Flashback Friday: The Nanny diaries.

Vintage 1990: I was a mere 26 years old and clearly not mature enough to be a mother of two. Oh, how my children loved their "nannies" (pacifiers). I'm not quite sure where that name came about, but maybe since I couldn't afford any real help, I rationalized this was second best. Or maybe Ryan just tried to say "passie" and it came out "nanny" and the name stuck. Yeah, that's probably it.

Now that I think back on it, it explains so much. Like when other moms would look at me funny on visits to the park when I would say things like, "It's time to go--where's your nanny?" Or "Did you bury your nanny in the pea gravel?" Or after searching for a good half-hour, "That's it. I'm getting rid of the nanny." I'm pretty sure they jotted down my license plate number on that one.

And what's up with my hair? Seriously, was this a delayed reaction to the Dorothy Hamill phase? Was I a late hair bloomer? Better yet, why didn't my friends intervene? Now, on the other hand, paint-splattered tee's were all the rage so don't be hatin' on my outfit.

Have a great weekend!

UPDATE: A sweet commenter (Cheryl) pointed out that my hairstyle was possibly inspired by Princess Di, so I looked it up to confirm. It appears that I am NOT a late hair bloomer after all, and in fact, I am a trend-setter. Di's picture is from 1991 and mine is from 1990, so you be the judge. Who inspired whom? I'm just sayin'....

Hit the road Jack

Talk about taking the standard "sex sells" marketing strategy up a notch. Jack in the Box is clearly, taking the raunch factor to a whole new level. Try explaining this one to your kids...

As for me, I'm saying so long to seasoned curly fries. Next time I think about driving through, I'm driving by.

Separation anxiety

I, Vicki Courtney, do hereby solemnly swear to never, ever badger my children about their unhealthy attachment to their cell phones, again. Ever. In fact, I would call and inform my children of my new pledge, but my beloved cell phone is plugged into the wall charging in my kitchen...and I am in Nashville. Yes, tis true. I am going on nearly 18 hours with no cell phone. The trembling subsided a few hours ago.

I made the discovery when I pulled into a parking space in the airport parking garage this morning. As per my standard travel procedure, I reached into my purse for said cell phone to snap a photo of the painted number above my parking spot. This is a little habit I developed about a year ago after pulling my rolling bag up and down four levels of the airport parking garage for a full 30 minutes looking for my car. At midnight. In the cold. With heels on. After an exhausting weekend of speaking. During a certain time of the month.

Forgetting my cell phone seems inconceivable given my level of preparedness when it comes to standard travel woes. Light jacket for sub-zero temperatures in plane. Check. Pair of socks in carry-on tote for frost-bitten feet due to sub-zero temperatures in plane. Check. Splenda for coffee that will be served in plane. Check. Ipod chock-full of oldies, but goodies. Check. Ear plugs to drown out occasional episodes of late-night noise pollution in hotel. Check. Tylenol P.M. to drown out occasional episodes of late-night noise pollution in hotel when earplugs fail. Check. Granola bar to fend off unexpected cases of midnight munchies when kitchen pantry cannot be accessed in middle of the night. Check.

I never forget such obvious items as my CELL PHONE. For the record, I have the charger. Joy. My only excuse was that I left my house at 5:50 and had only one thought on my mind: Caffeine. Need caffeine. Must get Grande Vanilla Latte at airport. Oh, I realize there are much sadder stories in the world. Tomorrow evening this nightmare will be over and I will be reunited with my phone at long last. That is, if I am able to find my car...

Flashback Friday: Perspective.

Vintage 1998: I can still remember the day I walked into Hayden's room and saw this bit of artwork on his month's-old, Cargo bookcase. Imagine that dimple-faced little boy in the picture holding a purple crayon and looking at me with the same sense of accomplishment Leonardo Da Vinci must have felt when he painted the last stroke on the Mona Lisa. "My teacher told us to practice writing our name at home. Kinda like homework." Hmmm...did she mention anything about paper? I wondered to myself. He was in kindergarten and practicing his newly acquired skill of writing his name in the italic handwriting he was being taught.

By the third child, I had mastered the art of distinguishing between "willful disobedience" and "childish irresponsibility." Clearly, by the look on his face, he was not aware that there was anything wrong with writing your name on a piece of furniture and so I concluded that this unfortunate act fell into the latter category of "childish irresponsibility." In the midst of all the chaos that comes with raising three kids born in less than a five year window, apparently, I had forgotten to mention to the baby of the bunch that writing on furniture is a no-no. After praising his artwork, I patiently explained why it's generally not a good idea to scribble on anything other than paper and then I sat him down at the kitchen table with a sketch pad and his crayons and told him to finish his "homework." "When you're done, you can pick your favorite to hang on the refrigerator," I promised him.

