Lessons from The Spaz: Why you shouldn't wait until the last minute to put up your tree

Today's post will be my final installment of Christmastime with the Spaz until after Christmas when I'm sure to update you about how all the craziness went down. So savor it. 

When I discussed this with one of my favorite friends, she said "So are you going to title this post Spaz vs The Tree?"

It would make a great title. But I don't think I can fully capture the fun that was our Christmas tree this year in a Spaz vs type of post so I'll just tell the story.

I'd like to preface this by letting y'all know that I am an expert tree decorator. I'm so darned good at it that my mom and dad commission me to decorate their 9 foot beauty every year. And every year they ooh and aah over it, so I know I'm good.

This year we planned to use the artificial tree we've been storing in the attic since the last time we used it a few years ago. You may remember my ambivalent feelings about it back in 2008 when it last made its appearance.  I warmed up to that tree nicely after we put ornaments and bows all over it and I decided it would do well for us this year.

So last week some time The Man brought the tree down from the attic and it has been sitting in the living room since then. Tonight the kids were all "Mommy, when are we going to put up the tree?" and "How will Santa know where to put our presents if we don't have a tree up?" and "All our friends have Christmas trees up."

So I was like "Quit whining or I'll tell Santa we're Jewish!"

And then we decided to put up the tree.

I opened up the box and discovered, much to the dismay of my little angels, that the tree stand that comes with the tree was missing.  We searched the attic (well I searched the attic... I typically don't let the kids go in the attic. Only when they're bad.) and found nothing. We searched the boxes and boxes of ornaments and other Christmas things. No tree stand.

So I unearthed the tree stand that holds real trees and attempted to prop it up in that.  It promptly fell over.  I wedged a towel in there with it in order to give the artificial tree stump some girth.  It fell over again, though this time not quite as promptly.

So I googled and discovered that Walmart carries replacement tree stands for just this type of predicament.  Goober and I jumped in the van and headed off to our local Walmart, 5 days before Christmas, in the hope of locating a replacement tree stand for our tree.

We parked the van in no mans land outside of the garden center at Walmart. Goober, carrying a fistful of pennies, nickels, and dimes that he called his "spending money", was hoping to score himself a new LEGO minifigure with all his change. He jumped out of the van and dropped about ten coins on the ground.  I took his change and traded him for some quarters I had in the van and he promptly dropped them on the ground, too. After I allowed my child to climb halfway under the van to retrieve all his change, we braved the Walmart parking lot, hand in hand.

Once inside I was mortified to find out that they were sold out of replacement tree stands. Evidently we're not the only people who somehow lose these invaluable parts to the tree. I was about to leave the store in defeat when I spotted in the far corner of the garden center a sign. It said "Christmas Trees - $17!"

And I was all "SWEET!"

So I dragged Goober, whining about his lack of minifigure, over to the real Frasier Firs wrapped up in their blue twine encasings and picked what appeared to be the best one. I tore the tag off that sucker and we went back into the store to locate said minifigure and pay for our new tree.

After we had paid, I grabbed that tree, put it under one arm ala Paul Bunyan, grabbed Goober's hand with my free hand and we made our way to the van. I felt quite "Independent Woman" carrying that tree through the parking lot like an Amazon Lady. Evidently Christmas trees aren't nearly as heavy as The Man has been leading me to believe all these years. I did get some odd stares from other Walmart patrons. But seriously, who were they to judge in their hot pink spandex pants and zebra striped tube tops?

I digress.

With a touch of a button I opened the hatch to the back of the van, threw the tree inside, and away we flew like the down of a thistle.

Upon arriving home, I filled our real tree stand up with water and securely fastened our new tree inside. We freed it from it's twine prison and watched as the tree dropped about half of its needles onto the floor.  As I attempted to fluff the tree out a bit more, even more needles dropped. It was as if it was raining needles in the house. Oh, the joy that is Christmas.

