Anonymous Soccer Mom

Musings from the Mundane to the Marvelous



good chemicalsRemember when you were a kid and your mom did the laundry. She would wash it with Tide or Wisk or All-Tempi-Cheer. She’d fold it and set it on your bed, and you’d bury your nose in the stack before you put it away. And every time you reached for a clean t-shirt or undies or socks or whatever, you got a delightful whiff of spring flowers or citrus orchards or tea-rose petals. Well, my friends, this scenario just doesn’t happen anymore. Why? Because scented detergent will kill you.

You know what else will kill you? Toothpaste. Dish-washing liquid. Hand soap. Antiperspirant. Mold and mildew sprays. Plastic bottles. Don’t even get me started on microwaves. You know that new car smell, a scent so universally revered that they make air fresheners to mimic it? That will kill you. Apparently, you should roll down all the windows of your precious new car to release the noxious fumes that are spewing from your brand new air conditioner.

I try to be a good mom, so I do my best to buy the organic fruits and veggies, the BPA-free bottles, I stand a good eighteen inches from my microwave while it’s running, and even when it’s not, just in case. And I buy only the dye-free, chemical-free, fragrance-free detergents. I know that I’m protecting my kids, but some part of me also feels like I am depriving them of some future wonderful sense memory from their childhood. My kids don’t bury their faces in their clean laundry, they just dutifully put their clothes away with nary a sniff. And the worst part is, most of the time, they can’t even tell the clean laundry from the dirty, unless there’s a four-inch-Rorschach splotch of ketchup on the item in question, and even then, that item might just be clean because the all-natural detergents are crap at getting out stains!

Another problem is that I cannot control the world at large (which doesn’t stop me from trying—I am the master of my universe, darn it). But I’d bet, dollars to doughnuts, the local Target doesn’t use all-natural cleaning products in their industrial floor-mopping machines. Heaven knows what kinds of chemicals the restaurants use to scour their grills at night. My favorite sushi place is guilty of polluting our lungs. Every time a patron leaves, the waiter clears their plates then sprays the table or sushi bar with Windex. Windex! Even when someone is sitting in the very next seat trying to enjoy their yellowtail hand roll. WHOOSH! goes the spray bottle and suddenly the air is filled with blue-tinged toxins.

It’s hard enough to protect my kids from pedophiles and cyber-bullies. Now I worry about airborne chemicals. What is a mother to do? The burden of keeping my kids safe from pollutants and free radicals and carcinogens and pesticides is overwhelming.

Maybe I should move my family into a plastic bubble. As long as the plastic is BPA free….



Come See The Sexist Side of Sears

searsI don’t consider myself a feminist. I’ve never marched with Gloria Steinem or burned my bra or thrown out my pantyhose, although I have been known to ignore (read: misplace) my razor for weeks at a time. On the other hand, I’m not June Cleaver either. I don’t wear a frilly apron and wait on my husband hand and foot. I don’t call him Sire, or anything. I move my own furniture and kill my own bugs—except for spiders, which I remove from the house without causing any bodily harm, and not because I’m superstitious, but because that single spider has about three hundred siblings living right outside my front door who will storm my home and bite the crap out of me if I kill one of their brethren.

So, basically, I’m just an average Jane. I don’t take offense easily. I don’t have to make noises about how women are just as good as men because I secretly know that women are far superior to men and knowing that gives me a sense of peace that need not be shouted from the rooftops.

But, wait, I digress.

The other day, something happened to me that made me angry on behalf of all my sister-housewives across the land. I’d made an appointment with Sears to have one of their contractors come out to my home to give me an estimate on some kitchen remodeling. Let me repeat that. I made the appointment. While I was on the phone with the woman setting up the appointment, she asked for my husband’s name. I didn’t understand why she needed his name. I mean what if I was single? What if I was married, but my husband was in a coma fighting a flesh-eating bacteria? What if I had a wife instead of a husband? Wasn’t asking for my husband’s name somewhat presumptuous on the scheduler’s part?

