Is Writing a Disease?

I have a problem lately. (Lady, you've got more than one is what you're thinking, I know it. Shut. It.) Here's what I'm talking about. I've got Rewriteritis. And I've got it bad.

What is Rewriteritis, you ask? Is that like StickittotheManonucleosis? (School of Rock, anyone?) Oh, you mean you've never heard of my disease? Well, let's break it down, shall we? Okay:

Re: from the Latin, meaning again, or again and again, to indicate repetition. Well, no shit.

Write(r): from Latin, to form letters, characters, or words; to produce as author or composer.

Itis: inflammatory disease, abnormal states or conditions, excesses, tendencies, obsessions.

This just makes me laugh, well, obsessively.

See, oh, about going on about a month or six weeks ago I started a short story that just sort of spilled out of me and I thought it was fairly decent (of course, all writers think what they write is pretty good). I've been writing since I was a kitten but this is the first year I decided to really focus on writing and get my stuff out there. It's not that I've been afraid of criticism--I have asked plenty of people from various sources to read and hack up my work--it's just that life got ya know, complicated, and I decided to put writing as a career on the back burner for various and sundry reasons. I sold my soul instead to the giant pharmaceutical companies which hey, paid the bills. Which was fine, really. Until it wasn't anymore.

I kept diaries as a kid. I kept journals as an adult, throughout relationships, good and bad; jobs, good and bad; meeting my husband, our courtship, wedding, our marriage (going strong seventeen years in); both pregnancies and the raising of our two children, ages 10 and 4; moving west to east and back again; the deaths of those close to me; I've got it all down. Some people take pictures and put them faithfully in albums or scrapbooks. That is NOT me. My wedding pictures are still in their envelopes, save a few sprinkled around in frames around our home (and my parent's, of course). I know it's pathetic, but it's okay. I was there; I wrote it all down. I'm good.

But recently writing decided to define me. I say "decided" because events happened this past year that opened up parts of my mind (and oh, that cliche, my heart, ugh) that had not been touched previously. I don't feel this was a conscious decision on my part because words just come to me at all hours and I have to write them down or sit at my computer and let them come out of me like verbal vomit. Sometimes it's crap; sometimes I think "hey, not bad, Rach" and I keep going.

So how does Rewriteritis come into this? What's all this about a short story? Well, I got the bones of this particular story down. I had been thinking about the subject in my mind for awhile and it all came together as I was writing it. It was heartbreaking, meaningful, full of great, you know, for lack of a better writerly kind of word, stuff. Okay, done. Then I started rewriting it, removing anything that would make it sound cliche or overwrought. See, writers have this little thing they use called a thesaurus. You may have heard of it back when you were in grade school. You know, that big book you probably used as a doorstop? The one your English teacher was always telling you about when you thought she was just confused about what period it was and was speaking Spanish instead by mistake? Yea, that one.

So, I use the thesaurus to see if what I'm working on can be improved upon by using words I may find in there but not making it sound like I actually used the thesaurus--tricky. Also, I don't want to change the meaning of what I'm saying because there's such a delicate balance to all the elements of the story: a definitive beginning, middle, and end. Interesting characters and dialogue. Setting. Plot. A climax. Thematic elements. Are you asleep yet? Blah blah blah.. That's just one example of rewriting. I haven't even covered editing it to fit under 1,000 words. Cutting your story to fit is painful; some writers liken it to cutting off an arm. You can see now why I refer to my Rewriteritis as a disease.

It's taken me most of the past year to be able to refer to myself as a "writer" without thinking of writing with those quotation marks around it or saying it kind of shyly when people ask what I do or if I work. Yes, I write for two online publications (you can click on the links to left--one is non-paying, one is a penny per click) but I really now feel in my heart (ugh) that creative writing--fiction writing--is what defines me. I love to put words together in a way that speaks to people (hopefully)--I know I have stories to tell and I feel confidant I will tell them properly. I have much to learn. Much to correct. Much to edit.

And much, god help me, to rewrite.

One lucky guy

My wonderful husband was kind enough to get me an iphone last week. He da man. But first, a little history.

I have used a PDA since time immemorial for several reasons.

