Who Knew Car Seats Could Be So Naughty?

Mr. Mary Tyler Mom spoils me.  Next month I will have been a mom for six years and not once in that time have I installed or removed a car seat.  Or clipped a child’s toe or finger nail. 

Don’t hate me, haters.  I love my kids and my man loves me.  He takes care of all of us.

Well tomorrow Mary Tyler Son and I are taking off for the Bigger City, NYC, to visit Mary Tyler Auntie.  Mr. Mary Tyler Mom is staying home to do what husbands do when their wives and kids leave. (Please don’t tell me what that is.  Imma stay in my husband loving fantasy world and assume its things like pay the bills and vacuum the rugs.  Oh, and clean the fridge.  And while you’re at it, deposit the checks in my mail drawer.)  Mary Tyler Auntie is a big shot professor with lots of plants, but no kids.  That means I need to grow the hell up and learn how to deal with things like car seats.

Mary Tyler Son went down to sleep tonight and The Car Seat Lesson commenced.  God.  I did not want to learn.  I reverted to that petulant child, horrible at math, whose teacher had just called him in front of the blackboard to solve fractions, or long division, or whatever the kids call math today.  Heave Ho. Heave the Hell Ho.

The first lesson was in unhooking the latch.  I now know what a fifteen year old boy feels like the first time he tries to get to second base.  Who in the hell designed those things?  Bra hooks are to that awkward boy what the freaking car latches are to this overtired mom.  Sigh.

Second lesson was in . . .  Good God, people, I’ve already forgotten the second lesson.  What I haven’t forgotten was Mr. Mary Tyler Mom saying, “Get it in as tight as you can so it doesn’t slide from side to side.”  “That’s what she said,” I said.  I could not make this up, people.  My husband and I are comedy gold. 

The third lesson ended with me straddling the car seat and Mr. Mary Tyler Mom barking, “Now put all your weight into it and pull.  Pull!” 

Then we shared a cigarette.  Mr. Mary Tyler Mom has rolled over and gone to sleep. 

Was it good for you?

 Don’t forget that I’m on facebook now.  You can like me at:








Mary Tyler Mom is on facebook. Like me. Now.

I am what some may refer to as “technically challenged.”  Yeah.  It is what it is.  That said, I finally gots my act together and made a facebook page for Mary Tyler Mom.  Go there now.  Like it.  Like me.  Read me.  I will be eternally grateful.  So much so that I may even bake brownies for each and every one of youse.   

I’ll even make it easy for you:


Thanks, folks!  And pass it on.




Please tell me you recycle. Please.

Did you know I was an equestrienne?  For reals.  I’ve never actually been on a horse, but indeed, am an equestrienne.  I own a high horse.  It’s very high.  I like to get on it.  And when I’m on that high horse I pontificate.  Mary Tyler Mom has provided a whole new venue – – my high horse has a new stable, if you will. 

Today, high on my high horse, Imma talk about recycling in Chicago.  It is a sorry state of affairs, folks, recycling in Chicago.  There is much to pontificate about.  I could kvetch about living in the “greenest city in America” and still needing to deposit my recyclables at a local blue bin drop center.  I can complain endlessly about living in a condo that does not recycle.  I could go on and on and on, but that is boring and you don’t want to read that. 

Instead, I’ll just post a picture of my local drop center.  Sigh.  What a freaking shame.  Please, Chicago, Urbus en Horto, City in a Garden, Mary Tyler Mom needs you to do better.  This is unacceptable.  If I gave Mary Tyler Son some cartons to put in our recycling bin and saw this debacle in our pantry my toddler would be getting a time out.  And he would learn and he would do better.   Chicago?  Not so much.

If I were a glass half full kind of gal, I suppose I could rejoice at the abundance of plastic and cardboard spillng out of these blue bins.  But at the end of a long day, at the end of a long weekend, I’m not really feeling glass half full.  I’m tired, Chicago, I’m busy and over extended.  And know that when I say that if I go through the trouble of memorizing which numbers are recycled and which are not, when I diligently wash each and every soda can, yogurt container, and freaking peanut butter jar, is it too much to ask to have a place to put it?

Help me help us, Chicago.  Be true to your Latin nom.  Empty the freaking blue bins.  Please.