We put our apartment on the market.

Sure, we thought about selling this summer when real estate in Manhattan was escalating outrageously fast but then we figured, who wants to make that much money so easily?

So now we’re selling it during a major recession.

Everyone knows when you are selling your home, you don’t need a broker. You just need the right signature scent. Some advocate baking cookies or an apple pie before an open house but those must be people who don’t store half their cookware in their oven.

So I went in search of the perfect candle. I was looking for a scent like, “This is the nicest apartment I’ve ever seen, I’ll pay absolutely anything!” but all I found was a lot of “Island Grapefruit” and “Deep Clover.”

I finally let Dylan pick out the scent, “Vanilla Citrus Zest” because 4 year-olds have an incredible aptitude for what moves real estate.

Then Rick and I noticed that we had a lot of damn stuff in our apartment.

So on the day of our open house, we moved a ton of it down the hall to one of our neighbor’s.

Obviously, we have really nice neighbors. Or maybe we stole the key to their apartment when they were out of town. Either way, we got rid of the junk.

And once we felt guilty about putting too much crap in their place, we dropped off a few things with this cute single guy who lives next door.  I just know he and his banking buddies are now playing drinking games with our Chutes and Ladders and having stroller races down the hall.

After cleaning our apartment out, it looked so nice I wanted to buy it myself.

And then we held our first open house.

And ONLY two couples came.

Out of 8 million people living in New York City, TWO COUPLES.

Afterward, we kind of felt like this…

But Rick and I don’t give up. Would Blair give up on Yale? Would Lilly give up on Rufus? Oh, you still don’t watch “Gossip Girl?” Ok, forget it.

So we held another open house the very next day and it proved a bit more successful.

Still, I’m starting to think that if we really want to move the suburbs, we might need more than a signature scent.

mama bird notes:

Speaking of the ‘burbs….Contributing mama Daphne Biener finally understands why folks just love their minivans. Forget your bedroom, this is the place to get a little action. Click on contributing mamas to read more.

Are you going to Blogher ’09 in Chicago this summer? Oh, you must. Jessica, Wendi, Christy, Anna and I have put in for a room of our own on the topic of “Humor.” It’s called, “Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard.” Or Getting Wrinkles is Easy, Comedy is Hard. Or maybe Getting Fat is Easy… Well, the point is Comedy is Hard.

If you’re interested, please sign up. Seriously, I’m begging you. Click here and tell BlogHer that you want to hear our incredible insights on humor writing. And if we can’t think of anything to say, we’re going to make Marinka do some kind of elaborate tap dance.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

For those of you who have not been closely tracking my recent obsession with, um, lovin’, just know that a few months ago I was obsessed with the pro-creational habits of garden squash. From there it was a short leap to the booty-seeking behavior of insects and amphibians.  And now I’m back with an update from suburbia that might have you craving a mid-day ride in the old minivan.

Let me explain.

I know people love their minivans.  Mothers get a gleam in their eyes just talking about third row seats and sliding doors.

Hell, they’re chatting about strapping in kids and packing up cheerios as if they were sipping piña coladas poolside.  I just don’t get it.

I have claimed, boldly, that I will never, ever, ever buy a minivan.

“Not me. Not now.  Not ever,” I’ve been known to say with a smirk as I strum my fingers and rock to the beat of the High School Musical soundtrack pumping from the speakers of my station wagon.

This part I probably shouldn’t admit. Though I am the creator of an eco-focused blog, A Greener Biener, and a self-proclaimed adherent to the green path, it is not this commitment to the environment that has kept me from the van scene.

Here it is:  I’m just too darn cool.  Too cool to drive a mini-van to school.

That, and I simply haven’t been persuaded by the pro-mini-van rhetoric.  My children fit in the backseat of my car and the groceries haven’t complained about being stashed in trunk.  I never saw the need for a van.

But the times they are a’changing.

I always thought those tinted windows were just another feature marketed at parents yearning to protect their precious cargo littered throughout rows 1, 2 and 3.

I was wrong.

It has recently been brought to my attention that the mini-vanning mamas out there, those tot-schlepping, errand-running, peanut butter and jelly-making mini-van driving mamas are doing more than running laps between Target and swim practice.  More than soccer moms and food-shoppers, these ladies are my heroes.

