Fellow Bloggers: I Have Some Bad News

You may or may not know this, but I want to write a novel.  

I have a few chapters jammed in the drawer of my coffee table, layered between Battles of the Civil War and Titanic: The Disaster in Newspaper Stories.  Once, my mom opened that drawer looking for scrap paper and grabbed a page all covered in red pen and hot coco rings with a look of "What the hell is this?" and I snatched it out of her hand like it was my vibrator.

"Nothing!  Uh...that's...that's nothing...."

I don't want to write a memoir or some real-life sob story about my struggles with fill-in-the-blank or a self-righteous parenting/cleaning/budgeting/cooking/get-your-shit-together-like-ME! advice book.  Frankly, the story of Jaci the Real Housewife of Butler County isn't all that exciting.

I'm not the typical Mommy Blogger hoping to land a non-fiction book deal...or magazine column...or talk show...or whatever it is that serious Mommy Bloggers want.  (I don't really pay attention.  Sorry.)  My biggest dream would be to have an agent land on my blog and send me an e-mail saying, "Love it!  Do you have anything else I could see?" and I'd send her my struggling attempts at Chic Lit/Coming of Age/something-or-other and VOILA!  I am the next Sophie Kinsella!  Only American.  With dark humor.  And I never talk about shopping.  Okay, I'm nothing like Sophie Kinsella. 

That's why I started this blog.  That's why I'm not like other sites with giveaways and reviews and Twitter parties and loading up my sidebar with ads.  (Although I should, because DAMN, smart bloggers be WORKING. IT.)

I stumbled onto the blog Adventures in Agentland and lurked quietly in the corner because zomg! an agent! squee!  (I know.  I'm weird.  In my mind, a real live approachable agent is like spotting Brad Pitt or something.)  And when she asked for questions, I slipped mine in.

Jaci said...
How important is a blog following for a fiction writer? Are blogs really seen as credible, or do you roll your eyes when someone says, "I blog!"

Not very credible at all, I’m afraid. The reason for this is that no matter HOW many followers you have, there is no guarantee they will all go out and buy your book. People with followings like SH*T MY DAD SAYS are credible because they’ve proven a very WIDE audience, and so there’s more of a probability that many people will buy the book.

Fuuuuuuck.  (Sorry, gentle readers.  This is curse worthy.)

Wrestling with wording on posts..the nights I lost sleep because an anonhole got under my skin...the irritation when a post is taken the wrong way...the name calling and insults on a Guest Post Gone Mad...laying it all out there for random people to judge...

All--ALL OF IT!--is for nothing.  This little blog isn't going to help me become an author.

Ouch.

Deep down, I think I knew that.  The only dependable way to get published is to write a good book and send to agents and publishers--over and over and over again--until one of them gets it.  I just hoped this little ol' blog would get my foot in the door.

I'm not sure where to go from here.

There'll be much misteltoeing! And hearts glowing! And parents fighting!

I love Christmas.  Constant noshing on cookies.  Evenings by the fireplace.  Soft mood lighting coming from the tree.  Sweaters covering my lumpy bits.  Dry air making my oily skin disappear and my hair stay frizz-free.

I HATE the damn gift budget and money fights in the middle of Super Fantastic Family Fun Time.

Kevin and I decided that this year, we are not going to have Toy Explosion 2010 surrounding our Christmas tree.  In 2008, I bought so much stuff for Elizabeth that she got bored opening it.  After screaming, "You're crying about having to open ANOTHER gift?" I vowed never to go crazy again.  And with two kids instead of one Little Precious?  Yeah.  Time to budget.

We set the bar at $100 per kid and I expect to go under that with Elodie.  She wants to chew on my pearl necklace more than Fisher-Price, and as for clothes?  Eh.  She only likes those soft old lady pants and turtleneck onesies--and she pukes squash on them regularly.  She's good. 

But Elizabeth?  I'm at a very restrained $60 and I still need her big gift from Santa.  Guess what she wants?

Meet the Dream Dazzlers So Chic! Salon Stylin Hair Salon!  For only $59.99, this hunk of breakable plastic can be yours!

$60 for a plastic vanity is godawful, especially when this:

...is $53 at Amazon.  (Yes, that's cherry wood and Queen Anne legs.  I'm drooling with lust.  Furniture and home decor COMPLETE ME.  You have no idea.)  I just need the $40 shipping fee.  Booo.

