British Invasion

I was doing my best to get some editing work done this evening while I waited for dinner to cook so, being the fantastic mother that I am, I sat my kids down in front of the TV, turned it to PBS and went to park my arse in front of the computer. About 20 minutes later, I kept hearing uproarious laughter coming from my son and a few giggles from my daughter. Excellent, I thought, PBS must really know what kids like. A couple minutes later my son ran into the kitchen (where my desktop is) and said, "Mommy. You have got to see this hilarious movie we are watching." I went in to find my kids mesmerized by Are You Being Served?

I guess we've got a backup show when the cartoons run out. I wonder when the appropriate time to introduce, Keeping Up Appearances to the kiddos is.

Monday’s Rant

Be forewarned I'm feuding with my husband over something about which he has no control and I'm feeling the urge to scratch my own eyes out with a rusty knife. It's been a great day. Suffice it to say this post may seem, hmmm…, a tad bit angry.

For those of you who are unaware, I have lupus. I realize this may seem like a random statement but it becomes relevant later. I have lupus and so do 1.5 million other Americans yet very few people even know what the disease is. There is no celebrity spokesperson for the disease even though it is statistically impossible that a celebrity or five does not have the disease. The only press it ever gets is when one of the staff members on House throws it out as a possible diagnosis every week. I'm not kidding. EVERY week. Pay attention. This lack of awareness drives me nuts. Fret not, all of this will make sense in a few minutes.

Anyone watch The Shield out there in cyberland? My husband and I have been fans of it since the first episode and have watched it faithfully until its painful conclusion last week. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it is a gritty (that might be the understatement of the century) cop drama about police corruption and the activities of one particular group of cops in L.A. It's violent and thought provoking and shocking at times. It's the kind of show that I love. I was so pleased last season when one of the show's primary characters came out of the closet with a lupus diagnosis. She's a smart, successful, highly capable woman and I was thrilled that lupus was finally going to get some serious treatment on a relatively high profile show. My pleasure turned to shock when it was revealed that the reason for the revelation about the character's diagnosis was that she was going completely insane. She was losing perspective, unable to perform the functions of her job, getting irrationally emotional and had even let her house get so filthy that it could have been condemned, all of this from a woman who, prior to her lupus diagnosis, had been an exceptionally successful woman in every aspect of her life. Are you kidding me?

So the character she came clean to took it upon himself to shelter and protect her from those who might discover her illness and subsequent meltdown. Being the gentlemen that he is, he talked her down when she was overly emotional, over compensated for her rash behavior, and hired someone to clean her house. What a gent!

The final few episodes revealed that it was her medication, not her disease, which was making her crazy. This left her with a difficult choice: continue to take the medication and remain a crazy person or stop taking it, get some normalcy in her life, and die a slow painful death from a relentless disease. She chose the latter. Nice. My heart swells with pride at this oh-so-accurate portrayal of a relatively common and treatable disease that affects many intelligent, successful, capable-of-keeping-our-homes-clean women who take their medication regularly without going crazy. Come on!

STD’s

The stress in my life melted away yesterday when my OB's nurse called me to inform me that I did not have gonorrhea. Phew. Thank goodness. That was keeping me up at night. When it comes to my list of stressors, "Fear of STD's" is at the very top, above "In 5 months the children will outnumber the adults in my household" and "Holy crap what is my stomach going to look like after this?" I guess I should be thankful for the small things, right?

Speaking of STD's, I read today on CNN.com that Holly Madison and Hugh Hefner are splitting. This upsets me a great deal. What will poor Hugh do without his beloved Puffin? Word on the street is he's got a set of 19-year-old twins chomping at the bit to take her place. If this relationship comes to fruition, Hef's new gal pals will be 63 years his junior. My question is this: what do their parents think? I would be mortified. That gives me two primary goals for my daughter(s):

1. Keep them off of the pole (thank you Chris Rock)
   
2. Keep them out of Hugh Hefner's bed.
   

Sure, I'd also like them to be happy, well-adjusted, successful women but I'm thinking right now in terms of concrete objectives and these, my friends, are two of them.

