12:58:48 PM Tania: this sounds weird but i just realized i was wearing completely different jeans than i thought
12:59:00 PM Tania: like, all morning i thought i was wearing one pair, then realized i wasn’t at all
12:59:07 PM elsie: if that happened to me i would probably go home sick

You have to make some tough calls. Let. Me. Tell. You.

Which is probably why everyone’s up in a tizzy over this Wall Street Journal column from Amy Chua, Chinese mom extraordinaire whose idea of good parenting is to starve her children until they can play the piano. On her long list of things her kids were not allowed to do: attend sleepovers, watch TV, or come home with any grade lower than an A.

This type of strict parenting is, according to Chua, proof that she cares more about her kids than Western parents “who seem perfectly content to let their children turn out badly.”

Yikes.

Based on the reactions to her article, I can gather that Chinese moms are feeling a little stereotyped (or vindicated), and that a lot of too-soft “Western” moms are wondering if all those DUIs and D-minuses might be their fault after all. Or not. I’m not taking sides here.

What Chua is describing, though, isn’t so much Chinese parenting as it is immigrant parenting, something I’m extremely familiar with as the daughter of two Middle Easterners. Don’t get me wrong — my mom never forced me to sit at the piano bench with no food or drink for hours at a time, and she most certainly didn’t tell me I was a “disgrace” (at least not until I was in my 20s). My parents were actually quite lax compared to the others in our cultural circle.

Middle Eastern lax and Western lax are two very different things though. A typical conversation in our household went something like this:

Me: “Mom, can I [whatever my friends were doing]?

Mom: “No.”

Me: “But why?”

Mom: “Because I said so.”

Me: “But [insert friend’s name here]’s mom is letting her.”

Mom: “I don’t care what the Americans let their kids do. Don’t compare yourself to your friends.”

This was always so confusing to me because, well, as far as I knew I was American. Even if my mom wasn’t.

“Pff… what a ‘fob’,” I’d think to myself as I plotted my escape from this oppressive dictatorship. I knew freedom wouldn’t come until I was 18 and hopefully enrolled in a top-ranked university (what? Rebels have standards too), but it would be worth the wait.

No more asking to do things like play Slip n’ Slide in February. No more practicing piano, because we all know that’s a total waste of time! I’d watch TV until I was blue in the face and ride my bike (without a helmet!) and play tetherball and I’d only do my homework IF AND WHEN there was time left over after all that fun. I’d be barefoot, like, all the time and leave the house with my hair wet (oooooh). I’d eat taco boats or pancakes at every meal, and cuss like a sailor with my cool American friends.

Take that, mom.

Twenty-odd years later, I still laugh at my mom’s “fobiness,” but I appreciate the boundaries it set for me when I most needed them. I’m not saying I turned out perfectly or that her way was the right way. I’m just saying that the things I wanted to do were almost always stupid.

I’m glad she forced me to eat home food instead of the crap they sold for school lunches. I’m happy I took piano lessons all those years because now I know how to read music and how else would I have enjoyed Radiohead jam sessions on my roommate’s keyboard in college? I’m grateful that she was strict when I was really young so that she didn’t have to be when I was in high school.

My mom’s approach may have been a little heavy-handed, but her rules kept me out of trouble and made me who I am today. I don’t know about you but I kind of like me.

So is Chua right about “Western” parenting? Or is there any number of parenting styles that can and do work, depending on a variety of factors both environmental and biological?

I think the answer is probably the latter, and that good parenting falls somewhere in between being your kids’ best friend and being a big ol’ meanie, but what do I know? I was a really, really bad babysitter.

Also, what do foreign parents have against sleepovers??! 

To be fair, they were the less offensive New Balance variety, and I was a vulnerable, newly-minted bride-to-be, convinced I needed to get gown ready in a few short months. What better way than to squeeze a power walk into my lunch break? And yeah, I just said “power walk” and “gown ready.” What do you want from me? I’M VULNERABLE.

Anyway, my resolution was quashed when, on my second walk, a homeless guy threw up on me. Lunch time walks were just too dangerous a proposition after that. And since I don’t need performance footwear to eat microwave pizza at my desk while surfing the web (or do I?), out went my interest in those fancy new shoes.

I was starting to forget about the whole toning craze, or at least get to a point where the commercials no longer caught my attention/made me feel fat and lazy, when I saw Reebok’s updated EasyTone ad, introducing their new line of toning apparel.

Toning. Apparel. WTF?

Okay I’m obviously stupid enough to have believed there was a remote possibility that shoes could turn a pear shape into something, anything else. But stretch pants and racerback tanks that tone your body? Really? Now they’re just being mean.

I know these clothes were probably made by tiny little hands, but do they also come with tiny little hands? Ones that pull you off the couch and push you onto the treadmill, like some menacing puppeteer (with good intentions, of course)? Do these clothes mock you when you’re being slow and lazy like my 7th grade P.E. teacher on one-mile-run days? Holy crap, are these clothes alive?

Obviously, there’s no scientific evidence to support claims that toning apparel actually does anything at all. Some say the resistance bands in the fabric restrict your movement just enough that your muscles have to work harder. They also swear these clothes make your butt look cute while working out, since they hold everything in real tight.

If I wanted to restrict my movement during exercise, I’d just wear jeans and go for a jog like I once saw my dad do in the 80s. Cheaper and funnier. Also, more fabric between me and bum vomit.

