Worst Parent Ever

Inspired by one of my favorite websites Best Parent Ever I got to thinking "what about worst parent ever?" Surely not all of us went in for the Bugaboo stroller; for some of us, the good ole umbrella stroller--available at any Kids R' Us or Walmart for about $20--was just fine. Light, easy to manuver, foldable with one hand, washable--what's not to like?

A few other Worst Parent Ever qualities:

1) Letting your baby sleep on its stomach

How many parents, desperate to get baby to sleep for more than 2 hours at a clip listened to our mothers, who pointed out that back in the day tummy sleeping was today's back sleeping? There probably aren't any studies out proving that babies sleep better on their stomachs; all I can say is that, from my unscientific study based on a sample of at least 5 moms who were willing to furtively admit that yes, they let their babies sleep on their stomachs, the consensus was that the babies did sleep better.

2) Formula Feeding

We all know my feelings about the whole "breast is best" thing; suffice it to say that, while I did breastfeed each of my kids for 6 weeks, I blissfully gave in to formula after that and enjoyed every convenient, no-guessing-required about how much my babies drank minute. Apparently my kids survived despite my Worst Parent Ever behavior because they have lived to the ripe old ages of 10 and 12 with no apparent ill effects.

Worst Parents Ever make no apologies for not breastfeeding--whether it's just not their cup of tea or whatever, they proudly stock up on those great big cans of formula and enjoy the beauty of being able to handle nighttime feedings by chucking a bottle into the crib and going immediately back to sleep.

Oh, and bonus Worst Parent Ever points if you scoff at the doctor's warnings that babies stomachs can't handle milk until they're 12 months old and decide that you're tired of shelling out $25 a can and switch to regular milk when your baby is only 10 months old.

3) Extended pacifier use

Yeah, I admit it--my son had a pacifier until he was 7. Not like out on the street or anything, but yes, in a little box in his room, he had one and had no shame about using it. At home, that is. I didn't qualify for the uber Worst Parent Ever: the kind who lets a kid--not a toddler or even a pre-schooler--appear in public with a pacifier. You know, the kind of parent who gives their baby Coke in a bottle or...


lets it play with cigarettes.

Happy Blogoversary to Me

Ok, that's not actually true--this is not the anniversary of my first post. It is, however, almost the anniversary of the date I started tracking visitor stats. I started using Sitemeter in August 2007; during that month I had 14 visitors. As of today--with two more days to go until the actual end of the month--I have had 327 visitors during July 2008.

Granted 327 is nothing compared to "real" bloggers; with an average of about 15 visitors a day I doubt I could ever make a dime with this blog. But such is life--and I did score a free book and (still have yet to receive it so maybe shouldn't count it) a free CherryPal computer as a result of my blogging prowess.

I can't feel too badly, though--I was heartened to read this post by the author of one of my favorite blogs, Best Parent Ever. His wife's blog--even after about 50,000 page impressions in a 3-week period--brought in only $1.87. I could probably find more than that in between the cushions of my sofa.

So why do I keep blogging? Because I don't have the discipline (I was going to say time but if J.K. Rowling can write Harry Potter on napkins at 5 am I can't really claim to have no time) to write much of anything else, I guess. A friend of mine, after hearing from her husband about my guest post in The Washington Post, asked me, incredulously "So, what--you just sit there and write? Why?"

Who knows. God knows it's not for the recognition--not that I don't appreciate my loyal readership of 15 or so a day. Not for the props either--one valuable thing I've learned through blogging is that people are 100 times meaner when commenting anonymously on blogs then they are in real life. I guess the internet gives everyone a chance to release their inner demon-like personalities--read any blog and at least 50% of the comments are usually not only negative, but scathingly so. So blogging does force you to grow a thicker skin, which is generally useful in life.

I read this post today about what defines success as a blogger. It sums it up nicely: If you enjoy it, then do it. This is another good post about not getting too wrapped up in how "successful" your blog is.

So Not PC but So Funny

I know, I know--offensive, insensitive, crude...etc.

But hirarious! Um, I mean hilarious.

I'm BAAACK!!

Did you miss me? I am so impressed with myself for (almost) going without internet for a full week. I did check email (ok--and Twitter) from my phone and I did have to go to Bethany Bytes once--but only to print and send my CherryPal Brand Angel agreement back so they can send me my free computer.

Yes, that's right, folks--granted, it's not a book deal but I have managed to secure not one but two products of actual monetary value as a result of blogging. The first was a book--Groundswell by Forrester Research--they invited bloggers to email them and the first however many would get a free copy of the book to read and blog about. Which I did.

Remember the "gigs" section of Craigslist? Ok--not those gigs--I'm talking about the writing gigs section now. Anyway, a month or so ago I answered an ad looking for bloggers who wanted to serve as "brand angels" for this new "green" computer. Get to try a cool new computer before anyone else gets it? For free? And blog about it? Hells yeah.

