Monthly Archives: February 2012

Peking Duck Smeared in Brie: The (lost) Battle of International Parenting

by The Totefish Blog

I’m a big supporter of globalization but this new trend of publishing competitive Parenting-By-Country books has got to stop.   Violin-wielding Chinese mothers vs. “Manners matter” beret-clad Frenchies?   What’s next?   The Siberian Guide to Raising Independent Children?   The Hunter-Gather Model of Masai Mothering?

Enough already!

For those of you who live on deserted islands, I’m talking about Amy Chua’s “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” and Pamela Druckerman’s “Bringing Up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting.”  They are all the rage in the Wall Street Journal.

Je repete.  Enough already!

Stop with the stereotyping.  Stop with the fear-mongering (oh yeah, like there’s not a mother out there who isn’t scared to death she’s raising her kids wrong?)  And stop telling me, categorically, how others are parenting better than Americans.  That’s like saying Americans don’t dance as well as Australians.   It’s unprovoked.  It’s unscientific.  And it’s really starting to piss me off.

Good (and bad) parenting isn’t bound by geography.  Some mothers are amazing and some mothers suck.  Some mothers get walked over, some are mean and domineering, and some listen to NPR in the carpool lane.   Some get drunk at VIP parties, some hand-sew Halloween costumes and some are suspicious of sleep-away camps.  You get the drift, right?   No?  Not to worry.  I’m on a roll.  There are moms who hate being woken at night, moms who love to do algebra problems and moms who believe potty-training should begin in the womb.  Some moms let their kids play in the mud, some take them out for overpriced sushi, and some leave the house without wearing a slicker or boots in a downpour.  Some follow in the footsteps of their parents.  Some buck every trend.  Some of the patience of saints and some do unthinkable evils.  Some live in Scottsdale.  Or Manhattan.  Or Russelville.  Or Lyon.  Or Guangzhou.  You get what I’m driving at now, right?  Parenting is hard and variable and everyone does it a little bit different.

United Momations

The idea that one culture – or one woman representing a culture — has “nailed it” means I should be working at a travel agency selling one-way tickets aboard the HMS Delusional.   No more Tiger Moms.  No more Francophiles.  No more American Mom bashing.  Don’t get me wrong.  I dated a hot French man for three weeks after college and my children are taking Chinese lessons on Saturday mornings.  It’s nothing personal.  And I do agree that there are a lot of lame American parents…  but this isn’t the Olympics.  Nationalism has no place in the discussions of responsible, effective parenting.

You want my credentials for writing about parenting?  Eight years of in-the-field data, a case study of two participants, no control group and a fair amount of a white wine spritzers.  You don’t want me telling you how to parent any more than you want Ms. Druckerman or Ms. Chua.  Just because I’ve been to my gynecologist’s office every year for the last 25 years doesn’t mean I’m qualified to comment on your vagina (oh yeah, I said “vagina”… that’s how worked up I am right now).  Ms. Druckerman and Ms. Chua are clearly intelligent women who can write well and who are actively thinking about parenting but just because you can pitch in a publisher’s office and you take a real nice publicity photo does not mean you’ve earned the microphone.

It’s all in the Marketing

If you’re going to write a book that claims to set a standard in cultural differences, you should have some credentials.  An Anthropology or Sociology degree?  A few classes in Childhood Development, maybe?  Being born in China or living in a pied a terre in Paris does not count.  I’m wearing socks but no one is calling me a cotton expert.  I know how to operate a Cuisinart but you don’t see me teaching a class at the Cordon Bleu (seriously, I could go on for days…)  I’m all about writing a personal memoir and yes, I do love to give my opinion about things but I’m not trying to represent a culture or pitch that certain cultures do things better.  For goodness sake, Ms. Druckerman wrote a story in 2008 for Marie Claire about the ménage a trois she gave her husband for his 40th birthday.  Yes, I couldn’t make that up.  I pass no judgement on her sexual or marital behavior (those are private matters) but when you write about it publicly, it begs a few questions about the writer’s motivation for fame.  ”Sensational” is clearly an well-entrenched adjective in her stable of life.  But parenting guides (even if written in an accessible “I’m your best friend” voice) get our blood pressure rising and I am tired of the cadre of writers who are taking advantage of our needy vulnerabilities.  It’s driving thoughtful mothers to the brink.