While he was working busily, I trudged back upstairs with a variety of cleaning supplies, brushes, and rags. I remember thinking about times in the past when I screamed and shouted at my older two for similar acts of "childish irresponsibility." If only I could go back and parent the first two with the same attitude I've had with the last, I thought to myself. This new and improved parenting attitude was the result of two combined factors: 1) A maturity in the Lord and 2) absolute sheer exhaustion from raising three kids. What would have been a huge deal with the first child, hardly makes the radar with the last. Oh well, I thought, I'll have to remember to set aside some extra money for counseling should the first two need it in their latter years. It's the least I can do.

But for whatever reasons, when I stood before that bookcase, I couldn't bring myself to remove Hayden's artwork. Instead of scrubbing it off, I ended up shifting the bookcase to a different wall, exposing the clean side and thus, hiding the evidence. And then I forgot all about it.

Until that is, a couple of years ago when we upgraded Hayden's furniture and put his Cargo bunk beds, dresser, and bookcase up for sale. In the process of moving it down to the garage to get it ready to be picked up by its new owner, my husband moved the bookcase away from the wall and said, "What's this? Great, there's no way they are going to want this bookcase with Hayden's scribble all over it." And instantly at that moment, I had a flashback and saw that little dimple-faced, five year-old with his purple crayon in hand. The one who was now a teenager. And no longer uses crayons. Or colors on furniture. Or gets the "d" mixed up with a "b" when writing his name. That boy. Who will always in my eyes, be a boy.

And with that thought, I stepped over to the bookcase and brushed my hand over this priceless signature as if it were a Monet discovered tucked away in someone's attic at an estate sale. "Honey, that's not 'scribble' and this bookcase is not for sale. We'll adjust the price, but I'm hanging on to this keepsake. You can store things on it in the garage for all I care, but it's not leaving this house." It's amazing how your perspective changes over time. What I once would have thought was a travesty, I now see as a treasure. And so here it is, a picture of Hayden's masterpiece taken from our garage...with the good side on display for all to see. ☺

Attention teachers of America: Dogs do in fact, eat homework

Being the skeptic that I am, I have never bought that "the dog ate my homework" excuse...until now, that is. My little Scout Muffin Courtney has made me a believer. What you see before you is a sneak peek of a section, or rather pieces of a section, of my "Between Us Girls" magabook for tween girls, due to release this summer. My Publisher had sent the section of color page proofs with the simple instructions to look over the images for approval. You think Scout has a problem with the image on this page? Note to self: Don't leave manuscript on floor next to writing chair.

And yes, in case you're wondering about the mangled bear in the photo, it used to be a cute Hallmark Christmas bear in a previous life. He sat peacefully on my sofa during the holidays minding his own little business. Apparently, Scout took offense to the constant glassy-eyed stare and took matters into his own hands (paws). R.I.P. Hallmark Christmas bear.

So if my Publisher is reading this, take note: The dog ate my manuscript. And I have proof. So there.

The bribery (Part Two)

Well bloggie friends, I have an outcome on the steak dinner bribery, um, I mean offer. You might remember that several weeks ago, I had a conversation with College Boy about the trend of "hanging out" and thus, the extinction of old-fashioned dating. At the end of my conversation, I made an offer to my son of a steak dinner for two if he asks out a girl on a real-live date in the next several weeks to follow. And I must say, I couldn't be more proud of his response. Here is a summary of my conversation with College Boy:

Me: Well Son, time's almost up on the offer. What's the verdict?

College Boy: Okay Mom, I've thought about your offer and here's the deal. I decided that right now, there's not really anyone that I think I might be interested in like dating, ya know, so I wouldn't want to ask a girl out on a date and lead her on. Cuz a steak dinner is all serious, ya know, and I think most girls wouldn't want to go out if they knew it probably wasn't going to turn into anything more serious. Cuz I kinda think if you are going to ask a girl out on a real date, you need to be pretty sure that it's someone you're probably going to want to date. And if you date someone, I think it needs to be someone you think you might marry, someday. So there.

Me: Wow, I must say I am very impressed. I appreciate that you have thought this through and all. And I must say that I totally agree with your philosophy on dating.

College Boy: Yeah, well thanks. I mean, I thought about asking someone out just so I could eat a good steak, cuz I'm getting kinda tired of frozen corndogs.

Me: Well, I am very proud of you, Son.

College Boy: Proud enough to give me the steak dinner for two anyway, so Lee (roommate) and I can get some good food?

