Grandma Scares Me

My first holiday with H and his family was one I'll never forget. It was Thanksgiving 2001 and we traveled to Arizona to spend a few days. It's where I learned that my spouses family is REALLY into games too.

True, I had a taste of it on a ski trip we had taken a few years previous. But, I had chalked all those games of domino's and Monopoly up to the fact that it was freezing and snowy outside and not everyone wanted to be a ski bunny 24/7. What else was there to do but raid the rented chalet's game closet, right?!

Me? No, I'm not much a of a game person myself. I'm an only child. We don't 'do' games that well. Every Christmas I would get board games for gifts and look at my relatives like they had three heads. "Thanks so much! Who the hell is going to play this with me? My four imaginary friends?!" Really.

That Thanksgiving though I realized that not only does H come from a family of gamers but they are hard core. It's out for blood time. It is very 'take no prisoners' and it comes in the form of a game called, Spoons. Have you heard of it? Yeah, I hadn't either. Now? I'll never forget it. See, H's family is uber-competitive and when they play this card game with actual spoons it's a knock down drag out fight. Literally. The worst perpetrator of this game is Grandma. She started the family and she is the queen of games. I've seen her knock her four year-old granddaughter to the floor just to grab a teaspoon off a table and kick that kid out of the competition. When I was pregnant with TD I opted out of this fun-fest in fear that my unborn child might sustain injuries from elbows being thrown or across the table jabs. That same year I heard the now five year-old grand-daughter say, "No thanks, I don't want to play. Last year Grandma knocked me over." She watched from the side lines instead as the rest of the family hip-checked, elbowed and slammed their way to winning a game played with utensils and a deck of cards.

I can't make this stuff up people. You don't want to play domino's with this group and especially slap-jack. You could lose an eye.

Does your family play any holiday games? Read about more family gaming traditions over at PBN and see the latest from Electronic Arts.


Check out my latest review (great holiday books for kids!) and a host of others from PBN over here.

Our Deep, Dark and Dank Secret

Enter the unfinished part of our basement and you will find a colossal mess. It's a maze of soon to be used baby gear, tools, random household objects and where many things go to die. It's also the place you can typically find my husband if you cannot find him anywhere else in the house. When all attempts to call him go unheard all you have to do is descend the steps, open the partly broken door and there he is in all his hidden attempt at a man-cave glory.

Typically, there is only the eerie glow of the computer screen and the blinking lights of the router to light the way. All else is encased in darkness. Here you will find H pouring through his emails, downloading such classic tunes as Vanilla Ice's 'Ice, Ice, Baby' from iTunes and reading page after page of Fantasy Sports (baseball and football) websites. Facebook addiction is also included. Notice the giant trash can? It's the "to-be-shredded" pile. We is organized, no?

A common sight near the keyboard after a long day at another keyboard. The bottle cap to a consumed bottle of beer. How I envy that bastard! Blue Moon Pale Ale...I miss you....

I often wonder if it is the close proximity to his tools that makes H feel all warm and comfy down there in the dank basement as he toils at his fantasy football league and yammers away on his cell phone talking smack to his friends. The phrase, "Dude, he is so your boy!" can often be heard coming from here.

This area of the house is my secret shame. Until I had a laptop I had to work down there. It was a bloody nightmare. My stuff was constantly "re-organized" and sent to live in some lost world half the time. I seldom venture into this area unless I really have to and even then I make it as short a visit as possible. H, however, can spend countless hours dwelling in what I can only describe as his sad, little man cave.

This blog blast has been brought to you by Bill Me Later (enter to win the I Want My Man Cave contest here!) and PBN.

Coffee Grinder- You Are My Secret Shame

It's not Starbucks.

It's not the actual coffee maker.

It's not the even the lovely and glossy beans themselves per say.

It is my coffee grinder. Oh sweet, grinder, that I cannot live without. Your black sleek design and single push button mechanism makes my day. Every day. When I paid the bargain price of $14.99 for you six years ago (and still going strong!) you were considered an unnecessary item and scoffed at by H. "We'll NEVER use that thing! Why on earth did you buy that and at Trader Joe's of all places! You could have gotten that thing at the evil W or something for less. It's not a grocery store item..." He went on and on but in a moment of weakness and need for fresh beans in the desert, also known as a world without Starbucks or even a regularly opened coffee shop, I had to have it.

Six years later this el cheapo coffee grinder still produces one of the best scents in the world, at least to me. My morning is complete and I am able to press on through the day with a smile once I get a whiff of it's nutty or dark roasted aromas. The scent of my favorite perfume or a freshly bathed baby cannot even compare to how much I love the smell of coffee beans ground to perfection. In seconds it does the job of helping me produce the hot java that I need each day be it decaf or not this little baby is an item that I just cannot live without. Freeze-dried grounds have no place in my kitchen.

I'll let you in on a bit of secret shame too. I sometimes take the grinder out in the middle of the day - just to smell it. It's true, I swear. I'm Vicky, and I'm addicted to my coffee grinder.

This post was brought to you by PBN and Yoplait Kids, the makers of that yummy yogurt that kids just love and it has 25% less sugar than other kid yogurts.

Destined to be Together- Isaac Mizrahi and Me

Recession... blah, blah, blah....we all know it's really here. Gas prices, while declining are still high. We are eating out less. We are all looking for ways to cut corners whether it's using the new grocery store's amazing coupons ($20 off $50 or more!!! OH MY!) or cutting back on our latte runs, most of us are feeling the pinch. We do what we can with what we have and make do without, right?

And I'm going to speak for most of us, we all L-O-V-E a bargain. I am a bargain shopper myself. Nothing excites me more than delving into real sales racks and finding that golden ticket of a find. That time I scored a full Ralph Lauren bed set for $69.99 at the actual outlet? Back when outlets were still the real deal? Spectacular! I still have the comforter over 10 years later locked in a closet somewhere. Finding a BR shirt for less than $2? Done it! Just two weeks ago I spent three hours (1.5 of them standing in line) at my local fair ground as I scoured rack after rack of children's clothes at a Classy Kids Consignment gathering. Three hours, $100 and a trash bag full of like-new 3T sized clothes and I was out the door. Did I mention I found toys too? Yup. TD is set for fall and winter now. It was a banner bargain day! Truly, a great way to buy kids clothes.

