When companies masquerade as friends.

Lots of us proudly display the Blog With Integrity badge on our blogs. And we've seen the new FTC regulations. And as a parent blogger, or mum blogger, or whatever you want to call me (I'm not fussy), I've a pretty good sense of what's acceptable content for my blog and what's not.

I don't gush about a product and fail to mention I've been paid to do so. I don't rave about something that truthfully sucks because I'm being compensated. I don't lie to my readers. (oh, um, except maybe sometimes regarding age and weight... forgive me?)

It's quite clear to me how to blog with integrity.

But for some there is still concern that the lines between honest blogging and advertising are blurry. Especially when it comes to companies plying bloggers with fancy trips and free stuff in the hopes they'll share positive product reviews with their thousands of followers.

As the LA Times article noted yesterday, this type of marketing is shrewd, yes. It's advertising in a nontraditional sense.

But I for one don't find it confusing.

The bloggers who attended the Nestlé event told us they were going and why. And therefore I wasn't surprised when I saw tweets and blog posts about the event and about Nestlé products.

For the record I don't like Nestle. I decided years ago not to buy their products after reading about the company's shady operations with regard to infant formula in the third world. You know the story by now if you didn't before.

But anyway, my point is, I didn't find it confusing. I knew the bloggers were attending an event intended to promote a brand.

And quite frankly if Cadbury's invited me to a weekend of chocolate eating, fancy hotels and naked slaves... oh wait that's my fantasy, what was I saying? and wonderful alone time, do you think I'd say no because I blog with integrity? Hell no. I'd tell you folks about it, and then I'd hop on that plane and head for the chocolate. Obviously.

I don't find it confusing when companies ask influential bloggers to attend lavish events in the hopes they'll tell their followers about it.

Nor do I find it confusing when bloggers talk about the details of an event they're attending or a product they're reviewing.

You know what I DO find confusing?

Companies that masquerade as people, or worse - friends.

Recently I watched a company use Twitter to infiltrate the mum blogging community as "one of us". The tweeter in question acted like a friend, an individual, not like a company.

She expertly gathered a large following on Twitter, building camaraderie by talking about common parenting problems and asking for advice. The marketing was so subtle it was barely noticeable.

I'm referring to the tweeter who's goal was to promote a film about a mom blogger...

The film's overall marketing campaign was very creative, enlisting popular mom bloggers to help promote the movie. The bloggers involved were open and honest about their participation and I respect them for that. I have no issue with this aspect of the movie's marketing strategy.

When the film came out in late October, and the job promoting it on Twitter was done, the tweeter - the brand - vanished. Friend and tweeter no more. Adios amigos.

You see, this is confusing, to me. Blurry.

Why?

Because when I cannot differentiate between a company marketing a product, and a friend, I have an issue.

I've seen other brands use social media to market to their audience in a more direct manner. They'll present special offers, discounts, sneak previews, reviews, contests. To me there's a big difference between this kind of open, honest advertising and the kind that involves pretending to be pals over tweets.

Something about it just doesn't sit right - the sneakiness of it, the dishonesty of behaving like a friend, holding real conversations about people's families, building fake relationships. All in the name of profit, not friendship.

I guess for me, advertising and friendship are two things that can never be combined.

But that's just my opinion. What do you think?

Facebook for Pirates

I've discovered a new way to enjoy Facebook. A way that stops me from gouging my eyes out when I read so-and-so person I was friends with fifteen years ago's status update that says something like "Fifi is going to the mall to look for some curtain hangers and then might have a sandwich at the mall and then is going to drive home and have a cup of tea and hopefully it won't rain today because she wants to hang her laundry out and also...". Cut.

Yes dudes, I know there's a way of blocking people, or their updates or whatever, but honestly I don't have the energy or inclination to work it out. So, usually I just hold my breath and scroll through the rubbish to get to my actual friends' updates, which I like. Because they're my actual fiends.

Anyway. The other day, I found a way to like Facebook. It happened by accident. Our computer malfunctioned and when I logged on to Facebook, everything was written in Pirate talk.

My profile said. Th' saucy wench Sarah be usin' Ye olde Facebook with the tongue o' English Pirate.

I knew immediately I was going to prefer this way to the old way.

What be troublin' ye? It asked me.

I be findin' this 'ere Facebook mighty vexin' like a son of a biscuit eater... I replied.

What be troublin' ye? It asked again.

I been a swashbucklin' with wenches all day and still there be no booty to see...

What be troublin' ye?

I done run out o' things pirate to say to ye now so get ye to the plank ye rascal scallywag.

Then it told me 15 shots o' rum ago, Cap'n Simon has had one too many.

This be pleasin' to my eye! I clicked in approval.

