Well, folks, it's that time of year again: New Year's Eve is upon us. Every other commercial on television is for Weight Watchers, Reeboks, or Chantix. I am preparing for the January-to-Valentine's-Day crowd to surge in at the gym, resplendent in their shiny fresh spandex and blindingly white, brand new running shoes, asking me how to set the bicep curl machine.
Yep, it's that time, alright: time to make a list of ways I didn't become a better person this year. Oh, I kid. But once more and despite the fact I'm pretty flawless already (erhem), it is the time to talk New Year's resolutions. It's so much easier to make resolutions for other people, right? If only.
I'm of two minds, really, when it comes to New Year's resolutions. On one hand, it seems kind of silly and arbitrary to designate a random day as one to make changes in lifestyle. And usually if you're waiting for some external cue to prompt you to improve, that means a meaningful, long term change is probably not going to happen. Unless you are prompted internally by your heart, change will be temporary...and you'll be two-fisting cheeseburgers by January 3. And if you set your sights unrealistically, when you inevitably break the "rules," you're going to feel even worse, like you failed. To the shame spiral!
On the other hand, though, no one is a bigger fan of clean slates, new leaves, goal setting, and a desire to improve than moi, even if New Year's resolutions seem a bit canned. As a professional counselor, I am totally into second chances, and I know that change is actually unavoidable anyway.
So in the spirit of the season, I started thinking of some resolutions that might actually be attainable for me, just small changes I can make to make being Eliska just a little bit better (not to mention more pleasant to encounter) this year. But I think I'm going to make them winter resolutions. I'm not sure I have stamina for the whole of 2012. What's that old saying about if you don't have expectations, you can't be disappointed? I like the option of a spring revision.
So here's some examples of some low risk resolutions that I might be willing to consider for the likes of me at least until March:
1. I will make a genuine effort to make Baptists fear and loathe me less. I can't promise anything.
2. I will not call other drivers names in front of my children. Related: I will also refuse to tell them what "troglodyte" means.
3. I will rise above my love for trashy magazines. After I find out what's really happening between Russell Brand and Katy Perry. Or if R-Pattz and K-Stew will be getting married.
4. My four year old daughter will not own more shoes than I do.
5. I will call off the war on my cuticles.
6. I will never, ever utter the words "I know! Right?" EVER. AGAIN. Related: I will not throat punch you if you say them to me. Despite how desperately my fist might itch.
7. I will not call a Starbucks latte or last night's take-out leftovers "breakfast."
8. I will not call Hubs "Daddy" when there are no children around.
9. I will overcome the shame of pulling my mini-van into the Harley Davidson store. Perhaps I will paint flames down the side of it and re-christen it "The Blazebago."
10. I will reach some internal zen regarding sharing Dallas with Glenn Beck, George Bush, AND the Kardashians.
See? Keep them specific and reasonable, and you too can make New Year's or Winter Solstice resolutions that are not only helpful but perhaps even achievable. Except for that last one, I should be all right. I hope so, because Kardashians have a tendency to break me out in sarcasm and eye rolls. Happy New Year, darlings! Whether you think 2012 is the beginning of End Times or the beginning of the Age of Aquarius, may you achieve everything you want for yourself during it. See you there!
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas at Castle Greyskull
I was asked about my peak Christmas experiences recently and to expound upon the topic. It left me musing, a bit. I have to say: I don't really have too many Christmas experiences that differentiate themselves as particularly hilarious. There was the year Santa wrote "Love, SC" on my Etch-A-Sketch he left on my living room couch. That was pretty heady stuff for a seven year old, getting a note from the fat man himself.
The first Christmas Hubs and I had as a couple is a good one, too. Recent college grads, we were preparing for our move out of our school apartment we had shared. Not much money, not many decorations, and I don't remember exactly what gifts were exchanged. But we cut down a tree together that the cats wouldn't cease scaling, and I made us stockings with our names spelled out in glitter glue pen. Sigh. Romantic times. Since, he's given me a couple of breathtaking Christmas gifts, and those times my gift was sparkly, I can't deny, were pretty darn awesome.
