The name's dotcom. Mom-101 dotcom.

So it's official: Mom-101 is now Mom-101.com.

Frankly, I was tired of writing .blogspot.com on nametags, in the URL bar, and on the boobs of passed-out drunk women on barroom floors when I'm self-promoting in subversive ways.

Huge thanks to Cynical Dad for again getting me through big scary tech stuff and not even making me cry once. Now maybe one day I'll actually change my banner too, which I haven't changed since I first put it up about three years ago.

Hm...should I change my low-tech, off -enter, totally ridiculous handmade clip art banner? Or does it somehow work for me? I've always wondered...

----
(Totally coincidentally my banner is missing right now. I think that could be a sign.)

Paying it forward with tampons and booze

I got home last night to a most happy of all possible happy emails, explaining that I had somehow, through the miracle of good karma (I held the elevator door open a lot for old ladies this week)--or more likely, random number generators--won one of several scholarships to cover BlogHer expenses courtesy of Johnson & Johnson.

Whoo!

(Did I mention...Whoo!)

Now it just so happens that J&J are the makers of my favorite tampons, brand loyalty that was probably established back when my mom handed OBs out at my birthday party to all of my third grade friends who dunked them in water to watch them expand, laughed until they cried and then plotted my rapid social demise. To this day, some of those girls (hi Tamar) still say, Hey remember that time when your mom gave us all OB tampons at your birthday party?

Good times.

The whole scholarship thing is particularly sweet, what with the sigOth earning zero dollars an hour these days, and two growing children who occasionally need to be fed and watered. But still, I'm all about sharing the love and paying it forward.

I would like to buy five BlogHer attendees a drink and a box of OB tampons.

To enter, leave a comment here and tell me your funniest or most embarrassing grade school story. If you're too embarrassed, tell me the funniest or most embarrassing grade school story that "happened to someone else." You know...that other person. Yeah, her.

For an extra entry, tweet that you love @Mom101 more than bacon.

For fourteen extra entries, write Mom101 is my hero on a public bathroom wall, photograph it and upload it to a flick'r page

For six extra entries write a letter of recommendation about Mom101's hilarious writing and send it to McSweeney's and the publisher of Chronicle books, then post it on stumble upon, and then for an extra two entries explain to me how to navigate stumble upon so I can actually find it.

For 92 extra entries, post a badge on your blog with a picture of my head photoshopped onto Salma Hayak's body.

For 147,005 extra entries and free OBs for life, fly to Alaska, play ding dong ditch at the Palin residence wearing a Mom-101 t-shirt, videotape it and upload it to YouTube.

For one hundred million extra entries, admit that you hate giveaways that demand that you jump through hoops for some $4.99 drugstore item and we'll toast to it together at Blogher.

***
Seriously I will totally buy five random people a drink at BlogHer. Tampons optional. Tell me an embarrassing grade school story and I'll pick five people at random. Contest ends whenever I feel like it. It will be your job to track me down at the conference though. The party schedule is intense.

But the truth is we'll all have plenty of free drink tickets and like Anissa Mayhew suggested on Twitter, you can always make friends with a Mormon and nab hers.

And hey, thanks J&J. You guys are swell for supporting women bloggers like this. Fist to the chest.

Now I hope I haven't made you totally regret your decision.

Suburban envy? (WTF?)

Recently I've found myself with a raging case of suburb envy, the affliction New Yorkers are most hard-pressed to confess to.

(It's closely followed by dislike of the Angelika theater and a secret crush on the fajitas at Chili's.)

It started at my brother's house recently; I watched the kids through the window as they played out back with their cousins. They swung as long as they wanted without a single nanny staring them down. They tackled the slide without worrying about a bigger kid racing up from the bottom. I didn't need to chase them with hand sanitizer afterward. They seemed safe.

They seemed happy.

At my mom's house the girls pick fat peas from the garden and study the birds and Thalia tells me just how to put your finger in the tomato plants to see if they need water. They can worship at the garden hose on hot afternoons and run through the sprinkler, the greatest free activity in the history of summer activities. They can run around in bare feet or strip right down to to nothing.

Not a whole lot of naked sprinkler jumpers in Brooklyn these days.

