Named the "Best Blog" by Parent & Child Magazine, this popular mom blog chronicles the wonderful mundaneness of a Philadelphia stay-at-home mom's life with four small children including twins in episodic form. Recurrent topics include adoption, multiples, Fifth Disease, Crohn's Disease and pregnancy, and academia.
On Friday morning, I took my kids to the lotion store in the mall where earlier in the week I had purchased five steeply discounted items but mysteriously only made it home with four. While I explained the situation to the cashier, my three older children got high on the noxious fumes of fruit-scented body spray. While the cashier searched the store's lost and found for my missing lotion, Cortlen tugged on my shirtsleeve. A quick glance confirmed that 100% of my son's exposed skin was covered with various shades of scented slime.
"Smell my arm," he commanded, sticking his greasy and extremely fragrant appendage in my face. He explained that while I had been talking to the cashier, he had been systematically testing every lotion on display. His left arm represented the entirety of the store's inventory.
While Cortlen was busy with his task, Kellen had taken up one of his own. I found him at the store's display sink, trying out a dozen foaming hand soaps one at a time.
"Hey!" he whined when I turned off the faucet. "I have seven more to go!"
"Let's go," I said. "But my hands are all soapy!" he cried.
I made all of my children roll around on the small patch of grass growing outside the front doors of Macy's before getting into the car. No one asked the reason for my request because they already knew.
Like dogs and large woodland mammals, we are often overcome by necessity to leave our scent on the places we visit.
The first time that Cameron's physical therapist came to my house after school let out for the summer was the last time that my three older kids were allowed to make their own decisions about how they were going to spend that hour of the day.
Cortlen, who normally has to be forcibly extracted from his clothing three times a week to take a shower, decided to spend the time walking around the house totally nude.
The therapist had Cameron clinging to the side of an exercise ball when Cortlen leisurely strolled through the family room and into the kitchen sans clothing. Without acknowledging our presence, he opened the refrigerator door, retrieved and apple, and walked out.
"Excuse me for a minute," I told the physical therapist and jumped to my feet.
"What are you doing?" I asked my son, after cornering him in the hallway. "Eating an apple," he said matter-of-factly. I pointed to his exposed family jewels. "I forgot to put clothes on," he explained.
Immediately after the physical therapist left for the day, I hauled my children to the nearest discount super center and purchased every G and PG-rated movie priced under $10.
The upside to my children watching classic kids' favorites like Gremlins and Annie so often: The flashings have ceased.
The downside: Recently, my children have taken to calling me Miss Hannigan.
For the past couple of weeks, my family has been graced with the presence of my twenty-five-year-old sister Amy, who just finished up her first year of graduate school. Among my sister's many unique attributes is the fact that she was adopted into our family from South Korea when she was an infant.
For some strange reason, an adult Asian with white parents and siblings is a concept that most people cannot seem to wrap their minds around. People are used to seeing Asian babies and toddlers with Caucasian parents, but they can't quite come to grips with the fact that these same children grow up and, when they do, they actually stay Asian.
I was reminded of how the world sees me and my sister when we were at the park the other day with my kids. I sat at the opposite end of a long picnic table occupied by a woman I didn't know, while my sister did her auntly duty of taking my boys to the bathroom for the second time in ten minutes.
"I'm thinking about getting an au pair," the woman said, leaning over to me.
"That's nice," I replied and scooted a little closer to the edge of the bench. I wasn't exactly sure why a complete stranger felt the urge to tell me this, but I felt pretty sure it wasn't because she was normal.
"She sure seems great with your kids," the woman continued, gesturing to my sister.
"She is," I stated, and began digging through my diaper bag for the vial of pepper spray I was sure I had put in there before we left.
It wasn't until the woman asked me what agency I used to secure my foreign babysitter that I realized that she thought my sister was my nanny.
When I corrected the error, the woman threw back her head and let out a loud bellow. "You two don't look anything alike!" she laughed.
A few minutes of awkward silence ensued before my sister returned and plopped herself on the bench beside me. After demanding a swig out of my water bottle, she informed me that one of my sons had urinated on the toilet seat in the public bathroom and that she refused to wipe it up. "That's your job," she reminded me and snickered.
