Culture - How to Successfully Raise Interfaith Children (With Little to No Effort.)

Lawrence is Jewish.

I am a Catholic. 

Our children are...both?

Hmm....Let's start a tally. Though, for the record, this is not a competition. (cough, cough)

Maya and Lincoln were both baptized Catholic. (One point for Jesus.)

Lincoln was circumcised. (One point for Abraham.)

Maya loves matzoh ball soup but hates spicy foods. (One point for Judiasm.)

Lincoln loves Santa Claus and all Santa-related paraphernalia, music and propaganda. (One tangential point for Catholicism.)

Maya went to Lutheran preschool. (Point for Jesus lovers.)

Their great-grandmother escaped from the Holocaust. (Point for the Chosen People.)

Maya took a Menorah to share with her class for "M" Week. (Point for the mischpaca.)

She had no idea what holiday it was associated with. (Minus one for the michpaca.)

Maya went to Catholic mass two weeks ago. (Point for the Pope.)

She asked never to be taken there again because it was hours long. (Sorry, dude.)

Maya went to temple last weekend. (Point for the Rabbi!)


She piously made the sign of the cross and prayed during the temple service. (The Rabbi gets bupkes.)


We celebrate both Christmas and Chanukah. (Pat on the back for the parents.)


We plan on exposing them to both cultures and educating them to the best of our abilities so that, one day, they can make their own choices. Though sometimes confusing, both cultures offer so much in terms of tradition and strong morals that we know we are doing our best for our little mutts. (Point for everyone!)


So, though Maya doesn't know what the helper candle is on the menorah and she thinks God is Jesus' son, she does know that she is doubly rewarded come the holidays. 


And for that, we all say AMEN. 

(Do the Jews say Amen? Oh Lord...)

Culture - Twitter (A New Course in Linguistic Anthropology)

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Culture - An Education (on Broadway)

Summer is coming to an end and my precious protege, Maya, will soon be entering kindergarten.

I suddenly feel as if I've wasted the whole summer. 

We played, we beached, we camped and we bounced....but where was the learning? 

I'm not talking ABCs or addition or any of that other useless crap. 

I'm talking about the things that matter.

It occurred to me all at once the children began to play the Dan Zanes' CD 76 Trombones for the one millionth time. 

They are craving a Broadway curriculum!!!!!!

They are my children!! Thank you Dan Zanes and your mop-headed hippie sensibilities!!!!

As they listen to "Hello Dolly" and A Chorus Line, my heart swells with pride and great expectations. So I spent the better half of last week creating a new playlist for Maya AND Lincoln. (He can be a quadruple threat with the singing, acting, dancing AND cooking!)

As usual, I leave some of plot points to the side during exposure. They don't need to know that "Take Me or Leave Me" is a lesbian lovers' quarrel. 

But what do you think of the list?

Oh, yes, you saw that correctly. We have played "The Wizard and I" from Wicked  at least 108 times. That musical used to soothe Maya to sleep in the car when she was an infant. And Lincoln even loves it now. Poor guy really has no choice though. 

Am I missing anything important?

I'm not a huge Rogers and Hammerstein girl and I think it's a little soon for Sondheim. 

But what I don't have on my playlist, I get from my Sirius channel, "On Broadway." 

You laugh now but let's see who's laughing when I have front row tickets....and no grandchildren.

(I may have some more thinking to do...) 

Culture - Films That Make Me Say "Hmmm..."

This past weekend we went to the circus. People, I didn't think I'd survive it.


First of all, "The Greatest Show on Earth" is one hot mess. The ringmaster is pointless, the songs are cheesy and the production is pretty shaky. I also almost had a nervous breakdown during the tiger bit. I was waiting for a Seigfried and Roy moment and wondering how I would explain "mauling" to my children.


I did find the stunts and acrobatics totally amazing and I love the elephants, even if I totally feel sorry for them at the same time. I won't go into my conflicted feelings on that issue, we would be here all night.


But then there are the clowns....


