Jessica Gottlieb

I lied to a group of people for a prolonged period of time. I knew I was lying, many of them knew I was lying, and I would do it again.

It was the right thing to do. I am a liar.

In December of 2006 my friends and I told the hospital staff that I was the AIDS patient’s sister. We did so because his partner of 14 years had no legal rights without waving a sheet of paper in front of their faces every time he opened his mouth.

I am a liar. My Steven has been dead for two and a half years. For some reason I miss him terribly today.

I’d lie for him any day, but if California repeals Prop 8 you might make it easier on someone else.

You can stop worrying. It’s dug its own grave.

The Wall Street Journal published this article in April. Included in the article was this paragraph:

Blogger Jessica Gottlieb of Los Angeles accepted $250 to steer her readers to a recent Sears promotion: “For all you Moms like me who are having a mini (or maxi) meltdown due to the economy, let me give you the best tip ever,” she wrote. In the post, she is pictured wearing a $39 Sears dress.

Someone in Nebraska (I say someone because they don’t put their names on their editorials) spun it off to this:

The Wall Street Journal also reported that Internet entrepreneur Ted Murphy, CEO of IZEA, has arranged blog campaigns in which he offered bloggers money to write favorably about Sears products. Jessica Gottlieb of Los Angeles accepted $250 to promote a $39 dress, for example.

I’ve got thick skin, and I can take it on the chin every now and again, but I’m not able to do that any longer. That The Journal Star hires professional journalists and then continues on a path of mediocre reporting is shameful.

I’m not a journalist, but I know that real journalists and their editors fact check. Anyone in the world who wanted to find me would have a very easy time of it.

Here’s what’s wrong with the article, and it’s really only the tip of the iceberg.

• IZEA doesn’t ask for positive reviews. They never have.

• I was pictured wearing the Sears dress months before the campaign. It delights me to mix couture, vintage and discount items.

• I have never recommended a product to you that I wouldn’t want for myself.

It is clear to me that whoever wrote the article at the Journal Star needs a refresher class in journalism. I’d recommend Journchat on Twitter. It’s every Tuesday night and Sarah Evans does a stellar job.

I was on the phone with The Journal Star, but apparently it’s vacation time and they can’t do anything until Monday. Lucky me, I have no journalistic standards or integrity, I can do this.

*This post is neither sponsored nor endorsed by Twitter, Journchat, or Sarah Evans. It’s all just free stuff that makes Mommies a little bit savvier than reporters had hoped.

This morning there was a note in my inbox with a link to this story: What Kind of Mother Gives Up Her Kids? What do you think? She asked me.

I’m in a ridiculously bad place with our daughter away at camp, so the obvious answer is a bad one. This week’s news (please make it stop) is all about Michael Jackson and Debbie Rowe’s children, and as a mother watching Debbie Rowe. Well, I can’t make sense of it.

I can’t comprehend not wanting to be with my kids. I can’t understand not aching to be with them. I can’t make sense of women who want to work outside the home, because by noon I’m pretty much ready to get my kids out of school or camp or wherever they are so that I can hug and kiss them and play with them.

Oh, except for the days that I can’t wait to shake my kids. Like the day I hid in the bathroom pretending I had diarrhea so that I could finish up a novel, or the day I hid in my closet and told my husband I was cleaning it, but I took a nap. There’s the time I got out of the shower, naked with shampoo in my hair and packed the three of them to take a trip to Palm Springs. I just wanted to be alone in my house. I enjoyed that break.

There are days that I just want to pull on a pair of pantyhose and join the workforce.

So I’m wondering if Maria Housden is a bad mother, or if I’m just jealous, because she gets to live the life she wants, and seemingly her children don’t resent her.

Yesterday was the Fourth of July, and I spent a good bit of the afternoon cross legged on our daughter’s floor marking her clothing with a Sharpie.

Jane.

