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The dinosaur days of summer

8 Jun

In the 14 days since the school year officially ended, vast modifications have already taken place in the Beam household to combat the restlessness of summer break. Some of which have been good, some bad, and some downright ugly. But, like the Uruguay rugby team stranded after their plane crashed in the Andes, we do what we must to survive.

Already, the kids have switched to their summer sleep schedule. The aforementioned schedule being that there really isn’t a schedule, more of a window of bedtime opportunities as varied as their never ending excuses to stay up late. But since we’d rather watch the NBA playoffs than the early morning Today Show, my husband and I submit.

Each night, we pray the late night hours will erase the kids’ learned routine of waking at 6:30 A.M. during the school year, when they’d grumble and cry about getting out of bed so early. In the winter, a promise of perennial presents underneath the evergreens couldn’t arouse these hibernating cubs. But now, like a rooster or a guy who makes donuts, they wake at the crack of dawn; eager for a day where we have nowhere to go and nothing to do. How to reverse this seasonal situation is one of the great mysteries of the parenting world.

Likewise, the boys already have been sent to their respective timeout corners on numerous occasions, their brawls quite reminiscent of the “Thrilla in Manila” except I’m the one throwing in a chlorinated beach towel after round 14. At least 500 sentences have been written ranging from “I will not eat hand sanitizer when someone dares me” to “I’ll never again get my brother in a submission hold called The Walls of Jericho. “War and Peace” will have fewer pages than the collected summer sentence archives of the brothers Beam.

In an effort to stop this rough housing, I’ve tried introducing my two oldest to stories of siblings throughout history who have worked together and achieved great things, like Orville and Wilber Wright or the Kennedy brothers without the girlfriend sharing. Somehow, the kids have decided the Marx brothers should be their role models. I obviously play the straight man to their vaudeville-like behavior. So long as they don’t discover the story of Romulus and Remus, I think we’ll endure until August.

Giving them some much needed time apart from each other, and from me, I’ve enrolled all three in summer camps. The amount and types of programs amaze me. Parents may pick from camps specializing in nature, Taekwondo, ballet, science, Legos, music, drama, art and every sport imaginable. We’ve stayed away from fencing, archery and certain science labs for obvious reasons, as if my children need any incentive to turn our backyard into the fourth installment of The Hunger Games. These skills could tip the odds forever in their sibling rivalry favor, a chance I’m not willing to take.

Survival of the fittest has been proven this summer. Now if Darwin could have advocated a theory of poolside parenting, my world would be a much more relaxing place.

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A requiem for a waiting room

3 May

Sitting in a doctor’s waiting room sometimes hurts more than the injury that brought you to the dreaded hell hole in the first place.

Currently, I’m in such painful doldrums. My left knee decided to go out while I was in the middle of running a half marathon last Saturday. Despite my constant prodding and pushing, it refuses to track back in and answers back to my remedy with a POP POP POP. Obviously, it holds grudges when provoked. Now, I’ve been forced by this uncooperative joint to hobble on over to my orthopedist and get it checked out.

Which is why I’m in this God-forsaken waiting room with nothing to do. I can’t get enough reception to play with my iPhone. I forgot a book. And I don’t feel like talking to the gaggle of ladies in wheelchairs encircling me.

Why exactly are they surrounding me? I look to the nurses, who have the protection of a sliding glass window, bullet proof no doubt. How long have these ladies been waiting here? The look in their bifocal covered eyes tells me they’ve grown tired as well. They, too, are aware of the lawless situation.  I feel slightly like a “Lord of the Flies” scenario may shortly occur. They have canes and steel wheels. I have a bum knee and a sharp mouth. Thank goodness I have little meat on my bones to eat, and hopefully will be spared. I slather on some Vick’s vapor rub and hope the smell of death wards them off for a few seconds longer.

A voice disturbs my anarchical delusions. A nurse sweetly calls out a name. Not mine, of course. She calls again, and this time a man jolts awake mid snore. His hips creak, stiff from remaining in the same chair from a two hour wait as he enters through another door. The exit is elsewhere, which worries me since you never see people leave. All we need is Wes Craven to roll some film, and I’m sure something sinister would occur. Is that a saw I hear? Hopefully to split open a cast and not that gentleman’s balding head.

