and speaking of ARCS, you’re going to LOVE Sarah Pekkanan’s Skipping A Beat(due February 22).  I read it one day last month-I laughed, I cried, I loved it. Do yourself a favor and pre-order it.  And Leave a comment here to win an ARC of Sarah Jio’s The Violets of March!

6. Read the stack of Entertainment Weeklys sitting on my desk. Because drooling over Jake Gyllenhaal half-naked on the cover is not actually considered reading.

7. Learn how to bake. Because I’m tired of my daughter saying, Oh, Mommy! when I pull lopsided, burnt cookies out of the oven.

8. Shop by myself. I don’t care where.  Although for some reason I find Target very relaxing(until I get to the cash register and realized I’ve spent $200 and bought NOTHING I actually need).

9. Have happy hour with the girls. Because an hour with good friends, a Grey Goose dirty martini and an onion ring stack can make just about any problem melt away.

10. Have a conversation with my hubs that has nothing to do with snot, poop, time out, or Wii. Is that really too much to ask? And if I got an another hour, I might actually kiss him with some tongue.  In fact-let’s declare 2011 the year of the married make-out session! All I need is a shot of tequila to help me forget about all the other things I should be doing instead and I’m in!

What would YOU do with your extra hour? Leave a comment and you’ll be entered to win an ARC of Sarah Jio’s upcoming debut, The Violets of March.  I’ll pick the winners on Wednesday night after 6pm PST.  Good luck!

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Repeat after me: Just say no.  Just say no.  Just say no.

I’m not sure when I realized that I was a total people pleaser.  It might have been in second grade when I became the teacher’s pet.  Or maybe in college when I just couldn’t stand to have anybody be angry with me.  Or when, after overextending myself AGAIN recently, my husband informed me that it was time to become friends with the word NO.

But the thing is, I don’t like saying NO.  And not just because there’s some freaky people pleaser living inside me that probably needs therapy, but because I really DO want to try to do it all. (or at least pretend that I can!) But with two kids, a full-time job and my writing endeavors, adding much else can send me over the edge faster than you can say Lindsay Lohan.

But don’t worry, when it comes to my kids, I serve out plenty of the N-O.  For some reason, the people pleaser in me doesn’t care if they get mad at me.  Or maybe deep down inside I know that if I don’t say NO to them now, I’ll pay dearly for it later. But for just about anything else, I’m a complete YES whore.

My college sorority needs an advisor? Sure!  I’m sure that the hour drive to get to campus for events will be worth reliving my glory days, right?

Girl Scout troop needs a co-leader? Sure! Even though I can’t control my two children, I’m sure getting fifteen five-year old’s to listen to me will be no problemo.  Just don’t ask me to sew on any patches.

And it’s not just over-volunteering that I have a problem with.  I just dread telling people NO in general-and I have the magazine subscriptions and coupon books and cookie dough to prove it.  It’s so bad that Lisa had to have a NO intervention with me recently.  And don’t tell anyone, but sometimes she gives me a script on how to say No.  She’s my NO coach!

And she’s right.  Because often I find myself saying yes to things I shouldn’t and over scheduling the sh*t out of myself.  And then sometimes I have to say yes and then NO, which is even worse than just having the balls to say NO in the first place.  So because of that, I’ve been trying to get my NO on for the last month.  And although I sweated my ass off when I wrote my first NO email, it felt liberating to take control back of my own life.

Need a late night pickup from the airport? Hell to the NO!

You just need one more subscription to win that trip to Europe? No can do!  I’ve had enough O Magazine to last me a lifetime.

Want me to upgrade my Amex account? No F’ing way-I don’t care how cool your concierge service looks!

So as you can see, I’m slowly learning the art of saying no.  But I don’t want to go too far in the other direction.  I’ll always want to be someone that people can count on when they need something.  Because, like any friend, I really do want to help them if I can.  And I’ll never be able to pass someone with  cardboard sign without throwing a couple bucks their way.  But maybe now I’ll be better at saying no to the things that ultimately take away from the things that matter most.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that elusive balance that I’m seeking. (Yeah right!  But a girl can dream, right?)

