So how many of you, dear readers, happened to catch Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution? I did. I sat my ass down on the couch Friday night with a glass of wine, wearing my judges robes, ready for some holier-than-thou action, watching southerners feed their kids chicken fried steak served with a bucket of Coke.
To some degree, this show did not disappoint. One family, in particular, volunteered to be Jamie's guinea pigs, allowing him to entirely makeover their diets. An overweight mother opened the door to Jamie and introduced him to her three morbidly obese children who were sitting in a living room no bigger than a postage stamp, overshadowed by a giant flatscreen TV. Jamie and the mother left the kids to continue staring glassy-eyed at McDonald's commercials, drinking their Big Gulps, while they proceeded to the kitchen.
The mother had provided Jamie with a description of a typical week's meals and in, what I consider to be a colossal waste of food and time, they cooked all of it and piled it on the kitchen table in a festival of trans fats, refined carbohydrates and high fructose corn syrup. This woman literally used a deep fat fryer for every meal. A point that made their food intake horrifying enough without wasting hundreds of dollars on making perfectly good corn dogs and homemade chocolate dipped donuts that even the crew was, I'm sure, too embarrassed to eat after the shoot was done. (I, however, would love to go over there when I am hungover.)
So I sat there, feeling pretty good about the fact that pretty much none of my kid's food is cooked in hot grease, when Jamie visited the local elementary school where he was determined to makeover the food that, what appears to be, all the children consume daily. During his tour of the school's kitchen, he was aghast at the frequency with which pizza and chicken nuggets are served. And upon surveying the students, it seems 80% of them had some kind of breaded fried meat for dinner as well. This is when the gavel drops from my hand and a fog of guilt creeps over me as the vast majority of my children's protein comes in nugget form. I watched in horror as Jamie recreated the manor in which most companies make chicken nuggets, grinding up chicken skin and carcasses, adding flavorings and preservatives, and I couldn't ask myself how this happened because I know exactly how I got here.
To be clear, my kids drink milk three times a day, eat a variety of fruits, and eat broccoli every night if they reject the evening's vegetable (which they do more often than not), but on the meat front they reject nearly everything. So in order to get some kind of protein into them I have been reduced to serving baked chicken tenders, soy nuggets and fish sticks at least once a week. Giving credit where credit is due, #2 will eat almost anything, even meat not coated in breading, and Little Man will try it when pressed, but my oldest is practically a vegetarian, which I would support wholeheartedly, if she would eat cheese of any kind. Having a friend who is allergic to nuts has killed any lunchtime success I might have had with a peanut butter sandwich, so once agian, those damn nuggets rear their heads so she is not left to survive on Ritz crackers. And as annoying as all of this is, dear readers, I brought this on myself.
Like an idiot, I fed my kid, #1 being my only at the time, what she would eat just so she would eat when the usual two year-old protein strike began. Instead of sticking to my current, "this is dinner, eat or not" policy, having only one child, it didn't' seem too hard to cook a separate meal for her when I was eating with H later in the evening anyway*. But once #2 came along, the battle began. I had not time to be making two dinners and #2 has always been a good eater. The kid's favorite lunch is goat cheese on Triscuits with red pepper strips on the side, for Christ's sake.
Jamie Oliver actually made me think, when I could ignore his lisp, not just about what food I was feeding my kids, but also the preservatives in that food. While they do eat a good amount of fresh produce and dairy, their breakfast usually consists of Aunt Jemima frozen pancakes and Log Cabin syrup (I can hear you gasping, B) and most of their carbohydrates, while whole wheat, do have quite a few quadruple-syllable ingredients. Those pancakes stopped seeming so benign all of the sudden. They're not that bad with their claims of whole grain and no trans fats. But if I really want to be honest with myself, they're not that good either. We're all so busy, the Go-gurts, Lunchables and Goldfish all make sense. I bought into the "busy mother of three" excuse, and even if that wasn't forcing me to the drive thru every night, I wasn't exactly cooking a blue streak in the kitchen. Good enough suddenly didn't seem good enough.
So this week found me making whole wheat, banana pancakes from scratch, which has not happened on a weekday since before #2's conception (the morning sickness induced by her creation stopped all a.m. cooking, unless a whole loaf of buttered cinnamon toast counts) and breading my very own chicken nuggets. Which of course were not touched my my protein critics. Since I will not be making my own yogurt and I will still have to feed them some sort of orange-hued marine or mammalian life, I have decided to add to the grocery bill and do more of my shopping at those organic mega-marts. Although, I refuse to become one of those mothers who totes around all organic stuff for their own kid - including to birthday parties - there has to be some sort of balance, and an Oreo here and there. So my mission is to cook more of my own stuff, give Jemima and Frank Purdue a break and see if I can make or find replacements that won't keep me up at night with the certainty my kids are growing tumors as we all sleep.
