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Monthly Archives: June 2012

Get to Know GrUVy Wear UV Protective Swimwear!

I was really quite excited to receive an outfit from GrUVy Wear for my oldest son. I was so excited, actually, that I was literally waiting for it by the mailbox. Though the weather here has been only occasionally appropriate for swimming, I was determined to give the suit a go anyway.

Before heading out for the day

When I planned a day trip to the aquarium, I thought of no better outfit for him. It was bright, well-tailored, fit him absolutely perfectly, and provided a UPF factor of 50+. When we removed the suit from the package, I was in love. And he loved the brightly colored stars on the sleeves and shorts. What better way to protect my son while wandering around outdoor exhibits?

Choosing to wear it for our day out was sort of a no-brainer, and, as I learned by the miniature shark tank (and water fountain), the suit dries very quickly. The material is flexible, thus allowing all the room needed for swim diapers or pull-ups. And, after having been out in the sun all day, he was neither sticky nor covered in sweat. He remained calm, cool, and collected the entire day. With GrUVy Wear suits, delicate areas like neck and shoulders are covered, so no need to apply (and reapply) sunscreen.

This was as close as we could get without climbing inside!

I love this suit so much, I wouldn’t hesitate to put my twins in them as well, not only for what appeared to be great comfort, but for excellent sun protection as well.

Swimsuits are available in fashionable and vibrant designs for babies, kids, and adults, so you can rest assured that your entire family is covered (and you can all swim in style!).

I’d like to share my love for these suits, so please visit GrUVy Wear and use the code SAVE1547 to take 15% off! It will save you from some of that trying-to-coat-your-kids-head-to-toe-in-sunscreen exhaustion!

I received a complimentary outfit from GrUVyWear in exchange for this post.  All opinions expressed herein are my own.

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Facebook Archetypes: Who’s in Your Timeline?

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By now, we’ve realized that Facebook follows a type of formula. There are rarely surprises when one scrolls down their Timeline or News Feed, or whatever they’re calling it these days, save from the occasional, “Guess what? We’re six months pregnant!” or, “A tree just fell on my car,” adorned with an Instagram picture through the Kelvin filter.

Facebook’s sort of become that office building you worked at for six years, the one where Mr. Jones steps out at 10:15am every day to make coffee – black with two sugars, Melissa lovingly prepares her Quaker Weight Control oatmeal at her desk and powerwalks her way through her lunch hour, yet hasn’t lost a pound since she started, you can set your watch by Irene’s daughter calling to check in after school, and that it must be Friday, because your boss is wearing his Snoopy tie.

Yawn. YAWN.

I would go so far as to say that everyone’s timeline pretty much looks the same by now.

That said, do you recognize any of these people?

The Revolutionary Profile picture is of Che Guevara, Joan of Arc, or the little angry guy from Rage Against the Machine. Every status update is a link to a social justice organization, every picture is of a march, sit-in, or peaceful protest, and the only interaction you really have with them is e-signing their petitions.

The Whiner Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine. Their profile picture is a blurry cell phone picture, one that you perceive they imagine perfectly encapsulates the image they consistently fall short of displaying. Status updates inlcude, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take…” and, “I’m sooooo frustrated right now!” Details are not provided. You’re expected to ask.

The Braggart Profile picture is, you guessed it, she and her man. She’s the luckiest girl in the world, from breakfast in bed right on down to her nighttime foot massage. He bought you flowers? Nice. A puppy? What a guy! The third book in the Twilight saga, the paper version? I’m all for literacy. He left a love note in steam on the bathroom mirror? Okay, get over yourself.

The Man Whore Usually a picture of a character from an HBO drama, The Godfather, or an animated series, which is fine because you’re as ashamed as he is of his own face. Posts rambling subjective narratives about the intricacies of Eva Longoria’s body and where he would attempt placing his appendages if he had the chance. As an added bonus, his friends interject with equally prehistoric/offensive comments. Before you know it, you’re virtually smelling of sweaty jock straps. You’re in the locker room, and anything goes. Aren’t you glad you wandered in?