So I applied and got selected. Hopefully in a few days I'll have my "cloud computer" in my hands and will be able to tell all you eager readers about it.

So what did I do for 7 days without internet? Read. A lot:

A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel--I loved this book and think she's awesome...if you like Lynda Barry you'll love her. In fact, I wonder if she's not actually Lynda Barry. Oh, and she's friends with Augusten...lucky dog.

The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve (didn't she used to be called Anita Richards Shreve?)--I loved this book--finished it in one day, so I guess that qualifies it as a page-turner.

The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted by Elizabeth Berg. Augusten recommended this book and I loved it as much as he did. At first I was like "huh?" but the stories are incredible--especially Ove the Hill and into the Woods. Very Raymond Carver/John Cheever.

Shock by Robin Cook--Ok--this was an audiobook that we all listened to throughout the week. Fun and interesting but lots of stupid/ridiculous stuff...as there always is in Robin Cook's books. The kids liked it, or at least Matthew did.

Then topped off the week with two movies--The Dark Knight and, finally, Sex and the City. I can't even begin to tell you how incredible Heath Ledger was in The Dark Knight--I'm not kidding. He was as good as Jack Nicholson in The Shining or Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs. Sad. I would be shocked if he doesn't at least get nominated for an Oscar, and not at all shocked if he wins.

Sex and the City was good but sort of "eh?" The best girl in the movie was Carrie's assistant, Louise from St. Louis. Every time Carrie was on screen she looked thinner and thinner--I swear, if she turned sideways all you could see was her hair. Ok, and her nose...but that's not nice of me to say. Especially considering that many more than one person has told me I look like her. Maybe the "long" face (as Patrick so lovingly put it) but hopefully not the nose--and sadly not the hair or the arms or the abs. Actually, I can't even covet anything about her body--she just looked scrawny. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe Maxim Magazine was on to something when they named her the unsexiest woman in the world. Angelina can barely carry being that skinny while remaining sexy; SJP just looks gaunt.

The Power of Negative Blogging

Yesterday I blogged about Penelope Trunk's post about shared parenting, which featured Marc and Amy, who are self-professed "shining pillars of excellence" (An "English as a second language" kid in Mimi's 5th grade class coined this term and I love it.) in the realm of shared parenting.

Who would have thought the object of my ridicule--Amy--would ever see the post, but she paid my blog a visit and left a scathing comment. In case you can't figure out how to get to the comment section of that post, here is her comment, followed by my response:

Maggie,
It seems important to you to find ways to ridicule our passion to share the benefits and challenges of equally shared parenting with others via our website, the article, and yes, someday, a book. No one is forcing you to adopt or even agree with anything we say, although you do sound like you are doing so in your own way anyway - both in your new marriage (if I read that right) and in your relationship with your ex-husband.

Why did Penelope give us advice on preparing to write a book? Well, because she makes a career of advising people, because she linked to US originally and we wrote to thank her, and because the few emails we exchanged over a year ago were free and encouraging. Tell me you wouldn't appreciate the same mentorship from someone for something YOU believed in. And by the way, the book we hope to write isn't about us - it is about equal parenting. A book about us would be, well, freaky to use your words! Have to agree with you there. We are far from perfect, but we're one of only a handful of people (until now) actually speaking up about the practical good and bad about equally shared parenting.

Anyway, I have no interest in engaging in your spit-fest, but wanted to reach out to suggest that you needn't give us so much power.

Take care,
Amy
Amy | Homepage | 07.08.08 - 10:20 am | #

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What's important to me is thinking of things to blog about on a semi-regular basis and, sorry, but things I find funny are easy fodder.

The thing is that I 100% agree with the concept--it's the "look at us--we're perfect!" way you present yourselves that I find funny. It's not just you guys, and it's not just me who finds stuff like your site funny--that's why sites like http://bestparentever.com/ exist.

I'm sure I, too, possess many annoying and self-promoting qualities; however, I can't see myself ever presenting myself as a shining example of anything--I figure anything I'm doing, someone else is also doing and probably doing better than I am.

But who knows--maybe I'm wrong...after all, you and your husband are living proof that nobody's going to promote you if you don't promote yourselves. After all, even though I, too, practice shared parenting, you're the ones with the book deal and I'm the one with 15 people reading my blog. And I'm not saying this facetiously--I'm serious.

And hell yes I would appreciate the same mentorship, especially from someone like Penelope. Not only is she a mentor, she has the power to make your book a success by spreading the word and promoting it. More power to you—but part of putting yourselves out there is, of course, having people who see things the way I do ridicule you. Then again, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that any press is good press and negative reactions will sell just as many books as positive ones will.

