Friday, August 19, 2011

Smurf me hard

I just got home from seeing The Smurf Movie with my boys. Last day of our mini-summer-vacation so I was running out of activities to do with them. I am not used to being a full time mom. I love spending time with them, I love that we have had some sort of adventure every day this week; but seriously, I am exhausted. A movie was needed. Popcorn is always needed. If you remember from a few blogs ago, I believe that popcorn is a vegetable.

Anyway, so The Smurf Movie. It got me thinking. No, it didn’t make me wonder why in god’s name must we revisit and recycle stupid ideas from the 1980’s that were annoying the first time around. No, not how the creators of The Smurfs had to be as high as Sid and Marty Croft when they decided there should be little blue creatures who lived in mushrooms and were chased by an evil cat (who totally reminded me of Henry). And not even why I just spent $30 on tickets and popcorn on a stupid Smurf movie just to make my damn kids happy.

I was wondering, however, who came up with the brilliant and ridiculously sexist idea to put one blonde female Smurf with ninety male Smurfs who were all named for their personalities.

First of all, the whole idea that one is named for one’s personality seems like it would limit a person, or, rather Smurf. Take Grouchy Smurf. What if he went to therapy and started taking Zoloft? Or what if started taking yoga, could he then become Zen Smurf? Could he then change his name to The Smurf formerly known as Grouchy? Wouldn’t it make him grouchier to know that he would always be called Grouchy Smurf even if he was in a good mood? Man, I can only imagine my Smurf name. Drama Smurf? Or perhaps Sugar Smurf. Nah, that sounds like a Smurf stripper. Maybe just Emotionally-co-dependent-cranky-when-provoked-due-to-perimenapausal-hormones Smurf.

Now, as the wonderfully intellectual script of The Smurf Movie taught us, (don’t worry, not really a spoiler here) Smurfette was created by Gargamel to tempt the ninety other Smurfs that don’t actually appear to even be anatomically correct. Their little white feetie-pajamas seem a bit tight and you should be able to see, um…never mind.

Anyway, so Papa Smurf took Smurfette in and kind of made her his daughter which seems a little odd to me. I mean yeah, it was a nice thing to do to take this young girl out of the evil castle of Gargamel and teach her to be a nice Smurf. Kind of like Richard Gere did with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. But this cartoon was created in the early 1980’s where women wearing power suits and becoming working mothers were all the rage. The book Our Bodies Ourselves was in its fourth edition. Woman Studies majors were becoming a staple at most universities. However, ninety little blue guys and one hot blonde in heels? Seriously? It didn’t fit the times. Plus, wouldn’t it possibly put Smurfette in a precarious predicament being the only babe around? Seems like she could end up in a whole mess of trouble. Of course, we do learn in the film that she can kick some serious Smurf-ass so apparently Papa Smurf taught her to defend herself in case one of the Smurfs, I’m assuming like Hefty Smurf or Gutsy Smurf got a smurf-on.

Apparently, I am ready to go back to teaching the figurative language and symbolism of literature because I just analyzed the feminist essential questions of The Smurf Movie.

Yeah…I know…I am smurfin’ ludicrous sometimes.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Love and basketball. And shoes.

I used to love basketball then I hated it. Now, I think I like it again.
Hmmm…maybe I should back up a bit and explain.

I grew up in New Hope, Minnesota with my older sister and my parents. Because there were only the two of us and we were both girls I thought that maybe just maybe my dad was a bit disappointed he didn’t have a boy he could play sports with and do guy-things with. Ya know, like spitting and swearing and burping. All of which I have mastered and would like to thank my dad for helping me to win all of the burping contests I now have with my own children. I think I was in the third grade when I decided I would try to be as son-like as I could be and not just the burping. I watched The Six Million Dollar Man and Mission Impossible with him; I went to Twins games and Vikings games with him. And let me just say, the Vikings games were NOT in the Metro-dome as they are today; they were in a stadium. Outside. In December. It was freakin cold but I loved every minute of it. I used to have this gigantic yellow coat (I think my dad bought it because it was a Viking’s color.) and he would pin an enormous Vikings pin on my head and think I was so cute. We got to bond and have fun and I loved thinking I was being his pseudo-son and somehow giving him that. It turns out; he just liked hanging out with me.