At my uncle's beach house this past weekend, Sage and Thalia watched, mouths agape, every time a big kid scooted by on a Big Wheel or Razor, as if a celebrity had passed. They forged weekend friendships with the children two doors down, bonding over sidewalk chalk and neighborhood dog petting. Sage tore up her feet navigating deep steps from the porch to the sidewalk by herself and still refused to stop. Thalia learned she really could play hopscotch. It felt in many ways felt like the best of my own suburban childhood where summer days meant ice cream trucks and summer nights meant flashlight tag and fireflies in jars.

I love everything about living in the City (except, of course, for the things that I don't). I'm not sure that I'd trade it today. I'm not sure I'd trade it tomorrow.

But man, a backyard we don't have to share with the entire tourist population of Western Europe would be dandy.

Our backyard. More or less.

let's just keep this between us, okay? If anyone in NYC finds out about my suburban envy, I could be totally stripped of my hard-won (917) area code, and forced to eat things like blueberry bagels.

Four. Wow. How did that happen?

"You know," I said to Thalia, as I cuddled her in my lap last night, "this time four years ago you were still in my belly juuuust about ready to come out. I didn't know you yet and I was so excited to meet you, especially because I wasn't a mommy yet. And that's partly why July 6 is so special to me - because I wasn't a mommy yet until that day."

"Right. You were just a womens."

"I was just a womens."


Happy birthday my beautiful girl. And thank you for transforming me from just a womens into something that's pretty darn nice.

Where is the Etiquette Bitch when you need her?

It's one of those mornings where I'm struggling to be a weekday mother and simultaneously struggling with being an urban dog owner.

You suburban people, with your ground level homes and fancy yards and ability to leave your kids in front of the TV for a minute while you pop out for a pee run, you don't know how lucky you are. Me, I have to hustle both kids along with the dog (who'd be just as happy never walking anywhere) out the door, down the elevator, down a flight of stairs, to the corner, and back again. Only this time I decide I'll grab a bag of groceries and an iced coffee while we're out. Brilliant.

My multi-tasking plan nearly works until about 100 yards from our apartment when Sage decides this would be a perfect opportunity to start shrieking CARRYY MEEEEE!, a near physical impossibility. The shriek turns into a full-fledge meltdown and my only consolation is that it's nearly 10 and I'm she's not waking the whole neighborhood up.

I look around for a sympathetic neighbor who might take mercy and grab the dog's leash for me or simply smile that kind "hang in there" smile that we parents have come to live for. Instead I pass a woman about my mother's age, aerobicized, vaguely stylish, with spiky silver hair and IKEA tote in tow. Forget sympathy, she refuses to even make eye contact.

Thalia, Sage, Emily, Mr Iced Coffee and I somehow (God knows how) manage to make it back to the elevator where IKEA lady is also waiting. Sage whimpers, "pick me up"and before she can threaten to cry more loudly in the small elevator, I manage to hoist her up on one of those wide hips that come in handy these situations, if not in 5th Avenue dressing rooms.

I smile at the woman. "I guess this is one of those times a third arm would come in handy."

No response.

We exit at our floor.

"Or one less child," she sneered.

I wished I could have channeled the Etiquette Bitch. But instead, the door just closed and I stood there speechless.


[Junk Food Mr. Rude tee via 80stees.com]

Return of the Type B Mom

A few nights ago, a great friend came over to ply me with Riesling and keep me company in my current state of chef's widowdom.

I cleared a patch of cat hair on the couch for her, and grabbed some wine glasses I prayed weren't covered in Yo Baby. Then she watched with amused bewilderment as my two year-old dunked her fist in my wine glass and licked it (possibly several times before I caught her), my four year-old ate bread for dinner, I threw on Diego around 8 PM just to get them to stop jumping around like hyperactive chickens, and they both pretty much both refused to sleep until GothehelltobedalreadybeforeIkillyou o'thirty.

"I guess I'm not just the Type B mom I play on my blog," I shrugged, assuming she couldn't wait to run back to her boyfriend and say WHAT the heck is going on in that household?

I have come to this realization that all these years later it's not the parenting I still struggle with, so much as the parenting in front of people.

Here in the blog world, we can share only the stories we choose, draw them in such a way to elicit the requisite sympathy or laughs, then end the chapter. It's kind of a cheat if you think about it: The rawness and authenticity can give the impression that we're telling all, just because we tell it truthfully. You don't actually see us do all the so-called bad mommy things we talk about, like letting them watch Noggin for three straight hours, or taking the kids out on a hot June day without hats or sunscreen. Again.