And now naturally I have to ridicule her comment, especially because she used the word "spit-fest."

A Banner Day in the Blogosphere

It's been slow going for me lately, creatively-speaking. I haven't felt like blogging but was alarmed to see my already minimal audience dwindle by the day so I've really been trying to squeeze some posts out. Not like you could tell or anything.

But I just finished reading Penelope Trunk's blog and don't even know where to begin my rant. Not about Penelope--she is my idol--did you know she makes $15,000 for one speaking engagement? Granted, she is, I'm sure--as one woman in my book group once described herself and the term became one of my favorites--a "gunner"--e.g. total type A, super competetive woman. But hey--she's a good writer and makes enough money to afford a $50k "house manager" in addition to a nanny and a housekeeper. I bow to her....but wouldn't want to be her.

Anyway, her post focused on this NY Times article about shared parenting and I couldn't help but think that the Stuff White People Like people would have a field-day with it.

Where do I even begin? Well, as Penelope did, with the "insipid photo," of course. Are there honestly people out there who see a photo like this and take it at face value, rather than laugh it off as a parody of yuppie parents? Are there really people out there so humorless that a photo like this serves only to get their competetive "best parent in universe" juices flowing?

I confess I didn't read beyond the first page of the article; I figure the title of the article, together with the term "breast milk" juxtaposed with the spooky photo, probably says it all anyway. What's up with a story that spans 10 web pages? Ten pages should be the sum total of an entire SITE--never one article.

But I digress...because after I did my three-point glance at the page and returned to Penelope's post, my eyes lit on this sentence:

A second disclaimer is that Amy and Marc, featured there as the poster children for shared care, are also people I’ve helped—about how to pitch themselves to the media so they could get some articles written about themselves and get a book deal. And they, too, were nice.

Did someone say book deal?

Seriously, though--there are people out there who think they are fascinating enough that they seek advice on how to pitch themselves to the media? I mean, regular people, fascinating--in their own eyes, at least--for just being regular people? While there are many fascinating things about me that would undoubtedly make A+ book fodder, I would be forever banished from polite company if I ever wrote it--not to mention it would probably send my mother into heart failure. My blogging in general already has her half there.

Back to Amy and Marc though--the picture on their website is even freakier than the one in the NYT article. Aren't sites that look like this usually reserved for engaged couples? At first glance I thought Amy and Marc were caterers or something--what with the chef hats and all--and figured that accounted for the desire for media coverage. But no--as you can see for yourselves, Amy and Marc are merely trying to pitch their perfectness to the media.

This post is already long enough and I still have one more thing to cover so I'll leave it at that...suffice it to say that I'm sure an upcoming topic on Stuff White People Like will be Shared Parenting.

Which brings me to the final--and probably best--link of all. ThirdPath--a favorite resource of Amy and Marc's--ranks right up there with Le Petite Paradis in terms of its "you've got to be kidding me" quotient. I'll have to write about ThirdPath another time, as it deserves its own post, but I'll just say that if my career as a Bottle Whisperer doesn't pan out I'm going to try offering "coaching calls" for $150 an hour.

Stuff White People Like (yes, again)

Yesterday our friends Jen and Chris were visiting and somehow the conversation turned to Stuff White People Like. I am so obsessed with it I had to pull out the laptop and share one of my all-time favorite things white people like: Having Black Friends.

"Since we are on the verge of electing a black president, it seems important to explain why white people want black friends. Every white person wants a black friend like Barack: good-looking, well-spoken, and non-violent. Obviously, whites want black friends so as not to appear racist (see earlier Obama post). However, if we dig deeper what we notice about white people is not if they have black friends but in fact, how many black friends they have. White people like numbers. They like to count things like stars in the sky and the death toll at Mt. Everest and the number of times they’ve seen Tori Amos and/or Phish in concert. Counting the number of black friends is then clearly a divine imperative. The number of black friends white people possess also illustrates their comfort with black culture. Here’s a handy guide to the number system:

1—The white novice. This black friend is the gateway to helping white people understand gang signs and Vietnamese beauty supply stores. This black friend is probably the only black friend for many white people and when they all hang out (because white people hang out) they bring their “mutual” black friend with them.

2—The white black club-goer. Two black friends serve as bodyguards when white people go to black clubs to see how exactly one “pops, drops and locks” it.

3 -4—The white BET-er. See Justin Timberlake/ Robin Thicke/ Jon B for more information. For old school reference, see Michael McDonald.

5 and up—Impossible."

LMAO!

Happy 4th!

July 4th just doesn't seem as fun as it used to. I don't know if it's because I'm old now or what but it's just not exciting at all. I remember it used to be my favorite holiday and I LOVED fireworks. Now I'm just too lazy to give it enough forethought to even find where they're having them.

