TheMommyBlog

I love waking up to Google alerts, especially when I learn that I’m a felon.

Former Greer High School PTSA Treasurer Indicted

A former P-T-S-A treasurer was indicted on “breach of trust” charges Tuesday.

Melinda Roberts was arrested in October after Greer High School’s “Parent Teacher Student Association” president filed a complaint with the Greer Police Department. According to the incident report filed on August 13, 2007, President Jill Schneider believed Roberts had used up to $24,000 of the organization’s money for her own use. The incident report says $10,899.45 was unaccounted for and missing. It alleged the money misuse occured between August 2006 and May 2007.

Marcia Barker of the Greenville County Solicitor’s Office confirms Tuesday’s indictment alleges that Roberts was entrusted with more than $5,000 and that she did “feloniously convert and appropriate such property to her own use and purposes, with intent to permanently deprive the owner thereof.”

I think we’d all know if I had that $24,000, because then I’d be halfway SANE.

But only halfway.

I have to say that it is SURREAL having the kids at Gil’s and Phil in DC. I have like fifty hours to myself! FIFTY!

We’ve straightened our stockings, checked teeth for spinach, and smelled breath in cupped hands. I think we’re okay. Big thanks as always, to Joelle of Moxie Design Studios, with whom I’ve been working for what seems like centuries. But the good centuries, like the eighteen hundreds in France, or Elizabeth’s Golden Age, whenever that was, and not when they were at war with Spain.

Oh! And before you forget, Mother’s Day is this Sunday!

Get Mom a copy of my heartbreaking work of staggering genius, Mommy Confidential: Adventures from the Wonderbelly of Motherhood from Amazon. They have quickie shipping! *wink*. My mom has several copies, and she’s read them all. True story.

“...Funny and well-written. The world has been in need of a maternal humorist since Erma Bombeck died.” –Lulu.com Radio

“Every Mommy’s Best Girlfriend: Reading Melinda Roberts’ new book is like spending an evening with your best girlfriends. [She reveals] the truly tender, life-altering, and heartbreaking moments of motherhood in a way that no other book on the subject does. And Roberts is not just funny ha-ha. She’s I-can’t-breathe-I’m-laughing- so-hard funny.” –A. Sydow

So come back and see me! I’ve got the blender on!

• Just planted over 250 radish seeds for son's science experiment and lined up control and experimental pots of soil along bay window seat. Must remember not to let daughter sit there at mealtimes until March 20, when science project is due. I think I took more photos of the scientific process tonight than I have of anyone, anywhere, in the last month. And now I will design labels, because I am like that.


• I have here a simple form for my other son's Jump Rope for Heart charity drive. Aw, it's so cute. Three of his friends each pledged a dollar. Good luck collecting that at recess, Bucky. Wait - you can donate online, thus widening the circle of potential donors! Aunts and grandparents are now fair game. All you need is the electronic confirmation! And how will I let everyone know? We can make an individual web page on the AmericanHeart.org site! Look, I enjoy making web sites for friends and family and the occasional paying customer, but come on. I didn't imagine making them for my kids' school fund raisers. I already have triple the paperwork and triple the triple-checking; do I need to manage three more web pages? Christ in a side car.


• I wonder when I will get over my revulsion long enough to use the hall bathroom. One of my children started screaming for help after a botched attempt at de-clogging the toilet. It took six towels, two bath mats, and one trip to my happy place to get that mopped up, and then to sanitize the fuck out of the room. You know it's bad when you start wondering if 409 is really strong enough, even if you cover every square millimeter of the room with it. Don't ask me to recall how I got the towels in the wash.
  
  *goes back to happy place*


• I've got that thousand-yard stare that can only come from hosting a spa party yesterday for eight six year olds (and three brothers, who tore around the place but left everyone alone, exactly as planned) and then doing all the school runs, applying for a grant to keep us in Cheerios, going to gymnastics, cleaning the hardware store out of six-inch pots, and yelling at Dylan fifteen times that we were NOT going to plant a bag of M&Ms to see what grows. YES, technically it's experimental, but let's just say that your department head has shredded your proposal. Technically.


• It's time to go to bed, yet I'm strangely hesitant. I've had two showers and numerous scrub downs today that have left me with puckered, dried-out hands, but still don't feel quite clean. And I just changed the sheets on the bed so I feel like I'm committing sacrilege if I sleep there tonight.
  
  Oh, wait, Daphne's already in there with seven of her best friends. There's no way three Fur Berries get to sleep there and I don't.

