nobody knows christmas better than hallmark and lifetime

Check out lessons learned from holiday movies on celebutant:

http://www.usdish.com/celebutaunt/lessons-you-can-learn-from-lifetime-and-hallmark-holiday-movies

when bad christmas songs happen to good people

Every year we are blessed with a glut of new holiday music from our favorite singing sensations. After all, we need every artist who has ever been signed to a record label to share their version of “Jingle Bells” or “Let It Snow” with our waiting ears. This year Michael Bublé came out with a complete holiday CD, following up his previous EP that featured just a few tantalizing tunes that left his fans eager for more seasonal singing from the velvety-voiced crooner. The album, called Christmas, went on sale at the end of October, and for the most part it doesn’t disappoint. However, there is one track that goes terribly, terribly wrong.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the song “Santa Baby.” This syrupy-sweet, somewhat sensual song is usually sung in a Betty Boop style that flirts with and teases Ol’ St. Nick in a manner that turns the jolly old elf into a sort of sugar daddy. Well, our man Michael has taken this song and made it his own, changing the term of endearment throughout the song from” Baby” to “Buddy,” “Pally” and even “Papi.” Papi, by the way, is what Sofia Vergara should call Al Bundy on Modern Family – not what Michael Bublé should be crooning to Santa.



And that’s not even the worst part. At no point does Michael take the song in an ironic, comedic direction. Oh no. He keeps the flirty, teasing tone and sings the song as smoothly and earnestly as he sings other classics like “I’ll be Home for Christmas” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” As the song plays on he promises Santa that he’ll “wait up for you, dude,” and implores Kris Kringle to both “fill his stocking” and “trim his tree.” And, I know what you’re thinking – but it’s not just my dirty mind that makes that creepy – a friend’s 13 year-old boy heard the song and said, “That’s not right.”

After my first listen, I felt like I needed to take a shower. And I had to wash all memory of that song out of my hair before I could enjoy a second listen to even the non-creepy songs on the CD. “Santa Buddy” left a frightened and confused taste in my mouth for the dulcet sounds of Mr. Bublé, and that was something I thought could never happen. I don’t know who is ultimately to blame for this travesty against Christmas music – whether it was Michael’s idea or his producers – but the only way this song could ever work would be if Neil Patrick Harris was singing it – with tongue firmly in cheek. That would make sense.

it's beginning to look a lot like christmas...

It's that special time of year again when Christmas overtakes, well, everything. In honor of that magical spell (and in order to be a total conformist) I once again offer up my holiday gift of jolly seasonal blogs. I hope you enjoy!

To kick off the 21st Century Wonder Woman 2011 Christmas Season, I'm starting with a list of my favorite things about this time of year - offered in no particular order (keeping in mind that I sort of have a mostly love-hate relationship with all of this, so even things that feel my love might get a little bruised in the process).

Numero Uno: Seasonally-themed overpriced coffee concoctions at Starbucks. Yes, I am a part of the evil Starbucks machine - and if you have a problem with that, you can suck it! While it all starts with the return of the pumpkin spice latte in autumn, that's just the precursor to wonderful delights such as the eggnog latte, gingerbread latte (I've never actually tried that one, not being a huge fan of gingerbread even when it's not in my coffee) and my penultimate favorite - the peppermint mocha (I prefer mine white and with no whip). Sometimes I break down during other times of the year and order a venti white peppermint mocha with no whip in the middle of summer - but it always tastes best during the holiday season. Yum!

Numero Dos: Christmas music. My love of this festive cacophony of sleigh bells, choirs, Bing Crosby - and sometimes Elivs - is two-pronged: I love nostalgic classics that take me, much like that well-known ghost of Christmas past, back to those innocent holiday days of yore. I also love hearing new renditions of those beloved favorites as wrapped up and sung by the likes of Glee, Michael Buble, Diana Krall and She and Him. My all-time favorite song, though, is Judy Garland singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." I like the melancholy in the song as I think melancholy owns a front-row seat in the holiday season. Secondly, I love to make fun of all the ridiculous and cheesy songs that pollute the holiday airwaves - and no mention of holiday tunes would be complete without a nod to the many inadvertently pervy songs that fill me with mirth and delight upon each listen (for more on this topic, check out my blog from Xmas 2008). Not to beat a dead horse, but there is also an awesomely sick and wrong Christmas tune by Fall Out Boy that you must check out: Yule Shoot Your Eye Out.