35 shots o' rum ago, Lady Brenda... likes her husband's meatballs.

Arrr! I clicked.

Thar be more... It said.

It asked me if I wanted to Scrawl upon 'er plank in reference to a long lost colleague. Much better than poking her.

Image from timtim.com

Unfortunately I'm incapable of letting go of things I'm amused by, and so continued my pirate renditions at bedtime. There was at least twenty minutes of smutty pirate jokes. Which apparently was a painfully long time. J told me my pirate accent was not a turn on because I sounded kind of like an English farmer from the West Country. Which - what the hell?


To turn Pirate English on, go to the bottom left of your Facebook page, click English (US or UK), and switch to English (Pirate).

Lady Mama's Résumé

It's been a long time since I've looked at my résumé. About five years. When I finally retrieved it from my hard drive the other day, I chuckled at the ambitious words I used to describe myself, the long list of skills and achievements, the many many jobs, the blow by blow account of my education. Really fascinating stuff.

Then I tried to re-write it, to bring it up to date. This is what I really wanted to write.

*************************************************************

Lady Mama's Résumé

Background

Started as corporate ladder climber, schmoozing clients (getting them drunk), wowing bosses with amazing business-winning talents (cleavage), strutting around with important looking documents (gossip rags wrapped in fax paper).

Then took short hiatus in career to raise children. Expanded vocabulary to include words to Dora The Explorer, developed amazing strength in upper arms from carrying babies and toddlers around all day, grew extra pair of eyes in back of head to catch children trying to pour nail varnish over dog - very useful for paying close attention to detail.

Skills

Fast worker: I can change a diaper in thirty seconds flat. Beat that.

Multi-tasker: I can cook dinner, wipe down surfaces, vacuum, hold a baby, talk on the phone, drink wine and email all at the same time. Impressive huh?

Efficient: I have honed my domestic skills to that of a 1950's housewife. Dinner on the table, house cleaned, slick of lipstick, children sweet and happy and ready to welcome daddy home. Yeah that one was a lie.

Not deterred by hard work: I have been up to my elbows in poo and pee and remained as steadfast as a soldier. Also, I have gone for months with no more than three hours of sleep at a time and still been able to recite the words to all the songs from The Sound of Music (my husband loves when I do that).

Positive attitude: I am as bright and breezy as a sunshiny day every morning when my kids force me to get up out of bed at 7 a.m. with their yelling.

Strategic thinker: I've devised a number of mummy-needs-quiet-time hiding places around my house: in the bathroom, in my closet, behind the couch, or in the laundry hamper if I curl up really small and don't move.

Salary expectation

If you give me a quiet office, an endless supply of coffee, a lunch break, and pay for childcare, I'll do it for near free.

References

Matthew or Oliver.

*************************************************************

Remembering them

I love these old photographs of my grandparents, taken during the war (WWII).

My Grandfather. Unfortunately I never met him, but I've heard
he was a wonderful man. I just know that I would have loved him lots.

Nana and Granddad on their wedding day.
I still miss you and think of you every day Nana. x

My Grandfather in Italy, 1946.

Marching Wrens (where my Nana served).

Today I remember those I knew and those I did not and those who died sacrificing their lives for our freedom.

You are not and never will be forgotten.

Domestically Deceptive

When it comes to household chores, I like short cuts. I detest housework and would rather spend my spare minutes emailing, blogging, twittering or googling things like "can I train my dog to make coffee?". And though I love taking the time to cook a proper dinner, it's sometimes too much work at the end of a long day.

So I thought I'd share some of my short cuts with you.


Pimp your food: Montreal steak seasoning.

Image from www.simplyorganicfoods.com

This product has saved dinner time from a drab death on a number of occasions this year. When I have lacked energy or inspiration, I've used steak seasoning on almost everything - chicken, beef, fish, vegetables. Add a side and, done.

I spent all day making this: Pasta sauce in a jar.

Image from www.formaggiokitchen.com

I always, without fail, have a bottled tomato sauce in my cupboard. If all else fails, I dump the jar over some pasta, make a quick salad and whamerelli - dinner.

It's-a not so bad, it's-a nice-a place: Frozen pizza.

Image from www.oetker.ca

Frozen pizza. So lazy and naughty, and yet so easy and tasty. That's why I figure that pizza with spinach, really, is a winner all round. It has spinach on it for gawd sake. Enough said.

Pong be gone: Lemons.

Image from beautifullyused.com

I always have lemons in my fridge. If I've been handling raw fish, I squeeze some lemons straight onto my hands, or straight onto any surface or even into the garbage and the smell is gone. Shazaa.

Grease your parts: Olive Oil.