Anyway, I decided to let that one go and gave up my husband’s name. To which she responded: “And will your husband be present when Sergio comes out?”

“Why, no,” I replied. “He’ll be at work. It’ll just be little ole me.” (That’s irony, folks, because I am neither little nor  ole.)

So, on the day of the appointment, Sergio called to tell me he had been double-booked and we would have to reschedule. He asked me to call him to chat about the kitchen. I did, but got his voicemail. He never called me back.

Now, my life has been busy, so I didn’t call Sears right away to reschedule. I figured I’d get to it when I could, or I’d hear from Sears sooner or later. And I did. Sort of. Wait, no. I didn’t. This is what happened:

Three days after the failed appointment, MY HUSBAND got a brochure in the mail saying: Dear Alex- Thank you for scheduling a free in-home design consultation…blah blah blah…etc.

Three days after that, MY HUSBAND got a post card in the mail saying: Alex, it’s time to reschedule your appointment with Sears Home Services…blah blah blah…etc.

Excuse me? Is it 1950 all over again? I’m sorry, but that is just totally bogus. MY HUSBAND did not make the appointment. MY HUSBAND had nothing to do with calling Sears. Had it been up to him, I never would have called Sears in the first place. And by the way, my husband supports the family, but I’M paying for the kitchen remodel. And do you know who I’M paying to do the kitchen remodel?


Softer side, my ass.


The Big Cheese

How did I not know that April is National Grilled Cheese Month? That just seems like something I would definitely be aware of.  For instance, I know that July 7 is National Chocolate Day. And May 13 is National Apple Pie Day. And October 12 is Hugh Jackman’s birthday. Sigh. But, wait. I digress.

cropped-cropped-Day-2fLuckily for me, I have wonderful friends in the blogoshpere who make me aware of important things like this. And I am honored to be a part of Chick Lit Chit Chat’s celebration of all things cheesy. I was invited to write a guest post which–duh–had to have something to do with cheese. I’m going to give you a tease, right here on Anonymous Soccer Mom…you know, like that gooey, melted bit of cheese you get when you lift the grilled cheese sandwich from the pan, the bit you pull on until it is a long, buttery, stringy morsel that tastes wonderful when you pop it into your mouth, and promises that your sandwich is going to be delicious when you finally tuck in to eat it. Oops, digressing again.

Okay, so here’s the tease. And if you want the whole sandwich (which is code for blog post), you’ll have to hop on over to Chick Lit Chit Chat.


Remember when you and your spouse were first dating, those endless nights you spent talking and sharing and revealing things about yourself? It was a world of discovery, and you felt as though you were meant to be with this person forever. My husband and I passed many of those nights early in our relationship. To be honest, I recall very little of what he said—it was a long time ago, mind you. But one thing he said sticks with me to this day:

“When I retire, I want to learn to make cheese…”

Yes, at that moment I knew I wanted to spend my life with this man.

Of course, when he went on to say he also wanted to own a goat, I had to rethink my decision. Not that I don’t like goats. Goats are very nice. And I hear they make great lawnmowers. But I’m not so sure what the neighbors will think, and I’m pretty confident there’s a city ordinance banning farm animals from residential backyards.

Anyway, I happen to enjoy cheese, all kinds, from mild to stinky, although I draw the line at the really foul-smelling stuff that makes your eyes water and brings to mind foot fungus. I take my cheese in any form: cut into cubes or sliced or smeared on crackers or baguettes. I like cheese melted under the broiler or in the pan. In fact, I spent the whole of my first pregnancy eating grilled cheese sandwiches made with…

How’s that for a cliffhanger?

Head on over to Chick Lit Chit Chat for the rest of my post. And hang out for a while. It’s a great place to spend some time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hunk of Gouda in my fridge and it’s calling my name. I’m going to call it Hugh…