You know what I’m going to miss about this winter? Regan’s “glwubes”
Not the gloves themselves, although their fingerpuppet pattern is wicked cute, but the fact that she calls them her “glwubes.” Next year, they will simply be “gloves,” and that tiny part of my baby will be gone, filed away in my memory beside the child who loved “pollymops” and the little girl who needed “boo boo sticks” to make it all better.
I’m gonna miss those glwubes.
Maybe it’s that darn book, but I have to confess, I spent less time than usual this year thinking about the relative merits of the Oscar fashions, and way more energy than usual assessing the relative spongeworthiness of the various attendees.
It all started on the red carpet. Sure, I noticed the weirdly origamesque jacket Jennifer Hudson was wearing, and yes, I cringed every time she shoved her hands in the pockets of her formal gown because, much though I understand the allure of the concept, formal gowns should not have pockets. The very nature of the gown precludes the presence of pockets! But, mostly I was obsessed with Leo, and how creepy he looked with his hair all slicked down like that. He looked Creepy Neighbour Guy creepy. Which is sad, because he’s the guy from Titanic, and nobody should be thinking of him as Creepy Neighbour Guy and I realize supermodels clamour to be the object of his attentions, but seriously? There is not enough vodka in the world for me to take that home with me.
Things weren’t really looking up once the show got started, either. If not for the customary shades and the seat right up front, I would have never known that the sinister looking cancer patient was Jack Nicholson. I don’t know if the bloated bald look is for a role, or if good old Jack is suffering some health problems, but I have to say, I could completely understand why his date appeared to have been born in his decade, instead of the usual, young enough to be his daughter starlet. Again, not enough vodka in the world. And possibly not enough money, either.
Then they cut to Mark Wahlberg, and can I just say, that boy cleans up nice! And I bet he still looks hot in his Calvins. That thought nearly distracted me from the Addams Familyesque pairing of Eva Green and whoever that guy was with her; was I the only one put in mind of Wednesday and Pugsley at the prom while they were on stage?
The real zing of the night came when they cut to Clint Eastwood, though. Clint Eastwood is aging well. Very, very well. In fact, Clint is downright hot. There, I said it. Clint Eastwood is old enough to be my grandfather, and I find him lustworthy.
And I know most women choose Sean Connery for their…ahem…senior moment, but I’m convinced that that is just because they haven’t taken a look a Clint. But back off, ladies, because I saw him first.
You know the great thing about paydays? You can pay for stuff. Like groceries. And daycare. And if you’re really, really lucky, extras like a new dvd player.
I tried to resurrect the old one. I really did. I cleaned it and whacked it and made burnt offerings to the electronics gods for it (ok, so that was the dinner I forgot was in the oven, but it should still count, right?), but nothing worked. So, it was off to The Superstore for a new one; we can do without a lot of things around here, but easy access to the Disney and Whedon oeuvres isn’t one of them.
It’s kind of funny, actually. I remember back when dvd players were a major electronics purchase–something only the true movie geeks or those with some serious disposable income indulged in. And now, it’s a $25 purchase at the grocery store. And instead of the very serious silver casing, now you can get fun colours!
The one we were getting came in three kicky colours: Bright blue, bubblegum pink, and cherry red. Diva Girl, true to form, immediately began clamouring for the pink one. The Shaolin Toddler was no less emphatic in her desire to bring the blue one home. So, with the wisdom of Solomon, I decreed we were getting the red one. Which really worked out for me; I’m not particularly fond of blue, and while I like pink as much as the next girly girl, I thought maybe it would be a little too cliche for our all female household to indulge in a pink dvd player.
Did I really want to identify us like that? A pink dvd player?
I confess, our home is very…feminine. Not in a lace and ruffles way, but still, the lack of a male presence is obvious in our decor. It shows in the dangly beads on the light fixture in my bedroom, in the vibrant stripes on my comforter, in my polkadot kleenex boxes. It’s in my Anne Taintor kitchen, and the sunflowers on my livingroom walls. My translucent curtains, my colourful striped glasses, my picture frames, my hugable rug….all of these design choices scream that this is more than a female space, it’s a feminine one.
Not even the Star Wars Potato Heads on my desk, the giant stuffed stegosaurus on the bookshelf, or the Spiderman blanket on Regan’s bed detract from the inherent girlishness of our space–the pink blocks littering the floor, the Barbie house in the livingroom, the ballgowns in the dressup box, and the overabundance of Olsen twins and Disney Princesses filling my dvd shelves make certain of that. Do we really need a pink dvd player, too?
