Identity Crisis
We're getting promoted next month.
Our BAH changed.
We're in Charlie Company.
They're moving us again.
Why should I have to participate? You're in the Army, not me!
Wanderlust (all in reference to the same duty station)
EWW! I don't want to live there!!
UGH! I hate it here!!
AWW! I loooved it there!!
What the What??
Honey, the TSP didn't draft, and the BAH on the LES was for O2 instead of O3. So I called USAA, and then I went to finance, but finance won't talk to me without a general POA, so meet me at JAG unless you want to DIY.
We have to PCS so my husband can attend the CCC for his MOS.
I waited for an hour at DEERS to enroll Kate in EFMP, but had forgotten her SSN and statement from her PCP, so I was SOL.
I have to register with CYS so I can drop the kids at CDC on my way to PWOC.
FRG? FML,
I don't participate in FRG because the women are all catty witches.
Another email? Delete!
No one ever tells me what's going on.
I asked for help moving apartments because I had a hair appointment that day, and was told that that's not "the FRG's purpose". Witch.
They brought another lasagna?? (after elective surgery)
My FRG leader sucks. I could do such a better job.
I'm the new FRG leader??
No one's coming to my meetings, even though I keep sending the emails.
No, I'm sorry, the FRG isn't responsible for your lawn maintenance. Moron.
Okay, I have to pick up my kids, go home, and make dinner for our family and for Sue Smith. She just had her nose done, and can't cook for her own children. They didn't give me any likes, dislikes, or allergies. I hope they like lasagna.
My FRG sucks. I'd like to see any of them do a better job.
Approximately 5 Weeks After Redeployment
Have you heard? The Johnsons, Romeros, and Greens are pregnant.
Have you heard? The Davidsons, Fitzgeralds, and Taylors are getting divorced.
Have you seen the McDonalds new Escalade?
Have you seen the Jacksons new boobs?
Generally Speaking
Semi-formal? What does that mean?? What am I supposed to wear?
I hate hail and farewells- they're always at the kids' bedtime.
I hate hail and farewells- they're always full of screaming crying kids.
Oooh, Army Wives is on! I love that show; it's just like real life.
Eww, Army Wives is on! I hate that show; that crap would never happen in real life.
We're waiting on a board.
We're waiting on orders.
We're waiting on movers.
We're waiting on housing.
We're waiting on household goods.
And Finally...
HOOAH!! (I am, of course, kidding. None of us ever say this seriously. At least, we shouldn't.)
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Rules To Snark By
I've been seeing the following forward making the Facebook rounds:
We need to teach our DAUGHTERS the difference between
A man who FLATTERS her and a man who COMPLIMENTS her.
A man who SPENDS MONEY on her and a man who INVESTS in her.
A man who views her as PROPERTY and a man who views her PROPERLY.
A man who LUSTS after her and a man who LOVES her.
A man who believes HE is GOD'S GIFT to women and a man who remembers a WOMAN was GOD'S GIFT to MAN.
And then teach OUR SONS to be that kind of man.
Okay, so you know I'm salivating here. Where to begin, where to begin? I suppose I can see the author's intent; let's teach our daughters self-worth and value so that they choose healthy relationships. But, in the grand tradition of televised lingerie fashion shows and party pics of Pamela Anderson table dancing in Cabo, things widely disseminated in order to empower women can come off as farcical, and even a little sad. So, sure, I could point out the absurd and obvious contradictions-- a gent who believes women are God's gift to him would most likely see said gift as property. Also, I'm not entirely certain, but a man who invests in a woman is probably looking for a return, so maybe we'd be better served teaching our daughters the difference between a man who spends money on her, and a pimp. Admittedly, though picking apart this missive is entertaining, it's hardly helpful. "But, Kitt," absolutely none of you are asking, "What do you think we should be teaching our daughters?" Buckle up, kiddies, I'm about to lay some cold, hard parental wisdom on you. I've raised two daughters to the combined age of four, so, clearly I'm qualified for such things.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between a man who compliments her, and a man who complements her. Example? A guy once told me that I "had done growed up in all the right places." Was I flattered? Sure. But did I date him? Only a few months. Simply put, compliments rock, but that doesn't necessarily mean the complimenter does. Conversely, my husband's idea of a compliment is "Don't worry, I have more wrinkles than you do." BUT he gets my sense of humor, and he's the world's best straight-man; he definitely complements me.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between jeggings and pants. JEGGINGS AREN'T PANTS!!
You need to teach your daughter the difference between a roth and traditional IRA. Of the 62 million wage and salaried American women working today, only 45 percent participate in a retirement plan. Another fun fact-- the life expectancy of an American woman is 81, while the average American man is expected to live to 76. This means that while women are living longer than men, they're probably saving less. Ladies, DO NOT depend on someone else to support you. The last thing you're going to feel like doing at eighty is trolling retirement homes for boytoys, when your main competition will be a perky, twentysomething trollop who's looking for a wealthy grandpa to "invest" in her.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between safe sex, and safe sects. Condoms good, sister-wives bad. While you're at it, you may want to let your teenager know that sex is power. That is to say, she holds all the power until she has sex, then it goes directly to that love of her life who won't be speaking to her the next month. Oh, he'll be speaking about her, just not to her.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between lie, lay, laid, and lain. Then kindly have your daughter explain it to me.
And, finally, teach your son to stay away from girls whose mothers used Facebook as a parenting resource.
We need to teach our DAUGHTERS the difference between
A man who FLATTERS her and a man who COMPLIMENTS her.
A man who SPENDS MONEY on her and a man who INVESTS in her.
A man who views her as PROPERTY and a man who views her PROPERLY.
A man who LUSTS after her and a man who LOVES her.
A man who believes HE is GOD'S GIFT to women and a man who remembers a WOMAN was GOD'S GIFT to MAN.
And then teach OUR SONS to be that kind of man.
Okay, so you know I'm salivating here. Where to begin, where to begin? I suppose I can see the author's intent; let's teach our daughters self-worth and value so that they choose healthy relationships. But, in the grand tradition of televised lingerie fashion shows and party pics of Pamela Anderson table dancing in Cabo, things widely disseminated in order to empower women can come off as farcical, and even a little sad. So, sure, I could point out the absurd and obvious contradictions-- a gent who believes women are God's gift to him would most likely see said gift as property. Also, I'm not entirely certain, but a man who invests in a woman is probably looking for a return, so maybe we'd be better served teaching our daughters the difference between a man who spends money on her, and a pimp. Admittedly, though picking apart this missive is entertaining, it's hardly helpful. "But, Kitt," absolutely none of you are asking, "What do you think we should be teaching our daughters?" Buckle up, kiddies, I'm about to lay some cold, hard parental wisdom on you. I've raised two daughters to the combined age of four, so, clearly I'm qualified for such things.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between a man who compliments her, and a man who complements her. Example? A guy once told me that I "had done growed up in all the right places." Was I flattered? Sure. But did I date him? Only a few months. Simply put, compliments rock, but that doesn't necessarily mean the complimenter does. Conversely, my husband's idea of a compliment is "Don't worry, I have more wrinkles than you do." BUT he gets my sense of humor, and he's the world's best straight-man; he definitely complements me.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between jeggings and pants. JEGGINGS AREN'T PANTS!!
You need to teach your daughter the difference between a roth and traditional IRA. Of the 62 million wage and salaried American women working today, only 45 percent participate in a retirement plan. Another fun fact-- the life expectancy of an American woman is 81, while the average American man is expected to live to 76. This means that while women are living longer than men, they're probably saving less. Ladies, DO NOT depend on someone else to support you. The last thing you're going to feel like doing at eighty is trolling retirement homes for boytoys, when your main competition will be a perky, twentysomething trollop who's looking for a wealthy grandpa to "invest" in her.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between safe sex, and safe sects. Condoms good, sister-wives bad. While you're at it, you may want to let your teenager know that sex is power. That is to say, she holds all the power until she has sex, then it goes directly to that love of her life who won't be speaking to her the next month. Oh, he'll be speaking about her, just not to her.
You need to teach your daughter the difference between lie, lay, laid, and lain. Then kindly have your daughter explain it to me.
And, finally, teach your son to stay away from girls whose mothers used Facebook as a parenting resource.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
In Defense of Men
Last week was one of those free HBO weekends, and I caught a movie based on a television show made popular by white women and gay men everywhere. In an effort to maintain my street cred, I won't disclose the title, but think pink cocktails and New York. Anywho, this movie depicted a woman throwing a fit because her hard-working husband didn't feel like hitting the club up on a Tuesday night. She cried when he bought her a flatscreen television as an anniversary present. She went on holiday with her girlfriends, made out with an old boyfriend, told her husband about it, and was surprised when he didn't pick her up from the airport. Personally, I was hoping he was at home, busily bleaching her couture, but, he was actually out buying her an enormous diamond ring. In this cinematic stink-bomb that portrayed so much of what I hate about Hollywood values, this irritated me the most. It's not so much the story; I understand that it's fiction, and I don't think the public would be interested in watching a movie about, say, my typical day of diapers and dinner prep. No, what leaves me in disgust are the unrealistic "romantic" expectations such screenplays evoke. Women are being bamboozled, and men are paying the price. Just so we're clear, fortysomething trollops are losers, no, you are not a Carrie, and chances are, your man is too busy living his life to plan sweeping, romantic gestures (as are you).
In the seven years we've been married, my husband has brought home flowers once. Is that bad? I think it's all a matter of perspective. In seven years, he's brought home one bouquet of flowers-- he's also brought home 225 paychecks. He's never written sonnets, surprised me with jewelry, or tattooed my name on his lower back. Yet, my SUV is detailed, my lawn is mown, and, as I write this, we're watching my Huskers lose while his Longhorns still have a quarter to play. Perspective. What's the big deal about flowers, anyway? If you ask me, flowers aren't used to bolster your relationship, flowers are used to make other women feel bad about theirs. Otherwise, all arrangements would be sent to homes instead of offices, and I'd never have to see another rose bouquet iphone pic on Facebook. Certainly, some folks like to buy such things for their significant others, and others genuinely appreciate the thought and beauty of flowers. This is fine. I'm just saying that an empty desk on your birthday doesn't necessarily mean your relationship is doomed for failure.
