The co-worker.

I work with my husband, Scott.

I don’t work with him professionally but I work under the same roof as him. We work “out-of-the-home.” It sounds nice on paper. You can make your own hours. You can be flexible with the kids’ activities. You don’t need to spend a lot of money on work attire. There’s no commute. It’s deceiving – working from home.

It’s strange working with your spouse. We spend a tremendous amount of time together. Scott and I are essentially co-workers during the day. The kids are at school and we focus on our careers side-by-side.

We each have our own office. I have a couch, blankets, and a fireplace in mine. He has dead animals on the walls in his. We share a kitchen, coffee maker, and bathrooms. The offices are not soundproof. I don’t even have a door on my office. We can converse to each other yet we’re far enough away that phone conversations aren’t an annoyance.

It’s proven the more you like your co-workers, the more you like your job. As always, the Internet has advice to help you be a better co-worker.

  1. Employ audio etiquette. Watch your noise pollution. You and your co-workers are there to perform a job. Conversations, phones ringing, and food utensils clanking can be disruptive to your co-worker. Wear headphones when you can. “Oh, hell no. Not this bitch again. I ain’t listening to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album on November 2nd!”
  2. Be respectful of your shared workspace. Sharing physical space with people can be easy if you set rules. Last one to leave a room turns off the light. First one awake makes the pot of coffee. Close the door when you use the restroom. “Every time I walk in here, you’re taking a giant shit. I wish people could see what you do all day.” 
  3. Participate. Bounce ideas off your co-workers. Spending ten minutes chatting with people about a project can be more beneficial than thinking it through on your own. Use creativity together. “Hey! Check your IG. I just tagged you in this meme. Your vagina’s name is Tuna Curtains!”
  4. Sexual harassment is never ok. Unwelcome sexual advances, asking for sexual favors, and other verbal or physical sexual conducts is forbidden in the workplace. “You want to heat up this leftover pizza for lunch and then go in the bedroom real quick for a nooner? My balls are sore.”
  5. Dress appropriately. The term “dress for success” is true. If you look professional and put-together, your co-workers will perceive you that way. If you’re sweaty after a quick lunch break at the gym, you should shower before getting dressed again. “Oh, sorry – didn’t know you were changing in here. I’ll watch until you’re done.”
  6. Don’t be a gossip. Speak about others as you would if they were in the room.“There’s something different about you. Something with your face. What’s different? Your eyebrows. They’re like too dark or something. Go wash your eyebrows off. They look terrible.”

My co-worker is Scott. They say the more you like your co-workers, the more you like your job. People with a best friend at work are seven times more likely to engage fully in their work.

Day 2 of the Nano Poblano.

Written from work.



Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram

And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”

The letter X.

There are few words in the English language that start with the letter x.

The letter x is more of a symbol than an actual letter.

X means kisses.

X means “sign here.”

X means multiply.

X means “marks the spot.”

X means 10 in Roman numeral form.

X means “you are here.”

The letter X.

X – You are here.

You are here in my writing room, on my laptop screen.

FullSizeRender 3.jpg

When we built our house, Scott suggested I have my own room to focus on my writing. He calls it my writing room. It’s behind the kitchen. It’s really just a smaller living room with its own fireplace. But the room echoes what I love.

FullSizeRender 2.jpg

That’s my white marlin I caught off the coast of the Dominican Republic. He looks much bigger in Kansas. He’s made out of fiberglass. My writing room does not smell like dead fish.

I just mentioned you’re in Kansas. Overland Park, Kansas. It’s not as bad as you think. Look at any of those “best cities” lists and Overland Park is always on there. Kansas is lovely.

FullSizeRender 4.jpg

That’s a real sunset in my backyard without filters. No one really talks about the times heaven opens up over Kansas. Everyone stops and stares. It’s a secret every Kansan knows but never brags about. But I’ll brag. I don’t care.


This is not my backyard but I had to include a field of Kansas sunflowers. Did you know the sunflower turns its face towards the sun? That’s why they’re always looking the same way. Sunflowers know about the sunsets too.

