Papoe

I judge because I'm the special kind of crazy, but not the bat-shit kind

I wouldn't want anyone to tell me how to raise my kids, but if I were to start injecting my 8 year old daughter with botox, feel free to tell me and the world that I am bat-shit crazy.

There is so much about this story that I find disturbing. Clearly the young girl doesn't understand what is being done to her, for what reason, nor can she comprehend the twisted yellow brick road of self-hatred her mother has forced her on. This is not to say that botox equals eating disorder, but if you already believe, at eight years old, that you'll look prettier with a different nose, chin, or a pair of new boobs, there is not much hope that you'll grow up with a healthy self-image. Nevermind that you wouldn't be questioning your nose, chin, or lack of breasts if your mother didn't point out that they were lacking.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I shouldn't judge. But she did go on television and flaunt her ignorance for the world to see.

So I judge. And I hold my girls close, tell them how beautiful they are, and remind them that they should be happy that their mother is the special kind of crazy, not the bat-shit kind.

Would you give botox to your 8 year old daughter?

We got the beat

Nothing says Friday night like punching the air and shaking your booty to some of the finest (or worst) 80's songs. Jocelyn likes to tell me when to stand up, when to sing, when to march, and when to spin her around. Her favorite part is a combination of dance and chase, which results in all of us running in circles and me collapsing and unable to breathe. 

Months ago I realized that Jocelyn was a fan of dancing and she was fascinated with a local show called Dance Party on KOFY. For years they showed reruns of their 50's version. Now they're back, and they're celebrating the 80's. Dancers dress up in their best gear, they pop and block, and perfect their version of Molly Ringwald's dance/snap/kick from The Breakfast Club. Jocelyn's favorite song from last nights show: We Got the Beat by The Go-Go's. My favorite part: when she imitates my moves and tries to sing along, a beat after me. A two-and-a-half-year-old trying to sing Pat Benetar's Heartbreaker is my idea of good fun. Meanwhile, Aja stands to the side doing side-bends with her hands in the air. Her favorite song: any song that has clapping.

Our moves might be questionable (as Khary likes to say) but they are determined, and we are enthusiastic. Wait, that's what someone told me about my karaoke skills. Either way, we got the beat.

When the sippy cups outnumber the beer bottles, you know things have changed

Sunday was full of glitz and glamour, play-doh and spilt milk. The refrigerator was full of beer, the sippy cups littered the carpet, and we munched on chips and cheese dip. The television was barely audible over the screaming children, but we saw enough to know that the Oscar hosts were a lesson in what makes bad art. I also proved that I have skill (completely useless any other day of the year) when it comes to Oscar picks.

It used to be that the Oscar parties ran a bit late, there were often drinks followed by more drinks, and one year there were even a few costumes. Babies haven’t stopped us, and Mark and Jackie (our hosts) have yet to claim anything other than the booby prize. In five out of the last seven years, either Khary or I have won the Oscar pool.  Yes, we expect that at some point we’ll be disinvited. Because it doesn’t matter that I only saw three movies, or that I (incorrectly) went for an upset in one of the major categories (Melissa Leo was amazing but I listened to Roger Ebert and picked the girl from True Grit, a movie that I haven’t seen). The smaller categories pushed me over the finish line, again.

I guess I’m kind of like Charlie Sheen: Winner. Except that I'm not a douchebag.

We march to the beat of our own appreciation

There are a million things that I could list off when I think about what it is that I appreciate about the last year. There are big things: my girls, my husband, my new little niece Izzy (I'm an Auntie!). There are the small things: sleep, wine, peace and quiet.

And then there's the other thing: marching.

We are a sports family. I have mentioned my love for baseball and the Oakland A's. I am immensely proud that Jocelyn has learned the words to Take Me Out to the Ballgame. She threw her little hand up in the air to count one, two, three strikes you're out, and baseball ended. The fall months brought us something new. Football.

Not that football is new. But we have grown accustomed to watching the RedZone Channel (I won't bore you with the details of the channel, since I'm sure some of you don't care a lick about football). The Redzone is only "on" once the games start, at exactly 10am PST. In the minutes prior to gametime they have a digital countdown, and music playing. And this is when we march.

Why do we march? Well, because we are that special kind of crazy. We quickly realized that it made Jocelyn laugh. And now that Aja is coming into her own, we can hold her up and help her march in a circle, and then the girls place chase. And we clap, and we march, and stop periodically to salute. It is a glorious three minutes of crazy family fun. When it's over, Jocelyn asks for more and we sit down to happily catch our breath.

Sunday mornings won't be the same when the marching stops.

Reverb10, Day 14 (I'm a day late. I blame the babies). Prompt: Appreciate. What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it?

"Do NOT go into the light. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it."

My favorite movie when I was a kid was Poltergeist. I’m not sure if it was the fact that I resembled Carol Anne, the little girl that was pulled into the depths of hell (I suppose it was hell), or that I thought the idea of the supernatural would be fun—the 1^st half of the movie showed the fun. Not the second half. Not the skeletons in the mud pit or the pulsing closet. I wasn’t scared by any of it, and I only averted my eyes when the man pulled the skin off his face and the maggots scrambled out of the piece of raw meat (that part was just gross).

And yet I do not like scary movies.

Khary and I made a bet years ago (the details of which I forget). The winner got to choose a movie. I lost. And then we made another bet. And another. Somehow an agreement was formed—one that stipulated that I would watch three scary movies a year with Khary.

I have not held up my end of the bargain.

I watched the movie Open Water, which Khary claimed was NOT a scary movie. But it secured the notion in my mind that I will never go scuba diving (not to mention I had a psychic tell me to never to go scuba diving. Although it may have had more to do with going with the pseudo-boyfriend I had at the time). I want to be able to see my feet in the water and know that nothing is going to mistake my toes for lunch.

Khary likes to watch cheesy movies on the Sci-Fi channel like DinoCroc or MutuantFish. He’ll turn them on saying, “I just want to see the Beastie.” The Beastie is always some badly animated beast that jerks and tweaks with old technology, but causes the hero and heroine scream in horror. And Khary laughs. I’ve gotten sucked in enough to wait for the Beastie, before going back to my crossword puzzle or nap. It’s never worth watching to the end.

The Beastie’s apparently don’t count towards our bet.

Halloween is this weekend, which means that there’s nothing Khary would like more than to watch a scary movie. If I had to (which I don’t), I’d give him the first Halloween. It’s got a creep factor to it, but then crosses the line to ridiculous when Jamie Lee Curtis insists on never turning on a light. But the new Exorcist or Paranormal Activity 2?

No. Thank. You.

I do think it would be funny if on Halloween there were a channel that went off-air. It would be like the Halloween Yule Log.

Photo courtesy of fullhalloween.com

They’re here.