If you need or want specific things out of your guy, tell him. I know, it's crazy, he should totally be able to read your mind, but take it from a girl who woke up one Christmas morning hoping for a rock on her finger, and went to bed Christmas night with a stuffed hippopotamus and a chip on her shoulder-- spelling out your expectations is the best way to go. Every year, without fail, I get exactly what I want for my birthday. My secret? Every year, without fail, I send my husband a list of exactly what I want for my birthday. For those of you thinking, "But I want him to surprise me," reference the aforementioned hippopotamus anecdote.
Finally, let's be honest. If you're like me, you're more attuned to your significant other than he is to you. So, tell me, when's the last time you sat through a Dr Who marathon, or enthusiastically attended a car show, or even worse just because you knew it would mean a lot to him? I don't know about you, but I'm willing to forego hearts and chocolates if it means never having to discuss fantasy football in bed. Perspective.
In the seven years we've been married, my husband has brought home flowers once. Is that bad? I think it's all a matter of perspective. In seven years, he's brought home one bouquet of flowers-- he's also brought home 225 paychecks. He's never written sonnets, surprised me with jewelry, or tattooed my name on his lower back. Yet, my SUV is detailed, my lawn is mown, and, as I write this, we're watching my Huskers lose while his Longhorns still have a quarter to play. Perspective. What's the big deal about flowers, anyway? If you ask me, flowers aren't used to bolster your relationship, flowers are used to make other women feel bad about theirs. Otherwise, all arrangements would be sent to homes instead of offices, and I'd never have to see another rose bouquet iphone pic on Facebook. Certainly, some folks like to buy such things for their significant others, and others genuinely appreciate the thought and beauty of flowers. This is fine. I'm just saying that an empty desk on your birthday doesn't necessarily mean your relationship is doomed for failure.
If you need or want specific things out of your guy, tell him. I know, it's crazy, he should totally be able to read your mind, but take it from a girl who woke up one Christmas morning hoping for a rock on her finger, and went to bed Christmas night with a stuffed hippopotamus and a chip on her shoulder-- spelling out your expectations is the best way to go. Every year, without fail, I get exactly what I want for my birthday. My secret? Every year, without fail, I send my husband a list of exactly what I want for my birthday. For those of you thinking, "But I want him to surprise me," reference the aforementioned hippopotamus anecdote.
Finally, let's be honest. If you're like me, you're more attuned to your significant other than he is to you. So, tell me, when's the last time you sat through a Dr Who marathon, or enthusiastically attended a car show, or even worse just because you knew it would mean a lot to him? I don't know about you, but I'm willing to forego hearts and chocolates if it means never having to discuss fantasy football in bed. Perspective.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Please Don't Feed the Drama Queens
Merriam-Webster defines a Drama Queen as a person given to often excessively emotional performances or reactions. But I feel this cursory explanation only reinforces the negative connotation of the lifestyle. As a Southern, small-town girl, ex-debutante, ex-sorority girl, and current Army wife, I feel uniquely qualified to educate the masses on one of America's least understood groups: Drama Queens. Below, I have outlined a few little-known facts about these royals.
Drama Queens are born, not made. Regardless of what people might try to convince you, Drama Queendom is not a choice. Situations- huge, complicated situations - find real Drama Queens. If these people were not biologically engineered to handle such happenings, I would legitimately fear for their sanity. Not just anyone is a Drama Queen. Many young girls ages 12-22 will experiment with being a Drama Queen. I am unsure if this is an act of rebellion against non-dramatic parents, or perhaps an attempt to repel young males, but, eventually, most of these "Drama Princesses" will find that they are better suited to a mundane existence. However, true Drama Queens will find comfort in this tumultuous lifestyle; it will just feel right. If you find yourself among the few, the proud, the OMG!!, then congratulations! You will find yourself in elite company with the likes of former Senator John Edwards, screen and courtroom legend Lindsey Lohan, and that lady from my bank, who, I've never technically been introduced to , but has told me (in great detail) of her third divorce and questionable shoulder mole.
Drama Queens are just like you and me- except better. I believe that one of the reasons Drama Queens are looked down upon by the rest of us, is that we feel inferior. And, really, why shouldn't we? Drama Queens are more than you and me. They are altogether smarter, dumber, taller, shorter, faster, slower, happier, and sadder. Their lovers love them more, their haters hate them more. They are more patriotic and religious. They work harder, have longer hours, and regardless of who you are, their life is better than yours. Unless, of course, your life has recently hit a rough patch. In that case, quit your whining, because a Drama Queen has is worse.
Drama Queens are the natural prey of mother-in-laws, but are, nonetheless, remarkable mothers. I don't have an explanation for this one. All I know, is that despite being an exceptional human being (see above), a Drama Queen is always hated by her mother-in-law (or baby daddy's mama, as Drama Queens sometimes eschew marriage). This fact is particularly puzzling in light of how well Drama Queens parent. A pregnant Drama Queen is truly a magnificent thing. She is healthier and sicker than you ever were. She gains less weight, and loses it all approximately thirty minutes postpartum. She does not take the drugs, and even if she does, they will not work so, really, it's still totally natural childbirth. She will have the longest/shortest most painful delivery in the history of the universe- afterall, her cervix dilated to eleven centimeters. But it's all worth it in the end, as her child will most certainly crawl first, walk first, talk first, and generally be the smartest child on or off the planet. Her little darling's first birthday party will rival the Royal Wedding, and cute? Fugetaboutit. The rest of us pale in its glory. It's easy for we peons to become resentful of the constant gloat, but me must remember little-known Drama Queen fact #212: During Pregnancy, a chemical is excreted in a Drama Queen's brain that effectively erases all prior knowledge of mankind. So, you see, a Drama Queen will act like she is the first person to ever be pregnant and her offspring is the first child to ever be borne and grow up, because, to her, that is the case.
Drama Queens are natural predators. Please don't feed them. Drama Queens feed on, well, drama. Unless you went to a special school, or you know, any Southern Baptist church, you are woefully unprepared to handle them. Drama Queens are tricksy. They will tempt you with long sighs and woebegone looks, but do not, under any circumstances, ask why. And as is so often the case, the Internet, or more specifically, Facebook, has widened the predators' net. Drama Queens will lure you with cryptic status updates that allude to familial discontent, marital discord, or health concerns. They might even solicit advice. Please, do not be fooled! Remember, Drama Queens are smarter than you. They don't really need your advice; you can't contribute any suggestion that they haven't already thought of, implemented, and deemed useless.
Now that you understand a little more about Drama Queens, I hope that you can use this newfound knowledge to your advantage. Feeling a little down? Call a Drama Queen- there's at least one in every family. But please, don't misinterpret their looks of delight at your misfortune- they are only excited to share their wisdom. Drama Queens are voracious, if not sympathetic, listeners. And no matter your troubles, a Drama Queen has been there, done that better than you.
Drama Queens are born, not made. Regardless of what people might try to convince you, Drama Queendom is not a choice. Situations- huge, complicated situations - find real Drama Queens. If these people were not biologically engineered to handle such happenings, I would legitimately fear for their sanity. Not just anyone is a Drama Queen. Many young girls ages 12-22 will experiment with being a Drama Queen. I am unsure if this is an act of rebellion against non-dramatic parents, or perhaps an attempt to repel young males, but, eventually, most of these "Drama Princesses" will find that they are better suited to a mundane existence. However, true Drama Queens will find comfort in this tumultuous lifestyle; it will just feel right. If you find yourself among the few, the proud, the OMG!!, then congratulations! You will find yourself in elite company with the likes of former Senator John Edwards, screen and courtroom legend Lindsey Lohan, and that lady from my bank, who, I've never technically been introduced to , but has told me (in great detail) of her third divorce and questionable shoulder mole.
Drama Queens are just like you and me- except better. I believe that one of the reasons Drama Queens are looked down upon by the rest of us, is that we feel inferior. And, really, why shouldn't we? Drama Queens are more than you and me. They are altogether smarter, dumber, taller, shorter, faster, slower, happier, and sadder. Their lovers love them more, their haters hate them more. They are more patriotic and religious. They work harder, have longer hours, and regardless of who you are, their life is better than yours. Unless, of course, your life has recently hit a rough patch. In that case, quit your whining, because a Drama Queen has is worse.
Drama Queens are the natural prey of mother-in-laws, but are, nonetheless, remarkable mothers. I don't have an explanation for this one. All I know, is that despite being an exceptional human being (see above), a Drama Queen is always hated by her mother-in-law (or baby daddy's mama, as Drama Queens sometimes eschew marriage). This fact is particularly puzzling in light of how well Drama Queens parent. A pregnant Drama Queen is truly a magnificent thing. She is healthier and sicker than you ever were. She gains less weight, and loses it all approximately thirty minutes postpartum. She does not take the drugs, and even if she does, they will not work so, really, it's still totally natural childbirth. She will have the longest/shortest most painful delivery in the history of the universe- afterall, her cervix dilated to eleven centimeters. But it's all worth it in the end, as her child will most certainly crawl first, walk first, talk first, and generally be the smartest child on or off the planet. Her little darling's first birthday party will rival the Royal Wedding, and cute? Fugetaboutit. The rest of us pale in its glory. It's easy for we peons to become resentful of the constant gloat, but me must remember little-known Drama Queen fact #212: During Pregnancy, a chemical is excreted in a Drama Queen's brain that effectively erases all prior knowledge of mankind. So, you see, a Drama Queen will act like she is the first person to ever be pregnant and her offspring is the first child to ever be borne and grow up, because, to her, that is the case.
Drama Queens are natural predators. Please don't feed them. Drama Queens feed on, well, drama. Unless you went to a special school, or you know, any Southern Baptist church, you are woefully unprepared to handle them. Drama Queens are tricksy. They will tempt you with long sighs and woebegone looks, but do not, under any circumstances, ask why. And as is so often the case, the Internet, or more specifically, Facebook, has widened the predators' net. Drama Queens will lure you with cryptic status updates that allude to familial discontent, marital discord, or health concerns. They might even solicit advice. Please, do not be fooled! Remember, Drama Queens are smarter than you. They don't really need your advice; you can't contribute any suggestion that they haven't already thought of, implemented, and deemed useless.
