I Don't Think The FTC Saw This Coming

So. Since I'm a huge blogger I get flooded with emails all the time offering me free stuff.

I don't want to brag, but the other day I was offered The Singing Lizard's new CD. And then this other time I was offered 10% off a photo album for ME AND ALL MY READERS! 10%! Like you're only paying 90% (+ shipping)! Imagine what you could do with that 10% of savings (+ shipping)! You could buy that stamp you've had your eye on! Or surprise your child with that trip to the end of the driveway! Or flush the toilet again! Why not, you can afford it!

Anyway. I rarely get anything for free for review or otherwise. When I do, by some stroke of luck, it's fun little stuff for Savannah but frankly I feel awkward writing about it here because I'm 1 of about 10 people on the internet who started a blog because I think I can write and I don't really want to push goods. Although I probably will at some point start a review site because I'm willing to sell out if it's confined to one place. And I'm totally going to call it Goodie Pusher.

Anyway anyway. At Blogher a few months back Swiffer gave me (and everyone else) a coupon to try their NEW Swiffer for free. Already owning an old Swiffer and not being incredibly impressed with it, I immediately mailed in for the free Swiffer because I'm nothing if not lazy and Swiffer has really cornered the market on the Lazy Mom.

So, a week goes by and one day a box appears at my front door and I excitedly rip it open. I put the new Swiffer together, insert the solution bottle, admire it for a minute, and then hang it in the garage. Because I was tired from all that snapping into place.

That was about two months ago.

In those two months I've Swiffered my floors at least once a week every week.

And I hated the new Swiffer.

Everything I hated about the old Swiffer remained true.

It would spray weakly. The handle loop was too small to hang it on a hook. The bottle leaked when I turned it over to remove the cleaning pad. It wouldn't swivel over to the scouring pad no matter how hard I tried. I'd eventually have to reach down and manually turn the dirty pad over to the scouring pad side which skeeved me out.

This sucks! I said to myself. I was so annoyed. How can they pass this off as a NEW IMPROVED version when it's the same old crap?

During this time Swiffer started to email me. They were "looking forward to hearing my thoughts on the new and improved Swiffer!".

Trust me, you don't want me to write MY THOUGHTS, I thought smugly. I deleted their emails, annoyed. I imagined my scathing entry complete with pictures. Swiffer Tries To Pass Off Same Old Swiffer As New Swiffer. Swiffergate!

As I wrestled with the Swiffer one last time last week I thought You know what? I AM going to email them. Because it's about time that they got some good quality feedback about what a waste of their time it was to recreate the same crappy product and then pass it off as new! It even looks the same! They'll appreciate someone being honest for once.

I am so. glad. I. didn't.

I hung up the Swiffer in my laundry room where I normally do and then I went out to the garage to empty the garbage. Something I never do. The garage is a place I rarely go. As I walked back towards the door into the house something caught my eye. Hanging next to the door. On its new and improved large purple rubber loop.

It was the new Swiffer.


Unused.

I had been using my old one. The. Entire. Time.

I'm pretty sure no one is ever going to send me anything ever again. I'm like a P.R. person's nightmare.

*********
In full disclosure, I actually really like the new Swiffer in all of its swively-ness. So much so that I bought another one for upstairs (since this whole stinking house is hardwood which I thought I always wanted but now realize that with three cats and an eight year old it sounds like I live in a bowling alley).

So, technically this is NOT a review. And even if it were I'm pretty sure the Swiffer people would be banging their heads against the boardroom table wondering just where-oh-where the good ol days went when they didn't have to put up with these idiot bloggers and could just lock a homeless person in a room with a Swiffer, a clipboard, and a ham sandwich.

Don't Worry. I'll Come Up With Something New To Complain About

I just returned from the Bay Area.

Okay, "just" is stretching it.

I returned from the Bay Area last Thursday. But, of course it took me two days to unpack, a day to catch up on my Tivo, a day to accept that the balloon boy was a fake, and then another day to roll my cats around on the floor like fur burritos.