• One, I'm one of those people--ya know, the kind that organizes their sock drawer and their dollar bills. So having just a plain, regular phone that does nothing but call people just would not do for someone like me. I need a phone that will organize me within a quarter of an inch of my life. If I could plan my schedule in second-by-second intervals, (hey!), I most likely would.
• Two, I keep track of lots of stuff. Me, calendars, phone, appointments, my family, school stuff, writing, websites, etc, & it all has to be in one place. I do not carry a separate address book and calendar in a planner--that's right out of the olden days in my book. Franklin Planners*, Day Planners, or God forbid an actual calendar on a wall...none of that exists for me anymore. That's old school and homey don't play that. (*I will say that I did learn from the Franklin Planner system class--yes, they made you go to an actual class back in the day--that as soon as you get an appointment, business card or phone number, anything really, it goes in the planner. I record everything. No loose scraps of paper! Same goes for the iphone, or any PDA. Put in your info immediately or I guarantee--you will lose it.)
• Three, being a busy mom, wife, and writer requires that I do 10,000 things at once. Having a phone that does more than just call people is critical for me.

So, I found with the Blackberry Storm that well, mostly it was a piece of shit. Slow, oh my fucking god, does not even begin to cover it. But we have Verizon and for various and sundry reasons I won't go into here, I was stuck with it until we were up for a renewal on one of our lines. I had that goddamned phone for over one year. That's one year of it freezing up, dying, not taking pictures, a video camera that never worked, not being able to open websites or emails over a certain amount of bytes, resetting it daily, going back and forth to the Verizon store for "help" or getting more "help" over the phone from "customer service" (a contradiction in terms if I've ever heard one), etc. Traded it in. Updated. Downloaded. We did it all. Ridiculous. Anon, we are contracted with Verizon and JP is adamant that we stay with them for all his domestic travel needs--coverage and all that. Hmmm. Something had to be done. I wanted an iphone.

Therefore, I did what any loving wife would do in this situation: I bitched and whined about it until he capitulated. Now, you have to understand, I am not a nagger. I instituted a no-nagging policy early on in the first year of our marriage and have stuck to it--unless, of course, the garbage is overflowing or my windshield washer fluid needs to be replaced--that's like, a given. But this....this phone business was getting out of hand. I needed an iphone and I needed one now. Why? Well, if you have one then you know why, silly; I don't have to tell you. So there was going to be no discussion, really. His life would be much better if he got me one and that's all there was to it. So I started my "Get Rachel Her iphone" campaign in earnest.

Now, you also have to realize: I am not a loud person, Nor am I a yeller. But when it came to um, venting my frustrations every time I tried to text on that damn phone (if you have one, you know how hard that is) because the space bar and the "b" are in exactly the same place: well, let's just say I made it very clear that I hated that damn phone. In fact, that's exactly... (Oh, sorry, I just got distracted by "Knocked Up" where the husband says "Wanna have sex tonight?" & she sighs with boredom. Then she replies "No, I'm just really constipated." Wow, that just really made me laugh. Sorry.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yea...what I said every time, "I hate this damn phone." It became my mantra. You probably think I'm kidding. Totally not. Every time. For. A. Year.

But husband stood fast. Money was tight, phone was perfectly functional (that was clearly debatable, honey, and certainly depended on your definition of functional; heck, even your definition of perfectly) and I think he didn't really care all that much. He could get a hold of me when he wanted to, I could give him the phone numbers he needed when he needed them--what more could I want? Well, excuse me, dude, but my PDA needs aren't about you and what your needs are. Give me my goddamned iphone (yea, I know I sound petulant, but oh well. Girl's gotta have what a girl's gotta have). There's no app for where this is heading buddy, I can guarantee you that--(she said quietly). BTW, I never actually said those things to him; I just thought them--really loudly.

So Chanukah came and went. Christmas flew by. Birthday. All gave me high expectations for an iphone and all did not deliver. :( Now the rational part of me knew perfectly well that because we are watching every little penny, now is not the time to buy the phone and start up with an additional carrier just so I can have said phone. Doesn't make any sense. Eh, so what. Changing tactics mid-battle, I went for the jugular: I appealed to his desire to please his loving wife. Darling, since when does desire match up to what a girl passionately wants with all her heart? Just like a great pair of Manolos, I want what I want when I want it--what can I say? I'm a chick. Besides, an iphone is much less expensive than a pair of designer shoes and is clearly a better investment. Right. It is, though. Really.