The Lady Whore Profile picture is, of course, of her, in a tight dress, posing provocatively. Oh, hell, every picture is of her in a tight dress, posing provocatively. Albums are solely of her in bars and clubs, cuddling with various male strangers, save from a stray picture here and there of her kids (wait – she has kids?!?). Status updates include musings about “why I can’t find a good guy…” and how “someday I’ll find someone who truly treats me right.” (Pssst. Ask one of us.)

The Narcissist Profile picture changes at least once a week. From coy smirk to doe eyes to an eyelash-accentuating black-and-white. Status is updated (way too) frequently to include mood shifts, preferences, addictions, wants, desires, indulgences, and revelations such as, “This is just the way I am!” Exhausted yet?

The Saver Profile picture is of their twelve kids and/or extended family. They’re frugal, and they want you to know it. They found a deal on toilet paper and are eager to share. Buy one, get one free? They’ve got you covered. They make extreme couponing look like an afternoon on a hammock. Talk to them if you want to know where to buy cereal in a brown paper bag or deodorant for $.44.

The Pioneer In the Pioneer’s profile picture, he is sitting smugly on a chair made out of recycled soda bottles, on the porch of his completely sustainable home. He fashions his own tools, grows his own vegetables, shaves with a whittled reed, and drives a Volkswagen that runs exclusively on children’s tears. He’s concerned about his carbon footprint – and yours. Photographs his homegrown produce with a brilliance usually reserved for the likes of Bon Appétit. With his insistence on documenting his every move in the garden, on the beach (hand fishing for his dinner), and in the kitchen, one has to wonder where he finds the time to eat at all. He has an entire album devoted to burlap bags and his compost heap. You know that Monday is ‘Farmer’s Market Day’ and that he just sent his sandals back to LL Bean to be resoled. Are those locally sourced fava beans? Why, yes, yes they are.

The Drama Mama You know who she is, and, no, you can’t hide. She spouts her business, and, if you don’t watch out, yours, too. She documents every solitary second of her relationships, which is extremely helpful for others to determine when they will all go up in flames. Her current man always has kids (but no custody) and a hoochie for an ex, and oh, by the way, she was at Save-A-Lot today, looking stank and talking junk. She posted a picture of her ex’s license plate, you know, in case you ever run into the bastard. You’d delete her, but you’re afraid. Instead, you nod and smile accommodatingly and hope you stay off her radar.

The Worrier Profile picture is of her baby, teetering precariously over an activity table, you know, to ensure that you see that he’s meeting his developmental milestones. Is this headache normal? How many toes is one supposed to have? Can dogs eat Advil Liqui-Gels? Has anyone died from employing the three-second rule? What does a tick look like? She wants to know. Her mental anguish is your mental anguish. And no one’s had the chutzpah to tell her to Google it yet, so pull up a chair for the crazy show.

I realized in writing this that I’m “the annoying bigmouth who complains incessantly about bad customer service” and “she who laundry-lists everything that’s gone wrong in the past few weeks”. I could literally continue this list indefinitely, but I don’t want to be the chick “who goes on and on and never lets anything go”.

So, tell me, who’s in your timeline?

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Tales from the Suburbs: We’re Not ‘Association’ People

I worry like my very life depends on it. Sure, I’ve read The Secret, and am quite familiar with the Law of Attraction, and I think, based on the information I’ve gleaned from these timely and empirically sound studies of the human condition, I’m probably doing something wrong. Despite my burning mental energy like a charcoal grill, though, life rolls on.

That said, we’ve moved into a charming cul-de-sac with homes whose numbers follow absolutely no logical pattern.  And it has an association. Ahem, an Association.

When my husband and I began our search for a home, one of our unwavering conditions was “No association”. The thought of shelling out an annual fee to live on Wisteria Lane left me cold. Our imagined paradise, at the time, included abundant acreage and a thick cover of trees, if only to absorb the sounds of the screaming.

We were quite interested in a house that was literally off a dirt road, on several acres, with a well and a septic tank, and nothing around for miles. With my husband’s rotating schedule, the prospect of an actual trip with my children to find diapers or a 24-hour pharmacy became considerably frightening. I considered the ability (or inability) of ambulances and/or fire trucks to reach us in an emergency. And considered. And reconsidered. And considered again. And we decided to broaden our horizons.