I wish I had this thing that Mimi made when she was about 5--it was my favorite piece of kid work ever. It was a piece of paper that said:

It is omos 4 ov july.

It was awesome just as it was, but then, a year and apparently some learnin' later, she unpinned it from the bulletin board I kept it on and, imitating a teacher, she took a red pen to it and corrected it to read:

It is omosT 4 ov July.

P.S. to Summer Sucks

Ok--check out that link and tell me--how is a Smiling Malfi mimobot named Buddy Chub not actualy a vibrator? USB drive my ass; why would anyone need a dildo-shaped flash drive named Buddy Chub?



Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have to purchase Fairybit Fairybot--I think Cassie will agree that it's the cutest thing I've ever seen!!


Oh no--it keeps getting worse--I just saw that they have Tokidoki mimobots!



Must...stop...looking...

Summer Sucks

Damn, I'm tired. Summer is just not fun for grown-ups; or, I should say, parents of young kids. Sure it's fun--for a while--if you're not working during the summer (or at all) and have not a care in the world about packing lunches for camp or worrying about sending your kid to camp with a bee sting because you don't have any sick time to use.

I used to be a stay home mom so I know the carefree feeling of summer with kids when job worries aren't even on your radar. You get to sleep in every day (except when there's swim practice, but of course you know I'm the kind of mom who would send her kid to inferior afternoon practice to avoid having to get up at 7 am) and the world is basically stress-free.

For about two weeks; three if you're lucky. Then the kids start to get bored and you get bored and then someone gets sick then you all get sick of the pool and start hating being around each other and by the end of July you're pretty much wanting to hang yourself. Maybe that's not the case for the lucky moms who get to go away for weeks at a time to a beach house or something; but then again, it's probably twice as bad for them because there's no dad in the picture--it's all mom, all the time.

Anyway, I forget my point, because I'm so exhausted from just the second day of the work/camp/swim team routine. It's 10:20 pm and I still have yet to go down and make the lunches for tomorrow. I would gladly give each kid $20 to buy a lunch at this point--hell, $50-- but of course they want one made by me. Sigh.

I digress...guess I have to go make the lunches. But now I can't, because the 4 houseguests I've had since Sunday--my inlaws, who I love and hate to speak badly of, as well as two distant cousins of Patrick's--who, incidentally, speak only French--just got home from Patrick's baseball game. Which means the 2 hours of non-socializing or working or driving or mothering time I've had since Sunday have come to an end and I'm too tired to have to go drag out the high-school French and piece together a conversation while I make lunches.

I shouldn't complain because they're all very nice and, under less hectic circumstances it would be fun to hang out and dust off the French some more; however, right now all I want to do is turn off the lights, insert my trusty Flents, down an Ambien and wake up when everyone is gone.

Anyone want to drive by and leave some Lunchables in my driveway by 7 am tomorrow? Mimi likes pizza and Matthew likes turkey and cheddar.

Lest my rant has put you in a funk, let's take a page from my sister Cassie's blog: I defy you to look at this page and not smile. Or at least wonder "WTF?"

Apparently I'm Not an Expert in What White People Like

One of my favorite blogs--Stuff White People Like--had a contest to see who could come up with new things white people like. The five best entries would be featured on the blog and the winners would get a free copy of the new book, Stuff White People Like: A Definitive Guide to the Unique Taste of Millions by Christian Lander. The book is coming out July 1st and I'm going to buy it--even though I didn't win the contest--because I know it's going to be HILARIOUS.

Lest my creative efforts be wasted, this was my contest entry:

Everyone knows that "breast is best"--or at least all white people do. Breast milk is the elixir of the white gods--it's the all-natural, environmentally-friendly (no nasty plastic bottles!) way to guarantee your baby will become a gifted child and enjoy perfect health forever.

White people are naturally competitive--they like to be the best and have the best. What better way to combine being the best, giving the best and having the best than breastfeeding? Not only do the babies win by growing up with immune systems of steel and greatly increased odds of getting into an Ivy League school by virtue of their breast milk-enhanced brains, but the parents can check off the first of many things that they're doing perfectly. If, in spite of having been breast-fed, their babies turn out to be allergic to wheat or peanuts or end up with ADHD, the parents can rest assured that obviously breastfeeding was what saved the kid from being REALLY sickly. Meanwhile, if a non-breast-fed kid so much as sneezes or gets a B on a test, of course it's the parents' fault because they didn't breastfeed. And of course I mean parents' fault-- plural--rather than just moms', because white fathers see themselves as equally involved in breastfeeding even though the milk is not technically coming out of their breasts. Their support of the effort--waking up for every night feeding, changing the diaper and then getting the baby back to sleep--is obviously just as important as the actual milk.

