OmegaMom

The dotter and I went to the bookstore a week ago; I wanted a specific title.  She kept asking if we could buy her a book, and I kept grumbling that she didn’t bother to read the ones she already had, so why should I buy her a new one?!  But, in the end, I bought her…

A Hannah Montana “what’s your rock star style?” activity book, to wit, the Hannah Montana My Secret Superstar Syle Book.  (This is, interestingly enough, not locatable on the Amazon site by searching on “Hannah Montana Secret Superstar Style” (no quotes), or “Secret Superstar Style” (again, no quotes), but only by searching on “Secret Superstar”.  No, I can’t explain it, but did find it very frustrating.)

Much to my surprise, she is actually wanting to do the things in this book.

One of the activities was (of course) a quiz to determine your rock star style, just like well-known and loved Internet memes!  As I was reading the questions, I knew what her answers would be, though she surprised me with a few.  (For instance, she chose the “golden sling purse shaped like a guitar” over the “pink rhinestone and glitter handbag”.)  She ended up being “Rock Royalty” instead of “Pop Princess”—which, if I had to peg her pre-quiz, would not have been my choice.

So one evening this week, we managed to dig out two single-color T-shirts and do the “Tear ‘Em Up!” “punk” look mixed with the “sassy” look.  I thought it turned out pretty well!  When I wanted to do pics, the dotter insisted on putting on her ratty old capri jeans, which she adores and I refuse to let her wear to school or summer camp.

Here are the results; this pose shows the cute rucked-up sides:

Another view, showing the asymmetrical sleeves (one side was laced, the other side was plain):

And then a third view, where the dotter did a back bend into a bridge, just because:

She wore it to sleep that night.  She wore it to summer camp the next day.

BUT.  She wouldn’t take her sweatshirt off.  By the time I picked her up late in the afternoon, the sweatshirt had come off, and her 20s-ish camp counselor gushed over how rockin’ the style looked.

Anyway, the end result is that the Sekrit Superstar Style book is actually kind of fun.  Who would’a thunk it?

(ETA:  Oh, just an FYI.  The price of the Amazon Kindle has dropped to $189—the result of competition from the Apple iPad.  Anyway, if you’re interested in a Kindle now that it’s almost worth while buying, if you use my Amazon search link, or the links above, I get a leetle referral $$.  Hint, hint.  )

OmegaDotter long ago decided that she wanted to be a Rock Star for Halloween.  This would be, thankfully, a generic Rock Star, not, say, Miley Cyrus or Lady GaGa or anyone in particular.  We tossed around ideas for a while, finally settling on a long-haired wig, an electric guitar, camouflage pants, and a jacket.

All, of course, in the dotter’s favorite color:  PINK.  (Oy.)  (But, hey, someday she will decide that PINK is, like, so totally boooring–like her mother–and come to like some other colors.  There are hints that she will welcome other colors beginning to burgeon, so I have hope.  Maybe by the time she is 13 or 14…)

I had seen pink camo pants on Target.com, so assumed they would be available at our local Chez Target.  We set out for a shopping trip.  Much to my dismay, there were no pink camo pants to be found.  So we scrounged around the store and finally settled upon a pink and black leopard dress, and the Rock Star transitioned from a hard-rocker (though PINK) to a more glam-rocker.

The dotter had been hankering for months after a Barbie play electric guitar; I sniffed.  Barbie.  Humph.  Play guitar.  Humph.  So, to counteract this, I told her she had to buy it herself.  Our shopping trip was her chance; she raided her money jar and quite happily purchased this plastic faux confection.  Much to my amazement when we got home and I had liberated it from its multiple-tie-down jail, it turned out to be fairly cool–once one got past the huge Barbie logo and the PINKness and the whiteness and the daintiness.  It has pre-loaded tunes.  It has the ability to do some rockin’ screamin’ guitar noises.  And it has a “wa-waaaa” lever to emulate the guitarist sliding her hands up and down the guitar strings.  All in all, much more tolerable than I had expected.

Then there was the wig.  We purchased a wig, even though I knew it wasn’t what she wanted.  But it was blonde and it was curly and it had some Disney princess or other on the package, and the dotter oohed and ahhed.  Hey.  It was nine bucks; what harm was there in purchasing the darned thing so that she could try it on and discover it was…well, not the look she wanted.