I'm pretty sure that brings me to today. Maybe not. I may have blacked out for a time. I've been pounding Trader Joe's strawberry lemonade pretty hard.

Anyway, while I was in the Bay Area I got a little carried away with the spending. Whoa there! A bagel and a book? In the same week? Easy there, Rockefeller.

I returned home with an empty wallet and felt the stress of reality weighing down on me as soon as the plane hit the runway.

As you know all too well, Chris and I have been getting ourselves back on track financially. Having avoided a layoff and our stock portfolio holding strong at $50, we've been insanely attached to Dave Ramsey's budget site and living 100% on cash.

Which sucks. And I hate it.

We discovered though that if we pay cash for everything, we end up having more money to spend. And when the money runs out, we don't spend any more. I'm not sure how it works. I think it might be witchcraft. Anyway, the budget has been an insanely awesome tool. (But also very depressing because OMFG I know exactly what I'm going to spend on groceries in April 2010. And no girl should have to know that.)

Anywho. I had just flown in from San Francisco and Chris and Savannah were sick, so I headed to Target for cat food and Red Bull. I ended up grabbing a few other necessities and as I was walking through the parking lot back to my car, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I had overspent by $40. This was going to be a problem. As I had so many times before I visualized our budget for the month. I mentally moved dollars around, delayed this expense, rearranged that payment. The ongoing creative process of my personal finances. My own Ponzi scheme.

I got in my car as my cell phone rang.

An hour later I was employed. With a job that I have been coveting at Blogher for, oh, ever. I'd like to think they couldn't wait to hire me. But they probably were just tired of all the heavy breathing hang ups over at corporate.

It was just what we needed. At just the right time. Relief. Gratitude.

I feel like my brain, my heart, can finally relax.

At every turn recently I've felt like Chris and I are healing a little bit more. And I could not be more grateful for this second chance to do the right thing with our money.

Or maybe not.

***********************

In other news, a suspicious dark spot appeared on Chris' leg and...I'm not sure what to think about that. Stay tuned because I'm pretty sure I'm going to make you diagnose him for me.

Back To Fool Night

I know, I know. I've disappeared on you. Off into the ether of YouTube and gossip. But, if you liked it, you shoulda put a ring on it.

I have no idea how that applies here. But, I've been wanting to say it for months. You know, to someone other than myself while I do lunges at the gym.

And I think by "ring", I probably mean "donut".

Speaking of the gym, I've discovered that I sort of love our lame little gym here at our clubhouse. Because no one is ever there. (Chris: Probably because they're working. You know, because we're in a recession.) ANYWAY, I can go during the week in the mornings and I have all the equipment to myself and I can sweat and make ugly faces and be free and if that means in a too-many-beans-for-dinner the night before way SO BE IT.

It's been sort of a love affair with moving my body lately. Honestly, that's why I haven't written here. Because writing requires sitting and I can feel my ass spreading into a throw pillow on the couch after awhile and once I'm done writing at Mamapop, I just can't stand to sit a moment longer.

So, I head to the gym with Jillian's Making The Cut, which is apparently the red-headed stepchild compared to The 30 Day Shred because no one ever talks about Making The Cut and when I tweet it or mention it on Facebook I get zero response. (Except for the same weirdo that asks me if I want to see him in a diaper. STILL NO.)

But, if you get a chance pick up Jillian's book. I'll be honest. I sort of hated Jillian. The yelling, the barking, the insults. And I admit I still am not a Jillian zealot, but her workouts? A-mazing. I've been working out for 10 years and have not seen the results I've seen in the last two weeks. Butt? Perky. Arms? Sculpty. Pants? Looser.

Weight?

Have not lost a pound. Not. One.

This makes me all kinds of upset because while my eating habits could be better, I feel like BACKWARDS CRAB WALKING should offset a bagel or Rosemary Olive Oil Triscuits (have you tried? Smear with some garlic herb Laughing Cow cheese and you'll collapse into a puddle of contentment on the kitchen floor. But, stick to one wedge. More than that and the cow stops laughing if you know what I mean.).

