Guest Post: "Virtually a Nice Person" by Debbie from Suburb Sanity

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My last guest blogger for my Summer Hiatus week is Debbie from Suburb Sanity. My immediate connection to Debbie is obvious – we both have twins. Of course mine are 15+ years younger than hers, but that’s all the better since it assures me that the toddler years do eventually come to a close. “Yes Virginia, there is an end to potty training.”

Of course she’d also be the first to say, “this is easy – just wait until they’re teenagers…” Thanks Debbie. You’re the best.

If you aren’t familiar with Suburb Sanity, I should mention that she is actually a mother of four, ranging in ages from 12 to 18 (the twins are 18). But she’s so much more than a mommy blogger. Sure – she’ll write about her kids sometimes, but more often than not, she chooses to write about whatever happens to be on her mind at the moment. Such as the ridiculous Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue editorial and her spot on “counterpoint.” Now this is a mommy blogger I can relate to! And aspire to.

Welcome Debbie!

Virtually a Nice Person

When I received an email from Kate asking if I would be a guest blogger for her this week, I was immediately honored and thrilled.

Which, the more I thought about it, the odder it seemed.

Allow me to explain.

I have been honored by several bloggers to have been asked to guest post for them. Each and every time I have felt unworthy. I have anguished over the post. I spent much more time thinking about it and laboring over it than I ever do a post on my own blog. If the blogger is popular, I worry no one will read my post. If she is an author, I sweat bullets over my grammar and punctuation. Each time, I feel inadequate and nervous. Yet, I’m thrilled to be asked.

Is there a correlation in my real life, I wondered. No. Absolutely not.

If my phone rang and a friend, even a good friend, said, “Debbie. I need a week off. Will you come over to my house next Wednesday and do what I do all day so my family won’t notice I’m not around?”, I would laugh in her ear and hang up.

How about if someone said to me that a holiday was coming up and she wanted to have some people come over and present different ways they would decorate her house. Might I be willing to do that? Heck no. I don’t even manage to get my own house done.

Or if a friend asked me to fill in for a volunteer job she regularly did so she could go on vacation. Am I a nice enough person to do that? You know I’m not.

If someone called me and told me that a friend of hers had a husband who had been laid off. She knew I didn’t know these people but would I call and leave a message on their answering machine telling them how sorry I was to hear about their misfortune? Would I do that? No. I’d feel weird doing that to someone I didn’t know.

Yet, I spend hours popping all over the internet leaving messages for people I don’t know, thinking up new ideas for them, helping them out.

I’m fascinated by my epiphany. I’m happy to help out a blogging friend I’ve never met in real life. I agonize over whether I will do a worthy job. Will she still like me after I post? Will anyone read it?

Maybe you blogging people need to ask me to come clean your house or help raise your kids. Apparently, I’m a nice person – virtually.

Guest Post: "Age" by Chris from Csquaredplus3

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I met today’s Summer Hiatus guest through AllMediocre.com. Chris lives in Utah, has three boys and the flattest stomach I’ve ever seen on a mom (don’t hate her – she earns it by working out daily). Her blog is called Csquaredplus3 because she and her husband are both named Chris (and of course – the three sons).

When I first started reading Csquaredplus3, I was immediately struck by Chris’ ability to mix both funny and sad, joyous and poignant, irreverent and serious. I truly enjoy her writing regardless of topic. Two recent posts that I loved are Secret Lovers (a title she regrets since everyone who reads it instantly gets the old 80s song stuck in their head) and The Damn Scam.

More often than not, I find myself nodding as I read Chris’ blog and saying, “me too!” And her guest post doesn’t disappoint.

Welcome Chris!

Age

As a child, my parents socialized with their friends, not the parents of my friends. I remember meeting kids when Mom and Dad took us to an adult get-together where the invitation was extended to the children too. My parents eased our anxiety about the unknown [who will we play with?] with promises of, “There will be kids your age. You’ll have fun.”

Sometimes there were kids our age, sometimes not. While parents had cocktails, played bridge, and visited, the kids resided in the “kids area” and awkwardly introduced ourselves, asking… “How old are you?”

