Posts Tagged ‘Sex’
Fifty Shades of Ridiculousness
Dear readers – I know I dropped a bomb on you yesterday, but I’ve no time at present to talk about all the pros (bigger boobs) and cons (doctors wanting to brainwash me with scary genetically problematic statistics) of having another baby at age blorty.
Because at present, we must talk about the world-wide phenomenon that is:
Fifty Shades.
Of Ridiculousness.
Because, readers, I mean, COME ON.
Yes, I am a human female, I did get sucked into the books’ crack-like romantic premise and promise. It’s heroin-esque depiction of a more perfect world, where a rich-but-totally-messed-up-boy-meets-poor-but fiesty-virgin-girl-who-rocks-his-world-and-turns-it-upside-down-just-as-he-does-to-her-world — via a story in which there just happens to be an overabundance of S&M pornographic sex scenes (oh great, here come the digital blog looking for the word ‘sex’ spammers; comments section- look out!!), but who really cares about those uncomfortable and downright ridiculous porno/spanking/handcuff/”silver ball”/etc. scenes when meanwhile there is a bad boy who is just secretly aching to be tamed, trained, married and made into an honest man & perfect husband & father?
No one. That’s who cares.
I, like most of my girlfriends who read the books, did not sleep for more than a few hours here and there as I sucked down the cotton candy that was the substance of these stories. As much as I was utterly annoyed with the writing and the stupid sex scenes (scenes, I might add, that somehow inspired friends of mine to go crazy with their husbands – okay, ladies, whatever floats your previously uninspired boats!) – I was, I admit, completely unable to put the things down until I was done devouring them.
I mean come on… Fifty!? (the main guy character; his real name, of course, is Christian Grey, what else COULD it be??) Of COURSE he is a self-made billionaire international businessman, aged 28, with his hooded, sexy eyes, tousled auburn hair (come on, what the F-ck does that mean!?) and sexy, ripped jeans.
And of COURSE Ana (short for – duh! – Anastasia) would be a perfectly innocent yet utterly wise beyond her years virgin who of course trips and falls, literally, into Fifty’s arms the very first time they meet? (Again, DUH! doesn’t every girl take mental lessons from our beloved Sandra Bullock as she trips her way through romantic comedy after romantic comedy? Brilliant!)
Okay, the Cirque-du-Soleil porno sex scenes I really could have done without.
But everything else? Perfection.
Perfectly, romantically, deliciously, happy-endingly…
Ridiculousness.
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
This picture tells you all you really need to know about the book. Decipher my handwriting at your own risk!
Flashback Friday! (Like, A Virgin!)
Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!
And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:
What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!
BTW if you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below. Then once you’ve listened, scroll down to the bottom of this page and listen to my song. It’s groovy.
BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Like, A Virgin – the BLOG
(WARNING: DAD, PLEASE DON’T READ THIS BLOG AND IF YOU READ IT ANYWAY, PLEASE LIE TO ME AND PROMISE ME YOU DID NOT READ IT. THANKS! PS – KIDS, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I’M REALLY PROUD OF YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL UNDER THE AGE OF 7, BUT NONETHELESS, STOP NOW UNLESS YOU WANT TO GET MILDLY TRAUMATIZED BY KNOWING TMI ABOUT YOUR MAMA. K?)
Whew! That out of the way, let’s get to the juicy stuff!
I lost my virginity at age seventeen.
Some girls toy with the hormones and patience of a longtime boyfriend before caving in, or ‘giving it up,’ and go on to have a relatively healthy sexual relationship. Others get wasted, have sex with that guy they’ve always had a crush on, then feel horribly used the next day. I think my situation is very unique, in that I wasn’t waiting for the right guy to come along so much as I was waiting for the right age to come along – that age being, unequivocally, seventeen.
What – don’t tell me I was the only girl to read Forever by Judy Blume then decide if Katherine was old enough at age 17, I would be too? [For more on my obsession with Judy Blume, read past blog here] Now that I think about it, why did I assume it was her AGE that was important, not the fact that she was in love with the boy she thought was her soul mate? Hmmmmm…
Anyway, that book actually kept me celibate longer than I probably would have been. From age fourteen my boyfriends were putting the pressure on to ‘go all the way’, and it was so easy to say no – after all, I wasn’t seventeen yet! But then – the magical age finally arrived, and – lo and behold: it was time.
