tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88377512883881564742024-03-13T12:38:30.941-07:00Mommy with a PenisGay white man, black husband, white son, black daughter...
Welcome to the world of Hutch Foster, mommy with a penis.Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.comBlogger160125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-21004980648945118362018-04-27T18:53:00.001-07:002018-04-27T18:53:35.159-07:00Is Facebook Racist?After yet another incident of White people calling the police on Black people, my husband, Michael, recently wrote the following on Facebook:<br />
<br />
<i>Everyday I hate WyPipo more and more. It's because of how these incidents have increased threefold and how so many of you still refuse to be an ally and speak up. This is on you. We've stopped being listened to. This is on you. Every time you choose to not say anything to a friend or relative. This is on you. This is on you.</i><br />
<br />
Someone reported this as hate speech and he was kicked off Facebook for 30 days. This is the fourth time in two or three years.<br />
<br />
I responded with the following...<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Person Who Keeps Getting My Husband Kicked Off Facebook,<br />
<br />
I have a scenario for you: Michael and I are driving down the interstate in separate cars. The cars are identical in appearance, we are traveling at the same speed, in fact, the only difference is Michael’s gorgeous brown, African American eyes reflect back in his rearview mirror, while my Caucasian baby blues reflect back in mine. We are both pulled over by White cops. Here’s my question...which one of us, do you think, is more likely to be shot?<br />
<br />
If your answer, even for an eyelash flicker, was that Michael would be the likely victim, then you’ve hit upon the crux of Michael’s posts.<br />
<br />
Years ago, WyPipo, as my husband likes to call those of us with less melanin, were flat out disbelievers of the concept of driving while black, saying things like, “Oh, I can’t imagine that kind of thing happens as often as you think. You must be exaggerating.” But now, with the undeniable proof of dash cam footage, cell phone videos and YouTube postings, WyPipo have slowly begun to realize that BlyPipo weren’t exaggerating at all. If anything, they downplayed the truth about our country’s sticky problem with racism.<br />
<br />
Most of us, not only admit to the veracity of driving while black, but also walking while black, talking while black, hell, almost anything including golfing slowly while black, and waiting at Starbucks for your friend while black, and yet we are NOT standing on courthouse steps yelling at the top of our lungs.<br />
<br />
We may have our rebels, who we allow to speak for us, but most of us sit back in our BarcaLoungers with remote in hand, having watched the latest tragic white-cop-kills-unarmed-Black-driver story and tsk, “That’s a shame,” all the while thinking yet unable to fully vocalize, “Boy, am I glad I’m not Black in this country.”<br />
<br />
It’s a problem.<br />
<br />
A huge problem.<br />
<br />
A huge problem that needs informed WyPipo’s voices.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you how I was raised. I was taught to stand tall, smile and not curse, and I could probably get anything I wanted. Michael was taught to be cleaner than, be smarter than, but don’t be louder than and everything <i>may</i> be okay. If I was uppity, I was showing my independent free spirit, but if Michael was uppity he could get killed.<br />
<br />
I want to believe that we have changed as a country. For instance, we are not raising our Black daughter to be demure, but to speak her mind. You however, by denying my husband his voice, seem to want to go back to the way it was. You want Michael to keep his head low and his voice soft.<br />
<br />
Do you honestly think that’s fair?<br />
<br />
You may ask, how do I as a person of WyPipo decent deal with Michael’s convictions. And I got to tell you honestly, years ago there were times when his words would catch in my gut, as if his incendiary observations were meant for me, and only me. But as I got more confident with my place in our country’s race dialog, the more I understood his voice is undeniably needed.<br />
<br />
When Michael and I first met we looked in an astrology book to see if we were compatible. The book said that I was Justice, and he was Revenge, which is one of the reasons we work so well together. Our messages align, but we go about it differently. I dole out logic and the opportunity to walk in another’s shoes, while Michael cuts to the quick speaking a truth that we all desperately need to hear. It’s easier to listen to me, but it’s more important to listen to him.<br />
<br />
I have never been terrified for my life when pulled over by a cop. I have never had a grocery store manager come up to me when reprimanding my misbehaving White son. My tears don’t sting as much when another unarmed Black brother has fallen. As much as I wish that it were, in the arena of racial equality the playing field is most certainly not equal, and WyPipo not only have to keep that in mind, but we have to be the resounding voice that cries foul.<br />
<br />
So instead of secretly notifying Facebook every time Michael writes something that resonates in your funny place, why don’t you take a breath, open a dialog with him, join the rest of us and take a knee.<br />
<br />
You’d be more than welcome.<br />
<br />
<i>By the way, I've reposted Michael's post in its entirety exactly as he wrote it and have not been kicked off Facebook. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Racism?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>To be continued... </i><br />
<br />
<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-16040183194185126132015-08-02T18:02:00.002-07:002015-08-03T17:27:29.845-07:00Coming out of the Shade<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>It was 89 degrees when I picked up my beautiful daughter on the last day of H2O camp at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. I envied her her day; frolicking in cool waters while I whiled away my hours in a house with nonexistent air conditioning. I pulled up and saw my beautiful daughter sitting with her new friends on a grassy knoll eating an Otter Pop lookalike. It was the quintessential image of carefree summer life. <i>Ah, to be a kid!!!</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>She said her goodbyes, collected her stuff and buckled herself in the car. As we were leaving the Rose Bowl grounds Max rolled down her window, causing a backdraft of unwanted heat which interfered considerably with my much desired climate control. I looked back and noticed that the wrapper from the Otter Pop lookalike was gone. I slowed down the car and asked accusatorially, "Did you throw that out the window?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Maxwell gets very sheepish when she's caught in a no-no. She's mostly a very good girl. So, as she was babbling some sort of excuse which was circuitous and becoming utterly Dickensian, I realized this was probably one of those instances where she wasn't intending to be bad per se, but wanted rather to see what would happen. Even before she fully admitted to the infraction, I made a U-y in search of the offensive wrapper, probably melting on the parking lot behind us. I spotted the detritus, pulled to a stop and demanded that my daughter retrieve the wrapper.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">There standing in the shade of a tree, quite apart from anyone or anything else, was an African American woman who looked on with blatant disapproval. This kind of hyper-vigilance was understandable. Pasadena, after all, is a lot like Switzerland, where you are openly <i>tsk</i>ed if you litter, walk against the light, or burp the ABCs. I gave the woman a sympathetic nod, representing the </span><span style="font-size: large;">put-upon, </span><span style="font-size: large;">monosyllabic <i>kids!</i></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To be honest, I was actually proud that there was an eyewitness to my parenting, which in this rare moment, was exemplary. I felt at one with the woman under the shade tree. Ever since my Caucasian self walked onto the parenting scene holding a black baby girl, black women have pulled me aside and given me tips...usually about hair. I tried not to shun their suggestions and have even learned to welcome these unsolicited nuggets. So, this moment seemed full circle. I was able to show the shade tree mama (perhaps grandmama) that I have raised my daughter, <i>her daughter</i>, with values. Yes, Maxie may have committed a wrong, but in taking the time to turn the car around, to teach her that we <i>must</i> care of our planet, that every Otter Pop lookalike wrapper <i>must</i> be thrown away, Maxwell's values became stronger...<i>and this was witnessed!!</i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Maxie picked up the trash and skipped back to the car. I looked at the woman with fellowship, as if to say, "Look what <i>we</i> did." It was truly a pat-on-the-back, it-takes-a-village moment. And this woman, this soulful "auntie of my daughter" seemed pleased with what transpired and even gestured for me to roll down my window.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>As I did so, I was clear with myself that I didn't need praise, because it has taken generations of mamas and grandmamas before her to help shape my mothering skills. She deserved as much praise as I did, perhaps more. Before my window was all the way down she asked, "Is she your daughter?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I swelled with pride at the recognition. And even though our encounter was because my daughter (intentionally/ unintentionally?) littered, I felt this was going to be one of those fortuitous life moments. I puffed out my chest, a small smile played on my lips, and I beamed, "Yes."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Then the woman stepped from the protection of the shade tree, advanced towards the car and with the speed of a tightly coiled cobra she snapped her head in my daughter's direction and pointedly demanded, "Is he your father?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<br />
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">Wait... What?... Huh???...</b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Her face in the glaring sunlight was outwardly antagonistic. She showed none of the understanding I thought was originally there. What happened to passing down the heritage? I thought her gesture to roll down the window was one of good will but the second she stepped into the sun... I needed to exert control.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Before my daughter could answer, I intervened, "Wait! What is going on here?!?!"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And the woman from the shade tree, all pleasantries stripped aside, spoke in a way that galvanized, "I just wanted to see what was going on."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The insinuation was repugnant. I wasn't going to let her get away with that. I wanted to show her I could cut even deeper. How dare she...</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Maxwell's eyes were on me. </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Fuck. It's another goddamned teachable moment. The responsibilities of parenting can be such a boor. And I could have used a good "What the fuck!" Instead, I snipped, "Thank you for looking out for <i>my</i> daughter," rolled up the window and drove away.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>As we headed to the nearest garbage can, Max asked, "Why is she taking pictures of us?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And that was a good question. If I were some nefarious sort who preyed upon young girls (<i>blecch</i>, even to write that...) why in heaven's name would I stop to pull over <i>and pick up trash?</i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>An exemplary parenting moment witnessed as perversion.</b></span></span><br />
<b style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: inherit;">"I honestly can't tell you why she's taking pictures. Spaghetti for dinner?"</b><br />
<br />
<h2>
</h2>
Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-18385660559834902152015-07-24T08:51:00.000-07:002015-07-24T08:51:04.862-07:00The Sesame Seeds of Life Sometimes Get Caught in your TeethThis happened...<br />
<br />
Maxwell was trying to explain to me that there is a commercial on TV with a catchy tongue twister. This gave me the perfect platform for me to enthusiastically recite <i>"Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."</i> (For those of you living the Amish lifestyle that's the 1976 McDonald jingle for the Big Mac.)<br />
<br />
MAXWELL: <i>(Flabbergasted) </i>That was on TV when you were a boy?<br />
<br />
MOMMY WITH A PENIS: You don't have to make it sound like that was so long ago. Dinosaurs weren't roaming the earth. But, yes, that was on TV.<br />
<br />
MAXWELL <i>(With mounting frustration)</i>: How do you remember that when you can't even remember that I wanted sushi after school today?<br />
<br />
Point taken.Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-34591456246736767452013-07-23T10:48:00.000-07:002013-07-24T07:57:09.579-07:00We've All Encountered TrayvonI get George Zimmerman.<br />
<br />
Now, before you go all gooseshit on me, take a gander...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>A young white man walked down an uncommonly deserted New York side street at one AM. Approaching him from the other direction were three black youths. The closer they got the more the white man felt discomfort. Whether this could be attributed to the time of night, the lack of fellow New Yorkers about, the dark clothes the young black men were wearing, or the conspiratorial air they were giving off, the white man couldn't tell you. However, he</i><i> became keenly aware of the hairs on his arm standing at attention and the wallet in his front pocket banging against his thigh every time he took a step. He </i><i>cursed the fact he didn't take the longer route on the more brightly lit, more densely populated thoroughfare.</i><i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Just before the youths passed, they spread out, causing a wider birth for the white man to skirt around. Even with that obstacle, the white man took a larger-than-necessary sidestep to his right almost tripping and hitting his knee on a hydrant, which caused the youths to break out into laughter. After recovering, the white man picked up his pace to the end of the block. When he got to Seventh Avenue, the white man turned to look down the darkened street. The echo of their laughter had died out, the youths were gone.</i><br />
<br />
The white man in the above narrative was an incredibly naive me in my twenties. The youths, to my knowledge, I never saw again. Did they at any point mean me harm or mischief? I will never know the answer to that. Besides, that piece of the story is theirs to own. What's mine to own, and the piece I take away from this incident, more than anger or humiliation, is shame. Shame that I allowed myself to feel threatened. Shame that I bought into common stereotypes. Shame that I took an unnecessarily large sidestep. And that shame lives with me to this day.<br />
<br />
I've asked myself over and over, <i>why did they laugh? </i>It's the strongest part of my memory. I would rather their laughing had nothing to do with me. But there's this <i>you know better than that</i> flicker that nags at me, keeping this memory to the forefront. And after President Obama's speech the other day, I am more than certain those young men laughed because of my overreaction to them. Just as the ladies who clutched their purses when alone in an elevator with young Barry Obama, so did I with averted eyes and wary demeanor slam those youths with the prejudice they've experienced every single day. Their laughing wasn't joviality, it was resignation tinged with payback.<br />
<br />
But this can't be about those boys. They aren't here to support nor deny. This is about my perception and then subsequent reaction. After all, it was my hard-wiring, my experiences (or lack thereof) that informed me that three dark men, in dark clothing, on a darkened street could only mean trouble.<br />
<br />
In this way, going back to my opening statement, I get George Zimmerman. I get the need to protect what is ours. I get the pang of fear that touches something primal inside, causing hyper-vigilance. And I get how difficult it is to feel safe with our media, our entertainment, our government routinely instilling fear, creating boogeymen out of passersby.<br />
<br />
If we're honest with ourselves, the knee jerk Zimmerman felt towards the boy called Trayvon is understandable. It's a knee jerk we've all experienced.<br />
<br />
In fact, we've all encountered Trayvon in our lives. And that's not to say Trayvon has to be black, or even male. Think of Trayvon as <i>other</i>. Someone who doesn't look or sound like we do. Someone whose beliefs may be different. Someone who intimidates and is even a little scary. Someone who talks a different rap, eats a different food, wears a different hat, dances a different jig. Think of who Trayvon is to you. Someone bigger perhaps, someone of the opposite sex, someone deeper-voiced, shriller, lighter, darker, more fanatically religious, more sexually permissive, more gregarious, more pensive, more, more, more... Someone more...<br />
<br />
And to be fearful of Trayvon is human. The world is challenging at best, and being on our guard and withholding our trust is not necessarily a bad thing. I would even argue to discriminate against Trayvon in an unguarded, fleeting moment is human. We all come with tricky programming, and like the <i>Avenue Q</i> song clearly states, "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist." So, if Zimmerman had a racially profiled spasm of thought I could even let him off the hook for that...however, his actions didn't stop there.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Knee jerks are <i>not</i> reality. Knee jerks are impulses that do not necessarily need to be acted upon.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I want to kill that Asian motherfucker who just cut me off! </i><br />
<br />
Okay, racist brain fart, sure. Admit it to yourself, then move it out of the way to work on at a later moment. Next, weigh in with logic and calm to deduce whether killing the motherfucker is in anyone's best interest. (Hint...usually it isn't.)<br />
<br />
Yes, I get how George Zimmerman was überaware of the lone youth on a rainy night. But can you imagine me in New York those many years ago, and this time I'm armed? My heart was pounding, my senses on high alert, my flight or fight mechanism wound so tightly. What if when those three youths spread out making it harder for me to pass, instead of a wallet in my pocket I felt a gun?<br />
<br />
I think of my youthful ignorance. I think of how individual moments carried so much more weight. I think of my lack of judgement and my impetuousness. Could that night have ended differently?<br />
<br />
Quite possibly. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
People of color, this last bit isn't for you, although feel free to read along if you feel so inclined.<br />
<br />
White people, we have got to take the reins in repairing race relations. After all, it's our Eurocentric culture that routinely raped, murdered and enslaved those of a darker hue.<br />
<br />
So, stop whining about how we aren't allowed to use the N word, and can't plan that plantation-themed wedding we always wanted! (Paula Deen, I'm ashamed of you!) And for the love of a Hostess Twinkie, stop insisting that Cracker is in any way, shape or form pejorative...it's a snack not an epithet. Bottom line, white people, I find your <i>poor me </i>attitude embarrassing.<br />
<br />
Now, admit it, we've had a good run. But just like the only child whose mother gets pregnant, we need to move over and make room for <i>all </i>our brothers and sisters. It's true you won't be given as much attention, and your shit will probably stink a little bit more, but its what we as humans must do.<br />
<br />
And here's a tip: when you next approach someone with darker skin, try not to grimace, clutch your bag tighter, or reach for your gun. Try eye contact, with a smile and see how you are received.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
TRAYVON MARTIN</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
b. February 5, 1995</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
d. February 26, 2012<br />
<br />
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Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-60820296948682829542013-07-15T17:50:00.001-07:002013-07-17T19:40:34.173-07:00Parenting in the Extreme<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>I wrote this piece almost a year ago for an online magazine that never published the article. On Thursday night, July 18th, at 7:00 pm PST, I will be talking with Christopher and Amanda at LNR Radio about this article and being an anti-attachment parent. Click on <a href="http://lnrradio.com/parenting-in-the-extreme/" target="_blank">LNR Radio</a> for the link. And you can </i></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>share your own thoughts by calling in live 10PM EST/7PM PST (718) 766-4652 or leave us comments on Twitter (@LNRradio) or on Facebook.</i></b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's
certainly no mystery that parenting styles have changed since my
parents' generation. In their day, if the kids weren't bleeding
profusely or suffering from a fractured limb, then everything must be
peaches and cream. My parents ignored the fact that mine was the
generation of growing pot in the basement and pocketing Quaalude,
instead they released us unto the world and then turned a scotch and
soda blind eye, muttering blithely to themselves: </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">no news must be
good news.</i></b></div>
</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Now,
as if to brutally combat the previous generation's nonchalance, there
is a fresh crop of parents who are determined to micromanage their
children's every movement, every syllable, every boo boo, every fart.
