The Best of 2008

“Great Kennedy’s Ghost!” award goes to…

During the primaries one radio disc jockey proclaimed, “Barack better stop beating on that white woman (Clinton) like that ‘fore he go to jail.”

Barack Obama’s campaign motto of “No Drama” was so fitting for such a cool cat. Reagan went from movie star to President, Schwarzenegger went from movie star to Governor, Obama may be the first to go from President to superstar.

“The Comeback of the Year” award goes to…

Forget McCain and Hillary in New Hampshire. The real comeback of the year goes to Britney Spears. Not that her album did all that well, but just the simple fact that she’s not dead yet is an achievement. Come on, how many of you laid odds she’d not see 2009? Don’t pay up just yet. There’s still a few hours left.

“Not so fast, Progress!!” award goes to…

All those who voted for Prop 8. On the same night the country elected a black president it also voted to deny homosexuals the right to marry.

“Free at last! Free at last! Free… hey, where do you two think you’re going?”

The “Way To Turn an Entire Profession Into a Joke” Award Goes To…

Joe Whatshisface. You know, the one whose name was invoked a zillion times at one of the presidential debates. The one who would have actually benefited from Obama’s tax plan. The one who claimed he’d be buying a company worth over $250k a year on his $40K a year non-licensed salary. The one who felt comfortable telling people Obama would not be a friend to Isreal based on nothing more than his desire to keep his own face in the news. The one who parlayed his 15-minutes that felt like an hour into a book deal and record deal. The one who later trash talked John McCain, a man whose shoes he’s not fit to shine. Yeah, that one.

The “Jackass Move of the Year” award goes to…

The CEOs of the big three automakers flying three separate private jets to D.C. to ask for a government bailout.

The “Most People Would Have Learned, But Not This Motherfucker” award goes to…

Dumbass O.J. Simpson proving that getting away with murder just isn’t enough for some people.

The “Foundation of the First Mother/Daughter Mutual Masturbation” award goes to…

The Twilight series. I haven’t seen mother/daughter bonding like this since a tampon commercial. You know it’s gone too far when both mother and daughter have Robert Pattinson posters and Mom takes time off from work to see him at the mall.

The “You Don’t Know How Good You Have It” awards goes to…

The people of Thailand whose prime minister was thrown in jail not for lying to the people, restricting their freedoms, and just being a general ass, but for… receiving payment for having appeared on a televised cooking show. If only it were that easy, we’d have pushed Bush to do Martha Stewart years ago.

The “Best Use of Leather” awards goes to…

Who knew Bush had such cat-like reflexes? I sure hope the Secret Service is more on the ball come January 20th. How he managed to launch that second shoe is beyond me.

And finally…

The “Most Anticipated Birth of a Baby Boy Since Jesus” award goes to…

Jack! Don’t front. Y’all know you were just as excited as we were.

What are some of your favorite memories/events of 2008?

Heroin Laptop

I finally bought my very own-just-for-me-brand new laptop in January of this year. It was a treat to me with the scholarship money I get for being such an awesome student. We have been inseparable ever since. This isn’t hard to believe when you think about all we can use our computers for nowadays.

I write blogs… on my laptop.

I correspond with family and friends… on my laptop.

I listen to music and watch movies… on my laptop.

I pay bills, reserve library books, and shop… on my laptop.

I do schoolwork and attend classes… on my laptop.

And I play games… on my laptop.

I love my laptop. It goes with me all around the house. If I’m baking in the kitchen, it sits on the table and plays music. I have a baking playlist on iTunes… don’t judge me. If we’re in the family room watching TV, my laptop sits on my lap so I can chat with friends or write blogs. Well, not exactly on my lap, but on a breakfast-in-bed tray which sits on my lap.

Donny has started referring to the laptop as my heroin. If we were headed downstairs to watch a movie I’d carry Jack and ask Donny to grab the laptop. Once seated on the couch he’d plug it in and then reach over to slap my arm. The first time he did it I asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking for a vein.”

Smartass.

Recently, I’ve found a new use for my laptop that has caused Donny to insist that I’ve taken it one. step. too. far. I’ve begun taking my laptop with me when I leave the house. Now you may be thinking, “Well, Nina… that’s what they’re for. They’re portable. It’s not unusual to take your laptop outside the house. They even make cute little carrying cases for them.”

Yeah, but most people take their laptops to work, or to the library to study, or to Starbucks so they can sit in the corner sipping lattes all day and pretentiously work on their “novels.”
Most people don’t take their laptops to Walmart.

