Children's Movies Are Way Different Now That My Brain Is Fully Formed

So you're a bit melancholy and one of your favorite childhood movies is on TV. SCORE. There is nothing more comforting than watching something that was last seen through eyes that lacked responsibility, reason, and bladder control. You snuggle up with a stuffed animal and other cozy things like tea and fire and get ready to tingle from head to toe with nostalgia. But wait...what's this? Your favorite childhood movie is about...no it can't be...NAZIS? RIDICULOUSLY SEXY MEN? CAPITALISM? THE SUFFRAGETTES?

I'm talking about The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins. If you haven't taken a history class yet, please turn back now and enjoy your ignorant youth while you can. Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let's move on. If children were rats (I've heard a lot of good points supporting this theory), Julie Andrews would be the pied piper. I was drawn to her voice like a moth to the flame (or a rat to the pipe, I guess?). Either way, I could not get enough of Maria or Mary, the creative singing babysitters. It's truly a shame that Julie Andrews blew up her voice with it's own awesomeness and can no longer serenade the world like old times. Her failed vocal surgery and subsequent limited-octave range undoubtedly caused most, if not all, of the natural disasters since 1997, but I digress (What else is new?).

Let's start with the Sound of Music, shall we? News flash: it wasn't just about children and singing and hills being filled with things. This movie revolved around the motherfucking Nazi invasion of Austria. Rolfe, Mr. "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" (Mr. Seventeen, for short), was a fucking Nazi tattletale douchebag. The wonderful concert held at the end? Do yourself a favor and rewatch that scene (I tried to find it on YouTube

I'm too sexy for World War 2.

for you but Julie Andrews hates sharing). Every member of the Von Trapp family is singing with sheer terror in their hearts to an audience of Führer-lovers. This is because they are all being held against their will and are desperately seeking a way out that ends in Captain Von Trapp maybe not becoming Captain Von Naziface. I guess he was so awesome in other wars as a captain that the the Nazi's wanted to recruit him? I don't know. It's not really clear. However, what is clear is how fucking FINE Captain Von Trapp is. My young mind never grasped this and thought he was just super mean and treated his children like dogs (which he does, but perhaps that can all be chalked up to PTSD and crippling loneliness). Also, raising six rats kids on your own has got to be a Goosebumps book or something. I would probably start using whistles and scare tactics to keep them in line too. Either way, I'd hit it like the fist of God.

Moving on, there's quite a lot of drama surrounding tuppence in Mary Poppins. Should it feed the birds? Should it be invested in a bank run by Dick Van Dyke in bad makeup? Obviously not the latter because the bank is a terrifying place filled with old, grouchy men and misery. These aforementioned grouchballs try to physically pry the tuppence out of young Michael's hand. I repeat: the bankers physically assault a child in order to make a profit. I translate: the bankers care only about financial gain and very little about the welfare of human beings. Sound familiar? I bet it does.

Not only that, the movie starts off with a wonderful song about the womens' rights movement. Have a listen:

I'm a soldier in a petticoat too, Mrs. Banks. But seriously, how fucking fierce is this bitch? I had no idea what this was even about when I was younger, let alone that there was a point in history where women weren't allowed to vote. Kudos, Mary Poppins, for being relevant to my interests regardless of what they are (dancing with exceedingly floppy cartoon penguins, disproportionate greed in the higher economic brackets, etc.) and no matter how old I am (I'm still interested in those penguins...).

This brings me to my final point, explain to your kids what is going on in these movies. Maybe times have changed and now that all children's movies are about riding adorable dragons and goofy talking Owen Wilsons cars, there really isn't any historical and political context for kids today to learn something from. HOWEVER, if you're plopping them down in front of a Julie Andrews' movie circa the mid-60s (and plenty other movies/time periods, I'm sure), then you owe it to them to be honest and upfront. If you leave it for them to discover on their own, you run the risk of raising a socially-unaware child who is furious with you in twenty years when they figure everything out themselves. I just wish I had someone to tell me how hot Captain Von Trapp was when I was seven.

The Devil Wears Pigtails: How I Insulted My Mom Via Handmade Greeting Cards And More!