I also decided in between all of my ballet and tap classes, I would join a little baseball team too. To be honest, that wasn’t for my dad. There was this really cute boy who was playing on one of the teams. Yep, even back then…

I did, for awhile, harbor desires to be the short stop for the Minnesota Twins. No boy issues, I actually liked to play. It was fun and you got to wear cleats. I loved hearing my dad cheer for me. I felt I could really be a boy-like-princess for him. Little did I know that when I competed in dance contests in my pretty little costumes with sparkles and fringe on them, he cheered just as loudly and with as much pride.

During the winter in Minnesota, there were pretty much two team sports: basketball and hockey. Now, any true Minnesotan will tell you of the good old days of The North Stars hockey team who now reside in Texas. Sad, sad world when the most northern contiguous state doesn’t have a hockey team. Back in the 1970’s during winter, my sister or my neighborhood friends and I would make the cold trek to Liberty park to go ice skating and would occasionally get roped into playing hockey with the neighborhood boys who never had the foresight to have enough people to play on two separate teams. They would usually put me on the really good team and let me play defense which allowed me ample time to practice my back crossovers on the ice. I was terrible at skating forward so I perfected the backwards part. I never truly got into hockey. I mean the players were cute but they were missing teeth and had that odd mixture of being sweaty and cold. Well, not all of the time, but that very distinctive scent lingers, let me tell ya…

Then there was basketball. I never got into it as a child. I did play on a team in 6th grade, but I sucked. Seriously, too short to even get it near the basket. I must say my affinity for Converse high-tops was born but I can find shoes to match anything, even sports.

As I grew up, I kinda just stuck with the individual sports like diving and gymnastics and then I was a dancer too. I let my dreams of professional baseball go although my youngest nephew is an awesome baseball player so I have made a request that he become a professional baseball player when he grows up. He said that he would do his best to play for the Twins someday, just for me. I like that kid.

Alright, now I’m going to reveal something about myself that is quite astonishing and I don’t tell very many people. It’s not that I am embarrassed by it; it’s just something from my past. It is something I loved being a part of that isn’t the most feminist of decisions. I think I started hiding it when I took all of those Woman Studies classes in college. Okay…I (gulp) was a cheerleader. Actually, in my junior year, I was captain of the basketball cheerleaders. I am not ashamed of it. I loved those guys. I cheered my brains out and no, that is not a euphemism for anything. I don’t think I actually dated anyone on the basketball team. Scanning…scanning…nope, not that I remember.

In 1984, the Robbinsdale Cooper high school Basketball team went through an entire season and I think they won like, two games. I may be being generous here as we always seem to romanticize the past. The thing was they were not a bad team. Each game they played went into overtime. EVERY GAME. Sometimes double overtime. They would just tie and then the other team would win by 2 points. EVERY GAME. It was depressing and awful and on away-games nothing could make the overly tall boys feel any better on the bus ride home. Damn, maybe I should have dated a few of them…

The point is, the games were horrible to cheer for. I mean, we looked cute in our little orange and blue short and twirly uniforms (who picks school colors anyway? Seriously?). But the fun ended there. We would scream and yell our guts out and cheer our little cheers thinking it would inspire them to win but nope. It was just painful. I decided after that season, I was done with basketball. It was just too hard to watch. Then I moved to LA and learned to despise basketball in earnest. Sorry Lakers fans, but watching felons dribble a ball down a court while Jack Nicholson cheers them on, sorry, not for me. Just because the Lakers are originally from Minnesota doesn’t mean I have to have allegiance to a team I have no desire to watch. Plus the whole season is just ridiculously long. There is the regular season and then playoffs are to the same length as the regular season. Then if they win the whole championship thing the fans trash the city. Yeah, I really want to participate in that. Maybe if the players still wore the cute shorts from the 1970’s I might consider it. Doubtful.

