The Toyota Prius

I was so lucky to sit on the Saturday afternoon keynote panel at the Type-A Mom conference. The topic was ‘Breaking the Mommy Blogger Mold’ and I was chosen because I don’t fit within the mommy blogger mold in the ‘traditional’ sense. If there is one - which was what the panel was about.

If we look at the current Mommy Blogger ‘norm’, a Mommy Blogger is a mom that writes about being a mom, parenting, her kids and, oftentimes, products that her she and her kids use as they live their lives. And then we can easily deduce that I’m not a Mommy Blogger. Because I don’t do any of those things. (Except on this lovely blog on occasion - though I still don’t think I fall into that category because I’m not ooey or gooey about it.)

I really write about writing. But I am a mom and I work in a little shed/office in my backyard so I can see my kids all day (if I want to) and if they need to see me (and I grant them access).

So, this Mom-ness (and my blogging-ness) got me a speaker spot at the Type-A Mom Conference. And it got me something else - my very own product. The best product, if you ask me.

The good, good people at Toyota gave me a conference weekend ride in the form of a gorgeous, energy efficient Prius. It was waiting for me when I got off the plane - sort of like a white horse (I think I was my own knight in shining armor in this scenario).

First of all. I want one. Of my very own. As soon as possible. Please.

Second of all. The Prius looks small, right? It isn’t. It’s kind of huge inside. It reminded me of one of the magical tents in Harry Potter - where it looked like a normal tent (or car in this case), but when you stepped inside, it had 10 rooms and at least 2 floors. The Prius isn’t quite that big, but it sure was roomy. Four of us gals fit very comfortably inside, we easily could have taken on a fifth and we had loads of room in the trunk.

Third of all. Have you been in a Hybrid? This was actually my first one, so I can’t say this across the board, but, it’s really quiet. It took some getting used to. “Is the car on?” I kept asking everyone. It was. It’s just that, in addition to its silence, you press a button to start it, you don’t put the key in the ignition - something that I’ve now come to realize tells my brain that the motor is running. Of course, the gas mileage was out of the park. I drove from Charlotte to Asheville and back (two hours each way) - plus all over Asheville in search of fantastic food - and barely used more than a tank of gas.

Fourth of all. And I know this isn’t something specific just to the Prius, or the Toyota, but it was special to me and my Prius all the same. It’s called ‘built-in GPS’. You see, in my car, I have a dinky GPS box that I plug into my car lighter. It won’t sit on the dashboard, it never listens to me and my requests and, frankly, we just don’t get along. I don’t trust that woman. But the GPS in my Prius was built-in. It lived right in the dashboard with the stereo, CD player and temperature control. It was easy to program and not at all temperamental. It took and gave directions very well. It got me everywhere I needed to go with total confidence and serenity. I didn’t need to look at a map or worry - leaving me free to enjoy the fabulous ride…

I recently wrote a post about contrast and how we need it to define things, i.e. we can’t name ‘cold’ if we don’t have ‘hot’ to compare it to. But, now I’m wondering what to do if the contrasting and defining object is a moving target.

Here’s the thing: I don’t know how big I am, or how small for that matter. Literally. I’m shocked by the mirror and the scale. I’m shocked when things are too big and when they’re too small. I’m shocked when I see pictures of myself and I come up to everyone’s chest. I’m shocked when I see my reflection and I seem larger than I expected.

As a result, I don’t trust any of it and I go about my days having no idea what I look like or how my body actually fits into space.

And, really, why should I? This is a case where the contrasting target is moving. AND, this is a case where the physical is heavily influenced by the emotional and intellectual self. For reasons feminine, cultural and uniquely circumstantial, my size and my perception keep changing.

• In high school, I was popular, successful and an athlete. I was larger than life, but my body felt small.
• In college, I was invisible, drowning with an eating disorder and unhappy. I was terribly insignificant, but my body felt huge.
• As I entered adulthood, I was told to be independent and strong, but society and its magazines were reminding me not to get too big. I was confused and yo-yoing, my body didn’t know which way was up.
• As I became a mother, I urged my body to grow in order to support my babies as they came to be and as they continue to need my protection, time and attention in this world. I am expanding rapidly, my body feels like it isn’t my own and its borders are too far away to see.
• As a wife, I need to pull those edges back in to ‘me’ so that I can feel my woman-ness. My body feels conflicted and exhausted and totally bent out of shape.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of this blog and a few others and in my immediate community, I receive insanely wonderful connections and feedback. My brain and heart feel big.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of the world and social media, I’m just tiny. Little fish, big sea.

