I’m a working woman, who travels frequently for business (HA!) and was stopped during a security checkpoint due to an anomaly in my groin area. Frequently means twice and business means I was on the clock, and groin anomaly means bulge between my legs. If I could only be so lucky, ba-da-bum! Which I have none of, in fact, that supposed anomaly in the groin area. Except pubes. And the
A Container Store for My Brain
Recently I asked an overly organized friend to come over and make me more like her, and less like me. I confided I spend more time tracking info scribbled on receipts, folders, notepads, and menus; emails forgotten in draft form; to do lists left undone; a thousand ideas hidden in thousands of places, than I actually spend doing the work itself. Makes you want to run right out and hire this
Attainable parenting goals for the New Year
Brand spanking new year and I am so ready to take it by the chinese wontons and work the hell out of it! Sorry, a bit too much Hangover quotes flying around this holiday season. Nothing says Christmas like your 17, 14 and 12 year old quoting The Hangover and equally inappropriate Step Brothers around the yule log. The 12 year old, Boy, hasn’t seen either; only the play-by-play human Tivo Kid3
Launching Turkeys
The first Thanksgiving I ever hosted was as a young newly married lass – same rather attractive husband – but it was about 30 pounds, 4 kids, 2 dogs, and 3 minivans ago. I loved it. Had 8 people for dinner, and it was the largest dinner I ever prepared and never had such a good time playing susie homemaker in my entire life. Little did I know that after
Playdate is a Curse Word
Today is Rosh Hashanah, and Happy New Year to all you celebrating. To me and my über Catholic town, it’s another day off from school. Which is a total pain in the ass for work-at-home moms. (Not to worry, Good Friday pisses me off as well. I’m an equal-opportunity religious holiday bigot.) But that’s not the problem. This is: Boy got called for a PLAYDATE. This kid is in 6th
Jobiversary
You must give a job the 6 month test, an ex-friend once told me. Six months is the tell-tale time, as long as the checks clear. Can’t hate a new job too soon; can’t love it too soon. There’s a honeymoon stage, a trial-by-error stage, a stage for new hire and bosses to dance around each other in the ring, not wanting to show too much too soon, either way. Not
For this I Blew Dry My Hair?
I work from home. Which means everything you think it does. No shower, working in PJs, laundry everywhere, conference calls during soccer practice, the works. Once a week, however, I meet with LadyBoss, face-to-face, for a two-hour whirlwind brainstorm of to-do lists, what ifs, and careful examination of where we’re going and where we’ve been. Or more specifically, where I’m going and where I’ve been. And some kid talk too,
Texts Prove I’m a Real Working Mom
Remember that business trip? Awwwesome. But in the middle of an 8 hour brainstorming, mind-blowing cerebral marketing explosion, I get a buzz. A text. Not from a vendor, advertising whore, media kiss-ass, or frustrated customer. I get this emergency text, from Kid1, college smarty-pants, who although she’s discovering just who she is, she is also discovering she may, in fact, still need her mama. Which only means, that even though
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