Pretend this is a personals ad. Hell, I got The Husband that way. I think my headline was “Mexican Princess Looking for her Prince.” I was bubbly. Cute. Snarky. And ended the ad with “Now give me a reason to call you back.”

And? He did.

Obviously, I can’t be as free with my words when querying an agent because I want to be published and have people laugh when they read my book and not unpublished with a laughable query letter. Granted, I don’t have an agent yet, so the query very well may suck. But that isn’t the point of today’s post.

Today’s question of the day, dear readers, is: If finding an agent was like finding an online date (or the old-fashioned newspaper personal), what would your personal ad say?

Let’s start with the acronyms.

Thanks to the roommate freak-fest of a movie that was Single White Female all know what SWF means (and I opted to get married right out of college rather than put myself into that kind of craziness. With a man I met online. I know. Let’s not talk semantics.)

Ok, so a person seeking person ad would read something like:

SWF duh, with K kids, AL animal lover,  ISO in search of AL animal loving SWM take a wild guess, K ok kids okay, who is DTE down to earth, funny, HWP height weight proportional. I love cheesy movies, nice dinners, and long walks on the beach.

Got all that? Good. Now let’s move on to the agent.

First we would have to have the description

I think it would go like this:

Name: Pauline M. Campos

Age: 32

Height: 5’6”

Weight: Shut up

Eyes: Brown

Hair: See Mexi-fro

Now for the actual acronym-filled personal

URAW unrepresented aspiring writer of SMMM snarky mama-minded memoir with plans to create a national movement to make said SMMM a mandatory baby shower gift is ISO in search of IA interested agent who is TF typo-forgiving and KWTI knows what twitter is. SOH sense of humor important. You appreciate the importance of a well-placed FB F-bomb for emphasis. I am waiting for the RA right agent to OMAC offer me a contract. SM sign me and I promise you the LOP lack of platform because I DHARTSIJOABI don’t have a reality TV show in Jersey or a Bump-it will become a non-issue as we begin our new journey together.

There. Now to sit back and wait for the flood of responses to come pouring in. Maybe I should go wash my hair and decide what to wear on our first date. Or buy a bump-it.


I’m in the middle of querying my book, single-parenting until the New Year when The Husband’s schedule takes him off of the midnight shift, and trying to stay one step ahead of the laundry. So it seemed only natural to say yes when I was asked to start writing product reviews for baby gooroo.

I have a history with the site, which focuses on breastfeeding and children’s issues including health and nutrition, so I am beyond excited to add more bylines to those already in the baby gooroo archives.

Check out baby gooroo on twitter, as well. And follow me under my Pauline_Campos account, if you aren’t already, as I will be primarily tweeting article links from that account.

And lastly, I am searching high and low for products to feature in my reviews. The focus, of course, is on pregnancy, breastfeeding, parenting, attachment parenting, children, health, and nutrition from ages 0-6. If interested, please contact me via twitter or by email (check out the contact me tab on the blog).

Now excuse me while I log off to get back to making dinner so I can get Buttercup dressed (again) for her preschool Halloween party, back home, into bed, and then see The Husband off to work before logging back in to blog, research, write, and possibly, sleep.

Have I mentioned I thrive with deadlines looming? Because, yes, I really do.


That’s right. I’m smiling. With a python wrapped around my shoulders.

The Husband came home from work recently asking if I wanted to go to a co-worker’s kid’s birthday party that afternoon. Considering he is the absolute most anti-social person I have ever met and the fact that he was actually following through on an invite I had nothing to do with, I said, “Hell yes.”

Granted, I had no idea if the birthday child was a boy or a girl or how old they were going to be. And of course, The Husband looked at me like I had asked him to birth our next child (whenever that happens) when I asked him to text his co-worker for the details. You know, so I could run out and get a birthday card and a small gift.

He had obviously done more than his part by actually inviting me to this little shindig.

So we showed up. And Buttercup disappeared into a sea of teenagers. No matter. The guest list included a few little people such as herself, and everyone’s attention was focused on the reptile show happening in the living room. Buttercup got a front row seat. Not sure how she was going to react to lizards and snakes up close, I sat nearby for photo snapping and baby rescuing, should the need have arisen.

