It’s My SITS Day & the Origin of Vinobaby

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Women Online It’s my SITS Day! A special welcome to all of the SITS GIRLS dropping by today. If you somehow don’t know about the SITS Girls, a quick rundown: they are a fabulous support group of 15,000+  women bloggers who are passionate about building a community and sharing their blogging and social media skills. They are smart, savvy, and want to help make YOU a success. Check them out.

In honor of all the newbies, I decided to finally answer a question that has been burning in my online friend’s minds for years:  How did you come up with that weird Vinobaby name?

Eons ago (okay 2008), when I first broke down and started this blog, I was a reluctant SAHM stuck at home with only my darling yet daunting 4-year-old for company, and I often teetered on the brink of sanity.  Days blurred together as I shuttled the Kiddo to playgroups and kept house like a frugal 50s flashback housewife (minus the pearls and heels, of course).

I parented differently than many of the moms cluttering the park benches and kiddie gyms. I wasn’t afraid of my child like so many of them, wasn’t terrified he wouldn’t like me, or worried I’d scar him for life by telling him “NO” if he tried to bite me while drawing on the couch with permanent marker.  And I seemed to be the only SAHM who did not find changing diapers fulfilling. I longed to be more…

I had things I wanted to say, but I simply didn’t have the proper audience in real life. So I went online. Like so many of you. Fearing I would be stoned on the playgrounds or plastered with a scarlet letter for my scandalous beliefs, I chose to remain anonymous.

Lets drift back a little further…

While growing fat and busty eagerly awaiting Kiddo’s arrival, I explored some of the pregnancy message boards. Most of my friends IRL were child-free career girls and I was desperate to find women who had a clue what I was going through. I wasn’t going to use my REAL name — that just wasn’t safe of smart. I started thinking…

An ACHTUNG BABY condom package hung from my bulletin board, a souvenir from an amazing U2 concert years ago. (I was in college, it seemed like cool souvenir at the time.)

The Hubby and I married in Italy and loved going to wine tastings together…wine in Italian is VINO…

Besides having a BABY on the brain (and on my bladder) at the time, babies are often made with the help of a little vino. (You can’t tell me ours is the only one. The preponderance of children named “Tequila,” “Bailey,” and “Margarita” would fail to argue.)

A screen name was born.
It may be lame, but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

The original title for this blog was Musings From the Bottom of a Plastic Wine Glass.  I know. Too long. To lush. Not that Vinobaby’s Voice is any better, but for now, I’m stuck with it.  If all goes as planned, I will complete my novel, my writing career will take off, and this will be the little blog attached to my big professional author website. Someday.

It’s good to dream.

So, welcome to my world. If you are new here, you will find my blog is rather eclectic,  like me.  While I no longer consider this a just Mommy Blog, I do often write about kids and family. But as I’ve grown-up and my world has diversified, so has the blog.  I post about food, writing, books,  newsworthy issues, wine, and occasionally I whine. I try to keep some humor in most of my writing, because sometimes a laugh is what gets us through the day (at least until 5 o’clock). Check out the Popular Posts tab to see what other readers have liked.

So I invite you to pull up a chair, put your feet up, grab a mug of coffee or glass of wine and explore. Follow me on Facebook, join me on Twitter, and subscribe by RSS. Please? We can all use a bigger tribe. Feel free to look me up on Pinterest or GoodReads, too.  Thanks so much for dropping by!

 

Scalloped fingers with a side of mandolin whine

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Please excuse any tpyos, as I am pecking at the keyboard for the first time since typing class in middle school. And trying not to yelp. Granted, only the cat is home to laugh at my pitiful attempt at hacking, but she keeps shooting me totally unsympathetic glares and has been sniffing around at my wounded digit as if she’d make me a meal if I ever die home alone.

As I’ve stated many times, I will never qualify to be a REAL foodie. While I do love to cook and make many dinners my friends consider “fancy-schmancy,” there are a few things I just make straight from the box. Like cake. And potatoes.