I never really make resolutions at the new year, mostly because I’m the type of neurotic, self-berating person who makes them on a daily basis. Any day of the year is potentially a fresh start for me, every subsequent day the one I fall off the wagon. Which is why I always loved that album title and track. Not sure what it meant to Doug Martsch and the gang, but to me it’s about the unrealistic promises I make to myself all the time:

“From now on, I’m going to be perfect. I’m gonna work out 3-5 times a week, go to museums, be outside more, read tons of books, get organized and relax. I will never again eat food that’s bad for me (after all, my body is a temple). I’m going to be less wasteful. I’m going to be the type of person who doesn’t talk about people behind their backs and who stands up for my principles. I’m going to have principles. Starting now.”

Never quite works out that way, probably because I’m human. So this year I’m setting the bar low. My only resolution is to drink more water. And by more I mean some.

Happy New Year!

And in December, when it was finally appropriate to celebrate my favorite holiday, I was so damned excited I barely slept at all.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt that kind of anticipation for the holidays, or anything for that matter.

That’s why I love this ad.

Ok, that’s a lie.

Rainy Sundays are usually for watching E! between naps, pleased to finally have an excuse not to leave the house.

But this weekend was different.

Check out these s’mores my friend Elsie and I made with homemade graham crackers. That’s right, graham crackers MADE FROM SCRATCH (we got the recipe here). I know that, given the season, they should be holiday themed. But there were no more red or green sprinkles at Safeway and all I have are heart-shaped cookie cutters, so we went in a different direction.

They taste almost as good as they look! Just don’t eat two for breakfast.

My second favorite vampire lives in a cobweb-infested castle on Sesame Street. You might know him as The Count.  What’s not to love about a muppet who sends himself letters just so he can count them?

So when I met my Transylvanian fiancé two years ago, I didn’t think Team Edward, I thought Team Count von Count.

I was elated to have a friendly vampire all to myself and insisted that he dress like my childhood obsession (ok fine, crush) for Halloween. But we couldn’t find a costume and we were too lazy to make our own so in the end, we spent Halloween 2009 at home in PJs.

But this year was poised to be different — Sesame Street is HOT. Sexy Elmo might be a disturbing prospect, but if his popularity means we can buy a head-to-toe Count costume on Target.com, I pledge my support.

I ordered The Count two weeks ago and I haven’t stopped talking about it since. I obsessively tracked its movements online. Always the optimist, I checked the mail daily just in case it arrived before the estimated delivery date.

When it finally did arrive, I was giddy with anticipation. I normally avoid conversation in the elevator, but this time I was relieved that my neighbor wanted to know what was in the box. I couldn’t wait to share!

“It’s a Halloween costume. It’s The Count!” I said, grinning like an idiot.

“Nice! He was always my favorite,” said the mystery neighbor.

“RIGHT?! He’s the best. I’m so excited. Have a great night!”

I stormed out of the elevator and into the apartment, practically knocking over my live-in vampire.

“Get the scissors!” I barked. “It’s here!”

He wasn’t nearly as excited about the whole thing — in fact I think he was dreading having to wear this monstrosity — but he’s a good sport and he always plays along. We opened the box and all we saw was yellow.

“That’s not the Count,” I frowned.

“No. No it’s not.”

It was Big Bird.

How this happened, I have no idea. Was it too good to be true all along? Did I jinx it? All I know is that there are no Count costumes in stock anymore and as much as I like Big Bird, I’m not paying  for a costume that calls for jeans from the waist down.

Thanks Target. That $20 gift card might say “sorry,” but it won’t uncrush my dreams.

So to say I felt a little out of place at my new Bar Method class — a sea of capri leggings and perfectly coiffed pony tails — is an understatement.

What’s the Bar Method, you ask? It’s a form of torture that combines yoga, pilates and ballet. I decided to give it a shot after several of my friends swore it changed their whole approach to exercise (and made them skinny).

To get through the hour-long class, you’re expected to hold painful poses for long periods of time. At first, you’re all, “This isn’t so bad. I can totally do this.” But just when it really starts to burn, you realize you’ve got to hold it for five more minutes or “deepen the pose” in a way that you’re sure is physically impossible.

I shook. I panted. At one point, I thought I might throw up.

And then the instructor said she couldn’t see if I was high up enough on my toes. “Not in those pants,” she laughed, lifting up the hemline to double check.

Great workout though.

So why do so many people hate Oprah?

Sure, she shamelessly plugs tons of products and never misses an opportunity to mention just how much she donated to this or that charity. And yeah, there was that time she threw a tantrum at the Paris Hermes. So what? No one’s perfect. Least of all these haters from an online forum titled “Why I Hate Oprah”:

• Oprah thinks everybody likes her because she was poor.
• i hate oprah as well… she is a racist… she helps people to show off…
• I think she’s too full of herself, she buys her popularity by giving away presents she didnt even pay for herself and she cries too much.

Who cares why she thinks people like her? How exactly is she racist? Most importantly, what’s wrong with presents?

The fact that this woman took over 1000 people (her staff and their families) on a Hawaiian vacation to commemorate the show’s 20th anniversary is hardly a reason to despise her. So if you can think of a better one, please share in the comments. If only to stop me from tearing up at every nostalgic montage of her career.

I once heard you should never apologize for a gap in blog posts, that doing so only highlights your negligence, especially for new visitors. But since Russian spammers and my boyfriend are the only people who read this blog, I’m about to break all the rules with a little confession (or two): not only have I not written in three months, I can’t think of anything to write about.

I haven’t been too busy (or at least not any busier than usual). I’m not traveling a lot or making a conscious effort to disconnect for a while. I’m not working on freelance projects. Nope. I’ve been quiet because I just can’t think of anything to say.

And the more time that passes, the harder it is.

So I’m writing this post with the hopes that just writing something, anything, even a post about no posts, will help get me back in the groove.

If this doesn’t work, I might have to resort to writing prompts. Or your suggestions, dear readers (Daniel and alexasuzyjohn).