Only problem? I was single.
Didn’t bother me. I had my eye on a particular boy I thought was very cute for a while, but he had always had eyes for my best friend (who dated him a little but basically didn’t care much for him). He was still a virgin… I was a virgin… I have no idea how I got up the guts to bring the subject up, but I do know that we PLANNED it out – losing our virginity together.
The act itself could not have been more of a NON-act. Did it work? I think so, but the fact that I’m not 100% sure is pretty telling….
Looking back, I can say I was happy to have something to barter with – my virginity for a shot at being your girlfriend! (Didn’t work: we did have sex a few times, but he never wanted to be my boyfriend). I guess I’m relieved I only used sex to try and make him mine – versus using an actual baby like some of the teens we see today. (That doesn’t seem to work either, does it?)
I took the hint. Stopped hoping he would want more from me than sex, and moved on to a boy who would REALLY love me for who I was: A 21 year old black Puerto Rican drug dealer who looked like Milli Vanilli.
But that’s a different blog.
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
PS. Here’s a little ‘feel-good GrownUpGirl anthem’ to help you stop worrying about a 17 year old girl letting herself get taken advantage of:
BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – It’s not the First Time – the SONG
I'm sure my first time looked JUST LIKE THIS
Flashback Friday! (What’s in a Word?)
If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.
BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – What’s in a Word? – the BLOG
What’s up with the word “woman”? Why does saying “I’m a woman” feel equivalent to declaring “I’m an aging female?” I have 3 kids but I don’t feel comfortable calling myself a “woman”. Sorry to all my feminist sistahs, but it’s the same problem I have trying to talk to my daughter about her vag-you know what I mean, or my son about his penis – let’s be honest, folks, that word is easier to pronounce.
In a nutshell, the word – WOMAN – doesn’t fit. Nor do the alternatives: chick, or girl… too immature. That’s why I choose to use Grown Up Girl. Not perfect, but at least I can say it without cringing.
Same with the VAG and PENIS words – I don’t want to confuse my kids by telling them both they have “pee pees” (I tried this but one is a girl and the other a boy and then they wanted to know why the other’s looked so weird) – but any other nickname sounds entirely pornographic and/or just kind of mean.
Reminds me – when I was driving my kids carpool home last year, one of the 6 year old girls, whose mom is a doula (look it up, singletons) informed my 5 year old son, my 3 year old daughter, the other kids in the car, that she knew where babies came from.
“Yeah, duh” answered my smarty son. “From the mom’s stomach.”
“NO!” the doula child announced proudly. “From her putza!”
I didn’t know whether to choke or laugh – putza is the Hebrew slang for VAG. Brilliant!
So while my children were still shielded a little longer from the raw truth about where babies come from, (they don’t understand Hebrew slang yet), I was enlightened…
Putza! What a cool name for vag-. I’m SO all over that.
BTW in that same car ride, my Don Juan five year old announced to his two girl classmates that he will never marry anyone because he never wants to have to kiss a girl. They chided him and told him that he HAS to marry, that it’s the only way he can be happy (Go, girls! Get him trained early!) – after which he flipped on them and, without missing a beat, answered: “Fine, so which one of you wants to kiss me first?”
Smoooooth…..
Cheek kisses & Hugs ,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
He may not be old enough to kiss ya but he'll gladly feed you some cereal!
Nighty–Night!
10:45pm: I’m actually going to sleep BEFORE 11!!!! And it’s not because I’m sick!!! And it’s not because I didn’t sleep at all the previous night!!! I’m just… GOING TO SLEEP EARLY!!!!
I shimmy under the nicely made bed (you are welcome, me!), sigh a breath of happiness, tuck my pillow ‘just so,’ and plop my head down.
Onto sand.
And rotten, sliced up apples.
Ah, the never-ending joys of children.
Just when the little one finally starts sleeping through the night (because you’ve SLEEP TRAINED her – moms, don’t lie to yourselves, 3 nights of throw-up tantrum crying from a 6 month old is TOTALLY WORTH a family’s happily-ever-after all-the-night-thru sleeping), the middle one starts waking up to ask you to help her go to the bathroom. And just when you’re done with that phase, she just starts waking you up ‘because she woke up,’ and now the only way she’ll go back to sleep is if you sit with her forever at her bedside or let her crawl in uncomfortably with you & your husband.
