OMG! This woman claiming to be a "freegan" is killing me. I'm not opposed to free shit. (Quite the opposite actually) The whole thing is that she makes a 6-figure salary and she doesn't contribute to consumerism. Totally agree -- though I won't be digging through dumpsters any time soon.
But did you SEE her KITCHEN? Seriously, those are some nice cabinets. Those are some really nice stainless steel appliances. Me thinks she's still buying stuff. What the?
Are you watching? Did you watch? What do you think?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
MFM Video: Nate Jam
A first here at MFM, and hopefully not the last. The Dog made this video of Nate at the Raps game last night. Enjoy.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Bedtime BS
It's a blessing and a curse to have both the children go to bed an hour apart. I enjoy having the alone time with each of them, but bedtime is now a two hour event. They moved in together two weeks ago, and after a few bumpy nights the transition period is over. My two perfectly-browed children, sleeping in the same room. I can barely keep myself from going in there every hour to watch their sleeping perfection.
Except that we are all terrified of Lucine. She will wake up from the slightest noise, the teeniest whiff of breastmilk. And she will scream. She will SCREAM! And the entire perfect vision will unravel as we have to coax two children back to sleep.
Lucine is adorable. She is happy and smiley and good-natured, but she has a dark side. She knows she is the shit. She knows we needed her to complete the puzzle and she's all too happy to provide. Provided we accommodate her large list of demands in return.
But her one blessing is that she doesn't need a huge ceremony to go to bed. She just yells one big "I can't fucking believe you're putting me in this bed right now!" then sucks her thumb, closes her eyes and goes to bed. She always has to get that one "Fuck you mom" in there, but then she complies. She reminds me of me in that way.
But mostly she's her dad, falling asleep easily, as soon as her head hits that mattress. (Staying asleep? Well, we're still working on that one.) Nate, on the other hand, requires much more finessing. He needs a good hour of song and dance to get to sleep. And now, because Lucy is so sensitive, I have to do this each night in my room.
"OK, so we're going to have a bath, brush our teeth, pee one more time on the potty, put our jammies on in my room and then story time."
"But I DON'T want to go to bed!"
"Well, we're not going to bed just yet, just getting ready for bed."
"But I DON'T NEEEEEEEED a baff (bath)!"
And so on and so on. Finally get some combo of bathing/hygiene ritual going. Head to my room. Fack. He's peed in all his jammie pants and I haven't done laundry in a few days. (Seriously. If sleep deprivation was the big surprise the first time around, then the laundry is the big whopper with the second child. WHO KNEW I WOULD HAVE TO DO SO MUCH FUCKING LAUNDRY??!)
"Um, OK. I know I always stress that we're not to sleep in our clothes, but you're out of jammie pants, so you're going to go to sleep in those track pants. So let's put this jammie shirt on and keep those pants on. OK?"
"But I don't want to take my sweater off!"
"You'll be too hot sleeping in that sweater OK? Let's just put this jammie shirt on."
"Oh shurr. (He kinda says it krunk-style, with a Ludacris twang.) But, I'm keeping deez pants on, wight?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Why?"
Oh fuck me with the questions! Just do it! "Because you peed all your jammie pants and I didn't do laundry yet, k?"
"Who cares?" This is his other new thing that was cute twice but now grates on my nerves.
Finally he's dressed-ish, washed-ish and it's story time. Last night I discovered the key to getting out of reading six books. (Six books that I can no longer stand after their two thousand sixty sixth reading.) Dr. Seuss. Some of the longer stories, like Horton Hears a Who, are so complex and zig-zaggy nonsense for someone of his age that it just puts him into the appropriate trance. Then I can just pick him up and transfer him into his own bed without dealing with the "scared of the dark" bullshit that is now the bane of 8 pm.
Lucine needs total darkness. Nate needs the light on. We tried a night light but the fucking hipster light fixture on his ceiling makes a scary shadow and he cries, "That bird with one eye is watching me!" We gave him Lucy's Gloworm, but he has to press its belly every 15 seconds to keep the light going. I need a solution. Got any suggestions?
