The five ways I’ve ruined BlogHer ’12 before I’ve even arrived

If you don’t blog regularly (or at all) you might not know about the big BlogHer conference next week.  It’s a place where bloggers – famous and unknown – get together in person to share ideas, cultivate business relationships, and solidify online friendships.  And I’ve already ruined it.  How, you ask?

1.  My name.  Parents decision becomes my problem.  My name is Carinn.  It’s not Karen.  It’s not pronounced like Karen.  It’s closer to Corinne, but that’s not quite it either.  Curren?  Ca-Rinn.  Since I don’t even really know how to pronounce it, I will end up saying it not once but twice on our first meeting and several more times over the course of the weekend.  So don’t feel bad about asking again.

2.  My blog name.  Totally my fault.  Welcome To The Motherhood.  It captures the theme of my blog for sure.  As in, Welcome to the Motherhood, bitches.  Prepare to be cold-cocked.  Axl Rose is singing in the background.  It’s perfect for high drama, not so great for introducing yourself at conferences. There also happen to be roughly 20,000 versions of the same ‘hood concept (minus ten points for originality).

3.  My Twitter handle.  I have no problem with the one I chose.  It’s both cute and practical – @MamaHasSnacks – like your favorite pair of ballet flats.  But it doesn’t directly connect to Welcome To The Motherhood – which was too damn long for Twitter (that should have been my first hint?).

4.  I’m a Newbie.  Not just to the conference but to the entire blogging world.  I envision this conversation happening about 6,843 times:

Me:  Hi, I’m Carinn.

Fellow blogger: <blank stare>

Me: Online I’m Welcome To The Motherhood?

Fellow blogger: <blank stare>

Me: I tweet sometimes @MamaHasSnacks

Fellow blogger: <blank stare, increasing discomfort>

Me: how ’bout that swag?

Fellow blogger: ah, yes!  Swag!  LOVE.IT.

5.  I’m clueless – especially about swag.  Every post keeps telling me I need to have a separate suitcase just for all my swag.  What are we talking about here people?  Some T-shirts?  Samples of dog food?  A new toothbrush?  Q-tips?  My guess is that yogurt and sausage links don’t travel well, so what do I need an extra bag for?  You see, I don’t know shit about swag.  What I do know is that my family of four lives in less than 1,000 sq. ft and if I come home with a suitcase full of foam fingers and clap sticks my husband is going to kick me out.

I’m thinking I should just stay home and hug my pretty new business cards for comfort.  There’s no hope for someone who has already sabotaged her experience before she’s even arrived, right?

Anyone else having intense anxiety over BlogHer’12?  If not, please share your tips and advice for playing it cool.  I need all the help I can get.

Wordless Wednesday (the celebrity edition)

Yes, that’s me and Ed Burns

Once I am done being star struck, I hope to be able to write the bizarre chain of events that led me from a bookstore, to a trip down memory lane, to an exclusive rooftop party, to a glimmer of my wildest career dreams, to THIS…

(note: he’s the nicest guy too!!)

(note2: this was a group picture and I have cropped my friends out who did not want to be featured on my blog.  It’s not a prom picture!  Didn’t I already tell you he was nice and town to earth?!?!?  Not to mention married to the phenomenal Ms. Turlington).

The games we play

We rode the train from Florence back to Venice in silence.

It seemed like a really great idea, I consoled myself.

Ian’s gaze was fixed somewhere out the window, out of our train car.

This two-week trip to Europe was our farewell to east coast living.  It had been 11 days of pure perfection.  Zurich, Rome and Venice – each place more amazing than the last.

Until we arrived in Florence.  Florence underwhelmed.  Ian (new husband-cum-tour guide) took it personally.  After a single night I sprung it on him:  let’s go back to Venice.  His panicked face betrayed his response.

“Ok, sure,” he said, not wanting to disappoint me.  His wife.

Marriage.  I thought it meant we were free – free to show our true selves, secure in the knowledge that someone chose us, someone loved us.  Our game of musical chairs was over.  He thought it meant we were bound – bound to our plans, bound to our commitments, bound to the version of ourselves that stood on that altar.  Our game of truth or dare was over.

It wasn’t Venice that made him nervous, it was my expectations.  You see, we already had a plan.  Hotel reservations, dinner recommendations, dog-eared pages of Rick Steves’ knowledge.  Why was I threatening all of it now?  His eyes searched the Italian landscape, desperately looking for clues to understand the woman-with-a-new-name sitting next to him.

The early days of our marriage became a two-player Jenga match, and as far as Ian was concerned, this suggestion to ditch Florence was consistent with my strategy.

In January: “Let’s get a puppy!”

I slid a piece out from the center. 

In February:  “You should quit your legal job and try out the business side of entertainment!”

I knocked out a bar down low in the middle.

In March:  “Let’s move from New York to Los Angeles!”

