My new tradition is so new, I just started it this past Thanksgiving. It worked well enough that I'm breaking it out again for Christmas. The Tradition: because every family holiday ends up with my mother shouting, "You will treat me with respect" and me rolling my eyes, then her threatening to leave early and me huffing and puffing and crossing my arms, I decided to in fact treat my mother with respect. Trust me, it's not all my fault; but once I finally recognized the pattern, I realized I'm the only person whose actions I can control. I saw that when we gather together, my mom wants to be in charge and be the Mother, which makes me act like I'm fourteen years old. She starts telling me what to do, and I start reacting with the equivalent of "You're not the boss of me." Then she takes issue with my snottiness, and I fume at the unfairness. When I go to bed, I berate myself for being such a bitch and promise to be nicer, then it all starts again in the morning.
Thus my new tradition boils down to "Don't take the bait." The only way I can enforce this tradition is by deputizing my two daughters (ages 11 and 9) to simply say "Cathy" when I start to be curt to my mom (I figure that if I'm being disrespectful to my mother, they can be disrespectful to theirs). My younger one does this pretty well, but my older one is like a very biased line judge, her head moving back and forth as she monitors the action, quickly and often unfairly calling fault.
For Thanksgiving, I always drive my mom and my kids out to my sister's the night before (about a 4 1/2 hour ride), and my husband drives out Thanksgiving morning. The drive to and from was my toughest test of the new tradition. I was doing well on the way out until the fight over what I could put on the radio (not between my children and me but between my mother and me). Because my children were both plugged into headphones, I had no monitor and did not do so well. During the Thanksgiving visit itself, I was grading myself as a "C," though my sister said I was definitely in "B" territory. With trepidation, I readied myself for the voyage home. I decided to institute a bonus round, wherein if I scored 100 points, I could treat myself to a reward to be determined later. The highest I got to was 30 (usually earned in 5 point increments by not getting defensive or aggressive to something my mother had said), and I was thinking I could still pull it out, until The Parking Lot. We were driving through the McDonald's parking lot after miles and hours on the road, and I started to rail against the guy not following the directional arrows (yes, I already knew that calling another driver a "dickwad" in front of the children - though not in his earshot - is not what good mothers do). My mother, using a tone of righteous superiority said, "Cathy, you stop that and calm down." As I went on the defensive, I could hear the click, click, click of the scoreboard as my points wound down from thirty to zero.
Still, I begin anew this Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
No, Virginia, There's Not
Two weeks ago, my younger daughter wailed (quite out of the blue), "I'm starting to think there might be no Santa Claus!" Now personally I hate Santa Claus, but I'm not yet/quite a monster, so I soothingly asked her what she was thinking and encouraged her to believe whatever she chose. Two days ago, I left some trinkets on the steps, meaning to take them up to my closet. The girls came home from school and saw them, then continued to nag me about what they were for. Finally I said, "Just take them. I was going to put them in your stockings but you can have them now." My younger one looked at me in horror and shouted, "You're Santa Claus?" I quickly answered, "Um, no, but sometimes I help." She bought it and was pacified. I couldn't help thinking, "Jesus Christ, you're nine years old. Figure it out."
I've never been big on Santa. I've never used wrapping paper for Santa's gifts that was different from the gifts from Mommy and Daddy. I've never disguised my handwriting. Not once have I suggested a letter be written to Santa (and I never solicit Christmas lists because my children are among the most privileged on earth and the thought of them wanting even more makes me nuts). I got in so much trouble a few years ago when a neighbor girl (whom I love like my own, which makes my mouth a bit freer around her, and I know that's not even close to a good thing) asked if I believed in Santa. I answered, "I believe in Santa as much as I believe in Jesus." She thought it a fine answer. My mother was horrified. Here's the two reasons I hate Santa. 1) The whole concept smacks of praying for gifts (which I literally did when I was seven and prayed to Santa for one of those motorized kid cars, which I did not get) and 2) I think it's mean to tell kids who don't have a hope in hell of getting a bunch of Christmas presents that if they're good they will.
My friend Mary completely disagrees. She thinks that it's a vestige of innocence that should be allowed to flicker as long as it will. In fact, she thinks that belief in Santa is a gift in itself.
I say, "Bah, Humbug" (and I know you saw that coming).
I've never been big on Santa. I've never used wrapping paper for Santa's gifts that was different from the gifts from Mommy and Daddy. I've never disguised my handwriting. Not once have I suggested a letter be written to Santa (and I never solicit Christmas lists because my children are among the most privileged on earth and the thought of them wanting even more makes me nuts). I got in so much trouble a few years ago when a neighbor girl (whom I love like my own, which makes my mouth a bit freer around her, and I know that's not even close to a good thing) asked if I believed in Santa. I answered, "I believe in Santa as much as I believe in Jesus." She thought it a fine answer. My mother was horrified. Here's the two reasons I hate Santa. 1) The whole concept smacks of praying for gifts (which I literally did when I was seven and prayed to Santa for one of those motorized kid cars, which I did not get) and 2) I think it's mean to tell kids who don't have a hope in hell of getting a bunch of Christmas presents that if they're good they will.
My friend Mary completely disagrees. She thinks that it's a vestige of innocence that should be allowed to flicker as long as it will. In fact, she thinks that belief in Santa is a gift in itself.
I say, "Bah, Humbug" (and I know you saw that coming).
Friday, November 20, 2009
Under the Rug
Last night I saw a commercial for the new Hugh Grant movie (who stole my heart with "About a Boy" and gave it back with "Music and Lyrics"). I was horrified by the brunette astroturf on his head. I admit, I'm obsessed with the scalps of all actors. If you can see the scalp through the part, you know for sure the hair is real. Compare the parts of actors and actresses in any movie. With the women, you can see their scalps 98% of the time. With the men, I'd say about 40%. I've lost track of many a movie plot because of my rug obsession. (But seriously, who could not be distracted by that dead squirrel on Robert Redford's head?) (To a lesser extent, I'm also obsessed with seeing if an actress can pull her eyebrows together.) To be fair, sometimes an overzealous hair stylist can fluff around the part so much that you can't see through it. In "All the President's Men," the young Dustin Hoffman in quite a few scenes sports a bouffant which obscures his part. In other scenes, though, you can clearly see his scalp. I try to keep this in mind, especially when I examine George Clooney's head. My sister's friend reminded that George's dad still has a full head of hair. Still, I worry.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Words to the Wise
The three best bits of advice I've heard (so far):
1) From my younger daughter, then in the second grade:
I had volunteered in her classroom, and I was my regular, slightly impatient self. Afterwards, she said to me, "Mommy, you have to try to be nice to everybody or else they won't be excited to see you." The next time I went in, I made a point of saying something nice (and sincere) to every kid and calling each by name. Sure enough, in a matter of weeks, they loved me.
2) From a long-haul trucker I heard on the radio:
After Hurricane Katrina, I was listening to NPR's coverage of the clean-up efforts. A bunch of truckers had volunteered to shovel out the debris. The reporter was discussing this with one of the truck drivers, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, and she asked him how one actually goes about cleaning up a mess of such huge proportions. He paused a moment, then answered, "You start at the front, and you work toward the back." Yes, you do.
3) From my mother:
"Never underestimate the male ego."
1) From my younger daughter, then in the second grade:
I had volunteered in her classroom, and I was my regular, slightly impatient self. Afterwards, she said to me, "Mommy, you have to try to be nice to everybody or else they won't be excited to see you." The next time I went in, I made a point of saying something nice (and sincere) to every kid and calling each by name. Sure enough, in a matter of weeks, they loved me.
2) From a long-haul trucker I heard on the radio:
After Hurricane Katrina, I was listening to NPR's coverage of the clean-up efforts. A bunch of truckers had volunteered to shovel out the debris. The reporter was discussing this with one of the truck drivers, a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, and she asked him how one actually goes about cleaning up a mess of such huge proportions. He paused a moment, then answered, "You start at the front, and you work toward the back." Yes, you do.