Image from www.plomaricity.gr

I hate dry skin and am obsessed with always having hand cream and lip balm nearby. Especially in the kitchen where I'm washing my hands every other minute. My husband thinks I'm OCD but that's another story. If neither cream or balm are available, I use olive oil and it works very well.

Are you staring at those deodorant marks on my top? Baby wipes.

Image from www.greenbeginnings.co.uk

There's a reason to lug baby wipes around in your bag, other than bottom/face/hand wiping. Baby wipes miraculously remove those bastard little white streaks that appear on your clothes when you're frantically trying to get dressed before your deodorant has had time to dry because your kids are attempting to murder each other and the dog.


None of the pimping of products in this post was paid for in any way, shape or form.

This is why I don't shop with other people.

On Saturday J and I were presented with a rare opportunity to go out for the morning alone. Just us, no kids. And since we're about to enter the next phase of house renovations happy fun times, we decided to go in search of a new a sofa.

J and I have similar taste in furniture. We studied design at the same university in London and we share a love of modern, graphic prints and simple, clean lines. So usually, we're on the same page when it comes to furniture.

Usually.

But on Saturday I wasn't in the mood for modern. As we circuited the glossy showroom with its angular chairs and contemporary fabrics, all I could think was, bachelor pad bachelor pad bachelor pad. Not, family living room with kids and dogs and spills and tears and curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book.

Damn suburban life - ruiner of good taste and style.

"I don't like anything."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all."

As we trekked around various other furniture stores, what followed was a string of stubbornness, pouting, sighing, shuddering, laughing, stomping. (All J.)

Here's the thing. I love shopping. Doesn't matter what for - clothes, shoes, coffee tables, books, earthenware casserole dishes, handbags, salt and pepper shakers, plastic containers - whatever. It's always the same contented feeling that results. The rush of satisfaction that the shiny new thing is mine. Mine! (Cackling)


It's a warm fuzzy happy jolly time.

But you know what's not such a fuzzy happy jolly time? Me shopping with other people. When I shop with other people, I am a bloody nightmare on hissy wheels.

Why am I a nightmare on hissy wheels?

Well.

1. I'm a selfish shopper. I don't want to be considerate while I'm shopping. I'm considerate in all other areas of life. Shopping is My Selfish Thing.

2. I'm unwaveringly definite about what I like and don't like.

3. If the product I love doesn't fit my budget, I say bugger the budget and get it anyway.

So, usually I shop solo. It's better that way.

But the sofa was a joint decision. So we went back and forth, each presenting our case for the best sofa. The sales staff stood back and watched as we negotiated and haggled (with each other).

And then finally the skies parted and we agreed on a sofa. A beautiful sofa that fit both of our requirements: modern and comfortable. One movies can be watched on underneath blankets. One guests will sit on after dinner. One I'll curl up on in the evening to relax after a long day.

So in the end, we worked it out.

But I'm choosing the cushions and the throw. On my own. Ha.



***My husband read this post and would like to point out that the final decision was not, in fact, a compromise, that actually I got my wretched way, as usual. And he added that he's going to take my advice about blowing the budget and spend twice what we agreed on a TV for the basement. Um.***

Undisturbed sleep, I want to cover you in whipped cream and marry you.

A week ago I was more than tired. I was forgetting people's names. I was leaving keys in the front door. I was accusing my house of conspiring against me by hiding things I couldn't find. I began convincing myself it really was okay to wear white socks with black shoes because there were no black ones washed.

I had tried sleep training before and failed. On purpose, kind of, because my baby was my baby and I couldn't let go of his sweet needy cuddles. I continued giving in to his demands, two, three or four times a night, even though I knew my night visits were more about comfort than necessity.

Then my doctor asked me, matter of factly, what about you Sarah?

And I was like, huh?

She pointed to the cracks under the surface, sort of like the varicose veins you hope no one will notice.

Lately it's as though my brain cells have one by one been jumping ship with each sleepless night. And the thing is - I need those molecules of brainy goodness. Because I have two kids, a husband, friends, a life, interests, and soon, a career again. A career that requires brains for problem solving.

So, four nights ago, we put Oliver down in his bed, kissed him goodnight, and told him we'd see him in the morning. That night there were a few crying spells. Each time, we'd go in to check on him and make sure he was safe and warm. And then we left him.

And that first night, we slept. For SEVEN WHOLE HOURS.

Each night since then has been a little better, with less stirrings, and then last night - the fourth night, Oliver slept from 7 at night til 7 in the morning. Without a single peep.

Whoooooooooooooooooooo!
And again.

Whoooooooooooooooooooo!

Now I just need to make sure I don't get pregnant again any time soon.

The morning I agreed to do a TV interview

Yesterday morning at around 11:30 I arrived home from a playgroup, baby under one arm, diaper bag under the other, coaxing my toddler up the steps ahead of me. A normal morning.