After a half an hour, my mind starts to create its own games. It produces elaborate stories for each of the patients waiting with me. The frat boy with the neck brace obviously drank a little too much Jungle Juice, tried to make the moves on a blonde leaning on a balcony and took a header off a second floor. He catches me staring at him and gives me a WTF glare.

A young child with a broken arm smiles tenderly at me. She really didn’t break her wrist. She fibbed and said she fell of the bed to get sympathy after a fight with her brother. Hairline fracture, my butt.

And, the middle-aged woman gimping around with the screwed up looking knee cap obviously ran without training. Ok, this one I know is true. But I’ll tell the doc I received the injury from chasing a bank robber down a flight of steps. He shot at me, like all country thieves do, and while dodging bullets like Neo, my knee popped and I went down. I’ll be presented with a police medal next week.

Finally, I win the lottery. The nurse calls my name. I’m not sure if Saint Peter’s voice will sound just as sweet. I might not ever get the chance to find out, so I relish in this moment a while longer. As I flop toward the bright light behind the door, I feel the piercing stares of those who arrived after me, and two that appeared before. Their minds click away like an old fashioned calculator, trying to determine how many more people will be summoned before it’s their turn.

I smile to myself. Until I realize that all the doors throughout the hallway remain closed, excluding one. My wait is not over. It’s only just begun. And I don’t even have a fellow survivors of the ordeal to help me bide my time. Wait, are those plastic gloves in that box?

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In defense of the nightmare sports parent, aka me.

23 Feb

Having kids in sports is rough. So harsh apparently, a guy named Steve Henson wrote an article for thepostgame.com that educates moms and dads on how to become a great sports parent. Although I disagree with some of his assumptions, most of the article addresses some pretty basic, common sense rules for dealing with athletic kids.

Until I saw it. The it being a statement that made the back of my neck burn yeast infection red. In the piece, Henson mentions that most parents aren’t “stereotypical horrendous sports parents, (like) the ones who scream at referees.” Holy cow. To this guy, I’m beyond a nightmare sports parent. I’m a stereotype.

Let me set the record straight. Generally speaking, I’m quite well behaved at my kids’ games. I don’t know enough about soccer to garner an opinion. And normally I could care less about gymnastics or dance. As long as my daughter doesn’t use any of the skills learned on a floor-to-ceiling pole, or worse yet, on a teenage boy, we’re cool.

Now basketball tends to get me in trouble. I know enough about hoops to see right and wrong. So when I witness a foul or other infraction that the other team commits, I tend to blurt it out. Loud. So loud the ref can hear me. Ok, sometimes you could say I shout at the refs. But really? If you witnessed a bank robbery and observed a masked culprit escaping with a sizable stash, wouldn’t you holler for the police to get involved too?

Anyway, I’m bad. I know it. I didn’t go against any of Henson’s other little litmus test rules. But it doesn’t matter. Due to my harassment of those supposed humans in stripes, I must be the ultra nightmare sports parent. I always pictured myself as a bad-dream-after-Chinese-food type of villain instead.

Rather than be a hypocrite and act pristine and pure and deny my true ruthless nature, I’ve decided to embrace my new title. So therefore, I’ve listed several of my own Dos and Don’ts for crazed moms and dads like me who have little room- or hope- in the traditional framework of strong moral athletic role models such as Tiger Woods, Michael Vick and Ben Roethlisberger. Oh, our heroes.

FIVE WAYS TO BECOME THE MOST HELLISH SPORTS PARENT EVER

*Learn all the officials’ names, addresses, family information and car makes and types. Then, bring that Sicilian exchange student named Vinnie to all your games and gently remind the refs you have this material, along with several interesting photos involving fishnet stockings and bats from the changing room. Calls will magically start going your way 90 percent of the time. Rarely are broken kneecaps required.

*Teach your kids about the 1919 World Series, and how sometimes balls shouldn’t be caught if your mom has a Benjamin on a five-run spread.

*Locate all the dealers of human growth hormone and anabolic steroids in your city. You never know if your child may need to kick-start a growth spurt. Normally, the best place to find these people is around major league ballparks, but somehow business has dropped off recently. Congress and their inquisitions, hmph. Until then, prick your son with a toothpick daily to toughen up the skin around the future injection site. Also, give him or her hourly doses of Five-Hour energy and send him to the neighbors to practice his mad endurance skills.

*Make friends with all the other players on the team. Then, when tournament time rolls around, feed several of the better players Ex-lax-infused brownies. Playing time is playing time no matter how you may get it.