I don’t know what you look like. I guess it depends on what I’m writing. But most of the time you’re female. You are probably married with kids. But that’s just a guess. I’m not sure how you found yourself here in my writing room but I’m glad you did. There’s always someone to talk to in my writing room.

It used to be strange, writing to people I’ve never met. It’s hard to judge your thoughts when I can’t see you or hear you conversing back. Maybe that’s one reason I feel like this room can be too much “me” when I also want to hear about you. I worry about that – I don’t want to seem egotistical. As much as I write, I am a good listener.

I am assuming you will stop by when your schedule allows and tell me a little about yourself.

But now I must go. I have a friend picking me up for a yoga class in about 30 minutes. The class is called Namaste and Chardonnay.  I’m going for the chardonnay.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram

X 2


The letter T.

There is only one class during my academic career where I had to pull myself out of an F.

It was a high school English class, of all classes. When I was in high school, each student had to bring a grade sheet to each teacher at midterm. Each teacher would write in the grade and make a few notes on the sheet. The students would take the sheet home to their parents. The parents had to initial each class and sign the grade sheet.

I was a B average student, meaning my grades would range from mostly As and Bs and maybe an occasional C. And one F. 

An F in English? It’s unlike me. It’s something I would expect in math but English? This particular English teacher wrote 58% in the grade box. And in the comment box, he wrote: F – FAILING.

Thank you, Mr. Dick. Thank you for explaining to my parents that a 58% is FAILING. My first response was to consult with my fellow classmates. A handful received Fs, most received Ds or Cs. One or two received Bs. Of course, the B students were upset they were not As. No one got an A.

I don’t remember if I got grounded or if my parents thought I was doing drugs after my first midterm F. But I do remember crying in front of my mom, trying to explain myself. They were upset. Their daughter F – FAILED.

I got a C by the end of the year.

The letter T.

Thank you.

Thank you to my teacher? No, that’s sarcasm.

Thank YOU.

You – you reading right now. Thank you for reading my words. I know your time can’t be wasted. And if I did waste your time, well, you’re not reading this. Thank you for listening to what’s on my mind, however meaningless it may be. 

I am a different person when I write. I am shy and introverted. I would proabably never tell you about my English midterm F in person. This is the real me and I don’t have to worry about if I have anything in my teeth.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t keep working at the craft of writing. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be an author in an anthology coming out this summer. Me – a real author, writing English, in a book that people will pay to read.

Thank you for supporting me. I mean that. You’ve changed my life. Thank you for reading a B average student’s work. And one F.

Thank for proving that English teacher wrong.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram


P.S. You are loved.

We’re on day 11 of Nano Poblano if you’re keeping track.

Nano Poblano – 30 straight days of blog post writing.

There’s a Nano Poblano group on Facebook. It’s a place where we cheer each other on. We comment and give feedback on each other’s blogs. Every day there’s a thread for us to post our blog of the day. And every day one of the group’s administrators, Ra, Brad, or Bill, will say something that makes me smile. They are phenomenal writers but what they say is always simple.

Day 6. How’s everyone doing? You’re amazing.

Day 8. Post here! P.S. You are loved.

Day 9. I’m so very glad you use your voice.

We are bloggers. We’re writers. Some of us write profound pieces that make you think. Some write poetry. Some draw. Some are photographers. And some are just humor writers that use little words (raising my hand).

The group provides prompts if we get stuck. I got stuck.

I didn’t get stuck because I didn’t know what to say but because I’m just stuck. There was a comment left on one of my previous blog posts. Surprise! Their name is Anonymous.

I’m not sure if anonymous read my post the wrong way or if anonymous was on edge because the timing of the post was post-election. It was probably my fault for posting something political. I avoid the big 3: money, politics and religion. I should have known better. In my own way, I just wanted to tell people to stop for one minute and be nice. I tell my kids this almost every day.

I got stuck.