I got nothin'.

Short story long? Out of the blue, after a very long, difficult day with my four-year-old son, in walks JP with my new iphone. Ta-da! Here you go, honey. To say I was shocked doesn't even cover it. I had actually given up the good fight weeks earlier. All of my best efforts seemed to have been wasted on said husband with his dark eyes and steely heart, seemingly indifferent to my pleas. Meanwhile, I looked at people with their beautiful shiny iphones with all those cute, colorful little squares with yes, envy--I can openly admit now to coveting thy neighbor's phone.

You see, I watched all those clever, cool commercials with the little apple where that nice man's voice said "there's an app for that," as if that little apple would solve all of my life's problems and I would sigh and think one day, Rachel, you'll have those apps, and your life will be easier too. One day. One day your camera will work on your phone without an error message or having to hold perfectly still or it won't take the goddamned picture; one day the video camera will actually, really and truly work; one day you can load games at the touch of a button and they'll be normal games like boggle and sudoku, not games that suck, that no one has ever heard of; one day you'll be able to read an entire email rather than just a portion of it because the phone can actually download the whole thing; one day you'll have Kindle and can read a book on your phone like everyone else has been doing so you'll know what an e-book actually is; one day you can go to websites and download the whole thing not just part of it because your web capability is no longer of the stone age level...that is what I would tell myself, that is what I would dream.

So when JP handed it to me, casually, as if he were handing me a cup of coffee, well, let's just say I was one happy girl.

And let's just say that later, he was one lucky guy.

P.S. I LOVE my iphone. It's an amazing piece of technology while at the same time so easy to use. If you haven't gotten one yet, do it. Completely 100% worth it.

Celebrity Rehab--an opinion

Do you watch VH-1's show Celebrity Rehab? I do. It's a fabulous show. I love it. I liken it to a car wreck--you don't want to watch but you can't look away. It's THAT good, in a squirmy kind of way.

You have a bunch of people on the show that you've heard of somewhere on the fringes of your consciousness (this season there's a model from Cycle 10,007 of America's Next Top Model. If you are a watcher of that show, she's Lisa, the one who peed in a diaper when those crazy MTV guys guested for the pool shoot.). There's Mindy McCready, that blonde country singer who's been in and out of jail--she is so sweet. She's also suffering from seizures from all the drugs, alcohol, and oh, the hits to the head from her abusive, drug-addled ex-boyfriend. There's MacKenzie Phillips. Rodman-blech. Some drummer from a metal band who is desperate for us to know who he is, Mike something, oh Star. Of course, we've all heard of Hollywood Madame Heidi Fleiss. And perhaps, at some point, Tom Sizemore. He hasn't checked in as of yet. And some other chick we haven't even seen yet.

The thing is, this group is messed up in so many different ways that when you are done watching, you feel like a rock star. You know that the one martini you had tonight is absolutely nothing compared to the coke or meth or heroin these folks have done on a daily basis since they were kids. Or maybe the ten martinis Lisa might have done in a night. Or twenty Vicodins Mindy might have taken. Or the heroin Mike would shoot--with his old man. (They are really close.) Or Heidi--she lives alone now in Death Valley with twenty parrots, and smokes meth all day long. She feels people have failed her. Then there's um, let's see, MacKenzie, and we've all heard her story, with that fucked up dad of hers and what he did to her. For the record, I believe her.

Sizemore--I just can't even stand to look at to be honest. He just makes me sick. The gifted actor blah blah blah. He almost killed Fleiss and thank God she took him to task for it--he was convicted of domestic violence, making threats, and obscene phone calls, and served two years in jail for it and yet...and yet. When they saw each other at the center, for the first time in all those years, Fleiss could not jump into her shoes fast enough to go see him, this addict, this sweaty junkie. The feeling of love between them was palpable. It was, OMG, sweet. She told him, this pale, agitated, shell of man, that he looked handsome. From one junkie to another, I guess.

I took a shower at that point. Skieve.

