So I pretty much stopped listening to the radio several years ago when I discovered Napster. Why is that? You might ask. Well, it's because pop stations (and I imagine other stations as well) generally play the same 10 songs over and over and over. I would hear what I thought to be a great song and would be sick of it by day 3 on the radio because I had heard it 50 bajillion times. I mean, yeah, it's a great song and all, but monotony drives me insane. I think it probably gets on most people's nerves.
Well, I have news for you, people. If you think the radio is bad, try having a toddler! I LOVE Disney. I love Radio Disney, the Disney Channel, Disney movies, Disney theme parks, Disney anything. That said, I am going to drink the Disney haterade (that has been circulating for a couple weeks now---a blog for another day) for just a moment. My little one has latched onto "This Is My Paradise" from Bridgit Mendler like her ratty little bunny that she can't sleep without. However, I didn't realize this until after I had purchased the mp3 and put it on her playlist for car rides...
Case in point: yesterday, we rode all the way from Greenwood to Geist in "Paradise." With anything else, I can tell her "all done" or "all gone," and we move on with our lives. For some reason, though, this is one song she's not willing to let go. So I had a choice yesterday: listen to her scream bloody murder because she wants to hear Bridgit -OR- listen to Bridgit for 45 minutes...I chose Bridgit. I think it was the lesser of 2 evils, really, even though I do think the song is cute. If I had let her cry, I'd have had TWO screamers because the baby would've been startled and scared. Also, I'm pretty sure I would've suffered some kind of temporary (possibly permanent?) hearing loss if I allowed my little monster to scream. She has quite a set of lungs. So, I believe I made the right choice.
I guess, more than anything, I find it fascinating that someone her age can show such a preference for anything. The girl clearly has preferences, too. Tinkerbell is one of them. If she sees anything with Tinkerbell on it, she goes nuts. She always has, even back before she could say anything. Hell, she still can't SAY Tinkerbell. Doesn't matter, though, she loves her. She also loves dresses. If I put her in a dress, she just lights up. It's the cutest thing you've ever seen, honestly. It melts my heart. She loves to spin and twirl in her dresses...And now Bridgit's new song. So, I am truly hoping that this phase passes soon so that I can enjoy some of the other songs that Radio Disney has to offer!
Til next time...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Where's My Effing Chapstick?!
Here's the thing: I have never, ever had to buy chapstick because I ran out. EVER. Chapstick is like socks. You know, it magically disappears without regard to reason. And why is that exactly? If I'm looking for my favorite lipgloss or lipstick (which I rarely wear btw, I'm more of a gloss girl), I have no trouble locating it. If it's chapstick, something ridiculous happens. It miraculously disappears as though David Copperfield himself came into my house and "abracadabra-d" it to his basement...or wherever it is that he keeps stuff that he makes disappear. Either that or I leave it in my pocket (the one day of the week that I'm not wearing yoga pants and actually put jeans on), and it goes therough the washer and dryer. Or my dog eats it. Or better yet, my toddler eats it. It drives me insane.
However, I am making it my new year's resolution (I realize I'm a bit late to the party on that one) to make it through an entire tube of chapstick without David Copperfield stealing it. Even if it's just one, I'll feel like it was a monumental victory.
Til next time...
However, I am making it my new year's resolution (I realize I'm a bit late to the party on that one) to make it through an entire tube of chapstick without David Copperfield stealing it. Even if it's just one, I'll feel like it was a monumental victory.
Til next time...
Why People Are Not @$$holes
So I was thinking this morning, while Hubby was driving us to my hair appointment, and I said to him, "I think I'm going to start calling people potholes instead of a**holes." This was after we almost crashed the truck and would have then gone flying into Fall Creek (okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but still) due to an exorbitant amount of potholes on 79th Street. He looked at me, quite perplexed, and so I went into an explanation of why this is a completely sensible alternative.
The entire premise of calling someone an a**hole is due to the fact that they have been rude, disrespectful, hurtful, or *insert negatively charged adjective here.* Well, my line of thinking is that this doesn't really fit with what the true definition is of what an a**hole actually is. I mean, an a**hole isn't so bad, is it? It actually aids in ridding the body of toxins and waste. Maybe it's not the most attractive piece of my anatomy, but there's no reason to hate on it by using it to reference rude, mean and disrespectful people. The a**hole isn't vile or unforgiving or disrespectful or damaging or hurtful.
Potholes, on the other hand, are demonic creatures from the fiery depths of the underworld. They cause thousands of dollars worth of damage to people's vehicles. Avoiding them and hitting them causes people to wreck or lose control of their vehicles. They screw with the alignment of my truck. They cost the city loads of money to repair. They have even caused major trauma to my (and I'm sure many other moms') lactating tatas. All in all, they're awful. Due to these facts, I have come to the conclusion that a**holes aren't the problem. It's potholes.
The bonus about switching up my daily (yes, I curse daily) vocabulary? It's the simple fact that I am much less likely to be chastised when my daughter calls someone a pothole. Let's just hope she isn't already waiting to bust out with a**hole...