Another reason I will never be a real foodie: apparently I lack basic slicing skills. I can wield a knife just fine, thank you, but  I am not responsible enough to use a mandolin slicer.

 Looks simple, like on this example from Amazon.com, right?

SunDAY was lovely, the kind of day I fantasized about when I imagined my life as a grown-up with a family.  I enjoyed a yoga class in the morning, then Hubby, Kiddo, and I rode our bikes to the park for a leisurely afternoon of reading, playing, and quality family time. I had no choice but to complete the Rockwell-esque day with a classic Sunday dinner. I make a mean meatloaf (and if you don’t like meatloaf, it’s only because you’ve never had a good one), and I wanted something homestyle, something evoking images of June Cleaver in an apron (and pearls and heels) to pair with it. I still had potatoes leftover from Christmas, so I decided make some scalloped potatoes from scratch. No problem, right?

Wrong. So. Utterly. Wrong.

I make homemade potatoes once a year, at Christmas. And these potatoes kick ass, but they take far too much time and effort to make on a regular basis. (I’ll post the fantabulous recipe one of these days.) We don’t go the potato route often, but when we do, I usually leave it to Betty-in-a-box.

The savory meatloaf went into the oven, I peeled the potatoes (a task I HATE), then broke out the mandolin. First potato sliced up fine. I turned to my Hubby, who was washing dishes beside me, and bragged, “Look how EASY this is.“

Famous last words.  Never, ever utter such a challenge to the fates when dealing with razor sharp blades. Might as well just shoot myself in the foot.

The second potato was oddly shaped, like funky turnip or a turd. It wouldn’t stay in the SAFETY guard. It was so long— my fingers were inches away from the blade — I figured I’d just trim down one end flat so it would fit into the safety guard.

Slice. Slice. Slice. SCREAM.

I looked down and all I saw was red. And firework bursting before my eyes.

I threw my finger under the faucet and screamed at my Hubby to get me a towel. He gave me a wad of paper towels, which I pressed to my finger as I slid down to the floor.

I sat there, with the cabinets holding me upright, direct pressure on my wound, for a good 20 minutes. Kiddo offered to call 9-1-1 for me. The bleeding must have stopped, as nothing was dripping onto the floor or anything, so I passed on that idea.

Hubby peeked around the potato slices, checking for any lurking finger parts. He found none. But there had to be something there. Then he actually asked if I wanted to save the damn potatoes. Hell, no — I do not want a side of skin with my potatoes, thanks. (Oh, trying not to get nauseous…)

Eventually, I had to get my finger bandaged properly. I can’t look at my own blood. I will pass out faster than you can say “I am a freaking wuss.”  It was up to Hubby.  As soon as he removed my compressed paper towels, I screamed. He panicked. He threw some antibiotic on some gauze and slapped it on my finger.

I ran through my entire repertoire of swear words. Yes, it burned that &*%$#*@ bad.

Eventually the pain receded and we managed to eat dinner (and we didn’t even burn the meatloaf, yeah!). I sucked down a well-deserved glass of wine.

But we still have no idea how much of my finger was sliced off. We are all afraid to asses the damage.

When I called my parents this morning, I received absolutely no sympathy. None. Instead they laughed hysterically. Maybe I should drive a half hour to have them change the bandages and check the damage. (Okay, my mom worked the desk at an ER and my dad was a paramedic — I’d have to lose a full appendage to get sympathy, I suppose.) It’s just a flesh wound…

I wonder if I can convince the Kiddo to tend to my finger. Maybe I can bribe him with a new Skylander?

Typing without  a finger utterly sucks.

What I wanted was a beautiful homemade casserole.
What I got.
Betty Crocker is making ALL of my potatoes from now on.

And mandolin slicers are tools of the devil.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy: The Book, The Review

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I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here’s the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood’s dirty little secrets.  “Erma Bombeck-style insights…about the underbelly of marriage and parenting…to a new generation of women.” …yeah, yeah, yeah… She’s funny, she’s real, you’ll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It’s a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It’s also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It’s about REAL life.

