Hanging Mickey Mouse

A long time ago in a fantasy land not too far away, there once was a college freshman who longed to escape from both the rigors of college coursework and the protective eyes of her parents for the summer.  Some perky and persuasive recruiters combed her campus for the most fresh-faced, malleable, and all-American slave labor students to join their summer internship program. The competition was fierce, so this young and naive freshman pulled out her rows of earrings, wiped off her heavy eyeliner, swore her hair color was natural, and sweet talked the recruiters into paying her minimum wage to spend the summer at
THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH.

After spending eight weeks sweltering in the Sunshine State's repressive heat and humidity, this soon-to-be-sophomore had finally been released from indentured servitude and  graduated from the world-renown program. As her eyes glazed over from exhaustion, she reflected upon what knowledge she had gained through this highly coveted internship.

She gained an in depth knowledge of International Relations and how to peacefully cohabit with six people from five countries in one cramped charming, smoke-filled apartment. She discovered the French were the heaviest smokers and  best cooks by far (and usually at the same time); Norwegians often paid for their extensive clubbing wardrobes and blonde highlights by supplying the International Village with any and every drug imaginable; the Germans and the English battled it out nightly for the fiercely contested title of world beer drinking champions; and much to the chagrin to all the roommates, some Internationals could not be taught to flush soiled toilet paper instead of depositing it in the trash can next to the loo.

    

She learned to tune-out tolerate the stupid tourists of the world. She was taught not to point but to gesture like a beauty queen waving on a float so she would not offend any foreign guests.  As mobs of randy Brazilian youths exited from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride chanting “We wants the Redhead, We wants the Redhead” in her face, she learned how control her temper and not knee them in the groin. Eventually her conscience was numbed to the guilt of bilking a family of four out of a hundred bucks for cheap ponchos, a roll of film, and  two plastic swords.  She specialized in repressing snarky comments when at least fifty-nine overheated and under-deodorized guests per day asked, “What time is the Three O'clock Parade?”    Vodka helped.

She discovered the magic was merely a carefully crafted facade, and nearly everyone in life was assigned a role to play. While sweating in her polyester pirate costume, she smiled and posed for photos with Japanese businessmen and hoped the images wouldn't end up on bedside tables or the internet. She learned not to be shocked when she caught Tweedle Dum groping Alice or Tigger wandering wasted through the garbage-filled underground tunnels. She never looked at fairy tales the same after she caught Cinderella in her underwear, smoking a cigarette, and swearing like a drunken sailor.  Childhood dreams are fragile and easily shattered.
 

After she carelessly shoved her hard-earned Mouster's Degree into her luggage, she changed back into her own clothes and personality for the journey into the park to say her good-byes.  She rode the shuttle bus to the park's employee entrance for the last time and knowingly strolled to her former outpost. With the help of a few like-minded cohorts, she placed the tiny noose around the stuffed Mickey Mouse's neck and let him dangle lifelessly in the air.

The dream was officially dead. She had graduated back into the real world.

Swimsuit Shopping {Part Deux: In the Navy}

{Do you have the classic Village People anthem in your head yet?  If not, click here. }

Flash forward to present day (technically earlier this week).  Four long years after Swimsuit Shopping {Part One: The Grey Hair}.    Four years older (eek!), fitter (yeah baby!), grayer (Clariol is my friend), and paler (boo..hiss..hiss...).

I've actually braved bikinis for a few summers figuring that if the 80-year-olds on my local beach can wear one with pride, so can I dammit.  But this year I realized it is finally time to save my skin and give up sunbathing.  No tan + birthmark + leftover baby belly skin = no bikini.  It was time to search for some new tankinis or one-piece suits.

I felt like a knight going off on a holy quest as I began my journey, not knowing how far I would roam, if I would face foes or famine (I did pack a candy bar just in case), or if I would ever find what my heart truly desired: the perfect swimsuit.  I dressed nicely, wore a full face of make-up, made sure I shaved, and even wore pretty underwear.  I was prepared in my suit of armor.

The first day of my quest I hit three Ross Stores, two Targets, two Marshall's, and a TJ Maxx.  Because my Kiddo was now in school.  Because I friggin could.  No goldfish, no lollipops, NO whining. To hell with the gas bill. I was going shopping. 

At the end of day one I had bought two suits. After trying them on at home in real time and light, they just weren't quite right.  Being tankinis, the middles cut into my softest section (thank you Kiddo).  Or the top was perfect (hello cleavage) but the bottom didn't work (good-bye flab).  And I discovered that a one-piece was truly more flattering (who knew?).

But trying to find a one piece that is more Bettie Page than Great Aunt Betty is kind of like searching for a UFO or the Holy Grail: they may be out there but I'll believe it when I see it.

I believe, I believe, I believe....

An Old Navy happened to be right next door to one of my stops so I popped in just to see what was new.  They had four, yes FOUR one-piece suits that were young, hip, and hopeful.  And every freaking one of them fit. And they were each LESS THAN $20.   I did a wonky happy dance around the co-ed dressing room.   The fitting room guy got quite a show, but I really didn't care.  A miracle had occurred--not in a church, not at the Vatican--but at Old Navy.