However, in the history of bargains and fabulous finds, one still stands out to me among all the rest. My winter coat. It's been with me since the fall/winter of '99 and I have no plans to give it up any time soon. It looks great in the city prowling the streets, cuts a fantabulous figure with it's tuxedo styling and I got it for the bargain price of $300.

Did you just hear the sound of a record going off track? Are you thinking, "How on earth is $300 a bargain, you crazy, lying ass non-frugal lady!" Um..yeah, you probably are, but hear me out. It's not just designer, but vintage. A classic. By one of my all-time favorite designers. This coat holds some serious fashion sentimental value for me.

There I was at my local bargain dive in the city looking for some cheap duds. I needed a new winter coat. The ol' college pea coat wasn't cutting it anymore now that I was out in the work force. I needed a 'big girl' coat. As I sliced through the racks my eyes landed on this fine piece of art and my heart began to race. My eyes teared up as I touched the fine soft wool fabric and thick black satin lining that felt inches deep. Dare I try it on? I thumbed the price tag of $300 and saw that it was marked down from the price you would typically pay as a down payment to lease or buy a car. I gulped audibly. Could this coat be mine? I scurried away to a dressing room and held my breath as I slipped it on. Ahhhh....perfect. It fit divine, hugging in all the right places. It clipped in at my waist, broadened my shoulders just a bit and had a gorgeous front to back slit that was to die for. I knew in that moment we were destined for each other. Then, I realized something. Wait. This coat had to be from the designers last line. He was no longer going to be making clothes. He was done. The doors to his fashion house had officially closed just that year. Was I holding history? That sealed it.

After scurrying up to the register to make my cast-off from Barney's purchase I left the store feeling like I had found a bag of gold. I wore the heck out of that coat all that winter long. And the next winter and the next. Now, nine years later the coat still looks fantastic and as good as new. I makes its debut each year when the weather turns cold and makes me feel like I'm strutting down a runway each time I wear it. Sure, other coats have tried to sway me but the beauty and design of this piece, it's not just a coat, is a force to be reckoned with. It's like wearing art. Thank you, Isaac. I love it. I really do.

It was worth every penny.

This blog post/blast is brought to you by PBN and Couponers.com, where you can find over hundreds of coupons from scads of your favorite stores. It's worth a look and a search in these tired economic times!

A Bit of a Bikini Rant

After I had my suspicious mole last summer I was told by some that the bikini would be no more. At least for me. I balked at this. When the comment was quickly followed by the classic, "Besides you are a Mom now. You don't want to be one of those Moms who you see at the pool wearing a bikini...."



Excuse me what?! I wanted to breathe fire.



While I may not have the body I did when I was 24, I have spent a fare share of my time at the gym toning and cardioing my butt off well into my 30's and not just because I want to look swimsuit ready but because I like how I feel after a good episode of sweating. I refuse to go up a size with each child. Yes, I had a child and my body changed but I'm still a size six! I'm proud of that fact. Quite frankly I don't feel comfortable in a one piece. I'm long in the torso and I suspect that walking around the pool with a case of massive camel toe would be a bit worse than if I wore a two-piece and my thighs don't look like that of a 12 year-old girl or baby giraffe.



Besides, has anyone seen some of the teens at the pool lately? I hate to say it, but um... they could do with a dose of gym time and the total overhaul and tearing down of a body that pregnancy can do. Some of them need some tough gym love. I don't feel quite so bad about myself when I see that my stomach is far flatter after one kid than some of the teenage girls at the pool or even the lifeguards. So why can't I rock that bikini I ask?



Another thing while I'm at it, because for some reason I don't see this so much in my neck of the woods. I'm sort of small but curvy girl. I'm 4.5 months pregnant but my stomach is like a cantaloupe right now. I tried on that giant tent of a maternity swim suit. I bought it with good intentions. You know the kind that is supposed to mimic a tankini? No, I don't even wear that no matter how many times I'm told I could by other Moms. I loathe that wet suit feel on my stomach and I have abs - I'm showing them off dammit! That suit made me feel like a giant crow. I was covered and looked about 40 pounds heavier. I dug out my two-piece and felt much more comfortable. Yes, I was glaringly white and might have blinded a pool patron or two that first outing, but I was happy to note that for the first time I was asked when I was due by even the clueless male lifeguards. I was told by some of the rather nice Moms out there that I looked terrific and amazing too.



Now if that doesn't help a pregnant woman out what does?



And that's my rant in favor of the bikini.




Here I am in Jamaica seven months after having T.D. It's not a full body shot but it is the best I could do. Now really? Granted I'm much 'rounder' now but I still stand by my right to wear a bikini.

This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by BOCA and their new Balanced Living group. It is all about eating better and living better, bikini lover or not.

Strawberry Shortcake - The Nudist

As a kid, I grew up in the Ocean State. Ah, lil' Rhody with it's four hundred miles of beaches. Bet you didn't know that the smallest state in the country could boast so much coastline. We certainly had our pick of the beaches and of all those sandy strips my parents often chose the one that you actually had to strip at. That's right, a nude beach. Moonstone to be exact and I'm not trying to be funny.

Now a nature reserve for the piping plover or some such bird, Moonstone was a nude beach into the early 80's. As a small kid I didn't notice much of anything in the way of awkwardness I rather liked the whole no sand in the bathing britches factor and I was literally free to run around and play all day. Minus the fact that there were often few other children to play with it wasn't a bad beach. I would take my red backpack full of sand shovels, pails and Strawberry Shortcake dolls and follow my parents along the beach to the perfect blanket location. We'd set up for the day and I would take off whisking Shortcake, Huckleberry and Apple Dumpling off to exotic ocean side locales. Barbies were not for the beach but Strawberry went everywhere with me.

One day, as I sat on my parents blanket eating a sandy sandwich I realized something. Shortcake and company was missing! Where had she gone? My father piped in that she was probably by the shoreline where I had left her. I ran down to see only to discover that while Shortcake, Apple Dumpling and Huckleberry were all still sitting in the sand and basking in the sun, there clothes were no longer there. They had been washed out to sea! Gone. Forever. Not a trace of them was left behind. Not an apron, rubber shoe or poufy hat could be found. I was devastated. It was one thing for my parents and I to be naked, but it was quite another for Strawberry Shortcake.