EVERY NIGHT.
So the odd sandbox in the bed? Shouldn’t phase me. Doesn’t phase me! I’m used to it – brush it once, brush it twice, brush it Chicken Soup with Rice.
But the apples?
Now, that threw me, I have to admit.
I suddenly remembered seeing my kids earlier in the day – playing all together, all 3 of them, laughing, enjoying… those moments are rare and sacred, so of course I didn’t want to get too close, or too involved!
Duh. Hello! Should have known better.
Because what was bonding them together, was 2 illegal (in our house) acts: 1) using knives to cut food by themselves (pink plastic knives to cut apple slices, but still…), and 2) playing with food in my bed. Oh yeah, and 3) leaving said food. In my bed.
Beneath my pillow, to be exact.
Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhh
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
Good God! I just realized I should be completely thankful that it was ONLY rotten apples I stuck my head in... because my kids do love themselves some apples & honey. Sheesh!
Flashback Friday! (From the Dept of: I did WHAT???!!)
If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.
BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – I did WHAT? – the BLOG
The summer before I moved to Los Angeles, I worked as a mostly daytime bartender in a semi-hip California-style Italian restaurant by Dupont Circle in DC. The owner was a hot Italian guy who was married but always flirted heavily with the female staff and was rumored to have slept with at least one of the vixen waitresses he kept on staff.
The day I was hired to bartend, I actually had come in to inquire about a hostess position I heard was open. Immediately, they told me they needed a daytime bartender and put me to work. I had never bartended, but I always made sure to mix the drinks with plenty of alcohol so my customers were always happy.
Once, I remember seeing a friend of mine’s mother in the back, hidden section of the restaurant, sharing an intimate mid-day meal with a man who was not my friend’s father.
My best customers consisted of a few men who would come by during the day, sit by themselves usually, though the Hot Italian Restaurant Owner and staff would always fawn over them. They’d flirt a bit with me and order their vodka. One of these men was the head of the bank across the street, I think it was Citibank. Another was a billionaire Lebanese guy. It was a game for me, trying to see how many vodkas I could get them to order, just to see how high I could cause my tip to climb – into the double digits, and yes, once in a while, into the triple.
Never occurred to me these guys were actually going back to work, making decisions that were probably affecting thousands of lives. (Hmmmm… mortgage crisis, anyone?)
Once the billionaire Lebanese guy got pretty drunk, and wound up inviting me to his nearby apartment in the middle of my shift. I can’t remember anymore under what guise he invited me – I was going to be moving to LA shortly – did he tell me he could help my career somehow? All I know is that Hot Italian Restaurant Owner was more than happy to let me off in the middle of my shift if it meant pleasing this particular patron.
And what do you think that I – a Phi Beta Kappa Yale graduate, who had volunteered countless hours at Yale in the Women’s Center, raised by a family of feminists, granddaughter to the first woman lawyer of Texas – chose to do?
I went with him.
Was I that desperate for attention? For adventure? For money?
Somewhere along the elevator ride up to his penthouse, I began to worry. The guy didn’t “feel” dangerous to me, but still… I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to sleep with him. Obviously he was hoping he could get some kind of ‘play’ from me… So what in the world was I doing with him?
We got to his apartment. I don’t remember much – just that he sat down, and looked at me with his red face and glossy eyes like, ‘The ball’s in your court.’ At which point, I made some excuse and told him I should get back. If he tried to convince me to stay, I don’t remember it. All I remember is that within a few minutes, he had escorted me safely back to the restaurant. The owner winked and scolded me, and I have no idea if I played along or told him the truth: nothing happened.
The whole event was basically a non-event. Except, that now I’m a mother of 3, I SHUDDER TO THINK any of them would put themselves in an even remotely similar circumstance…
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
That so could have been me if I had played my cards wrong.
Flashback Friday! (Sex Toys)
Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!
And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:
What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!
If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.
BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Sex Toys – the BLOG
I went today to a lingerie shop across the street from where I work, to buy some sexy undies for a girlfriend’s bachelorette party. The name of the store? FUK U. Not kidding. What is wrong with people? It’s like, a couple of friends were stoned and they came up with this AWESOME NAME for a store, HA HA HA HA!! And then they stayed stoned for the next few months while they applied for a license, ordered merchandise, incorporated and paid a contractor to remodel the expensive Melrose storefront.