Or more likely, the Rapture must have struck that day, because I was in swimsuit heaven.

But I only NEEDED one more suit.  After a half hour of prancing and posing I decided upon this little number.


Which went with all the other stuff I already had.

 I could wear it to the beach and still feel like a MILF (don't judge, we all want to be MILFs).  I could pair it with my board shorts and hit the waves without the other surfers staring at me as if I was their Grandma.   It made me feel hot.  SOLD.

Days later though, I still felt a pangs of regret that I didn't buy the second runner-up as well, a retro sapphire blue suit which would be more appropriate for Kiddo's soccer team pool parties. I didn't necessarily want to flash cleavage at all the little boys or their parents. Hubby said the soccer Dads would love me if I did. {massive sigh} Maybe Dear, but the wives would HATE me.  DO you understand NOTHING  about women after all these years?

I had to go back for it.  Smack a stupid sticker on my forehead.  If you actually are graced by God or make a deal with the devil and find a swimsuit that fits and is flattering and cheap, for the love of cripes BUY IT.   So of course when I went back for it -- gone.

I went to two other Old Navy's hunting that damn suit down.  I was jonsing like a crack addict in need of a hit.  I NEEDED that other suit to survive the summer.  It would make me feel like a cool, classy,classic movie star when I'm tricked into going to the MIL's yacht club pool.  The lecherous old men would not get a cheap skin show but would reminisce about 1950s pin-ups instead. 

After I searched the racks at the second store I gave up.  It just wasn't meant to be.  I would have to be happy being zebra girl for the summer and deal with my MIL's scathing glare for being so inappropriate.  Just in case, I went back for one last peek before I headed out the door.  As if by magic or divine provenance IT APPEARED.  Only one-- and in MY size.  I grabbed it and ran to the registers.

I came home a giddy girl from swimsuit shopping.  There is a first time for everything.

 I'm packing some Coronas and Capri-Suns and hitting the beach this weekend, Baby...


Cheers!

 Note:  This post was not endorsed, paid for, or involved any bribery by Old Navy whatsoever.  However--I think Old Navy owes me a few bucks for product endorsements...seriously..my contact info is at the top of the blog.  If no money is involved I really wanted one of those bead-trimmed straw hats and some aviator sunglasses to go with the swimsuits, hint, hint...

Swimming for Survival

As I listened to the Casey Anthony trial on the radio yesterday I was astounded to hear the defense attorney, Jose Baez, proclaim that 3-year-old Caylee Anthony had not been murdered by her mother.  He claimed she slipped out the back door and accidentally drowned in the backyard swimming pool.  I believe that is merely a desperate attempt to diffuse the evidence but it is going to get the media in a frenzy about the dangers of accidental drowning.

With Memorial Day approaching, lakes and beaches filling up, and pool covers coming off across the country I feel impelled to write about this timely subject.

You MUST teach your children to swim.

I usually try not to preach too much about what a parent must do to be considered a good parent, a competent parent. I shut my mouth when friends get into fearsome debates over parenting styles and what's good and bad for not just their children but for everyone's.

You MUST teach your children to swim.

Drowning is the number one cause of accidental death for children.  Fifty-nine children drowned in Florida last year.  Such a high number, yet it's actually down from the 77 who drowned in 2007. In my greater metro area alone, 20 children drowned last year.  They are dead and gone forever.  Those deaths could have been prevented.

The child sneaked out an unlocked door and Grandma didn't notice for a few minutes.  A water wing fell off and the child couldn't swim and went under.  It was not necessarily a massive swimming pool--it could have been a bathtub, a ditch, a plastic backyard blow-up pool like yours.  A mother turned her head for a moment to answer the phone, text or go to the restroom.  The responsible adults were sitting beside the crowded pool, lake, or beach talking and took their eyes off the child for just a few seconds.  Usually there is little to no splash, just a slide under the water and a quick gasp for breath as water floods their starving lungs.

It is a silent killer.

It only takes a few seconds to lose your child forever.

What You Can Do To Prevent Drowning:

• Learn to Swim.  The American Association of Pediatrics urges parents of children age one and up to enroll their children in swimming lessons. However, this won't "drown-proof" a child.  Even when children have had formal swimming lessons, constant, careful supervision is necessary when children are in or near the water.   According to the CDC, participation in formal swimming lessons can reduce the risk of drowning by 88% among children aged 1 to 4 years.

• Do Not Use Air-Filled or Foam Toys.  Never use water wings, noodles, or inner-tubes in place of life jackets (personal flotation devices). These toys are not designed to keep swimmers safe.  They can slip or fall off. A child can easily flip upside down and be unable to right himself.

• Always Supervise When in or Around the Water. Designate a responsible adult to watch young children while in the bath and all children swimming or playing in or around water. Supervisors of infants, children, and weak swimmers should provide “touch supervision” and always be within arms reach.  Adults should not be involved in any other distracting activity (such as reading, talking/texting on the phone, or mowing the lawn) while supervising children. 