I sparked something in someone to leave a comment full of hate. I made someone mad. I haven’t had a hate comment in a long time. I wanted to delete it. I didn’t. I responded the best I could. I get occasional comments I roll my eyes at but this comment was hateful. If anything will get me to question my writing it’s hate. Scott told me to brush it off because not everyone will like me. Men are good at that, brushing something off. I’m not.

I browsed the prompts today. I found one – 10 things that make you awesome. Any other day, I would look at this and think, “no one cares, too egotistical.” Any other day, I would just not write anything until I felt confident. For 30 days, I’m reminded by people I’ve never met that I’m amazing, I’m loved, and they’re so very glad I use my voice.

And sometimes you need to give yourself an egotistical shot in the arm. Look at me, using big words now.

10 things that make me amazing:

  1.  I fish. I don’t care if it’s saltwater fishing or freshwater. I could be in a boat or standing in a river. It can be 100 degrees or 50 degrees, I don’t care. Sea sick? Nah, I only feel sick when I’m back on solid land.
  2. I’m a good driver. Wait, I said that wrong. I’m a terrible driver. I should probably be arrested for all the laws I break while driving. When I say “good,” I mean good in the I-always-wave-thank-you-for-letting-me-over. Or slamming-on-my-brakes-in the-middle-of-the-road-to-let-you-over good. Just take my driver’s license away when I turn 65. I’m awesome for giving you permission to take away my keys. My insurance guy is reading this probably.
  3. I love sports. I’ve never asked Scott this, but I’m pretty sure that’s a big reason he loves me. I will shrivel up and die if I don’t have a TV with sports channels. The only time you will see me watching TV is during a game. What amazes me is watching our two daughters grow into serious sports fans. If you turn on any game at all, they will always ask, “Who are we rooting for?’ And they’ll root for them.
  4. My answer is always K-State, KC Chiefs, KC Royals, or Sporting KC. I do not waiver. I could move to Australia and I will not cave to their Olympic team. No. And no halfsies either. I am forever a fan of Kansas City and Kansas State, no matter where I live. I will be a loyal fan until I die.
  5. My body still thinks it’s a teenager. Sleeping until noon. I’m talking about sleeping until noon. You know how some people are up at, like, 6 am and then they’ll wake up at 6 am even on the weekends because their body is so used to it? My body is still used to waking up at noon, assuming the kids don’t drag me out of bed. I still got it.
  6. Halloween is my favorite holiday. I like dressing up as different characters and trick-or-treating myself to my kids’ candy while they’re at school. It’s better than Christmas morning.
  7. I’m not embarrassed with bodily functions. When I was little, my grandma once told me that she would never fart, poop, or burp in front of my grandpa. Like, ever. I still think about this every time I try to have a conversation with Scott while the bathroom door is open or when I challenge Kate to a burping-sentence contest. I guess most people wouldn’t think this is awesome but could you imagine only pooping while your spouse was out of the house? You’re a lucky man, Scott.
  8. I hate shopping. I dread it. It’s not that I’m a huge saver or frugal. I just don’t like making decisions. I don’t even know who I am when I shop. Is this couch too brown? Do I look good in fuchsia? Do I shop in the women’s department or the junior’s? I’m so confused. I’m a big fan of someone telling me what to buy or wear.
  9. I’m funny. For every negative comment I receive on my blog, I will get 50 positives. They all say I’m funny. I think I’m dry-funny but in a “I’m just being honest” sort of way. I’m good at telling a story with a keyboard. Most of the phrases I write are things my dad says. I think he’s hilarious.
  10. I care. The fact that I’m bothered by one anonymous comment because I made them angry must mean I care about people. Even if I wrote something morally wrong, I would still be awake at night, regretting every word I wrote because of one comment. I feel terrible for anyone I hurt because I care.


P.S. You are loved.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram


Something unfinished.

I do not know her personally.

Or maybe I do know her personally but in the same way many others know her personally. After reading a writer’s thoughts for a long period of time, it can feel personal. It’s more accurate to say we have never met face-to-face.

Her name is Ra.

She is an incredibly gifted writer, one of the greats I can’t compare myself to. No, really. If you spend a few minutes on her blog or read her book, she’ll easily pull you in. Her life story is a fascinating one but I’m only giving you a tiny part of it.

