Tag Archives: Confessional

Toddler Confessions

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In honor of the twins’ birthday this week, I’m going to give them the mic. They will be taking over this Friday Confession. I’ll have to translate for them since they don’t really “talk” so to speak – but I’ll try to keep it honest.

First, we will hear from Eleanor:

Hello! My name is Eh-ni-ner [Interjection from Mom: This is how Eleanor pronounces her name]. I am pretty much perfect, but I do have one little fault. I’m just the teeniest bit of a princess. I demand to be the center of attention at all times, and whatever you have? I want some. Of course this is entirely justified as I’m in a word, fabulous. I’m terribly multifaceted though in that I’m what some of the neighbors call, “a tough cookie.” I fall down a lot (oh yeah – another flaw: I’m kind of a klutz), but I don’t waste much time crying. If I’m having fun, I can shake it off. Regardless of what may seem like a tomboy personality though, I really am quite the girly girl. I will only wear one pair of shoes. They are silver mary janes with little bows, and they are so “me.” Mom tries to make me put on these clunky brown shoes (must be a throw back from her past) and insists on calling the horrors my “school shoes.” Well I don’t go to school yet, and if school requires wearing shoes that Mom preferred back in “the olden days,” then I’ll pass. I have a reputation to maintain you know.

ANYWAY – I have also recently become addicted to barrettes. I call them “pretties” which seems to make everyone laugh. But when Mom first started putting them in my hair, she’d say “so pretty!” She didn’t say “so barrette!” What was I supposed to think? Mom says that she’s just excited because I was more or less bald until a month ago. I prefer to say “follically challenged,” but George is signaling to me that it’s his turn, so I won’t get argumenative about it. So…in conclusion…what were we talking about? Oh right a confession. I don’t really have one. I pretty much perfect.

Take it away George:

Right, thanks Mom. Hi there (big wave). HI…..hi……..hi (still waving). [Interjection from Mom: We could be here all day. He loves saying HI and BYE, and no one can out wave him. So I’ll get this started. “Hello. My name is George, and I am weird.”] YES – that’s right. I’m weird. Sorry about that – I just really like waving. It’s kind of my thing right now. But you know – like Mom said, I am weird. First – I’m obsessed with toothbrushes. I love them – and I want to brush my teeth pretty much 50 times a day. My parents have to hide all of the toothbrushes since I am a climber. And when I do have a toothbrush in hand? I dare you to try to take it away from me. You will find it next to impossible to prize it from my iron tight grasp. And if by some miracle you do? I will blast you across the room with my super human shrieking. I’m not kidding, you may have some temporary hearing loss. At the very least, you will drop the toothbrush.

The other weird thing about me is that I have just this week become extremely attached to a pair of shoes. They are lime green Vans that are just a little too small for me. Here is a picture of me in me half dressed for bed – still wearing my Vans:

Aren’t they rad? Vans are a West Coast thing, and people say “rad” on the West Coast. Or that’s what Dad told Mom when she said that they didn’t match anything (I mean – he said that Vans not matching your outfit is a West Coast thing – he didn’t say rad). Dad is getting a bit long in the tooth to say things like rad. Have you met my parents? They’re really old. They’re not rad. But they are very patient with me. And they’ve let me wear my lime green Vans every day this week, even though they don’t match anything. And now they let me wear them to bed. Well they kind of have to. Because if they don’t, I’ll scream. And I’ve already explained the consequences of that. So that’s pretty much it for me. I’m just weird.

Thanks kids! I can’t think of a good closing for this, so I’ll just go play with the little ones now. Playing with the twins generally looks like this:

Do You Find Meaning in Beauty?

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Before getting into another embarassing anecdote for my Friday Confession, I’d like to thank the adorable Winona of Daddy Likey for quoting me in her post yesterday. I – like her brother – do love me some Tim Gunn. And now the world knows it: I want him to come live in my closet and help me get it together every morning: “come on Kate, it’s “make it work time!”

This week’s Friday Confession is an embarrassing one. So big breath in…and out…okay – here it is. I use infomercial skincare products.