But when I started thinking about it, one of my most satisfying holiday experiences, with all due respect to Dr. Seuess, came without boxes or bags. Because this is a memory more of a feeling, a feeling of warmth and security, laughter and relaxation adults can find difficult to experience. A time when all roads stretch in front of you presenting an infinity of possibilities, when you experience the security of knowing someone was always on the way to pick you up. A time before the world of adult responsibilities and realities. A time before a child looks to you to provide that same safety.
I was fourteen. It was an unusually cold Christmas Eve in Mississippi. Fifteen degrees was abnormal for the land of the perpetual green Christmas. But the chill added to the cozy feeling of being tucked in my warm home, fire cheerfully blazing next to the tree strung with the same fat, colored lights my parents still put up to this day.
It was late. Our parents were headed out to midnight Mass. In exchange for springing us from Mass, my thirteen year old brother and I were put in charge of making sure our four year old brother stayed in bed and didn't pull a Cindy Lou Who. Plus, the teens were being given elven duty: we were to put out the youngest's Santa haul. This felt like a weighty responsibility, but my brother and I were up for it.
With The Nutcracker playing in the background and Tchaikovsky as our soundtrack, my brother and I laid out the youngest's toys on the couch just as they had been laid out for us when we were four. Now, as this was the 80s, my brother, as did many 80s tykes, loved the cartoon He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. And Santa had brought every action figure in the cast. Best of all, Santa had included Castle Greyskull, a massive, grey, plastic mountain-castle, for them all to fight over.
My brother and I decided to assemble Castle Greyskull. Then, giggling so uncontrollably we feared waking our brother, we removed He-Man, Teela, Battle Cat, Skeletor, and Man-At-Arms from their packaging and staged them. Their battle scene was epic. It was the first time I saw Christmas not so much about looking forward to getting presents. This year, I saw how fun it was to give fun to someone you love: especially when it's anonymous. We couldn't wait to see our brother's face when he came into the living room.
So, Christmas at Castle Greyskull was one of the best Christmas experiences I can recall. The looking forward to giving instead of receiving. Combined with the warmth and security I felt as a child, the feeling of fun, laughter, relaxation and the excitement of the possibility of thrilling a child with a gift was truly beautiful. This is the feeling I hope everyone who reads this piece, no matter what you believe or how you celebrate, enjoy. May peace be with you.
The first Christmas Hubs and I had as a couple is a good one, too. Recent college grads, we were preparing for our move out of our school apartment we had shared. Not much money, not many decorations, and I don't remember exactly what gifts were exchanged. But we cut down a tree together that the cats wouldn't cease scaling, and I made us stockings with our names spelled out in glitter glue pen. Sigh. Romantic times. Since, he's given me a couple of breathtaking Christmas gifts, and those times my gift was sparkly, I can't deny, were pretty darn awesome.
But when I started thinking about it, one of my most satisfying holiday experiences, with all due respect to Dr. Seuess, came without boxes or bags. Because this is a memory more of a feeling, a feeling of warmth and security, laughter and relaxation adults can find difficult to experience. A time when all roads stretch in front of you presenting an infinity of possibilities, when you experience the security of knowing someone was always on the way to pick you up. A time before the world of adult responsibilities and realities. A time before a child looks to you to provide that same safety.
I was fourteen. It was an unusually cold Christmas Eve in Mississippi. Fifteen degrees was abnormal for the land of the perpetual green Christmas. But the chill added to the cozy feeling of being tucked in my warm home, fire cheerfully blazing next to the tree strung with the same fat, colored lights my parents still put up to this day.
It was late. Our parents were headed out to midnight Mass. In exchange for springing us from Mass, my thirteen year old brother and I were put in charge of making sure our four year old brother stayed in bed and didn't pull a Cindy Lou Who. Plus, the teens were being given elven duty: we were to put out the youngest's Santa haul. This felt like a weighty responsibility, but my brother and I were up for it.