As I dragged myself off the bench, I couldn't help but steal a glance at the woman occupying the other end. Her mouth was agape in horror at the insolence of the hired help.
It's a good thing my two other Korean siblings weren't in town as well. In particular, I can only imagine what the poor woman might have felt compelled to say or do upon overhearing my thirty-year-old brother/butler tell me to shove it when I ask him to kindly retrieve my sweater from my locked car.
Last night, my husband found this under Kellen's bed. Contrary to my initial assumption, a wild animal did not crawl under there and die. What you see so lovingly preserved in the form of my son's hitherto secret bone collection are the remains of our Memorial Day barbecue. We had ribs.
Next to reading information pamphlets about obscure diseases and drinking water from paper cones, my favorite thing to do in a doctor's office waiting room is to fill out medical history forms.
What I like even better than filling out the ten-page get-to-know-you-and-your-diseased-ancestors questionnaire that the Dermatology Clinic at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital hands out is filling out the same form every single I visit the clinic, which happens to be about every three months.
At my most recent visit on Monday, I decided to make things easy on myself and wrote "N/A" at the top of each of page and drew a line down to the bottom.
"We really need you to fill this out," the nurse told me when I got to the exam room.
I declined on account that I consider questions about pacemakers and numbness in my limbs to be irrelevant to the Crohn's Disease-induced rash on my neck. All I wanted was a pill to make it go away, but I would settle for a topical cream or a strong animal tranquilizer.
By the time the doctor came in to see me, I had already decided out of principle (what principle, I'm not entirely sure) to plead the Fifth on every question asked of me. I was willing, however, to put principle aside if the good doctor was willing to part with a little personal information of her own. In particular, I wanted to know where she got the gigantic diamond on her left hand (new since my last visit), plus who gave it to her and when.
Unfortunately, my doctor isn't a bargaining kind of woman, nor is she as free with stories about her personal life as I would prefer.
"You still don't have any metal devices implanted anywhere in your body?" she asked, ignoring my questions about her upcoming nuptials.
I shook my head and looked out the window.
"Are you on any medications?" she continued. I gave her a blank stare.
"The last time you visited us, you were on six," she said flatly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If she wasn't going to tell me where she was going on her honeymoon or if her wedding dress was strapless or off-the-shoulder, I wasn't going to tell her about the new medication I was taking.
Just when I thought that I had frustrated the physician to her breaking point, the doctor dropped a bomb on me. "I can't write you a prescription for that rash," she said, pencil and prescription pad in hand, "Until I know if you have experienced any unexplained weight gain or loss in the past three months."
I may be a little slow to the draw, but I know a trap when I see one. If I answered this question, I was pretty certain that an inquiry about the date of the first day of my last menstrual cycle would follow.
Out of 'principle,' I decided that I can live with the rash a little while longer, even if it means that people will continue to mistake my throat for a cat's scratching post.
**** P.S. Thanks for the suggestions of how to get rid of my unwanted house guests, but they may be unnecessary. Yesterday, the fifth grader who lives in the house behind mine told me that she is trying to talk her mom into buying her a small rodent for her birthday, preferably a hamster or hairless gerbil. I asked her if would like a mouse with superpowers instead and her eyes lit up with excitement. "If you can catch it, you can keep it," I told her. The girl is thrilled beyond belief with the possibility of owning a magical beast. The girl's mother: not so much.
We have a rodent problem. Much to my growing consternation, we have had said problem for several weeks.
"It's because of the rain," said my husband, referring to the thunderstorm that has hovered over our house for the past two months.
I had another theory, but I kept my thoughts about the Bubonic Plague to myself.
The first set of mouse traps we purchased promised a humane end to our problem. At night, the mice would check into a sturdy, yet inescapable mouse motel by triggering a trap door. In the morning, we would open the trap door and gently and humanely toss the mice over our neighbor's fence (the same neighbor who admits to throwing the snakes she finds in her pool into our yard).
When mouse motel failed to lure in its desired guests, we swapped it out for several sheets of sticky paper. This method of mouse catching significantly decreased the chances of the rodents' survival, but increased the chance that I would not move into a local hotel with the kids by the end of the week.