Trois: Decorations. Oh yeah, baby! Even cheesy, horrible, overdone decorations make me happy. I don't necessarily want to live in the midst of them, but I do appreciate the enthusiasm and garish taste that goes into them (for more, see my blog watch of my neighbors' decor from Thanksgiving 2010). This year I am trying something new on the decoration front. After a viewing of Elf the other nite, I was inspired by Buddy's paper chain and snowflake explosion at his evil dad's house - a style that one friend has deemed "trashy chic." So, trashy chic it is! The first phase of trashy chic started last nite (see pic, above) with the hanging of the inaugural paper chain. Awesome!

Cuatro: Food. Well, cooking food, to be exact. Every year I cook a big Christmas feast for my friends and assorted loved ones. This is one of my favorite, favorite things to do and is typically the only gift my friends get from me - so it helps me be a cheap bastard, as well. Eschewing turkey and the usual holiday spread, I decided - o so many years ago - that it would be cool to make a meal from a different country every Christmas. That way we could try new things and learn about traditions around the world at the same time. As a mother of young kidlets, I thought this idea was genius. The first year I made a Mediterranean feast of stuffed leg of lamb, dolmathes, lemon rice, tortellini salad, mussels and assorted meats, cheeses, olives and breads. It was such a big hit, that I was forbidden from moving on to any other countries in subsequent years. A few years ago I was able to convince everyone to partake of a "traditional" Victorian Christmas feast (I even boiled the pudding!) This year, having made the Mediterranean feast on Thanksgiving (at my brother's request), I will be making prime rib, crab legs and various delectable accompaniments to complement those main attractions.

Cinq: Glitter, sequins and other shiny things. Christmas is one of the only times of year when it is entirely acceptable - nay, encouraged - to light yourself up just as brightly and sparkly as the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Hells yeah! You can wear glitter on your clothes, on your legs, in your hair - even on your eyelashes. And this is just seen as adorably festive rather than cheaply whorish! How can you beat that?

SIX: Charity, generosity and an abnormal tendency to be just a little more forgiving, helpful and aware of those less fortunate than ourselves. I always tried - in the midst of overblown materialism and the inevitable "gimmes" - to make my kids conscientious of not only taking their grandparents for all they can get at this time of year, but giving something back to those, who whether due to stronger marriages or better all-around mental health, don't have six different sets of grandparents to spoil them rotten. Much to my delight both of my chicas have come through with a deep concern for others - and they show it. Gabi (even while owing nearly $600 in fines) has been joyously giving away any dollars she has in her pocket whenever she passes by a grizzled fellow with a sign asking for help. She just can't go by and act like they're not there - she is compelled to dig into her pocket and give. Savannah has been into "adopting" kids at Christmas - and even adopted Jesus one year!

Well, there you have it. Just a few of my favorite things about this time of year. Undoubtedly you will be subjected to more holiday musings in the days to come - so stay tuned!

(You can subscribe to my awesome blog to get automatic updates (for those of you who usually get updates via email from me or by just checking back). OR - If you want to be added to my email list, go ahead and send me your email address to sushiira@hotmail.com with the subject line "Add me to blog list!")

(poetry stop)

dull grey tape
slapped across the mouth
of
my heart
my brain
but
salty wet trails
escape
the bindings
and
shatter the deafening
silence

a sad state of affairs

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way I became a slobbering, mushy, sentimental mess. And nothing seems to bring it out in me so consistently as Glee.

Yes.

Glee.

A stupid Fox series about a high school glee club leads me to reach for the tissues and wish I wore water-proof mascara.

Whether it's Kurt and his dad so honestly and tenderly navigating the terrain of teenage homosexuality and bullying or evil Sue Sylvester mourning the loss of her pure-hearted sister - I just can't hold back the tears.

If it's Tuesday and I happen to catch an episode, I'll also be sniffling and wiping away tears. The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke. I must have been premenstrual or oddly weakened by stress/illness/work/lack of sleep/lack of exercise/lack of wine/too much wine (you get the idea).

But no -

It happened again.

And again.

And (shamefully) again.

I don't want to think too hard about what this pattern says about me. I like to think that it means I'm a gentle and delicate flower who is so empathetic and compassionate that even a fictionalized portrayal of human suffering or triumph or struggle or self-realization touches my tender heart and leads to the subsequent saline and snot snivelling that shortly ensues.

But I don't know anyone who will buy that delicate flower shtick.