*Drink, curse and yell around your children. Many great athletes had horrible parents. Ever heard of a guy named Babe Ruth? Do you think his greatness was incidental? No. Obviously, his bad father drove him to do better. Or maybe he had so much all-consuming rage, the only way to cope was to take a bat to something. Either way, it works. Trust me, your kids will be thanking you later after they make it big, write a tell-all best seller and sue you for those well deserved extra percentages you took while you were their agent.

So, go forth, my minions. May we conquer the stands with our newfound power. And remember, no matter how terrible we become, we still have one thing going for us. We’re not parents of kids in the arts. Costumes? Solos? Marching in unison? Now talk about some nightmare issues…

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Lego-ing of gender stereotypes

24 Jan

Sexism comes in many forms. I hadn’t realized tiny pieces of plastic that hurt like unanesthetized bone grafts when you step on them might be one. According to an article in the Los Angeles Times, critics have been blasting the Lego’s Friends line for girls as being sexist and reinforcing gender stereotypes.  One opponent even goes so far to say that the slim shape of the figurines will promote “body dissatisfaction” in our young ladies.

Would someone please tell me why no one complains about traditional toys for boys doing the same?

Take for instance, the male Lego figurines. Each little nugget has a block chest with a monotonous, unchanging expression. Must our boys mimic those little characters in their emotional impassiveness? Society does force men to be stoic. Plus, have you ever seen a fat Lego? Our boys must be suffering from inner turmoil when they piece together the chesty hunk that looks nothing like their beer drinking, couch potato daddy. Perhaps Lego should construct, sell and interpret a Rorschach test building set to verify the harm they’ve inflicted on our youth. I’m sure most every building would either look like a giant penis or their mother’s barren womb.

Likewise, other action figures promote male body discontent. All GI Joes are hot and hunky. Except maybe Snake Eyes and Cobra, but only because you can’t see their faces due to the masks. But still, every last one has big bulging muscles hugged by tight military fatigues. After raiding Destro’s command center, my boys stopped playing and also attacked the food pantry. Those toys must be sending out subliminal messages that force them to crave protein and steroids. My seven-year-old was dead lifting a case of Coke cans the other day. Obviously, he wasn’t trying to hide them upstairs under his bed for a late night caffeine binge. He needed to bulk up. If knowing is half the battle, we’ve already conquered your sinister plan of body stereotyping, Mattel. Yo Joe, indeed.

Et tu, Star Wars? Sure, the franchise enlists numerous not-so-attractive characters. But does Yoda or any of the other strange creatures get the girl? Go there, they do not. A hot Jedi brother gets more action with his princess sister than poor Jabba receives from his entire slave harem. I bet if the Hutt had been 6’5”, blonde and built, Leah might have used those chains around his neck in a different manner.

Even Disney characters add to the gender conundrum. Look at the Toy Story character Woody. First, his name is Woody. What is that teaching our impressionable youth? The only other Woody I know ended up yippie ki yaying his own adopted daughter. Ride ‘em cowboy takes on a whole new meaning. Sexualization at its finest, Mr. Mouse! Also, check our Woody’s skinny arms and sinewy legs. I’m not throwing stones at porcelain toilet bowls, but I think he might have a problem. Thank goodness that Mr. Potato Head and Hamm the Piggy Bank have supporting leads in the film. Otherwise, our boys would be headed toward a place only wrestlers trying to reach a lower weight class have dared tread before.

Finally, I saved the worst offender for last. Video game characters raise the standard to high for our sons. Look at Mario. Sure, he’s short and pudgy. But have you seen his moustache. Only porn stars and convicted sex offenders have facial hair like that. Our nation is one step away from having a gaggle of sex-crazed teens on the loose. And all because John “Mario” Holmes and his younger brother Luigi have to “rescue” the juicy Princess Peach. I’ll let you determine the significance of that royal name for yourselves.

So critics, I hope you turn your attention to all the negative stereotypes surrounding boys in our society today as well. Let this be a lesson to you that not only girls face body image concerns. Boys do as well. Now, I’m off to watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills with my daughter. If Lego can’t portray women in a realistic fashion, certainly popular media will.

 

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Running down a dream… or a college student.

3 Jan

Thud a donk. Crink cre crink.