A few years ago, her husband tried to get her interested in Instagram by giving her a 30-day list of “somethings” to post. Something fragile, something shocking, something terrifying, something lucky, something obvious, something far, something near…

Tragedy struck.

Ra’s husband died. Ra is a young widow. She found her late husband’s 30-day list and is taking his challenge. She welcomed others to join too. I will post it all to my Instagram. If I can, I will write about each one too because I love a good writing challenge.

Writing is my Olympics.

Read the 30-day list here.

Day 1: Something unfinished.

I could make this one easy and tangible. I never finished the Game of Thrones books because the TV show is better. A year after moving, Scott’s home office is still unpacked with boxes scattered on the floor. And I still need to install a toilet paper roll in Emma and Kate’s bathroom. Once the butt-wiping days disappeared, I didn’t even give them a decent toilet roll set-up.

I’m not going to write about those things.

Continuing education is my “something unfinished.” This may sound odd to some because  I have a Bachelor of Arts degree from Kansas State. Class of 2004.


I was 22 years old. A baby. A mere one year into walking out of a liquor store with a bottle of cheap whiskey. I mean, legally speaking.

Did I know what I wanted to do with my bachelor’s degree and cheap bottle of whiskey? No. I was 3 years deep in a state of panic over deciding a major. I wasn’t good at anything. I was a 3.2 average student with no desire but to just pass class. 

I couldn’t decide.

Education degree? No. Kids can sense apprehensiveness and they would destroy me immediately.

Medical degree? I’m squirming and trying to hold down chunks at the thought of it.

Chemistry degree? Kansas State University can thank me for not choosing a chemistry degree because I’d probably blow up one of their buildings and my lifeless body would be wheeled out live on CNN.

Business? My negotiation skills at a garage sale can be summed up by my “it’s all free” sign in my driveway.

Math degree? Yeah, I don’t speak Chinese.

Art degree? Wait, did you say I need a portfolio from high school? No one told me that.

Journalism? Fine, I’ll do it. I read the newspaper.

A journalism degree. A Bachelor of Arts degree: Mass communications with an emphasis in advertising. Technically.

Marriage, kids, various sales jobs filled the years since 2004. I was terrible at sales. I’m an ok mom and an even ok-er wife.

In 2013, 9 years after college, it clicked. I found my major. I found my drive, my obsession, my purpose as a human in this world – writing. People that are good at what they do have confidence. Writing doesn’t scare me. “I could have wrote that” is a common thought of mine. I’m jealous when my kids bring home book reports or anything that involves a lot of writing. I told you a writing challenge is my Olympics. I’m good and I strive for great.

My something unfinished is an English degree. My words are small. My vocabulary is weak. I’m still the 3.2 average student and I can only work with what I know. I know how to start and keep a dialogue in front of thousands of people, people I don’t know personally. Writing is a way to release my creativity, wit, and maybe a little humor.

People assume I’m silently correcting their grammar when they find out I write. That’s not true. The editors are. When my words are put on the stage, there’s always a person behind my name. It’s the editor. Editors make writers look good. They are masters of the language. I want that. I want to be a master.

I own English textbooks even when I don’t have a class to attend. I read books on writing by famous writers. I’m searching for better ways to string my words together. It sounds simple – stringing words together, letter by letter, but it’s difficult. It’s unfinished.

English is my something unfinished.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram. I have 29 days to go. What’s your something unfinished? 

Screw you, anonymous.

I couldn’t sleep last night.

There were monsters under my bed. Ok, that’s not true. They were in my phone. Fine. More like monsters in my head only they weren’t monsters. They were people yelling at me. People named anonymous.

These people read the New York Times article, Why I Decided to Stop Writing About My Children.

I don’t know why I read the comments.

Internet rule number one: never read the comments. It takes thick skin to read what anonymous has to say.

I couldn’t sleep last night because my thin skin got a paper cut.

