Undomestic Diva

"I am also a nose picker"

My seven year old, the sponge, will attempt to read anything you put in front of him. Or in this case, anything he happens to find for himself.

 
Of course, there were some BIG words in this particular pamphlet "Phosphatidylserine: Mental Clarity at Any Age" and as he read aloud we nearly died laughing when he read the sentence, "I am also a nose picker."

I am also a neurologist. A NEUROLOGIST, son.

Cancer is the biggest asshole I know. And I know a lot of assholes.

The single thing I love the most about blogging is one day you're paying tribute to your mother on her birthday and the next you're vlogging some sort of weird Peep porn you just invented. No two posts are ever alike just as no two days are and whatever is nagging at you on any particular day, well, that's what you write about.

At least, that's how it works in my head. Some thought dances in my head impatiently until I let it loose in a blog post and only then can I rest my weary brain for sleep.

Tonight I'm not feeling particularly funny or cheerful. Instead I feel a heaviness of grief and helplessness as one of our own courageously tells cancer to FUCK OFF so she can keep her husband. The husband who has been told he may only have a few weeks to live.

If there were ever a woman who could single-handledly make cancer scream "MERCY!" and slither away, it would be her. From the very get-go of this unwelcome adventure she has been staring cancer straight in the face and telling it to go screw itself. 

My kind of gal.

I don't know that I've ever met someone so strong and scrappy and brave. When the doctors tell them it's not good news she replies with:

I could only hope to be half as brave, half as strong, half as ballsy in the face of such shit. Absolute shit.

If you could, please take just a few seconds - perhaps a minute or two - to send some love their way by clicking here and leaving a comment to let them know we're all thinking of them, standing behind them, echoing the sediment made so famous by califmom herself #fuckcancer! There may not be much that we can do to help, but just hearing "we're thinking of you" or "I'm praying for you" or "fuck cancer" goes a long way.

Because this is what we do - this huge community of writers, parents, women, men, students and perfect strangers - stand by each other when things get tough.

I take that back. The single thing I love most about blogging is how it has renewed my faith in humanity.

Peep, peep

There are only two kinds of people in this world: Those who love stale Peeps and those who don't like Peeps at all and frankly if you're not with me then you're against me.

With Easter approaching, it's prime Peep Season and lucky for me I can buy Peeps in every color of the rainbow right now (which I do) and enjoy them (which I have) like Peeps were meant to be overindulged enjoyed.

I've also been Twittering about my love for Peeps and people have either given me a virtual *fist bump* in approval and solidarity or - in the case of Miss Grace - replied with BARF! every time I mentioned their marshmallowy sugar-coated goodness.

Grace, this is for you:

Also? I think I just invented Peep p0rn. I think I deserve an award or something.

Additionally: HD video is not kind. How much is Botox? 

Gratitude

To my mom who...

was always my parent and never my friend growing up,

made me work hard for what I wanted and never let me quit,

taught me to take the higher road and not the easiest route,

instilled values not just by preaching but by example,

believed in me when I didn't,

required 100 percent of me all the time,

saw talent in me when others discouraged me from trying,

supported and fought for me when no one else would,

helped me even when I didn't want it,

loved me and never let me forget it,

now delicately balances her role as mom and friend,

embraces being a grandma with such pride,

remains the pillar of strength when there is pain,

chooses to see the optimism in the worst of scenarios,

willingly gives up her time for anyone,

never asks for anything in return,

thank you.

Happy birthday, Mom.

My mom warned me this would happen someday

It has already started. I mean, my mom warned me this would happen someday. That at a certain point in motherhood you feel the overwhelming urge to kill another kid over what they've done to yours. I just wasn't prepared for it... now.

We sit at the dinner table talking over baby back ribs smeared in barbeque sauce talking about everyone's day as we eat corn and pick at the rice, taking turns sharing what we did, who we talked to or played with, what was for snack - the usual conversation.

It's E-man's turn. A very "shy" child, the 'who did you play with today question' has taken a happy turn lately as he seems to have finally come out of his shell and become a suddenly super social first grader. So his dad asks him who it was today.

"No one."

"No one? You didn't play with anyone at lunch?"

"No. I just played in the sandbox by myself."

"What about Drew?" I ask hopefully. He's mentioned Drew's name a lot lately. Surely he must have played with Drew.

"No. Drew kicked me off his friendship list."

"His what?" I ask dumbfounded. 'Friendship list' rolls back and forth on my tongue like vinegar and I wince.