Oh! Photos! Here is Daphne blowing out her candles. I had to light the candles twice to allow her to think of a really, really good wish. The affair was catered by Chef Phil. Assorted tea sandwiches included marshmallow fluff and jam, chocolate and marsmallow fluff, jam and honey, peanut butter and honey, honey and marshmallow fluff, all in the shape of tiny triangles, with the crusts cut off. You would not believe how those crusts tasted later, toasted in the oven like garlic bread and served with a special Italian meat roll that falls apart at the slightest tough of a fork.

My boss is a clever guy. His (other) company just launched a new service called Sprout, which allows you to build “living content.” I think that means you can build and publish just about anything you can imagine: slideshows, a promo for all your projects (cough), podcasts, movies. There’s no limit, really.

What does it mean for the Web? It means that the bar for flash development has just been lowered to—yes—my level.

That’s pretty amazing. And get this: it’s so easy, I created this Sprout in about twenty minutes. Give or take thirty.

Alert reader Mr. X wrote this morning to tell me that I must have sold lots of books, because my Amazon ranking went from like #700,000 to #73,441, and that Mommy Confidential: Adventures from the Wonderbelly of Motherhood is ranked #89 overall in books about Motherhood!

*sigh*

Hurry now, because there are only two left in stock, with more on the way! There may even be free potholders. It could happen.

Favor time: if you’ve bought, borrowed, or in any way read my book, the book cover, seen a picture of the book cover, or know me at all… could you pretty please leave a review or even just a rating on Amazon?

I’m working on the sequel and it would be nice to have lots of feedback by the time it’s ready for publication. Which right now is after I win the lottery and the children start taking care of everything around the house. Maybe sooner.

Oh! Time to make pancakes. Yes, from scratch. I’ve set a high bar for those kids.

I have all these things stored up (not least the week-long tutorial in butchering, rendering, marinating, rendering again, packing, and eventual preparation of Duck Confit tomorrow night. I drool. Also? Am amazed at the amount of fat two ducks can hold.), but haven’t quite gotten here before being sidetracked by, well, life. Pictures soon, and stories.

What finally reduced me to a spineless pool of Mindy was the content of my Google alerts. I don’t know that I want them any more.

You know what I’m talking about - I bet you have some sort of search set up that looks for mentions of your business or name so that you can track press, etc. If you don’t, pretend you do. Now pretend that the name you’ve chosen for your business has become part of the modern vernacular, and that, in short, you are the Kleenex of the Blogosphere.

“Mommy Blog” is a probably in the dictionary by now. “The Mommy Blog” is damn near meaningless and has been co-opted by everyone and their sister. Not only that, “Mommy Confidential” has come in vogue. There are blogs now called Mommy Confidential, or bloggers who call themselves that. I’ve even seen Wonderbelly all over the place, sometimes in major newspapers and going online concerns. It’s a little deflating. Who wants to lawyer up for that? Also? Who wants to be confused with others who just set up shop last Tuesday but are who people find when they look for you?

In case this hasn’t sunk in, I’ve been writing The Mommy Blog, have done since 2002, and have published a book called Mommy Confidential: Adventures from the Wonderbelly of Motherhood. My bad.

This morning’s alert was the last straw. There’s a new Mommy Confidential in town, and she’s quite the swinger.

So Phil and I have been up in SF for MacWorld (for his professional development; I haven’t gone with him), and staying at our favorite B&B, The Edward II. That’s fun enough as it is. We can walk to fab restaurants, tons of shops, a movie theater, THE WATER. And The Palace of Fine Arts is like, three blocks away.

I should be at the Palace right now, enjoying the outdoors and writing there, but get this: we decided to stay an extra night on our dime and asked if any of the suites were available. Not only was the nicest one available, but the proprietor let us move there for the night with no rate increase! Now I don’t want to leave the Inn! Look at our room! And our bathroom! It’s bigger than my kitchen! I’d say that The Brambles Suite is easily two-thirds the size of my house, and cleaner, too. WITH room service and in-room massages if I so desire. Right now, what I desire is to have a long soak in that jacuzzi tub…

Another exciting day at… The Mommy Blog!

Phil and I drove up to San Francisco last night, and as we were cruising down Van Ness, VAN NESS, people, Phil noticed some woman waving at us.

“What? How do you know she’s waving at us?”

“I don’t. I’m just saying she’s waving.”

“Yes, because I can’t shake the papparazzi.”