Breastfeeding is so important to white people that they're willing to go to any length necessary to make sure they're able to give their babies "the best" for as long as possible. Lactation consultants are the beneficiaries of white people's obsession with breastfeeding--$150 an hour to come to your house to show you how to get your baby so suck on your nipple correctly.

Hey--can't blame a girl for trying--I thought my post was mighty white. And you know I never pass up an opportunity to rank on breastfeeding zealots because I'm bitter that a lactation consultant once told me my baby would die if I fed her formula.

Shameless Plug for the Toyota Matrix (and no, Toyota is not paying me)

This time last year I had a VW Passat--V6, heated leather seats--the works. I was never a car person and had no idea what a V6 even was when I bought the car (3 years old from Carmax). All I knew was that I liked the color and I'd never had leather seats before--let alone heated leather seats. Granted, back when I bought it I was still married to my first husband (that sounds so Elizabeth Taylor) and we had a minivan so the second car was strictly for whichever one of us wasn't toting the kids and their stuff.

In the divorce, he got the paid off car (the mini-van) due to circumstances that could only be explained in a novel because the whole thing was so crazy. Bottom line: Rich in-laws who hate you are not a good thing when you’re divorcing their son and they can—and probably will—make your life miserable. At any rate, I did get the Passat and the car payment that went with it—not a bad trade for getting out of that marriage.

The only problem was the gas mileage. First of all it required premium grade gas, which I initially thought was BS and continued to use regular. In care you’re wondering, when a car company says a car requires premium, they aren’t just trying to prove you for a sucker—the car actually does require the high-grade gas to function correctly. Those commercials about knocking and pinging? Those are the exact sounds your car will make if you use regular gas.

So fine, I got used to using premium. But something was wrong—there must have been a leak in the gas tank because I constantly had to get gas. On average it seemed I was getting about 19 mpg, or even closer to 17 sometimes. I had the shop look at it but nothing was wrong; little did I know but V6s guzzle gas. Who knew? It got to the point where I was fighting an ongoing battle to be able to go a full week without having to fill up—and this was when I was basically only driving to and from work.

Then this time last year I decided enough was enough—having a car payment was bad enough; having to pay almost $200 a month for gas was ridiculous. I decided to trade it in for something more fuel-efficient, not to mention with some semblance of storage space since I no longer had the minivan. I looked at hybrids first—the Explorer and the Prius. Both WAY out of my price range; I needed to maintain the same car payment after the trade-in. When I went to look at the Prius I noticed a cute car on the lot and asked what it was. It was a Matrix. Brand new, the top of the line model was about $18,000. I drove it and bought it, and it has proven to be a great decision.

It takes regular gas, which these days of course is huge. It kills me to pay $4.05 for a gallon of gas; I don’t think I could stomach paying $4.75 a gallon. I fill up every 7 days—occasionally 8. When Patrick and I went on a 250 mile car trip a few weekends ago it took 8.5 gallons of gas to get there—that’s about 33 mpg (calculations Patrick’s, not mine—math is not my thing).

So if you’re looking at hybrids thinking it’s worth the $25,000-$50,000 and up for a car that gets, on average, as low as about 25mpg and a high of maybe 50mpg (city only; highway is less (according to Real Hybrid Mileage Database). http://www.greenhybrid.com/compare/mileage/ , I strongly suggest you consider the Matrix. It’s cheap, has a ton of room (when the back seats are flipped down you can carry as much as any SUV with the back seats flipped down), gets great gas mileage and is, after all, a Toyota, so it’s reliable. Granted, it’s no V6 so the beauty of being able to go from 0-60 in no time with no sound will be a thing of the past, but the thrill of much lower gas bills each month almost compensates for it.

Comcastic

Do you live in the DC metro area? If so, you are almost surely familiar with Comcast cable, the crappiest cable company on the planet--possibly the crappiest company on the planet, period. I could go on and on and on about why they are so bad, but I read about this YouTube video today and I think it sums up Comcast's quality customer service perfectly:



BTW, I read about it in Groundswell, a book actually sent to me by Forrester Research to read and blog about. So blogging hasn't gotten me a book deal (yet)--at least now I can say it's gotten me a free book.

This Just In: Yuppie Sex is "Madcap" and "Exhausting"

I was at a swim meet last night, an activity that provides much time for social interaction because you're there for 4 hours yet your kid is in the pool a total of 90 seconds. One of the ladies was talking about this book she'd heard about--a couple had done the unthinkable: had sex for 101 nights in a row then written a book about it. Can you imagine? The ladies at the swim meet sure couldn't--nobody could keep up that pace, they insisted, and even if you could why would you want to?