The other stuff–the tutus and the tiaras–are the sort of accidental debris that accumulates when you raise daughters. Unless you are hypervigilant, which I confess I’m not, that sort of stuff just seeps into your toybox. But a pink dvd player, that’s a choice. That’s a conscious statement that we have pink because we are girls and girls have pink. Standing in the middle of The Superstore, using my biblical judgment to mediate The Ladies’ colour dispute, I was actually relieved that they were fighting, that they were giving me an easy out on this one.
And then The Toddler Formerly Known As Zen changed her mind.
Oh well, at least the cute little pink dvd player looks fabulous with my new rug.
There are many things I love about blogging. The immediacy of it. The opportunity to express ideas both silly and serious. The conversations that spring up and the sense of community that gets created with bloggers and readers.
I’ve met some very cool people through blogging. People I never would have had a chance to meet without an internet connection and a chance to speak. Although it’s a little frustrating to make even more friends who live thousands of miles away from me, it’s also exciting and strangely satisfying. It’s odd, having these friends I’ve never met, but it’s comforting as well.
Tonight was not a good night chez solo mom. It was a very bad night on the heels of a difficult day where Diva Girl was off school and seemingly hell bent on making my life a living hell. One of those days where if I said “up,” she would say “down.” If I spent half an hour cleaning a room, she’d follow behind me and in 30 seconds make it look like I hadn’t done a thing. By 8 o’clock, I was ready to kill her, and she wasn’t too fond of me, either.
And then Kate popped up online. If you read the comments, you know Kate. She’s a solo mum from New Zealand who always has a kind word or a funny anecdote to share. She’s been one of my most loyal readers since this blog started, and she’s also become a friend.
When Kate asked “how’s your day been?” the damn burst and I poured out all of the day’s frustrations. I told her about Diva Girl’s inability to appreciate my need to clean up the crap on my floor, about her inability to appreciate the difference between beside the garbage and in the garbage, about my inability to keep from yelling at her for it. And Kate said, “put her on with me.” She didn’t judge. Didn’t tsk. Didn’t lecture or make me feel worse than I already did. She said, “go make yourself a hot chocolate and let me talk to Diva Girl.” Then, for the next 20 minutes, she struggled through my 8 year old daughter’s hunt and peck typing. She joked with her, gently chastised her for making her mother mental, and brought calm to my chaotic home, all from a world away.
I am very lucky to have this blog. To have a place where I can stay connected to old friends and make new ones. I’m lucky to have this life–crap strewn rug and all–and people I’ve never even met to share it with. And that’s what I love most about blogging.
I had an epiphany the other day when I was talking to a friend about our brief stint as fish owners; this is where the real market for cloning and cryogenics is: Pet services. Forget duplicating sheep and freezing cultural icons, the real money would be in goldfish and hamsters.
Imagine the possibilities. Instead of the mad rush to the pet store to find an exact match for Goldie or Hammy before the kiddies notice that it seems to be swimming funny or sleeping a lot, you could just go to your freezer, thaw out an exact replica, and viola! the 30 second lifespan will never be an issue again. No more tear filled shoebox funerals or burials at sea, just a quick trip from freezer to microwave. Although, I guess you’d have to be careful when you were nuking a Lean Cuisine for dinner.
After the one that committed Hari Kari, the one who had a heart attack, and the one that I’m pretty sure the cat ate (didn’t know about that one, did you?), I’d essentially given up on Princess Sparklefairy. But the Shaolin Toddler wasn’t ready to let the dream die, and this weekend she memorialized her lost fish (isn’t it great how that’s a singular and a plural noun all at once?) in her Build A Bear.
Where other kids where naming theirs things like “Stripey” and “‘Butterscotch,” Regan was committed to “Princess Sparklefairy.” And so, even though our fancy fish is no longer with us, his spirit can be forever immortalized in the form of a tabby kitty wearing fairy wings, ruby slippers, and a pink sparkly crown. And, barring an unfortunate incident with the washing machine, this Princess Sparklefairy should be with us for a good long time. Plus, even if that does happen, it’s Build A Bear–kinda of the stuffed animal equivalent of cloning your pet.
I got a real treat at work today: I got to go back to the school where I taught 5/6 for a year and reconnect with the people I’d known there. One very special person in particular: My daughter.
