Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Pink in Thinkin'

My parental motto is basically my life motto, is borrowed from the movie Smokey and the Bandit and is as follows: eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin', we're gonna do what they say can't be done. In other words: keep on truckin', don't dawdle at the truck stops, join a convoy when you can and above all else: watch out for smokies. So far, this has served me well in keeping my head above the dark, immense waters of BS that come with having a kid in this day an age. (Another thing that helps is having a special needs child; you never see a special needs parent worrying about the sugar content of dried apricots or the political implications of the length of Dora's shorts, but that's for another blog.) But the other day, I saw something in the corner of my rear-view that caused me to pause, one foot lingered above the brake.



Cinderella met my daughter

The thing was a book called Cinderella Ate my Daughter by Peggy Orenstein. Now, admittedly, my expertise of this book is strictly limited to the quarter page review I read of it in the People Magazine I found at the gym, but that is not going to stop me from telling you exactly what I think of it and anyone who has jumped on its anti-pink bandwagon (have we learned nothing from Purpalicious?).

The pause I felt was due to three things: 1.) Feminism was condemning our girly culture, 2.) my daughter, on any given day, could be seen dressed head to toe in pink sparkles and tulle, rainbow painted fingernails embellished with flower decals, carrying  a pink purse containing at least one lip gloss and one princess doll, and 3.) I am a feminist: a militant one (which basically means that I wear a watch that signals me it is time to suit-up and go throw a grenade at a frathouse/Girls Gone Wild offices/Fox News set by playing a midi version of I am Woman by Helen Reddy.) 
Pinkalicious faces anti-pink discrimination

Supposedly the problem with Snappy's mountainous pile of Princess/mermaid/fairy/pink-for-the-sake-of-being-pink crap is that it all leads to Miley Cyrus fandom which, as we all know, leads directly to pole dancing on an ice cream wagon at the Teen Choice Awards and "forgetting" to wear underpants with mini-skirts. There might also have been something in there about it leading to anorexia as well, but considering that fact that exactly half of everything you could ever say, give to or put near your child will lead directly to anorexia and the other half leads to obesity, I think they just cancel each other out and can be ignored. 

I decided, ultimately, (with the exception of writing this blog) to just ignore the whole thing for two main  reasons: one because I remembered my long-standing endeavor to trust my own instincts and two because I did not want to spend every single Thanksgiving for the rest of my life apologizing to my grown daughter for throwing away her Aurora dolls when she was four.

Now it will be a long time until I can know if I'm doing the right thing, but I feel like trusting myself not to turn my daughter into a skanky ho as well as trusting my daughter not to let me turn her into a skanky ho has just got to be better than falling in line with the latest parental scare making the blog rounds. Still, that doesn't mean that I don't get brief glimpses of  my impending success.

The other day, my mother-in-law sent my daughter a nightlight in the shape of a buxom, bootylicious pink and red-clad fairy. Snappy loved it, named her Rose Fairy and asked me to find a place to plug her in. I had to  pull out a basket full of tutus, princess dresses and fairy wings, but I found the perfect corner outlet for Ms. Fairy. As she blazed forth in glittery glory, Snappy curled herself into a comfortable little ball on a perfectly child-sized patch of carpet (sullied only by a few minuscule scraps of tulle, feathers and rhinestones that had fallen from the basket) and stared lovingly at her newest decorative addition. I stood just outside of her diminutive domain and listened to her tell a story about the fairy that began, "a long time ago in a far, far away land...".

Hey, who knows? Maybe she'll be a famous writer, maybe she'll be a nail technician who specializes in rainbow nails but there is one thing that I know for sure: somewhere, out in the ephemeral reaches of a little girl's imagination lives a pleasantly plump fairy named Rose with a back story that the anti-pink patrol hasn't even considered and who will one day blow the Miley Cyruses of the world out of the water. And all I can say is "Go Rose! Go!"

