Spring is in the air. I can feel it.
Or maybe it’s just the excitement I get when it’s that time of the week…Pu-Pu Platter time. The time to fill you in on the schmorgasborg of crap that’s too insubstantial to occupy an entire post. Bon appetit!
MAKING A CASE FOR THE PRINCESS
Nobody loves princesses anymore. At least not in my mother’s group, where there is currently a huge discussion about how to keep the “commercialized princess culture” away from their young preschool girls. Disney is an evil force that beguiles us at every turn with an Ariel and a Jasmine and a Cinderella and a Sleeping Beauty. The prevailing wisdom is that the princess is weak and stupid and needs a man to save her and if you just as stupidly allow your three-year-old to don the Belle costume, well then, you have just set the feminist movement back 20 years and you might as well create a little divan for the spoiled brat to recline on until she earns her M.R.S.
Everyone take a nice, deep breath. That’s it.
Now does the phrase “everything in moderation” ring a bell? It’s so important for children to dress-up and engage in imaginative play. Just as the Chalupa knew EXACTLY what to do with the race car bath toy when he was 12 months old, most little girls gravitate towards the tutu and the tiara and the wand and it’s totally normal. The Disney classics are beautiful pieces of animation and music – “Whistle While You Work,” “A Dream Is A Wish You’re Heart Makes,” and yes, “Someday My Prince Will Come.”
Now is it really necessary to buy the coloring book, the towel, the 57 figurines, the stickers and the backpack associated with each film? Obviously not. But don’t be afraid of the princess. Because she’s going to grow up to be a strong, independent woman with a Bachelor’s in Economics and the Olympic Gold in downhill skiing and on her wedding day, you’re gonna say, “My god, she looks just like a princess.”
SUCK ON THIS
Please imagine biting into a piece of cheese. CHEESE MADE WITH HUMAN BREAST MILK. Did you just spit it out? You ingrate. Some woman went to a lot of trouble to pump that for you.
A friend just forwarded me the article from The Daily Beast about Daniel Angerer, who runs Klee Brasserie in Manhattan and who, up until the NY Dept. of Health stepped in, served cheese made from his nursing wife’s breast milk. DUDE. That milk is for one person and one person only. YOUR BABY. You big jerk.
There are two highly disturbing parts to this article. First, food critic Gael Greene describes eating the cheese:
It’s the unexpected texture that’s so off-putting.
Strangely soft, bouncy, like panna cotta.
Second, how Klee stumbled upon the brilliant idea:
After tasting his wife’s milk from its natural vessel – “I was breastfed myself so I have that taste for it” – his mind went immediately to fromage.
We get it, okay? Your wife overfloweth. She just has SO much breast milk, she doesn’t know what to do with it. Thanks, Daniel Angerer, for sharing your wife’s antibodies with the world.
In brief, I am abandoning my child and husband to go on a girl’s trip to Vegas, the Chalupa can now talk a used car salesman into the ground, and after blogging extensively about being forced to fly alone with a toddler, I no longer have to.
Vegas. In a desperate attempt to recapture my youth, I intend to have more than one drink, stay up until midnight, sleep until 8:00 am, and walk in high heels without breaking my ankle. As I reread this, it sounds more like Betty White hitting the slot machines. The first time away from the Chalupa, the trip will be strange, surreal, and intoxicating.
The Chalupa now speaks Japanese. Yes, his vocabulary is increasing by the second, but he also has this fabulous little made-up language. You are familiar with “bogadee,” but there is also “bogadoo,” and “agaday” and “agato” and “gato.” To which I can only respond, “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto.”
And finally, the husband’s business trip got cancelled. I no longer have to fly to visit the grandparents alone. Doesn’t he realize how amazingly funny that post would have been?
CONFESSION OF THE WEEK
“Spartacus: Blood and Sand.” On the Starz channel. LA-LA-LA-LOVE IT. It is straight up porn with a plot. Like HBO’s Rome, but a gazillion times cheesier and awesomer.
Stay-At-Home-Mom CFO writes about the difference between math class (which sucks) and personal finance (which doesn’t) and how her family is facing its toughest challenge yet: the TV broke. This post made me laugh out loud. Which felt good.
Just discovered the Scary Mommy blog, which is refreshingly well-written and hilariously…uh…hilarious. Check out the Foot Rub post, in which Jill almost comes to blows with her husband. What is it with husbands and massages? Lazy bastards.
I wish I could offer you more, but how much time do you really think I have?
And may you dream of large, painted eggs dancing the macarena.