Dear PR companies and potential sponsors,
This blog isn’t about the money. I like to think it is a safe place for me to unwind the tangle that is my thoughts, and I also like to think it is a safe place for other people to come and feel validated or reassured. My approximately 4.5 readers a day, 0% of whom arrive from search engines, seem to feel the same way. That’s why they love me. (And they do. They do love me.) This blog serves a purpose that is much bigger than money.
I do, however, also like money.
You know what else I like? Stuff. And I bet my 4.5 readers like stuff too.
So, here’s my proposal. If any of you would be interested in giving me money, or sending me stuff to share with my readers, I’m listening. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to change anything I’m doing here. I’m going to continue to tell the truth, spread as much love and kindness as possible, and do as much good work as I can. You may then compensate me for doing so.
In summary: I keep doing what I want and helping people. You send money and stuff. 4.5 readers cheer.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Story
P.S. As you can see from this letter, I am a marketing genius. Just saying.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Before I was a mom
It has been brought to my attention that a good 29.5 years of my life occurred prior to the birth of my daughter. (I know. It came as a surprise to me too. Hasn’t she always been here?) So, I thought it might be fun to share with you some vignettes from that other, foggy part of my distant past so that you can get to know that part of me too. I don’t know how regular a series it will be, but whenever I think of them I’ll share. I’m beginning in roughly reverse chronological order, mostly because that’s all I can remember.
I.
I started a long term sub job when I was already 10 weeks pregnant. By the end of my 3rd week of teaching, one of the senior girls asked her teacher-mom if I was pregnant.
“Why would you say that?” asked the mom, genuinely confused because I certainly wasn’t showing.
“Because she’s wearing those elastic pants, and her boobs are huge.”
Oh. Well then.
II.
My last year teaching full time, I told my freshmen that my two biggest pet peeves are when people use “literally” and “ironically” incorrectly. For the rest of the year, every single thing I said to them was “literally ironic.” Well done, freshmen. Well done.
III.
I advised the Honor Society. My seniors were sitting around one day talking about torturing their calculus teacher.
“Guys,” I said, “that’s just not okay. You need to learn how to behave like adults. I mean, there are people I don’t like, but I act professional about it.”
“Wait,” they said, “there are people you don’t like??”
IV.
When my husband was writing his dissertation, I proofread it practically constantly. I read the dense engineering text probably 100 times. As such, in his acknowledgements, he thanked me for my careful proofreading.
Except, technically it said “I would like to thank to thank my wife for her endless hours of proofreading.” Oops.
I.
I started a long term sub job when I was already 10 weeks pregnant. By the end of my 3rd week of teaching, one of the senior girls asked her teacher-mom if I was pregnant.
“Why would you say that?” asked the mom, genuinely confused because I certainly wasn’t showing.
“Because she’s wearing those elastic pants, and her boobs are huge.”
Oh. Well then.
II.
My last year teaching full time, I told my freshmen that my two biggest pet peeves are when people use “literally” and “ironically” incorrectly. For the rest of the year, every single thing I said to them was “literally ironic.” Well done, freshmen. Well done.
III.
I advised the Honor Society. My seniors were sitting around one day talking about torturing their calculus teacher.
“Guys,” I said, “that’s just not okay. You need to learn how to behave like adults. I mean, there are people I don’t like, but I act professional about it.”
“Wait,” they said, “there are people you don’t like??”
IV.
When my husband was writing his dissertation, I proofread it practically constantly. I read the dense engineering text probably 100 times. As such, in his acknowledgements, he thanked me for my careful proofreading.
Except, technically it said “I would like to thank to thank my wife for her endless hours of proofreading.” Oops.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Mommy in translation: A PSA
Sometimes it seems that my husband, lovebug that he is, doesn't understand me. I thought I would write a quick translation guide to help him out. Please feel free to share with any other husbands you know.
When I say,
"Oh no, it's okay. I can do it myself."