At the end of the first forty-eight hours, it became apparent that we were not dealing with regular mice, but rather mutant rodents. Specifically, these miracle mice did what the sticky paper packaging said was impossible: they left footprints and droppings on the tacky glue, but no bodies.
By this point you might be wondering two things: Q:Doesn't this lady have cats? A: We do, and they are very efficient mousers when they are not lying comatose on the bed or eating chips and graham crackers out of the pantry cupboard.
Q: Why doesn't this lady solicit the services of a professional pest control company? A: That would cost money. Plus, we like to do things the messier and, in the long run, more expensive way.
When Plan B failed to produce any corpses, I went to Lowe's in my pajamas at 6am and purchased a bag of conventional mouse traps and a blow torch, the latter of which my husband made me return.
"Smoking them out is not a viable option," he told me.
I'm sad to say that it's been three days since Plan C has been implemented and all I have to show for my growing obsession every morning are six empty mousetraps, the peanut butter and cheese baits licked clean.
**** Any suggestions?
**** Have you voted yet? They make it hard to find me (today I'm 3/4 down on your left), but I'm there! You can vote DAILY through July 6. Thanks for your support!
I'm over HERE today, hopefully coming across as less weird and more socialized than I have in past magazine articles.
***** As you may have noticed, my blog got a minor face lift this weekend. I have the incredibly talented Leelou from Leelou Blogs to thank for that. As always, she did a great job. My avatar (which I recently found out was nominated for the "Hot Mom Blogger" award in the 2009 Blogger's Choice Awards--this cracks me up beyond belief) looks just like me, except that in real life I have a smaller waist, better hair, and bigger hoo haas. But I'm sure you already guessed that.
Thanks for reading my blog. Really. I'm having so much fun.
My husband had the BEST Father's Day ever. Our kids stayed up super duper late on Saturday night, so when they woke up at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning (because sleeping past 6am is a foreign concept at my house) they all were in awesome moods. After clogging the bathroom sink with homemade "pulp" (3 parts toilet paper to 1 part water) and three failed attempts of flushing the evidence down the toilet, they decided to bring the early morning festivities into our bedroom.
"Stop looking at me!!!!!" Camber screamed at her brother.
"I can look at you if I want to!" Cortlen yelled back.
"The bathroom sink is full of water," Kellen said authoritatively, "And it's spilling on the ground."
"Happy Father's Day," I said as my husband put his pillow over his head.
The day got better as the hours rolled on. Kellen ripped the Father's Day card that Camber made at school and Camber tripped and bruised her leg while chasing her brother down. For unknown reasons, Cortlen thought it would be fun to hurdle over my Father's Day gift to my husband (a large framed picture of the kids). Shockingly, he fell short and landed on top of the frame, splintering its edge.
"I kind of want this day to end," my husband said on the way to church. "Is that bad?"
My husband eventually got his wish...but not before Cameron wet through his diaper as we were taking the sacrament. My husband's suit was soaked and, after several minutes, began to smell...almost as bad as the farts that repeatedly emanated from the man sitting on the pew next to us.
We live over thirty minutes away from our church's meetinghouse, so driving home for a quick change was not an option. Neither was leaving church early, as I was teaching Sunday School the second hour and my husband was conducting another meeting the final hour.
It was cloudy, overcast, and cold when church let out, but we drove home with the car windows open.
"I need a shower in the worst way," my husband commented. No one disagreed with him.
When our family reconvened at the dinner table thirty minutes, three people complained about the food they were served and the fact that they were expected to use utensils to eat it.
"If I hear one more peep out of any of you," I warned, scanning the table with my pointer finger, "You're going to your room for a time out."
There was a moment of silence before someone let out a loud shriek. "AHHH!"
Knowing the consequence of his actions, the offender excused himself and went upstairs.
"Hey," Kellen asked. "Where's Dad going?"
P.S. All's well that ends well. After a quick breather and a handful of potato chips, my husband was back in the saddle, ready to take on and actually enjoy a dinner conversation that included a prolonged discussion of a scab on Camber's knee and fifty-four questions about the meal preferences of deep water sharks.
