Motherhood Uncensored

2035

"But can't you make it back for a few minutes before you head off again?" I begged. "It feels like ages since I've seen you. Is your hair still covering your eyes like a bad set of curtains?" I added, chuckling at the thought of him resembling an old English sheep dog.

I thought his hair looked nice when it was short, swept away from his face and parted to the right. I'd brush it over and he'd insist on shaking his head and messing it up on purpose, knowing how much it bothered me. I'd try again and he'd bat my hand away, a half-smile peeking out from his mouth.

"I just can't," he said. "Maybe next time, when there's less going on."

I could tell he wanted to get off the phone, but I didn't care. I tried to sound hopeful, not desperate.

"I remember when I wished for a break, for just a moment to breathe. Now I can't even imagine why I ever thought that. It was hard back then."

He cut me off. "It's okay. It's just how it goes."

So much for hopeful.

I didn't want to guilt him into coming. Part of me knew that if I pushed him too hard it wouldn't even be worth it. He'd just fly into the house and plop down on the couch, tapping his foot while he scanned his text messages and emails pretending to listen to me as I blathered on.

"Did you see the Jones' house is up for sale?" I'd ask him, hoping to make him look up from the bright shiny screen long enough so I could see his eyes.

"Yup," he'd say, sighing heavily as if I was paining him by breathing.

I'd scurry around, offering homemade muffins and lemonade, and he'd refuse, alternating stares between his watch and the door.

"I have to go now. I'm sorry. I'll be back in a couple of weeks. We'll catch up then. Don't worry."

He'd press on my hand as he stood up from the couch and I'd grab it with my other. I'd pull him for a hug and steal a look at his face, oddly unchanged after all these years. His deep brown eyes covered with soft blonde hair. His cheeks still round and rosy, now rough with a two-day-old stubble.

"I love you," I told him. "Come over when you can." I barely got that out before he ended the call, the beep saving him from my pathetic sobs.

A few minutes later my phone buzzed, nearly bouncing off the kitchen counter.

"i love u 2 mom" it said.

Badge of honor

During all these FTC rumblings, PR Blackouts, and ridiculous bullshit that really makes the blogosphere look more like a soap opera that a community, I've kept my mouth shut.

Well, mostly.

But I can only be inundated with articles on mommy blogger money making schemes for so long before I have to say something.

I started this blog back in November 2005 as a way to tell stories about my own experiences with motherhood. It's actually evolved into more of a "mom blog" over the years, much to my own surprise, but never did I ever plan on it being a money maker.

And guess what. It's really not.

For the few early months with BlogHerAds, I could pay my car payment. But aside from that, the ads that you see on this site pay for a week's worth of groceries. I rarely write up any products, and if I do, I filter them over into my review blog. And while I can't complain about some of the freebies I've received, I never really write about them here.

This blog is like my Ketel One martini that shall not be tainted by the cheap crap no matter how much you try to bribe me with it or send me cases for free.

No, no, HELL NO.

What this blog has done is provide a springboard for other projects, like Cool Mom Picks, and Parent Bloggers Network, and the Mominatrix, so I'm afforded the luxury of separating professional from personal, for the most part.

But with all the FTC and the blackouts and brownouts and everything else that sounds oddly close to people having shit issues, I've felt the need to disclose that the things I talk about (unless otherwise specified) are not paid for. That when I link to a product, I really do like it. And if I don't like it, then I make fun of it and drink out of it.

And honestly, I think that sucks.

It sucks that you can't go to a blog and know automatically whether the person is legitimately loving something or whether they got paid to love it.

That doesn't mean I'm hating on all the people that write sponsored posts or PR regurgitations or whatever other things people do to make money from their blog.

But when the lines get blurry, it bothers me. When I see people swipe stuff from another blogger and change one word without giving so much as a credit or a link, it pisses me off. Whether it's a line from their "submit" page or a part of an entire post or a blog name that someone already came up with in a  post and you decide "Hey, I think that would make a great blog," it still matters.

No, there are no laws that state that you can't do that. But it takes away the community. And it's disrespectful.

We shouldn't need buttons or badges to tell people we've got integrity. And many bloggers, particularly those who absolutely don't do any posts about products or reviews or giveaways or all of that stuff and who treat people, bloggers, and their writing with respect, probably don't.

But since I've got my foot in a few places, I want people to be perfectly clear that when they come here, they know what they're getting.

Whether you happened to find my blog on a random google search for "Tuna Helper" or whether you've been reading this blog since I first started writing.

Which is to say I talk about unabashedly about vaginas, cock rings,and ass issues, almost as much as I talk about my three beautiful children.

And while I blog with a sailor's mouth, I also blog with integrity.

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Crocs her? Why I hardly know her.

A couple of years ago just prior to BlogHer 2007, I wrote about my loathe for Crocs. In fact, I even offered to wear a pair to the conference if more people than not loved them.