*Yes, I am a bad mother, but a good wife, choosing to have salad with my kids at five thirty, then eat a reheated dinner with my husband.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Coming soon to a theater near you...a crappy version of your favorite book!
“You can’t see it yet.”, I say.
“But, Mom, whyyyyyy not?”, #1 replies.
“Because I want you to read the book first.”
This is the conversation I have had repeatedly, dear readers, since it has become possible to take my kids to the movies with any regularity. And, no I’m not talking about taking them to the ten o’clock show of Clash of the Titans, but this is the argument I have when the girls ask to see a movie that is based on a children’s book. But isn’t that every movie these days?
It seems every movie for children that has been released, as of late, is based on a children’s book. Whatever happened to original ideas? I, personally, am tired of lazy screenwriters, and greedy producers, pillaging the bookshelves of my local library for ideas to warp and narrow, until they create a movie that only resembles the original work in title and maybe a few of the characters.
Look at the recent release Where the Wild Things Are. In the original picture book, Max has no newly dating, single mother. The book has been used to tell an entirely different , specific, story instead of being a validation of every child’s inner monster, divorced parents or not. No matter how the screenwriters tried to include that message, it got lost. Even the Harry Potter movies, waited for with such baited breath, are flat interpretations of that rich, dynamic series. While the casting is stellar, and I did enjoy them, the Hogwarts of my imagination was much better than the (to be fair, excellent) one they created on screen. And entirely the opposite of Where the Wild Things Are, where they made much more of much less, half of each Potter book needed to be cut out for the movie, resulting in much less developed characters and plot lines.
I don’t remember it being this way when I was growing up, or at least not to this extent. Sure, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is classic Roald Dahl, and they did turn Laura Ingalls Wilder’s amazing book series into a television series that reflected the real events of her life practically not at all (I found not one bit of evidence to suggest Wilder ever had a morphine-addicted foster brother), but those books had be written ages before they were turned celluloid. It seems you can not be a successful children’s author without someone buying the rights for the big screen the minute you hit the best-seller list. The aforementioned Harry Potter, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, even that damn Twilight series, were all barely in our consciousness as books before we were being asked to line up for tickets. But perhaps this is a reflection of our time. Quick! Dumb it down and package it for the masses so they can mutely stare at a screen! God forbid our kids read a book.
Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy seeing some of my favorite characters brought to life and it is entertaining to see what actors are chosen for each part (Maggie Smith as Professor MacGonagall is pure genius!). But my fear is, allowing my children to see these films before they’ve read the books, they will be more likely to pass over some great titles on the library shelves thinking they’ve experienced the equivalent of reading them. When I was a child learning to read, my father told me that books should be like “a movie inside your head”. You get to do the casting and decorate the sets. Seeing a movie based on a book before reading it, will deprive them of imagining the characters and settings for themselves and developing that kind of imagination not only makes you a life-long reader, but also develops creativity that can be channeled into writing.
Of course this phenomenon is not limited only to children’s books. Many of my favorite adult novels have been butchered by the slaughterhouse of Hollywood. I still haven’t forgiven them for turning one of the most poignant scenes in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, into a joke. But I am less worked up about these offenses than I am about my children being robbed of meeting some of the most amazing characters, instead of their big-screen doppelgangers. There are so many characters that I considered friends as a child and are still so dear to me - Harriet the Spy and her tomato sandwiches, animal rights activist, Fern Arable, and another, who I will lay myself prostrate across the doorway of theaters everywhere to prevent little girls from meeting her first on the big screen, as I have heard rumors of a movie being made, Ramona Quimby. I actually teared up when #1 was old enough to begin Ramona the Pest.
So I will fight the fight when I can. I know it’s not possible to prevent them from seeing every movie whose book of origin I consider to be far superior, but those books are so, so important. To borrow a line once again from You’ve Got Mail*, "When you read a book as a child it becomes part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your life does."
*Jesus, what is my obsession with quoting this movie? I might as well right a book The Tao of Nora Ephron.
“But, Mom, whyyyyyy not?”, #1 replies.
“Because I want you to read the book first.”
This is the conversation I have had repeatedly, dear readers, since it has become possible to take my kids to the movies with any regularity. And, no I’m not talking about taking them to the ten o’clock show of Clash of the Titans, but this is the argument I have when the girls ask to see a movie that is based on a children’s book. But isn’t that every movie these days?
It seems every movie for children that has been released, as of late, is based on a children’s book. Whatever happened to original ideas? I, personally, am tired of lazy screenwriters, and greedy producers, pillaging the bookshelves of my local library for ideas to warp and narrow, until they create a movie that only resembles the original work in title and maybe a few of the characters.
