OC Family - Moms. Kids. Life. - (Cheeky Musings)

Binding up the bwoken hearted

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 11:40:00 GMT

It was a grisly crime scene. Clumps of butchered hair, amputated limbs and the weapon: a pair of kindergarten scissors, all stuffed under my son's bed.

It was a game that had seemed funny at first. My son and a neighbor boy were tossing the twins' favorite doll around. Somehow, in the ensuing hilarity--a pair of scissors seemed like a good idea.

And the silly haircut was a riot. But it didn't stop there. A moment later, it wasn't so funny anymore. The baby doll was irreparably mutilated.

That's when the guilt set in. They tried to hide it.

But they couldn't hide their ashamed faces. Especially when Mama got down on hands and knees and peered under the bed.

The whole wretched story came tumbling out. There were tears and wringing of hands. Mama kept her cool (just barely).

The culprits were marched downstairs. The neighbor boy was sent home. And the trembling son wept into his hands.

Mama washed dishes until she felt herself cool down. Best not to talk in the heat of battle. Those dishes never sparkled so well.

"Mommy...are you...are you disappointed with me?" he asks, tugging at my shirt.

I wipe my hands on the towel and kneel in front of him.

"I'm disappointed that you didn't make the right choice," I say. "That's your baby sisters' favorite doll."

He hangs his head. Utter remorse. "I know," he sobs. "I'm so sorry."

"Why did you do it?" I ask, as calmly and quietly as I can.

He shrugs. "I don't know! I knew it was wrong! I don't know why I did it!"

I draw him to me and hug him close. He whispers the rest of the story in my ear and that's when I discover why he did it. He didn't want to make his beloved friend mad by saying no. I nod. I understand this.

It's a lesson I had to learn early, too: the courage to do the right thing even when it's not popular.

We exchange some quiet words. Apologies are spoken and amends are made.

And then we try to explain it to the twins.

"Baby is broken," I say. "Baby has owies."

Jasiel stares for a moment and then reaches for baby, holds her tight. "Ohhhhh, baby! Ohhhh, bwoken baby!"

From that day on, Bwoken Baby is Jasiel's special treasure.

Bwoken Baby gets long walks in the stroller all bundled up in blankies because: "She's code! She's code!"

Bwoken Baby gets rocked in Mama's rocking chair. Bwoken Baby listens to Jasiel "read" Cat Inna Hat.

Every time I watch Jasiel coo and fuss over that hopelessly mangled baby doll, I feel a strange sort of heart ache.

My 2 year old is just learning to speak. Yet somehow, she teaches us what unconditional love looks like.

And in that love, my son understands he is forgiven.

Homework is stupid

Sun, 21 Feb 2010 18:24:00 GMT

Especially homework for kindergartners. Actually, if I had it my way, kids K-6 would not have homework.

If the energy our family has wasted on homework could be converted into solar energy, I'm certain it could power our city for a year. Seriously, if I see another photocopied worksheet I might poke my eyeballs out.

Now, not all homework is created equal. I have no problem with flash cards or special creative projects. But I'm darn sick of reams of those "shut-up sheets."

You do know what a shut-up sheet is, right? It's a photocopied worksheet designed specifically to shut-up the kid and keep him busy.

My sons are convinced it's a form of torture. I happen to agree.

I mean, the last thing my kid wants to do after six hours of school is sit down and do another worksheet. And yet, as The Good Responsible Parent, I'm supposed to force him.

When my kids get home, I shoo them outside and let them run around. They're dying to release all that pent up energy and if I dare require them to SitDownBeQuietAndDoYourHomework, we'll have a full-blown mutiny.

I'm talking tears. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth.

Homework interferes with our life on almost every possible level. For one thing, homework time coincides with that wicked time of day known in my house as "The Witching Hour." This is when Mommy is already tired but still has to prepare dinner, mind her babies and help with homework.

Homework hangs over our head like a wrecking ball. It has the potential to destroy even the best of days.

By the time my husband gets home I'm so exhausted that I'm ready to take up permanent residence on a deserted island. Except, we still have baths and bedtime routines to manage.

Looking back over the last 12 years (cumulatively speaking) of grade-school homework, I can hardly see any educational benefit. At least, no benefit that outweighs the many tears, anguish, frustration and sometimes, sheer outrage.

Because here's the thing: not only do my kids have to complete the homework, but I've gotta check it and then sign the little assignment book. Every.Single.Day.

Dude, I don't even shower as often as I sign those infuriating assignment books.