"His friendship list. He said I'm off of it so I can't hang around with him anymore."

I seethe. This is not high school for christ's sake. This is first grade. Why are kids so goddamn mean?

I fight the overwhelming urge to cry. An ugly cry. My feelings are hurt for him. My son who has always seen social situations and new encounters as pure misery finally makes attempts at reaching out to other kids and he's instantly rejected. Kicked off the 'friendship list.' Even though I know these kids don't know better; that they're just being kids, I want to cry. And scream. And maul. It seems so dumb really. But I want to protect him. I want to find that little boy who doesn't know any better and shake him and scream DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MEAN YOU ARE?! even though it wouldn't matter; the kid would never understand.

I start stabbing at my rice and focus my attention on not crying. It takes focus. My husband keeps the conversation going.

"Did you play with anyone else instead?"

"No, Drew and Stewart are best buds so I can't play with him either. And the girls chase fairies which I don't even believe in - except the tooth fairy of course - and so I don't play with them. I played soccer last week with some kids but then I got kicked in the face with the ball SO I AM NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN."

I swallow hard. This is the kid that brought home his Scholastic Book Order and begged for the 6th grade World War I and World War II books. The same boy who finishes his math homework and writes a "novel" on the back for his teacher to read. The boy who would rather read or write or learn something historic or scientific than play outside or watch TV. And I love these things about him. I brag about these traits. But I also wonder if these same characteristics will make his social life - even at the first grade level apparently - harder than most.

"What about your snack recess? Did you play with anyone then?" my husband inquires hopefully.

"No. I just ate my snack and waited for the bell to ring."

Stab. Stab. Stab. I'm not even hungry but I'm still eating so I don't say anything. 'Cause I don't know what to say. Because it makes me sad and angry that my son now spends recess waiting for it to end. At 7 years old.

*

My own haunting memories of elementary school swish through my mind. I can't remember the names of people I worked with for years but I can vividly remember sitting in the sandbox in the 5th grade with my only friend Nicole, doing our best to avoid confrontation we didn't deserve when the 'cool' girls sought us out to tell us how fat and ugly we were. I was wearing a hot pink t-shirt with a pocket, black biker shorts and my hair pulled back in a bun and I kept my eyes focused on my tennis shoes, kicking the damp sand around and biting my bottom lip to keep it from quivering, wishing I had the nerve to tell them to fuck off. I recall vowing that someday I'd be better than them. Maybe not skinnier or prettier, but I would be better than them.

I wish I had known then that I already was better than them. In other, more important ways.

*

I shake my own memories out of my head and I go to the bathroom to cry. The tears are now spilling over the brim of my lower eyelid involuntarily and I don't want him to see it. My heart is broken for him. But also? I don't know how to fix it. And isn't that my job? To make it all better? To not let bad things happen to my babies? And I don't know how. I don't know that I can.

I remember what my mom said. Someday you're going to want to kill another kid over what they do to yours. And I hate that she's right.

And then I got kicked off Twitter

My husband laughs, rightfully earning his nickname 'Candy Ass,' saying to me, "Ha! Even Twitter thinks you talk too much!"

Hardee har har. Idiot.

Meanwhile I'm fuming. It's Oscar night and the only reason to watch the Red Carpet coverage and the opening monologue is to critique all the celebrities outfits from the safety of my couch and the comfort of my sweatpants. (Hanes, thank you for asking. Socks also by Hanes. The bra in my bedroom drawer by Victoria Secret.)

But Twitter - the good ol' web version - has kicked me off its website telling me I've reached my 'status update limit.'

Until now I hadn't heard of such a thing [and it took quite a bit of searching on Twitter's website to find that they do now limit you because - get this - they've always believed in limits, hence the 140 characters... I CALL BULLSHIT you cheap ass server space limiting cheapskates] and I'm awfully suspicious considering my last few tweets were talking about that homewrecker Angelina Jolie and her desire to break up the non-marriage of Johnny Depp and his pretend wife. (True rumor. Swear.)

   

So apparently Twitter is not only not Team Aniston but perhaps privately funded or perhaps even adopted by Jolie herself. Mess with my girl Jenn, but fuck with my Twitter? I don't think so, bitch. I mean, WHEN IS SOMEONE GOING TO STOP THIS WOMAN?