Munchkin and I then went about searching for the tree lights, which we located in a festive red and green plastic bin. They were a tangled mess, but I was feeling triumphant and strong and knew I could handle it.

Until I plugged them in. 

You guessed it.  Nothing.  We checked the bulbs, we made sure they were tight. We twisted, we tried a different outlet.  But it was to no avail.  We had no Christmas lights.

"We can have a tree without lights, Mommy" my sweet little Munchkin said as she looked up at me with her big blue eyes.

"Not for us, sweetheart. We shall have lights!"

So, after I washed the sap off of my hands and brushed the needles out of my hair, we headed off to Walgreens where we found an abundance of lights. (I had actually checked Walmart for lights when we were there thinking this might be an issue, but much like replacement tree stands, Walmart is sorely lacking in Christmas merchandise right now.)

Armed with four brand new boxes of lights, we were back in the van and determined to get our Christmas on. We sang to "Rockin Around The Christmas Tree" and "Jingle Bells" and "O Holy Night" all the way home.

But y'all, by the time we got home and I unwrapped those lights and put them on the tree, my Christmas cheer was depleted.  I looked at our pitiful needle shy tree and I exhaled.  I opened up the three boxes of unbreakable Christmas ornaments and I said to the kids "Go for it, guys."

And that was it for me. 

How to buy the perfect gift for mom on Christmas - Spaz style

This is the time of year we try to find gifts for those special people in our lives. We try to be thoughtful, try not to break our bank account, try to find the perfect thing that will let our loved ones know just how much we care.

Moms can be difficult ones to buy gifts for. If you do a Google search for "What to buy mom for Christmas" you'll come up with a plethora of ideas.

And I'll be the first to say that all those ideas are horsepucky.

HORSEPUCKY I SAY.

A massage. Mom doesn't need a massage. She doesn't have time for a massage. What day, do you think, can mom just whisk herself away to the spa for a Swedish rub down and a clay mask? NO DAY. That day doesn't exist. That gift certificate is going to be shoved in a drawer as a reminder to mom that she doesn't have any time off and it will expire before she ever finds that time.

Gift cards. Sure, this may seem like a great idea. Let mom spoil herself. Except chances are that mom isn't going to use this card on herself. It will go to buy Little Johnny a pair of shoes when he runs through mud puddles in the only pair he owns that are acceptable for school. It will go to purchase a birthday gift for some birthday party that her kid tells her he wants to go to on the DAY OF THE PARTY.  Maybe she'll be happy she has it when she finds herself in a bind, but if your idea is to have mom treat herself to something sweet, you're out of luck. Not going to happen.

Homemade gifts. Sure. Add that glittery Christmas ornament or macaroni art to the pile of other homemade gifts she gets throughout the year. Sure mom will put on her happy face and get all teary eyed when she opens her hand knitted sweater with one sleeve shorter than the other, but the only day she'll wear it is the day you give it to her - and it won't be out of the house.

Chocolate. Great idea. Give mom some more body issues and guilt about that gym membership she's been paying for all these years and never using. Hooray, mom can now feel remorse after eating her jumbo sized box of chewy chocolatey goodness while sitting on her jumbo sized ass. Thanks, sweetie.

Bath products. Listen, mom doesn't get to relax in that tub. She's in there noticing that the grout needs to be cleaned and that the hamper is overflowing. She's lucky if she gets enough time to shave her legs. Calgon isn't part of the picture and your smelly bath salts aren't going to do anything more than sit on the side of the tub looking pretty and being one more thing she has to dust.

Magazines. Oh yes, give mom a subscription to Good Housekeeping or Oprah. Now she has more crap lying around her house filled with articles that make her feel like she's not doing a good enough job. How does Martha Stewart make that perfect Cordon Bleu? Who cares?

If you want Cordon Bleu you need to take mom to a French Restaurant and pay for it yourself. Chic Fil A is not french, by the way. There had better be stuff on that menu you can't pronounce and a waiter you can't understand.