And if I prayed as often as I've signed 'em, well, I'd be so holy that I'd be raptured by now; shot straight up to Heaven in a flaming chariot of fire.

By the time my twins hit kindergarten, I'm just gonna roll up to the classroom with a recycling trash-can and toss those stupid homework packets right in. If anyone asks, I'll simply reply: "Hey, I'm only removing the middle-man."

I dunno. I'm so fed up I'm seriously considering a Homework Strike.

Anyone wanna join me?

'Cuz me and my kids wanna know: IS THERE LIFE AFTER HOMEWORK???
[edited to add: it's important for me to clarify that I do not place blame at the feet of teachers. I see homework as a symptom of a larger problem in our public education system. My kids' teachers have been hardworking, dedicated and I've truly appreciated them. They love what they do but are often hamstrung by curriculum requirements and standardized testing which forces them to "teach to the test" for a significant portion of the school year. Despite this mess, I still find great inspiration in the teachers who daily strive to provide creative solutions to these challenges.]

Seeing the big picture

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 11:16:00 GMT

We took a spontaneous trip to San Diego on Valentine's Day.

My favorite part was driving over the Coronado Bridge. It's a spectacularly high bridge that connects the mainland to Coronado Island. For me, it's terrifying but also, strangely exhilarating.

There's something inexplicably satisfying about gazing out over an expansive view. The view from way up high looks so breathtakingly beautiful.

It made me sort of wistful. Sometimes I focus too much on the "street view": the cracked pavement, dirt, man-holes, litter. It's easy to forget that a bigger picture exists.

Maybe that's why taking a spontaneous trip is important. Sometimes we need to get outside our "street-view" lives and see the big picture--if only to remind ourselves that it's really there. I know that I need to allow myself to bask in the joy of life more often.

It's easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of a busy, hardworking life and forget to create space for fun and enjoyment.

Marriage and a big family is hard, difficult work. But then there are moments when I catch a brief, fleeting glimpse of pristine beauty. And it takes my breath away.

Banning Victoria's Secret catalogs from home

Sat, 30 Jan 2010 14:45:00 GMT

I've banned Victoria's Secret catalogs from my home. Not because I dislike lingerie but because I enforce a zero porn policy. And maybe that sounds harsh but that's exactly what Victoria's Secret catalogs are: soft-porn.

It's difficult enough at the mall--my sons know to avert their eyes every time we pass that store--without bringing it home. I know I'm not alone. I know there are thousands (perhaps millions?) of mothers out there trying to raise their children with a sense of courtesy, respect and morality.

I'm sorry, Victoria's Secret, but I will not allow blatantly objectified images to shape my child's sexuality.

Images are powerful things and I think it's almost impossible for a young girl to develop a healthy body-image when she's fed images of photo-shopped, airbrushed, scantily clad, freakishly thin supermodels.

I don't know one woman who closes a VS catalog feeling better about herself and her body. Honestly, a VS catalog makes me feel worse. Suddenly, my physical flaws seem magnified and glaringly obvious when compared to a VS lingerie model. I don't want my daughters to view Victoria's Secret ads because I believe they present a false standard of true, womanly beauty.

And what about my sons? What happens to a young boy whose unawakened sexuality is assaulted--yes, assaulted--from a young age by pornographic images?

At the very least, these images present a false understanding of sexuality (all fun & games! no obligations!) and at the worst, they create pleasure centers in the brain that revolve around immorality.

I'm also troubled by the normalization of these images in public. Since when did a 2-story high poster of a mostly naked woman become anything other than an egregious offense to decency? Not to mention morality. If protecting my children means avoiding the Victoria's Secret corner of the mall, so be it.

I believe the porn epidemic sweeping our nation indicates we have a serious problem on our hands. Sometimes I feel powerless to stem the pornographic tide that actively seeks to hurt my children.

I know I can't control every single little thing, but so far as it pertains to my home, my turf, my sanctuary--I will fight back the tide. It's my job to protect and defend my children's sexuality.

But I can't do it alone. I need other like-minded mommies. Especially if we're going to protest the proliferation of public porn. Maybe we could call ourselves MAPP (Mothers Against Public Porn)?

Sleeping in the valley of the shadow of bad breath

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 16:08:00 GMT

It was a subtle decline. A slow surrender. And at first, my husband thought I was to blame.

"Roll over," he would whisper, in the middle of the night--gently nudging me. "Scoot over. You're hogging the bed."