I hate clowns.


I've always hated clowns. 


Clowns make me want to curl up in the fetal position and suck my thumb.


One clown did make me do that, actually. And I was 10 years old.


Some sadistic member of my family gave me a clown doll. This clown was the kind that laughed maniacally when you squeezed him. I know. Sick bastard. 


Well, one night, while falling asleep on my top bunk, I accidentally kicked that bastardo. And he or she started laughing....


And.


Would.


Not.


Stop.


It's painful to relive this moment now. I was actually saving this for my therapy visit but getting it out now is cheaper. (It also frees up minutes in my hour with the therapist for other issues such as my aversion to the feel of wet wood.) 


My Post Traumatic Stress Disorder keeps me from remembering what happened in the six months following the incident. I assume, however, that after a few minutes of trying to get it to shut up, I started screaming bloody murder and one of my parents came in and destroyed that demonic doll.


I think I was fine for a few years until I saw a movie that sent me back into PTSD. 


So when I saw the clowns at the circus, I braced myself for the worst. But it turns out that these clowns were pretty benign. None of them had razor teeth. None of them laughed like a hyena. None of them tried to touch me. Oh my God, I just shivered typing those words.


But they did remind me of that doll and that movie which, in turn, led me down the path of scary movies from my youth which I shall share with you now...


1. Stephen King's IT (1990)

Oh sweet baby Jesus. The clown was played by Tim Curry. Sick MoFo.


2. Legend (1985)

I didn't even remember that Tom Cruise was in this movie. All I remember is that freaky red monster. Played by Tim Curry. What? Again? Maybe Tim Curry's the problem! What's the clinical term for a fear of Tim Curry?


3. Howard the Duck (1986)

No, this is not in any sort of order. My fears are not yet categorized. 


Does anyone else remember this George Lucas flop? I do. In my nightmares.


4. Return to Oz (1985)

I had actually blocked this one out of my memory until Lady Gaga decided to be a Wheeler on the cover of Born This Way. Leave it to Lady Gaga to conjure up the freaky imagery of an 80s movie.




5. Little Shop of Horrors (1986)

What? A musical? I know! How can a musical be scary? Two things creeped my shit out. First off, Steve Martin in a black wig. It was so weird and disturbing to me, I still can't get it out of my mind. Second, Ricky Moranis feeding Steve Martin to a monster-plant. I think it was my first taste of media violence at seven years old and, as cheesy and unrealistic as it was portrayed, it did not sit well with me. To this day, I cannot watch violent movies or shows. Thank you, Rick Moranis, for ruining me for The Sopranos. 


6. Never Ending Story (1984)

They should not have called this a family film because that shit was weird, that shit was depressing and that shit will leave a mark on a five year old for-eva. The boy's mom dies, the hero's horse dies, etc. How is a child to process that mess? Sick. Just sick.






Now I originally intended to have a solid list of 10 movies here...but these six just freaked me out too much to go further. I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight, which is a shame since I finally made double-digits in my followers and I was starting to feel content. 


Thank you though to everyone who is following me! I'm hoping to redesign my site soon so that it almost looks legitimate and not like some looney person who just learned how to surf the World Wide Web.  Let's just call it "classic."


Feel free to let me know your scariest movie memories. And I'll refrain from sharing with you the time I watched The Exorcist at a sleepover and I crawled under the bed so I could pray in private. It was the most Catholic moment of my life.


Amen.

Culture - Tina Fey is My Long Lost Sister

I have always believed this to be so.


And now I have read her book.


Ladies and gentleman, I offer up these indisputable facts...


1. We both have flat feet. 


2. We both spent much of our college years in love with gay guys.


3. We both love theater (hence No. 2).


4. We both remained virgins into our 20s. (I know. Not a shock given No. 2 AND 3.) 


5. We both love writing funny things. (Though only one of us is being paid a butt-load of cash for it. One guess. It is not the one who's husband still tells her her next car will be one that flies. Because that's how long it will be before we can afford to buy a new one.)


