You know how you're never supposed to discuss money, politics, or religion?

I'm going to go ahead and disregard that advice.

Today, I want to talk about money and blogging. What's that, you say? You thought money in blogging was just a myth? Well, it is, mostly. If someone tells you they earn an honest-to-goodness living blogging, they're either lying or...well, no, I'm pretty sure they have to be lying.

But if you're in the blogging game, you know that monetization is the hot topic button of the moment. And I don't like to get terribly involved in hot topic buttons...except for when I do. So strap on your seat belts, kids, because here we go.

Product endorsement and promotional advertising is rampant in blogging these days. If you've been blogging for a while and your readership has grown to a certain level, you've been approached about this. As have I. The good news about this is that advertisers are realizing that people read blogs. A lot of people. And they want to reach these people and know that we, the bloggers, are a valuable means to this end. Which we are. The bad news about this is that they think we can be too easily bought. And why do they think that?

Because too many of us can be.

Let me explain. I don't mean that accepting endorsements or putting a price on your ad space amounts to selling out. Not at all. What I mean is that I've noticed some bloggers allowing promotional departments to buy far more than they're entitled to. Advertisers are paying for link or ad space, but coming away with entirely too much presence in the overall content of the blog.

This shouldn't be part of the bargain. Suddenly the blog you used to enjoy reading is all about coupon codes and instant coffee giveaways and it feels very hollow, doesn't it? Stripped clean to the bone of its former structure. And no one wants that. Not the advertisers, because you, the reader, have clicked away. Not the blogger, because once upon a time, she or he had something meaningful to say that's become buried under brands.

But it's such a double-edged sword, isn't it, because bloggers should be paid appropriately for their efforts. And no blogger should have to defend their right to earn a salary from something they've created and carefully honed. At your day job, for instance, no one would consider you a sell-out for accepting your paycheck at the end of the month. But that's because at your day job, your paycheck doesn't have the power to negatively color your work. (At least it shouldn't.) When we accept endorsements on our blog, it too often becomes a conflict of interest. To the writing. To the organic process of posting about what matters to us (which is why the readers the advertisers so desperately want are there in the first place). Vicious cycle 101.

I think this is especially hard for those of us who are in the writing or personal blog niche. Other niches seem to have more ready-made advertising opportunities. If I'm reading a foodie blog, for instance, I expect to see reviews of cooking tools. I want to see them because I benefit from them. On a travel blog (say my travel blog), I expect to see hotel reviews and guidebook giveaways. But on a writing blog? On a writing blog (or any personal blog, for that matter), we're supposed to be above all this, aren't we? We're supposed to be writing for the love of writing and no more, right?

We are. We really are. Which means that when we accept endorsements, they need to fit the entry in question. They need to conform to our style and the feel of our blog, and not the other way around. There are many bloggers out there doing this very well. I'd be glad to point you in their direction. Bloggers with absolutely no advertising at all on their site. Bloggers with tons of advertising on their site. The amount doesn't matter, as long as it jives with the tenor of the writing, the soul of the site, if you will. As long as it's a deliberate part of what the writer intends for her or his readership.

And then, to be honest, promotion and advertising can be a very useful tool. Those of you who blog know how this game works, but for those who don't, here's the run-down: if I do a giveaway or product review on occasion on my blog, my list of subscribers goes up. If my subscribers go up, my readership goes up. If my readership goes up, my Google page ranking goes up. If my Google page ranking goes up, I attract advertisers. If I attract advertisers, I can make a moderate (and I do mean moderate) monthly income. (See the ads on my top right-hand sidebar? Yep, there's that income.) And if I make a moderate monthly income, I can pay for things like website maintenance and decent graphics and the fruit loops I toss Toby's way when he interrupts my writing.

And the whole bloggy world remains free, free, free for all readers everywhere, as it should.

So yes. You'll see me promoting things from time to time, but only if an advertiser's agenda dovetails with my own. And only if I can endorse it while still delivering what you, the reader, expects of me. Because otherwise, I'm pretty sure (although it's yet to be scientifically proven) that a piece of my soul is chipped away horcrux-style with every misguided embedded link and errant ad.

And we can't be having that, now can we?

Hillary Clinton called...she wants her village back.

Anyone know where it is?

We had it around here someplace...but that was quite a long time ago. I know I saw my mother with it a few times in the '80s, and my grandmother had it back in the '50s. I just need to retrace my steps to when I last saw it...I think Calvin was in diapers and I was in the midst of that desperate housewife phase in which I sported baby puke stains on my shoulder and dropped binkies in mud puddles a lot.