I was out at dinner a couple of months ago with my father, aunt, uncle, and boyfriend, when it dawned on me to write something about my youth. We were sitting around the table, stuffing juicy steak into our faces, when my father decided to recount "episodes" from my childhood. Some of them, albeit hilarious, were not new to me. I distinctly remember how I was moved from preschool to kindergarten because I wouldn't stop biting this one kid named Eugene. I also kept sticking markers in his ears. Why? Because his name was Eugene. I would bite him and color his ears now if I saw him. His name sucked and so did he.

Babby "Hunger Games."

ANYWAY (Sorry, Eugenes of the world), my father then told us all a story of my poor behavior which quickly nestled its way into my heart and became my favorite story ever. Even better than Pan's Labyrinth. I will retell it to my kids as a bedtime story while flipping through the "Cat in the Hat." Sure, they'll wonder what the cat and the grumpy fish have to do with anything, but their reading comprehension will be so poor that they'll just accept what I'm saying to them and move along.

BACK TO THE POINT AGAIN, I was a Girl Scout (and a ballerina too, as most girls are forced to be). Let's be honest, the best parts about being a Girl Scout were the snazzy outfit and the COOKIES (Samoas 4 lyfe, bro). Your parents had to buy a shit-ton in order to appear supportive and make you look like a baller in front of your troupe. But where did those cookies eventually go? That's right, into your face hole. What were we supposed to learn from selling those cookies anyway? Was that supposed to be a lesson in business, sales, and consumerism? Thank God I didn't waste my cookies by setting up tables in front of old-school department stores like Caldor and Bradley's and selling them to strangers like some of my more entrepreneurial counterparts. Instead, I just marched up to my mom and dad and said "BUY THEM. BUY ALL THE COOKIES.  >:(  ," but I digress.

While enjoying his peaceful two hour break from his demon daughter while I was at my weekly Girl Scout meeting, my dad received an unexpected phone call. He got out of his lavender-scented bubble bath, took the cucumber slices off of his eyes, and set down his black truffle caviar to retrieve the phone (this is all speculation but EDUCATED speculation). The voice on the other end was my troupe leader, but she was not her usual, poised self. "What's wrong, Mrs. Troupeface (I don't remember her real name, but this is probably really close)?"

Violin: favorite weapon number two, second only to saliva.

"Mr. Blakin? You have to come and pick up your daughter."

"Why? Is she ok? Is something wrong? Is she hurt?"

"Nothing like that. She's just...she's spitting on all the other Girl Scouts."

"Oh..."


That was probably the moment when my father lost all faith in me as a youngin'. Good thing my parents were divorced and I still had my mom to shower with love in order to garner her good will and trust. The other week, while my mom was cleaning, she found a bunch of handmade cards from me. Here they are, in what I assume to be chronological order:

I love her more than chocholte. This surely won her over.

Note the strategic use of cats to lure her into a false sense of security.

At first glance, this card seems cute and friendly, BUT LOOK AGAIN. Twisters are dangerous and destructive. As depicted by my sketches, they wreck homes and put peoples' lives in danger. This isn't a silly card from a 12 year old, this is a death threat (and could the figure running and screaming "help" be my mother? possibly...possibly...)

My mom's name is Debra and as you can tell, this card means business. She must not have been taking the cards very seriously because this one is both insulting, aesthetically accurate (my mom always matches her socks to her shirt/cardigan numbers and talks to people smothered in feces), and terrifying.

I'm sure most of you spent many a day pondering silently to yourself and your pets, "I wonder if Taylor was this much of a asshole growing up..." The answer is yes, yes I was. So, if there's one thing you can learn from this post, it's that if you have kids or plan on having kids, make sure you give them all the Girl Scout cookies they want and take their natural disaster-related death threats seriously. Speaking of natural disasters: an earthquake AND a hurricane last week? I'm sure Ryan Gosling is on it but in the meantime, I hope everyone is safe and sound.

Looking Back On Being An Embarrassing Daughter

I first heard the word "testicle" from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. He exclaims "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" in response to the sexually-ambiguous Einhorn/Finkle entering a room. A couple of days later, after my dad hit a bump while pulling into an Exxon gas station, I shouted "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" as loud as I could from the passenger seat. I was seven years old.