Confucius says, This Lady is Nuts

As for Ms. Chua, if you read the entire book (rather than just the reviews of her book), you would see that her initial thesis on “Chinese Parenting Values” are worthy of discussion  but her application of them is anything but disciplined.  Pardon the personal attack but Ms. Chua, based on her own editing choices of what to include and not include in her book, parents in the lunatic fringe aisle of life.  The book is a wonderful train-wreck analysis of an insecure, externally-focused, define-your-success-by-the-approval-of-others, status-obsessed, middle-aged-woman.  If you want to argue with me, just read the sections deep into the book on her dogged pursuit to find pianos in church basements or empty hotel ballrooms so her daughter can practice while on European vacations.  This, of course, is driven not by her daughter’s desire to tickle the ivories but rather by Ms. Chua’s rational that other daughters, who aren’t on vacation with their families are at home practicing, getting ahead.

Please take away the microphone

I know this blog rant will do nothing to slow the continued onslaught of international parenting books written by self-loathing, marketing-savvy American slash Other Culture moms.  As I said, we’re a vulnerable group looking for guidance and assurance and we’ll keep buying the books and creating parenting blogs.  So what do I hope for?  A new metaphor for good parenting.  I want a new crop of popular parenting authors.  I want teachers to write books about how we should raise our kids.

Think about it.  American teachers have years of parenting experience under the belt.  They’ve worked with 20+ students, 7 hours a day, for 156 days, year-after-year.  They’ve seen the good, the bad and the ugly.  And they know how to get results.  The good ones (and I mean, the good ones…) strike that perfect balance between tenderness and firmness, encouragement and discipline, affection and respect.  The best advice I’ve gotten (whether it be to “don’t worry, it’s totally typical, you can relax” or “yes, there is a growing problem and we have some suggestions for you”) has come consistently from my children’s teachers.

Hopefully, the market for stuff-yourself-sick International Buffets is on the wane.  Let’s bring back those shiny, sleeve-polished apples, please.

Don’t Try This At Home: Do’s & Dont’s for the Internet

by The Totefish Blog

Just because some of you were late to the modern tech social media thingie, doesn’t mean you can’t go pro. Here are the basic rules to follow as you head open-armed into the social network of the world:

1.)  DO ASSUME YOUR MOM IS READING IT

Yes, I know your mom is 72 years old but imagine if she knew where the power button was on your hand-me-down laptop and read that you had a graduate degree from an Ivy League school when, in fact, you barely finished college in a drunk stupor?  Don’t lie about your credentials.  Not only will your Mom be disappointed but it’s the internet, people — it’s crazy easy to cross-reference data.  Don’t swear (unnecessarily).  Don’t post anything naked about anyone (including yourself, your husband, your cute babies in the bathtub, your highschool ex-boyfriend who you’re still bitter over, your neighbor, your favorite celebrity or your pet).  Don’t gossip (excessively).  Do use proper punctuation and upper-case letters to start sentences.  Don’t make fun of your Mom or else she won’t come out to babysit the kids the next time you and your husband want to go to Palm Springs for the weekend.

2.) DON’T POST PHOTOS FROM MOMS’ WEEKEND IN VEGAS

I know, occasionally we all have a photo where we think, “Oh my god, I look so amazing. Hot and sexy and tan and thin and my hair, wow, I ‘m hotter now than I was at 19.  Eat your heart out, Bobby Lipkinsky, I still got it.”  But you can’t post it because either a.) you don’t look sexy as much as “slutty” and no one wants to see you looking like that, especially not your Mom or your kids or b.) you do look that hot and sexy and thin and no one, not even your best friend, will think kind thoughts about it.  Instead, they’ll think “wow, it’s so obvious you posted that photo ’cause you look so great and it’s not what you look like most days so why even post it other than to rub my nose in how great your hair looks and that’s so not nice… blah, blah, blah”

3.)  DO ASSUME YOUR KIDS WILL READ EVERYTHING YOU POST

Even if they can’t read right now, whatever you say on the ‘net, stays on the ‘net.  It’s like Vegas with video-cameras.  That means, it’ll be there forever.  So, when they turn 16 and figure out how to disable the nanny filter function on Google, they’re going to type in your name (right after they type in “boobs” & “penis”).  So, if you thought your credibility was compromised the day they said, “But Mom, that’s not what you said about Dad on the phone to Grandma” or “But Mom, that’s not the way the teacher told us to add mixed fractions” just wait until they read one of your typo-riddled rants about some gossipy thing you had no good reason on which to be commenting, especially if it involves a celebrity or your neighbor or the new hot Science teacher at your kids’ school.  Which brings me to number 4…