It became a sorta mantra he repeated every night. Roll over, roll over, scoot da booty right over.

Out of nowhere I had become a bed hog. Or, as he called it, a heat seeking missile.

"Are you cold or something?" he asked one morning. "Maybe you should start wearing long pajamas to bed."

"I'm not trying to be a heat seeking missile," I said.

"I know," he said. "You're a cute, midnight cuddler. But it's uncomfortable."

I tried my best to stay on my side of the bed--I mean, as hard as a person can try while dead asleep. I wore long pajamas. I threw on an electric blanket.

Nothing worked. I always ending up rolling into the middle of the bed, smashed up against his back.

We were on the verge of calling it a night and buying twins beds (not really) when it happened.

He crash-rolled into the middle of the bed, too.

"Dude," he remarked, "I think our mattress just caved in."

It was true. Our beloved mattress had given up the ghost. Strung up the white flag of surrender and collapsed. And there were were, rolled up together like two hot dogs in a bun.

"See, I'm not a heat seeking missile!" I crowed, triumphant.

My triumph was short-lived. Now we had to figure out a way to sleep in that cursed valley.

So, we girded our loins and hiked our way back up our own sides of the bed. I claimed my territory, planted my flag and tried to sleep.

But it's tough to sleep when you're clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Inevitably, we rolled back into the valley of the shadow of bad breath.

"We could try flipping the mattress," he offered.

But we've already done that. Twice.

"We could buy a used mattress on Craig's List," he offered.

Ewwwww.

Oh, well.

Life as a heat-seeking missile isn't so bad. Especially if you ditch the long pajamas.

Do small things right

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 10:50:00 GMT

Sometimes the enormity of the task overwhelms me.

There are days when raising five children feels like Mission Impossible. Couple that with my perfectionistic tendencies and failure seems inevitable.

Which is to say, when I look at the laundry pile, I get so anxious about being far behind that I tend to close the door and let the pile grow higher.

Of course, this only adds to my frustration and anxiety. Seriously, sock management could be a full-time job at my house.

One way I've learned to manage a big family is by giving myself permission to do a job badly.

WHAT?!

You heard me. If it's a job worth doing, it's worth doing badly.

Take that, Martha Stewart!

At my house, a job well done means: it's done. Sometimes it doesn't look pretty. But I think pretty is over-rated. My sons often wear mismatched socks. I'm cool with that.

At least they're wearing socks.

Sometimes my oldest son forgets to sweep under the table. Now, if he's rushing to finish, I make him re-do it. But if he gives a good effort, I give him a high-five.

At least the floor around the table got swept.

I don't have fancy china and even if I did, we'd probably end up eating dinner on paper plates like we usually do.

At least we eat dinner together every night.

I guess you could boil my family-management philosophy down to a few words: do small things right.

I pick one or two things to do right each day. And then I celebrate that!

My life is full. But I don't want it to be busy.

The busier I am, the less connected I feel to my primary relationships.

And honestly, if my relationships are suffering--it doesn't matter if I conquer the housecleaning every day.

However, I would like to conquer the Evil Sock-Eating Monster once and for all. Any ideas?

Finding the meaning of life in the laundry pile

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 10:57:00 GMT

For all the advances of feminism, one thing hasn't changed. Biology. Women still conceive and bear children and until that changes--the sexes will always be unequal. And by this I mean, a good man knows the woman is his better half.

This is why I still believe in the oft-maligned "institution of marriage." Boiled down to its most primitive form, marriage is an agreement to care for each other. For a woman whose biological fertility peaks in her younger years, a good man vows to provide and protect her (even if she's capable of doing that on her own).

I see nothing wrong with a man idealizing his woman. After all, conception and birth is nothing short of miraculous. I'm in awe of it. Why shouldn't my husband be in awe of it--of me--too?

I remember giving birth to our first child and staring into her precious little face. Then I looked at my husband and we were like: "Look at what we made! We made a human!"

It was Truth. We were inextricably, profoundly connected. Interdependent. And not any of the feminist classes I took in college could disprove that.

Still, babymaking and child-raising is difficult, gritty business. It's easy to lose sight of the miraculous when you're getting beaten down by the unending laundry pile, sick children and dirty dishes.

I'm not ashamed to admit that this is the precise intersection where religion helps me transcend. Right in the middle of dirty diapers and crusted-over dishes is where faith gives me purpose. Meaning.

Cynics like to say that religion is a crutch. That gives me too much credit. For me, religion is full-blown life support. Anyone who tells you they came to religion based solely on intellectual reasoning is being dishonest.

