An Open Letter to Disney (Costume Division)

Dear Disney,

Please stop making your costumes so poorly.

Yes, yes, I know, they are "costumes" and only really supposed to stay together for one or two wearings, three at the most. However, I also know they are designed for children, and you should know that when a child likes something they usually REALLY like it.

Take, for example, my daughter Meg. It was just over two weeks that her grandmother bought her a Princess Tiana costume at Costco. Since that time it has rarely left her body. She has eaten in. She has slept in it. She has played in it. She has twirled in it. Oh, you would not believe the twirling. I have to give it to you that you make dresses that twirl well. They just slowly unravel during said twirls.

It's not like this garment has been treated poorly. I mean, other than the regular toddler wear and tear. Both my Mom and I have carefully hand washed it, treating the fabric (which is apparently made from tissue paper's weaker cousin) like it was spun gold. Despite that the fabric seems hell bent on disintegrating. And in the areas where the fabric is holding fast? The seams are giving up the ghost. Did Cinderella teach you nothing about tying off a knot at the end of stitches?

I won't even go into the fact that no self respecting princess would wear a broach with her own picture on it -- after all, this letter is about quality issues, not common sense. I will just say this: do you really think any little girl wouldn't know which princess dress she was wearing? Do you doubt the effectiveness of your brainwashing that much?

I don't even care if you charge more for the costume. Maybe you could make two different versions, the cheap one time junky costume, and the "you can wear this like clothes" version. I'm sure there are some weird adults who would appreciate it too.

Really, think of the children. Or at least, think of my child. My strange, princess dressed child.

Thanks,

Libby

P.S. I am really not thrilled about your treatment of Moms in movies. The ones who are dead actually come out the best. That's another letter though...

Maybe She's Born With It? Nah.

I am not a fan of makeup. I don't like the way it feels on my face. I don't really know how to put it on. I don't think I look better with it. Oh, and I am allergic to most of it.

I've tried to like makeup, or at least tolerate it. Every three years, like clockwork, I convince myself cosmetic technology has advanced enough that I can put together an easy makeup routine that won't cause my skin to bubble and peel, or turn into an oil slick. I talk Tara or one of my sisters into taking me out and we buy a full set of whatever the latest and greatest is to replace the previous latest and greatest that has congealed, dehydrated, and broken in my bathroom drawer. Then I take the new stuff home, wear it once, hate it, and put it in the drawer to congeal, dehydrate, and break.

I might be pulling it out again though. The New York Times says I should.

Yep, that's right, according to the Times I may not appear as "competent" as my peers because I do not paint my face.

And I thought my incompetence was what actually was doing it.

Kidding.

When I first read the article I was, understandably, a little ticked. I pulled out my Helen Reddy 8-track and railed against the unfairness of the world. I wanted to pledge not only not to wear makeup, but to stop waxing my upper lip, and wearing deodorant. I was thisclose to buying one of those "anti smell crystals" the hippies love when I had another thought.

I do other things to make me look competent at work, that have nothing to do with how I do my job.

I wear nice, stain free clothes.

I make sure my fingernails are clean, and my hair is brushed.

I keep my desk neat, and display pictures of an adorable child.

None of these things should influence if people view me as competent, but they do. They let them know I am a functioning adult who understands how to behave in society, and who wants to working.

So how would a little lip gloss be any different?

I'm giving it a week, just to see if I notice any changes.

Oh, and I am not wearing foundation. I don't care if it makes me look like the Mayor of competent town. There are some things I just won't do.

Wish me luck.

At Least Her Breath is Fresh

Meg is obsessed with Tic Tacs.

She loves the taste of them (as long as they aren't the white mint; she says those are "spicy").

She loves the way they crunch under her tiny teeth and color her tongue any number of neon shades.

She even loves the way they rattle in the box -- a sound kinds like a hard shelled insect -- letting her know she is just seconds from her favorite one and a half calorie treat.

I have taken stocking several boxes of Tic Tacs in my purse for Meg related incidents. A long line at the grocery store? Tic Tacs. Driving and don't want her to fall asleep? Tic Tacs. Her haircut? Brought to you by the letter T for Tic and/or Tac. Honestly, I now buy them three packs at a time, which I'm sure leaves the checkers wondering if I am a closet smoker or habitually twitchy.

Of course, Meg wants Tic Tacs outside of Megerencies. She wants them ALL THE TIME. Because she knows I am not gving out Tic Tacs willy nilly she has gotten tricky in her tactics. She'll make a blanket statement like "I need something in your purse" as she digs though, pretending she wants to balance the checkbook while scanning for her true desire. Once she saw me looking at the ingredients on the back of the box and I told her what I was doing. Now, sometimes she will ask to see the Tic Tacs to "see what's in there."

Thank God I didn't try bribing her with Snickers. She'd be 100 pounds.

I wonder if there is such a thing as breath mints anonymous. Oh, and if they take toddlers.

One Track Meg

You may have noticed I haven't been blogging all that much lately.

It isn't that I haven't had anything to say. It isn't that things haven't been going on in my life that are funny, or interesting, or scream BLOGWORTHY. It's just that all of those things center around one topic, the topic that currently rules my life: Meg.

It's not that I dislike telling stories about Meg. Ask anyone who works with me, or is friends with me, or runs into me in the wine store, and they will tell you that it is impossible to say hello, or excuse me, or will you move your cart it's blocking the chardonnay, without hearing at least three Meg tales. And it's not that I think you don't like hearing about Meg, I know you do. I know that every last one of you waits with eager anticipation for the next story about the most perfect child in the world. RIGHT? Of course right.

I could fill pages right now with stories about my life with Meg. About how I love talking to her, and laughing with her, and singing along to "Bohemian Rhapsody" with her. About how I love butting heads with her over things like whether or not she can wear a necklace to bed, and just how many tic tacs she can have in one sitting. About how I love that when she says she wants "something" I can usually ascertain what it is immediately just by how she says it.

However, in order to do that I would have to admit to the world that my life is now controlled by a two year old.

That just seems so ordinary.

I mean, there are at least 50 blogs I think of right now where you can get that. I'm sure there are millions more too. They are, for the most part, very good blogs. They just aren't ever what I thought this blog would be. What I wanted it to be. What it is now.

I hope to get back to the other parts of myself. The die hard liberal (hi, George!). The diet challenged wanna be foodie who just can't pass up Kraft mac and cheese. The sarcastic cynic who wants to scream when she sees the current state of society (Courtney Stodden, what, not who the fuck is that?).

Until then though, I hope you all stick around. Oh, and that you really like pictures of an overlord disguised as a toddler.

Damn she's cute.