Six Beauty Lessons For My Daughter

My daughter is on a mission to push the boundaries of style. Here are six lessons we've reviewed this week:

1) Repeatedly (and by this I mean like one hundred times) bending over and flipping your hair back over the top of your head to get that wind blown model look seriously comes back to bite you when you try to run a brush through your hair later in the day.

2) Highlighting your hair with nail polish does not give the desired effect. (Yes, I'm serious. Could I make this up?)

3) Using an entire eight ounce bottle of Philosophy's "Purity" facial cleanser doesn't make your face any cleaner that using a dime-sized amount. (And twenty bucks is a lot for one face washing.)

4) Purple panties should never be worn under white shorts - especially when you're going to be up on the altar during children's church. (No, I'm not the only one who noticed, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.)

5) The ladies who work at Philosphy's cosmetic counter at Nordstrom's do not love the smell of Amazing Grace as much as you do. (Yes, we've been discussing the dangers of product overuse. I'm talking to a brick wall.)

6) There is no universe that exists where a sharpie marker can elicit an authentic-looking tatoo. (And even if it did, it would not be appropriate for an eight year old.)

New Template (Again)

Perhaps this will be the last template? So much to learn....

Photobucket Message

Arghhhh. Okay, so obviously, "Houston, we have a problem."

Every problem is a learning opportunity and here is what I learned today. Check your ubercool blog template to see if it connects to Photobucket BEFORE you spend untold hours getting your blog exactly like you want it. If it does connect to Photobucket, there is a possibility that what has happened to my blog will happen to yours.

I initially thought my problem was being caused by a Photobucket picture I had linked directly to my blog. I removed ALL of these and still the problem remained. This made no sense to me. However, I'm nothing if not determined, so I turned my attention to the Politics page. My logical mind told me this could not be where the problem was coming from since a) the Photobucket message was not showing up over on the Politics page and b) technically, the Politics page is it's own blog. After removing all my cool pictures over there, I was at least reassured that my logic was still working.

Then, I check the HTML of the blog template and there it is. Photobucket references all over the damned place. Now, I'm not 100% sure this is the issue. However, since all other Photobucket pics have been removed I'm assuming this is the source.

Hang in there with me, it takes more time than I can really accept right now to properly switch out the template, but I'll be working on it tomorrow.

Mommy Guilt

I try really hard not to whine. I don't tolerate it in my kids and my husband receives a less than favorable reaction when he tries it. With that being said, today's post is going to be whiney.

My son did not want to go to summer camp today. Instead, he would have preferred to stay at home. Specifically, what he had in mind was staying in his room, on the floor, in his pajamas, eating Fritos and drinking Diet Coke, while simultaneously watching VH1, playing Runescape on the laptop and texting with his friends. I'm sure a few phone calls would have been thrown in for good measure.

For some ridiculous reason, which I am sure will make some sort of "Bad Mom of the Month" list, I thought it would be a MUCH better idea for him to go to camp where he would spend the day at the Stepford Water Park. What was I thinking? Seriously! I must be brain damaged. Why in the world would I think that a twelve year old boy would want to spend the day at a water park - IN JULY - IN TEXAS? Further, why would I be willing to pay $200 a week to torture my child in such a way? Could someone please call Child Protective Services? Otherwise, I'm going to be compelled to insist that my son also go to Medieval Times, Six Flags, bowling, roller skating, ice skating, horseback riding and swimming over the course of the next seven weeks.

Oh and wait, it gets better. After I got my son to camp, I ran into a fellow Stepford Wife in the parking lot whose twelve year old son was sitting in her car crying because he was NOT being allowed to go to camp this week. Her son has apparently misbehaved in some way and she is making him stay home as punishment. Good Lord, what is WRONG with this woman? Doesn't she know the real punishment is sending her child to camp?

There are thirty-six more week days until school starts. Surely my son can survive the torture that long? Me? Probably not. FML

It Is About Time

Closing the (Face) Book

I was reading an article last week about DivineCaroline and was surprised to see that the article used the term "social networking site" in its description.

What?

I don't dooooo social networking sites. Upon reading this I was, well, offended.

Of course the minute I stopped and thought about it, I realized that not only is DivineCaroline a social networking site, but I most certainly use the site in that capacity. So why the offense? Well, I had drawn a distinction between my activities on DivineCaroline and my limited activities on Facebook because,well, I like to think my activities on DivineCaroline are superior to those that I find on Facebook. And I really don't like Facebook. And I really love DivineCaroline. And, truthfully, I have a nasty little habit of labeling the things that I love as "noble" and the things that I don't as "trashy". (Don't judge me. You know you do it too.)

So, sorry Facebook, I'm closing the book on you.

It's nothing personal. Okay. Actually, it is. Very personal. And that, for me, is the problem. Don't feel bad. It's not you, it's me. Well, actually it is you.

