Um yeah, it’s me…weighing in on the already somewhat yawnworthy topic of Miley Cyrus’ photos in Vanity Fair because the world really NEEDS one more opinion on the matter.

Simply put, I think the photos were inappropriate for a fifteen year old girl.

Really, the one with her dad kind of made my skin crawl. They really looked more like lovers than father and daughter. It’s just…ewww. Yick.

And I know somebody is going to say that it’s because my mind is in the gutter that I feel that way and that shot is beautiful and to that I will say, “Shut up and go sit over there with Rosie O’ Donnell (who frankly scares me a bit when she gets on her web cam all close-up and stuff).

As for the other photo — please. Someone could sit here all day long coming up with reasons why it’s not an objectionable photo and I will shrug my shoulders and say “Okay, if you think sexualizing young girls is alright…”

See, it’s not a question of whether she’s fifteen and got raging hormones or because all teenage girls like to try their hand at being sexy and grown up blah blah. That’s probably all true and I don’t begrudge Cyrus the right to grow up. Miley herself is not the problem. The problem is that she appeared in a magazine geared toward adults in a bedheaded, come-hither Brigitte Bardot pose and she’s a child. Sexualizing her like that, no matter how much she might think it’s cool and edgy, is messed up. Period.

And I don’t give a flying fig (my dorky new substitute for the F word) about Annie Leibovitz or how awesometastical her work is. If asking a child to pose like that is the pinnacle of her creativity, then she’s all washed up and should consider retiring and if she couldn’t see this sh!tstorm coming from a mile away then she’s stupid, too.

The real coup would have been to portray Miley in an interesting and different way from her teen idol persona without resorting to that tired old standby of a half-dressed female. Christalmighty, I’ve seen innumerable half naked women and a lot of weird eroticized pregnant bellies and all sorts of other wack bullshit on the cover of Vanity Fair and it’s actually just so trite. And edgy? Please. Is it really edgy when everyone is doing it?

The fact that the primary responsible adults in Miley’s life left the shoot before it was over and didn’t bother, so it seems, to get something in the contract stating that said they must approve the photos before publication says to me that they are all very naive (they’re not) or that they really don’t care about Miley as long as she continues her run as the golden goose of the Cyrus family.

Sorry. It’s hard not to be cynical because seriously, this “innocent ingenue blossoming into a sexy ‘not a girl not yet a woman’ ” routine? It seems, I don’t know..a little…familiar? Perhaps it’s time to stop making kids into megastars and let them be kids so we won’t be so horrified when they try to grow up.

And to all the parents out there crying about how your child’s role model has disappointed you and how shocked you are etc. please, take this ticket and GET ON THE CLUE TRAIN because seriously — what did you expect? Have we learned nothing from Britney?

I saw this one mom on TV going on and on about how much her five year old loves Hannah Montana and how this is so distressing for her. Your FIVE year old? Why is your FIVE year old watching a TV show about a teenager who’s a secret rock star ANYWAY? Little kids should be watching shows made for little kids. They already grow up way too fast. Why speed the plow?

And Disney*? Seriously, WHY is the target demographic for Hannah Montana 6-14 year olds? Like 14 yr olds are going to be entertained by TV fare appropriate for a 6 year old? No. Of course not. But a 6 yr old is more than happy to watch something better suited to a tween or teen and therein lies the problem.

If you allow kids the opportunity to start idolizing a teen celebrity you will always be disappointed because guess what? Like little puppies and kittens, they always grow up and suddenly they’re not so cute anymore. They’re flashing their crotch every other night (Britney) and getting knocked up at 16 (Jamie Lynn) and making headlines for their sex tape (Paris) and nude photos on the internet (Vanessa). And your innocent child, most likely a little girl, is right there taking it all in while you fumble for the right words to explain why the object of her adoration decided to do whatever stupid thing she did.

