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Thinking and Speaking

At the Mocha household we are all getting quite a kick out of Cheerleader Girl, and it just gets funnier and funnier. It's the petty side of me that can't quite contain itself when I'm being silly and pre-menstrual all at once.

This morning, while watching VH-1's Best Week Ever (which I never miss because I simply don't have time to watch the real news) we saw it YET AGAIN. We hope her "week" ends soon because I just can't take the looks my children are giving me while continuing to make fun of the whole thing.

Except, it's nice when they say something stupid from time to time.

Mason shook his head and looked incredulously at the screen and said, "They said that like 5 cheerleaders every year die from accidents like this and you don't see them interviewing them."

We are so proud. After Ken and I exchanged "huh" glances, we questioned whether or not Mason had fallen on his head one too many times as a baby.

15 Minutes of Flop

I'm not one to be bitchy.

Ok. Yes, I am.

But more than that, I'm one to tell it like it is when other people just aren't getting it right. My daughter went to high school with the gal who landed on her head during the SIU basketball game from a 15-foot pyramid the other day. We were shocked to see the footage, and when Mallory came home for her college Spring Break yesterday we kind of laughed about how weird it was that we knew this girl. Our local paper began one of the sentences in the story devoted to her this way, "Always the team player..." I asked Mallory if this was the same gal on her Pom Squad in high school who got kicked off for failing to do what was asked of her.

"Uhhhh.... yeah!"

"And wasn't she the one who wouldn't dress in her uniform and do the spirit sales with us for the City Tournament? Didn't she get taken off the team and pulled to the side for her lack of team spirit?"

"Yep. That would be the one."

I'm just saying. I like the set the record straight is all.

Of course, if she were really hurt, I wouldn't be so petty about the whole thing.

Glad you're doing well, Kristi! Really, I am. If you could see me, I'm doing a whole routine and everything for you.

Chapping My Ass

First, Crap on the Radio
Recently, on my other blog, I've addressed Nelly and his foolish influence on the very students I teach, but where before I was simply 'irked', today it is totally chapping my ass. The uber-ridiculous piece of drivel currently playing on the radio "I'm N Luv (Wit a Stripper)" by T-Pain and Mike Jones makes me wanna holler.

What is this asinine competition women face?

However, I can help but feel duped by it because it's set against the backdrop of ballad music that would normally make me sway a bit if I heard it while trying on a new pair of shoes in some hip shop. Matters of the prurient nature often appeal to the masses, but really... this? Who can compete with a stripper or a porn star, for that matter? What woman needs another comparison? Measuring ourselves against the Kegal Bar wasn't enough with the introduction of the MILF?

Then, The Writing
I don't suppose I would posit myself with the term I hear often lately, 'mommyblogging.' It's not that I don't write about my children. I do. I also write about education and the wonderful women friends I have and my marriage. Can I just say that I write? There are women, mothers specifically, who write. They write. That's what they do. They're also doing the most important job they will ever have. A radical political statement? Not at all. But some people, are attempting to align them all together so that they can point at them with critical, gnarly fingers simply to say, "Look at these stupid women. Always competing. Always trying to win." Rebecca Eckler calls it "competitive parenting."

Cue the fantasy in my head:
It's a dreary day in Toronto. Rebecca is gazing lovingly at the photo of her daughter. She's biting her nails in anticipation of what her next story will be. In walks her editor, handing her a scrap of paper with the scribbled words "mommy blogger" on it. Rebecca sighs, knowing if she doesn't produce a tartly delivered entry on it, she won't be asked to do the Big Assignments again.

Oh, Rebecca. Get out there and don't just read the writing from these women. Appreciate them. Support them. Your job is safe from them. They want to work from home and they're doing that quite nicely, thank you very much. You're safe, girlfriend.

Ok. Now You've Gone Too Far.
Tonight's Academy Awards have some excellent smaller, independent films up for their props, but what does my Sunday newspaper insert have on the cover? All the women. None of the men. We want some good old fashioned Girl Fight Bitchiness, right? There's nothing like a Girl Fight!
"One of these five actresses will hoist an Academy Award tonight. (And who would you pick?)"
Where are the men? Oh, that's right. Joaquin Phoenix got the in-depth interview on the inside. The article that people take seriously. That front cover is merely there so when the camera pans the audience and we see them in their gowns we can look past the craft these women hone in their art and check for their claws underneath their clenched purses. We'll remember we saw these competitive women on the cover and say, "You know who I want to see in the mud? Reese and Charlize. That would be hott."

Well, only if you're a strip club connoisseur. Or a hipster journalist. Or if your father owns a hotel empire. But only those.
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