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An Open Letter to Failing Pinterest Moms

Dear Mom who Fails Miserably at Pinterest,

It’s OK. No one is really able to do any of those crafts. Honestly. You know what the truth is? It’s all staged.

The “no-sew” projects? It’s all a guerrilla marketing ploy by JoAnn Fabrics and Michael’s to lure people in to buy yards of fabric and ribbons that will end up a tangled mess, and you will throw it in the trash while screaming, “I HATE FELT! It’s itchy, and annoying, and stupid. Screw you felt, I’m going home.”

Image

T-shirt dress? More like cruel hoax.

You see this? No one can do this. They are two totally different t-shirts that have been made to look like one had been turned into another. You know how I know? I’ve tried this crap. I’ve tried making new shirts out of the old, and what happens? The sleeves are shredded, and start unraveling the minute you try to fold and twist, just so. Twist and fold, my ass.

Not going to happen.

Not going to happen.

And this? I tried it with my husband’s shirt. It MIGHT work if you are 4’9” and your man is 6’4”. When I tried to put the shirt under my armpits, I couldn’t button it. AT ALL. I am not Sheera, Queen of the Hooter People; I am a normal woman, so if I can’t do, ain’t no one able to do it.

One, two, three... I'm starting to lose count of how many hooks I need.

One, two, three… I’m starting to lose count of how many hooks I need.

How many mop hooks are you going to buy to complete this bright idea? A bagillion? Might as well buy yourself a silver plated spice rack. And who the hell wants their spices in a closet? “I need to season the soup, let me walk halfway across my kitchen to find the bay leaves.” No. I want it in arm’s reach, because if I step away from the stove, I will be distracted by dogs, kids, husband and that soup is going to burn faster than you can say, “stupid mop craft.”

Spoon plus mirror. No.

Spoon plus mirror. No.

No. Just no. You can’t tell me someone in the world has time to do this, make it look like the picture and not like some crack whore spray painted some spoons and glued them together. Some 19-year-old intern at Home Goods made this to try to sell more mirrors. Because when the average person tries to make this, they will fail, and then need a new mirror. Enter Home Goods, the savior of the Pinterest fails.

Dear, sweet mother, please hear me now. More people fail than not. By the inherent nature of technology, we are sharing EVERYTHING. And people may or may not be telling the truth. People take photos of these projects they have allegedly completed, and we all think they are mother of the year.

Hippity hop onto Pinterest fails.

Hippity hop onto Pinterest fails.

These insecure, lying wenches have ruined it for all of us. They are not perfect, and if they are, they are sacrificing quality time with their children to be that way. These expectations are not real, and you do not need to live up to them. You need to be the mom who plays, shouts and loves those babies with all of your might.

You do not need to be perfect; you just need to be a mom, Pinterest fails and all.

Courage,

A Pinterest Failing Mother

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30 Comments

May 9, 2014 · 10:40 pm

I Love Social Media, But It Makes Me Hyperventilate

I have been swimming in the social media space for a couple of months now, but there are times when I feel great anxiety about proper netiquette. Like, “hand me a brown paper bag” anxiety.  When it flares up alongside spelling and grammar worries, I might as well sit in a corner and rock until the feeling goes away.

But it never does.  It’s probably because I am, at heart, an introvert and people pleaser. I might as well get “LOVE ME!” tattooed on my forehead. At least then people know what they’re dealing with. My need to be loved, looks like this in the real world:

Pinkie Pie

Pinkie Pie, as drawn by moi.

I wanted to use a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch photobombing U2, but I had a panic attack about what was legal to use. Then, I thought I’d use a photo of Pinkie Pie, who is a needy and energetic, and suitable to represent my people-pleasing angst. Once again… copyright. I do not want to tick off the Ponies. So, I decided to draw my own image of Pinkie Pie. I know. It’s awesome.

Twitter
Ah, yes. Twitter.  It’s 140 characters, chock full of wit & wisdom. I understand the basics; tweet a few times a day, don’t promote only your stuff, interact with your virtual friends, and don’t tell the world when you’re using Twitter in the bathroom. What I get stressed out about is…. When do I favorite? I usually favorite a tweet that I find amusing or when someone has tweeted me. But, what happens when I’ve had an interaction, but really don’t have more to say? Do I just favorite? Do I add a winky face or emoticon? Is the person on the other end of the tweet sitting there, waiting for my reply and thinking, “Is she still there? Why is she not continuing this conversation? Forget her. I’m taking my ball and going home.”