I spent a good 40 minutes selling the benefits of a real vanity compared to the Hot Pink Mess.  You can sit at it and fix your hair before school in the mornings!  You can keep your hair things in the little drawer!  We'll put your chapsticks on a little gold tray just like Mommy's Makeup! 

(Yes, I have a vanity like I'm Joan Crawford.  And sometimes I feel a little like a Geisha with the whole seated-makeup-ritual.  But my makeup is flawless when I'm done, so shut up about it.)

She saw the light and wants a real vanity!  And then Kevin said NO.  "She's too young.  She won't appreciate it.  I'm not wasting $90 on that!  She won't be wearing makeup for years!"

He doesn't get that little girls will sit in front of a mirror and brush their hair and play for hours.  He doesn't understand that she'll grow with it and yes, that bench will probably be stained with Cover Girl by the time she's 13.  But so what? 

Now we're fighting over a kid's vanity.  I know.  Ridiculous.

Bring on the Christmas Suck.

Family Picture Success!

 

Elodie:  The Startled, Angry Cabbage Patch.

Too cute.

Penguin pj's? Really? That's the look you're going for?

Last weekend, we made the great pilgrimage to Portrait Innovations for the dreaded FAMILY PICTURE.  We all remember last year, right?  *shudder*

I was prepared for disappointment.  I was prepared for Photo Shopping Skills and $800 "specials".  But NO!  I love our picture!  We all look amazing!

(Except for Elodie, who looks like a frightened Cabbage Patch.  Meh.  3 out of 4.)

Portrait Innovations was packed with families at 8:30 in the morning because apparently, all of Pittsburgh heard that I was going to be there and wanted my autograph.  But then they chickened out and pretended like they had no idea who I was and provided me with blog fodder instead.

I color-coordinated my family because I'm a power-tripping asshole.  But I'm not one of those people who force the entire family into khaki pants and denim shirts like we're all factory workers in Socialist Russia.

But...

Someone forced their family into matching penguin jammies. 

Brother.  Sister.  Baby.  Mom.  DAD.

I saw a grown-ass man walk into the busiest spot in Pittsburgh in lime green flannel jammies with teeny penguins and presents blazing across his hairy man-limbs because his wife is a freaking moron.

Internets...don't.  Just don't.  

Can you imagine your husband's co-workers sneaking into his office and laughing and snorting at his ridiculous pj picture?  Step away from the Target Jammie special.  Go for the denim shirts even!

Say no to the pj's.

Introducing The Mad Housewife Society

Because we all have a crazy bitch inside...

Hmm.  That might not be the best motto for our new club.  Kevin named my crazy bitch Trina (after my college roommate) because when she comes out my head bobs and I get all inner-city-Cleveland.  That's probably not a good thing that she comes out so often that she has a name, huh?

I was just sitting here admiring my hooker boots and realizing that I haven't worn heels since before I got pregnant and that's probably why I'm clunking down the hallways like a tween when genius struck.

Dear Reader, I know you have a Mad Housewife inside of you.  I know you have things you are longing to say but you can't say it on your blog and have your mom read it...or your husband...or your best friend because *ahem* it's about her.  Or maybe you need to get something off your chest but you don't have your own blog.  Or maybe you just want to pimp your blog with a guest post.  (It's cool.  We all do it.)

Join The Mad Housewife Society!

Every Friday I'll run a guest post from one of you about anything.  Your opinion on lime green pad wrappers.  (My stance is "embarrassing and tempting to 5 year olds digging through the trash".)  Asking readers advice about your husband's mouth breathing.  A funny rant about your co-worker's Justin Bieber hair.  Be anonymous.  Be you.  Be Trina.  Whatever you want!

I'm excited, internets!  


Details:  E-mail your submissions to ravingsofamadhousewife@gmail.com  Posting preference will be given to readers who follow or subscribe to Ravings of a Mad Housewife or make me laugh and snort at the same time.  No recycled posts, product reviews, or endorsements.  

Thanks for the hair damage, Garnier Blow Dry Perfector!

See this?

Hell itself spat it out.

It's Garnier's drug-store answer to the Brazilian Blow Out, and since it only "Lasts up to 7 shampoos!" I gave it a shot.  Tames frizz?  Easier, faster blow dries?!?  Sign me up! 

