Tragic politics junkie

If you know me personally, then you know I’m a hopeless politics junkie. It’s like high school gossip, except instead of hashing out whether Zach really likes Michelle or if he’s just cozying up to get in good with her hot friend Brianna, politics is all, “OMG Chandler just txted McConnell all ‘can I come hang w/ u in DC?,’ and McConnell said “lol no way, im going 2 hang w/ my BFF Bunning. L8R!”

I was planning to go out this past Saturday night and be sociable, but instead I stayed in just so I could watch the South Carolina primary returns. I DVR every single primary debate, watch Meet the Press religiously, and read the CNN Political Ticker every chance I get (the comments are a scream). And that’s just to start with. Someone needs to stage an intervention, I’m thinking.

Please tell me there are others reading this who are as tragically fascinated by the elections as I am.

(On the other hand, I was truly delighted when the Sprog threw a temper tantrum the other day after I had to break it to him that he was not allowed to vote yet. And then I mopped up my sloppy civic pride and sent him to Time Out. Still, though. *wipes away a tear*)

The Temple of Doom method for cereal

This weekend has been one of great joy for the dog. See, we fed Baby Girl her first rice cereal on Friday, and P.J.’s face lit up like it was Christmas. Wait a minute! his face said. I remember this from when the Loud One was little! And sure enough, he began circling the high chair like a fat little hammerhead shark. I think it’s safe to say that he’s looking forward to many months of slobbery food dropping over the side of the high chair like sweet, sweet manna from heaven. Chicken and green bean dinner-flavored manna, as a matter of fact. Whatever, saves me a few swipes with the mop.

So, yay. We have now entered the phase of Baby Girl’s life where mealtimes will variously require: a huge vinyl bib, paper towels and 409, a wet vac, and a catcher’s mitt. Oh, and enough plastic tarp to make the kitchen look like one of those nutty Christo exhibits (you know, the guy who wraps up bridges as art).

For Baby Girl loves nothing so much as examining her cereal by plunging her hand into her mouth, scooping out said cereal, and holding it aloft while cackling gleefully. Actually, she kind of reminds me of the evil high priest from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom who rips the flaming heart right out of that poor sacrificial yob’s chest. The girl eats with gusto.

In other news: Yesterday, for no particular reason, the Sprog stopped calling me “Mommy” and started saying “Mom” instead. My husband also graduated from “Daddy” to “Dad” at the same time. I noticed that he still calls me Mommy when he’s tired or sad, though it’s not much consolation.

I know he has to grow up. I’m glad he is, really. Still, I wonder if he’d call me “Mommy” if I asked him really nicely? Just for a few days, until I have time to get used to it.

They’re both growing so fast—I don’t often see it because I’m with them every day, but sometimes weird little milestones like this trip me up, and then it’s like I’m looking at a wallet photo of cousins I haven’t seen in years. Can’t believe they’re getting so big.

Reality Check: Miss America is not my ideal

Oy vey, what a week. Think I need to go to the doctor and get my hemoglobin checked. I feel wiped out all the time; could be the chronic anemia rearing its ugly head again. But, onward and upward! With toothpicks propping up my eyelids if necessary!

So anyway, my knitting suffered greatly last night while I was watching TV. Oh yes it did.

I was kicking back after the kids were in bed, wading through the queue on my DVR as I attempted a hat for my daughter. Unfortunately, I had to frog the whole thing after watching Miss America Reality Check. I was so busy griping about the show that I ended up twisting my stitches dreadfully.

Which brings up the question: why was I watching this if it annoyed me so much? Truth is, I have a thing for watching beauty pageants. Oh, they’re kind of silly, sure, but so is most of the other stuff on TV. And I have no problem with a woman trying to improve her poise, health, articulation, talent, and so forth, as long as that’s not the first priority in her life. There are better ways to be beautiful.

What I have a problem with is the pageant mindset that beauty comes first, and then all the rest of that stuff, like, oh, being smart (as Miss Teen South Carolina 2007 can attest). Or the assumption that beauty takes so much effort. That women should trowel on the makeup, wear stiletto heels and bikinis with their breasts duct taped into a pleasing shape, and go through cans of hairspray in order to win a beauty pageant. I have a problem with the concept that anyone can “win” at beauty, period.

Oh, they can call it a scholarship pageant all they want, and they can call the criteria “good health” or “fitness”, but I’ve not yet seen a fit, talented, articulate, homely girl wearing a sash.