The life of a dad. Every dad to be exact.
Happy Father's Day!
*****
Thank you to everyone who entered the Paper Culture Giveaway! Congratulations are in order to the following lucky ladies who will each receive a $50 gift certificate:
Francie who said, "Count us in...my daughter just had a new baby girl and needs to order birth announcements. this would be a great start to getting them done!
Jodi who said, "I LOVE these cards!! I checked out the website - I'm going to have a hard time choosing if I win!!
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Winners: E-mail me with your contact info ASAP so I can get your stuff shipped out!
Everyone else: Don't fret! Paper Culture is running a sweet promotion. Right now, you can get $15 off your order of $50 or more.
Plus, there will always be a next time.
Speaking of which.....
If you are interested in advertising on the The Meanest Mom blog and/or participating in an upcoming giveaway, contact me HEREor at themeanestmom at gmail dot com.
Last Thursday was my sons' end of the year preschool program/graduation ceremony. I left the house an hour early to drop off the graduates and secure a seat closest to the nearest exit. My husband, my sister Amy, and my eighty-eight-year-old friend Delsa stayed behind to wait for my contribution to the post-graduation reception (a very special homemade chocolate cake) to come out of the oven.
Five minutes before showtime, my family showed up. As my husband and Delsa took their seats, my husband leaned over to me and whispered, "Your presence is requested in the reception room."
I found my sister next to a buffet table piled high with homemade treats. She was holding a plate covered with aluminum foil.
"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked in way that suggested that my cake didn't belong with the rest of the food.
Before I could answer, she continued, "Do you want my advice?"
The tone of her voice told me that I probably did not, in fact, want to hear her pearls of wisdom, but as all good sisters do, she gave it to me anyway. "This thing," she said, refusing to acknowledge my creation by its proper given name, "needs to be put back into your car right now."
Normally, I would have vigorously defended the merits of my cooking by critiquing the other offerings on the table, but the pianist had already begun playing "Pomp and Circumstance" and I didn't want to miss the processional march. The sacrifices we make for our children.
The program itself was excellent. Cortlen stood in the back row and belted out Christian fan favorites like "This Little Light of Mine" and "Kum-bay-ah." Kellen sat in the middle row between the boy who sang too loud and the girl who flashed her underpants the whole time and wouldn't sing at all. Kellen complimented the dynamic duo by 'accidentally' falling out of his chair seven times.
At the end of the program, my offspring received public recognition for being the only two graduates to have successfully completed the same pre-K program two years in a row (I held my boys back to put a little distance between them and my daughter). At one point during the reception, Cortlen put his paper graduation cap on Cameron and I snapped a quick picture. We all thought it was cute until we realized that our eight-month-old has the same head circumference as our soon-to-be kindergartner.
"Where's your cake?" Kellen asked, licking his lips, as we approached the buffet table. A million different possible answers flashed before me, including accepting responsibility for failing to add two essential ingredients to the cake batter and neglecting to grease and flour the cake pan. In the end, however, I chose the road less taken.
"Aunt Amy ruined it," I told him.
**** Any good preschool graduation stories out there?
Q: Is it tacky/illegal or eco-conscious to rummage through one's elderly neighbors' (plural) trash cans with a flashlight the night before trash pick up and remove all of their old newspapers and beer cans and put them in one's own recycling bin?
Don't answer this question.
I should mention that the "friend" referenced in the above query is a member of a pilot community recycling program that offers financial incentives in the form of discount coupons for granola and organic prune juice to people who recycle. The more your recyling bin weighs each week, the more fruit juice coupons you earn.
"What are you going to do with twenty gallons of prune juice?" my husband wanted to know as I dragged the last of my bundled treasures up the driveway in the cover of darkness.
I hadn't really gotten that far in my chain of thought, but once the question was posed to me, the answer seemed obvious.
Neighborhood Christmas gifts.
********
Speaking of recycling.....
It's that time of year again; the season of transitions, change, and renewal. To help you prepare for your upcoming birth/out-of-state move/baby shower, the folks at Paper Cultureare giving awayTHREE$50 Gift Certificatesto lucky mean moms!!!