Look at the recent release Where the Wild Things Are. In the original picture book, Max has no newly dating, single mother. The book has been used to tell an entirely different , specific, story instead of being a validation of every child’s inner monster, divorced parents or not. No matter how the screenwriters tried to include that message, it got lost. Even the Harry Potter movies, waited for with such baited breath, are flat interpretations of that rich, dynamic series. While the casting is stellar, and I did enjoy them, the Hogwarts of my imagination was much better than the (to be fair, excellent) one they created on screen. And entirely the opposite of Where the Wild Things Are, where they made much more of much less, half of each Potter book needed to be cut out for the movie, resulting in much less developed characters and plot lines.
I don’t remember it being this way when I was growing up, or at least not to this extent. Sure, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is classic Roald Dahl, and they did turn Laura Ingalls Wilder’s amazing book series into a television series that reflected the real events of her life practically not at all (I found not one bit of evidence to suggest Wilder ever had a morphine-addicted foster brother), but those books had be written ages before they were turned celluloid. It seems you can not be a successful children’s author without someone buying the rights for the big screen the minute you hit the best-seller list. The aforementioned Harry Potter, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, even that damn Twilight series, were all barely in our consciousness as books before we were being asked to line up for tickets. But perhaps this is a reflection of our time. Quick! Dumb it down and package it for the masses so they can mutely stare at a screen! God forbid our kids read a book.
Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy seeing some of my favorite characters brought to life and it is entertaining to see what actors are chosen for each part (Maggie Smith as Professor MacGonagall is pure genius!). But my fear is, allowing my children to see these films before they’ve read the books, they will be more likely to pass over some great titles on the library shelves thinking they’ve experienced the equivalent of reading them. When I was a child learning to read, my father told me that books should be like “a movie inside your head”. You get to do the casting and decorate the sets. Seeing a movie based on a book before reading it, will deprive them of imagining the characters and settings for themselves and developing that kind of imagination not only makes you a life-long reader, but also develops creativity that can be channeled into writing.
Of course this phenomenon is not limited only to children’s books. Many of my favorite adult novels have been butchered by the slaughterhouse of Hollywood. I still haven’t forgiven them for turning one of the most poignant scenes in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, into a joke. But I am less worked up about these offenses than I am about my children being robbed of meeting some of the most amazing characters, instead of their big-screen doppelgangers. There are so many characters that I considered friends as a child and are still so dear to me - Harriet the Spy and her tomato sandwiches, animal rights activist, Fern Arable, and another, who I will lay myself prostrate across the doorway of theaters everywhere to prevent little girls from meeting her first on the big screen, as I have heard rumors of a movie being made, Ramona Quimby. I actually teared up when #1 was old enough to begin Ramona the Pest.
So I will fight the fight when I can. I know it’s not possible to prevent them from seeing every movie whose book of origin I consider to be far superior, but those books are so, so important. To borrow a line once again from You’ve Got Mail*, "When you read a book as a child it becomes part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your life does."
*Jesus, what is my obsession with quoting this movie? I might as well right a book The Tao of Nora Ephron.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Live long and prosper...wrinkle free!
Behold dear readers*, the piece of beauty technology that has changed my life...The Frownie. Of course, there's a back story.
Usually, the morning trip to the mirror starts with my observing a hazy, not-too-bad-for-thirty-six image of myself and ends, after the insertion of contact lenses, with my asking a sharper, disntinctly more lined version of myself, "When the hell did this happen?" True, the harsh light of the bathroom fixture at five in the morning is not the best environment in which to assess the ravages of time. To be fair, my skin looks pretty good. But ever since the kids, one area of my face has taken a hit. I'd like to say I have developed a serious case of laugh lines, and while I do have a few of those, it is those goddamn frown lines that have tried to take up permanent residence on my dome.
Now I don't spend a the whole day with a sour look on my face. What I have learned over the past few years, is I frown in my sleep. I have never a beautiful sleeper (those women also look effortlessly good at the beach, all tan with beach-wavy hair, while I have a crazy Carrot Top mane and look like a cinnamon donut with an entire beach's worth of sand encrusted in my thick layer of sun screen). H says I more resemble a dragon with my head thrown completely back, mouth ajar for heavy breathing. But frowning? I tried not to take this as a subconscious expression of a deep dissatisfaction with my life. What I have discovered though, is that I do not shut my eyes entirely when I sleep and and I must be frowning to keep the light out (I must really look hot. Thanks for sticking around, H.). And while my beloved sleep mask* has helped, I needed more help to stop myself from looking like a Klingon** forever.
As I have discussed before, I'm not really into Botox, since it's hard for a two year old to really know you're pissed at him for stealing kibble from the dog's bowl unless you can frown. But I also don't want visual evidence of the fact that I can be a crabby bitch sometimes (OK, a lot of times). So in my online search for natural wrinkle remedies that didn't require me to sell the toddler, for whom I need said frowning ability, into white slavery in order to pay for a month's supply, I came upon the Frownie and was intrigued.