We didn’t mean it, but we fell in love with a house that, while it met many of our requirements, was older than we were looking to buy and in a development.

Before buying, I pored through the association by-laws. I wanted no one telling me I couldn’t yodel off my deck at three in the morning, have fifteen iguanas, or sunbathe nude on my front steps. And there were no such rules. The majority of the guidelines related to the landscaping. Sweet, I thought to myself. The association maintained the grounds and the street lights. I could live with that.

We’ve been bopping, well, not so much bopping as dragging painfully, along for the past two months, all but unaware of our surroundings, our neighbors, or anything that remotely related to the existence of a community-by-contract until a few days ago.

I received a letter. In addition to a request for fees and a timetable it read, “…I look forward to meeting you and your family personally.” I read the sentence again slowly, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Those by-laws said nothing, and I mean nothing (because I checked repeatedly) about meeting you personally, pal.

Now, to be fair, I’m sure this is some type of form letter sent to every unsuspecting shmuck who chooses to drop proverbial anchor here. And I’m aware that neighbors, ahem, come in handy. Let me assure you that while we’re not perched in rocking chairs with shotguns on a porch adorned with cushionless couches and NO TRESPASSING signs, I’m no Chatty Cathy at home, and my husband, though he may be similarly proportioned and share a fondness for juicy meat, is no Mayor McCheese. We’re often half-dressed, covered in smeared food, and crawling around on the floor, wiping up partially chewed tomatoes. We’re hardly fit for socializing. And these houses are terribly close together already. That should count for something.

In the spirit of my thinking things literally to death, I imagined a first meeting with this faceless man, Matthew jumping up and down screaming, “Hey, guy! Check this out!” over and over, my daughter crying in his face because she hates strangers, my husband looking down at the ground, shuffling his feet, and me apologizing profusely for asking him twelve times to repeat himself, all while holding Michael back from wiping his face on his pinstriped dress pants. And it’s a nightmare. A bloody, gory, cold-sweat-inducing nightmare.

Also, have I told you how terrible I am at forced introductions? And with meeting strangers in social situations in general? I blush, I sweat, I stutter. It’s not pretty. In my defense, though, once I get comfortable, I get comfortable. I don’t shut up. Go ahead, ask my friends how many Advil they have to take before they see me. Prescription-strength. And, pray tell, what do we have in common with this herald of social awkwardness anyway? That we both turn right (and sometimes left) at the end of the street? Let me assure you, kind sir, a shared geographical location does not a friendship make. Except when a blizzard hits and the dude next door owns a snowblower.

At any rate, we have to send this man a check. And if we send this man a check, we are providing proof that we do, indeed, exist, a gesture that may mistakenly be interpreted as an invitation to our house for coffee. Except that we only have tea, and the sugar bowl’s perpetually empty, and the table hasn’t been wiped in three days. And, frankly, socializing feels like way too much pressure right now.

So here’s to hoping we maintain our anonymity just a little longer, like until the babies turn five or we move away, or until we get our story straight about why the recycle bins have been sitting at the curb since Thursday.

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The Curse of Womanhood

Jun 18

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Have you ever had one of those days where you want to go, just get in the car and keep driving?

An unfortunate series of events has befallen us at home, most of which I’m frankly too exhausted to rehash, and I just want out. What I realized, though, with kids, and positions of employment requiring signed contracts, there is no out.

I melted down yesterday. It wasn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last. It was Father’s Day. A coincidence that, unfortunately, my emotions weren’t able to sidestep. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, and, as hard as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to cut off my sleeve.

The culmination of over a month of untoward occurrences, scary and expensive surprises, and overall unpleasantness finally got to me. And this is on top of the everyday bullet train that is my life: the husband’s unforgiving work schedule, three screaming toddlers, and an endless list of to-do’s. I was holding it down until my son, not the most dexterous of my clan, figured out how to take his dirty (as in dirty) diaper off and mate it with our new couch. That was about the straw that broke this camel’s back.

I collapsed into a heap, rather, under a heap, of phone calls, forms, bills, health concerns, needs, wants, obligations, laundry, and general (and specific) annoyances. I was finished. I needed to leave.