These helicopter parents hover relentlessly, breastfeeding their
little ones until they're six, allowing them to sleep in the master
bed until they're eleven, and ironing their undies until they go off
to college. They clamor to get their children into <i>good schools</i>, only serve food that's organic and gluten free, refuse to
use cleaning supplies that aren't green, always insist on indoor voices, compost relentlessly, forbid television passionately, speak
to their offspring in French or Mandarin, and opt for “meaningful” kids' names
like Arrow, Echo or Alabama (all of whom were fellow students at my
daughter's preschool).</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I
have dubbed this kind of child rearing <i>extreme parenting. </i>And
like extreme snow boarding, extreme motocross, and Tea Party
politics, it's extreme<i>ness </i>is controversial yet growing in
popularity, seeping into the warp and woof of today's society,
creating a strict moral high ground where there is little room for
compromise. This kind of child rearing is polarizing; friendships
have been broken, families have been torn asunder, and the ripple
effects are felt by all. We used to say <i>it takes a village</i> to
raise a family, but now extreme parents proudly show off their war
wounds and with competitive belligerence insist, “I'm doing this all
by myself,<i> biotch</i>.”</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><b>When
I was a new parent, I jumped feet first into extreme parenting,
creating a soft, fuzzy, yet crunchy granola world in which my
children would grow and thrive; where violence, objectification,
racism and post-<i>Freaky Friday </i>Lindsay Lohan did not exist.</b></span></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">I
wanted so desperately to buy into today's prescribed parenting
pablum. For instance, I accepted the "no toy guns and no
Barbies" rule as sacrosanct, fearing that plastic firearms would
tempt my son to idolize Timothy McVeigh and boobilicious dolls
would entice my daughter to aspire towards a D cup and life in
Malibu. </span></span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">But
the more I said </span><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">no
guns</span></i><span style="background: #ffffff;">, the more Sebastian
pretended a stick, a spoon, a toy shark, anything really, was an
automatic weapon. And the firmer I was that Maxwell couldn't have a
Barbie, the more adamant she became about wearing overly revealing,
storybook-themed, cootchie couture (think commando Cinderella,
trashy Tiana, Snow-not-so-White). And not that I've given in
to kiddie vigilantism nor pre-pre-adolescent sluttery (not that vigilantism and sluttery are by any means the biggest challenges
I've had raising children), but I've come to believe that constant
smothering and blanket house rules without taking into consideration
what's best for the child (not what's best for the parent) are short
sighted and can be detrimental in the long run. </span></span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><b>It
was subtle, but my parenting approach fundamentally shifted.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that toy guns and Barbies were
not the enemy. Television, processed foods and curse
words were not the enemy. Even panty-less Lindsay Lohan was not the
enemy, as long as moderation became a significant component to
my parenting method. (Okay, perhaps moderation doesn't come into
play when it involves Lindsay Lohan's love bug.)</b></span></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="background: #ffffff;">Since
my parenting paradigm shift, extreme parents have made me feel </span><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">less
than</span></i><span style="background: #ffffff;"> for periodically
taking my kids to Mc'Donald's or PG 13 movies. I've become defensive,
trying to diffuse my lapse by lying, “It only happened that once.”
But no more. For far too long I've stood to the side,
trying not to rock the boat, nodding my head like </span></b></span></span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">an acquiescing bobble-head, feeling very much like a voiceless atheist in a room full of religious fanatics. But (if I can add to my exhausting list of metaphors) the last straw has been placed, and now, my friends, Mama needs to vent.</span></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>***</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Parenting
by fear has got to stop. It's illogical to think that by following
Junior around with a goose down pillow you will be able to soften all
the blows life has in store for him. If your child's in the next room
and he sounds a minor alarm, that does not mean he's being torn apart
by a yeti. I've seen extreme parents practically knock over furniture
to get to their mewling kid instead of holding back to see whether
the child can work through whatever is causing the distress on his or her own.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWN6ZqTSNys/UbvKykWDXdI/AAAAAAAABj0/gzXc9YAuBDc/s1600/bubblewrap+kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWN6ZqTSNys/UbvKykWDXdI/AAAAAAAABj0/gzXc9YAuBDc/s400/bubblewrap+kid.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>That's
not to say the world isn't scary and there aren't real dangers. Cars
periodically hot-rod in my neighborhood, questionable looking people
dig through my trash, and sometimes it feels as if there are pitfalls
at every turn, but it's important not to be reactionary. With a cool
head we can instill our children with confidence and give them the
tools to navigate such obstacles. “Stop at the curb. Look both
ways. Now we cross.” But if instead I clutch their hands with
terror and drag them behind me without asking them to use their own
eyes and ears then I'm not setting them up to be self reliant.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Sebastian
was three when he walked towards me, huge smile on his face, huge
butcher knife in his hand. (Go ahead, judge me, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">leaving the knife where he could get to it </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">was a tremendously
bad parenting lapse.) I could have yelled something like, “I never want you to
touch anything sharp again...ever!” But we all know
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>because
I said so</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
does not work. Curious minds will want to reinvestigate what was
denied them. I</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">nstead,
I calmly took Bash to the kitchen, put the butcher knife away and
took out a small, dull paring knife. I showed him how to hold it
safely and even let him lightly put his finger against the blade, so he could experience for himself why it was dangerous. The mystery being
lifted, he hasn't gone back to the butcher knife since.</span></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I'd
much rather my kids experience the blade, the hot stove, the
electrical socket, the barking dog, in my presence, learn to approach
these hazards with extreme caution, and then afterwards with a
composed demeanor and supportive voice apply the rule: <i>Do not
touch a knife outside of an adult's presence.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not
that I agree with my parents' hand off approach – no child should
ever be allowed to swim alone in a pool – however by permitting me
my scrapes and bang-ups, they gave me one of the best gifts a parent
can offer: <i>autonomy</i>. </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Last year when Sebastian was nine, he finally showed an interest in his bicycle. We
live on a cul-de-sac and I decided it was time he be granted a
little autonomy and allowed him to ride his bike on our street
unsupervised.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>A
few months ago, as Sebastian was parking his bike in the garage,
my neighbor approached and told me what an unsound idea it was to
leave my son unattended. He began to paint a picture of the unsavory
element in Los Angeles, how <i>they</i> are out there<i> </i>and we
all need to be on our guard. My son then attempted to tell my
neighbor how he would never talk to strangers, making me quite proud.
However, my neighbor cut Sebastian off, "But you are small, and
you are very cute, and someone who is bigger than you could easily
take you and throw you in his van."</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i>What
kind of motherfucking, paranoiac, backwoods parenting is that?</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
Of course Sebastian needs to be aware of what's going on in the
neighborhood, but I don't want him to be terrified walking out his front door.</span></b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>My husband, Michael,
was raised in a family that still bows down to the gods of fear.
<i>Don't go down into the basement, it's scary. Don't walk under that
tree, bugs will fall into your hair. Don't let your kids eat too many
bananas, they will get constipated and die.</i> Michael has worked
very hard to dismiss his family's homespun notions, and it's been a
goal of his to keep from offloading his personal fears (of which
there are quite a few) onto our children. It hasn't always been easy and
there have been some heated debates (he's still not convinced about
Sebastian biking alone, for instance), however he's constantly
evolving and for that I give him his props.</b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Michael told me there's
one significant moment that's allowed him to let go. A
couple years ago, our family went camping with other families with kids. Some of the older boys wanted to ride their bikes back and forth from our
cabin to the entrance of the campgrounds, a distance of about a mile.
Sebastian didn't bring his bike but really wanted to go with the
boys, riding on the back of one of their bikes. Michael's knee-jerk was to say <i>no</i>, but instead he he fought that instinct and instead laid down some ground rules. To this day, my husband holds on to the
image of our little boy on the back of a bike, arms around his friend's waist, disappearing down the hill. This snapshot is one of growth
for the entire family and helps Michael to make continued informed decisions.</b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>***</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Extreme
parenting also comes in the form of overindulgence. I've seen parents
bend over backwards to meet Junior's every demand. Diaper bags are
over packed with goodies of all types, multiple changes of clothes,
favorite toy and favorite back-up toy, binkies, security blankets,
and sippy cups (come on, your kid is five!!). My question: who is
this meant to pacify? The child or the parent? </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Neither
of my children took to the pacifier, so we decided to do without. It
was quite an education to see other parents squirm at the notion and
try to hint that we needed to reevaluate this decision. The binkie
clearly comforted these other parents more than it did my kids.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Repeat
after me... </span></span><span style="color: black;"><i>It's
okay if children don't always get their way</i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Doing without teaches patience, tolerance and self soothing.</span></span></b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On
the other side of the overindulgence spectrum there are parents who
don't let their children lift a finger...ever. My kids buckle their
own seat belts, make their own beds, feed the dogs, and help to set
and clear the table, so I'm flabbergasted when an elementary
school-aged child enters my house and doesn't know how to pour a bowl
of Cap'n Crunch (yes, bitches, I said Cap'n Crunch). </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Just
last week, a very good friend, who recently had carpal tunnel
surgery, was about to cut her eleven-year-old son's pork chop. She
could barely hold the knife and tears were beginning to form. I had
to intervene. I took the knife from my friend, handed it to the kid
and said, "You're almost as tall as I am, cut your own ding dang meat."</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I
understand wanting to do for your child. It can even be a time
saver...</span></span><span style="color: black;"><i>oh,
here, let me do that, </i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">b</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;">ut
at some point (it's scary, I know) our children will have to do
without us. Parents need to decide whether they will enable
dependence, or promote independence.</span></span></b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>***</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>And,
of course, I can't mention extreme parenting without bringing up,
arguably, the most controversial of parenting styles, attachment
parenting. Attachment parenting, to my layman understanding, is a
philosophy coined by Dr. William Sears (Dr. Bill for those in the
know) in which constant physical connection to the infant will
strengthen its overall development, and it usually includes family
bed, baby wearing, home schooling, anti-circumcision and lots and lots
of breastfeeding.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last year, attachment
parenting was brought back into the public eye because of Time
Magazine's eye popping cover, in which a young mother
casually yet defiantly holds her three-going-on-twelve-year-old son
as he stands on a chair, sucking at her breast. </span></span>
</b><br />
<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ld0BLw3tUzQ/Ubu9VHx7D-I/AAAAAAAABjI/qkVuKn3Cqrg/s1600/time-magazine+breastfeeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ld0BLw3tUzQ/Ubu9VHx7D-I/AAAAAAAABjI/qkVuKn3Cqrg/s400/time-magazine+breastfeeding.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>My
problem wasn't with the magazine showing a little nip, nor the nipper
sipping at the nip (although, I have many female friends who
viscerally hate that image and wish they could scrub it from their
brain with Borax). No, my problem is the picture's headline, “Are
you Mom enough?” It's inference is divisive. It pits mom against
mom – the uber moms who wear Junior as a watch fob versus the rest
of us hacks.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I
have seen attachment parents of school-aged children who didn't get
the memo that at a certain point it's healthy for their kids to
<i>detach. </i>(You know this applies to you if your five or
six-year-old has a difficult time separating from mom's breast,
“Night night, Tata.”) These are the parents who salivate when I
tell them my children not only sleep in their <i>own</i> beds, in
their <i>own</i> rooms, but they rarely wake up and are asleep
minutes after their heads hit their pillows. With noticeable envy they ask me
how I managed such a miracle, and I tell them, “I closed the door
and walked away.”</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
know an attachment couple who had three boys within a six year
period. There was constantly a little one, or a couple of little
ones, in their bed. The mom confided that she felt sorry that her
husband had been neglected for so many years. But, she whispered
conspiratorially, she was finally ready to make it up to him. She was
planning a romantic getaway for her and her husband...for ONLY ONE
NIGHT. One night in six years...where is the balance in
that? </span></span>
</b><br />
<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qozKYm8cOFk/UbvL25C-pTI/AAAAAAAABkA/zyQD-NB7gPE/s1600/Breastfeeding-Forbes-cartoon-stand2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qozKYm8cOFk/UbvL25C-pTI/AAAAAAAABkA/zyQD-NB7gPE/s400/Breastfeeding-Forbes-cartoon-stand2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I
went to Dr. Bill's website, <i>Ask Dr. Sears</i>, and although I
couldn't find a definition to attachment parenting that satisfied me,
I did surprisingly find the following:</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><b>“<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Attachment
parenting is a question of balance –not being indulgent or
permissive, yet being attentive... In fact, being possessive, or a
"smother mother" (or father) is unfair to the child,
fosters an inappropriate dependency on the parent, and hinders your
child from becoming normally independent. For example, you don't need
to respond to the cries of a seven-month-old baby as quickly as you
would a seven-day-old baby.”</i></span></b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Well
if that's the case, then I'm not anti-attachment parent, but rather
anti-extreme parent who misplaced the attachment cut off valve.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A
level-headed attachment parent friend of mine frames the philosophy
like this, “You have to put your oxygen mask on first, before you
put on your kids'.” And on this point I agree. Parents (attachment
or not) need to be mentally and physically healthy before tackling
the needs of their children. They need to fulfill their own goals
that have nothing to do with Junior or Junioretta, and not to sound
like a Geritol commercial but parents should eat balanced meals, take
their vitamins, work out regularly, and they must, must, must make
the beast with two backs more than one night every six years! </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I'm
telling you, close the door and walk away.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>***</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last
year was challenging. Sebastian started a new school and with it ADHD
meds. When the meds didn't prove to be effective he was taken off
them and started a gluten free diet. When still there was no
improvement I nixed the diet and Bash started group therapy. And
although I could celebrate in Sebastian's highs, last year my
smorgasbord parenting style left me feeling uncertain, and I spent
more time commiserating about his lows. </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>At
one point a social worker tried to offer me an affirmation, “You know what's best for your son.” And I was struck with
the naked reality that that is not true whatsoever. I have certain
ideas based on how I was raised coupled with effective parenting
techniques that I've seen work, but really, at the end of the day,
I'm like parents everywhere collecting information and making a go of
it...getting to gymnastics on time and making sure the homework gets
done, while tossing food scraps at them in between.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>You'd
think this common bond would strengthen parents as a support team for
each other, but sadly, with partisan parenting on the rise I'm afraid
that is just not so.</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Recently,
I was in the park with Maxwell, another mom, and her kids. While we
were there, an unauthorized vendor rolled in his food cart
incongruously selling snow cones and corn on the cob. Max started to
bug me for a snow cone almost immediately. If I was there alone, I
would have said yes without question, but because I previously saw
the other mom provide organic, cardboard-tasting treats to her kids I
was pretty sure she was an extreme parent who would throw me some
snarky shade if I purchased a snow cone of questionable origin. So, I
tried to keep Maxwell's desire at bay. But after three rounds of
<i>please, Papa, please!!!</i> I finally acquiesced and gave my
daughter a dollar. </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maxwell
was charming and shared the snow cone with four or five little girls,
and when the mom found out her daughter was one of those who partook
of the artificially flavored, artificially colored, icy ball of sin
she let loose with extreme parent bitchiness and superiority, “Well,
I guess one bite isn't going to kill her.” </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But
rather than get all worked up and wimpishly apologize, I forcefully
refused to allow myself to get defensive. Gone was the inclination to
back-pedal and over-explain. I felt not only free but oddly
vindicated by allowing my wonderfully deserving daughter a bubble gum
flavored icy treat from the corn vendor. </span></span>
</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>And
as I reveled in my newly found freedom, the incident was then made
more perplexing when Dependent Daughter went up to Extreme Mom and
begged for a snow cone of her own, to which Mom replied, “You don't
want to eat <i>that.</i> Let's go to Baskin Robbins instead.”</b></span></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>And
that, for me, sums up today's parenting. Choices are made: some of
them informed, some of them in-the-moment and arbitrary, yet all in
the guise of <i>what's best for our kids</i>. But instead of being
snide and divisive about our different tactics, I got an idea... Why
don't we head on over to Baskin Robbins, order a double scoop of
Pralines 'n Cream, and find some common ground. I'll even splurge for the whipped cream.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-53857877356871714702013-05-01T11:27:00.000-07:002013-05-01T11:27:56.850-07:00American Girl, Take My Checkbook Please<br />