So I was interested to see the promos for Miss America Reality Check last week. After years of low ratings, they said they were going to revolutionize the pageant. All 52 contestants were going to live in a big house together for 10 days as celebrity consultants helped them let go of classic pageant trappings and transform into today’s “It” girl—modern and relatable—before the actual pageant this Saturday.

I’ll give the girls credit: they were willing to step outside their comfort zones, and happy to be given modern hairstyles that didn’t make them look like, as one of the judges put it, “senators’ wives”. No, it was the judges who were driving me crazy. They told the girls to be themselves, be “real”, be “natural”, wear less makeup. Great advice, but the three contestants who best fit that description got smacked down hard.

Miss Vermont is intelligent and beautiful without even trying, but a judge said she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed and advised her to put more effort into hair and makeup. Miss Alaska is gorgeous, very original (her evening gown has huge butterflies printed all over it), and outspoken to a fault—sometimes bothering fellow contestants who aren’t used to that in a beauty queen. So she was chastised for it, but promised to improve. Did make an effort to watch her mouth more. Was then lavished with praise from the judges for being original, but not too original. Then they told her to get rid of her funky legwarmers because she really needed to “look the part”. Whatever happened to being yourself?

And then there’s Miss Utah. Boy, I saved the best for last here. This woman is tough as nails: a Sergeant in the National Guard, a nurse who recently served as a combat medic in the Middle East for a year, and was by all accounts an inspiration to fellow soldiers and scared Afghani women while there. Doesn’t hardly wear make-up, was laughingly clueless about how to strut down the catwalk or flirt with the camera during a photo shoot.

In the first episode the judges told her to wear more makeup; she obliged with a prank: showed up to a contestant event wearing super-hooker makeup, big sparkly earrings, and a (hot pink? can’t remember) bikini. The judges loved it—until someone tipped them off that it was a huge joke. They puffed up like blowfish, sputtering that she was rude and that the Miss America Pageant was “serious business”. They really said that. So of course at the end of that episode, she was chosen as of the “Bottom Three” contestants. They broke it to her gently by first complimenting her for taking charge when a fellow contestant had a bad asthma attack. But never mind that, she was in the Bottom Three because she had tipped the sacred cow of the judges’ own self-importance. Yup, those are some fine priorities right there.

I mean, I thought they were shooting for “relatable”, and nothing is more relatable than a woman staring at the camera and confessing, “I do not know what I am doing.”

So all in all the new Miss America Pageant is the same old hustle with a new haircut. I’ll pass.

What’s grosser than gross?

Just today Within the last 90 minutes, as a matter of fact, at Casa Chapman:

–Baby Girl, who has been teething and drooling on me all week anyway, threw up on me so entirely that I was forced to change both our outfits and swab the office chair. Then she grinned fetchingly and drooled some more.

–The dog, suffering perhaps from indigestion, has thrown up on the same rug three times. He looked awfully sorry about it all, too.

–The Sprog, never one to let social conventions define him, was found to be peeing into the plastic cup I use to pour bathwater over the children’s heads at bathtime. He was missing his target rather more often than not, and that was before he took off screaming and giggling down the hall with his pants still around his knees. While still peeing. He probably knew he was in trouble because he’s been getting lectures all week on why it is not okay to pee in the bathtub. Bath cup = progress, yes/no?

Does anybody else have any revolting, altogether unsanitary mess they wish to visit on my house or my person? Speak now or forever hold your peace, because I am just about out of paper towels and Resolve. Also, resolve.

So help me, if one more disgusting thing happens to me today before I leave for work, my neighbors will see a crazy lady riding a Swiffer like a pony in the streets.

Behind the scenes at Jeopardy 2: Electric Boogaloo

Man, the hits just keep coming. A few days ago I got an email from Ken Jennings. Yes, that one. He wrote: “We have two little kids…if you braved Jeopardy shortly after giving birth, you’re a better man than I am Gunga Din.” And unfortunately, in this electronic age, I can’t even properly fangirl and swear to never again wash the hand that held the letter. Le sigh.

Anyhow, back to Jeopardy. Last post ended up with us about to go onto the sound stage for the first time. And there we pick up, with we happy ducklings all lined up at the green room door and marching down the hall.