That’s right – I didn’t change the channel the minute I saw the recognizable celebrity face replaced with “Jill from Laguna” talking about how this product has changed her life, I didn’t just pay attention long enough to figure out what she was selling (this generally takes anywhere from two to ten minutes), and I didn’t lie on the couch passively watching while thinking about how I should really get up and find the remote control. No – I gave this infomercial my full attention. I viewed all 30 minutes of it and then I ran for the phone so I wouldn’t miss out on the promised free gift to everyone who “acted NOW!”

This all happened about five months ago when I turned on the TV to do an exercise video (yes, I do exercise every once in a while – and I do still say “exercise video” even when it’s a DVD). While I was getting the DVD out of it’s case, I was distracted by the image of a very unwrinkled looking woman named Pam who was saying that people have been asking her if she’s had any work done. Considering the fact that Pam looked to be in her thirties, I guessed that she was actually fifty and either (a) really DID have some work done or (b) discovered a miracle product that transformed her from an unnoticed, wrinkly middle-aged women to a glamorous infomercial success story. Turns out it was (c): all of the above, with the exception that the work had nothing to do with her youthful face (it was obviously of the cleavage-enhancing variety).

Typically, I would not have taken Pam that seriously – I mean we’ve all seen these infomercials with their strategic lighting and minuscule disclaimers scrolling across the bottom of the screen. But then Cindy Crawford’s face filled the frame and the rest of the world disappeared. She was so pretty. And she really wanted me to have the soft, smooth skin that she enjoyed. For years she had been seeing Dr. Sebagh, a French dermatologist who has perfected a ground breaking anti-aging formula – a fountain of youth if you will. He’s impossibly expensive and booked years in advance, but Cindy has found a way to bring his brilliant services and products to people JUST LIKE ME. All in the form of this simple system with a 60-day money back guarantee. And she’s SO pretty.

Cindy has been working on this project for several years. During that time she had to decide whether to launch a big budget ad campaign with expensive packaging, which would require a matching price tag, or to go with lower budget advertising and simple packaging. Cindy’s vision was to bring this magic to the little people (LIKE ME! And she’s SO pretty). So she went with the latter, and relied on infomercials and word of mouth to advertise Meaningful Beauty.

I’ll skip the details of the products (I do ramble on…) but you can click on the image above if you are interested.

I was in the market for a new skincare regime as I had been using Aveda for years and felt like a change. And I was planning on switching to a line that my friend Ainsley sells through Shaklee (FYI – you may want to adjust your audio if you click on that link – it just nearly blasted me out of my seat). I had already read up on it and was just about to place the order. But then Cindy brainwashed me with her perfect skin and French dermatologist and courage to take off all of her make up on camera to demonstrate the products. And she’s just so goddamn pretty damn her! Ainsley is very pretty too of course, but she doesn’t have a brainwashing infomercial. Sorry Ainsley.

Five months later, my take on Meaningful Beauty? I’m not sure… My skin is soft and I don’t think I look too wrinkly…but who is to say that this should be attributed to my skincare products. Maybe any products would have this effect. Now I regret not having taken a “before” picture. Of course, most of my recent pictures look like “before” pictures, but I mean a close up of my crows feet. One that I could compare to a close up taken at the three month mark when the secret formula really starts to do it’s work (yes – I noticed that this doesn’t line up with the 60-day money back guarantee). I’m sorry – but three months later, I don’t even remember what my eye color was. I just don’t pay that much attention these days (trying to avoid the sight of wrinkles and all). So I suppose I’ll just continue to use Meaningful Beauty until I tire of it and feel like a change.

So there you go – I’m like your great aunt who watches QVC and collects ceramic thimbles and commemorative plates. I have succumbed to the siren song of the beauty product infomercial. Cindy Crawford didn’t snare me in her early 90s exercise video conspiracy – but now I’m older and slower. I could run but I couldn’t hide. She’s a marketing genius and she’s finally trapped me in the web of my own vanity.