5. We both have been chubby. (And one of us still is.)


6. We both love those evil cheddar biscuits from The Red Lobster. As she says, "If you don't you are a Socialist and a liar."


7. We both have daughters. And we would love for them to be into Barbies and horses until they are 21 so that they may join us in our No. 4 club.


I now feel complete because I have always wanted a Greek sister. Especially one who has a pad in Manhattan where I can crash occasionally. Tina, can you hear me?


I think, if she weren't my sister, she may have made the list of women I would change teams for. (She's right up there with Catherine Zeta Jones and Shirley Manson from Garbage. A select, though random, group.)


And, if I didn't have to return her book to my friend Arlene, I might just sleep with it under my pillow every night so that I would lay my pretty little head down knowing that I wasn't alone in my journey as a mother and a geek. 


Now I'm feeling a little bad for both Tina and myself that I didn't actually buy the book. Nevermind. I'm sure she's got a decent set of wheels.

Now I shall turn my attentions to my other comedic sister, Kathy Griffin and see if I have a bit o' the Irish in me blood as well. 


And this now concludes the sum total of my summer reading list. Unless you count reading Gossie, Clifford's Christmas and Ten Little Ladybugs about 100 times a day. 


What books should I add to my nightstand?

Culture - Fathers Figured Out

With Father's Day coming on Sunday, I've spent a lot of time thinking about my two favorite fathers -- Larry and my Dad. 


Now, let me tell you, you couldn't find two more different people. And I think it's a beautiful thing. 


You see, many people, including my mother, would tell you that I'm almost a carbon-copy of my old Pop. (Though she's usually not intending it as a compliment.) And now darling little drama-doll Maya has carried on the legacy of our charisma and charm...much to Larry's chagrin. 


So yes, they are two very different men. But these poles often meet on the other side.


One likes the Angels. The other a die-hard Dodger fan. This makes them both losers.


One will only eat poultry. The other prefers red meat. They both do not grasp the brilliance of blue cheese.


Larry is quiet and diplomatic. My dad can be talkative and sometimes quite blunt. And both call me every day from work or the car to see how my day is going.


They are both affectionate and caring even when they both drive me crazy. Because that also happens daily. Usually five minutes into their phone calls. 


But without my dad, I would not have seen Phantom of the Opera and fallen in love with theater.


And without Larry, I would be the one downstairs right now putting together a fucking paper rainbow wand from Jake and the Neverland Pirates for Maya because she saw it on television this morning and absolutely had to have it even though it will crumple into a paper ball of shit the minute she puts her little digits on it tomorrow morning. 


So I will make Larry some chicken on Sunday. And, for my father, a steak. 


And we all win.


Happy Father's Day!

Culture - For Your Consideration...

Things have been a little slow around here. Not much to talk about. Not much to do. 

So we created our own fun.

Yes, the fight scene runs a little long but I think it's action-packed. And the image quality not so hot. But you get the point...

And I kept it totally PG. Maybe even G.

I hope you enjoyed our little film! Happy Memorial Day!

Culture - What is Art?

My brain is fried tonight.

After watching 90 minutes of Real Housewives of New Jersey, I don't even know what is what anymore.

But that shit was awesome.

Halfway through an Italian family riot at a baby's christening party, I paused the show and turned to Larry.

"This is amazing," I declared. "This is cultural studies at work. Where does this happen in our Orange County world? It doesn't. But here we are witnessing this insanity we cannot even comprehend."

After attending grad school and getting a Masters in "performance studies," I find culture and art everywhere I look.

So I started thinking about art, high art vs. low art and I remembered a piece from our visit to Paris' Centre Pompidou....

Paola Pivi
Untitled (donkey)
2003
Photographic print, aluminium, frame / Photographie couleur, aluminium, cadre 

Where does this fit in?

Can someone please explain this to me?

I mean, I love it.

But how is it "art"?

My brain is fried.

Culture - EZ Playlist

I hope you don't think I'm phoning it in with this blog post but I felt that I had to share some writing from my past. 