Note: this is not an invitation for you to tell me how perfect your children are and how you're so much better of a mother for getting their sleep issues sorted. I'm OK with how things are rolling. They're challenging, but they're us. I just need to know if I go with a flashlight or one of those IKEA kids' wall lamps.
OK, they might kill me for posting this in the future.
Except that we are all terrified of Lucine. She will wake up from the slightest noise, the teeniest whiff of breastmilk. And she will scream. She will SCREAM! And the entire perfect vision will unravel as we have to coax two children back to sleep.
Lucine is adorable. She is happy and smiley and good-natured, but she has a dark side. She knows she is the shit. She knows we needed her to complete the puzzle and she's all too happy to provide. Provided we accommodate her large list of demands in return.
But her one blessing is that she doesn't need a huge ceremony to go to bed. She just yells one big "I can't fucking believe you're putting me in this bed right now!" then sucks her thumb, closes her eyes and goes to bed. She always has to get that one "Fuck you mom" in there, but then she complies. She reminds me of me in that way.
But mostly she's her dad, falling asleep easily, as soon as her head hits that mattress. (Staying asleep? Well, we're still working on that one.) Nate, on the other hand, requires much more finessing. He needs a good hour of song and dance to get to sleep. And now, because Lucy is so sensitive, I have to do this each night in my room.
"OK, so we're going to have a bath, brush our teeth, pee one more time on the potty, put our jammies on in my room and then story time."
"But I DON'T want to go to bed!"
"Well, we're not going to bed just yet, just getting ready for bed."
"But I DON'T NEEEEEEEED a baff (bath)!"
And so on and so on. Finally get some combo of bathing/hygiene ritual going. Head to my room. Fack. He's peed in all his jammie pants and I haven't done laundry in a few days. (Seriously. If sleep deprivation was the big surprise the first time around, then the laundry is the big whopper with the second child. WHO KNEW I WOULD HAVE TO DO SO MUCH FUCKING LAUNDRY??!)
"Um, OK. I know I always stress that we're not to sleep in our clothes, but you're out of jammie pants, so you're going to go to sleep in those track pants. So let's put this jammie shirt on and keep those pants on. OK?"
"But I don't want to take my sweater off!"
"You'll be too hot sleeping in that sweater OK? Let's just put this jammie shirt on."
"Oh shurr. (He kinda says it krunk-style, with a Ludacris twang.) But, I'm keeping deez pants on, wight?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Why?"
Oh fuck me with the questions! Just do it! "Because you peed all your jammie pants and I didn't do laundry yet, k?"
"Who cares?" This is his other new thing that was cute twice but now grates on my nerves.
Finally he's dressed-ish, washed-ish and it's story time. Last night I discovered the key to getting out of reading six books. (Six books that I can no longer stand after their two thousand sixty sixth reading.) Dr. Seuss. Some of the longer stories, like Horton Hears a Who, are so complex and zig-zaggy nonsense for someone of his age that it just puts him into the appropriate trance. Then I can just pick him up and transfer him into his own bed without dealing with the "scared of the dark" bullshit that is now the bane of 8 pm.
Lucine needs total darkness. Nate needs the light on. We tried a night light but the fucking hipster light fixture on his ceiling makes a scary shadow and he cries, "That bird with one eye is watching me!" We gave him Lucy's Gloworm, but he has to press its belly every 15 seconds to keep the light going. I need a solution. Got any suggestions?
Note: this is not an invitation for you to tell me how perfect your children are and how you're so much better of a mother for getting their sleep issues sorted. I'm OK with how things are rolling. They're challenging, but they're us. I just need to know if I go with a flashlight or one of those IKEA kids' wall lamps.
OK, they might kill me for posting this in the future.Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Jesus, Nate and the Dog are my homeboys
With my husband's wacky schedule and me being on maternity leave, we end up having a lot of time together at home. Most of that time is spent doing silly shit. You might call it playing.
My husband has a child's imagination and an infectious sense of humour that make all who know him love him fiercely. "Everybody loves the Jan-Dogger!" was the popular refrain from our friends for over a decade now that we've known each other.
In the past, this childlike quality has also been a liability. He's been unemployed, irresponsible and forgetful to a fault. He'd never had to think of anyone but himself. Suddenly that all changed and the transition was difficult.