Stranger Than Fiction

Long after my college days of devouring Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan and participating in "Take Back the Night" marches, I have finally come to appreciate what the feminist movement has done for me, for my daughter, for every generation of women to come. This appreciation came from a most unlikely source: a television show. After reading about all of the award nominations that the AMC show, Mad Men, has garnished, I had to see the show for myself. I moved it to the top of my Netflix que and have been watching Season 1, one disc at a time, for the past few weeks. For anyone who hasn't watched the show, it depicts the professional and personal lives of New York Advertising execs in the 1960's. Let's just say the glass ceiling was in another galaxy and sexual harassment was not only legal, it was a freakin' expectation. This is the work environment that my parent's generation began their professional lives in. It blows my mind.

On a recent episode, one of the men in the office was describing his experience while brainstorming with the secretaries (lovingly referred to as the "hens") in which he was astounded to find that one of the women actually had some pretty good ideas. He described the scene, "It was like watching a dog play the piano." This is so foreign and offensive to me that I cannot fathom behavior like this ever being tolerated. My daughter will be even more astounded and baffled by this type of talk. You know what that is called people? Progress. So, thank you Mad Men for giving today's generation a real glimpse of what it was that the women of the sixties and seventies were fighting for. And thank you bra-burnin', protestin' women of generations past for making such behavior seem stranger than fiction to me.

Paper Airplanes

I officially entered the ranks of Grand Poohbah Mommydom today when I made my son the best paper airplane ever, using no tape, staples or glue. Yes, I rock. Where did I find the instructions to make said plane? Wikipedia. Where else? It flies easily, in a straight line, from one end of my formidable kitchen to the other. I can't wait to throw it at my husband when he walks in the door and say, "In your face former Boy Scout and king of all improvised homespun creations!"

In other news, I was forced to go a full 24 hours without my DVR. The hard-drive was fried in our recent thunderstorm and I found myself on the verge of a panic attack last night when I tried to access this week's episode of Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant and was denied with an error message. The humanity! I called DISH Network immediately and they sent another receiver to me which was just delivered, via UPS, a mere 24 hours later. Go DISH! Go UPS! Go all major brand name products (hire me please. I'm a really good promotional writer. See? See?)! It's a good thing my DVR is back up and running. I was going to call my doctor for some anti-anxiety meds if I had to wait another 24 hours.

So, I'm happy to report that I remain Prozac-free and DVR enabled. You can all rest easy tonight.

Tender Tennessee Redneck Weddings

East Tennessee is on my mind today, mostly because the area surrounds me with natural beauty, homegrown folks and very odd wildlife. I was driving on the Interstate today about a mile from my exit and noticed what I thought was a black cat. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a wild hog. It was just grazing along the interstate as if this was a perfectly natural thing for it to do.

East Tennessee has also been on the television screens of CMT viewers across the country. With the writer's strike still threatening the quality of our television choices, many of us (myself included) have turned to reality TV for our viewing pleasure. CMT premiered a new program a couple of weeks ago entitled, My Big Redneck Wedding. It's sure to be a classic: 30 minutes of pure redneck glory, interjected with random comments from Tom Arnold that make me want to beat my head against a wall. Seriously, it's like nails on a chalkboard and completely unnecessary. Trust me, the content of this show requires no narrative. It is totally self-explanatory.

The most recent episode features a young (18 & 19) couple from Copper Basin, Tennessee, just up the road from yours truly. They got married outside. The bride wore a green dress. The groom wore a camo suit and the entire bridal party wore camo. The bride arrived on a tractor and the reception featured beans and cornbread. It was Southern to the core. The groom's gift to the bride on the wedding day was a pink rifle. Her gift to him? A skink. Classic. I enjoy this show a great deal for two reasons:

1. The couple on the second episode lived in California. Ha! There really are country folks in California. I thought this was a myth.
   



2. I see these people every day in my community at the stores, on the road, on my street. I wouldn't be surprised if they filmed an episode of MBRW on my street. They are unapologetically country and cross all socio-economic lines in the great state of Tennessee. As long as they aren't waiving a rebel flag the size of Texas from a flagpole in their front yard, I find them to be good people, good friends and good neighbors.
   

The episode failed to shock or surprise me except for one thing.  The minister said and the bride promised to honor her, "commitment to be submissive to his leadership" while all the groom had to promise was to, "love and care for her." I was a little stunned that the bride was willing to make such an antiquated promise, especially with zero reciprocation from the groom. To each his own, though. Who knows what I would have said if I had fallen in love and married at age 19?