4.)  DON’T DRINK AND TYPE

You’re thinking, “Duh, Deb, I’d never do that” but trust me, you’ll do it once ’cause you think you can handle your liquor better than most and then, about twenty minutes later, you’ll wish you hadn’t but it’ll be too late to unsend and then, you’ll come to me crying, “You were right” and I’ll find no pleasure in your pain but I will nod knowingly.  When you drink, your mind turns into your own personal frenemy (who likes you but likes to see you fail even more).  When you drink,  you think that pun makes sense,  you think your “I’m-just-writing-because-I-like-electrons-as-much-as-my-son” email to the new hot Science teacher is subtly sexy rather than creepy and desperate, and your short angry email response about volunteering to work at this year’s Cupcake Fundraiser does not belie your secret jealousy towards that Mom who not only owns a cookie-company that was just profiled on Oprah.com but has perfectly coiffed hair, two high-performing well-behaved teenagers and genuinely is liked more by the Administration than you. If you’ve had more than one drink and you find yourself saying, “Oh, I’m just checking my email..,” arrest yourself.  Trust me, you’ll be glad you did in the morning.

5.)  DO THINK LIKE A VIRAL SHERLOCK-HOLMES

Okay, that heading doesn’t make sense but here’s the story behind it.  There’s this mom who posted an article in her major New York-based newspaper blog about her son’s friends who smoked way too much pot but mind you, she didn’t post their names ’cause she didn’t want to rat them out to their parents even though her blog byline has her whole name in it and she mentions her son by name.  Hmmm.  Shocker, the website “Gawker” picks up the story and outs everyone.  When you write something secret, please know that it isn’t secret.  I mean, seriously.  Secret means keep your mouth shut.  Secret is gossiping in person so you can later deny that you said anything about anything to anyone.  If you want to share a secret online about your neighbor (or your husband or your kids or your favorite celebrity or your beloved Mom), be prepared for that cold-shoulder in the carpool lane when your secret to goes viral.

6.)  DON’T POST ABOUT YOUR CUTICLES

That’s code for no one cares about the mundane habits about your human life.  I get it.  We all love our kids, we all wish we could sleep in longer in the morning, we all have smelly feet at the end of the day.   I don’t need to read another post about it.   Seriously, the internet is about ‘upping your game.  It’s your chance to show the world what you could really be if you weren’t constrained by your geography, age, gender or resume.  Cream rises to the top, baby.  Consider what you post before you post it.  If your mother is going to be bored by it, don’t write it.    You can try to be amusing (which is my schtick) or smart (which is a good thing if you have a PhD) or inspirational (ah, Oprah) — whatever you choose to do, whatever you like to do… do it with gumption and originality and passion.  And use spell-check.

7.)  DO TAKE YOUR OWN PHOTOS INSTEAD OF COPYING-&-PASTING PROFESSIONAL ONES

Even if the photo of your own “wagging finger” doesn’t make sense at first (or ever…) and sure, it’s not nearly as good as the one you found on Google Images ’cause your pointer finger is weirdly long, but that’s the one you should use.  Otherwise, it’s stealing.  Copyright rules are real (and photographers have feelings which do get hurt and then, they hire lawyers) so even though you didn’t bother reading any of the legal mumble-jumble on the new Google privacy rules, you should at least know not to steal someone else’s photos.  Remember what happened to those kids who got fined because they used Napster when it first came out?  The courts threw out their “I didn’t know and everyone else was doing it” defense.  I’m just saying, you don’t want to be the one “they made an example of.”    Oh wait.  That means I should pull down that photo of Madonna and the rat.  Hmmm.  Those are going to be trickier than the finger to do with my iphone.

A Rat In My Bedroom: A True Story in Three Acts

by The Totefish Blog

Non-Legal Legal Disclaimer:  All facts, names, locations and dialogue remain unchanged to expose the guilty (most noteably, the rat).

ACT I

SETTING:  Master Bedroom.   TIME:  August 24, 2011.  1:00 am

Lights up on luxurious bed linens (bought at deep discount at Tuesday Morning).  There’s a loud scratching sound in the corner of the darkened room, not far from the bedside table.  DEB (39.5 years old, attractive in that natural matted-hair, drool-dripping-out-of-her-mouth-guard kind of way) has just fallen asleep on the side of the bed closest to the noise.  Beside her is husband, JIM (40s, handsome and  virile and the standard for which all men strive, especially since he might be reading this blog).  She recently got home late from a dinner with friends.  A rare treat.  

