"No you girls"

Uhh . . . so this is what happens in my house

when someone 'complains' about their bathroom in a blog entry. 

See all those studs?  Yeah, I'm referring to Bob too. 

Well, there was a wall there when I left for work this morning.  Now I have to find a place to house all my magic potions.  You know, the stuff that prevents me from looking human. 

But see what I mean about Band-Aid colored tile?  Gross. 

I'll let you know when it's all over. 

Roo is clearly not very happy about this.

"No You Girls" by Franz Ferdinand

"Every breath you take"

Let it be known here today . . . that two posts ago marks 50 posts for me.  Is that applause I hear?  Well, thank you.  I think 50 (now 52) posts have some significance.  Fifty posts mean I am on my way.  And clearly I am . . . on my way to more meaningless posts.  Let's get started. 

Topic of the day:  American Girl Dolls.  Aren't they the coolest things ever?  [Please read the sarcasm.]  Since the beginning of time, there has been an ongoing scam by corporations to make women feel they must compete with each other through whatever means necessary, be it fashion trends, home products, technology, or cars.  And now with the help of the American Girl Doll, this process can begin as young as 4-years-old! 

I first noticed that AGDs were actually status symbols disguised as harmless toys when we went to Chicago over the summer.  Emerson brought her AGD Bitty Baby (named June) for our visit to the AGD mansion store.   All along the Miracle Mile, girls ranging in age from 3-years to 40-years were carrying their well-dressed AGDs with freshly styled coifs.  Some had more than one doll with them.  And when we would pass another girl full of sugar and spice carrying a Kirsten or a Kit or a Molly, Emerson would smile with excitement and point out their doll.  June was having a bad hair day, and the girls in passing would snobbishly look away as if poor June just didn't measure up to their snooty booties.  Even though June is an AGD, she's not really an AGD because she's a Bitty Baby.  And she was wearing just regular doll clothes, not AGD clothes.  And her hair was looking rather funky because when Emerson brushes it, it looks like she's taking a hack saw to the doll's head, and pieces of June's hair fall out. 

Inside the store, there is a small room for the Bitty Babies where all the babies are lined up displaying all the combinations of doll clothes that you can purchase (at prices similar to what you would pay for actual children's clothing).  Emerson was allowed to choose one new outfit for June.  Much time was spent deliberating as her little mind spun faced with so many choices (in the picture above, she is changing her mind for the third time).  She finally settled on a mid-price-range outfit.  One dress, miniature boots, and a scarf all in one box for . . . only $28!  I have never spent $28 on any outfit for Emerson.  But ok.  June had to live with having her hair done by me instead of spending another $20 for a hair appointment with the AGD hairdressers.  Yes, you can have your doll's hair done there, you can take them to a performance there, and you can have a very expensive meal with them there.  What memories I didn't create with my daughter!

The picture to the left is Emerson after her purchase.  Does she even look happy?  Way too overwhelming.  And she didn't even know about all the cool opportunities she was not having with her doll. 

This weekend, our library put on an American Girl tea party.  It was free.  I registered Emerson and her cousin Blair.  Blair also has a Bitty Baby, and she made it clear immediately that her Bitty Baby would not be coming.  She would borrow her sister's AGD instead (see, I told you the Bitty Babies don't count).  The event was cute, and the girls enjoyed it.  But from the sidelines, it was clear that the moms and daughters were sizing up each other's AGDs.  "Oh, did you make that outfit for her?  Isn't that charming?"  "Wow, look at that doll's dress over there.  How fancy!"  It was like a friggin beauty pageant for the dolls.  And you could see many of the young girls' eyes dart between their doll and another girl's fancier doll.  It's basically a whole new way for our girls to hate themselves. 

And really, I must agree with a friend of mine who recently admitted that his daughter's AGDs creep him out because he's waiting for them to come to life and take a knife to him, Chucky-style.  Their faces have a constant mildly amused look.  It's a  look reminiscent of people who are medicated into a stupor-like belief that everything is ok.  Or maybe it's a look of a vigilant demon waiting to take possession of a plaything in designer duds.  Either one is possible. 

At some point in the wee hours of last night, my son Aidan crawled into my bed and snuggled into me shaking from a nightmare.  I have never seen him so scared.  When I picked him up from school today, I asked him if he remembered what the nightmare was about.  "Oh yeah, Mom.  But it was really freaky.  I don't know if you want to hear it."  I assured him I did.  I could only imagine the horrors I was about to hear.  "Okay, Mom.  I had a dream that I was in the bathroom, and Emerson's doll June was sitting in there too, and her eyes kept opening and closing.  I screamed and I told you, and you went into Emerson's room and asked her dolls if anyone else was made like that.  See, I told you it was freaky.  It's still freaky when I think about it."  Agreed.

As soon as we got into the house, Emerson ran and found June.  "Oh Ai-dan!  Come here and look at this!" my daughter shouted.  Then she chased Aidan around with her AGD, moving it so that the eyes would open and close.  So besides being a way for a young girl to measure her self worth, apparently the AGD can also be a young boy's torture device.  Awesome. 

"Every Breath You Take" by The Police

"Personal Jesus"

I have a perfect love, a savior that I run to when I need deliverance or for no reason at all, a food that I just can't eat enough (and therefore must punish myself by limiting it's presence in my life lest I lose all control and eat it nonstop).  You're probably thinking it's something incredibly decadent, or something outrageously gourmet, or maybe something sinfully rich. 

It is . . . peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  *Long breathy sigh with dreamy eyes*  Can I get an AMEN?

