%$@&! You, Mario!

You know, as parents we worry about what our children see on television, in the movies, on the internet. We even worry what kinds of video games they’re playing.

So, we have a Wii. Nintendo is famous for it’s kid-friendly, non-violent, family-oriented games.

My children are in the living room, playing the nice, cute, non-violent Mario Kart.

“Oh, this is BULL&^*#!”

“%$@& you, Mario!”

“What’s with this punk-&%* mushroom?!?!”

“Get the %$@& outta my way, you &^*%^$#!”


There’s nothing like your kids playing nicely together. It just brings a tear to my eye.


I’m a big fan of Pixar and have been since Toy Story came out. The Incredibles is in my Top Ten favorite films.

WALL-E was funny, sweet and a great deal of fun. There were a lot of very small children in the audience, but it was so engaging that there was no fidgeting or crying or talking – a tribute to the quality of the film itself since there is very little dialog in it. As a matter of fact, the first half contains almost no dialog at all. In the pivotal moment in the film – the revelation the Captain has as he waters the plant – it’s more about what isn’t said than what is.

Go see it. It was wonderful.

Dear Darling Daughter

I am too old for this shit. Do you hear me, Darling Daughter?


I know how hard it is being you. I know what a miserable childhood you had, growing up with every convenience and luxury known to modern man. I know what an awful adolescence you had because you spent every waking moment on the phone with or in the company of your friends, never having to get a job because of school and extra-curricular activities. I know how difficult it is for you now as a young adult because I am being such a bitch, selfishly living my own life and expecting you live to yours as an adult. But the time has come for you to try to leave behind the hardships and emotional scars you’ve suffered due to my unspeakable ineptitude as your mother.

I hope you’re having fun where ever you are. When you see J next, please thank him again for letting me know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. And while you’ve been so completely thoughtful and considerate of my feelings, as well as your brothers, I’d still like to ask one more favor of you. Where ever you are – STAY THERE. Your brothers and I would like to enjoy T’s visit up here next week without the drama and bullshit that will ensue if you are here.

Because, don’t you know, I had a REALLY interesting talk with your good buddy LQ last night. I really hope what she told me isn’t so, but since I have absolutely no way of knowing what you say is true or not anymore, I’m going to go with the assumption it is and let you know you are on your own. Even if it’s not, you’re on your own.

The buck stops here. Your account with the First National Bank of Mom is now officially closed. Your reservation at the Ritz-Motherton has expired. You no longer have your own private booth at Ma’s Fine Dining Establishment. The Eternal Maternal Spa and Beauty Center has ceased to do business.

I would have preferred a different venue to discuss these matters with you – LIKE IN PERSON – but since you are conspicuous in your absence, and have failed to call or answer emails and instant messages, I feel I am left with no alternative.

My most sincere apologies to my readers. Our regularly scheduled mayhem will resume tomorrow.

Of Crocs And Capris

When Ms. Meta wrote this post, which was picked up by MidLifeBloggers.com, I wanted to comment. In fact, I started to comment, but I had so much to say on the subject that I decided it merited its own post.

I really had an issue with the quote by Tim Gunn:

“Women in their ’40s should always try to avoid horizontal stripes, jackets that hit at mid-thigh, pleated pants, double-breasted blazers, Capri-length pants and low-rise jeans.”

Quite frankly, I don’t know who the hell Tim Gunn is, but according to him I’m a walking fashion faux pas. If women over 40 shouldn’t wear Capris-length pants, then just shoot me now; you’ll take my capris when you pry them off my cold, dead ass. The same goes for my mid-thigh jackets. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Gunn – I’m exactly five feet tall. Every jacket I’ve ever owned hits me at mid-thigh (the sleeves hit me at mid-shin). My slacks are almost all pleated because they hide that “you’ve had three kids and the last one was by C-section” tummy bulge extremely well and while I don’t own any double-breasted blazers it wouldn’t matter anyway because I’m not buttoning one up in this lifetime, let me tell you right now. A blazer’s sole purpose, in my wardrobe at least, is to camouflage my butt. Period.

Now, the horizontal stripes and low-rise jeans aren’t an issue. The stripes because anyone who grew up with my mother has an emotionally crippling horizontal stripe phobia; the mere thought of wearing horizontal stripes brings on a post-traumatic flashback of “No horizontal stripes! NOOOOO horizontal stripes! They make you look fat! FAAAAAAAAAT!” The next thing you know, you’re lying on the floor in the middle of Macy’s womens department sucking your thumb and whimpering. (I was in my 30s before I’d wear white for the same reason.)

As for low-rise jeans – you’ve GOT to be kidding me. When I was 10 years old, they were called “hip-huggers” (back in the days when it was socially acceptable to actually have hips). I didn’t wear them then, and I’m not about to wear them now. The entire free world may rejoice; I’ve just saved anyone who crosses my path from wanting to rip their eyeballs out with their bare hands. You all remain safely sighted. Besides, I have yet to find a pair of low-rise jeans with a gathered, elastic waist.

Ms. Meta’s Fashion For The Middled Aged post was spurred by an earlier post where she pondered if she was too old for Doc Martens, saying she wears them because they are so darn comfortable she never wants to take them off. Honestly, that is the basis for my (according to Darling Daughter) abnormal love of Crocs shoes. I shudder to think what Tim Gunn’s opinion of my collected footwear would be, but hey – at least it doesn’t consist entirely of 2 for $5 flip-flops from Old Navy. My Crocs are comfortable and they come in such a vast array of styles and colors that I have a pair that will coordinate with just about any pair of capris I own, which is saying something. Yes, I do own dress shoes, but not one of them has a heel over an inch-and-a-half; my days of wearing 6-inch stilettos outside of the bedroom are long behind me.

Thank gawd. For, like Ms. Meta, “I’ve reached an age when I’m no longer willing to be a slave to fashion if it HURTS.” So, if you happen to see a really short, dumpy middle-aged woman with curly brown yet gently graying hair, metallic pink bifocals, wearing an oversize pink-and-lime vertical striped shirt over a lime green tank with white capris and hot pink Crocs, she’s making a statement. She’s comfortable and could look a helluva lot worse.