I removed a corner piece.

Now, in April:  “Let’s go back to Venice!”

Steadily I had been deconstructing the lives we built while dating, daring it to grow higher on its new and unstable foundation of untested vows.  I hoped each bold move we made together would make us stronger, but he didn’t care much for my mercurial tactics.

The train conductor announced our imminent arrival while our virtual Jenga tower wobbled from side to side.

“La prossima tappa di Venezia” he called.

It’s always the smallest move that makes the tower fall.









Are you happy now? I chided myself.

We will have to start all over again.


The summer series on Yeah Write is winding down and voting has been implemented.  If you are so inclined, click through the icon below to vote for me and two others.

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I’m here (and there) for you.

You guys know I am totally here for you.  My posts are as raw as your nursing nipples, as transparent as those mesh “underwear” they send you home from the hospital in, and as real as that streak of poop on your shirt.

So I present you with three newborn lies I’ve heard recently that I just can’t let slide:

1. Lie:  Babies sleep 20 hours a day.

What we hear:  newborns are easy.

Truth: if by “a day” you mean, “in 48 hours” that sounds about right.  Also, 18 hours of that rest will be in your arms, which brings me to my next point.


2.  Lie: that exersauser/swing/playmat saved my life!

What we hear:  this contraption will buy you a luxurious hour to shower.

Truth: it will buy you exactly 8 minutes to wash your face, brush your teeth and pull a comb through your hair.  Just as you set your bread in the toaster the crying will resume.


Photo credit:

3.  Lie:  I threw little Maddox in that sling/carrier and brought him everywhere!

What we hear:  you will be able to get all your errands done in a timely manner — and even a pedicure — if you get this thing.

Truth:  after you get over the absolute certainty that you are suffocating your child, you will have spent $317 on eight different carriers, the best of which gets you through the line at the post office.

There you have it my friends.  Once again, breaking down the lies one by one and telling you all the details of this thing called motherhood.

As the title of this post suggests, I am also “there” for you – and today that’s over at Skinny Mom (no, it’s not a site for twigs, it’s for real moms trying to figure out how to balance life and kids), giving you the “skinny” on my blogging experience.

I implore you to stop by and leave your comment on my Skinny Mom interview.  Here’s hoping you see me in a different light (something bright and soft, not like the harsh spotlight I use over here).  I can’t wait to hear from you!

Aspiring Mom-ager

Yesterday we had a long day of playing outside; running through sprinklers and swimming in the pool to beat the excruciating heat.  After bath time, Chloe sat on the couch in her diaper, sucking her thumb next to me.  I cuddled her closer, taking in the scent of chlorine and soap that lingered on her baby fine hair.

As I looked down at her sweetly, I thought, “she could be a model.”

Mom thinks daughter is beautiful.  So what?  Something in my gut warned that this thought came from a seedy place.

I listened as the inner dialogue continued.

“Those lips, that skin, those eyes. She is gorgeous.”

“It’s good that she hasn’t lengthened out to the full toddler look yet.  And with that bald head…”

(in unison) “…she could totally win younger roles.”


Brilliant idea coming…

Screw the law, screw writing, that conversation makes me think I’ve got what it takes to exploit manage the natural talents of my baby girl!

To prove it, I reveal my most recent to-do list:

1.  Change her name to Khloe just so I can say, “yes, that’s Chloe with a K.  She’s an aspiring Kardashian!!”

2.  While dancing to her favorite song, remind her to “make eye contact with the judges, um, grandma.”

3.  Admit she already thinks this is a real lullaby:  “Twinkle twinkle you’re a star, how I wonder what new car, I will buy with all the dough, we rake in from your one-baby show.”

Twinkle, twinkle sex tape star…wait, that’s a different version.

4.  Express my outrage over the gap between Toddlers and Tiaras and 16 & Pregnant.  What’s she supposed to do between the pageants and teen pregnancy?

5.  Start calling now to secure sponsors for her 2nd birthday party.  #1 on the list?  Elmo Neil Lane (after five shameless seasons of the Bachelor, he has to be close to this right?).

6.  To ensure #5 happens, work on a pitch for “My Super Sweet Second Birthday” featuring the big reveal of her final gift:  a mini motorized Mercedes.

Image courtesy of
Exploitation idea, all mine.

7.  Replace the milk in her bottles with Red Bull so she can power through the long and grueling audition days.

8.  On my speed dial:  the entire TMZ directory.

9.  Pad her diapers in the back.

10. Rejoice at my baby’s baldness because it means she can book jobs for infants.  √

Oh, and how about the photos that followed?

Crawling, genius! You look not a day older than 8 months!

Yes! Love the doe-eyed look!

I know I have some big Louboutins to fill (*cough* Kris Jenner), but do you think I have what it takes to be a star mom-ager??


It’s almost wrong to joke about that face.

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