Grade level and school attended were also of interest. God forbid someone’s age betrayed a grade level. Some rude kid [usually my brother Mallory/Joe] would inevitably ask, “Did you flunk, or get held back?”

I think our fascination with age never leaves us. In college I dated a boy I met in an Economics class. I assumed he was my age. On our date he told me he was 23. I was 20. He might as well have been 64. He seemed too old to be living in the dorms taking sophomore-level college courses. I chose not to date him again. [He also giggled like a girl. I couldn’t get beyond that.]

As an adult, I’m frequently asking Chris and my friends, How old do you think he/she is? How old are they? Are they our age? When I visit a new blog I’m disappointed when the blogger doesn’t reveal their age on the “About Me” page. If an age isn’t revealed, I satisfy my curiosity by searching for facts and photos that might give me an indication of the person’s age. Oh, she has a 19-year-old son and celebrated her 22nd anniversary. She’s got to be about my age… Oooh, this is a young one. Not married, he knows an awful lot about 90s kid shows. I’m thinkin’ early 20s… Look at her skin! And that chest! She’s not a day over 30 and she’s obviously never nursed a baby, or if she has, she’s had a little work…

As I’ve gotten a bit older, I’ve learned that age can explain much about someone’s interests, views and priorities, but at the same time I’ve learned I can’t generalize as much as I once did. Age continues to fascinate me – I love to know a person’s age. I wish we all wore a number on our shirt, like Lavern’s “L” on Laverne and Shirley that reveals our age. I’d like that.

A couple of days ago, Toddler Child was sitting in his highchair and he said, “How old are you Mom? Are you six or nine?”

I said, “How old do you think I am?”

“Nine.”

I’m 42 years old. How old are you?

Guest Post: "I Used to Be There" by LiLu of Livit, Luvit

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We’re now half way through my Summer Hiatus, and my guest for the mid-mark is another DC blogger, LiLu of Livit, Luvit.

LiLu is this hilarious young potty mouth who for some reason decided that she liked my mommy blog. This of course thrills me to no end since I have great memories of my 20s and love the idea that I’m somehow still “relevant” (just don’t ask me anything about current popular music – I’m too busy listening to my old lady books on tape).

I’ve only been following LiLu for a short time now, but I think that she may have the best Snuggie review I’ve ever read. She is known for her, um…off color stories (see her TMI Thursday link below), but she has also written some very lovely posts about personal identity. Apparently, she decided to honor me with another one of these, even though I told her that she had full creative license since I was feeling reckless (seriously – I was a little scared). Instead of scary beer sodden, stanky leg vlogs, she sent me a little jewel that gives more than a hint of the amazing woman and writer that she is becoming with every day.

Welcome lovely LiLu!

I Used to Be There

Hi, everyone! I’m LiLu, visiting y’all over here from Livit, Luvit.

I was très excited when Kate asked me to take over her spot for a day, for a couple reasons. First of all, Kate and I are fairly new e-buds and I don’t know a lot of you…YET. That is all about to change, because I am totally going to e-stalk all of you! So there’s that to look forward to. Second of all, my perception is that it’s a slightly different crowd over here, and I’m interested to see how you all react to my particular brand of crazy. (See examples here, at the hub of the disgusting and insane TMI Thursday.)

If you’ve ever been over to my place, you’ll know that I’m A) in my mid 20s and B) totally going through my quarter-life crisis. Or, as I put it, doing the splits into Grown-Up World.

You see, I’m in that middle, limbo-y place, where I am so definitely not a college student anymore (and sure don’t want to be one), but I don’t yet feel like an ADULT. I still drink, but I go to bed early. I live with my (wonderful!) boyfriend, but the next step is still a few years away, and we’re both glad about it. My friends are just starting to get engaged and married (and I’m just starting to get used to it), but the idea of a child scares the ever-living CRAP outta me. Last time I visited my college girlfriends in NC, I was shocked when I realized we were sitting around a dinner table in a house that my friend owned, with a meal we’d prepared on the table… yanno, all civilized-like. It is, for lack of a better word, very weird.