While my mother bought replacement clothes they were never the same original outfits and the dolls never quite seemed the same to my anal-everything-must-be-right-self. From there on out I forever thought of Strawberry and friends as nudists.

For less traumatizing beach adventures check out PBN where you can read more stories and find out how to win a "Summer Fun Essentials Package"- a beach bag filled with summertime must-haves such as beach towels, pool toys, a sand castle building kit, and more! Plus, products from the Huggies® Little Swimmers® line.

**Lookie, lookie what one reader found- Poor Vintage Shortcake and Mint Shortcake.

Overheards

Scene: Our kitchen last night. H & I are cleaning up from dinner.

Me: Ugh... I don't know what is wrong with me. It's maddening. I hit this wall at this time every night (6:14-19 p.m. I swear it is that accurate) and I just feel so awful no matter what I do.

H: mumbling under his breath as he puts something away in the fridge. Snorts with laughter to himself.

Me: What? What was that you just said?! I didn't hear you....

H: Nothing! I didn't say anything. (smirks)

Me: No, you did! I heard something. What was it you said?! Tell me or I swear that dirty steak knife sitting in the sink will be used.

H: OK...(sighing) I just said, "It's when you take your bitch pill..."

Me: WHAT?! That is not funny!!! (giving him an Elaine Bennis shove)

H: I know. It's like one of those things that seems funny in your head and then once you say it, not so much.

Me: Um... that is never funny in your head.



********
MPR has some great reviews up. One PBN sponsored girly review and another French Country inspired one from Le Couvent Des Minimes.

Oh Just a Tad Nervous

I'm a wee bit nervous today. OK, maybe more like A LOT nervous. Today is the day we get to hear this bean's heartbeat for the first time and this day always fills me with some fear.

I get all excited when we first make the appointment but as the day draws closer I find myself almost not wanting to go in fear that all we will hear is silence. That the anxious feeling I possess will overtake the room and be palpable as it spreads to everyone else in the room. I tell myself that all the miserable sick of the past few weeks is a sign that things are going just swimmingly and I have no reason to worry but the fear persists.

So today we know. I'm glad I'm not going alone. H will be there to hold my hand and that makes it better even when I just think about it.



Want something a bit more cheerful? Read this.

What is Pink and Squishy and Family-Friendly? BARBAPAPA!

Sure you have your Cabbage Patch Kids, The Golden Books, your Strawberry Shortcake, throw in some Winnie the Pooh or Where the Wild Things Are and you have yourself many childhood favorites. All things many of us look back on with happy nostalgia. However, it was while I was visiting Paris during my pregnancy that I discovered a toy in a French department store that brought back much of my childhood to me. It was Barbapapa! I knew instantly I had to have him. Excited and in utter disbelief (this toy is still popular?!) I had him rung up at the register and brought him home to await the arrival of my daughter, T.D.

As a kid Saturday morning cartoons dawned early in my house. Barbapapa (the cartoon is based on a series of book by Annette Tison and Talus Taylor) started at 6 a.m. on some public television station. It's New England we received a lot of Canadian public television in the 70's and early 80's. It was my favorite cartoon and I couldn't think of anything better than bouncing along to the theme song in the darkened living room. The glow of the screen and the Barabapapa family was all I needed for the next hour or so.

When T.D. began to teethe I handed over this precious new Barabapapa. She gummed his soft squishy pink body and I happily began reading her all the books in the collection. I had saved them through numerous room purges from elementary school, high school and beyond. As I read the books to her now I began to notice just how much this pink blob and his colorful blobby children and wife shaped me. Barbapapas are all about innovative thinking, gentle manners and protecting the earth they live on. They solve problems using the talents each family members possesses, change shapes and have the most vivid and brilliant imaginations. I love reading the whole series of Barbapapa books with T.D. just as much as I loved having my Mom read them to me.

While my collection of Barbapapa books has grown ratty over the years(I've met only one other soul who remembers Barbapapa.) I still cherish them and hold them close to my heart. The bright illustrations of the Barbafamily building a home together, helping sick animals and creating a school for their community always remind me what is truly important in life. That sense of family, community building and celebrating everyones natural talents is what makes me, well, me. I love sharing it with my daughter and hope that despite all the scotch tape on the binding and pages the colors of the characters will still be bright enough to share with her children some day.



This post was brought to you by a PBN Blog Blast and Highlights Magazine (now in its 60th year!). It's all about sharing too! Visit the site (comment here too!) about what favorite things from your childhood you like sharing with your children and you could win a free subscription to Highlights new magazine, 'High Five'.

How The Washington Post Peed in My Coffee

There I was, sitting at the kitchen table, not fully awake but trying to read the Sunday paper before all two year old hell broke loose in my house and sipping some coffee when I saw it. By it, I mean, the front page article in The Washington Post's Outlook section, 'We Scream, We Swoon, How Dumb Can We Get?', by Charlotte Allen.

Ugh.

Read it now. Get back to me.

Are you angry? Or do you just feel "dim" as Allen puts it and you don't quite understand all the fuss?

Why is an article such as this the one that gets the front page? Why an article about how women will always lag behind men, are the worst drivers, love romance novels and are only smart enough to remember where the berries are, the type of piece that ends up on the front page?

Reading Allen's piece I not only got angry but I started thinking of the many times I've met women who think this way and how I wanted to throttle them. I'm all for using your talents in life. If your talent is cooking or baking or writing romance novels so be it. If it is being a big-rig driver. Go for it. But DON'T dumb it down no matter what it is simply because you have been labeled by some old, long-dead man, as the 'fairer sex'. Don't put yourself in the backseat because you are a woman and prone to emotions which must equate to you being some sort of gooey mess. Does anyone read this blog? If they do, they know that despite my pieces of sap I am not overly emotional. Yet, somehow I have the X chromosome and a va-jay-jay (yes, I just used an Oprah term and in Allen's world this means I'm dim. We women loves us some Oprah right?! Blech.).