Now that you understand a little more about Drama Queens, I hope that you can use this newfound knowledge to your advantage. Feeling a little down? Call a Drama Queen- there's at least one in every family. But please, don't misinterpret their looks of delight at your misfortune- they are only excited to share their wisdom. Drama Queens are voracious, if not sympathetic, listeners. And no matter your troubles, a Drama Queen has been there, done that better than you.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
All Hail the Power of my B
All hail the "power of the V". Ladies, are you pissed yet? You should be.
I went to a movie recently, and the theater showed a commercial before the film. Imagine this: The sun dawns over the horizon as a male voiceover announces, "It's the cradle of life." Mesopotamia? Epic battle scenes play as the man continues, "Men fight for it, die for it." SEC Football? "Some say it is THE most powerful thing on EARTH!" Oprah?? Then, suddenly, the scene cuts to a woman pushing her shopping cart down a grocery store aisle. She stops to examine a display of Summer's Eve feminine wash and cleansing cloths. The voice, now a chipper female, says, "So ladies... take good care of it! Summer's Eve- hail to the power of the V!" Immediately, two distinct sounds filled the theater- female gasps and male guffaws. I cannot begin to explain how enraged I was, but just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I see that the ads are now being nationally broadcast on television.
So, I went to Summer's Eve's website to post a complaint, but their position is that they are actually empowering women, and that, in fact, "it's about time vaginas were celebrated for their awesomeness." You've got to be kidding me. Tell me, Summer's Eve, what's so awesome about it? It's a body part that serves a specific purpose. Grand. So is my elbow. So are my ears, but I don't see Q-Tips hailing the power of the E's. Personally, I wish to celebrate the awesomeness of women's brains. How about hailing the power of the B? Lets, for a moment, put aside the fact that physicians agree your products are not only unnecessary, but possibly harmful. What's up with telling women our anatomy is awesome, but only if it's appropriately scoured with chemicals first. Face it, you are preying on the insecurities of women, and you must be destroyed.
The saddest women I know, are those who define self-worth by men's perceptions of them. You know the ones- you've probably got a few of them on your Facebook friends list. You don't know what (or if) they read, or how they feel about current events (American Idol and The Bachelorette don't count), but you've seen a bazillion pictures of them in crop tops, booty shorts, and bikinis, draped over a different guy in each one. It's like they want to brag about how attractive men find them. Well, congratulations? What does this adoration buy, exactly? Sex? So someone wants to have sex with them... again, congratulations, but you know what? Chances are, the most unattractive woman you've ever met has had sex; it's not that hard to procure. I want to shake these women, and tell them that they are so much more than a physical shell placed on Earth for male enjoyment! Not to mention the fact that these women are almost always trying to chase down the good ol' days. A thirty-five year old, no matter how good of shape she's in, cannot compete with a twenty-five year old. And you mid-twenties gals- you're going to be thirty-five so fast your heads will spin. Trust me. Please, ladies, find something real about yourselves to take pride in.
My mother taught my sister and me that gender is as arbitrary as hair color. She was always aware of society's seeming acceptance of sexism, so she did all she could to raise us as strong, independent women. Looks didn't matter in my household. I was told often that I was loved, smart, funny, capable, tenacious, etc., but I never, ever heard words like pretty, cute, thin, or any other physical qualifier (I might not have been all of these things, but my sister was, and she didn't hear them either). My parents didn't remark on these things, because they didn't matter then, and they don't matter now. Sure, every few years you will read about a study that finds "attractive" people to have better jobs and whatnot, but can you guess how many beauty queens are on Forbes' list of the 100 most powerful women? (Alright, there's that one Alaskan, but anyway)
Daniel and I are doing our best to follow this parenting model. I want my girls to feel self-assured and self-aware. I want them to assert themselves, and doggedly pursue whatever goals they set. I teach them that they can do anything they are willing to work for, and that confidence and determination are powerful. And yet, sadly, the fine folks at Summer's Eve want a woman to believe that her true power comes from between her legs. Nothing less, nothing more. So take care of it ladies, they assert, or men won't care about you anymore, and you will have no power left at all. So, friends, you can listen to Summer's Eve, or you can join my ranks of strong, self-thinking women. We are, afterall, way too intelligent to listen to a bunch of douches.
I went to a movie recently, and the theater showed a commercial before the film. Imagine this: The sun dawns over the horizon as a male voiceover announces, "It's the cradle of life." Mesopotamia? Epic battle scenes play as the man continues, "Men fight for it, die for it." SEC Football? "Some say it is THE most powerful thing on EARTH!" Oprah?? Then, suddenly, the scene cuts to a woman pushing her shopping cart down a grocery store aisle. She stops to examine a display of Summer's Eve feminine wash and cleansing cloths. The voice, now a chipper female, says, "So ladies... take good care of it! Summer's Eve- hail to the power of the V!" Immediately, two distinct sounds filled the theater- female gasps and male guffaws. I cannot begin to explain how enraged I was, but just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I see that the ads are now being nationally broadcast on television.
So, I went to Summer's Eve's website to post a complaint, but their position is that they are actually empowering women, and that, in fact, "it's about time vaginas were celebrated for their awesomeness." You've got to be kidding me. Tell me, Summer's Eve, what's so awesome about it? It's a body part that serves a specific purpose. Grand. So is my elbow. So are my ears, but I don't see Q-Tips hailing the power of the E's. Personally, I wish to celebrate the awesomeness of women's brains. How about hailing the power of the B? Lets, for a moment, put aside the fact that physicians agree your products are not only unnecessary, but possibly harmful. What's up with telling women our anatomy is awesome, but only if it's appropriately scoured with chemicals first. Face it, you are preying on the insecurities of women, and you must be destroyed.
The saddest women I know, are those who define self-worth by men's perceptions of them. You know the ones- you've probably got a few of them on your Facebook friends list. You don't know what (or if) they read, or how they feel about current events (American Idol and The Bachelorette don't count), but you've seen a bazillion pictures of them in crop tops, booty shorts, and bikinis, draped over a different guy in each one. It's like they want to brag about how attractive men find them. Well, congratulations? What does this adoration buy, exactly? Sex? So someone wants to have sex with them... again, congratulations, but you know what? Chances are, the most unattractive woman you've ever met has had sex; it's not that hard to procure. I want to shake these women, and tell them that they are so much more than a physical shell placed on Earth for male enjoyment! Not to mention the fact that these women are almost always trying to chase down the good ol' days. A thirty-five year old, no matter how good of shape she's in, cannot compete with a twenty-five year old. And you mid-twenties gals- you're going to be thirty-five so fast your heads will spin. Trust me. Please, ladies, find something real about yourselves to take pride in.
My mother taught my sister and me that gender is as arbitrary as hair color. She was always aware of society's seeming acceptance of sexism, so she did all she could to raise us as strong, independent women. Looks didn't matter in my household. I was told often that I was loved, smart, funny, capable, tenacious, etc., but I never, ever heard words like pretty, cute, thin, or any other physical qualifier (I might not have been all of these things, but my sister was, and she didn't hear them either). My parents didn't remark on these things, because they didn't matter then, and they don't matter now. Sure, every few years you will read about a study that finds "attractive" people to have better jobs and whatnot, but can you guess how many beauty queens are on Forbes' list of the 100 most powerful women? (Alright, there's that one Alaskan, but anyway)
Daniel and I are doing our best to follow this parenting model. I want my girls to feel self-assured and self-aware. I want them to assert themselves, and doggedly pursue whatever goals they set. I teach them that they can do anything they are willing to work for, and that confidence and determination are powerful. And yet, sadly, the fine folks at Summer's Eve want a woman to believe that her true power comes from between her legs. Nothing less, nothing more. So take care of it ladies, they assert, or men won't care about you anymore, and you will have no power left at all. So, friends, you can listen to Summer's Eve, or you can join my ranks of strong, self-thinking women. We are, afterall, way too intelligent to listen to a bunch of douches.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
Daniel had the opportunity to spend the month of July attending a class at an Air Force base in Destin (stupid Air Force), so it seemed like the perfect time for a little getaway. The plan was for Daniel to arrive, as scheduled, on a Sunday, then I was to fly in on Tuesday. Before either of us could leave, there was much for us to do. I packed, I planned, and I made reservations. I lost five pounds, I found a bathing suit that didn't make me want to weep when I looked in the mirror, and I got my hair done. I waxed, I shaved, I plucked, and I sprayed. Daniel bought a new pair of goggles.
The waiting area at my departure gate in Shreveport was fairly crowded, so I sat relatively close to a couple who was waiting for the same flight. She was wearing a ring, he wasn't, and she was flipping through a bridal magazine, so I assume they are engaged. As I settled in to wait for the boarding call, I heard the woman whisper in a voice as big as herbehind hair, "Honey, am I hotter'n her?" I looked over each of my shoulders to see who she could possibly be referring to. As luck would have it, I was seated with my back against a wall, and in case there was any doubt she was talking about me, she was now pointing at me as well. I sat there, mouth agape, as her fiance assured her, over and again, that she was "way hotter'n" me. I immediately took a picture of the couple and sent it to two very impartial judges: my husband, and a dear friend who, technically, has never met me in person. Both were quick to guarantee me that these people were clearly deranged, and I departed Shreveport with my dignity relatively intact.
Once in Florida, my holiday really began. People often use vacation as a time to really let their hair down; they do things they would never do under normal circumstances. Some people get drunk, some people get tattoos, I wore flip-flops. I hate flip-flops. I mean I really, truly, loathe them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate that stupid flippy-floppy sound they make as they slap against heels desperately in need of some pedicureal attention. I hate that it has become acceptable to don them to any/all occasions. I've seen them in offices and job interviews, at weddings and funerals. Try as designers may to fancy them up with leather, satin, or sparkles, they remain, to me, no different than the disposable pair given away with every pedicure at Happy Golden Nail. Face it, folks, the Emperor's got no shoes. All vitriol aside, I decided to borrow a pair from my sister and see what all the fuss was about. I still hate them, but at least now my criticisms come from personal experience. PLUS, I can now cross one more thing off of my bucket list (not wearing flip-flops, but crazily ranting about them in a semi-public forum).