I remember reading about Frownies in Glamour magazine years ago during a summer beach vacation (along with smooth skin, my children have also robbed me of the ability to read a magazine on the beach unmolested). The "technology", if you can call it that, is simple. Frownies are a triangular piece of, what is essentially, paper bag, coated one one side with, what smells exactly like, and probably is, postage stamp adhesive. Each night before bed, I apply my various creams and let them dry. Then I dampen the back of the Frownie, and using one hand to stretch my brow skin flat, I apply the Frownie and hold it there across my now-smooth brow, until it sticks.
The first night I tried these was during H's Vegas trip. I did not want the usefulness of these things to be overshadowed by hysterical mockery. I followed the instructions, waited for the Frownie to dry, tried to frown and I'll be damned. I couldn't. When I wasn't frowning, my forehead felt perfectly normal, but any sour puss action and it felt weird. Huzzah!
Fast forward to the next morning and, I swear, I already saw improvement. Of course, after H's return, I had to endure the Vulcan hand sign a million times, but now even he admits he sees a difference. Not that he ever admitted I had frown lines, since I'm sure he'd like to keep his balls.
So check them out, dear readers, if you too have a habit of frowning too often. Or should I just say, check them out if you have kids**** and a husband.
*How much do I love you all to post, not only a make-up-free-before-bed picture of myself, but to select "large size" when doing so?
**Dragon mouth, half-open eyes and a sleep mask? You have mighty self control, H, for not ravaging me each night when you come to bed. I'd add a flannel night gown and some rollers, but then you'd never take your hands off me.
***Doing online research about Vulcan physiology brought up some terrifyingly in-...depth websites. I did not need to know about their reproduction, thanks.
****And, no, the kids have not seen me in one yet. I can not wait for the bon mots to come from #2 when she does...
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Meet me at Mary's place...**
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! Yeah, yeah. You know how I really feel about this day, but like many other things I used to disdain, such as Blues Clues and neon-colored yogurt, I have been brainwashed by my children into almost enjoying it. I write this wearing my Target celtic knot-inspired, green t-shirt, after having spent the morning applying shamrock and Irish flag temporary tattoos to the kids’ faces and helping them don their “Kiss Me I’m Irish” socks, shamrock headbands and green t-shirts. I am a sell out.
So while teenagers all across the tri-state area head into the city to drink green beer, I am contemplating an upcoming night out with my girlfriends to make up for H’s Vegas trip. I am so excited to get all dolled up, put on some sick heels and go….
Meh.
Here is where the Ladies’ Night soundtrack playing in my head (featuring much Beyonce) comes to a screeching halt. Where do we go? It is the plight of the (relatively) young suburban mother not having an establishment to frequent on those nights you just need to let loose without the Hubs. The choices that exist each have their own issues to make them not-quite-right.
We could venture in to the city, but to be honest, I know nothing of hip clubs and am sure my Banana Republic jeans and knock off purse would be laughed out of any of those places. Then there are the fun places, like my favorite eighties bar, Joshua Tree, but I am officially too old for those places now, even though I am perplexed as to why people who weren’t even born then, can truly enjoy drunkenly screaming the lyrics to "Jessie’s Girl". And with the term “cougar” so popular today, any situation where I am dressed up and around younger, single men, makes we want to scream, “I’m not looking for anyone! I’m married!!!” Even middle-of-the-road, age appropriate places have the drawback of being populated by single people in their thirties and there is a decidedly desperate vibe about their inhabitants that rubs off on you, making it awkward to make accidental eye contact with any member of the opposite sex.
So let’s say we choose to stay closer home. The choices here are equally pitiful. We can go to a brass rail, sports bar type of place, but I think the pony heels stand out a bit there and I refuse to frequent any establishment with televisions because I can drink wine and watch TV at home.* Then there are the places that are trying to be “city” type places and have a decent ambiance and the requisite $12 drinks, but any moderately cool place has already been taken over by singles in their forties and fifties, since they are the only ones with enough free time to frequent them with any regularity. H and I have stopped by to have a drink at these places, watching overweight men in leather car coats and over-Botoxed women in inappropriate skinny jeans make painful conversation. So patronizing one of these establishments with my thirty-something mom friends without husbands, would be like throwing ourselves to the lions. And this is not to say we’re all beauty queens, but having foreheads that actually move is a desirable quality I think.
So what’s a not-yet-past-her-prime mother, dying to get out and have a few drinks and dance, to do? Well, I have a solution. Someday, when I have the funds, I will open my fantasy bar. And here’s how it will be…
*This place is in the suburbs so I don't have to waste a good portion of my child-free time commuting.
*The atmosphere will be fun and hip. Animal print will be involved, but in a tasteful way.
*The entire staff is flamboyant, gay men.
*There is an over 28 age limit, since before that age, you and your friends can still reasonably go to those young bars previously discussed.