1. I realize most of my opinions are not ready for Stepford Primetime. When every Stepford Wife from my neighborhood and my church started friending me, it was clastrophobic. And it isn't just the Wives. The Husbands are friending me too. And my boss! This is no good. If the Husbands are reading, how am I supposed to write about the slapping noise my breasts make against my rib cage if I run up the stairs without a bra? I do not need my flat-slapping breasts to be the topic of conversation at the monthly Husband's Breakfast. My Husband, well, he would seriously frown upon this. And before you tell me I have the capacity to not accept someone as a friend, let me just tell you that that would be the Stepford equivalent of giving someone the finger. No good at all. I live here people. My Obama sign was pushing it. I have no more punches on my card.

2. I really don't care that you finished your laundry. Or made a roast with rosemary from your garden for dinner. Or that volunteering at VBS was ridiculously tiring. Or that Jack said "duck". Or that Emma slept through the night. Or that you just consumed a $100 bottle of wine - by yourself. Just as I'm sure you don't care that I never finish my laundry. Or that I can count on one finger the number of times I've made a roast and would never grow my own spices. Or that I would rather have my head inserted into a meat grinder than to ever volunteer at VBS again. Or that I don't remember most of my children's early speech. Or that my oldest child didn't sleep through the night until he was ten. Or that I would NEVER spend $100 on a single bottle of anything unless it was meant to keep me alive.

3. I know you don't look that good. I've seen you in person, remember? And while we're on the subject, I know your life isn't that fabulous. I know your husband isn't always that nice. And I know your kids don't always behave. I also know, that just like me, you have a Target addiction, cellulite and that your crows feet are much more noticeable without concealer. I also know you've had a boob job, a tummy tuck, and lipo. Just like you know that I have grey pubes, color the hair on my head, whiten my teeth, and wear a miracle bra.

4. This wall writing thing is a lot like yearbooks. Are we really in our forties and still competing to see who can get the most signatures? Or still counting to see who has the most pictures, or friends, or is in the most activities? I wasn't the most popular or most beautiful chick back in 1985. It bothered me then. But I've moved on. At least now, I can get my hair in the car and my jeans don't touch my armpits. And while we're on the subject of high school, I'm really unsettled by the appearance of people wanting to reconnect with me after twenty-four years. Really? If we were that good of friends, wouldn't we have remained in touch? And if I were interested in reconnecting, wouldn't I have attended at least one class reunion? I'm not lost. I'm just somewhere else. On purpose.

Here's the deal. I write for many reasons. One of them is that it allows me to be honest. Sometimes painfully so. Writing allows me to pull back the curtains on my life and look at it in the light of day. When I do this, the results cannot be guaranteed. DivineCaroline provides me with a space that allows me to write without reservation.

Sorry Facebook, you're just so... Stepford.

One Martini, Two Martini

One martini, two martini, three martini, floor...

The husband and I had a rare night out Saturday night. This happens about once a year and usually by accident. It just so happened that our children were spending the night with friends and some fellow Soccer Parents were hitting Stepford's hippest, hot spot, Ra Sushi. Ra's website boasts "There's never a dull moment in the Ra. The music is pumping, the mood is upbeat and the atmosphere is as stimulating as a big bite of wasabi. We know you like to have fun, we do too." When our friends said, "Would you like to join us?" Well, how could we resist?

I pulled out my cutest capris, four-inch heels and four-inch silver hoop earrings, along with my water bra to fill up the booby shirt I borrowed from my friend (work it, work it) and off we went. True to Ra's website, the music was loud (I realize by even mentioning this, I am demonstrating how very old I am). Our party chose a table outside so we could watch the Maserati's cruise up and down the main strip. The fact that we did not all end up hearing impaired by the time dinner was over was a bonus. It would have been a serious tragedy had we dropped a buck fifty on sushi and martinis and ended up deaf.

We had a great time and I was reminded why it is good for me to get out every now and then. I learned quite a bit during my three-hour, four-martini dinner. In case you haven't been out in a while, I thought I would share.

1. Hot pants and stiletto gladiators are all the rage this season. If you don't know what hot pants are, you're too young to be reading this blog. If you do know what hot pants are, you're probably confused about the stiletto gladiators. I've chosen a picture of them for the post as a reference. If you're still confused, let me confirm - YES these shoes are, apparently, to be worn with short shorts. Who knew, right?

2. Having hot, young, rockin' legs are a waste, if your ankles wobble in your heels when you walk. I have a rule about heels in my house. When you can walk in them, you can wear them. Some of the young Stepford Wives in training clearly were not raised in a home that had this rule.

3. Much to my surprise, the Bumpit target market is not white trash teenagers. Apparently, all of Stepford (with my flat-ass crown as the exception) is on the Bumpit bandwagon. (Seriously, isn't it enough that we live in Stepford? Does our hair really have to look like it's the 1960's again?)

4. Despite what someone (hello, frienemy) once told me, I really do rock my four-inch silver hoops and do not look "hookerish" in them. (Thank you, Nik and Man for confirming this prior to martini number three. Any later in the evening and I would have decided it was just the martinis talking.)

5. Four is still my martini limit - no matter how much water I attempt to consume in between the $10 libations. However, I was also flattered to hear (thanks again, Nik and Man) that even though I don't drink beer, I have a beer personality rather than a martini one. I consider this high praise indeed.

Check, please!