Suburban Satire: Old Blog Compilation

Get in, Kids. We're Going for a Ride.

This is the experimental re-entry into suburban exhibitionism. It's really gonna be wild. Ok, it's really not gonna be that wild.

And Exactly What Do You Do All Day?

Husband arrives home at 6:30. Place is trashed. OOPS. I'm a WAHM, duh. I'm here but I'm not really here. I go to "meetings" in other peoples' kitchens, workspaces and living rooms. I spend way too much time on the internet—scouting, working, writing, saving, and snooping. I'm working on my career, honey. Sorry there's no undies in your drawer, but you understand, right?

Yes, it looks like I'm on Facebook all day but part of my job is to push eclectic, multi-personalitied verbiage through the update status of others. Oh, and can you pick up dinner on the way home? I have a Skype call at 7! Paid? I'll get paid... eventually. Love ya honey.

Confessions of a Copywriter

As a copywriter, I have the fantastic, vicarious pleasure of living verbally through other people's dreams & vision. One new client in particular is a delectable, delicious and inspiring local market with cooking classes, dessert demonstrations and wholesome instruction embedded into their culture.

The irony is this: I suck at cooking. I hate preparing meals. I fail miserably at creating something memorable.

But I write really well for them because, as a food loser, I adore, covet, and appreciate what talented bakers and chefs can provide: a sense of hope and fantasy.

Hope beyond hot dogs, mac 'n cheese and more. Fantasy that perhaps I'll too say the words, "bon appétit."

The Laundry List: What I Wanted vs. What I Got

• I wanted a big, beautiful, expensive tattoo.
  What I got—stretch marks.

• I wanted to wear a bikini one summer.
  What I got—three kids, cellulite, and some serious fat.

• I wanted to write books and fun literary works.
  What I got—a bill from GoDaddy for the unmonetized blogs I sporadically throw words at.

• I wanted to be a pro snowboarder.
  What I got—a husband who works at Burton. (Close enough?)

• I wanted to go to India.
  What I got—a copywriting job about living in India, researched entirely via Google.

• I wanted to use my French minor to do something in France.
  What I got—living next to Montreal. Haven’t visited once.

• I wanted to do things right.
  What I got—myself in the wrong place.

2011, Let’s Do This

Yeah, I’m talking to you 2011. It’s go time. It’s time to make life feel like a life. Right now it feels like a cardboard box with a few holes cut out for windows. I squint out daily to see palm trees, laughter, and free-spirited hippies dancing in a circle. (Kidding, the hippies take it too far.)

Maybe Oprah said it: “You can have it all, just not at the same time.” I’m ready for more. But first, I guess, I’d better identify what more is.

So PEACE for 2011. (Peace with yourself included).

On the Treadmill, Going Nowhere

78:22 says I should feel at least one ounce better, but not so much. Oh well. There’s always the next 6 months of disappointing, pointless, legit effort. Don’t mind me, it’s one of those days...

Enjoy this most un-inspirational entry.

May you get somewhere on YOUR treadmill.

PSA: Vacuum + Scarf = Housework Hazard

Flashback to 2007. Picture me in a bad mood, storming around the house vacuuming. Wearing a teal sweater and pink scarf. Leaning over to pick up toys and having my scarf sucked into the vacuum. Not once, not twice—but at least ten times.

I should have taken that thing off. But no, I kept strangling myself. Sometimes I wonder how I get through the day.

Domestic Disorientation: It’s a Real Condition

If you’ve never stayed home with kids, you might not understand Domestic Disorientation. It's when your brain shuts off between thankless tasks. Fold laundry? You end up unloading the dishwasher. Start mopping? Suddenly you’re holding a Mike’s Hard Lemonade and forgetting to pick up the kids.

Episodes of wandering wifery can last days. If you suffer from DD, call a friend or update your Facebook status. Another off-task mom will respond. (For you, KM. Note: I am kidding. Sort of.)

The Fantasy of Food

Dinner is a distasteful joke around here. Yet when I write about pan-seared this or walnut-glazed that, I fall in love with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could taste it through the description.

Too bad for my kids. If they want to taste my culinary skills, they’ll have to eat the paper.