Me: I was thinking about it Son, but unfortunately, there's a massive beef recall going on right now and I wouldn't want to put your lives in danger. Tell you what I'll do. Why don't you pick up a couple of Swanson steak dinners the next time you're at the Winn Dixie and send me the bill?

College Boy: Mom, I have no idea what that is. Are they in the meat section over by the ground beef and stuff? We know how to grill, so that could work.

Me: Silly boy. They're not even beef so they're exempt from the recall. Try looking next to the corn dogs.

So, there you have it. And no worries, I do plan on treating the boy to a steak dinner when he comes home for Spring Break. Who knows, maybe his dad will even let him order a coke instead of the standard water with lemon. Isn't the boy a darling? And yes, I'm all for arranged marriages, so if you feel your daughter would be a good candidate, let's talk.

BOSTON imPROPER

This past week, I received a clothing catalog in my mailbox from a company called Boston Proper. Never heard of them. I'm not quite sure how I managed to get on their mailing list, but suffice it to say, I am not exactly their target consumer. Given the age of the models (25-35ish) and the type of clothes they're wearing, I hereby dub Boston Proper the catalog of choice for hoochie-mamas-in-training. Think Desperate Housewives, here. The tagline on the company logo is "subtly sexy fashions." I endured 92 pages of not-so-subtle fashions like this and this and this . I always thought "subtle" was analogous to "toned-down" or "low-key." Apparently, it means "braless" and "implants." And given that they are trying to reach the aspiring "hoochie-mama" segment of the population, I tried my hardest to imagine a mom dropping her little one off at Mother's Day Out, wearing this or this. Can you say, "camisole?" After flipping through 92 pages of fashion that can best be described as indecent exposure, I've concluded that the general theme of this catalog appears to be "Hey, I paid good money for these babies, so why cover them up?"

And so it got me thinking. Where do the women who wear clothes like this live? I live in Austin, which can best be described as 1) free-spirited; and 2) land of the beautiful people, so you might assume that hoochie mama sightings would be a common occurrence. Not so. Seriously, we wear Birkenstocks and eat granola around here. If you show up in my little corner of suburbia wearing one of these zip-up sweaters or button-up cardigans, we may even approach you and kindly let you know that your little cardigan popped a button. Or your zipper appears to be jammed. To be nice. And friendly-like. And spare you some embarrassment. Or little Johnny some embarrassment.

Flashback Friday: The tired years.

Vintage 1993. Never mind that that bedding doesn't match. Or that the 3 year-old still has a passie. Or that I swore I would never bring my kids into our bed. Desperate, sleep-deprived mothers do desperate, whatever-it-takes-to-get-some-sleep, kind of things.

This post is for all you sweet mommas with little ones. Yes you, who sometimes wonder if you'll ever sleep through the night again. Alone. Uninterrupted. Without a baby monitor on your nightstand. Without a pallet at the end of your bed. Without a toddler who appears stealth-like at your bedside because he's "uh-scaaared."

Oh yes, my friend, you will sleep through the night again. And it will be quite lovely. But not quite as lovely as this.

My valentine to you...

I remember the first time I experienced proclamations of love from someone who didn't fall into the relative category. It was my 3rd grade class Valentine’s party. I have fond memories of the decorated shoe box filled to the brim with candy and valentines from classmates. I could hardly wait to open them up when I got home. Somehow, reading the messages on the valentines was more thrilling than eating the candy (probably a girl thing). Most of them were the standard, store-bought valentines with a simple signature. That is, until I pulled a valentine out of the box from Gary, a quiet and somewhat distant boy in my class. I could hardly believe my eyes as I looked at this homemade valentine. He must have spent hours cutting and pasting this masterpiece together. Inside was a poem that began, "Roses are red, violets are blue…." I don't really remember how he ended this 'original' sonnet, but I do remember how he signed the valentine. It simply said, "I'm in love with you, Gary." Wow, someone was in love with me. I had never spoken two words to this boy and yet somehow, he was smitten, crazy-in-love with me. I'm guessing he was wowed by the white patent, zip-up go-go boots I wore to class just about every day. Of course, we never spoke about the valentine and the next day we were back to the business of being 3rd graders, more concerned with breaking through the Red Rover chain at recess.

I wouldn't feel that familiar flutter in my heart again until 5th grade, when a boy in my class would slip me a note asking me to go steady with him. It simply said, "I love you. Will you go with me? Circle Yes or No." Of course, I circled yes, and my heart skipped a beat as I passed the note back to him. For the rest of the year, we would hardly speak to each other, but it didn't matter. Doggone it, someone loved me. Who needed words when you could tuck that away in your heart?