So why do I tune in every week? I believe it's a great cautionary tale, for one. I find it interesting that most of these people get into drugs for reasons having to do with their childhood--not in every case but for the most part. Almost all were abused physically or sexually in some way. It just so happened that when Hollywood called, the money made the drugs a party, fun, as Lisa said "I'm young, why the fuck not?" Their sense of judgement is completely gone. Heidi said money makes your life much easier; and much harder. I suppose when drugs are your weakness, that is true. Many of these "stars" on the show, and I use that terms very loosely, are flat broke. They have blown through literally thousands of dollars of drugs in a day, in a week. Broke.

But as they have their sit-downs with Dr. Drew,you realize that either you are very different than they are or quite similar. This is what you find out: Lisa and her sister were sexually abused, raped, by her mother's boyfriend(s) at the age of eight! Her mother knew about it and did nothing (they no longer speak). MacKenzie was not only her father's favorite drug buddy, shooting her up with coke and heroin by age thirteen, but also sexually abusing her throughout her childhood and into adulthood. Beyond. Now, I don't know about you, but the closest I ever got to doing drugs with my folks was drinking wine (really good wine, I might add) with my dad.

McCready, often portrayed in the media as crazy, was in a violent, extraordinarily abusive relationship with a man whom she thought initially was a nice guy. When it turned south and she tried to leave, he tried to kill her. That's when she found out she was pregnant with his child. She has a darling little boy now. Her mother, abusive to her and her siblings all her life, is now the one with custody of her child, due to Mindy's continued drug use and the fact that the father is serving time for trying to kill her. Her brain is turning to mush. Rodman--his escapades are a joke at this point, right? You hear his name and snicker. In treatment, he's above it all. He doesn't think he has a problem, says he can quit drinking anytime, doesn't say much really at all come to thin of it and when he does, comes off like a total asshole. Though, to be honest, when McCready had a seizure (from all the beatings), he rose like a shot out of bed to get to her ambulance. See, the Grinch does have a heart. Aw.

Dr. Drew seems like a genuinely nice man who has dedicated his life to helping people with their multitude of addictions. His show put these addictions in layman's terms so that people watching, who may see themselves in those poor souls on this show--who have literally lost it all due to drugs--might seek help. Also, the staff who runs the center are all recovering addicts themselves. I think that's so important for the recovery of the patient. (Off topic but kinda the same: I relate that to my own life in that when I was a sales trainer, the trainees all wanted to know if I was a salesperson first, for how long, how many awards I'd won, etc. Answer: yes, I was, many years, and lots.)

My one criticism of the show, of course, is that you wonder how real and committed these celeb patients really are. Are they just putting on a show? Are they really going to sober up or is this just another gig to get them back into the spotlight? You have to imagine casting agents and directors are just as engaged as we are in their lives...but so are the insurance companies that have to make sure they show up. Which is why most of them are still most likely unemployed.

I don't know what Pinsky's success rate is. As you no doubt know, the late DJ AM, a close friend of Dr. Drew's, recently OD'd after "starring" in his own drug-related MTV show called "Intervention," where he would attempt to get teens off drugs. Drug-free ten years himself, being around meth proved to be too tantalizing for the DJ and he died just weeks after filming began. See what I mean? Cautionary. Tale. Yea, he had the whole plane crash, Jewish guilt thing to deal with too; I get it. Oy. All I know is, that was sad.

Sometimes, I let my ten-year-old daughter watch with me. That's probably shocking to most of you but if EVER there has been a way to show your kids not to do drugs, just show them Heidi Fleiss's face.

Now that's some scary shit right there, man.

Interview with a Real Housewife of Orange County

Oh, to be a housewife in Orange County. You people just have NO idea.

This is my schedule: I have the live-in nanny, Maria (I call them all Maria because I hire and fire them so often. It really doesn't matter what their names are, does it?) up at the crack of dawn each morning to be sure that the children's uniforms are pressed and ready when they wake up. I require that my two children (Kileigh, 11, and Bradlee, 15) eat a hot breakfast made from scratch every single day--which is why I have Maria make the kids healthy, fresh food--because I am, of course, still sleeping. (My husband John is usually up at five am to do whatever it is he does. Finance I think? He knows to be quiet.) I do allow the children to enter my room for a quiet peck on my cheek in the morning before they leave for school, as long as they don't speak and no lights are turned on or shades opened. My eyes are naturally this very light blue in color (not contacts as some people have claimed) and therefore sensitive to any bright light. That is why you will always see me on television with dark glasses, even inside.