The book’s twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning.  Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader’s Digest or Men’s Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of “Mommy Confessions,” anonymous admissions taken from Smokler’s highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, “Hell, yeah!” because, well, we’ve all been there. (And yes, there’s even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn’t sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood.  If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don’t deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They’ll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs.  From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we’ve all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there’s foul language and feces and brutal honesty.  Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I’ll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she’s getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she’d drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first “fuck.”  She’s of the generation who believes some things just aren’t said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it’s okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it.  Call me selfish, but I just didn’t want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother’s Day gift, but you know your husband won’t remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present.  Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]



*I won a copy of this book fair and square. I did not receive any monetary compensation. The opinions expressed are my own.  I cannot guarantee a positive review for any product or services, but I can promise a review written with honesty and integrity. Others opinions and experiences with this product may differ from my own.

Nike Ads & New Atitude

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I’ve flushed the negative attitude and my cold/allergies from my system. After a few rather ornery posts these last few weeks, I figured you deserved something a little peppier. {Not that I do ‘peppy’ all that often. Nix that. How about more inspirational?}

‘Too Cute’ baby sloths, puppies, kittens, and Kermit the Frog on a log singing The Rainbow Connection all came to mind. Images of sunshine and rainbows and floppy-eared bunnies would exemplify my improved attitude, right?  Then I read a post by Joann Mannix on the Just Be Enough site and my focus drifted back to the real me.

Last year I posted How Vintage Nike Ads Kept Me Off Prozac. Nike’s ad campaign, run over the last two decades, featured brilliant, timeless pieces of copy written not just to convince us to run to the nearest store and buy sneakers, but to empower us.

I’ve mentioned “JUST DO IT” covers much of my office, on sticky notes and bulletin boards, it’s even on a Post-it note on my blog header (I’m not kidding — look up).

I was supposed to start editing my first draft two weeks ago.  In his memoir on the craft of writing, Stephen King recommended burying a manuscript into a drawer for at least six weeks. So I did. I even gave it a few extra weeks for good luck. I let it rest, distanced myself from the words I knew inside and out, and gave it rot or bloom. I’m not yet sure which. Last week I began the process of reading it with fresh eyes,  spotting the gaping holes, inconsistencies, and festering wounds I’ve created. Now I must learn how to repair them or slice them out with a surgeon’s cool finesse.

Unexpected delays popped up, my work delayed — life got in the way.  It’s time for me to push my dreams and my manuscript  up on my ladder of priorities. Enough with the excuses. Now is the time I must, I WILL, push all of life’s clutter aside, hole up with my manuscript, and bring it to life. I will just do it.


My Golden (Globe) Boy

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Two nights a year I am glued to the television: the Oscars and the Golden Globes.

Around 6 p.m. I mute the TV (Ryan Seacrest and god forbid Joan Rivers grate my last nerve) and settle in to watch the Red Carpet Live pre-shows.  Seriously, it’s the only time I get a free pass to act like a catty, celebrity-stalking, fashion-whore. Oh, and I watch because I appreciate the fine arts of acting and movie-making, as well.  

{ahem}

Sunday night I was a horrible mommy and turned on the Golden Globes pre-show during dinner. I didn’t want to miss a dress, gem, hairdo, snippet of gossip, or (could we be so lucky?) trip and fall.

Then Kiddo started getting into the show. And commenting.

The outrageously gorgeous and perfectly curved Salma Hayek floated across the red carpet in a stunning Gucci gown. I assumed the Hubby’s eyes would be on her. I was not prepared for the 8-year-old’s to be as well.

“I like that dress. I think you’d look *damn* good in that dress, Mommy.”

