Archive for the ‘Borrowed Posts’ Category
I should’ve moved this post over from my old blog a very long time ago, but I forgot about it until the topic came up in a mamapreneurs group I belong to. I was young in the toddler belts realm back then and didn’t know any better, but I should’ve. This was originally posted June 10, 2009.
I feel like such a fool. I am disappointed. Beyond disappointed really. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t write this post because a) I will look like a fool to everyone else, b) I should have known better. You be the judge… (all names have been omitted or changed to x’s to protect all involved…well except me that is.)I couple months ago, I got on a website to help me get contact info for celebrities. My hope of course was to send Dapper Snappers to these people and either have my product spotted on their children or at least have something from them saying how wonderful they think my product is. I still haven’t sent any out…ugh. Anyway… I saw the Celebrity Gifting Opportunities and thought, Hey! This could work. I send them product and for a nominal fee I get the opportunity I’m hoping for…right?I contacted the celebrity gifting company and got caught up in the excitement of gifting an Anonymous celebrity (no, they wouldn’t tell us who it was for – just adding to the suspense) who was expecting a baby boy. I did the works with customizing and quadruple checking quality of the Dapper Snappers. I sent special packaging with it and a self addressed stamped envelope with nice blank note card so they could write back those words I longed for (I just LOVE the Dapper Snappers! Thank you so much!!! etc). And I paid the not so nominal fee of $75.00 that I really couldn’t afford, but I was taking a gamble. Anyone who knows me, knows I do not gamble…ever.The possibilities were endless. I just didn’t think about the other extreme “possibilities”. So imagine my disappointment today when I finally got my note back, and it was signed by some guy I’d never heard of. I looked him up and he’s one step above an extra. He’s not even a B-list celebrity. I feel cheated, misled, and stupid.What was I thinking? I won’t put a quarter in a slot machine, but I give this company $75?I decided to write an email. I haven’t sent this email yet and am not sure it would even do any good. When I started the email, I was very angry. I rewrote it until I came across as more sensible and understandably upset. Hubby said it sounds like I’m acting as an upset mom and not a business. I’m not sure it matters. They didn’t make any promises other than I was guaranteed a response. I have no legal recourse. All I can do is be angry.Here’s the email. Again, name’s protected, etc.————————Mxxxxxx,I received the reply today. Who is Sxxxx Txxx? I thought all the secrecy was because it was an A list celebrity. I can’t use his autograph for anything. I basically wasted $75 and product for this note back to me:Toddler Tech,Thank you for your lovely gift.All the best.Cheers.Scribbled autographThat is unacceptable. I, like other product-based businesses that gift celebrities, had hopes that Dapper Snappers would be given to someone well-known, and that maybe someday their child would be spotted wearing a Dapper Snapper, thus promoting my brand, and of course all the wonderful success that follows a product spotting. I also had hoped for a better response (something I could use immediately on my press page) than “Thank you for your lovely gift.” It doesn’t even mention what I gave him. I am so disappointed.No one knows who he is. I can’t even find any information about his family, or any new baby boy. Your service has done nothing for me but waste my money. I feel like such a fool.Needless to say, I won’t be doing business with your company again.Sincerely,Michelle————————So I am a fool. It was a dumb thing to do. I am going to go kick myself for a while. And maybe pout a bit. Yeah…pouting sounds good. Sigh…
Remember way back when, in grade school (elementary, primary, what-have-you), playing “Telephone”? It’s amazing how saying something like “Did you have all your meals?” can turn into “Do you wanna hear me moo?” (Huh Honey?! LOL)
Some time ago, I wrote copy for Dapper Snappers toddler belts to better explain how these kids belts work. It’s amazing to see the translations that copy is in now (Spanish, French, Korean, etc). What’s even more amazing? When someone uses Google Translate to translate that same copy back to English. You would think someone would have proofed this:
Special Price Dapper Snapper Baby & Toddler Adjustable Belt (Hot Pink)
Fix Droopy Drawers in an instant! It’s not often you find the slim pants that fits your child’s life. Each often, the length of the pants is perfect and life is too great, causing Droopy Drawers. Until recently, options were limited to a belt that bulky diaper changes and potty training almost impossible adjustable belt or pants that cost twice as much as normal trousers. With fast as children grow, they could afford it? Now, with Dapper Snappers, while those falling drawer is a breeze! Dapper Snapper is composed of a short piece of flexible hinge with snaps that fit into the back loop 3 pants and grabs the child out 2 loops to cinch the pants and prevent them from falling. In a sense, Dapper Snappers are some belt child. If you are looking for a child seat belts, belts for children, boys belts, belt or a child, we are sure to find Dapper Snappers are the best choice!