With The Nutcracker playing in the background and Tchaikovsky as our soundtrack, my brother and I laid out the youngest's toys on the couch just as they had been laid out for us when we were four. Now, as this was the 80s, my brother, as did many 80s tykes, loved the cartoon He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. And Santa had brought every action figure in the cast. Best of all, Santa had included Castle Greyskull, a massive, grey, plastic mountain-castle, for them all to fight over.
My brother and I decided to assemble Castle Greyskull. Then, giggling so uncontrollably we feared waking our brother, we removed He-Man, Teela, Battle Cat, Skeletor, and Man-At-Arms from their packaging and staged them. Their battle scene was epic. It was the first time I saw Christmas not so much about looking forward to getting presents. This year, I saw how fun it was to give fun to someone you love: especially when it's anonymous. We couldn't wait to see our brother's face when he came into the living room.
So, Christmas at Castle Greyskull was one of the best Christmas experiences I can recall. The looking forward to giving instead of receiving. Combined with the warmth and security I felt as a child, the feeling of fun, laughter, relaxation and the excitement of the possibility of thrilling a child with a gift was truly beautiful. This is the feeling I hope everyone who reads this piece, no matter what you believe or how you celebrate, enjoy. May peace be with you.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Dear Teen Me
This weekend, I had the pleasure of hosting a family Hubs and I have known since our move to North Texas fifteen years ago. They knew us in the Age BC: Before Children. And we've watched their children grow from toddlers and infants to teenagers. So it's always fun to get together and have our annual Christmas dinner together and reminisce.
But as we all sat around the dinner table after the food was tucked away, the talk turned to the challenges of being a teenager. I found myself reassuring the young 'uns that it does, indeed, get better after high school. Oh, sure, sometimes life feels like high school just with more money, but for most of us, life gets easier the older you become.
It all got me to thinking: what would I say to my own teenaged self now, if I could? If I could write her/me, it might look something like this:
Dear Teen Me,
First of all, stop being so emo. Yes, I know it's 1986, and "emo" isn't a term yet, but you are that and you should stop it. You get summers off, long breaks from school, and you like learning. Good things are happening. You are intelligent, kind, and talented. Focus on how school can make your dreams come true, not if a boy can. The world is in front of you, and this window of options will narrow before you realize it.
Oh, yeah, school. I know you're feeling like you are uglier and fatter than any other female at the school. But guess what: so are they. When you're forty, you're going to look at a picture of yourself at seventeen and wonder why you thought you were so unattractive and wish you had enjoyed your un-lined face and firm, if temporarily plump, derriere. Not to mention the opportunity to dress like Madonna circa 1986. Grunge is coming. Enjoy while you can.
Don't hang around boys that make you cry. They aren't worth it. There's going to be such a higher caliber of men at college, anyway. Those backward-baseball-cap wearing boys from this tiny town are so...backward. Even if they are on the football team. Don't do anything that doesn't feel moral, ethical, or threatens how you feel about yourself for ANYONE'S approval.
Be yourself. Sing too loudly, dress too flashy, dance by yourself. But think carefully before you speak or act. Some things can't be taken back.
Discover your purpose. Notice that gift of gab you have? That's going to help a lot later when you become a writer and educator. The pain you're going though? You're going to get a lot of satisfaction helping people as a result of having experienced it. Hang in. Talk to your friends about it. Find an adult you can trust. You must find an adult you admire, someone who has a life like you'd want, someone who will help you focus on yourself and your goals after high school.
Oh, and don't have sex until you're at least thirty. No, seriously. Okay, at least not before twenty-one. And only have it with someone you love, because women aren't designed emotionally, physically, or spiritually to have casual sex and be happy and safe too.
Focus on the future. A lot of these kids you wish you were? Guess what: they're peaking in high school. This is as good as it gets for them. After graduation, they get fat, stay right there in your small town, have a dozen children, and long for their glory days. This state championship is officially their zenith. It's downhill from here for most of those yokels. This will not be you.
Lastly, when you're feeling down and sick of yourself, find a way to help someone else. You'll learn over time it's one of the only cures for depression. And on that note, your brain is still developing. So hold off the drinking. Good call on avoiding drugs. There's a time and a place for everything, and it's called college.