Drink Me

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For this week’s Friday Confession – I’m going to admit to something really dumb I did last year. And I blame it entirely on the fact that I had infant twins and was clocking an average of 3 hours of sleep each night.

Right after I had the twins, my mother in law came to stay with us for a couple of weeks and help out. She noticed that my only hair dryer really needed to be replaced (seriously – it was pathetic – felt as if someone was standing next to me blowing on my head). She purchased a new one for me, and for the first time in months, I actually had the ability to blow dry my hair straight without any noticeable frizzing. Did I do this very often? No. But the fact that I could gave me some hope of one day, having a normal appearance again.

Time passed, and I began to use the hair dryer on a more frequent basis. Once my maternity leave was over, I had to look semi human during the week. Before I knew it, the twins were a year old, and my hair dryer was still going strong. It was perfect for me: no fancy settings, just high (which I use) and low (which I don’t). There was only one problem. I was beginning to notice that the cord was a bit on the short side.

It made me wonder for a moment if it was possible for me to have gotten taller. Like the infamous Alice (whom I’ve related to before), I felt as if my world was starting to shrink. Except I didn’t happen upon any strange bottles that said “Drink Me.” And unlike a fictional child, I’m far too smart to actually drink something without knowing what it is (unless of course I’m jonesing for a Diet Coke and the bottle looks to have some good potential in that direction). At any rate, I knew that it was next to impossible for a 35 year old woman to suddenly start growing.

Maybe it was because I had recently started wearing my hair shorter and the new style required more contortions on my part. All I knew is that I began finding it very difficult to reach the back of my head. I don’t know that I’d ever had that problem with another hair dryer – but I did know that as much as I liked it, it was a cheap one. So I assumed that it must be a matter of getting what you pay for. I knew that I should buy a new one, but I never seemed to get around to it. I just continued to suffer.

Finally the day came when I picked up my hair dryer and thought I was losing my mind. The cord was not only short but SHORTER. So short that it could not even come close to reaching the back of my head. And I KNEW that cord had been longer the previous day.

After several seconds of open mouthed incredulity, a thought came to me. In wincing realization, I reached down and (I think you’ve figured it out by now) pulled the cord. That’s right – it was retractable. So apparently, it had been slowly retracting over the past year and I only discovered it when I literally could not hold the damn thing up over my head!

Awesome.

I’m that Mom: Part II

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Yesterday I started a list of reasons that I’m not winning any awards for mother of the year. I had to cut it short because I was starting to feel depressed. Or more accurately, because I wanted to stretch this material for a couple of days to free up more time for work, I mean, my kids. Here are ten more things that make me “that mom.”

11. I’m that mom who threatens my three year old with naps even though he hasn’t napped in over six months and I have no intention of following through.

12. I’m that mom who will finally break down and offer my children candy if it will make them submit to my will.

13. I’m that mom who will bring my kids out to run errands before cleaning the magic marker off of their arms and legs.

14. I’m that mom who says I won’t let my kids taste raw cookie dough because “it’s not good for them” – when what I really mean is that I’m afraid that they’ll find out that it is in fact, much better raw. Then I eat some when they’re not looking.

15. I’m that mom who will let my toddlers play with things they shouldn’t (i.e. our cell phones, the dishwasher, the clean laundry, toothpicks) because I’d rather have them be happy and quiet than screaming while I try to assert my authority.

16. I’m that mom who will wait until Monday morning to realize that I have no clean school clothes for my son and then madly search through the dirty clothes for something that can pass for clean.

17. I’m that mom who will trick her son into leaving the (dreaded) pet store by saying, “I bet John and Cheyenne [John’s dog] will be out playing ball when we get home.” I’d rather deal with the consequences of that later in my own house where it doesn’t smell like gerbil poop.

18. As a continuation of #17, I’m that mom who will let her son believe that we are going to the park or the pet store, when we are actually going to Target or daycare. I don’t TELL him that we’re going where he thinks we are – I just don’t tell him that we’re NOT. So it’s not a lie as much as an omission. Right?