DEB 

(groggy)

 What’s that noise?

The noise stops.  The room is silent.

JIM 

(mumbling into his pillow; eyes still shut)

Oh that?  It’s nothing.  Just an animal outside the window. It’s been doing that all night.

Jim turns over onto his side, coughs and begins to snore.

DEB  

(resting her head back on the pillow)

Oh, okay.

Silence.  Ten seconds later, we hear the scratching sound again.  Deb throws on the bedside light. 

That noise is not outside the window.  It’s in the room!

Deb scans the room, inch-by-inch with Soviet-era attention to detail.  The audience can feel the hair raised on her forearms.  Jim gives Deb an “I’m guessing you’re not going to let this go until I deal with it” look.  Deb nods without seeing the look.   

JIM

(pulling himself out of bed)

Give me a minute.

Spotlight shines on Jim’s bare ass as he walks off-stage, to the left.  OFF STAGE, the audience hears a loud sigh over a steady stream of ”water.”  

DEB

OH MY GOD.  THERE IT IS!!  JIM!!  GET IT!!  IT’S… IT’S… A RAT!!  OH MY GOD!

Deb jumps up to her feet and hops from foot-to-foot on the bed.  Her arms whip around her unnnaturally.

JIM (off-stage)

Deb…  just hold on…  I’ll be done in a second.

Spotlight on RAT (brownish-grey, plump with a ponderous “why-you-screamin-lady” look in its twitchy eyes).  After a beat, Rat takes a few steps across the wood floor.

DEB

(in a tone two notches above hysterical)

Oh my God.  It’s on the move!  Jiiimmmm!

Rat freezes as if the words were arrows in its ponderous back.  It sits and stares at Deb.  Deb stares back.  She, too, is frozen.  Jim stands stage left (note: Full-Frontal nudity optional) and sees the rat.  He nods.  

JIM

Huh.  Wow.  Look at that.  You’re right.

(sotto)

I should put some shoes on.

Jim exits stage left again.  Deb and Rat unfreeze.  Rat runs out of the room.  Deb follows it, arms swatting at imaginary bats flying over her head.  Needless to say, she’s yelling “Jim, get it” the whole time.

ACT II

SETTING:  Living Room.  TIME:  45 minutes later

DEB stands on the sofa, holding a broom; copious sweatstains ring her nightgown, her eyes suggest insanity is setting in.  JIM stands next to upright piano keyboard; wears boxers, cowboy boots and yellow rubber kitchen gloves; holds large Sterlite 64 gallon box (labeled “Barbies”; Barbie Dolls are strewn in the hallway, off-stage).  RAT is hiding under the key-board with only its 6-inch, juicy, grey-the-shade-of-bacteria-infested-undercooked meat TAIL visible to the audience.

JIM

(In a weirdly calm voice that even he didn’t know he had)

Deb, I’m just saying if the kids were to come out of their room and see you like this, I think it might scare them more than the mouse.

DEB

(In a weirdly unreasonable, “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” voice)

Why do you keep saying that?!  It’s not a mouse, Jim.  It’s a rat!  A rat.  An 11 inch rat with a 6 inch tail.   Look at it!  Mice don’t have tails like that, Jim.  Mice are tiny and cute.  I like mice.  Big fan of Stuart Little.  But this ain’t no Desperaux, Jim.  This thing, this “Rat” you can’t pick it up with your hands.  It’ll bite you and  you’ll get rabbies and that, that’ll scare the kids.  Running you to the hospital as you’re foaming at the mouth, you don’t think that’ll scare the kids more than me?   Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

JIM

(not saying what he’s thinking ’cause he values his marriage so much)

On the count of three, I’m going to move the piano.  Then… I’ll grab it by the tail, put it in the box and let it go outside.  If it starts to run, use the broom… Deb… are you listening?  Use the broom to push it towards me and into the box, okay?  OKAY?  I know what I’m doing.  It’s just a scared mouse.

Deb nods yes.  She continues to nod yes until her head begins to shake no.  She can’t help herself. 

DEB

(she brushes her hand along her arms, as if brushing off imaginary ants invading her body)

Where did it come from?  How did it get inside?

JIM

1, 2, 3…

Jim moves the piano.  Pandomium breaks out.  The rat runs around the room. Deb screams, shuts her eyes and whacks the broom indiscriminately.  Jim barrels around, lurching at the RAT, indiscriminately throwing the box at it.  His reassuring “I got ‘em, I got ‘em,” begin to grow quiet.  Finally, the room is still. 