Maybe it's early-onset menopause. Maybe I'm bi-polar in the face of musical dramedy. Maybe it's just one of life's mysteries. Whatever it is, I don't think it's going away...for now I guess all I can do is try to avoid TV on Tuesday nites or stock up on the tissues.

defeated

...at least that's how I feel. In so many ways. About the most important things.

I know that I am not able to be the hard-ass, consistent, rational person that Gabi needs me to be. I hate her hating me, if only for a moment.

I've always told my girls that my job is to be their mom, not their friend. And I still believe that. But when the 'not their friend' feels like enemy, it's really hard to persist.

Especially when you're trying to be yourself at the same time.

It seems like there comes a time when a parent feels like they've denied their own 'whatever' long enough and they want to embrace it with a vengance. My mother did it when she remarried, and I, as a teenage girl, felt rebuffed.

I have tried not to make my girls feel the same way, but at the same time I recognize ways in which I grasp at some separate identity and feel like I somewhow 'deserve' it and; therefore, give myself permission to indulge myself. Which, in the moment, makes my life easier, but ultimately feels like a disservice to my daughter, which is a horrible offense that I will flaggelate myself for again and again.

I am so lost for an answer, that I am ready to -seriously- try to bring in her dad. As Terri says, what's the worst that could happen? I already feel completely alone (except for my amazing friends and family) and couldn't end up any worse off. The question I have to ask myself is if I truly have no attachment to an outcome with her dad. My inability to write her off is akin to inability to write him off (once upon a time). Although, I would never reach my end with her. The concern is, have I definitively reached my end with him in respect to Gabi--so that I have no expectation whatsoever of his response, help, denial, etc.?

Terri has initiated "Operation Graduation." An intervention to try to get Gabi on track to be able to graduate on time. She is almost half-way through to graduation, which requires 27 credits. She has 5.5. She should at least be close to half of the requirement, but isn't even one quarter of the way there.

And she doesn't care.

It doesn't matter to her. She doesn't see any impact to her life if she doesn't have a high school diploma or doesn't learn to do things that may not seem fun or be her first choice, just because it's what needs to be done...to get a paycheck, to pay the bills, to have a fucking roof over your head and food on the table--let alone a night out or a vacation.

I have utterly failed to create in her a sense of responsibility or accountability or even the idea of consequences that are real enough that doing the minimum required is worth it.

My friends are on board to help fill in the gaps I leave. To remind me of what I need to do. To take on doing some of that on their own to support this awesome girl that we love and, I know, to support me (whom they love, awesome or not).

I am so grateful for that.

And I feel so inadequate that I am obviously incapable of doing this on my own.

And the truth remians that it will, most likely, turn out ok. And she will be fine and possibly amazing--with or without my inadequacy.

But as a parent that's not enough to make you relax. Or sleep well at night.

And, as Terri keeps telling me, "There is no way to fix this."

There is no magical solution. There is nothing I can do--no matter how awesome I might suddenly become--to really make any of this different. And I have to find a way to live with that--without copping out or giving up hope--no matter how tempting that momentarily feels. I will, regardless, go into battle again tomorrow. And I might do okay or I might get my ass kicked. So it fucking goes.

Baggage Claim: You Spin Me Round

There's some baggage you never want to claim as your own. And it's not just that nasty-ass carry-on you inherited from your great-aunt. All too often it's the knock-off Louis Vuitton that, although you knew it wasn't the real thing, still made you feel special until some snotty bitch with a "real" bag came along and burst your delicate bubble.

It started with an Easter basket. For him. Not from me.

He was lucky enough to have a son who was named after him--and his tactic was to play the whole thing off as a case of mistaken identity. Of course the gift was meant for his son, not him!

This, compounded with one hinky thing after another (my robe, night gown, and other miscellaneous clothing usually left hanging in the closet was mysteriously hidden; my drawer in the bathroom was moved; he was "too tired" to have sex and "just wanted to snuggle"), led me to become highly suspicious.

Unfortunately, I was the one to discover the basket and I--despite whatever 'cool girlfriend' cred I try to have--opened the card and read it. It said, "You spin me right round baby, right round."

Really?

I think one of the handles just broke on my knock-off Vuitton.

To be completely honest, this guy was too old to know that song. He was about a decade-and-a-half older than me and not cool enough to know Dead or Alive. I had only tried out the Vuitton for fun--but after a while I truly loved it and didn't even see a knock-off when I looked into its eyes.

So, despite all the warning bells, he just had a way of talking me out of leaving him. I taped that broken handle back on and kept trying to pass my bag off as genuine (or at least passable).

***To read the rest of this story, go to this link: http://convozine.com/conversations/11127

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