Me, over at Mom.Me

Hey! I know it's hard to believe, but I'm still writing. Here are my recent posts over at Mom.Me, where I write all about the teenagers – even though they don't like me writing about them anymore. Hopefully they won't see these – teens don't really know how to work the internet yet, do they?

Unplugging the Kids

See this picture? It's my teen daughters engaging in an ancient pastime that involves playing games with small rectangular pieces of cardboard with symbols and faces on them. Otherwise known as "playing cards," this archaic form of entertainment was made obsolete by the digital age and hasn't been seen among the teen population in years, having gone the way of other old-fashioned activities like exercising and making eye contact. Read More...
 
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Watching R-Rated Movies...With the Kids

In the annals of parenting (no pun intended) watching a sex scene on screen with your kid next to you has got to be one of the most uncomfortable things ever. It's not something you intentionally set out to do—one minute you're watching a hip show about twenty-something girls living in New York City and the next thing you know the screen is filled with butts and boobs and hairy parts and amplified noises that sound like a pig choking. Read More... 

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Confessions of a DIY Mom  

I would not be lying if I said I have never bought a jar of baby food. Because yes, I was one of those moms who made all of her baby's food, herself. From the moment they were done breast-feeding and started on solids, I was in my kitchen whipping up all varieties of healthy, delicious food that was devoid of taste, looked like wallpaper paste and could be gummed. Read More...

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I Can't Blog About My Kids Anymore  

Remember that funny story I told, the one where I talked about something hilarious one of my daughters had done?

Yeah, me neither.

Because I can't tell those stories anymore. My girls are teenagers now, and due to the fact that they're fancy and toss around words like "privacy" and "boundaries" (curse you, literacy and dictionaries) I've been strongly cautioned against writing about them on my blog. Read More...

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Like A (50-Year-Old) Virgin

As a few of you know, last month I turned fifty. Notice how I spelled that out, because it's a little less painful than seeing the numbers. I hate the look of that five and especially that zero, like a mouth gaping at how old and ancient I am. Stupid fifty.

But I'm taking it really well!

To be honest, it is going better than I'd expected. My teeth haven't all fallen out and neither of my hips seem like they'll need replacing soon. Although I did find my first gray hair on the morning of my birthday (I'm not kidding - that sucker just bounced out of my head like one of those pop-up turkey timers. Like it was saying, "Hello! You're ready! FOR OLDNESS.)

For the longest time I was reluctant to put my age out into the blogosphere. Let's face it – the blogging world is a young one. I mean, when you read people's posts and they're saying things like, "My mom said phones used to have dials on them" and "OMG Miley Cyrus takes me back to my youth" - well, you know you're one of the more vintage bottles in the cellar.

It was especially annoying when people would talk about the sixties like it was ancient history, wondering if there was electricity back then and what did people use to hunt their food. I mean, they really deserved to have comments left by 'Anonymous' on their blog that said, "Go change your diaper" and "I oughta tan your hide you whippersnapper." Not that I know who was responsible for that.

I admit I don't look fifty. At least, that's what people say. (When they've had a few. And been paid.) And I certainly don't feel fifty. As my most hip, stylish friend Natalie says, who is going to be hitting the five-oh soon herself, "Who knew fifty would feel this good?" And I have to agree - I have no desire to put on a pair of mom jeans or a polyester blazer. I haven't put my hair up in a bun with a hairnet, and I'm not going to bed at 8pm with my teeth in a glass next to me. Although I did catch my self saying, "What I wouldn't give for an afghan and a glass of fiber" the other day.

But here's my secret weapon, the one thing that I constantly say to make myself feel better. No, it's not, "Age is just a number" or "You're only as old as you feel" or any of that other touchy-feely mumbo jumbo. It's this:

I'M STILL YOUNGER THAN MADONNA.

That's right - the Material Girl is going to be fifty-three this year, and she's making music, directing movies and dressing like a hooker. I'm not saying she's my role model, or that I'm going to be putting on a bullet bra and parading around in ass-less chaps anytime soon (at least not in public) but it's good to see that life doesn't end when you hit the half-century mark, that you can still be a productive, vital, creative force who gets to put on a leather bustier and prance around with Justin Timberlake.

So I've decided that I'm going to embrace fifty, and the fact that I'm still standing, have a great marriage and raising two bright, beautiful girls. That I'm on my second career and my last minivan. That I can still wear stilettos even if I complain bitterly about them the entire time. That I'm older than most of you out there but still younger than Madonna. I'm even going to get used to writing those gawd-awful numbers.

GO 50!