All too soon, it was time to return home. I must have had some truly gnarly karma coming my way, as I was seated in the Obnoxious Children section of the plane. OH, and did I mention that I was, once again, seated within judging distance of my favorite engaged couple? Anyway, The children were all horrible- screaming, kicking, crying, yelling. I had my fingers crossed in hopes of a sudden change in cabin pressure. I had daydreams of wildly snatching every oxygen mask as it dropped from the overhead compartments. Rationally, I knew that these children had paid for tickets just as I had. I was wondering if they had as much right to behave normally, as I had to experience a quiet flight, when it hit me... No, literally, a metal Thomas the Tank Engine sailed from somewhere behind me and struck me in the side of my face. I turned around to congratulate the little beast who winged it- he clearly has a bright future in the San Quentin softball league ahead of him. His mother never looked at me, but simply held out her hand for the toy and muttered an apology. I was thisclose to tackling the Air Marshall and stealing his gun. I hear Florida doesn't look down on juvenilicide as much as it used to.
So that's how I spent my summer vacation. Overall, I had a good time. And although ridiculous things seem to happen to me where ever I go, I generally tell myself, "Well, at least I'll get a blog out of this."
The waiting area at my departure gate in Shreveport was fairly crowded, so I sat relatively close to a couple who was waiting for the same flight. She was wearing a ring, he wasn't, and she was flipping through a bridal magazine, so I assume they are engaged. As I settled in to wait for the boarding call, I heard the woman whisper in a voice as big as her
Once in Florida, my holiday really began. People often use vacation as a time to really let their hair down; they do things they would never do under normal circumstances. Some people get drunk, some people get tattoos, I wore flip-flops. I hate flip-flops. I mean I really, truly, loathe them. I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate that stupid flippy-floppy sound they make as they slap against heels desperately in need of some pedicureal attention. I hate that it has become acceptable to don them to any/all occasions. I've seen them in offices and job interviews, at weddings and funerals. Try as designers may to fancy them up with leather, satin, or sparkles, they remain, to me, no different than the disposable pair given away with every pedicure at Happy Golden Nail. Face it, folks, the Emperor's got no shoes. All vitriol aside, I decided to borrow a pair from my sister and see what all the fuss was about. I still hate them, but at least now my criticisms come from personal experience. PLUS, I can now cross one more thing off of my bucket list (not wearing flip-flops, but crazily ranting about them in a semi-public forum).
All too soon, it was time to return home. I must have had some truly gnarly karma coming my way, as I was seated in the Obnoxious Children section of the plane. OH, and did I mention that I was, once again, seated within judging distance of my favorite engaged couple? Anyway, The children were all horrible- screaming, kicking, crying, yelling. I had my fingers crossed in hopes of a sudden change in cabin pressure. I had daydreams of wildly snatching every oxygen mask as it dropped from the overhead compartments. Rationally, I knew that these children had paid for tickets just as I had. I was wondering if they had as much right to behave normally, as I had to experience a quiet flight, when it hit me... No, literally, a metal Thomas the Tank Engine sailed from somewhere behind me and struck me in the side of my face. I turned around to congratulate the little beast who winged it- he clearly has a bright future in the San Quentin softball league ahead of him. His mother never looked at me, but simply held out her hand for the toy and muttered an apology. I was thisclose to tackling the Air Marshall and stealing his gun. I hear Florida doesn't look down on juvenilicide as much as it used to.
So that's how I spent my summer vacation. Overall, I had a good time. And although ridiculous things seem to happen to me where ever I go, I generally tell myself, "Well, at least I'll get a blog out of this."
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Tie a Yellow Ribbon... Round My Neck
I have several friends who welcomed back their husbands from a deployment this week. It made me think of my own experiences with deployment, and how I assumed my feelings about it were unorthodox. That is, until I started to open up about them. Turns out, I'm not such a weirdo (about this, anyway).
Deployment is an inevitability in today's military. At least, it has been for the nine years I've been a part of it. While all branches of the military deploy, for the purposes of this rant, I will only be dealing with real deployments. If your Airman gets sent to Diego Garcia for a four month vacation, this post ain't for you. Not to trivialize the Air Force deployment schedule, but, c'mon. If I sound bitter and jealous, it's because I am. Anyway, I'm talking about year-long tours of scenic Iraq and Afghanistan. I was fully prepared for them to suck, and, they do- but not for the reasons I was expecting.
My husband's first deployment was to Afghanistan. We were newly married and living in Germany. In fact, we spent our first anniversary surrounded by boxes, eating a candlelight dinner off of a footlocker filled with kevlar. It was hooah romance at its finest. The next day, we boarded planes headed in opposite directions; he headed East, and I headed West, back to Louisiana. There was the typical silly nonsense- racking sobs, promises to kiss our wedding picture every day, etc.* And I was a mess, too. I loved my life, I loved my marriage, and I remember wondering how I was going to make it an entire year alone. I shouldn't have worried. That deployment did suck, but, for me, the especially sucky part wasn't realizing that I couldn't function without my husband, it was realizing that I could- and that I LIKED it.
Once I got used to being alone, which was, admittedly, kind of strange, I started to see the beauty in deployment. I had no responsibilities, tons of disposable income, and no one to discuss my decisions with. It. Was. Awesome. We were able to keep in touch via phone and email, so it wasn't like we never got to communicate. We even had little games. Daniel would tease me by sending cheesy Army Wife sayings like "real love is trading in your pearls for his dog tags", and "I'm the pink in his world of camo", and I would send him pictures of me retching. We're romantical like that. The hardest part, by far, was the first month after his return. He came home, and, suddenly, I was expected to leave friends I loved, and a job I greatly enjoyed, in order to move back to a country that, frankly, wasn't my favorite in the EU. I felt angry and resentful, which, in turn, led to feeling of immense guilt. The life I made myself didn't matter; my soldier was home, and I felt the Army shoe horn prying me out of my Prada wedges, and stuffing me back into combat boots. The Army's main concern (rightfully) is the soldier. I can't tell you how many briefings, pamphlets, and the like I was given on how to ease the soldier's transition back into normal life. This was all great, but I would have been so relieved to hear that redeployment is hard for the family, too. After several weeks of reacclimation, we got our respective grooves back, and I felt better prepared to handle the next deployment. Wrong!
Deployment number two differed in a couple of distinct ways; Daniel headed to Iraq, and I had a deployment buddy. K was a four month old blob when her daddy left. He returned to a walking, talking ball of independence. K and I had our own schedule, our own way of doing things. She did not especially enjoy a strange man coming into the picture and bossing her around. To be perfectly honest, I didn't either. It took me a while to accept that he was every bit as much K's parent as I was. If I asked Daniel to help with K, but he didn't do things exactly how I would do it, I would immediately become irritated and take over. Rationally, I knew that his methods were perfectly acceptable, but I've never been accused of being overly rational. You changed her before giving her a bottle? Outside without a hat, really?? Forget Fallujah, Daniel should have been receiving hazardous duty pay at home. Thankfully, at this point in our marriage, Daniel knew how to speak my language. "Kitt, deal with it." That's not a direct quote, but you get the gist- I did, anyway. As before, things settled down, we settled in, and I settled for being second banana. K is nothing if not a daddy's girl.
Despite the things I enjoy about deployments- independence, less-than-regular leg shaving, and homecoming ceremonies (it's like having a front row seat for the most delightfully trash-tastic fashion show you've ever seen), I would prefer to keep my husband stateside. Of course, the Army rarely takes my preferences into consideration. If it did, our next move would be to Bali. I bet there's an Air Force base in Bali. Stupid Air Force. I don't know if another deployment is in our future. But I do know to take it as it comes, to expect the unexpected, and to keep the homefires burning- so as to easily burn all those cheesy Army Wife stickers.
*This episode may or may not have been amplified (read: fabricated) for comedic effect. To the best of my knowledge, Daniel does not have a wedding picture, and if last season's Longhorns didn't evoke racking sobs, a year-long vacation from me certainly wouldn't.
Deployment is an inevitability in today's military. At least, it has been for the nine years I've been a part of it. While all branches of the military deploy, for the purposes of this rant, I will only be dealing with real deployments. If your Airman gets sent to Diego Garcia for a four month vacation, this post ain't for you. Not to trivialize the Air Force deployment schedule, but, c'mon. If I sound bitter and jealous, it's because I am. Anyway, I'm talking about year-long tours of scenic Iraq and Afghanistan. I was fully prepared for them to suck, and, they do- but not for the reasons I was expecting.
My husband's first deployment was to Afghanistan. We were newly married and living in Germany. In fact, we spent our first anniversary surrounded by boxes, eating a candlelight dinner off of a footlocker filled with kevlar. It was hooah romance at its finest. The next day, we boarded planes headed in opposite directions; he headed East, and I headed West, back to Louisiana. There was the typical silly nonsense- racking sobs, promises to kiss our wedding picture every day, etc.* And I was a mess, too. I loved my life, I loved my marriage, and I remember wondering how I was going to make it an entire year alone. I shouldn't have worried. That deployment did suck, but, for me, the especially sucky part wasn't realizing that I couldn't function without my husband, it was realizing that I could- and that I LIKED it.
Once I got used to being alone, which was, admittedly, kind of strange, I started to see the beauty in deployment. I had no responsibilities, tons of disposable income, and no one to discuss my decisions with. It. Was. Awesome. We were able to keep in touch via phone and email, so it wasn't like we never got to communicate. We even had little games. Daniel would tease me by sending cheesy Army Wife sayings like "real love is trading in your pearls for his dog tags", and "I'm the pink in his world of camo", and I would send him pictures of me retching. We're romantical like that. The hardest part, by far, was the first month after his return. He came home, and, suddenly, I was expected to leave friends I loved, and a job I greatly enjoyed, in order to move back to a country that, frankly, wasn't my favorite in the EU. I felt angry and resentful, which, in turn, led to feeling of immense guilt. The life I made myself didn't matter; my soldier was home, and I felt the Army shoe horn prying me out of my Prada wedges, and stuffing me back into combat boots. The Army's main concern (rightfully) is the soldier. I can't tell you how many briefings, pamphlets, and the like I was given on how to ease the soldier's transition back into normal life. This was all great, but I would have been so relieved to hear that redeployment is hard for the family, too. After several weeks of reacclimation, we got our respective grooves back, and I felt better prepared to handle the next deployment. Wrong!