When I was in grade school and my parents packed my lunch, I ate it every day.  My sisters chose bologna (ew), or maybe ham and cheese, or even just cheese alone, but not me.  Give me PB&J or I'll go hungry, thanks. 

In high school, my dad took over the packing of the lunches.  Yes, we were completely spoiled -- I mean, we were of the age to drive and practically vote, and Dad was still packing our lunches.  He made it his mission to pack us the most excellent lunches ever.  (Once though, he packed me steak leftovers from the night before.  And he packed the whole steak in a ziploc baggie without any silverwear.  What was I supposed to do?  Gnaw on the thing?  That would mess up my make-up and my popularity!  I was not yet a vegetarian myself, but my boyfriend at the time was a vegetarian, and he gave the crucified slab of meat a proper funeral, complete with a Shroud of Turin-like wrapping.  We went to a parochial school.  That should explain a lot about me.) 

Dad would make these amazing sandwiches using deli meat, good cheeses like Muenster and Provolone, lettuce, tomato, all stacked high on a sub bun.  Other students would look at our sandwiches and look at their own soggy excuses for a sammy, and they would begin to drool.  My dad's sandwiches elevated our power and status in the cafeteria, and we were able to trade for anything we liked.  I used my leverage to trade for, you know it, peanut butter and jelly.  Preferably crunchy PB with raspberry jelly.  Can I get an HALLELUJAH?

As I've grown, I have strayed from my original mission of daily PB&J.  Because daily PB&J threatens to send my waistline to hell.  But my PB&J love affair has evolved over time.  Today the PB is natural, no sugar added -- but just as delish.  The jelly might also be sugar-free.  And they have moved out of their white bread starter home, coexisting instead between two slices of Ezekiel bread -- organic whole grain goodness.  More often though, my PB has grown tired of Jelly's shaky promises and has taken Banana as a lover.  Sometimes a little honey is added to the mix (naughty).  There is nothing better.  It's like manna, I swear.

Although . . . my dear Grandma started a sandwich trend in our family.  Perhaps this is a skeleton that should be kept in our deep family closet, but I like you people, so I'll share.  Ready?  It's peanut butter, mayonnaise, and pickles!   *Horrified GASP*  I know.  I remained strong in my resistance to this abomination for much of my life, even as my entire family worshipped it's goodness.  I wasn't afraid to try it, but I was afraid I would actually like it.  Then I would have to tell people that I eat that!  And they would think I am a total freak!  So I avoided the golden calf altogether.  My Grandma died not long ago, and in her honor, I tried it.  It was actually . . . surprisingly not bad at all.  Spread the word, brothers and sisters, while I spread the peanut butter.  I triple-dog dare you. 

But as for me and my household, we shall serve ourselves peanut butter the traditional way. 

"Personal Jesus" by Depeche Mode (whom I saw in concert in 1993 -- rock on)
and/or
"Personal Jesus" by Marilyn Manson (kick-ass cover, though you must be crazy to let Manson hold your baby, and now I want my keyboard to hang from the ceiling)

"Another one bites the dust"

Right now, somewhere in Philadelphia, a bunch of hard-core women are gearing up for a weekend of serious ass-kicking.  This weekend is the WFTDA (Women's Flat Track Derby Association) Nationals Tournament.  Roller derby.  How frickin' amazing is that?? 

There is something oddly appealing about roller derby to me.  Perhaps it's because I'm so mild-mannered and even-tempered 99% of the time.  Okay, 100% of the time.  I rarely get angry (unless the dog ingests something I value).  I put up with all kinds of garbage in my day-to-day life, as a mom and as a teacher.  I rarely (okay, never) say what's on my mind when someone irritates me.  But man do I come up with some witty pearls I should have said about three minutes later.  I am ridiculously patient . . . to a fault and to the point that it annoys me about myself.   So what's the draw to roller derby? 

Just look at these mamas.  They are balls out.  They are no messing around.  They are say that to me again and I'll break you.  And then after, they'll go out for a beer together.  They are everything I need a little more of in my life.  And think about it.  How many other sports allow you to utilize the big thighs you've always bemoaned?  Where else is it appropriate to body slam a chick that looks at you funny?  Isn't it fabulous that your huge ass could actually be an advantage for blocking the other players or even knocking them out of the way?  This is a sport I could dig.  (Except for the falling part.  That really scares me.  I've never had a broken bone and I'd like to keep it that way.  But in my fantasy, I never fall.  So say that to me again and I'll break you.)

According to Freud, I am exhibiting the defense mechanism known as displacement.    Displacement protects the ego by shifting aggressive impulses to a more acceptable or less threatening target.  Instead of taking my aggression out on my family or my students, I could just body-check some bimbo and call it a day.  And I could do it all wearing fish-nets.  *Sigh* 


"Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen, of course

**Update! (November 19th)**
My baby sister, Rebecca, just womanned up and went to a practice with the Slaughter County Roller Vixens.  She got her ass handed to her, but then she went back again!  She said they teach you how to fall.  But she also got pushed, so now she's bruised up pretty well.  And her thighs can barely carry her after practice, it's that hard.  And she's going to keep doing it.  What a rock star!  She informed me that the WFTDA is actually pronounced "woof-tuh-duh," so you know.  I don't know if that's the pronounciation nation-wide or just in the state of Washington where she resides.  People are a little different in Washington, mostly in a really cool and laid back way.  Except for the ones who make their own toilet paper and stuff -- they really are all that crunchy granola.  Go Rebecca!!