How about you? Do you have trouble saying NO?  Leave a comment and you’ll be entered to win a copy of  the bestselling Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler!  We’ll pick the winners on Wednesday night.
xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve always believed that, like wild animals, small children can smell fear from a mile away.

And I’m not talking about the fear of flying or clowns or being terrified that I’ll have a muffin top when I wear my favorite jeans.  I’m talking about the fear that the kids won’t eat what I make for dinner.

And the more I fear, the less they eat.  It’s like they can smell my desperation, my insane desire for them to enjoy whatever I’ve been slaving over in the kitchen.  That they’ll say “Yummy Mommy!” rather than “Eww, this tastes like poo poo!”

I never questioned my cooking skills before I inadvertently became a contestant on Top Chef: Mommy Edition.  In fact, the Italian in me could be quite cocky when it came my abilities in the kitchen.  But when my kids turned three and became mini food critics, I began to wonder if I had what it takes to please their picky palettes.

That’s why, in a moment of desperation, I purchased Deceptively Delicious by  Jessica Seinfeld (Jerry’s wife) last week.  Lured in by the promise of happy mealtimes, I bought into the theory that pureeing veggies and hiding them in a bowl of pasta or grilled cheese was the way to go.  That if I forced encouraged my five-year-old to help prepare the meals she might be more likely to eat them.

And, being the Type A’er I am, I threw myself into Project “Eat your damn food!” with abandon.  Jessica was kind enough to let me know all of the kitchen items I was missing and gently scolded me in her book for not using whole wheat flour and breadcrumbs.  And after a very expensive trip to Whole Foods, I too was ready to grind every vegetable in the house into oblivion. It was so easy! she declared.  She and Jerry puree very Sunday evening after they put their perfect children to bed while watching Seinfeld reruns! Okay, maybe not the last part.

But after spending THREE hours in the kitchen pureeing my ass off, I started to think Jessica had misled me a bit.  That maybe she didn’t realize that I’d be working in a small galley kitchen with a old cuisinart rather than a ginormous space filled with Viking appliances, sub-zero refrigeration and a Magic Bullet.  Or that I’d actually be the one doing it. (C’mon, does this beyotch really want me to believe she doesn’t have even a part-time chef?)

But I was determined.  And after bagging and marking and dating each and every bag, I was ready to conquer my kid’s eating habits.  Because if Jessica Seinfeld could get her kids to eat tofu nuggets with broccoli puree secretly hidden in it, then DAMNIT, so could I!

But as tasty as those tofu nuggets sounded(not!), I decided to start with the tortilla cigars.  Because anything with cream cheese and cheddar cheese in a tortilla couldn’t be that bad, right?  Even WITH the yellow squash and carrot puree hidden deep within.

I was giddy with anticipation (or maybe just delirious from working in a hot kitchen for three hours) when I took the cigars out of the oven.  I  had tasted them and they were damn good- you would never know that there was secret nutritional value lurking inside. And after initially turning their noses up at something new like they usually do, I was able to threaten them with time out lovingly convince them to take a bite.

And guess what?  I didn’t hear the word “disgusting” uttered the entire meal.  Although my five-year-old did declare halfway through that she didn’t like them as much as she originally thought. But I didn’t care.  I decided then and there that it had all been worth it.  That it really didn’t matter if Jessica and Jerry Seinfeld had never pureed a sweet potato in their life or if they had a housekeeper that cleaned up the ridiculous mess that pureeing made.  Because my children ate something new and liked it.

And I believe that my daughter was more willing to try it because she had helped in the kitchen.  Like she finally knew what it felt like to work your ass off only to have your children do their best Gordan Ramsey impersonation.

So one small victory for mom.  I’m moving on to butter noodles with yellow squash and chicken soup with cauliflower next.  From now on, instead of smelling fear, my little animals with breathe in my deceptively delicious creations. And whether Jessica sits on the couch reading US Weekly while her housekeeper slaves away or if she has a date each Sunday night with her Magic Bullet, it doesn’t really matter.  Because for one night, I was Top Chef of my own kitchen again.