This week is what my father calls his "birthday week." He can't have one day a year. No no. He must have a whole week. So, I'm gonna give him this week on my blog to honor that yearly ritual. And today's post, much like him, is an oldie but a goodie. 


When I was a music writer for the UCLA Daily Bruin, I had a regular column where I'd spout my opinions on music. Usually, like this blog, they were funny little bits of me without any real substance. But I think maybe 10 people enjoyed reading them. Or five people, if you don't count me, my parents, my roommate and my editor. 


One week I decided to write about my dad. His love of music has always motivated me in odd ways. When I played the piano, he would listen fondly from his recliner in the den...and howl like dog every time I played the wrong note. 


And he made it a point of always keeping his music listening tastes both classic and current. So, when we would get into debates about Beck or Marilyn Manson, I would be both amused and annoyed that he some times knew more than me about the subject. I would never admit that, however.


Once, my music editor and I found some of his mixed tapes in the glove compartment of my Honda Accord. They were labeled "EZ Best I" and "EZ Best II" and so on for EZ Best III-IX. 


Recently, Larry and I were driving his car and found similar playlists on his iPod - "Super" and "Super Plus." I can't even tell you the kind of music that he had on those playlists because I do not recognize 80% of the artists names in his library. But I couldn't stop laughing at the variety of those I could identify which even included Idina Menzel and Crystal Bowersox. 


That's my father. Random and funny yet surprisingly complex and cultured. 


So here's the column I wrote about him more than 12 years ago. And it will serve to show that some things never change.


(God I'm old. I'm going to go cry in a corner now.)

On subject of music criticism, father believes he knows best

Tuesday, December 1, 1998

On subject of music criticism, father believes he knows best

COLUMN: Dad promotes interest in talents of Ice Cube, Marilyn Manson

This Thanksgiving break my father gave me a lot to be grateful for. Actually, besides turkey and yams I was forced to digest a whole lot of old-timer goodies from Frank Sinatra to the Beatles. All of a sudden everyone, including my dear old dad, has joined the mission to make a true musical connoisseur out of Michelle.

Let's see if I learned anything.

My father, Edward Zubiate, thinks he is truly hip. A middle school assistant principal, he walks around very tough-like behind dark sunglasses intimidating all the 12-year-olds that cross his path. He prides himself on being a fan of Tupac Shakur, but this weekend, he went too far. Unfortunately for him, I'm beginning to see music through my own eyes, and he doesn't like it one bit.

All my life I have been taught to love the basic B's: The Beatles, The Beach Boys and Bob. (As in Dylan, not Marley. No matter how hard I try, I will never appreciate reggae.) I used to choreograph cute little skits in my little bathing suit holding a beach towel while The Beach Boys sang "California Girls." So I am proud to say that I do love some classic music (meaning pre-1990s.)

But my father has never been a consistent fella. His musical tastes vary as much as the other fads he gets into, such as cheese popcorn and sunflower seeds. As well as hanging onto the stuff from his youth, he frequently ventures into the land of the present to turn on the radio and impress us all with his knowledge of 92.3 The Beat. Ever since I joined the Daily Bruin, every weekend has become a battle where he reads my clips from the week and gives his own criticism and interpretation. My own is not good enough. I'm just a punk kid.

Once in a while I'll bring my father something I think he, as an old man, will appreciate. Seeing as he likes the blues, I brought home some Johnny Lang. Score one for me, he ate it up in an instant. Recently I played Beck's "Mutations" for him because many of the songs sound very, very Beatle-ish. This was not a pretty car ride home. Bored and uninspired he announced to everyone, "I know a star when I hear one and this one, my daughter, will never amount to anyone."

"Uhhh...too late, Dad. Beck's last album was a huge hit, and his sound has been described as the future of music. This album alone has already been given great reviews, and the melodies are truly moving."

"Sorry," he says. "I know good music when I hear it." So speaks the voice of God.