DEB

(opening her eyes)

Oh my god, did you get it?

JIM

Um, look it’s no big deal.  We can call the exterminator in a few hours.  I can even go to Norris Hardware and get some traps.

DEB

What are you saying?  Where’s the rat?

JIM

I’m just saying I don’t want you to freak out.  It’s just a canyon rat.  Probably got in through some vent and it’s looking for its way out.

Deb scans the room, frantic.

DEB

Jim, where’s the rat?   OH MY GOD.  JIM?

JIM

So, it just, um, you know rats have a really weird invertebrate that’s collapsible and they can go flat and get into really small spaces well the rat… I mean the mouse… just ran under the door.

DEB

(starts to rock back and forth)

What door?

JIM

Um, again, you need to be calm about this.  I’ve got it under control.  I’m just going to go get a flashlight.

Jim heads off stage RIGHT.  

JIM (from off stage)

It’s not like it’s going to gnaw their faces off or anything.  It’s probably so freaked out, it’s hovering in a corner.  It’ll come out sooner or later and then, I’ll get it in the box.

Back on stage, Jim tries to get the flaslight to work.  Batteries are dead.  He gives up.  Tosses the flashlight on the cough and heads stage LEFT.

JIM

I don’t think there’s much more we can do now.  I’ll call the exterminator but honestly, I’m exhausted.  Let’s just go to bed.

DEB

(barely able to squeak out the words)

The rat is in the kids’ room?!?

Lights go dark.  The audience hears Deb’s shrill cry and then, a thud, as her limp body hits the floor. 

ACT III

SETTING: Kitchen    TIME:  The following night, 9 pm

An empty wine bottle sits on the counter.  The kids went to bed hours ago.   Deb (angrily) places dirty dishes into the dishwasher while Jim uncorks another bottle of wine.

JIM

Are you serious?  You’re mad at me for not catching a mouse?

DEB

It was a rat.  Only the most idiotic, stupid blind person would call that a mouse.  Paul said it was an adult rat.

JIM

Who’s Paul?

DEB

(exasperated sigh)

Paul’s Pest Control?  You know, the Paul who saved your children’s lives.

JIM

Are you purposely trying to start a fight?

DEB

I’m just saying it’s a good thing we have Paul’s number on speed-dial now.

JIM

 So Paul’s more of a man than me?  He sets rat traps for a living.  Really?

Jim leans over and re-arranges the plates that Deb just put in the dishwasher.  

DEB

AH HA.  You admit it was a rat!

JIM

You have to let this go.

DEB

Who has a rat in their house and just “let’s it go?”  You touched it with your hand.  Your… hand.

JIM

I was wearing a glove.

He gently pushes Deb aside so he can finish filling the dishwasher to his liking.  Deb doesn’t mind.  She even helps him out by handing him a dirty cup. 

JIM (cont)

You have to stop hating nature so much.

DEB

I don’t hate nature.  I just want it outside my house. Where it belongs.

JIM

We live in a canyon.  Rats, mice, spiders, rattlesnakes… They get into houses sometimes.

DEB

(drops a set of silverware on the floor)

A rattlesnake can get into the house?

JIM

(nods toward the bottle of the wine)

Yes, I mean no.  I mean, I think you’re letting this get in your head.

DEB

I’m not going crazy.

She spins around, then puts her finger to her lips. 

Shhhh.  Did you hear that?  Oh my god.  It’s back.

THE END

Sack up, ladies. It’s 2012. You should be online.

by The Totefish Blog

And when I say “ladies,” I mean all of you 39+ year olds, men and women, who think they’re cool when they declare “I don’t do Facebook or Linked In or Twitter or anything on the internet that I don’t really understand because you don’t know who’s looking at your picture and you can’t trust people on the internet because who knows what they’re doing with that information, like stealing your identity or worse, really weird stuff in that bathroom with your Disneyland family pic.  Blah, blah, blah.”

Enough is enough.  Polish off that reserve Malbec, let down your $35 pro-blown tousled hair, turn off Journey’s Greatest Hits and sign up for a Facebook account already.  No one uses the telephone anymore.  The world has gone social.  Online, baby.  Just accept it and move on.