But if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that “It Will Happen To You.” Everything I thought I would never feel or want or imagine, is slowly, piece by piece, happening to me. And then I look to a year ago, and think, “Oh, I was so silly then, thinking I’d never want to be in a relationship/have a real job/get married someday!”

I was out with a 22 year old last week. Now she’s a good egg and not at all immature, but she is still, well, 22. At one point, I looked across the table and thought, “I remember that being me, being the youngest at the table and feeling good about it when people said, ‘Oh, you’re a baby.” I used to be there.

And, soon, I know I’ll be 28, more secure and comfortable (financially AND emotionally, I hope), looking at the 25 year olds and thinking the same thing; I used to be there.

One day I’ll be engaged, watching the single girls wanting to find their someone; the people in relationships that don’t yet have an end to their story. Will I feel smug, or envious? Either way, I know I’ll think, I used to be there.

Eventually, as far fetched as it still may seem, I will get married. My big day will come to pass, and I will look at the engaged friends eyes and think; I used to be there. I’ll talk to my younger friends and say, Take your time, enjoy being on your own. I used to be there.

And finally, (god forbid!) one day… I might be a mother. I might join the ranks of the fantabulous mommy bloggers, and again look at the 20-somethings drunk out in bars and think; I used to be there.

I suppose the most important question is… when we think that, do we feel regret? Pity? A sense of loss? Or just a healthy dose of nostalgia?

From everything I’ve heard, this ride keeps getting better and better… I really hope they’re right.

Thanks for having me, Kate!

UPDATE: I just noticed that LiLu just happened to get a mention in DC Blogs Noted today! You can link directly to her “notable” post HERE.

Guest Post: Christy Casimiro from A Lil’ Welsh Rarebit

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Today’s Summer Hiatus guest post comes from one of my dear IRL friends (Mom – IRL means “in real life”). We met years ago when we worked for the same organization and I have seen her many highs and lows. And let me tell you, those highs are HIGH! Because Christy from A Lil’ Welsh Rarebit is quite possibly the most enthusiastic person I know.

Her laugh is always the loudest and longest, and the one that makes everyone else want to join in. My favorite thing about Christy is that she can make even the most mundane things seem more fun and interesting than you would have ever believed possible. And she somehow manages to do this in a very non-annoying and non-Spirit Bunny kind of way. I attribute this to her quirkiness and individuality. She’s an original – there’s no one else like her.

Except maybe her mom…so when the two of them are together – POW! A little over a year ago when she called to tell me that she was at her mom’s house and had just announced to the family that she was pregnant, my first thought was to wonder how they all survived the explosion that must have resulted. I could just hear the news report:

“Earlier this evening, a quiet suburban neighborhood outside of Washington, DC was hit by an unexplained explosion covering a two block radius. No terrorist activity is suspected as of yet, but rescue workers are racing time to find survivors and identify the source of this mysterious ‘event.’ When questioned about the explosion, local residents all report to have heard a ‘sonic boom,’ accompanied by a flash of light. Many claim to have heard shrieks of joy in the few minutes preceding the explosion. More at 11.”

I could write a whole post on Christy, but instead I’ll just let you read this crazy story.

Welcome Christy!

Pregnant Women Should Never Multitask OR
Did Your Boss Ask You To Spanx Him?
*Christy did not submit a title – so I took the liberty…

When Kate asked me to guest post, I thought about writing about the time she and I found our inebriated selves on a stage in New Orleans singing along with a Zydeco band in front of a few thousand of people…including our bosses…but then I decided that’s her story to tell. Instead, I thought I’d tell you about a most memorable day during my final month of work.

Before I became a SAHM mom last August, I was a proposal writer for a Big Four accounting firm. I worked for the partners of the firm – the guys on top who were trying to woo new business and retain current clients. The majority of my time was spent wordsmithing business documents, but as a member of the marketing team, I was occasionally asked to Be a Team Player! And Work Outside My Job Description! Oh, the joy.

So one random Thursday last summer, I was being a team player, and almost made such a grievous mistake that I thought I might pass out in my cube.

Anyone reading this who has been pregnant knows that it’s not just a myth that pregnant women have some memory problems. And some concentration problems. Or maybe it’s just me? I had both. And I had terribly swollen feet, which I was always complaining about… Consequently, I was not always focused on the exact task at hand.