Til next time...
The entire premise of calling someone an a**hole is due to the fact that they have been rude, disrespectful, hurtful, or *insert negatively charged adjective here.* Well, my line of thinking is that this doesn't really fit with what the true definition is of what an a**hole actually is. I mean, an a**hole isn't so bad, is it? It actually aids in ridding the body of toxins and waste. Maybe it's not the most attractive piece of my anatomy, but there's no reason to hate on it by using it to reference rude, mean and disrespectful people. The a**hole isn't vile or unforgiving or disrespectful or damaging or hurtful.
Potholes, on the other hand, are demonic creatures from the fiery depths of the underworld. They cause thousands of dollars worth of damage to people's vehicles. Avoiding them and hitting them causes people to wreck or lose control of their vehicles. They screw with the alignment of my truck. They cost the city loads of money to repair. They have even caused major trauma to my (and I'm sure many other moms') lactating tatas. All in all, they're awful. Due to these facts, I have come to the conclusion that a**holes aren't the problem. It's potholes.
The bonus about switching up my daily (yes, I curse daily) vocabulary? It's the simple fact that I am much less likely to be chastised when my daughter calls someone a pothole. Let's just hope she isn't already waiting to bust out with a**hole...
Til next time...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Struggle For Inner [Pink]
Recently, I read an interview in Parents magazine with the author of Cinderella Ate My Daughter, Peggy Orenstein. The article pissed me off and made me want to burn my copy of the magazine, but unfortunately, it also has some great vacation ideas...So, rather, I decided to venture over to Amazon.com and see what the hype is all about with this book.
From what I can guage, Ms. Orenstein has started a war with Disney and anything "princess." She has begun (or maybe just further exaggerated) the anti-princess movement. One of the chapters in this book is entitled: The Other Disney Princesses: From Wholesome to Whoresome. What kind of judgment is THAT?! I already didn't like this woman, and now she made me want to burn her book and Parents magazine. I mean, how can someone say that princesses are ruining are kids and then go and say something like that? Does Ms. Orenstein know these young women? Honestly! I don't know, but if it's me, and I'm going to put myself out there for the world to see and make a really bold statement such as suggesting that Cinderella is eating my daughter, I certainly wouldn't follow it up by calling anybody a whore. I'm pretty sure that's not going to help my credibility, you know?
Well anyway, this woman, coupled with the backlash that has come from Walmart announcing its new line of cosmetics for "tweens" (which is just filling a hole since MaryKate & Ashley Olsen's line went kaput) got me thinking about how these things fit into my own life as both a young girl and now, as a mom.
My mom used to call me a princess all the time, especially in my teen years, which I totally resented. In fact, I still hate it. I hated it because it was her way of telling me that I was being a spoiled rotten brat, but it was more socially acceptable...I guess. Even in my early 20s, she would still bust it out whenever she felt I was being high maintenance or when I didn't know how to do wife-ish things. "You're such a princess," she would say. So for me, the whole idea of little girls being called "princess" has a negative connotation. In fact, I really hadn't thought about this until recently, but when my first daughter received any clothing that had "princess" on it, I subconsciously ignored it and never put it on her. I'm beginning to understand why now...
So, I had always been a "girly girl" growing up. I loved to play with make-up, loved dresses and Barbies and anything with ruffles. I loved ballet class, shopping, and one of my favorite things to do at my Grandma's house was to put on her costume jewelry and lipstick.
I didn't have any kind of interest in trains, despite the fact that I remember my uncle having a model train in his basement. I had no interest in cars, though my dad was a mechanic and even owned his own shop. When I played over at my (boy) cousin's house, we sometimes played with Lincoln Logs or blocks, but that was the extent of my interest in anything "boyish." I hated fishing, I couldn't stand being dirty...are we getting the idea yet? I grew up on a street that had about 50 boys and 3 girls: my sister, my friend Kristin, and me. The boys would want to play sports, whether it be baseball, basketball, football or wrestling; I always wanted to be the cheerleader. I started dance lessons at age 7, and I continued dancing all through high school.
The funny thing is that at some point during high school, I started a war with myself. I'm fairly certain now, looking back, that I started this war as a rebellion against the "princess" that people saw in me. I think that even some of my friends were annoyed at my femininity...I felt like I was disappointing my dad because I had no interest in the only ways he knew how to bond with me: fishing, hunting & cars. This, coupled with my mom's use of "princess" in daily conversation, really flipped my switch. I began a movement. I forced myself to learn how to change the oil in my car, I went on a couple fishing trips with my dad, and I even stopped wearing skirts and anything pink. I wanted to prove to everyone (more than myself, really) that I was more than a tiara. It was exhausting. It wasn't fun. And frankly, it just wasn't me.
My senior year, I finally gave in to myself. I realized that I really just didn't care what anyone thought of me. I LOVE pink. I LOVE shopping. I LOVE putting on make-up. And damnit, I LOVE a great pair of stilletos and a little black dress. And I'll be damned if someone's going to make me feel guilty about it. My love of all things girly has nothing to do with marketing. It has nothing to do with all the fairy tales I read and watched growing up. It doesn't even coming from my mother's influence, since she didn't teach me anything about make-up, hair or fashion. I learned that all on my own and from some of my friends on my dance teams. It comes from my heart, and I'm good with that.
