I’ve been a little preoccupied lately. This weekend while we were home to visit The Farm People, as my children adoringly refer to my in-laws, one of my Besties introduced me to Draw Something– an iPhone app that will suck up your soul and spit out your bones.

But you will be laughing so hard you won’t even care.

The basic deal is this: you start a game with someone… preferably someone you share a brain with unless you are a freaking artist because this isn’t easy. You choose one of three words to draw and draw it. THEN you submit and wait for your friend to guess what you drew.

But this is where the hilarity starts– they watch what is basically a video of you drawing from start to finish. The whole process. So if you erase or start over 18 times (AHEM to my brother-in-law who redrew a perfectly good sombrero about 12 times) they can watch the whole thing.

It was so addictive that within 24 hours, I had every iPhone owning member of my husband’s family playing. We all stood around in the kitchen, drawing on our phones and laughing like hyenas while we watched other draw terribly.

Take for example, my friend Stacey’s drawing. Do you know who this is????

Kate Moss. Obviously. The hip bones should have tipped us all off.

Here is my very best rendering of a music supahstar.

I don’t think your ready for THIS jelly.

If you don’t know what this is then you obviously don’t have an older brother or were seriously Hot Stuff in high school…

And my all time favorite (that I can share on the intranet without being totally ESCANDALO as my friend Rachel Hawkins would say..) Please look at all the effort my seester put into drawing “knee”…

I don’t care who you are. That is funny.

Are you drawing something yet? 

PS Please give me two little clicks and go vote for me as one of Circle of Moms Funniest Moms– SERIOUSLY it is two clicks! 

Also my friend Rachel Hawkins is on book tour right now promoting her third book Spellbound which is the final installment in the Hex Hall series, if you like YA/ Harry Potterish stuff I HIGHLY recommend. Click on her name above and check out her books! 

This is one of the only pics I have and it’s all blurry. Sorry y’all. 

I’m a pajamas type of girl. Lounge wear, yoga pants, and yes, even velour sweatsuits. If being comfortable is a fashion crime, then call the po-po, because if there’s an elastic waistband involved, you can go ahead and count me in. It hasn’t really been a life long goal of mine to see how much time I could log in loungewear as opposed to “real clothes” (pants with zippers and bras with actual underwire) but as a mom and a writer, nobody really expects me to get all done up.

The teachers in the carpool line only see me from the shoulders up, and once I get everyone to school I come home to do housework or clack away on my computer and no one is here to see me. Many of my mommy friends have similar wardrobes so it was eyeopening and exciting when last Saturday night, a good portion of Greenwood, MS showed up at the annual Cotton Ball decked out in their finest.

I ordered shoes off the internet after searching high and low for something to match my dress and crammed my too wide feet into the shoes like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister. They fit, but every time I pulled them off my feet I couldn’t help but hear Looney Tune sound effects in my head, “BOOOOOOOOING!” as my toes sprung back to their original shape and size. I put on a real bra, and make-up as my five-year-old whispered reverently, “Fancy.”

I squeezed into my Spanx, slipped into my dress and warned my husband, “Do not let me dance in this dress— at the very least remind me not to bend over.”

I barely recognized myself when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and as I teetered through the reception hall on heels, I smiled and nodded politely as I passed a tall blonde in a stunning black dress. Three seconds later we both wheeled around and gaped at each other open mouthed.

“Robin?” my friend said.

Ignore all the crap on the floor. I sent my sister this pic because I was trying to decide what shoes to wear. We decided on the shoe on my left foot. I am only posting this pic because y’all asked me to and to prove that I didn’t wear yoga pants.

“Hey! I didn’t recognize you without your ah… um…” we laughed as we left the rest unfinished but smiled and nodded in silent understanding.

All night long I found myself smiling politely then gaping at my own friends.

“You look so good!” We squealed at each other.

It wasn’t easy but I managed to keep from bending over all night— as far as I know, no one saw my Spanx hanging out of the bottom of my dress. I ditched my heels in favor of ballet flats as soon as the band started playing and had a blast dancing. My husband had to drag me away so we could be home by the time we had given our sitter. And as the clock struck midnight I wiped the makeup from my face,  pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and slipped back into my yoga pants and sighed when I recognized myself in the mirror.

One kindergartner to another, “I couldn’t EXIST without my purse!”

Emma and her friend were in the “way back” changing for dance while Sadie, my three-year-old tried desperately to get their attention from the middle seat.

I was on the phone with my sister, agreeing, for some unknown reason, to attend Zumba with her when I come to her house to see her next week.

“BUTT CHEEKS!” Sadie yelled from the middle seat, the big girls snickered.

“Hang on B,” I told my sister, I turned to Sadie, “Stop saying that. It’s ugly!” I scowled at her and she ducked her head.