Two minutes later, a woman driving the same make of car I have rolls down her window and begins gesticulating wildly for me to roll down mine. “See?” Phil kept our cars at a steady pace.

I sat up straight and peered at the woman, rolled down my window and said, “whahua?"or similar.

“IT’S DEW!”

Holy shit, it’s Dew Factor. Who has been reading I think almost as long as I have been writing, and has been one of those solid friends you’ve never met, never laid eyes on or spoken to in anyway and couldn’t pick out of crowd, and frankly, works at a job and lives in a house you could never describe, yet occupies a definite place in your heart.

I have friends in real life too, as an aside.

“I’m on my way to French class!”

“Of course you are!”

“Hi, Phil!” she called across me, which I thought was hysterical. “I was all ready to email you and say that some skank had stolen your license plates and then when I pulled up I realized that it must be you!”

“Ah, yes, I have vanity plates. I’m a dork.”

“My class starts at 5:25!”

“Okay! Well, it was great… meeting you! Um, lunch! We have to have lunch! This… is not… right!”

“Okay! I’ll email you!”

“Okay, um, you know where to find me!” Duh.

This ranks right up there with someone recognizing the kids and me walking down the street in a rural farm town on the border of Illinois and Iowa, and we were both from California. Bizzyarre.

Okay campers, I’m off to San Francisco for three nights - like that would be apparent to anyone online.. but it does mean that I get to have dinner with mom and see her office, and maybe, just MAYBE, actually meet with my boss.

If you’re wondering what a gal like me does in ole San Fran, this will more than cover it!

Gotta run!

Recently, my sixth grade teacher wrote to me through this site, and I nearly wet my pants. She found me while Googling our former principal (I had Googled her too; weird how unpleasant people haunt your memories; we were wise and wary adversaries all through grade school) and wondered if I remembered her, which was very funny because I’d been thinking of her a lot lately, as one of Logan’s teachers reminded me of her. Tough, but fair. Funny, but would snap you out of it if you crossed the line.

We’ve traded a few emails, which is such a trip, because you never get to see what your teachers do later in life, and they don’t get to see how you turn out. I couldn’t believe it when I told her my age and she said that she was only twelve years older. TWELVE YEARS. So that’s why all the teachers seem so young to me.

I just had to paste tonight’s exchange. I can’t stop smiling....

Mindy,

Sorry, but I only have a few minutes for a quick note.  The Amazon box arrived today with you book. I can’t wait to read it.  Would it be impolite if I brought it to dinner while I met my friends.  I know the answer but can’t wait to read a book written by someone I taught.

I will talk about this sweet, kind and beautiful sixth grader I taught years ago and her book.  Don’t worry about the swearing.  I do it all the time.

I replied just before bed (well, bed is after I post this):

Hee, Are you kidding? I’m trying to get it out there and in the hands as many moms and aunts possible. Rearing kids is the hardest, most miserable job in the world, when it’s not the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Not many people will admit that, though, and I guess that’s the reason people read my stuff. I don’t candy coat it. I never have, as long as I remember, thought I don’t if you remember me like that.

You’ll recognize a few names, especially in the Overdue Letters thing in the front… I didn’t have good memories of grade school. My brother and I were different because our mom was divorced, and we only saw my dad in the summers and every other holiday, in Ohio. The secretary used to make snide remarks about how my mom never volunteered in the lunch room, and I felt weird not to be in a two-parent household. We were sort of outcasts, and the cool kids made fun of us. I spoke to a few of them later and they have no recollection of it, but it scarred me, and heavily influenced how I raised my own children. I will not have bullies. Unkindness is not tolerated.

Tonight, I’m at the beach house in Capitola with mom and my stepdad, Phil, and the kids. I told her at dinner about our correspondence and she didn’t remember you (because she was never around for anything school related, of course). However, when we noticed how cold it was outside, she produced my St. Gertrude Senior Varsity basketball jacket. I nearly fell over. Logan wanted to wear it, and for few moments he thought I was soooo cool. I said that the coins in the pocket were probably still there from eighth grade, and Phil challenged me. “Let’s see what the dates on the coins are.” Sure enough, they were from 1974, 1981, 1963, and 1972. There you have it.

Thank you so much for buying my book. I would have sent one… I used to have a thing on my site where you could order it autographed by me and or the kids, have wine spilled on it, cookie crumbs sprinkled in the pages, or ants pressed in the creases (you’ll see why later). I couldn’t believe how many people wanted the kids’ autographs ("Do we sign our real names or our book names? Do we know this person?” *pen poised*), and quite a few wanted the lipstick kiss, and one wanted wine. I dipped my finger in a nice Bordeaux and signed it that way. God, I love my readers.

