My girl crush


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Oh Tina, you’re so fine

you’re so fine, you blow my mind, hey Tina, hey Tina!*

 

 

I don’t swing that way. But if I did, Tina Fey would be my “it” girl. She’s my girl crush. There aren’t enough adjectives to cover all the ways in which I adore this woman.  I’ve always liked her on “Saturday Night Live.” So smart and sexy. And when “Mean Girls” came out. Shut up! I was impressed, infatuated and amazed. What couldn’t this woman do? Sadly, I’ve not watched “30 Rock” regularly. Not because of dear Tina. Oh, no. Just me not having prime-time TV time in my life right now. But this weekend was the big one for me. I’m head over heels, Tina baby. You deserve every Emmy out there. You deserve to be president. Forget Obama. I’m doing a write-in: Fey-Poehler.

*apologies, I suppose, to Toni Basil and “Hey Mickey”

 

Break-up story

National Geographic Society

 

The signs of trouble are always right in front of me. Do I see them? Or do I choose ignorance?

In this relationship, our time together grows shorter with the passing of each hour. Sometimes my love slips out the door shortly after dinner. The bloom of our love fades by the day, from the vibrant green of infatuation to the faded gold, red and brown of neglect. Our once-solid foundation hangs on a frayed thread.

Each year Summer and I break up as intensely as  a first love. Yet each year I find a rebound guy pretty fast.

Autumn is cool. He’s colorful and fun. But Autumn is more of a whirlwind romance. He blows into town on a tropical depression, sucker-punching Summer to the sidelines. Autumn takes over fairly fast, rearranging the landscape and lighting to his tastes. And just as we’re getting comfortable with each other, drunk on cider and doughnuts, playing dress-up and overindulging in sweets, he slips away in the dead of night, leaving behind a note scribbled in frost:

“Watch out for Winter; she can be a bitch.”

Blog for change

 

Two things have me fired up today:
One, I participated in a campaign survey by phone the other night in which the caller spoke in a very thick accent. So much so that I could barely understand her questions. On top of that, the static on the line was so pronounced I imagined a frayed wire stretching from my home in the Midwest all the way across the Pacific Ocean to the country to which this work was outsourced. Please tell me I’m wrong about this. Disturbing to say the least.

Two, while strolling the booths at our city’s final art festival of the season last weekend,  a pre-teen boy with a clipboard approached me, asking in earnest: “Would you like to volunteer for Obama?”

I set down my iced tea and grabbed the clipboard to give the flier a cursory glance. Then I gave him the most honest answer I could: “I’d love to but I just can’t. Really. I wish I could.”

As our group moved on, I felt my face grow hot. What kind of lame-ass answer was that?

“You know, I’m just not a knock-on-doors kind of person,” I said to my friend and her college-aged son.

We all nodded in silent agreement and pressed on through the crowds. But it’s been bugging me ever since. I know how much this election year has been bothering me, gnawing at my conscience and worrying me.  

So it is with an odd sort of kismet that I found this today.  Read this post.  If you are enlightened, pass it on.

Glam Top 10

Welcome to another installment of Glamorous in Real Life, the brainchild of Marcy.

In this episode we examine how one woman’s biggest daily challenge has shifted from: “Should I have Greek, Thai, Mexican or Middle-Eastern food for lunch?” to “What ingredient can I add to this box of mac and cheese to make it stretch?”
Welcome to SAHM life. In a crapola economy. Where the husband is doing quite well but must travel out-of-state to achieve this. Where the toddler and teenage daughters continue to demand excessive amounts of stuff while their MomZombie is ready to employ Scarlett O’Hara’s methods of style and beauty. (Think curtain rods and cheek pinching.)
Consider these recent glamorous observations that make me feel oh-so pretty, happy and grrrr……

1. I spend too much time in my kitchen and not enough time in my bedroom.

2. I get up first, go to bed last, yet everyone else in my house “needs a nap.”

3. I have one child who clings to me like a spider monkey and another who flees the room like a cockroach when the light goes on.

4. I have had one-too-many shower-optional days lately.

5. The longer I stay out of the workplace, the more daunting it seems to go back.

6. The longer I go without a paycheck in my name, the more outdated my wardrobe becomes. (Clinton and Stacey, do you hear me?)

7. And it follows that the less money I have to work with, the more pretty shiny things I want.

8. The more obsessive about cleanliness I get, the more trashed my house becomes.

9. And it follows that when my house is at its very nadir of filth, including cat vomit in the entrance hall, the doorbell rings.