Three years ago I often wondered if I could possibly do this parenting thing without him. Now I can't imagine doing a single second of it without him.
In hindsight, a lot of my anger spewed forth from a sort of Post-Partum Depression -- more apt would be to refer to it as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Nate's birth went horribly wrong, my life changed more than I ever thought it would, and I basically went batshit crazy. I took it out on the one person who was helping me helm the ship.
On days like today, when I technically shouldn't be working on anything, when I should be focussed on mothering, he indulges me. It makes him grumpy that I always have my face buried in the laptop. That the words beckon to be typed out the point of compulsion. That I am working at mothering and writing around the clock, wearing myself out, having little time to be a wife, a partner. Yet he still takes the time to kiss me before he leaves for work. To kiss me until my knees turn to liquid and the motherhood dissolves.
Most importantly, he takes the time to teach my kids to play. It's so important. I forget that task amid making sure everyone's getting enough sleep, vitamin D, clean clothes and vegetables. Sometimes I roll my eyes, wondering what could be the point of teaching Nate a homeboy stance. Then I realize, that's just it -- there's not always supposed to be a point to childhood. And that's the part he's sworn to protect.
My husband has a child's imagination and an infectious sense of humour that make all who know him love him fiercely. "Everybody loves the Jan-Dogger!" was the popular refrain from our friends for over a decade now that we've known each other.
In the past, this childlike quality has also been a liability. He's been unemployed, irresponsible and forgetful to a fault. He'd never had to think of anyone but himself. Suddenly that all changed and the transition was difficult.
Three years ago I often wondered if I could possibly do this parenting thing without him. Now I can't imagine doing a single second of it without him.
In hindsight, a lot of my anger spewed forth from a sort of Post-Partum Depression -- more apt would be to refer to it as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Nate's birth went horribly wrong, my life changed more than I ever thought it would, and I basically went batshit crazy. I took it out on the one person who was helping me helm the ship.
On days like today, when I technically shouldn't be working on anything, when I should be focussed on mothering, he indulges me. It makes him grumpy that I always have my face buried in the laptop. That the words beckon to be typed out the point of compulsion. That I am working at mothering and writing around the clock, wearing myself out, having little time to be a wife, a partner. Yet he still takes the time to kiss me before he leaves for work. To kiss me until my knees turn to liquid and the motherhood dissolves.
Most importantly, he takes the time to teach my kids to play. It's so important. I forget that task amid making sure everyone's getting enough sleep, vitamin D, clean clothes and vegetables. Sometimes I roll my eyes, wondering what could be the point of teaching Nate a homeboy stance. Then I realize, that's just it -- there's not always supposed to be a point to childhood. And that's the part he's sworn to protect.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Working toward working from home
While I haven't really had time to write a proper post about my fam here, I have been keeping up at the ol' job blog.
I have no idea who my daughter is. Or rather, I'm terrified that my instincts about her may be true.
We're in potty training hell.
My son wants to marry someone other than his mother. But he wants her to turn into a mermaid first.
My husband handmade valentines for Nate's entire class. It made me want to strangle him a bit.
Here's a small offering to tide you over until I have a spare second to update you on the trials of having two small kids and trying to build a freelance career.
I'm so cute, but she's too busy trying to figure out how to stay home to look at me!
I have no idea who my daughter is. Or rather, I'm terrified that my instincts about her may be true.
We're in potty training hell.
My son wants to marry someone other than his mother. But he wants her to turn into a mermaid first.
My husband handmade valentines for Nate's entire class. It made me want to strangle him a bit.
Here's a small offering to tide you over until I have a spare second to update you on the trials of having two small kids and trying to build a freelance career.
I'm so cute, but she's too busy trying to figure out how to stay home to look at me!Friday, February 15, 2008
Pretending to be a journalist: Day One
I've been taking some writing gigs here and there just to keep my mind fresh and my name alive with the powers that give out writing contracts. Also because I'm insane and should have a lobotomy so I can shut this brain off and just be a mom for a while. Alas, when you have (self-diagnosed) adult ADD, you can't concentrate on just one thing at a time, even if she is the cutest baby girl in the whole wide world.