I wrote Jane on her socks, her toothbrush, her beloved skinny jeans and  a few tank tops. Then, I sobbed. Not like a little bit either, but the sort of sobs where you stop breathing for a moment and you think you might pass out. The sort of sobs that are typically reserved for a death.

Yesterday it felt like childhood died in my home.

Our daughter left for summer camp this morning. Sleep away summer camp. Summer camp that your Mom is not invited to. Summer Camp where you are responsible for what you wear, what you eat, making your bed and playing nicely with others.

She is fearless. She is ready. She was excited and joyful and fairly bounded out of my husband’s car, and toward the bus that would take her into the mountains of Southern California. The bus that would take her away from us. As she started towards her gaggle of friends I had a horrible realization.

Boys go to camp too.

I ran to catch up to Jane, grabbed her left arm and spun her around to look me in the eye. Her blue eyes sparkled and opened wide. I was panicked, she could sense it.

“Jane, there’s something I forgot to tell you.” I started urgently, “There are boys here, and there are going to be girls and boys holding hands and kissing. You are too young to kiss.”

“Oh Mom,” She began, but didn’t make eye contact with me, “Boys are gross.”

“No Jane, boys are not gross. Boys are wonderful and handsome and smart and they will make you feel wonderful. But you are too young to kiss anyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom, but really they’re…” she started to say gross, but I interrupted.

“Don’t lie to me Jane. We both know boys are great. Promise me you won’t kiss one.”

“I promise.” She met my eyes.

She ran off to join her friends, and I realized that I’d blown it. I tried to take what should have been months of preparation and cram it into 27 seconds.

Sometimes things like this make me feel like a horrible parent, but after dinner my husband confessed that he had given Jane the “child molester” lecture while taking her to the bathroom, it was just three minutes after I gave her the don’t kiss one. Most often I’m convinced that my husband is the better parent. Today we’re on equal footing. Squarely behind the eight ball.

It’s a quarter to ten and I’m wondering if my daughter is sleeping well. I don’t know what she ate for dinner or if she brushed her teeth before bed. I hope she uses the good sunscreen I packed for her on her face, and the spray on her arms and legs. I worry that she misses me. I worry that she doesn’t.

We’ve closed her bedroom door. We miss her, and although I love that my daughter is maturing into an independent young lady, the worst part of me wants her to need me a little more than she does.

I was on the phone last night with my friend Rose who sells stuff on eBay and… well, I’ll just share our conversation with you, and you’ll see why it’s so important to uphold Prop 8 and make sure gays can not ever marry.

ROSE: It’s amazing, almost all of my customers are gay men. It’s like they’re the only ones who have any money left.

ME: It’s a deep recession. Maybe even a depression.

ROSE: But the men have the money. I guess it’s because they don’t have kids.

ME: Kids are expensive. Divorces too, they cost a fortune.

ROSE: So, if gays can marry and have kids, they’ll run out of money.

ME: I think they can already have kids.

ROSE: Oh, but they can’t adopt.

ME: Are you sure?

ROSE: Well I don’t want them to, or they won’t buy my stuff.

ME: Oh, well in that case we should be very clear and make sure there is no gay marriage…

ROSE: or else they’ll run out of money too….

ME: because if they can marry they’ll divorce and…

Well, you can see where it went from there.

So, if you care about the economy even a teeny tiny bit, you’ll see that it’s very important to keep a segment of the population disenfranchised and just a little bit segregated.

But not all the way, because that would be mean. You can still pray for them.

I will.

I’ve got to admit, I’m a little intimidated by the size and scope of it. The conference looks interesting, and I’m excited to meet people who have given me windows into their lives. I wouldn’t begin to list them, lest I leave someone off the list.

Which brings me to this.

I’m going to the Social Luxe Lounge, Bowl Her and the people’s party. They seem inclusive and I’m looking forward to meeting folks.

