Spring!

Presently nursing a sunburn that is most aptly described as wicked.  I know, I know- and I'm not really whining.  I'm just cyber-whining.  I'd much rather be a puffy lobster-red ahole than living my everyday life, but still....ouch!

SPF 50 sunscreen is a lie.  LIE!  Once upon a time, I believed that most painful place to be sunburned was the top of my feet.  That's wrong.  The tops of my feet, much like the rest of me, are well-done at the moment, but the pain of toasted toes pales in comparison to the pain of two scorched wrists.   Wrists, I have never properly acknowledged how many times in a day that I use you, flex you, abuse you.  Sorry, wrists.  You are hardworking wrists.  I will take better care of you, wrists.   Only the best for you in the future, wrists- SPF 100 is coming your way!

You'd never be able to tell that Little M has seen the light of day, however.  Frankly, I am kind of stunned that the child hasn't drowned in sunblock by this point.  We'll deem this my one meaningful accomplishment in the realm of traditional motherhood.   Let's face it- these days, very few things more loudly articulate to the universe (and the mommy-verse tribunal of judgment) that you are a piece of crap, unfit parent than a child with a tan line.  Even I got the memo on that one.   I'm on the receiving end of enough (mostly-deserved) parental judgment- I don't need to add a rogue tan line to the mix.

(Not that I'm making light of skin cancer, but exactly when did kids with tans become a parental faux-pas on par with having your child build a meth lab in the basement?  Just wondering.  Actually, maybe the tan is more of a faux pas.  I'm pretty sure I know people who would praise the scientific acumen of their meth-lab building offspring.)

I'd venture to guess that my brain has rotted a bit from its general state of inactivity over the last few days.  If not for Facebook,  I would have entirely forgotten that today marks the kickoff of my most favorite season.   If not for Facebook, I would have entirely forgotten that the first day of spring is also the same day of a most baffling tradition- Free water ice day at Rita's.

I.Just.Don't. Get. It.

Now, I love water ice, and I like Rita's.  I'll go to Rita's, on average, twice a week during water ice season.   Where you won't see me....ever again.....is Rita's on free water ice day.   I'm serious.  If the apocalypse were upon us, and the only place I could reach safety was Rita's on free water ice day, I'd just have to die.

About ten years ago, I attempted the free water ice line.  I took one glance at the 100-person deep line, realized that water ice cost (at most) $3 and got out of dodge with my dignity intact- never to return.

It warrants repeating that I LIKE Rita's, and I certainly like things that are free.  The problem, in my mind, with free water ice day is that it combines free sweets with a bunch of things that I truly don't like, which include:

1.  Long lines-  the longer the line, the further the decline of general human behavior.
2.  Other people's children---Love my own kid to the moon and back.  Love her friends, my friends' kids, and very cute kids (I'm talking babygap-ad cute kids) belonging to strangers.   Average children belonging to strangers, in a long-line to boot----NO THANKS.  I'll pass.
3.  My own child in a long line---- because there's only so many times that you can hear the phrase "Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmy, is it our turn yet?" before you seriously consider selling your own kid.
4.  My own self in a long line----I'm convinced that the phrase "ye of little patience" was crafted with me in mind.

I also think in numbers and equations.  Call it an occupational hazard.   Sunshine math indicates that a 100 person line would probably take an hour to clear.  If I were to pay market rate for 3 water ices out-of-pocket, it would cost me no more than $10.  The last time an hour of my time was worth less than $10 was in 1992.  With this in mind, the decision is easy for me.  I can break my water-ice fast on the second day of spring, at the cost of approximately $10----and leave the place with my sanity and dignity mostly intact.

For the record, I am strictly a cherry water-ice kind of girl.

It ain't free if it costs you your sanity,

Point of No Return

I snapped.
I lost my mind entirely.
I went medieval on Little M's playroom.

Of the three items I've listed above, the only thing that truly surprises me is that it didn't happen sooner.

Little M is not just an only child, but she is also the only grandchild on both sides of her family- thus, pretty much making her the Messiah.  Nary a day goes by when this child does NOT receive a gift/new toy/treat, and it's kind of gotten to the point where Little M expects to be given treats.  Obviously, the expectation factor isn't good, and as her mom, I need to nip this behavior in the bud.

There's only one problem, though-  the universe is conspiring against me.  The universe apparently wants Little M to be consistently showered in pink plastic shit.  It's a bit of a vicious cycle, and I'm pretty sure that I can't win.

Here's why.  I want Little M to have a happy childhood--to have everything she needs and most of what she wants.   I want her to experience the joy of receiving gifts and playing with new things.  By no means do I want to sound ungrateful (and I'm sure I'm about to), but this child receives so many very generous gifts from so many very generous sources and with such alarming frequency that it makes it extraordinarily difficult to NOT raise a spoiled brat unless I am consistently playing bad cop.

I get it.  I'm her mom. It's my job to make the hard choices, to make those decisions that prioritize long-term gains over short-term sanity, to be the bad cop.  I've read the job descriptions, and moms just aren't supposed to be as fun as dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends.  I'm the freaking drone in a kingdom that's otherwise built on fun.