So I look it up this morning: the book is called Just Do It:How One Couple Turned Off the TV and Turned On Their Sex Lives for 101 Days (No Excuses!) and everyone is going crazy about it--talking about how "gutsy" the "radical" this couple was to do it and write about it. The reviews are both hilarious and perplexing to me:

"101 straight days of sex between any two people is an impressive feat, but add the elements of encroaching middle age, fourteen years of togetherness, a couple of demanding jobs, and two small and willful children, and that feat becomes something extraordinary."—Lauren Dockett, co-author of Facing 30 and Sex Talk

"Many of us have thought of taking this journey, but only Doug and Annie have had the guts to do it and the grace to write about it.”—Mira Kirshenbaum, author of Too Good to Leave, Too Bad to Stay and When Good People Have Affairs

Since when is fucking that hard to do? Clearly someone needs to pay me to write a book dispelling the myth that sex is such a huge ordeal that it's just not possible to sustain having it on a regular basis if you're married and have kids. I know, I know--everyone will say "but you're a newlywed! It's not the same after you've been married for 10 years." To that I say bullshit. Fucking is fucking. I most definitely have the guts and grace to write about it--anyone want to pay me to do it?

Seriously. If being 40, having kids and a job and having frequent sex is book- worthy, then clearly I need to get on that bandwagon. (I'm sure my mom is reaching for the phone as she reads this, frantically dialing my number to tell me what a grave mistake it is for me to reveal the details of my personal life to the whole world.)

Suffice it to say that 101 times in 101 days is nothing; try at least at least 700 times in the past 2 years and no way will we be taking a month off anytime soon. Again with the newly wed comments, I'm sure--everyone will say just wait and you'll be in the once a month or less club soon enough. To that I say NEVER and find me a publisher willing to pay me to prove it.

The author and his wife--Annie and Douglas Brown--appeared on The Today Show proudly boasting about their "colorful romp" and "madcap adventures" (those phrases alone make this book a must-buy). They got the idea for the book when Doug heard about the concept of the "100 Days Club"--a club you belong to if you haven't had sex with your partner in 100 days. He told his wife about it and she had the "madcap" idea to reverse that and have sex for 100 straight days.

They did it then were so exhausted that they promptly took a month off. What I don't understand is why they are now being hailed as virtual marriage counselors. They are inviting people to write to them to find out "How to save your marriage with sex" and will be on The Today Show again on June 26 to share their new-found wisdom.

If gritting your teeth through 101 days of sex then swearing off each other out of sheer exhaustion is the way to save a marriage then I don't expect to see the national divorce rates fall anytime soon.

Countdown to 40

Just got back from birthday dinner with the moms in the burbs. It was my friend's 39th birthday today and, in case I haven't mentioned it enough times yet, my birthday tomorrow. Actually, 45 minutes from now to be exact.

Anyway--so we're all at this cute new Mexican restaurant (Tabasco in Olney, MD--you should try it!) and a woman who I hadn't seen since last summer is sitting next to me. The last time I'd been out with her and another friend about a year ago, she was basically a sobbing wreck, slurring on and on about how she wanted a divorce, hated her husband, etc, etc. We were at Clyde's and I swear she must have had 8 beers in an hour. Fast forward a year and here she is sitting at the table next to me tonight.

A bit of history: her husband is a military doctor and they've been in this area for 2 years. She has 3 kids, a nanny and spends her days playing tennis at the club. Actually, she had to fire the nanny when the girl went to Brazil and came back laden with bed bugs, which subsequently took 6 months and $5,000 to eradicate from the house. So make that 3 kids and still spends her days playing tennis at the club because they have childcare there.

When we last met she was just beside herself--granted, she was also drunk off her ass--but just going on and on about how she hated her life, her marriage, wanted out--the whole bit. So here she is tonight, fresh as a daisy and all smiles. Things are going great! They're moving back to their old house, 2 hours south of here. She's gushing about how they went through a real "bad patch" but that's just life and that's what you do if you have kids--you stick with it!

She gave quite a speech about the "stick with it" thing--no marriage is perfect, you have a history together, you have kids together, you just make it work. Yawn. Then she says to me "So what, do your kids see their dad on the weekends or something?"

Oh--wait--I forgot to mention--back there when I just said "they're" moving back to their old house? That would be she and the 3 kids are moving back there; the husband is staying here, renting a room in some old lady's house and going home on the weekends he isn't on call.

Let's see: parents divorced and live 5 minutes from each other and kids see both parents every day, or parents "happily" married, living 2 hours away from each other and kids lucky if they see their dad twice a month?

Anyway, I have to go be 30-something for another half hour.

Sick

Nothing like a ripping stomach bug to wreck your day. I woke up in the middle of the night and did something I haven't done in probably 13 years--puked. Now I'm home with that kind of flu where you're laying on the bathroom rug, whimpering. Just going downstairs almost killed me--I almost passed out. Then had to go to the car to get the Tylenol--that did me in and now I have no energy to even go lock the door behind my mother who generously came to bring me gingerale.