Perhaps you'll say I drank the Kool-Aid, and quite possibly you would be well within your rights to do so. And I'm sure if you are child free, or only have boy cubs, on the outside looking in, you'd probably jeer, "If I had a girl I would <i>never</i> succumb. What losers." But I'm telling you, when you happen upon that impressive storefront this unimaginable tide washes over you, and you can't think of anything else that would make your little girl (or fem boy) happy. And this has nothing to do with peer pressure. It's not like all of Maxwell's friends taunted her with <i>we got ours, when are you going to get yours?</i> No, this sickness belongs to the parents. And it's insidious, and pernicious, and very, very <i>real.</i> The Kool-Aid from which I have sipped is American Girl.<br />
<br />
And I'm not the only flabbergasted parent with a drained Dixie cup in my hand and a Black Cherry moustache on my face. No, this last holiday season, many family members and close friends with five to eight year old girls in silent unison partook of the Kool-Aid, all secretly thrilled and yet very much ashamed.<br />
<br />
You have to understand, Michael and I were initially part of that coterie of parents who scoffed, <i>One hundred and ten dollars for one doll! Does she come with her own espresso machine? They are out of their fucking minds! </i><br />
<br />
My change of heart started with a call to my sister. I was at a loss as to what to get my nieces for Christmas, and needed guidance. Sara, was almost apologetic when she told me they wanted American Girl dogs, Coconut and Honey, to go with the American Girl dolls my nieces would be getting from Santa.<br />
<br />
Perfect, I thought, I'll just hop on over to the Grove which has an American Girl store. This unfortunately brought to mind the last time my family walked through its doors...<br />
<br />
<i>[Dissolve to blurry wavy lines indicating a past memory...]</i><br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, when our kids were newly out of that horrible run-away toddler stage and Michael and I were enjoying the untold bliss of being stroller-free, we happened upon American Girl's front door. We were wary of the exorbitant prices within its walls, and had heard the rumor of the eager-to-please parents who had to secure a second mortgage to support their daughter's American Girl habit. It had been explained to me that American Girl didn't just sell dolls, it sold a lifestyle complete with its own restaurant, dolly hospital, fashion boutique, beauty salon and spa...<br />
<i><br /></i><i>"Add this special treat to any Doll Hair Salon visit for just $12. Our stylists will give her doll a thorough facial scrub to get her clean. And to keep her feeling relaxed, we'll send her home with a pampering set featuring cucumber stickers for her eyes, nail decals, flip-flops, a salon cape, and a faux face mask. Plus, girls get a "Doll Skin Care" sheet for home care." </i><br />
<br />
I mean, who in their right mind buys into this shit?<br />
<br />
It certainly wasn't my daughter, who at four was much more into stuffed doggies in purses than dolls. But standing in front of that edifice there was this inexplicable pull offering...possibility. And I'm pretty sure every time an enthusiastic customer exited the store, with an oversized crisp shopping bag, I heard within the swish of its doors in Stephen King italics, <i>Come in! What could it hurt? This is where Maxwell will get her first dolly, and you will find salvation!</i><br />
<br />
And just like one of King's misguided characters who blindly follow the incredibly bad advise of Christine, Cujo, or the cavernous hallways of the Overlook Hotel, we set foot into <i>the store</i>. At first, we were dazzled with the wonder of it all, but then we had a difficult time finding a doll with my daughter's coloring, so we pulled aside a lovely saleswoman (and at American Girl they're all lovely saleswomen) and asked where the black dolls were. At first she looked as if we posed a trick question. Then her initial confusion transformed into giddy understanding, "You must mean Slave Girl Addy. She's upstairs."<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AXMSTM8Y_4/UR0fQtZFmeI/AAAAAAAABfQ/w28B4vinaeM/s1600/American+Girl+Addie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9AXMSTM8Y_4/UR0fQtZFmeI/AAAAAAAABfQ/w28B4vinaeM/s1600/American+Girl+Addie.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
And there was this moment where it felt as if every person in the store took in a collective breath and waited for Michael's reaction. It was slow to come at first. He didn't want to believe what he had heard, but then...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Slave Girl Addy? Slave girl... SLAVE!!</i><br />
<br />
There was no way in this world or the next that my chocolate husband was going to give our mocha daughter an un-emancipated doll. We grabbed the kids' hands making them wince and turned to leave the sleek, intoxicating store, but the American Girl at the Grove has a floor plan that makes it impossible to turn in a huff and stomp out. No, you have to wend your way through the goods on the first floor, go up an escalator, wend through the second floor, go down an escalator until you're finally allowed to leave. <i>Have a mutherfuckin' nice day!</i><br />
<br />
Michael huffed and puffed the entire way to the exit, talking not exactly under his breath, to anyone who met his eye, "Slave girl my ass. All these dolls in all these colors. Look they have a Pacific Islander section. <i>They have a goddamned Inuit doll! </i>But the only doll that has my skin tone, has to bow down to <i>Masser! </i>And to make sure she don't get uppity they lock her up on the second floor. One hundred and ten dollars my ass!"<br />
<br />
<i>[Dissolve to blurry wavy lines indicating the memory has concluded.]</i><br />
<br />
I relived this experience as I made my way back to the Grove. I intended to show disinterest, to locate Honey and Coconut, buy my purchases and be on my way. But I was immediately suckered in. They had changed their layout since the Slave Girl Addy debacle. Now, one can pick any skin tone, any eye color, any hair texture, so that your doll resembles your kid. <i>Jim Jones Kool-Aid, I'm telling you.</i><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2SRxw8pUokQ/UR0gY9GQ90I/AAAAAAAABfg/Yt_7OiThbZY/s1600/American+Girl+Dolls+Race.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2SRxw8pUokQ/UR0gY9GQ90I/AAAAAAAABfg/Yt_7OiThbZY/s1600/American+Girl+Dolls+Race.png" /></a></div>
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Almost unconsciously I began to build my daughter's twin. I found the skin tone and the eye color but none of the hair choices were like my daughter's. Sure there was one doll with ebony sausage-curls looking very much like a black Shirley Temple (not to be confused with Shirley Temple Black), and another doll like the one in the upper left who appears to have purchased her hair from Eva Gabor Wigs. Seriously, I can't look at that doll without vintage Tina Turner, circa the <i>Proud Mary</i> years, coming to mind.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lzqNs9BCq5o/UR0ssz8j1EI/AAAAAAAABgM/NYCHUypqOog/s1600/Vintage+Tina+Turner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lzqNs9BCq5o/UR0ssz8j1EI/AAAAAAAABgM/NYCHUypqOog/s320/Vintage+Tina+Turner.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
(Yes, white people, Tina wore a wig. It's time to wake up.)<br />
<br />
But nowhere was the kinky, the nappy, nor the fro. This kicked off a whole inner monolog. I began to wonder if simulating true black hair was harder to manufacture than straight white hair. And even if it was, wasn't it important for American Girl to understand the social impact of neglecting the kink?<br />
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***</div>
<br />
Let me introduce to you Cécile Rey.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p8IRJBr2kEY/UR0iQN2O4mI/AAAAAAAABfo/D2VMMwhE2GE/s1600/American+Girl+Cecile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p8IRJBr2kEY/UR0iQN2O4mI/AAAAAAAABfo/D2VMMwhE2GE/s320/American+Girl+Cecile.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
My first impression of Cécile was that she looked like a New Orleans hooker, which to my mind was steps above Slave Doll Addy. Sure, she has Shirley Temple sausage curls and Shirley MacLaine china blue eyes (<i>really American Girl, blue?!?</i>), but she was Shirley Bassey complected, wore a saloon dress, and came with her own story book, what's not to love? I snapped a pic with my iPhone and zipped it to Michael to get his thoughts. Knowing his fondness for ladies of the night it didn't surprise me that he loved Cécile even more than I did!<br />
<br />
On Christmas morning Cécile was met with mixed reviews. Maxwell liked her enough, but when her cousins showed Max their lookalike dolls in modern drag she began to hate Cécile, "She doesn't have my hair!"<br />
<br />
<i>Take note American Girl, you need to rethink the kink!</i><br />
<br />
It took time and distance, but finally Cécile is a favorite. We've been reading the book, which is a parlor room drama. Turns out Cécile isn't a hooker after all, but a girl from a well-to-do family who feeds pecans to her parrot Cochon...that you can buy for $38.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XLA4rRYn15Q/UR0k3-FWJ_I/AAAAAAAABf4/8fEytFdWftU/s1600/American+Girl+Cochon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XLA4rRYn15Q/UR0k3-FWJ_I/AAAAAAAABf4/8fEytFdWftU/s400/American+Girl+Cochon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A friend of ours who watches the kids from time to time had access to used American Girl clothes from one of her other gigs. But I had my misgivings...were they meant to be worn by Cécile or were they from some <i>other</i> doll...my aversion to hand-me-downs shrieks loudly here. But before I could find out the answer Lala had given Maxwell the doll clothes, and here's the result...</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qg-63iNXKRs/UWhSGpZj5TI/AAAAAAAABgg/qbR4PKYjjZo/s1600/cecile+hoodie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qg-63iNXKRs/UWhSGpZj5TI/AAAAAAAABgg/qbR4PKYjjZo/s400/cecile+hoodie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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I know, I can almost hear you saying, "Cécile, where'd you get that Member's Only jacket and those embroidered jeans? Slap on a pair of rollerskates and I'd swear you was Tootie from the first season of <i>Facts of Life</i>."</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hu_snMKHdSA/UWhWJZGJ51I/AAAAAAAABgw/oNTfMMTtVH8/s1600/tootie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hu_snMKHdSA/UWhWJZGJ51I/AAAAAAAABgw/oNTfMMTtVH8/s1600/tootie.jpg" /></a></div>
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Or if that wasn't your first thought, it was probably, "Cécile, you look ragged, girl. You need to get your hair did!" Which, of course, American Girl will do for a nominal fee of $20.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRNqB9ZwQEY/UWhg52k8QqI/AAAAAAAABhI/nDHXWb-1jU0/s1600/photo3_salon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRNqB9ZwQEY/UWhg52k8QqI/AAAAAAAABhI/nDHXWb-1jU0/s1600/photo3_salon.jpg" /></a></div>
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***</div>
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Maxwell is known for waking from her peaceful slumber and immediately bulldozing into whatever topic is important to her in that moment. </div>
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<i>Do you know that an alicorn is a unicorn with wings? </i>(Invaluable information for parents with little ones entering the <i>My Little Pony</i> phase.)</div>
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<i>Geckos wash their own eyes by licking them clean. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Now, that I found my sleeping bag I'm ready for camp, and I think at camp I'll wear my jean shorts with my Hello Kitty T-shirt. Won't that look good, Papa?</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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But this morning Maxwell's morning pronouncement was, <i>Late last night, Cécile told me she wants a Halloween costume, but not just any costume, she wants to be a fairy princess.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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After dropping my daughter off at school, for shits and giggles, I went online to see if American Girl actually makes a fairy princess costume for Cécile. Of course, I was silly to doubt, she is from New Orleans after all. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9GvJqLlL3l8/UWhXaIMFCdI/AAAAAAAABg4/w9LJxXV2KgI/s1600/cecile+fairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9GvJqLlL3l8/UWhXaIMFCdI/AAAAAAAABg4/w9LJxXV2KgI/s320/cecile+fairy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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At first look this costume cost $28. Pricy but doable. I'll just drop the expensive coffee for a month. Then I looked closer and found out that the mask, gloves and wings were $20 extra. Okay, I thought, $48. I need to diet anyway, I just won't eat for the rest of the month. But when I saw that this price didn't include crinoline nor chemise...</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUafdaU9_uU/UWhXduHkReI/AAAAAAAABhE/LtcAlUr9s0I/s1600/cecile+crinoline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUafdaU9_uU/UWhXduHkReI/AAAAAAAABhE/LtcAlUr9s0I/s320/cecile+crinoline.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This goddamned costume all told costs $72...plus tax! </div>
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As you can see, she's a pricy biotch. And there's plenty more Kool-Aid where that came from.</div>
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Shut up and open your checkbook.</div>
Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-41798219962317034292013-02-11T10:35:00.000-08:002013-02-11T10:35:16.089-08:00Downton ParentingA scene played out between Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton on <i>Downton Abbey</i> last night, and the subject, <i>parenting</i>.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dtKycPfLZzI/URk3cV5gmiI/AAAAAAAABek/YRfkKzluziE/s1600/Violet+and+Isobel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dtKycPfLZzI/URk3cV5gmiI/AAAAAAAABek/YRfkKzluziE/s400/Violet+and+Isobel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
For those of you entirely out of the know, Smith (right) plays the Dowager Countess, a woman who doesn't mince words and sounds and acts as if she just walked off the stage of an Oscar Wilde play. Wilton's Cousin Isobel is less well-to-do, but equally steadfast in her beliefs. These two hens cluck and spar with each other every chance they get.<br />
<br />
DOWAGER COUNTESS: One forgets about parenthood. The on-and-on-ness of it.<br />
<br />
COUSIN ISOBEL: Were you a very involved mother with Robert and Rosamund?<br />
<br />
DOWAGER COUNTESS: Does it surprise you?<br />
<br />
COUSIN ISOBEL: A bit. I'd imagined them surrounded by nannies and governesses being starched and ironed to spend an hour with you after tea.<br />
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DOWAGER COUNTESS: Yes, but it was an hour every day.<br />
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COUSIN ISOBEL: I see, yes. How tiring.<br />
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Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-15795616868263160012013-02-08T10:12:00.000-08:002013-02-08T10:12:22.783-08:00Is That a Unicorn on Your Head or Are You Just Happy to See Me? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>No Christmas after December 25th.</i></div>
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Isn't that the unspoken rule?</div>
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And anyone who doesn't throw away the tree, take down the lights, pack away the inflatable Frosty lawn decor should get fined lots and lots of money. I don't want to see any lingering holly or mistletoe, taste eggnog-flavored cappuccino, smell any roasted chestnuts or god awful peppermint scented candles, or watch the <i>Laverne and Shirley</i> rerun "Christmas Eve at the Booby Hatch<i>" </i>outside the month of December.<i> </i>What is with people who cover their house with Christmas lights, run up electric bill, deepen their carbon footprint and yet refuse to take them down in a timely manner? Or as my cousin-in-law, Greg, so eloquently put it, "Get your Flocking Xmas tree out of the house, it's February already." </div>
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Three weeks ago, Sebastian had his regularly scheduled physical. He goes to Children's Hospital here in Los Angeles. And in this bastion of wellness there is, quite incongruously, a McDonald's on the ground floor for all of us parents to painfully negotiate every single time we have a doctor's appointment. There motto should be: <i>Go to Children's Hospital to maintain health, leave with a Quarter Pounder</i>. </div>
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Sebastian gave me the pathetic look. "Please can I get a Happy Meal?" And before I could even think <i>no</i> he adds, "I never get what I want." </div>
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<i>Yeah, that's right kid. Your dad and I just shelled out a couple grand to give you a kick ass Christmas, but of course I can't throw that in your face because you think Santa and a gaggle of elves made that Kindle Fire especially for you!</i></div>
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Of course, I acquiesced to the Golden Arches, pleased as punch that my jockey-sized son is passionate about eating <i>anything</i>. I go in and order him his standard: a Happy Meal for a boy, chocolate milk, cheeseburger with cheese and ketchup <i>only</i>. You have to include the "with cheese" in the cheeseburger order, otherwise you will end up with the following inane conversation...</div>
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CUSTOMER: My son would like a plain cheeseburger with ketchup.</div>
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MICKEY D'S EMPLOYEE: Would you like cheese on that?</div>
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(Which seems like trick question or the beginning of a Becket play.)</div>
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CUSTOMER: Yes. That's why I said I wanted a <i>cheese</i>burger.</div>
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MICKEY D'S EMPLOYEE: Well some people order a plain cheeseburger and don't want cheese on it.</div>
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<i>I want to know who the fuck those people are. They go on my shit list along with those who think fruitcake can be served year round!</i></div>
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This conversation actually took place years ago <i>at two different McDonald's!!</i>, and at that time all I wanted to do was jump across the counter and choke the breath out of Becky or Jose or Quanisha or whoever my McDonald's server was at the time. But I have been worn down. These days I play right into their silliness and order "a plain cheeseburger with cheese" to insure that pasteurized mold is indeed part of my son's meal. But I digress...</div>
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Back at Children's Hospital, after ordering this particular plain cheeseburger with cheese (how many have their been?), I took a step back from the counter clutching a little paper number in my hand and it dawns on me that the peppy tune I'd been mindlessly humming is actually playing on their sound system...it's <i>The Twelve Days of Christmas </i>almost two weeks after New Years.</div>
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<i>What the fuck?</i></div>
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And just as the final strains of <i>"...and a partridge in a pear tree"</i> were fading away, then started up <i>"God rest ye merry gentlemen...". </i>Which was followed by <i>Hark are the Bells</i>, <i>Santa Claus is Coming to Town, </i>and that maudlin drummer boy. IT WAS McDONALD'S CHRISTMAS MIX...IN JANUARY!</div>
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That's it. Any and all aseasonal propaganda should be punishable by death. Like Voldemort, Christmas at this time of year is the holiday that should not be named. Never. Ever. Under any circumstances. Finale. Kaput...</div>
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...That's why it pains me to the core, with Valentine's Day around the corner, to have to share with you my yuletide mishap.</div>
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Maxwell is part of the school chorus, and starting in October she and her buddies rehearsed for the Christmas show. One of the requests from the music teacher was that each kid should wear a woolly sweater and a Santa hat. </div>
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The sweater was easy, but I couldn't find the Santa hat I knew was somewhere in our house, and I really didn't want to buy a new one. Besides I saw an expensive Christmas ahead, Kindle Fires and American Girl dolls don't come cheap, so I cut corners anywhere I could, even if that corner was only $4.79. </div>
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Besides, I couldn't imagine every parent would follow the costume directions. Certainly there must be those who are as lazy, as clueless and as cheap as I am.<br />
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The day of the show, Maxwell insisted on bringing her unicorn hat instead of showing up empty headed. I let her do so figuring that the powers that be would take one look at the knitted phallus and refuse to let her to wear it.<br />
