Alive in Wonderland

Mom Bloggers are the new rock stars

Need proof you say? Check out me and five other OC Mom Bloggers dorking it out in this lip dub.

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Sheesh! Mom bloggers are sure getting a beating in the traditional media and online world lately. With articles like this one from the New York Times and the following comment and commentary bloodbath that followed, you'd think we are advocating tossing our children into a rushing river, instead of simply reaching for our dreams and expressing ourselves--in small and big ways--through our blogs. Who knew creative, smart, driven women could be so divisive? (Said with sarcasm, naturally.) 

I believe in the power of the mom blogger. I think blogging is revolutionary for women. I honestly do. It's radically extended the reach of some women who before blogging, didn't have much of a voice. I'm proud as all get up to be a mom blogger, because I've seen first hand how it's transformed the lives of women--in a positive way. In an empowering way. Again, sometimes in little ways, like giving her a creative outlet or building a community of support, and sometimes in larger ways, like leading to a new career. It's all good stuff and all equally important in my opinion.

Here's the thing, as moms we have more things in common than we have differences. I try to embrace the differences and then get all giddy and syrupy when I meet (read) a mom who has the same struggles, triumphs and burns with the same hatred for laundry as me.  Blogs can function as a conduit for these connections.  

So, now you know my stand on mom bloggers and you've been properly primed for this video. Six OC mom bloggers, including moi, dorking it up in a lip dub we made to "Our Lips Are Sealed." Because whenever a PR person or brand representative asks me, what's the best way to reach moms, I always tell them the same thing: '80s music.

The bloggers in the lip dub are:

 

Andrea from the blog Hip Moms Who Work.

 

Marcy from The Glamorous Life Association and Publications.

 

Beckey from Hippo Brigade.

 

Roxanne from Me and My Monster.

 

Kara-Noel from Eli's Lids.

 

Me from here...and here.

**disclaimer: 

These bloggers may or may not share my ernest opinion of mom bloggers.

What are Miley Cyrus' parents thinking?

Where to start? If you haven't seen Miley Cyrus' new video, get an eye-full here. Keep in mind Miley is 17 years old and if you have a little girl yourself,  she most likely has at least one Miley Cyrus laden t-shirt, or thermos, or black lace bustier...well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

   

Okay, so let's just skip that part where it's kind of a ridiculous video. Most of us lived through the '80s and have loved many-a campy, overly conceptualized music video. Let's even skip over the nagging feeling that every female recording "artist" seems to, at some point, end up rolling on the ground with her fingers in her mouth. It's almost a cliche at this point. 

Fine. I won't even mention all that. 

 What went through my mind the minute I saw this was, "What are her parents thinking?" How can a father of a teenage girl green light this nonsense? Isn't this his precious daughter? We will just have to wait for that episode of Celebrity Rehab to air in five years to find out from Miley herself, I guess.  

Watching this I just felt incredibly sad for her. For all girls who don't have parents who would fight like hell to never let their teenager daughter's honor and modesty get trampled by 50 backup dancers and a pair of black thigh-high boots. 

 Yeah, I said it--modesty. 

My daughter, who's almost nine-years-old, and I watched the video together. She was perplexed. She kept saying, "That's not Miley." Then at the end she was quiet and finally it came out. The prefect response: "I can't believe I named a WebKinz after her." 

Maybe we can get her name legally changed.

*** 

 I can get like this sometimes. 

Other rants:

"It's beginning to look a lot like... a kegger."

"Things that make you go ewww!"

Handbags, Totes, and Clutches 101

I thought I would take some time and have a little talk with those two or three male readers I have. I'm going to attempt to make this as clear and precise as possible.

This is a purse (or handbag)

This is a tote

This is a Clutch

The purse or handbag, tote and clutch. They are three totally different things. To say something like, "Look at all the purses you have," while motioning furiously at handbags, totes and clutches is a fashion fallacy. Each has a very specific use and function.

Don't just take my word for it. I have hard evidence that supports this fact. The following shots are from the "Blue Fly" and "Nordstrom's" websites.

Nordstrom! You can't argue with Nordstrom. They have eight selections, but I didn't want to overwhelm you with talk of hobos and messenger bags on the first lesson.

So, stay with me here: it's purses or handbags, totes and clutches.

I'm glad we had this little talk. I feel better now.