Hang in there, Teen Me! You're having it rough. But you aren't helpless. Get a prize, and get your eyes on it. You have everything you need inside to grow into what you're supposed to be...as long as you don't get distracted. And maybe even if you do.
Love, Middle-Aged Me.
PS: By the way? You can relax. No worries. It all works out GREAT.
But as we all sat around the dinner table after the food was tucked away, the talk turned to the challenges of being a teenager. I found myself reassuring the young 'uns that it does, indeed, get better after high school. Oh, sure, sometimes life feels like high school just with more money, but for most of us, life gets easier the older you become.
It all got me to thinking: what would I say to my own teenaged self now, if I could? If I could write her/me, it might look something like this:
Dear Teen Me,
First of all, stop being so emo. Yes, I know it's 1986, and "emo" isn't a term yet, but you are that and you should stop it. You get summers off, long breaks from school, and you like learning. Good things are happening. You are intelligent, kind, and talented. Focus on how school can make your dreams come true, not if a boy can. The world is in front of you, and this window of options will narrow before you realize it.
Oh, yeah, school. I know you're feeling like you are uglier and fatter than any other female at the school. But guess what: so are they. When you're forty, you're going to look at a picture of yourself at seventeen and wonder why you thought you were so unattractive and wish you had enjoyed your un-lined face and firm, if temporarily plump, derriere. Not to mention the opportunity to dress like Madonna circa 1986. Grunge is coming. Enjoy while you can.
Don't hang around boys that make you cry. They aren't worth it. There's going to be such a higher caliber of men at college, anyway. Those backward-baseball-cap wearing boys from this tiny town are so...backward. Even if they are on the football team. Don't do anything that doesn't feel moral, ethical, or threatens how you feel about yourself for ANYONE'S approval.
Be yourself. Sing too loudly, dress too flashy, dance by yourself. But think carefully before you speak or act. Some things can't be taken back.
Discover your purpose. Notice that gift of gab you have? That's going to help a lot later when you become a writer and educator. The pain you're going though? You're going to get a lot of satisfaction helping people as a result of having experienced it. Hang in. Talk to your friends about it. Find an adult you can trust. You must find an adult you admire, someone who has a life like you'd want, someone who will help you focus on yourself and your goals after high school.
Oh, and don't have sex until you're at least thirty. No, seriously. Okay, at least not before twenty-one. And only have it with someone you love, because women aren't designed emotionally, physically, or spiritually to have casual sex and be happy and safe too.
Focus on the future. A lot of these kids you wish you were? Guess what: they're peaking in high school. This is as good as it gets for them. After graduation, they get fat, stay right there in your small town, have a dozen children, and long for their glory days. This state championship is officially their zenith. It's downhill from here for most of those yokels. This will not be you.
Lastly, when you're feeling down and sick of yourself, find a way to help someone else. You'll learn over time it's one of the only cures for depression. And on that note, your brain is still developing. So hold off the drinking. Good call on avoiding drugs. There's a time and a place for everything, and it's called college.
Hang in there, Teen Me! You're having it rough. But you aren't helpless. Get a prize, and get your eyes on it. You have everything you need inside to grow into what you're supposed to be...as long as you don't get distracted. And maybe even if you do.
Love, Middle-Aged Me.
PS: By the way? You can relax. No worries. It all works out GREAT.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
A Bad Case of Acute Affluenza
So, I'm thumbing through my Dallas Morning News on Sunday. And yes, clearly I'm 140 years old. I still like a paper I can fold and on that doesn't require electricity, I know. But I digress. Nonetheless, I'm enjoying my coffee and having my Lionel-Ritchie-Easy-Like-Sunday morning moment, and as I'm perusing the local metro section, I see an article entitled: "Unlocking Their Style: Area mothers spawn decorating craze across US for tween lockers."
Now, y'all know me. I am not judgemental. No, wait. I'm actually totally judgemental. So at the risk of irking my fellow "area mothers," I feel drawn, no, compelled to comment on this "decorating craze." Because evidently there's a new reason for the terrorists to hate us, and it involves tween girls, narcissism, and money. All of which we seem to have in spades here in the lovely suburbs of Dallas.