At one point, my daughter really wanted to watch Hannah Montana (and yes I have seen it). But we don’t let her. She’s allowed to listen to her songs and that’s it. We’ve avoided the whole Hannah Montana marketing juggernaut, the ridiculous ticket prices for shows that sell out in five minutes and an assload of cheap Hannah Montana-branded crap littering our house. Instead of obsessing over a fake/real/??? rock star, my daughter spends time reading, playing outside and doing a lot of imaginative and creative things. I’m not saying she doesn’t watch TV, because she does, but she watches things that are better suited to a child her age. Why? Because I don’t want her fixating on a teenage celebrity who will eventually do something that is well beyond the understanding of a thankfully unsophisticated seven year old. Oh wait…that’s already happened. Heh.

I apologize in advance for the judgmental tone but really, I’m rather relieved to not have to explain a single thing about Miley Cyrus to my child and I’m really glad I’m not afraid to say “no” to either of my children. The world wants to consumerize, demographize, commoditize, homogenize and, sadly, sexualize our kids as soon as they’re able to and I intend to fight it for as long as I can.

Opposing viewpoints are welcome but be nice.

(While I’ve got you here, check out this Disney billboard in China WTF????????)

——-

From around the webernets:

Did VF “groom” Miley Cyrus?
Goddess versus sex goddess: It’s all in the vision

Have you written a post on this topic? Let me know and I’ll link you here.

In the very beginning it will be weird.

Your firstborn will probably suddenly seem huge to you, like they grew three inches while you were giving birth.

It’s possible that you will feel like you’ve betrayed your first child and suffer pangs of guilt while asking yourself over and over “What have I done?”

But it all gets better. You find your family rhythms and you realize your firstborn will survive this and the guilt goes away.

Caring for your second child will feel familiar and you’ll probably be a lot less nervous than you were with your first. You may even feel empowered by your ability to handle two children at once, although you’re a lot happier when your spouse or some other person who doesn’t get on your last nerve are there to help.

Before you know it, you have to get back into the swing of things because your firstborn cannot be contained any longer and that’s when you learn the art of navigating the outside world alone with two kids, one teeny one and one biggerish one.

And it’s a challenge at times but you learn to accept that sometimes you won’t be 100% in control of the situation because, well, it’s hard with two, but you’ll all be okay. And each time, it gets easier.

As your baby begins to grow and finds his or her comfy little niche in your family dynamic, the amazingness of it all might make you tear up a little. And when your firstborn shows any sign of love or caring to the baby, well, your heart will hurt…in a good way.

At some point you realize you’re now a party of four and it feels right and even with all the challenges you’ve faced and all the ones to come, this little family you’ve helped create is so beautiful and so perfect… You can’t even begin to imagine your second-born not being in your life.

——-

Okay, maybe this wasn’t quite the assvice they were asking for but more a retrospective on my experiences when my second child came into the world. But I hope that some of what I learned will be of benefit to three lovely ladies who are about to bring their second babies into the world.

This was part of a Virtual Baby Shower thrown by Kristen, Liz, Katie and Julie for Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky and Mrs. Chicken over at Better than a Playdate.

If you’d like to join in the fun, go there for the details. You can win stuff! Seeing as I’m all done breeding, I have my eye on basket #3.

Much love, easy deliveries and healthy babies to all of you :)

So I go to the doctor today and I’m like “I have this weird tense, tight feeling in my throat and chest and it can be a bit hard breathe in a nice full breath and it comes and goes all day long and sometimes it’s accompanied by this weird pulsing feeling in my chest, like right under this denty thing in my neck. It has literally come from out of nowhere and it’s starting to freak me out because, you know, not being able to breathe properly and stuff, well…it’s a bit uncomfortable.”

And after I hear scary things like “obstructive airway disease” and take a breathing test and get an EKG, both of which were completely normal, praise the sweet baby Jesus, she tells me she thinks I’m suffering from anxiety.

Anxiety?

Me?

Are you effing kidding me?

I’m not anxious. I’m SO not anxious. Nope. Not a bit. My life is pretty easy and I’m relatively happy and I AM NOT ANXIOUS, DAMMIT!

So she suggests I try some Xanax, which I know would make a lot of people ecstatic because hello? Doesn’t EVERYONE love Xanax? But me? Not happy.

So I tell her I don’t like that idea, that I’m NOT a tranquilizer kind of person, that I’m already prone to drowsiness and laziness and that being tranquil would not be good for me. But she says it would be more to rule out other things because if I feel better, then it’s obviously not some horrible life-destroying lung disease or heart problem and I won’t need that echocardiogram she ordered for me.