As the years progressed, I experienced many other episodes that would cause my heart to flutter and beat peacefully for a time with a quiet assurance that I was loved. Unfortunately, as I progressed in this game called love, I also experienced episodes that left my heart broken and somewhat bruised. By the time I got to college, the casualties were high. This love business wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Now, there were expectations and strings attached to the price of love. Would I ever find my one, perfect love?

During my junior year of college, someone invited me to an event for college students, sponsored by a local Baptist church. I was not into God, so I was stunned when I found myself accepting the invitation. As shallow as it sounds, I justified that maybe I would meet a nice church boy—the kind you could actually take home to mama. I figured it had to beat the frat guys I was accustomed to going out with. During the evening service at the event, a band member gave an account of his life journey and how he had attempted to fill a void in his heart with everything the world had to offer. Sounds like we had spent time at the same “filling” station, so I listened carefully. At the time, I didn't realize that everyone else in the room had heard the "God-shaped vacuum" analogy at least a hundred times before. As he shared his discovery of God’s brand of “perfect love” and how that came to fill the void in his heart (aka: God-shaped vacuum), I wrestled within my own heart. Could this be true? I had known many Christians throughout my years, yet they had failed to explain this brand of love to me. In fact, most of them were on the same journey I was, longing to satisfy their hearts with man-made love.

That evening I determined that I would give this perfect love a try. On about the seventh chorus of “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus” (a dead give-away it was a Baptist event—Katy bar the door until everyone in the room is saved!), I turned my mess of a life over to Jesus. That was about 22 years ago, and I still can’t get over the fact that He’s madly in love with me…in spite of me. Now, that’s a valentine worth sharing. ☺

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8)

Do you see why I'm bonkers over this dog?

Lexie and Scout have a doggie door in our game room that leads out to our back deck. Scout (in the picture) loves to spend time out on the deck, but if he hears my voice inside, he bolts to the door and jumps up and down with excitement. Not a one of my family members gets this excited when I walk in the room, which explains why I am crazy about this dog. He has done wonders for my self esteem. Kind of reminds me of that bumper sticker that says, "Lord, help me be the person my dog thinks I am."

Also, let me thank you for your puppy prayers! Scout had his blood work done again today and this time the test came back in the normal range! They will test him again in about a month just to be on the safe side.

Even Hannah Montana has not-so-picture-perfect moments

I love Miley Cyrus. Love her. If I had her address, I would send her a thank-you note for being a breath of fresh air at a time when other pop stars are self-imploding. I would thank her for having the decency to wear panties in public. I would thank her for knowing how to exit a limo gracefully without flashing the paparazzi her private parts. I would thank her for steering clear of the nightclubs and tattoo parlors. I would thank her for dressing with "decency and propriety" (1 Tim. 2:9). I would thank her for not having a cigarette in hand every time the camera flashes. I would thank her for thinking highly enough of herself that she doesn't feel a need to impress the guy she likes by texting him nude pictures of herself. I would thank her for having a track record that doesn't include rehab. I would thank her for being famous for an actual talent. I would thank her for singing songs with lyrics that don't make your grandma blush or your mom rush to change the channel on the radio. I would thank her for loving her parents. I would thank her for loving Jesus. And I would thank her for making my daughter smile at a time when most other pop stars leave her confused and shaking her head back and forth in utter disbelief. I am well aware that Miley is only 15 years-old and could easily fall prey to any of the above mishaps in the years to come. But for now, I would thank her for being the kind of role model that doesn't glamorize bad behavior.

Just last night, my daughter walked through the door after seeing the Hannah Montana movie and said, "I am obsessed with Miley Cyrus and I want to be her best friend." Mind you, my daughter is months shy of being 18 years old. And I think she voices the sentiments of many girls her age that have been force fed a steady diet of pop star mucky-muck over the years. Girls her age are beginning to take notice of the fallen pop stars and reject the culture's message that "bad is the new good." Could it be that virtue is making a come-back? Only time will tell.

And yes, in case you are wondering, I am well aware of the buzz last month that Miley Cyrus had some questionably "racy pictures" surface on the web. A few of you have emailed, wondering what my thoughts are and asking how we might address the matter with our daughters should the topic arise. After looking at the pictures in question, I wanted to pass along a few valuable observations that may aid us in having some necessary conversations with our daughters. First of all, I honestly feel that the pictures were taken in fun and never meant for anything more. There were several shots of Miley and a couple friends in a bathtub with their swimsuits on, another picture Miley took of herself in a bikini by the poolside by holding the camera up above her head, another picture where she is sharing a twizzler with a friend, and yet another where she is goofing off with a friend in her pj's in a hotel corridor. Would I want similar pictures of my daughter posted to the web? Absolutely, not.