To be fair, I don’t take it with me in Walmart. Just to Walmart. I leave it in the car while we shop. It started out that I wanted to be able to play those highly addictive Diner Dash style games on the ride to my Dad’s house. Then I wanted to listen to the music on my iTunes instead of the crappy radio or Donny’s even crappier CDs. Since he’s taken his sweet time installing a stereo that is iPod compatible this can easily be construed as being his fault. And you know… the more I think about it… he’s responsible for my laptop addiction reaching its next high (no pun intended.)

We were out volunteering for the Obama campaign one day when we realized we needed an address off of their website. So, Donny pulled into a Starbucks’ parking lot and we used their wireless from the car so that I could look up what we needed. Next thing you know I’m obsessed with logging on to other people’s wireless connections… from my car. The worst example came while driving back from Jack’s physical therapy appointment a month ago.

Donny’s driving, I’m in the passenger seat, and the kids are in the back. We stop at a red light.

“Why the hell do all these businesses have wireless with limited connectivity?”

“What?”

“Well, I’m able to connect to their servers ok, but I can’t get on the internet cause it says limited connectivity.”

“Who are you talking about?!”

“This Applebee’s right here.” I point out the window to the Applebee’s next to me.

“Did you really just try to connect to the internet… at a red light?”

“Yeah.”

“Why!?”

“Uh, to check my email,” I replied as if it were the most rationale thing.

Donny just shook his head.

“Junkie.”

I’ve begun taking my laptop with me to the bathroom. Don’t judge me!

Note: What Donny doesn’t know is that I’ll be buying him  his very own-just-for-him-brand-spanking-new laptop in a few weeks. We’ll see who the junkie is then!

So, what’s your electronic addiction?

Gran Torino: Movie Review

Walt Kowalski (Clint Eastwood) is an equal opportunity bigot. Blacks are spooks, his Hmong neighbors are fish heads, and his barber, who he likes, is a dumb Wop. Even so, Walt Kowalski may be Eastwood’s most likable and rooted for character since Dirty Harry.

As the movie opens, Walt is burying his beloved wife. He seems more annoyed that she left him alone with their ungrateful children and grandchildren than heartbroken. Walt is set in his ways and resists all attempts by his children to “make his life easier” read: move into a nursing home. He recognizes their true motives; to get their hands on his home and mint condition 1972 Gran Torino.

And they’re not the only ones. After his teenage neighbor, Tao Vang Lor (Bee Vang), unsuccessfully tries to steal his Gran Torino due to pressure by neighborhood thugs, Walt takes the shy boy under his wing. He teaches him a trade, how to stand up for himself, and how to get the girl. Their friendship at first seems an odd pairing. Walt is old-fashioned and set in his ways; as a Korean War veteran the American flag flies proudly outside of his Michigan home though he is obviously emotionally scarred by the things he did there, his postage stamp sized lawn is mowed frequently with an old-school push mower, it seems on the outset that he despises foreigners and change, and he drinks and drives American.

But Walt recognizes in Tao someone who wants to work hard and has a good spirit, which is more than he can say for his own family whom he seems offended by with their foreign cars and entitlement issues. He makes it his personal mission to see that Tao doesn’t fall to the pressure of a group of neighborhood thugs and that provides the movie’s real tension.

Clint Eastwood is known for casting talented newcomers and minorities in major roles, and at times it seems that he is the only one in this film with real acting experience, but it works with the character Tao who really comes off lost and in need of direction.

I was surprised by how funny, I mean laugh-out-loud funny, this movie is and it was all in Eastwood’s snappy lines, facial expressions, and growls. Not many actors his age could pull off the following line so believably. Said to a group of black guys harassing a young girl, “You know how every once in awhile you come across someone you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me.”

Don’t be surprised if this film doesn’t garner a few Oscar nods. Written and directed by Eastwood, Gran Torino is one of those rare films driven by story and character.

Real Life Mean Girls

Those of us with daughters expect to have the “boy talk” someday; how to tell if boys like you, what to do if they do or don’t, etc.

What we don’t expect is to have the “girl talk” before that; how to tell if girls don’t like you, what to do if they do or don’t, etc.

As Kali gets older, I find myself having this talk more frequently. In fact, in the next few days I have to explain to her why she’s not going to be allowed to maintain a friendship with a certain little girl in her class. This girl actively talks about sex, looks at pornographic websites, has encouraged Kali to do so, and wears inappropriate clothing. Kali’s own teacher has advised that I try to persuade Kali to stay away from this girl, and assured me she’d do all she can to facilitate this on her end.