*The only men let in are gay men in relationships who love to dance. This way all possibility of romantic interest is removed, but there is still that male energy that we all need during a night out – whether we want to admit it or not. They will dance with you to "Vogue" and tell you your hair looks amazing.
*There is a cell phone check at the door. You MUST turn over your phone upon entry. There is a house phone answered by a discreet attendant who will come find you if your husband calls with a question or situation he deems worthy of interrupting your evening. “Where are the Band-aids?” does not qualify.
*Since so many mothers struggle to find the right outfit for a night out, there will be a fashion station at the door, to help anyone who is clueless enough to go out in mom jeans.
*For a small fee you can rent accessories and have a hair and make up artist touch up your look if you didn’t have time to finish your hair since you had to come downstairs eight times to help your husband make the kids’ dinner before you left.
*The only kind of music played is cheesy, dance music.
*Discussing your children will result in immediate ejection from the bar.
*There is a cupcake and French fry bar.
*The bathroom has twenty toilets. The seats are never wet and there is copious toilet paper.
*Car service home is included in the cover charge.
So until I win the lottery and can open this place, I will struggle to find an appropriate location for my next night out. Maybe a gay bar is the answer, but if my last trip to Boston was any indication, even those bars can have their issues. No matter what I do, I will probably wind up feeling too old or too young, which I will deal with by getting too drunk.
*True, Joshua Tree is rife with TV’s but they are playing bad 80’s videos, and thus, add to the experience.
** I am open to name suggestions.
So while teenagers all across the tri-state area head into the city to drink green beer, I am contemplating an upcoming night out with my girlfriends to make up for H’s Vegas trip. I am so excited to get all dolled up, put on some sick heels and go….
Meh.
Here is where the Ladies’ Night soundtrack playing in my head (featuring much Beyonce) comes to a screeching halt. Where do we go? It is the plight of the (relatively) young suburban mother not having an establishment to frequent on those nights you just need to let loose without the Hubs. The choices that exist each have their own issues to make them not-quite-right.
We could venture in to the city, but to be honest, I know nothing of hip clubs and am sure my Banana Republic jeans and knock off purse would be laughed out of any of those places. Then there are the fun places, like my favorite eighties bar, Joshua Tree, but I am officially too old for those places now, even though I am perplexed as to why people who weren’t even born then, can truly enjoy drunkenly screaming the lyrics to "Jessie’s Girl". And with the term “cougar” so popular today, any situation where I am dressed up and around younger, single men, makes we want to scream, “I’m not looking for anyone! I’m married!!!” Even middle-of-the-road, age appropriate places have the drawback of being populated by single people in their thirties and there is a decidedly desperate vibe about their inhabitants that rubs off on you, making it awkward to make accidental eye contact with any member of the opposite sex.
So let’s say we choose to stay closer home. The choices here are equally pitiful. We can go to a brass rail, sports bar type of place, but I think the pony heels stand out a bit there and I refuse to frequent any establishment with televisions because I can drink wine and watch TV at home.* Then there are the places that are trying to be “city” type places and have a decent ambiance and the requisite $12 drinks, but any moderately cool place has already been taken over by singles in their forties and fifties, since they are the only ones with enough free time to frequent them with any regularity. H and I have stopped by to have a drink at these places, watching overweight men in leather car coats and over-Botoxed women in inappropriate skinny jeans make painful conversation. So patronizing one of these establishments with my thirty-something mom friends without husbands, would be like throwing ourselves to the lions. And this is not to say we’re all beauty queens, but having foreheads that actually move is a desirable quality I think.
So what’s a not-yet-past-her-prime mother, dying to get out and have a few drinks and dance, to do? Well, I have a solution. Someday, when I have the funds, I will open my fantasy bar. And here’s how it will be…
*This place is in the suburbs so I don't have to waste a good portion of my child-free time commuting.
*The atmosphere will be fun and hip. Animal print will be involved, but in a tasteful way.
*The entire staff is flamboyant, gay men.
*There is an over 28 age limit, since before that age, you and your friends can still reasonably go to those young bars previously discussed.
*The only men let in are gay men in relationships who love to dance. This way all possibility of romantic interest is removed, but there is still that male energy that we all need during a night out – whether we want to admit it or not. They will dance with you to "Vogue" and tell you your hair looks amazing.
*There is a cell phone check at the door. You MUST turn over your phone upon entry. There is a house phone answered by a discreet attendant who will come find you if your husband calls with a question or situation he deems worthy of interrupting your evening. “Where are the Band-aids?” does not qualify.
*Since so many mothers struggle to find the right outfit for a night out, there will be a fashion station at the door, to help anyone who is clueless enough to go out in mom jeans.
*For a small fee you can rent accessories and have a hair and make up artist touch up your look if you didn’t have time to finish your hair since you had to come downstairs eight times to help your husband make the kids’ dinner before you left.