Here's some stuff that mom might actually use.

Noise cancelling headphones. Nothing says "I love you, mom!" like giving her a way to shut out the screaming and nonsense going on around her at all times. She's about ready to pop a nerve if she has to hear the carnage from another video game or the sweet sound of Selena Gomez filling the house. Let mom shut it all out to her own tunes with some headphones sure to keep the sweet sounds of Journey in her head and the wretched sounds of her ever-escaping youth out.

Clean up your own darned mess for once. It will bring absolute tears to mom's tired eyes if she wakes up on Christmas morning and there are no messes. Maybe you could even let mom sleep in on Christmas morning instead of waking her up at the crack of dawn so you can tear open the presents she was up until 2 AM carefully wrapping.

A month's supply of Red Bull or any other good solid energy drink. Mom needs to get moving. Sometimes a shot of gurana and caffeine and crack cocaine are just the thing.

Change her oil. Don't give her a gift certificate to get her oil changed. Take her minivan to the shop and have it changed. Pay for it yourself, not on her credit card. While your out, get it detailed. You probably spilled a soda in that back row at some point and she's too scared to go back there to clean it up.

Leave the house. But only if it's clean. That's right, everyone get out of the house for a few hours. Let mom enjoy her own space all by herself. Make sure she has a bottle of good Chardonnay at her disposal, a good book, and some chick movies on DVD. Better yet, get everyone out for the whole weekend and let mom take some time to do whatever she wants in her own home without having to do anything for anyone else.

Make her bed with nice clean linens and big fluffy pillows and then let her go to sleep. There's nothing mom loves more than freshly cleaned sheets on the bed and an uninterrupted night of sleep. Let her sleep until she wakes up all by herself. That might mean you have to be quiet in the morning and avoid fighting with each other for a few hours. I bet you can handle it.

Think out of the box. Mom doesn't want a framed photo of you or a foot massager. She wants a break that doesn't leave her filled with mom guilt. She wants to just not be the mom for a little while. She'll come back refreshed and happy and maybe a little less crazy.

The Elf on the Shelf is the creepiest thing since windowless white vans and that weird rabbit costume scene from The Shining

Apparently I'm a little behind the radar on the newest sensation of the blogosphere. But just in case you are, too, I knew I had to share.

People I Want to Punch in the Throat

This amazing little tidbit of actual reality is like a breath of slightly polluted air... and I love it. I haven't had the opportunity to read Jen's entire blog because I've got this silly little thing to attend to that I like to call work, but she is bookmarked and ready for me to enjoy at my next available opportunity to procrastinate.

If you have some time, I highly recommend the post that made her famous, Over Achieving Elf on the Shelf Mommies, and her latest post SOME Mall Santas. Guaranteed to make you laugh out loud and probably think "Oh thank GOD it's not just me."

Because as y'all know, I'm all about taking the rose-colored glasses of motherhood and not being afraid to let the world know that it's not all rainbows and butterflies up in here. 

I'm actually proud of Jen for even having an Elf.  It's December 20th and my tree is still not up so the sheer ambition it takes to have an Elf in the house and actually follow through with moving the Elf impresses me.  We don't have an Elf in the Spaz house because, frankly (and I know I'm not alone in this), the Elf creeps me the hell out. But if we did have one, I'm sure I'd forget to move him every night. In fact, I can almost bet I'd forget to move him most nights. My children think our house is on some sort of weird tooth-fairy rotation schedule for all the times I've forgotten to leave a buck under their pillows on lost tooth nights. 

But don't worry about that, y'all. The kids end up making out because I have such mom guilt about it that the tooth fairy pays double around here.

I'm sure if I attempted the Elf thing, that Sudo would either murder him while we all slept (how do you think Santa would take to his Elf's face being ripped off by our lovely Christmas dog?) or he would literally collect dust sitting on whatever shelf I put him on the first day he came out of the package.