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Unlike the hormone-free chicken and organic tomatoes sold around these parts, Paper Culture's earth-friendly products don't smell funny or cost more. Nor do they sacrifice quality or style at the expense of preserving the environment. Exhibits A & B:
I particularly love their kids' birthday invitations. They're bold colors and unique designs are especially fitting for youngsters who skipped right over the dinosaur/princess stage of development and jumped right into Ninjas and nocturnal birds.
Finally, I must point out what is possibly the cutest/most unique twin birth announcement on the market:
If all this weren't enough, all Paper Culture products come with one additional feature that sets them apart the competition: for the cost of a stamp, Paper Culture's Message and Mail Service allows its customers to individualize their mailings by including a different message on the back of each card. Hello simple and quick baby shower/wedding/birthday thank you notes!
Want a chance to get your hands on one of three $50 gift certificates to Paper Culture? All you need to do is comment on this post. If you want a second shot, post a link to this giveaway on your blog.
The contest starts NOW and ends this Saturday, June 20 at midnight EST.
Winners will be chosen at random and will be announced soon after the contest ends.
As always, good luck!
***If you are interested in advertising on the Meanest Mom and hosting a future giveaway, email me at themeanestmom at gmail dot com or click HERE.***
Yesterday afternoon, my elderly neighbor knocked on my front door.
"Did I do something to offend you?" Joan asked.
Other than hanging a plastic leg cast from her tree, nothing came to mind.
"I found these in my mailbox," she said, handing me a plastic grocery bag. Inside were three empty bags of chips, a matchbox car, and a box of half eaten raisins.
"So that's where they went," I said, with a sigh of relief.
Joan looked confused when I told her to think of the objects as tokens of endearment.
"Like when a cat kills a mouse and leaves its intestines on your front porch," I explained.
Joan twitched her face and held her stomach. She felt significantly better after I explained my children's current obsession with the mailman. "They only deliver packages to neighbors they like," I told her. I pointed out that Helen-Marie and Sandy (other neighbors) only find grass clippings, pebbles, and the occasional piece of scrap paper in their mailboxes. Half eaten food items and personal effects are reserved for their favorites.
"I would appreciate if they didn't do it again," Joan said.
I told her that I would try my best to limit the deliveries and would make a point to inspect her mailbox for illegal parcels on a regular basis, but that I couldn't guarantee that her VIP mail service would stop altogether.
"If you find a Barbie leg in your mailbox," I said, "You know where to find the cat."
***** Do your kids put weird things in your neighbors' mailboxes or your own?
BTW: your comments on yesterday's post had me rolling on the floor! We had a sea salt salesperson over the holidays!!!! I totally forgot about her! So, so, so funny!
******
Hey! One of my awesome readers tipped me off to something cool; namely, that this blog is in the running for the Funniest Blog Award in the BlogLuxe Awards from SocialLuxe Lounge. Wow! Thank you for the nomination; I'm very flattered...but a little peeved that I'm not in the running to be the "blog you've learned the most from." Haven't I served you people well? What about my kitty litter cake? And my fabric-covered Easter eggs? Hmph!
I won't pester you too much over the next few weeks, but I sure would appreciate your vote. Here's the good news: You don't have to sign up for anything to vote and you can vote once per day through July 6.
Regardless of the results, what makes me most excited about all this is that there are a number of other nominees on the list who manage to be funny without being crass. Who knew that was even possible? What is the world coming to?!
My local mall is among the best in the nation. When the main department store went out of business last year, many of the chain retail stores decided not to renew their leases. As is stands now, half of the small stores are empty; the other half are dedicated to selling knock-off purses and big & tall tracksuits. To restore some dignity to the city's flagship shopping center, the mall owners recently installed two dozen kiosks, many of which take the shape of covered wagons.
According to the mall information board, these kiosks "bring excitement back to shopping" by offering "a wide range of innovative products and services not available in traditional retail establishments." Included among the novelties is a woman who will thread your eyebrows for $10 and a bearded man who hands out religious pamphlets and sells bansai trees for the bargain price of $25 a pop. Looking for a synthetic hairpiece or a homemade heating pad filled with rice? You'll find those wagons directly across from the food court.
