Not Now Honey, Barbie Needs Her Margarita

I wanted to do a post about Barbie, because at Christmas Sally got her first set of double-Ds, and I felt weird about it and wanted to talk it through. So I thought, and thought, and the more I thought, the more confused I got about the whole thing. Is she good or evil? Is she teaching my kid to want a hot bod? (Sally WAS very excited that Barbie had “all the parts.”) And if so, is that all bad? I mean, I want a hot bod! Maybe Sally will be motivated to get a hot bod when she’s 33 instead of just talk about them.

And for goodness sake, we own astronaut Barbie. She’s a highly educated and professional woman. Who wears heels in space, but that’s her prerogative. Anyway, I’ve decided Barbie is okay. At her core, she’s got a pencil-sized waist a toy that doesn’t beep, sing the ABCs or scream “LET’S PLAY A GAME!” after you leave her alone for 30 seconds. She’s a simple doll. Sally has to use her imagination to come up with scenarios for her. And Sally’s scenarios are pretty awesome.

The real problem with Barbie . . . is the margaritas.

Our Barbie and Ken live in a Mattel beach vacation house. This house is puh-ritty cool. There’s a chandelier. There’s a big screen TV. There’s an adorable pink and purple kitchen where Ken makes pancakes every morning, and a shower he can barely squeeze his impossibly hard body into. Delicious. …The pancakes! Stop it. (wink)

But when Barbie gets thirsty, what has Mattel given her? A blender and two margarita glasses. WHAT?! So, okay, first of all, SO wrong. My 4-year-old is playing house and we’re gonna get everyone liquored up? After I’ve spent time hunting down wholesome handmade Barbie outfits so that she doesn’t look like a cheaper version of a Jersey Shore girl?

Ah, the pre-baby days.

Second, the margaritas (don’t worry, I told Sally they were smoothies) really, really mess up Barbie’s judgement. She met Ken randomly one night and just because the guy was in a tux, she was all leaning into him and blurting out “Lez get married and have babies!”

Ken’s nothing if not smooth, so he was like “Sure sweet thang, whatever you want.” Little did he know Sally had the authority to marry them ON THE SPOT. Short ceremony, too, consisting of: “You may kiss the bride!” [kiss] “Oh no, my baby is coming out!”

You tell me with a straight face that KEN is the dad.

And then Barbie immediately gave birth to Strawberry Shortcake. Who, A) should have those cankles looked at, and B) has red hair and doesn’t look a thing like Ken. I don’t want to break up a home or anything, but I’m just saying, Ken’s best friend is a redhead, and with all the tequila banana smoothie flowing in that house, I’m suspicious.

Then it’s time for Ken to go to work and Strawberry to go to school because Barbie can’t deal. Ken asks if SHE is going to work, too, and she always says, “No, I’m just going to stay home.” And eat the bowl of Doritos provided by Mattel. AND DRINK SMOOTHIES. Ken has to do drop-off and pick-up for a kid who’s probably not even his; go to work; replace light bulbs; and fix the stairs in a beach house they totally cannot afford on one salary–and the man still makes pancakes every morning. I’m not going to get into what all this will eventually do to Barbie’s slowing mommy metabolism. Anyhow, Barbie is content to dry her hair; go potty; move the furniture around; and make sure Ken is staying in his own bed at night.

And drink smoothies.

Is Barbie twisting my child’s brain? I think she was just born that way. Is she ruining Sally’s life? I don’t know, Sally seems to have figured out how to get a man to do everything so she can kick back, which is more than most of us ever accomplish. Plus, I’m pretty sure this blog will ruin her life way before Barbie’s size zero body does.

Happy Birthday to My Blog

June 28: Mom-Colored Glasses turns 1 today. Isn’t it cute? I love how it toddles around eating crumbs off the floor.

But seriously, the blog started a year ago today, and we’ve come a long way, baby. From my entire audience looking suspiciously genetically related to having loyal readers I’ve NEVER MET. You’re all making my wildest dreams come true. Except the part where Matt Damon knocks on my door and hands me a multi-million dollar movie deal and his undying love. Can someone get cracking on that? Still, in one year we’ve covered a lot of parenting ground. And on my blogging birthday I’d like to do what any 1-year-old would do: drool all over my cake while my parents reminisce about the year gone by. . . .

