MySpace as a Weapon

I have finally delved into the phenomenon that is MySpace. By weird coincidence, two friends in two weeks, both from junior high school, and both of whom I hadn't seen in many years, told me about their MySpace pages.

While it's fun to connect with old friends, and I can see where one might get addicted, I have to say that I now know why old people are notoriously resistant to change. As I navigated the pages, used by millions of young people every day, I found myself feeling a little like a fish out of water. Everything felt so new and unfamiliar and hard to navigate. I just wanted to say, "Pah, to hell with it," put my fake teeth in a glass of water, and call it a day. It didn't help that because our IP address is in Norway, everything came up in Norwegian. "#¤%&! I am better now.

It's a lot of fun, though, AND I've gotten the best idea for what to threaten obnoxious teenagers with. I'm already scared of the teenager Laney will become. She's only two, but she's got sassy DOWN, and she has already mastered the "You don't know anything, do you?" look. It's terrifying.

My secret weapon against her will be my very own MySpace (or 2018 equivalent) page. I've got it all figured out. I'll upload a picture of my 45-year-old self in in a sexy pose wearing low-rise jeans and t-shirt tied up above my belly button. The About Me section will be filled with all kinds of inappropriate use of young people's lingo. "Hip, hot momma looking for cool friends who can hang. Are you diggin' it? Hollah!"

In the photos section, I can have kissy pictures of me and Seven and embarrasing pictures of the kids. "Awww, look at her little dimpled butt." Mine and Laney's.

The threat will be that I'm going to request all the cute boys in school be my "friend" and send them my page. I think it'll work, don't you?

If I can manage to get Seven to pose for the following:


I think we, Seven and I, may just get through the kids' adolescence just fine.

No such thing as background noise anymore

A few months ago, I was driving home, hands correctly positioned at two and ten o'clock, eyes scanning the road for potential hazards and my two children sitting quietly in the back. One of those NOW compilation Cd's was playing in the background -- I think it was NOW 245 or something like that -- when a Missy Elliot song came on. I didn't pay much attention to it. Normally, I skip over it because I don't like that song too much. This day, I was just cruising casually along, not paying attention to the Cd, when it suddenly strikes me that she's singing/rapping the following:

"Call me before you come ovah, so I can shave my cha cha. Something. Something. Something. Go downtown and eat it like a vulchah (vulture)."

I almost swerved the car off the road when I realized what she was saying and tried desperately to flip past that damn song.

I had heard that song a million times pre-kids, when it was overplayed on the radio, which is probably why I didn't pay attention to it when it came on. I don't remember the name, but the uncensored version must be really dirty because for most of what I'm guessing is the censored version we were hearing, she's rapping something like, " Yurf-wan-if-in-wen-yet." Anyone know what that means?

The last thing I needed was for my four-year-old, who picks up on EVERYTHING, to ask me "Mommy, what's shave my cha-cha mean?" Or worse, listening with horror as my two-year-old sings at a family gathering later, "eat a vulcha," while everyone smiles on and asks me, "How cute. So what's she singing?"

Funny how things that were once background noise become potential accident-causing hazards once you have kids.

Mommy's also a snappy dresser. Um, no. No, she's not.

One might think, reading the last post, that I'm equally conscientious of my own clothing.

One would be wrong. It's the exact opposite. I look like poo-poo most days and am in desperate need of a wardrobe update. I dress my kids like dolls to fill that empty void inside.

The worst of it is that sometimes I think I look nice. I get dressed and think, "That's not too bad." Then I'll see a picture or something and think, "That can't be ME? I thought that top looked nice on me."

It's awful to be delivered painful blows like that on a regular basis. I have stopped buying clothes for myself. Instead, I buy way too many clothes for my kids.

Hey, if I looked like Heidi Klum does after popping out baby after baby, this blog would be all about me, honey --me and my killer post-baby abs. Picture after picture. You would read that, too, right? I could have posts like:

"Oh, look! Me doing the dishes in a short skirt."
"There I am again, lounging casually on the beach in a small bikini."
"Life is so hard for a woman with such a perfect ass."
"Kids? I have kids?"

You know you're a mom when. ..

You can't remember the last time you took a shower. You just know it wasn't all that recently, because your hair is greasy and you're starting to smell funny.

Your daughter wears your (clean) granny-sized panties on her head like a baklava. Small panties encourage making babies, thank you very much. Granny pants are for maintaining the status quo.

A friend invites you and the kids out to Chuck E. Cheese and your response is "Sounds like fun! I can't wait!" Sad is the day you realize Chuck E. Cheese is the highlight of your social calendar.

Shaving your legs is on an as-needed basis only. And let's face it, it's not needed as often as it used to be.

Discussion of poop at the dinner table doesn't phase you. In fact, you're the one bringing it up to your husband who is now gagging on HIS food. Men are so weak sometimes.

You've been punched in the boob.*

* Maybe that's just me. Nicky, then two, had crawled into bed with me one morning and I leaned over him to reach something. This was shortly after I'd given birth to Laney and was still breastfeeding. Anyway, I was in pjs and my pendulous, milk-filled breasts dangled over him. (No, not over his face. I wasn't trying to suffocate the kid). His thought, "Oh, look! Punching bags!" Pow! He punched me really hard in the breast. Oh, that hurt!! Damn kids.

How the heck?