• Install Barriers Around Water.  Install a pool fence around an in ground swimming pool.  Make sure waterfront property is fenced in and secured.  Always ensure sliding glass doors,  exterior doors and windows are locked.  Consider pool alarms or a rigid pool cover as another line of defense.   Do not leave toys in or next to a pool, filled tub, or body of water.

• Buddy System. Always swim with a buddy. Select swimming sites that have lifeguards whenever possible. 

• Learn Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation (CPR). In the time it might take for paramedics to arrive, your CPR skills could make a difference in someone’s life.

It doesn't matter if your kids eat high fructose corn syrup, artificial sweeteners, and drink from plastic water bottles.  They'll live if they watch too much tv or if they're addicted to the Real Housewives or watch movies with inappropriate violence or language. Breast vs. bottle, cry it out vs. rock to sleep, vaccinate vs. delay--these over-debated and proselytized issues will not make a dramatic difference in our children's life expectancies.  But please, please, teach your children how to swim or they can die.

I've heard all the excuses as to why parents don't enroll their kids in swim lessons:

• But they are afraid of the water. That won't keep them away from it or prevent them from accidentally falling in it.
• They'll cry/scream. They will get over it.  And so will you.
• It costs too much money and/or we just don't have the time. If you have the time and money to shuttle your kids to dance, gymnastics, soccer, and karate you can get them to swim lessons.
• But we don't have a pool.  Chances are there is at least one in your neighborhood or you live near a body of water or you take trips to the lake or the beach.
  
• We forgot this year but we'll do it next summer.  You may not have until next summer....

All parents know to teach their kids how to look both ways before crossing the street, not to talk to strangers, to stay away from the stove, not to play with matches. But far too many loving and otherwise competent parents neglect to teach their children one of the most basic survival skills.

Be vigilant. Be safe. I beg you, I implore you, please...you MUST teach your children how to swim.  Give them a fighting chance.
  
To find swim lessons near you:
 SwimLessons.com
American Red Cross
YMCA
USA Swimming
Infant Swimming Resource

Swimsuit Shopping {Part One: The Gray Hair}

There are two horrors no woman can escape: swimsuit shopping and gray hairs.  To endure both simultaneously with a toddler in tow should be enough punishment for a lifetime of sins (including all those I have yet to imagine and enjoy). 
 
Down here in the Sunshine State swimsuit season starts early.  Really early. If you don't get your pale, flabby behind into stores while there's still a nip in the air every decent suit will be long gone.  I didn't want to end up at the pool party play date in a flowery control-panel suit meant for my Great Aunt Betty or hit the beach in a knot of neon dental floss geared towards anorexic Girls Gone Wild, so I dragged the Kiddo out shopping.

As a SAHM on a shoestring budget, I don't have the luxury of hitting the department stores or swimsuit boutiques which feature pricey suits that supposedly flatter any figure. Instead I am relegated to scouring the no-frill discount chain stores (a la Ross, TJ Maxx and of course Target), and usually with a whining toddler in tow.

On this particular sad shopping spree, I snatched up every suit that looked like it had a fighting chance of fitting my awkward shape, praying there was one I could wear in public without a sarong or shame. I hauled Kiddo past the toy display and snagged the biggest fitting room with only a slight pang of guilt. Okay, I know technically it is supposed to be a handicapped fitting room, but isn't shopping with a toddler enough of an impediment to qualify?  I parked Kiddo, some Matchbox cars, and the magic baggie of goldfish on the tiny bench facing away from me so he wouldn't stare at me like I was a sideshow freak.  Off went my clothes...and my dignity.

I firmly believe every mother should be handed a certificate in the delivery room to come back for a little “sprucing up” after her kid is weaned to avoid tortuous situations like this. It wasn't pretty. I wasn't pretty. The white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting magnified each lump, shiny stretch mark, and stray leg hair. It was freezing cold. I had enough goosebumps to resemble a plucked chicken.

I discarded the first two choices as soon as I could perform the necessary contortionist moves to get them off.  Torn white granny-panties would have been more flattering.  The third suit...well, it wasn't atrocious. At least it covered the saggy post-pregnancy elephant skin no exercise could erase.  Stretch marks were covered.  Muffin top was at a minimum.  Granted, the black fabric made me look as if I had been on display in a funeral parlor for a few days (I'm a far cry from Nicole Kidman's creamy pale skin, I'm more Sunday Adams in need of a wax). It matched my black socks. It could have been worse.

I bribed the now bored and whining Kiddo with a lollipop for a few more moments of contemplation.

I shook my hair out of a ponytail and mugged like a Victoria Secret swimsuit model wannabe, boobs pushed out, head down, eyes looking up all sultry. As I glanced up in the mirror a strange sparkle along my hairline caught the light. I tried to brush it off, thinking it must be a piece of glitter. It didn't budge.

“No,” I whispered, getting closer to the mirror. “NOOO!” My mouth froze in a tight O, my saucers-sized eyes glued to the horrible thing sprouting from my scalp. I turned my head upside-down and scratched at it, trying to shake it loose. I stood up and the let the strands fall back into the natural part. It was still there… No, no, no…I’m too young… It CAN’T be…

It was.

I had a gray hair.

Technically, it was more silver than gray, but it was attached to my 33-years-young scalp. I started feeling dizzy. The walls closed in and I began to sway.