Of course the wittiest epiphanies about everything Oscar occurred to me only after I met my so-called 'status update limit' and now the Twitter world will never know my true cleverness which really pisses me off and frankly has me wondering if I should call my attorney to see about suing over defamation of character or something. I'm damaged now. To the tune of probably a cool 5 million. At least.  

Also? Twitter, you suck. And really? The joke is on you, Twitter, if you think you can quiet me down. Just ask my husband who has had to listen to me rant about your bad form for HOURS now when I could have been tweeting. He also now hates you. 

This probably could have been said in 140 characters or less. But here we are.

I left this blank post open for over an hour and I'll be damned if it didn't write itself.

Every so often I'd toggle back to this screen after twittering or facebooking or checking the news or while bored when Modern Family went to commercial and... nothing.

I had expected to find a witty little bit on how earlier tonight I broke my armpit muscles in a I Can Too Do A Pull-Up! dare between my sister and I which ultimately had me yelling at Candy Ass to "PUSH MY ASS UP, DAMN IT!" and then ended abruptly when the realization of landing on my just healed tailbone gave me flashbacks and I just knew ALL THIS couldn't be supported by the door frame.

Anyhoo, the post never wrote itself and here we are. With this.

I apologize.

Four out of five dentists agree with me

So I bought a new tube of toothpaste. I know. You probably just peed yourself a little bit because THAT'S HOW EXCITING buying toothpaste can be, right? No. No really, it's not. Actually, it's fucking boring as hell buying toothpaste, only no one talks about it.

Except me apparently.

After squeeeeeeeeezing the very last dollop of minty toothy-ness out of my current tube of Crest, I finally broke down and bought another. Only apparently I didn't pay enough attention and rather than buying Crest Extra Whitening WITH SCOPE! I bought Crest Extra Whitening. That's it. No WITH SCOPE! just Crest Extra Whitening. Eh. Who cares right? It's toothpaste for crying out loud. As long as it gets my teeth clean then we're golden. Or rather, whitened.

Except. Crest Extra Whitening? It smells the way I can only imagine shit tastes. Like, as in smelling like *fecal matter* might taste. I wouldn't know, personally, of course. But I've smelled shit before and this Crest Extra Whitening definitely smells like you would think shit tastes.

And for the last three nights as I've reassured and persuaded myself Megan, it's toothpaste for christ's sake, just brush your goddamn teeth! I touch that brush to my teeth, my tongue involuntarily takes a swipe at the pastey shitasticness of it and *SHUDDER* I scrub, scrub, scrub and then SPIT, SPIT, SPIT and swear I'll buy my Crest Extra Whitening WITH SCOPE the next day.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to distract myself from the awful taste of brushing my teeth tonight I glanced down at the tube of toothpaste only to read the words SLICK and SMOOTH as in "leaves teeth feeling slick and smooth." I swear-to-headgear I almost lost my entire caloric in-take for the day right then. I literally urped.

Four out of five dentists I surveyed also agreed with me, saying the Crest Extra Whitening tastes like shit. The fifth dentist just kinda winked at me like Wha? It's an acquired taste. LISTEN SICK ASSHOLE (by which no pun is intended) WE'RE NOT TALKING SCOTCH HERE, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT THE TASTE OF POOP.

Some people, ya know? Dis-gust-ing.

***

NOTE: I was not paid in anyway for my review of Crest Extra Whitening toothpaste. Which is probably a good thing 'cause I'll bet they'd be mad as fuck and want their money back. Nope. I wasted my own got-damn money on that toothpaste and if anything, really, Crest owes me $3.  

Think you can't afford Blogher NYC? Think again.

Don't roll your pretty little eyes at me like Oh c'mon! A Blogher conference post *already?* We'll have to hear enough about this come June, July, August and maybe even September. GAH! I'm not even going. Who can afford that?

Ahhh... but you see, that's entirely my point. While attending Blogher's annual conference in August may make your ears ring with cha-chinging at the mere thought of a pass! New York City! airfare! the Hilton for christ's sake! etc., there are actually ways to stop the cash flow hemorrhaging and still make it to epicenter of where internet meets real life FOR LESS THAN YOU THINK!

(That was my best Billy Mays impression, take it or leave it.) (RIP.)

Why I want you there and why I think you (AND YES, YOU!) should be there is a whole other post for a whole other day.

Here are some of my suggestions:

1. Buy your conference pass NOW. As in, on or before February 28 which is this Sunday, after which it will cost you $100 more to attend.