That sucks.  I'm fun, dammit!  I'm funny, dammit! I want to be able to share that with Little M---but some things have spiraled so far out of control that I've become the "No" police- which also sucks.

Two important side notes here:

1.  I am unbelievably grateful that Little M has so many people who love her and shower her with gifts, and more importantly, love.  She's a lucky girl.  There are kids out there whose parents don't love them properly and whose supporting cast doesn't show up or is generally indifferent.  That's not my girl- she just might be the most loved girl on the planet.  Which rocks.

2.  I am not, in any way, encouraging being cheap.  Anyone who knows me at all knows that the three characteristics that I most despise are cheapness, stinginess, and joylessness.  To clarify, I truly appreciate and respect practicality, seeking value, frugality and personal responsibility.  I'm not, however, particularly fond of sucking the joy out of life and its experiences as an intended consequence of self-imposed self-deprivation.  What's the point?  We only get one go-around at this life thing.  We may as well make it enjoyable, within reasonable parameters.

As usual, I digress.  My war on toys began when I was ordered to find the mate of a missing Barbie shoe that I didn't realize we owned in the first place.

It went down something like this:

Little M:   MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMY!  I can't find my Barbie butterfly shoe.  Find it!
LMS:  Go look in your playroom.
Little M:  It's a MESS in there.  I can't find anything in there.  You do it.

She's right- it is a mess in there, despite my best efforts.  The biggest problem is that she has SO MUCH stuff that I'd have difficulty finding a 40 inch child in that pit, let alone a inch-long plastic shoe.  Against my better judgment, I agreed to engage in a search-and-rescue mission for the missing plastic shoe.

The first step in Barbie shoe recon was learning what the missing shoe's mate looked like.  Imagine my shock when I discovered that the shoe was a "snake" strappy heel of sorts that went to Barbie's knee.  Okaaaaaaay- not only was I about to search for a needle in the proverbial haystack, but said needle was also more suitable for a stripper than a 3 year old little girl.

Who the hell bought my daughter a plastic dominatrix doll?

Add this to my already brewing fury regarding a Barbie DVD of unknown origin.  I arrived home from work Thursday night to find Little M watching a Barbie movie on DVD.  On first glance, that wasn't a necessarily a problem, until I realized that the Barbies spent virtually the entire movie in very tiny bathing suits.   I pretty much snapped at the scene where Barbie was doing a handstand, on a surfboard, in her tiny bikini and her F-cups didn't move.

I asked where the movie was sourced, and again, the answer was unclear.  I was, however, told that the movie contained a positive, girl-friendly message.  I'm assuming the message is that if you want your F-cup boobs to not bounce while doing a surfing handstand, those boobs should be made of plastic.  

(In all seriousness, I'm sure that movie is totally appropriate for an older child....but not for my 3 year old.)

At that point, I totally snapped.  I decided that I was going to do an organized inventory of every toy Little M owns-----all two billion of them.  In a mental state that can best be described as insane fury, I dumped all of the toys into the middle of the playroom floor, creating a 8" layer of toys that covered virtually every square inch of the playroom floor.

For the next 5 hours, I was Mommy, Warrior Princess in my battle against the toys, mumbling profanities the entire time.  I'm pleased to say that I didn't die in an avalanche of small plastic parts.  I'm pleased to say that all shoes have found their mates, all puzzles have found their missing parts, and order is joyfully restored.  Most importantly, I now know what the kids are playing with these days.

This morning, Little M is playing with a toy that was (1) uncovered at the bottom of the heap and (2) she had no idea that she actually owned.  We were trying to figure out how to operate it, unsuccessfully, when Little M had a brilliant idea.

"MOMMMMMMY, you need to find the destruction manual."

I was about to correct her, but I actually think destruction manual fits the bill just perfectly.

In Victory Over the Toys,

The Best Dressed Tomboy and Her Not-So-Best-Dressed Offspring

This blog is named "The Best Dressed Tomboy" and this blog's author has been obsessive about clothes since, well, birth.  Despite my Dorothy Hamill bowl cut, I was the best dressed kid in 1970's polyester at preschool. I was the kid who scoured Seventeen magazine in June to strategize my first day of school outfit.  I was the kid who wanted to wear a dress with my sneakers on elementary school gym day.  I could walk in heels (very well, mind you) by the time I was 5.  I couldn't tell you what I ate for breakfast yesterday or locate Turkey on a map, but I can tell you exactly when, where, and why I bought every single article of clothing in my closet. I'm not joking.  Every.Single.One.

You're not thinking anything I don't already know.  I know that I have issues.

Just imagine my excitement at my ultrasound (which, inexplicably was 4 years ago), when I learned that my firstborn was a girl.   A GIRL!  A shopping buddy!  My own dress-up doll!

I spent the second half of my pregnancy painstakingly curating a wardrobe that would make Suri Cruise tinge with envy.  The technical term for this affliction is "apeshit" and apeshit, I went---mostly out of excitement over outfitting the next generation, but also partially because  I was being frugal with my own clothing choices, mostly stemming from my avoidance of all reflective surfaces during my pregnancy as to not catch a glimpse of my own heft.  (It should be noted that I was the most miserable and quite possibly the most melodramatic pregnant person in the history of life).