Kiddo sensed my panic and wrapped himself around my naked thigh like a octopus.

I had to pull the hair out. It could not remain. It kept slipping between my fingers as I tried to yank it from my treacherous head. “Get off me dammit!” My elbow smacked the mirror since I couldn’t seem to hold onto the evil thing.

Startled, Kiddo proceeded to wail. I could feel everyone in the store glaring at me through the flimsy walls, wondering if I was in there beating my kid or shoplifting.

In a desperate last ditch effort I looped the hair around my finger and yanked with all my might. The offending hair was torn from my scalp. I, however, lost my balance and fell flat on my rear. Kiddo collapsed on my bare stomach sobbing hysterically, probably scarred for life. His gooey red lollipop adhered to the swim suit. I had to buy it now.

I couldn't decide if I should laugh or have a meltdown of my own.

Yes, I saved it and taped it into my journal.  I'm weird that way.

Wine Pairing Playlist for the Apocalypse

 The final countdown is ON.  I never imagined my last day on Earth would be spent at a soccer game.   If I had my way I would be listening to the following playlist while hosting a wine tasting of epic proportions.

One song, one bottle (or at least a taste of each).  No one will really care as 6 p.m. approaches.

 

It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)  by R.E. M. with Conundrum California White

Rapture by Blondie with Rapture Cabernet Sauvignon (duh)

Don't Fear the Reaper by  Blue Oyster Cult with Ghostly White

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley with Redemption Zin 


Cities in Dust by Siouxsie and the Banshees with Zombie Zin

Death Don't Have No Mercy  by Grateful Dead  with Velvet Devil Merlot

Sympathy for the Devil by Rolling Stones with Sympathy For the Devil Icewine (a gimme)

Waiting For The End of The World by Elvis Costello with Cataclysm Cabernet Sauvignon

Until the End of the World by U2 with Temptation Zin

My Apocalypse by  Metallica with Return of the Living Red

 

The End by The Doors  with 7 Deadly Zins

Apocalypse Please by Muse with Plum Loco Sweet Plum & Cherry Wine

 When the World Ends by Dave Matthews Band with Pino Evil

 Here Comes The Flood by Peter Gabriel with Clean Slate Riesling

 Heaven is a Place On Earth by Belinda Carslile with Angel Juice Pinot Grigio

The End by The Beatles with Relax Riesling

and, well, since the end is coming anyway why the Hell not... 

Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw by Jimmy Buffett with some of my favorite Sin Zin

Party on, Winos...
Cheers!

I am NOT Too Old For a Miniskirt

Who do these people think they are telling me I'm too old to wear a miniskirt?  According to some weight-challenged Brits, no one wants to see women's legs once we have sagged our way to our mid-thirties. A much passed around post in the Daily Mail proclaims 35 is the absolute cut-off for short skirts. Hubby strenuously disagrees with them and is begging me to buy MORE skirts just to prove them wrong.

DietChef, some British diet food distributor (a la Jenny Craig), supposedly administered a poll to 2,000 (British, dieting, and riddled with low self-esteem) women  asking the age at which certain items of clothing are no longer appropriate.

These legs can still rock a miniskirt.

The Results:

• Bikini, 47
• Swimsuit, 61 
• Miniskirt, 35 
• Long hair, 53
• Ponytail, 51
• Boob Tube (aka tube top), 33
• Stilettos, 51
• Belly button piercing, 35
• Knee high boots, 47
• Trainers (sneakers), 44
• Leather pants, 34
• Leggings, 45
• Ugg boots, 45
• See-through chiffon blouse, 40

How is it possible that 35 is to old for a miniskirt but a bikini is just fine until age 47? Trust me, the general public would much rather be forced to stare at my legs in a short skirt than my bit of muffin flopping over my bikini bottom. And how is it that a mere 14 years later at the ripe old age of 61 women should no longer even be SEEN in a swimsuit?  What are we supposed to wear, some kind of geriatric swim costume?

Obviously these people have never been to Daytona Beach, home to the never-ending parade of 85-year-old women proudly showing off their tans, tattoos, and sagging cleavage in fluorescent bikinis.  (A few of these former biker babes WAY past their prime have made Hubby shriek and spew Cheetos and Kiddo point as if a painted whale just crawled up from the sea.)

For most women, there is a cut off age depending on her body type and modesty level, but are these pollsters saying that their own Dame Helen Mirren should not be allowed to wear any swimsuit?  She looks better than me (and probably you too) at the "old" age of 65.

I am rather surprised by the late age cut-off for long hair and pony tails.  As soon as I hit 30 my dad told me I was too old for my long locks and informed me I looked much younger once I chopped them off. (I didn't cut my hair off for him, I just couldn't handle the then infant Kiddo trying to scalp me as he practiced grasping and pulling.) Should we all be required to go in for weekly set and curls once we hit the big 5-0?   It has to do with style people.  If you are trying to look like you did at 16, you are going to look old and inappropriate.  No matter the length, if your hairstyle is current you can wear it well at any age.