Behind the scenes at Jeopardy (Part I)

It’s been a strange ride, folks. In the week since I published the blog post about my ill-fated Jeopardy appearance, I have been swarmed with visitors who got here Googling for stuff like “heather chapman biggest jeopardy loser” (ouch), and emails from all over the country from people consoling me on my loss (awww). Also a lot of emails asking me what it’s like to go on Jeopardy, and, incredibly, requests for advice on how to do well on the show.

Frankly, I’m baffled by the last. Surely anyone who saw me on the show is aware that I am the worst Jeopardy contestant of all time; I mean, I actually broke the record for the all-time lowest score ever on the show. That’s right, folks. Bask, BASK in the reflected glow of my greatness. Or not. Whatever.

And people want my advice. Alright, here it is. Ready? Do not go on the show if you’re out of your mind with sleep deprivation. Also, don’t wear pinstripes because the contestant wranglers will make you change. Anything else? Go ask Ken Jennings. Punt!

However, I can answer with authority what it’s like to go on Jeopardy, for those who are somewhat interested, but not interested enough to go buy Prisoner of Trebekistan. Click on the handy cut and follow along with me down the gutter of Memory Lane:

Real men bake quiche

This morning I was served a sumptuous breakfast of apple-broccoli-jelly doughnut cake, with a side of corn. I ate it all, of course, and with many compliments to the chef. Then the chef grabbed the spoon out of my hand and declared that it was a catapult for his Transformers.

So, yeah, we bought a play kitchen for the Sprog for Christmas. He loves it, but I was surprised when an acquaintance gave me grief about it yesterday. She said it just wasn’t an appropriate present for a little boy, and asked me why I didn’t buy him some Hot Wheels or something. Um…what? First of all, the Sprog is half-buried in all the rocket ships, action figures, sports equipment, and other assorted macho stuff he got for Christmas (some of it from us). Second of all, how is a play kitchen going to make him less masculine? I didn’t wrap up a skirt and heels to go with the kitchen, did I? So I’m afraid I don’t understand what the big hairy deal is.

A lot of the men in my family cook, and the Sprog sees that and wants to imitate it. Which is great, because the ability to prepare a decent meal is a skill everyone should have. And I guess any single guys who refuse to learn how to cook can take comfort in their unassailed manliness as they subsist on Smack Ramen and Big Macs until they succeed in dragging a female back to the cave.

Or—I know! Maybe it’s only okay to get the Sprog a kitchen if we make him pretend that he’s a five star chef bringing down a big paycheck, not a husband and father preparing dinner for his family.

*sigh* Forgive me for being a little annoyed here. It’s just…I wasn’t trying to be aggressively P.C. by buying the play kitchen, I swear. I knew my son would enjoy it, and it was on sale, so I bought it. He’s actually playing with it right now, frying an orange in a skillet for Baby Girl’s breakfast. What on earth is so horrible and feminizing about that?

And since I might as well confess all, the Sprog also has a baby doll. He requested it when I was pregnant because he wanted to have a little baby, too, and he loves it very much. He feeds it and changes it like any good father would. And he named it Luke Skywalker and is (from what I can tell) training him to be a Jedi knight. I found the Sprog camping out under a pillow fort last week with Luke, and he told me to be quiet because they were getting ready to attack Stormtroopers, just him and his little Padawan apprentice. I suspect this is also something many fathers like to do with their sons, if my husband is any evidence.

So I’m okay with the doll, and I’m okay with the kitchen. They’re helping him roleplay valuable life skills (like how to properly ambush Imperial troops?), and I suspect that one day down the road, his future wife will be very glad I got him these toys.

Discuss: Is a play kitchen a good present for a little boy, as long as he’s interested? What about dolls and other traditionally “feminine” toys?

I lost on Jeopardy, baby

I was there to match my intellect on national TV
Against a plumber, oh, and an architect, both with a PhD
I was tense, I was nervous, I guess it just wasn’t my night
Art Fleming gave the answers
Oh, but I couldn’t get the questions right -ight, -ight

I lost on Jeopardy, baby (oooh)
I lost on Jeopardy, baby (oooh)

–“I Lost on Jeopardy”, Weird Al Yankovic

So, my shameful secret is out: I got killed on Jeopardy. I didn’t just lose—it was on a whole other level of meta-suck. I could have played more conservatively, but after a certain point, when it became clear that I was going to come in third place, I figured there was no reason not to ring in every time I had an inkling of what the answer could be (third place contestant gets $1,000 no matter what). Mostly, though, I just stood there under the hot lights contemplating my supreme humiliation on national television.