3) From my mother:
"Never underestimate the male ego."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Cowardice of My Convictions
I cringe when I think about how many times when I was younger I let a man make me do something I really didn't want to. Yes, I know, no one can make me do anything. But in my twenties, I just didn't have the confidence or the gumption or maybe the self-respect to say, "No, that's not happening." I assumed that, these years later, since I like and trust myself more now, I would easily be able to stand up for myself. More so, I would have bet the farm that I would stand up for my daughters. And yesterday I didn't.
I am not an anti-vaccine zealot, nor do I believe it causes autism. My (almost) nine- and (just now) eleven-year old girls have been vaccinated up the wazoo (actually, just in the upper arms). Yesterday, at my older daughter's checkup, the pediatrician told her she'd be getting four shots: the H1N1 (at my request), the tetanus booster, the bacterial meningococcal booster, and the first of three doses of Gardasil. Gardasil, of course, protects against HPV and cervical cancer. Having dealt with HPV myself, I certainly would love to eliminate that risk for my kids. But I've spoken with a lot of friends about Gardasil (which I admit doesn't exactly count as research), and I have several reservations. My first concern is long-term effects. I don't want to be like those mothers who took DES during their pregnancy and consigned their daughters to adult cancers because the longitudinal research wasn't in. Further, a friend whose daughter has some neurological issues said that her neurologist said "absolutely not" to Gardasil, because of seizure and migraine possibilities. I had pretty much decided to wait on the Gardasil vaccine until my daughters were older, giving the research time to progress. Since my one girl is just eleven (and still very child-like), I'm certain she has some time before she'd really need it.
When I told their pediatrician that I had some concerns about Gardasil he said, "I have a concern about Gardasil, too. I'm concerned about parents who are concerned about it." He then told me that it's been successfully used in Europe for twenty years and that plenty of research backs it up. He added that his daughters had been vaccinated. Then he gave me a look that said, "Gotta problem with that?" And I gave in.
I haven't told anyone about the Gardasil, because I'm so ashamed that I didn't say no. I had made a decision that I thought to be in her best interest, and I allowed myself to be bullied out of it. Now, since she's had the first of three doses, I figure that I have to proceed. If I've hurt her, at least she should have the immunological protection. Almost as much as I worry about her future health, I worry about her having a mother who can't (or won't) stand up for her.
I am not an anti-vaccine zealot, nor do I believe it causes autism. My (almost) nine- and (just now) eleven-year old girls have been vaccinated up the wazoo (actually, just in the upper arms). Yesterday, at my older daughter's checkup, the pediatrician told her she'd be getting four shots: the H1N1 (at my request), the tetanus booster, the bacterial meningococcal booster, and the first of three doses of Gardasil. Gardasil, of course, protects against HPV and cervical cancer. Having dealt with HPV myself, I certainly would love to eliminate that risk for my kids. But I've spoken with a lot of friends about Gardasil (which I admit doesn't exactly count as research), and I have several reservations. My first concern is long-term effects. I don't want to be like those mothers who took DES during their pregnancy and consigned their daughters to adult cancers because the longitudinal research wasn't in. Further, a friend whose daughter has some neurological issues said that her neurologist said "absolutely not" to Gardasil, because of seizure and migraine possibilities. I had pretty much decided to wait on the Gardasil vaccine until my daughters were older, giving the research time to progress. Since my one girl is just eleven (and still very child-like), I'm certain she has some time before she'd really need it.
When I told their pediatrician that I had some concerns about Gardasil he said, "I have a concern about Gardasil, too. I'm concerned about parents who are concerned about it." He then told me that it's been successfully used in Europe for twenty years and that plenty of research backs it up. He added that his daughters had been vaccinated. Then he gave me a look that said, "Gotta problem with that?" And I gave in.
I haven't told anyone about the Gardasil, because I'm so ashamed that I didn't say no. I had made a decision that I thought to be in her best interest, and I allowed myself to be bullied out of it. Now, since she's had the first of three doses, I figure that I have to proceed. If I've hurt her, at least she should have the immunological protection. Almost as much as I worry about her future health, I worry about her having a mother who can't (or won't) stand up for her.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Dieting for 8 Year-Olds
My 8 year-old daughter has put herself on a diet. She is a big girl, tall and sturdy and strong. She's the fastest runner on her softball team (and I have the times to prove it). The pediatrician said her weight is fine and that people just come in different shapes. But her friends are those tiny wraiths with toothpick arms and countable ribs. So she put herself on a diet, which scares me to death. She said she wants to eat healthier, and who could complain about that? She's been chosing to forego her evening snack, and certainly nobody really needs one. A few days ago, she said, "Mommy, look at my belly. When I was chubby, it was out to here, and now I'm skinny. I'm so happy!" I gulped and said, "Honey, you know I don't care about that. I just want you to be healthy and strong. I always think you're beautiful." But I know how I feel when I'm skinny (and I know how I feel right now when I'm not). What am I supposed to do?
Last night was Halloween, and my husband and a few neighborhood dads took their daughters trick-or-treating. One of the dads mentioned to my husband (in I assume a congratulatory tone, though I didn't ask because I didn't want to get even more pissed) that he could tell that our 8 year-old had lost weight. Fuck him.
Last night was Halloween, and my husband and a few neighborhood dads took their daughters trick-or-treating. One of the dads mentioned to my husband (in I assume a congratulatory tone, though I didn't ask because I didn't want to get even more pissed) that he could tell that our 8 year-old had lost weight. Fuck him.
Monday, October 26, 2009
My Girl Crushes
My Girl Crushes:
1. Allison Janney: Loved her in "The West Wing," loved her in "Juno," loved her in "Away We Go."
She's so candid and tall.
2. Diane Sawyer: I think she's wearing her original face. In this age of pillow cheeks and duck lips, to see a woman age so beautifully makes me love her. And that's beside the fact that she's brilliant and funny.
3. Terry Gross: Honestly, I was shocked to learn that she's not a lesbian. Or a brunette. I was listening to her being interviewed (for a change) and she laughed about how widespread the notion is that she's a lesbian. She told of her mother-in-law being at a party where another guest, in cocktail chatter, said, "I so enjoy that radio show 'Fresh Air' with that Terry Gross. She's a lesbian, you know." I must admit, I was disappointed to find out she wasn't a brunette.
4. Christina Hendricks: As Joan Holloway on "Mad Men." I think she might be the most womanly woman I've ever seen.
5. Laurie Partridge : (Not Susan Dey.) She was the girl I always wanted to grow up to be. For a while, I'd set my jaw and purse my lips just because she did it so well.
Women I Thought I Would Love, But Actually Grew to Dislike the More I Heard Them Talk:
1. Ayelet Waldman: Author of "Bad Mom." I thought I'd feel simpatico with anyone who considers herself a bad mom. But when you cite such evidence as, "I knew I should get the kids to bed at a reasonable hour, but we were all having such fun composing sonnets and sharing them with each other, " I don't like you so much.
2. Ellen Burstyn: She's one of the most beautful older women around, and she seems so elegant and strong. Turns out, as I listened to her read her autobiography on CD, she's rather selfish and not so nice.
3. Carrie Fisher: She drank too much! She eats too much! She's had bad luck with men! What's not to love? How could I not adore her? Well, after reading her memoir "Wishful Drinking," I figured that she considers herself so crazily madcap and fabulous that I really don't have to.
1. Allison Janney: Loved her in "The West Wing," loved her in "Juno," loved her in "Away We Go."
She's so candid and tall.
2. Diane Sawyer: I think she's wearing her original face. In this age of pillow cheeks and duck lips, to see a woman age so beautifully makes me love her. And that's beside the fact that she's brilliant and funny.
3. Terry Gross: Honestly, I was shocked to learn that she's not a lesbian. Or a brunette. I was listening to her being interviewed (for a change) and she laughed about how widespread the notion is that she's a lesbian. She told of her mother-in-law being at a party where another guest, in cocktail chatter, said, "I so enjoy that radio show 'Fresh Air' with that Terry Gross. She's a lesbian, you know." I must admit, I was disappointed to find out she wasn't a brunette.