And then, my Little M arrived.  For the first 18 months or so, my little buddy was perfectly frocked in all sorts of fashionable little girl wear.  My little peanut wore all sorts of adorable things, virtually all the time.  It was awesome.  I was in heaven.

Then one day...one terrible, awful, very bad day....Little M became (almost) just like her mother.  She became very opinionated about her clothes.  She demanded that she make all of the clothing purchasing selections.   She was ready to usurp me as creative director of costume design and wardrobe.  It should have been a very proud day.  I was ready to turn over the reigns to her, except for one very significant hiccup...

My girl has some pretty bad taste.

I'm stunned.  I'm horrified.    I am not sure how this happened.   On any given day, my daughter looks like she could be a candidate for "peopleofwalmart.com"...if only that site had a "kiddie" section.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm all for her expressing her individuality and I'm all for picking my battles wisely.  Most days, I don't care that she wants to go to Target dressed in a SpongeBob Halloween costume paired with her soccer cleats.  I don't normally care that she likes to wear her shirts backwards and her jackets so that they zip in the back.  I don't care if I grocery shop with Cinderella, and it doesn't  bother me if she wants to wear her plastic dress-up princess shoes with her soccer shorts and bumblebee wings.

What does drive me bonkers, though, are the "festive" wardrobe choices when the setting calls for her to be dressed nicely.  Let's just say that there have been many reasonably ugly clothing battles in these types of instances...and one of those battles happened this morning.  For the record, I lost this battle.

This morning, we had late morning reservations for brunch at a reasonably nice restaurant to celebrate my mother-in-law's birthday.  As is normally the case when we have weekend morning plans, we were scrambling to get out the door despite having been awake for 4 freaking hours before scheduled departure time.  Suffice it to say, weekend time management at Casa Sunshine leaves much to be desired.    In any case, with 8 minutes to spare, the Taming of the Shrew   Dressing of Little M portion of the show commenced.  I'm still recovering from those 8 minutes of unmitigated, torturous hell.

It should be mentioned that I was fully aware that most brunch patrons would be dressed in their Sunday best, and despite the fact that my daughter wouldn't know a house of worship from a skyscraper, I fully expected her to dress accordingly.  The little lass has a closet full of completely appropriate dresses for this occasion- dresses, for the record, that I bought her.

For her part, Her Majesty insisted that she wear her favorite flower jeans paired with her Optimus Prime tee-shirt and a pair of hot pink suede maryjanes that (a) i hate and (b) last fit her in 2010.  The fact that jeans and a tee-shirt are inappropriate for a non-redneck brunch notwithstanding, the real kicker was nothing on her body even FIT her.  Little M is a tall child, but at least 2 inches of hem drag along the floor when she wears them.  My best guess is that those flower jeans might actually fit her in 2 years, and God willing, they will have fallen apart by then.  I suppose I could hem them to fit now, but (a) I don't know how to  sew anything and that's why God made tailors and (b) I have no idea from whence they came, and I wish they'd go back to that place.  Permanently.   I did actually purchase the Optimus Prime shirt, and I did once love it- when it fit her 18 months ago.  Thanks to growth spurts, finger paint, and dryer shrinkage, the shirt now is now a stained, faded a midriff baring shirt, which JUST.IS.NOT.GOING.TO.HAPPEN.IN.PUBLIC.

Oh, and she's going through a phase where she doesn't want to button her pants, because it's so much more comfortable to "let it all hang out".  WRONG.   I'm not sure how any child of mine thinks that dressing for comfort is a reasonable notion.   I can't be entirely certain, but I'm pretty sure my response to that was "I'll dress for comfort when I've entirely given up on life."  :)

To me, the enforcement of the dress code is not about social conformity or about  how others regard my parenting.  It's about how I regard my own parenting.

The way I see it, my primary function is to teach her the life skills that she will later require to be a functional adult in this society.  For better or for worse, one of those life skills is the ability to appropriately clothe yourself for a variety of situations. To take pride in your appearance.  To put your best face and foot forward to the world.

By no means am I saying that clothes make the man (or the girl) or that clothes need to be designer/pricy/new to meet this goal---but I am saying that missing the boat on what is construed as "appropriate" becomes increasingly detrimental to adults.  I don't even want to talk about the number of times that I've wanted to say "This is an OFFICE, not a nightclub" to someone...or "if this is what you'd wear to an interview, I'm afraid to see what you'd wear to see a client."  It's not about style- it's about good judgment...the good judgment that I'm trying to instill in my daughter so that she can someday succeed in the real world.

Give a girl the right shoes, and she can rule the world....

The Remedy

I don't get sick often, but when I do, I usually go for the gusto and skip right over the garden-variety cold and land right into full-on misery territory.  It should be noted that I make a terrible sick person.  I'm cranky.  I'm whiny.  I hate my big red nose.  All in all, I'm even more sunshine-y than normal.  Good luck, world!