Other things I worry about…. When retweeting, if I want to add a response, but there aren’t enough characters, is it ok to delete parts of someone else’s tweet? It reminds me of college when I’d ask a friend to read one of my term papers to make sure it made sense and they would start shuffling my words around. Stick in an Oxford comma or tell me to tighten things up, but don’t squirrel with my words. It’s not cool. Does the same thing apply in the Twitterverse?

And, when is it OK to unfollow someone? I was following someone who I thought was humorous, and then their tweets turned into selling their own stuff and links to other random things. No real thought or interaction. For the longest time, I kept following them because I thought they followed me too, when I finally checked out their feed to see if they did tweet anything other than self-promotion, I saw they weren’t following me. I nipped that twit-lationship in the bud real fast.

Speaking of unfollowing, why is it that some people will follow you to get a followback, and then unfollowing you? In the words of Stephanie Tanner, “How rude!” Why is that a thing? I am probably putting more into Twitter than need be, but I follow people that I think I’ll find interesting, or at least will promote the heck out of me when I am my hilarious self. It just seems so cheap and dirty to do otherwise. All I can say is, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Blogging
When I started blogging, I thought I would whip up brilliantly humourous blogs every other day, no problem. I had outlined several topics, set aside time to write, and had been inspired by other bloggers via Facebook and Twitter. I burned through a couple topics, and then it struck. Writer’s Block. My muse left and I could only muster up my Dorothy Parker-esque wit every few days (okay, I’m no Dorothy Parker, but, you know, maybe one day). Then, worry set in. Am I not REALLY a writer? My readers will leave me! And if I’m not writing, I’m not commenting!  And I look ungrateful! I am an uninspired, ungrateful hack!  Commence heavy breathing into a paper bag! In, out, in, out, in, out…. Getting light headed here….

PR Friendly
I read an article that compared labeling oneself as “pr friendly” to having a sign that reads, “Will work for cupcakes.”* Part of me thought, “Hey! I like cupcakes! I would work for those.” And then another part thought, “Am I tarting myself out for cupcakes just to be left with an empty wrapper when the company is done with me and my Twitter followers abandon me for being such a tart?” Other than obviously putting too much thought into cupcakes and tartery, I was faced with a moral dilemma. Would my blog/twitter feed/whatevs turn into me promoting stuff? Would I feel compelled to write things like, “Hanging with my hubs on our new #SealyPosturpedic mattress. I’m getting good sleep tonight!” The thought makes me want to vurp. Or maybe that’s the sushi I had for dinner.

You know… some slutty cupcakes might make me feel better. I think I’ll eat them on my Sealy mattress.

*I can’t find that article anywhere. If anyone knows what I’m talking about and has the URL, let me know. Thanks, love you, mean it.

9 Comments

March 4, 2014 · 10:21 pm

Ghosts of the Past

Every night, I check on my children before I go to bed. It’s not simply to make sure they are covered up and sleeping comfortably, but to assure myself that a) they have not been kidnapped and b) they have not died in their sleep.

Feel free to laugh. I know it’s ridiculous. Honestly, what are the odds that in the two hours between them going to bed and me going to sleep, that something horrific would happen? But, for some reason I cannot sleep until I know that my kids are safe and sound.

Yes, I am a control freak (there is a place for everything, and everything must go in its place!). But, I think it’s more than that. For many years, I worked in a newsroom. The stories that flowed through the hallways ran the gamut from waterskiing squirrels to co-eds who were kidnapped and murdered. Somehow, for most of those years, I managed to compartmentalize and treat them like they were a story. Fiction. Something that had to be told and forgotten.

Then, I found out I was pregnant. Blindsided by the awesomesauce news, I found myself an emotional and hormonal wreck. And wouldn’t you know it? That’s when so many stories about babies dying from SIDS or drowning in a pool surfaced. Honestly, for every baby-in-peril story reported on air, there are three that are tossed aside. Finally, I left the great news business and found work in a beige cubicle.

The phantoms of my old life linger. I still tense up whenever I hear the chirp of a Nextel (that was how I was alerted to breaking news), and when I hear about a tornado or other weather event, I think about the video that needs to be shot and uploaded to the internet.

But, overall, what remains is how precious life is. So, now, instead of running to the newsroom when the world goes to hell in a handbasket, I run to my kids. I hold them close, inhale their sweet baby scent and relish the fact that I have one more day to enjoy their laughter and more time to be completely drained by their boundless energy.

Parenting, the hardest job you’ll ever love.

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January 17, 2014 · 3:22 am