I read the comments because I am this article. The author admits she screwed up. She’s not writing about her kids on her blog anymore. This author’s blog is not different than the thousands of other blogs written by parents – she wrote about her children growing up for the past seven years. Parenting is and will always be a hot topic because becoming a parent is life-changing. It’s metamorphic. It’s relatable. Your life, your body, maybe even your personality can be separated into before kids and after kids.

She wrote about her son starting puberty.

“It seems an obvious line-crossing that I wrote about such an intimate detail, but I did. At the time I didn’t pause for a split second; I was more than willing to go there. I had been writing and reading extensively about parenting tweens. I knew people might be mildly shocked, but mostly interested.”

Her dad called her and said she should stop to think about respecting his grandson’s privacy. She made the decision to stop writing about her kids. Now she writes about nature and trees.

I am not the author of this New York Times article. I don’t know anything about trees. I managed to kill three of them in our backyard.

This author might as well be called a witch and burned at the stake. I’m next. The commenters, anonymous, were talking to me too –

“You’re a narcissist. This blog is all about you.”

“Your kids will hate you when they’re adults. Have fun with that.”

“You just wrote about your kids by saying you’re not going to write about them.”

“Get over yourself.”

“How would you feel if your mom wrote about your first period?”

“You have no respect for your children. You are a terrible mother for giving them no privacy.”

“These bloggers think they can call themselves writers for using their children as stories.”

“That grandpa is a hero. Hopefully, this writer listens to his advice. Shame on her.”

“I hope your kid’s friends don’t read your blog. You just caused your son to be bullied.”

Then I woke up.

I can only speak for myself.

Screw you, anonymous.

I write about my children. I tell their stories. I write down what they say for others to read. I share pictures. I use their real names. I started this blog when Kate was 6 weeks old. My first post documented Kate’s first smile – which is funny because she hates smiling for pictures now. I have been writing about Emma and Kate for 7 years. It’s the only thing they know – “my mom is a writer.” They are proud of that. They are proud of me.

My kids know I write stories about them for others to read. I think they would like their stories as adults. I would want to know what I said as a child. Everyone loves to hear stories of an early childhood they don’t remember.

My kids have never read my blog in its entirety. I’m not sure they would want to read about my bikini wax or my advice to men on how to get laid. Maybe one day, they’ll appreciate my writing as a woman. Or not. I am not the first mother to publicly write about adult topics. I do not write about Emma and Kate’s changing bodies or their drama at school. I don’t write about their insecurities. I do not write about them as much as I used to but that is just because of their ages. That is life. They are becoming independent. My life – my blog – is opening up to more than just my kids.

This little blog – yeah, it’s about me. I’m the main character. It’s my perspective on life as a mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend. I know my kids because I raised them. They are two of the funniest people I know. And they know it. I want the world to laugh with them.

If you think I’m taking away their privacy then don’t read it.

Oh, and make sure you tell Mark Zuckerberg that because, to me, a blog post about my kids is just a long caption to a photo. I wouldn’t post a picture of them naked much like I wouldn’t write about which future boyfriend makes them cry.

I can sleep tonight because I know I am doing the best I can. As for my future adult children – I hope they write. For damn sure, I hope they read and write. I hope they write stories about their crazy mother in the nursing home.

I hope they write better than I.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram.

How to write about your child comedian.

There’s nothing special about my kids.

My kids are not the smartest kids. They weren’t born with those type of genetics. They are not athletic because the lazy gene runs strong in my family. They also know how to awkward dance and they don’t play instruments. I’m really killing the gene pool.

They’re also not the prettiest kids. I mean, they’re the prettiest to me but probably not to you.

“There is only one pretty child in the world and every mother has it.”  Yeah, that’s it – the Chinese Proverb. That is why I don’t bombard you with pictures of my kids all over the Internet. I know my pretty kids are not your pretty kids. I don’t want to bore you.

I’m rambling. I’ll stop. I had a point here.

Ah, yes. The only thing special about my kids is that they’re funny.

Emma was two years old when I discovered the brilliantness spewing from her pretty mouth. Emma said something funny. I can’t remember what she said but I remember my response.