I didn’t expect it go down like that. I have always been a trivia queen, and I was on varsity quick recall in high school. I was, in all modesty, rather good at it. And I must have been pretty decent when I did the final tryouts for Jeopardy in Atlanta last year, otherwise they wouldn’t have invited me to be on the show. So why did I stink it up so bad?

Friends, I had a baby, and it kicked my butt. Baby Girl was one month old to the day when I went on Jeopardy, and I felt like the walking dead. I had been getting 3-4 hours of sleep a night for that entire month, with a one-hour nap in the afternoon if I could get both the kids to sleep at the same time. And I went back to work two weeks after giving birth. Little known fact: one of the biggest side effects of chronic sleep deprivation is an extremely delayed reaction time. This is not terribly helpful when you live and die by the buzzer.

On the other hand, all the lightning reflexes in the world don’t matter when the categories are absolutely not your thing. The Vatican Online, weapons, geometry, and second-tier world leaders would all probably be on my short list for Jeopardy! Categories From Hell.

But…what can you do? You do what you can with what you have, and if you know you’re going to bomb then you ride that bomb straight down to the ground and hold your head high afterwards. Also, wave your cowboy hat around a bit if you’re so inclined.

“ That’s right, Al–You lost. And let me tell you what you didn’t win: a twenty volume set of the Encyclopedia International, a case of Turtle Wax, and a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco Treat. But that’s not all. You also made yourself look like a jerk in front of millions of people. You brought shame and disgrace to your family name for generations to come. You don’t get to come back tomorrow. You don’t even get a lousy copy of our home game. You’re a complete loser!”

When I was invited to go on Jeopardy, I had an agenda in mind. I wanted to prove to my kids (especially my daughter) that it’s cool for girls to be smart; that you don’t have to trade in your brain just because you want to breed. Obviously, I proved nothing of the sort, what with my stellar performance and all. But there’s something else to be learned from this whole fiasco:

When I came back from L.A, cringing in horror, I realized all over again how amazing my friends and family are. Because every single one of them has been wonderful, even though I wanted to run away with my shame and hide under a table until it was all over with. That’s what I want to remember about this, what I want my kids to know: that it’s important simply to try, and even if you fail horribly, publicly, and at something that you knew in your heart you were born to rule—the people who love you will still love you and encourage you, and nothing will change that. And that, I think, is a much more important lesson after all.

 

Resolutions: no guilt and better pancakes

Oh, fine. I guess all the cool kids are making resolutions, so I suppose I should too. Baaaaa. Although, let the record reflect that I am terrible at keeping resolutions. The year I swore to become a vegetarian, I sold out for a cold can of beanie weenies within a week.

Nevertheless, let us plunge into those heady waters better known as Self-Discipline and Wishful Thinking:

1) I will lose weight. No, seriously. Moo.

2) I will learn to say ‘No’ when I really don’t have the time to help, even if I like to feel useful.

3) I will stop feeling guilty about my abilities as a mother. And this one is not entirely my fault, either–there is nobody in the world who can make us feel like crap for our parenting choices like other mothers. Ladies, the spears are supposed to be pointed outward.

4) I will get at least six hours of sleep a night. Hahahahahahahahahahahahaaa.

5) I will turn off the TV more often.

6) I will clean house more often.

7) I will figure out how to flip pancakes on the griddle so that they stay intact.

8) I will buy more shoes and convince myself that it’s okay to spend money on myself once in a while (Hey, had to throw in at least one softball).

Discuss: What are your resolutions? Think any of us have a prayer of achieving any of these?

Proof that we’re raising a nerd, Part MMCMLXXXIX

More pillow talk with the Sprog:

Me: What do you want me to sing tonight?

The Sprog: Sing that song that goes ‘falling down, falling down, falling down’.

Me: Okay, I know the one you mean. *sings “London Bridge is Falling Down” in its entirety*

The Sprog: Mommy! My fair lady, that’s WONDER WOMAN. And she will throw her rope and SAVE the bridge from falling down! YEAH!

Me: . . .

The Sprog: And then? Then she’ll fly back to the Hall of Justice! And all the bad guys will fall off the bridge.

Me: I . . . really?

The Sprog: YEAH! Mommy, sing it again! Sing, “All the bad guys are falling down, falling down, falling down,” okay? What do you think, Mommy? Does that sound cool? THAT SOUNDS COOL!

Me: I think we may need to limit the amount of time you spend watching Super Friends DVDs.