When I look at all of this, I see that the common thread here is relativity. It’s similar to the fact that I still feel 17, but my birth certificate says I’m 36. I mean, really? Is that true? What’s true?

I’m not sure there’s a way to escape it. But, I’m certain I can’t let it color my forward motion. If we sat around all day and thought about the 300 million people on Facebook, we would never join or think it could be a successful social media tool - and we’d miss out on connecting and sharing with old and new friends. If we thought about the millions of other writers that are out there - either getting published or struggling with rejection letters - we would never type another word.

Why do we look to the outside to define our size or simply who we are? Why would we look outside when outside is constantly changing and insecure? Huh. Maybe that’s why we’re so insecure.

Hard to pin your edges on something that moves, expands, shrinks and bends, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the inside - that still thinks it’s 17 and perfectly sizable that needs to be the touchpoint. That way, at least, it’s always up to us, the magnitude of the space we take up in the world.

Originally posted on Writing Roads

Image credit: Steph & Adam

I’ve been looking over my shoulder, frequently. I’m waiting for the parenting police to show up and take away my license. I know that they’re sitting around shaking their heads at this very minute wondering how I was ever allowed mom privileges in the first place.

They’re right, you know. I’m extraordinarily guilty. Guilty of crimes, guilty for crimes.

What have I done? Well, I’ve been selfish, I entertain the most selfish thoughts on a minutely basis (this being 60 times more frequent then an hourly basis), and I crave more selfishness. I want it to be all about me.

• I want to hide away in my bed and read whenever I can.
• I want to work 20 hours a day on my writing, weekends included.
• I want to eat what I want to eat, when I want to eat it.
• I don’t want to clean.
• I don’t want to make 20 construction helmets or motorcycles or excavators out of molding beeswax.
• I want to listen to my music.
• I want to yell, ‘FUCKING HELL!’ when my Blackberry implodes and not get ‘in trouble’ for it.
• …should I go on?

You know what this feels like? PMS, though it’s lasted way too long to be PMS. It reminds me of that special flavor of PMS where you can’t stand to have anyone touch you, talk to you or look at you. And everything just feels wrong. It’s like I need to be in a little room all by myself…(hmmm…one with padded walls?).

Of course, I’m being entirely melodramatic…I’m not to the point of needing a straight jacket. But, I need something. I’m going away next week for a few days to work with a client on a writing project, and I’ll have some time to work on my own writing…but will it be enough?

Though that isn’t the real question. The real question is, should I get to have everything that I want? When I signed up for this mom/wife thing, did I sign my life away? Do I get it back when they go to college? Or can I have it now. Or never?

Which reminds me. My mom, 66, is here for the summer with us. She retired in January…and she’s having a hard time reconciling her new retired life. She’s part of what’s been driving me crazy, by the way. I thought she was just annoying me, but as I write this post, I’m realizing it’s something else. Here she is with nothing but time to pursue her passions - nothing is holding her, she can be as selfish as she wants. And she’s just piddling the days away. She’s not doing anything, or more accurately, she’s not doing what I would do.

What the hell is she waiting for? What am I waiting for? Do I really need permission, am I really hogtied? Could I spend less timing being pissed and more timing doing what I want? And if so, why I am so hellbent on getting in my own way?

Anyone? Anyone?

Image credit: Txspiked

Last week, I thought that someone had written books for adults based on the hilarious Numeroff/Bond children’s series that includes If you give a mouse a cookie & If you give a pig a pancake - but I was wrong. No one had done it, so I wrote one myself called, If you give a mom a martini…and now…I can’t seem to stop. Again, feel free to illustrate this story in your own mind or send me the name of your best friend, the illustrator or publisher.

If you give a 40 year old man a Ferrari…

He’s going to want a pair of leather pants to go with it.

When he starts remembering how good he looked in these pants, he’ll realize that he also needs a 20 year old blonde so he can show off his leather-clad derrière.

While you’re calling the blonde, he’ll fish his leather pants out of the basement.

He’ll have a terrible time pulling them up over his hairy legs and gut, so he’ll search frantically for the BowFlex he got for his birthday last year.