I’m not looking forward to having this discussion because Kali really likes this little girl. According to Kali she’s “funny.” But mainly, it’s going to be hard because Kali wants to be liked. I’ve recognized this in her for a few years now. She is quick to label someone a “friend” and sometimes, “a best friend.” It’s this personality trait that made me realize the importance of having the “girl talk.”

Girls are vicious. Girls are petty. Girls put each other through more social hazing than boys. Not to say that boys don’t deal with social pressures, but fewer boys lose friends because of what they’re wearing (or not wearing) or simply because other boys are just in a mood. Boys don’t generally isolate other boys because they’re better looking, smarter, or more popular. Girls do. And girls prey on other girls who don’t know any better. It is my job to make sure that Kali knows better.

I’m really hoping that Kali will eventually see things the way I do and that can be summed up in two words.

Fuck ‘em.

Not everyone is meant to be your friend.

It is okay if everyone doesn’t like you… in fact, not everyone will like you.

It is quite possible that girls will not like you for no good reason… or no reason at all.

I want Kali to be confident and I want her to understand that sometimes that confidence will be seen as conceit or snobbery. I know this firsthand. I am confident about the things I have a right to be. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Why should we raise our daughters to not be self confident? Should you advise your daughter not to be confident in the things she’s good at, or just in herself period, because it may make a less secure person intimidated and less likely to be her friend? Hell no.

Unfortunately, such concerns aren’t restricted to grade school. A grown woman will still operate under a high school mentality at times, and nowhere is this more evident than on a social networking site called, “MySpace.”

I could always tell when someone in my social circle didn’t like me. With over 3,000 subscribers and over 2,000 daily views per blog, there was no way I was going to please all of the people, all of the time. I never went out of my way to alienate people, but when you write about your views and opinions, you’re bound to. So, I’d notice people dropping off the map, and if there was something I could do about it, I didn’t. It wasn’t why I was there. I wasn’t there to beg people to read or like me.

Now, you may have handled it differently, but I chose to ignore it. I never had the desire to write someone and ask, “Why don’t you like me? Why are you saying bad things about me?” There are several reasons behind this:

1. It’s beneath me.
2. I’m too old for it
3. I got better shit to do like… um… raise children.
4. I really didn’t give a shit.

I’m sure that list sounds snobby. And I guess I can kind of see how it would. But it’s not meant to be. I just told a friend last night that I don’t understand why it’s such a bad thing to know when something is beneath you. How else do you determine what you stand for and what you value and why? There’s nothing wrong with saying, “I refuse to play that game. That game is beneath me.”

That’s not to say I won’t discuss when I’ve actually done something to deserve someone’s dislike, but I won’t entertain childish, school yard, pettiness. I am secure enough in who I am that it’s enough to know who the people are that don’t like me, and go on living my life. There are people that I know for a fact have said horrible things about me, unprovoked, and if they wrote me today with a question or just to say hi, I’d respond with kindness. Because see, to do otherwise is beneath me too.

I wish I had this self awareness back when I was in school. That I had this mentality, this non-desire to be liked be all. I wish my mother had helped instill this in me earlier. It would have saved me lots of headaches growing up. In junior high I was in a special class of super nerds. We skipped the 8^th grade. We were smart and the whole school knew it because we were the only 7^th grade class also doing 8^th grade work. And the next year, we were the only 9^th grade class in the junior high school. I remember being picked on by more popular, albeit less smart, girls and it sucked.

Then in high school the tables were turned. I was suddenly smart and pretty and all that comes with that: attention from boys… lots of boys, attention from girls who want to be your friend because you got attention from boys, the ability to get your way in almost any situation because people liked you… even if they liked you for all the wrong reasons.

When I look at Kali now I could very easily see her being “that girl.” She’s beautiful, she’s smart, and she’s funny. But she’s also kind. She shows sensitivity to other people (and animals) that I didn’t have at her age. I think I’m working with better material than my mother had. As Kali enters middle school and high school, I’m hoping she has the strength to resist cliques and false friendships. I’m hoping she has the intelligence to recognize true friendship and the confidence to realize that having a few great friends beats having a mass of false ones. I’m also hoping she has the strength to just not give a fuck if other girls don’t like her simply for being her badass self.

A Just Right Christmas

This morning I was trying to remember what Christmas was like before my husband and kids came along. I know I celebrated it, but it didn’t inspire the same joy and excitement as it does now.

Christmas 1998

I was pregnant with Kali and living with my Mom. I sat with my siblings wrapping presents on Christmas Eve, and teased my mother that our efforts were a waste of time and paper as the presents would just be ripped into in a few hours. The only gift I remember getting is a big basket of goodies from Bath and Body Works.