4. Christina Hendricks: As Joan Holloway on "Mad Men." I think she might be the most womanly woman I've ever seen.
5. Laurie Partridge : (Not Susan Dey.) She was the girl I always wanted to grow up to be. For a while, I'd set my jaw and purse my lips just because she did it so well.
Women I Thought I Would Love, But Actually Grew to Dislike the More I Heard Them Talk:
1. Ayelet Waldman: Author of "Bad Mom." I thought I'd feel simpatico with anyone who considers herself a bad mom. But when you cite such evidence as, "I knew I should get the kids to bed at a reasonable hour, but we were all having such fun composing sonnets and sharing them with each other, " I don't like you so much.
2. Ellen Burstyn: She's one of the most beautful older women around, and she seems so elegant and strong. Turns out, as I listened to her read her autobiography on CD, she's rather selfish and not so nice.
3. Carrie Fisher: She drank too much! She eats too much! She's had bad luck with men! What's not to love? How could I not adore her? Well, after reading her memoir "Wishful Drinking," I figured that she considers herself so crazily madcap and fabulous that I really don't have to.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Too Fat for My Earrings
I've gotten so fat, my earrings don't fit. Okay, I don't even think that's technically possible, but I've certainly gotten too fat for my earrings. I hadn't worn earrings in about fifteen years because of a nickel allergy, but I decided to try to get back in the game. I so used to love my huge, funky earrings. My husband's nickname for me was "Chima," because my earrings were like windchimes. At this stage of the game, I had no desire to go quite so flashy, but I did want earrings with a bit of pizazz. I found some pretty amethyst-colored dangles that my eight year-old daughter adored and I liked too. I started wearing them and putting on mascara and even wearing real shoes (instead of my raggedy Lands' End clogs of six years). I've always put on eye makeup pretty much every day. (And since I've copped to my propensity for being furry and fat, it's fair for me to admit that I do have beautiful eyes - big, green, and well-lashed.) Because my lashes are naturally lush (the only good part of furry), I only use mascara when I'm being fancy, and I was trying to bring a little fancy to my life. And then my jeans got tight (these being my fat jeans). And stayed tight. Without invoking the Sarah Palin/lipstick debacle, let's just say I didn't feel in a position to hang ornaments from myself.
I realize I have several options here. First, I could slim down to my earring size. Second, I could embrace the beauty of who I am now and celebrate it (I'm making that cat-with-a-hairball noise). Third, I could get over myself and wear earrings or not, without the sturm und drang. I envy the attitude of Kristin, my daughter's piano teacher. Kristin is about twenty-seven and a pretty girl with a bit of extra poundage. She dresses her age, wears makeup, has cute hair, blah blah. She gives lessons from her parents' gorgeous home. While my daughter takes her lesson, I sit on the couch and read. Last week, I noticed a coffee table book of Kristin's wedding photographs. I told her she was a beautiful bride (and she was). She thanked me and mentioned that she's lost about a hundred pounds since then. I honestly hadn't noticed. The photos in the book were of a lovely girl on a happy day. More important, she was still proud of her wedding pictures and didn't hide them away because they were of the fat Kristin.
Yesterday, I was sorting through cartons of old family slides to be transferred to DVD as a Christmas gift for my mother. Going through the slides from the time of my parents' wedding and my and my sister's early childhood (til about the age of 8, when the photograph took place of the slide), I made of pile of stuff for my mom's DVD, including her wedding, Christmases, vacations, first-day-of-school/birthdays/etc., with just enough inclusion of my dad to acknowledge his presence without making the whole thing a big downer. The pile for my dad included all the pictures I'd excluded from my mom's pile, plus a few representing us girls in our early years. (To stem complaints of short-shrifting him: when my dad left my mom, he apparently took the slide projector and all the slides from his year in Vietnam. I'm guessing that if he'd wanted the memories of us as little kids, he'd have taken some of those as well.) My third pile, and a large one at that, I simply labeled "Yuck." These were mostly fat pictures, often of my mom, but sometimes of me and my sister. None of us were fat all the time, with my mom winning the award for greatest pendulum swing, and my sister and I were never fully fat, just off-and-on chubby. Even though I was as young as seven in some of those pictures, I felt such shame looking at them. More pathetic, I was mortified by the thought of my husband seeing them.
I don't need to worry about ruining the surprise of my mom's Christmas gift, because while I post this, she's just arrived in Bhutan, the first stop of her trip to Tibet (her first time in Tibet, second time in Bhutan), and she's not likely to scroll backwards through this blog. My mom, at 73, is traveling with a group of strangers halfway across the world. The only reason she's traveling alone is because Art (her boyfriend/partner/whatever) can't handle the altitude. Since my dad left, my mother has continued to gain and lose weight, but she's also traveled to the five continents she hadn't yet been to (and now can say she's hit all seven), and found a man who acts as though he's the president of her fan club. Somehow, my mom and I have been conditioned to consider just the first of those to define her. It stands to reason that I define myself with those same parameters (though my mom has always thought me beautiful). I just don't really want to anymore.
I realize I have several options here. First, I could slim down to my earring size. Second, I could embrace the beauty of who I am now and celebrate it (I'm making that cat-with-a-hairball noise). Third, I could get over myself and wear earrings or not, without the sturm und drang. I envy the attitude of Kristin, my daughter's piano teacher. Kristin is about twenty-seven and a pretty girl with a bit of extra poundage. She dresses her age, wears makeup, has cute hair, blah blah. She gives lessons from her parents' gorgeous home. While my daughter takes her lesson, I sit on the couch and read. Last week, I noticed a coffee table book of Kristin's wedding photographs. I told her she was a beautiful bride (and she was). She thanked me and mentioned that she's lost about a hundred pounds since then. I honestly hadn't noticed. The photos in the book were of a lovely girl on a happy day. More important, she was still proud of her wedding pictures and didn't hide them away because they were of the fat Kristin.
Yesterday, I was sorting through cartons of old family slides to be transferred to DVD as a Christmas gift for my mother. Going through the slides from the time of my parents' wedding and my and my sister's early childhood (til about the age of 8, when the photograph took place of the slide), I made of pile of stuff for my mom's DVD, including her wedding, Christmases, vacations, first-day-of-school/birthdays/etc., with just enough inclusion of my dad to acknowledge his presence without making the whole thing a big downer. The pile for my dad included all the pictures I'd excluded from my mom's pile, plus a few representing us girls in our early years. (To stem complaints of short-shrifting him: when my dad left my mom, he apparently took the slide projector and all the slides from his year in Vietnam. I'm guessing that if he'd wanted the memories of us as little kids, he'd have taken some of those as well.) My third pile, and a large one at that, I simply labeled "Yuck." These were mostly fat pictures, often of my mom, but sometimes of me and my sister. None of us were fat all the time, with my mom winning the award for greatest pendulum swing, and my sister and I were never fully fat, just off-and-on chubby. Even though I was as young as seven in some of those pictures, I felt such shame looking at them. More pathetic, I was mortified by the thought of my husband seeing them.
I don't need to worry about ruining the surprise of my mom's Christmas gift, because while I post this, she's just arrived in Bhutan, the first stop of her trip to Tibet (her first time in Tibet, second time in Bhutan), and she's not likely to scroll backwards through this blog. My mom, at 73, is traveling with a group of strangers halfway across the world. The only reason she's traveling alone is because Art (her boyfriend/partner/whatever) can't handle the altitude. Since my dad left, my mother has continued to gain and lose weight, but she's also traveled to the five continents she hadn't yet been to (and now can say she's hit all seven), and found a man who acts as though he's the president of her fan club. Somehow, my mom and I have been conditioned to consider just the first of those to define her. It stands to reason that I define myself with those same parameters (though my mom has always thought me beautiful). I just don't really want to anymore.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
I've been trying to break up with a friend of mine (we've gone in different directions; we have nothing in common anymore; it's not you, it's me), and I've been going about it the way the men in my life have: half-assed and cowardly. The old, "I've got a big project right now but I'll call you," type thing. And because I haven't seen this friend in over a year anyway, it's more a break-up-by-attrition, which doesn't bring many tears. I just don't enjoy our times together so much, since she's so often judgmental and didactic.