When he finds it, he’ll hop on and start pumping away, doing as many exercises as he possibly can.

This will make him very sweaty and he’ll tell you he needs to take a shower. But on his way to the bathroom, the doorbell will ring.

“It’s the blonde,” he’ll shout. And, then, he’ll ask you to answer the door.

Just as you start to open it, he’ll come tumbling down the stairs, because he can’t walk with his leather pants down around his ankles and because he, quite possibly, tripped over his own excitement (if you know what I mean).

He’ll land on the ground in front of the door.

When he sees the blonde standing there, looming over him, he’ll ask her what she stuffed her bra with and how she made her breasts stand up so high.

She’ll smack him hard with her Fendi bag and declare, ‘These are real!’

And then he’ll look at your boobs - sagging and low from feeding the fruits of his loins - and he’ll remember what real is.

So, he’ll kindly explain to the blonde that he made a mistake and that she should leave.

As you politely slam the door behind her, he’ll grab you and start kissing you with all he’s got. Which will make him feel like a virile young man.

He’ll get so excited that he’ll try to pull on his leather pants again…

And chances are, if he gets those pants on…he’s going to want a Ferrari to go with them.

Image Credit: fiskfisk

We have a lot of children’s books in our house - what with two 3 year olds and all. As a writer, (with 5 children’s books written and just waiting for a publisher to swoop in and make them as real as the Velventeen Rabbit) I’m a pretty huge snob when I’m reading to our children.

I’ve been known to stop mid-way through a book - interrupting my sleepy. sweet, ‘let’s go to bed’, mommy voice - to shout at Patti, “Can you believe they publish this CRAP?” Really, I just don’t understand. My books are well written, they make sense, they have a purpose. And some of these books are just nonsense.

But I digress, there are also many wonderful books with great writing and hilarious concepts…and one of my favorites? The ‘If you give a (something) a (whatnot)” series. Laura Joffe Numeroff writes the books, Felicia Bond illustrates them - they make a perfect match. There’s, If you give a pig a pancake and If you give a moose a muffin and If you give a mouse a cookie to name a few. And I love them. They follow a sweet child on a journey with a couple of ballsy animals that want, want, want - full circle. “If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s probably going to want a glass of milk…” which leads to a milk mustache which leads to a bath which leads to… - you get the point, right?

The formula is delicious - I’m a big fan of circular writing.

Which is why I got so excited when I saw Jessica Smith’s post about a new book called, If you give a mom a martini. It turns out this adult book offers 100 ways to find mommy bliss and alone time - and I was terribly disappointed. I wanted the other book - the kids book for grown-ups.

So, what’s a writer to do? Well, write the book you want to read of course. I don’t have the illustrations, use your imagination for the images - and feel free to send your illustrator and publishing contacts along…

Ready? Here we go:

~If you give a mom a martini…she’s going to want a nice dinner to go with it.

~So, you’ll make her a reservation.

~When she hears about the reservation, she’ll want you to find a babysitter.

~You’ll take out the phone book and start making calls, which will remind her that she needs the newest iPhone.

~When she goes online to buy it, she’ll notice that she has several new followers on Twitter. So she’ll check to see who they are.

~At least 20 of them will be spammers offering sex and 400 followers a day, and they’ll feature a sultry photo of Jennifer Aniston which will remind her of Friends and how much she loved that show.

~She’ll go to iTunes to download every season and notice the premier dates of the series. This will make her smack her iMac really hard - because the first season of Friends couldn’t possibly have started in 1994…because that would make her, well, 36. And that’s not possible.

~She’ll insist that you buy her a new computer that doesn’t compute wrong.

~When you start to tell her that it’s actually true (because you were a senior in college and you remember where you were when it happened - it’s like the JFK assassination for Gen X’ers), she’ll be reminded that you’re kind of dense.

~She’ll ask you for a shoe horn to help you remove your foot from your mouth. You’ll give it to her - albeit slowly - and just before she clocks you in the head with it, she’ll see the box that you took it out of and catch a glimpse of a gorgeous sandal.

~So she’ll ask you, shoe horn still in ready position, ‘What are ,those?’

~You’ll nudge the box towards her with your toe and grab the shoe horn as she bends down to take a closer look. The black strappy sandals will remind her of a black strappy dress she hasn’t worn in months.

~Strappy sandals in hand, she’ll head to the closet to get the dress and announce that you have to go out for a nice dinner immediately.