The problem I have with Ms. Orenstein is that she doesn't realize (or maybe she does) that having a love of pink, frilly stuff and princesses doesn't make her daughter (or anyone else's) less of a person. It doesn't make her promiscuous or materialistic. It makes her who she is. I think people like Orenstein have this narrow-minded view that says if a girl likes pink and shoes and make-up and fashion that she's destined for a life of materialism and stupidity. Feminine isn't synonomous with stupid or promiscuous. And princess isn't synonomous with entitlement, materialistim, and superiority either.
I'm really glad that I learned these things. I'm really glad that I could look within myself and realize that I don't have to feel bad because I love the things that I do. I can love shopping and pink. I can love make-up as a way of artistic expression, not just "sexualization." And so can my daughters. I'll teach them what it means to be a true princess, one who's humble and loving, compassionate and giving, and who's beautiful both inside and out.
From what I can guage, Ms. Orenstein has started a war with Disney and anything "princess." She has begun (or maybe just further exaggerated) the anti-princess movement. One of the chapters in this book is entitled: The Other Disney Princesses: From Wholesome to Whoresome. What kind of judgment is THAT?! I already didn't like this woman, and now she made me want to burn her book and Parents magazine. I mean, how can someone say that princesses are ruining are kids and then go and say something like that? Does Ms. Orenstein know these young women? Honestly! I don't know, but if it's me, and I'm going to put myself out there for the world to see and make a really bold statement such as suggesting that Cinderella is eating my daughter, I certainly wouldn't follow it up by calling anybody a whore. I'm pretty sure that's not going to help my credibility, you know?
Well anyway, this woman, coupled with the backlash that has come from Walmart announcing its new line of cosmetics for "tweens" (which is just filling a hole since MaryKate & Ashley Olsen's line went kaput) got me thinking about how these things fit into my own life as both a young girl and now, as a mom.
My mom used to call me a princess all the time, especially in my teen years, which I totally resented. In fact, I still hate it. I hated it because it was her way of telling me that I was being a spoiled rotten brat, but it was more socially acceptable...I guess. Even in my early 20s, she would still bust it out whenever she felt I was being high maintenance or when I didn't know how to do wife-ish things. "You're such a princess," she would say. So for me, the whole idea of little girls being called "princess" has a negative connotation. In fact, I really hadn't thought about this until recently, but when my first daughter received any clothing that had "princess" on it, I subconsciously ignored it and never put it on her. I'm beginning to understand why now...
So, I had always been a "girly girl" growing up. I loved to play with make-up, loved dresses and Barbies and anything with ruffles. I loved ballet class, shopping, and one of my favorite things to do at my Grandma's house was to put on her costume jewelry and lipstick.
The funny thing is that at some point during high school, I started a war with myself. I'm fairly certain now, looking back, that I started this war as a rebellion against the "princess" that people saw in me. I think that even some of my friends were annoyed at my femininity...I felt like I was disappointing my dad because I had no interest in the only ways he knew how to bond with me: fishing, hunting & cars. This, coupled with my mom's use of "princess" in daily conversation, really flipped my switch. I began a movement. I forced myself to learn how to change the oil in my car, I went on a couple fishing trips with my dad, and I even stopped wearing skirts and anything pink. I wanted to prove to everyone (more than myself, really) that I was more than a tiara. It was exhausting. It wasn't fun. And frankly, it just wasn't me.
My senior year, I finally gave in to myself. I realized that I really just didn't care what anyone thought of me. I LOVE pink. I LOVE shopping. I LOVE putting on make-up. And damnit, I LOVE a great pair of stilletos and a little black dress. And I'll be damned if someone's going to make me feel guilty about it. My love of all things girly has nothing to do with marketing. It has nothing to do with all the fairy tales I read and watched growing up. It doesn't even coming from my mother's influence, since she didn't teach me anything about make-up, hair or fashion. I learned that all on my own and from some of my friends on my dance teams. It comes from my heart, and I'm good with that.
The problem I have with Ms. Orenstein is that she doesn't realize (or maybe she does) that having a love of pink, frilly stuff and princesses doesn't make her daughter (or anyone else's) less of a person. It doesn't make her promiscuous or materialistic. It makes her who she is. I think people like Orenstein have this narrow-minded view that says if a girl likes pink and shoes and make-up and fashion that she's destined for a life of materialism and stupidity. Feminine isn't synonomous with stupid or promiscuous. And princess isn't synonomous with entitlement, materialistim, and superiority either.
I'm really glad that I learned these things. I'm really glad that I could look within myself and realize that I don't have to feel bad because I love the things that I do. I can love shopping and pink. I can love make-up as a way of artistic expression, not just "sexualization." And so can my daughters. I'll teach them what it means to be a true princess, one who's humble and loving, compassionate and giving, and who's beautiful both inside and out.
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