My family has strict orders not to enter my master bedroom for any reason whatsoever, even in an emergency--I determine what an emergency is in my home, not my kids, please. I have a giant, beautiful bed, and I require a minimum of eight hours of sleep or I am impossible to be around. I have Maria take the children to school in the Volvo--it is the safest car out there; of course, I wouldn't be caught dead in it. I drive the Porsche.

Typically, I wake up around nine o'clock and hit my indoor gym with my personal trainer around ten, after I eat a few bites of melon and have some coffee. I have to watch my figure, you know. My trainer is really super hot and that gets me inspired to look as great as I can. My husband doesn't mind if I flirt with Joey; I think it kind of turns him on a little bit. Sometimes my husband John (you've seen him on the show, no doubt) will just watch me work out. Then we go have sex. Of course, cameras aren't allowed in for that--darn! Haha. If you had a husband as hot as my John, you'd want to look as hot as I do, too.

That's why I see my plastic surgeon, Dr. Plastique, every month. He's done my boobs two times now, and my tummy tucks and a few lipos. Plus they say you can only get Botox every three months or so, but I don't believe it. He injects me every month, all over my body and you can't even tell. The fact that my face doesn't move at all now doesn't bother me; that's what my goal is actually. You can't really tell on these new HD cameras anyway so it's fine. I'm happiest with my lips, really. They are super duper puffy and that's what is so important when living here in the OC--everybody does it. So if this is the first Monday of the month, I have Dr. P come on over for what I call my monthly service appointment--isn't that funny?

Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays I go and get my hair blown out and once a week I add in a conditioning and shine treatment. Hair is so important when you live here. Oh, and of course I do that straightening stuff from Brazil or wherever that's supposed to have some bad chemicals or something in it. I don't know, it doesn't bother me. All I know is I have no frizz. Anyway, the most important thing in the OC is to be blonde, blonde, blonde! I'm naturally blonde, of course, so it's not that difficult, but still, when I see pictures of myself everywhere I go, on covers of magazines, on the internet, etc., it's just a reminder of what my fans expect. So of course, I have to keep that up as well. There's just so much!

Weekends. I love weekends! John and I go out a lot. We've been married over fourteen--oops, I mean, sixteen years--and we have many, many social engagements with so many different friends, charitable organizations and of course, with the girls from the show. Here, look on the table--this is my latest scrapbook of events that I had Maria put together. But to be honest we mostly entertain here in our home because, let's face it, it IS gorgeous. I will tell you, it's not easy to make it behind The Gate so we've made the most of it, believe me. Our home has been featured in all kinds of decorating magazines and that just makes me so proud. Yes, I did have help with the decorating, but so what? All the ideas were mine, you know? And, the money, too haha! I still have so much shopping to do for our three spare rooms, though. Ugh, it's just never done.

And then Sundays we always go to church as a family. Always. Well, usually; at least John and I for sure. It is a good networking opportunity, you know, being in the public eye as we are. And you wouldn't believe those paparazzi--they have the nerve to show up even there. Granted, I always make sure I look my best for church.

The other girls: why yes, I get along with all the other girls on the show, of course. I do feel a bit well, different from them, however, because my house is a lot bigger than theirs, my husband is hotter, we have better cars, my clothes are all high-end designer, etc. See, this outfit is Chanel. It's like a full-time job, just being me sometimes. I can't imagine having to work outside the home, you know? This is work! Besides, I feel a woman's place is by her man, and I am here waiting when my John gets home from work with his drink ready in hand, just like my mama was for my daddy. No one raises my kids but me; well, with a little bit of help of course, but it's all in my home, not some daycare. I can't remember who that ugly woman was that said it takes a city or something? To raise our kids? But dammit I believe that. Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yea. The other gals. Hmm...well, there's one girl, let's call her G, that I don't really like but I'm not sure I want to comment on that. Well, okay--just between you and me. She has this um, web page? And on that she has a thingy, a um, blog? Now, I don't really know how all that works but I guess she wrote some really nasty things about me and my husband which I don't agree with. So, I asked her very nicely over drinks one day at the racetrack, where, by the way, we had private seating--it was lovely--to you know, just remove that part of the blog. What do you call that, a post? And that little bitch got testy with me! I couldn't believe it! Listen, here I was being all nicey nice to her and going out of my way to make her part of the group because she's kinda new, when honestly, she's really just a little ho in my opinion--gasp! Did I just say that? Well, she is. I feel I have the right to ask her to remove what I feel are objectionable and blatantly false and mean things about me no matter if it's her blog or whatever...it's just shocking and unfair. I can't have that kind of stuff circulating about me out there in the...the...computer-sphere! It's just not right. It's just really, really very upsetting. Although I'm not quite sure what she meant by gauche--I've never heard of that designer, have you?