Here's what's happening according to the Dallas Morning News: "The hallways of Prestonwood Christian Academy showcase one of the country's latest reminders of tween marketing power and gendered self-expression." Know what that means in over-privileged speak? Our schools are now the place for ten year old girls to learn how to spend osentatiously on largely disposable crap they don't need that junks up our planet while simultaneously sets back females thirty years.
I mean, really, people: motion-sensitive chandeliers? Leopard print wallpaper? Fluffy shag carpets? For a ten year old's locker? When I looked at the photos the paper provided, all I could think of was how an African village of sixty people could live on the money it took to decorate even ONE of those lockers for a month. Wallpaper is twenty bucks. Chandeliers are thirty dollars. "Jeweled Flower Magnets" are a bargain at only eight dollars a pop.
The paper quotes one of these charming tots and perhaps future reality show star: "It [the locker decorations] is important because it shows who you really are." Wow, yeah? That you can become a vapid consumer before you're old enough to menstruate? She continues: "It's totally fine if you don't have one, but it would be really cute if you did." Oh, I love it when the wealthy give me permission to have less than them and assure me they give me their blessing to do so. This will be the future pageant contestant who says, "I was friends with ALL the different groups in school." Suuuure you were.
Yeah, it would be totally cute if your family didn't need that fifty bucks spent on luxuries like, say, food and shelter. We're seeing on the news that being able to buy things other people can't might just instill a hierarchy and even a little anger from those of us who can't afford to be so "cute," though, aren't we? My electric bill right now is SO NOT CUTE.
Really? So we're going to reinforce in our daughters that appearance is who you are? Not, say, the choices you make and how you behave? Where is your mother? Oh, yeah, probably out getting Botox and a weave. It's the adults who are passing down this idea that stuff and looks are who you are.
I will take some heat from this opinion, y'all, but this locker decorating nonsense is not only ridiculous but possibly poisonous. Tweens, considered ages 8-12 by marketers, are credited for 43 BILLION in annual spending power? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE WHEN THEY DON'T WORK? And we have a healthcare crisis in this nation?
So here's my modest proposal: when your daughter asks for a light-up chandelier for her locker, take her on a tour of the county's non-profit organizations. Don't purchase plastic crap you don't need that's manufactured in other countries. Use less. Waste less. Less money, less food, less water. Instead of fifty dollars on locker carpeting and flower magnets, why don't you anonymously pay for some of the groceries of that family behind you in line at Wal-Mart? You know, the family that has four kids and two of them have coats. And certainly no school locker chandeliers.
Talk to your daughter about girls who can't afford to go to the doctor, much less wear Miss Me jeans and pay for private school. Let her see the Samaritan Inn, where a fifty dollar donation can feed a family without a home to call their own for a week. Most importantly, reflect: what values are you teaching your daughter? How much emphasis are you putting on her looks? Is it something external that makes women special?
I'm here to tell you: personal creativity, value, and worth doesn't involve the acquisition of animal print wallpaper or locker chandeliers. My daughter will be missing out on a lot of what the Dallas suburbs seem to tell females they need to have in order to be. There will be no mani/pedis until she can pay for one. Birthday parties may just need to be cake and rousing game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey at the house. There will be no MTV styled sixteenth birthday bash, and the first car will be handed down.
Because Collin county Texas has a very bad case of Affluenza, y'all. We're breaking out in senseless consumerism, and we're teaching our daughters to do the same. But you can be sure I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure no one around my house catches it.
Now, y'all know me. I am not judgemental. No, wait. I'm actually totally judgemental. So at the risk of irking my fellow "area mothers," I feel drawn, no, compelled to comment on this "decorating craze." Because evidently there's a new reason for the terrorists to hate us, and it involves tween girls, narcissism, and money. All of which we seem to have in spades here in the lovely suburbs of Dallas.
