Kylie Minogue Is She-ra (vialistgenerator)
Oh hellz yeah!! She-Ra was my JAM back in the day. My cousins and I could play She-Ra for an entire weekend straight, no exaggeration* (my cool aunt Therese even made us Princess of Power costumes one Halloween … I mean how awesome was it that our role models were Princesses of POWER?).
They had WAY more dolls than me — Bow & Arrow with his beating heart, Double Trouble with her Rapunzel hair, pretty pretty princess Glimmer … and then they had all the accessories, like Swift Wind, Catra’s tiger, Angella’s pink cloud castle, and this seahorse-boat-thing-that-was-also-a-harp (you had to be there) — but I had Castaspella and she was the hottest so THERE.**
* Alternating with weekends completely devoted to Peck-Grande paper dolls, of course.
(via funnyordie)
Anonymous asked: In your post about traveling & your family, you refer to your mother as your "birth mother" and I was just wondering why? Is it because she died when you were young and you never really knew her as anything other than your birth mom? Or was there some sort of early estrangement that leads you to refer to her in a semi detached manner? I think both the woman that birthed you and the fearless, independant woman you grew up with can be your mom! Unless, you feel otehrwise! Just curious (and nosy).
Good question. That’s what we’ve always called her. I was only two and a half when she died, so while she was my everything, my primary caretaker, and by all accounts, a superb and doting mom — I’ve never known her. I would feel weird calling her simply ‘my mom’ — in fact, I always did. (When I was around five I would say, “I don’t have a mom,” and Dad would have to remind me, “You do, but she died.”)
And as for the woman my dad married — I call her ‘my mom’ as shorthand with people I don’t know well but I have always called her Shelley within my family and friends. It would feel weird to call her Mom to her face. Really weird.
Here’s the thing though. She’s IS my mom. Legally — as well as in every other way except the biological (though people occasionally say we look alike, which is amusing). She adopted me when I was 15 (though they married when I was 9 I didn’t ‘let her’ adopt me until then — it was too much, I guess, and I needed to mature until I could get to that point of acceptance).
When you are adopted, you get a brand-new Certificate of Live Birth. It makes no mention of adoption. It says that Shelley was my mother at the time of my birth (living it up in Santa Barbara while I was gettin’ born in Germany, a miracle of science!). Denise is not mentioned. (Strange, right?)
I’m sure that other people would feel comfortable calling Shelley Mom to her face, or having ‘two moms,’ one dead, one living, but I just don’t. ‘Birth-mom,’ to me, is accurate and respectful to both women. But perhaps it is a form of detachment. I suppose they’re not mutually exclusive.
PS: It’s worth noting that my dad calls Shelley “your mother/mom” to me, and that I usually call her mom when referring to her with my sister. That wasn’t always the case, though. I remember when she was little she once asked why I called her Shelley. Where to begin, sweet Gena…?
It took Shelley a long time to find the right man. I’m thankful that Mark was so persistent.
It took Shelley a long time to find the right man. I’m thankful that Mark was so persistent.Grandma Su, in a recent email to me.
Me too, Grandma.
Me too.
There’s something that wrenched at my heart when I saw this image. I think it was the memory — which I know I’ve spoke of before — of feeling so lost when they led us in making Mother’s Day cards in school. (It seemed like such a cruel joke that Father’s Day landed in summer while Mother’s Day did not.)
But who will I give this to? I wondered.
You can give it to your Grandma if you want, Dad said.
Bit by bit, we’re all learning the lesson I learned then.
We make our own families.
Not Hallmark, not the people we see on TV, and certainly not the government.
We do.
via newyorker:
In the spirit of openheartedness and what life is really all about, I’ll go so far as to say that the fear of others may mask some deep-seated desire to understand, and maybe even to love. Because really, what is there to be afraid of? Few people today don’t know—or have in their families—at least one loving couple who are raising children, same-sex or not. And it’s really just the loving part that matters. That same-sex marriage could go from its preliminary draft of “diagnosable” to the final edit of “so what?” must indicate some positive evolution on the part of the larger human consciousness. My wife, being a biology teacher, puts it even more succinctly: “Why are all these people so worried about who everybody else is sleeping with, anyway?” (Score two for Moms.)