I'm sorry, I don't mean to unload all this on you. I must seem like the biggest bitch and really, ask any of my friends, I'm really the nicest person and will give you the shirt off my husband's back. It's just that, well, my fifteen-year old son has been kind of grumpy and has been going out a lot lately and not coming home at night. We are very worried. Teenage stuff, you know. We've never grounded him and we don't believe in curfews--we feel that he should learn to set his own limits in a more organic way. So we've called in a youthologist to help us work all this out. She comes here and talks with us, then she talks with him, then we all talk together. Last night Bradlee went out and when he wasn't home by midnight, I called him to see where he was and he was really super nice about it! That's progress don't you think?

Well, I need to get going. I'm meeting John for a little afternoon delight, if you know what I mean (wink wink)! So important to keep things hot, hot hot when you've been married as long as we have. Then I'm off for a girls weekend in The Springs. I just think that it's just so, um, important also that, as a mother, we give ourselves time off from this craziness we call "motherhood," you know? Spend a little girl time on ourselves, for once. I think that I need to be a positive role model for the ladies that watch our show and that's a message I want to put our there: you know, spend time and money--haha--on yourself, gals! You work too hard!

So, I'm off. Hey, do you know if this restaurant can validate my parking? Great, thanks.

Buh-bye!! Kisses!!

Winona Ryder as Spock's Mom: Are Young Women Cast as Matriarchs the New Trend?

I quite enjoyed the most recent Star Trek movie. I’m married to a total sci-fi geek (and a fan of the original series myself) and we saw it in IMAX once, a regular old boring movie theater once, and now on our own TV at least three times. Each time, I catch a few more neat little references J.J. Abrams has thrown in there and I think wow, great flick, clever guy. But something has been bothering me ever since that first viewing — the casting of Winona Ryder as Spock’s (played with humility and candor by Zachary Quinto) human mother.

Now I may be ignorant of Vulcan gestational practices, but here on Earth, having a mother that young would be quite, er, impossible. See, Ms. Ryder was born in 1971; Quinto in 1977. If math still serves my feeble brain, little Winona would be physically incapable of birthing a child at the tender age of six. This physically improbable yet magically accepted practice Hollywood foists upon us is sadly representational of a system that casts younger women in the role of middle-aged mothers, when clearly there is a plethora of talented, appropriately-aged actresses out there who could fit the bill, so to speak (no offense to Ms. Ryder — glad to have you back, girlfriend).

Take these examples (from this week’s issue of Entertainment Weekly magazine) in which they discuss the ridiculous mother/child age differences, or lack thereof, on a few TV shows:

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (2008): Lena Headey 34, Thomas Dekker 20 — Sarah would have been 14 when she gave birth. Not completely crazy given this current climate in America of children having children; however, knowing the story, we all know Sarah Connor did not give birth to John Connor when she was 14. Yes, the American public has a short attention span, but we are fierce when it comes to this story, guys — we've all seen the first movie a kabillion times. Give us a break.

Kath & Kim (2008): Granted, the show was dreadful. Surely part of its complete unwatchability (aside from Selma Blair, 36, attempting comedy) was the fact that no one bought Molly Shannon, 43, as her mom. Perhaps the seven-year age difference was part of that recipe for failure for a show that was surely doomed from the start… who knows?