Christmas 1999

Still living with my mother and Kali was 8 months old. Donny and I had been dating for two months. Gift I remember getting? A VCR from Donny so I could record my soaps while at work.

Christmas 2000

Donny, Kali, and I are living together. We lived in a small one bedroom apartment from January 2000 to November 2000 when it just got too cramped. We upgraded to a two bedroom, two-story, townhouse within the same complex. I used to think this was our best Christmas because it was the year we pretty much lost our minds. I stopped counting when the presents under the tree reached 90. Everyone we knew received gifts that year, but the lion’s share went to Kali. I suppose it will always be special because it was our first Christmas together as a family, the first time we purchased our own tree and trimmed it by the fireplace, and the first of several traditions including opening one gift on Christmas Eve. Of course, I always pick the gift and it’s always PJs that everyone is forced to wear that night so that they’re on for Christmas morning.

This year, I think we got Christmas just right. The one year we could probably afford to buy more gifts than usual we didn’t. I’d like to say that it was on purpose, but really Christmas just kinda snuck up on us because of Jack. Once we realized Christmas was just around the corner and we hadn’t done our usual shopping like fools for the entire month prior, we were forced to really focus on what we wanted to get Kali.

For the first time in years we didn’t overwhelm her. You know you’ve gotten your kid too much if…

- While opening gifts you, and your child, get bored.

- You fill up two hefty bags with discarded wrapping paper.

- Your child picks up a gift and wonders aloud, “What is this?” and you and your husband just exchange confused glances and shrugs because you’ve bought so much stuff, even you don’t know what it is.

- Two days/weeks/years after Christmas there are things your child still hasn’t opened or played with.

All of those things have happened to us.

Not this Christmas.

We decided to have our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. So, when Donny got home early that day we made a glazed ham, candied yams, stuffing, corn, mac and cheese, and mashed potatoes. While we ate we watched Men in Black because Kali had never seen it. After dinner Kali and Jack co

Rediscovering The Joneses

There’s a family in my subdivision that I really can’t stand. Well, to be fair, a couple I can’t stand. Their children never did anything to me. Their father is a real douche-drippage when he drinks, which is often, and their mother is a busybody. When we first moved in she and I served on a committee within the Homeowner’s Association. She quickly struck me as one of those smile-in-your-face-talk-behind-your-back people. I’d heard her tongue lash so many people in my presence I cringed to think of what she said about me when I wasn’t around. Also, she was one of those white women that felt the need to talk with exaggerated neck rolls and pepper her sentences with “girlfriend” whenever she spoke to me. Then there was the time she asked to feel my hair as if I were some rare specimen in a petting zoo.

Here we have the urban negress not often found in suburbia. Notice her coarse hair and gazelle-like limbs… most beneficial in running from the authorities.

For some reason Donny really seemed to care what this couple thought. Probably because he knew they were the pipeline through which all community gossip flowed. When we were considering selling our house and placed it on the market to test the waters, it got back to me via another neighbor that Mr. and Mrs. Busybody had speculated we were in serious dire straights. Never mind that Mrs. Busybody and I hadn’t spoken in years, she was convinced her information was truth. I’d started to confront her Brooklyn-style, but thought better of it. It seemed Donny had a really warped idea as to who Mr. and Mrs. Busybody were. He bought into the hype. I had to break it down for him.

“You know, it’s real easy for them to pass judgment on everyone else and it’s even easier for everyone to assume that their lives are so great. Yeah, Mrs. Busybody stays home with her kids, but she also has to babysit some of the neighborhood kids for extra money. And every room in our house would be fully furnished too if your mother lived with us, and brought all her crap with her.”

That’s right. It seemed that Mrs. Busybody couldn’t help but dish out her own personal info a bit too much. After one visit to her home I knew that her mother-in-law lived with them and helped pay the mortgage. In exchange, she got the master bedroom and Mr. and Mrs. Busybody slept in one of the smaller bedrooms.

“Donny, at least we get to live in our own home like grown-ups. You know what they say about all that glitters.”

My point was further driven home a few months later when we were at one of our favorite pricey eating establishments for Sunday brunch and who should we have as our server, but none other than Mrs. Busybody.

Donny didn’t learn his lesson though. Awhile later when it seemed that everyone around us was getting pregnant Donny got depressed. He wanted a son badly. And though I’d felt a twinge of envy listening to others plan their blessed event I knew that one couple in particular, that Donny seemed to envy the most, were having serious marital and financial woes.

“At least we’re happy,” I told him.