I won't even go into the painful details of applying it and having my entire house reek of sulfur and 80's perm and Super Mutant Rotten Eggs...or that my hair still releases eau de perm funk as soon as water hits it.  No, I'm more upset that it completely fucked my hair.

The Blow Dry Perfector made my hair lifeless, stiff, more frizzy, and coated in some sort of tacky grime.  But the best part?  It ate a good 3 inches of my ends!  Like, gnarled them up into twisted, split, deformed bits of yuck.

Hawt.

I have highlights.  I flat iron my hair.  And to be fair, the box did warn that peeps with "damaged" hair shouldn't use it--but I don't consider 6 month old half-highlights and flat iron use to lump me into the DAMAGED category.  No way should a $10 product sold in Target do that to my hair!

A salon cut, a deep conditioning treatment, and $50 later my hair looks healthy again--at shoulder length.  I lost over 5 inches of hair, Garnier.

YOU SUCK.  And you need to recall that shit before you get sued.

Look Out World! I'm back!

I have been too exhausted to do anything other than roll on into work with glasses and dirty hair.  I haven't jogged since the 5K.  I haven't cleaned or cooked real meals.  Most nights, I crawl into bed at 7:40 and don't move until 6 am the next day.  And last Saturday?  I slept all day.  It wasn't even something I could control--my body just shut down and I passed out.

My crazy pace finally caught up with me.

God must have looked down and said, "Uh...yeah...this isn't working," because the universe intervened and my hours were cut.  From now on I will now work a laughable 2 days per week--and with that I'm going to label myself a SAHM again.

I'm relieved.  Not that the world of data entry isn't fulfilling *eyeroll*  but things within the family just flow better on days that I'm off.  The kids can sleep in.  Elodie can dork around with her morning bottle and it's no big deal.  Elizabeth doesn't regress in Grandma World.  Dinners are more than Crock Pot Mush.  And--this is hard to describe--but we're all calmer.  There's no schedule to freak out about.

So...I've done a lot of thinking about this whole SAHM thing, and I've come to the realization that it sucks for me because I'm constantly comparing myself to others.  Instead of relaxing and enjoying my (short) time at home, I torture myself with thoughts of how I don't measure up to other women--or to the woman I want to be.  I haven't finished my degree.  I don't have a career.  I never even had a good job.  We struggle to make ends meet.  I hate myself.  I hate my life.  Look at me, all I am is a MOM...

...

LAME.

I'm the one making SAHMdom miserable for myself.  Sure, the isolation and lack of adult contact is a downer, but about 85% of my problems are all coming from that nasty little voice inside me.

Help me out, internets.  What do you say to shut that voice up?

"Good News: Going Back to Work Doesn't Harm Kids!" Uhhhh...okay...

I read an article several weeks ago that left me scratching my head.  There's something wrong with it but I couldn't figure out what...

It's supposed to be reassuring (Good News, Working Mom!  You're Not F-ing Up Your Kid!). 

"A review of nearly 70 studies conducted over 50 years shows that children whose mothers went back to work within three years of their birth were no more likely to have academic or behavioral problems than children of stay-at-home-moms, according to a report in the Psychological Bulletin."

...but it's kind of tearing down Sacred SAHMdom.  I mean, if kids all equal out in merit and intelligence and behavior anyway, then why stay at home?  SAHMs are sacrificing their own careers to be a major influence in their child's life!  They are giving their kids a gift!  They feel called to be at home!  They...aren't making that big of a difference?!?!    

I stayed home for 2 1/2 years with Elizabeth.  I put in my hours of floor-time and nap duty and temper tantrums and play dates and believe me, I couldn't wait to get back to work.  The SAHM life was too isolating for me.  (Actually, I discovered I'm an Energy Leech and I need to feed off the positive productivity of others or I end up lying around in a stained T-shirt watching Maury read paternity results, too depressed to move.)

Some days I was a great SAHM, other days I was the semi-crazy woman wandering around Target stuffing popcorn into her kid's sobbing mouth because gawd I have to get out of the house today or I. shall. run. mad.  If some researcher told me my Sacred SAHMdom didn't help Elizabeth earn any extra intellect points, I'd have to chuckle and agree with him.  "Why, yes sir, we did watch a lot of Playhouse Disney while Mommy surfed the internet..."  