Yesterday, I realized a friend of mine is breaking up with me. I haven't seen her in over a year. My overtures of coffee and chat are put off until after the holidays or the semester or the equinox. I'm heartbroken (and embarrassed that it took me so long to figure out). I'm pretty sure why she might want to call it a day on our friendship, though. It's my tendency to be a bit judgmental and didactic. Dammit.
Yesterday, I realized a friend of mine is breaking up with me. I haven't seen her in over a year. My overtures of coffee and chat are put off until after the holidays or the semester or the equinox. I'm heartbroken (and embarrassed that it took me so long to figure out). I'm pretty sure why she might want to call it a day on our friendship, though. It's my tendency to be a bit judgmental and didactic. Dammit.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Very Cheap Things I'm Loving Right Now
I am now a true believer in using white vinegar instead of fabric softener (both liquid and sheet). I do have a fabric softener dispenser in my washing machine, but if I didn't, I'd get one of those Downy balls that you fill with the stuff and toss into the wash. The vinegar is cheap, environmentally friendly (guess which one of those really matters to me), and doesn't leave the build-up I've seen from fabric softener. Rest assured, the clothes do not smell like salad.
Another cheap thing: Pumice. The older I get, the more frightened I am by my feet. Since my family goes to TaeKwonDo twice a week, and many stretches involve bending the head towards the foot, I am frequently vowing to do something about this wretched state of affairs. But I'm not about to pay for a pedicure (as no one who uses vinegar as fabric softener would - except for the friend who told me about it). I tried the scrubs and the buffers and the creams, but it was the pumice stone that saved me. For less than $2, this grainy rock taken to my wet feet has brought me a peace I thought I'd never know again.
The last cheap thing: Me, when I was in college*. Not really, but I couldn't think of a third thing (one part of that last sentence is a lie).
*Here, by "cheap" I meant "easy," because today I'm the kind of cheap to which you can add "skate."
Another cheap thing: Pumice. The older I get, the more frightened I am by my feet. Since my family goes to TaeKwonDo twice a week, and many stretches involve bending the head towards the foot, I am frequently vowing to do something about this wretched state of affairs. But I'm not about to pay for a pedicure (as no one who uses vinegar as fabric softener would - except for the friend who told me about it). I tried the scrubs and the buffers and the creams, but it was the pumice stone that saved me. For less than $2, this grainy rock taken to my wet feet has brought me a peace I thought I'd never know again.
The last cheap thing: Me, when I was in college*. Not really, but I couldn't think of a third thing (one part of that last sentence is a lie).
*Here, by "cheap" I meant "easy," because today I'm the kind of cheap to which you can add "skate."
Monday, October 5, 2009
If I only had a chip-and-dip
My friend Mary is a nag, and I love her for it. God knows she has enough people in her home she's obligated to nag on a daily basis ["Did you take a shower?" "Did you use soap?" - and that's just her husband (ba-dum)]. That she would make the effort to nag me too warms my cockles. She and my sister are the only folks in this lifetime whose nagging I appreciate. Neither one wants anything from me, except for me to try to be happy. And Mary nags me to blog (and since she is indeed my audience, I could either give her what she wants or keep her wanting more).
But yikes. I'm dry. So Mary said, knowing my area of expertise, "Write about anything! Write about potato chips!" Of course, I didn't. Then (and this always happens to me) my Yahoo! homepage greets me with a little article about the ten best brands of potato chip! I have been studying this field for years, and these staffers think they can take a quick trip to the 7-Eleven, rip open a couple of bags, and pontificate. And they awarded the Best Chip to Kettle brand's salt and pepper chip. I actually threw away a partially eaten bag of those chips! And I consider the size people bring to picnics to be a single serving bag! Plus, they completely ignored the chip of all chips, the pinnacle of potato! Until you've had a Good's chip (and any flavor is a winner, though Salt and Vinegar, Jalapeno, and Salt and Pepper are tops on my list) you have no business making a list. Give one a try, then read the ingredients. First listed is potato. No surprise. Second listed (and the secret to its glory) is lard. Yes, lard. To be fair to the other lard chips (whichI think includes Martin's and Dieffenbacher's) are just as delicious, with that suet-y silkiness. All of these are indigenous to central/Eastern Pennsylvania. The few times I can find a lard chip in Pittsburgh are great days indeed. My sister has a house in the Reading, PA area. She introduced me to Utz (not a lard chip, but indeed a gateway one - "Utz are better than nuts!"), then to pure animal fat deliciousness.
A few Thanksgivings ago, I was driving with my girls to my sister's house for Thanksgiving, since Bill would follow the next morning. I reached her house earlier than expected and knew no one would be home, so I drove around looking for a place for dinner. I was a little misplaced, and eventually truly in the middle of nowhere, when I saw a sign saying "Utz Potato Chip Outlet," with an arrow pointing up a gravel path. I might have gasped. But it was dinner time, and I had children with me, so I backtracked to civilization and a restaurant. I never forgot that sign. My sister said she'd never heard of such an outlet. She even called Utz, and they said there was no such thing. Maybe each of us has their personal Brigadoon, existing once every hundred years for a brief but glorious time. Mine was shown to me, but I was too scared to follow the sign.
But yikes. I'm dry. So Mary said, knowing my area of expertise, "Write about anything! Write about potato chips!" Of course, I didn't. Then (and this always happens to me) my Yahoo! homepage greets me with a little article about the ten best brands of potato chip! I have been studying this field for years, and these staffers think they can take a quick trip to the 7-Eleven, rip open a couple of bags, and pontificate. And they awarded the Best Chip to Kettle brand's salt and pepper chip. I actually threw away a partially eaten bag of those chips! And I consider the size people bring to picnics to be a single serving bag! Plus, they completely ignored the chip of all chips, the pinnacle of potato! Until you've had a Good's chip (and any flavor is a winner, though Salt and Vinegar, Jalapeno, and Salt and Pepper are tops on my list) you have no business making a list. Give one a try, then read the ingredients. First listed is potato. No surprise. Second listed (and the secret to its glory) is lard. Yes, lard. To be fair to the other lard chips (whichI think includes Martin's and Dieffenbacher's) are just as delicious, with that suet-y silkiness. All of these are indigenous to central/Eastern Pennsylvania. The few times I can find a lard chip in Pittsburgh are great days indeed. My sister has a house in the Reading, PA area. She introduced me to Utz (not a lard chip, but indeed a gateway one - "Utz are better than nuts!"), then to pure animal fat deliciousness.
A few Thanksgivings ago, I was driving with my girls to my sister's house for Thanksgiving, since Bill would follow the next morning. I reached her house earlier than expected and knew no one would be home, so I drove around looking for a place for dinner. I was a little misplaced, and eventually truly in the middle of nowhere, when I saw a sign saying "Utz Potato Chip Outlet," with an arrow pointing up a gravel path. I might have gasped. But it was dinner time, and I had children with me, so I backtracked to civilization and a restaurant. I never forgot that sign. My sister said she'd never heard of such an outlet. She even called Utz, and they said there was no such thing. Maybe each of us has their personal Brigadoon, existing once every hundred years for a brief but glorious time. Mine was shown to me, but I was too scared to follow the sign.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
My Compliments
In the checkout line at Walmart, the cashier gave me a compliment which pleased me ridiculously. It reminded me of the best compliment I got all summer.
The Walmart compliment: I know how I like my groceries packed, so when I'm checking out I place on the conveyor belt first my insulated bag, then all my cold things, then my canvas shopping bags, then the remaining groceries grouped for each bag. After checking out my groceries, the cashier said, "You know, I wish everyone would load the belt like you do. It really makes things easier for me." How embarrassing how thrilled I was!