I nearly snarfed my chardonnay.
Instead of scolding him for his unacceptable language, I gave him a Nutty Buddy.
I may not win Mom of the Year (like I was even in the running),
but my kid’s going to make a brilliant husband someday…
 Because this is what I *really* look like.
Mama’s Losin’ It

I’m linking up with Mama Kat, and sliding this in as #4 (describe the scene at breakfast dinner) and #5 (what brings you joy).

What posts are you most proud of?

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What posts are you the most proud of?

The most popular posts, which may have skyrocketed your numbers and added to your loyal following?

The prettiest posts, filled with gorgeous photos of your stunning kids or faraway travels?

Instructional  posts, clearly explaining some social media guides or a favorite craft or recipe you created?

Topical posts, where you rallied for a cause or pointed out newsworthy injustices?

The funniest posts, guaranteed to make each reader snort coffee out her nose and comment about your wit and wry humor?

Or the candid posts, where perhaps in a moment of crisis or heartbreak you bared your soul through your words, not to please the readers, but to heal a piece of yourself?

If you are a varied writer, your answer may be bits of all of the above.

They are the the posts where your voice rings honest, clear, and true.

Nicole from Moments That Define Life prompted us to list five blog posts we are most proud of.  A few I list below were obvious choices for me, as they received countless comments or appeared on BlogHer. Though I’m positive I could go back and edit these essays for clearer words and sentence structure, I’ll let them stand as they are.

 When Grace is Gone: A tale of longing, heartbreak, and acceptance.



 Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair}: A toddler, a fitting room, and some painfully funny discoveries.









 The “C” Word: A waiting room, a diagnosis, a life flashing before closed eyes.

  

Thrift Store Shopaholic: My favorite frugal fashionista tips to help you find the treasures amidst the trash.

 Killer Whales and Kindness: In the wake of a Sea World trainer’s death, a look at our relationships with these captive creatures.






What posts are you most proud of?

Memories Captured

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I once dreamed of roaming the world, photographing awe-inspiring natural wonders for National Geographic or charismatic celebrities as the next Annie Leiboviz.

In time, I discovered I fare better shooting house cats and husbands.{With a camera, people, not a gun.}

I still love taking pictures anyway.

My parents bought me my first camera when I was somewhere around age eight or nine. With that Kodak Disc, which looked more like a deck of cards than a camera,  I captured pandas playing at the National Zoo, buffalo roaming across the Black Hills, and the last Dusky Seaside Sparrow before the species faded into extinction. Good stuff. Things I can only recall now because of my aged photos.

By my tween years, I upgraded to a Minolta 35mm, a treasure I still yearn to experiment with, if only I could find film. I took a couple of photography classes in college, learned how to coax images from film to paper, and went through several more cameras before I bought my current Nikon.

The art of photography transformed with the arrival of the digital age. I am now utterly spoiled by my 8 gig memory card, which allowed me to take 2,500+ pictures over a ten day vacation in Costa Rica. Unreal. Compare that to the twelve rolls of film I shot while on my wedding and honeymoon journey through Italy — only 288 chances to record a momentous journey, and no knowledge of if the images turned out until weeks later when the glossy 4x6s were finally in hand.

But I just can’t keep up. The technology advances at break-neck speeds and the costs are, well, prohibitive. I don’t own a digital SLR camera or Photoshop. Yet.  But I do adore my little Nikon P90 and Picassa, so when I saw Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This decided to host a Memories Captured link up, I simply couldn’t resist.

 

Pure joy captured: a boy, an ice cream cone, a gorgeous day at the park with his parents. I should have used this for my holiday cards last year.

I couldn’t decide which version I adored more. I could have kept playing on Picassa for hours, but I do have a few other things with which to occupy my time. I love the timelessness of the first image; it could have been taken in 1960, 1985, or yesterday.  The second image captures the vibrant sparkle and deep indigo of Kiddo’s eyes. They get me every time.

Which do you prefer?

where the *magic* happens

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Not *that* magic.