"I don't know Goober. Maybe the Elf is so disappointed in your behavior that he can't bring himself to go back to actually tell Santa."

Whoever came up with this Elf concept is a genius. Far more of a genius than I am because if someone had approached me with this idea a few years ago I would have stared at them in shock and told them that not one mommy I know would dare to do this to their child.  Because the Elf horrifies me. The idea of a creepy little guy watching me inanimately all day long, coming to life the minute I go to sleep, magically flying to the North Pole in mere hours (from South Florida, y'all... I don't think so), tattling on me to Santa, and then making it back before I wake up.  The mere thought of it gives me literal heebie jeebies. 

Spaz vs Morning: fun for the whole family! Or not.

Last night I was up late working and writing up an investiture ceremony for our Junior troop to perform tonight (in my defense, I can share the procrastination on the last minute ceremony with two other moms) and didn't get to bed until an embarrassing hour of the morning. So my delirium when I was awoken by The Man this morning with one of those loving nudges that said "the dog needs to go out" only seven minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off began what I'd like to refer to as Spaz vs Morning.

Spaz vs Morning is a little game I like to play with myself. However the game goes really sets the tone for the rest of the day. Shall we tally up how the game went today?

Dog needs to go out 7 minutes before alarm is scheduled to go off:  +1 Morning
Spaz stupidly decides to lay back down in bed with only 2 minutes left before alarm is scheduled to go off: -1 Spaz
Spaz unconsciously hits snooze: -1 Spaz
Three more times: -3 Spaz
Spaz wakes up: +1 Spaz
At the exact time that the kids are usually dropped off to school so they have time to eat breakfast there: -1 Spaz
Munchkin is already awake: -1 Morning
There are no groceries in the house, therefore no grab and go breakfasts: -1 Spaz
Kids get dressed on their own with no help from me: +2 Spaz
Spaz throws cardigan and sweatpants on over  nightgown: -1 Spaz
Spaz finds 3 Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes in pantry to feed kids (and one for self): Draw
Goober drops his Little Debbie in dirt on way to car: +1 Morning
Spaz hands hers to Goober: Draw
Goober drops his 2nd Little Debbie in dirt on way to car: +1 Morning
Goober cries: +1 Morning
Family is in car with 15 minutes left to get to school: +1 Spaz
Flagger stops traffic for 2 minutes so some slow piece of construction equipment can cross the road, twice: +1 Morning
Get behind school bus that stops three times: +3 Morning
In drop off circle, chorus teacher pokes head in car to say good morning. She sees, incredibly messy van: -1 Spaz 
And nightgown peeking out from under cardigan: -1 Spaz
And hair that has mind of its own after going to bed with it wet: -1 Spaz
As Goober walks away, Spaz notices that his shirt is inside out: -1 Spaz
TOTAL: Morning: 7; Spaz: -8

I'm going back to bed. I need a do-over.

I wonder how many well-intentioned vegans have been driven to meat by the Tofurky...

In a follow up to my previous post, I'll report on how Thanksgiving went with my aversion to eating things that had parents or things that come from things that had parents.

It all started well enough. I decided that instead of just sitting at the table eating green beans and rolls while everyone else told me how wonderful the turkey tasted, I'd go ahead and make myself a mock turkey out of tofu. I found a recipe, made a grocery list, and almost bought all of it.

B2 and I went to the grocery store together and in the produce section next to the tofu was a Tofurky... already packaged and stuffed for $12.99. Since the kitchen was going to be a bit monopolized, we figured this was a great alternative and we added it to the cart.

I also purchased the ingredients for a vegan pumpkin pie and made it along with the regular pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and Jello Heath Bar Pudding Pie (which I hear was fantastic). I even attempted a coconut whipped cream topping for it, but that failed miserably. I'll have to try it again some other time.