She Got Game

I rarely use my portable DVD player. I see moms picking up their kids from school and flipping down the screen as soon as their kids are in the car but I refuse to do this for many reasons, not the least of which is that my DVD player is not one of those handy dandy in dash numbers that is super easy to operate. It involves wires, some complicated button pushing and generally too much effort for my lazy arse. I'd love to get on my high horse and say that my kids don't watch the TV very often because I want to ensure optimum communication time in the car but, while I agree with that
platform, it just wouldn't be honest. It all boils down to convenience for me. Of all mothers in the world, I have the most motivation to keep my TV on. My son expects full participation in vehicle "games" while we are riding, even if it is just to the CVS on the corner to get a gallon of milk. My daughter is, I'm sorry to say, following suit with this expectation.

Before I am able to put the van in Drive in the morning, my son says, "Mommy, can we play a game?" This question is as reliable as the sunrise but I still cringe a little whenever he asks it, especially if I'm in a hurry or flustered. I always concede though because, really, what else am I going to do? Listen to some music? Gather my thoughts? Create a mental grocery list? Come on! Those are things that only people without children can do, right? So I play the game. We have a variety of games we play, including Construction Site, DisneyWorld, DollyWood, Train, Family and Baby, but they all boil down to the same theme: my son is some type of authority figure and my daughter and I are merely spectators, patrons or some type of subordinate. My son's voice gets about three octaves lower and I am given a series of lines to recite. My daughter and I also have to act out minor things like opening doors, fastening seat belts and giving money. My son refuses to move on to the next activity until we do. I am just resigned to doing what I'm told. Its easier that way.

Until the Christmas break things were simple and went according to my master plan. I'd play the game until my son got out of the car and went to school and then I'd turn on my favorite radio station and rock out a little while my daughter and I drove home. Things have changed. My rockin' out days are numbered. Today, as we were pulling out of my son's school parking lot, my daughter said, "Mommy, can we play a game?"

My heart stopped. I had just turned on the radio and was singing Alicia Key's No one at the top of my lungs. I love that song and would have taken great pleasure in finishing it out but I turned the radio off, did my best to sound chipper and said, "Sure. What game do you want to play?"

Femme Fatale

I have learned from experience that
anything on the TV or radio that is within earshot of my son will be heard,
pondered and internalized. This is why we don’t watch the news in my house, or
anything that might be construed as disturbing or scary. My son will hear it
and internalize it. My parents were not aware of the "no news" rule when the kids spent the night with them this weekend.

I’m not sure if he saw the entire news cast or just bits and
pieces but my son has been obsessed with an armed robbery that took place sometime
last weekend near my parent’s house. We have had a crash course in felony theft
in the Hale household this week.

What is armed robbery?

Why would someone rob
a gas station?

I didn’t know girls
could be robbers?

I wonder if that
robber lives near Grandma and Pop-Pop.

They didn’t catch her.
We’re supposed to look for her.

Since his sleepover we have seen the armed robbery suspect
no less than five times. Any woman walking along the street or standing on or
near the road is immediately thought to be the robber.

Son: There she is
Mommy. I think that’s her. Maybe we should call the police.

Me: Why do you think
that’s the robber?

Son: Because she looks
like the lady on the TV.

Me: What did the lady
look like?

Son: That (points to
suspect in question).

I have yet to find any similarities between the women that
we have identified as potential suspects other than the fact that they are all
women and they prefer walking to driving or riding the bus. Walking women of
the world, watch out! My son is onto you and your gun-wielding ways.

 

The Bandanna Chronicles

I just had to acknowledge, for all my Rock of Love
cronies out there in the blogosphere, that Bret Michaels does, in fact, have
hair under that bandanna.

Why does this please me so?

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab, I Said, "No No No."

I promised myself I’d never get political on this blog but I
have to break my silence and lay the cards on the table. Did everyone catch the
Britney Spears performance at the VMA’s? Holy guacamole. What a disaster.

I do my best to maintain the illusion that I am above all of
the Hollywood tabloid nonsense but I’m not. The simple truth is that I did care
about Britney’s performance. Her recent public personal debacles and possible
comeback intrigued me. I watched the Video Music Awards with great interest,
taking a little bit of pleasure in her obvious failure. I felt pity for her but
I also felt vindicated or, perhaps, validated that she had lost her magnetism.