“What was that?” I screamed to my two passengers after the right side of my windshield splintered outward from a strange impact point. I assumed my car had hit a mailbox. I’m quite skilled at unintentionally playing mailbox baseball using only a side view mirror rather than a boring old bat.

“A guy, and he’s slouched over on the side of the street,” my college roommate stuttered as her gaze scrutinized the damning evidence behind us.

Screetch.

Some sounds you can never purge from your memory. The noise of a human rolling on the top of your hood and crashing into glass is one such sound.

Not too many people can say that they’ve hit a pedestrian. I can. I consider it street cred, quite literally.

The day started out innocently enough. A sophomore in college, I drove my friends to class from our apartment when the weather turned miserable. That day was such a day. As usual, I was running late. Frost covered the windshield to my car. Being someone who does the absolute minimum requirements to anything, I opted to only scrape off a wee bit of ice. A frying pan sized circle should have been enough, well at least in my mind. Motorcyclists see the road from a tiny visor. No grinding ice away for them. Shouldn’t I be afforded the same luxury?

Back to the guy grimacing in pain on the side of the frost covered road…

We stopped immediately. Actually, I threw the car in reverse. Not the smartest thing to do when you have a man lying down on the pavement directly behind you. Luckily I braked in time to not hit the man twice. That might have been construed as intentional and I’m no serial striker.

Of course, I asked if the kid was ok and if he needed to go to the hospital. By this point, he had clamored to his feet. He acknowledged that he was indeed fine. Since he didn’t need emergency medical attention, I did the only thing I thought would help the poor soul.

“Would you like a ride to class?” I inquired still feeling the rush of adrenaline through my veins. Because all victims of a hit-and-stop would willingly ride with the person who just crashed into them with the side of their car.

“Yeah, that would be great,” he said. Obviously he saw the two attractive girls in my vehicle. I thought about mentioning that the short one was single, but didn’t want a prostitution rap to go along with the reckless driving charge.

So with a deer-in-headlights gaze, my victim stumbled into the back seat. For some reason, we didn’t think about having him ride shotgun. Looking back, that was the least we could do. An awkward conversation ensued until we dropped our new friend off at his morning class. Maybe he had made a love connection with my friend in the back, but I doubted it. Cool boys didn’t wear NFL Starter jackets.

You would think that was the end of my brush with the wild side, but no. The following day was Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend, who worked at a pet store, sucked squirrel tail and never bought me any presents except cheap booze and an iguana. So when the doorbell rang, I expected it to be Bill with a case of Natural Light and a heat rock. Instead, a policeman stood in front of me.

Let’s make this clear. According to the officer, I had done nothing illegal. You can hit a pedestrian, it seems, as long as you stop and check on them. Mr. Policeman said I had gone beyond the call of duty by taking the kid to class. But now the big bug on my windshield wanted some money. Seems I ruined his jacket and suddenly he needed to visit the doctor. All the remained of the wreck was a bruise on his leg.

Could this be a shakedown? Perhaps the boy wandered in front of my car on purpose. They do that sort of thing in big cities and in funny movies.

Needless to say, the cop gave the living speed bump my information. I met old boy and paid him off with a new jacket and $200 in cash. I also forced him to sign a document I drew up that said after this payment he would relinquish all further claims against me due to the accident. To seal the deal, I invited him to a kegger my roommate and I were having that weekend. I’m certain Al Capone finished his negotiations in the same way.

So the moral of the story is always fully defrost your windshield, unless you have two hot roommates in the car. Then all you need to remember is just stop, bop and flirt.

Ending the year with a bang… and numerous lists

27 Dec

As 2011 continues its last week of a spiraling descent toward a decadent January 1st obliteration, we humans have started to try and make sense of the year that was. What better way to arrange our existence than with preparing an annual inventory of importance? I’m talking about lists.

Take these examples: Top 100 songs.  Best books. The 50 greatest sports plays. Best fashion moments. Most exciting pregnancies. The 50 best websites. The 25 most delicious recipes. Top 10 news stories. The year’s greatest hookups.  Seriously. I could go on and on. It’s never-ending. I’m certain that someone out there has made a list of their top 10 bowel movements of 2011. Narcissism knows no bounds in our species.

Speaking of narcissistic behavior, I thought about reflecting on 2011 myself with my own list. But most of the top stories in my life really should not be reprinted due to either libelous content or self-incriminating evidence. Thus, I’ve decided to compile a list of some other lists. Yes, laziness can be a virtue.

