Ayudeme, por favor! (Help me, please!)

I need a drink.  A big one.  But therein lies the problem.

One of my besties and I were having a discussion about the blog, and she was saying she wanted to hear my smartass opinion of "up there" versus "The South".  Don't you love how "The South" with it's capitalization and title makes it sound all fancy?  Well, that's a novel, not a post. There are just too many differences.  And I'm afraid, I wouldn't know how it would turn out.  I mean, I'm southern.  It's takes less than one sentence to know I don't belong up here, but I don't really belong down there, either.  I blame my mama.  She was raised in a combination of the midwest and the south, so I was bound to be screwed up.  So, naturally, I can plant my roots any ole where and have a grand time. 

Except, when no one can fix me a drink.  That's right.  Girl lourves her a margarita.   In Mississippi, we frequented Las Margaritas, well, frequently.  And by frequently, I mean, we had our own table, and Wallace (the big ole teddy bear looking bouncer type) would probably have made people leave if they were in our spot, at least that's our theory.  He took care of us.  I mean, how many people give the guy at the door a hug when you go eat Mexican?  Well, I do! 

Then, transplant me to the North.  Twenty-five miles (though it could be 100, since we rarely venture into it) out of Philly.  I'm near 4 Targets, 3 Five Guys, a Cheesecake Factory, a million Japanese steakhouses, a billion Chinese places, and every other eatery in between. You name it, we have it.  (Except Logan's, poor Baby Bear.)  Every store you have ever dreamed of is located near or in the Cherry Hill Mall.  And the outlets.  Sweet paychecks, the outlets.  There are 4 within an hour of me.  Heck, NYC is only a short train ride.  But wanna grab some chips and salsa and enjoy a nice afternoon? Forgetaboutit. 

Salsa.  It's tomatoes!  And they sell those suckers on the side of road everywhere I live.  But for the life of me, I can't find anyone who understands salsa.  You'd be better served by taking a jar of Tostitos or Chi-Chi's brand to the restaurant tucked in your purse.  And if you know me, I must be disgusted to even make that suggestion...right Sarah? 

We are the adventurous sort, so we've tried several places.  One tasted like right out of the jar.  Another had the strangest flavor.  I swear there were CHUNKS of garlic in it.  It was like eating Italian sauce on my chips.  I almost cried.  But no matter what struggle, we've been through with salsa, nothing compares to the pain and suffering (yes, it's that extreme) of not being able to find a decent margarita.  I've had something that tasted lemon flavored, something that was like an icy water type drink, and even Chili's tasted foul.  I don't understand.  At the least, get some mix, pour in some tequila, and stir.  Cmon!

Yes, I do know how to make a good one myself.  Thank goodness for a ladies tennis league.  Oh, warm and cozy feelings about the south for that one!  But my awesome recipe makes a pitcher.  And I refuse to waste it....or clean it up, let's be honest.  But on beautiful, warm afternoons, I'd love to have one (by the way, this was NOT today.  Cloudy, damp, and cool.  Hey, Jersey, it's spring, get a clue).  And it's true, I'd probably get teary-eyes even having a drink with some C & S without my girls, but I need to find us a spot before any of them come to visit.

And let's face it, Cinco de Mayo is literally days away.  It's go time people!  So, if you need me, I'll be cleaning out my blender and researching salsa recipes. 

Oh Hell No, Kitty!

I love me some Target.  And my current address affords me access to not one, but 4 of those fantastic establishments.  Can you believe that?  I used to drive at least two hours for the sweet joy that is that bullseye taunting me with its awesomeness.  Yes, two hours.  Totally worth it.

And I have learned there are good targets and then....there is the mother of all Targets.  Over in Mt. Laurel, NJ, sits the mothership calling me home anytime I'm heading down Rt. 38.  It's hidden over there by the Wegman's (or what I like to call Heaven for the Hungry).  Yep, I didn't even know this Target existed.  It's like a well kept secret to those displaced Southerners just trying to not get killed near the Turnpike or those All Turns Right Lane (a later post, I promise).

This Target is great for clothes.  Such good finds, especially with my picky children who have started to develop their own style.  Bear wants anything with a sports team, a couple of polos, and comfy cargos.  Lola, oh Lola.  Depends on her mood.  She loves jeans and sneakers, but fawns over the pretty sundresses there every time.  Makes it impossible to buy for her when she's not there.  So, she's always along for the ride.  And lately, it is a ride.  Like a get-the-cart-and-push-them-both-around-the-store ride. That's a 90lb workout.  I should be thinner at this point.

Now, in case I have failed to mention, we live just 45 minutes to the famous Jersey Shore.  (No worries, I won't be running into Snookie anytime soon; that's a different beach.)  So, we will be in need of swimsuits sooner rather than later.  Lola saw her swimmies first...as she leads me toward them, riding the cart like Jack and Rose on the Titanic.  I'm just praying we don't crash into a rack of clothing from the weight of the cart and her squeals.

Now, my daughter is NOT a girly girl, but her little girlfriends are.  And she has decided that Hello Kitty is tolerable.  (Yay! Secret high five to myself.)  She is picking out different suits, and I'm trying to hide the shock that people would put their little girls in tiny two piece bikinis.  Lola isn't having that.  She is so sad to see that all the Hello Kitty ones are like that.  She asks, "Mama, why are they all so small? I would need a LOT of sunscreen to cover me up.  (and whispers...and some things are private, I think you could see my boobies in this one)."  (another mental high-five).  As I'm rejoicing my sweet baby's innocence and smarts, I stop dead in my tracks when I spot this:

Yes, folks that is a bikini bottom in the CHILDREN'S section.  From sizes XS-L (basically size 4-12 for little girls) they have a swimsuit with the words Hello Kitty written across the butt.  Now, maybe I'm reading too much into this, wouldn't be the first or the fortieth time for that, but this is ridiculous. 

Yes. It is a brand.
Yes. It is on an innocent child's clothing.
Yes. I would like the punch the designer in the face.

For years, women have been wearing words across their derriere.  Juicy. Pink. Sweet. But that's a grown woman.  A consenting adult.  An idiot who wants male attention drawn to her ass.  News flash!!  You don't have to put words on it for men to stare.  And in my experience, I'm constantly trying to downplay the sheer size of mine.  So, I definitely don't want to put an advertisement there.  And now these consenting adults will be dressing their daughters the same way.   WHY???

Why are we asking our children to grow up so fast?  Why are we making them targets for pedophiles or even just order boys?  Why did someone not catch the inappropriateness of this product placement?  Why didn't somebody think someone would make the connection between Kitty and.....Well, that P word. You know, that one.  Now, are you in shock?  Now, are you pissed?  Now, what do we do about it?  Because I'm still in shock, and I'd like heads to roll for this one!

Maybe you think I'm blowing this out of proportion.  Maybe you want to tell me it's all innocent fun.  But it's not cute on my 6 year old daughter.  It's not funny on my soon-to-be 9 year old step-daughter.  And it's downright inappropriate on a 12 year old.  And if you want me to put you over the edge....there are little pictures of the Hello Kitty cat on the two little triangles over the chest right on top of, as Lola would say, "boobies".  (Forgot in my haze of anger to snap that picture).

So, I'd like to cause a shit-storm of trouble because of this.  We have to stand up for our children and say NO!  No, to the sexualizing of our children.  We are their voices, their advocates.  If not now, when?  Who's with me?