I was in my third trimester, and one of the partners I worked for — I’ll call him Scott, because that was his name — asked me to order him a certain business book. Scott gave me his home address, and said to have the book delivered the next day, as he and his family were headed to the shore for the weekend and he been advised to read it before Monday…

So, I went to my cube and proceeded to search for this book. As I’m an excellent multi-tasker, my colleague Jill was in my cube chatting with me while I was taking care of this request. Since I’m an amazon.com prime member, that was my obvious first stop. Ta-da, they had the book. Add to cart. We were busy discussing our upcoming weekend plans and I was hardly paying attention to what was on my screen…

Since I’m a prime member/frequent shopper, (and I used to shop online from work all the time- come on – you know you do it too!) my payment information was pre-populated on the screen – all I had to do was add Scott’s name and shipping address to the order.

Ship to: Scott’s home address.

Charge: My credit card. (I’d submit for reimbursement, of course)

Submit order:

WAIT! Screams Jill. Literally. Screams.

What? I say.

LOOK WHAT ELSE IS IN YOUR CART! says Jill.

OhMyGod.

SPANX: Power Mama® Power Panties

AND……

Prenatal Belly-Dancing DVD

I had totally forgotten that I hadn’t yet purchased those saved items in my cart!

I began sweating profusely and thought I was going to pass out. I felt like I was blushing furiously, but Jill said I went pale as a ghost.

Jill, to my cube mate: Quick, get the pregnant woman some water.

Calm down Christy – we caught it — he’s not getting your Mama Spanx Power Panties or your pregnancy belly dancing video.

Me: Shhh…

Heads all around me: What?!

Me: Nothing, never mind, shhhh….

I quickly deleted the items from my cart, completed the order for Scott, and the disaster was averted. Phew. Moral to the story – NEVER use your personal amazon account at work!

Guest Post: "Making Room" by Sal from Almost Pretty

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In case you missed my announcement on Friday, I’m taking a break from blogging this week. It was a last minute decision, but luckily I found a few friends who could mind the shop while I was in my Happy Place.

My first guest is Sal from Almost Pretty. She writes a fantastic blog about style and self image, and also contributes features to well known style blogs such as Joanna Goddard’s Smitten. Her posts range from practical wardrobe advice to battling poor body image. I think of Sal as a stylist for regular girls. She features options that most readers (as opposed to Paris Hilton) can afford and actually wear in everyday life (as opposed to what Paris wears to the clubs). She doesn’t think you have to be stick thin to look fabulous – and I agree. Isn’t she cute?

FYI: She MADE that necklace out of antique brooches! I will be wearing it on my vacation in my head.

Welcome Sal!

MAKING ROOM

It’s nearly April and only just getting warm enough for me to transition over to the spring duds. My house is smallish and my closet minuscule, so off-season clothing lives in the basement when not in use. I’ve just spent the last few hours hauling sweaters and hoodies and heavy wool skirts downstairs, and loading the tees and tanks and slinky silk skirts into the closet upstairs. So I’m schvitzing a little. Just FYI.

This seasonal shift presents a fabulous opportunity to purge my wardrobe – an opportunity I inevitably take. Due to the aforementioned scarcity of closet space, I need to keep a careful count of garments or things get aggravatingly overcrowded. And while it’s fun to occasionally stumble upon a long-forgotten and well-hidden gem in my own closet, I vastly prefer being able to SEE everything in the morning while scrambling to assemble an ensemble that says “stylish professional” instead of “colorblind homeless person. “Seasonal purging keeps my wardrobe under some semblance of control, and, as a self-confessed organizational fiend, I rather enjoy the process of sorting wheat from chaff. It feels good to finally rid myself of those pumpkin orange corduroy pants that didn’t fit properly the day I bought them, and that dingy ivory fine gauge sweater with the freaky-deaky collar. Dangit, girls, it feels downright liberating!

When I purge, I toss several categories of clothing into the giveaway pile:

1. Anything that hasn’t been worn for more than two years. If I’ve passed it over for 24 full months, why on earth would it suddenly acquire irresistible appeal?

