Facebook, I Can't Quit You

I am not part of the anti social media movement.  Facebook was so cool back when it was first created, now it seems like it's cooler to give it up.  The Facebook addicts have had an intervention, and it is making the rest of us who still enjoy a little facebook stalking once in a while look like gluttons.  No, the send-me-a-handwritten-letter-if-you-ever-want-to-speak-to-me-again post is at least another several hundred kid pics away for me.  I think what draws me to FB is the ability to share only the good things.  I don't post bad pics and I don't update my status on one of those Saturday nights curled up in front of the TV makeupless and feeling bloated and exhausted from working the night before.  I only share the stuff that will really make someone jealous!  Kidding, kind of.  You see, I am a little cool on my own, but Facebook gives me the ability to just float over any less-than-pinterest-mom details about my life.    

My high school class is having a bit of a time getting all 500 of us together for our 10 year reunion this year.  My killer instinct tells me it is because we all know we can't be present as live human beings AND in the form of the best out of 10 selfie shots with a blue glow filter.  And what would we talk about?  I already know who has kids, who has moved, who is married, who is divorced, who is pregnant, etc.  And if I DO see these people in person I have to pretend to be surprised when they tell me they have 6 kids, 6 baby daddies, never been married, and they've finally won their most recent hospital lawsuit so the Benz parked outside the trailer is finally funded.  I know all that already, and have been secretly judging this person for the last 10 years. I know the Facebook version of these people, just as they probably know the Facebook version of me.  I have developed secret Facebook mamma crushes from some very low key FB stalking (I could quit any time I wanted).  These are a few moms (and potential moms) who have inspired me enough, with a status update or a pic, to take a closer look at the facebook versions of them:

1.  If  Emily Rutter showed up to the reunion, I would b-line to find out what she's wearing.  She and Jolie Mckay are my very secret Facebook fashion inspirations. 

2.  Corinne Cox has become my green inspirado.  While she is not a mommy (though recent posts suggest this could be changing soon, love it) she loves the earth and all creatures in it.  She inspires me to live full, live green, and live with love in my heart every day. 

3.  And then there is Tiffany Trotter.  We could all learn a thing or two on how to put a nursery together from this pinterest princess mommy-to-be. 

My boys' nursery is an Ikea/thrift store schmorgasbord topped with an old diaper genie and a painting of an owl by yours truly.  The owl has one good eye and one wonky eye, with pencil outlines visible around the entire bird.  I have tried my hand at painting a few too many times.  A couple special gems were even featured in our bedroom...then demoted to the bathroom...then added to the unfortunate collection of handpainted wall art in the nursery...and now, storage, trash, or donated.  I don't know much about painting but it's fun to waste money and keep trying.  If Jackson Pollock can create an art movement with paint splatters, surely a little wonky eye isn't the end of my career.     

Maybe I'm not cool enough to quit Facebook.  It IS my goal to be the coolest mom I can be, but I simply can't give up something that is like an ongoing US Weekly issue about people I actually know.  It's too good.  I'll let you know when I'm hipster enough to cut ties, but for now, I will follow the ladies who inspire me, try to ignore the stories that depress me, post pictures of my boys to keep up with family, and share stretch mark and c-section scar bikini selfies to make someone jealous.   

The Velvet Underground is the Coolest. Here's Why.

The Velvet Underground is a completely killer 1960's rock band and crucial member of the F-List for several reasons: 1. They were waaaay too cool to have never had a number one hit.  2. Lou Reed on lead vocals (enough said)...no, not enough said.  Lou Reed was the coolest.  He was cool because he DID NOT care.  He did not care if he was cool, or innappropriate, or boring, he did life just exactly as he wanted to do it.  Lucky for him, he WAS cool, just innappropriate enough to get attention, and absolutely never boring.  (Cool mom, write that down.)  He really couldn't sing.  His vocals were all basically spoken.  But still, he spoke and meant them.  The subtle inflection in his voice when he sang doo da doo da doodadoo was his signature.  Velvet wouldn't be Velvet without Lou. 

And, the rest of the list:  3. Andy Warhol: producer  4. Nico  5. Pale Blue Eyes

Andy Warhol, who rings in at number 3, having produced the first Velvet records automatically makes the band worth a second look.  He was pretty weird, but very cool.  Warhol saw art in The Velvet Underground even when no one else did.  Warhol was far from being a mother, but he still provides inspiration to becoming a very cool momsie.  Cool mom inspirational goal: find beauty in something where no one else can, just like Andy.  I will start with finding beauty in my recent $50 hair cut which consisted of a lot of hair gel and a light dusting of about half of my split ends on the back of my shirt.  The "Diva Curl Cut" she called it.  More intriguing than effective.  And the reception/waiting area was very similar to a 1990's DMV.  I'll find the art in there somewhere, just give me a minute.      

Number 5, Pale Blue Eyes is a Velvet ballad that will make your heart hurt.  It's one of those songs that you can't help but play again and will still feel a little jipped when it's over.