*SIGH*

I begrudgingly agree to take the devil pills just to see what happens and to prove to her that she? Is so TOTALLY wrong.

So I take a half of the lowest dosage available. And I fall dead asleep. But when I wake up? No tight chestiness, no weird pulsing heartbeats in my throat, no feeling like I’m breathing through a straw.

I’m cured! I’m cured!

Well, as long as I don’t mind taking de sleepytime pill 2x a day and possibly dozing off at inopportune times — you know, like when I’m driving? Ha. I kid.
But I still don’t get it. How can you have anxiety when you DON’T FEEL ANXIOUS?????

So anyway, tomorrow I’m getting on a big flying machine and going to Camp Baby. I can’t really write about it here because of ad networky things I promised to honor and obey but I can say that I’m looking forward to seein’ mah girls and, you know, releasing all that anxiety that I didn’t know I had. Of course, there are many others I wish were going but hopefully they’ll all be at BlogHer this summer (where nursing babies are totally welcome!)

I was compelled to dig through my old jewelry the other day after watching gold hit the $1000 mark. I was just curious to see just how much old gold jewelry I actually had — dollar signs dancing in my eyes, no doubt.

A lot of what I unearthed was mine from the days of charmholders that held lightning bolts and floating hearts, of serpentine chains, zodiac pendants and those nameplates that were rather unfortunately resurrected by Carrie Bradshaw.

The rest was my mother’s and grandmother’s jewelry — or rather what was left of it after my sister picked through it all and took the really, really good stuff.

Nonetheless, I don’t have much affection for yellow gold jewelry these days anyway and with very few sentimentally-based exceptions, I’d happily sell all of it for a thousand dollars an ounce.

But I got distracted when I came across my old silver peace sign ring.

Seeing as I was still in utero during the Summer of Love, it obviously came from a far less intense era — the mid to late eighties. And I’m embarrassed to admit it was, by and large, worn because we thought wearing peace signs were cool and nobody else was doing it — which really just meant you couldn’t yet score any peace sign gear at the mall.

In the interest of full-disclosure, I was a clove-smoking, black-wearing, bob-sporting, mall-hating elitist back then. I apologize to to whomever I may have directed any scornful, thou-art-soooo-inferior eyerolling.

Anyway, not ever having bothered to make myself aware of the actual ugliness of war and never having watched one on TV until a few years later with the Gulf War, I was really just a poseur. I mean sure, I didn’t like war. Most reasonable people don’t. But what did I actually know about war and peace or the fight for peace or the lack of peace? Not a damn thing.

As I sat there and fiddled with the tarnished silver ring, I thought about discussions I’d had with my husband half a decade ago, before the impending quagmire known as Iraq, in which I’d argued that war should be a last resort; that every single option should be exhausted before embarking on something that will cause so much misery and suffering.

These days I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the state of the world — the turmoil, the genocide, the civil wars, man’s inhumanity to man… And I say many silent little prayers to whomever might be listening to please save us from ourselves.

So…I’m wearing the ring again. The difference is this time it actually means something.

I like to think of this little exercise, brainchild of ma betch, as a lowering of expectations. You see, by posting a totally decaffeinated, au-naturel, first-thing-in-the-morning pic I will be so much more impressive if and when you see me in person with degreasified hair, unblotchier skin, and a lot less eyebagginess that you will be awed and slackjawed at the sight before you. Or something.

So if you want to see the real me…clickety click right heeyah* If you want to see the less real me, look through my Flickr.

For more Self-Portrait Truthiness, check out these fine specimens of natural beautyness**

Sweetney
Her Bad Mother
Breed Em And Weep
Oh The Joys
Mamalogues
IzzyMom
Motherbumper

*Disclaimer: Management not responsible for injuries that may result.
** Brilliant wordage courtesy of Foster (age 6)

In previous odes to jeans on this blog, I’ve totally spouted off on the unattractiveness of the low-rise jean. I went on and on about how they make your butt look bad and that if you’re not a toothpick or a supermodel but rather an ordinary woman with some actual flesh on her hips, you’ve probably been sporting the dreaded muffin-top, too, possibly without even knowing it.