I must admit that in reading the first few paragraphs I was not terribly offended. I kind of agreed with Allen. I don't get the whole women swooning over political candidates. Sure, I backed Edwards but it was not because of his fluffy hair. In fact, the whole issue of his hair bothered me. I wanted the facts, the beliefs, the stances on issues. Screw the hair! Leave the hotness factor to Hollywood and the likes of Christian Bale and Johnny Depp. The more of Allen's piece that I read it soon became clear that it was not even about celebrating what makes us women. It was not about promoting our own strengths as individuals either (forget promoting our strengths as a sex even!) but just about how we as females should just sack it all in and admit "we are...kind of dim." My thoughts? It isn't "we women", it is just you honey. The Washington Post too for displaying and perpetuating this kind of 17th Century crap. Ms. Allen? The Washington Post? Do the rest of women a favor and leave the rest of us out this.




Want to know more about finding your own strengths? No matter what sex you are? Read this PBN book review here.



I'm also awarding Lattes and Life the February Perfect Post award.

Her post 'Don't Let Them Fool You' just tells it like it is and really rings true. Congratulations! For more perfect posts go to Petroville and Suburban Turmoil.

Oh! You Didn't Know I Had a Maid, Did You?

Yes, it's true. I have a maid. How else would I get everything done?

She's quite efficient too. When I finish my shower, there she is at the ready, holding my towel for me. She would not have it any other way. She's my lady in waiting though I have no rank.

She hands me my make-up. She holds my hairbrush and patiently waits for me to put in my hair goop.

She even doles out my lotions and other assorted face products.

She puts away the laundry. Everything in its proper place! Draws must close completely and she scolds me when I half shut them.

She is obsessive about dusting and even screams at me when I try to do it myself.

In fact, whenever I try to do anything on my own there she is trailing after me yelling, "ME HELP! ME HELP!"

If you haven't already figured it out, my daughter is the maid. T.D. loves to help. She is a real people pleaser. I am amazed at the organizational skills and need for order that this two year old child possesses. She knows where every piece of clothing goes in our house. She actually knows the difference between sports bras, tanks and regular bras, the light socks and dark and puts them away in their separates places. No mixing aloud! She becomes upset when she isn't helping and making things neat and tidy. Her memory recall for where items in our home go is absolutely spot on!

It was only recently though that I noticed this to be an actual talent or strength for her. What else can it be? Her need for order and the "everything in its place" mentality is what drives her. She is happy and excited when she does these tasks and I have no reason to stop her. I must admit, I like the help and I like seeing her so happy. The kid is positively energized when I give her washcloths to put away. Socks? She goes bonkers when she can grab a whole lot of them to shove in her very own sock basket.

While other kids like to build with blocks or play with fingerpaints. My child would rather be putting the blocks away and cannot stand the idea of messy fingers covered in wet paint. She likes to sort and categorize items and make sense of things. While sometimes her sorting and more sorting and taking things out and putting them away might seem odd it makes her happy and content and I would not have it any other way. It is what makes T.D., T.D.

Besides, who wouldn't want someone handing them their towel each day? What do you think I'm crazy?

To participate in this PBN Blog Blast, simply write a post on Friday, 2/29 (by Midnight PST) and tell us all about your own child(ren)'s strengths. There are prizes to be had! See PBN for more details and read a bit about the new Jenifer Fox book, 'Your Child's Strengths'.

A Barbie Dream House for Me?!

There it sat. Huge and under the tree. The tag insisted that I was correct, this big box from Santa/my grandparents was intended for only me. My five year-old brain was buzzing with ideas. I could barely contain my excitement. My mother kept warning me to stay away from the tree, "It's not time to open presents yet. Stop touching things and back away from the tree!" I think I might have done a little dance of protest before I backed away.

I sat on my grandmother's paisley and floral couch and wondered, what could it be? A pony? It was certainly a large enough box. Then my mind settled on it. The only thing it could be. The only thing I really wanted. A Barbie Dream House. A Barbie Dream House! That had to be it! Satisfied with this idea I got off the couch and joined the rest of my family for dinner.

All through dinner and dessert I couldn't sit still. I squirmed this way and that in my seat at the dining room table. Dinner went on forever! Turkey and all the trimmings. Fine. Shovel it in. C'mon! We've presents to unwrap! They drank wine and then coffee! Would this dinner ever end? My grandfather lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. The nerve of him! It was never ending. Didn't these people know that a BARBIE DREAM HOUSE was less than two rooms away?! What was wrong with them? How could they not feel the ants in my pants excitement that I did? Didn't they want or need to unwrap their own presents? I NEEDED to unwrap that present! My brained screamed, "Time is of the essence here people!" Finally, my grandmother rose from the table and asked us if we wanted to sit by the tree and look at the lights. Yes! At last! We're going to get to the good part.

I watched my cousins and some of the adults unwrap presents. I received a few smaller items I can no longer remember. Then, my grandparents with big smiles on their faces, pushed the big box out from under the tree. Everyone speculated on what could be in such a large box. I nearly shredded the wrapping with my tiny frenzied hands. Huh. Wait. What's this? This is not some pink full of pictures Mattel box. It's just a regular old cardboard box. Uh.. heheheh something isn't right here folks. Slowly I opened the big box hoping against all hope that inside it was another box. The right box. The Barbie Dream House box. As I lifted the lid I noticed something red and wrapped in plastic. It was a coat. A winter coat. My heart seized. The wiring in my brain misfired and I swear I saw stars. This was all devastatingly wrong. A coat?! Who gives a little kid a coat for Christmas and smiles about it? What fun is a coat? It's not a toy! I have to wear this to school too? For the love of...

My heart just sunk. I lifted the red coat out of the box as my grandmother, all smiles, removed the plastic wrap. Oh look! It has a giant fur trimmed hood. Great. A belt too? Wonderful. I don't even think I tried to smile at my mother's prodding. I just remember the room feeling darker. I was so disappointed. How could they not remember to buy me the one thing I really wanted? Surely this coat costs as much as the dream house. It had fur for goodness sake! I hated that coat instantly. I wanted to throw it in the back of my closet banishing it to the dust bunnies forever. Scowling and refusing to mask my extreme disappointment and at the insistence of my mother, I thanked my grandparents. This was the worst present ever! The worst Christmas ever!