The good news is the vegan pumpkin pie was fantastic. I even forgot to add the brown sugar and it was still delicious.

The bad news is that it would take a vat of cranberry sauce and four more glasses of wine to make that Tofurky edible. I sincerely apologize to Turtle Island Foods who makes the Tofurky Roast, because I know they have the best of intentions and I'm sure they did their very best to make it taste as good as possible.

But it is not tasty. The Tofurky Roast, in fact, was the one thing this Thanksgiving that truly made me want to eat meat. I don't know if it would have been better if I had made my own stuffed tofu roast... but I tell you this, I'm a lot more hesitant to try after taking a couple of bites of that Tofurky. I would venture to say that the Tofurky is the reason a lot of vegans don't stay that way.

It wasn't just the taste... but the smell... I can't even describe it. You'd have to go out and purchase one and smell it yourself. And I don't recommend doing so.

I wasn't a perfect vegan on Thanksgiving. I did not eat the turkey or the gravy (though I'm sure that gravy would have improved the taste of my Tofurky), but I did have some of B2's amazing stuffed mushrooms that contained sausage and I had a generous helping of the stuffing that my brother-in-law soaked in chicken broth. It was delicious like you can't imagine. I ate B1's mashed potatoes that probably have my arteries clogging as I type this and they tasted heavenly and I even put some cool whip on top of my vegan pumpkin pie since my coconut whipped topping was a failure.  Baby steps.

I have a month to figure out how I'm going to handle Christmas (the food of choice for Christmas in my family is a standing rib roast, potatoes cooked in heavy cream and garlic, and asparagus smothered in Bearnaise sauce... we keep paramedics standing by) and I'll spend some of this month researching recipes that I can bring along with me to share. Perhaps a creamy butternut squash soup? We shall see.

The Spaz questions Thanksgiving, her morality, & cranberry sauce

Over the past several years I've been an on again, off again vegetarian, vegan, pescatarian, etc. I go back and forth, struggling with my morality and my love of cheese and my hatred of my ever expanding ass. In the end I always come back to the fact that I don't like the meat industry. I don't like any industry that causes harm to any living creature. 


So where am I now?

I'm not going to try to classify myself. I guess I'll just say I'm doing the best I can. I'm trying to be mindful of what I buy, what I eat, and what my role in it all is. I'm trying to be honest with myself.

And honesty isn't always easy, especially when it's yourself you have to be honest with.


Every once in a while someone recommends a documentary or a website or something that reinforces my decision to try not to contribute to these industries. Someone posts a link or talks about it in passing conversation and I think to myself... oh no, I'm going to watch this or read this and I'm going to have more information and more moral dilemma.


Most recently it was Food, Inc. and Forks Not Knives. Both of these are incredible films that really have opened my eyes to what I'm really feeding my family and myself. They're also both available on Netflix and I can't recommend them enough.


In this time in history, we have so much education about food and the reality of what goes on in the meat industry. We have a wealth of information right at our fingertips about everything, really. It seems irresponsible to just shut my eyes and buy a package of ground beef at the grocery store when I know that I'm really buying a package of cruelty.

I hear people reason with me... or maybe with themselves... about how industry standards have improved or the cow doesn't think like you and I do or how all those films are sponsored by radical groups like PETA.

The industry is one that kills animals. Let's be honest with ourselves. They're not bringing Bessie into a nice, calm barn after she's lived a happy life grazing in the field and giving her a sedative so she falls into a happy, dreamy sleep before she's painlessly euthanized far away from any other cows that might witness the deed.

It's slaughter. There's a reason why they call it a slaughterhouse. It's scary, it's painful, and it's ugly.

And I really don't want to be a part of that.

I type this in the wee hours of the morning on the day before Thanksgiving. A day when I'll attend family functions where more than one turkey will be served, perhaps a pig, an overload of dairy products and probably a few chicken or cow parts thrown around, too. There was even talk this year about getting a Turducken. That's right. Why just kill one animal for our glutenous celebration when we can kill three and tie them all together!