Gilmore Girls (2000): Please, don’t shoot me, but I was never a fan of this show. Both Lauren Graham, 33, and Alexis Bledel, 19, are talented actresses and I’m glad the show did well and I wish them continued success. But I never bought the premise; they just always looked like sisters to me, dammit. And given their age difference - 14 years - now I understand why. (I think in the show, Graham was supposed to have had her daughter at the age of 16-ish?) I know it was hip and cool and all that, peppering each episode with pop culture references (or Gilmore-isms); they even talkedreallyfast to mirror the fast-paced dialogue of today’s American teenager. Ugh.

Of course, this practice isn’t new. Go back to the movie The Graduate. Though she certainly looked like a middle-aged, albeit sexy, harpy, Anne Bancroft was actually only six years older than Dustin Hoffman when she played the iconic role of Mrs. Robinson. I know. In this case, obviously the right actress was cast and the chemistry was undeniable. Hoffman, Bancroft, and even Katherine Ross (who, for the uninitiated, played Bancroft’s daughter) all earned Oscar nominations. Who am I to question the brilliance of famed director Mike Nichols? And yet… even Bancroft expressed reservations in playing the role of the “older woman” given that she was only 36 at the time of filming.

Moving into the '80s, we have Lea Thompson playing Michael J. Fox’s mom in the sci-fi classic Back to the Future. This was particularly galling given that they were exactly the same age. In defense of this casting choice, most of the cast was “younger playing older,” and they were all playing dual roles — their high school selves and their future selves. In my personal opinion, her makeup looked totally fake and silly when they aged her (though apparently it took over three hours to apply); it was if Spielberg and Zemeckis were flaunting their ability to pull the wool over our eyes while at the same time making it patently obvious — a wink wink, if you will. Nevertheless, people love the movie to this day; the sequels not so much. It's great escapist fare. The casting choice was seen as a great break for Thompson and she was thankful, as any young actress would be, for the incredible boost it gave her career.

Of course, the other recent example of Hollywood’s penchant of placing young actresses in the “mother” role is when Angelina Jolie played Colin Farrell’s mother in the movie Alexander a few years back. Granted, Jolie is stunningly beautiful and a gift from the gods. I get that the director (Oliver Stone) wanted to not only get folks to the theater (men) but exploit the good looks of the youthful, half-naked (Jolie) cast — but come on! She’s just one year older than Farrell. She took her casting in stride and described working with the notoriously difficult Stone as “a pleasure.” Given that Jolie, already mother to six, never seems to age, she seems to have this role down pat. I guess when you look that good onscreen, you may as well flaunt it while you’ve got it.

I suppose that’s what it comes down to. Maybe many of these actresses take these roles because, perhaps, they are terrified, that if they don’t, they won’t work again. This is what they are being offered so they take it, like Thompson did back in the day, for the boost it can give them; or like Ryder, to get back in the game. Jolie was reportedly “thrilled to be cast” in an Oliver Stone movie, even if it was in the mother role, even if she was barely older than Rosario Dawson, who played Farrell’s wife, for the opportunity to work with him and the exposure it offered her. (That the movie was widely panned clearly hasn't hurt any of their careers, particularly hers.)

It's also worth noting that all of these movies were directed by men.

Hard to believe, incredible really, that Jolie has to worry about ageism. If that’s the case, are all young, beautiful actresses older than, say, 25 doomed to be relegated to the mother role before they hit 30?

No wonder they all end up having (shhh!) plastic surgery every other month. But that’s another article…

We've come a long way, baby?

So yesterday was Colonial Day for my daughter's fifth grade class. It was just pure joy and exhilaration....not. It was pure fucking hell.

See, there's this little thing called women's lib? Feminism? However, apparently private schools in southern Orange County haven't heard of these concepts. They think that doing stuff the old-fashioned way is "fun." What kind of stuff, you ask? Oh, making corn husk dolls, cookies, soap, candles, quill on parchment, sewing quilts, stencil painting...the list goes on. And some of you are thinking, why that sounds like SO much fun? What is this woman's goddamned problem?

Weeeelll, let tell you. Do I start with the fact that they wanted us to go out (or sew-hahahaha) costumes for this enjoyable day? Need I remind you, based on the descriptions above, that this was a very messy day? Most kids completely ruined the pricey costumes their parents had purchased for them at the stencil and quill tables (my station--more on that later) within minutes. I laughed in the face of...of...all this costume pressure and wore a peasant-y top I somehow still had from my pregnancy days w/ the boy child and yes, some jeans. Girl child had begged me not to wear jeans ("Mo-om, you'll be the only mom there in jeans. It will be so embarrassing") but I figure this won't be the only time I will mortify her as a mother. She needs good source material for future therapy. Daughter also picked out clothing from her own closet and to her credit, she was pretty good about it--not that I gave her a choice.