People helped me pretty readily back then, as I recall, and I helped others a lot, too. There was a sort of mutual-need, we're-all-in-the-trenches-together sort of mentality that brought us closer, and I remember many occasions where I babysat friends' kids or dropped off my own and just had the comfort of knowing that at any time, I could pick up the phone and have an extra set of hands or eyes (albeit as tired as my own) come to my aid.

The the problem is, as the kids get older and enter school, as we one-by-one return to work and/or our own projects and goals, this village becomes a bit of a ghost town. Don't get me wrong: the same friends are there for you, or at least really want to be, but now they're on the phone while commiserating with you, not in your living room surrounded by all your dirty laundry, because there's no time to come over before Johnny's soccer practice or Sally's fifth violin lesson of the week, and you end your conversation on the somewhat hysterical (but not very helpful) note of 'Tell me again why I signed her up for the freaking violin?!' And you hang up with the echo of your own need, whatever it was, still in your ears and you think: it's gone. That support...that village...has cleared out and I'm alone in this.

This societal issue (and personal issue...because I know I'm partly to blame, given that I'd rather be water-boarded than ask for help) came to the forefront of my life this week as I prepared to return to work for the school year. I'm lucky enough to work the same hours that my kids are in school, but due to the fact that Toby will attend a half-day kindergarten, there were a few scheduling wrinkles to iron out. Namely, a half-hour time period once a week during which I'm still in class and he's out for the day...with nowhere to go.

Talk about being so close and yet so very far: just one half-hour, once a week, and I couldn't think of a single person who'd a) be available and b) I'd feel comfortable asking to pick him up, which was such a sad commentary on community and belonging that I wanted to bang my head against the wall.

Which sent me looking, actively looking, frantically looking, for any remains of that village, and you know what? I'm finding it. Piece by piece. A cornerstone here, a smudged window pane there. I just needed to re-plot it on the map of my daily life, because it's shifted a bit since my kids' toddlerhood.

I'm finding help in the form of church members who I hadn't even considered for the role of help-me-in-a-pinch (shortsighted, I know). I'm finding it in neighborhood friends I haven't taken the time to catch up with in too long. And mostly, I'm finding it in my husband, who I haven't relied on so fully for this sort of thing in many years, because his job had been so demanding. And in this manner, it slowly took form before my eyes: proof that society isn't quite as broken as I'd thought. And that Hillary is, once again, right about most things.

And finally, that in his (half) hour of need, Toby will be in good hands.

It's almost September, and you know what that means...

it's almost time to start cooking meals again.

What? Do you people cook in the summer? Because I don't. Not really. Actually, no, I'd have to say not at all. I mean, we BBQ. We make cold cut sandwiches and roast corn and pack picnics and pick up fried chicken (for the meat eaters among us). But the actual oven's been taking its usual extended leave from June-August. (I think this was in its contract when we bought the house.)

Me, circa 1950, doing what I love best.

But in preparation for a revamping of meal preparation (no one can say I'm not domestic!), I've had the opportunity to finally replace the food processor I broke last spring making my famous (i.e. only-thing-I-can-consistently-make-well) veggie pot pie crust. I ordered this Black and Decker 8-cup number from CSN Stores, and it arrived last week.*

I couldn't be happier. It's much more powerful than my old one (which means I'll try to cram much more stuff into it), and easier to clean too (I do clean things). And think about it: now I can make homemade salsa! And hummus! And shred my own cheese so I can save money buying only the blocks. Will I do any of this? Yes! For about two weeks (after which I'll probably forget I have a food processor until the next time I make my famous veggie pot pies). I mean, the next time someone begs me to make my famous veggie pot pies.Which won't be long.

And if you, too, want to be a domestic diva, don't forget about my favorite family meal resource out there, Once a Month Mom. No, this fine lady hasn't figured out how to be a mom only once a month (darn), but she has made it super easy to make meals only once a month (or if you cheat like me, twice a month). Either way, it's way better than staring into your cupboards every day at four pm wondering what's for dinner. (But not quite as good as having your own personal chef. Or so I would imagine.)

But between that and the food processor, think of how much time you'll be saving for important things like reading blogs and sending kids off to school and (not) making Halloween costumes and thoroughly enjoying the new fall TV line-up. Pretty sweet, right? (You can thank me later.)


*What can I say? Every now and then, NTT has to pay the bills. So here's the spiel: as I disclose with any compensations, CSN Stores gifted me the Black and Decker Quick 'N Easy Plus food processor free of charge. This compensation did not come with expectation of a positive review.

