Monthly Archives: November 2009

Every X-Mas my family goes to someone’s home to enjoy their X-Mas party. We love the scent of the pine trees, the decorations and we really love the candy canes.

What I don’t love is seeing X-Mas trees all over the streets waiting for trash pickup at the New Year. I am not alone, the folks at The Living Christmas Company felt the same way, and they’re out to change the way California celebrates X-Mas.

This year you can rent a living X-Mas Tree. That’s right, rather than chopping down a tree to celebrate, you can borrow a living tree, decorate it in your home and later return it to the nursery so it (like you) can continue to thrive in 2010. The details of X-Mas Tree rentals are here.

The Living X-Mas Tree Company is right here in Redondo Beach, CA. They are offering one of my readers $135 credit. This will rent you a 6-7 foot X-Mas tree or a smaller one accompanied with some ornaments.* (more…)

Today I was lucky enough to film yet another Dr. Phil episode. I will be sure and update everyone about the air date, and when it does air I’ll give you a little more detail. I am absolutely exhausted, so I want to tell y’all a few quick things. Dr. Phil and his staff are consistently lovely. Robin Mc Graw is otherworldly, when I think of a Southern Belle I think of a woman like her. Strong and solid, no bullshit, and OhMyGawd is she put together.

I think the show went well, and I love that they follow up with guests who appear to need help. Menschen.

Unfortunately our sweet Anissa does not appear to be doing well. I worry about her, her children, her husband and her friends. The thought of Anissa not responding to touch terrifies me, and really, I don’t have the emotional fortitude to say any more about it.

So the day was wonderful. The day is awful.

My children are healthy, my husband is a wonderful man. I am am counting my blessings and feeling like one raw nerve. It is a strange day.

Last night there was a ridiculous fascinating discussion on twitter about how much Mommy Bloggers make.

Well, if you want to sponsor a post my rates are public over at Social Spark. Note, that I’ve taken exactly one sponsored post with them thus far, why? Because even with cash being flung my way, I’ve got to believe in the business. I’m mostly a business atheist.

Kelby Carr believes that Mom Bloggers deserve to get paid. I mostly agree with Kelby. Kelby and Gwen Bell then went on to have a twitter discussion about how much money Mom Bloggers make. One mom went so far as to create a poll. I won’t link you to the poll. Instead I will point you to ten of the much less personal questions that Mommy Bloggers answer each and every day.

1. Bikini waxes hurt more after childbirth. Don’t ask me why, just know that the inbetween is ouch.

2. You might poop when you’re pushing the baby out. Really, on the birth table, in front of your husband. That a father goes anywhere near a vagina is a testament to the power of man’s innate need to procreate.

3. Sometimes romance turns into a vagina on fire. Well, not fire, but uncomfortably hot (bad), which should not be confused with hawt (which is good)

4. We lament the bodies we used to have.

5. We assert that men can love us and beat us. It is always true, because it is always our perception.

6. Our asses bleed and we tell you.

7. We share our adoption stories, even when it shows a family’s frailties.

8. We do before and after Botox pictures, and we don’t deny the Botox (take that Brangelina! both of you)

9. We overdose at 7 months pregnant, and tell you.

10. We announce on the Oprah Winfrey show that we aren’t having sex. Really.

If that isn’t revealing enough for you then nothing ever will be. After you show me your husband’s pay stub, I’ll be sure to show you mine.

What’s a Mommy Blogger worth? What’s a copywriter worth, or an associate producer? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Nah. Nevermind.

Some people will tell you that Mitzvot are good deeds. They are wrong. Mitzvot are commandments, they are not optional and they do not make you good. A Mitzvah is a commandment, not a bonus point. No one cares how you feel when you do your Mitzvah, they only care that it is done.

This is good for me.

This Sunday I took my son to Val Surf to get some colored Zinc, while we were there I got my daughter a pair of absolutely adorable flip flops with socks attached. We chatted with the girl at the register and then we started to drive home. About a mile down the road I came to a red light and glanced at the receipt. The girl had forgotten to charge me for the shoes.

Shit.

Since I had Alexander with me, and I want him to grow up and be like his dad I turned the car around, walked into Val Surf and paid for the shoes.

It was the right thing to do, it was good parenting and I’ll let you in on a secret. It sucked. I could’a had those shoes free.

Honesty blows.

I married up. I married a poor man, but I married the kindest man I’ve ever met.

It was during the World Series in 1995 that my husband and I had our second date. As we stood waiting for our table at Chin Chin on Sunset Blvd I realized that my date was missing his baseball game, it was only a few years after that when I’d know just how much of a sacrifice that is for him.

Dinner was nice, he was handsome and smart. His mother and his sisters were both housewives and he was proud of them for making that choice. He was A Nice Jewish Boy. I liked him.

He paid the bill and we ran out of the restaurant down a very steep hill to his Ford Festiva in the parking lot. Yes, he drove a Ford Festiva. No, it was not a nice one, it had neither door locks nor a gas gauge. He was dirt poor, which makes what happens next all the more admirable.

My husband (then date) took the change the waitress had given him out of his coat pocket and went to put it into his wallet. He looked at his wallet, turned his head to the side in a manner that is all to familiar to me now, and said, “Oh man, she gave me an extra twenty. Wait here, okay?”

As my date ran up the hill, in the rain, during the World Series to give $20 to a waitress that surely made much more than he did, I picked up my phone and called my mom.

“Mom, I met the man I’m going to marry.” I said.

“Ooh, have you told him yet?” She laughed.

“No, but he’ll figure it out. He’s the best man I’ve ever met.”

He proposed a little more than a year later. A year after that we were married. Tomorrow is his birthday, he remains the best man I’ve ever met.

At about 9.00 last night, just as the kids were drifting off to sleep I heard my husband call me from downstairs.

“Jess, Jess I need you!”

As is my habit, I refused to go downstairs. I had (still have) a cold, I was tired and grumpy. It was a little unusual in that he continued to call for me. “Jess, I really do need you!”

The yelling roused the kids, this isn’t a house where we yell for one another. Finally I yelled down and asked what the ruckus was. My husband explained that a rat had run in through the dog door and was somewhere between the kitchen, dining and family room. I did what any Mommy Blogger worth her salt would do. I updated my twitter status:

and then I realized that the rat needed to die.

So, maybe I overreacted a smidge. My husband needed a second set of hands, and since ours is a galley style kitchen with only two entries, we’d kill the rat ourselves. Right?

Yeah, right.

I pulled on a pair of hot pink rain boots just in case the rat thought of biting my ankles. I joined my husband downstairs and the kids stood on the balcony looking down on us, delighting in their delayed bedtimes.

I gingerly stepped into the laundry room and retrieved a broom. My husband grabbed a hockey stick. We stood there, armed with our sticks we stifled a giggle. Then I failed.

I was absolutely unable to keep a straight face. My husband was opening kitchen cabinets and getting ready for a rat to run out. With each successive opening I got more giggly. It was too much for me.

I sat with my broom and kept an eye on the kitchen doors while my husband ran to the drug store for some rat traps. We set a few of them in strategic spots in the kitchen where the dog couldn’t get them and went upstairs to bed.

Once tucked into our bed I had a horrible realization. Hamsters fit into rat traps. I love my son, and I certainly don’t want to traumatize the boy, but this could solve many problems.

I’ll be getting up early each day, because if the hamster finds it’s way into the trap, well? It’ll have to be our secret.