Thanks to Google Alerts, I had this little gem delivered to my inbox. I needed a good laugh! Hope you had one too!
PS. Check the star rating! AWESOME!!!
This post, while not about Kids Belts (oh c’mon, you know I had to), is hysterically funny. It also happens to be written by my favoritest blogger in all of the world whom I love and have a blog crush on, San Diego Momma. She is a fantastic writer, and I would swear that I = her + meds – writing talent (the math looks more difficult that it is. Go ahead. I’ll wait). Oh, and we look nothing alike. But we share A LOT in common, more than she knows.
Anyway, back to the post. I found this so funny that I had to post it here. Of course I have her permission silly!
A Charming Thanksgiving Tale by San Diego Momma
I walked into Jimbo’s, armed to the gills with my new turkey knowledge, ready and confident to order a bird that would adequately feed 12 adults, four kids.
“One pound of turkey per adult, one-half pound per child,” I repeated over and over like a neophyte’s mantra. “I can do this, I can do this….”
I held my head high as I sauntered to the refrigerated meat section. I would pretend that I knew what I was doing, and people would believe me.
But as I eyed the vast mountain of turkeys, trussed and wrapped, I began to lose my nerve.
The magazine said to buy fresh, right? I asked myself. And organic? Nothing like an organic turkey, that’s what the article said, didn’t it?
“Mom?” My six-year-old goth daughter interrupted my reverie. “Are those frozen headless babies?”
“No of course not!” I quickly answered. “What would make you think such a thing?”
I took stock of the fat turkeys with their bulging tummies . Well now that you mention it…
“Can I help you?” The butcher made his way around the counter. “Any questions?”
I had this, I could do it. I didn’t need help. I’d read my Cooks Illustrated all night.
“So…it’s one pound of turkey per adult and one-half pound per child, right?” I repeated just to be sure.
“How many you feeding?”
I told him.
“You’ll need at least a 20-pound turkey.” He patted his portly stomach.
“What? According to my calculations…” Boy, did I sound lame. Even to myself. “I need a 14-pound turkey.”
“You got some big eaters in that family? Because 14 pounds isn’t going to do it.”
I mentally scanned the guest list. I guess maybe there were some big appetites in the bunch. But wasn’t Joe on a diet? And Susie never eats more than a bite of anything. But then again, I’ve seen Bob take two plates or more…
“Miss?” The butcher asked, waving his hand in front of my eyes.
“Right. Well…I suppose we have a couple of big eaters…”
“Twenty pounds?” I repeated.
“At least.” He pointed to the meat case. “I don’t think we have a 20-pounder in there. Let me go in the back.”
I waited. Twenty pounds? Is he sure? I know he’s the meat guy, but 20 pounds sounds like an awful lot. He does do this for a living though, he would know. But what about what the magazines said? I’m just going to tell him I’m going with the 14.
But it was too late. He came out with a box, wrapped and ready to go. “Nineteen-point-three-six,” he told me. “Best I could do.”
I nodded. “Is it fresh? Organic?” I tried desperately to sound like I knew what I was doing.
“Yep.” He put the thing in my cart. A humongous Artic baby.
Next thing I know I’m at the cash register. “That’ll be fifty-five dollars.”
Are you freaking kidding me? Weren’t these things just on sale at Vons for seven bucks?
I handed over my debit card. It sucks to not know how to buy, prepare, and cook poultry.
I took the thing home and stuck it in the garage fridge. I didn’t want to see its massive girth for awhile.