While cruising through the social media universe (a.k.a. wasting time on twitter) I came across an interesting little proposal: an  I’ll show you mine if you show me yours link up. Really? I didn’t think Just Jennifer was that type of girl…

She’s not. {get your mind out of the gutter} She’s showing off where she gets her blog on.

Since I also decided to hook up with the SITS Girls Build a Better Blog Challenge starting this Monday (#SITS31DBBB), I thought it would be polite for me to introduce myself with a peek into my writing world. (And where I waste time playing online Mahjong, tweeting, facebook stalking, etc.)

To the outside world, I’m still considered just a SAHM to an elementary-aged child. It seems as if every single day I am bombarded by the “but what do you DO all day” question.

I write. 

Every single day.

I completed the first draft of my novel in November, after nearly two years of agony. On good writing days, the words flowed like properly chilled chardonnay. Pure bliss. Most days, words appeared on the screen only after laborious contractions. (Stabbing pains, like before the epidural, when I pleaded for the magic drugs. Perhaps that’s why so many writers dull the voices with drink?)  Now I must start editing, rewriting, and proofing. Eventually I hope to con an agent into representing me and actually publish the book. It’s nice to dream.

I blog.


You’re here, so you know that.

MY own personal domain. Somehow we ended up with more bedrooms than kids (one of the perks of having an ‘only’ — another is that the Hubby has his OWN office across the hall). After the baby-making machine shut down, I adopted orphaned furniture from all corners the house. The ten-foot double-desk (old sewing tables) came with our home, the bookshelf came with the husband, the filing cabinet once filled my dorm room, the desk chair liberated from an old job. I painted the walls to match the sky on a perfect day, breathing life into the once drab room.



A cozy twin bed transformed into a couch for napping reading and working. Framed artwork filled the walls at first, but since much of my novel takes place in Costa Rica, I hung souvenirs and vacation photos to “keep me in the mood.”

When I am lucky, and the weather hangs in perfect balance (a few measly weeks a year), I escape with my laptop to my satellite office. Also known as the porch.

Those are good days.

So, where do you do it?

Buy More Girl Scout Cookies to Sate the Hate

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I’m feeling rather stabby today. I don’t know if it is because of the rain, my sore throat, the recent death in the family, or the massive car repairs, but my mind is lingering in gloomy places. Even the cat refuses to come near me.

In addition to all this crap I’ve had to deal with, over the last few days I’ve seen several young girls broadcasting messages —confrontational, stupid messages — and I just want to rip them to shreds. They are just kids. Technically teens. If you put yourself out there on YouTube or the Today Show, you must realize people are going to judge and comment on your message, right?

Earlier this week I ranted about the sexy high school yearbook photo controversy.  Yesterday I found a video of a young teen asking us to boycott Girl Scout Cookies.

Boycott Girl Scout Cookies? Is she insane?  I sold those evil divine cookies for a cause for a least seven years, and ate them for at least thirty more. Why on Earth should I boycott them? According to this girl: because some troops refuse to discriminate against transgender children, and allow them to participate. The horror.

This little Girl Scout obviously worked hard on her message, practiced the delivery, and attempted to present it like a well-thought out argument. I’m assuming a parent recorded it for her, or is at least aware of her posting the video on YouTube. While I applaud her standing for what she believes in,  I vehemently disagree with her.

 I will buy twice as many Girl Scout cookies this year just to show how much I disagree with her bigotry.  (I suppose it won’t hurt that every little girl I know is selling them this year and has already hit me up.)

 

I am biting my tongue (or restraining my fingers) because I totally want to go off on this girl, but I remember how words can maim, and I did vow to be nicer.

Though I enjoyed a sheltered childhood and kind parents, others still spit comments which cut like a razor and seem to linger forever. I’ve suppressed most memories of the mean girls’ taunts in school and blacked out a good part of my college years (when I when I was not exactly a stellar friend either). I know so many people suffer far crueler jabs on a regular basis, but I’m cranky, so I’ll throw these little nuggets of venom out there for the world to judge:

No.  I just don’t like her. ~ Overheard from Mr. McGreggor, 4th grade P.E. coach, on why he wouldn’t let me join the safety patrol.