You tell 'em, Pink!

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Ophiuchus Daily Horoscope


Well last week, my favorite astrological sign, mine, was hijacked. Some jerk sent out a link, a bunch of other jerks (myself included) forwarded that link and suddenly every Sagittarius born between November 29th and December 17th was this new sign, Ophiucus: the snake handler. Snake handler? How the heck do we go from The Archer, a guy who carries around a bow and arrow and, I assume, shoots other constellations, to a guy who touches icky things. Is that what happened? Did The Archer get busted for popping an arrow in Capricorn's ass? Fricking goat had it coming, I'm sure, and yet still we are the ones who are punished.

Yes, true or not, I consider even the implication that my sign might have possibly changed to be a punishment. Why? Because no one is writing a daily horoscope for Ophiucus (supposedly pronounced Oh-fee-you-kiss). What am I supposed to forget to read for months on end? How am I supposed to know what lottery numbers I should play in the unlikely event that I actually buy a lottery ticket? How am I supposed to know which days are good days to let my aura shine through for everyone to see? Am I supposed to guess? Screw that.

That's why I decided to take matters in my own hands and create my own Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus. First, though, I need to change the stupid symbol. Since the symbol for Ophiucus is supposedly a guy holding two snakes (Um...ew! What is he? Hill people?), I figure we can extrapolate that to be a guy with snakes for hands. Much cooler, huh? Yes, but I think it could be even cooler, while I'm calling the shots, how about we just turn our symbol into Bruce Campbell from Army of Darkness. Here, isn't this better:



Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus

After a week of feeling like you've been kicked in the tender parts, Ophiucus, things are starting to look up. Today you found a hilarious blog post that makes you feel better about your miserable life. Today would be a good day to let your aura shine, but for Christ's sake, don't let anyone see it. Today is also a good day to shoot zombies in the face, but come on, Ophiucus, isn't it always a good day for you to shoot zombies in the face? It is. Your lucky numbers are 5, 2 and a schwa with an umlaut.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

There Ought to be a Law



The other day, after a massive puddle jump in the parking lot, I led my soaking-wet kid into my Y and sheepishly explained to the young man at the desk that Snappy has always loved water and it was damn near impossible to keep her away from it. Uh. I don't know why I felt the need to explain myself to a 22 year old Y-employee. Maybe it's because we parents are used to so much constant scrutiny, judgmental comments and backhanded compliments that we end up automatically apologizing for everything that we do.

But the kid just smiled and said, "Actually, there's a law here in San Francisco that you can't stop a child from jumping in a puddle."

"Cool! So next time someone tells me that I'm an idiot for letting her get soaking wet in the middle of winter, I can threaten to call the cops?" I replied joyously. (It's not often that parents are told that they've done something right, so we tend to celebrate those moments a bit excessively. )

Back at home, a quick Google search proved that he was right. I found that particular strange law listed on a website called, aptly enough, Strange Laws, and while all the laws listed there were, in fact, strange, many of them make a strange kind of sense. For example: it's against the law in Massachusetts to put tomatoes in clam chowder. Well, duh! Massachusetts is no place for Manhattan clam chowder.  In San Francisco it is illegal  to pick up confetti on the ground and throw it back in the air. Yeah, that's just unsanitary. In Iowa, kisses may not last longer than five minutes. Good! After five minutes of making out, it's time to move on to something else--or take a cold shower. In Memphis, a woman may only drive a car if a man walks in front of her to warn other pedestrians and drivers. Brilliant! What better place for a male chauvinist pig than in front of the car of the very woman he is denigrating?

I've got an idea for a law that seems strange, but actually makes a lot of sense. It should be illegal to be self-righteous about your parenting skills. I would recommend a light punishment of course. I mean we all do it. We all say things like: "I would never do that!" Or the more obnoxious: "I'm glad we don't do that in our house." If they started hauling us all away, the prisons would be jammed!