2. Anything damaged irreparably: As I am capable of minor mending, and my tailor is capable of major mending, this generally means stained or badly torn. Klutziness takes its toll on my wardrobe with alarming regularity, I tell ya.

3. Anything that doesn’t fit: As someone whose weight fluctuates about as frequently as the flippin’ temperature, I make a practice of trying on any item that gave me even a single wearing’s trouble in the past .If it squeezes or bags, it leaves.

Although parting with brand new garments that have gone two years unworn pains my pocketbook, and bidding farewell to snagged or stained silk skirts makes me sigh, numero tres up there is the most emotionally taxing. You feel me, don’t you? Popping on a pair of pants that once fit, only to find that your body has shifted its configuration YET AGAIN can be surprising and disheartening.

But getting rid of clothes that don’t fit the body you have today allows you to make room. In addition to preventing your closet racks from bowing under the weight of their heavy load, casting off ill-fitting garments can be an important step to accepting your body as it is today, and allowing yourself to adorn it stylishly.

Hanging on to clothes that fit you when you were a different shape both weighs you down and holds you back. These clothes may seem like flimsy bits of cloth when you first hold them up on their hangers for scrutiny and evaluation, but to most women they are much more. Clothes that used to fit are powerful personal symbols: They represent a body that you no longer have, and may never have again. In the course of your closet purge, you drag them out and look at them and heave heavy, loaded sighs. You beat yourself up for the crime of shape change, and sink down into frustration and self-loathing, criticism and negativity. Suddenly, an innocent pair of jeans has become a device of self-inflicted emotional torture.

How about this as an alternative: CHUCK THEM. Jeans that don’t fit the woman you are today are of no use to you! Banish them, and allow only jeans that hug your wonderful curves and make you feel like a sultry screen siren to grace your dresser drawers. Clothes that once fit but no longer do will whisper to you about the past … but you need to live in the present. Purging the ill-fitting can empower you to castoff the deadly nostalgia-judgment mixture that accompanies memories of a previous body shape. Sending these duds packing can be liberating, eye-opening, and comforting: It can help you see yourself clearly, and embrace yourself fully. The today you.

Additionally, ridding yourself of clothing that no longer flatters creates a vacuum: It creates physical room in your closet for properly fitting clothing that will help you feel your best, and it creates emotional room for contemplating your natural assets and accepting them as the gifts that they are. What could be better? An action that essentially FORCES you to shop for new duds, and simultaneously helps you embrace your present-day self.

During this particular purge, I assembled quite the pile of exiles. I chucked a shrunken track jacket and a ripped scarf and a gooftastic black blazer with bizarrely poofy shoulders that transforms me into a deranged goth princess. I also sacrificed a gorgeous pair of khaki pants that made me look like Kate Hepburn a few seasons back. Wide-legged and boxy, with a subtle sheen to the twill, they were favorites once. But they gave me unforgivable camel toe when I tried them on today.

So I had to make room.

The One Where I Kill My Husband

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Okay – so I seem to have a lot to say for someone who is supposed to be avoiding the Internet… But that will go into full effect tomorrow when I get to work. In the meantime, I HAVE to post a few pictures.

My youngest son, George has been needing a haircut for a while. I gave him one myself a few weeks ago and it was pretty sad looking. So today we decided to let the professionals fix my mistakes. And Chris was in charge of taking George since he was in need of a haircut himself.

This is what my baby looked like pre-haircut:



This is what he looks like now:

FYI: He’s not break dancing in this one. He’s falling off a bike.

Chris is a dead man.

My Happy Place

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Isn’t this lovely?

This is where I will be (in my head) for the next week. Things are not going well at Big Piece of Cake Headquarters, and I need a vacation. The vacation will only be in my head of course, and I will still have to go to work and deal with the source of my need for escape… But I’m going to invest all of my free mind space in holding my light floral skirt back against the warm Summer breeze and gazing at my new strappy white shoes (I SAID it was Summer in my head – so white shoes are allowed).

Instead of turning off the lights and pulling down my pink shade though, I’ve asked a few friends to guest post in my absence. A couple of moms, a couple of young ladies…all people I love to read. I hope that you will enjoy them as well.