And I'll be a part of it this year. I can't save the turkey that's being served at my in-law's or the one that's being served at my mom and dad's house. They're both already purchased and defrosting in a sink somewhere as I type.

This year I'll make pies. Pumpkin, Pecan, and Chocolate. And they'll contain evaporated milk and eggs and whatever they put in those Pillsbury refrigerated pie crusts.*  We'll top them with whipped cream and everyone will be joyous and merry.


What will I eat? I don't know. Perhaps I'll try to pick around and do the best I can with my options. Maybe I'll try to make a vegan pumpkin pie and top it with some coconut whipped cream. Perhaps I can find a couple of side dishes that aren't accented with bacon or heavy cream or cheese or italian sausage. There's a slim chance. I can have cranberry sauce, right? Or I might just have a couple of glasses of wine and dig in.



Maybe I'll try to bring a couple of vegan things along with me and hope that my family will give them a try and maybe, just maybe, not ridicule me too much for being "such a hippie" or just plain difficult.


It's not just outside of the home that I feel like I'm fighting the battle. It's within my own home, too. The Man is opposed to eating anything that doesn't involve things that had parents. Sure, he'll choke down a salad before his steak as long as it's got some creamy dressing, parmesan cheese, and bacon bits. He'll eat broccoli covered in melted cheddar. Asparagus? Bring on the Bearnaise sauce!


And the kids think they're being punished if they don't have cheese pizza, macaroni & cheese, grilled cheese, or cheeseburgers on a regular basis.


It's a constant battle. With the people I love and with myself.  The last time I really went for a long stretch without meat, I cried because I wanted a hot dog so badly it hurt. Of all the things in the world, it was a hot dog that broke me.


So I'll try again. I'll do my best and if I fail I'll just pick myself up and try again.


Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. I truly hope you have a wonderful day filled with family and friends and laughter and love and all that makes a holiday wonderful. I know I will.


*Partially Hydrogenated Lard - mmmmm... pig fat pie. I can't wait!

Mom and Dad wanted to say something

A bit of dialog from the first evening with my mom and dad after they've returned from their North Carolina home:

Mom: Beth? You know how you write about things you don't like? Well I want you to write about something. I want you to write about shampoo bottles. Why don't they write it really big on the bottle? I want it to say SHAMPOO in really BIG letters!

Me: So you don't wash your hair with conditioner?

Mom: YES!

Dad: No, you know what you should write about? How hard it is to find cranberry juice. Just plain cranberry juice. I ended up getting some blend of three different juices. At least it was all juice.

I'm so glad my mom and dad are home again. I missed them so much. :)

So much more than just praying hands

When I was a little girl I spent a relatively decent amount of time at my Grandma and Granddaddy's house. My Granddaddy was one of my favorite people in the whole world. He was always happy to see me and always had time for me. Even though he had 10 other grandchildren to love, whenever I was with him I felt like I was his whole world.

Granddaddy, much like my own dad, was a big story-teller. Being Catholic, my grandparents had a little statue of praying hands sitting on a side table in their living room.

I didn't know they were praying hands. I didn't know much about them at all, actually, so one day while Granddaddy sat peeling potatoes at the dining room table I asked him what that statue was.

Granddaddy smiled and told me a story of two brothers. The two brothers came to this country, poor as could be. They came here on a boat from a country far away and their dream was to make it in America.

Those brothers struggled at first. They were poor, hungry, and looking for work. They had no place to live and were dirty and slept out in the cold. In time, they both found jobs and worked hard to make something of themselves. They helped each other and before long, they both had successful businesses and homes that were warm and clean. They each got married to beautiful girls and had children who became great people.

In the end of the story those two brothers were so proud of themselves that they gave each other a high five. And that's what that statue was, their high five.