Look, seven months ago, I was like you.  I was sitting pretty on my tennis-skirted ass, breezing past the 7th box of “Cut the Rope,” pontificating to the crowd of nodding parents that “you just wait and see, those young kids will regret sharing that information when they try to get a job.”   I was tech-forward enough to think that my indignation towards social media was fair-and-balanced.  Oh, fool that I was.  I’m here to tell you that Facebook ain’t going anywhere.  And if you’re not careful, you’re going to be the old lady sitting alone on the sofa, clutching her purse against her chest ’cause she can’t trust the waiters not to steal it.

Yes, the world has changed.  No, the world ain’t changing back.  Facebook, Linked In, Google Plus, Chatter, Pandora, Flickr, Metacafe, Diigo, blogs… they’re like the Star Wars movies.  Ask yourself what you think of the dinner party guest who says, “What?  Huh? I don’t get it” when another party guest holds two dinner buns upside her head and says, “It’s okay.  I made out with my brother once, too” after the hostess’ husband drunkenly admitted to making out with his wife’s sister.  You’re the lame one.  Not the lady holding bread against her head.

Or if this makes it easier, just think of yourself as Madonna at the Superbowl.  She’s working hard to stay relevant and up-to-speed with the fast-moving world around her.   Imagine how much (more) you would have trashed her if she came out wearing black lace gloves and leather pants?   Oops.  Bad example.  You get my drift.  Even Madonna is pushing her surgeon… I mean herself… to stay on top of pop culture.  The least you can do is sign up to subscribe to a blog (and it doesn’t even have to be my blog.  I’m just saying.)

You understand that you’re going to have to eat crow soon enough, right?  Your “I’m a traditionalist” stance makes you sound like an idiot.  Swallow your pride, shrug off the “only-twits-tweat” insults you made earlier this morning and send your Mom a text email that says “FWIW, 2nite im changin my life 4EVA.  ggg.  BRN & LYLAS” (translation: “For What It’s Worth, tonight I’m changing my life forever.  Giggling.  Bye for now and love you like a sister.”)  Did you ever think you’d say “just google it” to your kids when they ask you “Dad, when was Lincoln born?”  The tech revolution came.  It went.  And it won.  Hulu is a real television station.

While you’re trying to figure out how to be relevant, I have a few more suggestions on how to prevent your kids from saying, “Seriously, Mom?” when you hold out index cards and a Sharpie to practice their vocabulary words:

1.)  Stop being cheap and buy some new music to your ipod.  $1.29 doesn’t even get you a good drip coffee anymore.  Suck it up and download three new songs once a week.  Do what I do and surf Itunes Top 100 and force yourself to buy the top 10 songs, then force yourself to listen to them until your ears bleed a little.  Fun.  Oh no, I meant “Fun.” as if he (or them) is (or are) the top artist today with his/their/her song “We are Young.”  Sometimes, you stumble upon some good stuff to either drink wine with (Adele, Mumford & Sons) or pretend to work out with (Rihanna, Nicki Minja).  Unfortunately, Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift don’t really count anymore.  If your kids can sing along to the song, it’s too late.  It’s kinda yesterday.

2.)  Pick a blog, any blog.  Overall, blogs offers better quality of material than reality t.v., by a long-shot.  Some of the writers out there are… weirdly talented, quietly hysterical and just down-right prolific.  It’s just a matter of time before they abandon their blog to work as a staff writer for Jon Stewart or worse yet, go underground for 2 years to work off their advance for their first novel.  Get them while they’re free – and uncensored.  The ones that aren’t laden down with awards (yeah, you read it right… there are awards in the blogosphere) are usually the most witty (Personally, I think validation corrupts the creative process.  You want to find a needy blogger who’s working hard to please instead of someone who’s massaging their ‘tag’ list.)  And beyond the content (which is copious, to say the least), reading blogs bring out the humanity in all of us.  You’d be surprised how you can genuinely befriend strangers online and grow to really care about their life.  Virtual friendships are real and they’re good.   There.  I said it.  And now, I defend it.  I mean, how is it weirder than sending your annual Christmas card to that couple you met on that Costa Rican zip-lining trip three years ago?  Sure, there are creeps in the world.  I’m teaching my kids to look out for them at the park, even as I type this post.   But that doesn’t mean I refuse to let them go to the park, does it?  Hell, someone just stole mail out of our mailbox in front of our house.  People steal things (virtual or cemented to the curb).  People are weird.  People do unthinkable things with others’ photos.  You have to be smart about what you share (DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT post those photos that you think show you looking all sexy and hot for being 39 ’cause… you’re just looking slutty and 39 and you’re going to lose a bit of credibility with everyone in the morning).  But don’t blame the internet.    That shit been going on since the beginning of time.