Me: Oh Emma, you’re such a comedian.

Emma: I don’t change colors, mommy!

I stared at her. I didn’t get it. I don’t change colors, mommy.

Emma stared back at me and laughed. She looked at her arm. She lifted her shirt and looked at her tummy.

Emma: I don’t change colors, mommy!

I got it. A chameleon! Emma thought I called her a chameleon – the reptile that changes colors. She didn’t know what a comedian was.

But I did. I gave birth to a comedian. She’s been spitting out solid gold for the past 8 years.

The difference between my funny kids and everyone else’s funny kids is nothing. My kids were not made from the loins of two stand-up comedians or even one stand-up comedian. I just happen to write about my kids on a public blog. The secret to writing about funny kids: it’s an art. 

It’s like photoshopping kids’ words.

I call it Oh Emma, Oh Kate. It’s a series of posts of the funny things my kids say. They can be a one-liner or a short conversation. I have over 75 Oh Emma, Oh Kate posts. I’m guessing approximately 20 quotes per post for a grand total of 1,500 quotes since 2010. You can read the most current Oh Emma, Oh Kate here and work your way back.

It’s not easy collecting them. It takes work and discipline. The result is worth it. I remembered the chameleon quote but I don’t remember anything else I wrote down when I go back and read old quotes I grabbed. I don’t even remember last week’s post. It’s like reading my kids’ quotes for the first time.

And that’s how I know they’re funny.

Your kids are funny too. I wrote a list to help parents start collecting quotes either for themselves or for publishing on social media. I’ve been publishing these for 6 years. My ears are always listening.

Your ears should be listening too.

Listen. Listen to your kids when they’re in the other room. Listen when they’re in the car. Always keep an ear out to what they’re saying. They say the best things when they don’t think you’re listening. It’s better if you hide and watch them slightly panic when they realize you’re gone. Don’t worry, they’ll always find you.

Talk. It’s ok to prompt them for a funny quote. Start a conversation about their opinion on, oh I don’t know, Trump vs. Clinton.


Write it down. This might be the most important and most difficult to do. You will not remember what your kid said from the day. You won’t remember what they said ten minutes later. I realize I said my kids are not smart because of their genetics but I have a great memory. I promise you – you will forget. You will only remember that they said something funny but you won’t remember what. Trust me. I have to write it down as soon as I hear it. I write down quotes in the notes app in my phone. If I’m in the car or in a situation I can’t use my phone, I will repeat the few words in my head until I can write it down. You can also send them to me and I’ll screenshot them for later use.


Always end quotes with the kid. This might apply more towards publishing humor. Any parent that publishes their kids’ quote to Facebook or Twitter is in publishing. The humor is the kids. Let the kids have the last word. Do not end the conversation with your comment or reaction. Let the reader feel your reaction for themselves.

4-year-olds are the best age. I wish I could send my kids back to age 4 for their quotes but then I remember I don’t like meltdowns either. My kids are 7 and 10. They still say funny things although it’s not as innocent as a 4-year-old. I still say funny things at 34 and I wish someone would write them down for me. Every age is a different era. School-age kids can be just as funny.

Use a two-laugh minimum. If I laughed out loud the first time, I write it down. When I read it later, after I forgot, and I laugh again – it’s probably good enough to publish and will make others laugh. I have deleted many things that felt like you-had-to-be-there.

Write how the kids talk. Tom Sawyer was a genius for writing Huck Finn in 1st person. It allowed him to write Huck’s distinctive, youthful voice. Your kids have a voice. They don’t speak perfect grammar and neither do you. Or me. Look at me. Writing all these half ass sentences. My English teachers are cringing.


Then again, maybe Scott and I are the only ones that laugh at our kids. All I know is how to save the humor like a photograph of a pretty kid.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram. I promise I won’t bore you with pictures of my kids. 

From, a nobody.

Someone took something from me without my permission. I worked hard on it. I owned it.

I feel violated. I feel small. I feel like running outside and screaming at the cruel and unfair world.