In the meantime, I will be enjoying warm weather and new footwear in the painting above. OR…

I may be here enjoying a late afternoon cocktail and rethinking that zebra head (it seemed like a good idea at the time…). OR…


I may be here with my nose pressed up against the window. Bad moods come and go – but some things never change…

See you in a week!

Sexism on the Railroad

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Everyone in the world has “heard of” Thomas the Tank Engine – even if just in passing and not paying attention. But most current mothers of small children are painfully familiar with the minute ins and outs of Thomas’ adventures with Percy, James, Emily and the rest of this merry band of trains.

I had a bit of a break from Thomas and Friends when Oliver turned two and decided that the locomotive characters were “scary.” We never did solve the mystery of how Thomas became frightening, but I assumed it had something to do with their freaky, human faces and rapid mood swings. One minute they’re happy – the next minute they’re crashing into mountains. It makes for very stressful viewing if you ask me…

Just recently, Oliver has gotten over his engine-related phobia, and Thomas has made a comeback in the Hood family DVD player. Chris and I are once again subjected to their little railroad dramas.

Not surprisingly, we’ve found ourselves enjoying some of the old Thomas-related jokes that made us laugh two years ago (this is a well known parental defense mechanism when it comes to annoying children’s programming: we learn to like it, as in, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em“).

My favorite of these involves the only female train, Emily:


According to Wikipedia, Emily is a Stirling 4-2-2 engine used for high speed express. She is painted dark green, and has large “driving wheels” that I assume have something to do with making her a fast train.

In one particularly gripping episode, Thomas and his friends hear that the Railway Inspector will be coming to see all of the engines and award a prize for the finest one.

Sweet little Thomas and Percy, both steam engines (or “steamies” as they are often called), exclaim over how wonderful it would be to win.

Thomas

Percy

Poor little steamies! Their so called friends immediately assume that THEY are the more likely candidates to win:
Gordon says that “of course” an Express Engine will win.

Emily is quite confident that an engine with “big wheels” is the obvious choice.

And that upstart James thinks that his red paint gives him an edge.

What immediately strikes me is that THE ONLY GIRL ENGINE pins her dreams of victory on her “big wheels.” Did the writers do this on purpose? Is it some sophomoric joke that their internal twelve-year-olds just couldn’t resist? Or was it completely unintentional? I just can’t imagine that they would be so lacking in irony to let that one slip…

And what kind of message does this send to our tiny home viewers? That girls need to rely on their “assets” to get what they want? Thomas and Percy plan to just clean up well because “a really useful engine can look as grand as any engine.” Big he-man Gordon claims superiority based on his status as the strongest of the trains. And James…well, James also relies on his looks… But then again, I always suspected that James might be gay, so he doesn’t count.

Right. So with the exception of gay James, all of the male engines plan to win based on their overall merit. While the one female engine thinks that her larger than normal wheels will mesmerize the Railway Inspector enough to win her a blue ribbon.

It’s sad. And typical. And ultimately, just another case of a fast girl relying on her big wheels to get ahead.

Me, Myself and I: Work Ethic

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I worked hard today. And it gave me a lot to think about…

Me: Today was hard.

Me: It was.

Me: What was up with all of those e-mails? I barely finished responding to one crisis when another one came at me.

Me: I know. It was quite a day.

Me: It’s a wonder that I didn’t just walk out. Exactly when did I sign up for this kind of rat race?

Me: What do you mean?

Me: I mean that I didn’t have a second to myself. I spent my entire day dealing with everyone else’s problems.

Me: So?

Me: SO – I didn’t respond to any of my personal e-mails, I didn’t write anything for my blog, I have about eleventy-hundred posts to catch up on in my reader, I didn’t run any of the errands I planned to do, and I could only take 30 minutes for lunch before I had to rush back to the office.

Me: So you’re saying that you “worked” today.

Me: YES…I mean…um…yes.

**Disclaimer: This post was based on several people and incidents and was not in any way autobiographical. It is strictly a commentary on the impact of social media on work ethic and not a direct representation of my own work ethic and/or daily office activity. It is a fictional account of reality as we now know it. At least that’s my story – and I’m stickin’ to it!