So here I am, stuck on the sofa with the laptop searing my thighs since I feel too crappy to either read, watch TV or sleep. Of course I can still blog, though; I'd probably have to be dead to be too sick to be on the computer.

I was about to check Craigslist for writing gigs--did you know that companies are now willing to pay freelancers to blog for them? I figure I'm doing it anyway; if someone wants to pay me I'd be all for it.

So I go to check out the "gigs" section, which is where people looking for freelancers go and notice there's a category for adult gigs. Naturally I'm curious about this section so I go check it out. It's pretty much what you'd expect--looking for nude models, nude cleaning ladies ($250 an hour! Too bad I'm not under 30), escort services--the adult services you'd figure are pretty standard. But there are a lot of random and entertaining ones too--excellent headlines like "In Search of Young Girls Interested in *Working*" (asterix their's). I guess they want to make it clear they're not looking for a typist or barrista or something. Then my favorite:

I just wanted to know if there were any gentleman out there that would like to have a dinner date with an attractive AA lady?

I am interested in having a Sushi dinner (at a place that has quality sushi) or just a trip to Panera....I'm just hungry and have a taste for one of those two things.

This is for dinner only and all that I ask is you provide a donation to have a dinner date this evening in the area (or very close to).

I would like 100 for the time spent and gas (NO FS just dinner)....If you are interested in a dinner date with classy ebony lady please drop me line

If this isn't an example of truth being more awesome than fiction, I don't know what is. First, there's the specificity: I'm definitely craving either sushi (and quality sushi, at that) or Panera. Nothing else will do. Then the "donation" for the dinner date--aren't those two things mutually exclusive? Either you're on a date, or he's giving a donation so you can take yourself to sushi or Panera. Then there's the contratictory "this is for dinner only" then "I would like 100 for the time spent." And the weirdest part--wtf is "FS"?

Basically, I'm hungry and want some stranger to not only pay for my dinner at my choice of restaurant, but pay also for my time and gas. And no FS, whatever that is. All I can do is give the girl props for trying, and tell her maybe she should aim higher than Panera if she's going to the effort to hitchike for perverts on the internet. I'm very tempted to email her just to ask if she had any takers, did they choose sushi or Panera, did the guy actually fork over the $100 time/gas surcharge and did he demand FS?

This board offered many head-scratchers, too: what is CFNM? Twink bottom? Ugh--and nasty dad looking for childcare. Come take care of my kid and be my whore for free, and I might let you live here. There's an opportunity worth considering.

Friday Night

Wouldn't you know it--I finally have time to write and my mind is blank. The air conditioner is broken so the heat is blocking my thought processes.

I just went to sign onto Facebook and, prepopulated in the email address field was my daughter's email address. I sign in and yes, there it is--she has a Facebook page. Thankfully nothing on it--yet--but a handful of friends.

Ok, kill me now--I just went to take a closer look and started checking out the friends of her friends and a) it is freaking me out that these girls (not Mimi, thankfully) describe themselves as "X high school '11." Um, they're in 6th grade--what's up with trying to pass as high school girls? And one of the girls has a photo of herself in a bikini--in the snow.

Cassie--you should be SOOO glad you don't have to deal with this yet!

Ok, well Patrick just got home and the AC is broken so I gotta go hang with the hubby.

This numb finger is killing me. Not literally--it doesn't hurt--but it's at best annoying and at worst basically crippling if all you do all day is type and use a mouse, then most of what you like to do for fun involves either typing or using a mouse. It's like being a big talker but having to sit around with a piece of tape over your mouth.

It was getting better for a few days--I thought it was almost gone since it was down to one tiny spot on the tip of my pinkie being slightly tingly, but now it's back to my entire pinkie being almost totally numb. Now that my one week of not having health insurance is over and I am once again covered, I think I'm going to have to cave and go to the doctor.

I hate having ailments that don't just go away either with the passing of time or with the help of a few pills. At least with an infection or something you can just call the doctor and he can phone in a prescription--no office visit necessary. But unfortunately it seems like stretching or not stretching or Advil or ice or heat or sleeping with an arm split on sleeping with a wrist splint are helping this nerve thing so maybe I better figure out which doctor to go to.

In the meantime, if you are suicidal because I haven't written anything entertaining lately, you can read my other, other blog where I wrote about something Patrick said that I thought was brilliant and hilarious. Nobody else seemed to think it was very hilarious, but what do they know.