*The only kind of music played is cheesy, dance music.
*Discussing your children will result in immediate ejection from the bar.
*There is a cupcake and French fry bar.
*The bathroom has twenty toilets. The seats are never wet and there is copious toilet paper.
*Car service home is included in the cover charge.
So until I win the lottery and can open this place, I will struggle to find an appropriate location for my next night out. Maybe a gay bar is the answer, but if my last trip to Boston was any indication, even those bars can have their issues. No matter what I do, I will probably wind up feeling too old or too young, which I will deal with by getting too drunk.
*True, Joshua Tree is rife with TV’s but they are playing bad 80’s videos, and thus, add to the experience.
** I am open to name suggestions.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Step one completed...
..in my plan to become a real, live writer.
Get ready, dear readers, Mean Mommy is being published!* True, it is in the local, free, parenting magazine, The Parent Paper. True, I am not being paid. True, that I had to dial the snark down to practically zero and eliminate f-bombs. True, I have to convince H to pose for a picture with me and the kids since the piece is about modern fatherhood. (True, he is going to do this since he just got back from five days in Vegas with his high school buddies during which time I survived a two-day blackout with the kids. Also true, I only survived because I threw a few articles of clothing and all our frozen food into the van and escaped to his parent's house who had power.)
In any case it is a writing credit, which I need if I am going to be published in a national magazine, so I will consider that payment enough. Progress, I say! Woot!
*Coming to the windowsill of a Dunkin' Donuts near you this June!
Get ready, dear readers, Mean Mommy is being published!* True, it is in the local, free, parenting magazine, The Parent Paper. True, I am not being paid. True, that I had to dial the snark down to practically zero and eliminate f-bombs. True, I have to convince H to pose for a picture with me and the kids since the piece is about modern fatherhood. (True, he is going to do this since he just got back from five days in Vegas with his high school buddies during which time I survived a two-day blackout with the kids. Also true, I only survived because I threw a few articles of clothing and all our frozen food into the van and escaped to his parent's house who had power.)
In any case it is a writing credit, which I need if I am going to be published in a national magazine, so I will consider that payment enough. Progress, I say! Woot!
*Coming to the windowsill of a Dunkin' Donuts near you this June!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I Heart Miley Cyrus
Stop your laughing. I like Miley Cyrus. I have a seven year old, it comes with the territory. But even if it didn’t I would have to say that for all my hesitation at opening this purple, glittery, can of worms, Miley Cyrus and her alter ego, Hannah Montana, have improved my life. Or at least my running time.
Yes, #1 watches Hannah Montana, and, no I have no problem with Miley Cyrus' "racy" Vanity Fair cover or her "pole dancing"* on the Teen Choice awards because, obviously, my seven year-old isn't reading Vanity Fair and I think the word "Teen" in the title excludes her from watching that broadcast. It's called parental control, people, check it out. What you see on Hannah Montana is a positive, family-centric message and Lucille Ball-esque slapstick humor.
But what do I really dig? The music.
My iTunes list is chock-full of hits I have come to love being the mother of seven and five year-old girls. Like you’re surprised. Me of the MC Hammer, RuPaul playlist. So for those of you looking for some new tunes to rock it out to on the elliptical trainer, let me invite you to get over yourselves and embrace the cheese. Might I suggest...
* Almost anything with a fast tempo by Miley Cyrus or Hannah Montana. What songs would a thirty-five year old mother relate to? So many to choose from! Oh, Miley, did you write “Nobody’s Perfect” especially for me? “NOBODY’S PERFECT, I GOTTA WORK IT!!!!” And “Party in the U.S.A.”? I act like it was the kids who wanted it on constant loop in the van, but the lines “I put my hands up, they’re playing my song, the butterflies fly away” made us all feel a little less nervous in New Town as we belted them out on the way to our first day of school.
*The soundtrack to Alvin and the Chipmunks – The Squeakquel. Don’t you jugde me, Judge-y Judgerson. There are tame versions of “I Gotta Feeling”, “Hot and Cold” and “All the Single Ladies”, which has given me the mildly uncomfortable experience of watching my five year-old swing her hips and sing, “Don’t be mad ‘bout what you see out here on it.”. There are some original songs that are even better. Download “The Song” featuring Queensberry right now. “’CAUSE WHEN I ROCK NO ONE ROCKS HARDER THAN ME AND I DON’T STOP ‘CAUSE I GOT MAD ENERGY!!!” Who needs coffee?
*The High School Musical Soundtrack. If we learned nothing from Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”, we at least came away knowing any song with a marching band lead-in is a hit. Is “We’re All in This Together” queer? Sho ‘nuff. Do I kick up the speed on the treadmill during the bridge “WILDCATS EVERYWHERE WAVE YOUR HANDS UP IN THE AIR!”? You bet Zac Efron’s carefully tousled and highlighted hair I do.