And of all the things for my father to instantly love: Marilyn Manson. It's kinda embarrassing when you live in a neighborhood of old folks and your father is blasting "Dope Show" louder than you've ever been allowed to blast any sort of music your entire life.

My father is filled with these little quirks. On a trip to Vegas, my old editor, Mike Prevatt, opened up the glove compartment to find a stash of tapes belonging to my father from when he used to own the car. To the amusement of everyone present, a majority of these tapes are labeled "EZ Best: Volumes I-VIII." I will never hear the end of it. Every once in a while, Mike will now suggest something my dad will like and add, "Hey, maybe it can be another EZ Best!"

But my father has good intentions. If it weren't for him I probably wouldn't be a music writer now. I would be laughed out of the office if I never had heard of Jimi Hendrix, and no one would bother to read my work if I didn't have a little bit of knowledge of the blues, swing and classic rock.

It is kinda cute when he quotes Ice Cube. Who wouldn't laugh when a chubby little Mexican man whispers in your ear War's line: "The world is a ghetto"? It is also pretty sweet when he invites me to look up at the stars with him while Sinatra croons ballads of love and good times.

Because of my dad, I've been forced to hear all kinds of music and love it. He took me to see "Phantom of the Opera" the first and second time. He sat me in front of "West Side Story," and a love for musicals bloomed.

He loves music more than almost anyone I've ever met. When I ask him the moment at which he was most proud of me, in a second he will say when I sang "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" for him my senior year of high school.

Despite the fact that he calls all my records "bubble gum" music and refuses to ever let me have control of the radio in the car, he supports me when I write something he can relate to and brags about me to all he knows.

Dads are funny that way. Even though you argue about everything from clothes to politics, you can always find a common ground. Unfortunately in this case, the common ground is Marilyn Manson. What is the world coming to?

Michelle Zubiate 

© 1998 ASUCLA Communications Board

Culture - My Play List

Once upon a time, I fancied myself a music critic. For my first three years of UCLA, I was a music writer and editor. I attended concerts twice a week and interviewed bands and artists on a regular basis. I had first pick of newly released CDs and knew everything about each new KROQ band to hit the scene. My passion for the arts grew as quickly as my hearing deteriorated.

In short, it was heaven. (I imagine heaven is filled with free shit and loud music. And hot lead male singers.)

I developed my own tastes in music that included mostly alternative rock. Yes, we’re talking about Third Eye Blind, Green Day, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Marilyn Manson, Hole, Live, Garbage… I loved that job and I don’t think I’ll ever do anything as rewarding and fun again in my life. Besides being a mom, of course. *cough*

In graduate school, my taste for Broadway showtunes flourished alongside more worldly discoveries such as Fela Kuti. Living in New York, eating great food and studying the arts… I thought I was pretty f-ing awesome. And I was, if only in my head.

And I’ve always had a liking for the pop music. I’m a sucker for a catchy melody. As you can see from my other posts, I’m not a cultural snob. (I regard Bravo TV as highly as I do Masterpiece Theater.)

But somewhere around 2004, my music education was stalled and stuck in the muddy trenches of motherhood.

Whilst driving the little chupacabras around town, I’m usually entertaining them with the sweet sounds of Mickey Mouse or the Wiggles while bypassing “American Idiot” on the iPod. I’d shed a small tear and say a little prayer for God to keep Billie Joe on Broadway long enough for me to come see the show. Recently I heard my prayers were brutally rebuffed.  

So I decided enough was enough.

I could no longer let motherhood suck away my entire identity. I could not let Glee be my only window to the current Top 40. I was going to listen to my music and so were the punks.

I call it an education in media literacy. I’m not going to raise my kids in a bubble. I will expose them to popular culture while simultaneously teaching them how to properly interpret the words, symbols and messages being delivered to them.