It didn’t.

It may have only been for a second, but every living thing placed before her was touched. Just a finger and then an arm quickly pulled back. The teenagers giggled. Buttercup puffed up proudly. She had been brave and the big kids all knew it.

“Good thing there aren’t any spiders,” The Husband said, referring to my arachnophobia. I have an irrational fear that stems from severe swelling of my spider bites and a senior high school drum major telling a freshman me that the tennis-ball sized lump on my arm was going to explode into a volcano of spider babies when they were ready to say hello to the outside world. And if I ever run against him for city council, you can bet your ass I’m using that information in my You Suck and I Don’t campaign ads.

“Oh they put the tarantulas away just before you got here,” the hostess said.

“Good, because I have a leg limit,” I said before raising my hand for a chance with the python.

“Leg limit?” The hostess blinked.

“Yeah, more than four and I am so not interested in being in the same vicinity.”

And that’s when they brought out the scorpion. Which is when I had an argument with myself as I called The Husband over to take my place by Buttercup’s side so I could go stand on a chair, holding my skirt up around my ankles, waiting to be rescued. The irrational me wanted to grab Buttercup away from the evil pet scorpion. No way in hell my little girl was petting one of those! But the rational me was telling the irrational to shut the fuck up. Because really? Mama might be a pansy. And a proud one, at that. But it doesn’t mean my little girl has to accept my fears as her own.

So I removed myself from the situation. And the chance to take a photo when my baby reached out and pet a scorpion right between the pincers.


It’s time for a trip down Bloggy Memory Lane.

All day, I’ve been trying to think of a topic for my Mamavation Monday post. I can’t talk about the scale because we are not currently on speaking terms. I don’t want to get into specifics on my gluten-free diet until I have a few more weeks under my belt. And I really haven’t been working out as much as I know I should be which is obviously more than not at all.

So what to write about?  I was totally clueless. So I cleaned my kitchen. Then I was clueless some more. So I posted my weekly contribution to Bookieboo. That’s where I decided to go through my archives for some motivation. And I found it.

I found a post I wrote almost a year ago. I haven’t made a ton of progress on the scale since then, but I have scaled mountains in my head. So I decided to repost “An Introduction…of Sorts,” mainly because no matter what the scale says, or how much my PCOS slows me down, I’m haven’t given up.


If I’m going to be posting here on a regular basis, I need to set the tone for what you are going to be reading. For simplicity, let’s just go with with the Pauline Top 10:
1) I swear. A lot. On my blog. In real life. In my head. And this is all even truer when referring to those rare moments when I step on the scale. It’s just who I am and since I write the way I speak, let’s just make it clear that I do, in fact, have a serious potty mouth. I got it from my mother.
2) I learned, after Buttercup dropped a certain word that rhymes with “Truck” to watch what and when I say what I do. But until she learns to read, the Internet is mine.
3) My body is my worst enemy and is conspiring to make me go insane. My weight loss efforts, which are obviously the main reason for joining Bookieboo, are not the kind to be associated with just having to put in the effort to see results. I am insulin resistant, have PCOS, am hypothyroid, and have a little benign tumor on my pituitary gland that makes being fat easy and getting skinny a major pain in the ass. Just one of these factors is hard enough, but all of them combined? Buckle up, ladies…it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
4) I have one child. I want to have another. But until my rear end is the same size it used to be before motherhood jacked me up, I’m not going anywhere in that direction. It might make sense to just get pregnant now and lose the weight later, but I’m more interested in a safer and healthier pregnancy than I am in just getting things (like pregnancy and labor) out of the way.
5) Results motivate me. If God sent me back as a hamster in my next life, I’d be one pissed off little rodent because jumping on the wheel and getting nowhere is *not* my idea of a good time. Because of this, I sometimes willingly jump off of my weight loss bandwagon when I hit a wall and nurse my ego with something *bad* like, say, Oreo cookies. And this happens more often than I care to admit. See #3.
6) My doctor has me going to see an endocrinologist to check me out and hopefully figure out why a 5 day a week work out schedule and proper diet is doing nothing to lower the number on the scale. Until then, I’m trying to not be annoyed with my hamster status. See #5.
7) I prefer chocolate shakes but the ice cream in my bowl had better be vanilla. Random, I know, but it’s how I roll.
8) I’m also a smartass. But you probably already figured that out.
9) I used to think that all moms who didn’t get skinny after birth were just lazy and had let themselves go. Then I had a kid. Karma is a bitch.
10) Fat free cheese and sour cream are not on my list of things I’d willingly eat. According to The Husband, fat free cheese is like, one particle away from being plastic, and since he says he’s always right, I’m just going to go with him on this one. So give me real cheese, please. Because really, it’s not that one slice on my sandwich that landed me with 40 pounds of extra fat. Can I blame the cheese cake? Yeah, probably.
So there you have it. Me, in a blog post. Honest, snarky, and ready to tell it like it is.