Earlier this spring a new family moved in next door to us. A young couple with three small boys. We shall call them The Joneses. Shortly after they closed on the house, but before moving in, they did some renovations. Hardwood floors were installed on the entire first floor (I knew this because the work often interrupted my pregnancy induced naps), the rooms were repainted, and I believe they installed carpet in the garage. They would come by daily, each in shiny and expensive cars, to check on the work. Once they moved in, every other day there were boxes placed at the curb: a flat screen TV box, new computer, stereo equipment, and toys for the boys. A new SUV followed soon after.

“Must be nice,” Donny and I had said more than once even though we had just purchased a 52″ flat screen, a PS3, an SUV, other new electronics, and furnished a nursery that would make Martha Stewart say, “Damn!”

My Brooklyn upbringing keeps me from placing boxes for pricey items at the curb. My garage stores boxes for both flat screens, both XBOX 360s, the PS3, the Wii, all the TiVos, my laptop, and any other electronics we’ve purchased in the five years since buying our house. I’d like to say this was done to make sure that should we ever move we’d have the original packaging for all of our expensive stuff, or hell, even that I suffer from a form of O.C.D., but the real reason is that growing up where I did you didn’t place boxes at the curb. That’s how you’d let mofos know which house to rob. I pointed out to Donny that had we placed our trash out that way, there would undoubtedly be some nosy neighbors (like us, though I prefer observant) thinking, “Must be nice,” though they knew nothing of our circumstances.

On Halloween I took the kids trick-or-treating along with the Joneses. My journalistic instincts always take over when I meet new people and I found myself asking lots of questions. The wife stays home like me, and the husband owns several gas stations. He’s from a small island off of Madagascar or some other place I couldn’t find on a map and starts with an M. Even though this was back when gas was over $4 a gallon and he admitted that he now made most of his money on the food items his stations sold, it seemed they weren’t really hurting.

And then it just so happened that yesterday I was thinking about this couple, and as Donny and I drove to Walmart for our Christmas dinner groceries and last minute presents I wondered out loud if now that gas was down to less than $1.40 a gallon were the Joneses doing any better. “Well, she still stays home,” Donny pointed out.

We had just finished using the self serve checkout lane and were pushing our cart towards the exit when Donny said, “Isn’t that our neighbor right there?”

“Who?”

“The new girl next door.”

“Where?”

“Right there at register eight. Checking people out.”

I whipped my head around to look.

“I think so. Can you see what her name tag says?”

He looked and told me.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

We quickly left before she could see us. I don’t know that she’d be embarrassed. She had no right to be. The first time Donny was laid off and couldn’t find work in his field he had to take a job in that same Walmart’s garden department… and then had to deliver pizza to boot. You do what you gotta do. But just in case, I thought it best to dip out.

As we pushed our cart filled with food and presents, and Jack in his stroller, to the car, I realized that I had gotten caught up in the very thing I would lecture Donny on. It’s not so much coveting your neighbor, but making assumptions. And somehow that seemed worse.

I shook my head. “Huh. You never know.”

“Yeah,” Donny replied.

And we drove home grateful for what we had. And left it at that.

BIOBaby: Newborn Phone Etiquette

My father has taken to telling me everything he can possibly think of in one phone conversation. I realized this yesterday when it seemed like every time I was about to get off the phone, he’d have just one more thing to say. He finally admitted that when my stepmother asked him the other day why he hadn’t called me to ask about Kali’s Christmas list he said…

“Oh, I’m not calling Nina.”

“Why not?”

“She said not to call her anymore.”

He’s right. I damn sure did.

Why?

Because ever since Jack got sick two weeks ago his whole schedule was thrown off. Not only does he not want to sleep through the night, he gives us holy hell when we try to get him to sleep. So what ends up happening is I treasure the times during the day when he is asleep and I can either sleep myself or get something done like pee, wash my ass, or eat a meal that isn’t yogurt. But not all three. I rarely have time to accomplish three tasks.

“I’m not calling her,” my father continued, “She said not to call unless someone was dead or dying. She’s even hung up on her mother. I’m not tryna get hung up on.”

It’s true. I hung up on my mother. Twice. Let me explain…

We have two phones. When one is on the charger across the bedroom the other is always at arms length. If it rings while Jack is sleeping, I’ll grab the closest one and hit the off button, but that doesn’t stop the one across the room from ringing. So, now I just hit the on button to connect the call and immediately hit it again to disconnect the call.

Don’t judge me. I’m in a difficult position here.

When people call I have to be honest.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Yes. And the baby. So, thanks for that.”