So here’s my current iPod playlist and the syllabus of Maya and Lincoln’s cultural enlightenment:

Cee Lo Green “Forget You” – I decided to begin each car ride with something upbeat. And it doesn’t hurt that the original lyrics include the f-word. I tell the little children that this song is a lesson on the evils of materialism trumping true love. They don’t fully understand now but that’s ok. It’s probably best that they meet that rich someone, marry him or her and save the true love for their mama. We just won’t dance to this song at their wedding.

Florence and the Machine “Dog Days Are Over”  -- This song was like crack for me from the first moment I heard it on the MTV Music Awards. It’s dramatic, soulful and catchy. I think it’s about someone running away from happiness and love. It’s a very practical message.

Adele “Rolling in the Deep” – Her voice is addicting. I tell Maya that she’s living proof that you can have it all – talent, good looks, British citizenship and cheeseburgers. I want to be her. She’s 21 years old. She’s perfect.

Katy Perry “Teenage Dream” – Completely inappropriate for my preschoolers. But it’s a guilty pleasure. And the only Katy Perry song in my library, thank you very much. I just tell Maya that “let’s go all the way tonight” means “let’s go all the way to the park.” Maya: At night? 

Me: Yes, and that’s very dangerous so never go all the way….anywhere….ever.

Amy Winehouse “Rehab” – As you can see, I’m a little behind the times in my music downloads but better late than never, right? For this one, I instruct the wee ones that drinking grown-up beverages is bad news.

Maya: Like beard?

Me: Yes, exactly. Like beer.

Maya: But I’ve already had beard.

Me: You were only three and it was because you thought it was Tata’s apple juice. Did you enjoy it?

Maya:  No! It was gross!

Me: That’s because it’s the devil’s nectar and because beer tastes like liquid Fritos. Don’t touch it, or soda, ever again.

White Town “Your Woman” – It’s just fun. Fun beat, fun tune and fun to fuck with Maya’s mind. Yes, a man is singing, “I could never be your woman.” Why, Mama? Irony, my dear.

Lady Gaga “Bad Romance” – I’m not sure what the educational value is here. But it sure is hilarious to hear Lincoln say “Lady Gaga! Lady Gaga!” Probably not so hilarious to Larry or my dad.

These seven songs will usually get me to any destination in Orange County. For longer trips, we’ll listen to the Glee soundtrack or Wicked or Hairspray.

Some experts, or know-it-all mommies, would probably suggest I listen to classical music or foreign language CDs in the car. All I have to say is that when your tweens are into Hannah Montana or the Jonas Brothers, mine will be into Broadway music and alt rock from the late 1990s. Which path do you find more tolerable? Or, let me put it this way, would you rather your child be slutty, sequined-shrug-wearing drama queen or a gay drug addict?

Don’t answer that. 

Culture - Parenting 101

Warning: While reading this post, you may want to immediately take my children away from me. But all examples are purely illustrative. I have not actually used any of them…yet.

A couple weeks ago, I attended a parenting talk with some close friends. After a tough week with the mini-mega-beast, I decided this would kill two birds with one stone – I would get out of the house and maybe get some tips on demon-wrangling.  Today I want to share some of the tips and advice I gathered from “Brain Driven Behavior: Make Sense Out of Your Child’s Behavior,” a great lecture by Dr. Ann Corwin.

A little disclaimer: I did my best to take notes and record accurate information. Unfortunately, they served food at this event. So, for most of the time, I was having an internal struggle with my chubby devil-on-the-shoulder. I really wanted those taquitos. But I had already eaten dinner. I wanted them bad. But they were not diet-friendly. I had to have them. But I will look like a fatty in front of my friends and all the beautiful OC women here who can afford to stuff their faces because they are already skinny! It was very hard to concentrate. So if I botch up this lesson, I apologize to your family (who will be screwed up as a result) and to Dr. Ann Corwin.

Let’s begin.

What drives kids? My first instinct was to blurt out “high fructose corn syrup!” Turns out, it is their emotions and feelings. Those feelings control every action they take. The part of his or her brain that controls impulses and actions does not develop, even partially, until around four years old. And it doesn’t fully develop until they are about 25 years old. (Or ever, if you are Charlie Sheen.)