But after a recent trip to the mall, I’ve observed that the tides are turning and waistlines are rising. And rising. And rising.

And while these high-waisted Levis may not look so so bad on this model, I assure you they are still the devil’s handiwork for they will lead to…

…the return of the *ominous pause* MOM JEAN!

And could usher in jeans like these, lace insets notwithstanding.

Look. At. Them. They’re up to her (his?) RIBS!

DO NOT WANT!!!

And yes, celebs ARE doing it but it’s obvious their stylists have deep-seated contempt for them because why else would they let them out in public in these things?

My fear is that these high waisted, tapered leg jeans will open the door to…PLEATS *gasp*

And those…

…will lead to high waists and pleats and tapered legs and buffalo plaids and STIRRUPS!!!

I’m proud to say I never EVER owned a pair of stirrup pants.

But I did own lots of these. And I loved them. They’re good butt pants.

Heidi Klum’s Jordache, however, are NOT good because they’re skinny-leg jeans. Incidentally, she’s their new model in a campaign designed to make Jordache cool again. Um…didn’t anyone tell her that for years Jordache were sold exclusively at Walmart? I don’t envy her task.

But I’d wear those evil skinny-leg Jordache from Walmart before I’d ever let a Kenny Rogers song touch my butt.

Your eyes do not deceive you… That’s him, right there on the hip pocket.

You gotta know when to hold ‘em, Know when to fold ‘em
Know when to give them to charity — and then run…

One of my concerns amidst these extremely high waistlines is that my beloved mid-rise jeans will go away for another 20 years.

Let me just tell you that I was wearing Levis 501’s 15 years ago because I could wear them down on my hips with a fitted shirt and a funky belt and avoid the whole stick o’ denim right up under my boobs look. But today’s jeans are so much better than 501’s and I’m just not ready to give them up.

This is me in my mid-rise jeans. Don’t I look hot?.

Per the theme for today’s Friday Flashback, which is “how (insert band name/artist here) changed my life,” I give you a slight departure — The Music of My Youth: Boys and Boyfriends Edition

After my mother died, I had to move in with my dad, stepmom and her kids. I’d had a major growth spurt that summer. I grew about 2 inches and lost all my baby fat. I was suddenly tall and thin instead of average and pudgy.

A new girl in a new city trying to make new friends, life was about to change quite a bit for this formerly chubby duckling.

You see, it wasn’t long after 9th grade started that I found myself going out with one of the most popular boys in my high school (well, among us lowly freshmen). He plucked me from obscurity and that was that. I was his girlfriend.

He said we had to have a song.

A song?

I didn’t have much experience in the boyfriend department and I had no idea we were supposed to have “a song”. I let him decide and he picked Open Arms by Journey (which was fine with me because I looooooved Journey) and I felt like Cindefuckingrella.

Well, it turns out our song should have been Victim of Love by The Cars because after about two months, when he figured out I wasn’t going to give up ye olde virginity to him anytime soon, he dumped me for someone that would. Ahhh…young love. Ain’t it grand?

A couple years later I was into this guy that I worked with at a local grocery store. We had a big gang o’ friends and we had parties every single weekend. It was a really fun time in my life.

Well, one weekend when my parents decided I was mature enough to be left at home while they took my stepsibs out of town over night, I decided to prove my parents wrong and have a party at my house. And HE was there.

He found me in my garage checking on the dogs while complete madness ensued in the house. We had a “moment” out there and as the party started to wind down and people left (passed out Jack Daniels drinking fools notwithstanding) we ended up in my bedroom. Door closed.

On cassette, Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon played over and over (through the miracle of auto-reverse) while we groped and dry-humped and generally did everything you could do and still have your clothes on — on my sister’s bed.

We peeled ourselves apart when the sun came up and after I was done being grounded for throwing that party, we were all BFGF TLA for the next year and a half. To this day, I can’t listen to that album or Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here without thinking about him.

After we broke up, I became pretty close friends with this guy that I’d had a mad crush on a few years earlier. He used to ride my bus and he was gorgeous, with the most amazing blue eyes, and totally mysterious in his strangeness and differentness. He wasn’t like other guys and when I finally got to know him, I really, really liked him.

