Because A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste And All That Stuff

The other day, I got an email from a woman at Donor's Choose about participating in their 2008 blogger's charity event to benefit school programs, which is ironic because as some of you may remember, I've had a major beef with reading lately.

But I've also been on this quest lately to try to be a nicer, better mother, which is not only exhausting, it's making Spawn think that I either have a terminal disease or am getting sent to prison. So I thought that I could channel some good-deed-doing in another area of the universe, and what better time to ask people for money for a good cause than in the middle of the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression?

So I agreed to participate in the 2008 Blogger's Choice Donationpalooza because I think that Donor's Choose is a great organization. All of the donations on my page will go to projects in the Stamford public schools, which are perpetually struggling to find resources, so much so that they almost closed Spawn's school a few months back because they couldn't afford to operate all of the schools in the district.

So if you have time for a few clicks, and maybe an extra $5 to spare, please, click here and support a project that will bring so much into the lives of schoolkids in the area. Or pick another project if you don't like mine. The projects I chose are eligible for matching funds through the Fairfield County Foundation, so right away, your donation will be doubled.

As an added incentive AND a recession insurance policy, I will randomly select twenty people from the list of donors and mail you one (1) virgin, unspoiled scratch-off Connecticut lottery ticket. Just send a email to lambira@gmail.com with your snail mail address after you donate.

Whether you donate through my blog or someone else's, please, consider this: without education, I'd be an even bigger idiot than I am now.

Thank you for your time and generosity.

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A Little Help Please...

So...I haven't been blogging lately. And I'm afraid to blog about why I haven't been blogging, because most of what is torturing me lately is work related and I have no interest in being Dooced. Unless said Doocing comes with either widespread fame/fortune/adoration (like it did for her), or is accompanied by the kind of severance package that causes Congress to hold hearings on the injustice of executive compensation.

But neither of those scenarios seem likely. And another reason that I haven't been on the internets all that much is that I decided that instead of spending all of my free time blogging about what a terrible mother I am, I could, oh, I don't know, try being a better mother.

Novel idea, yes?

I've been trying to stop multitasking and really focus on being present with the Spawn. Not just physically THERE, but engaged. No checking emails while they're playing in the playroom. No sorting through mail and school papers while they're refusing to eat their Boston Market. No trying to put away laundry while they're getting ready for bed. Trying to take time to do things with them, even if it's just to play a board game or read a book together.

But today, I think my efforts to be Better Mom are setting me up for a rather spectacular flop. I told the The Girl that she could have her friend over for a sleepover, and she wanted to decorate cupcakes. So I did something that I never in my adult life thought I would do, given that my family often begs me to stay OUT of the kitchen, and especially since Stop & Shop does this type of thing so much better:

I baked.

I bought three boxes of cake mix and those little paper cupcake holder thingies, and some white frosting and food coloring to make different colors and some sprinkles for garnish. I borrowed some baking tins and from the bowels of my kitchen, excavated this strange-looking wedding-gift appliance that has these twirly things that mix stuff up. I emptied the boxes and cracked the eggs and figured out how to operate my oven, and now I have approximately 87 cupcakes cooling on the counter, waiting to be frosted.

Problem is, they look really weird. They're all different heights, and some are sunken instead of rounded, and some are covered in pimply looking nubs. I'm a little worried about that. Is it possible to kill a child with bad cupcakes? Death by Betty Crocker?

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Manager Mom's Gallery Of Shame, Part 2

My birthday weekend is over, and I'm sad to see it go. I had such a good time using "But it's my birthday!" as an excuse to avoid all of the things that I didn't feel like doing, from the trivial (fetching the newspapers from the end of the driveway) to the disgusting (doing the final assists on The Boy's butt-wiping) to the obvious (did not cook a shred of food the entire weekend.)

I meant to post these on Saturday, but I was busy lying on the couch. For those of you who enjoyed the first eight years, behold the terrible power of my adolescence, with its parade of overthought hair and questionable fashions:



















I would like to point out that my mother showed all of these to Manager Dad after he proposed to me. And he STILL went through with the wedding.

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Manager Mom's Gallery of Shame: Part 1: The Grade School Years

Sunday is my birthday. I will be thirty-eight years old.

"Wow, ManagerMom!" People never say to me. "At 38, you're quite the cougar MILF! Have you always been this stunning?"

To answer this question, I bring you portraits from the first eighteen years of my life, which my own mother faithfully saved in an 8 x 10 picture frame in our living room:
Having seen some of my fellow bloggers on Fug Mug Friday over at PapaTV I don't feel quite so bad.

On the other hand, there's still the adolescent years. I'll save those for tomorrow.

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I Will Run You Down Like The Vermin You Are

I have freely admitted that I suck at most of the things that wives and mothers are traditionally good at, like cooking, cleaning, laundry, and having emotions.

But the ONE domestic-ish thing that I USED be able to do was grow tomatoes.

Until this year, when EVERY SINGLE TOMATO got stolen right off of the plants. At first, I thought one of my neighbors was playing a joke on me. Then I thought Manager Dad getting even with me for something I've done to annoy him lately. And then I thought it was a raccoon.

So I tried chicken wire, scarecrows, the sprinkling of dog pee, hexes. Nothing worked. Every time a little green tomato would sprout, it would be plucked off of the branch by the next morning.

Now I realize it was you, squirrels. And today was the last straw. It's one thing to steal, another thing to taunt me with the remains of your theivery:

Game on, you little shits.

Oh. P.S. Happy Anniversary, Manager Dad.

No need to click - today's sadism is all above the fold.

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Dear Keanu,

I spotted your secret signal to me in last week's Wall Street Journal, and I knew that you wanted to meet:



I'm sorry that I blew you off, but I've been thinking about us a lot lately. Especially because this Friday is my and Manager Dad's ninth anniversary. It seems like this "starter marriage" of mine might actually stick.

And so, because of my love for MD and our Spawn, I think that it's time that you and I FINALLY put an end to our relationship.

I remember when we first met; we were so young, and dumb, and carefree.



I always appreciated the fact that you supported my career choices.

I'll miss the wild times we've had together, but it's getting hard for me to keep up with your Hollywood lifestyle.



But our affair wasn't ALWAYS about partying and fetishwear; some of my favorite times were the quiet, simple things that we did together.


I want to reiterate that I'm doing this for Manager Dad. This has absolutely nothing to do with my recent tweets about wanting to bear children for either of these fine young gentlemen:



So that's it. Our twenty years together have been lovely, but all good things must come to an end.

But I hope you take comfort in knowing that I'll always carry a little reminder of you in my heart, and my home:



I will love you desperately forever and am being forced to do this against my will

Fondly,

Manager Mom

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