After my parents arrived for a special Father’s Day dinner, and my dad inadvertently poured watermelon juice all over my toddler’s freshly changed clothes, I decided it was best for everyone involved that I not be there, lest I maim someone with a kitchen utensil.

I drove to the beach. I sat, watching the waves slap against the rocks. But I didn’t feel better. The breeze blowing off the water was deceptively cold. I was uncomfortable, and hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. I had to leave. I sat in the car for a few moments, temporarily amused by something on the radio, and then drove off. I was shaking inside, and there was no relief in sight.

I continued back towards home where my stabbing headache originated. I was desperate. Should I keep driving? Check into a hotel? Disappear? Of course, guilt nudged me gently back home.

I returned and sat on my deck for a few minutes, at a table that had been several weeks’ worth of frustration to obtain, put together, and eventually have swapped out with a non-damaged one. My father came and sat beside me. I don’t even remember what he said. I couldn’t hear him through my all-consuming rage. I just remember getting up and fumbling my way inside, fighting back tears.

There was nowhere I could go. There was nowhere I could sit, could rest, that didn’t smack of the difficulties of the past month, that wasn’t mocking me. I didn’t want to talk to my parents, my husband, my kids. I wanted to dig a hole and climb in. But I couldn’t.

I wandered into the living room where my son was having a minor conniption fit, as the lacrosse stick he had been playing with had to be returned to the next door neighbors. I picked him up, and sat with him for a bit while he cried. I eventually bartered with him – a smile for two E.L. Fudge cookies and some milk. The deal worked.

I settled him at the table with his snack and returned to the living room. My younger son looked up at me, unaware of the turmoil that whirled painfully behind my eyes. He smiled. No, he beamed. And I felt my mood lighten.

But, unfortunately, it did not last. I painfully slogged my way through ‘special’ dinner and the subsequent cleaning up.

I was spent. I sat on the couch like a zombie, watching my twins burn off the remainder of the day’s energy, dreaming of a beach, a mountain, the woods. Just somewhere else. I tried to go back in my mind and stop everything that’s happened over the last few months from happening. I tried to go back and keep my husband from becoming frustrated by my melodrama. I tried to go back and unbuy this house and everything in it. I tried to go back to the honeymoon that was replaced with a surprise pregnancy. But nothing worked. Every time I opened my eyes, I was still here. I was still here.

And it helped me to realize that we spend so much time dreaming of being an adult, so much time daydreaming about a Utopian and flawless future, so much time making decisions and plans, and setting up for the greatness that will rain upon you like tropical shower, but no one, and I mean no one, prepares for those days where you just can’t hack it, where it takes every fiber of your being not to grab the bottle of wine out of the fridge and wander off into the woods, where it takes a concerted effort not to resent every choice you’ve ever made, your reflection, your life. No one imagines their future like that.

And then you come back. Logic returns. The tears dry up. And you resign yourself to the fact that you’re an adult, this is your life, and you must put your big girl panties on and deal with it all. No matter how you feel. Because the Universe does not grant you indulgences. Because the trash will pile up, and so will the bills, and you’ll have to deal with messes greater than the ones with which you’re currently dealing. Because your kids are depending on you. Because everyone’s depending on you. And you can’t break free.

You are all things to all people. You are a wife, a mother, a dishwasher, a counselor, a sanitation expert, and an executive assistant, and you can’t go home. You are home. Therefore, you must depend on the smiles and the bursts of laughter of those around you to float you through until your joie de vivre returns. And it will.

The trick is to follow the light. And it’s not always easy. Especially when you’ve got your head buried in your hands.

Posted in Family, Life, Married Life, parenting, Women

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Online Privacy for Your Family Made Ridiculously Simple with Safe Shepherd

Have you ever searched for someone online and found that you could, for a small fee, purchase all of their personal information, including date of birth, current address, and telephone number with just a few clicks?

Have you ever Googled yourself and been unnerved by the volume of personal information out there?

Creepy, right? Anyone looking for you, at any time, can find your personal information online.

Why is this important to me (and should be to you)? Because I have  kids. I have a blog. There is a part of my life that is very, very public. And I know many of you are in a similar situation. Blog or not, though, do you want people paying for information you wouldn’t share with them in the first place?