But I refuse to believe that my time at home had (and still has) no effect.*  I refuse to believe that there is no real difference between a child spending time with her mother and a child spending time with a babysitter.  Maybe the differences just aren't as extreme as behavior issues and failing grades?

And maybe, instead of hiding behind the ridiculous PC battle cry of "Every mom makes the right choice for her own family!  And it will all work out in the end!  So shut up!" we should fight for ways to help mothers and children spend more time together--like extended maternity leave and more flexible uses for personal-time and on-site, employer provided day-cares and preschools.

But you know me.  I'm just a starry-eyed dreamer.

*Disclaimer:  I didn't write this to flame on working moms.  Hello?  I am one.

It's a Couch to 5K Miracle

(I'm the one with the moon-face and the ridiculous pink Dr. Seuss hat.)  

It is finished.  I jogged the 5K in 43 minutes.

I didn't blog about each and every painful Couch to 5K detail because...well, unless your doing the same program, it's a pretty boring read.  So I'll tell you all about it now--at the end.

I only stuck it out because I jogged with a group of friends.  I wouldn't have pushed myself beyond the 5 minute mark if I didn't have a little peer pressure and support--and I definitely would have quit two weeks ago when the thought of running around that parking lot again made me want to fake an injury.

There's nothing magical/mystical about the program that turned me into a runner--just like there's nothing magical/mystical about Weight Watchers or Adkins or poking a toothbrush down your throat after dinner.  The program is just a tool to help--the magic comes in when you say, "I'm going to do this!" and you mean it.

And by the way, I'm still not a runner.  I can jog comfortably for 20-30 minutes.  Big difference!

I think I would have made a better time during the 5K if there hadn't been a couple big hills.  I trained a little bit on the hills around my neighborhood, but mostly we stuck to the parking lot.  The hills killed me!  After the second big one, I felt light-headed and kind of sick and still had a mile to go.

Not cool.  I had been running for 20 minutes and was so excited until I hit the damn hills.  Oh, and the Hard Core Douche who yelled, "Move!  MOVE!" on his way back.  I was up against the guard rail, dweeb.  The extra 2 seconds you shaved off that turn really caught you up with the 19 year old who ran it in 17 minutes, huh?  *eye roll*

  

There's no reason to be a Hard Core Douche--especially when the race is a Turkey Trot.

By the way, it pains me to post these pictures of myself with no make-up and a ridiculous hat and really, really old workout clothes because I had stupidly thrown my new ones in the washer with a handful of Elizabeth's stuff 15 minutes before the race.

You're lucky I love you, internets.

EDITED TO ADD:  I finished #171 out of 198.  Really?  I was that pathetic?  Ugh.  Nevermind.  I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Because Everyone Else is Doing It...Post-Halloween, Jaci-Style

Absolute cuteness.

I found that dress on Ebay last month and had it shipped from Hong Kong.  It took several weeks, but I got it for $12.  It's waaaay too big, so hopefully Elizabeth wants to be Dorothy next year.  And the year after that.

So...Halloween is stupid.  No, listen.  I took the Big E trick or treating at the mall and around our neighborhood and she came back with a bag full of crap.  The mall was the worst--wall to wall people, standing in slow moving lines, feeling like costumed cattle--and for what?  One mini tootsie roll.  A sticker.  A lollipop.  After an hour, I was feeling all stabby and Elizabeth had 10 pieces of penny candy.

Never.  Again.

On Halloween night, we set out a bowl of old fruit snacks with a big sign saying "Take One" because I'm sick of manning the door while everyone else is roaming freely around the neighborhood drinking beer.  But, Elodie had a screaming fit and I spent the evening rocking her in the dark with Calming Christian Lullabies blurring out her screams.

By the time I came down the bowl was empty.

Did everyone take just one?  Did one group of pimply teenagers dressed as whores steal the whole bowl?  We will never know.  Annnnnd...I don't really give a shit.

OMG, I almost forgot:  Worst Costumer Sighting EVER!  At the mall, there was a woman MOM! wearing a full-out 1990's Michelle Pfeiffer Catwoman costume.

(In 1992, I would have killed for that Halloween costume.  Fo' realz.)


BUT--she was pushing a double stroller with two ugly toddlers and she had a lovely postpartum pooch.  It was awesome.  Men throughout the mall were rubbernecking--and cringing. 



And here's Elodie:

"Halloweinnie iz stupidz!  No more Catwoman after you haz a litter!  Kay?"