Worth Waiting For

Today's theme for Six Word Fridays is 'wait', which made me ask myself, what types of things are we (everyone, everywhere) waiting for? What's worth waiting for? What isn't? What events, objects, and people mark the time with us as we wait? I'm not sure, to be honest, so while waiting for inspiration to strike, I started this list.

Every day I (you, we) wait...

for the morning coffee to brew
for the school bus to arrive
for the check in the mail
for that right moment to ask,
to call, to take a chance.

We wait for dusk to fall
for the baby bottle to warm
for the kids to fall asleep
for the house to finally settle.

For the paper to be delivered,
for a sign, a nudge, or 
the proverbial message in a bottle. 

We wait for school to end,
soccer or dance to let out
important phone calls from important people.
Circled dates on the kitchen calendar.

We wait for spring break and
Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's, and Easter.
For birthdays and three-day weekends.

We wait for the seasons to
change, for difficult phases to end,
for favorite book release dates and
television premieres. For dessert and bedtime.
For graduations and coveted first jobs
and for others to remember us.

We wait for apologies and admissions
and the punch lines of jokes.
For secrets to spill over drinks,
for letters and emails and prayers.

We wait for laundry to dry,
for oven timers to announce dinner,
for the sun to come out,
for tears to run their course.

We wait for little legs pedaling,
for soup to cool in bowls,
for fireworks to light the sky.

We wait for company to arrive.
We wait for company to leave.
We wait for reunion and departure
and kisses on cheeks and solitude.

We wait up for teenage children,
for bad news, and for good.
We wait too long or not
long enough or somewhere in-between.

We wait with baited breath and
sweaty palms and bitten nails and
anticipation and joy and resentment and
always, always fear of the unknown.

Soccer Moms Do It Better

Toby (left), spring kindersoccer league

It took over seven years of participating in organized soccer, but it finally stuck: I'm officially a soccer mom. (And I was going to call this post 'Soccer Moms Do it in Mini-Vans', to emulate a bumper sticker I saw recently, but didn't quite have the guts.) I denied it for a long time, but the evidence becoming hard to ignore: after all, I do have a minivan. And a car pool. And piles of cleats and jerseys sitting on the washer. Need I say more?

Yes? Fine. Here's the proof:

I now drive six routes to or from practices per week (that'd be 3x for Nate, 2x for Calvin, and 1x for Toby).

I have three seasons of kindersoccer coaching, two seasons of rec coaching, and five seasons of snack coordinating under my belt.

I own one of those wipe-off clipboards featuring a diagram of the field. Yes, I bought one. With my own money. And I consider it one of my most useful buys ever. (That and my fold-out chair and over-sized umbrella.)

We have more water bottles in our cupboard than wine glasses and juice glasses combined. That's not the correct ratio.

I have an entire drawer full of team photos I paid $12.95 a pop for and can't figure out what to do with. 

Any given Saturday (and most Sundays), up to three games are scheduled on three different fields (always on opposite sides of the city). Actually, we're lucky if they're on opposite sides of the city: at least one is usually in another city entirely (up to four hours away).*

Needless to say, the World Cup was a very big event in our house. And a costly one, resulting in the purchase of FIFA World Cup Soccer on the Wii and several team jerseys. 

I've finally figured out how to get the sweat smell out of shin guards. (It's a highly secret formula which I plan to patent and then retire on.)

We own two pairs of goalkeeper gloves...even though none of my kids play keeper. There's a goal in our backyard (and broken slats in the fence behind it).

I have a box of at least 10 different sized pair of Nike and Adidas cleats in the garage, waiting for their next wearer. Let me know if your kid needs some: we're running specials on toddler size 10 and youth size 1 right now.

I finally broke down and bought those car paints to decorate the windows of the minivan with the kids' team names and colors (but only for tournaments).

We have many, many tournaments.

Which result in many Days Inns and Denny's breakfasts and Chevron gas stops. And tournament t-shirts. And coolers of Gatorade. In fact, I'm afraid to add up what exact percentage of our income goes to soccer and soccer-related activities, but I'm pretty sure we could vacation in the Bahamas for a month or possibly buy a yacht and travel the globe with the money saved if we'd just give up this monkey on our back.


*Note to rookie parents (you know who you are): having three kids in organized sports per season necessitates at least as many enthusiastic adults (of driving age) willing to shuttle, cheer, and provide halftime snacks. Start enlisting early. Grandparents are usually prime victims volunteers.