While traditional brick and mortar store employees are prohibited from soliciting sales until the customer is physically inside their store, kiosk vendors benefit from fuzzy property lines. I've learned from experience that if you don't hug the walls and pretend to talk on your cell phone as you pass by, you will be stopped in your tracks by a person wanting you to do them a favor in the form of sniffing a piece of perfumed paper or accepting a squirt of organic lotion made from figs.
By far the most aggressive kiosk salesperson in my mall is the man who hands out free red balloons to children in hopes of guilting their mothers into buying kitchen cabinets by the square foot.
"They're just balloons, Miss," barked the man, at my polite refusal of his gifts. "I want a balloon!" whined my daughter. "Not today," I said, pushing my offspring down the aisle. "Why can't we get one?" cried my son. "Yeah," yelled the man after me. "Why can't they have one?" We kept walking. In a last-ditch attempt to woo me into dropping $10,000 on a spur-of-the moment kitchen remodel, the man screamed, "If you buy today, I can get you 50% off!"
As much as I would have liked to stay and talk to the nice salesman, I was forced to focus my attention on the two children who were on the brink of hysterics over their lost opportunity to own a piece of latex taped to a stick.
"We are not getting balloons today," I said firmly. "Don't ask again."
Before anyone could lament their horrible fate of having me as their mother, my other son noticed something spectacular out of the corner of his eye. Much to everyone's amazement, wonder, shock, and surprise, there were three red balloons--sticks still attached--protruding from a trash can just outside of J.C. Penney.
God was smiling down on them. Like the Israelites, escaping from Egypt, God provided a way for His people to be fed while traveling to the promised land. In the wilderness of the Philadelphia mall, my children did not find manna, but just the right number of red balloons to make everyone happy.
***** What's YOUR favorite kiosk at the mall? Please tell me there are other malls that sell hairpieces...please.
Because Western Union rocks, they've decided to give away another $100 cash, this time to a family of my choosing.
"Do you know any amazing and deserving families?" they asked me.
Thanks to your emails and nominations last month, I know of several hundred.
There are a lot of wonderful dads out there, but perhaps none more deserving of recognition this Father's Day than Geoffrey Johnson of Killeen, Texas. Loving husband and best friend to wife Amy and the proud father of four small children, Geoffrey served our country in the U.S. military. Last October, while serving in Iraq, he passed away during emergency surgery.
In reading Amy's blog, I have been touched by her faith, her strength in the face of adversity, and her commitment to passing her husband's legacy of courage and bravery onto her children. I have also been touched by this father's tremendous love for his family, as evident by the way he lived his life and things he said and did for them before he passed.
Amy, thanks for letting me share your story. I speak for thousands when I say that you are in our thoughts and prayers. We're rooting for you!
Earlier this week, my sister and I took the kids for an overnight stay in central Pennsylvania. I wanted to show my sister the sights, but mostly I wanted to stay overnight at a working farm/kid-friendly bed& breakfast I found on the Internet a year ago. The room rates were a little on the pricey side, but when you stay at the farm, you're not paying for the accommodations, but rather for the experience of getting up close and personal with an assortment of mammals. That is what online brochure told me.
"They have cows and sheep and goats and donkeys that you can feed and pet," I told my offspring. "Maybe they'll even let you collect the chicken eggs in the morning," I promised.
When we arrived at the farm, my children were more than little put out by my lack of full disclosure.
"You didn't tell us the farm had a trampoline!" they yelled in unison as they stampeded past enclosure full of bleating animals and pounced on the contraption.
In my defense, I was not aware of the added attraction. "Come look at the baby goats!" I pleaded, as I stepped over a pile of excrement. Everyone pretended like they didn't hear me.
An hour later, the farmer's wife handed me a bag of table scraps and leftover dog food. "I need help feeding the donkeys!" I called.
"I'm staying right here," Cortlen announced, clinging to the side of the trampoline for dear life. It was equally difficult to pry his siblings off the object, which struck me as strange, since several houses in our neighborhood have trampolines in their backyards, including the one next door.