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Well, wasn't I wrong. There she is in the center of it all, Santa hat-less, with what looks like an aroused walrus atop her head.<br />
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Next time I'll spring for the Santa hat.</div>
Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-75207648571878988902013-01-23T12:28:00.000-08:002013-01-23T12:28:27.407-08:00Jodie Foster is My Twin SisterIt's a little known fact that Jodie Foster is my twin sister.<br />
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<i>Get out of town </i>I can practically hear you say. But it's true. The Academy Award winning, husky-voiced actress of such seminal works as <i>Foxes </i>and <i>Freaky Friday </i>(the original)<i> </i>and your very own Mommy with a Penis are sibs.<br />
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This out-of-left-field revelation might not be too hard to swallow considering Little Sis's (I'm older by fourteen minutes) penchant for privacy. But with her unusual and perhaps inappropriate coming out at the Golden Globes, I thought I'd shed some light onto this lesser known fact and come out a little myself.<br />
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I can understand if there are nonbelievers out there, so I submit to you the facts: most obviously we have the same last name, we are exactly the same age (which she blurted over and over at the beginning of her Golden Globe speech, thanks a lot Jode), we are both children of California, and we both prefer to cavort with our own gender. And if that doesn't satisfy you, take a gander at this...<br />
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This was taken when we were eleven or twelve. The same baby blues, the same freckles, the same exuberant smile with wonky teeth, the same hair swoop, the same inexplicable love of plaid! Case closed. Twins!<br />
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Jodie's name has become synonymous with hard work, gritty determination and off-the-charts intelligence. And truth be told, she does have a higher IQ than I do. One Easter, when we were five, we got two live ducklings in our Easter baskets. They were soft and fuzzy, and I wanted to name her duckling Jack and my duckling Jill. But Jodie being the brainiac that she's always been would have none of that. She insisted on Abelard and Heloise, and she wanted us to speak to them <i>seulement en français</i>. Now Jodie was a tough little girl who intimidated the fuck out of me so, of course, she won out. But after a couple of weeks, I gathered up my nerve and when I thought Jodie wasn't looking, I rebelled and cooed to Heloise in English, calling her Jill. Shortly after that, Jill/Heloise mysteriously disappeared.<br />
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In 1977, I was forced to go to a boarding school in the Monterey Peninsula (Jodie was shooting a movie in France and the family felt they had to put me somewhere for safe keeping). My best buddy at the school was a stout lad named Fred. And for kicks Fred and I would beg for money from unsuspecting shoppers at the Del Monte Center. We quickly found out we'd make more money if we created scenarios, like we needed bus fare to go to the hospital because I forgot to take my<i> [fill in disease here]</i> medication. After an evening of begging, we'd usually have enough to treat ourselves to chocolate covered cherries from See's Candy or an Orange Julius that we'd split. But at some point we realized that our wildly spun fictions were made more lucrative when incorporating the truth, "I need cab fare to get my medication which is being held by my twin sister, Jodie Foster." That would score us enough to buy the See's candy, two Orange Juliuses <i>and</i> a medium combination pizza at Round Table with a side salad.<br />
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On the Golden Globe Awards, Jodie was given the Cecil B. DeMille Award. Much has been said about her speech, but being her brother I think I have a unique perspective. Firstly, her coming out made me incredibly proud. Jodie may not have succinctly stated, "I'm a big lez pot," but I find it ridiculous that there are those who are criticizing her for being <i>oblique</i>. On prime time national television, in a time slot that was heard around the world, she unmistakably spoke her homosexual truth...and her single status reality. <br />
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Some people condemned that the speech rambled, but I have to disagree. Those words were strategically chosen. They were placed under a microscope, carefully examined from every angle, welded and pounded, not a thought, not a beat, not a syllable out of place, until they held up like an exquisite piece of chain mail. She said what she had to say in exactly the manner she intended, throwing down the gauntlet, daring anyone, <i>anyone</i>, to speak out against her, all the while clad an Armani gown that (purposely?) resembled body armor.<br />
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I just wish she incorporated a dollop of humility. Where was the "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the..." or the "I am humbled to have been bestowed such an..."? Because let's face it, she lucked into this profession. Now, I'm not being cruel. Any actor who's "made it" has a four-leafed clover hidden away somewhere. More than looks, or talent, or hard work, there's a right place at the right time aspect to this business, and to acknowledge that, to wink to the actors who are as good looking, as talented, and as hard working but have to accept jobs as caterers, mechanics and pet psychics to get by would have been welcome.<br />
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And lastly, I have to admit that I am bent out of shape she didn't mention me. A missing duckling does a lot to damage trust and our relationship never fully recovered after that event, but we are blood after all.<br />
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So, Jodie got her DeMille, yippee for her, and my family got the cover of a national magazine. (Mine was in my mailbox last Monday!) I know, I've mentioned this before, but it's finally on a newsstand near you. You can find it at the <a href="http://naturalchildworld.com/" target="_blank">Natural Child World</a> website, Barnes and Noble, or if you're lucky my son's doctor's office.<br />
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<i>As time goes on, I will play characters who get older: I don't want to be some Botoxed weirdo.</i></div>
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<i> -Jodie Foster</i></div>
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Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-84020673184521139872012-12-20T10:21:00.001-08:002012-12-20T10:29:19.159-08:00SAG Nominating Committee; Yea or Nay?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have never written about movie awards before but something magical happened to me this year that prompted me to change all that. For the first time in all the years I've been an active member of the Screen Actors Guild I was randomly chosen to be part of the elite SAG Nominating Committee for film. </div>
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What this means is that I got to watch a shitload of this season's films and then voted for who, in my estimation, should be nominated for the SAG Award in the following categories: best lead male and lead female, best supporting male and supporting female, best performance by a cast, and best stunt ensemble (go figure).</div>
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It's an interesting film season, in that there isn't a decisive front runner in any category. Remember a few years back when Helen Mirren graced the silver screen in <i>The Queen</i>? She received endless accolades, sashayed down many a red carpet, and, according to <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000545/awards" target="_blank">IMDb</a>, snatched up no less than 29 statuettes, plaques, ribbons and bangles portraying the stalwart, corgi-loving QE2. </div>
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This year is different, however. There doesn't seem to be a clear cut favorite. Let's look at the Best Actress category: The LA Film Critics lauded the work of Jennifer Lawrence for <i>Silver Linings Playbook</i> and Emmanuelle Riva for <i>Amour</i>, the NY Film Critics Circle preferred Rachel Weisz for <i>Deep Blue Sea</i>, the National Board of Review opted for Jessica Chastain for <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i>, the DC Film Critics went gaga over Quvenzhané Wallis (gotta love a girl with a Q, V, Z, and an accent in her name) for <i>Beasts of the Southern Wild</i>, and the Hollywood Film Festival selected Marion Cotillard for <i>Rust and Bone</i>. It's a celluloid free for all and this made my job all the more tantalizing.<br />
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On top of which, 2012 was a significant year to be participating because, Mayan apocalypse aside, this is the year when two of our acting unions, SAG and AFTRA, joined, creating the spanking new, yet not necessarily clever sounding, SAG-AFTRA. </div>
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(I find it rather unfortunate that SAG-AFTRA's anagram is <i>a gas fart</i> or perhaps worse <i>a fag tsar</i>.)<br />
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I excitedly awaited each movie that ended up unceremoniously crammed into my mailbox. Opening a SAG Nominating Committee envelope felt like Christmas. "Goody. What do I get to see today?" Not all the films sent to me were the foshizzle. For every <i>Lincoln</i>, or even <i>Skyfall</i> there were two loosely crafted, over-acted, under-scripted sacks of shit I had to suffer through. (Is it Woody Allen's intention to film a movie in every major European city, and get progressively worse while doing so?)<br />
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It soon became clear to me that Daniel Day-Lewis and Anne Hathaway will fare well whether I vote for them or not. So instead, I decided to stand up for the lesser-knowns... <i>It's entirely possible that because of me the world will fall in love with Ann Dowd or Matthias Schoenaerts.</i><i> </i>Let's face facts, the SAG Awards are a precursor to the Valhalla of the awards season, the Oscar, and it became my mission to promote new, noteworthy talent over those already in the club with crackerjack publicists, so that they (the lesser-knowns) may join the ranks.</div>
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Now, I'm not naive. I'm aware that every person nominated cannot be an unknown from a low budget film. After all, these are American film awards, and what's more American than our beloved name brands. (The only explanation I ever came up with as to why we elected a second George Bush to the White House.)<br />
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By my count there were eight almost-definitive, name brand nominations to expect this season: Daniel Day-Lewis, John Hawkes, Jessica Chastain, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert De Niro, Tommy Lee Jones, Anne Hathaway, and Sally Field. It should be noted that all of these luminaries have scored previous SAG as well as Academy Award nominations, four of them winning seven Oscars between them.</div>
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But even if these eight actors are shoe-ins, that still gave me twelve acting slots to help fill with lesser-knowns. </div>
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For two weeks I dedicated myself to watching movies. I took mental notes, marked up my voters manual, and finally on December 9th proudly cast my votes. I couldn't wait to see how my small contribution might influence the outcome.<br />
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And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to present the Screen Actors Guild Award nominations for 2013:</div>
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<u>LEADING MALE</u></div>
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Bradley Cooper - <i>Silver Linings Playbook </i></div>
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Daniel Day-Lewis - <i>Lincoln </i></div>
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John Hawkes - <i>The Sessions </i></div>
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Hugh Jackman - <i>Les Mis</i>é<i>rables </i></div>
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Denzel Washington - <i>Flight </i></div>
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<u>LEADING FEMALE</u></div>
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Jessica Chastain - <i>Zero Dark Thirty </i></div>
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Marion Cotillard - <i>Rust And Bone </i></div>
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Jennifer Lawrence - <i>Silver Linings Playbook </i></div>
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Helen Mirren - <i>Hitchcock </i></div>
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Naomi Watts - <i>The Impossible </i></div>
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<u>SUPPORTING MALE</u></div>
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Alan Arkin - <i>Argo </i></div>
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Javier Bardem - <i>Skyfall </i></div>
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Robert De Niro - <i>Silver Linings Playbook </i></div>
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Philip Seymour Hoffman - <i>The Master </i></div>
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Tommy Lee Jones - <i>Lincoln </i></div>
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<u>SUPPORTING FEMALE</u></div>
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Sally Field - <i>Lincoln </i></div>
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Anne Hathaway - <i>Les Misérables </i></div>
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Helen Hunt - <i>The Sessions </i></div>
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Nicole Kidman - <i>The Paperboy </i></div>
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Maggie Smith - <i>The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel </i></div>
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Where's the new blood!?<br />
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Every single one of these actors is a seasoned veteran. They share a whopping 49 Academy Award nominations between them, with 17 Oscar wins altogether. Only Cooper and Jackman out of the twenty have thus far been deprived of an Oscar nod, but certainly they are hardly unknown, thanks most recently to <i>hangovers</i> and <i>wolverines</i>. </div>
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And no offense to Washington, Cotillard, Field, Hunt, the entire supporting actor category, and Dames Helen and Maggie, but they already have little gold men in their powder rooms. It's time to share. The only Oscar winner from this list that I'm surprised and tickled about is kicky Nikki Kidman. Her balls to the wall performance in the little seen movie <i>The Paperboy</i> was quite unexpected.</div>
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But where are the unpredictable nominations like exhilarating Mary Elizabeth Winstead in <i>Smashed</i>, for instance? Or what about engaging Ezra Miller in <i>Perks of Being a Wallflower</i>? And where the fuck was Joaquin Phoenix? Granted he's no lesser-known, nor is he a stranger to the awards circuit but his work in <i>The Master</i> was really quite superb. And there are so many others: Matthias Schoenaerts in <i>Rust and Bone</i>, Ann Down in <i>Compliance</i>, Tom Holland in <i>The Impossible</i>, Juno Temple in <i>Killer Joe</i>, Omar Sy in <i>The Intouchables</i>, Pauline Collins in <i>Quartet</i>, Jason Clarke in <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i> and someone, <i>anyone</i> from <i>Anna Karenina</i>. But the most startling omissions for me were glorious Emmanuelle Riva and Jean-Louis Trintignant in <i>Amour</i>.<br />
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<i>Really, fellow SAG voters? REALLY!</i></div>
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And after all the work I've done, and yes screening twenty some odd films in a fortnight, without my voice being heard is heart-rending work. I'm disillusioned and pissed off that actors, <i>actors</i>, are just as easily swayed by the glossy pabulum that is force fed to us by studio execs and publicists.</div>
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My idealism has taken a beating.<br />
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Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-19359769707593657002012-12-15T11:41:00.000-08:002012-12-15T11:46:56.956-08:00Tinsel Isn't the Only Thing that's Glossy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I had no idea this would happen.</div>
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Really. </div>
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The whole thing started with an innocuous phone call.</div>
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LESBIAN FRIEND: How would you and Michael like to be interviewed for the magazine my wife works for? The article would be about gay parenting. Sort of like a real life <i>Modern Family</i>.</div>
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ME: Cool.</div>
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See. An interview. That was the extent of it. Emails were sent, phone calls were made, and before I knew it a photo shoot was scheduled to occur in my house. Now, one might imagine any photographer worth his or her aperture would provide his or her own equipment. But somehow the photographer that came to my house to shoot my family neglected to bring any lighting apparatus of any sort, and on a day that was fifty-two shades of battleship gray. Trust me, my bullshit meter was going crazy. </div>
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The photographer busied himself moving my living room furniture around, trying to find a glimmer of natural light (knocking my standing lamp over in the process) as Michael and I were being interviewed by an appropriately inquisitive yet somewhat apologetic reporter.</div>
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<i>bullshit bullshit bullshit</i></div>
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Like most "Hollywood" scenarios this felt like another never-to-be-realized puff of smoke. <i>"We think your family would be the great subject of a reality tv show, I'll be in touch." "You would be perfect as the best friend to conjoined twins played by Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear." "President Obama would like to fly your family to DC and make you the poster family for gay, adopted, multi-racial, multi-ethnic, interfaith families everywhere!"</i> (Okay, that last one didn't happen, but a guy can dream.) </div>
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Needless to say, I didn't have much hope that we would be included in the issue at all. But in January and February, on the cover of Natural Child World, at a newsstand hopefully near you you very well may see this...</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2moZNJB4xCk/UMZsps7t0RI/AAAAAAAABac/bLkitTeNx7c/s1600/Natural+Child+Cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2moZNJB4xCk/UMZsps7t0RI/AAAAAAAABac/bLkitTeNx7c/s640/Natural+Child+Cover.png" width="497" /></a></div>
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...my family on glossy paper representing the new normal.<br />
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DC, we await your call.<br />
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<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-82323490563068992492012-08-27T21:41:00.000-07:002012-08-27T21:41:15.773-07:00How Legitimate Must the Rape Be?I know of a fourteen-year-old young man who was finally given permission. He convinced his parents to let him ride the train into the city to take a summer musical theater class. Every Tuesday and Thursday for six weeks he rode his gold Schwinn to the nearby suburban train station. After responsibly locking up the bike, the young man purchased a round trip ticket and boarded a San Francisco-bound train. Once in The City, he connected to a bus that would take him up Third Avenue and make a left onto Geary. This young man would then disembark at Union Square Park and walk two blocks west to the American Conservatory Theatre where the class took place.<br />
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One day, as he was taking the train from the hustle and bustle back home he entered into what he considered a grown-up conversation with a well turned out <i>older</i> man of twenty-five or twenty-six, who wore a light wool sports jacket of charcoal grey with brown pinstripes. The young man, now feeling confident with his life path, poured out his heart and soul, shared his dreams, and perhaps even a few of his fears, for the older man was so very attentive, just the kind of professional the young man imagined he might one day become if his acting career didn't materialize<br />
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Coincidentally, they got off at the same stop, and as the train pulled away from the station the older man queried, "Have you ever thought about modeling?"<br />
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The young man couldn't believe his ears. Finally someone recognized his potential. The older man continued, "I represent a line of swim suits, and I think you'd be the perfect model."<br />