I know in my heart I have awesome kids to show for the decisions Nate and I have made. Even the questionable ones. When Thalia asks Sage which placemat she wants before choosing her own; when Sage accidentally breaks Thalia's beaded necklace and hugs her in apology without being prompted; when they hold hands to walk down the street, I know we're doing something very very right.

Photo evidence

But somewhere in me, there's still this annoying, raging insecurity (go away, insecurity! Haven't I warned you?) that demands that people recognize me for doing okay. Particularly in a neighborhood where the other moms start their kids on violin prenatally, can afford housekeepers to get rid of the pet hair, and never seem to feed anyone bread for dinner.

God, I'm freaking old

I graduated high school on this date in 1986. I wrote a rendition of Forever Young called Forever Friends, changing the lyrics can you imagine when this race is won to something like can you imagine when high school's done. I also changed the chorus of Addicted to Love, to Might as well face it I hate Mr. Whartenbee.

That's when I knew I was destined to be a professional writer.

Also, I looked like this:

Me and the BFF, hopelessly Breakfast Club. Note the turquoise shoes and shiny, happy braces.

I just wanted to put both of those factoids out there for every 17 year-old who is convinced that she is awesome and life will never get better than this.

Also, if you think your hair is cool now? It's not. It sucks.

So what were you doing in 86? And please don't say "being born."

A heartbreaking post of staggering randomness

There are all these things floating around my brain that don't quite fit into 140 characters so I figured I'd get them all down here:

1. If you're not subscribing to Cool Mom Picks, this would be a dandy time. We're offering a ridiculous number of exclusive discounts and other goodies just for subscribers lately. Plus you could win $200 worth of cool stuff. Also? Got a shiny new Cool Mom Picks fan page on Facebook which is where I'm spending my time instead of saying hi to ex-boyfriends.

2. Fantastic interview on marketers and bloggers in AdAge today with the always awesome Danielle Wiley. (And I'm not just saying that because she mentioned me. Although I will buy her an extra free drink at BlogHer.)

3. I told Thalia I was sore from exercise (first in three years - whoo! But that's another post) and she said she was too. When I asked her which muscles were hurting, she answered, "Both of them."

4. Tickets from the Expressing Motherhood show that I'm in Sept 24-26 are now on sale! If you're going to be in NYC, please come? Pretty please? I will be your best friend, at least for an hour. Maybe more.

5. Thalia watched Wall-E the other night for the first time and the next morning she drew Wall-E and Eva from memory. I am looking forward to being the proud mother of a Pixar animator.



6. More important than any of the other stuff here, Sheri (who is a real life family friend outside the blogworld so I promise she's not like that psychopath who made up the story about her fake sick daughter) has a dear friend whose three year-old was recently diagnosed with acute leukemia. I can hardly even type those words without stifling a sob. Check out Loving Taylor and do whatever you're inspired to do. Just leaving a comment of support will mean a lot.

7. Afterwards you might need a laugh. In which case, read this.

We'll resume our irregularly scheduled long-winded but more singularly minded posting after the break.

Hair! Everywhere! Bah!

So I'm kind of over the animals.

When Nate insisted on rescuing two cats. two cats (you know, for kids) on top of the dog on top of the two children, it was Christmas. I wasn't thinking about summer.

How a cat can seemingly shed more than six times its weight in hair a day I do not know, but ours miraculously achieve it daily. I can only dream that it is such an impressively freakish enough skill that some crazy animal person will show up with big bags of money and take those kitties off our hands, love them and hug them and build shrines to them out of their own fur. Maybe even the crazy animal person will be a crazy animal scientist who wants to conduct humane (humane!) science experiments on them, discover a way to reverse the trait, and create breeds of non-shedding cats for generations to come.

And by generations I mean working moms who are home alone in small apartments six nights a week with the two shedding cats (one with chronic diarrhea - did I mention that?), a dog who grows surlier and more incontinent by the day, two young children, and new pee stains that miraculously appear on various floor parts each day.

Do I love my animals? Well, I love Nate. And I love the girls. Who in turn love the animals.

Yeah, I'm kind of over the animals.