There are many more songs I just keep forgetting to download, and some that are too ridiculous even for me. I do find the intro to Lazy Town quite catchy though. So mock me if you will, dear readers, but these songs keep me going and make me smile, almost as much as The Spice Girls and the other great artists I usually listen to in the morning. This includes you, H. You watch as Miley motivates me to kick your ass in that race in August.
*Pole dancing? If that was pole dancing then the exhausted removal of my yoga pants every night is stripping,
Yes, #1 watches Hannah Montana, and, no I have no problem with Miley Cyrus' "racy" Vanity Fair cover or her "pole dancing"* on the Teen Choice awards because, obviously, my seven year-old isn't reading Vanity Fair and I think the word "Teen" in the title excludes her from watching that broadcast. It's called parental control, people, check it out. What you see on Hannah Montana is a positive, family-centric message and Lucille Ball-esque slapstick humor.
But what do I really dig? The music.
My iTunes list is chock-full of hits I have come to love being the mother of seven and five year-old girls. Like you’re surprised. Me of the MC Hammer, RuPaul playlist. So for those of you looking for some new tunes to rock it out to on the elliptical trainer, let me invite you to get over yourselves and embrace the cheese. Might I suggest...
* Almost anything with a fast tempo by Miley Cyrus or Hannah Montana. What songs would a thirty-five year old mother relate to? So many to choose from! Oh, Miley, did you write “Nobody’s Perfect” especially for me? “NOBODY’S PERFECT, I GOTTA WORK IT!!!!” And “Party in the U.S.A.”? I act like it was the kids who wanted it on constant loop in the van, but the lines “I put my hands up, they’re playing my song, the butterflies fly away” made us all feel a little less nervous in New Town as we belted them out on the way to our first day of school.
*The soundtrack to Alvin and the Chipmunks – The Squeakquel. Don’t you jugde me, Judge-y Judgerson. There are tame versions of “I Gotta Feeling”, “Hot and Cold” and “All the Single Ladies”, which has given me the mildly uncomfortable experience of watching my five year-old swing her hips and sing, “Don’t be mad ‘bout what you see out here on it.”. There are some original songs that are even better. Download “The Song” featuring Queensberry right now. “’CAUSE WHEN I ROCK NO ONE ROCKS HARDER THAN ME AND I DON’T STOP ‘CAUSE I GOT MAD ENERGY!!!” Who needs coffee?
*The High School Musical Soundtrack. If we learned nothing from Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”, we at least came away knowing any song with a marching band lead-in is a hit. Is “We’re All in This Together” queer? Sho ‘nuff. Do I kick up the speed on the treadmill during the bridge “WILDCATS EVERYWHERE WAVE YOUR HANDS UP IN THE AIR!”? You bet Zac Efron’s carefully tousled and highlighted hair I do.
There are many more songs I just keep forgetting to download, and some that are too ridiculous even for me. I do find the intro to Lazy Town quite catchy though. So mock me if you will, dear readers, but these songs keep me going and make me smile, almost as much as The Spice Girls and the other great artists I usually listen to in the morning. This includes you, H. You watch as Miley motivates me to kick your ass in that race in August.
*Pole dancing? If that was pole dancing then the exhausted removal of my yoga pants every night is stripping,
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
You, 1, Your marriage, 0
Have any of you seen the commercials for Jerry Seinfeld’s new show The Marriage Ref, that started after the Olympics*? I don’t know about you, dear readers, but I am super excited about this show.
The premise is, cameras follow a couple who have a nagging, long-standing issue threatening the happiness of their marriage, allowing us to be relationship voyeurs. The footage is then reviewed by a panel of judges**, and a call is made as to who is right and who is wrong.
My GOD, do I want to be on this show!!! Well, not really. Not least of all, because I would never get H to agree to it (he won’t even let me use his real name on this blog for Christ’s sake), but also because H and I mock people on reality shows too mercilessly to subject myself to that. But, in theory, how great would it be - when you and your mate have reach a stalemate over taking out the garbage, making the kid’s lunches or who ate the last of the ice cream the kids usually have for dessert, even though he said he was off sweets, and therefore, must go to the store to replace it, even though it’s raining – to have an impartial third party make the call?
In my fantasy, H and I are standing in the kitchen, locked in debate, and the double doors of the pantry fly open with the shrill cry of a whistle and a man in a striped shirt pops out making the timeout sign with his hands. Of course, it has to be a man. If it were a woman, H would accuse us of collusion along gender lines and disregard the call. I, on the other hand, am so convinced of my righteousness 99% of the time that my ref, male or female, would surely see it.