Nothing's really up lately. My new job rocks. The weather is nice. The pool is open. My birthday is in 2 weeks and Patrick is taking me here. I am so excited--not only is it the fanciest place on the planet (next to my beloved Wynn) but they have shooting there. Being there will definitely take the pain of turning 40 away. Hopefully this f-ing hand is better by then; I have never shot a real gun before and don't want anything messing up my shooting ability.

Well, sadly, must go back to typing moratorium.

Readin'

Since I haven't been able to type or play computer games much I've had to resort to other recreational pursuits. I'm not much of a TV lover (although the new Denise Richardson show looks promising for trashy entertainment; that girl has a worse trash mouth than I do and it is NOT attractive) so I have mostly been reading. A lot.

I already wrote about Augusten's new book--naturally it rocked. Since then I have read the following:

Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher. It was good but depressing and freaky. If you want to feel normal, read this book. Just reading it is exhausting; I can't imagine having to live it. This book could serve as a FIO DSM: if you relate to this girl and/or have experienced what she has, you're crazy; if not, you're fine. Ok--sorry--I know "crazy" is not the PC term, but since I am supposedly crazy myself I'm allowed to call it that. And I'm telling you--I am 1000% less crazy than this poor woman.

Split by Suzanne Finnamore. I read this book because Augusten recommends it; I think she's a good friend of his. Lucky cow. Anyway, while I did like it and ultimately think she's a good writer, it took a long time to warm to her style. It could have something to do with the fact that I cannot relate to women who know their husbands are cheating yet choose to live in denial and want him anyway. Her story is that one day her husband just announces he's leaving and she is devastated and desperately wants him back, even when we learn, though a series of flashbacks spanning as far back as the beginning of their relationship, that he was a serial cheater.

She describes finding a book of poetry--with a romantic inscription and "xoxo Me"--in their house and it's sure not hers. She finds a cocktail napkin with some romantic song lyrics written on it in her husband's handwriting, complete with some other woman's name written in the margins or something; not only does she find it but she finds it on the floor of the nursery when she is 8 months pregnant.

Then of course there's the blatantly obvious: he has left her for another woman who he moves in with and proceeds to have a baby with. Throughout the whole thing Finnamore just swoons about how much she loves him; she repeatedly sleeps with him and, right up till the very last paragraph, seems to revel in the fact that he still likes to be with her or spend time with her or sleep with her when the fancy strikes him. She lovingly describes how he will just show up unannounced and help himself to her food, her furniture--even her mail. The guy turns my stomach--he leaves her for this other woman, then is cheating on the other woman with her. All the while she's painting him in this romantic light; how what they had was so beautiful and special and he obviously can't live without her. Meanwhile, it's blaringly apparent that the guy is a sociopath who does what he wants, when he wants, with who he wants and doesn't give it a second thought. Scott Peterson was very charming and sincere, too--and look how that turned out.

I don't mean to cut on Augusten's friend, but I just don't understand how she can stand to look at this guy, much less continue to mourn losing him and want him back. The book is good, but I say that very reluctantly because the whole thing was almost ruined by her ridiculous longing for her dick of an ex-husband.

Ok, well my pinkie is totally numb now so that will have to suffice; I'll fill you in on the other books I've read when I regain the feeling in my finger.

Can't...Type...



Wow, I'm having blogging withdrawal, it's been so long since I've written in here. It's partly due to the fact that I have a new job where I have actual work to do--imagine that. And it's also by necessity since I'm valiantly trying to will my nerve-damaged hand to heal without having to seek medical help. I have pretty much figured out what's wrong: ulnar nerve entrapment. It's freaky because my hand is numb in the EXACT blue places on this picture, right down to the half index finger.

Guess I'll try sleeping with a huge towel wrapped around my elbow so I can't bend my arm. Not. Sadly I sleep on my side with my arm curled up in the exact "don't" way indicated on that page. I guess I could try some version of the towel thing, but it will necessitate me having to take a double-dose of Ambien to be able to sleep. (Just kidding, mom.)(My mom's suggested dose of every medication: cut the pill in half, or even in quarters. If you go by her rules you pretty much just have to think about the pill and that should be sufficient to relieve your symptoms.)

At any rate, since I have to spend my working life at the keyboard I need to spend all non-work time trying to keep my arm straight as a stick; e.g. not typing or using a mouse. Therefore blogging sadly has become as verboten as playing Luxor. I have determined that the way to avoid future game-related injuries is to buy a Wii--that way I can still waste countless hours playing video games but I won't be glued to a keyboard.

Actually, I'm sure that logic is flawed and I'd end up with some other Wii-related injury, which is just as well since I have about 100 other things I could spend the $500+ it would cost to buy the Wii, the controllers and all the other accessories necessary to have any fun with it.

Well, I'd love to stay and chat but it's time to go back to doing something that doesn't require use of my elbow or right hand.

Sigh. I hope this goes away soon.