Anyway, I nearly vomited in a planter after my workout yesterday so something good should come from that, right?

Moving on. The real point of this post was to talk about Back To School night. I posted last week, but then took it down because I realized that reading about what actually happened would be a little more entertaining than what I thought may happen.

Due to a certain mean mom in the class, Back To School night last year was about as fun as using my head as a hammer, but this year it was all kinds of nifty. Because beforehand I got my Chardonnay on with a fellow mommy who, by the way, where the hell has she been for the last two years? Had I known there was a sane person in that damn school this whole drama may have been avoided entirely.

Also, do you want to know how I knew we were going to be good, good friends? When one morning I told her I was on my way to the gym and she sighed and replied "Yeah, I was thinking of going to the gym, but then I thought about going back to bed and it just sounds...better".

So, we decided that we would grab dinner together next door to the school We were seated right away and had an hour to spare, so we weren't worried about drinking too much or cutting it close to the start time.

Tragically, I'm me.

We enjoyed a single glass of wine. We nibbled at our salads. We were a little giggly. Our pizza was late. We started to get nervous. We inhaled a slice as we threw cash at the check and then we took off in a mad dash for the school.

As we raced across the parking lot, the campus was empty. We were late.

Both of our cell phones started ringing. Our husbands whispered angrily.

We arrived at our daughters' second grade classroom, breathless, likely smelling like wine. Sixty parents sat crammed into tiny desks. They were all facing us.

We walked in with our heads down. The teacher turned around.

"You're late".

Mean Mom smugly looked me up and down, a sweater tied over her shoulders, her hair in a bob.

And then I came up with something so perfect and brilliantly crafted it could only have come from a writer's brain.

"Yes we are."

I rushed to Savannah's desk where Chris sat glaring holding a paper owl.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

"How late are we?"

He snorted. "Very."

I looked over at my friend and we exchanged guilty glances.

The teacher continued.

"So, I had a very difficult problem for the class. I didn't mean for it to be. But, I realized that I presented it in a confusing way. So, the whole class got it wrong. Except for two students."

She quickly waved two papers in her hand without revealing their names.

And I could see written across the top in overly large letters that I will never criticize again, SAVANNAH.

I smiled broadly. Crazy drunk unemployed lady turns out genius child.

Chris looked at me. I applied lip gloss and whispered "And that's how it's done".

It was sort of imperfectly awesome.

****************
By the way, since a lot of you asked in comments on my last post, this is the book I was referring to: Girls Will Be Girls. It doesn't suggest wine before Back To School Night. That's all me!

Roll Model

Last night my 7-year-old daughter told me she "wants to die" because she hates the way she looks.

She hates that her "thighs jiggle".

She hates that her "belly sticks out".

She hates that she's "the biggest girl" in her class.

She wants to die and she's seven.

I've been waiting for this moment since the day I gave birth to a daughter. The day she inevitably starts hating herself. And here it was.

I felt sick. I still do. But, I was prepared.

Had this been any other night I would have sputtered and stammered for an appropriate response vacillating between understanding compassion and helpless frustration.

But THANK GOD I just happened to be up until 1:30 a.m. the night before reading an amazing book about how to raise confident daughters.

I immediately went into action.

I got down on my knees and took both her hands in mine. I looked at this gorgeous innocent little girl. The baby that I nursed the sleep. The toddler who gave herself kisses in the mirror, she loved herself so much.

This little girl who now needs to be led through the landmines of adolescence.

This little girl who will grow into the woman I shape.

I looked into her big green eyes and said "You're the most beautiful second grader in the whole world. Daddy and I love you very much and we will do whatever we can to make you feel better."

It was almost verbatim from the book. Give her hope, not answers.

She looked startled by my intensity. She immediately relaxed a little. Then she said quietly "I like myself. But then I look at other girls and think they're prettier and then I don't like myself anymore."