Weeks later and still playing with my cardboard box Barbie dream house. At least with the addition of the brand new giant box that the coat came in I had added an addition onto her house turning it into an apartment complex that her other friends could live in. To me that was the only consolation. No dream house. Just a giant red coat with fur on the hood that got in my mouth all the time. Awesome. I vowed never to forget this error in judgement by the adults in my life. I knew for sure that my parents were involved and had ok'd this gift. What was wrong with them?

Then one day as I stood in line waiting for my school bus a boy in my class began to make fun of my red coat. Being only five about all he could make fun of was the fact that it was big and red. Big Red he called me. Ha Ha. This kid was destined to be class president. He started pulling on the fur and telling the other kids it was a dead animal. Slowly, I turned around to face him and said in the most haughty voice I could muster, "If you must know that is REAL fox fur your hands are pawing. It was a gift from my grandparents and it is VERY expensive. It came in a GIANT box." Oddly, that shut him up. Then little girls began to crowd around me and they wanted to come and touch the soft fox fur. They admired the cute little belt and the fashionable buttons on my new coat. They wanted one just like it! It was a rather beautiful shade of red. Very complimentary to my hair color. Suddenly, I felt like a princess in my new red coat.

From that day on I loved that little red coat with the "fur" trim. I was sad when I outgrew it. I kept it for longer than necessary in the back of my closet. We had some good times me and that red coat. I believe it was the first lesson I consciously remember about finding the best in something and looking at the brighter side of things. A Barbie Dream House I came to realize was just a bunch of plastic. My coat kept me warm and regal. I could take it everywhere, something I couldn't do with the Dream House. Besides, I had a whole apartment complex to manage now with my imagination and that was better than just a single Barbie Dream House.



What makes a gift memorable for you? PBN wants to hear about it during today’s Blog Blast which is brought to by the fine folks at Excitations, a new gift giving site. Stop by and browse their memorable gifts. You can win some too! Just write about your most memorable gift whether it's that painfully bad hair crimping set you received on your 35th birthday (which was last year and not 1985!) or some wonderful surprise that totally made your year. Adult or child memory we don't discriminate! Just share.

I'm sorry, I cheated.

Dear Hairdresser,

Would you prefer to be called stylist? I'm just not sure anymore. My confidence in you has gone. We had such a beautiful relationship. It was good while it lasted and then things just went horribly wrong. I'm not sure what happened still but your inability to listen forced me into the arms of another.

I hated to do it. I'm not one for betrayal. I really did think you had mad skillz in everything hair. The subtle way you wound highlights into my hair each autumn with the lowlights was completely stunning. Your service impeccable. You spoiled me. Your clean, vibrant, non-chemical smelling salon turned me rotten for everyone else. So did the cookies and chocolates on trays and all the other small touches I became used to when in your presence. I even, sigh, let you hug me when I arrived and left. I don't even have family that I hug that much. I feel so used.

Why did I betray you? Quite simply your lack of listening and communication was what did it. I yearned to be heard and not to be so blond even in the summer time. I looked washed out in photos and wanted something more natural even if I had to get my hair processed to achieve it. You did it once. Then you re-blonded me again despite my wishes. My whole head and not just the roots. You never just do a touch up or trim. You snip here, then snip there until my screams and cries fall on deaf ears and it is too late. The right side is done. Now you have to do the left. Don't get me wrong. No one can layer and blend like you. No one. BUT WHEN I SAY NO LAYERS I MEAN NO LAYERS! Remember that one time? You know you made me mad when I whirled out of there so fast breathing like a beast waiting to fight. I couldn't even look at you I was so angry. You sent me a gift card for $50 and letter of apology. It made me come back. I gave you another chance. And another and another. Then after that last cut with the BAZILLION nicely blended but KATRILLION layers in my baby fine hair I decided we must part ways. It was simply too much.

I've started seeing someone else. I just thought you should know. She's not you. She gave me the exact cut I wanted and I'm thrilled it's just not as fine a cut as you would have done had you listened. She makes me wait which you never did. I think of you while I'm waiting. This has not been easy on me. There was no lemon water and other stylists sullenly sat around this new salon. You would have never tolerated that. This new place. This new girl. They let hair sit on the floor. You truly did spoil me and I loved it. Every second. But, she listens. My hair? It's the color I asked for. The cut? It's exactly like the photo. Remember when you used to do that? When you used to listen?

I can feel myself caving though. That next time I will go back to you. I will surrender and go back into your softly lit salon. I will repent. I will make up a pack of lies about having my hair done while I was on vacation. I just can't bare for you to know I cheated on purpose. I'm a sucker for a very fine cut. I can't help it. It just grows up better. That's one thing beauty mags don't lie about. A good cut grows out for months looking well, good. Promise me when I come back you will try to listen? I want this to work so badly. Really I do. I miss my expertly cut perfectly thick side bangs bad.

Yours,

The Client


A new review is up on Mummy's Product Reviews. Beauty Confidential, the new book by Nadine Haobsh formerly Jolie NYC. Nadine, a former beauty editor at some famous beauty mags herself, spills all the secrets in this funny, tell-all book. It's loads of fun and it teaches you how to do the perfect blow out.

Blog Blast! My Ultimate Beauty Blunder

Green hair,Orange Hair,Gray Hair-It is all the same. Bad.

It was late at night. I was alone. My roommates were all gone. My boyfriend was out of town. It was just me and a box of Feria, the newest at home hair coloring kit on the market. The platinum blonde color oh so tempting. I just had to try it. It called to me from the shelves of CVS and I snatched it up and brought it home. Like a junkie in its paper bag I scurried into the bathroom to begin taking my already blonde and ultra highlighted locks even more blonde.

Around 11 p.m. I found myself coughing and running from the bathroom, the scent of bleach was so strong. There might have been some tingling. I can’t be sure. My brain has blocked out so much of the impending trauma. When I finally rinsed out the dye and put on the super softening conditioner I had such high hopes. I would be the blondest blonde in town. My almost-white due would evoke Marilyn Monroe memories. I would be stunning. Sexy and beautiful, a woman to be reckoned with and my boyfriend would not know what to do with this brand new woman. As I toweled off and looked in the mirror something looked wrong. Very wrong. My hair was not blonde, not even a bit. Instead it was orange. My once sunny blonde locks were now the color of a pumpkin. I screamed. I cried. Alone in my dark apartment just me and some seriously fried harsh looking hair. It was a true nightmare.