Fast forward a few decades (maybe a little more) post high school when my own little boys want to join Junior Lakers basketball at the YMCA. They really need some team sports considering they are being raised by a single mother who doesn’t really follow sports and we live very far away from all of the sport loving male role models in their lives. No one to teach them to shoot, throw, dunk or anything else you can do with a ball.

The season started at the beginning of June and at the beginning neither of them could even get the ball near the basket. One of my fabulous babysitters is a basketball couch so she began working with them one-on-one and they have improved exponentially. They love going to the Y on Saturdays in their purple and white uniforms, ready to kick some booty. Dash’s team (in the 5-6 year division) plays half court and most of the time the coaches just stand on the court yelling, “No! Go the other way!” They don’t get called for travelling and although Dash has a tendency to get a little distracted and dances a little during the game, he has gotten much better at playing. Yesterday he stopped in the middle of the game and did the robot. The bad thing about their games is that every single game at least one kid gets smacked in the face with the ball and cries and then refuses to play again for the rest of the game. But they do come back the next game ready for more. Cutest little troopers ever.

Max’s games are a little different. They are in the 7-8 year old division and there are some kids who are really good. Max almost made a basket during the game yesterday. He has grown so much as a little player and tries so hard. I am so proud of him. The games are full court and I am amazed how much I yell and cheer for the team while they play. I hear myself yelling “defense” and at the right time too. Like, all of sudden I remember this stuff from years ago. And then I realize, I am enjoying the game and cheering and loving it and jumping up and down when we win. The boys are having fun and learning team building stuff and getting some exercise, plus they have gained an new affinity for Converse high-tops. It’s all comes back to the important things in life.

Don’t get your hopes up; I still refuse to participate in the whole Lakers thing in LA. I will stick to the Junior Lakers and be done with it.

And as for my dad wanting sons: My sister and I have made him five grandsons (because we can only grow penises) and he seems pretty happy about that because he has a whole new crop of kids to teach to spit and swear and burp. Of course, I had taught my boys that already…

Monday, August 1, 2011

I'm not writing today...

I should be blogging or writing right now but instead I am making stupid cupcakes because I bribed my summer school kids to actually study and do their homework. I never would have offered the bribe of homemade cupcakes (chocolate stuffed with marshmallow fudge) if I thought it would elicit this response. Damn kids. Why do all kids need bribery to get stuff done? Poking, prodding, bribery, threats of taking crap away from them…

Seriously. It’s not just me and it’s not just with my students. It’s my own children that I hear myself speaking to when I say, “Dash, honey, as soon as you finish your chicken, you may go on the computer for 20 minutes.” Alternately, I say, “Dash if you don’t finish your chicken there will be no computer tomorrow.” It’s freakin chicken. It’s not like I am making him monkey’s brains or frog legs. I tried again with the carrots tonight too. (see Repetitive Redundancy) (yes, I am referencing my own blogs. It makes me feel special. Hmmm…now I’m wondering if I should use an MLA citation or a APA citation.) I steamed them (the carrots, not the blogs or my kids for that matter) and topped them with cheese. Nope. Nada. Ain't gonna happen. So, I then mashed them up with cauliflower and shoved them clandestinely into the blue corn quesadillas, covered that with cheese and poof! My children ate a ton of veggies. Nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-boo. Once Max heard me talking on the phone touting my veggie-hiding-talents and was a bit pissed at first. Then I explained how if he didn’t noticed them and they made him a better basketball player, then I was only doing it for his own good. It took him a second, but I think he saw it my way. Plus he knows he is going to the Taylor Swift concert for his birthday in a few weeks so boy is he on his best behavior. He actually wiped out the bathroom sink after he brushed his teeth without being asked. I know!