No trainers (sneakers) after 44?  Are we supposed to give up exercising completely or only go to classes like yoga, Pilates, and water aerobics which don't require shoes? No, that wouldn't  work either.  Yoga and Pilates are most comfortable in leggings (forbidden after 45) and swimsuits--well, we already discussed that one. And some peoples feet just need to be covered.  I refuse to trade in my walking shoes for colored leather flats with tassels AND pantyhose with shorts.  My (well over 44) M-I-L just tried hiking the LA canyons in leather flats.  BAD idea.  I just won't do it.

Somehow shorts didn't even make the list.  How can that be?  Women, heck, little girls even wear inappropriate shorts at all ages.   Have these people never cruised the mall or stepped foot in a Walmart?  The amount of erroneous shorts choices is just appalling.  Some days you just have to stare at the floor to not get freaked out. Oh wait, the list was compiled by Brits--they only wear shorts while on holiday in some sunny, foreign locale.  Try and tell a woman sweltering  through waves of hot flashes in the deep South she is forbidden from wearing shorts.  Do it and run. I dare you.

We should make a list of all the items MEN shouldn't wear after a certain age.   Starting with:

• Speedos--forbidden once potty trained--3
• Make-up and nail polish--16 (or once they drop out of their garage band)
• High school jerseys, jackets and other paraphernalia--the day after graduation-18
• Capris--just pick shorts or pants--4 (because it takes a while for their legs to catch up with their waists)
• Disney themed apparel--10 (any older and they will rightfully get beat up)
• Heavy fragrance (i.e. Polo, Drakkar Noir)--18 (or when they actually get a girlfriend)
• Skinny jeans--16 (and a GIRL)
• Birkenstocks--24 (once they graduate college and/or stop smoking pot)
  
• Crocs--10
• Tank tops--age 8 (or once they stop coming with the matching swim trunks)
• Sports jerseys--unless you are actually on the field/court/rink don't do it
• Bow ties--only with a proper tuxedo and then only black or white
• Leather pants--never
• Navy blazers with brass buttons--65 and up only

Are you a rule breaker?

What else should be on the Men's list?

I'll be sitting here in my boob tube and miniskirt waiting your reply. 

Wordless Wino Wednesday

I don't usually do this, but I happened to find this old photo yesterday.

{Yes, that's me on my 1st Birthday.  Explains A LOT.}

Survive the Rapture and Get Naked

Watch out world, a wild weekend awaits us all.

The BAD News: 

You had better party hard, kiss your kids, and knock as many items off your bucket list as humanly possible by Saturday.   Stop planning your Doomsday parties and trips to watch the aliens land in France in 2012 because you only have until this Saturday.

According to Family Radio, a so-called network of Christian Radio stations, Judgment day will be upon us May 21st 2011.  Yes, that's this weekend.  Start praying or partying.  Family Radio has bought 1,200 billboards proclaiming the end of days nationwide and 2,000 overseas to scare us into submission.   Five caravans of followers have been criss-crossing the county to spread the word.

Funny how the billboards prominently advertise their website and live open radio forum.  Apparently marketing is a required class in wacko religious fundamentalism school because even though many of these people are certifiable, they manage to get their word out and bilk plenty of "believers" out of their social security checks and milk money in the process.

The radio programs have reported that great earthquakes will shake the Earth (at 6 p.m. EST if you want to brace yourself or go hide under your sturdy desk) and believers will be called to the heavens while the unrepentant will be "thrown to the ground and shamed."

I'm hoping it's similar to the morning after walk of shame.  Although unpleasant and embarrassing, it is certainly survivable even if one's pride is no longer in tact.

I will be sure to have my loved ones beside me and a top-notch glass of wine in hand as I watch the clock tick down Saturday.  Just in case.

The GOOD News:

If you manage to rise from the ground after Saturday evening's cataclysm just dust off your knees and dump your clothes.  You won't need them for Sunday's main event: the Streak the Cove 5K Run. 

Yup.  It's a naked 5K.

While that might be rather freeing and spare runners from chafing, well ladies, wouldn't that just hurt a bit?  There is a reason women spend a small fortune in search of the perfectly supportive jog bra.   I suppose many men will be thrilled to sway in the breeze while imagining themselves as the original Olympians, but wouldn't all that knocking be distracting?

I have a feeling the spectators will far outweigh the participants.  Which is all good and fine if the runners looked like this:

Considering the resort offers a steep discount to visitors 18-35 (and hey--kids are free!) I really don't think the hot runner above is the average participant and guest.  Damn.

Alas, a trip to Cypress Cove is not going to fit into my weekend plans, but I give kudos to those who make it (and show it off).   Maybe they should advertise free admission and wave the race entry fee to all wide-eyed Family Radio listeners.  Give the caravan free on-site camping.  Offer them a complementary post-race drink at Scuttlebutts Lounge or Cheeks Bar and Grill.


After all, followers  are going to be searching for a new cause to dedicate themselves when they wake Sunday morning here on Earth without angel wings.  Why not go Natural?  I just hope they remember to bring LOTS of sunscreen.

I'm A Scary Mommy

Today I've officially become a Member of the Scary Mommy Society.   I am absolutely thrilled to have the honor.