So the question remained:  what to do about the wig.  Amazon, of course, came through with a long-haired hot-pink wig with bangs…but I forgot to order it.  The dotter kept reminding me at the wrong time–say, as we were getting out of the car at gymnastics, or as she was doing her daily homework, or while we were out shopping.  Since my mind is a sieve these days, these reminders didn’t do much good; she would tell me, I’d nod and say “Yeah, will do!”, and then, a few minutes later–Oh!  Look!  Something shiny!

Somehow I managed to remember it last week; I believe the dotter wised up and reminded me as she was falling asleep, so that I would get online afterwards.  So after getting her down to bed, I wandered down to the office and ordered the thing, paid for it, and then figured all was well.

Until I bothered to actually read the confirmation email, which mentioned, rather nonchalantly, that the delivery date was anywhere between October 27 (good) and November 3 (ooops!).  I read the email on Tuesday, when I was wondering when the darned thing would arrive.

I didn’t tell the dotter about that November 3 date.  Nope, nosirree.  I figured if it didn’t show up, we would figure something out.

But today it arrived, and as soon as the dotter arrived home from school we went into full-fledged dress-up mode.

She tried it on first, of course, in her school clothes, then I had to try it on while she dashed upstairs to get the rest of her outfit:

And then she pulled everything together, like so:

The pink flannel pants are more orange-y, so we’re considering whether leggings might work instead.  Anyway, there you have it, the Saga Of The Rock Star.

We have also carved the pumpkin, OmegaDad and the dotter have been putting together a gingerbread haunted house, we have made fondant ghosts, and it seems that A. is on for Trick-or-Treating again, thus allowing me to avoid the whole K. question.

(Oh, yes.  The dotter did deliver her apology notes this evening at gymnastics, which went over very well.  She got an approving nod from Coach John and a hug from A.  Afterwards, while she was starting her session, I saw them comparing notes and chuckling over the idiosyncratic spelling…”Couch John”, and she was sorry she “heart A.’s arm”…)

In the midst of a whole slew of things I’d like to write about (hoping that my brain-to-typing-fingers connection reanimates itself sometime), today’s is The New Dora.

Crash course:  Dora–to those not in the know, aka “non-parents”–is a bilingual first-grader/kindergardener who lives in the jungles of Costa Rica, wears orange shorts and a magic backpack (and, of course, the omnipresent PINK top), has a monkey as a pet, and encounters a variety of adventures.  She climbs, she swims, she hikes, she boats, she uses a map and compass–she’s an outdoorsy kinda gal.  Not my most favorite of TV characters, to be sure, but she’s not yet another girly-girl with floofy clothes and high heels.

So–Mattel has purchased the rights to market The New Dora, and Nickelodeon will create a show for The New Dora.  The New Dora is supposedly a middle-schooler aimed at tweens.  All well and good; corporations will be corporations, and, hey, having captured fifty kazillion preschoolers through first- or second-graders (though the latter is doubtful, as the dotter has taken to calling Dora “for babies” lately), they want to hold onto those kiddies as their purchasing power starts growing.

In an act of super-coyness, the two companies released a silhouette of The New Dora, who features long, flowing hair (rather than Dora’s current bob), a short skirt (rather than shorts), and ballet slipper-like shoes (rather than sneakers).  No backpack, and probably no monkey, either.  No more jungles of Costa Rica–she’s moved to the big city.  She likes shopping and jewelry.  Oh, and technology.  Sort of tacked onto the description…

Le shit has hit le fan in mommyblogs the blogosphere (As Liana so rightly points out, “mommybloggers” is a pretty stereotypical label, and I apologize!).  Grumps about sexualization and what-not–all of which I tend to agree with–plus a petition to Mattel and Nickelodeon to back down, mofos!

On the other hand, we have two women scientistas, Dr. Isis and Sheril Kirshenbaum over at ScienceBlogs, who look at it in a different way:  This doll is saying (they say) that smart can equal pretty!