Lucky for me, many of you have fantastic taste.

Fast forward two years (and a few radio interviews and news articles about my Crocs hatred) and apparently Crocs are making their presence known, well other that through gigantic clod-hopping rubber shoes - former President approved y'all!, at various BlogHer parties. In fact, they're throwing their own pre-Blogher party.

Crocsher.

Perhaps this is a backlash to what the Washington Post recently discussed as a possible "Crocs extinction."

"Crocs4ever," people are proclaiming! Even the Crocs president responded.

"Ain't nothing gonna bring us down," they cry.

That's partially true. They do float.

Now look. I realize that in over the last few years, Crocs are no longer the bright orange clogs that resist bacteria, keep you from falling off your boat, and get kid's feet caught in escalators.

They're flip-flops, Mary janes, even Ballet flats.

And I'm guessing they're a sure fire way to win a consultation with Tim Gunn.

Yes even your Malindi Leopard print ones.

My eyes! My eyes!

But at least they were what they were. Ugly ass shoes that people still tried to excuse as "super comfortable."

Now however, Crocs are hiding in the guise of stylish shoes.

But regardless of how many straps, buckles, and wedges you put on Crocs, they're still no Jimmy Choo.

And Jimmy Crocs just doesn't have the same ring.

The rudeness of strangers

While I'm fortunate to be surrounded by extremely thoughtful blog readers, friends, and neighbors, it never ceases to amaze me at how many rude people continue to populate this earth.

And I don't even mean the car smushing assholes.

I mean strangers that lack the common decency to offer a wave of thanks when you kindly let them in front of you in your car or to hold the door as you're leaving your gym with all three children.

Nope. Apparently it's too much to ask. Who am I to assume that a big dude and his elementary-aged son can't wait two seconds while I usher my herd of children - two behind me and one in my arms - out while one or both of them politely prop the door open with all their free limbs?

Instead they walked right in, usurping my right of way, and let the door close right in our faces.

And based on what I see, I'm not at all surprised.

During my pre-Blogher eyebrow wax, my esthetician and I were discussing how people can't seem to find the time to send thank you notes, emails, hell, even a freaking two second phone call to say "hey, I got that nice thing you sent me!"

Now don't get me wrong. I've definitely forgotten to send a thank-you note and I'm a terrible RSVP-er. But I really do my best to acknowledge if a gift was sent, even if it's with a quick email and phone call.

I get that people are busy and invested in their own lives and families. I've been a victim myself, so wrapped up in wrangling kids that I sometimes have no clue what's going on around me. And I don't even have a blue tooth stuck in my ear and a phone glued to my hand.

It bothers me that we're often so plugged into our own lives that we can't step back for a moment and reach out to others around us - to actually tune in, if only for a moment, to what's going on.

But regardless of how far my head has been up my ass, you can bet that I'd hold a door for a mom, even if I had all of my own kids in my arms.

Will the mommy blogger with hemorrhoids please stand up?

I get a lot of PR pitches in my email box, and most of them amount to someone telling me about an extremely exciting new survey conducted by Oscar Meyer and would I like to share this fascinating information about working moms' lunch habits with my readers.

Can you believe that 65.8% of working moms bring their lunch from home? And 69% eat at their desks?

See, now you can't say I withhold important information from you. Aren't you so glad Oscar Meyer and his weiner care so much about the lunch habits of moms?

But last night, the subject line read: New Client Pitch: *Hemorrhoids Treatment Product

[*side note: I type that fucking word so many times and I still misspell it at least twice before getting it right]

And given the state of my ass, I had to click on it. Apparently this lucky pr person was trying to figure out if I'd be interested in getting more emails regarding a product that has shown effectiveness in clinical trials for treating people with 'roids. And spider and varicose veins.

Not sure how that works, but who am I to question?

"We were tried to narrow the list as much as possible," she wrote. "But it's hard to tell who would want this."

Is she kidding? A 'roid treatment that's sold at Henri Bendels and Saks Fifth Avenue? Sign me up. I don't have a high class snooty asshole or anything, but it's got to be just as good if not better than the cheap stuff, right?

"Please don't flame us," she added.

I had to laugh at the unintentional pun. Flame lest ye be sitting on a flaming asshole.

But then I realized that eagerly emailing back for samples would mean that I was admitting to some random PR person that I indeed require the Hemorrhoids Treatment Product.

And yes, while I (and other fine bloggers) have admitted this on my blog, and in person to a few friends and the 17 year old check out guy at CVS (well, I didn't actually say it but the four packs of Preparation-H wipes sort of did that for me), I've never actually had to ask someone for it.

So I thought about it for all of four seconds and replied:

"I'm sad to admit that my ass would love to see samples."

I'll let you know how they work.