my new life goal

I've decided that I want to be a figure skater.

No. No, I need to be a figure skater. It's an irrepressible urge. It's like all of my inner life force is drawing me to the ice. The spandex is crying out to me.

I think I've always felt this draw. I remember one of the first times I ever ice skated... there was just something about the way that ice felt against my hind end. The knock of my tailbone against it. The way the spotlights looked from a prone position on the rink.

It's a calling.

It was just as evident the last time I went ice skating. I could tell by the way people stared that they were impressed by my grip on the handrail.

Sigh...

It's gonna take work. It's gonna take dedication. But I know I can do it.

Not really.

Now we all know that I could never do this.

I couldn't even do this wearing very practical and very stretchy pajamas standing firmly flatfooted on my kitchen floor.

Theoretically speaking...

ahem...

...

Now this...

This looks like something I could definitely do.

In my kitchen floor or elsewhere.

My dream may never be realized, but just in case... I've devised a game plan.

1) Learn to skate.

2) Shrink about a half-foot.

3) Saw myself in half lengthwise and then lose another 25 pounds.

Until then... I'll just have to sew sequins on my practical pajamas, shine up my kitchen floor, put on my slippery-est socks, and bruise my behind right here in the comfort of my own home.

Aloha.

---

Away to Pemberley

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hi, my name is megan... and i'm addicted to nail polish

I've had a startling realization about myself.

First of all, I must make a confession:

I bought 5 bottles of nail polish today.

Yes, 5.

Granted, 4 of them were teeny-tiny and in a box together, but still 5.

I'm just sick about it.

But anyway...

When I got home I got out my day's plunder for a quick survey and was quite alarmed to find that one of the colors from the boxed set was remarkably similar to the singleton I'd bought. I knew I had an affinity for pinkish-orangish colors and ye olde hubby is always chiding me for buying the same color over and over... but these 2 bottles really were practically the same color.

Could it be true?

Do I really buy the same color over and over again?

I decided to take inventory... and...

this is what I found...

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... SEVEN bottles of pinkish-orangish-practically-the-same-color-pink.

Gulp... here goes...

I buy the same color of nail polish over and over again.

It's a sickness.

And I have to be stopped.

Send help immediately.

Only 11 steps to go.

---

Away to Pemberley

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another barbie story

After yesterday's angry, frothing-at-the-mouth post about the evils of Mattel, how ironic it was when the Kiddo came to me this afternoon and said, "Can I just play Barbies with Daddy?"

Yes, I have a box of my old Barbies tucked away under my son's bed. I brought them with me when I left home, thank you. It had only been like 2 years since I stopped playing with them, after all.

And yes, my son does drag them out and play with them from time to time. He's secure in his manhood.

The weird part of this whole situation was that from the other room, I could tell by the conversation that his father was indeed taking part in the Barbie playing.

Nothing like male bonding.

After a few minutes, my husband yelled for help. I believe his exact words were, "YOU DIDN'T TELL ME YOU WERE GONNA KILL IT!" a la Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin, speaking to himself or to no one in particular I guess. I hollered from the kitchen to ask what was going on and he informed me that one of the Barbies heads had come off.

"Oh, no! Which one?" I responded.

Silence.

More silence.

"...Barbie?"

Sigh... bless him.

I walked back to the Kiddo's room to survey the damage only to find that my husband had completely broken the head off what had been of one of my favorite dolls.

"Awww! You broke Tracy's head off!" I exclaimed.

And then he started laughing.

And he continued to laugh every time I referred to her by her name.

Yes, I named all of my Barbies.

Off the top of my head, other than Tracy I can remember Julia, Cindy, Reese, Becky, Todd, Kenneth (because Ken just wasn't good enough), Michael, and Nixon.

That's right. I named one of my Ken dolls Nixon.

My own little Barbie soap opera population.

And now Tracy... the heroine of every plot, the one every Ken doll had a crush on, and every Barbie and Skipper doll admired...

has been reduced to this...

Ye olde hubby's only explanation was that he was trying to put pants on her because he thought she looked distasteful.

These are the kinds of things that can happen to a girl when she goes around in nothing but a pair of pink hot pants.

After considerable searching, I located her head under my bed alongside of misplaced baseball.

All of this is just further proof that it never pays to dress like a floozy.

You can end up decapitated and disgraced, lying in pieces on someone's bedroom floor while creepy little critters like this one...

run around the house saying, "I BROKE TRACY'S NECK! I BROKE TRACY'S NECK!"

Even though he didn't.

Who knows where his creative streak could come from...

The entertaining part of this story is that, by the end of the night, our entire household was referring to a doll by her first name. And talking about her rather like she was an actual person.

Keep smiling, Tracy...

you may be past your prime, but you went down in a blaze of glory. Under my bed with a baseball.

And finally got the recognition you deserved all along.

---

Away to Pemberley

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I am not ok with this

Let me begin by saying that I've always sort of rolled my eyes at the people who complain about Barbie giving little girls unrealistic expectations about bodily proportions and that she's killing the self esteem of the female youth of America and blah blah blah...

This has nothing to do with that.