Deployment number two differed in a couple of distinct ways; Daniel headed to Iraq, and I had a deployment buddy. K was a four month old blob when her daddy left. He returned to a walking, talking ball of independence. K and I had our own schedule, our own way of doing things. She did not especially enjoy a strange man coming into the picture and bossing her around. To be perfectly honest, I didn't either. It took me a while to accept that he was every bit as much K's parent as I was. If I asked Daniel to help with K, but he didn't do things exactly how I would do it, I would immediately become irritated and take over. Rationally, I knew that his methods were perfectly acceptable, but I've never been accused of being overly rational. You changed her before giving her a bottle? Outside without a hat, really?? Forget Fallujah, Daniel should have been receiving hazardous duty pay at home. Thankfully, at this point in our marriage, Daniel knew how to speak my language. "Kitt, deal with it." That's not a direct quote, but you get the gist- I did, anyway. As before, things settled down, we settled in, and I settled for being second banana. K is nothing if not a daddy's girl.
Despite the things I enjoy about deployments- independence, less-than-regular leg shaving, and homecoming ceremonies (it's like having a front row seat for the most delightfully trash-tastic fashion show you've ever seen), I would prefer to keep my husband stateside. Of course, the Army rarely takes my preferences into consideration. If it did, our next move would be to Bali. I bet there's an Air Force base in Bali. Stupid Air Force. I don't know if another deployment is in our future. But I do know to take it as it comes, to expect the unexpected, and to keep the homefires burning- so as to easily burn all those cheesy Army Wife stickers.
*This episode may or may not have been amplified (read: fabricated) for comedic effect. To the best of my knowledge, Daniel does not have a wedding picture, and if last season's Longhorns didn't evoke racking sobs, a year-long vacation from me certainly wouldn't.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
1,2,3,4 I Declare a Mommy War
Sorry, boys. This one's for the ladies.
Recently, a friend of mine used Facebook to post an article reporting that $3.6 billion dollars in medical expenses could be saved each year if the number of children breastfed for at least six months increased by 50 percent. It was like the shot heard 'round the world. Or, the post heard 'round her Facebook page, at least. Suddenly, she had twenty responses from women who were declaring allegiances and turning on each other faster than a group of Junior Leaguers at a Kate Spade clearance. All my friend was trying to do was report a statistic she found personally interesting. Instead, she became the latest casualty of the Mommy War.
The Mommy War is the ongoing battle orchestrated and fought by modern mothers who think that our way of raising children is best. We all fight under the guise of doing what's best for the children, but I think the end game for many of us is moral superiority. As much as I would like to claim neutrality here, I cannot. No, the real Switzerland in the Mommy War is inhabited by the childless. Some of these ladies may feel a pull toward one side or the other, but they mainly think (correctly) that we're all nuts. I know, because I used to live in Switzerland, too.
Sadly, I am admitting to being a participant in this conflict. It's not my fault; they include draft cards in those boxes of home pregnancy tests. It's like the worst cereal box prize ever. Seriously, though, you are expected to take a side the minute you see that stick turn blue. Caffeine during pregnancy? Doc or Midwife? Bradley or Epidural? Women are thrown on the front lines before you can say "Boppy". The two biggest armies are the United States of Crunch, and the Republic of Shut the Eff Up and Let Me Raise My Kid the Way I Want. For ease of reading, the latter will henceforth be referred to as "The Wrong Way". Whoops, sorry- they trained me as a sniper in boot camp. All kidding aside, the hits just keep on coming after labor. Breastfeeding, circumcision, vaccines, disposable diapers, organic foods, daycare... the road between hospital (or birthing venue of your choice) and home is littered with Mommy War landmines. Step carefully, my friend.
I am all for women educating themselves, and making parenting choices that work best them. However, I HATE that we are brandishing our personal decisions in a way that makes other mothers feel bad about themselves. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I've both wielded the blade and felt its sting. Every time I go to a cookout, I bring my own food for Karolina. Then, when someone inevitably asks me why, I announce, loudly and proudly, that I don't allow my child to eat hotdogs. More often than not, I'm standing over the children's table filled with hotdog scarfing kiddos. Why? Why do I do that? I could just feed her at home before we leave. I could just fill her plate with other foods I'm okay with. But no, I strap on my bomb, push the button, and wait for my virgins. Now, before you start taking me off your Christmas Card list, let me say this: Neither of my children has ever been given ANY vaccines. See? I guarantee that some of you think that is incredibly irresponsible, and you would never put your child at risk like that.
The worst part about Mommy War, is that we declared it on ourselves. And it has gotten so out of hand, that otherwise sane, educated, rational women are utterly incapable of holding civil debate on these hot-button issues. Stating your opinion is viewed as an attack on the opposition. Period. We are taking the one thing that is uniquely female- motherhood- and using it to tear each other apart. We've gone from women's suffrage, to women's sufferage. So, this is it. I'm laying down my arms, waving my white flag, and signing the peace treaty. While I will continue to be a proud citizen of the United States of Crunch, I won't beat you down to see things our way. (Our borders are open if you want to stop by.) I will no longer announce my parenting decisions. I will remember that other mothers' choices, while none of my business, are made with love and in the best interest of the child. Nothing is more important than that. Besides, in the sage words of Axl Rose, what's so civil about war, anyway?
Recently, a friend of mine used Facebook to post an article reporting that $3.6 billion dollars in medical expenses could be saved each year if the number of children breastfed for at least six months increased by 50 percent. It was like the shot heard 'round the world. Or, the post heard 'round her Facebook page, at least. Suddenly, she had twenty responses from women who were declaring allegiances and turning on each other faster than a group of Junior Leaguers at a Kate Spade clearance. All my friend was trying to do was report a statistic she found personally interesting. Instead, she became the latest casualty of the Mommy War.
The Mommy War is the ongoing battle orchestrated and fought by modern mothers who think that our way of raising children is best. We all fight under the guise of doing what's best for the children, but I think the end game for many of us is moral superiority. As much as I would like to claim neutrality here, I cannot. No, the real Switzerland in the Mommy War is inhabited by the childless. Some of these ladies may feel a pull toward one side or the other, but they mainly think (correctly) that we're all nuts. I know, because I used to live in Switzerland, too.
Sadly, I am admitting to being a participant in this conflict. It's not my fault; they include draft cards in those boxes of home pregnancy tests. It's like the worst cereal box prize ever. Seriously, though, you are expected to take a side the minute you see that stick turn blue. Caffeine during pregnancy? Doc or Midwife? Bradley or Epidural? Women are thrown on the front lines before you can say "Boppy". The two biggest armies are the United States of Crunch, and the Republic of Shut the Eff Up and Let Me Raise My Kid the Way I Want. For ease of reading, the latter will henceforth be referred to as "The Wrong Way". Whoops, sorry- they trained me as a sniper in boot camp. All kidding aside, the hits just keep on coming after labor. Breastfeeding, circumcision, vaccines, disposable diapers, organic foods, daycare... the road between hospital (or birthing venue of your choice) and home is littered with Mommy War landmines. Step carefully, my friend.
I am all for women educating themselves, and making parenting choices that work best them. However, I HATE that we are brandishing our personal decisions in a way that makes other mothers feel bad about themselves. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I've both wielded the blade and felt its sting. Every time I go to a cookout, I bring my own food for Karolina. Then, when someone inevitably asks me why, I announce, loudly and proudly, that I don't allow my child to eat hotdogs. More often than not, I'm standing over the children's table filled with hotdog scarfing kiddos. Why? Why do I do that? I could just feed her at home before we leave. I could just fill her plate with other foods I'm okay with. But no, I strap on my bomb, push the button, and wait for my virgins. Now, before you start taking me off your Christmas Card list, let me say this: Neither of my children has ever been given ANY vaccines. See? I guarantee that some of you think that is incredibly irresponsible, and you would never put your child at risk like that.
The worst part about Mommy War, is that we declared it on ourselves. And it has gotten so out of hand, that otherwise sane, educated, rational women are utterly incapable of holding civil debate on these hot-button issues. Stating your opinion is viewed as an attack on the opposition. Period. We are taking the one thing that is uniquely female- motherhood- and using it to tear each other apart. We've gone from women's suffrage, to women's sufferage. So, this is it. I'm laying down my arms, waving my white flag, and signing the peace treaty. While I will continue to be a proud citizen of the United States of Crunch, I won't beat you down to see things our way. (Our borders are open if you want to stop by.) I will no longer announce my parenting decisions. I will remember that other mothers' choices, while none of my business, are made with love and in the best interest of the child. Nothing is more important than that. Besides, in the sage words of Axl Rose, what's so civil about war, anyway?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
I Am My Own Existence, Nothing More (and other existentialist crap)
How important is sense of self? I think that most people have an awareness, at least subconsciously, of the labels that define them. Teacher, husband, mother, son, friend- just a few of a million labels that we combine in a unique way and don like haute couture. Titles woven into my own fabric include intelligent, stay-at-home mother, and wife. Generally, I've been pleased with my personal ensemble, but last week, life pulled a loose thread and left me hanging bare like some sad, past her prime chick on a Girls Gone Wild video.
It all started because I was bored. I decided to either get my hair cut, or start graduate school. Having found no decent stylist in Leesville, I opted to hit the books. In true Kitt fashion, I chose a school, degree plan, and career path in roughly 12 hours. I had just over two weeks to submit my application, which was to include a qualifying GRE score. No problem. I've never been good at sports or mechanics, but I can rock a standardized test. I am, after all, intelligent. As far as I could see, the biggest hurdle was obtaining the proper identification to present the testing center; it had to have a recent picture and have my name listed as Olivia Hall Squyres. The problem was that my current driver's license still featured my maiden name, despite the fact that I've been married for eight years. Which leads us to...
