F**K!

My daughter grew up overnight. Suddenly she’s less about asking millions of questions and more about being in her room tuning me out with the help of her iTouch. On occasion I steal little peeks into her Tweendom and scan through her texts.

Yes, I invade her privacy. Why?

A wise woman once said, “Do you know how you can tell when a teenager is lying?

Answer: Their lips are moving.”

Okay, it was Judge Judy but still…she’s wise-ish.

It’s mostly innocent girl babble, however this past Saturday I had a bit of a surprise. There was a conversation with a friend that seemed harmless until I followed it all the way to the end where my daughter had written, “F**K!”

My first thought? Obviously from her use of asterisks she’s not fully committed so I still have time until the real language is unleashed. It was however my first, OMG my daughter is not a little girl moment. I’m not naive. I know she says it when I’m not around but this was my first confirmation.

The rose covered glasses have been officially removed.

Since Grade four when she announced a boy in her class had said a bad word I knew it was in her vocabulary. She wanted so badly to tell me the word. There was so much excitement on her face I couldn’t help myself and let her say it.

Her eyes got huge.

“Can I really?”

“Really. Once,” I clarified.

“Fuck.”

I tried not to laugh. It sounded so funny coming out in her little voice.

But once wasn’t enough, she’d felt the power because she went on to tell me the context in which he had used it. I can’t remember exactly but it was an awkward sentence and used just to display his intellect of curse words.

I told her she shouldn’t admire him because he wasn’t even grammatically correct. And that was really saying something since fuck is a hard word to get wrong. There are so many ways to use it. Noun. Verb. Adjective. It really is the best and most versitile word ever.

Personally I don’t believe in bad words, just indecent people using them. There’s a time and a place for all of it, especially in a work of fiction when bad language is necessary to convey a certain character. And I can’t very well take the high and mighty road when I’ve been known to slip in various driving incidents.

I do recall telling her fuck shouldn’t be over-used or it loses its power.

I lied, it totally doesn’t. Fuck just feels good to say.

And now she knows too. Now I guess I should have the conversation about how crude it sounds coming out of a young person’s mouth and when she chooses to express herself over texts or whatever she should always assume there’s another snooping Mother (beside her own) creeping on the receiving end who very well could label her as “trouble.”

Just today when I thought I’d cleared the cursing hurdle, my 8 year old boy who was scanning iTunes said, “I like this song but it has a swear in it.”

Here we go again. I sigh. “What word is it?”

“Damn.”

May his innocence last forever.

Stop The Lindsanity

Someone needs to save Lindsay Lohan because Hollywood isn’t going to do it. Over the last couple weeks she’s been accused of two separate altercations. They happened on different nights but both at the same LA hotspot Smoke and Mirrors. For at least one of the nights she flat out denies being at the club. A blatant lie considering the surveillance video clearly shows her arriving and leaving the evening in question. Add this to her rap sheet: jail time, probation, rehab, two DUI’s, drug possession (twice) and you have one redheaded girl screaming for help. Yet, she continues to get work. In fact, she’s scheduled to play Elizabeth Taylor in a movie set to begin filming in Canada this month.

You would think she’d get it by now, but sadly most addicts never do, not as long as someone is enabling them and Lindsay doesn’t just have someone she has a whole town! As a mother I want to smack her hard in her freckled little face and then hold her and tell her everything will be okay.

She’s so sick and in so deep change must seem impossible. It’s classic addict behaviour but what’s a girl to do when she has no one standing up to her. It’s scary enough she’s still clubbing but what’s absolutely insane is her parents are with her, claiming to be watching her. How on earth does that make sense? As long as everyone is kissing her butt and she’s free to walk around, go to clubs and offered movie roles she’s not going to get better.

Period.

She needs her power taken away to save her life.