So, according to Dr. Ann, asking Lincoln NOT to turn the television off and on for the one millionth time is like asking a person to write with their right hand – when they don’t have a right hand. He FEELS like it is great fun to turn the TV off and on, therefore he cannot really help himself. Therefore, I should probably get a giant roll of duct tape and bind his chubby little digits together, thus inhibiting his use of those wily phalanges, thus allowing me to watch Top Chef in peace.

The second thing that drives the little tots is their desire for connections and relationships. It has been proven that, without these relationships, a baby will not thrive. They need human interation to live. That is often why children repeat bad behaviors over and over again. They are simply looking for attention. And we give it to them. We yell, we get in their face, we throw their little asses on time out.

But all those things only serve to reinforce the behavior. They live for that shit. They want the communication, the eye contact and the touch – even if it is all negative.

New plan. When Lincoln throws his food and his cup and his placemat on the floor, I am going to try turning off the light, exiting to room and leaving that little tyrant strapped to his booster seat for a good 20 minutes while I check my email…in peace. Parent of the year, bitches!

Dr. Ann recommends teaching your children how to “smooth out” which describes the moment when a child reaches calmness after a large ruckus. A good way to do this is to play “Red Light, Green Light” or “Freeze Dance” with them every day. But I have never,  in his little life, ever seen Lincoln “smooth out.” Ever. Maybe when he was sick one time and had a fever of 102. So I tried the games this morning. I swear he gave me the finger. Where’s that damn duct tape?

Ok, so maybe I’m not doing so well in conveying the practical application of her teachings. Again, I blame the taquitos.

But here are some other points that may be of actual help to you, the more responsible of us two:

• Create a plan for discipline. Sit down with your significant other and spell out your rules and how you intend to enforce them. You plan for everything else. Make this a priority.
• Surprise your children at every opportunity for following the rules. Reward with them with occasions that affirm relationships, such as going to the park after school.
• Always have this important rule on your list: “If you harm anyone with your words or with your body, you do not get to be around anybody.”
• Music and movement are great mood changers. If your little one is losing control, help them regain it by singing or playing music in the car.

If you have any questions or problems or, like me, just want to affirm what an awesome job you were already doing in the first place, I would highly recommend hearing Dr. Corwin speak. I’m just kidding. About the awesome job. No, I mean I am awesome but I’m not perfect. And I have yet to meet a perfect parent or a perfect child. I think we always have room for improvement ...and taquitos. 

Culture - The Wire

Larry and I have a Friday night tradition. Since we have children (and one is a pint-sized mega-beast), we don’t get out much. Netflix is our new best friend. And every Friday night we watch HBO’s “The Wire.” (Because staying current is not really one of our priorities anymore. We’re old.)

If you haven’t seen the show, I urge you to rent it or borrow it from a friend much cooler than you. My parents have been telling me for years that it is the best show ever to be on TV. Of course, they’re my parents, and they’re old, so I never listened to them. But when my idol Anthony Bourdain said to watch it, I was all over that shit.

It examines the lives, politics and culture surrounding Baltimore drug crimes. Not usually up my alley since I’ve been to Baltimore and found nothing entertaining about it. It just made me sad. If I want to be sad I could just try to take Lincoln to a restaurant for dinner. That’s a lesson in futility right there.

But it’s good. Damn good. The writing is amazing, the characters complex and the plot so engaging that I’m pissed every time I get a new DVD in the mail and there is only two episodes on it.

I must confess something, however. Ever since I began watching “The Wire,” I notice subtle influences creeping into my everyday life.

It started with the Girl Scouts. Have you ever noticed how they are like munchkin drug dealers? Every year, they push their cookies on the community and we are helpless to their narcotic effect. We crave them for a whole year and imagine life when they return with a mixture of emotions – ranging from guilt to ecstasy. And these green, polished soldiers of sugar and fat wait for us to turn over our hard earned dollars for an ephemeral high.