19. I’m that mom who answers my daughter’s thousands of calls for “MOMMY!” with “ELEANOR!” instead of just saying, “what is it honey?” And then she answers my “ELEANOR!” with another “MOMMY!” And because I find this incredibly entertaining I just continue the cycle until we end up enacting a personalized game of Marco-Polo. Except we’re not in a pool. And she knows exactly where I am.

20. I’m that mom who believes that ice cream is the solution for everything. For my children – and myself.

I’m That Mom: Part I

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I have a running list in my head of things that fall under the “what not to do” category of motherhood. Not that I’m saying I’m a bad mother. I do many things well. I’ve had uncounted triumphs, moments of genius and mental high fives. But I often fall short as well. At the very least I’ve had to look at myself from time to time and say “not your personal best, Kate.” Here are some examples:

1. I’m that mom who lets my three year old eat Goldfish crackers for breakfast when we’re in a rush – because “it’s just easier that way.”

2. I’m that mom who allows my nudist children run around in underwear all day as long as they stay inside (although I sometimes have to retrieve them from the front lawn).

3. I’m that mom who doesn’t even bother trying to force my kids to eat vegetables at dinner anymore. They eat them for lunch with that magical woman at daycare – so that takes some of the pressure off.

4. I’m that mom who lets my toddlers believe that Tic Tacs are “candy” and that they’re a BIG TREAT. They will find out about Reeces soon enough.

5. I’m that mom who accidentally locked myself and my twins IN my three year old’s bedroom with him on the outside (you can click to read what happened but if not, don’t worry, we all made it out without tragedy).

6. I’m that mom who hoisted my three year old over a chain link fence rather than walk a mile carrying him while his “accident” soaked through my shirt. More on that one another day…

7. I’m that mom who sometimes skips every other page of the longer bedtime stories because I’m tired and hungry for my own dinner which is at that very moment sitting on the kitchen counter getting cold.

8. I’m that mom who may know the children are doing something in the other room that I expressly told them NOT to do, but pretend I don’t see it so I don’t have to deal with it.

9. I’m that mom who will yell at my children and then hug them and tell them how “good” they are. Just to stay consistent…with the inconsistency.

10. I’m that mom who let my three year old grab all of the tampons that fell out of my purse onto the floor of the car – just because it was easier to let him have them than to try to take them away. Then I had to fight him to get them back once we arrived at the grocery store and I discovered that he had systematically opened each of them and ripped them to pieces. THEN I had to explain everything to my husband when he arrived home with wads of cotton clenched in his hands. Yeah…that was me…

I think I’m going to make this a “to be continued” post. I have more to add – but I like to keep my lists down to ten points apiece. (Plus I’m having a busy week at work and don’t have much time to write my usual novels.)

So come back tomorrow for ten more things that make me “that mom.”

As the Crow Flies Around in Circles

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For this week’s Friday Confession, I’m admitting to a trait often attributed to women. I have no sense of direction.

Some people picture driving directions as an aerial view or a map. They see a line snaking from point A to point B. I on the other hand stand firmly at point A, seeing only as far as the first fork in the road. And I only know what to do next once I get to that fork. I’ve recently discovered that half of the routes that I use for driving through DC are completely inefficient. They meander around obvious cut-throughs and are often selected for their scenic views rather than actual convenience.

This suited me when I was a teenager with all the time in the world to get from point A to point B. Even on a school day, a late pass was always available. And missing homeroom wasn’t a major loss since I had little interest in student council announcements and morning prayers. So my guess is that my formative years as a new driver greatly contributed to this deficiency.

As a result, I never really got the hang of being able to identify the direction of anything “as the crow flies.” If I’m asked to point toward the nearby Starbucks from my front steps, I will most likely point to the road that takes me out of my immediate neighborhood. Meanwhile, that Starbucks may be in a neighborhood directly behind me. And it should come as no surprise that I’m incapable of locating the direction of North or South.