I hate being sick.  Being sick precludes me from achieving my goals.  As evidence, allow me to contrast my goals for last night with what actually happened.

Goals for the evening of February 6th

1.  Eat nutritious dinner and engage in witty repartee with Little M and the husband and prove to them that I can be mother-of-the-year/domestic goddess after working an 11 hour day.
2.  Put in a 100% effort in the P90X2 workout of the day and become better/faster/stronger.
3.  Write a blisteringly funny and charming blog entry.
4.  Restore the lower level of my house to "company's coming" pristineness.

What actually happened on the evening of February 6th

1.  Ate a soup bowl full of guacamole and about 14 servings of chips while Little M was collapsed on the sofa and the husband microwaved his dinner.  (Note about the guacamole:  The husband just might make the best guacamole on earth.  It's insane.  I'm sure he would have been most appreciative if I didn't hoover it in a manner more commonly observed by pigs near troughs.  I may have been a called a glutton more than once. My only response is that gluttony is--by far--my favorite of the seven deadlies.)
2. Changed into workout clothes, walked into the basement, popped workout DVD into the computer, and did about 12 seconds of actual exercise.
3.  Announced that I was going to close my eyes for a few minutes.  Left basement, but not before retrieving and eating a peanut butter cup from the emergency candy stash.
4.  Fell asleep (face down and ass-up) on top of covers at 8:30 PM, still in workout clothes, and didn't move so much as an eyelash before 6 AM.
5.  Slept peacefully while dirty dishes remained piled, and unwashed, in the sink. 

Item #5 is major.  This absolutely has to be some marker of insanity, but I am unable to sleep with dirty dishes in the sink.  I twitch.  I toss and turn.  I am physically unable to relax until the dishes are cleaned, dried, and put away in their rightful place.  I'm serious when I say that I twitch.  It is as if I fear being attacked and mutilated by disgruntled dishes while I sleep.   Mock as you will, but there is no known cure for this mental ailment.  This is a sad, sad thing.

So, sleep might just be the only remedy I have at my disposal against the sinus infection from hell.  I will note that sleep did provide me with a mental vacation that I very much needed.   Sometimes, this "public diary" thing messes with my head a bit.

I can explain.

I think that there are two critical elements to writing a piece that's worth reading-  there's the storytelling piece, and there's the quality of writing piece.  Once I started writing again, I pretty quickly realized that I should probably read other blogs to benchmark my progress against other writers/hacks out there and calibrate my future efforts accordingly.  Leave it to me to use some of the best blogs out there as reference points.

Let's just say that I became more than a little discouraged.

There's one blog in particular that is just, well, outstanding.  The author is a brilliant writer, and an amazing storyteller.  The writing is sharp, and crisp, and she uses words with such efficiency and effectiveness that I'm blown away.  The stories she tells are heartwarming, and funny---and more importantly, about battles and triumphs over some very significant demons.  She inspires people with her openness to expose pain, and anguish, and redemption.

In contrast, the best story I can offer is that this weekend, I logged in a bunch of hours playing a game with Little M called "Ring Around the Nosy."  It involves wearing an elephant mask, complete with phallic-looking rubber trunk.  The goal of the game is to collect as many rings on the trunk (which TOTALLY looks like a penis, by the way) without using your hands. Yes, boys and girls, I played ring around the penis with my 3 year old this weekend.  Are you inspired yet? 

In all seriousness, I'm less concerned about improving my technical elements of my writing.  Technical, I can handle.  I can practice.  I can actually edit my work.  The technical elements will come back to me.  It's the storytelling part that is troublesome to me.  Here's why.  Thus far, I've had a great, and uncomplicated life.  I have my moments, and sometimes I get sad and sometimes I get angry, but generally, I am demon-free.  I'm as even-keeled as they come.  Don't get me wrong-- I wouldn't trade my good fortune for anything (and trust me, I know I am ridiculously fortunate and I am eternally grateful).  I have to believe that the people who have the stories that are most worth telling have suffered. The suffering provides insight.  The suffering provides perspective. The suffering can be channeled to improve the lives of other people at the time that it's most needed.  I can't offer that to anyone. Maybe my stories just aren't worth being told.

C'mon.  I'm not going to say I'd rather be anguished and write a beautiful blog that inspires.  That's just silly talk.  I just hope that I'm not just filling dead air with meaningless words because my soul isn't evolved enough to do better.

Oh well, at least I can be known as the girl who actually wrote the words "ring around the penis" in a blog.  That HAS to be worth something.

The remedy is the experience,

Love, hate and Philly Mag

I have a love-hate relationship with Philly magazine.  Each month when it arrives, I devour it--I get excited to vicariously participate in the adventures of the locally fabulous, and then, just as quickly, become kind of disgusted with myself for buying into the hype.   Call it the locally fabulous hangover, if you will.

I'm starting to believe that I prefer my hangovers to originate from beer and wine, or, at a minimum, from a party to which I was actually invited.  I mean, seriously.  If I'm going to have the hangover, I'd like to have had the fun first.