3.)  Upgrade to Prime, buy your shoes from Zappos and stream movies from Netflix to your plasma screen.*

*If you don’t understand any of this sentence, I’m afraid you’re farther off the reservation that I thought… and even I can’t help you.   All I can say is good luck and strap on your walker ’cause the world is gonna blow right past you.

Engage.  Download.  And stop being social media wusses.

Spoiler alert, ladies: If you’re not exhausted, you’re not doing it right

by The Totefish Blog

Anyone can be a kick-ass working mom a la Sheryl K. Sandberg.  Just drop the Martha Stewart-suggestions for hand-made toilet paper, agree to stop competing for the “harder working spouse” title against your husband and be prepared for total & utter fatigue.

Yes, after biting my tongue for the last two weeks, this is my official response to the flurry of “Women-pull-up-your-bootstraps-marry-a-good-mate-bear-children-break-the-glass-ceiling” discussions running rampant around Facebook IPO news (you can only keep an alcoholic out of the bar for so long…)  Oh wait.  Those discussions have been running rampant around every “female near business” news story I’ve read since graduating from an all-girls highschool.  The hairstyle is different but the sentiment is the same.   The only real difference now… I order my drink straight-up and without an umbrella.

If you want to have it all, prepare to be tired and overwhelmed.

___________________

Oh look.  I just realized my title is a double-entendre.  Ha!  That’s funny, except when you think about it in a working mom kind of way.  Exhaustive sex & working mom life go together like peanut butter and cashmere.  But I so digress.

Back to my main point.

___________________

1.)  Who is Sheryl K. Sandberg?

I first learned about SKS last July in a detailed New Yorker article.  She’s the charismatic, smart, accessible, soon-to-be-billionaire COO of Facebook.  She’s a mom to two young children.  She’s an advocate for working women, especially in leadership positions.  Her 2010 TED speech has 1,000,000+ views.  Her opinions on getting “women to the table” and balancing work and family are both cult-able and divisive.  She is the current spokeswoman for the female executive with kids.  Love her or hate her, women should know her name.

2.)  The Simple Truth About Working Moms

It’s hard to be a woman.  Same way it’s hard to be a man.  It’s hard to be a productive, involved human-being — let alone a successful, attractive middle-aged one (that’s why plastic surgery exists… but again, I so digress).  The simple truth is that everyone has it tough.  No one is getting off easy.

This weekend, my husband and I duked it out on who does more juggling work and family.  I do the grocery shopping on Sunday nights and he makes the coffee every weekday morning.  I conduct conference calls at 8 pm (after the kids go to bed) and he responds to business emails at 5 am (before the kids wake up).  I pack the lunches.  He loads the dishwasher.   I check-in with the teachers.  He checks in with the stockbroker.  Neither one of us gets enough exercise or haircuts or compliments.   And we’re successful.  We’re in the upper 1%, we have a housekeeper who does the laundry and we send our kids to private school where we know they are getting a good education.  Yet, we feel guilty that we don’t spend enough quality time with the kids, we are stressed about the overflowing inbox that didn’t get completed today, we are annoyed that the other one didn’t bring in the mail, we wish we had more time as a couple (our love-life would be totally bereft without our nightly menage-a-trois with Jon Stewart) and we often bemoan the loss of our social life (who has the energy to go out on a Friday night for drinks with friends?)

Being a working mom means the score is even.  Everyone is stressed.  Everyone is exhausted.  Did you really think it would come easy?

3.)  The Complicated Truth of Stay-At-Home Moms

Sure, I have days when I think, “In my next life, I’m coming back as a man of the establishment married to me.”  That’s the gig.  All the freedom of being a man at the top of the pyramid with a woman like me running my house and family?!  I could then leave for my penthouse office with the calm certainty that my children were in the most capable, intelligent, caring-yet-firm, creative-yet-organized, playful-yet-mature hands.  You see, I’m hugely egotistical that no one could do a better job than me raising my kids.  That’s part of the problem that SKS doesn’t address.  If you’re a woman ambitious with her career, chances are you’re ambitious with your child-rearing.