I can't tell her not to feel that way. I can't dismiss feelings she has at seven that I continue to struggle with at 32. I can't divulge that she will likely always battle with feeling this way. That this is being a girl. The constant struggle to love ourselves as we are while at the same time trying to figure out who that is.

I see being a girl in this world through her eyes all over agan - perfect models, plastic surgery, anorexia, bulimia, diet pills, suicide - and it shakes me to the core. I want a different world for her.

I remember being 12 years old. Sitting on my mom's bed as she folded laundry, I had just returned from the beach and I was complaning about my chubby body. I had spent the day in the sand under a towel eating all the snacks, completely intimidated by the bikinis around me.

My mom said all the right things ("you're beautiful...I was just like you at your age...it's baby fat"). Then I said the one thing that made her turn and look at me.

"But there are girls with perfect bodies."

I'll never forget. She looked at me with sadness. As if I had just discovered the secret she had been keeping from me. She said quietly and with great empathy "I know."

I don't know what I took away from that. But I felt like I saw something about my mother for the first time. My mother was a beautiful woman herself. But as often as she told me I was beautiful. I don't ever remember hearing her say she was.

And I can't say Savannah's story with her mother is much different.

How often has she heard me complain to my friends, my husband, my mother about my jeans not fitting, how much weight I've gained, foods I'm avoiding? How many times have I snapped at her in a fit of frustration because I'm once again naked in my closet throwing clothes around as if it's the end of the world that I'm up a size?

How confusing must it be for me to then turn to her and tell her to love herself as she is?

It stops today.

I knelt there in the bathroom in front of her, my baby. And I flashed on a quote from the book. Self-esteem can't be taught. You can talk all you want to your daughter, but it must be gained. Through accomplishments.

So I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Do you want to take singing lessons?"

A smile immediately appeared. She brightened up. Yes! I'm a great singer, mommy!

With that, she turned to get ready for her bath, chirping to her dolls along the way. All was well again.

The next morning I decided to do something that always makes me feel beautiful. I took a yoga class. I pulled on some spandex, drove to the gym, and planted myself in front of the mirror to admire the 20 pounds I've put on since my last class 4 years ago.

I started to go through the stretches, reaching my arms to the sky, arching my back, feeling strong in my core.

By the end of the hour I lay there, eyes closed, as I followed the relaxation instructions. I let my breathing slow, I let my mind relax. I felt such pride and tenderness for myself. Because for the first time I was seeing my body as I wish for my daughter to see hers.

I refuse to send my daughter out into the world feeling less than. I refuse. Not without a fight.

Helpless to stop them, tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt strong. I felt beautiful.

And I pledged to bring that feeling home with me.



***************************
Dear kind emailers, the title misspelling was intentional. Clearly a FAIL at word play.

Unfriending Is Awkward When You're Not On Facebook

We sort of make a big deal out of our anniversary every year. Our entire family gets together at a designated house and we do a ridiculously massive gift exchange (sound familiar? We call it Anniversary-mas). I will share photographic evidence as soon as I figure out how to transfer the photos to my new fancy netbook (Chris? Keep rockin like you do with the kickass gifts.)

Anyhoo, this year our anniversary celebration overlapped with the day that Savannah's class list is posted for an hour enlightening us with which teacher she will have for second grade. Also (small voice) what bitches I'll have to deal with.

Since our school district is now practicing "looping", where teachers try to advance along with their students thereby minimizing the changes and challenges for the kids, I was pretty confident that Savannah would keep the same teacher and the same class. We had been "warned" that some teachers may feel it necessary to move some students around to teachers "better suited for the child's needs" (read: I'm about to lose it on this kid). But other than that caveat it seemed second grade would be a nice carbon copy of first.

Chris had to work anyway so he was forced gracious enough to stay in town an extra day and while he was at it, cruise by Savannah's school and see what awaited us on Tuesday.

I anxiously awaited Chris' phone call Friday.

At 2:02 p.m. the phone rang.