I realize that the term "locally fabulous", especially as applied to the Philadelphia metro area, is kind of an oxymoron.   It's Philadelphia, for crying out loud, where "fabulous" is often synonymous with "wearing clean sweatpants to the Outback".  Okay, that was mean.  If I'm being slightly more charitable, I'd describe it as a city with a massive runner-up complex, the Jan Brady to New York/LA's Marcia Brady.  I'm speaking on no authority whatsoever, but I'm fairly confident that fabulous in Philly is roughly equivalent to C-list in New York and LA. I'm thinking Kathy Griffin territory, here (who, incidentally, I do think is kind of fabulous)

Before I get lynched by the Philadelphia faithful- I am one of you.  I was born in this area.  I've lived here my entire life- initially by birth, and then consistently reinforced by a series of (some good, some questionable) choices.  I've spent my entire life trying to get out of here, but yet, I've never pulled the trigger.   My relationship with this area is probably the single best illustrative example of a love-hate relationship in my life.  I love the grittiness of this area.  I love the work-a-day, blue collar ethic.  I love the passion.  I love the historical significance.  I love the fact that it's completely okay to throw shit at Santa Claus.  I don't understand cities that don't have such ingrained passion.  There's plenty that I'm not so fond of, too- but I'm afraid of getting my ass kicked, so I'll refrain.  I don't hold up so well in street fights.  My jacked-up nose is evidence of that.

Side note: that statement made me sound much cooler/tougher than I actually am.  I broke my nose in the karate class that my mom made me take for self-defense purposes before heading off to the rough streets of Villanova.  I couldn't block for crap, and, for that matter, couldn't punch either.  After my nose cast was removed (yes, I really had a nose cast, and yes, it was as psychologically damaging to a 17 year old girl as you'd reasonably expect) Mom bought me some pepper spray instead and wished me the best.

Shockingly, I digress.

The point of this rambling is that I take umbrage to the glorification of "fabulousness"-- even if it is graded on a curve for the Philadelphia market.

That sounds harsh.  I know a good number of truly fabulous people in the real world, and these people should be glorified--because their fabulousness is based on actual substance and not relational bullshit.  These people should be considered out of scope from the full scale rant on which I am about to embark.

Who exactly decided that these people were better than anyone else?  Who exactly decided that these were the people who get to choose who is worth knowing and who should be relegated to the sidelines? Who exactly decided that these were the people who would ultimately decide if I'm worth knowing or not?

WTF.  Repeat after me.  WTF.

I read an article in this month's issue that profiled a woman who is apparently the person to know on the Main Line social scene.  I'll admit that I'd love to have a drink with her- she sounds totally amusing--but I surely would not pass muster.  Not the point.   What annoys   enrages me are the methods by which  "fabulous" women earn their titles, and the methods by which this "fabulousness" is repeatedly reinforced---all while reinforcing social stratification.  Awesome.

Apparently, what it takes to be a fabulous woman worth knowing is the following:  Be born white, at least moderately well-connected, and pretty.  Get enough of an education to look good on paper.  Get boob job and whatever other cosmetic procedures are required.   Absolutely, be blonde or get blonde.  Become the second or third wife or a wealthy man considerably older than yourself.  Have at least 2 children, a nutritionist and a personal trainer.  Work the social circuit.  Develop your "brand". Divorce.  Re-brand.  Become queen of a kingdom where who you know is more important than what you are.

And then get usurped by the next big thing in two years.

I have a little girl.   I worry about what she sees.  I worry about she reacts to what she sees.  I worry about how she uses this information to  frame her own definition of a woman of character.  This is not what I want her to see.

Allow me to be a bit more blunt.  I'd rather set fire to my own house while I sit in it than raise a daughter who thinks it's fabulous to be a queen bee (or queen bee lady-in-waiting) in a shallow kingdom that creates and perpetuates its own bullshit-- and expects others to bow to the throne.  I'd also like her to actually ACCOMPLISH something meaningful before she becomes supremely proud of herself.  Maybe that's just me.

This, incidentally, is probably precisely why I'm never going to end up on any Most (fill-in-your-obnoxious-adjective-here) List.  I'm okay with that.

It bothers me enough when I see messages like this in the media, but I find it even more troublesome when I see it in the course of everyday life.  Which I do.  More than I should.  I'd run out of fingers and toes to count on if asked to quantify how many times I've been told in the last year that Mr./Ms. XYZ is awesome, and I should really try to make sure they like me.  That my life would be better if I was deemed worthy by the elite Mr./Ms. Fabulous.

Again, WTF.

Shall I bring my best dress to the cleaners?  Get my makeup done?  Be witty and charming and smart (but not too smart) and say the right things, and only the right things, and pray that I make the cut?  Fail.

Life's not sorority rush-- which, incidentally, I survived in the mid 90s by a mutual choice between me and a group of quality girls that shared core beliefs, if not every opinion.  For the record, it's the lack of mutual choice in these types of setups that have me running for the hills.   I'm too old, too tired, and too time constrained to put myself in situations where my role is to pretty myself up and pray to be chosen-- in a relationship that would likely be unilateral.  Let me get this straight- I am supposed to like you, because you're better than me, and I should just reallyreallyreally hope that you like me?