The best compliment of the summer: I was driving my mother and two daughters across the state to visit my sister and her family. We picked up lunch on the way at a McDonald's drive-thru. I placed my order* at the menu board, then drove to the first window. As I handed the clerk my money, she said, "Wow! You gave the best order! I didn't have to ask any questions. You really did that well!" Driving to the second window, my mom said, "She sure went on and on about that," which proves that I am, in fact, an impressive orderer. I was so proud that, for the rest of the weekend whenever I wanted a boost, I'd replay my order in my head. We stopped at a different McDonald's on the way home. I felt a bit cocky when my turn came. And I blew it! I believe that's called "hubris."
*The Order (as spoken at the Carlisle McDonald's on August 9, 2009)
"I'd like a hamburger kid's meal with french fries, a Diet Coke, and a girl's toy (Author's note: Yes, I'm a bad mom). I'd also like a kid's meal that's a cheeseburger plain with no meat, so it's just a grilled cheese sandwich, with french fries, Hi-C, and a girl's toy. I'd like a Number 7, grilled, sandwich only, with a large Diet Coke, and a Number 11 meal with a Diet Coke." (All rights reserved.)
The Walmart compliment: I know how I like my groceries packed, so when I'm checking out I place on the conveyor belt first my insulated bag, then all my cold things, then my canvas shopping bags, then the remaining groceries grouped for each bag. After checking out my groceries, the cashier said, "You know, I wish everyone would load the belt like you do. It really makes things easier for me." How embarrassing how thrilled I was!
The best compliment of the summer: I was driving my mother and two daughters across the state to visit my sister and her family. We picked up lunch on the way at a McDonald's drive-thru. I placed my order* at the menu board, then drove to the first window. As I handed the clerk my money, she said, "Wow! You gave the best order! I didn't have to ask any questions. You really did that well!" Driving to the second window, my mom said, "She sure went on and on about that," which proves that I am, in fact, an impressive orderer. I was so proud that, for the rest of the weekend whenever I wanted a boost, I'd replay my order in my head. We stopped at a different McDonald's on the way home. I felt a bit cocky when my turn came. And I blew it! I believe that's called "hubris."
*The Order (as spoken at the Carlisle McDonald's on August 9, 2009)
"I'd like a hamburger kid's meal with french fries, a Diet Coke, and a girl's toy (Author's note: Yes, I'm a bad mom). I'd also like a kid's meal that's a cheeseburger plain with no meat, so it's just a grilled cheese sandwich, with french fries, Hi-C, and a girl's toy. I'd like a Number 7, grilled, sandwich only, with a large Diet Coke, and a Number 11 meal with a Diet Coke." (All rights reserved.)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Heckuva Job, Cathy
Proof that, once again, I'm deficient as a mom.
I believe that screen time of all sorts should be limited. Really, I do. But since my daughter said, after I kept reminding her she had to be back home by 8:00, "Geez, I heard you. Be back by 8; 7 Central", I'm guessing my money and my mouth are in separate places.
I believe that screen time of all sorts should be limited. Really, I do. But since my daughter said, after I kept reminding her she had to be back home by 8:00, "Geez, I heard you. Be back by 8; 7 Central", I'm guessing my money and my mouth are in separate places.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My Boyfriends
In no particular order:
1. Russell Brand (British comedian, seen in the movies "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and "Bedtime Stories"): He's just so crazy sexy and edgy and confident.
2. Duane "The Rock" Johnson: He's gorgeous and sweet.
3. Doug Fabrizio (NPR radio guy out of Salt Lake City): He always reads the books his guests are shilling and asks insightful questions. Also, in conversation (with his radio guests, not with me), he takes a moment before he speaks, because (unlike me) he doesn't confuse "listening" with "waiting."
4. Jeff Bridges: Such charisma is breathtaking.
5. Keith Partridge (not David Cassidy, though): My first true love. I cannot speak more about it.
My girls get crazy when I refer to these men as my boyfriends. "But you like Daddy more, right?" is the common refrain. I'm not sure if I actually do like Daddy more, but at least I know him, which is always helpful in a relationship. More importantly, Bill (aka Daddy) is excellent first-husband material. We are truly yin yang. I'm verbal, he's mathematical. I'm, let's say, relaxed; he's industrious. I'm frugal; he's (because I like the way this word sounds) spendy. I like to sit; he likes to move. I'm very much the mother/nurturer; he's very much the father/protector. Being so different means we can fill in each other's gaps, creating a whole for our children. This also means we don't have too much in common. (Though I do like Dr. Phil's answer to that complaint - "You share children and a house! What more do you want in common?" - comforting, even if it comes from such a pompous windbag.)
I've been noticing that second marriages, entered after the children are grown, are often between yin and yin (not counting, of course, the trophy wife thing), and these marriages seem very companionable. Without the imperative of providing that balance of differences to the children, it's time to kick back with a spouse not so different, and lose all the drama that comes from being opposites. Plus, since the husband and wife have their own kids, no spouse can credibly accuse the other of having wrecked them.
Here's where my friend Mary would squint in incredulity and wonder why I'd want to be with someone just like me, instead of with someone who would challenge me in new directions and remind me that my perspective isn't the only one. (My answer, of course, is that I've always preferred the easy way out.) Since I know how much divorce hurts even grown children, I'd never really try to go for the easy marriage anyway. And my survival mechanism knows that, without someone like Bill in my life, I'd get bedsores from the couch (couchsores?). Plus, I love him.
Still, all of the above is up for grabs if Russell, Duane, Doug, Jeff, or Keith ever come calling.
1. Russell Brand (British comedian, seen in the movies "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and "Bedtime Stories"): He's just so crazy sexy and edgy and confident.
2. Duane "The Rock" Johnson: He's gorgeous and sweet.
3. Doug Fabrizio (NPR radio guy out of Salt Lake City): He always reads the books his guests are shilling and asks insightful questions. Also, in conversation (with his radio guests, not with me), he takes a moment before he speaks, because (unlike me) he doesn't confuse "listening" with "waiting."
4. Jeff Bridges: Such charisma is breathtaking.
5. Keith Partridge (not David Cassidy, though): My first true love. I cannot speak more about it.
My girls get crazy when I refer to these men as my boyfriends. "But you like Daddy more, right?" is the common refrain. I'm not sure if I actually do like Daddy more, but at least I know him, which is always helpful in a relationship. More importantly, Bill (aka Daddy) is excellent first-husband material. We are truly yin yang. I'm verbal, he's mathematical. I'm, let's say, relaxed; he's industrious. I'm frugal; he's (because I like the way this word sounds) spendy. I like to sit; he likes to move. I'm very much the mother/nurturer; he's very much the father/protector. Being so different means we can fill in each other's gaps, creating a whole for our children. This also means we don't have too much in common. (Though I do like Dr. Phil's answer to that complaint - "You share children and a house! What more do you want in common?" - comforting, even if it comes from such a pompous windbag.)
I've been noticing that second marriages, entered after the children are grown, are often between yin and yin (not counting, of course, the trophy wife thing), and these marriages seem very companionable. Without the imperative of providing that balance of differences to the children, it's time to kick back with a spouse not so different, and lose all the drama that comes from being opposites. Plus, since the husband and wife have their own kids, no spouse can credibly accuse the other of having wrecked them.
Here's where my friend Mary would squint in incredulity and wonder why I'd want to be with someone just like me, instead of with someone who would challenge me in new directions and remind me that my perspective isn't the only one. (My answer, of course, is that I've always preferred the easy way out.) Since I know how much divorce hurts even grown children, I'd never really try to go for the easy marriage anyway. And my survival mechanism knows that, without someone like Bill in my life, I'd get bedsores from the couch (couchsores?). Plus, I love him.
Still, all of the above is up for grabs if Russell, Duane, Doug, Jeff, or Keith ever come calling.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tae Kwon
Tonight, we (and I mean all of us - parents and children) have Tae Kwon Do class. Bill is a second-degree black belt; the girls and I have red belts with a black stripe. We need to earn two more black stripes before we qualify to test for our black belts. I'm not a natural (yoga is my niche), but it's a great workout, a family activity, and we all adore our Saba Nim (venerated master instructor) Robert Zang.