We are not disembodied brains. We are humans with feelings. And feelings have lots to do with becoming religious. For me, it was like falling in love.

Yeah, sometimes the doubts keep me up at night. But the next morning, God is there again. There's no explanation, really.

He loves me. I love Him.

I guess it's true: all you really need is love.

Disney on Ice!

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:52:00 GMT

Tinkerbell is the undeniable star of Disney on Ice's "Worlds of Fantasy" now playing at the Honda Center through December 27th. However, the first half of the show (and especially the Lion King segment) is also truly spectacular.

The show revs up with the stars from the movie Cars. Mater, Lightening McQueen and a few of the other favorites race around the ice trying to fix Mickey and Minnie's car.

And then The Little Mermaid takes to the ice--the infectious musical numbers evoking an audience-wide sing-and-clap-along.

But our family was mesmerized by the brilliant athleticism and exciting story-line of the Lion King. The clever special effects included a herd of stampeding wilde-beasts and a hilariously agile wart-hog--how DID they do that costume?

The real show-stopper was Simba and Nala's breathtaking duet. When it ended and the lights came on for intermission, the kids couldn't stop talking about it. We couldn't wait to see what the second half would bring.

The whole second half was devoted to the mischievous exploits of the cutesy, pouty Tinkerbell. Our boys thought the story dragged a little bit and I noticed that there were far less camera flashes going off, too.

But the show quickly redeemed itself with a no-holds-barred ending: inflatable flowers "blooming" around the perimeter of the ice rink, a "flying" Tinkerbell, confetti sprayed over our heads, and the entire cast swirling about with colorful butterflies and flowers.

All in all, it was a wonderful night and an experience I'd recommend to any family--especially Tinkerbell fans.

The show is playing at the Honda Center in Anaheim through December 27th. OC Family readers can log onto www.ticketmaster.com and enter the coupon code MOM for a special discount!

All he wants for Christmas is a nose-hair trimmer

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 10:33:00 GMT

As long as we're talking practical gifts--I'd like a year's supply of deodorant. I'm serious.

How awesome would it be to open my medicine cabinet and be all: YES! The Senate has unanimously voted to give my armpits universal coverage. For an entire year. Holla!

I mean, who wants a kiss that begins with Kay's when instead you can get a brand-new water heater? Now, that's my kinda romantic.

Except, sometimes even practical gifts go awry. My husband kept talking about how great it would be to have a fogless shaving mirror. He was tired of "shaving blind" in the shower. So, two years ago I got him one.

He still hasn't opened the box.

"Real men shave without mirrors," he explained.

Like, huh? What's the point of a practical gift not getting any practical use? Dude.

Even those dopey Christmas sweaters are better than unused practical gifts. At least a Christmas sweater gives you a good laugh over that one Christmas when Great Aunt Marge bought everyone matching reindeer sweaters that sang. In harmony.

Not so with the unused nose-hair trimmer. Just seeing its unopened box will make me feel all depressed. Like an underachieving gift-buyer. Like I need to apologize. Do penance.

Maybe real men can use tweezers to yank out their nose-hairs.

I dunno. Gift-buying is fraught with emotional landmines. Should I stick with the gift cards this year?

That way if he doesn't use it, I can use it.

'Cuz I still want my year's supply of deodorant.

Where's My Man-Soap?

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 10:18:00 GMT

My husband just wants soap. Or better yet, "An all-in-one deal. None of this separate shampoo and conditioner whatevers."

But every time he goes down the personal hygiene aisle, he's overwhelmed by beauty bars and SPF. He wants soapdarnit, not "whaddya-call it? Potpourri? Perfume?"

Perfume? Well, I know what he means. He doesn't want to emerge from the shower smelling like a flowery cloud bomb. He just wants to be clean. Is that too much to ask?

I've tried buying everything from Body Wash ("Body-What? Why can't they just call it soap?") to all-in-one shampoo/conditioners to plain, white bars.

Either it's too complicated or it's too smelly.

When I try to introduce a new product, he'll take one cautionary sniff and then stagger back a few paces. "What is this stuff?"

He'll squint at the label, "Moisturizing rain?"

He'll hand it back, muttering about "false advertising" and quackery. Scams. Conspiracies.

He does have a point. It's been so difficult to find a basic soap that it seems like cosmetic companies are solely targeting women. Almost like they've jumped on the Discriminate Against Masculine Men bandwagon.