As we well know, there are people just about everywhere whose versions of reality may differ greatly from yours, and, to me, that’s downright scary. Also, solicited much? I can’t tell you how many times I registered with the national Do Not Call list. Unfortunately, I learned that Do Not Call actually means call repeatedly, early in the morning, on days you vainly hoped your children would sleep late, or call during dinner, after you’ve already politely declined the guy three times for the “free security system in exchange for placing a small sign in your yard”. Stop calling, buddy. We have ADT. My favorite, though, is when nobody calls. You know, the lazy telemarketer whose computer auto-dials your number but they don’t feel like talking? Or when “John” calls, thinking smugly that he’s perfected his American ‘accent’, asking for Caroline Studley (true story) over and over again until you scream so loudly at him for waking your children that he never calls back again?

I could go on about the phone as a major irritant all day. But I won’t. Because I’ve done that before.

After we moved, I took further steps to ensure the privacy of our family, including making sure our telephone number was unlisted, because sometimes when one moves, previous account preferences are not included in the new account (even when you asked and they told you they would be). Ask me how I know that. I also did a rather cursory search for myself, and found that several websites were selling my (previously private but accidentally made public – Thank you, Verizon, very much) personal information.

I hate to say this, too, but you can trust very few people in this world. Scammers will dig and hack and build ATM card readers and steal account numbers and assume your identity. I try not to think about it all a) because I still have a glimmer of hope in the human race and b) sometimes I feel like there’s no way to keep track of it all on one’s own.

That said, I’d like to introduce you to a company I learned about when looking for a way to guarantee that my family’s information would, this time, remain private. It’s called Safe Shepherd. Safe Shepherd, for free, will find your (and your family’s, which is a huge plus) information on sites that sell your information, such as Intelius, and MyLife.com, i.e., the “I have SEVEN people searching for me? (Excited shriek) SEVEN!?!” folk,  and have it removed.

Safe Shepherd was recently recognized in Time Magazine’s Techland’s 8 Tools for the Online Privacy Paranoid, along with several other apps, programs, and services that help to identify and remove privacy threats. And it’s mind-numbingly simple.

The only thing you need to do after you register is enter your personal information. Safe Shepherd will search for all related records, provide them for your review, and then complete opt-out and record removal requests for any and all records you choose. For free. And, as an added benefit, all receipts and proof of processing those requests are emailed directly to you. For free. 

Now, when I signed up, I opted for the Premium membership, which allows you to scan for new records anytime, communicate with their team personally (and I mean personally, as in they’ll email you, ask you how you’re doing, answer questions, and address any concerns you may have), and receive updates when new records have been found.

Included in my most recent update (last week) were listings of my new address (you know, the unlisted one), and a few records in my husband’s name. So I clicked “Remove Record” on each one and have already received notices that our information has been removed. They do all the legwork, which, for someone in my domestic situation, is invaluable. The process couldn’t be simpler.

I value this service so highly that I will be giving away a one-year Premium membership (valued at $65), and will be providing five additional readers with promotional codes to receive Premium memberships at 50% off ($32.50 for one year). Memberships can be upgraded, downgraded, or cancelled at any time.

All you need to do to enter is leave me a comment telling us how you help ensure your own privacy and/or the privacy of your family online, and, if you haven’t started yet, why safeguarding online privacy is important to you. Almost as simple as using Safe Shepherd.

Not sure? Head on over to Safe Shepherd and take it for a spin. The basic service is always free.

I’d like to thank Safe Shepherd for helping me realize my goal of online privacy for our family and for being kind enough to provide readers with the opportunity to experience a Premium membership for free. If you have any questions at all about Safe Shepherd from a member’s point of view, feel free to contact me at mommabethyname@gmail.com.

 (Must provide valid email address to be eligible to win. Entries will be accepted until June 20, 2012 at 6PM ET. Winner will be chosen at random from all eligible entries after 6PM on June 20, 2012, and will be notified via the email address provided. One reader will receive a free one-year premium membership and five (5) additional readers will receive a promotional code for Premium membership at 50% off. One entry per email address. For questions or additional information, please email mommabethyname@gmail.com.)

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