This was one of about a hundred times that, looking back into my childhood, I have intensely embarrassed myself in front of my parents. Other awesome moments include listening to songs like If You Want It To Be Good Girl (Get Yourself A Bad Boy) by The Backstreet Boys and Give It To You by Jordan Knight alone in the car with my father. If you don't know what's wrong with this, please reference the below lyrics. I have taken the liberty to bold the important parts for you:


If You Want It To Be Good Girl (Get Yourself A Bad Boy
by the Backstreet Boys

If you want it to be wild, gotta know just who to dial baby (And that's me).
If you really like it hot get someone who hits the spot, Honey (oh yes).

Bridge

I found this when I Google-imaged "Backstreet Boys." Jury is still
out on whether or not it's real but either way, I LOVE IT.

And if you wanna get it done then you gotta get the one, the one who's got it goin' on.

Refrain
If you wanna make it last gotta know just who to ask.
Baby's gotta be the best (and that's me).

Chorus
If you want it to be good girl get yourself a... bad boy.
If you really want it good girl get yourself a... bad boy.
Get it like it could be (would be), yeah like it should be.
If you want it to be good girl get yourself a...bad boy.

If you like it innovative better get someone creative, Honey (yes).
And if you want it to be jammin' gotta get somebody slammin', Baby (oh yes).

Now listen:
These are things your mama shouldn't know.
These are things I really wanna show.
These are things I wanna show you how.
So won't you let me show you right now.
Oohh baby...


Give It To You 
by Jordan Knight

You say its been too long since you had some.
You say I turn you on, like a fire that's burning inside.
You think that I'm the one you see in your dreams.
I know what you mean yeah.

Refrain 1
It's creepin' around in your head: me holding you down in my bed.
You don't have to say a word.
I'm convinced you want this.

Chorus
Baby you know I can give it to you.
I can't deny you do it right.
Just let me know and I'll give it to you.
Just show me where, I'll take you there.

"Stingy" huh? Is he referring to how tight he is with money
or how the gonorrhea is making his balls burn.

Baby you know that I'll give it to you.
Your body needs a man like me.
Anything goes when I give it to you.
You know without a doubt, I'll turn you out.
I'll give it to you.
The feeling is fine, giving you everything of mine.

I'm the place to be and soon, you'll see.
I don't care who leads, as long as we move horizontally.
Anyone can make you sweat, but I, can keep you wet.

Refrain 2
It's creepin' around in my head: me holding you down in my bed.
You don't have to say a word.
Just relax, I'll do the work.
I can't wait to give you some.
I'm convinced you need one.

I want to satisfy your every wish and mine, baby.
I know just what you need, (you need) to get you off.
No one could ever do you like I do you right baby.
There's nothing we can't do...
The feeling is fine giving you everything of mine.


Here I am, 12/13 years old, having NO CLUE what any of those lyrics meant, rocking my shit to these songs with my father sitting right next to me, and he is listening to every single, overly sexual innuendo-ed word. When I think about it too much, it feels like my butt is trying to migrate north and eat my lower jaw...whatever that means. It feels like when you accidentally scream "HOLY TESTICLE TUESDAY!" in the car with your father at age seven and you have to sit there and listen, unexpectedly, to your father describe man balls in graphic detail for 30 minutes.

If you haven't noticed yet, my father had primary custody of me so most of these stories involve him. Another awkward habit of mine was always leaving the room when Jack and Sally kissed at the end of The Nightmare Before Christmas. I did this every single time my dad and I watched the movie together and claimed that I just had to use the bathroom. Truth is, I couldn't handle watching anybody kiss in front of my father from ages 3-16, regardless of if they were made entirely out of clay or not. Watching a movie that I had never seen before with my father during those 13 years was always a huge gamble; Would someone kiss someone else? Would the F-bomb be dropped? Would a boob be palmed? I never knew and so, I went to the bathroom very frequently when any sort of heightened emotion was expressed in order to avoid the aforementioned. This might be why I have trouble expressing emotion today, come to think of it, but more on my fragile psyche at a later date!

For now, I'm heading out of work early for July 4th weekend. I NEVER get out of work early. Wrapping up this post in a graceful and polite manner is infinitely less important than my leaving this office right the fuck now to go home and eat my weight in Trader Joe's Edamame Hummus. Peace and Happy Independence Day to all my fellow, stupid Americans! Eat all the cheeseburgers you can fit in your mouth.

Maybe You're Pregnant

If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.

The future people force me to imagine.

Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.

I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.

Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.