I'm packing up my ball and going home, kids.  I'm not playing....at least not anymore.  I spent too many years trying to be the version of me that I thought was most suitable for mass consumption--only to realize that I no longer consistently realized who I was.  I have a little girl who watches my every move- this crap doesn't fly.  I have a masters degree, a respectable job, and a lot of opinions (!!), but none of this matters if I can't show my daughter that if you don't love and respect yourself, you can't really love or respect anyone else.

I think it was the great poet Jewel (ha!!  please kill me) who said something along the lines of "people living their lives on TV.  They say they're better than you, and you agree."  You may say you're better than me.  I don't agree- at least not until you get to know me, and I get to know you, and we can actually make some sort of informed decision.

Rant over.   Next time, I'll be less serious, i promise.

No silence, no consent,

Brothers and Sisters

The thing about Facebook is that it can artificially inflate your self-confidence.   This surely is a totally stunning confession to you all, but I'm more than a bit snarky by nature.  I'm also raising a promising mini-snark, and the 2x snarky multiple in my house has provided me with ample raw material for Facebook fodder over the years.  I have a keen eye for the utterly ridiculous, which also has served me well.  A sharp eye plus a wicked pen--I'll admit that some days, that allows me to come up with some pretty witty and even some highly amusing crap.

What remains shocking to me is that some very kind-hearted people actually publicly admitted to liking my charming anecdotes, which typically involve a semi-profane musings from a 75% profane 3 year old.   Damn you, Facebook.  You made me believe that I was funny and witty and had some sort of uniquely entertaining worldview.

Here's the thing.  ANYBODY can be funny in 4 sentence clips posted at thrice-weekly intervals-- especially when you're surrounded by a highly entertaining supporting cast.   I know this now.  I'm not special.  Damn you, Facebook, for allowing me to be so self-indulgent as to believe that I was special.

I am so much cooler on Facebook than I am in real life.  Please all, let's take a moment and reflect on just how very pathetic that is.

How do I know this, you ask?  I know this because (DRUMROLL........) I mistakenly thought in a beer-and-Beyonce filled haze, that if I was funny on Facebook, I'd be even funnier in a blog.  Riiiiiiiiight.  It took less than 3 weeks for me to realize that I don't have all that much that is interesting to say, especially when I write in paragraphs as opposed to in phrases.  Maybe Twitter is my medium---I'd surely seem like a comedic genius when limited to 140 characters or less.

I've been radio silent for the better part of the last week because, frankly, I've had nothing particularly interesting to share.  Let's summarize my accomplishments of the last week:

1.  I went to work.  And then I went to work again.  And again.  And again.  I'm pretty sure I spent most of my time there acquiring new work and little time actually completing the work that I already had; thus, finishing the week behind where I started.  Again. 

2.  I made chocolate chip cookie dough (and subsequently burnt some cookies) with Little M.   We sang the "Mixing Song" while making the dough.  For those who are interested, the "Mixing Song" involves singing the word "mix" over and over again to the tune of "Jingle Bells."  I'm a thrill a minute, I tell you.

3.  I got really excited about my purchase of KABOOM! and how shiny it made all of the chrome in my sinks and tubs.  I'm still kind of excited about that, actually.  I heard about KABOOM! on either an informercial or a regular commercial late at night, and I will say, it performs as advertised.  I'm obsessive (shocker) about shiny chrome, and KABOOM! truly delivers.  KABOOM!

4. I got to spent time with my best friend, where I (a) turned myself into a wine bag, (b) got a hangover that was totally unsuitable for someone who answers to the name of "Mom" and (c) took a class called "Core Fusion" (while nursing my wine hangover) where I humiliated myself in a room full of highly fit people.  Allow me to elaborate- I'm in pretty decent shape for a middle-aged woman (thank you P90x and Insanity), but (as one of my trainers once told me), I'm about as flexible as your average senior citizen and (as my dad routinely informs me) as graceful as your average ruptured duck.  Core Fusion involves a ballet barre.  Imagine an interpretative dance performed by the spawn of the Loch Ness Monster and a river otter and you have the general idea.  

5.  Oh yeah, and I went grocery shopping.  With child.  On the weekend using one of those carts that have a car attached to the front of it.  Repeat after me- never.frigging.again.

So, now you know why you haven't heard from me.  Feel free to thank me now.

On the upside, I did get to spend time this weekend with both my brother....and my sister.  Good stuff.  The two of them remind me how fortunate I am to have a family that takes me in when I don't always deserve it, that puts up with my crap, and that loves me, without condition, when I am spectacularly imperfect.  Sometimes, biology makes a family. Sometimes, choice makes a family.  Always, love makes a family.  I'm a lucky girl.

My brother and I have the same mom and dad.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I either look so much alike we could be twins or we look virtually nothing alike.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I are so much alike, it's eerie or we are polar opposites.  In point of fact, my brother and I are flip sides of a coin---a little different, but totally complementary. Interdependent.  We are for each other.    We've both gone through life saying that we were 5 years apart in age --but we're actually less than 4 and a half years apart (we're not completely stupid- we were 5 years apart in school and were born in calendar years that are 5 years apart).   My brother was the "cute" one and I was the "smart" one, but somewhere along the way, we realized that my brother is crazy smart and I can be kind of cute in good lighting.  