Immediately, when I saw the pictures, it dawned on me that mothers with younger daughters who have yet to reach the digital camera phase-of-life will react differently than mothers with older daughters, who own digital cameras. Which is exactly why I immediately extended Miley Cyrus the benefit of the doubt (and her parents--hah!) and chalked the pictures off to a momentary lapse in judgment. I have a daughter who owns her own digital camera that came equipped with a memory card that holds over 500 pictures. Like most girls her age, she uploads the pictures straight to her Facebook page without a moment's thought. This was a driving force in why I tackled this very topic in my Logged On and Tuned Out book and encouraged parents to have some ground rules in place when it comes to uploading or sending pictures and videos via the web or cell phone.

My research on this topic led me to establish some rules with my own daughter such as, "never upload pj or swimsuit shots or allow others to upload them on their pages." I also encourage my daughter (and sons) to take the time to pour over every picture and ask themselves, "Might this particular picture send a different message than I was intending to send to viewers?" Even so, my daughter has made some innocent mistakes along the way and had she had the notoriety of Miley Cyrus, some of her pictures might have raised an eyebrow or two. I recall one shot another girl took with my daughter in the background at a sleepover. She was wearing a camisole and leaning over, clueless at the time as to how the shot might look when loaded to her friend's online album. There have also been occasional pictures of her in swimwear taken by her friends that have surfaced on their albums. Of course, she asks them to remove the pictures, as per our rule. Oh, and if there was ever incentive for parents to be engaged and knowledgeable about the pictures their children are uploading, consider the picture I recently saw in a teen girl's Facebook album who is a friend of my daughter's. The picture was of the young lady and her mother posing in their swimsuits on the beach while on vacation. I guarantee you that mother has no clue there is a swimsuit shot of her on the web! Lord, have mercy! It left me with a renewed zeal to never remove my cover up this summer. It’s waterproof, right?

So, in closing, let's refrain from lynching Miss Cyrus and acknowledge that "all but for the grace of God, go my daughter." I imagine that what shook down in the Cyrus living room after mom and dad caught wind of the pics is a similar conversation that takes (or will take) place in many god-fearing Christian homes with teenage girls. I can just hear Billy Ray saying, "Miley, hon, what were you thinking?" And then Miley's twangy response of "Dad, I don't get what the big deal is...all my friends do this!" At that point, mama and papa Cyrus probably launched into a little lecture about how some pictures can send the wrong message. Of course, on cue, Miley burst into a chorus of "Everybody makes mistakes, everybody has those days....Nobody’s perfect, I gotta work it, again and again til I get it right."

Take advantage of this teachable moment with your daughter and highlight the importance of using good judgment when it comes to uploading or sending pictures and videos. Go over the contract I included in the appendix of my Logged On book and have your daughter initial each safety requirement listed. If your daughter hasn't entered the digital camera phase-of-life, take this moment to breathe a sigh of relief...for now. In the meantime, comment on this post and we'll draw three winners for a copy of "Logged On and Tuned Out." (Remember to leave an email address if you don't have a blogger profile!)

Flashback Friday: Rah.

Like mother, NOT like daughter. Aside from the fact that we were both Varsity cheerleaders, don't let the picture fool you. We couldn't be more different. This fact became abundantly clear when my daughter was a mere ten years old and we ventured into the grand opening of The Container Store when it opened down the road from us. Upon walking through the doors, Paige literally gasped, grabbed her heart, and said, "Are we in heaven? This must be what heaven looks like." Excuse me? For the first time ever, I wondered to myself if it was possible that she had been switched at birth in one of those hospital mix-ups you hear about on the news every so often. You see, when we walked into the store, I, on the other hand, broke out into a cold sweat upon seeing all the containers stacked row-after-row from floor-to-ceiling as far as the eye could see. Heck, there were containers for your containers. While my daughter was getting the heaven visual, I was getting a visual of the other place---the one where the furnace is eternally set on high. And you have to wear ski boots and can never take them off. That place.

Ya know, that gene pool is a funny thing. At least this picture is proof we have something in common. Oh, and as an added bonus, feel free to refer back to my picture when your daughter comes begging to use Sun In by the poolside this summer. Nuff said. And can I get an "amen" that we have moved past the curling iron days? Did I get a little carried away on those weinie rolls, or what?

Dear Mr. Hip-Hop Artist from tha Hood

I have a bone to pick with you. I have logged six years of watching dance performances inspired by your music (if it can be called that), and it's a sad state of affairs to say the least. Now, you know the kind of dancing I'm talking about because the girls in your videos dance like this. Whether it's a pack of pint-size grade school girls booty dancing at a cheer competition or a dance team grinding at a pep rally, enough is enough. For years, I have stood by in silence with a lump in my throat, but I just can't take it any longer.