Ignoring the mess I'd neglected to tidy earlier that morning, I put Oliver down for his nap and began simultaneously preparing lunch, calling my parents in England and checking email. Sometimes I am like wonder woman. Only without the super fit body. And the lycra leotard. And the super powers.

I noticed an email from a CBC reporter. He wanted to interview me about the H1N1 vaccine debacle. Minutes later I was on the phone giving him directions to my house, all cool and nonchalant, like, oh sure, I can do an interview for TV.

Um. What?

And then I realized I'd agreed to do an interview for television. In forty minutes. In my house - my house that looked like a nuclear disaster zone. No really. There were dishes in the sink, cereal bowls abandoned from breakfast beside spills of milk and rice krispies, toys and books on the floor, paperwork on every surface.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Why did I agree to this? Oh yes - sleep deprivation - I can blame that. Hahaha I'm insane.

So then I spent forty minutes tidying the house - obviously by tidying I mean shoving things into cupboards and drawers. I cursed a lot as I tidied. My toddler helped me by taking the things I had just put away back out and hurling them on the floor. And then he helped by emptying his juice box all over the sofa.

The reporter and camera man arrived and I was all ahaha, yes, I'm completely calm, everything's fine and my house is tidy and I'm not at all freaking out about being on TV.

And then, as I was getting my microphone attached, as if on cue, Matthew started yelling "HEEELLLP! HEEEELLP!" from his bedroom. (I had tried to put him down for a nap. What? No I didn't just lock him in his room - what kind of parent do you think I am?)

The interview was okay but I definitely won't be pursuing a career in television. You can watch it here.

Don't laugh! Okay laugh a bit.

Dear online thingies, I hate you I love you

Dear Twitter, please stop asking me to make lists. I don't understand why I need them. I don't have the energy to find out why I need them. I only just about made it onto Twitter in the first place. Please just let me Tweet in my own basic way in peace.

Dear Facebook, please stop telling me to poke people. I'll poke who I want, when I want. And by the way, when did you become so irritating?

Dear Google, please stop with the Waving. If I want to wave at someone, I'll wait for the mail man and wave at him from my window in my pajamas, even if it does scare the living crap out of him. In the mean time I'm happy not waving. And what the hell is Waving anyway?

Dear makers of the Cadbury TV ad with the eyebrow twitching kids - what the hell were you thinking? I thought the days of cocaine inspired commercials were left behind in the nineties? I think my feelings on the absurdity of this ad may generate a whole other post. But really, it's a royal pain in the ass to have to switch channels every time my eyeballs are assaulted by this atrocity.

Dear Lost, hurry up and be on already.

Dear Firefox, why does everything seem so difficult with you? I ask you to do one simple web manoeuvre and you're all "Oh I don't feel like it today. I'm a bit under the weather. I think I'll just take a break and have a cup of cocoa". That's it. I've had it. I'm defecting to Safari.

Dear Apple, I still love you. Don't worry, I will never defect to the dark side.

Sleep Training Round II

"Everything seems fine." Said the doctor, smiling at Oliver who was perched on the examination table tearing up the paper sheet and shoving the pieces into his mouth delightedly.

"Great." I said, beaming.

"And, he's sleeping through the night?" She said, nodding expectantly, as though this was a given.

"Um. No. Not even close." I said somewhat amused by the very thought.

"Oh. Oh! And he's nine months? Oh." She scribbled something on her pad. "So he gets up, what, once per night?"

"More like three or four times." I winced, recounting last night's bleary-eyed crib visits.

"Oh. You must be tired." She said eyeing me.

What is it that gave me away doc? The dark circles under my eyes or the fact that my sweater is on back to front?

"Yes. I'm very tired."

In fact, while you're here, would you mind holding my baby while I just lay down on this examination table so I can catch a few winks?

"Time to do sleep training." She said firmly, writing something else on her pad. I wondered if she was writing out instructions for me.

"Because you're tired, I can see. And you can't carry on like this, especially with two young kids to look after."

That was when I leaped up and roared "I'M TIRED WOMAN, NOT INCOMPETENT! I'VE DONE SLEEP TRAINING AND IT DIDN'T WORK DAMMIT! OKAY, HONESTLY, IT MIGHT HAVE WORKED BUT I WIMPED OUT... BUT ANYWAY, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO? ROAR."

Okay I didn't roar any of that. Obviously. I'm British after all.

I nodded in agreement.

Because my doctor was right. Her words, though obvious, simple, were true. I have resisted sleep training, but now I need to sleep. Tonight. So that I can rejoin the land of conscious, alert people.

So, wish me luck as I embark on sleep training round II. For reals.

And then I promise to stop banging on about how tired I am and write about something else.