The Mansfield DMV. It is the place to go for all of your vehicular needs. There is never a wait, and you will always know at least one of the employees. Usually, this is a minus, but when dealing with a soulless demon institution like the Department of Motor Vehicles, it's always better to have an in. Anywho, I went to get my new license, and was told I needed an official copy of my marriage license from the courthouse. Ten minutes later, I was staring at my marriage license in disbelief. I had signed it, my pastor signed it, my witnesses signed it, that homeless guy down the street signed it, everyone signed it. Except Daniel. I took it back to the DMV and asked if I could still have my name changed to Squyres. "Sure," the lady said, "but you should get that checked out. I don't think you're really married, and that's a shame 'cause it was a real beautiful weddin." Oh, and PS about the Mansfield DMV- they have truly excellent lighting. I look younger in my new picture than I did in the one taken 9 years ago. That alone was worth the absolution of my marriage.
So who am I? I'm not a wife, so I'm a girlfriend? I have to say, I'm bitter. I was bamboozled into thinking he bought the cow. Meanwhile, all of his dairy has been supplied gratis. And I'm no longer a stay-at-home mother, so I'm an unemployed baby mama?? What am I going to do? I guess I could get a job and provide for myself, but my brother-in-law pointed out that I probably qualify for government assistance now. This sounds much better to me! Great- now I'm a Democrat. And another thing- I've been spending all these years adhering to our monthly budget, but it's quite possible that my current disposable income is less than what Daniel's monthly child support payment would be. I wants my money, and I wants it now. I can't believe he didn't sign the marriage license, but he signed both birth certificates. Sucker!
Back on the market, I figured acing the GRE was even more important. I have young coeds to charm. I had plenty of people encouraging me to study, but truthfully, I've never had to study for that type of test in my life. I mean, I may be a common-law hussy, but I'm no idiot, right? Long story short... I'm an idiot. I don't know if that test legitimately kicked my butt, or if my newly acquired persona influenced my testing ability, but trust me when I say Harvard won't be knocking down my door anytime soon. Truthfully, my score did qualify for my chosen program, but it was nowhere near my personal expectations. I haven't received my score on the writing portion yet. If I crap out on that part, I'm shutting Kittastrophe down and taking up bird watching.
Kitt HallSquyres... Baby Mama, Live-in Companion, Simpleton, Snarky, Humbled.
It all started because I was bored. I decided to either get my hair cut, or start graduate school. Having found no decent stylist in Leesville, I opted to hit the books. In true Kitt fashion, I chose a school, degree plan, and career path in roughly 12 hours. I had just over two weeks to submit my application, which was to include a qualifying GRE score. No problem. I've never been good at sports or mechanics, but I can rock a standardized test. I am, after all, intelligent. As far as I could see, the biggest hurdle was obtaining the proper identification to present the testing center; it had to have a recent picture and have my name listed as Olivia Hall Squyres. The problem was that my current driver's license still featured my maiden name, despite the fact that I've been married for eight years. Which leads us to...
The Mansfield DMV. It is the place to go for all of your vehicular needs. There is never a wait, and you will always know at least one of the employees. Usually, this is a minus, but when dealing with a soulless demon institution like the Department of Motor Vehicles, it's always better to have an in. Anywho, I went to get my new license, and was told I needed an official copy of my marriage license from the courthouse. Ten minutes later, I was staring at my marriage license in disbelief. I had signed it, my pastor signed it, my witnesses signed it, that homeless guy down the street signed it, everyone signed it. Except Daniel. I took it back to the DMV and asked if I could still have my name changed to Squyres. "Sure," the lady said, "but you should get that checked out. I don't think you're really married, and that's a shame 'cause it was a real beautiful weddin." Oh, and PS about the Mansfield DMV- they have truly excellent lighting. I look younger in my new picture than I did in the one taken 9 years ago. That alone was worth the absolution of my marriage.
So who am I? I'm not a wife, so I'm a girlfriend? I have to say, I'm bitter. I was bamboozled into thinking he bought the cow. Meanwhile, all of his dairy has been supplied gratis. And I'm no longer a stay-at-home mother, so I'm an unemployed baby mama?? What am I going to do? I guess I could get a job and provide for myself, but my brother-in-law pointed out that I probably qualify for government assistance now. This sounds much better to me! Great- now I'm a Democrat. And another thing- I've been spending all these years adhering to our monthly budget, but it's quite possible that my current disposable income is less than what Daniel's monthly child support payment would be. I wants my money, and I wants it now. I can't believe he didn't sign the marriage license, but he signed both birth certificates. Sucker!
Back on the market, I figured acing the GRE was even more important. I have young coeds to charm. I had plenty of people encouraging me to study, but truthfully, I've never had to study for that type of test in my life. I mean, I may be a common-law hussy, but I'm no idiot, right? Long story short... I'm an idiot. I don't know if that test legitimately kicked my butt, or if my newly acquired persona influenced my testing ability, but trust me when I say Harvard won't be knocking down my door anytime soon. Truthfully, my score did qualify for my chosen program, but it was nowhere near my personal expectations. I haven't received my score on the writing portion yet. If I crap out on that part, I'm shutting Kittastrophe down and taking up bird watching.
Kitt Hall
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Land of the Free, and the Home of the Me
It seems to be the common consensus these days that America isn't the great country it used to be. Some blame Bush, others blame Obama. I blame Oprah. You see, Oprah was the first person to introduce the idea of "Me Time", and the rest of us just took it and ran. Somewhere along the way, Me Time mated with technology, and Facebook was born. Then, that bastard Facebook held a caucus with iPhone, and the result was the preeminent profile picture. You know the one-- self portrait took at a down angle from extended arm, boobs pushed out, squinty eyes, pouty lips. To be fair, if I had any boobs and/or lips to speak of, I'd probably have this picture too. Then again, that hasn't stopped scads of pre-pubescent girls (and some dudes) from adopting this signature pose again, and again, and again. How many pictures does one need of one's self, anyway? But I digress... My point is that we have become so egocenric, that the state of our union can hardly come as a surprise. If divided we stand, then united we fall.
Me Time (MT) is the idea that if we spend any time focused on our jobs or on others, we become entitled, nay, obligated to spend some time on ourselves. Really? This nonsense seems to run especially rampant among stay-at-home mothers. And their MT drug of choice? The spa. I must say, I'm kind of surprised all the revenue generated by the hoards of mani-pedi seekers isn't doing a better job of stimulating the economy. I stay at home with my two children. Yes, it's busy, but I can hardly call it stressfull, especially considering occupations such as military, police, and Kardashian. I mean, no job that lets you wear pajamas all day and considers teeth-brushing optional is going to land you in the hospital with ulcers. My life is hardly all kids, all the time. Once a week I treat myself to a grocery excursion, and I almost always get 2-3 solo bathroom trips a day. My grandmother raised fourteen children. I'd love to be able to go back and ask her opinion of MT, though I suspect she would have been far more interested in the concepts of Food on the Table, and Clothes on Our Backs.
Generally, I would use this paragraph to explore the various ways men use MT. However, I have had an exceptionally difficult time finding a man who will admit to taking time for himself. Key word: ADMIT. Daniel likes to point out that during his last deployment, he had exactly 16 days off- in a year. He thinks MT is just something "chicks do", but I contend that no female I am aware of ever uses the bathroom as her own personal library. Fellas, you're finding pockets of solitude somewhere.
Don't get me wrong- I'm not saying that people shouldn't take time for themselves. I'm not saying people don't deserve time for themselves. Hell, I'm not all together sure where my 10 month old is right now, but I'm still taking the time to bloviate (pot, kettle much?). I just think there is a time and a place for everything. I see far too many people focusing on the prize without giving the actual task at hand much thought. My fellow Americans, we should band together, roll up our sleeves, and rob Oprah. I think there's about $8 in it for each of us if my math is correct- although it probably isn't since I used my 6 years in college to major in Me Time.
Me Time (MT) is the idea that if we spend any time focused on our jobs or on others, we become entitled, nay, obligated to spend some time on ourselves. Really? This nonsense seems to run especially rampant among stay-at-home mothers. And their MT drug of choice? The spa. I must say, I'm kind of surprised all the revenue generated by the hoards of mani-pedi seekers isn't doing a better job of stimulating the economy. I stay at home with my two children. Yes, it's busy, but I can hardly call it stressfull, especially considering occupations such as military, police, and Kardashian. I mean, no job that lets you wear pajamas all day and considers teeth-brushing optional is going to land you in the hospital with ulcers. My life is hardly all kids, all the time. Once a week I treat myself to a grocery excursion, and I almost always get 2-3 solo bathroom trips a day. My grandmother raised fourteen children. I'd love to be able to go back and ask her opinion of MT, though I suspect she would have been far more interested in the concepts of Food on the Table, and Clothes on Our Backs.
Generally, I would use this paragraph to explore the various ways men use MT. However, I have had an exceptionally difficult time finding a man who will admit to taking time for himself. Key word: ADMIT. Daniel likes to point out that during his last deployment, he had exactly 16 days off- in a year. He thinks MT is just something "chicks do", but I contend that no female I am aware of ever uses the bathroom as her own personal library. Fellas, you're finding pockets of solitude somewhere.
Don't get me wrong- I'm not saying that people shouldn't take time for themselves. I'm not saying people don't deserve time for themselves. Hell, I'm not all together sure where my 10 month old is right now, but I'm still taking the time to bloviate (pot, kettle much?). I just think there is a time and a place for everything. I see far too many people focusing on the prize without giving the actual task at hand much thought. My fellow Americans, we should band together, roll up our sleeves, and rob Oprah. I think there's about $8 in it for each of us if my math is correct- although it probably isn't since I used my 6 years in college to major in Me Time.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Petty in Pink
Hollywood, may I have a word?
