Dear Pants on Fire,

I’ve been receiving (flooded with) a bunch of emails lately from people who say things like:

  • My article would fit your blog.
  • My colleague told me about your blog.
  • Mommy Bloggers like you.
  • You share our concerns about parenting.

Then they go on to prove to me that they know nothing about me or my blog.

First of all I AM NOT a Mommy Blogger. I blog about parenting teens and young adults. I blog about Vampires. I HATE the term Mommy Blogger. The term Mommy Blogger makes me think of silly women who wear nothing but yoga pants, have expertly done highlights, think their children are the absolute center of the universe, and don’t know their husbands are sleeping with the top female executive where he works.

If you read my blog you would know that I don’t pitch products or services that I don’t use.

I write from the viewpoint of a Modern Vampire Mom. Get it?

I also write from the viewpoint of a mom who works, a mom who reads, a mom who is realistic about the world her kids live in, and a mom who thinks honest communication with children is more important than stroking the self-esteem of bratty smug children who are treated by their parents like they are Jesus Christ himself.

You’re a liar. You don’t read my blog. All you did was have your robot search for the tags that said things like “parenting” and “mom.”

Stop wasting my email space.

Where the fuck did you come from?

Yes, if you have a product for moms who swear too much I might write a review.

Yes, I will write a review of your product for $500 up front, and I can’t guarantee it will be good.

No, I will not link to your site just because you asked. I’m not THAT stupid.

I worked in marketing for over 35 years so I know the tricks. The tricks are old and stupid. That dog can’t jump anymore. Just put the poor creature down and leave me the hell alone.

Your profile is obviously fake. Do you think anyone is that stupid? You must because obviously someone has taken you up on an offer. Maybe not. I’ve met a lot of stupid marketing people in my time. Way too many.

We’re Vampires here. We drink blood. We say snarky things. We love our children. We’re smoking hot sexy. We love our regular human friends too much to subject them to stupid stuff – you know, like that stuff you email me about. So stop it.

I’m not even going to tell you to watch out for things that go bump in the night.

And to my wonderful regular readers – I will never subject you to any sales pitches unless it is to check out my merch page (for great shirts, pillows, and other cool Victorian Vampire themed stuff), or for stuff I like, or if I attempt to write and self publish another lame book, OR one of the WPaD Publications (proceeds go to MS Research.) Or to tell you about a book, blog (like maybe your blog), movie, song, or something I really love. But you know where I’m going with this. 

Can you imagine an infomercial type post featuring Tellias and Eleora, Max, Vlad, or The Ghost? No, neither can I. 

xoxox

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

 

Vampire Maman

 

 

 

 

My Vampire Maman

moulin-rougeShe walked into the crowded bar as if she owned the place. I waved. She flashed me a dazzling smile and walked my way.

Black jeans, a dusty plum-colored coat over a white dress shirt she borrowed from her man, buttons open to give a hint of a promise of something soft and lace covered, the most darling gray boots with buckles and heels, a gray and blue scarf, and a black messenger bag with a tiny gold bat pin attached to it. Her nails are covered in glossy gray varnish as perfect as perfect can be, set off  a perfect dark fire opal on her right hand. Loose dark brown chestnut colored ringlets cascading down her back. Perfect smoky eyes as gray as a winter sky shot with blue and a slight hint of pink lip-gloss on cupid kissed lips. She could be somewhere between 25 and 35 but it doesn’t matter. She is perfect. Every male head in the place turns. My mom just walked into the room.

She walked to the bar where I sat nursing a gin and tonic. She didn’t need to pull up a stool – four were immediately offered to her. She grabbed one a few places down and sat it next to me. Her arm went around my waist and squeezed. All was right in the world. Mom was here.

She still calls me her baby. I still call her my maman.

She picks something off of my sweater. She liked my hair. My nail color made my hands look dirty. Was Teddy home with the kids? I looked tired. Was I getting enough sleep? Was I spending all my time driving the kids around? Was I working on my novels? Was I planning my spring garden?

My dad with at my brother Aaron’s house. It was a big girl night out.

She scanned the room and said “we won’t go out hungry tonight.”

No we wouldn’t.

I put my hands in my lap, then decided to ignore her comment about my nail color. I liked the color even though I doubt if I’d wear it again.

We spoke quietly, our heads together. A man asked if we were sisters. My mom said we were.

He was in his early thirties. Blonde hair, green eyes, button down shirt. Cute bordering on handsome. My mom is 378 years old.

She whispered something in his ear and put her hand on his shoulder. He smiled. He was hers for the night if she wanted him. That isn’t what she said to him, but she can make anyone feel good. She said there was a girl in the bar who liked him, the pretty girl who is never the prettiest in the room and never the one who gets picked first. The girl was smart and funny and sexy and a little different. He’d pick her tonight and in a few months time he’d pick her forever. My maman has a talent for facilitating happily ever after events. How Vampires got the bad rap I’ll never know (actually I do but that’s another blog post) but we’re quite the romantics and lovers.

Her wedding ring was on a cord around her neck, hidden under her shirt. It was funny considering we spent most of the evening talking about my dad. She said she wanted to spend the weekend with my kids.

She said she’d planted the strawberry plants I’d given her. She’d also started mine in pots for me since I hadn’t dug up my planting beds yet. Hers were doing great but mine were still smallish. I told her that was because she loved her plants more than mine. She laughed.  She had my plants in the car. I told her that I’d give them lots of love.

We were like any other mother and daughter meeting in the evening. Except we were out for blood. But that’s ok with us.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

manet maman