I ask you to join me on a trip town memory lane. FYI, all the images link to the posts they reference, in case you’re obsessed with me and want to relive the year. Okay, here we go . . . (insert ’80s sitcom cop-out episode effect where they transition to snipits of old episodes with wavy lines — doodle-doodle-doo, doodle-doodle-doo, doodle-doodle-doo)

It all started when I said "I don't want to clean. I wish I had a hobby." And Mr. Embee in his infinite wisdom said "Stop whining and start that blog you always talk about." And I thought, "Hey, I'm good at whining. I should start a blog!" And Mr. Embee said "I divorce you" three times but it didn't work.

My first post was about how Sally and I get into homicidal arguments when it's hot out. My mom liked it. So did my dad. Mr. Embee was happy because he got to play video games for an hour while I wrote it.

My relationship with bugs has been well-documented. I hate them. They hate me. May the best organism win.

You've watched Sally grow from a 2 3/4-year-old to a 3 3/4-year-old. This growth involved A. LOT. OF. DRAMA.

I asked you all to send out skinny vibes before my college reunion. You failed me.

I was going to count how many posts mentioned boobs, but that would take forever. It's a lot.

And don't forget the time I said motherhood was the No. 1 most stressful job in America. Bajillions of people read that and started World War III. Pretty much the most fun day of my life.

Ah, good times. And I didn’t even include the ones where Sally painted swear words at daycare or became fascinated with bodily noises. This post is my 78th. You’ve contributed 581 superior comments. And there have been 22,788 hits in exactly one year. It’s just the beginning, folks. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve for year two. Like getting the blog potty trained and off the boob. Awh jeez, there’s another reference. See what I mean?

Thanks for reading.

Letter to Bathing Suit and Bra Designers

Dear bathing suit and bra designers,

After my experience trying on your products recently, I would like to thank you for making it clear to me why marijuana should be legal in California. I know you’ll agree, as you must be on drugs to have put these garments together and there is simply no way a sober person could appreciate the talent that has gone into these items. I did research in advance, in an attempt to learn which styles and colors would most flatter my body type. It turns out that thanks to your hard work, this was unnecessary. Every bathing suit — and I tried on at least a dozen before collapsing from emotion — perfectly accented a body part. The stripes, how they take away any hint of a waist! The back, how it spooges fat! Oh, the ampleness of my breasts — all four of them thanks to the cut of your tankini top! It was truly an other-worldly experience.

Photoevent/iStockphoto

Bra makers, I have not forgotten you. All I needed was a bra to accommodate a plunging cocktail dress. But great bra designers, you know what I need before even I do. As I dug through racks of sexy, lacy bras that would work under the dress, and failed to find my size, it slowly dawned on me: I am not worthy of an attractive bra. You have determined this for me so that I may be spared any decision making. To my immediate right, separated from the lovely lingerie, was a rack of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. They whispered in my ear, “Summer, a lady of your circumference cannot wear sexy bras. Pick one of us, and then find a muumuu from the Mature Woman department.” Thank you, designers, for bringing reality to me in a dressing room. I’m truly unable to imagine what life would be like without you determining so much for me.

Sincerely,

Summer Embee

The Happiest Place on Earth

We went to Disneyland in April and for the past month I’ve been trying to get my head around the experience and find something to write about. Not for lack of material, mind you. My family loves Disney. We’re loyal patrons, frequently visiting Mickey’s hood. There’s a lot to say; it’s just that in most cases, someone has already said it. But then I looked through our pictures again and like a real CSI, I saw it. Once, twice, three times, oh golly–she does it every time she poses with a character not covered in fur.

It’s so obvious.

And so, I give you . . . the boob grab.

It happens in every single dingle picture with a princess or fairy, and we spent about 2/3 of our time meeting these, well, victimized women. Someone needs to tell Sally that it’s okay to enjoy the happiest place on Earth,  it’s just not okay to enjoy the happiest place on Earth.