The morning after the Spice Girls show was my first day on the job of a very big freelance gig. The morning began kid-free, in a warm bed with my husband. Unfortunately, we both had to be out the door by 7:30 AM, so we were robbed of a true lie-in, or anything remotely hotter than the duvet. I scarfed down some coffee and a muffin, checked my deliriously awesome new Cole Haan tote for camera and recording device, and raced across town to the Royal York Hotel.
As I was driving I decided to double check that the batteries in my voice recorder were working. Check. Awesome. Parked the car, ran into the event space and grabbed a seat. I was in a room full of media and music professionals, covering the Juno nominations.
Got out my handy dandy notebook. Clicked my pen a few times a la Drew Barrymore in Music and Lyrics. Tried to look cool as I scanned the room for stars. Rummaged through my fantastic bag for my recorder. Um hullo? Pulled out diapers, Juno press kit, camera, make-up case, bottled water... faaaack.
I have adult ADD, I am sure of it. (See, like, didn't I just mention that three paragraphs ago?) I have the attention span of a goldfish. I'm like a child in that I pick something up and then I'm off to the next thing, leaving whatever I'd picked up in an inappropriate spot. So knowing this about me, the good guess would be that when I checked to see that the batts were working, I just put the recorder next to me in the car instead of back in my bag. Ass.
The presentation was about to start, so I couldn't run back to the car in time. Took good notes to make up for the lack of recording device. Fell in love with Measha Brueggergosman. (Girl, your husband is so hot! And you are fierce! I must get me to the opera NOW!) When the official presentation was over, I ran back to the car to grab my recorder then headed to the press scrum to get my stories. Between the running in a parka on a mild day, and the breastfeeding sweats that were building up due to withdrawal, I prayed that my deoderant was doing its job.
Overall, the event was an amazing insight into the Canadian music industry. Publicists are dying to get you to interview their artists. After getting a moment with Gil Moore from Triumph (who are being inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame) I was approached by an attractive man and his familiar-looking female cohort. "Would you like to interview Suzie McNeil?" OMG! Would I?
Now I did not watch Rockstar. But my oldest friend Big J is a die-hard Suzie fan. She went to a Rockstar taping, went to see Suzie in We Will Rock You, and even went to Suzie's post-Rockstar solo show and paid for her autograph. So I was eager to meet this artist my pal has such good things to say about. And you know what? She was lovely in person, so humble. It's nice to meet famous people who don't act like they are more important than world peace.
I went on to interview a slew of artists from various genres and stopped feeling like an amateur by about interview #3. I was starting to get a bit cocky, shoving my mic into people's faces, waiting for the right moment to grab a second with some of the more famous ones.
I saw an opportunity to grab an interview with someone rather important. I introduced myself and extended a hand out, when his publicist rounded the corner with someone from an indie publication wanting an interview. Damn, didn't realize that this person was so important I would have to go through the publicist. This IS Canada after all. And it's 9 am. Anyone who's THAT famous is still in bed.
The publicist asks who I am and when my credentials check out she tells me that Mr. Important is busy so I'll just have to get what I can from the other journalists interview. Meaning: stick your mic out and steal his questions. Except Mr-fresh-out-of-J-school-and-probably-working-for-free is not pleased with this. Plus, his questions are too "indie" for me to use. "Avril or Feist, who wins in a cage match?" Are you fucking serious? I know I'm not 25 anymore, but is this a question anyone really wants the answer to? (For the record, I think Feist takes it, but just barely.)
On top of all this awkwardness, Mr. Important keeps looking over at me and staring at my milk-swollen tits while I am trying to talk to him. I look right back at him with a face that says, "You are not fucking serious. You are not staring at my tits every two seconds like you have an eye disorder." He continues regardless. Then the publicist starts to rush him off, so I ask for a quick picture. Mr-fresh-out-of-J-school is not pleased with my technique and to make matters worse, Mr. Important pulls J-school aside and starts to whisper something in his ear while looking directly at me. It is so rude, so blatantly offensive that I find myself feeling like I'm in high school and totally upset.
