Thursday, October 15, 2009

Big Rock Candy Mountain

“Come on, Barbie, let’s go potty,” the four year old sings. She knows this song because it’s Mattel’s new theme song for Barbie, complete with accent-man singing, “Come on, Barbie, let’s go party.” Of course, the four year old has never “partied” and will never do so as long as she comes home to roost in my house. Apparently, a boy singing to Barbie that they should go potty together makes complete sense in her world view. Of course he says “potty.” Have you ever seen Barbie in a diaper?
The whole famous song as jingle thing doesn’t bug me. In fact, I quite enjoy a good Black Eyed Peas to liven up my Oprah. But some things jangle in my head and make the liberal beast come out. For instance, Sting singing in the back of a Jaguar (that’s Jag-you-are if you’re British). I guess everyone needs a ride, especially coming back from a Save the Rainforest or Liberate Tibet rally. Sheesh. He might as well buy stock in Hummer. Next we’ll have Bono singing at the Queen’s Birthday party. Or potty, if you’re my four year old.
So I hate the whole “had a moral but will sell to the highest bidder” move. Like the Barbie song. You’ve got to know that the song is anti-Barbie, right? I mean, the Mattel people have to know that. They have to know that the Mommy Dearest (me) who kept her oldest daughter away from Barbies until she could recite the 6 Deadly Sins of Barbie, I know the song is anti-Barbie. Catchy tune, lovely male voice, but as a jingle? And Aqua, what about them? Hal says they’re laughing all the way to the bank, being as how they only had one good song. But isn’t that sort of like selling your child after they pass the everyone-loves-a-cute-baby stage? Just because the song is no longer on everyone’s mind is no reason to offer it to the Corporate Gods.
Of course, it’s all good and easy to have morals when you’re sitting behind a computer waiting for someone else to bring home the eating money. Maybe that excuses Aqua: they didn’t have much of a buffer zone with only one hit. But Sting? The man could live off his earnings from Fragile alone. What, suddenly the price of organic tofu is so expensive that he needs to sell his soul to the Ford behemoth? I feel so dirty.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Apple Bottom

The post-baby weight free fall has stopped. That means I have to actually stop shoveling food in my gullet and start moving my slug-like body. I hate my metabolism. Why can’t I have been one of those people who have a hard time gaining enough weight? I’d gladly change my cold-climate birthing hips for a pair of, say, Twiggy hips. I always wanted to look like a pre-pubescent 12 year old, even when I was 12. And since I can’t change the world and go back to Fertility Worship, I try to change myself to fit in with the dying-from-anorexia Italian runway models.
Except that Italy has enacted a new law, according to NPR, which includes a weight-to-height ratio for models. Too skinny and they’re unemployed. Or they go to France.
Not that I actually want to be too skinny. But I do not enjoy booty butt. It may be the music I listen to, but it ain’t the culture I run with. I’m telling on Hal, but I don’t think he’ll mind. I once modeled a new pair of Banana Republic jeans for Hal. I mention the name of the store so you know I wasn’t shopping at a place that lends itself to “going downtown” if you know what I mean. Anyway, I had the new jeans on and I turned my backside to him and asked the stupidest question a woman can ever ask. “Does my butt look big?”
Hal’s response?
“That’s the style, isn’t it?”
Now, he knows that the correct answer is, “No, sweetheart, your butt could never look big.”
And I guess it was better than some other answers: “The jeans don’t make your butt look big. Your fat butt makes your butt look big.”
Still, whatever the style may be for the nightclubs I couldn’t get into even if I wanted to, I’m still a church-going (not choir singing, but close enough), liberal-voting, kashi-eating, no-makeup kind of girl. My friends do not wear their hoop earrings seriously; they only dabble in hip hop. Which means that I do not want my booty to be a focal point. Now, some in my crowd may choose to wear sweat pants with “Juicy” across the butt, but I think that’s just a style-glitch in their brains and 20 years from now they’ll shake their heads and wonder what on earth they were thinking. As for me, while I’m not a Junior Leaguer, neither am I ghetto enough to get a way with an apple bottom.
Which brings me back to my topic sentence. I have to lose weight. I’ve briefly considered just letting it sit, but then I remember that I have really cute clothes, all in a size that won’t fit around one leg at my current weight. Besides, I have a 20 year reunion coming up, which I may or may not go to. But even if I don’t go, I want to be able to put in my bio “weighs the same as she did on graduation day.” I don’t have a lot of accomplishments to list, and since I’m not any closer to figuring out cold fusion or reconciling Dark Matter, I’ll have to fall back on my weight. Which I’m banking is at least 20 pounds lighter than most of the chicks who will be showing up to the reunion.