In addition to being the school where I had my very first full time classroom, it’s the school where Diva Girl did her Junior Kindergarten year. At the same time. It was quite the year, both of us figuring out the school thing together–me how to juggle being a teacher and a mom, and her how to negotiate all of the social and academic expectations that come from dipping your toe into the big wide world. And it certainly set us apart, us attending school together; it made us stand out a bit. She would hang out in the staff room with me before school–even came to a couple staff meetings–and every teacher in the school knew who she was.
I was asked about her repeatedly today. Nearly every teacher I talked to was interested in what she was doing now, and astonished that wee little Sabrina has grown into a third grader. They shared memories of my Diva Girl–her boundless energy, her joie de vivre, her excitement and enthusiasm and just all around sparkle.
It was really nice, hearing all of these people speak so warmly about my Diva Girl. Not just because it’s always nice to hear people say complimentary things about your kid, but because, listening to them, I got to see her through fresh eyes. Instead of a tween who has spent more than her fair share of time whining and complaining about homework and money and the general unfairness of the world lately, I was able to see that other Sabrina again–the positive side of the Diva Girl. The girl who lights up the room with her smile, whose laugh is literally irresistible. The girl who is brimming with ideas, and questions, and optimism, and just plain life. I got to see her sparkle again. It had been dulled recently by battles over homework, or chores, or just the beginning skirmishes in the the process of growing up, but today, in speaking with these people who remember her from a different time, it was blindingly bright.
Today reminded me of a lot of things; mostly that I’m very blessed: To have a job I love. Colleagues I like and respect. And Diva Girl to come home to at the end of the day.
(Thank Kate for the title. I was going to be lazy and not bother with one.)
Not my house. Those Cheerios can stay there until I darn well feel like vacuuming them. And I think Nyx is doing a fabulous job of sweeping up all that glitter. Plus, everyone still has clean underwear, so the laundry can still wait. No, this is blog housekeeping–clearing up a few things.
First off, The Plagiarist: I found her because I was checking out technorati links after reading about the latest scraper over at Mary P’s. There was a link to her blog, and if you’ve ever linked to me, you know that eventually I figure it out and show up to say “Hi!” So I wandered over to check it out, and low and behold, an entire post of mine, cut and pasted into her MySpace and passed off as her own. Not cool.
Even less cool was deleting the comment I left asking about it and setting her blog to private, all the while ignoring me. As if I was going to go away. Thus began a rather heated exchange.
Her first position was this:
i told you i did not go to your blog and copy what you wrote… even if i was to give you credit for it i would even know what to put cause i don’t know you nor have i even been to ivilliage…
After I provided a PDF of her plagiarized site and a link to my post, proving that it was mine, her tune changed a little:
i have decided to remove your words from my blog… i do see that you posted it and appologize that that your work was copied… but i see nowhere on there where you have copywritted your work…
While I essentially got what I wanted–for her to stop stealing my content–I had a few problems with that response.
1) She “decided” to remove my words for her blog. As though she’s doing me a favour and not because she got a violation of TOS notice from MySpace and a sternly worded email from the iVillage lawyer.
2) She “sees that my work was posted and apologizes that my work was copied.” Notice how she never takes responsibility? How she implies that magical beings must have come in the night and c&p’d my content into her site–sort of like the blogger equivalent of the Shoemaker and His Elves.
3) She “sees nowhere that I’ve copyrighted my work” Because that “all rights reserved notice”down at the bottom applies to everyone but her, apparently.
So, essentially, the whole thing irritated me. And I don’t know why you would would want to irritate a blogger, because you know the first thing they’re going to do is blog about it.
Now, The Bookclub….Here’s what I’m thinking:
In about 3 weeks, I’m going to do a post about Single Mom Seeking. What I thought of it, what questions and issues it brought up for me, that sort of thing. Then, if you have a blog, you post your review on your blog, and leave a link to it in my comments. Don’t worry if you don’t have a blog (although, seriously, what are you, the last person on earth without a blog???) ; if you don’t have your own blog, you can post your review, thoughts, and questions here in the comments.
I’ll give everyone about a week to post–that’ll let you slackers out there who never finish the book on time to have a chance to participate. I’m sure Rachel will be reading along, but after the week’s up, I’ll gather up the questions and Rachel and I will sit down and have a chat (and maybe a beverage). Then I’ll write up the interview and post it.
