Where to Find Me



Welcome to Martinis and Motherhood. My name is Shannon Day and I’m a freelance writer living in the Toronto area. Thanks for stopping by! Although I no longer blog, you can find my writing at various online sites as well as in print. I specialize in parenting, humour, lifestyle, and relationship content. Click on the icons below to see some of my work.

If you are interested in connecting with me, please reach out via email.








Scary Mommy Logo












A Letter to the Fox Who is Eating a Bird

Red fox
Greetings to you, my woodland friend.
I must be honest. I wasn’t quite sure what to think when I first discovered we were cohabitating, here in suburbia. You see, I’ve never really known a foxy fella, like yourself.
But damn, you really are a gorgeous and mysterious creature! Your flaming orange fur reminds me that not all things orange are ill-intentioned. And your R.F.F. (Resting Fox Face) keeps things interesting for me, as I ponder what’s going on inside your sly mind.
Back in June, I was taken aback when our next door neighbour shimmied herself, wide-eyed and determined, between the pines and into our backyard. She tiptoed in, like a secret agent (elderly division), speaking in hushed tones. It seemed you’d been sleeping for hours in her backyard, all curled up on a big rock in the afternoon sun.
Worried for our daughters’ safety, and not wanting to wake you from your slumber, she appeared with her urgent warning of your presence. Believing you to be sick, rabid perhaps, she’d called the local wildlife authorities who were en route.
We rushed the girls inside and awaited their arrival.
Gathered at the kitchen window we witnessed a disheveled duo come on the scene, sporting measly looking supplies. And then we watched you hit the road running. You, a perfectly healthy fox, were not going to be scooped up by some fools with nets.
You hoofed it like a track star that day; the bad guys didn’t have a chance.
And you made your intentions clear: “I’m here, in your neighbourhood, on my terms and there is nothing you silly humans can do about it.”
Since then, you’ve made yourself even more at-home: chillaxing in the gardens of our
suburban ‘hood, frolicking playfully— so carefree— with your siblings; trekking off solo, into the bushes (squirrel-in-mouth), with a sassy twinkle in your eye.
You’ve got swagger, fox. I’ll give you that.

Continue reading

My Massage Therapist Bums Me Out



I awoke with a pounding headache, a kid’s foot in my face, and a crooked neck. Yet, in a few hours, none of that would matter because I had booked myself in for a massage.

I felt a subtle sense of calm just knowing the sounds of distant crickets and soft breezes would soon envelope me into a Zen-like state. I imagined myself, in a post-massage euphoria, floating out the door, sporting a vibrant, peaceful glow…

So, up went the ponytails and in went the lunches. I then bid my kids adios and peeled out of the school parking lot.

Moments later I was lying, clothes-free, under a clean white sheet; my face awkwardly crammed into the donut-like hole of the massage table. There weren’t any audible crickets or breezes but the background music, a combo of didgeridoo and ocean waves, certainly sufficed.

The massage therapist entered the room, sat down on her stool, and began kneading the knots out of my neck. Her hands were strong and skilled. She checked-in to make sure the pressure was okay. I told her it was.

And then, she stood up, slid the stool under the table directly below my protruding face. I gulped down a gag as a harsh aroma emanated from the stool and crept into my nostrils. Survival-mode kicked in and I held my breath; eyes moving from side-to-side for no apparent reason. Should I say something to her? Like, “I was hoping for eucalyptus or lavender, not Eau de Ass Crack.” I mean, how would I even broach the topic?  Would I say, “Excuse me, but your stool smells like… stool”?  Or maybe, “I’m dyin’ under here! HELP!”

(I’m sure a simple, “Would you please move the stool?” would have done the trick. But, somehow, I didn’t think of it at the time.)

So, what did I do about the situation?  Nothing. That’s what I did.

Instead of facing the problem, I opted to shallow breathe for the remainder of the treatment while mentally downplaying this attack on my air supply.

Needless to say, I was grateful-as-fuck when the face-in-the hole position finally brought congestion into my sinuses leaving me blissfully incapable of breathing from my nose.

Time. Stood. Still.

And when it was over, I launched myself off the massage table and got dressed. I definitely wasn’t floating nor was I sporting a vibrant, peaceful glow. My neck did feel better, though.

I paid the bill, and replied (with a robotic smile) that, “Yes, it had been a great massage!”

I even left a tip because apparently I felt it was mean not to. Yes, I had to endure face to face space with the scent of a bum but I’m sure it was unintentional.

And then, before I could muster up a, “No thank-you!”  I’d booked myself in for another appointment with the same person, for the following month. Because, hey, why not?

I got in my car and drove home, with full intentions of cancelling the massage and possibly sending the masseuse an anonymous note to tell her about her butt.

Yet, somehow I felt badly for her.

So, I decided not to cancel or write a note. In fact, the appointment is coming up tomorrow. I figure I’ll be better prepared this time. If she slides the stool under the table, I’ll just ask her to move it. Right away! I’ll tell her I’m claustrophobic or something like that. Because, certainly can’t be the one to tell her that she has a smelly bum. But if I don’t, who will?