Your so clingy. Stop following us around like a puppy dog and find your own friends. ~ 8th grade “friend” (who had the nerve to send me a friend request FB recently).

My, your so pale…and you’ve gained weight. ~ Aunt. I was 5’4 and about 104 lbs at the time.

But everyone else likes me. There’s obviously something very wrong with you. ~ Whispered by Mr. Arico, 10th grade biology teacher.

And this song goes out to (*insert my name here*)…they must have written it just for you…{cue Cold as Ice by Foreigner} ~ High school friend/massive crush/d.j. LIVE over the airwaves (because he couldn’t get into my pants).

What, you think you’re gonna be a brain surgeon or something? You’re JUST A GIRL… ~ Mr. Zagacki, 11th grade physics teacher.

Yeah,  you’ve gained weight. I can see it in your back. ~ (EX) college boyfriend.

You’re a Nazi, and you will be a terrible mother someday! You shouldn’t be allowed to even have  children! ~ Certifiably crazy employee (who I WAS NOT allowed to fire. At the time, at least.)

I guess I just need some sunshine and Samoas. Thin Mints would work just as well. Luckily, I think may still have a box or two lurking in freezer and/or Aldi is down the street (have you tried their ‘fake’ G.S. cookies yet?). Yup, cookies and sunshine…works every time…well, at least when it’s too early for wine.

Yes, It’s Too Sexy for ANY Yearbook

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So there is this big brouhaha going on about a Colorado high school student’s yearbook photo. Sydney Spies, an 18-year-old Durango High School senior, and her mother are making the TV talk show circuit, claiming the teen’s freedom of expression is being squelched.

Spies told 9News, “I’m a dancer, I’m trying to be a model, I really enjoy photography and I think that this is a good thing to represent me and I think they are taking away my freedom of expression.”

As a former high school yearbook editor, I think this is a crock of crap.

I am all for freedom of the press, personal expression, yadda yadda yadda, but this is high school. There are things called dress codes and editorial discretion. These rules are in place to protect the children. Spies claims the student yearbook editors first voted to allow it, then changed their minds. Good for them. Perhaps they had time to think about their decision, and cooler heads prevailed.

This is a PUBLIC high school.  The dress code requires students “fully cover the chest, back, abdomen, and sides.”  Clearly this get-up violates the code. Period. That’s not even getting into the come hither, practicing for Playboy pose or the photo’s inappropriateness. 

Stick it in your modeling portfolio, Honey, but not in the public school yearbook.

I’m not sure if I’m more irritated with the teen or her mother, Miki Spies. Yes, it is a mother’s job to support her child, to stand by her, and encourage her to stand up for what she believes in. But this is more like shopping her out for a modeling contract or a reality show. It’s cheap. It’s tawdry. This girl is totally getting pimped out by her mother.

By pushing this issue and the photo into the media, Miki Spies has allowed open season on her daughter.  I’ve read comments calling the teen a future porn star, a stripper, and stating she’ll be knocked up before she graduates. Is this fair? No. We don’t know this girl. She could be a straight-A student on her way to Harvard. Which she can pay for by working for an escort service. (Oh, damn, I did it myself.)

And before you say I am judging the mother/daughter duo too harshly, check out the alternate photo Spies submitted to the yearbook (which was also rejected):

Seriously? These photos weren’t stolen from a cell phone or leaked without permission.  This isn’t a character assassination. They flaunted these on the Today Show (see clip below).

This is the type of situation mothers should protect their daughters from, not promote.

Now Mama is saying they are hiring a civil lawyer to take on the case. Give me a break. There is no case. This is a shameless quest for notoriety and publicity (granted, yes I am feeding it, but it ticked me off).

You’ve had your five minutes of fame. Stop embarrassing yourselves, put some clothes on, and go back to school.

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