Unlike Britney Spears she doesn’t have a father willing or healthy enough to take over her responsibilities. Because Mr. Spears took on the care of his mentally ill daughter, Britney was left with nothing else to do but focus on her recovery. Now she’s healthy, staying away from press & clubs yet still has her supportive fans. Plus, rumour has it she’s signing on as the new X Factor judge. We all want good things for her because she’s trying.

I can’t help but think of my own daughter. I feel the need to protect her from idolizing someone like Lindsay, to point out what a sick woman she is. Bad things happen when we bottle our feelings especially when we live in a society where asking for help is considered weak. A stigma some people can’t afford. I’m confident she’s smart enough to recognize a hot mess when she sees one, but power, money and being desired are powerful forces and we can’t always trust young kids to see the big picture.

I like to point out stories of hope and recovery to her like Demi Lovato (Bulimia, cutting, depression) & Danielle Radcliffe (alcoholism) and let her know it’s better to ask for help then go down a road of destruction you may never come back from.

I truly hope Lindsay does.

Fashion Senseless

I have the worst fashion sense. My closet is a sea of black, brown or if I’m feeling adventurous, tan. Ever since I left my job in August all I wear are yoga pants. Sexy, I know.  In the summer I’m sure to break out some khaki shorts, but not short-shorts; the dimplage on my legs makes me throw up in my mouth and as I found out recently in a shared dressing room experience with my 12 year old daughter..”it’s quite disturbing.”

My Mom (Sally) is a great dresser. She can throw outfits together like nobody’s business. In fact, when I have events back home I don’t bother to pack much because I know she’s got my back, right down to the shoes and accessories. I simple pull out what I’m going to wear, she takes one look at me and we’re off to her closet.

That’s why to this day I can’t understand what went wrong at my Grade 8 graduation. I obviously needed a dress and as always Sally was going shopping with me because she loved to be in charge involved in the decision. It wasn’t an easy job buying clothes for me. I wasn’t a willing participant. I was chunky and hated how clothes clung to my stomach rolls. It made me very uncomfortable and self conscious. So needless to say I was always in baggy, frumpy  clothes.

Thank God for Parachute pants. Barf.

Every dress I tried on was too poofy, frilly, lacy or tight. Probably because they actually touched my skin. Plus I was 13,  grumpy, listened to heavy metal and just wanted to shuffle home in my high tops and concert shirt and wallow in my room.

As I recall we didn’t come to an agreement, which I’m sure was frustrating for Sally but equally painful for me, after all I was the one who had to wear a dress. Finally one day she just brought home a dress. I didn’t question. It fit. Decision made.

Notice my radiant smile…and that I’m cutting cake…

On the night of the graduation I stuffed myself into this foreign material feeling shy and awkward. All the other girls seemed to be doing just fine in their pretty little frilly things. I hunched my shoulders and went to my seat, passing some late people coming up the aisle. Since my glance was downward I spied the dress first. We were side by side. Just me and the person wearing the same dress as me.

Horror.  It couldn’t get worse.

I slowly lifted my gaze.

It was somebody’s Mother…

I died a little inside. Sally did too.

I hadn’t thought about it for years until Facebook (the nasty prick) came along and someone tagged me in a picture for the entire world to see.

Thanks Izzy! Love you!

Once again I was forced to erase my memory of this event and had successfully done so until a few weeks ago when I had to buy something with bright colours to wear to see Oprah. It took forever. Since I still carry the same body image as my 13 year old self nothing I found looked good on me and Sally was miles away. Finally I just made a decision out of exhaustion and went with a bright orangey pink blouse.

(Side note: Do we still say blouse?)

After the show I saw these two cute old ladies coming our way and I turned to my firend to remark about seeing our future, but has I did something drew my eye back to them.

One walked with a cane, wore polyester pants and (drum roll) was sporting the same blouse as me.

This memory will never ever die.

And the blouse (?) will never be seen again.

On a positive note, I totally would’ve kicked her ass in a Who Wore It Best competition.