Also, I kind of resented the fact that we women were placed back into the roles that we've spent literally what, one hundred years pushing our way out of. Where the heck were all the men? In my house, JP does most of the cooking or frankly, we wouldn't eat. He does a good proportion of the laundry, and usually showers with the kids. And he grocery shops. Come to think of it, what the hell do I do? Damn...

My point? With the exception of maybe one dad (who was there to snap photos and didn't want to get his hands, or little outfit with the silly kneesocks, dirty), it was just us moms there doing all this dirty work. No surprise there. Many moms at this school don't work outside the home, and therefore have the "time" to volunteer for this kind of thing. However, I'd say that at least 30-40% of the moms there DO work and either took a vacation day or rearranged their work schedules to help out. Did the dads do that? Nooo. Because their jobs are what--more important than their children? I know that's an extreme statement but come on! It's just so sexist....

The work itself: okay, I get it. The kids (and in turn, us moms) were supposed to experience what life was like back in the day. Ugh. I don't enjoy messy, and somehow, silly me, thought that quill writing and stenciling would be fun given my love of writing. Funny how I can still be naive at the age of forty-six. I didn't know that the powers that be would decide that stenciling would be with globs of paint and that the kids, overstimulated from the structure of all the other activities, would decide that instead of lightly sponging small amounts of paint on their parchment, would rather oh, cover their entire hands with paint and act like my four-year-old and start smashing their hands all over their papers and the table. I kind of understood actually--I wanted to cover their little heads with paint at that point.

By the end of the day, my back hurt, I was covered with paint, and all I wanted was a drink. Thankfully, I wore jeans (!) and a top that washed up easily. I took enormous satisfaction when I noticed that the chick with the bustle and lace-up high-heeled booties was paint-splattered and whining by the end of the day as I whisked on by her to pick up my kids in my cozy low-heeled boots. I came home with a plate full of pretty yummy cookies that I washed down with an excellent dirty martini made by my wonderful husband--served to me as a I sat reading a mag with my feet up.

We've come a long way, baby.

a 1800DENTIST CALL TO ACTION!!

So this morning I was annoyed (yet again) by those annoying 1800dentist commercials. Not because the commercials themselves are annoying (which they are); no, it's because they portray the lone female as a complete and utter idiot. If she were a man, she would not be made to look as vapidly stupid as she does in those ridiculously moronic commercials. I personally find them offensive to be quite honest.

Then, an IKEA commercial came on. I don't know about you, but I don't run around the yard and down the street screaming about a furniture sale. Maybe that's just me. My point is that there is NO way that commercial would air with a male acting in such a ridiculous manner over a sale. It's just such a Lucille Ball 1950s dated stereotype.

Something took hold of me this morning because I decided to let my fingers do the talking and took my above message to Twitter: "Why is it that the woman in the 1800dentist commercial is made 2 look like such a ditz? If she were a man she would look smarter, u know it." For IKEA I wrote: "Same w the IKEA commercials. Don't know bout u but I don't run around screaming bout a furniture sale. Wouldn't hv a man doing that."

So here's the good part: I actually got a reply from 1800dentist! "hmmm interesting observation. What are your ideas on improving the commercial? Changes? etc. We'd love to hear your thoughts."

Here's what I wrote back: "yes! u listened! Make her more intelligent. Women r NOT dumb. Ur ads seem sexist, ergo offensive. The banter is ok, & the actress likable enuf if she didn't hv 2 b so condescended 2 or deliver her lines like such an airhead. It's annoying. K?"

I would love it if any of you strong, amazing women (or men) would join me in getting these horrible commercials CHANGED by sending your input to @1800DENTIST on Twitter. You can follow me at RachelintheOC and I promise to follow you back. If you're not on Twitter, make a post on their Facebook page & reference or copy and paste this post and/or my blog, www.giltfree.blogspot.com.

Let's make this change!!