~And chances are, if you take her out for a nice dinner, she’s going to want a martini to go with it.

Image credit: JazarellaMozarella

None of us do. I can’t think about it. Literally. This is going to be the world’s shortest post because I can’t stand the topic.

But, here we are literally pummeled with news of Michael Jackson’s death and the news that he left his kids to his mother, with Diana Ross as the backup. And I got reminded that we (not the world, but my wife and I) still haven’t dealt with this issue at all.

I don’t want to leave my kids ‘to’ anyone. They aren’t antique dishes. I can’t think of anyone that could do it right like we could. It kills me. Every time we try to talk about it, I end up in tears. And I’m not a crier.

Thinking about Madonna helps, and Rosie O’Donnell - because they’re okay (says someone who has NO earthly idea, but they seem to be doing well).

I always thought it would be my mom - and it still probably is, but she’s here with us for the summer and she’s 66 and she’s vocalized her overwhelment more than once. It’s their energy and the whining and the nakedness and the peeing outside (um, lady, you’re the one that bought them that cute little french book about a little boy that pees in the grass) and the food allergies and the laundry and the…

I can think of some friends who fit the bill - but they have busloads of their own kids. My brothers? Nah. My in-laws? No thanks.

I hate this. Just thought I’d say that out loud.

So? I just won’t die - until they’re old enough not to need their mother anymore - which is about 35 as far as I can tell. I’ll be 68. Seems reasonable. Okay universe???

If anyone wants to leaves me a comment saying that I have to just choose and be responsible, please don’t. I know. I really, really do. I just don’t wanna leave my kids, like I said before, period. They’re cute, they smell good and they say things like, “Please bring me a book and close the door, I need to poop in my own privacy.”

And I love them more than the world.

Update: The first friend that read this reamed me out so hard on Skype that I thought my computer would burst. We’re picking a guardian, the lawyer is drawing up the papers. As this ‘friend’ said - ‘just hold your nose and pick someone.’ Well, if you put it that way…

This post was originally published on Writing Roads, but then I got to thinking…what about my daughter? She’s three. Do I want her to grow up in a world where Angelina Jolie is touted as an acceptable feminist icon? Hell no. Do I want my son, also 3, thinking this is the epitome of being a worthwhile woman and what he should desire? Hell no - again. So, I’m posting it here as well…

Dear Naomi Wolf,

I’m really a fan of your work. So I’m quite confused by the article you wrote about Angelina Jolie in Harper’s Bazaar where you declared her the new feminist icon.

One of your reasons? Because she had escaped the Madonna/Whore debacle. Interesting? Did she really? Was she ever a shoe-in for the Madonna? There isn’t enough ‘orphan’ in China to cover those tattoos. Sorry. (I have three tattoos myself, I love tattoos, but the Madonna - last time I checked - had none.)

Escape the image of the Whore? Um. Last time I checked she had an affair with a married man and then told everyone about it in a magazine. You wrote, ’she managed the almost unheard-of task of turning the home-wrecker label into a wholesome, family-friendly triumph.’ …………….. Sorry for the pause. I was busy. Throwing up.

Is this a joke? Who decided that she triumphed and who the hell called it wholesome? I think what she did was horrid and unforgivable. I’ve never caught her face on the front of the tabloids and thought anything but, ‘Ew.’ She did something wrong. She hurt at least one person, badly. And because the media decided to spin it one particular way, she triumphed? Naomi, you say it yourself: Maddox was photographed playing squeaky clean football with Brad Pitt, the father figure, and by Annie Liebovitz loving his mother. This was not a triumph - but a well-played, well-moneyed PR stunt.

I don’t care how much good she does in the world, you can’t really erase that, can you??? Maybe you can note her change or congratulate her for doing good things - but call a spade a spade. I beg you.

Then, you claim that because Santa Angelina (as Perez likes to call her) got her pilot’s license, she’s chosen “the classic metaphor for choosing your own direction.” Oh? What about a race car driver like Danica Patrick? What about Secretary of State like Hilary Clinton (I mean, she travels all over the world!)? What about an artist? What about a writer? I can think of dozens of professions that involve choosing your own direction. Boldly, even.