If I’m polite, and by polite I mean lie, then they’ll continue to call whenever they want and people, that’s just wrong. When someone has a newborn baby at home I think all family and friends should operate on the “don’t call me, I’ll call you” tip. Seriously.

But what really pisses me off, is the gall of some people when you inform them that yes, your call about absolutely nothing that couldn’t wait till later or better yet, could have been conveyed just as accurately via IM or email (or another soundless avenue), did disrupt the little bit of sleep myself and my five-month-old have managed to get they say this instead of apologizing…

“Why don’t you turn the ringer off?”

Now, never mind that I don’t know how to turn off the damn ringer on either phone, that’s not the point! The point is that I shouldn’t have to justify my annoyance past, “You woke up my sleeping baby, you fuck!” Any response other than, “Sorry. Call me when you can,” will just ensure you get on the “don’t take their calls at all” list.

And let’s say we take the sleeping, angelic, innocent, baby out of the equation; although, anyone okay with denying a baby sound sleep should be shot in the knee caps (just saying), shouldn’t respecting someone’s house rules be enough?

My father obviously got the message. My mother? Not so much. She still calls, but doesn’t call back immediately when I hang up on her ass. Donny has also stopped calling on his lunch break to see what we’re doing when one day my response was, “The same thing I do everyday around this time when you call and Jack is sleeping. I’m either trying to sleep too or wondering if I can pull off washing my ass and eating a sandwich at the same time.”

And he’s Jack’s father!

Newborn Phone Etiquette

• Don’t call before 8am.
• Don’t call after 10pm.
• Don’t call if the baby has been sick. You’ll probably add to the stress of a changing sleep cycle and the parents really don’t care that you’re calling to tell them something stupid about something stupid.
• Don’t call back if you call and get hung up on.
• You know what? Don’t call. We’ll call you.

Newborn IM Etiquette

• Don’t take it personally if I’m slow to respond. I am most likely taking care of the small life I brought into this world. Your bullshit can wait. Don’t buzz me fifty times. Don’t keep asking, “Where are you?” The answer will always be the same. “I’m nurturing, motherfucker.”

• Forgive all typos. I’m most likely typing with one hand while giving sustenance to my child. The fact that I’m willing to chat with you while I do this should make you feel special so don’t bust my balls about abbreviating almost every word in my sentence. You know what I’m tryna say!

God, I really need to get some sleep.

P.S. Even if my complicated phone did have the capability to turn off the ringer, I wouldn’t. I have another child in school and I can’t have the phone off in case the school calls, but again, I shouldn’t have to explain that to anyone calling to shoot the shit and woke up my baby!

Prostitots

I am a firm believer that the buck stops with the parents.

Despite the outside influences of television and magazines, we are the ultimate deciders in what our children eat, watch, and what they wear… or don’t wear for that matter. As I’ve shopped for Kali’s Christmas presents over the past few weeks I’ve witnessed a disturbing trend: inappropriate, sometimes sexually tinged, clothing and other items aimed at little girls. I was even more disturbed to find that there’s a name for little girls who wear such things. Prostitots.

A few weeks ago I noticed an item in Sam’s Club that I considered buying for Kali. It was a pink container filled with beauty items. The box looked cheap and all the products inside were inappropriate: eye shadow, bright lipsticks, and loud nail polish. And according to the label it was supposedly for girls Kali’s age. Kali’s nine. I thought I could do better than that so I purchased a white box with polka dots on it and filled it with stuff I thought Kali would like, but more importantly, things that were more appropriate: fruit flavored lip balms, nail polishes in pinks and purples with sparkles, and bright colored hair accessories among other things. Not only was it cheaper to do it my way (Sam’s wanted $45 for their “beauty box”), but I controlled what went in the box.

For instance, Walmart sells these lip glosses, lip balms, and nail polishes for little girls that cost 88 cents per item. Some of the lip glosses come on a little chain of beads that spell out words. I bypassed one that read, “Juicy” for, “cool”, “fun”, and “awesome.” Why does a little girl need to have anything that says juicy? What’s that about? I am by no means an expert. Kali’s my first child and I’m learning as I go, but I’ve already decided on some things I can do to avoid turning Kali into a prostitot.

• Girls under 18 have no business wearing underwear with writing on them. Unless they’re under 7 and the words are the days of the week. And this is not because we expect anyone to see them, but because it helps in promoting good personal hygiene and learning the days of the week. Those of you without kids, I tell you this so you won’t be surprised when you realize that your own young children think that bathing and wiping are optional.
• Speaking of underwear, girls under 16 don’t need thongs.
• Girls should not wear pants, shorts, or skirts with anything affixed to the ass. 12-year-olds don’t need hearts on their butt cheeks. And definitely no words. I saw a pair of jeans for young girls with the words, “You wish” on the ass. Why? Good rule of thumb, Moms… don’t draw attention to your daughters’ asses.