I called my Mom begging for the number of my cousin who is a stylist. She promptly called me back telling me to do nothing. Don’t touch a thing but the buttons on a phone to call a hair salon. Only a team of professionals could fix this mess. If I tried to dye it back myself it would only damage my hair more. I was distraught. I fixed a strong drink and vowed to go to a salon first thing in the morning. The next morning I woke up ashamed. My roommates could not stop laughing. I was even more mortified and distraught upon seeing the streaky orange locks in the broad daylight. I shoved my nasty burnt hair into a ball cap and trudged to the nearest salon that had an opening.

At the salon I reluctantly showed them my mess. They shook their heads sadly saying the see it all the time, these silly girls who mess with professional strength color without any thought to the damage it can cause. This would take some time. Did I understand that I would not be blonde anymore? Yes. Did I understand they would have to strip my color and I wouldn’t be any color? Gulp. Uh sure. No!!! WHAT? I just kept my mouth shut and let the professionals do their jobs. Three hours later I emerged from the salon chair with a grayish green mess. It wasn’t orange but it wasn’t anything. I looked like a sea witch. A Medusa in training. I was heartbroken. I trudged home, head hanging in shame, $200 poorer.

Later my boyfriend (now H)stopped by. He took the baseball cap off my head and said, “Uh it’s sort of green or gray. I can’t really tell. It’s like the absence of color yet every color! What were you thinking?” I don’t know! To this day I don’t know. Did I do it again? You betcha! A year later I was in a whole other salon asking them to turn my streaked mess of a head back into a blonde mess tout suite! I had a plane to catch to my parent’s house and I sure as hell wasn’t going to show up with another messy dye job. My mother wearing that ‘I told you so’ face. That was the last time I dyed my hair at home though. I walked out blonde again but it was five hours later and I was $300 lighter in the wallet that time. I vowed as God as my witness with all the Scarlett O’Hara in me that I would never dye my hair at home again!

Luckily no photos of this trauma exsist. For more hilarious and cringe-worthy beauty mishaps visit PBN. Pictures will be there! PLUS an incredible contest celebrating the arrival of one FAB book, Beauty Confidential by Nadine Haobsh a beauty expert herself with loads of things to share.

HERE ARE THE RULES AND THE PRIZES!!!!

Tell us about your biggest beauty blunder!

What can you win? The entire list of beauty editor must haves on pages 12-14 of Beauty Confidential:

NARS blush in Orgasm
Terax Original Crema intensive conditioner
Essie Mademoiselle and OPI I'm Not Really a Waitress nail polish
Mario Badescu Drying Potion
Shu Uemura eyelash curler
Bumble and bumble Does It All styling spray
Cetaphil face wash
Kiehl's Lip Balm #1
Lancome Definicils mascara
Phytodefrisant balm
Lancome Flash Bronzer Instant Colour Self-Tanning Leg Gel
Yves Saint Laurent Touche Eclat Radiant Touch

In addition, if you post a picture of your beauty blunder, you'll be entered to win another random drawing: Five lucky winners can ask Nadine their most burning beauty question, and they'll receive a personal answer!

GET EXCITED!!!!

Wacky Warning Labels!

Looking around my house this week I noticed that while yes I've gotten pretty good at weeding out many of the harmful chemicals and cleaners in my home there are still some that warrant some interesting and quite frankly wacky warning labels. Let's begin shall we?

1. Behold this bottle of Febreze


The back of the bottle states- 'Safe to use around pets and household items.' Great! Aren't we supposed to be spraying it on or around those items? Then it says, 'Do not spray directly into face.' You mean to tell me I can't Febreze myself instead of showering. Damn! I was all set to do that today too. Seriously? Who would spray Febreze in their face? It's not eau de cologne!

2. My washing machine





Notice the left hand picture. It asks that you kindly not wash items that have any type of oil on them including cooking oil. Ok... So not talking about gasoline soaked rags that sometimes make their way into my laundry room (don't ask) what about when I spill olive oil on my shirt? I toss the shirt? It also asks for you not to dry these items. Hold on! Aren't I using a washing machine right now? Tricky. Hmm...

But wait! There's more. Notice the picture on the right also known as my washing machine. It tells you how to get mechanical oil out of your clothes. Using the washing machine. If these warning labels are supposed to deter bizarre accidents that shouldn't occur if you used any sort of common sense then this washer is the devil in disguise. It's out to get you with it's confusing warning label ways. Beware of my Maytag!



This blog blast was brought to you today by PBN and Sick of Lawsuits. For more Wacky Warning Labels visit PBN and send your own versions in. There are $200 and $100 Visa gift cards being given away as prizes!!!

Also, some seriously beautiful handbags and a rather interesting review for your car over at Mummy's Product Reviews so go there too!

Sweet Tart Overdose and a Crayfish Too

The truck was packed. Blearily my eyes tried to focus as my father woke us up and told us to get in the truck, it was almost time to "hit the road." We were Sebago bound. Sebago Lake, Maine.

Every year my family would pack up the car and go to Sebago. We would head out on the five hour journey around 3 a.m. "We've got to get there early so we can pick the best campsite!", my Dad would declare. Each year I was allowed to invite one friend to spend ten days camping with us. This particular year I chose my friend Julie. I couldn't wait! It was freedom! Showers that operated by coin! Canadians in speedos! S'mores by the campfire and endless hours of roaming by the lake. Pre-teen heaven, well, minus the Canadian flag speedos.