My brother and I can fight (and have fought) like cats and dogs---but if anyone screws with my baby brother, I would knock their lights out first and ask questions later.  If not for growing up in the same house, my brother and I probably would not have been friends, partially due to the age difference and partially due to the fact that we're enough alike that we'd get on each other's nerves.  I'm so thankful for the shared DNA--there are a good number of times that my brother is the only one able to talk me off the ledge.  My brother's life has been far from easy--far more difficult than mine--but he's lived it anyway, and he's lived it with a grace and a tenacity I'm not sure I could muster.  I may be older, but I love looking up to my little brother.  There's no one on this planet who can press my buttons like my brother can, and no one who I'd rather share DNA with.  Go figure.  Baby Brother C- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and so proud to be your sister.

My sister and I have different parents and live in different states.  We share few physical features, unless you count us being the exact same height (midway between dwarf and average) and freakishly small fingers (how many adults can possibly have a size 4 ring finger?)  I'd say we were alike in all the ways that count, but that would be unfair to her and grossly inflating me.  We are, however, for each other.  

My sister is the most beautiful person I've ever met in real life...inside and out.  She's brave and outspoken and open-minded and listens with open ears and an open heart.  She does not judge (unless it's truly bad fashion, and it's always justified).  Like my biological brother, her life hasn't been easy, but she lived it anyway, and with grace and tenacity that I doubt I could muster (sound familiar?)  I was (obviously) alive when I met her, but my sister is the one who taught me to live...taught me to get a life.  She is my single greatest influence.   Little M has not been baptized in a church, but there was only one person that I'd want to be her (fairy) godmother.  My sister.  Sister J- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and proud to be your sister.  

Here's to my siblings- to the family I was lucky enough to be born into, and to the family that I was smart enough to choose.  Oneword. Love.

I'm a lucky girl,

Little Miss Sunshine

Time Out. Who Knew?

Had I known that time outs were so blissfully awesome, I wouldn't have been doling them out like they were candy for the last few years.  I clearly need a new disciplinary tactic---one with some teeth.

Why the change of heart, you ask?

Because my time out is the closest thing that I've had to a true vacation in 3 years, 6 months and 1 day (not that I'm counting or anything).

I've (only somewhat jokingly) maintained for years that my fantasy is 2 nights in the Holiday Inn down the street--by myself.  I can barely imagine how great it would feel to be in a bed, by myself, with no diaper-wearing footballs, sponge bob cast members, boppy pillows, Disney Princesses named Chuck, beach towels, abandoned throw pillows, rogue puzzle pieces or a restless-legged 3 year old who snores like a 747 at takeoff.    To be able to pee---uninterrupted.  To be able to read a book that doesn't feature cartoon characters and is not adorned by fossilized yogurt remnants.  To not have to share the marshmallows in the goldfish s'mores.  To not reach into the goldfish bag and find abandoned half-eaten non-marshmallow goldfish that are still slightly soggy.

Someday, somehow....I will live the dream.  Today, however, I got a glimpse---and it was everything I thought it could be.

I've previously mentioned that I find music to be an essential life element, and it's equally important  that I share this passion with Little M.   My girl and I have a sacred Friday morning tradition---the pajama dance party (yes, the "jammy jam") immediately followed by cuddle time on the sofa where we stare into space, and hold hands and analyze song lyrics.  When she looks back on her childhood, I really hope that she fondly remembers our Friday morning girl tradition--or that she hears a song on the radio and is struck with the realization that it was her lame old mom who introduced her to that song.  I know that I'll never forget.

Mothers of sons and fathers of daughters get a special spotlight dance on the wedding day.  Most mothers of daughters...we normally are relegated to playing the role of misty-eyed spectators on the sideline.  On little M's wedding day, I hope she and I can reenact one of our Friday morning dance parties; and that she and I can have a special dance to "our" song.  Yes, we have one.  It's been around for many years- hell, it even predates me--but it was written especially for her.  I'm convinced.

In any case, it was this Friday morning tradition gone slightly awry that landed me in time-out.  Normally, she and I agree on the daily soundtrack, but today, there was no meeting of the minds.  Imagine a bull-headed 36 year old locking horns with an even more bull-headed 3 year old in a spirited Fitz and the Tantrums vs. Radiohead debate.

It's my music library.  I am the DJ.  I retain creative control.  I picked the Tantrums.  In response, Little M was mildly displeased a raging lunatic.  She sprung from the sofa, pointed her finger at me, screamed "Mommy, you are in time-out for 41 minutes", slammed the door and walked out.

A few clarifying items:

(1)   We normally follow a one minute per year of age time out philosophy here.  Little M is due a time out of her own for aging me by 5 years.

(2)  All of her time outs to date have taken place on a staircase.

With these clarifying items in mind, I will admit that I am so grateful that Little M is not a time-out enforcement purist.  If she were, I never would have my glimpse into the dream.