Why is this? I have no idea. I’m pretty sure that it means I
am a hopelessly flawed individual. I take pleasure in this young girl’s pain.
Her poor decision making, her youth and her early fame have all led her to this
place. And we (at least the losers among us who are faithful readers of “In
Touch” magazine) have been on the ride with her. I’m pretty sure that I
wouldn’t have handled myself much better in her shoes (I wouldn’t have married
K-Fed but, hey, you get the point) but I continue to judge her harshly. Britney
and I, we’ve got some work to do. If only I could afford a couple rounds of rehab.

Civilian PIs and Creme Brule

It is taking every ounce of will power I have not to
dedicate an entire blog entry to the creme brulee that I had on Wednesday night
at Jiko, an African restaurant known as as €œThe Cooking Place€ nestled in the
Animal Kingdom Lodge in Walt Disney World. Those of you who know me are
probably not surprised by this. I love food, especially high quality food. That
is part of the appeal of Disney World: you can take the whole family out
to a five star restaurant. I can€'t think of any other place on earth where you
can order from one of the best wine lists in the country while your child
feasts on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rainbow bread.

Back to the
creme brulee: it was flavored with ground pistachios, situated atop a bed of
dark chocolate and perfectly torched to a candied shell deliciousness on top. It
was perfect.

I digress.

On Friday night we took the whole family to the California Grille, one of the
nicest restaurants on Disney property. A couple feet down from us, seated at the bar, were
some familiar faces. We enjoyed our sushi and flat bread appetizers while the
kids feasted on an elegant plate of goldfish and tried our best to figure out who those people were. My husband, his curiosity peaked,
got up to take our son to the bathroom. He came back and said, "We'€™ve got some
Doodlebop action at three-o-clock."

I was surprised by my own reaction, "€œNO WAY!"€

We had just seen the Doodlebops in concert the day prior and
the kids loved it. They danced with much more enthusiasm than good ol Britney at
the VMA'€™s this weekend and Sean and I were pleasantly surprised at the quality
of the show. It felt like a preschool rock concert.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Doodlebops, they are an
extremely popular preschool singing group that have a half hour show on the
Disney Channel. Unlike their Australian counterpart The Wiggles, the Doodlebops
wear a great deal of make-up and elaborate costumes so they have the benefit of
a relatively normal existence outside of the whacked-out Doodlebop world.
Except of course, when they are in the presence of civilian PI€™s like my
husband who can spot them a mile away, even without the blue hair. We decided
to keep our Doodlebop sighting on the DL to protect our kids from the harsh
reality that Moe Doodle is, in fact, a small man with black hair in designer
duds munching on flat bread at the bar. My husband, always stretching the limits
of his own dorkiness,  couldn'€™t resist a little poke at Moe on the way out. He
tapped him on the back and said, "€œGreat show Moe!"€ I averted my eyes and ran
towards the elevator.

Madonna's Footsteps

When I pulled into the driveway on our way back from the
YMCA this morning, there were some packages sitting on the doorstep. My son,
always excited about packages, asked me, “Mom. Do you want me to carry the post
in?” The post? Who calls it the post? My son, that’s who.

Following in Madonna’s footsteps, my son has become British.
When I pull into the gas station he says, “Mommy. Are we getting petrol?”
Petrol! What ever happened to good ol’ American gas? Don’t get me wrong. I have
nothing against the Brits. I just find it humorous that my son is becoming
one of them. He’s never met anyone from Jolly Old England and he laughs
hysterically when I attempt an English accent during our many tea parties. He
does, however, like the terminology.

The origin of this British transition is no mystery. I know
precisely where he is picking up terms like, “the post” and “petrol.” It’s from
his favorite TV show, Postman Pat. Postman Pat is the cleanest, most benign television show I have ever seen. It is very simple and focuses
around the antics of a Barney Fife-ish Postman in a small town in England. It
is old school claymation and my son could not love it more. It comes on HBO
Family and, as a result, there are no commercials. PBS and HBO are favorites in
our house because of their lack of commercials. I suppose my son’s transition
into a young, British lad is the price that a four-year-old has to pay for a little freedom from marketing.