• If your daughter is under 16, stay away from clothes with the words SEXY, DIVA, and HOT, on them.
• No heels before middle school dances and even then they should be those low, boxy, Grandma heels.
• Under 16? No eye shadow, no blush, no eyeliner, no red nail polish, and this is just my own personal peeve: no perfume! Fruit scented lotions; however, are okay.
• A 5-year-old has no business in leopard print or fishnet.
• No one needs to see a 12-year-old’s belly button.
• Stay out of Limited Too.
• Do you really need to put your little girl in t-shirts with arrows pointing to their nether region?

• Body glitter is for strippers.

What are some disturbing trends you’ve noticed in girls’ fashion? What are your rules for your own daughters? Am I not the best Mommy ever for making my daughter such a kickass beauty box? I’ll take pics on Xmas morning.

Seven Pounds: Movie Review

Seven Pounds is a heartbreaker. Pure and simple. It is unashamed in the many ways it will tug at your heartstrings and almost demands your tears. If you cry easily, have the tissues at the ready. Ladies, if you have a man that mocks you and ruins a good cry during a movie – and I think we all know that sometimes it just feels good to cry during a movie – then leave him home.

Will Smith plays Ben Thomas, an IRS agent on a mission to improve the lives of seven strangers. He uses his many connections to get information on these people to determine that they are truly in need, but also that they are good people. The latter stipulation is of great importance as he wants to ensure that they’re prepared not to waste the second chance at life he’s willing to provide. This is key to a plot point revealed early in the movie, but kept out of all press for the film, and I will not ruin it here.

Rosario Dawson is Emily Posa, an artist struggling with a congenital heart disease and a possible recipient of Thomas’ goodwill. It’s pretty obvious that they will fall in love which is fine because at its heart – beyond all the hush-hush surrounding the plot – Seven Pounds is a love story. It’s a love story between the two characters, and a love story to lost love, to generosity, to sacrifice, and to life.

I had pretty much guessed the gist of the plot due to the trailers (which will only reveal more now that the movie is out, so if you don’t plan on seeing it for another few weeks I would avoid commercials for it if you can), but even if I hadn’t the movie is quite predictable despite the red herrings bandied about. Even though the plot offers no real surprises, if you’re paying attention, it’s worth your time for Will Smith’s performance alone.

One standout scene, and there are several, involves Smith’s Thomas questioning of an elderly woman in a hospice. He was able to convey compassion, disappointment, sadness, and anger with his face and body language more artfully than someone who also rocks big budget, action hero, summer movies should.

Rosario Dawson, who I’ve always liked, really shines here as well. Emily is ill throughout the whole film and spends almost every frame pale and with sunken eyes, yet Dawson manages to breathe a life into the character that makes it easy for you to understand how Ben Thomas could fall for the fragile, yet strong when she has to be, Emily.

Seven Pounds is one of those films that played its hand early on. You know the ending from the first scene, so the challenge becomes making the audience interested in sticking around to figure out the why when you’ve already revealed the what. It has capable help from supporting performances by Woody Harrelson as a blind man Ben Thomas may help, the sexy Michael Ealy as Thomas’ younger brother, and Barry Pepper as Thomas’ best friend and partner in his plans. Though Seven Pounds unfolds predictably during its several flashbacks, it succeeds, due in large part to Smith’s ability to make you care about what you know is happening to him and those around him.

There are some feel good Forrest Gump type movies coming out for the holidays (Curious Case of Benjamin Button), so it’s understandable if you don’t feel like seeing a tearjerker this time of year, but I’d see it if you can. And if you find yourself having to wait for DVD, that’s fine too. It’s a must see either way.

Big Girl Jeans

When Jack was three weeks old I’d had enough. Cabin fever had set in and I wanted to get away. One Wednesday I decided I wanted to see my Mommy in North Carolina. That day. So, Donny and I packed suitcases for us and the kids and we loaded up the car with the XBOX 360, the PS3, some games, Jack’s bouncy chair, and Jack’s stroller. I shot off a bullshit email to Kali’s teacher about a death in the family and informed her we’d be picking Kali up early. As Kali climbed in the backseat she took one look at the cargo hold of the Sante Fe and asked, “Where are we going and are we ever coming back?”