I know I'm not alone in my frustration. Over the years, I have heard from mothers whose talented girls spend years in dance or cheer classes only to have to give up their dream at the high school level when they see what is required to "make the team." I have heard from some girls who have walked off the team in an effort to take a stand, only to be teased and taunted for doing so. I even heard from a Vice Principal at one high school several years ago, who said that their drill team coach attempted to turn in a receipt for red boas from Frederick's of Hollywood for reimbursement. Ah, our tax dollars at use.

Mr. Hip-Hop Artist from tha Hood, you might say this is the parents' problem, but I have heard from parents who have logged complaints only to have their daughters punished in return. I know this can happen because I was among two parents who complained about a sultry dance move when my daughter was on a competitive cheer team in her freshman year. The owner of the gym agreed to change the move, but when the other girls asked why it was being changed, the coach jokingly said to blame it on my daughter and another girl on the team. Yes, these things do happen. I have had parents of middle-schoolers contact me about school dances that play your music as girls and boys as young as eleven, sing along and grind on the dance floor. Perhaps even more disturbing Mr. Hip-Hop Artist from tha Hood, is the commentary I have heard coming from teen boys who casually label some girls with some of the same words you use to describe women in your songs. Hmmm...I wonder where they got those words?

And so, the whole thing got me thinking. Back when I was in high school, would you believe there was only one song in the Billboard Top 100 with an "explicit" rating during my entire seven years of middle and high school? One. Uno. Today, there are approximately 25-35 songs in the Billboard Top 100 with "explicit" ratings each year. Guess what genre the majority fall under? Yep, Hip-Hop. You came onto the scene with this drivel and told America exactly where our young women rank in your book. Heck, you showed us in your videos, so there was no mistaking your ordained purpose for the female gender. You made it abundantly clear that our girls are nothing more than mere objects created for the male-viewing (and otherwise) pleasure. And for some unknown reason, your poison spread past tha hood that you sing about and into suburban, USA. And here we are, four decades past the women's movement and yet, women have never been more objectified than they are today. And we have you, among others, to thank for that.

And so I can't help but wonder if I am the only one who is bothered by any of this. I'm always amazed by the dads who sit through these performances as their daughters gyrate and grind with pouty, come-hither expressions. Oh, they're not the only men watching. At a recent cheer competition, I struck up a conversation with a middle-aged man sitting next to me. When I asked him which team his daughter was on, he confessed he didn't have a daughter or relative at the competition. Excuse me? He paid $20 to watch girls he doesn't even know? That ought to make a chill go up our spines. Fortunately, this cheer competition kept the dance moves pretty clean, but such is not always the case. Let's not be surprised if these creepers start showing up at dance studios, pep rallies, and school dances wanting admittance. Ick.

I thought we might see some positive change when the American Psychological Association released a report last year stating that the sexualization of our girls is linked to common mental health problems in young women such as eating disorders, low self-esteem, and depression. But no, grown adults continue to turn their heads and allow this abuse to continue. Some will even justify this continued "sexualization" and chalk it up to nothing more than "artistic expression." Surely, our silence sends a message that we condone the further sexualization of our girls. And I'm pretty sure that last thought is what caused me to finally snap. We are the grown-ups and we are called to protect those in our care. We should know better. Mr. Hip-Hop Artist from tha' Hood, I'm just wondering...do you have a daughter? How would you feel about your daughter dancing this way, someday? Don't you think she's worth more than that? Yeah, I thought so...

If you have not yet been enlightened to the fact that dogs are on the level of humans, skip this post

If you've been following my blog for awhile, you know that in addition to my three children, I also have two fur-children, whom I've referred to at times as "the 4th and 5th child my husband refused to have." My two Yorkies, Lexie (age five and a whopping six lbs.) and Scout (age one and barely four lbs.) have brought untold joy into our home. So, if you have ever talked baby talk to your dogs or included your dog in the family portrait, you will understand this post.

Both my dogs went to the vet yesterday with issues. Lexie has a chronic eye infection that refuses to heal and had to have a tissue biopsy today as a follow-up. The results will be back next week, but I'm told it's treatable (for a price, hah!). Scout, on the other hand, had some blood work done because every so often, he shakes. Kind of weird, but with small dogs, you can't be too careful and Hypoglycemia is fairly common. So today, I picked up Lexie after her biopsy and received the news that one of Scout's tests came back elevated, which could indicate kidney, liver, or heart disease. All that to say that he will be tested again next week to see if the result was an aberration and if it still comes back elevated, he then faces an ultrasound to take a closer look at his organs. Upon questioning the Vet further about treatment for the worse-case scenario of possibilities, I was informed that it is a degenerative condition which would shorten his life span. At which point, my eyes immediately filled with tears.