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The young man thought this older man of twenty-five or twenty-six uncannily perceptive, for the young man was quite the accomplished swimmer and had been on swim teams since he was seven. And it was there, by the train tracks, that the young man felt he was finally teetering upon the precipice of adulthood, a dazzling yet perhaps scary place where starry-eyed dreams can intertwine with reality.<br />
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The older man said, "I can't continue this out here. Let's go inside." The young man nodded and the two entered the sad little train station, where the older man gestured to the men's room. The young man, with a degree of caution, followed the older man into the lavatory, which smelled of industrial detergent and feet. Much to the younger man's surprise, the older man of twenty-five or twenty-six took off his charcoal grey with brown pinstripes sports jacket and hung it on the corner of one of the bathroom stalls. Then he undid his belt and unzipped his pants to reveal to the young man a rather skimpy, multicolored, Speedo-like swimsuit.<br />
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The young man thought it odd the older man had swimwear underneath his clothing, but with everything he'd seen and heard on his many recent solo jaunts to San Francisco (working on a scene from <i>Mame</i> no less) the young man was learning to accept what his suburban sensibilities deemed as outlandish. He didn't want to appear a rube so he acted as if strangers wearing Lycra beneath wool was an everyday occurrence. Besides, it made sense to the young man that people who regularly frequented The City would have a certain cosmopolitan flair and embrace capricious eccentricities. And the fact he was wearing a bathing suit surly must legitimize his claim that he was some sort of scout for swimwear models, <i>doesn't it?</i><br />
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Then the older man looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming into the john, which didn't seem to have any foot traffic at all, and jutted his chin towards an open stall. Without a second thought, the young man acquiesced. It wasn't a choice the young man found difficult to justify, after all the young man knew to get the job he would have to show the older man his body.<br />
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Once in the stall, the older man unzipped and pulled down the young man's pants, and then lifted his shirt <i>to get the lay of the land, </i>the young man supposed. One glance at his tighty whities and the young man immediately wished his mother bought him more sophisticated underwear. Their eyes briefly met, but the older man broke away to once again gaze intently at the young man's almost hairless body. Biology took over and that thing happened, which happens to pubescent boys when over scrutinized.<br />
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Mortified, the young man tried to cover himself immediately, but the older man with a voice the young man misinterpreted as compassion said, "Don't worry. I'll take care of that for you."<br />
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And with deft precision, the older man pulled down the young man's Jockey shorts and began to stroke.<br />
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All this talk in the news lately of <i>forcible </i>and <i>legitimate</i> rape has made me think of this incident quite a lot actually, for the young man in the story was a fourteen-year-old me.</div>
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I'll be honest, I was unsure if the word rape, statutory or otherwise, even pertained to the violation I experienced. (I always thought of it as molestation.) In skimming through various websites I found that the umbrella phase <i>sexual assault</i> most likely pertains, but I'm still unclear if I was technically raped. In my case, penetration, which seems to be a defining rape act, did not occur.<br />
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Before you allow those speculative doubts that we all have to surface, let me assure you that I wasn't an <i>old</i> fourteen; carnality wasn't oozing from my pores and I certainly wasn't <i>looking for it</i>. The medication I took to abate my epilepsy slowed down my puberty considerably, thus I looked closer to twelve than the age of consent; thus my musical theater teacher saw fit to have me work on a scene<i> </i>playing Mame Dennis' ten-year-old nephew, Patrick; and finally thus at fourteen (late for most boys) I hadn't previously ejaculated until that moment in a smelly train station bathroom stall, with the hands of another man upon me, into a toilet.<br />
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Following the abuse (and with distance and perspective I find this incredible), the older man and I made plans to meet the following week on the doorstep of the American Conservatory Theatre!<br />
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What came next was a deluge emotions. Shame, fear, anger, and yes, fervor (which spiraled back into shame because I felt I must be mentally imbalanced for feeling sexual arousal of any kind) tsunamied up inside me, each demanding to be validated. They have ebbed and flowed throughout my life, morphing into varying degrees of confusion, doubt, prudishness and abandon, clouding my all-consuming need to be desired with sexual desire itself (I would basically fall for those who coveted me). That this one act can create such a hairball of conflicting emotions, that I am probably still in some way navigating, bargaining with or against, manipulating, or trying like hell to disregard what may bubble to the surface these thirty-six years later shows just how corrosive a sexual assault can be.<br />
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On the day I was to meet the older man again, my panoply of emotion had crystallized into razor sharp dread. As I exited ACT, instinct took over and I quickly ducked out of the building into busy Geary Street not looking for him at all. I have no idea if he was waiting for me, nor have I ever heard from nor seen him again.<br />
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Up till now, I haven't made this part of my life public; I believe I've only told four people. I certainly didn't tell anyone at the time. Not that I could have articulated this when I was fourteen, but I didn't trust there was a support system in place to actually help me. On top of which, and this is truly unfortunate, I was afraid that I would be made to feel culpable of the molestation.<br />
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And this is where society fails horribly. We are a skeptical bunch and have the tendency to blithely spread seeds of doubt with phrases like, "Well, he was asking for it," or "She always wears those low-cut dresses." As long as we allow ourselves to place blame on anyone but the attacker we are enabling a system we all know is broken. And somehow my fourteen-year-old self knew this.<br />
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Rep. Todd Akin said he misspoke. But his apology, if that's what you want to call it, cannot stop the damage. By speaking the phrase "legitimate rape" he has conjured into America's already vivid imagination that there must be such a thing as it's antithesis, or "illegitimate rape". Which implies what? That some of us really wanted it, or perhaps the molestation although unfortunate wasn't that all that bad, or maybe we deserved to be assaulted because we were not man or woman enough and needed to be sexually shown the way.<br />
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Whether any of these thoughts actually went through the congressman's head is less to the point than the fact that he presented glaring misinformation as truth, all the while holding up a figurative Bible to authenticate his claim, and that sort of Christian vigilantism scares the fuck out of me. I worry what the ripple effects of his statements will do to today's fourteen-year-olds who are sexually assaulted. I'm afraid they, like me, will keep mum because they can't help but question the legitimacy of their attacks.</div>
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As I should not be judged, neither in any way, shape, or form should we judge the decision any woman or girl has to make after being impregnated by a rapist. It's their body, their business. Unlike Mr. Akin and his brethren, I believe our primary concern should not be for unborn fetuses (which oddly stops becoming a concern to Republican budget cutters once these children are born), but rather we should move heaven and earth to give aid to those who are violated. Help the women, the girls, and yes, the men and boys who've been abused, offer them services and never belittle anyone's pain by misusing qualifying words.</div>
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It's true that I wasn't tied up and beaten to a pulp, but my experience, although less <i>forcible</i>, was no less <i>legitimate</i>.<br />
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For anyone who has experienced a sexual assault and would like help call the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800) 656-HOPE. Also you can visit the following website: <a href="http://apps.rainn.org/ohl-bridge/" target="_blank">RAINN</a>, I found it incredibly helpful.</div>
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<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-64676448251014760562012-08-03T08:40:00.000-07:002012-08-03T08:40:19.392-07:00Bad Mommy: Palin ParentingScenario: You've traveled all day with your three and a half year old boy. When you get to your destination you see that your son's energy is at a all time high and the kid is bouncing off the linoleum. Do you...<br />
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A. Help him get rid of that excess energy by running him around or taking him swimming which he really, really, really wants to do. Or...<br />
B. Turn on the cameras, tell him to settle down and desperately hope that he will.<br />
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Bristol Palin, reality show personality and failed abstinence poster child, chose B. Instead of tuckering out the little bugger, she chose to lounge on the sectional with younger sister Willow and unsuccessfully attempted to talk Tripp into a state of calm<br />
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Take a peek from Palin's what's-the-point reality show, <i>Bristol Palin: Life's a Tripp</i>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tWV-Qr7CvFA" width="560"></iframe><br />
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I have a fondness for the name Tripp. I myself am a Junior, and assumed at some point I'd have a boy who would be <i>the third.</i> I looked at all the nicknames: Trey, Tirch, Trace, Rerun, Ditto. But after many sleepless nights I knew my first son would be Trip Foster (only one P) . Somewhat peculiarly, my brother, Todd, stole the name Richard Hutchins Foster III out from under me and gave it to <i>his</i> son, my nephew, who he then nicknamed Deke. And he did so WITHOUT ASKING ME! Trip being out of the question, Michael and I named our only son Sebastian, who we call Bash. (Trip...Bash...I guess I have a thing for monosyllabic semi-destructive sounding verbs as boy names.)<br />
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But enough of Foster genealogy and back to bad parenting 101...<br />
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Kids hear words. Kids repeat words. The use of faggot doesn't necessarily bother me. (Although, it strikes me that the context in which he used the epithet was entirely correct, thus he must hear it with some frequency...<i>hmmmm</i>.) What gets my goat is that three times during this exchange both Bristol and Aunt Willow try to reprimand the boy and then don't follow through. Big mistake. If you warn a child there's going to be a time out, or his mouth will be washed out with soap if the bad behavior continues, by all means be ready to follow through.<br />
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Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating shoving soap into a kid's mouth and swishing it around. If you can be imprisoned by punishing a child with Tabasco on his tongue, then it strikes me that there should be legal repercussions when forcing your kid eat a bar of Zest. My suggestion...drop the soapy, empty threats, and opt for another consequence that, when needed, can be acted upon.<i> "God's watching you..." </i>Really!<br />
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Bristol says, "I know he's going to continue to push the boundaries and push the limit," to which I query, <i>What boundaries? </i>Tripp was totally in charge of two grown women, whose body language was that of older sisters, not of Mom and Aunt. Bristol is too worried about being anything but good cop and Aunt Willow's threats are baseless. On top of which, both young women are giggling through the entire exchange. No wonder Tripp feels perfectly safe saying, <i>I hate you </i>and <i>go away, you faggot. </i>The grownups won't do anything to stop him.<br />
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I know Bristol is relatively young, but she chose this life. She's got to turn off the cameras, stop focusing on herself and not worry what others may think. Tripp is already starting life at a deficit: his father has posed for Playgirl, and his granny has written unbelievably knuckleheaded things such as, “I didn’t believe the theory that human beings – thinking, loving beings – originated from fish that sprouted legs and crawled out of the sea." It's up to Bristol to save him from home spun mediocrity. She has got to get a backbone and not shy away from being the bad cop. For the sake of her and her boy she needs to stand up and be a parent. NOW.</div>
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<i>"I'm doing a terrible job disciplining Tripp"</i> is simply not acceptable.<br />
<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-10991662884589037052012-08-01T16:13:00.001-07:002012-08-01T16:13:36.290-07:00A Letter to Dan CathyDear Dan Cathy,<br />
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Boy, have you taken your hits in the news lately. And to be honest, I don't think the bad press over your statements shooting down gay marriage is entirely justified. On the Ken Coleman radio show you pronounced our generation has "the audacity to try to redefine what marriage is all about." I, however, believe you, as CEO of the overly-hyphenated Chik-fil-A, not only have every right to say whatever ding-dong thing you please, but you also have the right to donate your personal millions towards any conservative, bigoted, homophobic cause of your choosing. Unlike many, I don't consider your words to be full of <i>hate</i> (a word my mother taught me never to use), you simply were expressing your limited interpretation of the Bible, ignoring basic tenants like benevolence, tolerance and love. It might surprise you--me being a married gay man with two kids--that on this, Chik-fil-A Appreciation Day, I write to share my support.<br />
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I am not a marketing professional, by any means, however I have some thoughts that might help you out of this morass. (Face it, sales have plummeted since you made those hurtful statements.) Yes, you do live in a free country. And yes, you have the right to say any small-minded thing that pops into your head. But...and this is where I want you to pay attention...don't play the victim when those you've offended (along with their supporters and families) refuse to empty their wallets to buy your chicken <i>samitch</i>. Why would I want to give you my money, which then you in turn would place in the coffers of extreme Christian groups that are trying to eviscerate my family?<br />
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What I'm trying to say is next time you might want to keep that yap of yours shut. You've angered so many... Mayor Rahm Emanuel, for example, is trying to keep your chicken from infiltrating Chicago saying, "Chik-fil-A's values are not Chicago values." Likewise, Mayor Thomas M. Menino from Boston does not want the chain to enter his neck of the woods either. He even took time to compose a letter which highlights, "When Massachusetts became the first state in the country to recognize equal marriage rights, I personally stood on City Hall Plaza to greet same sex couples coming here to be married. It would be an insult to them...to have a Chick-fil-A across the street from that spot." <i>Snap! </i>And even the Jim Henson Company vowed never to work with you again. They pulled their merch and released the following statement, "Lisa Henson, our CEO is personally a strong supporter of gay marriage and has directed us to donate the payment we received from Chick-Fil-A to GLAAD." Dude, you pissed off the Muppets!<br />
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There is, however, an upside to this fracas. This surge of liberal love has given you some stalwart conservative supporters. Like cockroaches after a nuclear blast, they've come guns-a-blazin' to your defense.<br />
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Mike Huckabee, a staunch supporter of fucking with the gays, created a Facebook page called Chik-Fil-A Appreciation Day, which is encouraging Americans to support your freedom of speech and intolerant, Christian stance by stuffing their faces at a Chik-fil-A restaurant <i>today</i>.<br />
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In support of Huckabee's idea, peach shake-besotted Rick Santorum tweeted:<br />
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Not to be outdone, Sarah Palin grabbed hubby Todd and rushed to a nearby restaurant (hopefully with a view of Russia) to get this photo op...<br />
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This is crazy. When have you ever heard of politicians promoting fast food? Michelle Obama has it all wrong. She has gone on ad nauseum about the benefits of eating healthily, but this last week has shown that's not what the American people want to hear. No, they want to flock to your chain and gorge on bleached flour, MSG, saturated fats and TBHQ (a preservative made from butane). This truly is a feather in your balding cap...although unlike you, Michelle Obama will probably be invited back to Sesame Street.</div>
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Perhaps your biggest win might be that of author, religious speaker, sometimes television interviewee, and all around Christian good guy, Jonathan Merritt. He's speaks very highly of Chik-fil-A, promoting both your philanthropy and your sandwiches opining, "boycotts are such a waste of time." He followed up this wisdom by plugging your philosophy,<span style="background-color: white;">"anti-gay marriage is not the same as being anti-gay."</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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Why do I bring up Jonathan Merritt, a name you might not recognize? Because this man who has been voraciously vocal against gay marriage, who, it seems, eats regularly at your food chain...wait for it...was recently outed. That's right, he was caught kanoodling with one of his blog fans. The self-deceiving, closet case is a tricky niche market but, by gumbo, you successfully tapped that <i>biotch</i>. Kudos to you.</div>
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I would imagine you're desperately trying to figure out how win back the proud, self-respecting gays and lesbians. Let's just face facts, you're never going to do this with Chik-fil-A. Firstly, there's those stupid hyphens, forced misspellings and that bizarre capital A...<i>sooooo 1980's</i>. For the Castro, the Village, Palm Beach, West Hollywood, etc. you'll need to open an entirely different chain that's seemingly separate. Something classy and erudite without peculiar punctuation.</div>
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I took the liberty to rearrange the letters of your name and your company's name and created what I think would be a perfect compliment to Chik-fil-A. I present to you...</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lady Chichi Kaftan</span></div>
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Okay, it might not necessarily sound classy, and I don't know what kind of food you'd serve, but the gays would flock to it!</div>
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Sincerely,</div>
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Hutchins Foster</div>
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Writer, Actor, Mommy with a Penis </div>
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PS. Unlike with Chik-fil-A, you might want to keep Lady Chichi Kaftan open on Sundays. I know you have a thing about working on the Sabbath, but it might help you to know that going to brunch is considered gay church.</div>