That’s when Shelley (Mamavation Mom extraordinaire) hit me with this on twitter and it  all somehow melded into a beginning, a middle, and an end.

And guess what?

I’m still swimming.


@aspiringmama: Oh a blog post is writing itself in my head! But first, the dishes.

It’s true. I can’t write a thing unless my sink is clean, the counter tops wiped down, and the stove sparkling. I’ve tried. Trust me, those few instances have resulted in some piss poor quality time with my Muse.

Creative? You want me to express myself? But there’s spaghetti sauce binding itself to the dinner dishes right now. Do you even realize the hell I’m gonna have to go through the clean that shit in the morning?

My Muse stopped laughing at me when she realized I was being totally serious. So she made me sign an agreement that I wouldn’t waste her time until after the OCD-beast within had been tamed and I was totally up for that because really? It just made sense. And? It eventually became part of my pre-writing routine…you know, after

* waking at 6:50 a.m. because Buttercup just has to be difficult and different while I curse God for morning coming too early.

* Feeding her, feeding myself, and prepping breakfast for The Husband so he has good foods to eat upon returning from working the midnight shift

* Unpacking his lunch box while he showers and changes so he can spend time with his princess


* Vacuuming, mopping, and putting away laundry because it is impossible to clean house while The Husband sleeps without waking him up. So I don’t. You’d think that would leave me plenty of time for writing but you’d be wrong.

* Taming the Mexi-fro. Trust me. It’s an adventure.

* Prepping Buttercup’s clothes and lunch box for preschool while The Husband drinks plain water out of little girl-sized tea cups and eating chocolate chip cookies (she calls them biscuits for such occasions) and downing a protein shake because I am realizing I am both hungry and out of time.

* Force-feeding a pissed off child who is just as excited to go to school as she is upset that Daddy went to bed at 11 a.m.

* Dropping Buttercup off at preschool. It should be noted that I once harbored rainbow-hued fantasies about all of the writing I was going to get done in the three hours she is at school. It should also be noted that I was sadly mistaken and not taking into account the fact that grocery shopping, making the obligatory calls to the parents, and working out are much easier to do when I am child-free. I’ll write later, right? Then going home to stare in my freezer so I can figure out what I am making for dinner.

* Picking up Buttercup from preschool.


* Cooking up some din-din while Nick Jr and PBS babysit my kid.

* Forgetting my no TV during dinner rule. Nick Jr and PBS stay on while we eat.

* Bath, story, and bed time for Buttercup. Sometimes, I successfully escape her room without falling asleep next to her. Sometimes, not.

* Heading back down to prep The Husband’s lunch box for work. Remember: the Snicker’s bar is crucial to the survival of our marriage.

* Heading back up to wake him at 8:30 p.m. so he has time to shower, eat, and relax before leaving for work.

* Watching TV with The Husband for about 40 minutes. Sometimes remembering some of what I wanted to tell him when he was sleeping.

* Hug, hug, kiss, kiss. He is off. I am free. Now to…procrastinate. Hello twitter beautiful! Where have you been all my life?


* Around 11 p.m. I go back upstairs one final time to write, revise, edit, or blog. Sometimes I do a little bit of all of it. And always, I force myself to step away around midnight because I’ know I will be…

* waking at 6:50 a.m. because Buttercup just has to be difficult and different while I curse God for morning coming too early. Again.

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