Last night, Daniel and I saw a movie in the theater. This is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and I was jazzed to see what is being hailed as a razor-sharp chick flick, written by and for women. Yes! Finally, a story revolving around smart, successful, modern women! Apparently, the critics and I must have seen different movies. In our movie, the protagonist was a broke, homeless, victim of the recession, who was forced to endure the most horrible of all female experiences-- life with no mans. But fear not! In the end, she found a boyfriend and they lived happily ever after. Oh, make no mistake, she still was living with her mother, unable to pay her bills, and both job and car-less. BUT she found a penis-equipped companion, so cue the music and let those credits roll!
This movie had it all- aesthetically pleasing bitch, horny bored housewife, insipid virginal newlywed. Oh, and of course, the group wouldn't, couldn't be complete without an overweight woman serving as comedic relief. She wasn't witty per se, but she was... you know... fat. Everyone knows a chunky lady doing anything is hilarious, but a fat chick having the audacity to go out to eat, or attend a party, or flirt with a dude?? Comedy gold!
Why why why are these antiquated female stereotypes still being forced down our throats in the name of entertainment? And an even better question- why are we still buying it? The only thing this movie was missing was a lingerie-laden pillow fight, but I hear there's a sequel in the works, so here's hoping.
Last night, Daniel and I saw a movie in the theater. This is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and I was jazzed to see what is being hailed as a razor-sharp chick flick, written by and for women. Yes! Finally, a story revolving around smart, successful, modern women! Apparently, the critics and I must have seen different movies. In our movie, the protagonist was a broke, homeless, victim of the recession, who was forced to endure the most horrible of all female experiences-- life with no mans. But fear not! In the end, she found a boyfriend and they lived happily ever after. Oh, make no mistake, she still was living with her mother, unable to pay her bills, and both job and car-less. BUT she found a penis-equipped companion, so cue the music and let those credits roll!
This movie had it all- aesthetically pleasing bitch, horny bored housewife, insipid virginal newlywed. Oh, and of course, the group wouldn't, couldn't be complete without an overweight woman serving as comedic relief. She wasn't witty per se, but she was... you know... fat. Everyone knows a chunky lady doing anything is hilarious, but a fat chick having the audacity to go out to eat, or attend a party, or flirt with a dude?? Comedy gold!
Why why why are these antiquated female stereotypes still being forced down our throats in the name of entertainment? And an even better question- why are we still buying it? The only thing this movie was missing was a lingerie-laden pillow fight, but I hear there's a sequel in the works, so here's hoping.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
My Mother, Richard Dean Anderson
There's been a lot of mom stuff going around in honor of Mother's Day. I am choosing to honor my mother via blog, because she would waterboard me if I put her picture on Facebook. Simply put, Brenda kicks ass. Even though a lot of women cringe at the thought of turning into their mothers, I welcome it. This is fortuitous, as I have been not-so-slowly morphing into a Brenda clone. We are both loud, assertive, obsessively detail oriented, and competitive. Roland and Daniel are lucky, lucky men, right? We are also funny, dependable, modest, and seriously smokin hot. There is one area, though, where my mother totally and singularly rules- she is motherfrickin Macgyver.
When Mama was six or seven, she decided she wanted a swimming pool. It never occurred to her to ask for one, and she wasn't interested in a public pool. Brenda wanted her own, personal in-ground, and she was going to build it herself. She dug for days until she finally had a decent sized hole. I'm not sure exactly how deep it was, but it was deep enough to, well... keep reading. Her work was done and after a big, Louisiana rain, her pool was open for business. It's worth noting that this grand opening coincided with either her first communion or Easter. I can't remember which, but church and a nice dress were involved. Not wanting to get dirty before mass, but unable to wait until after, she decided to fashion a boat out of a large pot. Now as any culinary dredgeman can attest, pot boating is the most efficient way of simultaneously examining the bottom of a body of water and ruining a Sunday dress. I don't know the severity of her punishment, but I do know that to this day, I have never seen my mother in a swimming pool.
By the time Callie and I came along, Mama's ingenuity and common sense were evenly matched. Once, when I was in second grade, my teacher held a "Backwards Day". Everyone was to creatively showcase backwardness, and a winner would be named. (At this time, my ENTIRE elementary school, grades k-4, was housed in ONE gymnasium. What's more backwards than that?) Anyway, I mentioned the contest to my mother as she was putting me to bed the night before. She was shocked that I'd waited until the last minute, but promised she'd think of something. I woke up next morning to find an eerily accurate replica of my head. I wore my HEAD backwards to Backwards Day. Can you believe I didn't win?? Apparently, Mrs Lewis thought I had help with my costume, so she gave the prize to Stacy Mclain who wore her earrings backwards. Whatever.
Similarly, Callie decided at the last minute she wanted to go trick-or-treating one Halloween. Fifteen minutes later, people opened their doors to a little girl in curlers, a robe, and face full of Pond's with a typing paper cigarette dangling from her lips. Standing beside her was store bought Gremlin, but she didn't get nearly as much candy. I guess people couldn't see my- I mean her winning smile behind that plastic mask.
And the hits keep on coming. A few years ago, a storm came through and took out our electricity for several days. We had a full house including several extended family members. I watched my mother prepare a three-course meal using votive candles and a butter knife. And just a few weeks ago, I had a minor surgery. The doctor didn't give me the appropriate dressing, so Mama made one using an ace bandage, some scotch tape, a Target coupon, and a cotton ball.
I could easily make this entry one in a series of love letters to my mother. We speak several times daily, and there is still no one I'd rather war plan with. We love every single moment we spend together. I sincerely pray to have that kind of relationship with my girls one day, although I'll never be able to replicate Mama's resourcefulness. But who knows, maybe I've got a burgeoningMacgyver Brenda of my own. Happy Mother's Day!
When Mama was six or seven, she decided she wanted a swimming pool. It never occurred to her to ask for one, and she wasn't interested in a public pool. Brenda wanted her own, personal in-ground, and she was going to build it herself. She dug for days until she finally had a decent sized hole. I'm not sure exactly how deep it was, but it was deep enough to, well... keep reading. Her work was done and after a big, Louisiana rain, her pool was open for business. It's worth noting that this grand opening coincided with either her first communion or Easter. I can't remember which, but church and a nice dress were involved. Not wanting to get dirty before mass, but unable to wait until after, she decided to fashion a boat out of a large pot. Now as any culinary dredgeman can attest, pot boating is the most efficient way of simultaneously examining the bottom of a body of water and ruining a Sunday dress. I don't know the severity of her punishment, but I do know that to this day, I have never seen my mother in a swimming pool.
By the time Callie and I came along, Mama's ingenuity and common sense were evenly matched. Once, when I was in second grade, my teacher held a "Backwards Day". Everyone was to creatively showcase backwardness, and a winner would be named. (At this time, my ENTIRE elementary school, grades k-4, was housed in ONE gymnasium. What's more backwards than that?) Anyway, I mentioned the contest to my mother as she was putting me to bed the night before. She was shocked that I'd waited until the last minute, but promised she'd think of something. I woke up next morning to find an eerily accurate replica of my head. I wore my HEAD backwards to Backwards Day. Can you believe I didn't win?? Apparently, Mrs Lewis thought I had help with my costume, so she gave the prize to Stacy Mclain who wore her earrings backwards. Whatever.
Similarly, Callie decided at the last minute she wanted to go trick-or-treating one Halloween. Fifteen minutes later, people opened their doors to a little girl in curlers, a robe, and face full of Pond's with a typing paper cigarette dangling from her lips. Standing beside her was store bought Gremlin, but she didn't get nearly as much candy. I guess people couldn't see my- I mean her winning smile behind that plastic mask.
And the hits keep on coming. A few years ago, a storm came through and took out our electricity for several days. We had a full house including several extended family members. I watched my mother prepare a three-course meal using votive candles and a butter knife. And just a few weeks ago, I had a minor surgery. The doctor didn't give me the appropriate dressing, so Mama made one using an ace bandage, some scotch tape, a Target coupon, and a cotton ball.
I could easily make this entry one in a series of love letters to my mother. We speak several times daily, and there is still no one I'd rather war plan with. We love every single moment we spend together. I sincerely pray to have that kind of relationship with my girls one day, although I'll never be able to replicate Mama's resourcefulness. But who knows, maybe I've got a burgeoning
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Gone With the Kin
Daniel had a busy week with crazy hours last week, so I packed up the girls and headed to my parents' house in Stonewall. My sister, Callie, is pregnant with triplets and riding out her quasi-bedrest there, so I like to visit and help out when I can. All was going well until until a cold front and low pressure system blew into town.
It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, Entertainment Tonight was interrupted by the local ABC affiliate. I was irritated! If I can't find out what Lindsey wore to her latest court appearance, how will I know what to wear next time I violate probation? Anyway, the weather guy tells me that tornadoes are imminent, and to take cover. My first feeling was of relief; I was grateful to be with my family. This was immediately followed by sheer panic. I was about to be confined, in a tiny cupboard, WITH MY FAMILY! I gathered K and Evie, and headed to the little pantry under the stairs with Callie, her husband, Arnold, and my mother, Brenda. Thankfully, my father was in Shreveport during this time. Not that I wouldn't have enjoyed his company, but we were quickly running out of real estate.
The issue with being cooped up with anyone, is that quickly all of your individual eccentricities bubble to the surface. For example, my sister is a total germaphobe, and my mother is only slightly less of one. I used to be uptight about germs, especially as it pertained to Karolina, but nowadays, unless I can actually see tetanus or feces on an object, it's fair game. Had a sneeze occurred in that closet, Callie would have repeatedly gagged, my mother would have held her breath for a far-too-extended period of time, and I would have been grateful for the breeze. We are a cast of characters not soon forgotten.
I'll begin with Brenda. My mother is absolutely obsessed with any/everything made in China. You cannot convince her that it isn't full of lead. And unless you can show her documentation proving that an object and all it's parts are manufactured elsewhere, be prepared for the lead lecture. I swear I had to keep Evangeline suspended in my arms, because the floor of that closet? Lead. The paint on the walls? Lead (She doesn't trust the lead-free label to be truthful). The carbon dioxide emitted from our collective exhalations? Full of lead.