We were just friends but there was always something else, this undercurrent, between us that we didn’t ever acknowledge.

Until one summer night when I was 17 and he was 18. I’d just graduated from high school.

His parents were out of town and we were hanging out at his house and decided, probably out of boredom, to drink some vodka. But one shot of Absolut turned to two. And three. Maybe more. Obviously, intoxication ensued…

In his kitchen we sat, having a really deep conversation about something while listening to The Smiths, a band that I loved then and still do. In our drunkenness, we started singing to “Still Ill”.

Under the iron bridge..we kissed. And though I ended up with sore lips…it just wasn’t like the old days anymore…

And then we kissed. And that kiss turned into making out.

As you may have guessed, we had sex to that album and even though we were both pretty lit, it was amazing; both tender and sweet and urgent and hot. Obviously, I’ve not yet forgotten that night.

I still can’t listen to The Smith’s Hatfull of Hollow without thinking of him. I moved later that year but we still kept in touch until he, very uncharacteristically, joined the Army.

He did write me a letter when I was in college. He was stationed in Germany. I always intended to write him back but I never did. I still have his letter and often wonder how he’s doing; how his life turned out.

There’s so much more I could share with you but you’ll forgive me, I hope, for not delving into the music and boyfriends of my college years. There’s just not enough time and honestly, I think I’d rather get on MySpace and start looking up old friends and boyfriends instead ;)

*Note to self: Remember to DELETE this post before the kids start reading your blog*

You are please to be wanting more Friday Flashbacks, yes?

Then check out these fine and foxy ladies:

Sweetney
Her Bad Mother
Oh The Joys
Whoorl
Mamalogues
Mrs. Flinger
Mom-101
Girls Gone Child

I used to like Oprah. I did. I used to see her as something of a woman’s woman.

These days? Not so much. *ducking the rotten vegetable projectiles* And I’d never say she hasn’t done some wonderful things and helped a lot of people. Those moments are always very conveniently caught on camera so it would be near impossible to not be aware of her many good deeds.

But these days I see her as more of a hypocrite than anything else; someone who would compromise her integrity for the sake of ratings and dollar signs if need be.

And who’s going to call her out on it? Who’s going to say shit to her when she’s handing out new cars and iPods and hundred dollar boxes of chocolate?
Uhhh…me?

Yeah, me. Because I’m pretty pissed off right now.

This is a “comment” I submitted to Oprah.com. I know she’ll probably never see it but whatever, I had to write it.

—–

I was watching the Oprah show today about people living lives of minimal consumption, the Freegans etc. I thought the show had a good message and the topic seemed kid-friendly so I let my 7.5 year old daughter watch with me. I normally don’t do this because most of your shows topics are simply not suitable for children but I thought today was the exception. And in regard to that particular segment, it was.

But then, before a commercial, with NO WARNING WHATSOEVER, the show cut to a close up shot of a woman dancing nude. Yes, the parts that the FCC won’t allow were blurred out but there was no mistaking what we were watching.

Was it REALLY necessary to show that graphic imagery to elucidate what your segment on a suburban stripper mom was all about? The voice over wasn’t enough? Are you that desperate?

In case you care, my daughter, after having seven years of carefully-tended innocence totally compromised in 10 seconds by your promo, asked me “Why is that mommy dancing naked?”

Would you or your producers like to come over and EXPLAIN THAT TO HER? Because I sure as hell didn’t know what to say.

If I wasn’t so pissed off, I’d have to laugh at the irony…

I turn on Oprah, champion of women everywhere and what do I find? That same tired old refrain of female nudity being exploited for profit *sigh* And equally contemptible, your total disregard for who might be watching at 4pm in the afternoon. I wouldn’t have been fazed by such poor taste and judgment after 10pm or on cable but on network TV during daytime hours? I think you need to re-examine your V-chip rating and have it switched to TV-MA.

I’m disappointed in you, Oprah. I really am. I honestly thought better of you and I would expect better from your producers, as well.

Silly me, huh?

—-

Rest assured, people. I won’t make that mistake again.