"She has Mrs. Teacher again."

"Oh, awesome." I responded, a mouth full of caramel corn.

"There's more."

I swallowed hard.

"Macy's kids are in her class."

"...WHAT THE HELL?!"

Macy is Girl B.

The mom who pretended to be my best friend all through kindergarten.

The mom who pretended to be my ally while the much more transparent Girl C viciously tried to exclude me from everything .

The mom who I hung out with every day for nearly a year.

The mom who knew she was my only friend in our brand new town.

The mom whose daughter was Savannah's best friend.

The mom who fed me all the dirty details of how much Girl C hated me...in the interest of "just letting me know".

The mom who had a Mother's Day party in her back yard. One month before summer started. And didn't invite me. But did invite Girl C.

And her backyard was across the street from my house.

So that I got to watch the party.

And so did my daughter.

That mom.

The mom who acted surprised that I was hurt.

The mom who, after I cried to her, responded by literally turning her back on me every day at school.

The mom whose husband started ignoring my husband.

The mom who completely cut my daughter off from her best friend.

Without warning. Without explanation.

The mom who, after being one of my closest friends, now goes out of her way to avoid me while I do the same.

Macy is a Mean Girl all grown up. A Mean Mom.

The gray hairs may be sprouting and the ass may be spreading and the prom queen photo may be fading. But mean is forever.

I was sick over this news. First grade had been so pleasant and now what was I in for? I wondered how I should act toward her. Should I be nice? Hug her? Ignore her? Push her down? Wish her a happy 50th? ...She's 43.

These thoughts ran through my head as Savannah and I approached the school playground this morning.

And then as soon as Savannah's friends caught sight of her, she was literally swarmed. She ran to meet them, their little faces lit up with the joy of friendship.

These are little girls that have fought, that have been mean, that have said "you're not my friend anymore". But, now all is forgiven and forgotten. The time and distance provided by the summer break has renewed their fondness for each other.

I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I could take a lesson from my 7-year-old. Maybe by focusing on this genuine kindness I could actually pull my head out of my ass.

I saw Macy standing to the side watching them too. I walked up to her, put a smile on my face, cheerfully said "hi!", she said "hi!" pleasantly back, and then I proceeded on to my friends. And that was it. No passive aggressive behavior. No cutting comments made with a smile. Just polite and mature.

It's like I'm actually growing up.

And I have my 7-year-old to thank.


The world might be a better place if we all remembered how we felt at seven.

Better

This is just going to be one of those stream of consciousness posts because I'm typing through tears and don't want to stop and try to figure out how to make a cohesive thought.

Today is effectively my last day of summer with my daughter. My mother is coming to take her until next week when we all get together and do our big anniversary celebration. I realized this as I lay in bed last night. Last Day of Summer. And I felt so sick I got up out of bed and went to look at Savannah while she slept and I started to cry because I'm just like my father.

And that makes me so sick I could throw up just typing it.

Until the day he died my father was filled with regret. Regret that he didn't play with me. Regret that he was selfish. Regret that he was so angry all the time. Regret that he shooed me away. Regret that he drank too much. Regret that he watched too much TV. Regret that he never talked to me about boys. Regret that me broke his promises again and again. Regret that he chose himself. Every moment. Of every day.

As he lay dying he sobbed with regret.

And I said all the right things. I told him he was a good father. I told him I had a happy childhood. I told him I didn't carry any emotional scars from my protector being my tormentor. I told him he was forgiven.

He and I both knew that was a lie.

As I lay there with my broken father, I had just started my journey as a parent with a cherubic three year old at home. I lay there next to him in the home where I grew up and I promised myself this wouldn't be me.

I promised.

I may not lay a hand on my daughter. I may not scream at her. I may not call her names.

But at what point am I going to realize that just being better than him is not enough?