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<br /></div>Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-81345457081234736932012-07-26T14:13:00.000-07:002012-07-26T14:13:55.007-07:00In Search of Dumpster Babies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At the insistence of my six-year-old daughter we took a much needed stroll around the neighborhood. And while engaged in a discussion about a magical, fuchsia and lavender-colored, flying horse named Princess Celestia <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8837751288388156474#editor/target=post;postID=8332783471862275480" target="_blank">(see earlier entry)</a>, I spotted this.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fNvB4ZoTUtE/UBAhLIYYNTI/AAAAAAAABY4/nx25VxPOp-8/s1600/Dumpster.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fNvB4ZoTUtE/UBAhLIYYNTI/AAAAAAAABY4/nx25VxPOp-8/s400/Dumpster.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This made me wonder what would prompt someone to stencil this rather bothersome decree on their dumpster.<br />
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Might there be a grizzly history attached to this dumpster? <span style="background-color: white;">Might it simply be a warning because of past grizzly events? </span><span style="background-color: white;">Or might it simply be a random tagging by a </span><span style="background-color: white;">conscientious</span><span style="background-color: white;"> Crip?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">In 2001, about a year before Michael and I started the adoption process, "dumpster babies" were on the rise. Now, all fifty states have </span><span style="background-color: white;">enacted</span><span style="background-color: white;"> their own version of the Safe Haven Law, which </span><span style="background-color: white;">allows parents to relinquish a newborn baby to any hospital (sometimes a police station or fire station depending on the state), within 72 hours of the child's birth without any threat of being prosecuted.* </span><br />
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One would think finding a baby in a dumpster would be a thing of the past. But if that's the case...if there are programs and release sites available...why am I coming across this edict during my neighborhood constitutional in twenty-twelve?<br />
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I went online to find out some abandonment statistics. Instead, I found a whole dumpster baby subculture...<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">There's the </span><span style="background-color: white;">episode of </span><i style="background-color: white;">Family Guy </i><span style="background-color: white;">in which</span><span style="background-color: white;"> a dumpster </span><span style="background-color: white;">baby twirls his umbilical cord and sings </span><i style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRj-S8Aklcw" target="_blank">Prom Night Dumpster Baby</a>. </i><span style="background-color: white;">There's a blog called</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_667747275" style="background-color: white;"> </a><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.wantadumpsterbaby.com/" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">I Want a Dumpster Baby</a>, which chronicles the trials and tribulations of a woman trying to get pregnant</span><i style="background-color: white;">. <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0279054/" target="_blank">Dumpster Baby</a></i><span style="background-color: white;"> is a low budget, horror flick, and on reading the IMDb reviews I found out the acting is horrible, the sound abysmal, and the ending utterly predictable; the one bright spot, however, seems to be that "there's a couple decent sets of tits." </span><span style="background-color: white;">And then on the punk album </span><i style="background-color: white;">The Unclaimed Freight Band</i><span style="background-color: white;">, the band Dumpster Babies </span><span style="background-color: white;">sing mildly</span><span style="background-color: white;"> humorous yet atonal songs including: </span><i style="background-color: white;">Bung Hole, Where is My Duet (With Tony Bennett),</i><span style="background-color: white;"> and </span><i style="background-color: white;">Phone Douche.</i><br />
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This was getting me nowhere. I went to Google Images and quizzically found dumpsters stenciled in the exact same manner, all over Los Angeles, making me think it was less an urban proclamation and more a publicity gimmick.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">What started out as a legitimate concern became a peculiar commentary of today's culture. And because preposterousness seems to be the order of the day look at the definition and usage I found for "dumpster baby" when I went to Urban Dictionary:</span><br />
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<i>The Dumpster Babies were an elite fighting force in the war on terror. Their members were comprised of the bastard children of central Texas prostitutes. They were raised by the state and taught a variety of complex fighting styles. The trademark look of the Dumpster Babies were their horrendous mustaches and mirrored aviator sunglasses.</i><br />
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<i>Mohammed: They killed the men, sold the children and went family style on the women.</i><br />
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<i>Habeeb: Fuckin' Dumpster Babies!</i><br />
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*<a href="http://www.nationalsafehavenalliance.org/" target="_blank">National Safe Haven Alliance</a><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">would be a good place to start if you have questions about what relinquishment services your state offers.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-21390318065847115742012-05-23T22:08:00.000-07:002012-05-23T22:08:38.914-07:00TrifectaYesterday, I'm driving home from a fundraising meeting at Maxwell's school when I hear the following three news items on the radio back to back:<br />
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-A mountain lion was wandering around downtown Santa Monica.<br />
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-A single-engined plane crashed into suburban Glendale.<br />
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-A $50,000 reward was offered for anyone who has information about a double hit-and-run that fatally killed a 79 year old woman from Pacoima.<br />
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And that terrifying news trifecta made me stop texting my husband, grip the steering wheel with both hands, and take in my surroundings as if at any moment destruction could be hurled into my path.<br />
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Southern California with all of its earthquakes, mudslides, heat strokes and Kardashians feels as if it has gotten more deadly. It's <i>lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my</i>...literally. The lion of yesterday, few weeks ago a mama grizzly and two of her young were spotted curled up in a tree in a residential area of Altadena, and the tigers...well, off the top of my head I don't recall any tiger sightings, but give it time. I'm sure a couple will break out of the zoo any day now.<br />
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Unfortunately the mountain lion had to be killed after failed attempts to tranquilize it. The plane, thankfully, did not harm anyone, even the pilot escaped with minor injuries, but it did knock out three major electric lines, causing 300 homes to lose power. This leaves the most dangerous of the three unrelated stories, <i>oh my</i>, being the two who hit-and-ran and elderly lady on her way to church. They were described as a Hispanic man driving a red Nissan pick-up and a white woman driving a white Chevrolet Monte Carlo. And they are still at large. <br />
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As we approach summer there is a chill in the air.Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-45953575404130606622012-05-16T10:48:00.000-07:002012-05-16T10:48:01.730-07:00Homomony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Q-X-ejIDkk/T7Gk1Fk2KTI/AAAAAAAABYg/SwPQWy_AE7c/s1600/Obama+evolved.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Q-X-ejIDkk/T7Gk1Fk2KTI/AAAAAAAABYg/SwPQWy_AE7c/s400/Obama+evolved.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'll be honest, I was okay with his chess-playing ways. I trusted that his bald eagle emblazoned plate was pretty dog gone full. I mean, his to do list from the outset was enough to make most people curl up into a ball and take a nap for four years. I didn't need nor expect him to take the pro stance until well into his second term. But President Obama's announcement last week that he is now in support of gay marriage caught in my throat and brought tears to my eyes in a way I could not have anticipated.<br />
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A sitting president of the United States has finally supported not only <i>homomony</i>, but also my own personal lifestyle, my marriage, my children and...in a word...me. Boy howdy, I cried like Sherri Shepherd after she was kicked off of <i>Dancing with the Stars.</i><br />
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When I examine it, however, my emotionality may not solely belong to this momentous event. Let's face it, this last week was one for the books when it comes to gay marriage and gay marriage adjacent news. Day after day we were bombarded with juicy items culminating with our president's announcement.<br />
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Let me start with the joyous fact that my husband and I just celebrated our eleventh anniversary. Not that it's a legally recognized eleven years, but after the planning, the church ceremony, the one hundred fifty guests, the reception complete with open bar, photo booth and Go Big Daddy Band (only to be followed by a joint mortgage, living wills and two adopted children) I challenge anyone to find a couple more married (in or out of quotation marks) than we are. I love my husband, and I'm proud we made it to our steel wedding anniversary. (Who created the anniversary gift list? What was I supposed to give the man? Lug nuts?)<br />
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Seemingly unrelated, Maurice Sendak, the children's author and illustrator who showed us <i>Where the Wild Things Are </i>passed away at 83. Among Sendak's many accomplishments were working with Jim Henson, producing a children's show with Carole King, designing sets for opera and ballet, and winning numerous awards including the Caldecott Medal for children's literature. Sendak was also gay, something he didn't make public until 2008, one year after the passing of his partner of fifty years, Eugene Glynn. Now, I don't pretend to know Mr. Sendak or Mr. Glynn. They were of a different time when being discrete was a way of survival, but I have to wonder had the laws been different, had in their day a sitting president espoused acceptance, would they have publicly come out of the closet, or might they have taken it a step further and chosen <i>homomony</i>? And in examining Mr. Sendak's own words, <i>Let the wild rumpus start</i>, I'd like to think they would have.<br />
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Even John Travolta and the many male massage therapists he allegedly fondled, propositioned, and masturbated in front of over the years came to mind. I can't help but speculate if the man who brought to life Vinnie Barbarino, Tony Manero and a Cher-sounding Edna Turnblad was given the freedom to live his <i>true </i>life, if he didn't have to worry about perceptions and innuendo while being a box office success, if he could have married the man of his dreams (still speculating) without fretting about the shadow of Scientology, there might not be a mountain of sexual harassment law suits piling up at a furious rate.<br />
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Also, last week, pulpits across North Carolina were abuzz with anti gay marriage rhetoric. Religious leaders encouraged their parishioners to vote for the passing of Amendment One, which would make the state's ban on same sex marriage a constitutional amendment. (Excuse me, Ma'am, but your church and state are commingling.) And no one was louder than Pastor Sean Harris, who gained notoriety when he proselytized, "Dads, the second you see your sons dropping the limp wrists, you walk over there and crack that wrist. Man up. Give him a good punch." Sentences made only more horrifying by congregants heard in the background punctuating Harris's words with jovial laughter and heartfelt <i>Amens</i>. Without quite apologizing, Harris has since admitted that he got caught up in the moment and probably shouldn't have used such violent imagery, and actually likened himself Jesus who he says also used hyperbole to get his message across to his flock. I'm feeling generous today, so let's take him at his word. My concern, however, is for those in the congregation who egged him on with relish and fervor, for those who could not define <i>hyperbole</i> let alone spell it. I worry that seeds have been planted, that nagging suspicions will gestate into paranoia, that Junior's effeminate comment or laissez faire hand on hip will tip the scale and what was intended as <i>exaggeration, overstatement, amplification</i> will suddenly be thrust into bone-crushing action, causing nightmarish realities.<br />
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Which brings us to Amendment One, which perhaps unsurprisingly passed last Tuesday, not only banning same sex marriage, but civil unions and domestic partnerships as well. What's heartbreaking is that by my calculations only twenty-two percent of the state's population voted on the measure that inevitably denied rights. One of the commercials promoting Amendment One used the following jaw-dropping language... "The Marriage Amendment...protects marriage as the union of one man and one woman <i>just as God designed it</i>." As you take a moment to digest this bitter cocktail of church and state, allow me the following futuristic fantasy. A United States in which both parties have to stoke the God fire in order to win. In fact, at presidential debates, the candidates goal is to out-God each other. Freedom of religion is nonexistent. In fact, if Buddha, Vishnu, Yahweh, Allah or Jughead are mentioned or prayed to the punishment is grizzly, Christian, Inquisition-like torture. And the strongest of those who survive will be placed in a televised competition where they'll hunt each other down until only the strongest of them survives...oh, wait, that's <i>The Hunger Games. </i>Let's be honest, there's nothing in the Bible against <i>homomony</i>. Were North Carolina Republicans honest, the wording of their commercial should have been, "The Marriage Amendment...protects marriage as the union of one man and one woman because, let's face it, homosexuals freak us the fuck out."<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ggCKgz1z130/T7GBOp238EI/AAAAAAAABYU/QipUu0YzKoE/s1600/Saints+Sergius+and+Bacchus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ggCKgz1z130/T7GBOp238EI/AAAAAAAABYU/QipUu0YzKoE/s400/Saints+Sergius+and+Bacchus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then, as if to counter the results of North Carolina's election and question heavily the over usage of the phase "traditional marriage," prominent historian and Yale professor John Boswell, who died in 1994, started haunting the blogosphere. Boswell was a firebrand who won the National Book Award in 1981 for his book, <i>Christianity, Social Tolerance and Homosexuality. </i>(For the title alone I'd give him an award...and a sloppy, wet kiss.) But it was his <i>The Marriage of Likeness: Same-Sex Unions in Pre-Modern Europe </i>(1994) that discussed the acceptance of various homosexual marriages throughout European history. The above image, according to Boswell, is of the marriage of Saints Sergius and Bacchus. And who is the guy in the middle standing in as <i>pronubus</i> or best man? That's right, it's the big cheese, Jesu Christo himself, officiating over the ceremony. Boswell claims to have discovered Christian liturgical documents entitled the "Office of Same-Sex Union" and "Order for Uniting Two Men," making Sergius and Bacchus's marriage as "traditional" as any other...except this bride and groom both had penises.<br />
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And all this before President Barack Hussein Obama sat down with Robin Roberts and put to bed (sorry for that choice) any questions any of us had about his personal feelings towards gay marriage. It was an acceptance...no, that doesn't quite define what I felt. Hmmmmmmmm. You know when your badass coach gives you a thumbs up for a well swum race? Or when your hard-as-nails teacher returns a test emblazoned with an A++ ? Or when the sexy stranger at the other side of the bar smiles a devious smile and buys your drink with no strings attached? Well, what I felt was more validating than the three of those combined.<br />
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Risking possible political suicide, our president spoke his truth. And I have to believe that because it seems that this action could cause more alienation than political gain.<br />
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There will be truckloads of fallout from this interview. But I encourage us all to sift through the chaff (Bristol Palin, go home!) and move forward positively.<br />
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The President has spoken.<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-22219776353409170262012-05-05T10:59:00.000-07:002012-05-05T10:59:26.499-07:00Happy Steel Anniversary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Eleven years ago today I married my husband. It wasn't a legal marriage, in the sense that it was not recognized by the government. However, we did get married in a church, and I defy anyone to tell me our wedding wasn't recognized by a much higher power.</div>
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But this isn't about getting on my political high horse. This is about love, and a wonderful man, and a beautiful day eleven years ago...</div>
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What a day. I think of all the planning that went into it. Typical list: the church, the reception, the dinner, the invitations, the flowers (blue hydrangeas), the photographer (<a href="http://www.traceylandworthphotography.com/" target="_blank">Tracey Landworth</a> <i>she's brilliant, check out her link</i>), the wardrobe, the band (<a href="http://gbdent.com/" target="_blank">Eddie Watkins Jr & The Go Big Daddy Band</a>, <i>also stupendous</i>), the seating arrangements, the cake, the open bar, the 150 guests, and our biggest splurge, the white chocolate place cards.<br />
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Our families arrived before the ceremony to take pictures. This one is just brimming with racial harmony!<br />
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Here's my baby and I after we tied the knot. It was the most fun I'd ever had. It was Mari, our very good friend who passed away this last October, who suggested we both walk down the aisle to Tuck and Patti's <i>Takes My Breath Away </i>(if I knew how, I'd have it piping in as you read this). We crafted what the ceremony would be, we wrote our own vows, and there was a built in audience who had to listen to every word. What more could two actors hope for.<br />
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For our seeming unconventionality, the event had its recognizable elements: saying <i>I do</i>, the first dance (Dinah Washington's <i>What a Difference a Day Makes</i>), bride drunk off her ass and tripping down the stairs. Slice of cake anyone?</div>
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Tracey incorporated a photo booth at the reception. It was a blast, and as you can see, it got pretty trashed by the end of the evening.<br />
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I love looking back on that day. I love the wonderful friends and family who shared it with us. And I love the man who chose Cinco de Mayo as our anniversary.<br />
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Happy Steel Anniversary Darling.Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-91740722448313857132012-05-04T10:45:00.000-07:002012-05-04T11:37:15.934-07:00Arts-in-Education; a Love Letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I3aD5AGJ7n4/T6P8ar9jYNI/AAAAAAAABXQ/1jl4CuVsCHE/s1600/2068-imitation-eagle-quill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I3aD5AGJ7n4/T6P8ar9jYNI/AAAAAAAABXQ/1jl4CuVsCHE/s1600/2068-imitation-eagle-quill.jpg" /></a></div>
Dear Jacqueline,<br />
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Firstly, let me apologize upfront for a few things: the public manner in which I'm sending this, for any unnecessary exposition which will allow my readers to follow more closely, and also for my tardiness, but if you read my previous entry, you'll understand that illness has made me its bitch and almost three weeks later I'm still reeling from side effects. (My ear is still ringing!)<br />
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To the thick of it then... Thank you so much for what you have given Sebastian, and in turn my family. Your talents at directing are immeasurable, and I don't use that word lightly. <i>Working</i> was an absolute hit, and to see all those children up on stage, not only giving it their all, but also showing various levels of stage proficiency was mind blowing performance after performance.<br />