When Granddaddy died I was barely 9 years old and he was the first person I had ever known to die. It was unbelievable to me that he was gone forever. No more trips to Cumberland Farms to pick out ice cream from the cold case, no more being thrown on the bed over and over again until poor Granddaddy was exhausted but still did it "one more time" just to make me laugh, no more sitting in his lap as he watched one football game on the television and had another on the radio, no more of his stories, smiles, or laughter.

I remember so clearly my dad telling me that Granddaddy had died. We were sitting in my mom and dad's bedroom and I stared at him blankly and said "Okay" and left the room.

I went into my sister's old bedroom, which had been turned into a guest bedroom at the time and I sat on the bed with my back to the door and stared out the window. My mom came in and said "Honey, it's okay to cry."

But I couldn't cry. I couldn't even fathom it being a reality that he was gone.

Days later, after the funeral, my Grandma sat me down and gave me those hands. "Granddaddy wanted you to have these."

It was then that I cried.

I still have those hands, over 28 years later. They went with me to multiple apartments in college, home again, to my first home, and now to our home here. And every time I look at them I smile and remember his story.

The Spaz checks the calendar a few times and freaks the hell out

Last night as I was letting the dog out for his before bed pee, I looked upon our 4 bedroom, 2 bath ranch house with the minivan parked in the driveway and thought to myself "Holy crap, I'm a grown-up."

It's true. I really can't deny the fact that by my age I should be a grown-up. The odd thing is that I don't really feel any older than I did 10 years ago. I honestly just feel dumber and more frazzled.

Because it's true what they say about the older you get, the more you realize you don't know. 10 years ago I thought I had it all figured out. But the last decade has gone by so fast I feel like I should be nauseous from the ride.

I don't have a damn thing figured out.

In just a few months I'll be turning 35. I had to count back to make sure that was right, because it doesn't seem like it should be. 35 sounds like someone who should be accomplished, know where she's going, have a plan, a retirement fund, and an expensive watch.

Not I, my friend. Not I.

I'm nervous that the last 10 years have gone by so quickly, that the next 10 years might sneak by even faster and I could quite possibly still be sitting here with no accomplishments (besides the fact that I will then have raised three children to adulthood, hopefully with at least some mild success), have no idea where I'm going, no plan, no retirement fund, and most importantly, no expensive watch.

35 years old, y'all. What the hell?

The Spaz speaks out for moms EVERYWHERE!

From: Domestic Spaz (beth@domesticspaz.com)
To: info@draftfcb.com
Subject: Windex Commercials - here's a FREE advertising pitch from a real mom

Message:

To Whomever Decided It Was A Good Idea To Show A Mom Cleaning Up After Her Entire Family:

I'm a real mom of three kids in a messy house. I buy Windex. Never once has picking up a spray bottle of Windex Multi Surface ever caused time to stop so that I could merrily go around cleaning up all of the messes my family makes before they even hit the ground. In fact, the idea that it's the mom's job to clean up all the messes in the house is so overdone and irritating that it has caused mothers from around the country to convene on facebook and discuss how irritated we are with your ridiculous commercial.

And really? A commercial where a lazy ass man sleeps in a lounge chair while his wife washes the windows? Who runs this ad agency? Mr. Cleaver?

When y'all decide to run a commercial where those irritating birds look through the window to see a 15 year old kid saying "I use Windex Multi Surface cleaner to clean up all the sticky and nasty messes my self-entitled and irresponsible ass makes in the house that my mom and dad work their tails off to pay for. I love using it so much I think I'll clean up the rest of the house and still have time to do my homework and empty the dishwasher!"... well THAT'S when I and mothers across America just like me will be flocking to the stores to buy your products.

Sincerely,
Beth Hubbard
aka Domestic Spaz






PS: Upon further research, I discovered that DraftFCB no longer holds the SCJohnson (the makers of Windex) account. Ogilvy & Mather currently holds the Windex account. Perhaps their ads will be less misogynistic. :)