Propped up on pillows, ensconced in our sleeping bags and surrounded by books and other on-the-road activities we giggled ourselves silly despite the early hour. Immediately we dug into the JUMBO bag of Sweet Tarts my mother had stowed in the back. First we ate them with wild abandon. We cackled through our shared sugar high, too hyped up to read. Then we got choosy deeming only the yellow, green and orange Sweet Tarts worthy of our ingestion. Pink and Purple were lame. Yet abundant. Sweet Tarts were scattered all over the back seat. At one point a Sweet Tart food fight broke out. By the time we reached the campground were sick to death of ALL Sweet Tarts as we gazed out at the Maine forests in a Sweet Tart haze. Blech. "DO NOT MENTION SWEET TARTS! EVER!" we declared. The mere sight of a wrapper made us queasy and it was only 8 a.m.

We waited five hours for our campsite number to be called. Five hours of sour stomachs, overtired tween-age girls complaining about the damp air, and desperately wanting a swim. I don't know how my parents stood it. The sky began to take on an ominous look to it. By the time we set up camp it had begun to rain. And rain. Then it rained some more. My Dad dug ditches around the tents and the covered picnic table. There would be no swimming on this trip. Only dampness and wet. A campfire was a no-go. No campfire=No s'mores. I got a little cranky. We spent a majority of our time at the covered table by lantern light drawing silly portraits with equally silly names while listening to Berlin on the radio over and over again until my mother snapped. It was the summer of 'Top Gun' after all.

The rain continued. Julie and I had to take down our tiny tent and move in with my parents. Our Tiger Beat pictures of Michael J. Fox had would no longer stay on the tent walls. It was tragic! The rain kept coming. The campground was like a giant sponge and the lake rose higher. Would our tent convert into an ark? One night as the ditch by the covered table overflowed I noticed something swimming by my feet. What's this? A Crayfish had made its way from the lake to our camp site. It was taking up residence with us now. I told him, "It's not any better in here!" The rain poured on. We didn't even need to use the coin operated showers. We could just step outside if we wanted to. We all felt a little bit stir crazy.

On the ninth day of rain, our last day of camping/living under water, the rain lightened. By day ten as we packed up the site the sun came out in all its glorious yellow brightness. Not a cloud in the sky. We begged my parents to let us stay another few days. Can't we just take a swim? We'll put the crayfish back now and find him a good home! No dice. The truck was packed revealing an avalanche of hidden Sweet Tarts and Sweet Tart wrappers. I looked at Julie and she looked as green as I felt. "DON'T MENTION SWEET TARTS! EVER!" we declared and climbed into the truck for the five hour ride home. This time we would be eating Reese's Cups!

Looking back now there really wasn't much we could do about the rain. My parents were smart enough to bring along tons of "fun" food, books, and drawing paper to keep two girls occupied. The radio/tv combo helped a lot too I might add. This trip didn't taint me from camping either. I will continue the camping tradition with my kids and will remember to pack the plastic, a shovel for digging ditches, and be prepared for any errant crayfish (perhaps with a pot?) that might cross our paths. As well as a bag of candy. Just not Sweet Tarts.


*Author's Note- In the Summer of 2000, I finally decided to take the plunge and eat a Sweet Tart. I ate every color but purple and pink. I still can't. The idea still makes me sick.

This Blog Blast post is brought to you by PBN and PickPackGo! So head on over to PBN and share your Clark Griswold family vacation stories, check out PICKPACKGO for some ultra good deals, and get a chance at winning a PORTABLE DVD PLAYER for your next trip!

Blog Blast! Join the Fun and Do Some Good!

Tell me about your favorite charity, or better yet, head to PBN and post it there. If you are like me there is an organization that you hold near and dear to your heart. Maybe you know someone with cancer and you want to help in anyway you can so you donate to the American Cancer Society. Maybe you love animals and want to help out the local shelter.

For me, it is a deeply personal reason that I donate to this one particular organization. They helped me out in so many ways during such a dire time in my life. A time that if they had not been there I would have probably remained broken for years to come if not forever. My life would not be what it is today nor would I. I was in an abyss with no way out and felt completely isolated and alone. The Domestic Violence Resource Center of South County, RI was there for me. Their weekly group therapy sessions, the resources and support they offered made it possible for me to see a life beyond what I was currently trapped in. They gave me the courage, guidance and support to know that I could and would be whole again someday. I owe them such a debt of gratitude. That is why I joined iBakeSale.

iBakeSale allows me to donate anywhere from 20-100% of the amount I spend in online shopping on their site to the organization of my choice. Here's how it works-when you shop online via iBakeSale you can earn cash back (by percentage of purchase) that can be donated to various charities, as well as local organizations such as little league, schools, shelters. EVEN yourself. It's FREE and EASY to sign up. You can help donate to my cause or add your own.

Click here to sign up or get more information. If you would like to help out a great RI resource look up The Domestic Violence Resource Center of South County. I thank you in advance. While you are at it- TELL YOUR FRIENDS and have them sign up. You won't be sorry!

NOW SHOP, SHOP, SHOP!

The Good Ol' Days

Back in the days when I was "with child", "preggo", had a "bun in the oven" or was just plain pregnant I had a lot of people say some pretty bizarre or just plain rude things to me. They feel it's perfectly ok to not even say 'hello!' or even smile at you, but just okey dokey to touch your belly or poke your button. It gets pretty damn annoying.

Here are a few of my faves- AND- things I wish I would have said and sometimes did.

-"Are you allowed to eat that?" as I chomped on a Brownie. "Uh.. yeah..Why not? Are they special Brownies? If they are special Brownies I'm eating the whole pan."

-"Will you be breast-feeding?" Blurted out in the middle of a meeting. Asked by a man who I barely knew. Talk about creepy. I had no reply for that one and still don't. Just YICK!!!

-Me in my office: "Son of a Bitch!" Guy in office: "Sssh.. the baby can hear you!" Me: At the time I just grumbled to myself about how annoying it was to be pregnant and have everyone offer "helpful" advice. Now I wish I had just said, "I KNOW that, I was TALKING to the baby. Duh!"

You think it ends after you actually have the baby. Oh no it does NOT. That's where the judging comes in, more advice, and the sketchy questions about your labor, after-birth, breasts, and chotch. As if you really want to talk to the grocery store cashier or guy at Lowe's about all that, much less the creepy lurker dude in your office's hallway.