Of course my phone has been ringing for the past three days with, “Were you invited to the ______ or the _____?” I hear it’s only 30 people. So folks, am I walking into High School again? Do the brands mean to exclude 500 people or are they really that interested in 30? Am I completely spoiled by the inclusiveness of the 140 Conference and Girls In Tech? Is my bubble about to burst, or was I just wearing blinders?

Here are the parties that seem to “get it”.

Am I off target and just too prickly? Cuz, it’s been known to happen.

Rules:

Sit your ass down to eat.
No, you may not eat anywhere but at a table, with a plate.
No, not even if your mom lets you at your house.
I make one meal, it’s always good.
If the food is better at your house, please eat there.
Chew with your mouth shut, I get nauseous watching you.
Say please and thank you, just always.
If your parents haven’t taught you to eat with a fork and knife I will teach you, but I will resent the hell out them.

And you?

I spent the day yesterday with my ten year old daughter and her ten year old  friend Ann. It was monumentally exhausting. It was a new sort of tired, the tired that comes from your core. The tired that makes you want to weep and sit in a corner.

The tired where you simply want to say, “Okay, I give up. I suck at parenting, and I’ll buy you all sorts of fancy crap if you promise to never ever speak again. Ever.”

That’s right. I want to bury my head in the sand.

My daughter wants a cell phone. She may not have one. It is not a fiscal issue, it’s a parenting issue. Jane is ten, and although she would love to be 15, she will simply have to wait. End. Of. Story.

Oh, not really, because Jane then explained to me that she’d be willing to accept a telephone in her bedroom. I told her I was okay with that. She wants her own telephone number.

Really?

I have to get a ten year old their own phone number? She has a laptop and an iTouch, really? Her own phone number?

I tried to steer the conversation toward using things like ichat and gmail to talk to friends, and the girls immediately started talking about the “lameness” of social networking sites.

“Club Penguin is so stupid that you can’t even enter a number.” Jane began.

“Oh but you can spell them out if you need to.” Ann replied.

Note to self: Check and recheck logs for Club Penguin

The girls then proceeded onto a long discussion about OurWorld.com and how they “deal with” people who ask them what their real name is.

Both girls were enthusiastic in knowing that a quick reply like, “can’t you see, my name is Username834.” Lets the other person know that you plan to remain anonymous. Really, how long can a ten year old outsmart an adult? Both girls knew it was imperative to report the user immediately.

I equate the internet with the mall. I’m showing my kids around, and teaching them safe habits. Unlike the mall, they’re needing these skills more than I’d hoped for.

My solution? No cellphone and the kids are on laptops. If I’m in the kitchen, they are too.

Right now, that’s what works. I want to give them some leeway, but we’re just not there yet. The telephone in the bedroom? I’m thinking yes. Perhaps we’ll tie it to school performance, a birthday or even as a bribe to not tell her brother about the tooth fairy.

There’s a lot of push and pull here lately. My kids want to be independent, and it would be cruel of us to not allow them some freedom. We are obligated to keep them safe.

Today I have more questions than answers.

Twelve years.

Our daughter made us parents and our son made us a family.

I’ve lived with my best friend for twelve years. I do, in fact, have it all.

I exercise a lot.

It’s not for the reasons you might imagine. I play doubles tennis just to have fun and move my body, but I play singles for one reason and one reason only.

Eggrolls.

I love fried food. I love it so much that I was 198 pounds when I was pregnant with the kids. I have the palate of a morbidly obese woman, so I exercise. With two hours of activity I reward myself with two eggrolls. I don’t really want to play a singles match, I’d rather play doubles and move a little less. I want the eggrolls, so I run a little harder. I play to win. I start planning my lunch sometime around the 14th game.

I also have a taco truck habit. I love the tortas and ceviche and a Mexican Coca Cola with the sugar and the tiny bubbles. I refuse to drive to a taco truck. My favorite taco truck is reliably parked on Mulholland Drive year ’round.

I run to the taco truck.

My running shoes make me slobber. I am Pavlov’s Dog.