When Andrea and I started The Contest,neither one of us was a stickler for deadlines, response times, or firm rules.
As it turns out, this is a really good thing.
For me, anyway.
Remember my super-awesome post on Little Trees Air Fresheners? The one that didn't get a response, but who-cares-because-I-love-my-minivan-trees-no-matter-what?
Turns out, they did not technically get my letter. I may have accidentally sent it to the Ped Egg people instead.
Like I said. I'm not known for my vast organizational skills.
Anyhoo, the swell Consumer Relations guru over at Little Trees (we'll call her "Susan"...mostly because her name is Susan) got wind of my Shakespearean pros regarding their fine air fresheners, and wouldn't you know?
Yes, it's that time again. Time for results of The Contest! I got super-serious this week and wrote about a pertinent summer topic - flip flop feet. Did the Ped Egg people respond? Find out below!
Dear Ped Egg,
going to lie.When I first saw your Ped
Egg on a television infomercial, I laughed.How could a miniature cheese grater do all that?
I am not
several long summers spent in flip-flops walking to and from the local park
with three children, my feet were approaching elephant tusk status.Thick cracked skin and callouses frightened away
even those with the most steadfast of foot fetishes.My husband started encouraging me to wear
Too cheap to
pay for expensive spa treatments, I thought I would just have to accept my life as
a nasty-footed mom.Glamorous strappy
sandals were out.I longed to be one of
those people with more dainty and delicate feminine feet than myself…namely my
husband.So I decided to give Ped Egg a
After only a
few short minutes of gently rubbing the Ped Egg in the advised “circular
motion,” I saw PINK.I had not seen pink
or flesh-colored tones on the bottom of my feet in years.What kind of sorcery was this?
curiosity took over.What awaited inside
this magic foot grater?What remnants of
humanity lingered within?Hesitantly, I
cracked open the light blue plastic container and had a look.
It was practically fairy foot dust.
of rough and parched foot had been relegated to fluffy little bits of powdered
tootsies.I was breathless with
admiration.Pumice stones, loufahs, and
lotions could not compare to the instant results of the wondrous Ped Egg.I giddily tried on a pair of strappy heels I
had purchased pre-children (shoes that
had not seen the light of day for years).Right then and there, I decided to never, ever take them off again.
you, Ped Egg.Because of you, I finally
have prettier feet than my husband.Now
if you have something for stretched and dangling mom stomachs, I would owe you
Any company with a sense of humor to invent foot graters had to respond, right?
I totally scored a spare Ped Egg:
Thank you, Ped Egg. You're one-half kitsch and one-half the real deal.
Kinda like me.
This brings my score to 32. To check out the competition, visit Andrea HERE today!
The following appears in the August edition of Chicago Parent magazine It was inspired by my meatball-loving son who I hope will one day forgive me for not being much of a cook. Instead, I trust him to remember my many, many foot rubs. In the 1950s, famed psychologist Harry Harlow conducted a
series of attachment parenting experiments using baby monkeys.He crafted together wire mesh monkey
“mothers” with milk dispensers fastened to them.These were to serve as surrogate parents to
the monkey babies.
Harlow then tied a soft terrycloth rag around other wire
mesh monkey mothers who did not have food dispensers.Harlow found that during times of fear and
anxiety, the baby monkeys would cling to their soft terrycloth mothers and not
to the ones who actually fed them.
This landmark study sat in the back of my brain for over
twenty years before I realized its implications.
I am a terrycloth monkey mother.
There is no food dispenser attached to me.My children will never look back upon their
childhoods in relation to any elaborate meals or fresh-baked cookies from
mom.When my youngest son arrived home
with a recipe from French class, he asked if he could call my friend, Lucy,
because “she can cook, mommy!”My middle
son was undergoing speech therapy years back when he suddenly removed the
mother figure from a kitchen play-board.He immediately replaced it with the daddy figure, shaking his head
emphatically to indicate mommies simply do not belong in the kitchen.
Lest anyone think I starve the boys, there are a few basics
I have learned to make when my husband, who is a masterful cook, is at the
Did I mention Corn Flakes?
I hate cooking.I do
not follow directions.The smell of raw
meat is nauseating.My kids usually turn
up their noses whenever I do try a new recipe, mostly because of the whole “does
not follow directions” part.
My husband dedicated a lot of time early in our marriage to help
overcome my culinary deficiencies, offering patient guidance and
suggestions.Yet after almost a decade, the
man now doesn’t trust me alone with a knife and onion.
But I am cuddly.Whenever I sit down on our couch, three boys flank me within
seconds.I scratch heads, rub feet, and
offer unlimited hugs and kisses.I adore
holding hands.Sometimes, late at night,
I sneak into my children’s rooms to rock them for just a few minutes before
these days are gone forever.
I take consolation in Harlow’s findings that no amount of
terrycloth mother love can alter the psychological damage to babies once
deprivation occurs.Hug early and often
is the ultimate lesson of Harlow’s experiments.
This week's episode of The Contest contains my letter to the Little Trees air freshener people. I do believe I'm overdue for a new tree and car wash. Time to call hazmat.
Dear Little Trees,
you probably have a very good handle on the existence of stinky cars and the
wretched stenches within.You know the
kinds of odors I am talking about.The ones capable of bringing even the most steadfast of minivan moms to her
Smelly gym shoes
Moldy book bags
As the mother
of three sons, my sense of smell has been so horribly assaulted over the years
that I have often suggested to my husband we simply abandon our minivan and
start over.My husband’s response?
The minivan is only a few years old!We’re still making the payments.There is no way we are abandoning a car because
you think it smells like rot.
comes from a man who cannot smell burning microwave popcorn three feet from his
nose.He has no credibility whatsoever.
The day I discovered
your Mango Little Tree Fresheners, my life turned around.Instead of wanting to drive my minivan off
the nearest cliff, I popped in a reggae CD and let the glorious tropical scent
waft through our pen-stained interior. I felt for sure that had there been a
dead dog in the car, I would not have noticed.Mango is just that powerful.And
for the record, there is not, nor has there ever been, a dead dog in my
that your company’s priorities are simply to make money and profit from the
misfortunes of the minivan crowd.I beg
to differ.Your little trees are obviously
about the public good.Think of all the
carpool kids you have aided.Think of
the hundreds of minivan moms and their girls’ nights out -
all salvaged because of you.
You and your
left your mark in my life like few have.I am so lucky to have found you.Your essence is with me forever, dangling in the review mirror and
reminding me that whenever life gets stinky, there will always be sweet, sweet mango.
As of yet, there is still no response from the Little Trees people. I'd like to think the reason is they are coming up with new savory scents for me at this moment. So my score remains at 27. To check out the competition, visit Andrea now by clicking HERE!