It's BLOG BLAST FRIDAY asking "What's the most annoying preggo or new mom question you've ever been asked -- AND -- what's your best, snarky "wish-you-could-have-said-it" answer" (in post and comment form -- we can all say "F-off" -- let's hear a mouthful and then some). PBN is putting it all together for their new campaign for Dr. Tracy Gaudet's new book, 'Body, Soul, Baby' which can be found by typing in the title here. Don't you wish you could have just handed those people with all their advice this type of book?




Check out the other sites doing the blog blast here for there are FABULOUS prizes!

PBN-'Get a Hobby!'

“Discover your hobby personality!” This is what ‘Get a Hobby!’ by Tina Barseghian proposes. My husband and I could not wait to tear into this book and figure out our most ideal hobbies. We’re always looking for something else to cram into our already overblown schedules. We carefully read the Foreword by Miguel Figuerra, M.D.; learning that hobbies can create a more relaxed you. Excellent! Let’s get crackin’ shall we?

We sat down and diligently took the quiz that would help match us up with our hobbies. Right away, I found myself getting frustrated. The questions were so absolute. I love history yet somehow it didn’t factor in because I didn’t know the answer to the question. Maybe that was me reading it wrong, but a ripple of annoyance spread through me. After taking the quiz, I was all set to find out that I indeed like historical type hobbies, blogging, journal keeping, and such. Nope. I don’t according to the book. I like Falconry. Did you know that with Falconry, the top piece of equipment you need is a falcon? My husband about peed his pants when I read that off the list. I’m also prone to enjoying caving, scuba diving, and a host of other hobbies that scare the living daylights out of me. I threw the book at my husband in disgust. It was time to let him give it a try.

His answers matched his personality better, which is indeed adventurous, outdoorsy, nature loving and sporty. That is totally him in a nutshell. A giant nutshell, but all the same the book nailed him. He liked the hobbies matched to him, even the idea of a soapbox derby and fly tying. Treasure hunting especially intrigued him. A smug justification came over him when fantasy sports leagues joined the list.

Over the next few days, I perused the book again. While I am not about to strike up an interest in bee keeping, and I am not sporty or outdoorsy in the least bit, I did try my hand at African violet cultivation and herb gardening. I had no idea how to cultivate a violet from a leaf. Once I started reading that section I realized just how much information the book contains. Beyond the directions, lists, and helpful hints about each hobby, there are great websites listed on each page directing you to further information. Being the history nut that I am, I started leafing through the book just to read the historical sections listed with each hobby. Did you know a toy manufacturer created the ant farm in the 1940’s? I didn’t.

‘Get a Hobby!’ retails for $19.95. It contains lots of interesting tidbits of information, but I won’t be starting any new hobbies from this book, and I probably won’t be recommending it to anyone either. The quiz really turned me off initially and I found the overall look and feel of the book to be drab and not conducive to continuous reading.

Parent Bloggers is giving away a copy of the book (which MANY people really loved) and a $100 Michael's Arts & Crafts gift card. Just go to their site and leave a comment!

PBN-Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box

I have to admit I eagerly awaited the arrival of this book with almost too much excitement. ‘Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box’, by Ann Dunnewold, Ph.D. offers “workable solutions to the Mommy Madness”. I could not wait to crack it open and prove that I am right in my parenting ways. The idea of extreme parenting has always been a hot issue with me. Before I had T.D., it got me riled up and now that my daughter is here, it’s even worse. I have to bite my tongue so hard sometimes from flipping out on some of the judgy Mom’s out there. I get so sick of defending my belief about having "me" time or date nights. After I defend myself though, I sometimes wonder and guilt myself into a cyclical series of worries about T.D.’s future. If I let her keep the pacifier now will she talk like Jamie Gumb and wear a skin suit later? Will the fact that I let her listen to non-kid friendly books on CD in the car create a scary mastermind? If she’s not in playgroups everyday will she be socially awkward later? I needed this book and bad if only to stop those voices in my head. I was not prepared however, to find a bit of that extreme parenting in me as I read through Dunnewold’s masterpiece. And yes, it is a masterpiece.

The simple to follow mantras, practical advice, and tips sprinkled throughout the book reinforce Dunnewold’s theories and ideas. The quiz to figure out what type of extreme parent you are (Hi, my name is Vicky and I can be an overproducer at times.) made it easy for me to see where I tend to spin out of control. I have whole strings of days where automatic thoughts run rampant through my mind making me binge out on educational toy sprees and wanting to sign T.D. up for every class in the state. These are followed by more days where I feel wracked with guilt if we haven’t done flashcards and the only reading material she’s had is me reading Newsweek aloud to her. ‘Even June Cleaver’ helped me to realize the ways I do this and that it’s ok to cut myself some slack and talk myself down from my overproducing ledge. Dunnewold discusses how important it is to really find time for you in order to be a better parent. Nothing runs on empty for very long. Having this laid out right in front of me on a page clarified and reinforced it in just the way I need.

I particularly appreciated the helpful websites (hello! www.parenting247.uiuc.edu) peppered throughout the book. Not only are they good resources, but I felt encouraged to know that there were places for me to go and learn more. I sometimes feel lost at sea with my lack of parenting skills and knowledge. More than all this Dunnewold’s premise of how to become a perfectly good parent just really rang true with me. The reassurance I garnered from this book about how it is perfectly alright to lose my temper, have a bad day, be sad, and essentially a human being helped immensely. I often feel I’m on the right path by going against the grain (I live in a hot bed of extreme parenting) so it does wonders to know others back me up and I am heading in the right direction. I could never mold myself into June and am always miserable when I try. The women I see extreme parenting have misery written all over their faces. I oftentimes don’t understand how we got ourselves into this vicious cycle of extreme parenting, judging other parents and scorekeeping with our spouses. Dunnewold’s book laid it all out historically and factually with ways to combat it in ourselves and how to deal with the extreme parenters in our own lives.


‘Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box’ made me sigh with relief that I’m working towards that goal of being a perfectly good parent already while nailing some of my own extreme parenting hang ups. That in itself is worth buying the book for. It is a great reality check. It’s also a steal at $14.95! I cannot wait to share it with other parents and I hope they don’t think I’m judging them by doing so!


*This review and others for this book and great products can be found on the Parent Blogger Network. Check it out today!

Find more reviews on my REVIEW SITE.