This can pose a bit of a problem for me when I emerge from a Metro station downtown. I don’t usually drive into the city since parking is often hard to find and the parking lots are outrageously expensive. If I’m going somewhere new, I’m usually faced with the dilemma of which direction to take once I am above ground. More often than not, I will take the wrong one and only realize my error once I’m a full city block away, and can see that the numbers or letters of the street signs are going down as opposed to up.

At that point, all you can really do is turn around and walk back in the correct direction. BUT having grown up in the city, I have a horror of looking like I don’t know where I’m going. That is like an invitation to the creepy guy on the corner to steal my purse or stick his hand up my skirt (both of which have happened to me before). So instead of taking the logical time saving approach, I usually keep going as if this was what I had planned all along, and either cross the street before turning back or just walk around the block.

And if I’m really lost and find that I have to turn around AGAIN (which has also happened to me before….many times), I may end up adding an extra mile of walking to my trip. I don’t know if I’ll ever shake this habit. Even if I found myself in a Maybury-like small town holding a giant aerosol can labeled “mace” in front of me, I’d still worry about appearing vulnerable to predators. No – I’d prefer to appear deranged rather than confused.

So if I’m ever running late for a meeting or lunch date with you – don’t worry. I didn’t forget. I wasn’t in an accident. I didn’t confuse the time or place. I’m probably just taking the scenic route or charging purposefully around in circles.

People DO that?

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I’m feeling a little tapped out on confessions at the moment. Really – yesterday’s post included a couple. So I’m going to just to tell a quick, somewhat embarrassing story about myself.

I have always been a little…well, naive isn’t really the word…but something like that. Maybe innocent? Probably more like clueless. At any rate – I’m the last one to pick up on innuendo and I was a VERY good girl in high school. My experience with boys was pretty limited and I found out just how clueless I was when I got to college.

My first school (I transferred after first semester freshman year) was Eugene Lang, a small college in New York City that’s part of the New School. For the most part, no one I talk to has ever heard of it. One of the reasons that I chose it was that it’s affiliated with Parsons School of Design (where I had done a summer art program) so I knew that I’d be able to take classes there as well.

During all of the orientation hoopla, we received packets of information on the city, as well as the school, and some pamphlets that they thought would be of interest to us as new college students. One of these pamphlets was on safe sex. Now as innocent as I was, I certainly knew the basics and I wasn’t thrown by the condoms that were included. It was obvious what those were. But in actually skimming through the rest of the information, I came across products and terms that were completely unfamiliar.

There were two that stand out in my memory as being particularly mystifying. Since my new roommates were sitting with me going through their packets – I figured I’d ask them for further clarification. I’m not afraid to admit that I don’t know something about sex. Go ahead – laugh at me… Slut.

Anyway – the first question I had was “what is a dental dam.” Dental dams kept coming up in tandem with condoms and I couldn’t understand what teeth had to do with anything. I’m not going to bother including the explanation that I received, but if you have never heard of this product before (you never know), I’ve included a link. So that cleared things up. I had never really thought about safe sex from that perspective before – but of course the pamphlet featured pictures of different couples: boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl….so that was relevant.

The second thing that confused me was a third option for sex. As far as I knew there was regular intercourse (including the boy/boy alternative) and oral sex. But the pamphlet kept referring to “intercourse, oral sex and rimming.” I had never in my life heard the word “rimming.” I mean, none of my friends had mentioned it and I couldn’t think of anything that I had seen in a movie that implied something other than the first two…

Like I said – I’m not embarrassed to admit ignorance, so I asked, “what is rimming?” [Again – I’m not going to provide the exact answer I was given – but I’ve added a link for anyone that would like one.] The reaction I got ranged from snickers to incredulity. But they all knew what it was. And they told me. And my response? A horrified, “people DO that?!?”