“I need the cookies. You got someone to hook me up with the Thin Mints?”

“Nah, man. But I saw a crew hangin’ by the Super A the other day.”

“Do they have the good stuff? How about Tag-a-Longs?”

I’m just sayin’.

And then there’s my inexhaustible use of the word “fuck.” Can’t get enough of it. There’s a brilliant scene where two detectives are examining a murder crime scene and, for about 10 minutes, they say nothing but the word “fuck” about 200 times. It’s Emmy-worthy stuff. Fucking genius.

Of course, I can’t say it that much because that wouldn’t be very responsible parenting. So I use a nice substitute such as pinche. What? They don’t understand Spanish. Or sometimes, if I really want to throw them off, I’ll use word Dora just because I hate that annoying bitch. For instance, when I drop the frozen chicken on my toe  I say, “OH DORA!” And Maya asks what Dora has to do with my pain and I say “Everything.”

As you see, even my kids aren’t completely shielded from the show’s effect. Lincoln hits Maya, body slams her and takes her My Little Pony. She looks up at me, battered and bruised, and I reply, “It’s all in the game, dear. It’s all in the game.” She bides her time and retaliates and I send her ass to The Cut (aka The Time Out Rug). Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.

My little ones now have colorful street names, just in case. Lincoln is Stinkum and Maya is now Cheese.  Do you see? Many helpful parenting gems can be gathered in just one episode!

But if I haven’t convinced you by now to run out and get the show, let me just tell you this – by watching this show you will get skinnier.

No, that was a lie. But it will make you feel better about your own life – and that includes feeling a little better about your giant couch potato ass that came from eating too many fucking Girl Scout cookies. 

I mean, Dora Girl Scout cookies.

            

Culture - A Bravo New World

There are people out there “above” reality television and I say good for you! You are mentally superior and probably a happier person. Absolutely. Without a doubt, actually.

But would I give up my Bravo shows for a chance at self-actualization? Oh hells no!

I absolutely LIVE for my Housewives and my Flipping Out and my Top Chef. Little in this world titillates me like the sight of Tom Colicchio’s bald head.

Yes, it is cerebral vacation after I put the kids to bed. But today I challenge you to open your mind to the idea that these shows actually offer something deeper and more meaningful to our social and cultural landscape.

Wait! Don’t leave yet!

Let’s focus on the Housewives franchise or “the stereotypical antics of catty, drama-driven trainwrecks obsessed with looks, money and fame.”

These women are brilliant. It’s that plain and simple. They create complex plots of tragedy and melodrama out of the ether and present it as “real life.” In grad school, this meta-reality would be referred to as the “performance of everyday life.”  How do they do it? It is as if they know the secret of fire…simply rub two silicone implants together and, voila, a hot mess ignites!

And don’t get me started on the editing. A housewife makes a peanut butter sandwich. Add music and close-ups on befuddled faces. The scene is now rife with comedy and relatable charm. You know these people. You are that woman. You too routinely botch a simple, tasty afternoon snack while wearing diamonds in a Maloof mansion. It’s the American dream people!

Throughout each season, villains emerge and heroes prevail. Until the next season when the villain’s porn tape comes out and the hero is bankrupt. But, like the phoenix, they will rise out of the cigarette ashes with new hair extensions and magic tits to fly once more in the face of adversity.

The American dream.

Though my full potential was lost somewhere between DC and Atlanta, I see my viewership as charitable act. I give of my time so that they can continue making tens of hundreds of dollars and eventually leave their controlling husbands to stand on their own two Gucci-heeled feet. Women supporting women. It’s a feminist cause, really.

I don't ask a lot of my husband, really. (I hear snickering somewhere!) But I do ask that, when a reunion episode is on, he keep the children as far away from me as possible. It's for their own safety...and the feminist movement. 

What about you? Do you endorse this cause?

Tune in for my next lecture in cultural studies: “Sister Wives: Five Idiots or One Brilliant Dude?” Just kidding! Maybe.