The evils of the internet took my words and passed them off as their own. It’s called plagiarism.

You see, I’m a nobody. I’m the face you see for one second in the stands at a baseball game on TV. I’m the person with the blinker on across the street at a light. I’m the back of the head in front of you at your kid’s school music show.

That’s me. Nobody. I live in the middle of the United States. I was raised here, actually. My job is to write magazine articles for a local Kansas City magazine. I love my job because I am proud of my hometown. I have a husband and two daughters. Sometimes I write about my family and my life on this blog.

I’m not the next big American author but I did land a small part in a book anthology coming out in May. I work hard to see my byline in print. I’m submit pieces to large publications to be seen by a larger audience. This is difficult for me because it takes a tremendous amount of confidence. Rejections are a requirement in this field. Everyone has their own opinion. Creativity cannot be proven.

I don’t have ads on this blog because the little money I would make is not worth your value to me as a reader. I like writing. I love it, really. I like figuring out which words to use when describing my nobody life.

I take what happens in my life and I write it so it’s simple and funny. It’s what I do. It’s also not easy.

For instance, Kate will not leave for school until I fix the seam in her sock. It needs to be placed on top of her foot before she puts a shoe on. Every day, she asks me to fix the bump. One morning I thought to myself, “I wonder how many people drop off their kids late to school because the kid refuses to leave with a bump in their sock. I should ask a teacher that.”

Boom. Make a meme. Post to Facebook.



It was my first meme. It got shared 32,000 times on Facebook. Beginners luck. There are a lot of kids with bumps in their socks.

When Emma comes home from school, she usually has math homework. We need to sit down with Emma every night to help her. She excels in writing but math infuriates her. I was the same way in school. I argued with my parents and teachers that I would never work with numbers in my adult life and if I did, I would use a calculator. Now I find myself pulling my hair out at the dinner table, trying to remember how to do long division.

Boom. Make a meme. Post to Facebook.



It got shared 17,500 times and reached over 2.5 million people.

I still can’t figure out how to say I’m walking out the pediatrician’s office with my kid dying of “just a virus.” The remedy is lots of fluids, rest, a bill and no antibiotic. It’s like losing the lottery.

I’ll let you know when I figure out how to word that in a funny, simple way. Try it. It’s hard.

I’m not trying to prove to you that everything I write is hilarious and shared with others. Rejection is always there and I’m a nobody, remember?

When a nobody finds success in writing and people want to share that writing with others, it’s uplifting. That is how a writer finds their way through the Internet clutter. I am not paid to write memes. Memes allow a nobody to become a somebody. Me, Julie Burton – the woman you stopped for in the Target parking lot, standing on the cart and riding back to her car – can make you laugh.

Then the private messages come in. Screenshots show up on my phone. Friends text me – didn’t you write this? 

The evils of the Internet show my exact words on another template with a popular blogger’s name under it. Or my words but my name is cut off at the bottom. It only takes one person to alter it. It’s found without credit, a larger publication sees it, and shares it.

And then I become a nobody again.

Most large publications and bloggers are quick to credit my name once I notify them I am the author. Most people know how to share with the correct source. The “share” button on Facebook or the “retweet” button on Twitter make it easy. And I love that. Share away. Friend me. Follow me. Play with my hair. Build my confidence.

If someone makes you laugh, makes you cry, or makes you think, the highest compliment you can give them is sharing their work. It’s an art. No one knows what we’re doing other than trying to make you feel something.

But when someone distorts the image or re-writes an image with their own name – that is plagiarizing. It’s stealing. It’s illegal.

I just have to find a way to break away to be a somebody without getting robbed.


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram. Be nice. Don’t steal.

First Post Ever.

Well, I guess I am blogging.
I’ve been thinking about blogging for awhile but never got around to it. It show you my life.
As if I can’t get enough of posting my life on Facebook.
I have no idea what I’ll write about. We’ll let Emma and Kate decide that for now. Maybe I’ll try to add grown up things along the way.
For now – I give you Kate’s first picture of her smiling. She smiled for the first time today!