What I find really enticing is the concept of a camera documenting the couple’s actions as evidence for either side. In my fantasy, your entire life is being recorded (by hidden cameras, not a film crew, since I have to pee with the door open almost 100% of the time). So when one of you says, “I’M NOT THE ONE WHO STARTED YELLING!!! YOU DID!!!” You can rewind and see a slow-motion replay and be vindicated. Or not – as I am usually the one who starts yelling.
As newlyweds, fights are usually ended with protestations along the lines of, “No, no! I was wrong!”, but somewhere along the way it changes to, “No, no YOU were wrong!” At what point do you start to argue like adversaries looking to score points? Perhaps I’m the only one and you’re all reading, thinking, “Um, yeah. Good luck in divorce court.”, but I don’ think so if the scenes played out on every sitcom on TV are any proof.
Sometimes there is no right and wrong. Part of marriage is learning to work through the impasses and find a peaceable way to coexist. You have to develop the ability to examine your own behavior from another’s perspective, without the benefit of cameras, and occasionally, or often, find the strength to admit you were at fault, without feeling like you’re “losing”. Cold comfort when you just know you asked her to deposit that Girl Scout check before you left for work.
So while I will watch The Marriage Ref, even though there is a celebrity panel I feel has no right giving any kind of marriage advice, I will do so for laughs, but I will also wonder if it’s not perpetuating some marital strife in the real world. Because at the end of the day, does it matter more who was right or wrong, or that you can both manage life little grievances without keeping score?
*Thank you Olympics for preempting all my NBC shows, and forcing the other networks to only air repeats. Also, I thought the Stanley Cup was at the beginning of the summer. I do not need any more hockey on my TV, thanks. And why is ice dancing like figure skating in drag?
** Madonna? Really? Go eat a sandwich to put some fat on those Gollum arms and go away.
POST-PUBLISH NOTE - I saw this morning that Tina Fey will be on tonight. She more than cancels out Madonna.
The premise is, cameras follow a couple who have a nagging, long-standing issue threatening the happiness of their marriage, allowing us to be relationship voyeurs. The footage is then reviewed by a panel of judges**, and a call is made as to who is right and who is wrong.
My GOD, do I want to be on this show!!! Well, not really. Not least of all, because I would never get H to agree to it (he won’t even let me use his real name on this blog for Christ’s sake), but also because H and I mock people on reality shows too mercilessly to subject myself to that. But, in theory, how great would it be - when you and your mate have reach a stalemate over taking out the garbage, making the kid’s lunches or who ate the last of the ice cream the kids usually have for dessert, even though he said he was off sweets, and therefore, must go to the store to replace it, even though it’s raining – to have an impartial third party make the call?
In my fantasy, H and I are standing in the kitchen, locked in debate, and the double doors of the pantry fly open with the shrill cry of a whistle and a man in a striped shirt pops out making the timeout sign with his hands. Of course, it has to be a man. If it were a woman, H would accuse us of collusion along gender lines and disregard the call. I, on the other hand, am so convinced of my righteousness 99% of the time that my ref, male or female, would surely see it.
What I find really enticing is the concept of a camera documenting the couple’s actions as evidence for either side. In my fantasy, your entire life is being recorded (by hidden cameras, not a film crew, since I have to pee with the door open almost 100% of the time). So when one of you says, “I’M NOT THE ONE WHO STARTED YELLING!!! YOU DID!!!” You can rewind and see a slow-motion replay and be vindicated. Or not – as I am usually the one who starts yelling.
As newlyweds, fights are usually ended with protestations along the lines of, “No, no! I was wrong!”, but somewhere along the way it changes to, “No, no YOU were wrong!” At what point do you start to argue like adversaries looking to score points? Perhaps I’m the only one and you’re all reading, thinking, “Um, yeah. Good luck in divorce court.”, but I don’ think so if the scenes played out on every sitcom on TV are any proof.
Sometimes there is no right and wrong. Part of marriage is learning to work through the impasses and find a peaceable way to coexist. You have to develop the ability to examine your own behavior from another’s perspective, without the benefit of cameras, and occasionally, or often, find the strength to admit you were at fault, without feeling like you’re “losing”. Cold comfort when you just know you asked her to deposit that Girl Scout check before you left for work.
So while I will watch The Marriage Ref, even though there is a celebrity panel I feel has no right giving any kind of marriage advice, I will do so for laughs, but I will also wonder if it’s not perpetuating some marital strife in the real world. Because at the end of the day, does it matter more who was right or wrong, or that you can both manage life little grievances without keeping score?
*Thank you Olympics for preempting all my NBC shows, and forcing the other networks to only air repeats. Also, I thought the Stanley Cup was at the beginning of the summer. I do not need any more hockey on my TV, thanks. And why is ice dancing like figure skating in drag?
** Madonna? Really? Go eat a sandwich to put some fat on those Gollum arms and go away.
POST-PUBLISH NOTE - I saw this morning that Tina Fey will be on tonight. She more than cancels out Madonna.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)