10. And it follows that it will be a hot guy conducting a poll.  I will not have showered. Something most likely will have just been scorched on the stove. I’ll just be happy I have on my “dress” flip flops. 

Be sure to check back with Marcy for more G.I.R.L. stories.

Wordless Wednesday/Monday puzzle award thingy

Disclaimer: Obviously it’s not Wednesday. And if you’re reading this, it’s clear I violated the “wordless” part of the deal. So, where does that leave me? Feeling a little foolish. Mostly I’m panicky about this post, which was scheduled to run LAST Wednesday but um…there was a technical glitch (rhymes with WordPress) and then Wednesday was over. All blame aside, I am thrilled to be the recipient of a blog award. So thrilled I am rendered nearly speechless. (I swear!)

 

 

WrekeHavoc

is

 

 

 

Therefore, I get this cool item, found here

Kick Ass Blogger Award

 

To that I say:

And offer this:

 

Now I must

 

  • ALIAS LIZ JONES: She writes about chickens, odd neighbors, her travel adventures and views life through a very interesting pair of shades. 
  • MARCY’S GLAMOROUS LIFE ASSOCIATION: The name says it all. Her AdTalk feature alone is worth the trip. 
  • SUBURBAN KAMIKAZE: It takes a special certain something to tell the world your child was contemplating two different ways to prepare earthworms for lunch. Plus, SK does NPR. 
  • FOOLERY: Just about everything fun you could imagine, including “piffle” and “horsefeathers,” under one roof.
  • PROSE AND CONVERSE: Isn’t this a clever name for a blog? It’s real. It’s honest. And it’s live from “the Devil’s Buttcrack.”

Should you five nominees choose to accept this award, place it carefully next to the Oscar, Emmy and Grammy on your mantel, and make sure you look here again for the rules, regulations and recall notices.

Deep cuts

Hey! Who is this? Why it’s me, MomZombie, circa 1978. I found this picture in an old, brittle photo album from my childhood. I cut my best pal a break and cropped her right out of this nightmare. She looked better than I did, but in both of our cases that isn’t saying much.
See my cool, David Cassidy inspired puka shell necklace? All the rage back then. I’m sure mine was a plastic knockoff since our family hadn’t recently traveled to Hawaii.
See my skinny bod? Where did that go? I think it’s been in hiding since my mid-20s when I discovered food. And beer. And wine. And chocolate. I didn’t eat much as a child. Don’t remember why.
See the shocking haircut? Freshly shorn for ninth grade, which was due to begin a day or two after this picture was taken. I think I rode my sparkly gold 10-speed up to the local salon and ordered a Dorothy Hamill, straight up. Just a few days earlier, I had hair past my shoulders. I think I wanted to look older.
Seems that the elderly man across the street wasn’t buying any of that nonsense. He thought I was a young man. He always shouted at me as I walked or rode by, “Hey, sonny. How about you cut my grass?”

The scent of a stay-at-home woman

EXHIBIT A:

THE BACKSTORY:
A woman fancies an afternoon out with her toddler girl. Rather than weigh herself down with the shabby diaper bag and bulky stroller, she opts for a stylish shoulder bag big enough for her things and a few toddler essentials. She imagines a stroll in the park, a visit to the library, a quick swing through the nearby shopping district before picking up a bottle of wine on the way home.

THE INCIDENT:
 ”Mommy, loook!” cries a pigtailed 5-year-old tugging her mother’s shirt and pointing at us. “She’s not wearing pants!”

I force a closed-lip smile at pigtail’s mother, whose gaze follows her daughter’s extended finger directly down to my baby girl’s bare legs, and then slowly shifts up to me. We are waiting for the elevator by the children’s section of the neighborhood library. It can’t come fast enough. Behind us, the wheels of a custodian’s cart screech the arrival of the clean-up crew at the women’s bathroom.

I hoist a clear plastic bag in my right hand up to the mother’s eye level, revealing the missing pants and underwear, both splattered with fresh diarrhea. I hope she got a good whiff. I hope it answers her unasked question about why my child is at the public library in a shirt, pull-up and shoes. Because, you know, I’m not trying to start a new fashion trend.

After a silent elevator ride up to the main floor, pigtails and mother cut a hasty retreat lest any germs latch onto them. I grab Girl from the East’s hand, shift the pile of picture books, above-mentioned bag of defiled clothing and my purse and head for the door.
We both move quickly on our walk of shame down a brick-paved path past gardens and park benches populated with lunchtimers, readers and gawkers.
In the punishing light of high noon all I can think is: I hope I don’t have crap on my clothes.