I had no more turned back around in my seat when she yelled again, “BUTT CHEEKS!!”

I turned around, “SADIE!!!”

She blinked innocently, “BUT Momma! Da guhls waugh at me when I say butt cheeks.”

That’s logic I personally have trouble arguing with…

What are your kids saying in the backseat?  

“MOMMA! I’m so hungwee! What’s for dinnah?” My three-year old, Sadie, whined.

“Rice, fish and vegetables,” I said as I pulled the fish out of the oven.

Sadie: I don’t WIKE fish!

Me: Fine. Then it’s chicken.

Sadie: WEALLY? I love chicken!

Me: Then it’s your lucky night.

Guess what?

It’s your lucky night too.

Today I published an e-book! A Second Helping: A Collection of Best-Loved Columns From Robin’s Chicksis a collection of 22 of my readers’ favorite newspaper columns. A Second Helping will be available on Kindle and Nook for only $1.99!

Go read about why I should have paid more attention in gym class, the time a spray tan almost killed me dead and lessons I’ve learned from my daughters– cuz being a parent is hilarious– when it’s happening to someone else!

Special thanks to my dear friends @crystalposey for graphic design and Miki McCurdy for the cover photo! 

I’m not a particularly clean person. Don’t get me wrong, my kids always have clean clothes to wear, but they have to dig them out of a basket of folded clothes in the laundry room as opposed to removing them from their closet or drawers because I wash the clothes but don’t put them away.

I leave breakfast dishes on the counter until dinner and I’ve developed a cleaning technique called Sweep-A-Meal-Later. SAML has saved moms across the country countless hours of frustration as we have all agreed to never attempt to sweep up fresh rice or soggy Cheerios off the kitchen floor. No, we let them dry out for a few hours then Sweep-A-Meal-Later.

In a recent blog interview I was asked, “How do you do it all? Write books, speaking engagements, keep up with a blog and a weekly column?”

I answered honestly, “I don’t do it all. Something’s got to give and it’s usually my house. My kids are more important to me than the laundry and writing is more important to me than dusting my furniture. So there you have it– the secret to my success– we live in squalor. I’m sure my Momma is proud.”

But it’s sort of the truth, just like every other working parent on the planet I have to decide every second of every day what is the most important task to accomplish. If my kids are at school, then I work. If my kids are at home, then I’m their mom. For the last few months my two full-time jobs have left very little time for my other full time job as Domestic Engineer or The Cleaner and Organizer of All Things.

*Brief disclaimer: My husband rocks my face off when it comes to helping out around the house. In fact, last week before he left to go on a business trip, he came home, packed a bag, moved the wet clothes from the washer to the drier AND mopped the floor. You can have your roses, I’ll take a freshly mopped kitchen any day.

But my husband works full time to support our family (as Lynette Carolla says, “He brings home the bacon. I bring home the bacon bits.”) and when it comes to scrubbing toilets, washing shower curtains, and organizing the house– it’s all on me and for the last three months I have been squeaking by.

Last week there was a fatal accident involving my MacBook, may she rest in peace, and all the worrying, working and stressing I’d been doing over writing and PR became utterly pointless. I had no computer. Writer Robin was temporarily laid off, Momma Robin wasn’t on duty because my kids were in school so as my computer died a quick and painless death, Domestic Engineer Robin was resurrected and that chick is crazy.

All of a sudden I saw my house. I saw it like you see your house when you look out in the driveway and see that someone is unexpectedly dropping by and you panic. Everywhere I looked I saw total chaos.

I saw all the toys and electronics stashed in Toy Timeout– the top of the fridge– where they are safely tucked away from the hands of naughty children. I saw the jumble of shampoo and lotion bottles in my bathroom cabinet. I saw the dish towels and wash clothes shoved onto my laundry room shelf and I snapped.

My mother, who has known my happily disorganized self my entire life, stood in my pantry slack jawed as I took my arm and swiped everything on the shelf onto the floor and started fresh.

I wiped out cabinets with a damp rag and made no less than five trips to the store to purchase plastic bins to organize my house. I alphabetized soup cans and stacked pasta boxes by size. I sorted washcloths and filled a bag with trash and another with items to donate.

My people started to worry when I dug out the label maker.

“Are you okay?” My best friend worried.

“What are you going to do with that?” My husband whispered, fear creeping into his voice.

“I’m going to label our things.”

“What things?”

“ALL of the things.”

I labeled our laundry baskets and drawers for unmatched socks. I labeled baskets of snacks and shelves for sunscreen and baking supplies. I slapped a label on Baby Sadie’s forehead as she walked by just in case we forgot who she was.

My mother crinkled her brow with worry when she found me standing in front of my highly organized bathroom cabinet admiring my handiwork.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Just looking… it makes me feel better.” I sighed.