I don’t think I’ll look at my key word searches for awhile… But I’m sure I’ll be getting a lot more hits from Thailand…

Confessions of a Reluctant Housewife

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My house is always a bit of a disaster – mainly because my cleaning lady sucks. Most of the time, she barely finishes picking up clothes and toys before losing steam. Forget about actually scrubbing things. Oh sure, every once in a while the house gets a good cleaning and really sparkles – but very infrequently. She does stay on top of the dishes and the laundry, and she doesn’t let the bathrooms get out of control. But she just doesn’t have a consistent process. It’s all so haphazard. I’m honestly thinking about looking into bringing someone else in.

So I confess: I AM the WORST cleaning lady ever. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t have the time or if it’s because I have so little time that I don’t want to waste it on cleaning. I work five days a week, so I’m limited to evenings and weekends. And I feel like I should spend that time doing something far more meaningful like playing with my children or writing or watching Project Runway reruns. So I do the bare minimum – and it shows.

Ironically, I am somewhat fastidious by nature. I rarely leave clothes on the floor (unlike my husband) and I can be a little obsessive about the tasks I actually do complete. For example, my bed must be made a particular way. I like the covers to be tucked and straightened, and I have to smooth out any wrinkles on the matelassé coverlet. And of course the pillows must be neat and symmetrical. My husband has lived with me for nine years, and he has of yet to learn how to make the bed without me having to fix it. While he has definitely improved, his early attempts were akin to what I might expect my two year old twins to manage if they tried to do it. So yes – I can be a bit of a perfectionist.

Maybe that’s why I don’t like cleaning. Because I can’t just do something half way. Reorganizing a shoe holder might result in a complete closet overhaul. (It’s happened.) So instead I just put it off as long as possible. Another good example of this is vacuuming. My floors don’t even warrant the five second rule (more like the five nanosecond rule). I think I’ve written once before about how I caught myself saying to my son, “you can’t be naked – the floor is too dirty.”

The solution is either for me to get better at this or to make some sacrifices and hire a cleaning service. I’d like to say that I’m reluctant to pay for a service because I’m cheap or because I’m nervous about having strangers in the house. But that would be a lie. The truth is that I’m embarrassed to have professionals come in and see what kind of slobs actually live here.

Nie Nie Day Silent Auction Reminder and Brief Confession

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Since I do not want my auctions to get lost under one of my typically long (yes – I KNOW they are long) posts, I’m not going to post again before the Monday, September 1 cut off at 10 p.m.

If this is the first you’ve heard of Nie Nie Day, you can read my post from Thursday to get further details on the Nielson family and all of the amazing auctions that are going on right now (there are over 300). Big thanks to Gabrielle Blair of DesignMom.com for organizing this!

And here is my “Friday Confession” for this week. This morning I had ice cream for breakfast. The end.

I told you I was keeping it brief. Look for a post about the auction winners on Tuesday morning. Have a great holiday weekend!

Withholding Love

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Since my week of confessions seemed to be so well received, I thought I’d make it a weekly feature on Fridays. And no – I’m not concerned that I will run out of material. I have enjoyed a full 36 years of embarrassing myself. So here is my first official Friday Confession:

I never give anyone someone else’s love.

I think we can all say that at least a few times a week, if not more, we encounter the request, “give [insert name here] my love.” It’s almost a formality. Something people say to be polite, like a pleasant send off. A token to prove that they care.

As proper as I tend to be, I’ve never really done this. At best, I ask that someone is informed that I said “hi.” I’ll never ask you to send anyone my love. And if you ask me to do it – well, I won’t.

Of course I say I will. That’s all part of the ritual. But to me, it’s more like a “how are you/just fine” exchange. It’s not that I’m purposefully thwarting etiquette. I just never remember to follow up. It’s a sin of omission. And I feel better for confessing it.

I think that this deserves some kind of penance as well (oooh – should this be part of my weekly feature? hmmm – we’ll see). So in addition to making my sin known to the virtual world (that counts for something right?), I will make a concerted effort to be more diligent about this and always tell people when someone I know has sent their love (unless I forget).

But in the spirit of more immediate gratification for anyone that knows me well: Oh, by the way – [insert name(s) here] send(s) you his/her/their love!

Have a great weekend. And tell [insert name here] I said hi.