I don’t have any solutions on how to juggle the two.  Truth is, I think I suffered low-level depression over the last 8 years of full-time stay-at-home momming and now, I am suffering from wake-you-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night stress of a business start-up.  Life is a catch-22.  Nothing comes easy.  I used to harbor resentment that my husband had a growing career while I excelled at block-and-crayon management and now, I harbor fears that my children are suffering from chicken-nugget overdoses & outsourced babysitter bus pick-ups.  Yes, I have all the responsibilities of running a business AND all of the responsibilities of raising two kids.  But so does my husband.  He might not be the one who’s buying the uniforms or making the cupcakes for the bake sale, but he’s explaining the concepts of electrons at breakfast and reading the stories at bedtime.

I’m happy that SKS has gone big and it’s great that she’s talking so openly about her experience.  I just think the discussion is getting bogged down in semantics.  Rich or poor.  Male or female.  Working or not-working.  Having a family is a HUGE responsibility that takes time and resources.  Having a big career is a HUGE stress that takes energy and focus.  Both require sacrifice.  Both require supportive spouses. Both require getting out there and being tired.  Is any of this really new news?

4.) The short rant about Martha Stewart

No blog post about moms in the boardroom would be complete without a mention of Martha Stewart.  In order to juggle the demands of  a working mom’s life, all reference and knowledge of Martha Stewart needs to be expunged from the cerebral cortex.  Otherwise, the burden of “pretty-ifying” life threatens the entire species.  It is impossible to make cupcakes that look like ladybugs, wrap christmas presents with hand-stamped papers, disinfect your bathtub with hand-squeezed lemon juice, and throw a Superbowl party with homegrown heirloom tomato salsa AND raise two kids AND get the VP promotion AND have a meaningful marriage.  Something has to give.  I love that Martha Stewart was a working Mom and a successful entrepreneur but if you look closely at Sheryl Sandberg’s many speeches, she never once shares a recipe for shaping a shrimp skewer into an origami swan.

I’m just saying… women can have it all but you have to be very careful how you define “all.”

Competitive day-dreaming

by The Totefish Blog

There’s no hiding I’m type A.  I’ve never used the expression “Dude, chill,”  I’ve never watched an episode of a daytime talk-show and I believe driving was created as a multi-tasker litmus test (if you’re not posting stamps on Christmas cards or pumping breast milk while you drive, I think you should question your legitimacy behind the wheel).  It’s true.  I rarely do something “just for the sake of doing it.”  So you can imagine my initial dismissal when, trolling for tidbits on how to be a better business-woman, I stumbled over a Stanford Business School blog post about of a psyche study that said day-dreaming was good for me.  Sounds like it was written by some transplanted Seattleites high on her “quality of life,” eh?

Since it was on my lunch break, I delved deeper.  The Journal of Consumer Psychology study, “If Money Doesn’t Make You Happy, Consider Time” (Nov. 2010) does, in fact, postulate five “time-spending happiness principles.”  In short, it says how you spend your time affects your happiness.  And day-dreaming supposedly makes you weirdly happy.

Research in the field of neuroscience has shown that the part of the brain responsible for feeling pleasure, the mesolimbic dopamine system, can be activated when merely thinking about something pleasurable, such as drinking one’s favorite brand of beer or driving one’s favorite type of sports car.  In fact, the brain sometimes enjoys anticipating a reward more than receiving the reward.  Thus, the pleasure derived from window shopping for a dress may exceed the pleasure from actually acquiring the dress.  Similarly, reading guidebooks to plan for a big vacation, anticipating the pleasure associated with the food and activities on the vacation, and then cancelling or postponing the vacation until next year could actually give you more pleasure than going on the vacation as originally planned (particularly since the logistical stresses of finding a cat-sitter, getting the necessary vaccines, and taking the days off from work mount as the vacation draws near.  In short, this research suggests that we might be just as well off, or even better off, if we imagine experiences, but not have them.  So, spend plenty of time happily daydreaming.   (Page 8)

If day-dreaming was good for me, then time was a wastin’.  I went into the backyard, threw myself onto a chaise and stared up at the sky.  Here’s where I forced my mind to go:

1.)  Me sitting on a beach in Cabo San Lucas

2.)  Me running a huge successful company

3.)  Me flying around the sky like a bird

4.)  Me dating Daniel Craig

5.)  Me cleaning out the clump of pine needles sticking out of the pool filter

6.)  Me should be working instead of sitting outside thinking about me drinking cocktails on beach with Daniel Craig

7.)  Oh wait.  Me and Daniel Craig again.

You get the drill.  It was warm.  It was sunny.  I was… happy.

I lasted 12 minutes.

Tomorrow, I’m gunning for 15.  Rain or shine.  This lady is going to nail this day-dreaming assignment, even if it kills me.