THE FINDINGS:
There is nothing “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” about realizing that you have only two tissues in your stylish shoulder bag, not nearly enough to combat the very unstylish diarrhea running down your toddler’s leg.
There is nothing glamorous about an unexpected, explosive illness in a bathroom that is a paper-free operation (hand-dryers only).
There is a high level of “Desperate Housewives” in realizing you sacrificed practicality for style by leaving the diaper bag at home, which contained wet wipes, spare clothes, diapers, hand sanitizer and plastic bags. Even more desperate, having to ‘fess up to the library staff and beg for paper towels and a plastic bag.
In the end, you realize there is no sexy way to walk out of a building with a half-naked child and a see-through bag of poopy clothes, both leaving a scent in their wake …
… the scent of a stay-at-home woman.

CONCLUDING REMARKS: Thanks for visiting and reading my 100th post. This has been part of a larger celebration, Girls In Real Life, or G.I.R.L., put together by Marcy at The Glamorous Life. Join the party.

Are you a G.I.R.L.?

Are you Glamorous in Real Life?
Forget the Real Housewives of Orange County, ditch the Desperate Housewives, if you want the real scoop on what goes on behind closed doors while the rest of the world is away at work, check back here on Tuesday, Sept. 16, for the first-ever G.I.R.L. Party hosted by Marcy at The Glamorous Life.

Grab a seat, pour a drink, and prepare to weep uncontrollably. See you Tuesday.

Finally, an election I can digest

This election year has my knickers in a twist (phrase stolen from pal with a British husband), my stomach churning, and my head in a vice. The issues are vast and complicated, the nominees are of historic significance; so much is at stake.

And then there’s all the muck: lipstick on a bulldog, lipstick on a pig, bridges to nowhere. It’s starting to sound like like a cartoon. I’m waiting for the Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner debates before I make a final decision.

It turns out, I won’t have to wait until November for relief. This morning, I opened the refrigerator, and found the election has taken a new turn, one that should be more *ahem* digestible for all of us. Of course, there’s still the issue of lipstick …

Image from Unilever

Image from Unilever

Apparently, the race is between “Progress is Possible” Spraychel and her greasy opponent, Maxwell Butterman, who promises to maintain the status quo.

Image from Unilever

Image from Unilever

Now, rather than figuring out who will be best to solve our economic woes, figure out what to do in Iraq, how to end foreign oil dependence, and if we should be allowed to read “Harry Potter” books, we can delve into such pressing issues as:

Reducing our saturated fat dependence, solving the “it doesn’t taste like real butter” woes, and what to do with all that dry, crumbly whole-grain toast.

** My pal Alias Liz Jones has her own take on the election. Pat her on the back if you visit, she didn’t resort to shameless product endorsement without compensation. See what this election is doing to my mind?

Gender issues

OK. I need some help here. In my quest to find quality programming for my toddler, I stumbled upon “Back at the Barnyard.” (For the record, the search continues.) But something about this Nickelodeon cartoon gives me the creeps:

 

Do you feel it, too?

This is Otis. Hey, Otis, that’s quite a rack you have there. What, wait, Otis? Are you a male? As in a bull? Hey, bulls don’t have big pink udders, they have … well, you know, bull parts.

I know I’m a city girl but hey, I’ve been to the country a few times. I visit the zoo. I paid attention in science class. I know my X from my Y.

Otis the sexually ambiguous cow has a deep voice, bulky shoulders and a thick neck. All qualities of a bull, yes? Or maybe Otis smokes too many Camel unfiltereds and has pulled too many plows around the field? Maybe someone slipped a Mickey into his/her hormone cocktail? 

Maybe we have the first-ever cartoon hermaphrodite? Perhaps the time is ripe. We got over the gay children’s character barricade with Tinky Winky of “Teletubbies” fame, didn’t we?

 

I can’t help but think that the show’s creators decided, based on this experience, that to make an anatomically correct bull character would be far too frightening for small children. (Frightening? How about hilarious. Have they been around any children lately?) Better to just make all the cows have udders. Udders that look like four toilet plungers fused together. Or the closest thing to a bovine Pamela Anderson. Either way, the udder is a far more familiar and comforting site, right?

As it turns out, the whole thing is some kind of inside joke with the creators. Yeah, except, as I said, the show is supposed to be for kids, right? Are they going to get the irony? 

Makes me yearn for simpler times, when beloved cartoon characters didn’t have genitals at all.