So without further ado, I present a list of the number one events, activities, and other hodgepodge things from other lists that made 2011 so special.

Discover Magazine’s Top Story of 2011: Faster that the speed of light

So the neutrino may be able to accelerate faster than the speed of light, invalidating Einstein’s Theory of Relativity as rapidly as John Cusack chugs a beer in Hot Tub Time Machine. Could time flow in reverse? Or is physicist Argyris Nixolaidis correct in assuming that the neutrinos may be taking a short cut through a different dimension to reach their destination sooner? The bigger question is how I too can use this extra dimension to transport three fidgety kids to Europe in less than an hour? I love you, science.

Rolling Stone’s Best Album of 2011: Adele 21.

Out of Rolling Stone’s Top 10 albums, I knew only four, one of which included Paul Simon. Thanks for making me feel old and musically inadequate, Rolling Stone.

US Weekly Top Movie of 2011: “The Descendants”.

Any movie with Kentucky boy George Clooney registers high in my book. But throw in Scream’s Matthew Lillard and you have a definite best picture nominee. Of course, “Crazy, Stupid Love” should also be considered based entirely on Ryan Gosling’s magnificent abs.

Time’s Top Fiction Book of 2011: “A Dance with Dragons” by George R. R. Martin.

George R. R. Martin is the King of Fantasy. His imagination is endless, which makes me wonder if he writes entirely sober. I myself am much more fanciful while drunk. Also, Tina Fey would win hands down for Best Humor in a Book. But, I do want to be her, so take that with a grain of salt.

New York Times Fifth Down’s Top NFL Trend on the Field: Rise of the tight ends.

I have no idea what this means. I threw it in for the fellas. But it does say tight end, which I construed as meaning hot football players with round, supple butts.  (Amanda’s Husband’s Proofreader’s Note – Jimmy Graham and Rob Gronkowski are examples of the rist of the Tight End….not the supple butt.)

Global Language Monitor’s Top Word of 2011: Occupy.

Well, at least the Occupy Wall Street people had some relevance. They dominated word of the year. Oh wait. Occupy also referred to the occupation of Iraq. Sorry. My bad. Hustle back to your tents to demand change while you text on your iPhones and drink some more Starbucks.

Huffington Post’s Top Scandal: Charlie Sheen’s world famous “winning” meltdown.

Personally, I feel Arnold Schwarzenegger sleeping around on a Kennedy heir and fathering a child with the maid trumped Sheen and his ungodly goddesses. But as long as a Kardashian didn’t take first place, I’m content.

Babycenter.com’s Top Baby Names of the Year: Sophia (girl) and Aiden (boy).

Shew. Thank goodness my kids names missed the Top 50. See, naming your children after “Days of Our Lives” characters does have its advantages.

Time’s Person of the Year 2011: The protester.

Second Place honors go to the seekers of the Status Quo.

T.V. Guide’s Best T.V. Show of 2011: Homeland.

Should have been “Boardwalk Empire” based solely on Steve Buscemi’s biting wit and freaky eyes.

Popsugar.com’s poll winner for The Most Shocking Celebrity Breakup of the Year: Ashton and Demi.

Is this really a surprise? Has anyone else seen Ashton in those camera commercials where he stalks ladies with his camera?

Forbes’ 2011 Richest Person in the World: Carlos Slim Helu and family.

If Mr. Helu would like to take me on a shopping spree, I’m certain I can help him not be the richest person in the world next year.

And finally:

HoosierMandy’s Best Wish of 2011: Have a wonderful and safe New Year!

Unless that Mayan prophecy and John Cusack movie comes true, I’ll see you in 2012!

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PTA Purgatory and the Search for a New President

8 Nov

Three Hours. That’s how long I’ve been working on PTA event planning tonight. Believe it or not, I’m president of our school’s Parent Teacher Association. Yes, you may laugh now. And try as I may to get fired by teaching the children the correct ways to stalk Justin Bieber and how to shoot the perfect spit ball, I still somehow have managed to retain the post for a second year.

But alas, I see light at the end of this overly involved mommy tunnel. My term is up in six months and now I must find a worthy successor. Oh, heck with the worthy. I just need someone with a pulse and a clean background check to become president for next year. And herein lies the dilemma. How do I recruit someone to lead a volunteer organization without the use of roofies or a promise of a fully funded “convention” in Cancun?

