Whatever Happened to Freeze Tag?

Have you all heard about this story of the second grade girl being assaulted by twelve boys on the playground of an elementary school in St. Louis?

WTF?

On CNN, the school superintendent asks something similar, “What transpires that allows such a thing to be on the minds of young men that are 6-7 years old?”

I know, right?

It reminds me of a conversation I had a while back with a male friend of mine who watches a lot of adult-oriented programming around his children. This same friend was lamenting over his 6.5 yr old daughter’s “sexy” behavior around boys, particularly older ones. I basically told him that he needed to not watch the kind of shows he does in front of the kids and not play his favorite chicks-ripping-each-other’s-clothes-off-while-wrestling video game around them. His response? Why shelter them? They’re going to learn it all anyway. For once in my life, I was at a loss for words.

While I am a flaming liberal on most issues, I’m strict about what I allow my children to be exposed to. Quite often, I’m sure I have been regarded as some sort of hovering, overprotective, tight-assed mother that can’t relax. But you know what? I’ll happily accept that criticism if it means my children never do something like these boys have allegedly done.

This is actually a real hot-button issue with me. I have long maintained that children need to be sheltered from the barrage of adult-oriented media (TV, movies, music, advertising) that swirls around them.

As adults, we have become very immune to it and tend not to notice a lot of it but children really are like sponges. They absorb everything around them and because they are not sophisticated enough to filter through what they take in, much of it is accepted at face value.

We tell our kids not to hit or hurt others but watch what your kids are watching. How much hitting, even under the guise of good vs. evil, are they actually viewing? (obviously, this doesn’t apply to very small children who are stil watching Barney and Playhouse Disney.) We tell them one thing and then let them watch things that convey the opposite. How are they to make sense of these mixed messages?

The same goes for sexually-provacative material. I’m not even talking rated R movies or evening programming here. I’m talking about advertising, the every day fare on soap operas and much of what is discussed on Oprah and other talk shows. We are so desensitized to it, we don’t even realize that to our children, these are direct messages indicating that what they are watching are, in fact, social norms.

Girls get the message that being physically beautiful is the key to their worth (thanks to diet and beauty product ads every 2 seconds on TV), and that her sexuality is the source of power. You rarely see anything where the subtext is “smart girls have power” or “using your brain will take you far in life” or “boys like a girl who thinks”. No. Again the messages are quite the opposite. How many of you have heard little girls talking about being fat? Or heard them say someone else is fat? That’s just wrong. Children shouldn’t even be thinking about such things.

The really sad part about all of this is that you can do everything right but there’s always some dipsh!t out there doing the complete opposite and guess what? Their kid probably goes to school with your kid.

Here’s a quote from an article that I originally read in the New York Times about a study done at the Univerity of North Carolina:

“This is the first time we’ve shown that the more kids are exposed to sex in media the earlier they have sex,” said Jane Brown of the University of North Carolina…”

No duh. You can read the whole article here.

(Thanks to Petite Mommy for the heads up on the CNN story)

I Bit the Bullet

I did it. I bit the bullet and went jeans shopping. Why? Because I’m cheap, dammit. Through my employer, I occasionally get these special discount cards for major department stores and if you’re savvy (read: cheap like me) you can really rock the discount and save some big $$$. So, irresistibly drawn to that place most unholy the mall with the lure of new jeans on the cheap, I put my game face on and hit the racks.

Okay, I have just one thing to say. WHY do fashion designers hate me so? What did I EVER do to them? First they come out with these hideous low-rise things that do nothing but make my already not-so-great ass disappear, but they showcase all my post-baby mid-section gushiness, too. I would be content to ignore their existence and let other people look bad in them if there were some other jeans out there that looked better than “eh” on me. Sadly, it could never be that simple *sigh*

And it gets worse. Have you SEEN the abomination that are skinny-leg jeans? I look like a denim drumstick in those things. They weren’t that great in the 80’s either but at least back then I didn’t resemble poultry while wearing the skinny-legged evil.

Ladies…it’s only a matter of time before my beloved bootcut, the kindest cut of all, is but a distant memory. Get them now before they’re all gone.

So anyway, the shopping. Yes. It was not so great. Everything is stretchy now and low cut stretch denim always falls down on me. So big deal, right? I should just yank them back up. Well, that only works properly when you don’t have a 24lb baby on your hip. Ultimately, I have one side up and the other side drooping down. It’s not my best look. Or anyone’s best look. But as much as I loathe the stretch, I ended up with some DKNY Soho jeans. They were $48 and I saved about $19 so it was a good deal but I’m not madly in love with these jeans. They’re “eh”. Believe me, I would have bought the $170 Lucky or Juicy Couture jeans if they’d fit me better. I am so picky and hard to fit that when I find something that I do like, I will stop being cheap and throw down whatever they’re asking. I would not, however, pay $75 for an ugly green Juicy Couture T shirt. Ever.