You also declare that ’she took for her own pleasure the male seen as the most desired of the tribe, Brad Pitt.’ Not to me. I’m a George Clooney kind of a girl. And there’s something so barbaric in your word choice…but I get that you meant to do that. You want us to see her as the cavewoman clubbing the man and dragging him back to her cave. You succeeded, I just don’t find that alluring, praise-worthy or as a desirable behavior.

Maybe this is my favorite part of your article:

“Yes, she is conventionally beautiful: Bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy.”

Hello? Naomi? Are you even in there??? You, yes YOU, the one that wrote The Beauty Myth. On what planet is Angelina Jolie ‘conventionally beautiful’??? Her boobs are huge. She looks anorexic - whether she is or isn’t, her bones poke out and there is no meat on her. She’s 34 years old, has carried three children in her womb and her stomach is non-existent and those boobs stand up without stretch marks so far as we can see. Her lips are, as you say, pillows - meaning overstuffed (and I’m sure they’re natural, they do seem to exist in her childhood photos). BUT MOST WOMEN DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.

If I remember correctly, you wanted to liberate us from thinking we needed to idolize that male, sexualized, impossible to attain ideal! Just because some women, or the majority according to your poll, think she’s hot doesn’t make it okay. Why do you think they find her attractive? Doesn’t this beauty myth play a role. Wasn’t your theory that women are pressured into taking on this idealized concept of the female body? By men?

I read your book a long time ago, when it came out in 1991. And it meant so much to me. So much - as a woman who was struggling with an eating disorder, who had just found herself plopped in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog masquerading as a private, New England college, who went on to struggle and survive, who was proudly among the first small group of women to graduate with a Women’s Studies major.

So, my feminst icon? Well, she used to look a little bit like Gloria Steinem, Alice Walker, Billie Jean King, Sylvia Boorstein and my fourth grade teacher, Holly Tetlow, all rolled into one. But the more I read your article, the more I realized that my icon is so much more. She’s new women I meet doing amazing things, female authors that are writing their hearts out, mothers that survive the loss of a child, girls finding their voices, she’s my friends, she’s my family. And she’s me - on my good days and on my bad ones.

We are more universal. We’re a grab bag, really. As diverse as our needs and wants on any given day. But, bottomline, my icon is real. She’s here.

Live and let live. I don’t know Angelina Jolie and I don’t pretend to just becuase I can read about her life in People magazine. But, I do know my icons, idols, role models and fantasies…and they look, act and exist nothing like Angelina Jolie.

I’m addicted to my work: I’m addicted to writing. I’m addicted to email, the internet, Twitter (& Perez Hilton). I’ve been accused of having an affair with my Blackberry and with my social media friends. (The accusation actually didn’t come from my beloved wife, Patti, but she nodded her head in agreement and gave me that one-eyebrow-up knowing look in response.)

And, said wife implored me to keep my work at work. Instead of waking up and checking my BB before kissing anyone good morning and jumping onto my MacBook and carrying my laptop home ‘after work’ and setting it on the kitchen counter so that I could keep working into the night because I ‘just have to’ finish one more thing - she asked me simply to be at home.

I listened, and I’ve done a pretty good job of changing my behavior. I do check the Berry, but only when I’m expecting something really important, when no one’s paying attention to me anyway or when I’m in the bathroom - where I believe I can do whatever I damn well please. And I don’t turn on my computer at home during family time.

So, imagine my surprise when, over the last few weeks, Patti has been on her laptop non-stop. When I come in during the day to get water, snacks or lunch. While we’re making dinner. While we’re eating dinner!

My response? Well, I reverted back to preschool, of course. “Why do you get to be on your computer non-stop when I’m not allowed to be?” I demanded. (okay, I whined.)

Here’s the part where I get schooled.

Her immediate response was, well, to be really pissed. And, then, the next day. She sat me down and gave me a list of all the things she’s working on. Want to see it?

And that’s just the first side…the back is just as filled. And Photo Booth on my Mac is not smart enough to take a picture that isn’t a mirror image, so it’s ass backwards, sort of like me - but you get the point.

Apparently, while I have 8+ hours to come out here to my little writer’s haven, she has to get 50 million things done at home (including starting her own business, scheduling the Common House we share with 15 other families, serving on the board of our kids’ preschool, taking a shower and on and on and on) with two toddlers running around (they only go to school 1 day a week). So, I can’t come home and keep working, but she can and must work whenever and wherever she possibly can.

I get it. I done been schooled.

Image courtesty of Gareth Lofthouse