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As you know, Sebastian bucked a bit at the thought of going to so many rehearsals. He'd get on the bus and come home rather than stay at school where you were weaving your magic. And when, at two weeks out, you told me Sebastian still didn't know his stuff, I wondered if my little one would ever take ownership of his songs, his choreography, his blocking and intentions, or if he'd aimlessly meander on stage with his mouth agape.<br />
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But the week of the performance, Sebastian's behavior towards the show changed. Once the set was built, the lights hung, the orchestra was in place, and the costumes and props filled those many racks, Sebastian's enthusiasm became evident. I noticed a little smile played upon on his lips from time to time, as if he were privy to state secrets that he could barely contain. He'd say cryptic things like, "Wait until you see Brother Trucker," and then mysteriously slink away. The bug bit him big time and I could tell he was finally <i>owning it</i>.<br />
<br />
There was also a palpable change in how he carried himself. His back became straighter. His sentences held more command. His homework ethic had gained focus. And he began to follow through and do the small things when <i>first</i> asked: make his bed, feed the dogs. I was amazed.<br />
<br />
Now, I've been a stage actor and an arts-in-ed instructor for most of my life. You'd think I wouldn't be bamboozled by theater's positive byproducts. But shame on me, I was wary to attribute Sebastian's behaviors to simply being in "the school musical." As much as I tried to poo poo what was right in front of me, however, I finally had to reexamine what I've known for so many years, that the discipline, the sense of community, and the artistic integrity that theater builds is undeniable.<br />
<br />
And let's talk about community... Your ability to take students of various ages, from elementary to high school, and make a cohesive whole was amazing. I believe being around older kids, watching them work and interrelate, has not only given Sebastian school cred, but also interpersonal and language skills he previously did not have.<br />
<br />
And don't get me started on the show itself. As I'm sure you've heard from others, <i>Working</i> seemed to be such a strange show for kids. And then when I heard the difficult music, I'll be honest Jacqueline, I questioned your sanity. I mean, <i>Grease!, </i>sure. <i>Bye, Bye Birdie, </i>why not? <i>Godspell, Annie, Little Shop of Horrors</i>, go to it. But Studs Terkel's <i>Working?</i><br />
<br />
But from the opening song, <i>Wow!!</i>, to the curtain call, I could tell you know your shit, girl. I have never seen my son so laser focused. Walking to his mark, freezing in his baseball stance waiting for his musical cue, and then hitting those mime baseballs out of the park again and again...I'll say it again, <i>Wow!!</i><br />
<br />
You have to realize, Michael and I put Sebastian on medication at the beginning of the school year to help him focus. And because of disastrous results, in March, we took him off all meds, right about the time he was in the thick of rehearsals, so to see him so engaged and committed seemed a minor miracle.<br />
<br />
Sebastian still sings snippets from the show, sometimes he makes up his own stuff, and what knocks my socks off is that he seems to be enjoying life just a little bit more. <br />
<br />
Thank you for that, Jacqueline.<br />
<br />
I asked Sebastian if he wanted to be in the show next year and he smiled (more state secrets) and said, "I'm not sure." But there's no mistaking the twinkle in his eye. So, if he does the show next year, and the school is lucky enough to maintain your services, I cannot wait for the end results.<br />
<br />
Your lifelong fan,<br />
Hutch<br />
<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-91523935866765558722012-04-23T12:10:00.001-07:002012-04-23T12:10:32.248-07:00Illness Sucks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Without getting into specifics, I've been on my back for seven days...and not in the good way.<br />
<br />
Why the fuck am I being quixotic? I'll tell you the specifics. What started as a cough continued into a flair of sinusitis and an ear infection. This led to flu like symptoms, you know, charming things like body aches, shakes, sweats, slight nausea, diarrhea. And add to that, what sent me skittering along the precipice...dehydration...again. I don't know why my body has never had a problem maintaining hydration until this year.<br />
<br />
My most embarrassing moment happened after I suffered through a painful, loose bowel movement and then broke out into severe flop sweat. My entire shirt was soaked through and I simultaneously felt like puking and passing out. The only thing I thought would give me any sense of relief was the cool tile floor. With my pants still around my ankles and my rear still unwiped, I placed my cheek on the bathroom floor hoping that this was the illness's rock bottom (no pun intended). I stayed there for twenty to thirty minutes praying for the strength to wipe my ass or be hit by lightning.<br />
<br />
Once I got back into bed, nothing could get me out. Not even feeding my kids. I sent them into the kitchen, unarmed, with images of <i>The Hunger Games</i> in my head. At the sound of a box of Cap'n Crunch falling to the floor, I remember lifting my head from my pillow and croaking, "Graze, my little scavengers! Graze!!"<br />
<br />
After taking regimens of antibiotics I'm much better. The flu like symptoms are gone but my mind is still so fuzzy. I get dizzy when standing, or sitting, or sorting socks...doing anything really. I've relegated all responsibilities to my husband, who's been a champ but I believe is buckling under the pressure. And now my left ear has this persistent ringing that is driving me bonkers.<br />
<br />
Illness is demoralizing, degrading, and is not for wimps!Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-11008875079011450762012-04-11T09:06:00.000-07:002012-04-11T09:08:49.451-07:00Bucking Trends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Jessica Simpson's cover of Elle this month seems familiar, doesn't it? And I don't think any of us has to dig too deeply into our sleep-deprived, vodka-soaked brains to suss out the reference. Who could forget the Vanity Fair cover that Annie Liebovitz shot so startlingly of Demi Moore's pregnant voluptuousness back in 1991? From the exact same pose, to the ginormous bling on their left middle fingers, to the fact these two celebutants are both carrying girl children, the Simpson pic is a duplicate of what some found scandalous twenty-one years ago. (Although I prefer Demi's arrogant in-the-distance gaze to Jessica's in-your-face, <i>Zoolander</i> directness.) But this piece isn't about who did what first, nor artistic integrity, nor is it about nudity on magazine covers, which for the record I am wholeheartedly for.<br />
<br />
No, this is about trends.<br />
<br />
Recently, Ms. Simpson announced that her baby girl will be named...take a breath here...Maxwell. <i>What! </i>For those of you just tuning into my blog, Maxwell is <i>my</i> daughter's name. When Michael and I chose it, we thought we were being unique and cutting edge. We had never met a female Maxwell before, so you can imagine how taken aback I was.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>How dare she!</i><br />
<br />
Barely, did I recover from Jessica Simpson's name steal when I found out that actress Lindsay Sloane (yeah, I don't know who she is either) gave birth to a girl in January and also chose the name (all together now) <i>Maxwell!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>What the hell is going on here? Don't tell me this is a trend!</i><br />
<br />
Naming children is somewhat of a tricky business. You don't want to be outlandish and name your kid Superbeast, Circuit Breaker, or DoorMat (be sure to take note Nic Cage). You also don't want to be mundane and give the kid a palindromic like Bob, or Nan, or any of the other sobriquets from the <i>See Spot Run</i> series. But that middle ground, that vast and immeasurable middle ground is potentially treacherous, thus we depend on our celebrities to give their kids trend-setting names, giving us a framework in which to then name our children.<br />
<br />
But here's the problem, sometimes celebrity baby names get too popular. In the 1980's, according to <a href="http://www.babynamewizard.com/voyager#" target="_blank">The Baby Name Wizard</a>, the name Ava did not even make the top one thousand girl names. But in the nineties, Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe came along (aww, remember when they were the golden couple?) and named their little bundle Ava, a name which has gained more and more popularity over the years. In fact, just last year Ava was the fifth most popular girl name.<br />
<br />
I imagine Reese and Ryan are not solely responsible for the popularity of Ava. Sometimes, and I have no other way to describe it, but a name becomes air born. Back in 2002, when Michael and I started the adoption process, we really liked the name Phineas as a possible boy name, calling him Finn for short. Then, less than two years later, Julia Roberts gave birth to twins and names her boy Phinnaeus. A couple of years after that the popular kids TV show, <i>Phineas and Ferb </i>first airs. And now on <i>Glee</i> the lead romantic character is named Finn. So, perhaps it isn't just the stars' doing, perhaps popular names somehow beam into our collective consciousness.<br />
<br />
Now, check out other celebrity kid's names which are presently in most elementary classrooms across America. Melanie Griffith brought Dakota and Stella to the popular name table. Jayden and Willow have become forces to be reckoned with because of Will and Jada Pinkett. Brangelina has made Maddox, Shiloh, Knox and Vivienne viable possibilities. And Bristol wasn't even on the chart before 2008, but some lipstick wearing soccer mom caught our attention and bam, today it's number 562.<br />
<br />
<div>
But the last thing I want is for "Maxwell" to become a <i>thing</i>.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it will blow over, but just in case I would like to make a plea to pregnant mothers-to-be and future parents everywhere...please don't make Maxwell your girl name choice. Let it remain unique. I get that you might want go nontraditional with a traditional boy name for your future daughter, and I applaud you for this choice, but if you <i>all</i> go gung-ho and call your double-X chromosomed bundles Maxwell then the name will loose its specialness. Below I have provided a list of boy names that would be kick-ass for girls:</div>
<br />
Xavier<br />
Dylan<br />
Ryder<br />
Keenan<br />
Griffin<br />
Harrison<br />
Greyson<br />
Abernathy<br />
Paxton<br />
Wylie<br />
Vaughn<br />
Prescott<br />
Ozzy<br />
<br />
I just don't ever want to introduce my daughter and have someone else say, "Oh, just like Jessica Simpson's baby."<br />
<br />Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-3364763600432672792012-03-24T10:19:00.001-07:002012-03-24T10:21:16.409-07:00A Dog Named Travis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first meeting with Travis</td></tr>
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I was exhausted. After a full day of work all I wanted to do was go home and fall into a vodka induced coma, something I had only heard about but never aspired towards. But as I was walking past the pet store I stopped. Something told me to step inside and take a peek at the puppies. And there was this one, the cutest baby husky you ever did see, that made me question whether an alcoholic stupor was all it was cracked up to be. I smiled. Not in an I-can't-live-without-him kind of way, but just enough to ask the man behind the counter how much he was.<br />
<br />
Without answering my query, the pet store guy--a slightly greasy man who I'll name Serge--asked me to step into one of the back rooms telling me he would bring the husky to me. Then, when the blue-eyed bundle of fluff was in my arms, Serge whipped out an Instamatic and snapped our picture. After flapping it about for the allotted amount of time, Serge then handed the partially developed, somewhat-still-damp photo and declared, "See how good the two of you look together?"<br />
<br />
<i>That smarmy asshole! I wonder how many dickheads have been suckered in by this obvious ploy.</i><br />
<br />
It's a horrible picture. Oh, sure, the dog photographed well, but I look like I could use a deep tissue massage with a happy ending. But stubble and Jew fro aside, Serge was right, we do look like we belong together.<br />
<br />
Every logical part of my being screamed to put the puppy down and get out of there. I knew Serge was a shyster and would charge me an arm and a leg while telling me what a great deal I was getting. I knew the dog was probably born in some puppy mill in the backwoods of Minnesota next to a moonshine distillery, or somewhere equally dubious. I knew my busy New York life didn't have room to properly raise and care for a puppy, no matter how fetchingly beautiful his eyes were.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's what my brain told me, but I chose to listen to my heart instead and whipped out the plastic. Serge's technique worked like a charm and I became a dickhead of the highest order. When I left that Astoria, Queens pet store not only did I have a puppy secured in a cardboard box, but I also managed to rack up even more debt.<br />
<br />
That was fifteen years ago.<br />
<br />
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For the first week he was with me I called him Clancy. But for some reason that didn't feel quite right, so I was always on the lookout for the perfect name. Out of the blue "Travis" came to me. I racked my brain to find "Travis" references. The only thing I came up with was the Levi's 501 ad for women, where the cowgirl, who starts out lounging in a car in the classic James Dean pose, stands up and yells, "Travis, you're a year too late." I still don't know what that means, but enigmatic message aside, take a gander at my handsome husky's face...definitely a Travis.<br />
<br />
Early on, Travis let it be known that his spot was at my feet. Whether at the computer or watching TV, Travis's routine has been to nudge my legs apart and settle in.<br />
<br />
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My biggest success with Travis was that I trained him to walk off leash, and from what I understand, that isn't easy to teach huskies, who are bred to run ahead without looking back. But Travis always looked back, always kept tabs on where I was.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Travis and I accepting Michael into the pack</td></tr>
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Six months after Travis entered my life, Michael came along, and Travis was obliging and allowed Michael to stay. When we moved to Los Angeles, I saw first hand how big Travis's heart can be. First, he had to welcome our second dog, Cosmo (also named Clancy for about a week...I don't know how I know this, but I'm destined to have a dog named Clancy at some point in my life). Then when Michael and I started the adopting children, Travis graciously accepted Thing 1 and Thing 2, who have systematically pulled, prodded and pulverized his tail, his ears and pretty much every orifice without uttering one bark of complaint.<br />
<br />
If I feel guilt about anything it's that over the years, as life has gotten more complicated, Travis has received less and less affection. But no matter how busy I've gotten, Travis has remained faithful and loving, maintaining his spot at my feet.<br />
<br />
About a year and a half ago, Travis let it be known that he didn't want to sleep outside anymore. This was a big deal for a dog who loved outdoor weather, the more inclement the better. His sight and hearing started deteriorating shortly after that. Now, it's harder for him to get up and down stairs, and Travis distrusts the wood flooring we have in our house, and only goes into the kitchen with its slate floors and our dining room which has a rug. Travis has had four or five seizures that I know of. He falls to the ground, voids his bladder and shakes uncontrollably. It was after one of these seizures that I told the children that Travis wasn't going to be with us too much longer. That was two years ago and Travis is still here.<br />
<br />
He's been bleeding from his mouth recently, and when last week I searched for the source I felt a mass at his gum line. We took him to the vet and it turns out Travis has cancer, a golf ball sized lump grows under his tongue. He's in no pain, but the doctor wanted to euthanize him immediately, saying the growth was metathesizing at a rapid rate and he will eventually have a hard time eating and breathing. And even though Travis is the equivalent of a 95 year old, I decided against the vet's recommendation. I want Travis to be at home when he goes.<br />
<br />
After such dire news, I expected to witness Travis's failing health during this past week, but quite the contrary, he's his old self. His eyes still light up for suppertime, he's been more social with Cosmo and the kids, and he's even attempted a happy dance or two.<br />
<br />
I may have him only a couple more days--maybe a couple more weeks--but when the time does come, I don't intend to write about it. I'd rather marvel at the life force that is Travis, from the blue-eyed puppy in a box to the distinguished family pet he is now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My old man today</td></tr>
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There's my good boy!<br />
<br /></div>Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-83548135308115275572012-03-21T16:32:00.001-07:002012-03-21T16:32:36.443-07:00Don't Dog the PenisReading the newspaper today, my husband came across a <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/tv/la-et-0321-tv-language-20120321,0,42487.story" target="_blank">Los Angeles Times article</a> in which the Parents Television Council, a conservative watchdog group, has been counting the number of times <i>penis</i> and <i>vagina</i> have been used in network prime time television. The usage of these words, we are told, has escalated dramatically over the past ten years, which prompted PTC president, Tim Winter, to say, "It's a broader reflection of the progression of raunch."<br />
<br />
The progression of raunch? The utterances of <i>penis</i> and <i>vagina</i> from our lips is raunch? Now, I don't know about other parents, but in our house we don't use the colloquial <i>pee pee</i> and <i>va jay jay</i>. <i>We labels it as we sees it.</i> It's big <i>p</i> and capital <i>v</i> all the way. Consequently, <i>penis</i> and <i>vagina</i> are said quite frequently, and as the children have gotten older these two choice anatomical sobriquets have only gained momentum, quite possibly making ours the house Tim Winter would say is the raunchiest in America.<br />
<br />
Trust me, <i>penis</i> is a better choice than what I was raised with...my mother taught me to call my member a <i>do do</i>. That's right, <i>do do</i> like the opposite of <i>don't don't</i>. And aside from assigning it asinine nomenclature, my mother discouraged us from discussing it or anything else below the belt line...<i>ever</i>. I have two younger sisters and yet don't remember the word <i>vagina</i> being spoken by anyone at any time. I can only imagine what euphemism Mom chose for them. <i>Cupcake? Pussy willow? Lock box?</i><br />
<br />
I imagine my little family is even more free and easy saying <i>penis</i> because it's part of my work. <i>Mommy with a Wee-Wee</i> just wouldn't sound as...substantial.<br />
<br />
Which reminds me, a few years back, I did a Mother's Day show called <i>Momilicious </i>or <i>Mompalooza </i>or something like that, and in it I got to work with Laraine Newman and Caroline Aaron. To promote the show we did a radio spot reading our pieces. We had to tweak them, taking out curse words and salacious subject matter, to fit with FCC regulations, but that didn't bother me one bit because I remember thinking how I had made it.<br />
<br />
<i>People will hear me read and flock to my blog. Laraine Newman, for God's sake! SNL royalty. I've hit the big time.</i><br />
<br />
I remember how excited I was when I turned on the radio and heard my voice coming over the airwaves. The host, Wendy Hammers, introduced me, telling the listeners that I had a blog called "Mommy with a<i> <b>beeeeeeeeep</b>." </i><br />
<br />
<i>What the fuck!</i><br />
<br />
She continued, "And you can find Hutch's blog at double-u double-u double-u dot mommy with a <i><b>beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep</b> </i>dot blogspot dot com."<br />
<br />
<i>No. No. No. Noooooooooooooooo!</i><br />
<br />
I was crestfallen as I watched fickle fame and flimsy fortune slip fortuitously out of my hands.<br />
<br />
The shows that PTC have cited to use <i>penis</i> and <i>vagina </i>most frequently are 2<i> Broke Girls, Two and a Half Men, 30 Rock, The Office, American Dad, Family Guy </i>and <i>Grey's Anatomy</i>. OK, PTC may have a point, some of those shows bleep even my raunchiness meter. But their word usage is the least of my worries, it's the content that parents should be concerned about.<br />
<br />
Now, I personally love adult humor because it's for <i>adults.</i> However, any parent who plops their impressionable five year old in front of the telly to watch <i>Family Guy </i>and then complains when Baby Stewie spouts <i>penis,</i> <i>vagina</i>, <i>slut</i>, or <i>douche nozzle </i>is...well...a douche nozzle<i>.</i><br />