Or maybe… just maybe… there are just people out there who live on a completely different reality plane than I. A plane where a store’s name, FUK U, is – pick one – hilarious, mysterious, a joke on the buyer, a joke on any adult who tries to walk her just-learning-to-read child by the store, or else just plain genius.
Anyhoo – I found some cute panties and started to pay, when my eyes drifted to the far side of the store. There, on shelf after shelf, were… not lingerie. Not underwear. Not teddies.
Sex toys.
And sex… contraptions. Things like, straps that you hang in your doorway with holes for both hands and feet (these are for Her; He gets to stand on his two legs – which I know because the very graphic picture on the front of the package told me so). Also, straps for various positions, straps for bondage, “bondage sheets” – which from the picture, told me it just lies under the person, catching all the bodily fluids (ICK), fuzzy handcuffs, and –
Wait a minute. That reminds me!
Of a time – oh, a certain number of years ago, who knows exactly, when I went to Texas for a weekend to celebrate my cousin’s bachelorette with a group of her closest girlfriends and my two sisters. My sisters had designated me the “gag gift buyer” on behalf of all of us, so I had gone to The Pleasure Chest (if you don’t know it, the name pretty much spells it out) to buy as many crazy sex toys $200 could buy.
I bought dildos, edible undies, fuzzy handcuffs, more dildos, vibrators, undies with the crotch cut out and whatever else I could grab without having to ask a salesperson for help. Packed it all in my suitcase, and went to catch my flight.
It was the handcuffs that gave me away. In security, as my bag passed through the baggage check. I had carried all the gifts with me, for fear that a checked bag could get lost and spoil the fun of giving her the gifts at the party.
A small army of airport security guards surrounded me. Never in my life did my face go as hot, or as purple red, as it did at that moment. I could barely breath as I “explained” the contents of my carry-on. Even though this was pre-9/11, they still made me go back and check the handcuffs, which I was able to do by going back to my original gate where I gave them my large luggage. There, the lady who accepted my carry-on bag to be checked, along with her friend, a gay male flight customer service guy, were really interested to know where I got my toys and whether The Pleasure Chest had locations farther south.
Maybe they’d like a store to go up near where they live, called FUK U.
My bags reached their destination, as did I, and we all had a blast that weekend. We drank lots of alcohol, played truth or dare and “I never” (whereby I simultaneously discovered VERY juicy dirt on my cousin and older sister while forever traumatizing my younger sister who was only about 14 years old) and other silly games (like “Pin the Penis on the Poster”), capped off with the gayest male stripper you will ever meet playing “who can get naked faster” with my cousin, and a pregnancy reveal of one of my cousin’s friends.
Seriously – The. Gayest. (The guy stripped for us, then hung out talking to us, waiting for his boyfriend to pick him up.)
All in the name of love & good fun…
c/xo
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
And I wonder why I get spammed by all the 'adult dating' websites?
I want you, Mr. Mow
Who knew period underwear could be so sexy? I certainly didn’t. I gave all men who stumbled across that particular (yeah, I know, kind of raunchy) blog ample warning that the blog was going to focus on period underwear and nothing but period underwear, and that they should run for the testosterone hills instead of reading about said subject matter.
But apparently, for some… period underwear is a MAJOR turn on.
Because twenty minutes after I posted my blog (PS, thanks to @RuthVaca for re-Tweeting me), TheGrownup Girl got a most enticing invitation. Lest I sell it short, I will re-post it here for you to feast your eyes upon:
Hi,
How’s it going? I saw your site thegrownupgirl [dot] com and wanted to inquire about the possibility of working together. I work with a few adult dating offers that convert with the right targetted traffic. Right now we’re offering a competetive payout on free trial joins to our offers. Our webmaster tools generally include static banners, geo targetted iframe ads, and page peels, but we’re always open to discussing additional marketing methods as well. We’d love to have the opportunity to discuss working together. I’d be more than happy to send over the specifics about our program/sites. I can be reached anytime between 9am-5pm PST, Monday-Friday, through email or any of the contacts below. Looking forward to hearing back from you.