This post first appeared on BLUNTmoms.


Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover




30 Annoying Mid-Life Truths


Yo, middle-age! You sure did sneak up on us! And, although we’ve been expecting you, my girlfriends and I can’t help but feel offended by some of the nasty and mean shit you’ve brought along to the party.

Now, don’t get us wrong, we are warriors; ready to take on whatever you toss our way. But we will bitch about it. We must bitch about it because venting and commiserating makes us feel better, damn it!

And, while we’re complaining, tweezing, and locating our missing glasses (usually on our heads), we like to pour ourselves a nice glass of red wine. After all, it’s good for us, right? With all its antioxidants and “gym-like” effects.

So, why don’t you join us for a little wine-sipping bitchfest. We’re happy to have you here.


The 30 Most Annoying (& Sometimes Gross) Things About Midlife:

1. Chin hairs,
2. Neck hairs,
3. Goddamn nipple hairs.
4. Sneeze-pees,
5. Missing keys,
6. Muffins tops,
7. And sketchy knees. (Mama’s gonna need a ‘lil help getting up.)
8. Heartburn, (But I love coffee, wine, and chocolate!)
9. Tweens that turn (into hormonal beasts).
10. Lazy digestive tracts,
11. Sore and aching backs.
12. Temperamental sciatic nerves. (Damn you high heels!)
13. Pick-up lines from creepy pervs,
14. Memory loss,
15. An old wardrobe to toss.
16. Lines and wrinkles,
17. More frequent tinkles. (Hello 2 a.m.)
18. Arms that wave from below.
19. Flashes of heat,
20. Changes of mood.
21. Unexpected comments,
22. Coming across as rude. (Did I just say that?)
23. Blurry menus,
24. Farts that slip out.
25. The writing of lists,
26. A foot that has gout.
27. The need for bifocals,
28. And a weekend away.
29. Midlife can suck it!
30. But it’s here to stay. (Until late-life hits and we can make a new, and even more bitch-worthy, list.)


We really could name over a hundred indignities, but we keep our sense of humor intact. Because if we weren’t ripping a gut laughing (despite the farting thing) we’d be crying buckets! And they say cry-lines are even worse than laugh-lines.

So, cheers to midlife and its cruel sense of humor!

This post appeared first on BLUNTmoms.



Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book for moms? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too! If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!

An Ode to Parenthood…

An Ode to Parenthood


Becoming a parent is…
the end and the beginning
We worry and we think a lot
And, yes, sometimes we’re winning

And other times we’re losing track
Of time and all our sanity
But parenthood is worth the shift
Overrated was our vanity

Kids simplify perspectives
Yet they also complicate things
They show us new paths and doorways
Make us feel like servants & kings

Our kids, they are so funny
They make us lol
They mess and fight and act like fools
At times, they really smell

But our love for them’s colossal
The most abundant kind
A love so deep and endless
So pure and unrefined

Parenthood’s a paradox
Full of contradiction
Sometimes the flow is easy
Sometimes it’s filled with friction

Yet always there are moments
of greatness that prevail,
A kiss, a hug, a thumbs up
Then out the door, they sail

They’re ours for just these moments
Before we know it, they’ll be gone
So hold tight through the rapids
Of the parenthood ride you’re on

Because having kids is priceless,
a wonderful thing indeed
A privilege, a pleasure
the reason you just laughed & peed

So “Cheers to our children,
To the Wonder and the Woe,
And of course to all the WTF?!
For through it all, we grow!”

Written by: Shannon Day


Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover





Dried Apricots Saved My Ass

Happy woman jumping in golden wheat

Joan rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week…

“If you want to visit the loo for a number two, eat dried apricots.” – Joan

These simple—yet wise, and oh so powerful—words of wisdom were passed down to me by an elderly friend of the family. She, too, had suffered the traumatic (and sometimes dire) effects of chronic constipation.

She’d known what it felt like to be anal retentive, literally. And she had believed herself to be a grumpy person by nature. But really . . . it was just poo. That uptight sourpuss was actually a peaceful ray of sunshine, stifled by the storm clouds of her predicament. And when Joan realized the power of dried apricots, she rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week.

Such a jolly old gal, she is.

Joan is very candid and open, as well. So I chatted with her about my own sufferings in the “shit department” of life. She wasn’t at all surprised when I shared with her the details of a 12 day, fecal-free, bender (that happened back in ’02). The kids had simply refused to be dropped off at the pool! Instead, they gathered together, to form one giant kid—a kid that eventually, through sweat and tears made its debut with a glute-splashing cannonball of mammoth proportions. This ordeal was like a heads up for me (and not in a turtle head kinda way). Oh no! I had been given a sneak peek into what it would actually feel like to give birth . . .