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

It’s been a while since my last Mommy Monday. Lately I’ve been hanging out over at Momlogic.com, bitching about things like Chuck E Cheese and summer camp.  I’ll be blogging there couple times a month so don’t forget to head on over if you’ve had one of those days and need an instant mommy blog fix.

Today I’m talking about one of my favorite subjects.  Myself!  Or rather, my MOMMY MUST LIST.  You know, those things that I just can’t live without.  And maybe a few things that, well, I could live without but just don’t want to!  And the Mommy MUST list will be a regular feature here, so don’t be shy-let me know what your Mommy MUSTS are.

What are the things that make your day easier? What are your guilty pleasures?  What do you absolutely HAVE to have or you *might* just kill someone?  Tell us here or email me and maybe I’ll include it in on the next Mommy MUST list!

But for the first Mommy MUST list, I just started with the basics.  Things that are as essential to me as food and water. Things that I would do just about anything for.  Things that I might cut a bitch for if I had to.

Liz’s Mommy MUST list: The essentials!

Starbucks Green Iced Tea-  You don’t want to get between me and the nearest Starbucks in the morning.  After patting myself on the back for kicking my daily five shot iced Americano habit, I realized I traded it for another addiction.  And just because I don’t get a headache and crackwhore shakes when I don’t have my green tea doesn’t mean that I’m not just as obsessed with getting my daily fix.  Damn you Starbucks and your refreshing beverages!

Mac Macbook- He helps me blog, email, shop, keep in touch with friends and crop my vacation pictures. He tweets, keeps my calendar and lets me know when I’ve eaten too many Weight Watcher’s points.  And even though he’s been a bit slow lately and I’m thinking of upgrading him to a younger, sleeker model, he still gets the job done and never talks back. If he could cook and do laundry, I’d leave my husband for him.

My iTouch-He drowns out Spongebob, Johnny Test and my kids fighting over those lamesass Mighty Beanz. (WTF with those things anyway?)  I’d never would have written one chapter of The D Word without him blaring my favorite playlist as a soundtrack for each chapter.  He can even facebook or tweet for me in a pinch! And most importantly, he plays my music without any commentary about how lame Barry Manilow and Nickelback are.

A weekend getaway- We all need a break sometimes,right? So when I get the chance to get out of town sans kids, I head the most adult place I can find: Las Vegas! Between the pool, the spa and the free drinks, you’ll be saying, “Kids? What kids?”  as you play Blackjack next to D list celebrities at The Hard Rock Casino or as you dance on the table at the Playboy Club. My new favorite hotel?  The Aria.

A Good Book- If you don’t have the time or money for a quick getaway, why not escape into a good book?  I highly recommend The Divorce Party by the lovely and talented Laura Dave.  Want to peak into someone else’s life?  Then check out Julie Metz’s fascinating memoir, Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal.  And on that note, tomorrow we’ll be introducing new Lit IT Girl Kim Wright and her fabulous debut, Love in Mid Air!  Make sure to stop by and leave a comment for your chance to win a copy.

Happy hour with the girls- It’s muy importante to take  the time to have a glass of wine and detox with your girlfriends every so often. Staying connected with your besties is the best gift you can give yourself!  My favorite place to relax and talk some shit with my favorite girls?  The Rooftop Bar in Laguna Beach.  Their view is amazing and the sunsets there are like no other.

So there you have it!  What’s on YOUR Mommy Must list?  Leave a comment and I’ll enter you in a random drawing to win one of TWO copies of Christine Lemmon’s Sand In My Eyes.

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Remember the days you thought 7am was oh-so early?

When you used to spend all day Sunday on the couch watching VH1?

I used to think I knew what being tired felt like-something I could cure by sleeping in until noon the next day or adding an extra shot to my Americano. But then I started having children.  And I’ve been tired in some capacity ever since!

And it’s not just me.  Everyone around me with kids under five just seem like they would happily curl up into a ball and take a catnap if given the chance. And all the B12 in the world doesn’t seem to make it any better.  Believe me, I’ve tried the shot in my ass, the pill and even that new nasal B12.  And I’m still f*cking tired!