When I told a friend this day was coming (as the good friend that she is) she tried to sympathize and said Uh Oh...it's one of THOSE days... At which point I had to correct her and fill her in about one of the most awesome blogs out there: Scary Mommy--An Honest Take on Motherhood; the Good, the Bad, and the Scary.

And today I am the guest blogger.  I feel like the prom queen.

The (in)famous blog, written by the multi-talented Jill Smokler, is a daily must read.   Her loyal following of readers rely on her for a daily dose of confessional honesty, social media maven tips, and posts so ripe with her trademark humor you will snarf coffee out your nose if you're not careful.  And this month she is brave enough to team up with Target and facebook to allow us to dress her each and every day.  It's like a real life paper doll.  Utter fun and fabulousness.

So head on over and check out my post  Swimsuit shopping.   Do it.  Now.  Please.

Talk Dirty to Me

Hubby and I were getting cranky one recent afternoon as we slogged through traffic to a destination we really didn't want to reach anyway. To improve the mood I flipped the iPod to a playlist filled with some of our favorite upbeat anthems everyone must should love.  Within minutes the familiar riffs of  Kidd Rock's All Summer Long swirled through the car.  Kiddo sat happily in his booster singing along:

And we were trying different things
We were SMOKING FUNNY THINGS
MAKING LOVE out by the lake to our favorite song
SIPPING WHISKEY OUT THE BOTTLE, not thinking 'bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long

 

We couldn't stop the big s#*! eating grins from spreading across our faces. Kiddo was chair dancing, playing his invisible drums, and working his rock star hair.  I cursed myself for not having the video camera.  It was awesome.

When I relayed the story to some other Moms they were pseudo-outraged.  THEY only let their kids listen to Kid Bop or Radio Disney.  Kids should NOT be listening to vulgar songs like that.  We were corrupting him.  They basically let it be known my Kiddo would be hanging out under a bridge drunk, stoned, and slumming around by the time he was twelve because we let his brain rot to such music.

Really?

Music always filled the air while I was growing up.  My parents raised me on 60's and 70's standards and classic rock.  In the 80's I started developing my own tastes (with much trial and error) and now when I think back, there were some pretty dang raunchy songs I listened to in my youth.  And I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what they meant.  I just liked them.

A few childhood favorites: 

Grease Soundtrack (favorite movie age 5--did you ever really listen to the lyrics of Greased Lightening? )

Grease 2 Soundtrack  (I'm Gonna Score Tonight, Reproduction, Let's Do It for Our Country--Perfect songs to sing at the playground.)

Phyiscal--Olivia Newton John (It was about working out at a gym, not on a mattress, right?)

Come on Eileen--Dexy's Midnight Runners (Rediscovered high school when someone gave my date a rousing thumbs up as I danced along --oops.)

Sugar Walls--Sheena Easton (I thought was singing about a house made of candy. Really.)

Like a Virgin--Madonna (My mother was unthrilled when Santa left the tape under the tree, but I wasn't really sure why it was SO bad.)

Darling Nikki/Little Red Corvette--Prince  ( I've been married for 11+ years and those lyrics still make me blush.)

Centerfold--The J Geils Band (Catchy tune, come on...)

Secondhand News--Fleetwood Mac (Just lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff...bowm bowm bowm bowm...)

Sexual Healing/Let's Get it On --Marvin Gaye (That voice, those words...yeah it seems pretty obvious...)

She Bop--Cyndi Lauper (Some girls just want to have fun...lots of fun...all by themselves...)

Whole Lotta Love &/or Hey Hey What Can I DO--Led Zepplin (Everyone needs a Backdoor Man screaming all of those ooohh oohhhhs)

Lola --The Kinks (Nothing like kissing a drag queen.)

Almost anything by the Rolling Stones (I can remember singing Mother's Little Helper while I put my dolls away.  Nope, didn't get it.)

By the time the 80's hair metal kicked in I had a tiny clue...well, not really...Talk Dirty to Me, You Shook Me All Night Long, Cherry Pie, Pour Some Sugar on Me...the list could keep going...

I don't think Kiddo will end up in juvie or rehab before he sprouts facial hair from listening to a little Greenday.  But I do draw line at Sex on Fire, Crazy B*tch, (thanks for listening to those Hubby, ahem) and many of today's skanky rap anthems.  But you just can't make me listen to Justin Bieber.

Which lyrics from your youth made you blush when you realize what they were REALLY about?

It was a GOOD day...

{Flashback to Friday night}:

Today was a good day.

I discovered I was not going to be forced to apply for the lingerie maid job I saw posted on Craigslist just to keep a roof over our heads.  (Seriously--scrubbing a gawking stranger's toilet while wearing a teddie --would that not be the absolute WORST job ever?) 

 I had three times as many blog hits as ever in my scattered history.  I gained a bunch of new followers (thanks and welcome to all of you!) and found dozens of smart, sassy and like-minded women with fabulous blogs of their own.  And I discovered I was pregnant.

Just kidding!

(Although I did email that to my parents and nearly cause them to suffer simultaneous heart attacks.  To quote my Dad, payback is gonna be a bitch.   I was just carried away by all the whirlwind of snarky comments I had been making all day.  I am a BAD daughter sometimes...)