It doesn’t take a psychology degree to understand that this is a way for me to feel more in control of my life and I don’t even care if this means I’m crazy. It makes me feel better and should you find yourself at my house and in need of a spare sock, AAA battery, or a roll of Scotch tape– I now know exactly where to find them.

SPILL IT. What do you when your life gets chaotic? Let the mess slide or go all crazy clean?
—

Leaving Super Bowl party…

Me: Who won?

Hubs: I did.

Me: You won the Super Bowl?

Hubs: I won the office pool.

Me: Oh. Who won the game?

Hubs: The Giants.

Me: Oh… who were they playing?

I got what I went for: bacon dip, Fritos, beer and girl talk. Good times. Yay Giants?

In October of last year I attended my first writer’s conference at my alma mater, Auburn University. I signed up for group classes when I registered for the conference. I signed up for a session taught by a writer friend and chose a couple of classes on writing memoirs, and truth in storytelling.

But a few days before I left for the conference Kim, a writer friend, contacted me in a frenzy. She was green with jealousy that I would be able to hear Joshilyn Jackson speak. I believe my exact response was, “Who?” To which I received a virtual slap in the face. Kim went on in a blazing texting fury to explain to me that Joshilyn Jackson just happened to be the most amazing writer and speaker on the planet and one of the funniest people she could think of off-hand and that our friendship was, for all intents and purposes, over if I did not take this opportunity to stalk Mrs. Jackson and bask in her presence.

Not wanting to lose a good friend, I skipped one of the classes I had signed up for and slipped into Joshilyn’s question and answer session. If you’re not a writer you may not know but, y’all- it is HARD and lonely. There is no idle chit-chat, nobody in the cubicle beside you doing the same thing, and possibly, not even anyone in your ZIP code who understands what the process is like. You obsess about saying too much or not saying enough and wonder endlessly what people will think when they read your words. Then you worry some more that the last story you wrote will be your last because you feel you have nothing left to say.

I was a nervous wreck as I prepared for the publication of my first book and wondered if every book related decision I was making was the right one. And for one hour Joshilyn made me feel completely understood and almost normal. Every story she told made me nod my head with recognition and I laughed out loud as she told stories of her own.

(Side bar: I am a crier. I cry about EVERYTHING. This is not an exaggeration. Happy tears. Sad tears. Tears of laughter. Any emotion other than “I must now unload the dishwasher,” ellicits tears. And if I’m going to be totally honest… sometimes even that.)

I got a little weepy toward the end of the session and began slowly putting my notes away so that everyone else in the room wouldn’t see me crying but Joshilyn made a fatal mistake as she left the room. She made eye contact with me.  I introduced myself and attempted to tell her how much it meant to me to hear her story and I started sobbing. Not just one or two tears sliding down my cheek that could be patted away with the back of my hand. No, these were real tears— streaming down my face a la Tammy Faye Baker with less mascara. (But not much.)

I sniffled and hiccuped. I wanted to die a little. Then I made my next mistake: I acknowledged how cray-cray I was acting.

“I am so sorry. I am such a jackass,” I cried.

“It’s okay! You’re okay!” She assured me.

“No! This is so awkward for you. I’m so sorry.”

“You are alright!! Don’t worry about it.”

She hugged me and patted my back.

She had to HUG ME and PAT MY BACK.

I reigned in the crazy and walked straight to the book table and bought, “gods in Alabama,” her critically acclaimed first novel and even successfully approached her for a signature without crying.

Joshilyn gave her keynote speech the following day and the entire crowd laughed out loud as she spoke, her background in theater performance was evident as she told stories so vivid I didn’t just hear them unfolding but felt like I was watching them. It was hard to believe there was only a woman and a podium on the stage. Her voice changed as she spoke in a thick accent while impersonating her agent and the audience was captivated.

I read “gods in Alabama” in less than two days and it instantly became one of my all time favorite books. Murder, mystery, romance, humor, and fast-paced storytelling that kept me up way past my Mommy Bedtime to see what happened next. I read all four of Joshilyn’s books in two months and wasn’t disappointed with any of them. I love classic Southern storytellers like Fannie Flagg and Flannery O’Connor and Joshilyn Jackson scratched that same itch, but better. Strong words, I know.

So you can only imagine the scream that bounced off my kitchen tile when I got an email from Jamie Kornegay at TurnRow books telling me that Joshilyn Jackson would be coming to Greenwood on Tuesday, January 31^st at noon to read and sign her new book, “A Grown Up Kind of Pretty.” Seating was going to be limited and because I have gushed about my love for all things Joshilyn Jackson at quite some length to Jamie, he wanted to be sure I knew she was coming.

If you’d like to eat lunch with my favorite author on the planet, I’d highly recommend you call TurnRow and reserve a seat. I will be there with bells (and waterproof mascara) on.

Seriously– call TurnRow to reserve a seat! 662-453-5995