Needless to say, I like to make lists. So why change a good thing? Below I submit the top reasons why parents should want to become PTA Board Members. Think long and hard about how all these great things could be yours in only six short months.

1) Becoming active in the PTA allows you to redeem all the bad parenting you have inflicted over the past five years. Sure, you feed your kids fast food six times a week, let them play four hours of Call of Duty a day and allow them to crank to the newest Lil Wayne song. But, by goodness, you care enough to plan and work events for all those other students in the school. Since you’re helping at least 100 kids at each function, the total number of children you’ve had a positive impact on is greater than the amount of negative interactions you have had with your own children. Isn’t salvation through substitute parenting grand?

2) Through PTA involvement, parents really get to know all the teachers and staff at the school. Seeing the long hours the teachers work for the good of the students really helps you appreciate all their hard work. Plus, it’s amazing how much blackmail info you can pick up in the teacher’s lounge. It’s always good to have something other than your kids’ intelligence to ensure that they maintain that 4.0 GPA.

3) Volunteering with local educational organizations allows you to feel like you are making a real difference in the community. And it’s much better than my “real difference” assigned work of picking up litter on the side of the road while wearing an orange jumpsuit. Side note: PTA does count toward community service hours.

4) Being President of the PTA offers you a wide variety of perks. Oh how many times I’ve said, “Don’t you know who I am?” to the local sandwich shop when demanding more olives and cucumbers. Power goes quickly to one’s head. I’ve also tried to get out of speeding tickets, jury duty and paying the occasional electric bill using my position. Ok, so it never works. But you can yell at rule breaking parents in the car rider line without fear of retaliation. I have done this on two occasions. And it feels good.

5) PTA will help you conquer the world. Every dictator started with a small position. I’m certain Napoleon got his complex after overseeing his daughter’s crepe sales to raise funds for her school’s fencing team. You too, could use this presidency to achieve greater things. Look at Sarah Palin. She jaunted from PTA to City Council Member to Governor to Vice Presidential Nominee to Nobody all in the time it took to write this sentence. Join PTA while seeing Russia, or the backend of a trailer, from your yard and you too could follow in her snow boot steps.

So there you have it. PTA rocks. You really, really should want to lead this fantastic organization. If you’re interested in the position or learning how to launch the perfect spitball, let me know. Otherwise, I will need to start learning Spanish and the correct manner of using a drug mule in order to fund an incentive trip to Cancun. El Presidente, por favor?

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Halloween fashion: tricks or treat?

1 Nov

Hallow’s Eve always bring a sense of mystery and mischief to my house. But this midnight after Halloween has come and gone with far to little spookiness in our quiet home. The only thing frighteningly active at this hour is my mind. It churns out idea after idea for columns, blogs and ways to ensure reality stars stay married longer than 72 days.

Some of these thoughts, I should write about. Others most likely should stay in the deep recesses of my brain; somewhere between the memories of the hot pink polka dotted dress I wore to the eighth grade dance and my 1989 “Holy Crap That Chick Looks Like Mick Jagger” haircut.

So at this witching hour, I feel something brewing in my flat chest that needs to bubble out like stale pus in a popped blister. What has me all a flutter? Lately, I’ve seen numerous posts about women’s Halloween attire nowadays being quite scant. I wholeheartedly agree. In fact, it has become difficult to purchase a flattering costume that doesn’t show a lady’s London, France and a portion of that Aussie country from Down Under. When the only non-skin baring regalia I feel comfortable wearing around my kids are a dead Michael Jackson costume or a pregnant nun, there’s a problem.

However, I must say I also have an issue with so many people verbally insulting women for wearing these barely there get-ups. Comparing people to hookers just because they decide to show some skin one day a year really does little to advance our overall cause for equality. Women argue that the ladies that wear revealing clothes have poor self worth and reduce all females into mindless sex objects. I call bibbity bobbity boob.