After the initial shock of being punished by a 3 year old wore off, I glanced around the room.  The room where I was the sole occupant.  With a TV.  And my entire music library.  And a half-full bag of chex mix.  And a Diet Dr. Pepper.  Is it wrong that I did a little happy dance?   Time-out exile rocks---can I stay for three weeks????

Sadly, I was eligible for early time-out release.  Little M was thirsty.  Goodbye, blissful exile.

If you happen to observe some unusually ornery behavior from me, it's because I'm trying to get sent back to time-out.

41 is the new 36,

Little Miss Sunshine

Letters to Sunshine

Little M is a morning person.  This concept is beyond foreign to me.  I'm reasonably pleasant (pleasant enough, anyway) over the course of the day, but I hate virtually everything about the first hour that I'm awake.  Over the years, I've found that trying to be nice in the first 60 zaps me of energy for the whole of the day, so I pretty much stopped trying.  It's best for everyone that way.

Most adults that I've lived with have learned to ignore me entirely in the morning, or to opt for the oh-so-effective reverse psychology approach.  Want me to be nice in the morning?  Be mean to me.  Works like a charm- I become a fetching, if bedraggled, bundle of sunshine, rainbows, puppies, chirping birds and hearts in no time flat.  I'm still learning how to adapt to the little girl living in my house who is constitutionally unable to sleep past 6 AM---with a mouth that is fully operational from the second her feet hit the floor.

Transcript from this morning, circa 5:45 AM.

Little M (at top of lungs):  WAKE UP, MOMMY!!!!!  IT'S MORNING TIME.
LMS (whining):  whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?
Little M opens LMS's eyelids with her fingers.
Little M (screaming):  MOMMMMMMMMMMMMY!   ARE YOU IN THERE?
LMS:  no.
Little M:  GET UP, MOMMY!  ITS MORNING TIME!
LMS:  (grumbling)  Maybe in France.
Little M:  FEED ME, MOMMY!  I'M HUNGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!  AND I WANT TO DANCE!

(On a side note, I realize that lots of people like to dance.  Some people are good dancers.  Many people magically become good dancers after 3-12 drinks.  I am none of these people.  There is no simply no quantity of wine in this world that I can consume and subsequently think "Wow, I am a GREAT dancer.")

So, I drag my sorry self out of bed and stumble to the kitchen.  Little M informs me that she wants candy bars and sprinkles for breakfast.  She gets the candy bar.  Note that I am not completely unfit as a mother--about a year ago, I had an "aha!!!" moment and told her that the organic cereal bars that were collecting dust in the pantry and more closely resembled paperweights than breakfast food were actually candy bars.  Anyone who tells her anything to the contrary will have some serious hell to pay.

Anyway, I'm awake, so I may as well write.  Recently, I came across a book entitled "Letters to My Younger Self", which is exactly as it sounds.  I did recently say that a guidebook to life would have been  hugely helpful, and I'm fascinated by and wholly supportive of concept of the It Gets Better Project, so here goes.  With no further ado, please welcome the guidance I wish I received when I was 12, 16, 23, 30 and 36....

Dear Tiny Miss Sunshine,

You spend so much time worrying about how to make yourself the kind of person others like that you're going to lose yourself in the process.  The path to conformity is a dead-end and rigidity is going to be the death of you.  While we're on the topic, stop wasting time:  stop wasting time worrying, stop wasting time beating yourself up, stop wasting time trying to re-invent yourself as something that you think others will like.  Just stop.

Forget about money- time is the most precious and finite commodity at your disposal.  Every second you waste trying to fit in is a form of cheating.  You're cheating those people who like who know who you really are and like you, as is, no exceptions.  Most of all, you're cheating yourself and the person you could become if you'd just have enough faith to believe in yourself and follow through.

There will be people in this world who dislike you.  If they dislike you because you are unkind, unmotivated, unreliable--hear the truth and fix it.  Now.  Get better.  If they just don't find you to be their cup of tea--that's fine.  Move on.  You will have more than your fair share of people in your corner, and it's those people who have your back when you're periodically an unloveable pain in the ass that matter.  There's a world of difference between constantly striving to be the best version of you and constantly striving to be someone else.  Know that subtle difference and carefully tread that fine line.

In life, there's a place for pragmatism and responsibility and there's a place for excitement and beauty.  Live within your means, but don't let your means constrain you. Buy beautiful shoes and clothes and experiences---because they're beautiful.  They're not going to change who you are as a person, but if they make you smile, they're worth it.  Appreciate the beauty in things, but realize that at the end of the day, they're just things.  Appreciate the beauty in people more.  Appreciate the beauty in life the most.  Things are nice, but it's people who matter.

Oh, and I know that you like math, but life isn't an equation.  Stop using > and < in defining yourself in your relationships.

By the way, you'll never grow to be a respectable size.  That's okay.  There are certain benefits to being a portable adult--plus, there's usually a great selection of items on the sale rack in small sizes.

I wrote this letter and now I can't find a freaking stamp,

Little Miss Sunshine