It has everything to do with modesty...

orrrrr the lack thereof.

The family made a trip to ye olde Toys 'r' Us today to take advantage of the Big Trade-in event (and got 25% off of a Sit 'n' Stand stroller, I might add).

P.S. What is it with all the apostrophes in the children/baby product industry. Toys 'r' Us, Sit 'n' Stand... would it really be that big of a deal to add 2 more letters? I don't get it. Anyway.

So we got our stroller and did the obligatory walk through the store. I thought Bebe was probably old enough now to enjoy look at some of the girly stuff on the pink aisle.

...

Or maybe I just wanted to look at it. Sue me.

And so we were just be-bopping along enjoying our mother-daughter Barbie bonding when I saw this...

Monster cleavage.

Maybe I should do a little product explanation here. This busty babe is Desiree. She is part of the Black Label Barbie collection. She enjoys spin class, white water rafting, and midnight walks on the beach.

And exposing herself.

No. No, no... I don't blame Desiree. Desiree is a hunk of plastic with polyester hair. The problem is Mattel.

Now, if I were to sit down with Mattel and discuss the monster cleavage issue with them (not that that would ever happen since Mattel doesn't know or care about my existence or any issues I have with Desiree's bosom), I'm sure they would say, "The Black Label line is a collector line not intended to be used as toys."

To which I would calmly reply, "Well, Mattel, guess where I met Desiree and most of her anatomy? TOYS 'R' US. A place that sells TOYS. A place frequented by children looking to buy TOYS. TOYS ARE THEM! The name says so!"

Deep healing breath.

I have been ignoring the increasingly curvy, navel-bearing, tattoo wearing, pierced, mini-skirted, bodacious babe that Barbie is these days. And it was relatively easy to ignore until I had a daughter of my own and considered the influence even these seemingly small things (bad word choice?) will have on her.

But the monster cleavage was the last straw.

It's amazing what having children does to one's perspective. I have never been what I would call a prude. I've not always been as modest as I've been shown that I should be. But I want better things for my kids. I don't want them to do stupid things that will hurt them in the long run.

Now I know that there are people who would tell me that wearing certain types of clothing isn't going to be hurtful to my kids. But I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that we're supposed to abstain from all appearance of evil. Meaning if it looks like something a hooker would wear, then I should not wear it.

And I sure don't like the idea of my daughter wearing something that advertises her body as a piece of meat and nothing more than a hunk of flesh to be gawked at and drooled over by an evil world.

Furthermore... my body houses something much more precious than flesh and blood and bones. And I pray my daughter's little body will someday be filled with the presence of God's spirit as well. And that she will adorn herself as a sanctuary for that purpose first and foremost.

Sigh...

All that being said... bear with me as I pen (er, type) a letter to my daughter:

Dear Bebe,

It is not ok to have monster cleavage.

Let me rephrase... it is ok to have monster cleavage, but it should remain under you shirt. Your shirt should have a neck line that in no way approaches your navel. When in doubt, wear a turtle neck.

In the event that you're built like your mother... cleavage may be a word you've heard but don't fully understand. Again with the turtleneck.

I hope you always feel beautiful, but I'm much more interested in your inward purity than in your self esteem.

There will be a man who loves you for your modesty and purity. Not in spite of it.

Be beautiful to God first and He will show your beauty to others.

And please forgive your psychotic mother for using the phrase "monster cleavage" so many times in this blog post and for never buying you another Barbie.

At least until I get over this.

Love,

Mama

In conclusion, boo, Mattel. Big time boo.

---

http://away-to-pemberley.blogspot.com

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a list - bridal version (except number 10)

My day consisted of a Bridal Fair with 6 other chicks, lunch with 6 other chicks, and wedding dress shopping with 7 other chicks... we picked up a straggler.

It has left me feeling not only estrogenically charged, but also maybe a tiny bit wiser. Here are some things I learned:

1. How to drive a car with the gauges in the middle of the dashboard. It felt very European. I was tempted to drive on the wrong side of the road, but I thought better of it since I was in someone else's car and there was a pregnant lady riding shotgun.

2. Starbucks 3 times within a 36-hour period is a totally safe thing to do. Except for my waistline and my bank account.

3. Raspberry suckers make your lips blue.

4. The statute of limitations on giftcards intended for other people is apparently right around 2 years. I totally agree with that rule. We should legislate it.

5. If you're the middle person sitting in a group of 5 people, conversation takes extra effort. I was up for it, though, because of all the Starbucks.

6. I've either truly reached adulthood or I just don't have the time/mental capacity to be a jealous chick. Or maybe I just don't care. I'm leaning toward that option.

7. The whole bridal industry has an alarming amount of lingo with which I am not at all familiar and which seems to be 90% French. I'm sure everyone was impressed with my input of things like, "Ooooh, I really like that one with the little bead-y things down on the floofy part and the bunched up stuff up on the boob-ish part!"

8. Lingerie portraiture just seems like a bad idea to me. It's just one feather boa away from being skanky.

9. One word: Elope.

10. Lotion may or may not affect the proper working order of a laptop's touchpad.

Signing off.

So long, Little Joe...

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