Next, meet Callie and Arnold. My sister is a nurse, and her husband is a physician. They speak in strictest medical terms, causing an ignorant bystander (me) to feel as though she's had stroke, rendering her incapable of understanding English. I'm not exactly sure what or where Callie's inferior vena cava is, but apparently, those babies like sitting on it. And while I'm on the subject of Dr and Mrs Barz, have I mentioned that they are in love? They hunkered down in that closet, holding hands and telling each other how thankful they were to be together. I was starting to get a little green (jealousy? nausea?), when my phone rang. Yes! It was Daniel! I was about to show Callie that she wasn't the only one with a schmoopie-oopkins. Triumphantly smirking, I turned my phone's volume up loud so that everyone could hear the depth of emotion in Daniel's voice.
"Hello?"
"Duuuude!!! The radar looks gross in Stonewall, glad I'm not there."
"Don't worry about us, Sweetie. But just in case the rescue teams need to know where to dig to find my lifeless body, I'm in the closet under the stairs."
"Okay. Have you seen my swim goggles?"
I know. I'm getting a little misty-eyed just thinking about it.
To be perfectly fair, I'm sure it wasn't a picnic being cooped up with me, either. I'm loud. I make inappropriate jokes. I have a potty mouth. I play diaper chicken with my mother (I pretend not to smell the truly noxious fumes emanating from my kid's diaper, in the hopes that my mother will change it first). I prefer Hillary Clinton to Sarah Palin. Throw that little lib grenade in my house-- you can actually hear the blood pressure rising.
In the end, though, we weathered the storm. In fact, it was kind of fun. We didn't have water, food, matches, candles, flashlights, or batteries in that closet, (I could write an entire separate blog about what we did have in there), but there was a whole lot of love. I'd duck and cover with those jokers any day.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
School Daze
Everyone knows Daniel and I procrastinate. Therefore, it should come as a shock to none of you that although Karolina is almost three and a half, we have only just started to decide her high school/collegiate path. This is the part where you chuckle politely, and I respond: No, I'm serious. I know that this seems extreme, but someone has to decide what she's going to do with her life. And what, I should let her make the choices? The child who decided that our dog's behind looked like a good place to stick her finger?? No way. And I'm sure she'll thank me, er, us for it later. I mean, what adolescent wouldn't?
First up is high school. Public or private? Daniel and I both attended public schools, and are no worse for the wear. Would choosing a private institution rob her of the experiences I had? Iloved appreciated completed high school. Certainly, the costs of a private education come into play. It can vary widely according to location. For example, the top school in Shreveport is approximately 7K a year. In Dallas, it's almost 24K. Is there really that much of a difference in educational quality? What am I getting for my extra 17K? Is The Old Man and the Sea discussed on a yacht? Fun fact about this particular school: the PRE-kindergarten class is 16K per year, although I suspect they are utilizing the same crayons and paste as the rest of us commoners. Oh, Dallas, don't ever change. Daniel thinks this school would be most beneficial in preparing our girls for life on the outside. Oh yes, nothing says the "real world" like a bunch of wealthy, white chicks in pleated skirts. Did I mention this is an all girls school? I personally believe the extra 17 grand goes toward testosterone removal, making the academy most attractive to fathers the world over. In the end, I suppose my feelings on private education are similar to the opinions a lot of people hold on embryonic stem cell usage: I was against it and never really cared to look into it, until I needed it for my kids.
Next up, college. I'm not as uptight about this one as Daniel is. I'd be happy with any school the girls' boyfriends are not attending. Daniel, on the other hand, is only amenable to the Ivies, and Stanford. I'm left wondering exactly which of our girls he thinks could actually get in to such schools. The one who's running for drooling champion of Central Louisiana, or the one who absolutely refuses to acknowledge the existence of a toilet? I know those schools are clamoring to admit white, middle-class people, but I still have my doubts. For argument's sake, let's say K got accepted to Stanford. We all know exactly what would happen. She would immediately embark on the patented Hall Six-Year college plan. Sometime in the middle of those six (ridiculously expensive) years, she'd declare a major- Theater. Except Stanford probably spells it Theatre, allowing them to charge more money. And then, one fine day, she'd receive her degree, and promptly move to Europe, (on our dime), to go find herself.
I don't know what the future holds. I have no idea where we'll be living when the kids start school. But every month, without fail, Daniel and I put away money for high school and college. Karolina's (and Evangeline's) future is coming fast, and she's going to love it... because we're planning it that way.
First up is high school. Public or private? Daniel and I both attended public schools, and are no worse for the wear. Would choosing a private institution rob her of the experiences I had? I
Next up, college. I'm not as uptight about this one as Daniel is. I'd be happy with any school the girls' boyfriends are not attending. Daniel, on the other hand, is only amenable to the Ivies, and Stanford. I'm left wondering exactly which of our girls he thinks could actually get in to such schools. The one who's running for drooling champion of Central Louisiana, or the one who absolutely refuses to acknowledge the existence of a toilet? I know those schools are clamoring to admit white, middle-class people, but I still have my doubts. For argument's sake, let's say K got accepted to Stanford. We all know exactly what would happen. She would immediately embark on the patented Hall Six-Year college plan. Sometime in the middle of those six (ridiculously expensive) years, she'd declare a major- Theater. Except Stanford probably spells it Theatre, allowing them to charge more money. And then, one fine day, she'd receive her degree, and promptly move to Europe, (on our dime), to go find herself.
I don't know what the future holds. I have no idea where we'll be living when the kids start school. But every month, without fail, Daniel and I put away money for high school and college. Karolina's (and Evangeline's) future is coming fast, and she's going to love it... because we're planning it that way.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
So after finally tiring of people,(my parents),begging me to begin blogging, I decided that today was the day. I was sitting at my computer, thinking of some catchy, alliterative blog names. Kitt's Kitsch? Olivia's Observations? Squyres Scuttlebutt? I felt I was on the cusp of genius, when I became aware of deafening silence. Anyone with a toddler understands how truly scary those quiet moments can be. My ensuing search for Karolina ended in the guest bathroom, where I found her sitting on the floor, surrounded by fluffy red curls. Dear Lord. She's cut her hair.
My relationship with that hair began at 1632 on January 3, 2008. The midwife pulled K out of the tub, (that's a whole different blog entry), placed her on my chest, and asked, "What do you think, Mommy?" I looked at my new daughter with love and wonder and replied, "She's got red hair.". For months I assumed that her hair would fall out and grow back blonde like her father's, so I barely allowed myself to hope that the red would stay. But when those eyebrows and eyelashes began to shine like newly minted copper pennies, I finally gave in to the love of all things ginger! Immediately, every aesthetic decision I made revolved around those tresses. Clothes, carseats, nursery bedding, it all had to look pleasing with K's hair. And just when I thought I couldn't love those locks any more, they began to curl.
Three and a half years later, K's hair is something of a local celebrity. When out as a family, Daniel and I are constantly stopped and asked about it. People are always remarking on it, pointing at it, and even touching it (shudder). In my opinion, red hair is not that big of a deal, but to my enjoyment/dismay, it has shaped K's personality. She fully expects public attention, and if ignored, often resorts to cheap tricks like singing, dancing, and twirling to achieve it. In fact, in the event that none of these tactics work, she has been known to walk up to a perfect stranger, poke him/her, and then point back to herself whilst making jazz hands.
I know that hair is insignificant. But it is worth mentioning that the family portraits I have painstakingly agonized over for the past four months are coming up soon. And, gentle readers, when I say soon, I of course mean tomorrow. TOMORROW!! Remember when I mentioned my crazy tendency to make decisions based on K's hair? Yeah. Every outfit, every accessory, every prop, for EACH member of my family was chosen with that damn hair in mind. Pink? No way, it will clash! Hats? You must be high- we need to see the curls. I bought dresses from Paris, shoes from Italy, and the finest tiaras from China (now with extra lead!). I scoured estate sales for jewelery, antique stores for tea sets and miniature table/chairs. I've worked my considerable backside off to ensure that my family looks perfect, and now Karolina looks like an extra from Schindler's List.
My mother told me to keep things in perspective. I'm blessed. My children are healthy and happy. She said it's not a catastrophe. And it's not. It's a Kittastrophe. A-ha! A blog is born.
My relationship with that hair began at 1632 on January 3, 2008. The midwife pulled K out of the tub, (that's a whole different blog entry), placed her on my chest, and asked, "What do you think, Mommy?" I looked at my new daughter with love and wonder and replied, "She's got red hair.". For months I assumed that her hair would fall out and grow back blonde like her father's, so I barely allowed myself to hope that the red would stay. But when those eyebrows and eyelashes began to shine like newly minted copper pennies, I finally gave in to the love of all things ginger! Immediately, every aesthetic decision I made revolved around those tresses. Clothes, carseats, nursery bedding, it all had to look pleasing with K's hair. And just when I thought I couldn't love those locks any more, they began to curl.
Three and a half years later, K's hair is something of a local celebrity. When out as a family, Daniel and I are constantly stopped and asked about it. People are always remarking on it, pointing at it, and even touching it (shudder). In my opinion, red hair is not that big of a deal, but to my enjoyment/dismay, it has shaped K's personality. She fully expects public attention, and if ignored, often resorts to cheap tricks like singing, dancing, and twirling to achieve it. In fact, in the event that none of these tactics work, she has been known to walk up to a perfect stranger, poke him/her, and then point back to herself whilst making jazz hands.
I know that hair is insignificant. But it is worth mentioning that the family portraits I have painstakingly agonized over for the past four months are coming up soon. And, gentle readers, when I say soon, I of course mean tomorrow. TOMORROW!! Remember when I mentioned my crazy tendency to make decisions based on K's hair? Yeah. Every outfit, every accessory, every prop, for EACH member of my family was chosen with that damn hair in mind. Pink? No way, it will clash! Hats? You must be high- we need to see the curls. I bought dresses from Paris, shoes from Italy, and the finest tiaras from China (now with extra lead!). I scoured estate sales for jewelery, antique stores for tea sets and miniature table/chairs. I've worked my considerable backside off to ensure that my family looks perfect, and now Karolina looks like an extra from Schindler's List.
My mother told me to keep things in perspective. I'm blessed. My children are healthy and happy. She said it's not a catastrophe. And it's not. It's a Kittastrophe. A-ha! A blog is born.
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