It happened to be Super Tuesday in the States and on the way back home all the talk radio was all about Barack and Hilary. I have been weighing these two options for some time now. I have to admit that until this moment I had been rooting for Barack. Hilary feels so establishment to me. No matter what anyone says, it's not totally about the issues here. This democratic candidacy is about hope. And I thought that a person of colour would bring more hope and positive change to America than a white woman.
Mr. Important is a person of colour. After I realized what a misogynist he was, that a person who had faced discrimination could intentionally be discriminatory and hurtful to me to make me feel like the smaller person, I changed my mind. Barack Obama is still a man. I'm not saying Barack Obama would treat a woman the way Mr. Important treated me. But I am saying that when it comes to the history books, the fact that the world's most powerful nation believed a woman could lead them... well I now believe that this is the more powerful thing.
But I digress. All this ignoring of my children and lack of sleep these past few weeks has lead to these three articles, with more on the way.
Read my wrap up of nomination day here.
Profile on Suzie McNeil here.
Profile on awesome band that I now MUST see live, God Made Me Funky, here.
The morning after the Spice Girls show was my first day on the job of a very big freelance gig. The morning began kid-free, in a warm bed with my husband. Unfortunately, we both had to be out the door by 7:30 AM, so we were robbed of a true lie-in, or anything remotely hotter than the duvet. I scarfed down some coffee and a muffin, checked my deliriously awesome new Cole Haan tote for camera and recording device, and raced across town to the Royal York Hotel.
As I was driving I decided to double check that the batteries in my voice recorder were working. Check. Awesome. Parked the car, ran into the event space and grabbed a seat. I was in a room full of media and music professionals, covering the Juno nominations.
Got out my handy dandy notebook. Clicked my pen a few times a la Drew Barrymore in Music and Lyrics. Tried to look cool as I scanned the room for stars. Rummaged through my fantastic bag for my recorder. Um hullo? Pulled out diapers, Juno press kit, camera, make-up case, bottled water... faaaack.
I have adult ADD, I am sure of it. (See, like, didn't I just mention that three paragraphs ago?) I have the attention span of a goldfish. I'm like a child in that I pick something up and then I'm off to the next thing, leaving whatever I'd picked up in an inappropriate spot. So knowing this about me, the good guess would be that when I checked to see that the batts were working, I just put the recorder next to me in the car instead of back in my bag. Ass.
The presentation was about to start, so I couldn't run back to the car in time. Took good notes to make up for the lack of recording device. Fell in love with Measha Brueggergosman. (Girl, your husband is so hot! And you are fierce! I must get me to the opera NOW!) When the official presentation was over, I ran back to the car to grab my recorder then headed to the press scrum to get my stories. Between the running in a parka on a mild day, and the breastfeeding sweats that were building up due to withdrawal, I prayed that my deoderant was doing its job.
Overall, the event was an amazing insight into the Canadian music industry. Publicists are dying to get you to interview their artists. After getting a moment with Gil Moore from Triumph (who are being inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame) I was approached by an attractive man and his familiar-looking female cohort. "Would you like to interview Suzie McNeil?" OMG! Would I?
Now I did not watch Rockstar. But my oldest friend Big J is a die-hard Suzie fan. She went to a Rockstar taping, went to see Suzie in We Will Rock You, and even went to Suzie's post-Rockstar solo show and paid for her autograph. So I was eager to meet this artist my pal has such good things to say about. And you know what? She was lovely in person, so humble. It's nice to meet famous people who don't act like they are more important than world peace.
I went on to interview a slew of artists from various genres and stopped feeling like an amateur by about interview #3. I was starting to get a bit cocky, shoving my mic into people's faces, waiting for the right moment to grab a second with some of the more famous ones.
I saw an opportunity to grab an interview with someone rather important. I introduced myself and extended a hand out, when his publicist rounded the corner with someone from an indie publication wanting an interview. Damn, didn't realize that this person was so important I would have to go through the publicist. This IS Canada after all. And it's 9 am. Anyone who's THAT famous is still in bed.
The publicist asks who I am and when my credentials check out she tells me that Mr. Important is busy so I'll just have to get what I can from the other journalists interview. Meaning: stick your mic out and steal his questions. Except Mr-fresh-out-of-J-school-and-probably-working-for-free is not pleased with this. Plus, his questions are too "indie" for me to use. "Avril or Feist, who wins in a cage match?" Are you fucking serious? I know I'm not 25 anymore, but is this a question anyone really wants the answer to? (For the record, I think Feist takes it, but just barely.)