I mean,
"Get your rear end out of that chair and get in here or I'm going to pout and grouch at you all evening."
When I say,
"Can you hold the baby while I run to the bathroom?"
I mean,
"And let out all the curses I have been waiting all day to say."
When I say,
"No, keep talking about work. I'm listening."
It means,
"I AM listening, but you better recognize because you are so going to owe me later and best be listening when I tell you a story about a twitter/blogger friend you've never heard of."
When I say,
"Oh you're going to Wendy's? Just a salad and a chili. And maybe a baked potato."
I mean,
"And FOR THE LOVE OF GOD A FROSTY. How could you go to Wendy's and not get me a Frosty? And make it seem like it was your idea, so I can act like I'm all healthy."
When I say,
"Can you do this for me?"
I mean,
"Can you do this for me?" (Ahem. That one isn't hard. I promise.)
When I say,
"I'm fine."
It means,
"I haven't slept in a week, my head is about to explode, and I'm 30 seconds from crying and I totally blame YOU because you just asked me that question. Now put the baby to bed for me, get me some cookies, and rub my feet, okay?"
Got it?
When I say,
"Oh no, it's okay. I can do it myself."
I mean,
"Get your rear end out of that chair and get in here or I'm going to pout and grouch at you all evening."
When I say,
"Can you hold the baby while I run to the bathroom?"
I mean,
"And let out all the curses I have been waiting all day to say."
When I say,
"No, keep talking about work. I'm listening."
It means,
"I AM listening, but you better recognize because you are so going to owe me later and best be listening when I tell you a story about a twitter/blogger friend you've never heard of."
When I say,
"Oh you're going to Wendy's? Just a salad and a chili. And maybe a baked potato."
I mean,
"And FOR THE LOVE OF GOD A FROSTY. How could you go to Wendy's and not get me a Frosty? And make it seem like it was your idea, so I can act like I'm all healthy."
When I say,
"Can you do this for me?"
I mean,
"Can you do this for me?" (Ahem. That one isn't hard. I promise.)
When I say,
"I'm fine."
It means,
"I haven't slept in a week, my head is about to explode, and I'm 30 seconds from crying and I totally blame YOU because you just asked me that question. Now put the baby to bed for me, get me some cookies, and rub my feet, okay?"
Got it?
Friday, May 27, 2011
My super sweet lunch date
So, Hubby has off from work today, and he knows I have been feeling a little down, so he offers to take me out for a nice lunch. Baby Girl being the social butterfly she is, she is always well behaved in public, so a lunch date for three sounds perfectly reasonable, lovely even. So, I put some clean jeans on me a new dress on Baby Girl (because she is always better dressed than I am. Always), and we head out the door.
We are seated immediately at the restaurant, and all I can think is how lovely a day it is. We get to the table, I strap her into the high chair, and the waitress takes our drink orders (water for me, of course) and smiles at Baby Girl who promptly giggles and poses - does this kid know she's cute or what? Then I glance down at my shirt which feels wet, thinking oh man, did she spit up on me already? But it isn't spit up.
It's poop.
So, with only half a word to my husband, I grab Baby Girl and the diaper bag and jet to the bathroom. Now, this is the kind of restaurant where the bathrooms have pumps of scented soap. And a bottle of lotion. And hairspray. And mouthwash. You know, just in case.
And I'm in the biggest stall of the bathroom, with Baby Girl strapped to a changing table, prattling away to keep her from crying, and swabbing desperately at my shirt with a Shout Wipe. Only the poop isn't coming off, it's just kind of spreading. Now I have a giant beige wet spot on my shirt. And I have a change of clothes for the baby, but somehow she didn't get any poop on her clothes. Just mine. Thanks sweetie.
I go back to the table and quietly explain to hubby what happened. His eyes get wide and he asks if I want to leave, but I really don't, so I strap Baby Girl back into the high chair and look at my menu. The old ladies at the next table coo at her, and she hams it up. The waitress takes our order.