Number 4. Nico and all her 60's glam.  Her voice is totally bizarre and fantastically mezmorizing.  I have a memory of sitting in my boyfriend-now-hubby's car, saying goodbye as I was about to leave town for the weekend.  We were listening to "These Days" by Nico on repeat.  It's funny how some memories become so significant to our lives, while at the time the memory is being made, its significance is overlooked.  This is one of those memories.  Every time I hear this song I think of that night, lingering for a long goodbye in the car, in the dark, and then getting out of the car with the song continuing on in my head, feeling his eyes on me as I walked away.  I don't think he knows this night still runs through my mind.  Nothing significant or "naughty" happened in the car that night, just us and Nico.

 

The Bathroom Academy Awards

I want to look like Scarlett, jam like Joan, cook like Julia, and write like Lena.  Ultimate cool mom combo.  However, I look a little like Joni Mitchell,

I know one chord on the guitar, enchiladas are my only specialty, and writing a novel or a full length film are at least 18 years away, depending on that third kid.  Cool, but not ultimate cool.  I am a mother.  I am always amazed at how defining that term is.  All the people I look up to and aspire to be more like will never make me feel like the perfect version of me.  The perfect version of me will forever begin with being  "mommy" to my children...and maybe my annual subscription to US Weekly.    

I always knew I was going to grow up to be that glamorous actress blubbering thank you's into the mic at the Oscar's.  I would practice my acceptance speech in the bathroom mirror multiple times a day, definitely frequenting the restroom for the mirror much more often than the commode.  I had two favorite scenes to perform; the first involved crying, a "gun" pointed at my reflection, and medium-whispered curse words aimed at my "captor".  The cursing was a must, of course because what other chance would I have to say the word "shit" semi out loud without consequence?  The second, as promised, was the acceptance speech, which also included excessive sobbing.  If I was really feeling it I would pin my hair up in a not-so-perfect french twist (because that was the most glamorous do of 1992), smear on some of my mom's blue eyeshadow and really get down on some serious waterworks.  I still struggle with the concept of time, so who knows how long the 7 year old version of me was ever really in there...long enough to thank my parents, my husband, who would have been Taylor High at the time.  He was my blonde-haired, brown eyed, totally serious elementery school crush.  Probably a repeat character on Swamp People now.  He made fun of me once.  I still had a thing for him after that, but was no longer a die hard band-aid.  Scarring though.  These are the memories that make grown ups go crazy and become drug addicts holding cardboard signs at intersections that say "Hungry" and "God blesses the generous".

Not to ruin the surprise, but I am not an Oscar winner, nor am I a drug addict or homeless, and only a little kick ass.  My Restroom Oscar ceremonies have been shaved down to the occasional Blue Steel look in the mirror, just to be sure I've still got it.  I am fully grown now, fully aware that the dream of winning an Oscar is long behind me.  Now my sense of hope, wonder, and possibility comes from my painfully darling kids.  Seeing my son realize that it's fun to have someone think he's funny, seeing him get scared of Scooby Doo characters, feel brave when he sleeps all night in his own bed, make up stories, ask me to make up stories under a tent of blankets, this is what gives me hope that good can win in this world of crazy, evil, maniacs.  I see the world becoming a better place because he's in it.  I traded my Oscar for he and his brother.  However, I must admit, whenever February rolls around and the Academy Award winners begin to spout off their "thank you's" and "dream come true's" I still get a little itch to slip quietly away into the bathroom for just a minute...oh, hell, Lord knows how long I'd be in there.     

How to Be a Cool Mom: Introduction

My inspiration to write a blog begins with my husband.  He inspires me and I inspire him.  He thinks I'm funny, sexy, uninhibited, a good mother, but most importantly, good in bed (in no particular order of course).  Life finds ways of removing all of these things from display sometimes.  Not usually all at the same time, but at some point, these qualities are overshadowed by bills, planners, doctor visits, worries about what this world is coming to, do we want a third baby, what am I going to wear to a much anticipated party when a shower has become the extent of my weekly beauty regimen.  So how do I hold onto myself, this fun, loving gal (not lady) that my husband thinks he has, all while maintaining a household, a job, and raising 2 completely gorgeous boys?  The answer, of course, as Regina George's mother so classily puts it: don't be a regular mom, be a cool mom.  Words to live by.  So I immerse myself in all the cool things I love. 1. Family 2. Friends 3. Food 4. Fashion.  This is my F list.  The rest of the list is less F-ie.  4. Movies 5.Writing 6. The Velvet Underground 7. Smutty magazines...let's talk about this one.  

I read Glamour and US Weekly.  I want to read books, I want to be able to get through a novel a week and expand my vocabulary and literary IQ, but the truth is, I am a child.  I need pictures.  I am way more interested in celebrity smut and Facebook, which is a quality, I think, my husband finds more amusing than attractive.  I am completely repulsed by reality TV, but am slightly embarassed by the excitement I feel when my man walks through our front door with a fresh US Weekly from the mailbox.  I read Glamour for the beauty tips, fashion, and articles (usually on the celebs that interest me).  Glorified smut really, but this is consentual, unlike the probing paparazzi that is US Weekly.  I feel more intelligent when I read it, warranted or not.

8. Fresh Air 9. Date Night 10. Color

The F's are my staples.  The F's make me tick, make me happy, make life mine.

Life is what this blog is inspired by. All the F's of life.  How to be a cool mom?  Inspiration, love, parenthood, real life, fantasy, stories, all these things breed confident women.  Because confidence is the coolest.