"Congratulations," my sister said smugly, as we reclined on comfy army cots in the 'rustic' attic bedroom of the farmhouse later that night. "You just drove two hours and spent $100 for your kids to jump on a trampoline."
***** Any similar vacation success stories?
**** Just a reminder: today is the last day to register for the Western Union $100 cash giveaway! Contest ends tonight at midnight EST. The winner will be chosen at random and revealed tomorrow! Free cash: who doesn't love that?!
My sister has been visiting us for the past few weeks. I offered to take her to some of Philadelphia's famed historic sites, but she made a wise choice and decided to pass up a trip to Constitution Hall and the Liberty Bell in favor of visiting an attraction that is ten miles west of downtown. I am speaking, of course, of the QVC Home Shopping Network Headquarters.
"What is this place?" my kids asked as we pulled into the parking lot. "Where grandmas die and go to heaven," my sister replied.
Understandably, my kids were confused. Much to their dismay, they didn't find any coffins or headstones in the gift shop; however, they did find a large collection of angel figurines and "God made Grandma" throw pillows.
Our tour guide was a retired school teacher named Harriet who told us right off the bat that not all QVC customers are elderly, live 50 miles from the nearest Wal-Mart, or suffer from a compulsive shopping addiction. As proof, she pointed through the soundproof window below to where the Quacker Factory lady was peddling embellished t-shirts and crop pants on live television.
Despite the fact that my children lost interest in what Harriet was saying after five minutes and had to be bribed with gum and promises of Slurpees after it was all over, the tour itself was fascinating, and very informative. It concluded in the lobby, with Harriet handing me and my sister complimentary gift cards worth $10 each.
"Welcome to QVC!" chirped Harriet as she handed us our gifts.
My sister used her gift card to purchase a set of six light-up holiday brooches.
I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of a pair of foam shoulder pads.
*** Congratulations are in order to Hilary who won the $100 gift certificate to Alphabet Garden Designs. She said, "For an LDS chick, I am sorely lacking in the vinyl lettering department. Winning this giveaway will at least allow me to hold my head up high in Relief Society!"
Glad to be of service, Hilary. Glad to be of service!
Father's Day is fast approaching and I am struggling with gift ideas for my husband. What do you get a man who has everything? He already has a 19" inch television set purchased in the early 90s, a broken X-box, and a VCR from the Reagan administration.
My sister, who is visiting us this week, broke the news gently. "That TV is an embarrassment," she said. "I have to squint to see the picture, and I'm only three feet away."
The announcement that the only t.v. in our house is an eye sore (and may cause them as well) was not a news flash. My husband's desire for a larger television, preferably one with remote control, led me to purchase a 32" set for him last year for Christmas. After everyone appropriately praised the purchase, the object sat unopened in our living room for a week before my husband returned it. The guilt of spending so much money on an item that we really didn't need got the best of him.
Over the next few months, I felt increasingly bad about depriving my husband of such an important symbol of masculinity, so I purchased an even larger television for him for his birthday in March. As I dragged the box out of its hiding place in the hall closet, my husband's emotions of surprise and excitement quickly gave way to feelings of unworthiness and frugality. My husband politely declined the gift and I returned the television the next day.
"You know, at some point, Tim might actually decide to keep one of the televisions that you buy him," my sister reminded me last night. We were in the home theater section of the electronics store, where I was picking out my husband's Father's Day gift.
I threw back my head and laughed. "Impossible!" I replied. Owning a new t.v. for more than twenty-four hours (and actually removing said television from its original packaging) would elevate my husband out of martyrdom, and he likes feeling persecuted way too much to make that sacrifice.
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FATHER'S DAY GIVEAWAY!
I'm very excited to be joining forces with Western Union to give the martyr in your life an awesome gift this Father's Day.
No hidden fees, obligations, or commitments. Your winnings will be transferred to the Western Union agency of your choice (chances are, the closest one is your grocery store!).
Western Union makes it easy to send and receive money to loved ones with over 300,000 agent locations worldwide (44,000 in the U.S. alone). In this current economy, providing some extra cash may be one of the easiest--and in many cases, most appreciated--things you can do this Father's Day.