How is it that I've been skiing every day this past week and GAINED two pounds? I'll have you know that cross-country skiing burns 331 calories an hour! Do you hear me Goddess of the Burning Calorie? 331!! Demon is more like it. B!tch.

The optimistic view is that flab has converted into muscle, and we all know muscle is heavier than fat, hence the weight gain.

The realistic view, however, is that the calories burned on skis have not offset the calories consumed from pilfering the children's Easter candy.

Dammit! If you can't down heaps of chocolate when you exercise, what's the point?

Blue? Brown? Other?

Did you know that there are at least three different genes that control eye color? There may be a few more. This is why the Mendel model of genetics (dominant beats recessive) doesn't quite work for eye color the way we were taught in school. In any case, the more pigment you have in your eyes, the darker they are. The less you have, the bluer they are -- unless you have no pigment, then they're pink. Something like 70 percent of Norwegians have blue eyes. Only about 1 in 6 Americans do. (According to my math, that's about 16 percent).

You're probably wondering why I'm such a vast fountain of knowledge when it comes to eye color genetics. I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?

Actually, I was trying to figure out what color my kids' eyes are. You'd think I'd know. It's not for lack of trying, but they've got kaleidescope color eyes that don't really fall into the basic categories of blue, green and brown. So you tell me, what color are their eyes?

Nicky was born with very blue eyes. Then in the past year, they kept getting more and more brown in them, but never changing to brown. They are predominantly blue, but brown around the iris. They are not green, but sometimes they look green. Does this mean they are hazel?

Laney is the opposite. She also started with blue eyes, but early on they started changing to grayish, golden, and now have settled on light brown. Or have they? They still have blue around the rims, especially in sunlight and very often, they look green in photographs. This seems to fit the definition of hazel, too.

And what exactly is hazel? There doesn't seem to be a good definition. I guess hazel is another way of saying 'other.'

Obviously, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. I just pray they don't get my near-blind eyes. I say my son has blue eyes, my daughter has brown. But in a country where the majority of people have very blue eyes, it seems odd to say my son's eyes are blue. They are blueish.

It wasn't always so hard to tell.

Nicky at 4 1/2 months

Laney at just under 2 months

Were they really that small once? (sniff, sniff)

During my online search, I found this eye color calculator. I thought it was fun to see what percentage chance kids (real or imaginary) have of having what color eyes. Try it out.

http://museum.thetech.org/ugenetics/eyeCalc/eyecalculator.html

When Mom Jeans happen to good people

It was a day like any other. I threw on a pair of relatively recently purchased pair of jeans then a top, then I glanced in the mirror. You can imagine my horror when I realized I was wearing (gasp!) MOM JEANS!

Jeepers!* When did I start wearing Mom Jeans? I had to take a second look to be sure, but it was true. I was wearing high-waisted, butt-flattening, might-as-well stamp "I drive a Mini Van"** on the ass MOM JEANS!!

The worst of it was when I was standing in line to board a plane a few weeks later and there was a 60-year-old woman in line in front of me, and she had my jeans on!! I should not be wearing the same clothes that women 20 years my senior are wearing! How did this happen? HOW?!

Oh, yeah, the muffin top. The muffin top is where it all began.

The thing is, after Laney was born, I clung to the notion that 'by this time next year' I'd be back to my pre-pregnancy weight and shape. I wasn't going to spend a dime on BIG jeans when I would surely lose all of the baby weight. I am was a big believer in the ten months up, ten months down line of thinking of pregnancy weight gain and loss. Of course, it was easy to be smug a believer when I lost the baby weight the first time within that obnoxious little deadline. This time the months came and went and I was still the same weight. Now, it's officially two years later and I'm a few, ehem, pounds from my goal.

Of course, I still believe I can reach my goal. Apparently, I believe I can reach it by sitting on my big ole rump in front of the computer. . .but that's a whole different post.

As unattractive as Mom Jeans are, they keep the extra pooches tucked up where they should be. The cute jeans don't look so cute when your belly is drooping over the front of them. I have--no! please make it not true--a Mom Jeans kind-of-shape, and I need to get used to it. It's hard to come to terms with the body that two little ones have wreaked havoc on.

In the meantime, I'll cling to that little dream that I'll one day be able to wear my pre-pregnancy jeans. Nevermind that by that time they'll be out of fashion and highly inappropriate for a woman my age -- just like the hoochie shoes and mini skirts I've shipped halfway around the world to collect dust in the closet. Seriously, when am I going to wear those again? Chasing my kids down the grocery store aisles? Or maybe while vacuuming the house and watering the plants? Actually, I won't need to water the plants. They're dead. I have a black thumb. But perhaps on a wild night out scrapbooking with the neighborhood women?

Well, we all know that's not the point. The POINT is that I can pretend to be nonchalant when I'm gloating to everyone, friends, neighbors, innocent passersby, that I can wear my pre-pregnancy jeans and implying that I've never looked better. (Just ignore the crow's feet please. And the sagging boobs and skin.)

*No, what I really thought/said was, "What the fucking hell?" For the most part, I'm trying to keep the profanity to a minimum on this blog. It's doesn't have to be G-rated, but I don't have to curse like a sailor either. The word Jeepers has never actually left these lips, but I had to put something there to convey my shock and horror.

** I don't drive a mini-van. Gas is too expensive in Norway. We drive a station wagon! Sexy!