Then Baby Girl starts fussing. Hubby picks her up, but she just squirms. I try to hold her, but no luck. Finally I concede that she must be hungry.
Now, I'm a big breast feeding advocate, and I have no problem with nursing in public. I don't think it's offensive at all, and I am totally all for it.
Except, y'know, when it's my boob.
But I'm pretty handy with a receiving blanket, so I slide to the back of the booth and try to feed her. Only she won't latch. MY baby? Who would nurse every 20 minutes if given the options? Is this a pod baby? And just as the waitress comes back with our food, she throws the blanket off me in order to look up and see who's coming.
Once we get everything, ahem, covered again, she finally starts to eat and I realize that I can't eat a crabcake sandwich with one hand. Hubby tries to help. ("Should I feed you? Should I move your plate?") I sigh, and pick at some french fries, trying to secure the blanket and maintain an adult conversation.
Then, inexplicably, Baby Girl decides to scream at the top of her lungs.
And miraculously, hubby scoops her up. Walks outside with her. And I am sitting there, still collecting myself, when he comes back with an un-crying baby and slides into the booth next to me.
And, finally, I am able to eat my almost-warm crab cake and talk to my husband. I smile and look around and am so grateful to be there, in this lovely restaurant with the two loves of my life.
And, y'know, with poop on my shirt.
We are seated immediately at the restaurant, and all I can think is how lovely a day it is. We get to the table, I strap her into the high chair, and the waitress takes our drink orders (water for me, of course) and smiles at Baby Girl who promptly giggles and poses - does this kid know she's cute or what? Then I glance down at my shirt which feels wet, thinking oh man, did she spit up on me already? But it isn't spit up.
It's poop.
So, with only half a word to my husband, I grab Baby Girl and the diaper bag and jet to the bathroom. Now, this is the kind of restaurant where the bathrooms have pumps of scented soap. And a bottle of lotion. And hairspray. And mouthwash. You know, just in case.
And I'm in the biggest stall of the bathroom, with Baby Girl strapped to a changing table, prattling away to keep her from crying, and swabbing desperately at my shirt with a Shout Wipe. Only the poop isn't coming off, it's just kind of spreading. Now I have a giant beige wet spot on my shirt. And I have a change of clothes for the baby, but somehow she didn't get any poop on her clothes. Just mine. Thanks sweetie.
I go back to the table and quietly explain to hubby what happened. His eyes get wide and he asks if I want to leave, but I really don't, so I strap Baby Girl back into the high chair and look at my menu. The old ladies at the next table coo at her, and she hams it up. The waitress takes our order.
Then Baby Girl starts fussing. Hubby picks her up, but she just squirms. I try to hold her, but no luck. Finally I concede that she must be hungry.
Now, I'm a big breast feeding advocate, and I have no problem with nursing in public. I don't think it's offensive at all, and I am totally all for it.
Except, y'know, when it's my boob.
But I'm pretty handy with a receiving blanket, so I slide to the back of the booth and try to feed her. Only she won't latch. MY baby? Who would nurse every 20 minutes if given the options? Is this a pod baby? And just as the waitress comes back with our food, she throws the blanket off me in order to look up and see who's coming.
Once we get everything, ahem, covered again, she finally starts to eat and I realize that I can't eat a crabcake sandwich with one hand. Hubby tries to help. ("Should I feed you? Should I move your plate?") I sigh, and pick at some french fries, trying to secure the blanket and maintain an adult conversation.
Then, inexplicably, Baby Girl decides to scream at the top of her lungs.
And miraculously, hubby scoops her up. Walks outside with her. And I am sitting there, still collecting myself, when he comes back with an un-crying baby and slides into the booth next to me.
And, finally, I am able to eat my almost-warm crab cake and talk to my husband. I smile and look around and am so grateful to be there, in this lovely restaurant with the two loves of my life.
And, y'know, with poop on my shirt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)