If a woman feels comfortable enough in her own body to sport that costume, then more power to her. What really hurts the female image is defining a woman by what she wears instead of what she does. I might not like and most likely wouldn’t purchase some of these ensembles, but that doesn’t give me the right to degrade it. Hell, I can’t wear a bikini for more than 12 minutes at the pool without crafting a temporary sarong out of a Transformer’s beach towel. Who has the low self esteem now? Oops. I shouldn’t be proud of that…

Coming from experience, most of the shimmy shimmy cocoa puff costumes I’ve witnessed look nothing like prostitute fashion. And I’ve seen some prostitutes. If you haven’t sat and sipped coffee under a perfect Waikiki night while watching two ladies of the night try to pick up some Japanese Johns, then you truly have never lived. I could barely solicit an 80-year-old Filipino woman to snap a shot of my family at the beach. And I had to pay her a five and didn’t even get a handshake. Maybe I need to start a Hooker Vogue so that the ladies in the future have some basic wardrobe norms and don’t easily get confused with sorority girls from the local college campus Halloween parade.

All and all, females should be able to wear what they want for Halloween whether that be a delicious devil or a potato sack hobo. So, women of the world, treat each other with fairness and objectivity. Let’s tear each other down for other meaningful things like having a filthy house or how we raise our children. Maybe that’s the best midnight idea after all.

 

 

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Something to Crow About

18 Oct

Being the zenith of unadulterated freakiness, Halloween usually tops my list for coolest holidays. When else can people transform into something beyond imagination?

Too bad we imagine the worst possible outfits for our pets as well. You’ve seen the poor Bulldog dressed as a fat bumblebee or the Doberman frocked in a red cape while fabric devil horns are harnessed with elastic around his chin. Whose mailbox did these unfortunate creatures pee upon to deserve such sadistic, albeit entertaining, treatment?

Suddenly I realize my hypocrisy. Long ago, I too crafted a costume for an unwilling animal and paraded them around a stage. Only the competition I entered wasn’t for Halloween. Nor was my cowering prey a dog. Once upon a time, I dressed poultry. And, I don’t mean shoving Stovetop stuffing up a dead bird’s privates.

Let me explain. My grandfather owned all sorts of chickens. But these chickens were never to eat, but to show. Every year, Papa prepared the best of his flock to enter the Miss Universe of poultry contests: The Kentucky State Fair. Each bird had to be washed with Dawn dish soap and blow-dried with an actual salon drier. I kid you not. Back in the day, we were the Jose Ebers of the pullet world. I’d tell you how you have to hold a chicken (by the feet with the breast and wings facing toward the palm of your hand), but you might tire of my good ‘ole girl routine rather quickly.

Papa entered the chicken game in pursuit of fame. The top prize, based mostly on the appearance of the poultry, was Grand Champion. My grandfather won this title once. He promptly had a professional photo made of the charming victor and ushered her home to start reproducing. Her offspring actually fetched $150 a pair. I think he was more proud of that damn hen then he was of my high school graduation. This is the sorted world of championship chickens.

In addition to Grand Champion, fair entrants also had the ability to register for two separate contests. Of course, the exhibition had a crowing contest. For 15 minutes, roosters were placed side by side in cages while judges tallied just how many times each contestant crowed. To win a round, the gallant fowls generally coughed up about 20 screeches. My grandfather had a special trick. He always placed the rooster in a dark crate for several hours before a meet. Remember how roosters like to crow in the morning? Papa’s nighttime simulation tricked an old feather foot into winning him a title. Oh, what we do for a rosette.

Another challenge the fair sponsored was the Costume Poultry contest. Only children could enter. For some reason, my mother and grandfather nominated me for the task. Dressing a chicken is not easy. They can’t wear pants, so you must make tiny little leg warmers for them that fasten with Velcro. Hats always need a rubber band looped under them to fit on the chicken’s craw. Trust me, birds like tight things around their throats just about as much as they love Colonel Sanders’ secret recipe. So this was a task in itself.

But the trickiest part of dressing up a chicken is getting it to walk on a leash. This takes practice, not to mention the right selection of that special chicken. Normally, we’d just tie a piece of string around the bird’s little leg. Birchen Modern Game, a breed of chicken, worked the best. They had the longest legs and liked to strut their stuff. I imagine them to stomp the catwalk like Heidi Klum, although the chicks might have slightly meatier breasts.

As for my own brush with fame, I competed in the contest three separate times. First, we dressed a rooster named Ronald Reagan to look like Daniel Boone. He had the gun, coonskin cap and everything. We lost. Obviously the judges, like the media, had a liberal bias.

The next year, I decided a male and female might be the key to winning. As I presented Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara to the audience, Scarlett managed to undress in the blink of an eye. A true southern belle she was not. As I was trying to clothe Ms. Prissy Pants, Rhett escaped and ran under the judge’s table. Mr. Butler was always such a cad. Needless to say, I lost again.