OK, time to hit the sack - hope your dinner was good, and if it included any of my former teachers, I hope you said hello!

xx

Mindy

Talk about timing—I just received notice that I have been nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger at the Blogger’s Choice Awards! That’s got to be as prestigious as Best New Medical Blog, right? RIGHT?

Oh, shut up and go vote.

(Remember when there were only a few of us? Way back in Ought-Two? One, two, three, four… cripes, that’s six years now. Do they have a category for Oldest Mommy Blogger? Or Most Fossilized Mommy Blogger?)

Okay, maybe just my boyfriend standing in our doorway, snapping photos of me raking the leaves out of the gutter in front of my house. It had to be done.

There have been storms this weekend—the likes of which we haven’t seen in these parts in years—with gusts of wind of up to 45 MPH and leaving behind 2-4 inches of rain. I know, we’re pansies. But work with me, here. It’s a lot for someone who was outside watering the potted tree to keep it from dying in the (so far) drought.

Today was not so bad; the rains were relatively gentle and the winds were down so that i could face either way to make sure I didn’t get run over while clearing the leaves out of the streets.

I called my parents in Tuscany where they were on vacation to warn them of the storms about to hit and asked if, say, any windows needed closing. This is what I received in reply:

Thank you for the tele message. We are in Tuscany, eating and drinking excessively, and expect to return to CA Sat nite. We have no idea how the house is but it was solid when we left. We appreciate your willingness to check it out. Please do so. Be sure that the roof remains impervious to wind and the walls impenetrable by rain and the home psyche inviolable by all…

Okaaaay.

So I replied:

Heh. You should have seen me just now - forty minutes in the rain and wind raking leaves out of the gutters for half a block on either corner. I figured I could rake my neighbors’ leaves in front of their houses, or I could rake them out of my storm drain. There was a ten-foot wide and four-inch deep moat in the street! Once I got it cleared, the surf conditions were most excellent.

It was a little bizarre peeling off wet things and putting my boots in front of the fire to dry. In San Jose. On three separate occasions.

Storm number two has passed and we are bracing for number three. But nothing can dampen my spirits; I’m still flying high on the news from Friday. I can’t wait to see my folks, hear about their adventure, and then pick my children up from school on Monday.

A return to normalcy.

This is going to be my year. I can feel it. Yesterday, I was hit by three or four of the best news bits I’ve had in years. Ask Phil. I was pacing, talking a mile a minute, exultant. And then he gave me my meds.

KIDDING.

It has nothing to do with my personal life. Let’s call it validation of a long-held, deep-seated belief that things could and should be better, more honest, and made transparent to serve the greater good. Of course, if you’ve never worked in my narrow field of professional expertise, it won’t affect you in the least. Except to bear witness to me being able to say, “I was not out of line, I was right, and others were right, and yes I was eventually run down, but now I’m almost glad I was. It just makes it all the sweeter.”

Of course, it’s all confidential, and theoretical, but there’s enough substance to palliate at least seven years of frustration and anger. I almost feel not-crazy, and vindicated, and well, right. I was right all along. And things I’ve been working toward professionally for as long as I can remember might just come to pass. It’s dizzying.

This could be the year that I kick Murphy’s ass and move out of Maslow’s Basement. Thanks for sticking around long enough to see me—maybe, just maybe—be the strong, sane Mindy that existed six years ago. Give or take.

Ahhh, Schaudenfreude. You’re lookin’ gooood.

I feel like I just sat down at a speed dating table with a new year, hoping to glean something promising and sincere in the first two minutes before the bell rings I have to turn my attention elsewhere.

The good news is that the kids are well, Gil is home and with them, Phil is home and with me, and the house is quiet, if not clean. I’ll give the dried-out tree a few more days before I chuck it so we can enjoy that last wave of needles crashing to the floor each time we walk by.

We’re just home from a what-you’d-expect-on-New-Year’s-day-quality meal, which was very much enriched by our running into an old friend, a man who owned the restaurant I worked in until I was five months along with my first.

Home now, just opened a bottle of Pinot, and feeling too mentally challenged to play scrabble, we may either sing karaoke for a while or watch a movie. Either way, I don’t have to get up to do anything for anyone, and that is automatically a good night.

Happy New Year, everyone.