That last cheer totally threw my back out.

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Quick, lend me a gown - I'm going to the Academy Awards

Every year as I settle in with my bathrobe, my trough of popcorn and liter bottle of Mountain Dew to watch the Academy Awards on TV I think to myself, "Why aren't I there?" What do those beautiful, rich, thin celebrities have that I don't have?" I mean besides good looks, money and a small ass? Well, I'm about to find out, since the nice people at Kodak, who are sponsoring the Oscars, have invited me to be their guest in the Red Carpet bleachers and to attend the viewing at the El Capitan theater afterward.

That's right, people -- apparently you don't need a Judith Leiber bag or a size-0 gown to hobnob with the stars. Well, technically I won't be anywhere near the stars, I'll just be frantically screaming their names from up above in the bleachers. But I did have to pass a security check to be approved for admittance, and I'm just grateful they didn't see those overdue library books or that shrine to Bradley Cooper in my office, the one with the burning candles and the statue made out of my tears and clumps of hair.

So look for me in the crowd on Sunday, March 7. I may or may not be the one wearing the bathrobe.

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tags: kodak | 82nd annual academy awards | oscars | kodak red carpet bleachers

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News Flash: Rejection Sucks. Especially for 10-year-olds

The letter came yesterday.

Kiyomi never really cares about the mail - in fact she's heard Rigel and I curse enough times when we receive our bills to know that the mailman is really just the grim reaper in an ill-fitting blue uniform. But since she knew the letters had been sent out, she'd been camped out near our mail box all morning. By the time it finally came she could hardly contain herself, but she wanted to wait until Rigel got back from his errands to "share in the moment" as she put it. When he returned a few minutes later and saw us staring at a piece of mail, I'm sure he just figured it was one of his checks and we were figuring out ways to spend it.

Kiyomi's been sick and had woken up with a fever but she said just seeing the envelope had made her feel better. She ran over fingers over the return address before she turned it over, and then she opened it slowly, tearing away the flap and then pulling out the folded piece of paper carefully. Rigel, Kira and I were huddled around her and just watching her face for a clue on what was inside. She started off reading the first sentence, "Thank you for auditioning for the Performing Arts Academy..." but her voice trailed off quickly and then she whispered, "I didn't get in."

She collapsed into sobs, and none of our words or our hugs could comfort her. To make matters worse, she heard a few minutes later that her best friend had gotten accepted, which meant they'd be separated. Could this day get any worse? (Turns out it could, which I found out ten hours later at Target when a heavy plastic pitcher fell from the top shelf and hit me on the head, but that's a story for another time.)

To be honest, I was hesitant about the whole thing from the start. The middle school she'll be attending has a well-known performing arts department, and one of the ways to get in (besides our arbitrary school district lottery known as the Magnet system) is to audition. Prospective applicants are required to do a one-minute monologue, sing a Broadway show tune and perform a series of dance steps. It sounded like a tall order for a ten-year-old, especially since competition would be stiff; many are professionals who already have agents, and there are a few celebrity kids among the student body. (At least one Disney star, and the child of an American Idol judge. The least annoying one.)

For Rigel and I the whole thing was like brain surgery. Coming from a 'non-show business' background, what they were asking for sounded about as easy as being told to juggle a pig and chainsaw while flossing your teeth. We thought it would have been easier if Kiyomi had tried out for the underwater luge team or the varsity log-rolling squad. But she was determined to do it, so we hired an actress friend to work with her a few times a week and we were surprised at how well she did - she could carry a tune, memorized her lines with no problem, and delivered them with just the right amount of sarcasm. It seems all those days prancing around the living room in her panties re-enacting episodes of SpongeBob really were leading to something.

According to her, the audition went smoothly (parents weren't allowed to watch.) So when that rejection letter came today I have to admit it probably hit me as hard as it hit her. And after comforting her for awhile I did what any good mother would do in this situation - I totally blamed myself.

My first thought was wondering whether or not it was wise to let her audition in the first place - who needs rejection at 10 for chrissakes? Leave that for when you're older and it can roll of your bitter, leathery soul with a little more ease. Then I started wondering if it had anything to do with this incident - maybe Kiyomi was blacklisted because her mother was a crazy person who didn't like how her older daughter had been treated and then called three counselors and the principal to complain about it. Oh, and then wrote about it on her blog.

And what if someone there read that blog? (Which is a possibility because I happen to know a few people at the school who do. Hi, few!) I'm imagining the admissions panel coming upon Kiyomi's application, and stapled to it is a note about my complaints and a printout of my blog post. They all look at each other, make that whirling motion with their finger near their temple and then one of them writes across the top of her application in big, red letters GIRL IS OKAY BUT THE MOTHER IS BATSHIT CRAZY -- DENIED.