Did you know that Western Union isn't just for transferring money overseas? I've used Western Union to send money to relatives living in Spain, Mexico, and Brazil, but my dad sent money to me when I was in college and I lost my wallet in the middle of the Nevada desert (don't ask) and I needed money for gas. Western Union can send money in minutes, the next day, or directly to a bank account, either online or over the phone. Use cash, credit, or debit cards.
To enter this special giveaway, all you need to do is leave a comment that includes your "best" (interpret this however you see fit) Father's Day Gift idea.
Contest starts NOW and ends THIS FRIDAY, June 12th at midnight EST. The lucky winner will be announced the next day. Want an extra chance to win? Post a link to this contest on your blog and leave a second comment!
I was the voice of reason in my household until my children started taking my words literally.
"Get in the shower please," I ordered Camber one morning last week. I peeked in the bathroom just in time to see my fully-clothed six-year-old daughter step in and then immediately out of a completely dry shower stall.
"I did what you told me to do!" she hissed when I cried foul.
While my daughter writhed on the bathroom floor in her pajamas, crying over the insurmountable obstacle with which she was faced ("What do you mean 'take a shower?' I don't know what you're talking about! Take it where? Where am I supposed to take it? How am I supposed to move the shower? You tell me! How?"), I went downstairs to feed the rest of the kids.
"Can you get a box of cereal down for me?" asked Kellen, one of my five-year-old sons, pointing at the top shelf of my pantry. "Just a second," I replied. I was in the middle of feeding the baby. "One!" he shouted. "A second is up! Now can you get the cereal?!"
My son was disappointed to learn that I had lost all motivation to help him out. "Never?" he asked. "You're never ever going to help me with anything again?!"
He was still wailing about his abandonment when I sent him upstairs to help his sister relocate the bathroom.
"Everyone in the car!" I ordered a few minutes later. If we didn't hurry, my kids would be late to school. Again.
A few seconds later, I opened the car door to find my family's two cats sitting in the front passenger seat.
"You said everyone," smirked my other son, Cortlen.
"I'm getting really sick of this!" I barked to the backseat. There was slight pause before someone cautioned me--against better judgment--to not throw up in the car.
**** Any similar tales of wo?
**** Be sure to register for my current giveaway (see below): a $100 gift certificate to Alphabet Garden Designs! Contest ends TONIGHT at midnight!
I'm thrilled to be teaming up with Alphabet Garden Designs to usher in summer with a special giveaway!One of the leading suppliers of transferable lettering and designs for home, businesses, and weddings, Alphabet Garden Designs specializes in decorative wall monograms, vinyl graphics, and decals.
Why is vinyl so popular? Alphabet Garden's products are easy to apply and all come with detailed and illustrated application instructions. Made from a low tack adhesive, their designs give you the look of paint but will NOT ruin your walls or other surfaces. Textured walls? No problem! Their vinyl lettering is ultra thin and meant to mold around large textured surfaces.
Worried that vinyl adhesives may belong to the same family as those ultra awesome holiday window clings?
FEAR NOT:
The opportunities and occasions for vinyl lettering are literally endless. Case in point: Are you getting married? Know someone who is? Check out Alphabet Garden Design's extensive and totally unique collection of wedding monograms, decals, and dance floor designs: I particularly like their wedding car decals. Of course they aren't as classy as announcements scrawled with makeup or dental hygiene supplies.
One lucky winner will receive a $100 GIFT CERTIFICATE to Alphabet Garden Designs! To enter, all you need to do is leave a comment on this post. One comment per person, unless you are engaged and are planning on using lipstick or toothpaste to advertise your nuptials on the back of your car. If you fall into this category, you get/desperately need two entries!
Contest starts NOW and ends this Monday, June 8 at midnight EST. The winner will be announced shortly thereafter.
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"Smell my arm," he commanded, sticking his greasy and extremely fragrant appendage in my face. He explained that while I had been talking to the cashier, he had been systematically testing every lotion on display. His left arm represented the entirety of the store's inventory.
