I remember that moment in detail: the door to my room cracked when it wasn’t just hours before as I fell asleep; the laughter of my parents following me out to the living room; my dad saying something about “Santa” placing those presents under the tree as he set up the bunk bed for the dolls I asked Santa for; and the sudden cold realization that Keith from Mrs. Getchie’s third grade class was right: There was no Santa.

I know times have changed. I realize children mature earlier and deal with stresses much much earlier than we did. I realize each generation is shocked with reality as it creeps in to children entirely too early. But it seems to me, a four year old, shouldn’t question Santa Clause.

At four, my daughter is just now understanding the magic. She’s excited for the first time in your short little life that some man will slide down the chimney and set up presents. She’s asking for a “Baby Set Up.”  A what? A “Baby Set Up. You know, where you put all the doll stuff out? And it’s set up? And then you play?”

Right. Duh. Santa will TOTALLY understand that.

So this year we’ve allowed ourselves the joy of getting caught up in their world. We ooohhh and ahhhh at every light. We point out Santa and yell “Merry Christmas!” We write him letters and draw the Baby Set Up.

We never question why.

A friend of ours, with a daughter only 9 months older than LB is already too suspicious. She wants to know HOW it’s possible. She wants to know WHY. She can’t believe THIS Santa is THE Santa because the others don’t look the same.

It seems so unnatural. Four. FOUR. She really is some sort of savant, though, at four with two extraordinarily brilliant parents and her own scientific mind. So if anyone would be far far ahead of the game, it’s her.

Of course, my child still plays with pretend mice… so there’s that.

But when? When do they find out? When do they ask? And how long will I be blessed with blowing off the questions because “Oh, he’s magic, silly!” and how long will she accept that the plane we see with the red light on Christmas Eve is really a reindeer carrying a fat, jolly, bearded man to each and every house in the entire world.

I hope we have at least a few more years. It’s too fun to end.

I’m famous in my circle for loving 1998. Look, 1998? It was good. There was Dave Mathews Band. There was grunge. There was boots and hiking and being fresh out of college.

I love me some 1998.

So, today when I donned on my long sweater/robe the mister glanced up in his usually uninterested-in-my-wardrobe way, I was suprised to see him eyeing me. “Hot, aren’t I? Still got it!” I said as I slapped my ass.

“Uh, no, thkat’s not it. That sweater? Isn’t it a wee bit 1998?”

Gasp.

“No, it was more like 2000, thankyouverymuch. Jeeze.”

Tells you what he knows.

So, Internet? Brutally Honest: Is this the revival of a fantastic ass-loving trend? Or am I abusing 8 years of fashion forward?

*Sorry about the lighting, why YES, I did take the photo in the starbucks bathroom. And for the record I have jeans (boot cut, tsk tsk) with ballet flats. I know. I know.

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So if you were on the House of representatives, or if you were a person who cares about the Country or if you were a home-owner or a parent or a tax payer:

How would you vote for the bailout?

Consider it your first Brutally Honest Monday poll of version two point oh.

*This is totally just information and out of curiosity only. That is all. After chatting with Mr. Flinger about how far away from the people in their party most representatives have fallen, I’m curious if that is indeed fact. It’s your chance to vote in the comments below. Thank you for participating!

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Since I think I’ve pretty much exhausted my Brutally Honest-ness for the week on Saturday’s post, and since I have a deadline on Friday and no nanny (read: copious amounts of caffeine and green tea pills) and there are still a few

hundred emails to reply to, I’m keeping it simple.

You want to see my stats? Or you want to see my fugly dress?

FUGLY DRESS WINS.

The Next Big Thing is in the works. Things may be spotty around here for a bit.

But! I leave you with this! For your viewing pleasure. :: snort ::

Do I keep? Or take back?

Fugly is IN.

Or at least I hope it is. Otherwise it’s just me wrapped up in my Grandmother’s old drapes.

Play Along! You’ll look better, I promise

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During my years teaching at the college level, I had a few unfortunate run-ins with a type of student that is becoming too prevalent in our society. You know, the “do nothing earn an A” types. You all know the type: The student that never makes class, somehow manages to blame the instructor and cries until he gets an A? And by cry, I mean Real Tears And All, people.

It’s not just the old “My dog ate my homework” excuse. It’s deeper. It’s every day. Every assignment. Every test.

Not al kids are this way but talking to old Professors, they all agree: It’s an epidemic and they don’t know what to do about it except compare emailed excuses and take out some sort of Liability insurance for the-Professor-that-makes-their-students-excel-through-hard-work.

A few years went by. I became a mom again. I quit teaching.

The same attitude popped up at playgroups and on TV. It started permeating daily life in a new twist: Mom Entitlement.

Something clicked one day while watching one of those “news” shows (Dateline? Something?) which featured a successful mom earning a night out. “She makes breakfast for her teen son, works 9-5 and rewards herself at night with parties and cocktail bars!” The mom comes on the air explaining how rewarding yourself is the best gift you can give your child. It’s the best for everyone, really. You work hard, go enjoy life! So she justified her nightly parties by her 30 minutes of morning routine with her 15 year old son.

Look, I say that. I get that. I do that. But when did becoming a Mom entitle me to stay exactly the same? To enjoy my nightlife? To drag my children along my bumpy road of self fulfillment?