So what now? She'll still attend the school as part of the regular program, and she's already decided she'd like to apply for the Civics Academy, which deals with politics and government. I pointed out that her success was ensured, since within a twelve hour period she'd gone from being an entertainer to being a politician - just what our governor and one of our presidents has done!

One thing I know for sure - it isn't the last time she'll experience the pain of rejection. Whether from a school that doesn't recognize her talent or some emo boy who decides to dump her for the girl with the pierced tongue, it'll happen again. Our job is just to love her and help her get through it. And today, after I watched her call her best friend to congratulate her on getting accepted, I told her how very, very proud I was of her. And she'll never need a letter to tell her that.

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tags: rejection | tweens | teens | middle school | the sins of the mother

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This Blogging Thing Ain't So Bad After All

A couple of weeks ago I was talking to one of the other moms at Kiyomi's school, and she asked me what I did for a living. I find this question so daunting these days; after being an art director for 20+ years, it's been hard for me to actually describe myself as a writer, and then once I do there's the whole thing with blogging. Most of you know how hard it is to describe it to people: "Well, I write about...stuff, and then, um, people read it and hopefully comment, and then uh, yeah, sometimes - get this - I actually get paid for it." I could already see what she was thinking: Well now, that sounds like a sound career! Maybe someday you'll get promoted to Head Nacho Maker or get a real job like that guy on TV that sells the Shamwow.

Then come the puzzled looks, and the prodding questions, "Now tell me - why would anyone want to read about your life again?" and "So, just so I get this clear - you spend hours writing on this blog-thing of yours, but don't always get paid?" and then the career advice, "Have you considered a night course at the junior college in office management?"

But then once in awhile something like this comes along and I realize how cool this whole blogging thing really is: Friday night, the girls and I have been invited to a private, VIP Jonas Brothers concert at the Roxy on the Sunset Strip. 77 screaming kids to launch 77kids, a new clothing line from American Eagle, and we'll be among the lucky few.

I'm thinking I'll snap a few pictures at the show and send one along to that inquiring mom with this note: Money made blogging today: $0. Picture of your daughters standing mere feet away from the world's biggest teen band: Priceless.

On Sunday, November 16, you can watch the concert online here, and register to win some cool free stuff, too.

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tags: jonas brothers | 77kids american eagle | roxy sunset strip | tweens

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Sweatpantsmom Is Getting Her Blogging Back On.

I remember when I first started this blog, and how I was diligently posting every single day. That went on for awhile and I was so proud of myself, all the intricacies of my life I was laying out for everyone to see! How wonderfully interesting my mundane comings and goings were! How amusing every word and cough and burp that came out of my children sounded! I just imagined how the entire world was waiting, waiting every day for my next entry and all the fascinating details I would divulge.

Well, that wasn't the case.

So, I started posting less, and that seemed to be fine. The earth still spun on its axis, and the universe was still intact without hearing about my latest supermarket purchase, or how hot my coffee was that morning.

And then I started posting even less, mainly because I started getting busier. There were school projects, and freelance jobs and family commitments and posting to my blog seemed of slightly less priority than sleeping or using the extra few minutes to shower or shave my armpits.

Then along came this year, with the supreme time-sucker that is middle school, and writing for that other blog, and researching stories for that same blog, and freelance jobs and sick kids and odd schedules. And you know what? My pits still weren't shaved.

Add to that not having time to actually read anyone else's blog. Who had a baby? Who moved to a tropical island? Who won the Nobel Prize? Did anyone win the lottery? And if so, are we related?

It's like I have no idea what's going on in my neighborhood because I haven't had time to walk out my front door. (Front door. See? In the old days that would have been an entire blog post right there.)

And I'm looking back over my posts for the past few months and realizing that there are huge gaps of time in there, tons of events that aren't written about here. Not that anyone else cares, but I don't have a record of them anywhere, and that was the great thing about blogging: a nice chronicle of what had happened in my life, my husband's life, my girls' lives - our lives.

This sucks.

So be warned that I'm going to go back to blogging more often, about the temperature of my coffee and my shopping adventures and the latest unbelievably cute thing my kid said this morning and the freaky mom I sat next to at the PTA meeting who was wearing her pajama bottoms underneath a poncho. That's right - I said poncho.

I'm going to write about it all.

Not so much for you, but for me.

But I'm hoping you'll keep reading. I promise no photos of my pits.

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