Regards,
Nick Mow
__________________________________________
CONTACT INFO:
AIM: nickmowcp
ICQ: 620744965
MSN: nick.mow [@] hotmail.com
Address: 7040 Avenida Encinas Suite 104 PMB 300
Carlsbad, CA 92011
Who knew there would be a man out there who would find Period Underwear so sexy and “adult dating”-worthy?
(Or that ‘targeted’ could be spelled with 2 t’s, or “competitive” with 3 e’s?)
It is possible that he mistook my blog name for its porno stepsister’s URL (www.thegrownupgirl.com… minus the “the”)?
Whatever the trigger – the period underwear or the enticing blog name – I’m flattered. So flattered, in fact, that I’ve decided to reply to his email with a “competetive” offer of my own:
Dearest Nicky,
Can I call you Nicky? Or are you strictly “Mr. Mow”? Ooh, yes, I like that. Sexy.
Anyway, I’m flatterrred that you actually think THE Grownup Girl would be worthy of adult dating web traffic. And since my Google Analytics numbers have been anemic ever since the most recent Hugo Schwyzer spike subsided, I’m up for anything.
Anything, Mr. Mow.
So… call me! It’s toll free (for the first 51 seconds, after which the call will cost you a mere $25.99 per quarter-minute): 876-HOT-LUST.
Mwah.
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
Pssst! I'm ready for you, Mr. Mow.
P-O-R-N
ARGHHHH! IF ONE MORE STUPID “XXX” “SEX SEX SEX” SPAMMER SPAMS MY BLOG YET AGAIN I SWEAR I’LL…..
…delete them.
Again.
SOOOO annoying. I’m sure their little cyber fingers get all spammy & excited as they crawl across my blog when they discover the many porn-related words I use in my various blogs… including – uh – the WORD “porn” in one of the titles, and – oh yeah, the fact that my URL (“TheGrownupGirl.com”) is just one little “the” away from BEING a porn site. (Did you try typing it in without the ‘the’? Don’t say I didn’t warn you…)
On the other hand, spammers I can handle with the click of a mouse. But the real deal? The people who actually live, breathe & work in that over-sexed environment?
Totally out of my element.
The other night, I uncharacteristically flipped around live television channels (normally I would ONLY watch a show I’d already DVR’d, or else just catch a show on Hulu.com, but this was a post-Christmas-pre-New Year’s programming draught and the pickins were mighty slim.)
After surfing the TV guide menu, what was the TV program I randomly chose?
The AVN Awards.
I’d never heard of them. Turns out, these are awards for PORN MOVIES. Good God. I don’t watch porn. I don’t like to even remember that it exists. The whole subculture of porn – the makers, the doers and the aficionados – makes me sad because it is a medium that is 100% based on instant (sexual) gratification which in my book translates into instant negativity for the doers, the watchers & the world.
Sorry folks. You didn’t realize you’d tuned into “Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin) Fallwell,” did you? But honestly, it’s not a “moral” issue I have with it – who really cares if something is “moral” or not; what does that mean anyway? It’s different to us all.
I DO, however, take psychological/emotional issue with porn, because I’ve spent enough years in therapy to know that no one just “loves sucking cock” for the camera (not to mention many, many more graphic actions that I was both shocked and mesmerized to see lauded and feted on the AVN’s) without having had one f***-ed up childhood in one way or another.
Oh, great, I just basically sent a Valentine’s Day card to all the cyber porno-spammers with the phrase I used in that last paragraph. Sighhhhhh…
Anyway, even more than the psycho/emotional problems I see with porn is the spiritual ‘problem’ I have it with it. Meaning, in a nutshell, that porn creates additional layers of negativity and chaos in our already-chaotic world. Let’s leave it at that before I get lynched by Ron Jeremy’s fan club.
But before I sign off, I have to add… does anyone out there know how to set parental controls on the TV? Is it even POSSIBLE set controls on my son’s iPod/internet? I mean, it’s one thing to have a store on a street with a pornographic name, but it’s quite another to make it easy for children to see live video of things I hope they won’t come across EVER.
EVERRRRRRRRRRR.
O, Tipper Gore, where art thou?
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
I really, REALLY don't want my son to trip across the TV channels and fall onto this face. Figuratively speaking, of course.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage.” Ahhh, remember the good ole days? When life and love was so simple so straightforward (when we were 7 years old).