Years later, in the hours leading up to the delivery of my first baby, I drew strength from my past experiences. If I could survive the mammoth poo of ’02, I could do this. And I did!

I’m happy to report that the days of stubborn turds are history now. No longer do I writhe in pain, or pass on seconds because I barely had room for firsts. No way! My digestion knows new joys. And I owe thanks for this, and for the many carefree smiles, to Joan and her dried apricot advice.


*Note* – Some of this is utter BS and some of it is based on truth. It has been written for the purpose of “shits and giggles.”


This post originally appeared on the fabulous In The Powder Room.

My Husband Hates My Lover….

Free Happy Woman Enjoying Nature. Beauty Girl Outdoor. Freedom c

Like a temperate pool’s caress…

I’ve got a new lover in my life.

She’s a dress. But, not just any old dress. Long and flowing, she wraps herself around me, gently; like a temperate pool’s caress on the booty of a skinny dipper.

Whenever I wear her, I feel fresh and full of life. Her effects, at times, transcend me to places of an almost spiritual nature. I honestly don’t think anything could be more feminine and uplifting than she.

Heavenly. She is so damn heavenly. And I feel grateful to have discovered her on a lonely sales rack last month. Continue reading

How I Met My Husband…

John and I


Did I ever tell you about how John and I met?  It happened late one Saturday night, in January 2003 at a bar in Hong Kong. We met. We laughed. And, yes, we made-out like crazy teenagers. When the sun came up, our rendezvous ended, and we went our separate ways with a plan to meet the following weekend. Same place. Same time.  And so we did. And the story of “us” officially began.

Now, did I ever tell you about the events leading up to our meeting?  The ones that make me question whether or not destiny, herself, may have played a small hand in our union?

Well, I wrote a short story about it and it can be found in this fab new book!  Once Upon an Expat shares an ecclectic collection of funny and heart-tugging stories told by women writers from around the globe.  And I am so excited to have my story, A Man From Another Land, within its pages.


It’s available on Amazon and all author royalties will be donated to Books Abroad, helping promote literacy and education in developing countries.


Once Upon Promo

Farewell Ironing Pile, Hello Joy

Screaming Housewife With Steam Iron

They say it takes two to tango and I agree.

I’ve been there.

I’ve done the dance.

I’ve ridden the rollercoaster.

Our relationship brought out the worst in me.

We were not compatible.

We did not click.

In fact, our union was doomed from the start. But, everyone else was dancing the same tango and they weren’t complaining. Piles of ironing to do each week was simply part of the UK way of life.

And somehow, even though I was Canadian, my British husband got caught up in the idea of you and I trying to make it work.

I mean, I was the one at home while he was out in the workforce so… you fell into the category of “shit I needed to take care of.”  But, I kinda resented you, all of you, as you gathered in a pile, waiting for my attention each week.

After a ten year–somewhat surreal–experience; and a move from the UK to Canada, I finally put my foot down!

I said: “Fuck this! T-shirts and jeans do not need to be ironed! I AM CANADIAN (proud and true) and this goes against my roots; my heritage, if you will. We do not iron this stuff, in my homeland!”

I then turned to my husband’s dress shirts, with unbreakable will, and said: “You, my pesky friends, are going to the Dry Cleaners!”

Sure, in the UK, people iron everything: jeans, underwear, pillow cases, and towels but we live in Canada now.  And here, we don’t do that. That’s what our big, spacious dryers are for. They do the ironing for us.

So now, we all wear ever-so-slightly wrinkled attire and I take my husband’s dress shirts to the cleaners. I mean, it’s only $1.87 per shirt to have them cleaned and ironed. And every time I drop the shirts off, I leave with a little extra bounce in my step and a sense of gratefulness in my heart.

No more piles, no more steam, no more annoying comments like: “you’ve missed an entire strip of fabric.”

Nope. No more bullshit.

I am proud to report that our iron is gathering dust these days. (As it should be). And we have settled into our Canadian way of life, because a few wrinkles never hurt anyone but I’m sure a housewife with a hot iron could…



Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover





If You Give a Mom a Martini…


If you give a mom a martini,

And a weekend with her friends

She’ll talk and laugh and laugh some more

Live it up, until the end!

Because a mom who’s with her girlfriends

Is a happy mom indeed.

She can just be who she is,

Let her inner-self be freed!

If you give a mom a martini

Fireside, by the lake

That mom will be so thankful

For the comfort and a break.

And if that mom does eat,

Tasty food made just for her,

A smile will form upon her face

Like a kitty cat’s gracious prrrrrrrr.

And if that weekend ends

With, say, a mom who’s stuck in traffic,

It frets her not, for she is calm

And feeling so fantastic.

And even if once home,

 “re-entry” is a bitch

She’ll  still be chillin’ inside

For in memories, she is rich

So give a mom a martini.

And a weekend away

Just give her a martini, dammit!

She, too, deserves to play.

This poem has been inspired by Moms’ Martini Getaway at Bonnie View Inn.