It's a shame, too. I like it that my man is suspicious of my bath salts and body oils. I'm thankful that he looks askance at this whole "metrosexual nonsense."

It means I don't have to compete for bathroom space. Or ever wonder who's prettier.

I'm also thankful that one day he arrived home, triumphant. He'd discovered the holy grail of male hygiene. We like to call it "Man Soap."

It's a triple all-in-one: soap, shampoo, conditioner. It's packaged in a thick, man-shaped bottle. The label is written in ALL CAPS BOLD FACE--you know, for ease of location in the hygiene aisle.

It's convenient and uncomplicated. It doesn't require multiple steps. None of that "rinse-n-repeat stuff."

And best of all, it smells like a man. A clean man.

Maybe it's not such a conspiracy, after-all.

All Aboard The Christmas Train!

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 11:50:00 GMT

It doesn't feel like Christmas until we ride the Christmas Train at the Irvine Park Railroad! This is our favorite place to go visit Santa Claus--and this year was the twins' first time. We bundled up and arrived at the train depot just a few minutes before five.

We were greeted by Marisa, the friendly OC Parks information officer who welcomed us to this special preview event for OC Family Bloggers.

This was the twins' first train ride and Jasiel was so excited, she kept clapping and shrieking. The train wound its way past old, California oaks wrapped in lovely lights and past the paddle-boat lake where the lights from the boat-house reflected prettily in the water.

We pulled to a stop near the festive stage where Santa was seated in all his Christmas glory. The twins could hardly take their eyes off him.

"Santa! Santa!" they yelled repeatedly.

There was popcorn and hot chocolate available for purchase--which keeps the little ones happy while waiting in line. In years past we've waited up to 30 minutes to see Santa.

When we reached the stage, the twins panicked. Santa is a big fellow and they were overwhelmed. We held them and they calmed down while the older children told Santa their Christmas wishes.

After taking our photo with Santa, we caught the next train back to the depot and sang-a-long to "Deck the Halls." The train chugged by the water mill and through the brightly lit tunnel. Just before we pulled into the station, it began "snowing"! You know, kinda like the "snow" at Disneyland.

We finished up the night in the Christmas Village, just to the left of the train depot. Mrs. Claus read us a story and the children colored Christmas-themed pictures. There were other activities for purchase like a bounce house, cookie decorating ($4 to decorate one cookie) and an carnival-style games.

It was a wonderful evening of fun for the whole family. Even my ten year old enjoyed it, although I think she's just about outgrown it.

If you plan on riding the Christmas Train this year, be sure to check out the helpful information @ The Irvine Park Railroad.

Merry Christmas!

Are the "Twilight" books misogynistic?

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 15:11:00 GMT

I just finished the first Twilight book. I can't believe parents are letting their daughters read this stuff--unless it's to crack jokes at the hilariously chauvinistic dialogue.

You know, real gems like this one from lust-a-licious vampire Edward Cullen: "You are exactly my kind of heroin." (p.268)

Now that right there is one swoon-worthy compliment!

If only it weren't followed shortly after by this proclamation: "As if I needed another reason to kill you." (p.272)

Right, because nothing turns a girl on like a guy who is conflicted...ABOUT KILLING HER.

"I could reach out, meaning to touch your face, and crush your skull by mistake. You don't realize how incredibly breakable you are." (p.310)

O, Edward! Throw me over your shoulder and haul me downstairs to breakfast after a night of passionate, fully-clothed cuddling!

Yes, peeps, it's true. Edward Cullen and Bella Swan practice abstinence. Our chivalrous vampire doesn't want to fornicate with Bella. He just wants to kill her.

Darn those "confusing" murderous impulses!

But let's focus on the positive. A chaste vampire. Ah, yes. This is a vampire you can bring home to meet the folks.

And don't worry. If Edward ends up killing Bella, it will be her fault. That's because she should know to stand perfectly still when he kisses her. Otherwise vampire passions are aroused and, well, murder happens.

"Damn it, Bella!" he broke off, gasping. "You'll be the death of me, I swear you will." (p.363)

Romantic, right? He gets to die figuratively. She gets to die literally. Awesome.

You know, the only thing less funny than Twilight's cheesy one-liners is the fact that millions of young girls might actually believe its false portrayal of love.

How many young women will now bypass good, decent (non-violent!) guys in favor of the "complex, confused" bad-boy? Parents should point out to their daughters that the romance in Twilight hinges upon nothing less than the entire subjugation of its female protagonist.