These ladies are getting busy in the back seat.

That’s right.  I’m talking yes-we-can in the mini-van.  A little heat back in the third-seat. Things getting hot in the parking lot.

Ah, the minivan.  I’m beginning to see the allure.

I know you want names, but I can’t reveal my sources.  I will say this though; if you want to know who’s pulling out of the carpool lane and into lovers’ lane, there’s one surefire way to tell.

Look for the mama that’s smiling as she picks gummy old cheerios out of her hair.

You can read more of Daphne’s work on The Rocky Mountain Moms Blog, on her eco-fabulous site, A Greener Biener, or here on the mama bird diaries.

You probably still remember the glamour of your first gig in the real world (you know, the world where you no longer go to classes, do shots of Jäger and hang out on the quad all afternoon).

The super talented Wendi Aarons and I decided to write about first jobs this week. Her hilarious piece is below. Leave a comment and then head on over to her site to read about my desperate quest to become a TV starlet.

Hollywood or Bust
By Wendi Aarons

In 1991, I moved to Los Angeles to become a famous movie director. True, the only thing I’d ever directed in my life was a 10-minute long student film called “Hair Salon Horror”–starring myself, but that didn’t seem to matter. I knew I was just months away from hanging out with Scorcese and DeNiro on the Paramount lot. After all, I was young, I was ambitious and not only did I know what “film noir” meant, I could also pronounce it in a really pretentious way.

I sent out resumes for weeks with no response, then finally, one day I got a phone call telling me I had an interview at CBS Television City. CBS Television City! Oh, sweet Jesus, it was like being invited to the Holy Land for lunch. The interview was for a part-time, temp job with a research company that tested fall television pilots for CBS.

As I’d find out later, the company rounded up groups of sweaty tourists from Hollywood Boulevard or the Farmers Market, showed them a new show that was being considered for the fall line-up, then had them fill out a questionnaire to see what they thought about it. You know, because the American public is just so good at evaluating talent.

The morning of my interview, I dressed carefully in my best shoulder-padded jacket from The Limited and a matching skirt that ended just above my white-nyloned knees, then fluffed up my long, permed hair and grabbed the briefcase I used to carry around my lipstick and Bon Jovi cassettes.

Arriving at the CBS lot, I couldn’t have been more excited, but excitement soon turned to panic when I had trouble finding my interview room. I was in the main executive offices asking for help when a bored-looking security guard stood up and said “I’ll walk you over there. Better’n sittin’ on my butt all day.” Wow! I remember thinking. These TV people are really nice!

Security man and I then walked down a flight of stairs, rounded a corner and began to pass what looked like a holding pen full of people waiting to go into a taping of “The Price Is Right.” I smiled at a woman wearing an iron-on t-shirt that said “KISS ME BOB!!!!”, but then she looked at me, looked at my security guard escort and then at my big, blonde hair and suddenly she screamed, “OH MY GOD! IT’S BROOKE FROM THE BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL! IT’S BROOKE FROM THE BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL! WOOOO!” And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Without warning, the easily-excitable 100 person crowd—most in bright t-shirts, some clutching stuffed animals—started screeching “BROOKE! BROOKE! I LOVE YOU, BROOKE!” and began pushing each other out of the way so they could get closer to me. I stood there frozen, stunned that I was actually being mistaken for a soap opera star. I mean, I didn’t even have on lip gloss that day.

As the crowd grew louder and more boisterous, the security guard quickly grabbed my elbow, grunted, “Let’s move it! Now! NOW!” and the two of us ran past the screaming, reaching mob, whose disappointed moans of “Awwww! Brooke! We love you! Please don’t marry Ridge!” followed us around the corner. Then, before I could even catch my breath, the guard opened up a door right in front of us, said “Here’s room 219! Good luck!” and gave me a little shove inside. Wow! I remember thinking. These TV people are really pushy!

Panting like a dog that’s just been chasing rabbits, I stepped into the room and saw 10 people sitting around a conference table–all staring right at me. I started to smile, then caught my reflection in the window and saw my messy hair, wrinkly suit and face full of flop sweat and I knew I’d just blown my big chance. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I tried not to cry as I nervously stammered, “Um, hi…sorry I’m…but the…Bob Barker…over the…Showcase Showdown…Brooke…don’t know…need job…who’s Ridge?”