On top of all this awkwardness, Mr. Important keeps looking over at me and staring at my milk-swollen tits while I am trying to talk to him. I look right back at him with a face that says, "You are not fucking serious. You are not staring at my tits every two seconds like you have an eye disorder." He continues regardless. Then the publicist starts to rush him off, so I ask for a quick picture. Mr-fresh-out-of-J-school is not pleased with my technique and to make matters worse, Mr. Important pulls J-school aside and starts to whisper something in his ear while looking directly at me. It is so rude, so blatantly offensive that I find myself feeling like I'm in high school and totally upset.
It happened to be Super Tuesday in the States and on the way back home all the talk radio was all about Barack and Hilary. I have been weighing these two options for some time now. I have to admit that until this moment I had been rooting for Barack. Hilary feels so establishment to me. No matter what anyone says, it's not totally about the issues here. This democratic candidacy is about hope. And I thought that a person of colour would bring more hope and positive change to America than a white woman.
Mr. Important is a person of colour. After I realized what a misogynist he was, that a person who had faced discrimination could intentionally be discriminatory and hurtful to me to make me feel like the smaller person, I changed my mind. Barack Obama is still a man. I'm not saying Barack Obama would treat a woman the way Mr. Important treated me. But I am saying that when it comes to the history books, the fact that the world's most powerful nation believed a woman could lead them... well I now believe that this is the more powerful thing.
But I digress. All this ignoring of my children and lack of sleep these past few weeks has lead to these three articles, with more on the way.
Read my wrap up of nomination day here.
Profile on Suzie McNeil here.
Profile on awesome band that I now MUST see live, God Made Me Funky, here.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Have you seen Yo Gabba Gabba yet?
So many things to write, but the brain says -- NO! So I will post a distraction until I can form sentences.
This not-available-in-Canada show is all the rage in our house. It might just be the coolest kids show ever. I'm actually resorting to having someone pirate the episodes for me. I know that some people will find it annoying, but growing up on hip hop, I like the concept.
I have scanned YouTube for the best clips so your kids can make you as mental as mine, asking to watch this 500 times a day.
The intro to the show:
A lesson in clean up set to a ska beat:
Biz Markie pretends he's "just a friend" as he teaches your kids to beat box:
My favourite clip by far is this one.
This person has a few good quality clips up as well. I'm doing you a favour. There's a ton of mashups and shit to go through before you get to the actual show.
This not-available-in-Canada show is all the rage in our house. It might just be the coolest kids show ever. I'm actually resorting to having someone pirate the episodes for me. I know that some people will find it annoying, but growing up on hip hop, I like the concept.
I have scanned YouTube for the best clips so your kids can make you as mental as mine, asking to watch this 500 times a day.
The intro to the show:
A lesson in clean up set to a ska beat:
Biz Markie pretends he's "just a friend" as he teaches your kids to beat box:
My favourite clip by far is this one.
This person has a few good quality clips up as well. I'm doing you a favour. There's a ton of mashups and shit to go through before you get to the actual show.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
So Major!
* Now with photos!
I spent last night with Gerry, Victoria, Emma and Mels C and B. My husband bought my sister and I tickets to the Spice Girls show for Christmas. Awesome would not be the right descriptor here.
I shipped the kids off to my mom's, shed a few tears as they drove away, then got busy trying to look less like a mom. Let's face it. The core group of Spice Girls fans are at least 10 years younger than me. There weren't many 33-year-old moms there, I assure you. (There were considerably more mid-40s moms accompanying their kids.)
Listen, cheese or not, the Spice Girls are pretty badass. Four out of five of them are now moms and when they gathered on stage to sing "Mama," it was pretty cool. Like Girl Power had come full circle. Watching these fierce women do what they do made me think we are now in an era of Mom Power. How fabulous is that?
And the Roberto Cavalli costumes were sick! They were so stunning that I could just imagine Tyra Banks eyes popping out of her head if she saw them. There was a funny bit of the show were Scary Spice/Mel B, clad in her signature leopard catsuit and knee-high frankenboots, tried to convert a gay man on stage.