Good times.
On the other hand, from a very young age, I was more than just mildly interested in boys. I liked to flirt and I loved the attention it drew. The idea of kissing fascinated me… I would practice by myself, stare at couples kissing in public, and when I finally had my first kiss with a boy, I left nothing to chance. We planned it out carefully on the phone (he was also my first boyfriend), agreeing that the big event would occur on our date to the random movie Cross Creek (AKA, an empty movie theatre we would have all to ourselves) and to be careful (we both had braces).
It was pretty spectacular.
At this point, my kids are young, so – blessedly – I have at least a few good years left before they start planning makeout sessions or spontaneously kissing a boy or girl. But I can already see the little seeds have been planted.
I’ve written about the time my son cleverly told the girls in our carpool ride that he would “never marry” because he “never wanted to have to kiss a girl,” and then when the girls told him he HAD to marry someday, he immediately turned around and asked them, “okay, then which one of you do I kiss first?”
Smoooooth…
And we know how he loves the kissing scenes on TV. Well, turns out, the buck doesn’t stop there. Because in passing, around Christmastime, I explained to my kids what mistletoe was (it was hung up at a house we went to)… and the other day, (weeks later) – my son oh so casually asked me, “is mistletoe only for Christmas? Or is it all year?”
He’s plotting.
Literally. He wants to plant a mistletoe farm in our backyard then pin the branches up all over his school, our house, the Kabbalah Centre.
I’ve got to try and keep him out of Cross Creek as long as I can…
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
Such an innocent-looking plant... unless it's in the hands of a plotting young Romeo...!
Heavy Petting
I told my kids they are not allowed to kiss a boy or girl on the lips until they are married. I originally told them that no one is allowed to kiss on the lips until they are married, but then some kids’ TV show went and ruined all my big plans.
I can’t remember now which show it was – the loose hussies of Waverly Place, the slutty Sonny with a Chance, or the trollops of Shake it Up – but whichever it was, they showed the pre-teen kiddies snogging away and dashed my hopes of protecting my children from the evils of pre-marriage smooching.
“They’re kissing!” screeched my son gleefully.
“Ew!!” seconded my 5 year old daughter.
“Close your eyes!” I demanded. “And shut off the TV! You’re only allowed to watch Little Bear from now on.”
The chorus: “Awwww!”
But I don’t think I’m wrong. Already my 5 year old tried twice to French kiss me on the mouth when I reached down to give her a goodnight kiss. Horrifying! I blame the media.
Even my two year old is tired of Little Bear. She wants Sponge Bob, Phineas and Ferb, or “Nigel the mean guy” from Spy Kids 2. Recently, I read a study that showed how kids were instantly dumber after watching a half hour of Sponge Bob. Nonetheless, I have made the executive parental decision that I am infinitely more okay with them being dumbed down than I am with them learning to French Kiss their mother by watching Disney pre-teens suck each other’s faces.
I figure they can bounce back from momentary Sponge Bob-induced retardation. But once you’ve French-kissed the wrong authority figure? The one that, unlike their mother, decides to kiss them back? Not so easy.
Now, yes, it’s true, I was making out with boys at the way too early age of DON’T EVEN THINK I’M GOING TO ADMIT TO ANYTHING, NOW GO TO BED!
Are they gone? We mommy bloggers have to be ever-vigilant.
For the rest of you (who are not my children), I admit, it is possible that the sleeping bag incident was not isolated. And that my advice to my kids about no kissing before marriage could be construed as hypocritical. But I was the classic case of Mommy-and-Daddy-Get-Divorced-and-Parents-Were-By-Products-of-the–Free-Love-60’s-And-Godless-Jewish-American-Intellects-So-Daughter-Has-No-Moral-Compass.
My kids, on the other hand, (so far, with fingers crossed, wood knocked, and many “BLI AYIN HARAs” repeated) are the product of an unbroken home and spiritual parents who are respectful of physical boundaries. They don’t have the same excuse I did, to act slutty & stupid. Except for the small problem of the rampant sex I can’t seem to stop from popping up on every billboard we drive by, every advertisement on TV, and every pre-teen Disney show that corrupts their minds while I’m not hovering over them with the remote.
Where’s Tipper Gore when you need her?
c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)
Get those man-eating lips away from my children, you hussy!