<br />
There's not one show on that list that I allow my kids watch. Well, maybe <i>30 Rock, </i>but<i> </i>come on, it's Tina Fey. But for the most part they'd both rather watch their own shows: Maxwell is still having a love affair with <i>Phineas and Ferb</i>, while Sebastian just discovered the zaniness that is <i>Laverne and Shirley</i>. Not a <i>penis </i>nor <i>vagina </i>in sight.<br />
<br />
So, here's my query... Why the study? (And who are the pervs stuck at home counting <i>penises</i> in the first place?) I get the importance of offering children age appropriate programming, but these shows weren't developed for kids. Here's a flash overly sensitive parents, change the channel, or better yet turn the TV off all together.<br />
<br />
You see, I'd get it if you were disgruntled by too many crotch or boobie shots. Or you were disgusted by simulated sex scenes or titillating innuendo. I understand that your little one might be too young for hospital operations, zombie feeding frenzies, violent gun play or anything including syringes, autopsies or Nicolette Sheridan. But to get up in arms about words?<br />
<br />
Come on people, don't dog the <i>penis</i>. That's my brand.Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-58169659291130427462012-03-15T10:28:00.001-07:002012-03-15T10:29:43.187-07:00Fruit Mind SaladSo many arbitrary ideas, from Ben Affleck's Oscar win (?) to honkeys once again wanting to use the N word (??!?), skittering around in my head like evasive, one-winged butterflies. And it seems if I can catch just one of these lopsided lepidopterans, I'd be off and running to write my next entry/script/book/opus.<br />
<br />
RANDOMNESS... I forbid for it to be a curse, so, here goes...<br />
<br />
A lot has transpired as of late. I handed in my piece to The G Man Magazine, the online magazine I've been writing for. It's about (surprise) my life as a gay parent, and contrary to political vitriol it's really quite unremarkable, and not <i>scourge</i>like at all. In it, I rant--you know how much I love to rant--interspliced with anti gay marriage quotes from the Republican presidential hopefuls (those who've both fallen and are still standing). The G Man Magazine will be subscription based this go around, hopefully putting a shekel or two into my pocket. I'll provide more info to you as I get it. Hope you'll check it out.<br />
<br />
Next, health has been a recurring issue as of late. About a month ago, Maxwell's school was having a Bingo Night and I was in charge of the bake sale, having allowed the PTA to talk me into creating a fundraising committee and becoming it's chair.<br />
<br />
<i>There's nothing more scintillating *yawn* then elementary school politics.</i><br />
<br />
Anyway, during the night, between selling cake pops and helping Sebastian with his Bingo card, I started feeling feint. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, thought I was all better, and then realized when I stood fully upright that, indeed, I was not. Feeling lightheaded, I went to the ground, called for help, and the half hour that followed was a flurry of paramedics, emergency vehicles, EKGs, gurneys, trip to the hospital, swinging doors, interns, doctors, nurses, the dreaded hospital gown, the even more dreaded oxygen tube, tubes stuck into both my arms (in case of surgery), lots of questions, signature here, signature there, only to land in a scratchy-sheeted hospital bed. I tell ya, they move you fast when they think it's a cardiac issue. I felt like I was in my own private episode of<i> ER</i>.<br />
<br />
Selling Rice Krispie Treats one moment, prepped for heart surgery the next...actually that sounds more like <i>House.</i> It was only when the sassy, Black nurse checked my vitals (even she was cast like a television stereotype) that it became evident that my heart was fine. They took all my fluids for testing and then I waited...four hours. Thankfully, I had my own TV, although I cannot recommend watching <i>Grey's Anatomy</i> while waiting for results.<br />
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<i>Side note: how much did all this cost...the ambulance ride and hospital care? It totaled almost $8,000! Thank Gaga I have coverage. Does anyone know the refrain to Socialized Medicine, because I'd sing a few bars.</i><br />
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The long and the short of it: dehydration. Doesn't even sound like a real thing, does it? It reminds me when some star is rushed from the set to the hospital and it's announced the next day that they collapsed from exhaustion. <i>Exhaustion, riiiiiiiight.</i><br />
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<i>Dehydration, no big deal. Just send me home, I'll drink a bottle of Gatorade and I'll be fine.</i><br />
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Well, I got to go home, but this ol' bod don't bounce back like it used to. One full week my friends. That's how long it took for me to get back to normal. I was chugging water, Gatorade, coconut water like it was going out of style. If you could pour it I chugged it.<br />
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Then, just as I was able to stand without feeling wobbly, I managed to twist my ankle. <i>Bless.</i> And this past week, my sinuses have been doing this Mexican Hat Dance thing. Diarrhea. Aches in my knee (I suspect arthritis). None if it serious, but in entering my fiftieth year on this planet, it makes me realize just how fragile things can be.<br />
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<i>Fuck my knee. I'm going spinning.</i>Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8837751288388156474.post-15323402299191148682012-02-06T11:52:00.000-08:002012-02-06T11:52:48.565-08:00Ten Days in New York for Christmas with Two Children and a Working-Actor Husband: Part the Second<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u>Days 2 & 3: Rockefeller Center and NYFD</u></div>
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It seems my days leading up to Christmas were a delicate balance between enjoying the very adult New York I remembered while searching desperately for the kid-friendly New York that would keep my children from throwing themselves in front of subway trains. Now, I'm not saying there isn't anything for little ones to do in the Big Apple, but when I typed <i>children's activities NYC</i> (or some similar prompt) in the Google search box it seemed as if the same ten things kept popping up, most of which were seasonal, and I was in the wrong season. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-46ATvlzxi8A/TxbzxvuYPPI/AAAAAAAABVA/9VKsSO-XU9w/s1600/101124-tallest-xmas-trees-travel.grid-4x2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-46ATvlzxi8A/TxbzxvuYPPI/AAAAAAAABVA/9VKsSO-XU9w/s400/101124-tallest-xmas-trees-travel.grid-4x2.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tree at the Americana in Glendale, CA<br />
with 15,000 twinkling lights, 10,000<br />
ornaments and a superimposed Kringle</td></tr>
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Sebastian and Maxwell may have bah humbugged the Christmas tree at the Metropolitan Museum (<a href="http://mommywithapenis.blogspot.com/2012/01/ten-days-in-new-york-for-christmas-with.html" target="_blank">refer to last entry</a>), but it was a new day, the sky had cleared and I was determined to impress my kids with the Christmas tree of all Christmas trees. That's right, the stunner at Rockefeller Center, which was a mere two city blocks from our hotel.<br />
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Then a disquieting thought descended. Shortly after Thanksgiving I took my little ones to the Americana (an outdoor, Disneyesque shopping mall in Glendale, California) where a mammoth Christmas tree was being pieced together. And on a sign was the bold declaration that this tree was taller then the one at 30 Rock. (I did some research and found that Travel and Leisure supported this claim: in 2010, of the top ten tallest Christmas trees in the nation, the Americana's was number five at a 100 feet, while Rockefeller Center's was at number ten at a measly 74 feet.) My little canker sores had already laid witness to a tree that <i>dwarfs</i> Rockefeller Plaza's. What if the iconic gem of NYC yuletide fails to impress?<br />
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We walked Michael to the subway, and the second he disappeared down the hole, I was faced with my children's anticipating eyes.<br />
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But before I could utter a word, Sebastian immediately started in with a familiar refrain, "I want to go to a fire station!" I whipped out my smart phone and deduced that the nearest fire station was at 48th and 8th, which reminds me of another of my Big Apple stories...</div>
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Shortly after moving to New York in the late eighties, I got an apartment in Hell's Kitchen and worked for the Schubert Organization as a Broadway usher. I was quickly attached to The Royal Theatre, which has since been renamed the Bernard B Jacobs Theater, and the first show I ushered at the Royale was David Mamet's <i>Speed the Plow</i> with Joe Mantegna, Ron Silver (Tony winner), and <i>drum roll please</i> Madonna. The stories surrounding this show could fill books. But I will sum up my experience with...it was a small show in a big house that everybody, I repeat, <i>everybody!</i>, came to see. Besides the fanatic fans who wore Like a Virgin sweatshirts covered in Madonna pins expecting the Material Girl to sing in act two, I handed programs to Sean Penn (the ex-husband) and Warren Beatty (the at-the-time present beau), Barbra, Faye, Goldie, Jackie O, Dustin Hoffman, Jason Robards and Colleen Dewhurst (who were performing <i>Long Day's Journey into Night</i> at the Neil Simon Theatre), an unbelievably statuesque Iman, pocket-sized Tom Cruise, MTM with her smile, Charlene Tilton with her five-year-old daughter Cherish (to a David Mamet play <i>!?!!</i>...can you say fucking inappropriate), Mike Tyson with Robin Givens (a week after the Barbara Walters interview), McEnroe without Tatum and a heavily body guarded, pre-glyph Prince, to name a few. But the most telling celebrity story surrounding <i>Speed the Plow</i> was one night a lanky, slightly greasy man jumped up even before the intermission lights fully came on and bee-lined to the top of the aisle where I happened to be standing. With an exasperated I-can't-believe-I-have-to-sit-through-another-act-of-this-crap look on his face he demanded, "Where can I get a drink?" I pointed the way, he managed a monosyllabic grunt which I took for <i>thanks</i>, although it very well could have been <i>fuck off</i>, and was the first to pony up to the bar, where he ordered a double. Who was this incredibly put upon, in dire need of a drink patron? Why the Malkovich known as John, of course.<br />
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For six whole months the Royale was packed. People swarmed to see if Madonna could act, and I somehow maneuvered my way into the thick of it.<br />
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One sunny afternoon, I was on my way to my apartment after ushering a matinee. I was wearing Top-Siders with no socks and sported a backpack, casual twinkie chic as I recall. I turned onto my street, just off of 8th Ave. and some kid asked me for a quarter. Being a seasoned New Yorker of six months I pointedly ignored him and kept on walking. I remember feeling proud of my disdain towards this kid, proud that I had successfully adopted contemptuous big city ways. As I got closer to 9th Ave. the same kid grabbed my left wrist and yelled, "All I asked for was a quarter!" and then took off. I was shell shocked. My personal space had been egregiously violated. I knew he must have done something. <i>The little fucker cut me.</i> I looked around to see if there was any blood, if anyone...<i>anyone</i>...witnessed the infraction. But there was no one on the street, and no gaping wound upon my person. I may not have been injured but my wrist tingled from where he grabbed me. It just didn't make any sense. Why would the kid scare me like that? And grab my wrist of all things? For a quarter? </div>
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I took a couple more steps, then stopped again to recheck my backpack, my clothes, my wrist and eventually what struck me was how tan I had gotten during my time in New York. There was this pale, fish-belly white stripe on my wrist where my watch usually lived... </div>
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<i>My watch! The Cartier Tank watch Mom gave me for graduation...where is it? I put it on today, didn't I? (Light bulb) That asshole stole it!</i><i> </i></div>
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I turned towards where he took off and could just barely make out his form as he turned south onto 8th Ave. My shoulders sagged with resignation. <i>Well, that bites. Mom is going to be royally pissed. I'll never hear the end of it. </i>And the thought of her nonstop carping spurred me into action. <i>Fuck it. I'm</i><i> going after him.</i></div>
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I raced down 48th. Top-Siders slapped the sidewalk, backpack banged against my back and yet I flew. My adrenaline was pumping so fast I was barely winded when I got to 8th Ave. I turned the corner expecting Nimble Fingers to be long gone. But I was wrong. This kid, whose name I was to find out was Malvin Webb, was only a couple of feet in front of me, <i>sauntering!</i> Nothing could have pissed me off more than the audacity of his strut.</div>
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At the time, I was deep into the Meisner Technique. I can already hear some of you snickering, but for those of you not in the know, Sanford Meisner created an acting technique whereby what you do on stage has nothing to do with any of your own preconceived notions, but rather your entire performance is hinged on interpreting the other actors' emotional life and then taking it very personally. As a Meisner student, I clocked in hours of exercises knowing exactly how I felt in any given moment. I became a Zen master deciphering nuance.<br />
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<i>The end of your</i><i> sentence lilted upwards and you raised an eyebrow. Does that mean you're questioning me? Fuck you!</i><br />
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During that time if you were to have asked me the innocuous, "How are you?" I would have let loose with unvarnished, splinter-filled truth. (I have since learned that <i>fine</i> is the preferred response for a reason.) And right then, looking at Malvin Webb's back, nonchalantly strolling away from the scene of <i>his</i> crime, I was filled with a volcanic anger that leads men to do stupid things.<br />
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I caught up to the kid, placed my hand on his shoulder <i>am I really doing this?</i>, turned him to face me and yelled, "Where is my fucking watch?"<br />
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His eyes grew as big as Courtney Love's addiction, surprised as hell that I ran after him, then he shrugged off my hand and took off across 8th in slowing traffic. What else could I do? I followed close behind, dodging taxis and yelling nonstop obscenities.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vmEpCFqeaLc/TxHubsj_bII/AAAAAAAABUA/GRcEuFHIwn0/s1600/DSCN0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vmEpCFqeaLc/TxHubsj_bII/AAAAAAAABUA/GRcEuFHIwn0/s320/DSCN0063.JPG" width="320" /></a>Poor Malvin didn't realize he was headed right towards the fire station at 48th and 8th, where two fire men happened to be hanging out enjoying a cigarette break. They saw a crazed, backpack-wearing fool giving chase to a skinny, guilty looking kid and threw down their butts ready to intervene.<br />
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Malvin realized his blunder and quickly veered uptown. I was right on his heels and saw my opportunity. Either I attempt what I've only seen on tv and nail the bastard, or let him slip from my fingers. Meisner kicked into high gear and I thought, "Get the asshole!" I grabbed the kid with both arms and we body-slammed into a bus stopped at the red light. Baretta would have been proud.<br />
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Then he purposefully dropped my watch, trying to get rid of the evidence, and that prompted me to label the event to anyone who would listen, "Did you see that? That's <i>my</i> watch that fell out of <i>his</i> hands! He stole my watch. And when I grabbed him he dropped it. But that is my watch and it was in his hand. He stole my fucking watch!"<br />
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Two firemen took him into custody which Malvin didn't fight. Personally, I think he was relieved he was being escorted away from me.<br />
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Then another fireman brought me into the fire house lounge area. He saw how amped up I was and told me to calm down. <i>Calm down? Are you kidding me? I need to own this emotion. I might need to recall it for the stage.</i> And then he offered me coffee. <i>First you want me to calm down, then you offer me coffee? Which is it? Oh, that's good. I have to remember that.</i><br />
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Eventually, the police came and took Malvin Webb into custody. He didn't show up to the grand jury trial and I never found out what happened to him. But if not for the wonderful services of Engine 54, Ladder 4, Battalion 9 I never would have gotten my watch back. They will forever be in my debt.<br />
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And without knowing my story, Sebastian wanted to go to "Broadway's Firehouse" on 48th and 8th more than any other place in New York.<br />
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We went to the station and not only was it open, but two firetrucks from another station were parked in front. One of the firemen saw my son openly salivate and asked if he and Maxwell wanted to sit inside the truck. He was a true gem, very patient with the kids, coaxing them along if they got shy, really very wonderful.</div>
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While the kids were sitting inside the truck and trying on helmets, our friendly fireman<span style="text-align: left;"> informed us of a Fire Department store in Rockefeller Plaza! Who knew?</span><br />
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I found myself very much tickled by the message on the fire truck's windshield.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span><br />
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The fireman then asked if the kids wanted to go on the tiller, the back of the truck that has it's own steering wheel. Sebastian was just climbing up when the call came in. The fireman deftly lifted Sebastian down and then a bunch of them quickly donned their gear, hustled onto the truck and sirened away. Bash was slack jawed with amazement.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5c5RMwwv-gI/Tx7vVqDCB3I/AAAAAAAABVQ/A_5_RtZ8vxk/s1600/DSCN0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5c5RMwwv-gI/Tx7vVqDCB3I/AAAAAAAABVQ/A_5_RtZ8vxk/s200/DSCN0064.JPG" width="200" /></a>After the trucks took off, I noticed a plaque out in front. It hadn't been there when Malvin Webb was taken into custody. It was commendation for the firehouse's courageous work on 9/11. Fifteen firefighters from Engine 54, Ladder 4, Battalion 9 were lost that day.<br />
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I couldn't help but wonder if one of those men was the firefighter who offered me a cup of coffee.<br />
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***</div>
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After a quick stop in at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, which the kids were surprisingly into, we made our way to Rockefeller Center. The Americana's tree may be taller, but come on, what setting tops this?<br />
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The next day was a repeat trip to show Michael all we'd seen. We flirted with the idea of ice skating but the line was crazy long (I imagine two hours worth). Instead, and this may sound cheesy, we went to the Rock Center Cafe with a table that overlooked the skaters. </div>
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Right next to the cafe is a replica of the Swarovski crystal star that sits atop the tree, and little Maxwell Pearl was drawn to that bauble like Joan Rivers to reconstructive surgery. Whoever becomes this girl's spouse better have bank because Maxwell likes bling.</div>
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And right around the corner from the star...the NYFD store! Sebastian couldn't believe his good fortune, and if hard pressed he might tell you it's his favorite place in the city. </div>
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So, once again, the Christmas tree was <i>not</i> the hit. Maxwell loved the crystal star, Sebastian the firefighter store, and my husband...well my husband was much more impressed with the 2012 FDNY Firefighters calendar.</div>
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And really, who can blame him!</div>Mommy with a Penishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10360095273858091641noreply@blogger.com3