Now what? I asked myself as I once again scanned 25 recipes in quick succession. Brine? Marinate? Grill? Roast? Bake?
My cell phone rang. “Nan and Mo said they’d deep fry your turkey if you want,” It was my friend Gloria.
“Really?” I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Yeah, they’ve offered to deep fry people’s turkeys since they have all the stuff and the fryer will be set up.”
“Does this mean I don’t have to do a thing with the turkey?” My heart began to swell with relief.
“Other than inject it with marinade, nope.”
She told me what I had to do and next thing I know, I’m at the grocery store buying a giant syringe for my giant baby turkey.
“Don’t forget to take the giblets and turkey neck out,” she told me later. “The turkey usually has bags of innards stuffed in both its ends, so take those out.”
“BAGS OF INNARDS? BOTH ENDS?” What is with these turkeys?
“OK,” I mumble. “I won’t forget.”
So the night before Thanksgiving, my husband and I wrestle the turkey to the kitchen counter and prepare to shoot it up with some lemon-garlic mixture. “Hold it still!” He demands, trying to slip the plastic needle into the turkey’s thigh. Marinade spurts everywhere.
“Don’t forget the breast!” I remind him. “That’s the most important part.”
He shoot-spurts some marinade into the general breast area. I look closer. “I don’t think that’s the breast.”
“I know breasts!” He chastises me.
“No honey, look. I think that’s the turkey’s back.”
“It’s the breast! Look at the divet! Those are two breasts!”
“Those are vertebrae!”
“What?” Our conversation lost its sexy momentum.
“I forgot to take the innard sacks out!”
“Oh for God’s sake.” We both dug into the turkey’s head hole and pulled the neck out, along with a slippery bag of organs.
“Gross.” I say. “And we’re supposed to eat this thing?”
“We ready now?” My husband sighed. He doesn’t know how to prepare or cook poultry either.
“There’s supposed to be one more bag we pull out of the uh...” I poke the turkey’s butt, but it appears to be stitched up tight.
“There’s nothing there.” My husband began to inject more marinade into the vertebrae.
“No, it’s pouchy. There’s something in there.” I continue to pat and poke. “It feels bouncy, like there’s something in it.”
My husband tapped the turkey’s behind. “There’s no opening, honey. Nothing’s in there.”
By now, we were joined by our overnight house guests and soon we all crowded around the turkey’s butt, poking and prodding.
“Nope, nothing there.” My husband again picks up the syringe, but I’m not convinced.
Sensing my hesitation, our guest grabs a knife and makes a butt cut. I put my fingers inside the opening and pull out another bag of turkey parts.
“See?” I say triumphantly. “It had stuff in its butt!”
Our guests slink away.
“I think you’re right,” my husband admits, turning the turkey over with Herculean effort. “That was the vertebra.”
“Do you think we’re ruining this thing?” I ask. “Half the marinade is on the floor, the other half is in the turkey’s spine, and I just pulled a plastic bag out of our dinner’s ass.”
My husband would have none of it. “We’ve got 20 pounds of bird here. And by God, we’re going to eat it.”
“I’m not eating a baby for Thanksgiving!” My daughter yelled from the couch.
“It’s going to be good, sweetie. And it’s not a baby.” I look at the turkey. “Right?” I whisper to my husband who was wiping marinade out of his eye.
“Probably not,” he says while I survey the turkey’s split butt, its organs housed in little baggies strewn across our counter, and lemon-garlic marinade spilled on every available kitchen surface.
“Baby, baby, ba—beeee!” My daughter chants in the background.
“Honey?” I ask the vertebra injector.
He looks up, weary, defeated. “Yes?”
“Forget it” I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d just injected a the roll of paper towels we had set underneath the turkey. I smiled instead. “Let’s have tacos for Christmas.”
He looked at me gratefully. “As long as whatever we eat doesn’t weigh 20 pounds and have a butt.”
“…Or is a baby,” my daughter helpfully adds.
“Deal,” I say. Because I was too tired to argue and because if I can’t even fix a turkey, there’s no way I could cook a baby.