(Side note: taking removable straps off a handbag does not make it a clutch. Nice try Larry.)

For Marcy's G.I.R.L. Party. Go to her blog and read how other bloggers are glamours in real life.

Okay kids, time to breakout the French Maid costume

Larry and I were over at the Costume Castle in Irvine letting the kids run wild through the severed heads and clown shoes when we caught this little dialogue between a young customer and the gal behind the counter--who goes by the name "The Queen of Halloween" because of her immense knowledge of costume-ish things.

The young girl was trying to purchase one of the less-than-modest costumes. Hint: fishnets were involved.

Queen of Halloween: How old are you, honey?

Girl: I'm fifteen.

Queen of Halloween: I can't sell this to you. It's inappropriate for your age.

Girl: **Blink**Trying to compute new concept** What do you mean?

Queen of Halloween: You are too young to be wearing this. I can't sell it to you.

Girl: Dad!

Queen of Mean: Is your dad here? I'll talk to him.

Spastic, breathless explanation from girl to dad about mean lady not letting her buy something she wanted.

Girl's dad: What's wrong with this costume? It's fine.

Plops down credit card in a no-one-tells-me-my-daughter-can't-wear-something fashion.

I guess he showed her.

Poor girl doesn't stand a chance.

When I was telling my friend Andy this story he responded, "Hey, how can he be her best friend if he doesn't give her everything she wants?"

Good call, Andy. You have this whole parenting a daughter thing down. (He was joking, of course.)

When I'm an old women I shall not be so cynical...

The Red Hatters.   You know them?  I have a friend, who I love and adore, who is a member of The Red Hat Society.  The group originated right here in Orange County and I spot their flashes of bedazzled, purple and red everywhere.

The idea behind the group comes from this poem. But, to save you the trouble of clicking (and give myself a chance to share some snarky imagery), I will paraphrase: Why wait until you have medicare on speed-dial and you say things like "Coldwater Creek has some cute blazers this fall" to be who you want to be?  Don't wait to wear that red hat ladies. Be your own person. Spit. Drink hard liquor.

These were the nobel and veracious propelling ideas for the group.  But now, it seems they have distanced themselves from the poem and its message, not providing  even a link to it on their website.

Here is a recent conversation I had with my friend:

Friend: "It's my birthday so I get to wear a purple hat instead of a red one."

Me: "Do you have to wear particular clothes to these get-togethers?"

Friend: "Oh, yes, you wear black slacks and red and purple and then a red hat, except on your birthday, then you wear a purple hat."

Me: "But doesn't that sort of take away from the whole meaning of the group?  You know, to be so regimented?" 

Friend: Silence.

Me: "Why don't you just show up in a mohawk? That will really get those gals in a bunched-up fit."

Friend: eye-roll/arm fold across body.

My sixties are going to be brutal.

Something Small, But Sweet

I miss bench seats in cars. To me, it is romantic when a couple can sit knee to knee next to each other while they drive. I suppose some trucks still have them, but I am talking about the old station wagons and sedans our parents drove.

I remember my mom and dad picking me up from the Holiday Roller Skating Rink, my mom in her bathrobe, cozied right up next to my dad. It made me feel happy and comforted that my mom wanted to be close to him.

Cars meant something different back then (excuse me for sounding like an old bitty.) My Dad was a Chevy man. Everyone over the age of 35 had a dad who was either a Chevy man or Ford man. Once, a boyfriend picked me up in his beautiful 1967 powder blue Ford Mustang. My Dad looked out the window at the Ford in the driveway and said to my brother, "I wonder if he pees sitting down?" (Apparently, this is a HUGE insult to a male.)

I think we all have an old picture of our dad and his car-- crouched down in front next to the wheel, leaning on the hood or with one leg up on the running board-- mugging for the camera. It wasn't just a status symbol to them; they were proud. Not in a look-how-much-money-I-have-so-I-can-drive-this-car kind of way, but proud to have been able to work hard enough to own their own car.

Anyways, I miss bench seats. Its just a little thing, something small, but sweet.

(My Dad took this picture of me with my beloved VW Bug in 1986. It didn't have bench seats, but I am striking the quintessential "Dad" pose.)

Raging Gorillas, Mint Juleps and Time Travel; Just Another Day In Orange County

The ability to use my suspension of disbelief in everyday living has strengthened as I have grown older. Living in Orange County has heightened this useful skill.