My now three-year-old didn’t sleep AT ALL the first year and I used to walk around like a zombie, wearing my exhaustion like a badge of honor, daring anyone within fifty feet to try to compete with my tiredness.  I quickly discovered that  long-term sleep deprivation made me a humorless beyotch with bad skin.

Had to wake up at 6am to make it to Yogalates? Boo F’ing Hoo!

Stayed out too late with the girls and had to recover by watching SATC on TBS for four hours straight the next day? I’m hatin’ on you just a little bit.

Anytime anyone over the age of ten gets to take a daytime nap? Super. Insanely. Jealous.

And even though most nights my munchkins now sleep peacefully, (although sadly WILL NOT sleep past 6am, no matter how late we keep them up) I still find myself tired most of the time.  Not the bone-aching, mind-numbing newborn baby tired, but more like a constant feeling like I’d like to stop whatever I’m doing and go lie in bed. Which btw, is a very impractical thought when you’re in the middle of a presentation at work.  Or in the middle of a conversation with, well, ANYONE!

And while I recognize that heading out for a jog or spending some time at the gym would help this problem, I just can’t seem to find the time or motivation to drag myself there.  The thought of waking up at 4am to go the the gym makes me want to take a free weight and punch the person in the face who suggested it.  Or wrap them up in a Pilates mat and roll them down a hill. Or use them as my kickboxing class punching bag.

And don’t even get me started on that research that claims you need to get at least seven and a half hours of sleep each night in order to lose weight.  Another strike against any mommy trying desperately to take off those last eight pounds. Clearly a man came up with that sh*t!

So until I reach that promised land where my children are able to wake up and get dressed without parental assistance, I will remain slightly tired at all times. And I’d like to give Lisa a big shout out for enduring MANY early morning bitchface emails from me! Sorry!  I should be banned from any forms of communication besides grunting before 7am.

So to all you tired mommies out there, this one’s for you.  Let’s band together in our slight everyday crankiness.  Tired Mommies Unite!

And for those of you who think this post is kinda bitchy, sorry! I was super tired when I wrote it. =)  To make it up to you, I’m giving away a SIGNED copy of Emily Giffin’s latest release, Heart of The Matter. Leave a comment to be entered!

xoxo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Kids? What Kids?

Three babysitters.

Five months of planning

A ten page long to-do list.

Four days of child-free bliss in a foreign country

Remember the days when all you needed to get away was a passport and some vacation time?  My hubs and I used to pride ourselves on perfecting the “last-minute” vacay, trying to prove that we were just too cool to actually plan our long weekends in advance.  And maybe booking a flight to Vegas that was departing in two hours gave me a slight adrenaline rush. (Well, that and knowing I’d be screaming BLACKJACK! in three hours.)

But all those things changed the day we had children.

Now, we practically have to set up a tactical control center in order to have a child-free weekend.  The Oscars have been put on with less planning (and it shows!) than our recent trip across the border. Okay, so maybe purchasing an earpiece and a mic to speak into while coordinating the school drop-off and picks ups was a bit too much.  But I’d like to think that my to-do list would’ve brought even the biggest A-lister to their knees.  I was determined to board my Mexicana flight with a margarita in hand and not a care in the world. (Well, except for the fact that we were flying Mexicana. But that’s a whole other blog.)

But things didn’t go exactly according to plan.  But, no worries, we were still able to have quite the fiesta(and more importantly, a siesta) in the lovely city of Cabo San Jose.

And because I’m such a giver, I’d thought that I would give y’all some tips for the next time you’re stupid brave enough to have the balls to actually try to have some time to yourself:

1. Try to schedule as many people to watch your children as possible. Because nothing says “I Love You” to your kids more than passing them off to THREE different caregivers during a four-day period.

2. Make sure that at least one childhood milestone happens while you are away. It’s fine.  I didn’t want to see that first tooth come out anyway-too much blood and crying for me.  And that lame movie starring The Rock totally ruined the whole Tooth Fairy thing for me anyway.

3. Book a resort that has spotty cell phone reception Because nothing makes you want to party down more than when you can’t figure out whether your children actually made it to school.  And squeezing yourself in between the TV console and sliding glass door in order to get one bar of cell reception after eating a pound of chips and guacamole is just unflattering. Trust me.