But the best news came by way of  an after-hours phone call that put an end to a few of the roughest weeks we've been through in a while.  Hubby still has a job. Praise God, Hallelujah!  Moments like that make me wish a was a good little Protestant girl...

His "company" is going through massive layoffs, giving pink slips to over half his office and nearly 5,000 employees overall.  After 16 years of hard work and dedication he was informed his position had been cut.   Our world was about to drastically change.

Loss of health insurance.  Insane cobra costs.  Losing hundreds of hours of accrued vacation and sick time.  Massive mortgage payments.  Credit rating going down the crapper.  Meager savings disappearing with one poof of an evil magic wand.  I know far too many other families have been suffering in these horrible economic times. But somehow it seems like an F5 twister barreling towards you when layoffs threaten to devastate YOUR home.  It's freaking terrifying.

But now the stacks of resume books and interview kits can be set aside, or at least just casually browsed through instead of studied as if it was the night before the Bar Exam.  I may still keep looking for a part-time job (unless someone actually wants to pay me for blogging...hint, hint...) but I can stop practicing  Would you like some fries with that?   Kiddo isn't going to end up in after-care just yet. I can stop buying ramen noodles in bulk and testing out unattractive hair net hairdos.

I can still work on my novel.  Life will go on.

Today was a good day.

Time to crack open a couple of good bottles of wine to celebrate.

Mother's Day Marlarkey

This year my family will kneel down before me as I sit regally upon my alter.  They shall lay flowers, honeyed cakes and wine at my feet to honor my years of cleaning up baby poo, puke puddles, and those inevitable drops of pee all boys must leave on the bathroom floor.  They will sacrifice an animal (perhaps a fish or a fowl) and prepare a feast beyond my wildest imagination.   I will spend the day luxuriously wallowing in creature comforts and obscene pampering as a tribute to my exalted status as Goddess of Fertility and Creation a.k.a. "Mother".

 Goddess

I really do have this costume.
Perhaps I should wear it and start a new Mother's Day fashion trend?







Then I will wake up from this lavish dream, most likely due to a cat walking across my face. I will be handed a donut and a card purchased the night before at Walmart and spend the morning home alone with  Kiddo because Hubby has a soccer match.  I will do a load of laundry, clean the kitchen, and make the bed.  I will stare at my feet and wish I had a pedicure while I try to motivate myself to go to the gym later.  I will pour juice and prepare snacks.  I will scrub cat yak off the rug, water the wilting landscaping, and yank some stubborn weeds from the garden.  Even though Hubby has the best of intentions, I will end up cooking dinner after he asks me so many questions I just kick him out of the kitchen to get it done faster.

Just another day in the life...

But really--I don't WANT any overpriced guilt gifts on Mother's Day (including a $5 card).   I know my family loves me...at least most of the time when I'm not yelling or threatening to take away their video game time or feeding them tofu.   I didn't buy my own Mother or Mother-In-Law any fancy gifts.   (My amazing Mom doesn't expect anything so I grew her a pot of herbs.  My Mother-In-Law does expect something grand so I bought her a plant she can grow herself.)

Even founder of the U.S. holiday,  Anna Jarvis, spent her life and fortune fighting the rampant commercialization which overshadowed her intentions.   Arrested for disturbing the peace in a 1948 protest against the over-commercialized occasion, she said she "wished she would have never started the day because it became so out of control ..."

The best gift my boys could give me--the gift I would brag about far and wide and remember forever--would be for them to clean the house.  Bathrooms especially.  Meanwhile I would be left alone to sit by the pool or in the hammock with an icy cider and good book.  Forbid me from writing blog posts, chapters, or resumes.  Better yet, just keep the computer turned OFF.  Hubby could grill some burgers and corn on the cob for dinner and he and Kiddo could promise NOT to fight over the Wii.

Life would be grand...hint, hint...

What would make your toes curl in delight this Mother's Day?

Happy Mother's Day to all of you amazing women out there...and may your families honor the inner Goddess in you each and every day...

My REAL Princess Diary

Was a Royal Wedding a bigger deal when we were kids because we weren't constantly bombarded by pretend pink princesses?

Flashback:
In the pre-dawn darkness of July 29th, 1981, a little girl is snuggled up with her mom in front of the television.  With her sleep-crusted starry eyes she gazes at the screen illuminating a colorful scene ripped right out of one of her classic fairy tale books. A commoner, a young Lady still in her teens, is about become a Princess.


The bride wears a voluminous white silk gown with an unbelievable 25-foot-long train and a tiara twinkling with real diamonds, a perfect representation of every little girl's fantasy.  Crowds cry and cheer as she rides in a horse-drawn carriage through the streets of London to her date with destiny.  She slowly, bashfully steps down the isle of an ancient church festooned with flowers to meet her Prince and exchange the vows that will transform her life.