I got this idea from a Babble blog called "In Our House There's No Santa Claus" by Krista Pfeiffer that was causing quite a bit of controversy for adding"lying" to your kid about Santa Claus to the latest in a long list of Parental No-Nos. Whatever. If you want to tell your kid that magical fairies fly out of their butt to deliver their waste to a poop-eating dragon that lives in the potty, that's your decision. If you want to read your toddler Grey's Anatomy every night, that's up to you.  But Pfeiffer actually admitted to feeling self-righteous because she didn't use an Elf on the Shelf to control her kids at Christmas time.

I'm not saying she should be hauled off or that guys should be sent to her house, but she should get a hefty fine: 300 dollars or so. Self-righteousness does not belong in parenting! You know where it does belong? Olympic sports. Arm wrestling tournaments. How can you possibly be self-righteous about a job that has not been done yet? Unless you raised a president, what makes you think you have all the answers? Even if you did: shut up! George Washington's mom probably gave him hourly beatings and treated all his boo-boos with leeches, so who in the heck does she think she is? Until your children are grown (and not murderers), you should not be allowed to judge anyone.

Hmm. I think we might have to make an addendum that grandparents are not allowed to be self-righteous with the advice they give to their kids--no matter how well they turned out. Face it, Grandma, it's all the dumb mistakes you made that have led to your children doing stupid things like ruining Christmas for their kids by telling them there is no such thing as Santa Claus.

Oops. Good thing it's not a law. I'd be out 300 bucks.

 

Monday, October 25, 2010

Go to Karaokathon for Camp

For her fourth birthday, my mother gave Snappy a plethora of Berenstain Bears books where the Bears Go places like the dentist, the doctor, school and in one particularly self-serving entry: Grandma's House. Snappy immediately gravitated towards Go to the Doctor, and used the skills that Sister used to brave the dreaded SHOT to get through her own set of ouchie stingies without so much as a tear.

It was a while before I even made it to Go to Camp, and at first, Snappy found the idea of a sleep-out at Skull Rock scary (scarier than Doctor Bear with a giant needle), so she would often ask me to stop half-way through. To help her get over her fear, I told her that her aunt and I had also gone to a camp similar to Grizzly Bob's when we were kids. I told her the story of our sleep-out night and how I had seen an owl in one of the trees on my way back to my cabin. After that, Snappy was brave again, and Go to Camp moved ahead of Go to the Doctor on the "Snappy's Favorite Bedtime Books" list.

So when Andrew from the Stonestown Y approached me and asked me to help raise some money for some of the various community programs the Y provides, such as the free senior center, as well as programs for underprivileged kids including Back-to-School backpacks and, yep, summer camp, I jumped at the chance. He started to explain the importance of these programs, but I stopped him with, "Oh I know how important the Y is, I went to Y Camp."

Although I know we did not always have very much, monetarily speaking, when I was a kid, there were times when I felt like I had everything, like those warm, summer mornings, sitting on a big yellow bus with my sister, a fluffernutter in a paper bag and whole day of rowing lessons and acorn-collecting ahead of me. And now, blahdiblah years later, when I get to do things like chase away my four-year-old's fears with a story about seeing an owl, chilling on a tree branch at a YMCA camp in Merrimack New Hampshire, I know that I had everything.

So that is why I'll be asking everyone to come out to the Dirty Trix Saloon at 408 Clement St in San Francisco on Tuesday, November 2nd  at 8 pm for A Karaokathon for Camp!* All proceeds go to the Stonestown Y, who will be using it to give some local kids everything. If you can't make it out to sing with us, send me a line and I'll tell you how you can donate: easyriderblog@gmail.com Keep tabs on this event here.
*Thanks to my KJ Eileen and Lee at Dirty Trix for also jumping at the chance to help out the Y.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Letters to Toys I Hate: Part 1 Play Foam.