Last night we sat in some friends' backyard. My wine glass miraculously refilled itself again and again. The laughter got louder, the jokes funnier. Savannah wanted to be involved. I kept dismissing her to go back in the house and watch a movie. Over and over she told me she was tired. She was bored. I tried to tease her and accidentally hurt her feelings. I embarrassed her in front of everybody and she started to cry. I apologized but the damage was done.

Eventually she went inside and fell asleep.

Hours later I woke up in the middle of the night gripped with regret.

It was sobering how familiar that situation felt.

The adults, the alcohol, the laughter. Being dismissed. Being a nuisance. Being humiliated.

Only now I was on the other side of the wine glass.

It occurred to me that I never did half of the things I promised I'd do with her this summer. A day spent playing board games in our pajamas, doing a picnic at the park, going on a scavenger hunt walk, redoing her bedroom.

And what good reason did I have? None. I was too busy doing what I wanted to do, smug with the satisfaction that at least I was home. Passively parenting.

How much time do I have left? How many more chances will I have to make it right? How much longer will my daughter keep looking for my attention before she writes me off until I call her one day and tell her I have four months left to live?

I've felt this sense of urgency to be a better parent before. But this time my heart is shaking me awake. To put down the laptop. To put down the phone. To put down the book. To step up my goal from being better than him and start being better than I've been.

I choose you, Savannah. I choose you. And starting today, I'm going to do a much better job showing you that I choose you.

***********************
Update: Ugh. This is one of those posts that you immediately wish you hadn't written once you hit publish because you feel better now. But then you realize that you only feel better because you wrote it.

Updated Update: Savannah just woke up and when I asked her if she wanted to stay in our pajamas and play board games today she responded with a fist pump and a "yes!". God, I love that girl. She just makes this parenting thing so easy sometimes.

9

Dear Chris,

You didn't cry at our wedding. That's always bugged me.

I couldn't understand why you weren't so overwhelmed by my sparkling tiara and push up corset, not to mention spending the rest of your life with a goddess like myself, that it didn't move you to tears.

Thankfully, you've redeemed yourself throughout the last nine years.

How You Have Made It Up To Me, Let Me Count the Ways:

Thank you for not shoving cake up my nose.


Thank you for letting me convince you that it would take me "years" to get pregnant and agreeing to Stop The Pill...nine months before Savannah was born.

Oh, hi.

Thank you for claiming to "prefer" chipped toenail polish.

Thank you for ending many an argument with "can I make you a latte?".

Thank you for leaving the house with your shoelaces untied. I catch a glimpse of the boy you were. And I love that.

Thank you for seeing that look on my face and pouring me a glass of wine before announcing "I'll take Savannah to the pool".


Thank you for telling me I was "too skinny" when we got married. And making me believe it.

Thank you for our first kiss. On my hand. Before you said goodnight.

Thank you for always making me do the ugly laugh at parties.



Thank you for worrying when I don't call when I'm supposed to.

Thank you for bringing me my heating pad. (And I'm sorry for the things I said the time you wrongly assumed I needed it.)

Thank you for always convincing me it's their problem. Because they're jealous.

Thank you for spooning with me even though it makes your shoulder fall asleep.


Thank you for responding to my hysterical meltdowns by vacuuming. It's always the right answer, by the way.

Thank you for letting me get just one more cat. Three times.

Thank you for making our daughter laugh in a way that I never can.

Thank you for apologizing when I think you won't.


Thank you for asking me every day if I've written so you can go read it.

Thank you for every time we're with friends pointing at me and saying "Now, this one" before launching into some absurdly generous compliment.

Thank you for nodding thoughtfully at all the right parts during my stories.

Thank you for talking me down when Dr. Google diagnoses me with a fatal disease.



Thank you for not getting mad when you should, like that time I was supposed to grab a quick dinner with friends and ended up in San Diego until 2:00 a.m. (We can laugh about that now...right?)

Thank you for this morning. For coming full circle. By hugging me with tears in your eyes and a smile as you said "Happy anniversary. I was just thinking about how much I love you." And you were crying. Yes.

Thank you for trying. Every day. To give me everything I've ever wanted. You already have.