Master Zang started with Tae Kwon Do at the age of 4, under the tutelage of a Grandmaster of Tae Kwon Do. He stayed with Quanja Nim (aka Grandmaster) for thirty years, ending up in charge of one of Quanja Nim's do jangs (I'm phonetically spelling all the TKD stuff). Master Zang was like a son to Quanja Nim. Ever the Korean patriarch, Quanja Nim would both shower him with praise and verbally eviscerate him.
At belt testings, Quanja Nim, Saba Nim, and other masters of Tae Kwon Do sit at a long table in the front of the room and evaluate the students as they perform their patterns, spar with fellow students, and break a number of boards. After everyone has been tested, protocol demands that Saba Nim give a little speech about how lucky we are to have our Grandmaster, what a great champion he was, and what a wonderful Quanja Nim he remains. Then Quanja Nim would riff on whatever topic seemed to cross his mind until he ran out of things to say.
I'll never forget the testing where Quanja Nim lost my respect (and respect is a foundation of Tae Kwon Do). We were all seated on the floor at his feet. As he was expounding, he noticed a boy about 8 years-old sitting on his mother's lap. He said to him, "You are not a baby. Do not sit on your mother's lap." This kid just nuzzled into his mother even more. Even my kids were able to spot that the boy was probably autistic. But Quanja Nim didn't. He harangued the boy, who never responded, reducing the kid's mom to tears. Because they were seated at the front of the room, with about about 50 people crammed in behind them, she couldn't even take her son and flee. The tears streaming down this woman's face did not deter Grandmaster at all. Later, I saw Saba Nim whisper to him, apparently explaining the situation, because Grandmaster then made a show of personally awarding the boy his next belt.
A few years later, in a fit of fury, Quanja Nim fired Master Zang. He soon regretted his outburst, said he didn't mean it, and expected things to continue as always. But Master Zang had had enough. Quanja Nim offered him the do jang outright, an established business with a large clientele. Master Zang would keep all profits, with testing fees still going to Quanja Nim (who has probably 5 other locations). And Master Zang said no. Master Zang decided that, even though he's the sole support of a wife and two young children, he'd had enough. He now has his own do jang, a business based on the idea of mutual respect not obeisance to the lord.
Of everything that he's taught my children, I think the most important is that security is not worth your soul. They saw that Master Zang could say, "You can't treat me this way. I'm worth more than that," and walk away. (Also, learning how to break multiple boards with your hands and feet is quite the rush.)
Master Zang started with Tae Kwon Do at the age of 4, under the tutelage of a Grandmaster of Tae Kwon Do. He stayed with Quanja Nim (aka Grandmaster) for thirty years, ending up in charge of one of Quanja Nim's do jangs (I'm phonetically spelling all the TKD stuff). Master Zang was like a son to Quanja Nim. Ever the Korean patriarch, Quanja Nim would both shower him with praise and verbally eviscerate him.
At belt testings, Quanja Nim, Saba Nim, and other masters of Tae Kwon Do sit at a long table in the front of the room and evaluate the students as they perform their patterns, spar with fellow students, and break a number of boards. After everyone has been tested, protocol demands that Saba Nim give a little speech about how lucky we are to have our Grandmaster, what a great champion he was, and what a wonderful Quanja Nim he remains. Then Quanja Nim would riff on whatever topic seemed to cross his mind until he ran out of things to say.
I'll never forget the testing where Quanja Nim lost my respect (and respect is a foundation of Tae Kwon Do). We were all seated on the floor at his feet. As he was expounding, he noticed a boy about 8 years-old sitting on his mother's lap. He said to him, "You are not a baby. Do not sit on your mother's lap." This kid just nuzzled into his mother even more. Even my kids were able to spot that the boy was probably autistic. But Quanja Nim didn't. He harangued the boy, who never responded, reducing the kid's mom to tears. Because they were seated at the front of the room, with about about 50 people crammed in behind them, she couldn't even take her son and flee. The tears streaming down this woman's face did not deter Grandmaster at all. Later, I saw Saba Nim whisper to him, apparently explaining the situation, because Grandmaster then made a show of personally awarding the boy his next belt.
A few years later, in a fit of fury, Quanja Nim fired Master Zang. He soon regretted his outburst, said he didn't mean it, and expected things to continue as always. But Master Zang had had enough. Quanja Nim offered him the do jang outright, an established business with a large clientele. Master Zang would keep all profits, with testing fees still going to Quanja Nim (who has probably 5 other locations). And Master Zang said no. Master Zang decided that, even though he's the sole support of a wife and two young children, he'd had enough. He now has his own do jang, a business based on the idea of mutual respect not obeisance to the lord.
Of everything that he's taught my children, I think the most important is that security is not worth your soul. They saw that Master Zang could say, "You can't treat me this way. I'm worth more than that," and walk away. (Also, learning how to break multiple boards with your hands and feet is quite the rush.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tests of Friendship
On screens both large and small, you can tell who the best friend is because she always walks into the lead character's home without knocking and helps herself to a cup of coffee. And she knows where the cups are. I was feeling sorry for myself* because I don't know where anyone keeps their coffee cups (and my mom's house doesn't count, since I used to live there).
On the other hand, I do have four people who will call and say, "Hi, it's me," and I'll know who it is. I think that might be just as good a barometer of friendship as the coffee cup test. Plus, my sister pointed out that I know where she keeps her cups, and not everyone knows that about a sister, so it counts.
*Imagine that
On the other hand, I do have four people who will call and say, "Hi, it's me," and I'll know who it is. I think that might be just as good a barometer of friendship as the coffee cup test. Plus, my sister pointed out that I know where she keeps her cups, and not everyone knows that about a sister, so it counts.
*Imagine that
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Private Lunch and TV
Yesterday noon, my six year-old niece came home from day camp and said to my sister, "Ahhh, my favorite time of the day: private lunch and TV." I must agree. I think it's genetic.
I've always had a hard time falling asleep, so I have several thought projects I work on to lull myself to slumber. One of the most effective is planning my Best Day Ever, a schedule of the food and TV that bring me the most joy. And here it is.
My Best Day Ever:
Breakfast: White toast with butter, coffee
9:00 - 9:30: The Dick Van Dyke Show
9:30 - 10:00 The Mary Tyler Moore Show
10:00-10:30 Designing Women
10:30-11:00 Roseanne
Now here I'd break for a walk, because developing bedsores as a result of TV viewing is just bad. I might even shower, but since it's my Best Day Ever, I might not.
Lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken meal (all white meat, double mashed potatoes as the sides), Diet Coke
11:00-12:00 Family (the show from the 70's, not spending time with my own)
12:00- 1:00 Thirtysomething
1:00 - 2:00 LA Law
Break to call my sister and brag about how great my day is.
Snack: Kettle-cooked salt and pepper potato chips, seltzer
3:00 - 5:00 The Made for TV Movie (MfTM) Sunshine (a young mother's losing battle with cancer, based on a true story)
5:00 - 7:00 The MfTM Harvest Home (occult happenings in a Connecticut town)
Break to avoid livor mortis.
Dinner: Montecello's Restaurant's spaghetti dinner with meatballs (includes tossed salad with the house dressing and garlic toast), Pinot Grigio
8:00 - 10:00 The MfTM The Girl Most Likely To (Stockard Channing as an ugly duckling turned swan who seeks revenge on the men who spurned her)
And after that Best Day Ever, I'd get into bed with a book, and I wouldn't have the tiniest problem falling asleep.
I've always had a hard time falling asleep, so I have several thought projects I work on to lull myself to slumber. One of the most effective is planning my Best Day Ever, a schedule of the food and TV that bring me the most joy. And here it is.
My Best Day Ever:
Breakfast: White toast with butter, coffee
9:00 - 9:30: The Dick Van Dyke Show
9:30 - 10:00 The Mary Tyler Moore Show
10:00-10:30 Designing Women
10:30-11:00 Roseanne
Now here I'd break for a walk, because developing bedsores as a result of TV viewing is just bad. I might even shower, but since it's my Best Day Ever, I might not.
Lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken meal (all white meat, double mashed potatoes as the sides), Diet Coke
11:00-12:00 Family (the show from the 70's, not spending time with my own)
12:00- 1:00 Thirtysomething
1:00 - 2:00 LA Law
Break to call my sister and brag about how great my day is.
Snack: Kettle-cooked salt and pepper potato chips, seltzer
3:00 - 5:00 The Made for TV Movie (MfTM) Sunshine (a young mother's losing battle with cancer, based on a true story)
5:00 - 7:00 The MfTM Harvest Home (occult happenings in a Connecticut town)
Break to avoid livor mortis.
Dinner: Montecello's Restaurant's spaghetti dinner with meatballs (includes tossed salad with the house dressing and garlic toast), Pinot Grigio
8:00 - 10:00 The MfTM The Girl Most Likely To (Stockard Channing as an ugly duckling turned swan who seeks revenge on the men who spurned her)
And after that Best Day Ever, I'd get into bed with a book, and I wouldn't have the tiniest problem falling asleep.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Yikes!
My husband doesn't understand my fascination with other people's miseries (and writing it out like that makes me sound both mean and ghoulish). Last night I watched "Zoo," a documentary of men gripped with zoophilia, focusing on a Seattle man who died of internal injuries after enjoying a private moment with a horse. While shocking, more than anything the film shows the sadness and loneliness of these men. I didn't even bother to tell my husband about the movie, because I know the gross-out factor would overwhelm everything else.
I did tell him about the website I looked at, where men who own Real Dolls (lifelike doll-women that cost thousands of dollars) discuss photo shoots, private weekends, and technical problems (apparently the hip socket is easily broken with frequent manipulation). In the "Was My Face Red" section, a man wrote that, with his wife's amused consent, he retreated with his red-headed doll to the basement for an evening of romance. He'd poured the wine, lit the candles, and started the music, when his teenage daughter burst in. He panicked, threw a blanket over the doll, and screamed at this daughter to get upstairs. After calming down, he headed up to the master bedroom, where his wife was laughing with his daughter. Apparently, the girl had thought her father had killed her mother and was planning to have sex with the corpse. Imagine the relief when she learned it was just Daddy and a doll! (I found this site after I watched "Lars and the Real Girl," a very sweet movie I've now seen twice.)
I also skipped telling Bill about transabled.org, a site for sufferers (and they do suffer) of Body Image Identity Disorder (BIID). These people are obsessed with becoming paraplegic or amputee. I first learned of this disorder on Primetime Live (or 20/2o - what's the difference), where they interviewed a woman who parked her car in a secluded area, packed her leg in dry ice, then waited for hours until her leg would be too damaged to save (if I remember correctly, it took more than one try). On this website, these sweet, sad people share their struggles (and sometimes their triumphs when they succeed in disabling themselves).
The shame is in the voyeurism, which I rationalize by noting that a market exists for these stories (HBO documentary, feature film, and TV program). I don't think I'm looking for a thrill. Actually, I know that I'm looking for a validation, along the lines of, "At least I'm not that fucked up." Obviously, I'm not the only member of the audience, so it's not so bad to watch, right? And I guess for the zoo groups, the Real Doll forums, and transabled website, their consolation is that they're not the only ones, too.
A while ago, I was checking out at WalMart, and I saw that the clerk's name was Laken. I mentioned how pretty I thought her name was. She told me that her mom named her after a character in the soap opera "Santa Barbara." She added that she'd even met another Laken (though spelled Lakin) at a softball game. I said, "Wow, that's got to mean something. I just don't know what!" She thought a moment and answered, "I guess it means I'm not the only one." (That line's more effective if you sing it like John Lennon in "Imagine.") I found that thought quite comforting.
I did tell him about the website I looked at, where men who own Real Dolls (lifelike doll-women that cost thousands of dollars) discuss photo shoots, private weekends, and technical problems (apparently the hip socket is easily broken with frequent manipulation). In the "Was My Face Red" section, a man wrote that, with his wife's amused consent, he retreated with his red-headed doll to the basement for an evening of romance. He'd poured the wine, lit the candles, and started the music, when his teenage daughter burst in. He panicked, threw a blanket over the doll, and screamed at this daughter to get upstairs. After calming down, he headed up to the master bedroom, where his wife was laughing with his daughter. Apparently, the girl had thought her father had killed her mother and was planning to have sex with the corpse. Imagine the relief when she learned it was just Daddy and a doll! (I found this site after I watched "Lars and the Real Girl," a very sweet movie I've now seen twice.)
I also skipped telling Bill about transabled.org, a site for sufferers (and they do suffer) of Body Image Identity Disorder (BIID). These people are obsessed with becoming paraplegic or amputee. I first learned of this disorder on Primetime Live (or 20/2o - what's the difference), where they interviewed a woman who parked her car in a secluded area, packed her leg in dry ice, then waited for hours until her leg would be too damaged to save (if I remember correctly, it took more than one try). On this website, these sweet, sad people share their struggles (and sometimes their triumphs when they succeed in disabling themselves).
The shame is in the voyeurism, which I rationalize by noting that a market exists for these stories (HBO documentary, feature film, and TV program). I don't think I'm looking for a thrill. Actually, I know that I'm looking for a validation, along the lines of, "At least I'm not that fucked up." Obviously, I'm not the only member of the audience, so it's not so bad to watch, right? And I guess for the zoo groups, the Real Doll forums, and transabled website, their consolation is that they're not the only ones, too.
A while ago, I was checking out at WalMart, and I saw that the clerk's name was Laken. I mentioned how pretty I thought her name was. She told me that her mom named her after a character in the soap opera "Santa Barbara." She added that she'd even met another Laken (though spelled Lakin) at a softball game. I said, "Wow, that's got to mean something. I just don't know what!" She thought a moment and answered, "I guess it means I'm not the only one." (That line's more effective if you sing it like John Lennon in "Imagine.") I found that thought quite comforting.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Great Idea Not Done #1
Here's a book I didn't write, but I think is still a great idea. Titled "Grown Children from a Previous Marriage," it would be a self-help book for adult children whose parents are divorcing. The title is inspired by every article I've read about rich men and their second families (e.g. Don Imus, Larry King, Michael Douglas), where the old guy rhapsodizes about fatherhood after age gazillion. He always says something like, "I probably wasn't around for my kids as much as I should have been the first time. Now I know how wonderful being a dad can be." Then the article says, "In addition to Jackson, age 5, and Annabelle, age 3, Old Guy has three grown children from a previous marriage."
Having been 32 years-old when my parents split, I know how hard it can be. I can remember thinking a long time ago, "If something bad happened, I probably wouldn't care so much if I had my own husband and family," which turns out to be completely untrue. For a good two years, I didn't speak to my father. He never told my sister or me that he got married (it was the seaside wedding photo on my grandmother's bureau that helped us figure it out). I didn't met his wife until 8 years after that (at my grandmother's funeral). I have yet to meet my three year-old "brother" and have no intentions of doing so. My sister and I cycled through the classic stages of grief (Anger, Denial, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance), though it was probably more Anger, Anger, Anger, Anger, and Acceptance. (Here, my mother would yelp, "But I was the person at Ground Zero!" Which is a whole chapter in itself.)
I'm thinking a workbook would make a great companion piece (because the women who read these kind of books like to fill in blanks), not to mention that the very do-it-yourselfness of a workbook would make it relatively easy to create.
Great idea, no? Someday I'll tell you all the reasons why I can't actually do it. (And I think of new excuses all the time.)
Having been 32 years-old when my parents split, I know how hard it can be. I can remember thinking a long time ago, "If something bad happened, I probably wouldn't care so much if I had my own husband and family," which turns out to be completely untrue. For a good two years, I didn't speak to my father. He never told my sister or me that he got married (it was the seaside wedding photo on my grandmother's bureau that helped us figure it out). I didn't met his wife until 8 years after that (at my grandmother's funeral). I have yet to meet my three year-old "brother" and have no intentions of doing so. My sister and I cycled through the classic stages of grief (Anger, Denial, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance), though it was probably more Anger, Anger, Anger, Anger, and Acceptance. (Here, my mother would yelp, "But I was the person at Ground Zero!" Which is a whole chapter in itself.)