The problem I have with that is that the description of The New Dora doesn’t sound like the “smart” is what’s being emphasized; what’s being emphasized is Yet More Expansive Consumer Goods, with (as mentioned above) the “technology” being added as an afterthought.  Note that “technology” does not necessarily equal science, nor does it necessarily equal exploration, nor does it necessarily equal adventure.

Sure:  Smart can equal pretty!  Woohoo!  Some of us do wish this particular meme made it out into the general pop-culture consciousness.

But.  Dayum, does that new silhouette make me think of all those movies where the “smart girl” is suddenly seen as attractive because she takes off her glasses and pulls her hair out of the ever-present businesslike ponytail.  *Poof*!  As soon as the glasses come off, and the hair comes down, whammo-blammo, the “smart girl” is wearing eye shadow, lipstick, and sexy clothes, her popularity soars through the roof…

…and, very often, the “smart” side of her vanishes into the woodwork.

It’s not offering a new option to the girls out there.  It’s not being accepting of who they are, really.  It’s saying–in a sneaky way that passes right by the dewy-eyed interest of tween girls–that to be accepted, you have to look pretty and tone down your smarts. (But, of course, not too pretty, or too mature, as Dr. Isis points out, because then you’ve crossed The Line and are now a target for being called “easy”.)

Look, there are oodles of shows and dolls and what-not aimed at getting girls to buy clothing and jewelry and makeup and accessories and “look pretty”.  There are not oodles of shows and dolls and what-not aimed at letting girls be not interested in those things.  I was a geeky, awkward teen.  I wasn’t interested in that stuff.  I was interested in Star Trek.  And science fiction books.  And writing.  And geometry.  And history.  Trust me–there wasn’t anything out there in pop-culture land that matched my image of myself.  And prior to that, in what is now called “tween”age, what I was interested in was playing cops and robbers and Good Guys and Bad Guys and hanging out at the playground with buddies and going to camp and stuff like that.

‘Course, I’m not sure anything in pop-culture land would have interested me, but it might have been nice to have a TV show that featured a girl who wasn’t into those things.

Dunno.  I’m sure my dotter (suddenly into flippy short skorts) would love The New Dora.  But as a mother, I’d like to aim her at other things, other shows, that don’t emphasize the outside so much and do emphasize other things.

(Various notes:  Pretzel made a joke about how I’d soon be complaining about the moose eating our vegetables again.  As fate would have it, that very night we had a moose come dining at our perennial flower bed.  Har.  In the meantime, spring seems to be trying to spring here in Alaska; we have had two days of 40 degree weather.  Yay!  The snow is melting!  This is impacting the Iditarod race, because soft snow plus high temps equals bad mushing conditions.  Our doctor, Doc SledDog, is racing in the Iditarod this year, so I am [vaguely] keeping track.  All in all, things are looking up, except for my paycheck, which will be going down in two weeks, because my new, shorter, work hours started on Monday.)

So a few days ago, I was majorly bummed that the Hanna Andersson clothes on sale were all sold out.

And Lizard (an old internet buddy of mine, whose dotter E. is six months younger than OmegaDotter) commented saying she lived near the HA outlet store and maybe we could work something out…

A few emails later, and now she is all set to do some vicarious shopping.

Booyah!  And woot!

Of course, this all assumes the dotter will like the dresses.  This is not guaranteed, which is why I was so hot-to-trot in regards to the sale prices.  I’m more than willing to experiment with the kiddo’s tastes when I’m spending $19, but not willing when it comes to a $50 price tag.

Just so everyone knows, I am still keeping track of the Ongoing Saga of the Global Financial Meltdown.  I note that (a) Bush is saying that Paulson’s blank check for another $350 billion is not going to be spent in this administration thankyewverramuch (thus pushing it off onto Obama’s watch), (b) today’s news is that GM is not going to get a bailout (but that could change at the drop of a hat), (c) Goldman Sachs has a research note out that says that GDP could shrink (that would be decline) by up to 7.8% this quarter, (d) and recent photos of Obama show that his touch-o-grey has expanded rather rapidly in my opinion.  I have asked my boss to send me a copy of my resume (I only have an extremely out-of-date hard copy from my files) so I can update it and have it on hand; there is no specific news to warrant this, aside from the fact that the state I work for is currently $700 million in the hole.  However, everywhere I turn on the ‘nets, I hear from this person or that person that they know someone (or a spouse or parent or offspring) who has been laid off.