This is truly the most lovable dog you will meet (other than your own, of course) and I'm hopelessly attached to him. He sits at the end of my feet when I'm writing like a devoted guard dog. He melts the hearts of all those he comes in contact with, including my very macho husband and sons. My college boy wouldn't want me to tell you this, but he's so crazy about him, he asks me to send him pictures from my phone when he's doing something cute. And then he texts me back with words like "adorable" and "precious." Not to mention, he talks baby talk to him when he's home. Seriously, there has only been one person who has entered our home who has not been completely smitten with little Scout Muffin and when he left, I told my daughter never to date this boy--it's a litmus test. If your heart doesn't soften after looking at that cute little bear-cub face, you're probably well on your way to being a serial killer.

Now, mind you, this is the same little fellow who broke both his front legs at 4 months after taking a leap from the top of the sofa. The injury required an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in small dogs (he was only 2 lbs. at the time and had legs the size of pencils). Oh, and did I mention that it was twenty miles away in another town? And that I had to take him in for check-ups every week for nine weeks? And that I had to rob a bank to pay for it? Okay, kidding on the last one, but trust me when I say he's the most expensive puppy you will ever meet. And aside from the fact that he's getting more expensive as the days progress and my Vet is probably driving a Lexus, compliments of the Courtney dogs, I am worried about the little guy. Worried. Unlike The Preacher's Wife, we love our dogs and feed them daily. (Lisa, I'm kidding--hilarious post, btw!)

So, if it's not too shallow, will you say a little prayer for the Courtney dogs, the Courtney pocket book, and while you're at it, Mama Courtney, since I'm a tad distracted with all this dog-gone drama and have a book due to my publisher in a few weeks? We go back for the next test on Tuesday of next week, so I'll keep you posted!

January give-away!

It's time for another give-away! Congratulations, btw, to Xandra for winning the last one on my book-cover contest (a landslide decision, by the way!).

This month, we are giving away a fun little package of spa items (Avon!) donated by author, Cindi Wood along with a signed copy of her fabulous book,"The Frazzled Female."

Okay, so here's what you need to do if you want to enter for a chance to win: Comment on this post and let us know a few things about yourself such as, age; married/single; kids (if yes, how many and ages), and last of all, how you heard about this blog. Basically, we want to get to know you! Also, don't forget to leave an email if you don't have a blogger profile where we can track you down if you win. We'll leave this post up for about a week and then draw for a winner!

UPDATE: Congratulations to Angie Morrison, our book give-away winner! I laughed when I read your comment about your computer locking up when you tried to enter your comment and then go figure, YOU END UP WINNING! We're sending you a copy of Logged On and Tuned Out too, just because you mentioned it!

Bravo to Virginia Beach for busting Abercrombie & Fitch for obscene ads!

Can you see me doing the happy dance? First of all, let me say thank-you to Janet in Houston for suggesting Abercrombie & Fitch as a future Virtue Alert rant when we asked for your suggestions last week. We had a great response to the request and I'll be working on some of these in the weeks to come. In Janet's email, she described a full poster ad she recently saw at an A&F store in Baybrook Mall (Houston) of a young girl who was braless--every Pedophile's dream-come-true.

Now, if you've been following my Virtue Alerts for quite some time, you know that I have ranted in the past about A&F and the culture of filth they have peddled to our young people through their ads, quarterly catalogs, offensive messages on screen print tee's, and let's not forget the biggie news story in 2002: Thong underwear marketed to little girls, ages 7 to 14 with messages emblazoned on the front like "wink, wink" and "eye candy." They eventually pulled the line due to the public outcry, but who can forget the creepy statement made by company spokesperson, Hampton Carney, in an attempt to defend the line? Seriously, it still haunts me to this day. He said the thong underwear for tweens was meant to be "cute and fun and sweet." Someone please tell me this man doesn't have children. Better yet, please tell me he can't come within a two mile radius of children. Ever.

So, needless to say, when we got Janet's email about A&F's latest offense, I was all too happy to put it on the rant list. I even sent one of my staff on a mission to our local mall in Austin with a camera in hand to see if she could gather some evidence. She confirmed the presence of the ads, but was unfortunately unable to get a clear image due to the lighting in the store. Regardless, I was planning to move forward with the rant and then bingo, I stumbled upon this newsclip today after church:

Virginia Beach police seize photos from Abercrombie store

Police, saying they were responding to citizen complaints, carted away two large promotional photographs from the Abercrombie & Fitch store in Lynnhaven Mall on Saturday and cited the manager on obscenity charges.

Adam Bernstein, a police spokesman, said the seizure and the issuance of the summons came only after store management had not heeded warnings to remove the images. Click here to see the ad.