The little girl has been collecting magazine and newspaper clippings about the the story unfolding before her for nearly a year, carefully taping each photo and article in a spiral bound notebook to cherish forever.  In the coming years she will add stories of the Royal couple's glamorous vacations, articles celebrating the births of the two handsome little Princes, and endless photos of the Princess's stunning and stylish dresses.    It is her very own Princess Diary, her chronicle of the making of a Princess and the extraordinary life that followed.  Luckily, the girl had outgrown this hobby when the beautiful facade began crumbling and the bitter reality of being a Princess was brought to light.  Years later, she still cried on that warm August night when she learned her Princess was gone.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young Lady, and her name was Diana....

Last Week:

A little boy creeps through the darkness and snuggles up on the couch with his Mummy.  He has been complaining about the ceaseless press coverage of the upcoming royal wedding, attempting to change the channel and chiding "who cares!" each time the couple graces the screen.  Throughout his short life he has been overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of Pepto Bismol-colored Disney princesses covering every little girl product imaginable.   He wants nothing to do with anything princess.

But now he watches the wedding as if in a trance.  He is awed by the wooded wonderland beneath the soaring Gothic vaulted ceiling of Westminster Abby.  He thinks the Prince looks dashing in his dress uniform and coos over the bride's beauty.  His mouth drops when they depart in the horse drawn carriage surrounded by red-coated livery and adoring fans. "I didn't know it could be real..."
   

He disappears for a moment and I think I have lost him.  He returns to my side with a full regiment of Lego Star Wars figures (including an honorable Princess Leia) and stands them at attention facing the television. He has created a modern boy's salute to the new Royal couple. 

I don't know how many little girls woke early to watch the royal pomp and pageantry.    Most girls I know are not even aware there are real Princesses (or Duchesses) but they can tell you every last detail of each contrived Disney versions.   They have the dvds, dresses, shoes, dolls, and plastic castles to prove their devotion.  They are a marketer's dream come true.

Thanks, but I'll take the real thing...

When Life Gives You Lemons... You make Pollo Limone (recipe)

I am notoriously frugal. The Hubby and I eat out less than a handful of times a year, usually at a friend or relative's insistence.  I actually enjoy cooking and I find it painful to shell out $75 for a restaurant  meal when I can make it myself for around $5 and avoid screaming children, rude diners yapping on cellphones and sloppy customer   service. There are always free wine refills at Casa de Vinobaby at a fraction of ridiculous restaurant's marked-up prices.  (And before you mention it, Hubby does the dishes anyway...)

Those few times we do venture into a restaurant I scour the menu for selections I either do not have the ability to prepare or would never be able to re-create due to the overwhelmingly unhealthy ingredients (i.e. I just can't put an entire stick of butter in any single-meal recipe, but damn, it's phenomenal if Paula Deen cooks it for me).

After a hectic day last week I decided take a night off and grab some take-out from Macaroni Grill.  (In other words, I had a gift card to blow.)  While examining the menu online for something new and different I was intrigued by the Pollo Limone Rustica.   My Italian cooling repertoire is pretty diverse.  I have found the recipes for most of Macaroni Grill's "signature" dishes or I make my own version, but Lemon Chicken sounded perfect for a warm Spring evening of al fresco dining.

"Tender grilled chicken and imported penne pasta sauteed in a lemon basil sauce with fresh spinach and roasted red peppers. Finished with fresh lemon zest and baked until golden."

Hmmm... My freezer is stocked with frozen lemon wedges from years when our two trees produced a bumper crop. All the necessary ingredients to re-create the dish (for a fraction of the $15 a plate price tag)  called to me from my kitchen.  I had a new project for the evening.   

The results were amazing, if I do say so myself.  Hubby and Kiddo agreed this one is a keeper.

Pollo Limone a la Vinobaby
2 tbs. butter
2 tbs. flour
4 cloves crushed garlic
3/4 cup whole milk or cream
3/4 cup chicken broth
chopped fresh basil to taste (I used 1/4 cup)
 pinch of parsley
3 tbsp.lemon juice
1 box frozen creamed spinach cooked  (I used Green Giant)salt & pepper to taste
grated Parmesan cheese
4 boneless skinless chicken breasts
garlic pepper
1/4 cup roasted red peppers (diced or julienned)
4 servings penne pasta (for some that's a whole box, for us about 2/3 of a box)

Season chicken with salt and garlic pepper.  Grill or saute in olive oil for approximately 4 minutes each side or until cooked through.  Let rest a few minutes then slice into strips.  Set aside.

Cook pasta as instructed on box.  Drain well.

For sauce:  melt the butter in a pan.  Add the garlic and saute lightly 1-2 minutes.  Slowly add the flour, whisking constantly to make the rue.  When mixture is smooth slowly add  milk and chicken broth, still whisking until smooth.  Simmer gently for 5-8 minutes to thicken.  Add cooked creamed spinach, lemon juice, basil, and salt and pepper to taste.     Add sauce to drained pasta and toss. 

Spoon into individual serving bowls. Add sliced chicken breasts.  If desired, add any remaining sauce.  Top with roasted red peppers and Parmesan cheese.  For additional oomph, you may quickly place each serving under broiler to melt/brown cheese. 

Serve with garlic bread, salads and your favorite vino (you deserve it for serving your family such a delicious dinner).  Sit back and enjoy the compliments.

Cheers!