Die, Play Foam! You suck. Look at you! With all your bright colors and irresistible squishy, sticky texture. You deserve to rot in a hellish corner of my closet, suffocating in the mounds of dust, hair and crumbs that you attracted to your sad excuse for a surface five seconds after I took you out of the package. But instead, I'm just going to throw you in the garbage while the kid is at preschool. Good-bye, Play Foam. Say hello to yesterday's coffee grounds and today's cat litter. You deserve each other.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Everything you've always wanted to know about the previous decade but forgot to ask.

Has anyone noticed how many people are still writing 2009 instead of 2010? It seems excessive considering it's October. My theory is that we just can't believe that the decade is over, but it is, oh children, it is.

If the trajectory of my freelance career continues as is (and I sincerely hope it does not), I will one day be hired to write The Entire History of The Whole Fucking Universe for less than 10 bucks an hour. In honor of finally realizing that another decade has come and gone, here is what I will say about the Oughts!

On the decade called the Oughts, or The Naughty Oughts (to be truthful, no one called them the Oughts or the Naughty Oughts, but they didn’t really call them much of anything, so I’ll just call them the nasty, dirty, filthy naughty Oughts, or just The Oughts for short.)

In actuality, The Oughts (specifically the late Oughts) weren’t as much naughty as haughty! (Well, I guess that’s not really true, they weren’t so much haughty as narcissistically self-aware and self-promoting, but that doesn’t rhyme with anything.) At the beginning of the decade, America was the all about spending and showing. The most popular items or services were those that not only cost a lot of money, but also had the appearance of costing a lot of money. Early-oughters loved to shop, which wasn’t much different from previous (or future, for that matter) decades, but instead of trying to get the most from their money, buying the best bargain, early-oughters tried for the worst deal, the least for the most. They never bought anything on sale, if they did, it was purely by accident, and they hoped none of their friends would ever catch them doing that. Who cared if you spent 10,000 bucks on a toe ring, if no one saw you do it. It was like that whole tree in the forest thingie. Only in the oughts, it was more like: if you spend money and no one knows about it, is it really gone?

For example, nanny’s salaries were pretty consistent. There was pretty much a standard pay scale that most of them got, but the savvy Oughty parent would choose the nanny that looked the most expensive, the one that said, “I like to spend money.” So when given the choice between two nannies with the exact same experience and pay scale: one is Mexican, speaks fluent Spanish, English and a fair amount French, but is ten pounds overweight and often wears an old Madonna Truth or Dare Tour t-shirt to work while the other is French, speaks fluent French and a bit of English, is ten pounds underweight and willing to wear a uniform, the early to mid Ought parent would choose the French nanny because back then,  in order of ostentation, France beat Mexico. (France, in this case, beat Spain as well because if you had a Spanish-speaking nanny, your neighbors would assume she was from Mexico, even if she had just gotten off a plane from Barcelona.)
The early Oughter wanted the other nannies at the playground to think, " Uniformed nannies? How retro! And French? Ooh la la! Tres cher!"  The other nannies never thought this, of course, but were more likely to wonder where the foxy Latina got her genuine Truth or Dare tour t-shirt: those things were worth a fortune!

In 2007 two things happened that made everyone stop spending so much money: one, a democrat was elected president, and no one liked spending a lot of money in front of democrats, it just didn’t seem polite. And two, we ran out of money. It was bound to happen sooner or later. A lot of the people spending money during the oughts money weren’t spending actual money, they were spending credit. Credit has a weird habit of appearing smaller as it gets bigger. When you get your first credit card bill and it’s say, 45 dollars, you think, oh I should pay that forty-five bucks, I’ll pay it in the middle of the month when the rent isn’t due. Then, a few years and a few thousand dollar toe rings later, that number becomes more like forty-five thousand dollars. And you happen to make 13 dollars an hour as a receptionist at a company that exclusively makes expensive boxer shorts, and your rent is fourteen hundred dollars a month, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that no matter how long you lived, you would not be paying back that forty-five thousand bucks, so why even worry about it? Why not just throw another ten thousand dollar toe ring on the pile and while your at it, a thousand dollar cheeseburger? Eventually the credit card companies realized that they were ones footing the bill for all that stuff and no one had offered them so much as a French fry.