The second reason I am not really writing right now is because the stupid hair dye I have been using lately only seems to last two weeks and that’s no fun. I have been steadily going silver (I refuse to admit to gray. Or grey. Hmmm…which is it again? Hold on a sec. That has been bugging me for years. Apparently, grey is the English spelling and gray is the American spelling. But what if you are an American English teacher? Man, now I am right back to where I started. Damn.) since I am twenty-five years old and now it is like every two weeks like clockwork, the garland of silver around my forehead tends to wear on me and makes me feel old. Which makes me feel cranky. (I'm like a sexy curmudgeon.) Especially when I have been up since freakin’ 3am. I was having a lovely dream about a cute man I know when I began to dream someone was breaking into my house. I woke up thinking it was Henry the Cat but he was sitting next to my clock radio about to press the snooze alarm like he had done at 1am. He likes to put his paw on my snooze alarm and I am no longer sure if he just really digs my music or wants to wake me up cuz he’s hungry. I think I have mentioned this before. My students think its funny. I hate them right now. I really should never make the offer of cupcakes again. Either that or stop at Fresh and Easy on the way to school. No, that is not a place to pick up men or my hang-out of choice. Man, if it were only that easy…

So, where was I? Oh yes, my nightmare that woke me up, made me check my downstairs then lie awake in my bed for an hour before I fell into a weird dream that my old guy babysitter broke into my house and ate all of the cupcakes. Now, this left me in an uncomfortable dream state because my guy babysitter, whom I adored and more importantly, my children adored (and not just because he had Angry Birds on his phone) quit, giving me three days notice, because he told me his girlfriend was jealous of me. Of course the girl had never met me before and the babysitter-dude was driving my kids to school at 6:30am so what did she possibly think could happened at that hour? Crap, I can barely apply eyeliner that early. Seriously, the GIRL really should have met me first. Then she could have judged me all she wanted. So anyway, I felt very betrayed by this guy who was one of my best friends. I hate him and I miss him. Sucks. So dreaming about him was just...annoying. This is perhaps why I am in cranky-blogger mode.

Alright, my lovely veggie-haters are sound asleep so it is just me, the psycho-music-loving-tabby and my blog, which I have been ignoring for the past week. I have started like, three blogs and none of them went anywhere. Plus, I am almost at 4,000 page views so I am really looking forward to hitting that number. Considering the grass-roots efforts of my book (Finding My Status) aren’t taking off like I had anticipated, I like to see my page views keep going up. I now have readers in India, Ireland, Iraq; (a lot of “I” countries), Malaysia is back as is Spain, the UK, France and Denmark. I would love to meet some of you. At least write a comment, send an email, say Hello, Bonjour, Hola or Hej. Okay, there seems to be like, eight different ways in Malaysia to say Hi…hmmm...

Just so you know, I love seeing all of your countries and yet I have no idea how I translate or if you get my humor if my humor even translates. Oh! Don’t let me forget Egypt, the Ukraine or Canada. My friend Rod lives in Canada so I think I would get in trouble if I forgot him. But I think I can take him…

Yep, an agent and publisher would probably have made things a bit easier. At least it’s out there, my book I mean, and I have sold, ya know, a bunch. I am in the process of creating the second one. I think just for me. Who knows? I like going over my statuses (statusi) and seeing how my last few years have been. Ya know, in case I don’t remember. I like making myself laugh. I find myself rather amusing. It’s sort of like a journal because I update so frequently. So hey, if you haven’t bought my book on line, please do. I’m like $5.99 which in Euros is $4.20. Man, what a freakin’ bargain I am on the continent…

I do love when I have absolutely nothing to say and yet I am on my second page of nothing to say. Hmmm...what else? I think I am done with the OkCupid stuff. Online needs to just remain Online for awhile. I have some good people to hang with so I’m good for now. Besides some of the messages were just getting too weird even for me. There was a transgender girl/guy…um, I think I would call him/her a shman; with big fake boobs who wanted to “part-tee”. (Her words not mine) Then there were the several older, like really older, men who had no idea how to flirt online. You had to hand it to them for trying. I am such a bitch I never message back unless the man in the message makes me smile. If you make me make a sound like one of Three Stooges when I see your photo or read your message, it just ain’t worth it to waste the finger energy in typing. I have no free time, leave me alone.

Besides…nope, no point.

Okay, I am done. I still need to dye my hair and finish stuffing and frosting cupcakes. Seriously, I need to stop watching Cupcake Wars.