She's a Real Mother

Mutha's got eyes in the back of her head.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Oh! To Be Little with Too Much Time on Your Hands

I have vivid memories of being told that I had to get ready for bed early in order to be allowed to stay up and watch The Brady Bunch followed by The Partridge Family. To say I loved these shows would be an understatement. I was simply devoted to them. In fact, I spent a lot of non-viewing time thinking about the characters and making up scenarios for them. These scenarios would sometimes bleed characters from one show to the other -- which of course really did happen occasionally (i.e. Sonny and Cher on "Scooby Do") -- but as my overly-intense-emotional-self tended to lean, I made the characters far too involved in one another's lives.

I wondered how long it would take Keith to break Marcia's heart.

I wondered if Laurie was a little too sophisticated for Greg.

I worried Danny wouldn't get along with anyone.

I thought the littlest kids might have fun together -- although the tambourine girl always seemed a little ... aloof.

And what about the adults? Would Alice leave Sam the Butcher for Rubin Kincaid?

Or would Mr. Brady end up having an affair with Shirley Jones? Not to worry!

I also LOVED The Courtship of Eddie's Father and therefore imaged that maybe Carol Brady could jump over there and get married to that poor widower Bill Bixby.

And then maybe the adorable nanny Mrs. Livingston could retire...or take Mr. French's place on Family Affair when he keeled over from a heart attack. Because even at 7 years old, I could sense that Buffy and Jody's dad was simply not going to remarry. Alcoholism? Rage issues? I am not sure, but there was something wrong over there. Which is why I was not surprised when I overheard the grown-ups talking about how Buffy and/or Jody and/or the teen aged sister ended up flipping out on acid in real life. Meanwhile, Mrs. Livingston could have saved the day with her soothing Japanese ways.

If they had only listened to my recasting ideas...lives could have been spared.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Prince! Prince! Prince! Let's Talk About Prince!

The Artist Formerly Known as Merely Kooky has finally gone off the deep end. Not content with simply turning his name into an unpronounceable symbol, he shaved the word "slave" into his facial hair -- all in the name of getting out of his record contract. Well now it seems that none of that is enough. No. Now he hates his fans. And not in that general funk "stop looking at me because I hate myself" kind of thing that Kurt Cobain had going. Prince is SUING his fans -- trying to get them to stop posting about him, and even making photos of their own Prince-tribute tattoos public.

Well you don't have to taunt me twice Prince. I could have gone my whole life without posting about you -- but now I have to. You leave me no choice.

According to the Prince fan site, they have been sent a "DMCA takedown notice and at least two Cease and Desist letters from attorneys representing Prince. Their demands for removing content and mandating how we would refer to Prince, if obliged, would essentially mean the end of any discussion of Prince-related topics, hosting of images (even of people\'s symbol tattoos!) and more. We at will not stand for this, and have joined forces with the other affected sites to tell our side of the story and stand up to what are, in our opinion, bullying tactics designed to silence freedom of speech."

I must admit I have been in a fan. I loved Purple Rain -- and other fantastic singles such as "Kiss" and Sinead O'Connor's recording of "Nothing Compares to You." I have bought the man's albums! I have dug his solos and appreciated the whole presentation enough to stifle a giggle at the general tiny-guy-in-high-heels element. I even praised his creativity with the symbol/beard shaving bit. But now I feel committed to my own civil disobedience.

So! Let's go to the fans' new hangout. Come on Prince -- you can come too! Oh...and one more picture...

And one more for good luck...


Monday, November 12, 2007

A Real Bad Case of the Uglies

The other day I went through a real bad case of the uglies. It surpassed the level in which I wonder how long my teeth have been grey. It surpassed the level in which I calculate how much money it would take to replace the entire wardrobe that no longer suits me and then give up. It was to the level in which I concede that I have the beginnings of a hunchback and therefore will end up a hideous hag.

This pushed me to emergency measures: shoe shopping.

This is my remedy of choice instead of prolonged self-loathing or dedicating myself to eating as much chocolate as possible. I figure shoe shopping can not make me heavier or crankier and if I go to Payless or Parade of Shoes -- I won't even be that much poorer.

And it was during this trip to the shoes store that I realized shoe shopping saves women from many of the pitfalls of clothes shopping. If I dared to go clothes shopping while suffering from the Uglies I would end up feeling pissier about my hunchback or freakishly broad shoulders or my breasts that are either too large, too small, or too saggy (depending on the garment being tried on). This simply does not happen with shoes. They either fit or they don't fit and if they don't it is not because of my foot being somehow unacceptable -- it is because of some flaw in the shoe. When a shoe is too tight I do not think, "Shit, my toes are fat." No. I think, "They've got no business labeling this an 8 1/2!"

No wonder women seem drawn to shoe addictions. No matter what your hips look like, you can always have adorable feet.

Monday, November 05, 2007

What You Need to Do to Get Candy

I am glad to know almost every kid in my neighborhood. Having lived here for some years now, I have had the chance to observe a couple of them move from early childhood to pre-adolescence. And that is how I have come to peg a couple of kids who I am sure will grow up to sell drugs.

There is nothing like Halloween as a check-in with the neighborhood kids' progress. Like the trip to the bus stop each year on the first day of school, you get to see who has grown, who is missing a tooth, and who has made that crucial leap to young juvenile delinquant. When the group of kids that included the future-drug-pushers came to my door this past Halloween night, the first thing I noticed was that the costume selection was a little random. When I asked, "What are you supposed to be?" there was a collective shrug in response.

I decided that some tough love was in order.

"Well," I said returning the yet-untouched bowl of treats to my hip, "You gotta be something to get candy."

One kid raised a hand, "I'm an evil jester." Okay -- fair enough. He did have the Scream mask and a jester hat on.

"How bout you, Tim?" I asked the boy wearing a shirt on that said got candy? on it. "I'm a kid who wants candy."

"Sure," I responded with the bowl still on my hip. "Okay Justin," I said turning to the kid I KNOW will one day sell my child weed. Surveying his blue hoody and jeans, I raised my eyebrows at him.

"I'm a skateboarder," he said hopefully.

I sighed.

I shifted the bowl to the other hip. The boys stood quietly.

"Fine!" I exclaimed, offering the bowl to pick from. "But next year I want some imagination! Nothing lame or NO CANDY! Got it?"

Dutifully, each boy took only one piece of candy and each said "Thank You."

Aaah...they're good kids.