—Chris Ware on his cover of the May 13, 2013 issue, “Mother’s Day.” Get the story behind the cover: http://nyr.kr/10d7TyC
(via lorim)
When I was down in Sarasota last month, it was just me. It was supposed to be my mom and dad, too, but after her shoulder surgery, Shelley couldn’t make it down. I was sad to miss them — my parents are kind of the best — but it did present a very rare treat: my grandma and great-aunt all to myself for a long weekend (which, grandma being grandma, was not long enough in her book, nope not at all).
When I went with them to their Unitarian church service on Sunday the sweetest thing happened.
“This is my grand-niece, Nora,” Mira would say as introduction.
“Well — this is my grand-daughter, Nora,” Grandma interjected, maybe a little louder than necessary.
What is it about big sisters? Always gotta one-up. ;)
Joking aside, it made me really proud that they were both proud to introduce me to their friends — maybe even show me off a little??
Here’s another thing about these two.
Over the past several years, they have suffered the deaths of their husbands and the deaths of friends. Their health is not what it used to be; they don’t enjoy the beach as much as they used to; they get tired in the afternoons and yet have a hard time sleeping at night (“everyone does,” they say).
But — they have each other. They live just a mile or so apart and see each other nearly every day, and I cannot imagine a better way to retire than that.
If I have my sisters — my biological sister and, hopefully, the sisters in my familia putativa (our dream is to retire to New Orleans’ Garden District) — nearby, if I have grandkids to come visit, even if it’s just for a long weekend, I will know I am still living the good life.
Aches and pains and all.
Church, tropical drinks, and tiramusu birthday cake…. Sunday funday with my grandma and great-aunt!
P.S. I knit her that shawl for Christmas several years ago. She told me she always gets compliments on it — and does she ever. I could start a side-business supplying the ladies of Sarasota with colorful little notions.
My mom fell down and broke her crown a couple weeks ago. She slipped on black ice, cutting her head just above the eyebrow and chipping the ball of her shoulder. I haven’t wanted to discuss it here because we were still learning just what she was dealing with, injury-wise, but yesterday she had shoulder surgery and the surgeon was ecstatic with the results — she said it went as well as it could go.
I am SO relieved! Go Shell Go!!
(Picture, stolen from Facebook, was taken last spring. Shelley’s wearing the sari my parents bought me on Devon Ave. in Chicago in 2001 or 2002. Somehow I’ve never worn it. Who dates an Indian man for 4+ years and never has an occasion to wear a sari??)
Look at my smoochypants parents! Look at ‘em!
Isn’t it GROSS?
Isn’t it ANNOYING?
Shouldn’t there be a RULE against this sort of thing??
Twenty-two years ago, when we moved in with Shelley, I thought so.
Rules of the Family, I wrote.
At the top:
NO KISSING.
And you better believe I enforced that shit. Nothing like a nine-year-old to kill the mood.
…
Several years later, my little sister made her own Family Rules.
She wasn’t a kid dealing with a dad getting re-married and a woman who maybe wanted to be her mom.
No.
Her concerns were more straight-forward, perhaps, but no less important.
At the top of her list:
NO BOTHERING PEOPLE WHILE THEY ARE IN THE BATHROOM.
And I gotta say — its her rule that stands the test of time.
‘Cause it warms this here heart to see my parents makin’ kissy-face now.
But leave me the eff alone when I’m in the john.
(Photo by my Aunt Tami.)
I tried but I can’t resist! My dad and his big brother John, circa 1952.
Don’t their faces express every big-brother-little-brother relationship that ever was? Big Brother cocky and confident, Little Brother just trying to hang as best he can.
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