Then the man at the head of the table simply held up his hand for me to stop talking, gave me a kind look and said, “Listen, don’t worry about it. Last week those idiots thought I was Tony Orlando.”

And one hour later, I had my first job in Hollywood–testing a TV pilot about talking cats.

I now have 197 Facebook friends.

My husband has 661.

But I so totally don’t care because MY friends are people I really know and cherish. Well, except for the ones I don’t really remember. Or know. Or cherish.

Like this guy Steve who friended me recently.  We have many mutual friends from graduate school so we obviously knew each other at one point. Except now I have no memory of him. Nothing.

So I immediately confirm him as a friend. I don’t want to insult the guy. Maybe we were close and I’m having some kind of unexplainable, Facebook induced, memory loss.

And then he sends me a Facebook message about everything going on with him… his wife, his child, his job.  And I respond, all super jazzed about all the awesome things happening in his life.

And I give him a brief update on me, which is sort of weird because I’m not sure how close we actually are.

So I leave out stuff like how I’m still watching the new 90210 despite the fact that the show is really giving short shrift to the Peach Pit. 

And how it totally irks me that somehow Luke Perry can’t find time in his schedule to reprise his role as Dylan. I mean, is Luke Perry really THAT  busy?! I haven’t seen that guy since I rolled up my high-wasted, acid washed jean shorts and thought I looked cool.

Clearly, without the miracle of Facebook, Steve and I would have tragically lived our whole lives without ever reconnecting again.

I also recently received a Facebook invite that read, “Please consider joining our law firm’s Group on Facebook.” The invite comes from a sorority sister’s ex-college boyfriend. I haven’t talked to my fellow Pi Phi in years and the last time I saw this frat-boy-turned-attorney was 1992.

Still, it’s super sweet of him to include me in this rockin’ new legal group. I wonder if the law firm of Baker, Tuddleston and Mock has a softball team, because I could totally play shortstop.

And pre-Facebook, one could easily wear the same super adorable outfit to a myriad of events without ever feeling self conscious.

But now, if I just happen to wear the very same silk top to my high school reunion (I’m on the far right)…

AND my Clinton-Gore staff reunion….

I will inevitably be tagged in photos, highlighting my obviously recycled outfit.

Facebook Status Update: Kelcey is… going to give that top a rest.

I got so many nice comments from you all, wishing me a lovely Florida vacation.

And then, of course, there was Calikim’s comment warning me of a SERIAL KILLER IN BOCA RATON. At first I thought, California Kim was just trying to sabotage my vacation because she lives in San Francisco where it’s always inexplicably colder than it should be.

But after a little frantic Googling, I realize she’s just trying to save my arse.

Apparently, there have been a few horrific murders in Boca Raton over the past year or so (either at the mall or outside the mall) that may be related. So that sort of settles the, “Should we run by the Gap while we’re here?” question.

Umm… no thanks.

California Kim watched a whole “20/20″ special and advised me to avoid the mall, not to drive a black SUV (the victims drove black SUV’s) but rather to stick with the reliable Yugo.

Apparently, nobody kills anybody for a Yugo.

Murdering spree hysteria aside, I’ve really been enjoying our Florida trip.

Each morning, the newspaper will say, “Today the temperature is 72 degrees. Feels like 71 degrees.”

So I immediately take off my 72 degree weather outfit and put something on that’s more appropriate for 71 degrees, which is why it totally pays off to read the paper.

During our visit, Rick’s 85 year-old grandmother Sylvia (aka Mom Mom) taught me how to play the card game Casino. And then I whooped her butt at cards.

Before you admonish me for being some kind of card shark and picking on Rick’s grandmother, just know, that she is a very sharp, witty, sassy lady who is a master at card games.

Here she is with Rick and the girls…

She’s the one on the left in case you are confusing her with Summer.

Oh sure. She looks sweet. But I promise you, she’s already fine tuning her ruthless techniques right now for our next 52-card face off. I’m screwed. I’m definitely going down.

mama bird notes:

Contributing mama Karen Palmer Bland offers a spirited defense of pizza as she fesses up about her little secret. Click on contributing mamas to read more.