This is probably just because I am jealous of rich people, or so says Alice.

(Ladies and gentleman. I’ve hit the big time. Tonight I received my first trollish comment. Courtesy of Alice, my little blog is now rubbing elbows with the dooces and Suburban Blisses of the world. Yay.)

The funniest part, however, is that it was in regard to the Real Housewives of the OC post I did about a month ago. *rolls eyes*

According to the all-knowing Alice, I am just jealous because I am “stuck in middle class America“. It seems that my opinions (as well as those of the other commenters) have absolutely nothing to do with the shallow, vacuous nature of the show and the people on it. No. We hated the show and ragged on the so-called real housewives because they have money and we need to “Grow up, some people live comfortably, you cant hate them for that.”

I can’t? Uh…okay. If it makes you feel better to believe that, then by all means, please do. I wouldn’t dream of furthering a dispute with you over RHOC . No sirreeee. That would go against my very strict policy of only arguing with people lucid enough to separate reality from reality TV :)

Now Hear This!

Wait! Don’t leave yet. Turn up the volume on your computer a little and hit the pink button down there. You know you want to hear my voice…if only to compare it to mating baboons or something.

(does anyone remember when dooce posted that audio snippet of herself talking? I loved her accent so much, I played it like twenty times)

Oh c’mon. Like you have a better offer… Click the button already :)

***This is my first time ever doing something like this and admittedly, it’s a little longer than I had intended. Sorry about that! If I ever figure out how to edit it, I will.

They Sent You WHAT???

The mail…

Everyday it comes and so rarely does it bring anything interesting. It’s usually bills, junk mail and of course, a never-ending stream of catalogs from my personal stalkers at Pottery Barn. The only things that spark my interest anymore are circulars from Tuesday Morning (I keep hoping they’ll have a good deal on Le Creuset) and the occasional invitation or sweet card from a blogging friend.

But this week was different. Not only did I get two, count them, TWO, issues of Cottage Living magazine (that I did not subscribe to but enjoyed nonetheless).

I also got another surprise. I got two, count them, TWO packages of KY Sensual Mist personal lubricant Fed Exed to my front door!

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise. I knew these items would be arriving because last week I received a request from the good people at Ogilvy, makers of KY, to try these products and the review them on my blog.

Now I am not so naïve as to think I was the only person approached for this very important special assignment. No. I’m sure many of you were asked to test drive the Sensual Mist. However, when Jennifer, my new friend and sample-sender, approached me, she was sure to let me know that there were a couple other very fine bloggers, in particular, lubing up in the name of consumer research and I, never one to refuse being in good company, told her to sign me up.

And now you want to hear all the juicy details, don’t you? AS IF! I don’t kiss and tell. Much. But I will tell you what I thought about the KY Sensual Mist.

I like it.

I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with uh…lubricants but there are two times in my life when I’ve found them necessary.

One was when the good old ovulation scope indicated I was ovulating and I wanted to do it RIGHT THEN.

And the other was after giving birth and having an episiotomy to worry about. I can’t speak for anyone else but 10 months postpartum, I’m still scared to do it without using some uh…stuff.

Themost notable feature of the KYSM is the fact that it sprays on instead of pouring out. Getting a bunch of goopy gunk on your hands right before you…you know, is just gross and way unsexy. The spray pretty much eliminates that.

But this is kind of funny… on the label, it says that to enhance pleasure you should put the KYSM on the outside as well as the inside of a condom. Huh? I mean I don’t wear condoms so I don’t really care one way or another but I’ve never heard of that. Guys? Bueller? Anyone?

Oh, and they sent the other kind of KYSM, too. The warming kind. But honestly, I’m not putting anything that gets warm on or around my naughty bits. That’s a little too reminiscent of a yeast infection and I’m just not going there. But to be fair, I tried it on the top of my hand and it really didn’t get all blazing hot like I thought it would. It was almost imperceptible. I was wondering, however, what makes it get warm? Some weird chemical? On your hoo-ha? Not sure how I feel about that.

And at the risk of insuring this blog NEVER gets a “family friendly” designation, I wanted to remind you all that May is National Masturbation Month. You should probably celebrate this one at home, though. Flags are okay but no picnics or parades, okay folks?

Don’t Take the Pot

Yup. You heard me. This message is directed to all you kids out there that are sneaking the computer and going through your mom’s blogroll.