Red Badge of Courage (Fish Hook Edition)

Today I'm welcoming a friend of mine, Viva Connel Clark, to Never-True Tales. She recently wrote the following piece in a LiveJournal essay-writing community I started several years ago (which is now in other capable hands) called Reflectology. In it, she somehow manages to tell a tale about fishing, coming of age, loss, fatherhood, and the American military experience all at once. As I've found myself returning to her words in my mind ever since, I asked her if I could re-post them here. All you need to know before reading is that Viva is a wife and mother in beautiful Minnesota and (no exaggeration) one of the smartest and most interesting women I've ever had the honor of meeting. 

Just a few hours ago my husband and I dropped off our 18 year old son–his biological son, my stepson, if you want to get technical—at an unremarkable Marriott Hotel that marks the beginning of his service in the US Army. It was neither the beginning nor the end of the emotional journey we are travelling as parents, but it is certainly a major milestone.

We have been in the process of preparing--mentally, emotionally, physically--for this day since late December, when Alex informed us (quite out of the blue, as it happened) that he had decided to join the Army right out of high school. At first my thoughts were on concrete things; his safety of course, the military culture and how he will respond, the fact that this is a kid who has never been to camp, never been on an airplane, never been away from his family for any length of time. Even now, the people I talk to inevitably focus on these issues. As the time grows closer, though, I feel those are things that will work themselves out. The overwhelming sense I have now is much simpler; I feel sad because he is leaving, and I will miss him. As a teenager he has of course increasingly had his own life--between school, sports, and working at the pizza place we rarely saw him the past year—now, however, his absence is palpable thing. The quiet seems to echo through the halls where we are accustomed to the booming of an Xbox from behind a closed bedroom door, and the lack of Gatorade in the refrigerator, or the fact that there is no longer the tripping hazard of giant tennis shoes near the garage door.

I knew I wanted to write further about this experience of having a child go into the military, of the mixed feelings it evokes and the reactions of our extended families. I still may write that, one day, but today I’m more interested in telling a personal story. It’s second hand, perhaps it’s not even my story to tell, but for me it was a ray of sunshine, and that’s where I wanted to focus.

Here’s a cliché for you; we can only imagine what each day holds in store. We try to plan and manage every contingency, but of course that only goes so far, which is why Life is an adventure every day. We know this, but on a day when even small things are magnified in importance, a comedy of errors turns an already memorable day into one for the ages.

For Alex’s last day as a civilian he and his dad planned a day of fishing. The peaceful lake, the lapping of waves on the side of the boat, the quiet bonding between father and son was the ideal choice for their final day together. It should have been very A River Runs Through It, and it was! Except, maybe, starring Jim Carrey. The highlights? First, it rained. Not a gentle, cooling sprinkle, but RAIN, hard sheets of it, propelled by gusting winds. In their hurry to get out of the downpour, they dumped the tacklebox. Wet, harried, nearly ready to give up, they were given a reprieve when the sun came back out. Even better, the fishing was spectacular, and Dad, in a flush of good fortune, caught a huge fish, the biggest walleye he’d ever caught in four decades of fishing. In fact, in you ever meet my husband, ask him about this fish. He just might have a picture of it on his phone.

Oh, about that picture. In the flush of excitement, they took the photo before even removing the hook from the fish’s mouth. Being a feisty sort, the fish flopped just enough—to get the hook caught in Alex’s ankle. Hours from deployment, and they are rushing to the clinic to push a barbed fish hook out of his foot. The fact that the young doctor had never removed a fish hook before was kind of the final coda, but this fish story, besides being true, did have a happy ending. At the appointed time (maybe just slightly late) the young man was there, with just a small puncture wound and some antibiotics to betray his misadventures. He may not agree, especially after the painkillers wore off, but for him and his dad a crazy day of ups and downs was just what they needed. There was no time to be sad, not until those last few minutes, back in the anonymous suburban hotel parking lot.

He said goodbye outside. He didn’t want us to come into the hotel with him. I hadn’t yet met Alex on his first day of kindergarten, but I’m guessing it went kind of the same way. The rain had started up again. I took a picture of Alex and his dad, arms entwined. Later I would explain to people that some of the rain had fallen on his dad’s face.

Afterwards, what do you do? We got coffee and picked up some Chinese food. As I fastened my seat belt, my husband, who has a poetic bent, said, “I lost a boy today, but I’m gaining a man.”

I don’t know how long he rehearsed that line in his head, but I know he meant it with all his heart.