What do you think? Personally, I’m kind of excited. And if it works out well, I’d be willing to consider making bookclub a regular feature (Rachel’s writing a sequel, you know!).
To paraphrase the lovely Melissa Summers over at Suburban Bliss, it’s come to my attention that some people need to be reminded to think their own thoughts and write their own words (Hi,Andrea!)
Don’t get me wrong, I love it when somebody likes what I’ve written enough to talk about it on their own blog. But, when that somebody (hi, Andrea!) tries to pass off an entire post as something she wrote herself, well, that’s not cool. In fact, it’s plagiarism. And I’m an English teacher; we take plagiarism very seriously, even when it isn’t our words that are being stolen.
So, just a friendly reminder: What I write on this site is copyrighted; iVillage owns every single word. And since they pay me good money for them, and since, if you blog yourself you know that sometimes they don’t flow all that easily, please, don’t steal them.
Enjoy the posts. Talk about them. Link to them. But don’t just take them. It’s just not cool.
Valentine’s Day, for me, falls into the same category of holiday as Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve: High pressure media dominated pseudoevents I would happily ignore, if not for the fact that I have children. One school aged child in particular, who has been fully indoctrinated into the codes and customs of our culture, including the dreaded Valentine.
I’m not really that opposed to Valentines in theory. In theory, they are a lovely idea. In practice, however, not so much. In practice, there’s the whole branding issue. The endless debate over the relative merits of Strawberry Shortcake vs Barbie valentines. The questions about why the Justice League pack has more Superman and Batman than Wonder Woman, and no Supergirl representation at all. Which of course leads to the issue of gender stereotypes, because boys don’t want Barbie valentines, but the girls won’t like Cars, so we should probably buy both. And then the agony of addressing the valentines once they are finally chosen: “Heather needs the best one because she’s Heather. Eric is mean, so we’ll just scribble his name. Derek gets two stickers because he lets me win at Around the World, so Alexis doesn’t get any, but that’s ok because I don’t like her anyway….” All this, for little bits of paper that will only be thrown in the garbage anyway. And really, with the Shaolin Toddler still lingering on the edges of potty training, I’m already throwing enough of my hard earned money directly into the trash, thank you very much.
So, how to indulge Diva Girl’s need to participate in this passive aggressive paperchase without actually participating? Well, I might not have the extra cash to throw away on silly rhymes by Spongebob or declarations of eternal devotion from the Disney Princesses, but I do have a craft box stocked with fancy scissors, festive foamies, and, of course, glitter. Martha would be proud; Diva Girl and I went Old School with the handmade hearts this year. There were still questions of how much glitter was enough for Heather’s valentine and too much for Alexis’ and whether she could put extra foamies on Derek’s valentine by giving none to Eric, but somehow it was easier to take, watching the Shaolin Toddler gleefully cover her valentimes (and the cat) in golden glitter.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Even if I had a date,
I wouldn’t know what to do.
I can’t remember the last time I had a date. I certainly remember the last time I was asked, but I don’t remember the last time I actually went out on a real date. The kind where you agonize over your outfit, take the time to do your makeup instead of just swiping on some lipgloss (if you remember), and have butterflies in your stomach over the romantic possibilities of the evening.
It’s not really that great a loss; I was a terrible date–shy, awkward, and more than a little flustered by the whole experience–even before I had kids. Now, with Diva Girl and the Shaolin Toddler in the mix, I’m really not sure how I’d negotiate those waters. How I’d even go about finding a man, let alone juggling the dual demands of dating and diapers.
Rachel Sarah, on the other hand, has this whole area down to a science. From binders filled with potential suitors to a tried and tested first date skirt, she’s boldly taken the bull by the horns and plunged into the deep end of dating while lactating. She writes about it all, the silly, the strange, the heartwarming and heartwrenching moments of juggling the dual roles of single woman and solo mom in her memoir, Single Mom Seeking.
For all of us who aren’t sure about mixing playdates with blind dates, Rachel offers us an honest, funny, occasionally hot account of one mom’s search for Mr. Right. So, for all of us whose big plans for Valentine’s Day consist of ice cream for dinner, I propose a book club meeting instead. I propose that you go out, read this book, and then meet back here next week to talk about it (it’s a quick read, I promise). As an extra incentive, Rachel Sarah herself has agreed to chat, to answer some questions for us about her experiences dating as a solo mom; I know that I for one, am looking forward to finding out how she does it.