The trip from our house to Durham, North Carolina usually takes five hours, but with our gas/bathroom/food stops now including breastfeeding sessions for Jack in the backseat we didn’t arrive at my mother’s house until after dark. Though she was surprised by the earlier call that we were on our way she was pleased at the opportunity to meet Jack for the first time. The visit was extra special because my Aunt was also visiting from Seattle. We crashed at my mother’s that night with plans to see Donny’s mother the next day.

The next morning my mother was relaxing my hair in her kitchen.

“I can’t believe you got me relaxing your hair.”

“Are you new? You always relax my hair when you come to see me. Did you think just because I came to see you for the first time since moving to Atlanta five years ago that this would be different? Don’t think so. Naps are naps.”

She smacked me on the top of my head with a comb.

Getting my hair done was part one in feeling more like myself. My suitcase was light because all I’d packed were some nightgowns, underwear, and toiletries. I only had two maternity dresses to my name towards the end of the pregnancy and had refused to buy more. That day I wanted to get some inexpensive Capri pants, tank tops, and maybe a new pair of flip-flops and so those were exactly the type of clothes folded over my arm as I took the ticket for the dressing rooms in Target later that morning.

I entered the dressing room, disrobed, and could not believe my eyes. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that I’d lost all of my pregnancy weight in three weeks, but I totally didn’t recognize the big girl in front of me. Standing there in my big girl panties and nursing bra I wanted to die. And was that… yes, that was back fat.

Back. Fat.

I swiveled around to check all the mirrors in case the one in front of me was full of shit. Nope. Still fat. I put the mumu back on and took the clothes back to the racks to find bigger sizes. Those were the bigger sizes. I stomped over to my mother.

“We’re leaving.”

“Why?”

Before I could answer Donny returned from the children’s section with an outfit for Jack to meet his other Grandma in. I was so angry that he had gotten me pregnant, which in turn had gotten me fat, that I was more brisk than I ordinarily might have been.

“Donny, corduroy in August in North Carolina. Really?”

He took one look at my face and took the hot ass baby outfit back to where he found it. I told my mother what was wrong – I’d just had a panoramic view of how fat my ass was. I was filled with a cornucopia of emotions, but shame and disgust were tops on the list.

“Nina, you just had a baby three weeks ago. It’s not going to disappear over night. You know where you should go? There’s one nearby. Lane Bryant.”

Oh. Hell. No.

“What? They have cute stuff.”

Cute stuff was the fashion equivalent of saying a big girl had “a nice personality” or “a pretty face.” I had no choice. So while my mother took Kali and my little sister to Chic-Fil-A, Donny, Jack, and I went to Lane Bryant.

As a former model I know that a model’s and mannequins sole purpose is to make clothes look good and damn if those Lane Bryant mannequins weren’t doing their job. I was actually thinking that this wouldn’t be so bad. Until I started to look through the jeans. The ass span on them was plain ridiculous. And I did what any hot woman who’d gained about 50lbs would do. I cried. Big, fat, juicy tears to match my thighs. Poor Donny just rubbed my succulent back sympathetically. The more I tried to stop crying the harder I did. I saw a sales girl approaching and turned my back leaving Donny to deal with her. She was a big girl too and I didn’t want to offend her. What could I say?

“I’m… I’m… crying… because… because… I look… like you! Waaaah!”

Once the tears dried up, I got angry… at Donny. I figured the least he could do for knocking me up and getting me fat was to spend a lot of money on me. So, I picked out an expensive pair of 7even jeans, a pair of cargo capris, and two tops. I had to admit that though I didn’t like the size on the label, I appreciated being able to zip up a pair of pants and breathe like a human. There was still one problem though…

“Excuse me, um, I want to get these jeans, but I’m not used to being… I mean, I’ve never… what are the best panties to wear with jeans like this?”

She directed me to a table of bikini cut panties – 5 for $25. I snatched up five in different patterns and got the hell up out of there. Back at my Mom’s I changed into my new jeans and a top. When I came out of the bathroom with my new outfit and new hair my Aunt said, “Wow! You look much better. No wonder you came to town under the cover of night.”

Nice. I didn’t think I had looked that bad.

I dumped out my other purchases on my mother’s bed. My Aunt quickly grabbed a polka-dotted pair of panties. “See this isn’t so bad. They can be sexy. You can make a game out of it. Follow the dots, Donny. Follow the dots. Follow the dots.” As she danced the big girl panties in front of my husband’s face I wanted to die, but I didn’t. I just laughed through the pain.

January 1^st I plan to get back on track. I did it before and I can do it again. And it’s hard to get too worked up over the weight when I look at what I got in return. My handsome baby boy with his chubby cheeks, dimpled knees, and thick thighs. Thighs like his Mama’s.

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