Second possible option? Last year when Blogher sold-out, they offered a lobbycon (I think that's what it's called) pass. Pros: Waaay less money than the full pass. Cons: You don't get to attend the sessions in the rooms but rather hear them in various lobbies via TVs and over speakers. It's unclear whether the lobbycon pass is being offered this year. (I asked on Twitter, but haven't heard back yet.)

Third possible option: If you're not as interested in attending sessions all day at Blogher and more inclined to see whose avatar matches their actual face and socialize (or maybe Blogher is your excuse to see NYC) opt for the cocktail parties only pass for $50. You, lush you!

2. Shack up with some roomies. At $200/night plus taxes and fees, there's nothing like making the most of your quality time together than putting four people in two double beds. When you thought of attending Blogher it wasn't because you were envisioning restful nights and peace and quiet, right? (If it was, well then, let's talk.) Split that $200 four ways and you're down to $50/night per person. AT THE HILTON. Tom Bodet can't beat that. Now, that being said, you could stay somewhere else. But before you salivate over the thought of a cheaper-per-night hotel, be sure to consider these things:

- How far is it from the Hilton where Blogher is? (Think cab fare, walking distance, etc.)

- Even if you can walk to your hotel from the Hilton, it's not necessarily safe to late at night when you've decided to leave the cocktail party and head for bed.

- Maybe you plan on walking with a group of friends back to your other hotel but know that realistically, this probably won't always work out. Someone might want to head back earlier or later; someone might choose sleeping on someone else's floor at the Hilton in lieu of walking in those goddamn heels another ten feet.

3. Watch airline prices for a couple of weeks before purchasing. Tuesday and Wednesday nights typically have the best deals. (Seriously.) Both Southwest and Virgin America fly into NY and either La Guardia or JFK airports will suffice.

SUPER SAVER TIP (ha): Flying home on Monday rather than Sunday can save you almost $200. But wait Megan, you say. That means another night at the Hilton! More money! Well, hold your britches, missy/mister. IF you can coerce your roomies to also stay until Monday (sell them on the cheaper airfare) then that means only another $50 each (see #2), thus saving you each $150 in airfare than if you had come home Sunday. PLUS! you get all day Sunday to see NYC. Double win. You're welcome.

4. Save now to spend then. Besides your Blogher conference pass, hotel stay and airfare you will need some cash to spend at Blogher. Think cab fares to and from airport, meals (the ol' hot dog from the street cart vendor will lose its luster quickly) and hey, let's face it, not everyone is a one-drink-ticket kind of mingler. So here's my super simple plan that's much easier said than done:

Your grande 2 pump non-fat mocha with whip costs you $3.65 every day, 7 days a week because you're a devoted Starbucks customer. BUT WHAT HAS STARBUCKS EVER DONE FOR YOU? (Except make you an addict and drain your wallet? EXACTLY.) So what I want you to do is - and sit down for this - I want you to *skip* that grande 2 pump non-fat mocha with whip 4 times a week beginning March 1 and put that money away in an envelope that cannot be touched, even in a full-blown PMS emergency.

If you do this straight through July 31 (22 weeks - BUT YOU CAN DO IT!), you will have saved $321.20. Plenty of spending money for Blogher.

Fine. You're like me and totally incapable of giving up your cappuccino/latte/mocha/americano, I GET IT. Here's your other option. Save your change. Seriously. Spend cash, save all your coins in a jar and roll them come the end of July. And don't be all CoinStar lazy about it either. Take an hour out of your precious time to roll your own damn pennies and nickels and quarters and dimes and take them to the bank to cash in. You'd be surprised how much you can rack up.

And when you do arrive at Blogher NYC, I expect a goddamn hug or fist bump or something for these savvy little savings tips I just provided.

***

Added: I didn't mean to offend anyone with this post nor insinuate that it was merely a matter of determination in order for you to make it to Blogher. We all have different financial situations and I was simply hoping to point out some ideas that might make it easier for people to go; perhaps ideas that hadn't been thought of. Newly laid-off, I'm having to think very carefully about how I'm going to get to NYC and I was only hoping to help, not offend.

It was funny the first time

"God dammit I dropped my wunchable."

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking like that?"

"Shit."

"WHAT?! That's it. You lost your dessert tonight. And that's really too bad because I bought ice cream."

"What the hell is ice cweam?"

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY??"

"Nuffing."

"I'm pretty sure I heard you say something about wanting to try out the taste of soap."

*silence*

Different kid: "Mooooooooooooooooooom! He just said 'shit' again!"

*head meets desk*