Finally, the year I turned 13, I tried yet again to succeed in winning the championship. This time, we chose a young pullet and dressed her as Annie Oakley. Really, it was just Reagan’s outfit revisited, but let’s not give away too many secrets. Sure, I might have not been the cutest (the Courier Journal at the time wrote an article proclaiming this) but I definitely had the best-dressed clucker. We won $250 and the blue ribbon. And unlike Vanessa Williams, I got to keep my hard won title for a full year. Too bad they didn’t create a sash to immortalize the occasion.

In retrospect, dressing chickens was somewhat fun. I bonded with the poultry. One was named Louise Mandrell. Yes, even back then I worshipped stars. And Louise was the coolest, although least appreciated, of the Mandrell sisters. Anyway, my Louise was blind. After her stint in the big show, she was able to live out her life pecking in the yard. That was until a neighbor dog decided to snatch her for a tasty snack. Seeing a blind chicken trying to escape from a German Shepherd is not a fun thing to witness. I cried about Louise’s heinous murder for days. To many people, she was supper. But to me, she was Scarlett.

So have fun, dog owners of the world. Connect with your animals on this primal, fashion forward level. Lord knows most of you don’t have children to do this with. And if you’re looking for a challenge, grab a chicken and a child and enter the Kentucky State Fair’s 2012 Costume Poultry Contest. Maybe you cannot only create some pretty cool memories, but win a splendid sash as well.

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Arresting Developments

11 Oct

During the news this week, images of angry and disenchanted youth flail across my screen while chanting one-liners to the ever-awaiting media outlets.

Whenever I see these occupiers, I become slightly jealous. Not because they’ve finally figured out, without my suggestion, that you really don’t need to wear Birkenstocks to gripe about the government. Although that is a huge hairy toe covered step forward for dissident style. But I’m envious to the fact that some of these rebels have achieved a feat that I have only dreamt of…. being arrested.

Yes, being arrested is on my bucket list of things to do in my lifetime. But I don’t want to get locked up for just any boring old crime like vagrancy or public indecency. I do have some morals.

I want to go behind bars for something heroic and just. Like publically protesting something you believe in, even though you didn’t happen to have the appropriate permit, or for refusing to reveal a journalistic source in court and being held in contempt. Maybe even chaining myself to a tree full of super rare raccoons that face extinction from some crazy one-eyed loggers and their ripping chain saws.

It’s truly a shame that the prisons don’t just allow fine law abiding citizens like me to book a week’s stay in one of their solitary confinement suites. I hear the outdoor gym is one of the best.

Until they open up the Hotel Cell Block 6, I must rehearse my best jail procedure and be ready when the time arrives.

Just think of how wonderful my mug shot will be. I’ve been practicing my slightly off centered smirk. You don’t want to full-on smile with teeth. People will think you’re in for public intoxication then. But you need to purse your lips together and act like a piece of licorice is stuck in that weird stringy apparatus underneath your tongue. This will force your cheeks to look sullen.

Curl up the corners of your mouth and BAM! You have the perfect look of an innocent guilt. Perhaps I should give lessons to rising starlets on how to actually look good while being booked. Lindsay Lohan will have my number on speed dial.

Once I’ve been booked, I’ll need to bond with my new cellmate. Flattery works best. I’ll mention how she looks fantastic in orange. Oh, and how jumpsuits are in this season. I doubt if I’ll be able to cinch the waist with a cute wide belt due to security concerns, which is a pity. I’m positive the buckle could sell for a shank substitute.

Word would spread around the block that I’m really a nice kid that should be protected from the harsh realities of prison life. I might have to join one of the gangs. Do you rush them like a sorority? If so, I hope the hazing isn’t too murderous. In return for their umbrella of security, I’d help them write up their ardent appeals. Criminals, especially the guilty, appreciate free legal work. I’ll become the modern Clarence Darrow, only without a monkey on my shoulder. Oh how fun it will be.

Who am I kidding? I know that I’ll never be arrested. These protesters have youth, ragtag signs and anger on their side. I’m destined to lead a middle class life of conformity and mild manners. The fact that my husband is in the law enforcement field doesn’t help my criminal cause either. Maybe he can just practice handcuffing me. But that sounds more dirty than deviant. Foiled by the law once again.

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