There was this heap of magazines and catalogs and things (*ahem* bills *ahem*) that I hadn’t looked at for about a week.  I needed some reading material in the library, so grabbed the catalogs.  There was a Hanna Andersson catalog.  It was a dress sale.  They had their “It’s a Playdress/It’s a Daydress” on sale at $19!!!

Woot!  And holy moly!  I haven’t seen a price that good on pd/dds ever!

And I still had a day for the sale!

Double woot!

So I sashayed down to the office, pulled up the Hanna Andersson website, and took a look.

And now I’m bummed.

Because they’re all sold out in bigger sizes.

Wah.

I was so ready to drop a whole bunch of money on some of those dresses for the dotter.

Anyway, those of you with kids in smaller sizes might be interested; it’s a really good deal.  I’ll just sit here and sulk.

Le Petit Coop, c’est fini!  Woot!  The silkies are in their new home; Fluff is out of the bathtub in the downstairs bathroom (yay!) and Puff is out of her jail cell in the garage.

We are regularly getting three eggs a day.

I am planning for OmegaDotter to fund our retirement with the proceeds from egg sales.

(Hah.  I just looked at the returns for my Fidelity 2020 investment fund, and it’s off 25% since the beginning of the year.  We’re gonna need those egg sales.)

Speaking of finances (dontcha love that segue?), the score is currently:  Lehman Brothers filed bankruptcy.  The Dow Jones dropped 504 points.  Lynch America is going strong.  Reserve has frozen a money market fund for seven days (this has only happened once before).  AIG is currently begging the U.S. government for an $80 billion “bridge loan”; otherwise it will file for bankruptcy tomorrow, sayeth the press.  Just FYI, AIG is a trillion dollar business.  (Whoa, breaking news:  Wall Street Journal says AIG is going to get that loan and be put under government control…”The Federal Reserve is considering an $85 billion rescue for embattled American International Group that could leave the government in control of the firm, according to people familiar with the matter, though the structure of a deal remains unclear.”)  The Russian stock market was closed after it plunged 17% in a day.

Let’s look back on those days of yore, when the savings and loan crisis cost the U.S. $500 billion dollars.  Remember those?

Let’s talk about the Glass-Steagall Act.  This was enacted in 1933, established the FDIC, and forbade banks from providing investment services, in an attempt to keep banks from speculation that would drive them to bankruptcy.  Phil Gramm (currently a senior financial advisor for the McCain campaign) sponsored the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act in 1998, which fully repealed Glass-Steagall.  President Clinton signed it into law, so it was a non-partisan clusterfuck.  And now we have Lynch America, Lehman Brothers in bankruptcy, and a $1 trillion dollar company dangling by a thread.  Oh, well.

Some other chickens that have come home to roost are my various jeans purchases.

Alas, I must have measured incorrectly; all of them are too big.  The custom Lands End jeans fit the best, but they are still too big.  I am sufficiently pleased with the shape of the fit to try again, fiddling with the measurements and changing from a waist-high rise to a mid-rise pant.  We shall see.  The Gap jeans were way too big and I am returning them.  I think I will find a local seamstress and have the Nordstrom black jeans taken in.

I have truly been tied to the computer these past few days, watching the financial services sector go kablooie.  Things have been happening at an incredibly rapid pace.  I don’t know whether to be fascinated or appalled or both…

Score so far:

Gap curvy jeans, size 14:  too big.  Way too big.  Off to return them and ask for a smaller size.

Nordstrom’s Not Your Daughter’s Jeans, size 14:  Fit perfectly in upper thighs/hips, too big in waist.  Have washed, will see what happens; will probably end up going to a seamstress/tailor in town and getting them taken in.

Still waiting on the Land’s End made-to-fit jeans, but those are supposed to take about a month (a month?!).

Aside from that–we went to the State Fair yesterday, with tickets to the rodeo.  It rained.  The dotter was a pill.  After a few hours, I ended up telling OmegaDad and OmegaDotter that I would have more fun back in the car.  So there.  So I went back to the car.  OmegaDad Had Another Talk with the dotter (the “I would have more fun back in the car” was my result to a very grudging forced “I’m sorry” from the dotter as the result of the first Having A Talk).  Both OmegaDad and I said that if she didn’t shape up, we were going to forego going to the State Fair next year.