4. Spend more on the trip than the babysitters Thankfully, our resort was serving up fourteen dollar margaritas or this might not have happened. Whew! That was a close one. A big shout out to Cabo Azul’s swim-up pool bar for helping us out!

5. When you DO find cell phone reception, make sure to phone when the children have no desire to speak with you. Because it really warms your heart when your five year-old screams “HI! BYE!”  into the phone after you’ve just spent ten minutes trying to figure how the hell to dial 011 before your home phone number. (Or was that 001? Maybe that’s why it took 10 minutes. So confusing!)

Okay, there you have it! A big thank you to all the wonderful friends who watched our little rugrats so we could eat a meal that lasted longer than thirty minutes and actually digest our food. Thanks to you, they didn’t miss us at all! xoxoxo

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Giving beer goggles a whole new meaning...

Girls night out. Three beautiful words that always seem to light up the faces of whoever utters them.  Back in the day, it meant putting on your favorite pair of Seven jeans and going on the prowl for Mr. Right-dancing the night away at your favorite club and eating Jack in the Box at three in the morning.

And when I did find Mr. Right,  I was so smitten that I was willing to gain seventy pounds, not once, but TWICE in order to bear him two children.  And somewhere along the way I started saying N-O to GNO.

At first, it was because I was pregnant for what seemed like three years straight.  During which time I would only stay up past midnight when I was rocking a screaming baby.  Or cleaning their throw up off my pajamas. Or trying in vain to fall back asleep after my little darling crawled into our bed, giving me approximately three inches of space. (WHY do they always come to my side?)

And let’s not even bring up those last ten pounds of  baby weight that was still firmly cemented on my body, making a mockery of me each time I dared try to squeeze into one of those old GNO tops that still hung in the back of the closet.

But something happened when my youngest turned two.  Finally able to get a good night’s sleep, I  found the energy to care about more than how I could manipulate my daughter into picking the shortest book on her bookshelf to read that night or how to get my son to eat something other than pasta. And the baby weight?  I went on Weight Watchers and rid myself of that damn muffin top that had been plaguing me each time I shoved my ass into those Seven jeans.

I was back, baby!  It was time to get my GNO on.

I had GNOed sporadically during what I like to call the “battleground years”.  But each time, all I could think of was the hell I would pay the next day.  That it would take me a week to recover from staying out too late and having a cocktail or two.  Or I’d be so tired that I’d almost fall asleep in my champagne, barely able to hold up my end of the conversation. And while my husband and I attempted to have a date night each month, I found myself daydreaming at dinner about getting a hotel room by myself so I could sleep in peace for a few hours.

Thank God those days were over- I had finally reached the promised land! Well-rested and sporting my pre-prego jeans, I was ready to take on the world! 

Happy hour? Bring on the half-priced appetizers!!

Friend just got dumped and needed some girl time to recuperate? I’m your gal! 

Want to celebrate your latest promotion? I’ll have the champagne waiting!

The world was my oyster once more.  Or at the very least, I was going places where they served oysters instead of chicken strips and fries.

And it was about so much more than just having a glass of wine.  It was about reconnecting with the person I was before I had kids-the one who used to play tennis, read three books a week and was the life of the party. And cultivating all those beautiful friendships again that I missed so much. (There’s only so many poo-poo and  spit up talks people are willing to have with you!)

While I love my kids and feel incredibly blessed to have them, I’m not ashamed to admit that there’s a part of me that misses my pre-mommy self. And even though  I’ll never again be the girl who dances on the tables, (long story!) I  like to think that by making time for myself every so often, I’ll find a nice middle ground that both myself and my family can live with.  Because I don’t believe that being a great mom means you have to give up who you used to be or the friendships that keep you grounded.

So next time you’re invited to GNO-don’t say N-O.  Remember that Mommy needs some me time too.  I’ll see you there-I’ll be the one toasting you from across the room.

Do you make time for yourself?  Leave a comment and be entered to win one of FOUR copies of Irene Zutell’s breakout novel Pieces of Happily Ever After, an intriguing story about a mom who struggles to find herself after her husband dumps her for an A-list celebrity.

xo, Liz

©2012 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.