Subjugation is not love. Neither is obsession that leads to death. Didn't we learn that from Romeo & Juliet? Darn those pesky double-suicide endings!

Look, I get it. Back in the day, Heathcliff was my literary hero. Then I got married and had five kids. That cured me right quick.

Now I prefer a real man who is respectful, kind and replaces the busted water heater. He even takes out the diaper pail without being asked! Seriously, how hot is that?

Yeah, that's my kinda hero. And it's the kind of hero I'm going to help my daughters choose, too. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got a book to throw in the trash...er, recycling bin.

The taxi ride that shattered my worldview

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 06:58:00 GMT

Chicago traffic and a chatty cab-driver allowed me the opportunity to re-examine my life. At first, I resisted. I had a headache and was nauseous from a bumpy plane flight.

But after a conversation with my Haitian cab-driver, I realized I had nothing to complain about.

Louis (not his real name) told me he works 16 hour days, 7 days a week. He has five children. He came to the United States from Haiti twelve years ago--by himself. He worked hard for seven years before bringing all his children to Chicago.

His children arrived not speaking a word of English. Five years later, they speak it fluently and his eldest child was accepted to a prestigious Illinois university.

Louis used to work at a higher paying job, but he was laid off when the economy went bad. Now he works as a cab driver which he says is not a great job because people are trying to save money by taking buses or trains.

I asked Louis what he does for fun--which I immediately realized was the lamest question ever. He just sorta looked at me in the rearview mirror and shook his head.

"There is no fun," he said. "No vacation. No holidays. Just work and sleep."

I think it was at that moment I realized how sheltered, how privileged, how insanely oblivious I am to the world outside my little stay-at-home-mom bubble.

"Do you at least take Christmas day off?" I asked, weakly.

"No," he said. "If I park the car, that's money I'm losing."

Louis' dream in life is to give his children the possibility of a better life. He said he plans on working 16 hour days for the next 10 years and then going back home to Haiti when his youngest child is 19.

And then, somehow, we were talking about religion and God. It was a natural segue, really. Louis knows a little something about sacrifice and selfless love.

"I don't go to church anymore," he admitted. "But I do keep the faith!"

I was amazed--and ashamed of myself. For some reason, I had expected Louis to be an atheist--or at least an agnostic. I mean, how could someone who enjoys so few of life's joys believe in a benevolent God?

But no. Louis was downright cheerful about his intact belief system.

Sometimes I think I've gone through a lot when it comes to crises of faith. But would I still "keep the faith" if I had to work 16 hour days, 7 days a week?

Would the one single hope of making a better life for my children be enough for me?

Honestly, it was a pretty convicting taxi ride.

A few moments later we arrived at my sister's house. Louis pulled my suitcase out of the trunk of his cab.

I thanked him profusely. And then I tipped him generously.

It was my way of saying thank you for a safe ride. And also for being the finest example of sacrificial love and genuine faith that I've met in a very long while.

Die, skinny jeans, die!

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 19:46:00 GMT

I'd like to know which fashion designer took a hard look at 99.9% of the American population and thought: "Yeah! Skinny jeans! That'd be a GREAT idea!"

Because unless you're an emaciated supermodel or a pre-pubescent boy, skinny jeans are a disaster.

It's so unfair. Just when I make my peace with boot-cut jeans, some genius decides that denim leggings are hot. And now I can't find a pair of stinkin' boot-cut jeans anywhere.

I mean, seriously. Pair up some skinny jeans with a tank top and I resemble a stuffed sausage, fresh from the meat-packing plant.

I don't know about you, but I'm a real woman. Not a mannequin.

Which is to say, I have hips.

Not that men look any better in skinny jeans. In fact, skinny jeans should come with a warning label for men.

WARNING: MAY CAUSE STERILITY. WEAR AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Skinny jeans just need to die. Especially acid-washed skinny jeans. And with it? V-neck shirts for men.

Really, who thought men in v-necks was a good idea? Ick. Men of the world: spare us your hairy cleavage.

It's just ridiculously frustrating. Most of what qualifies as fashion these days makes me wanna throw up a little.

Why can't we just go back to long dresses and hoop-skirts? Frankly, I'd rather wear a corset to show off my waist than skinny jeans to show off my muffin-top.

I'm calling for a revolution. Let's demand real fashion for real women. How about maxi-dresses WITH SLEEVES, for starters?

Chubby-armed women of the world unite!

Skinny jeans, your days are numbered.