By far the most shocking thing was how things have changed for Posh Victoria Beckham. As far as I recall, she was not the most popular SG back in the day. Ginger Spice was the most loud, the most visible and appeared to run 'tings (as we say back in Scarb). But the audience's love of Mrs. Beckham was clear last night. Though she can't really sing, (she can sing well enough, but she's no Mel C.) anytime she was featured on the not-quite-big-enough screens above the stage, every girl and gay men went apeshit.
The Girls each did a solo stint, (Posh just did a sort of catwalk show because she's smart and knows to keep to her image and not her voice) but I was truly hoping that Bryan Adams would pop out during Mel C's solo bit and do a surprise rendition of their hit duet "Baby When You're Gone". That seriously has to be the greatest pop duet ever. (Sorry Dolly and Kenny, but fo rilla.) Alas, no, even though B Adams was rumoured to be in Toronto.
At the end of the day it was fun to see Girl Power all grown up, even if it did mean spending an evening with 20-somethings in skanky dresses and tight jeans. A few words to the younger set though:
I spent last night with Gerry, Victoria, Emma and Mels C and B. My husband bought my sister and I tickets to the Spice Girls show for Christmas. Awesome would not be the right descriptor here.
I shipped the kids off to my mom's, shed a few tears as they drove away, then got busy trying to look less like a mom. Let's face it. The core group of Spice Girls fans are at least 10 years younger than me. There weren't many 33-year-old moms there, I assure you. (There were considerably more mid-40s moms accompanying their kids.)
Listen, cheese or not, the Spice Girls are pretty badass. Four out of five of them are now moms and when they gathered on stage to sing "Mama," it was pretty cool. Like Girl Power had come full circle. Watching these fierce women do what they do made me think we are now in an era of Mom Power. How fabulous is that?
And the Roberto Cavalli costumes were sick! They were so stunning that I could just imagine Tyra Banks eyes popping out of her head if she saw them. There was a funny bit of the show were Scary Spice/Mel B, clad in her signature leopard catsuit and knee-high frankenboots, tried to convert a gay man on stage.
By far the most shocking thing was how things have changed for Posh Victoria Beckham. As far as I recall, she was not the most popular SG back in the day. Ginger Spice was the most loud, the most visible and appeared to run 'tings (as we say back in Scarb). But the audience's love of Mrs. Beckham was clear last night. Though she can't really sing, (she can sing well enough, but she's no Mel C.) anytime she was featured on the not-quite-big-enough screens above the stage, every girl and gay men went apeshit.
The Girls each did a solo stint, (Posh just did a sort of catwalk show because she's smart and knows to keep to her image and not her voice) but I was truly hoping that Bryan Adams would pop out during Mel C's solo bit and do a surprise rendition of their hit duet "Baby When You're Gone". That seriously has to be the greatest pop duet ever. (Sorry Dolly and Kenny, but fo rilla.) Alas, no, even though B Adams was rumoured to be in Toronto.
At the end of the day it was fun to see Girl Power all grown up, even if it did mean spending an evening with 20-somethings in skanky dresses and tight jeans. A few words to the younger set though:
- Open-toe/peep-toe shoes are not sexy in the snow and slush. Neither are ballet flats with no socks. Get some boots.
- Give up your Uggs. Really. They are not waterproof and the salt kills them anyway and they are so over.
- If you're going to get your posse together to dress up like the SG (and I so would have too if I was your age -- that's dope) bring a coat anyway. It's February. You don't look so cute when you're running like wet dogs in the rain. You look like hookers.
- Mel C can't do those kicks anymore because she's old like me. Her knees are done. She'd really rather be at home drinking a pint and watching Corrie.
- Getting shitfaced in front of your dad, even if he did pay for you and your friends to drink alcohol in his expensive box seats, is not on. It looks so bad. It makes your dad look like a pedophile. (Note to dad: it don't make you cool either, you mid-life crisis facing fool.)
- Taking a hundred hand-held group shots while I'm trying to watch the show behind you is lame. Your Facebook/MySpace friends will get that you were there with just, you know, a photo or two.
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