The citation was issued under City Code Section 22.31, Bernstein said, which makes it a crime to display "obscene materials in a business that is open to juveniles." He did not say what was being done with the pictures and when the manager, whose name was not released, is scheduled to appear in court.

The manager, reached by telephone, declined to comment on the incident Saturday, saying that he was conferring with and waiting for guidance from Abercrombie corporate officials.

The mural-like black-and-white photographs were taken from the store at midafternoon.

Bernstein confirmed that one depicts three shirtless young men from the back, walking through a field. The man in the lead appears to be about to pull up his jeans, which have slipped down enough to reveal his upper buttocks.

Bernstein said the summons for a Class One misdemeanor was issued to the manager because there is no legal way to issue a summons to a corporate entity in such circumstances. The manager was not arrested but faces a fine of up to $2,000 and as much as a year in jail, if convicted.

Note that this is a completely different ad than the one Janet emailed about. And so, I got to thinking. If the Virginia Beach police acted upon "citizen complaints," wouldn't it be a beautiful thing if other "citizens" in other "cities" issued "complaints" about other A&F stores displaying the ads? Just a thought...

UPDATE (A&F Corporate responds): According to the Associated Press, Abercrombie & Fitch said in a statement today that the display photos in question ... quote ... "show less skin than you see any summer day at the beach. And certainly less than the plumber working on your kitchen sink."

The Ohio-based clothing retailer said it will pursue its legal rights aggressively. Several hours after this announcement, the police decided to drop the charges, claiming that while they had probable cause to take down the pictures, they didn't have enough to take it to court. Discouraging, but remember--we can still complain and best of all, close our wallets. :)

The redemption post...

In an effort to make amends to my youngest son for posting embarrassing baby pictures this morning on my blog (cough, cough, and telling a few girls in his grade at the basketball game tonight to check 'em out), I am posting a video clip from tonight's game. His days of knicker pants and knee socks long behind him, Little Lord Fauntleroy had one of his best games of the season, scoring 17 of our 30 points in the first half. (White jersey, #20)

Further proof Moms, that a pleated romper or two in the early days will not do long-term damage.

Yep, I'm pretty sure he's going to need some counseling

I was going through a shoe box of old photos today (note, that I said "shoe box" and not "scrapbook"), and I stumbled upon some interesting photos of my youngest son (aka: "the baby"). Mind you, he is a freshman in high school now. When I saw the pictures, I was instantly reminded of something I had written in my Your Boy book regarding the way I used to dress my oldest son. Here is an excerpt from the chapter entitled, "Warrior or wimp--How not to raise a mama's boy:"

When my son, Ryan, was little, I loved dressing him up in dainty smocked rompers and sailor suits with matching hats. His dad would groan and tell me that I’d be lucky if he’d ever speak to me again once he was old enough to see the pictures and witness this assault to his budding manhood. While Keith patiently tolerated the rompers and sailor suits during Ryan’s toddler years, he drew a firm line in the sand one day when Ryan was four years old. While shopping in a second-hand boutique, I stumbled upon an outfit fit for a little prince. It had a white pleated blouse with a sailor flap trimmed in Scottish plaid that came with a pair of black and white hounds tooth knickers that attached to the top with plaid covered buttons. Add a pair of white knee socks and dress loafers and, voila, you have instant royalty. As I stood there in the shop admiring the outfit on the hanger, I could picture my little lad hunting Easter eggs in the backyard while decked out in this finery. With that image, I headed for the checkout.

When I got home, I put the outfit on Ryan so he could model it for his dad. When Keith came in the door after work, I had him stand at the bottom of the stairs and await the grand entrance of Prince Ryan. As Ryan descended the stairs looking every bit as adorable as I had imagined, his dad said something that remains a humorous family memory to this day. Without missing a beat, he said, “Honey, what in the world are you thinking? If he goes out in public dressed like that, his friends will beat him up.” And then he paused and laughingly said “Heck, I’m thinking about beating him up!” Of course, he meant it tongue and cheek, and Ryan, with a look of instant relief, rushed up stairs to change into his favorite Ninja Turtles t-shirt and sweat pants.

Apparently, I didn't learn my lesson because my younger son is pictured above in the very knicker outfit I described in the book. And you gotta love the look on his face--Little Lord Fauntleroy looks none too happy about it. So, if you have young boys, this post is for you. And for the record, my husband was right. Both of my boys are pretty ticked about the fashion abuse inflicted upon them in the early years. But, you know what? They are full-fledged warriors. They like to have airsoft wars, blow stuff up, and play all kinds of manly sports, so phooey on them. They probably have me to thank for it --- talk about incentive.