We all do it. Most of us can sit in Lucille’s BBQ in The District and think, "I just love visiting the South. What a simple and sweet place it is." We can suspend our reality enough that we are no longer in a restaurant in the parking lot of Lowe's, but enjoying a pulled pork sandwich in the sweltering heat of the Deep South.

This is really quite a talent, honed by growing up with Farrell's (oh how I miss Farrell’s) and I suspect possible vapors from Disneyland looming in the air.

I don't think this ability is a bad thing in and of itself. People do it in the theater, walking through "Venice" in Las Vegas, and even at the occasional corporate retreat (you know, we're not at the Ramada in Bakersfield, we're at a luau in Hawaii!). But, where it has become sort of a faint, nagging quandary for me lies in my fear that I like the illusion of the experience more than the actual experience.

Here are a few examples (I can't believe I am going to share this as it reveals my utter inanity); I much prefer the "pier" at Disney's California Adventure over an actual pier. I know, it is pitiful. I like that it is clean; not a chachki store selling wind chimes in sight; and even the weather (the weather!) is better than an authentic pier.

I like the carnival-like rides and atmosphere at the various outdoor malls in Orange County more than the rickety, future-tragic-headline-producing rides at your random fair or carnival. The carousel at Irvine Spectrum is my absolute favorite (the bunny being my absolute, absolute favorite).

Another pathetically revealing example is, I think I like the animals in the zoo more than truly wild animals. If I were walking in Africa and saw a wild Lion right in front of me, to tell you the truth, I would be scared, not charmed by the cute way he grooms his big killer paws.

Well, that one is just silly, but you get the picture.

Sometimes my sensibilities return to me and I get annoyed at this trend of theme living. If it is not a motif that is appealing to me, I don't want it around me at every turn. The Rainforest Cafe is a good example of this. I don't think raging gorillas, torrential storms, lurking snakes and trees dripping with moss are conducive to eating a salad. It just makes me jumpy and too vigilant to enjoy myself.

So, now you know the worst of it. My deepest shame is "out there." But don't judge me until YOU have had a Tuna Melt sitting at the shining counter of Ruby's, sipping a Vanilla Coke, while The Andrew Sisters sing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." I love living in the 40's.

55 Of The Worst Songs Ever!

Steve Martin once said, "Talking about music, is like dancing about architecture." Which I totally agree with, but I do think that slamming bad music is completely acceptable....

The website Blender has collected, what I think, is a pretty accurate list of "The 50 Worst Songs Ever." Who could argue that "Dancing On The Ceiling" and "Take These Broken Wings" shouldn't be part of the worst songs ever made list?

I would add these miserable songs to the list: 1) Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" (Actually wrote a whole post about having this song stuck in my head one summer), 2) James Blunt's "Beautiful", 3) Shania Twain's "Wow! I Feel Like A Woman" (any song that has an exclamation point in the title automatically should be added to the list, no questions asked), 4) Lynard Skinard's "Free Bird", and 5) Gary Wrights "Dream Weaver."

It was a bit obvious to me that the kids at Blender never had to live through the bleak days of 70's easy listening music. I chose just one, number 5, on my list from those 8-Track, AM radio days, but there are so many more... Come on, you remember, riding around in the back of your parent's station wagon listening to such mournful tunes as: Terry Jacks "Seasons In The Sun (young man dies)", Henry Gross' "Shannon (dog dies)", Eric Carmen's "All By Myself, (whole family dies)", Michael Murphy's "Wildfire (horse dies then girlfriend dies)", Don McLean’s "Vincent (artist dies)." What WAS the appeal?

As to not leave you in utter disgust of all pop music, here is one of my all time favorite artists and songs:

(Crowded House, Distant Sun)

Side note: I was going to do some links to these songs, but I truly couldn't even stand to listen to them they were so utterly depressing.

Enough With The Skull and Crossbones Already

I am completely over the whole Skull and Crossbones phenomenon; on my kid's fruit snacks, on flags flying high above RV's at Huntington State Beach, on dog T-shirts and (gasp!) on a silk scarf I found today at J.Crew (curses).
From now on, unless you are a true pillaging pirate, or a bottle of poison in a cartoon, I forbid you from wearing any likeness of the dreaded Skull and Crossbones.