It’s So My Mom.

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Maybe I’d feel differently if I were a mother, but listening to the whole ruckus about Ty Inc. possibly having fashioned two darker skinned dolls after the first daughters–so what? I detest how politicians use their children–intentionally or not–to project themselves as a wholesome family unit, then scream that they’re off-limits when it behooves them. It just doesn’t work that way.

And these girls are better role models than the other choices out there (ahem, Miley Cyrus).

"Maria, get the jingle, hellieeghhhaa"

Who says procrastination and self-absorption doesn’t pay? I encountered this “Mom Bomb” while checking my Google rankings–Google “Blog about becoming my mom” and I’m the No. 2 hit! This post from the Mom Blog Network was the No. 1 return. The writer talks about how she can’t stop singing jingles in response to everyday questions and random occurrences, a la her mom.

That would be really annoying for everyone involved.

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Finally! From catnmus:

“My mother would leave the TV remote on the table (in front of her) and reach over and press the buttons with the thing still on the table. Instead of picking it up in her hand to press the buttons. Sometimes she would even use her other hand to steady it on the table as she did it. Every time I do this, I think of her, and it comforts me. She passed away from breast cancer 18 months ago.”

Had to blog about this on my new fav site, Open Salon.com, which isn’t exactly a guilty pleasure so much as the future of journalism. Check out my post and spill your guilty pleasure so we never have to whisper about loving Twilight, John Mayer or Manga ever again.

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Okay, so make fun of me, call me backwards, the antithesis of a feminist (that would make my mom happy), etc. But I have HUGE news: There’s a Sex and the City sequel! Almost.

Not everyone will be happy about this. Overheard while watching the SATC trailer in a theatre last year in Vegas:

Eighteen-year-old-skank: “Ugh. Sex and the City? I’d rather watch titties.”

In a couple of years, honey, you’ll be eating your words. I did.

Samantha always reminded me of my mom–in looks only. And the way she articulates words. Ironically, it’s almost Dorothy(Wizard of Oz)esque.

It’s a silent, interior time bomb, akin to the one that kills one of Tom “Scientology” Cruise’s cohorts in the beginning of MI 3: The Mom bomb. That point in your life where some silent switch is turned on, and you suddenly manifest all the mannerisms, sayings and annoying habits of your mom (or dad). Everyone goes through it, to some degree.

So who’s gonna crack and offer the goods? I wanna know how you’re turning into your moms. I know you’re sick and tired about reading how it’s happening to me, because I know I’m sick of reading every other vanity blog. This one is supposed to be cathartic for everyone involved. Help me help you!

How’s this: I’ll share for others first, and then we can all go in a circle (goddammit).

Some information I extrapolated from my friends over Christmas:

One has just started bending like her mom. Says she used to hate how her mother would bend from the waist instead of the knees when picking something up, and now she catches herself doing the same thing.

Another other friend has found herself asking people questions without context. A conversation or idea will play through her head, and without any expositional reference, she’ll ask someone involved a question about it. Like: “Well did they?” No context offered.

I have a similar plight. I’ve developed my mom’s unnerving habit of asking questions the recipient could never answer. Questions like, “Well, what was going on inside his/her head?”

Or my favorite transaction, from last time I was in town:

“Jennifer, did you happen to throw away my salad fork last time you were here?”

“Why would I throw away your salad fork?”

“Well, I mean, accidentally.”

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No telling how many kids will be born on this fateful inauguration day, and no telling how many of them will take “Barack” or even “Obama” as their first or middle names. My boyfriend’s sister is actually scheduled to C-section today, but we were unable to convince her to follow “Jack” with “Obama” or “Barack.” It’s a shame.

Can’t wait to see the inevitable reports on the baby name … and if more people are choosing our new president’s first or last name to immortalize in the next generation …

…And I want to know how. Send me some anecdotes or even video clips, and I’ll post ‘em. My own clip to come soon …

Image by Jessica DeWinter via Flickr

That’s the goal of new book “Start Talking: A Girl’s Guide for You and Your Mom about Health, Sex or Whatever.” Read the scant, three-questions-for-the-author writeup in the Detroit Free Press here.

Interestingly, writer and sex and intimacy therapist Mary Jo Rapini (can you tell she’s from Houston?) makes the case that young promiscuity can have a lot to do with bad body image.

Even MORE interestingly on a personal level, I had both a teetering body image and a tacit mom on the issue of sex growing up, and I still lost my virginity later in life than probably 85 percent of my Catholic schoolgirl friends. Moral of the story: Don’t talk to your young girls about the ins and outs of sex, per se. Just drill them with the idea that God has a baby ready to give them at age 15, and the only way to get out of it is to do, like, the reversal of sex. Whatever that is.

Side effects may occur: me and at least one other friend have been convinced in the past that we were pregnant under circumstances others would deem as immaculate conception.

I was sent this picture in an e-mail. The subject line: Fwd: Heaven has Sent You an Angel.

The text:

“Heaven didn’t want her, so they sent her to me.
I don’t want her so, I’m sending her especially to you!
The rules are simple: You can send her away, but you can’t send her BACK!!”

The sender? Good ol’ dad.

I get at least two e-mails a day from my dad’s joke listserv, and almost every one has to do with sex. My boyfriend is also on this forward list—and, apparently, another, where dad sends the REAL doozies. In effect, my boyfriend gets jokes addressing how to be a better lover. I told him to respond to those forwards: “I don’t need any help in that department!”

You can see why I would think this would be funny.

My friend Tamre’s dad sends her forwards too, but with a decidedly different feel. The last one was called “WILL I GET THE GREEN DOG BACK?” More of the self-help variety.

My dad is so cool.