It was around that time that we saw the advent of the hipster (see also: Hipster, history and eradication of). Where the early oughter (also called The Spendster) liked to ostentatiously spend money, the hipster would ostentatiously not spend money.

Hipster exchanges often went like this:

“I found a bar last night that served 5 dollar pitchers of PBR.”



“Big deal. I found one that sold PBR on tap for 25cents.”



“Epic! After a couple of pitchers, the Taco Lady came in, and it was the end of the night, so all her tacos were cold and congealed, and she was selling them half off.”



“So? I stopped at the bacon-wrapped hot dog salesman at the corner of Mission and 22nd, and the dude dropped my hot dog on the sidewalk.”



“Gross. I puke on that sidewalk.”



“Yeah, but he gave me the hot dog for free as long as I promised not to tell anyone.”



“But you’re telling me.”



“I’m telling everyone, dude. I got drunk and fed for a buck seventy-five!”



“FTW!”



FTW is internet speak for “For the win” and someone who spoke it out loud in initial-form, with or without irony, was either a hipster or a douchebag or both. (People who were either a hipster or a douchebag did not know which one they were. It was kind of  like how no one knows if they pronounce the first vowel sound of either and neither with a long I sound or a long E sound, and you can’t just listen to yourself speak because then you will be self-conscious and you might start talking with a British accent or something.) Internet Speak (made popular by websites that featured lol catz: pictures of cats so funny, they cause anyone who sees them to laugh out loud.) was very popular. So popular, it seemed like everyone was using it, and therefore that made it okay.

The late Oughts made it okay to not spend money, more impressively, it made it okay to not have money (even rich people didn’t have money). Just as importantly, they also made it okay to laugh out loud at cats, especially funny cats. It was as if we’d finally clued in to this whole Free to be You and Me thing 30 odd years later. This might have just been a passing I’m okay, you’re okay fad, if it were not for a Harvard drop-out by the name of Mark Zukerberg, a scrawny sandy-haired young man whose only interesting feature was a strange penchant for wearing shower shoes to the office (which does not seem strange at all when you realize that among other things, wearing shower shoes to places other than the shower was also deemed okay in the late-oughts).

 In 2004 (when it was still not quite okay to wear shower shoes in public) Zuckerberg decided that it was also okay to tell everyone what you were doing at the exact time you were doing it. We’d been trying to do that for years, take the example of the ostentatious nanny or ostentatious sidewalk hot dog. But we couldn’t really tell EVERYONE about it. Until Facebook came along and suddenly, a generation that was in need of more warm fuzzies and fewer cold pricklies could suddenly brag about the fact that their Nanny needed the day off for Bastille Day or they've contracted tetanus from free street meat to everyone they knew at the same time. It left a lot of free time for doing things like eating food off the sidewalk, and fucking around on Facebook.

Soon after, Twitter came along and we could tell everyone, absolutely everyone everything. And because everything we did or thought was okay, we felt no qualms about revealing ourselves in 140 characters or less. We twittered EVERYTHING. Diarrhea? We tweeted it. Yelled at an old woman on the bus? Twatted. Found a funny picture of a cat? Spread it around so everyone can laugh out loud at it. Of course by now we are all painfully aware that all this tweeting and ostentatious meat-eating eventually led to the downfall of civilization, but at the time it was hilarious.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Rainy Day Cardboard Princess Fairy Rocketship

This is an oldie but a goodie. A few years ago I tackled a rainy day playdate with one cardboard box, some tissue paper, markers, curly ribbon, and glitter and fairy dust and what not, and this is what the little darlings created:

A Flyboat!