I'm thinking a workbook would make a great companion piece (because the women who read these kind of books like to fill in blanks), not to mention that the very do-it-yourselfness of a workbook would make it relatively easy to create.
Great idea, no? Someday I'll tell you all the reasons why I can't actually do it. (And I think of new excuses all the time.)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Wonders of the Modern Day for which I am Grateful
1. Spray suncreen
2. TiVo
3. Clairol's Root Touch-Up
4. Laser hair removal
5. The George Foreman Grill
2. TiVo
3. Clairol's Root Touch-Up
4. Laser hair removal
5. The George Foreman Grill
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Three Things I Learned at Disney World
After eight days at Disney World, here are the three things I learned:
1) Luxury hotels, other than structurally, might not actually be that better than the Hampton Inn (where the breakfast and the WiFi is free). At least housekeeping wise, which has a big impact.
2) Everyone gets scared. The NBA Championship between the LA Lakers and the Orlando Magic was going on while we were there. At Universal Studios, we waited in line behind (what we think were) a posse of LA Lakers. Once inside, the attraction mistress called for volunteers to act out parts of a disaster movie (since the attraction is called "Disaster). One of the big, rich, successful Laker guys giggled and kept pointing to his friend, another big, rich, successful Laker guy. The attraction mistress said that policy requires those who nominate another must perform himself. Well, this guy ducked and covered until his teammates forced him onstage. Now, the audience was full of kids and tourists (many sporting the Amazing American Ass, but that's for another day), not one of whom was as imposing and accustomed to spectators as this guy. But he was terrified. And the ten-year old kid next to him was not.
3) My daughter is actually learning the big life lessons from me. As we lounged at the pool, I started discussing dinner possibilities. My favorite idea was room service (which I'd never had). My ten year-old daughter asked me, "Does the hotel pay for that?" I said, "Noooooo...," which led her to ask, "Is it really expensive?" I said, "Yesssss....." She thought a minute and asked, "So, since we're spending so much money anyway, we should just go ahead and spend more?" Which had been my thinking exactly!
1) Luxury hotels, other than structurally, might not actually be that better than the Hampton Inn (where the breakfast and the WiFi is free). At least housekeeping wise, which has a big impact.
2) Everyone gets scared. The NBA Championship between the LA Lakers and the Orlando Magic was going on while we were there. At Universal Studios, we waited in line behind (what we think were) a posse of LA Lakers. Once inside, the attraction mistress called for volunteers to act out parts of a disaster movie (since the attraction is called "Disaster). One of the big, rich, successful Laker guys giggled and kept pointing to his friend, another big, rich, successful Laker guy. The attraction mistress said that policy requires those who nominate another must perform himself. Well, this guy ducked and covered until his teammates forced him onstage. Now, the audience was full of kids and tourists (many sporting the Amazing American Ass, but that's for another day), not one of whom was as imposing and accustomed to spectators as this guy. But he was terrified. And the ten-year old kid next to him was not.
3) My daughter is actually learning the big life lessons from me. As we lounged at the pool, I started discussing dinner possibilities. My favorite idea was room service (which I'd never had). My ten year-old daughter asked me, "Does the hotel pay for that?" I said, "Noooooo...," which led her to ask, "Is it really expensive?" I said, "Yesssss....." She thought a minute and asked, "So, since we're spending so much money anyway, we should just go ahead and spend more?" Which had been my thinking exactly!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The Tyranny of Toast
Every morning of my life, I let two pieces of toast decide what I'll eat for the rest of the day. My very favorite part of the morning is eating two slices of white bread that are lightly browned and a little less lightly buttered, accompanied by a cup of coffee and the daily newspaper. The breakfast that I usually have and actually do enjoy is two slices of diet bread lightly toasted and topped with tomato sauce (because I am the dago my Grandma made me), still with the coffee and the paper. If I've eaten my responsible breakfast, I can stay pretty much on the track of not shoving whatever I can think of into my mouth. But when I give myself permission to have the delicious breakfast, the gates are opened for me to have a fun food fiesta all day long. And that is the power of toast.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Most Likely to Succeed
Today is one of those days I wish we'd chosen a less affluent school district, so my kids could maybe have a chance to excel in the arena of their choice, without private lessons, weekend competitions, or steroids (and if steroids helped my kid get into the choir, God help my decision-making ability). I've gotten used to having the school tell me my kid isn't as gifted as I'd thought (since the competition for being gifted was already fierce in third grade), and that she's in fact rather average (heard again as the second kid goes through the system). Fine. Neither will get to spend a week at Virginia Beach or watch an open-heart surgery (two actual perks of being in the gifted program). (Of course, I do have the name of the psychologist who administers IQ tests for $150 and seems to only test students who turn out to have IQs over 130). But to think they'll never act a part in a play or sing a musical duet or have a chance to find out they love volleyball because they didn't devote years to practice before the age of 14 to get the opportunity...and, okay, I don't know that private volleyball lessons are actually offered....makes me wish we'd chosen school district Pretty Good instead of school district Deep Pockets.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Hiding from Abraham Lincoln
I should have known I'd see Rick My Yoga Teacher at Walmart, since I see him on the discount circuit (Walmart/Costco) with amazing regularity. Still, the possibility wasn't enough to get me to change out of my sweat pants. At least I noticed that my shirt was inside out before I left the house. Rick's always easy to spot, being about six foot six. In the summer, he's even easier to find. Starting in June, he travels from festival to festival, appearing as Abraham Lincoln. He grows the requisite beard, dyes his graying hair dark, and wears the stovepipe hat (yes, sometimes even in Walmart). I never want to run into him, because he is my true crush, and I'll never look as good as when I first took his yoga class, about three years ago. Which is why I hid in the housewares section.
Here is my favorite Rick memory:
I was seriously considering skipping yoga that night because of the snow. But I went. The class was small, only four other women, who came in groups of two. After a few regular vinyasas (or whatever), he suggests, since the group is so small, doing partner yoga. Crap! Once again, I'm flashing back to gym class and not getting picked. But oh, do I get picked. Since I'm non-coupled, I am Rick's partner. And he even knows my name.
I must tell you, I have not lied upon a floor, ass cheek to ass cheek, legs stretched up against legs stretched up, with another man since....well, actually I've never had reason to do that. After thirty minutes of partner yoga, for me at least, it was time for a cigarette.
For at least a week after, I felt sexy and secretive and completely invigorated.
I think the moral of the story is, wear real pants and make-up even to Walmart.
Here is my favorite Rick memory:
I was seriously considering skipping yoga that night because of the snow. But I went. The class was small, only four other women, who came in groups of two. After a few regular vinyasas (or whatever), he suggests, since the group is so small, doing partner yoga. Crap! Once again, I'm flashing back to gym class and not getting picked. But oh, do I get picked. Since I'm non-coupled, I am Rick's partner. And he even knows my name.
I must tell you, I have not lied upon a floor, ass cheek to ass cheek, legs stretched up against legs stretched up, with another man since....well, actually I've never had reason to do that. After thirty minutes of partner yoga, for me at least, it was time for a cigarette.
For at least a week after, I felt sexy and secretive and completely invigorated.
I think the moral of the story is, wear real pants and make-up even to Walmart.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
That's Not Writing, It's Typing!
I've always had such potential. But then I forgot to do anything with it. I've taken pride in my facility for words, though I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that my gift is more for pronouncing them (who else but me and my mom says "mauve" correctly? or "forte"? or "short-lived"?) than writing them. My friend Mary still believes differently. Because I so very much want her to be right, I'm going to give this a shot: a blog about me (which limits the audience pretty much to me and Mary, until she's full up on the me stuff). It's a great day in the techno-world, when my writing practice can be posted for all, giving me the illusion of success.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