The rain was followed by fog this morning.  This is actually very rare in our neighborhood, but I remember it from last fall.

The birch trees’ leaves are already turning yellow and starting to fall off the trees.

Sunset is now at 9:30 p.m., sunrise at 6:35 a.m.; a great galloping loss of light.

The end result of this weekend is that I’m bummed.  Wah.

So, let’s see:

Mamasan and Anne suggested Gloria Vanderbilt.  Mamasan also suggested low- or mid-rise jeans, which Wendy, Anne,  and Mrs. Figby seconded.  There were a trio of mentions of “Not Your Daughter’s Blue Jeans” from Nordstrom’s (Noreen, Carol Anne, and Anne), and a couple of mentions of the “curvy” jeans at the Gap (LisaC and an email).

So I decided to try one of the NYDJ’s from Nordstrom’s, one of the curvy’s from the Gap, and one of Lands End’s custom jeans.  Much to my horror, my measurements plopped me into a size 14, since you’re supposed to be ordering by the hip size mostly.  Aaaaccccckkkkk!  I halfway expect them to arrive and fit perfectly through the hips and–as usual–gape like crazy at the waist.  Or maybe just not fit at all–either being too tight or being too loose.  We shall see.

Why am I doing all this?  Well, to be honest, I just hate trying on clothes.  I can handle about an hour, and then I go batshit crazy, start foaming at the mouth, chewing the walls in the dressing room, feeling like ants are crawling all over my skin, and turning into Uber Bitch.  What’s worse is when I do that and there’s no payoff:  Nothing fits, I don’t like any of the jeans I’ve tried on, or there’s a great pair of jeans that just happens to be half an inch too tight, and none of that model in my size.

It’s just an exercise in frustration and aggravation to me.  So I am seeking out the Holy Grail on the intertubes.

(Waving “Hi!” to Wendy and Anne, who delurked.)

As for readership, as one of my long-time readers noted in an email, my RSS feed shows the whole post, and I’d get more hits if I switched to a partial feed.  Now is when we edge close to an ethical question:  Do I provide convenience for my readers (whole-post feed) or do I provide a much-needed ego-boo (partial-post feed prompting click-throughs)?  And the fact that my ego-boo would also provide views on my BlogHer ads is additional ethical fodder.  I happen to know of some people who claim that as soon as a blogger they read switches to partial posting, they immediately drop their subscription as a matter of principle.

The whole readership question is pure narcissism anyway.  It’s a revealing chink in my oh-so-bluff self-confident armor that the drop has made me stick out my lower lip and whimper, “Why is everyone going away?!  Don’t they like me any more?!”  At these times, I have to sit myself down and talk sternly:

“Self.  Quit being a whiner.  You know damned well why your hits have dropped, and it’s called ‘not updating your blogging software and pissing off Google’.”

::sniff::  “But I’m not suuuure!  Maybe it’s not that!  Maybe it’s because I’m getting boring in my old age!  Maybe what I think is good writing, or fun stuff, just plain isn’t, and it’s all been ‘pity’ reading, and they’re just clicking through because they’re sorry for me, and I know they’re all talking behind my back and laughing at me!“ 

Segue into my Self curling up in a quivering heap in the corner of the bedroom and having serious flashbacks to the anguishing angst that is “being a nerd in high school”.  I begin speaking even more sternly:

“Girl, get a grip!  You know that Google blacklisted oodles of blogs who hadn’t upgraded, because Teh Hackers were siphoning off Google search results and gaming the system with invisible SEO terms.  Your Google hits are beginning to pick up again, slowly but surely.”

Self just rocks and moans and nervously curls hair around a finger.  This is difficult, because I have short hair, but Self does it somehow.  This is also a flashback to high school, when I had hair halfway down my back, but the hair beside my face was always filled with split ends and half of it was broken off around chin length because of the constant hair twisting.

BUT!  There is always a “but”:  I’ve read about three or four other bloggers whimpering about readership lately, and they seem like hawt, trendy, interesting gals to me, so maybe it’s all a function of summertime.