I bitch about wanting to be ME. The OLD ME. I whine because my kids are hard. I joke about surviving motherhood by booze. My children are not an accessory, they are my CHILDREN. They are hard. They are challenging. They whine. They throw fits. They spitup and crap themselves.

Of course they do. They are kids.

Somewhere along the way, either through too much Mister Roger’s neighborhood or awards for showing up, we’ve lost the whole “grow a pair” attitude our country was built on. We’ve become ninnies. Do you think our Founding Fathers’ children never threw a fit? Do you think their wives went out for pedis once a week?

I’m not saying we shouldn’t enjoy comforts and rewards because lord knows I love me a Mom Night Out. I love me a four day trip to San Fran with ladies and drinks and no kids.

But maybe when I return I should worry a little less about how hard being a mother is and actually be a mother. Spitup, poopy pants, and real live tantrums and all.

Next up? I insult your religious beliefs while quoting Rush Limbaugh!

P.S. No, kidding, I have a post for the real Brutally Honest Monday Fashion Style asking (begging) for input on this floral dress. I just forgot the card in the camera at home. Unless you want to fling some input about the dress sans-visual, feel free.

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You know that I live in Seattle, which really does mean it’s sunny six times a year here. Okok, sorry, eight if you count those two days in Winter. (Picky Picky) At any rate, being in such a northern state means I’m prone to bi-polar skin. Uhhu. My skin is six degrees of tan depending on what you look at.

For example:

This here? My arm against my leg.

Jesus.

So what’s a girl to do? SELF TANNER! Now that there is a product made for people like me. Spray Tan! No Sun! Half the cancer!

Over the years, I’ve tried literally tens of fifties of self tanning products. I’ve been orange. I’ve been burgundy. I’ve had disastrous streaks. I’ve had nightmares about my orange fat. 

So, see, me ‘n self tanner go way back.

Why, then, can’t I use the new and improved products? Like the Banana Boat Sunless Tanner Spray? Or the million other “NEW AND IMPROVED NO-STREAK NO-ORANGE” products?

I. Don’t. Know.

So today, for Brutally Honest Monday, I thought I’d fill you in on a secret. I’m one white pale mother down below and a sunny golden kissed mama up top.

Now, isn’t that lovely?

(Feel free to join in and tell me your self tanner mis-haps. Or am I the only spray-tan-challenged one out there?)

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This week’s post comes to you via Mr. Flinger and the Beard That Isn’t.

Personally? I love the beard.

You?

(And, I’m finally going to make a list of people to

germaphobia by posting a badge. If you wanna. That is.)

**** Code for Lick Button ****

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If I am going to be Brutally Honest with you today, Internet, let me tell you this:

I do not feel like blogging today. Blogging can suckit.

The cop that gave me a ticket in front of our friends because I was driving three miles over the previous speed limit prior to the change on a down-hill can suckit.

The thirty minutes I spent looking for my keys can suckit.

This Monday can suckit.*

Your turn.

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*(That’s what he said)

I mentioned my unfortunate need to exclaim “I will LICK you!” when I hear people I love will be going to BlogHer. I’d like to say I’m pretty much joking but given enough of the sauce, I may not be.

How is this brutally honest? The part of the “drinking of Teh Sauce” or the part about sharing germs via my tounge that is truly disgusting and sending people grabbing their purell?

Neither.

To be Brutally Honest with you there are two things you need to know before I pull out the licks.

1. I love you. I read you. I sweartogod I do. Prolly in my feedreader because I’m a lazy bitch like that. I probably giggle wildly, or nod and then remember I should be working and forget to comment. So it’s true, I suck. TA DA!

2. I won’t remember you at BlogHer. I’ll claim it’s the sauce but honestly? I’m a visual person. I rarely remember things I haven’t visually taken note of. I’ll associate you with some image on your site that may, or may not, be representative of you so when you say, “oh, I am so-and-so” I’ll go… “uummmm” and then you’ll be offended because OMG YOU DON’T KNOW ME? But then I’ll go, “OH! You’re the kid with the bucket head!” I LOVE YOU!

See? It’s how I roll.

So I thought maybe, just maybe, you won’t mind introducing yourself with some image, some visual SOMETHING, that I can hold on to? Comeon, I know you want to. It’ll be fun. “I’m the cat!”  “I’m the monkey!” “I’m the box of condoms you forgot to grab last week and couldn’t make out on your weekend away!” No, wait, not that last thing.

So, play along, please? Post an image, some little fun fact, and a link back to here. If you wanna boast your love of being licked, I have a

little button you can have.

**** Code for Lick Button ****

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Then I’ll start studying your sites and images and fun facts so when I meet you and you say, “Oh! Mrs. Flinger! You fart when you laugh.” And I laugh, fart, and we both clink wine glasses, it will be so less awkward than, “Um. yes.. the weather IS lovely, isn’t it?”

If you do a B.H.M. post, please sign the linky below!

This is an easy one, y’all. Is it rude to bring in your own lunch to an eating establishment?

Even if they don’t serve anything on your new diet?

*Mr. Flinger’s Vote: OHMYGOD YOU ARE NOT TAKING FOOD IN TO STARBUCKS
**My Nanny’s Vote: Oh, hellya, it’s fine

You?

If you do a B.H.M. post, please sign the linky below!

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