Don’t take the pot.

Okay, okay. I was just being funny and imitating my parents there. What I really mean is don’t SMOKE the pot.

Why? Why, you ask?

Well, because you might decide, at the wise old age of 14 or maybe 15, that when your friend calls you on a Saturday and tells you she got a joint from that stoner guy who rides your bus, that it would be a smashing idea to go to the gazebo by the lake and get high.

So you lie to your parents and say you need to get something from the drug store and instead you get on your yellow 3 spd bike (with the dorky baskets on the back that are better suited to towing people than carrying stuff) and you swing by your friend’s house to pick her up. You guys take turns towing each other to the gazebo only to find there are people there feeding ducks.

Puh! Hopeless dork losers that they are, you leave them to their duck-feeding while you and your friend try to think of place where two wickedly cool teenage girls sporting feathered hair and black eyeliner and wearing those little nylon Dolfin shorts (yes, like the kind Richard Simmons and Hooters girls wear) can go burn one without being too terribly conspicuous.

You end up deciding that the little tunnel of bushes behind the Publix Supermarket will afford you the privacy needed to get baked. While puffing away, some stock boys from Publix follow their noses to your hideout and you guys have to share with them. They are kind of cute and you decide this is for the best since you’re already way too stoned. Being a novice pot smoker, you always let this happen. You never quit while you’re ahead. Dumbass.

As the stock boys depart, high as kites, talking about what kind of food they plan on swiping from the store, you and your friend finally exit the bushes, too, and you get on your bike.

Realizing your condition, you wisely decide to walk the bike instead. As you guys get closer to home, it starts to rain and your friend casually announces that she has to leave now to go to her aunt’s house with her mom.

Whoa, whoa, wait a second. Your brain, in it’s compromised state, is about to catch on fire because it’s working extra hard to process this bit of confusing and bad, VERY BAD, information.

“You’re leaving me? Like this? You can’t. I’m all baked and I can NOT go home like this. I need someone to hang with until I can go home.”

But in the blink of bloodshot eye she’s gone and you are alone, in the rain, high.

Hmmmm. What to do. What to do.

And then you have a brainstorm. You will go to the house of the people you babysit for.

Yeah. They’re pretty cool. He’s a cop and keeps weed in a Tupperware in the bathroom cabinet. And they’re swingers. Remember those Polaroids you found? Ewww. Don’t think about that part. Doesn’t matter. They’re nice people. They are. C’mon.

And before you know it, you’re ringing the bell. Mr. Erlich (Officer Erlich) opens the door and you ask if his wife is home. He smiles and kindly welcomes you in while explaining that Karen and the boys are out but will be home soon. He’s just watching a movie and you’re welcome to hang out and wait. Trying your hardest not not let him see how gross and pasty your mouth is (because then he would know for sure that his teenaged babysitter was totally high) you decide to grab a pillow, lay on the floor and watch the movie. This is an awesome plan, you think to yourself as Mr. Erlich brings you an orange soda. Yes, indeedy!

As you open your eyes, you hear a little voice saying “Mommy, Daddy, she’s getting up!” You look up and there they are. The whole Erlich family looking down, smiling widely at you like you just did something hilariously funny.

Oh wait. You did. You fell dead asleep on their floor for 2 hours.

Grinning sheepishly and silently praising Jah that you’re not high any more, you apologize profusely and get the hell out of there.

If memory serves you correctly, the Erlichs never ask you to babysit again. You don’t care, though, because you’re really embarrassed (and they never had any good food to eat anyway.)

But still. You know you did something really dumb and you’re pretty sure the Erlichs knew. How could they not? And you hope to God they don’t ever tell your parents. Your dad & stepmom were not young enough to indulge in the Summer of Love and all that hippie stuff. They called it taking pot, for pete’s sake.

****************************************

Ahhhhh, to have the luxury of being young & stupid…

My parents never did find out about that Saturday afternoon, thankfully. They would have been very disappointed in me. I was the kind of kid that did bad stuff but got good grades and was generally very responsible. The kind of kid that fools all adults…

I smoked pot many more times after that but I finally had to throw in the towel and admit that I was not a good pot taker. I couldn’t drive (well, I could. But only at speeds under 20 mph). I couldn’t go into a store or do anything remotely normal. I could just eat A LOT, read the same line in a book over and over and then fall asleep. I wasn’t much fun.

These days, however, I have hard time sleeping unless I’m dead tired and taking the pot seems like maybe not such a bad idea.

But the eating. The unabated crap-eating…

Arghhhhh…

Better keep the pot away.