At which, Self pops open a suspicious eye, peers at me, and decides that possibly–just possibly–I might be right and Self can come out of the semi-catatonic state and focus on more important things, like the fact that Crayola 24-pack crayons were a smokin’ 49 cents each at the local store, along with other good deals, so the back-to-school shopping was not as frenzy-making as it could have been…

I need reader feedback on this one, puh-leeze!

I have a Victorian figure, relatively slender on top, a well-defined waist, a natural bustle (”I’ve got a big butt, and I cannot lie!”) and wide thighs.  And I’m short.  But not quite short enough to be classified as a “petite” for pants and jeans.  Anyway, almost any time I purchase something that fits me through the butt and thighs, it has a waist that gapes like a fish.

So I’m thinking of trying out custom jeans.

Much to my dismay, after investigation it turns out that the top two most interesting online sites (myjeans.com and makeyourownjeans.com) are…well, let’s just say they have lots of dissatisfied customers.  Then there’s LandsEnd and JC Penney’s versions…Penney’s are less expensive, but they both seem to use the same approach to fitting.

My old jeans are all beginning to wear out; we’re talking “please, please O Kozmik All, please let these jeans not split beside the seams or have that small hole above the back pocket suddenly rip asunder while I’m at the back-to-school picnic!”  I desperately need new jeans.  Also, I need new (bigger, sigh) jeans that fit.

Anyway, I want to hear from YOU.  Yes, YOU.  Have any of my readers tried any custom jeans purchases online?  What were your experiences?  Satisfying?  Not satisfying?  Horrible experience?  Great experience?

(Actually, I’d like to hear from YOU whether you’ve tried it or not; OmegaMom has suddenly jumped up a bit in subscribership, while still lagging in hits, so I’d just like folks to de-lurk and say “Hi!”)

I have always admired the smooth, sleek elegance of French braids, but they intimidated me.  Surely something that looks so…classic…must be difficult to do.  So when I had long hair, I contented myself with (occasionally) doing regular braids, and merely wisted from afar at more snazzy dos.

Then the dotter arrived in our life.  For the first few years, her hair was too short.  Then, when it became longer, it was the central point of the Hair Drama, in which mere combing became torture for both of us.

Somewhere along the line, we both learned how to cope with the hair combing, and suddenly it was no longer torture.  And her hair was long.  New vistas of hair fiddling opened up before me, and I was able to rediscover basic braids, variations on ponytails, buns, and twists.

But still, French braids seemed an arcane art.  In her preschool, the dotter had one teacher who was adept at French braids, and she would occasionally arrive home with her hair sleeked into the lovely style.  I would admire and ooh and ahh, and secretly seethe with jealousy that Miss R. (who was young and cute and perky and beloved by the dotter) also had this feminine mystery down pat.

I tried once, following a how-to from the internet, and it looked clumsy and messy.  My plan was to keep practicing, but there was never time in the evenings–when an hour or so spent dealing with frustration would seem okay.  And then the dotter had the incident with the bubble gum, and her hair was shorn, and there was a hiatus on hair-fiddling.

But now her hair has grown out again, very suddenly seeming long enough to do things with.  We’ve been doing ponytails and basic braids again, and one of her camp counselors sent her home one day with a French braid.  So I decided this evening to try again.

As you can see, it’s not “smooth, sleek, and elegant”.  The part is ragged.  The hair joins are rumply and fumbled.

And her bangs, which she is determined to grow out, are every which way.

BUT…it’s a start.  She liked it, and wouldn’t let me take them out and re-do them.  Somewhere along the line, I suddenly realized how to grab the new hair without getting my fingers tangled up, and it became easier.  Once I get the finger movements down, then I can concentrate on making it smooth.  And then I can try a one-braid design.  Or two braids merging into one.

The dotter, by the way, was thoroughly engrossed in Hann@h M0ntana on YouTube, a rare treat.  We now have a movie of her dancing to “The Best of Both Worlds”, which, alas, is stuck on the other camera, because I can’t seem to find the proper USB cord, and can’t find the third camera to dump the memory chip into (we do have the proper USB cord for the other two cameras, but the second camera, which I have the cord to, uses the other kind of memory chip…wasn’t all of this supposed to be easy and plug-n-play?).