Here's what's happening according to the Dallas Morning News: "The hallways of Prestonwood Christian Academy showcase one of the country's latest reminders of tween marketing power and gendered self-expression." Know what that means in over-privileged speak? Our schools are now the place for ten year old girls to learn how to spend osentatiously on largely disposable crap they don't need that junks up our planet while simultaneously sets back females thirty years.
I mean, really, people: motion-sensitive chandeliers? Leopard print wallpaper? Fluffy shag carpets? For a ten year old's locker? When I looked at the photos the paper provided, all I could think of was how an African village of sixty people could live on the money it took to decorate even ONE of those lockers for a month. Wallpaper is twenty bucks. Chandeliers are thirty dollars. "Jeweled Flower Magnets" are a bargain at only eight dollars a pop.
The paper quotes one of these charming tots and perhaps future reality show star: "It [the locker decorations] is important because it shows who you really are." Wow, yeah? That you can become a vapid consumer before you're old enough to menstruate? She continues: "It's totally fine if you don't have one, but it would be really cute if you did." Oh, I love it when the wealthy give me permission to have less than them and assure me they give me their blessing to do so. This will be the future pageant contestant who says, "I was friends with ALL the different groups in school." Suuuure you were.
Yeah, it would be totally cute if your family didn't need that fifty bucks spent on luxuries like, say, food and shelter. We're seeing on the news that being able to buy things other people can't might just instill a hierarchy and even a little anger from those of us who can't afford to be so "cute," though, aren't we? My electric bill right now is SO NOT CUTE.
Really? So we're going to reinforce in our daughters that appearance is who you are? Not, say, the choices you make and how you behave? Where is your mother? Oh, yeah, probably out getting Botox and a weave. It's the adults who are passing down this idea that stuff and looks are who you are.
I will take some heat from this opinion, y'all, but this locker decorating nonsense is not only ridiculous but possibly poisonous. Tweens, considered ages 8-12 by marketers, are credited for 43 BILLION in annual spending power? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE WHEN THEY DON'T WORK? And we have a healthcare crisis in this nation?
So here's my modest proposal: when your daughter asks for a light-up chandelier for her locker, take her on a tour of the county's non-profit organizations. Don't purchase plastic crap you don't need that's manufactured in other countries. Use less. Waste less. Less money, less food, less water. Instead of fifty dollars on locker carpeting and flower magnets, why don't you anonymously pay for some of the groceries of that family behind you in line at Wal-Mart? You know, the family that has four kids and two of them have coats. And certainly no school locker chandeliers.
Talk to your daughter about girls who can't afford to go to the doctor, much less wear Miss Me jeans and pay for private school. Let her see the Samaritan Inn, where a fifty dollar donation can feed a family without a home to call their own for a week. Most importantly, reflect: what values are you teaching your daughter? How much emphasis are you putting on her looks? Is it something external that makes women special?
I'm here to tell you: personal creativity, value, and worth doesn't involve the acquisition of animal print wallpaper or locker chandeliers. My daughter will be missing out on a lot of what the Dallas suburbs seem to tell females they need to have in order to be. There will be no mani/pedis until she can pay for one. Birthday parties may just need to be cake and rousing game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey at the house. There will be no MTV styled sixteenth birthday bash, and the first car will be handed down.
Because Collin county Texas has a very bad case of Affluenza, y'all. We're breaking out in senseless consumerism, and we're teaching our daughters to do the same. But you can be sure I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure no one around my house catches it.
Friday, December 2, 2011
A Very Parental Christmas
It's Christmas time! And I am the proud parent of three small children. So you automatically can know a few facts about me. A) I'm so broke, I can't pay attention. My Visa card is visibly smoking. B) I'm busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger. And C)? To quote Clark Griswold, I am determined to make this holiday season the hap-hap-happiest day since Bing Crosby danced with Danny #%$@in' Kay.
But seriously. Y'all ever do a Christmas season with small children? It's not for the feint of heart, I assure you. We're talking about a slow build from Halloween to New Year's Day to a frothing holiday frenzy. If you don't have small children, if you're thinking about having children, or if your child doesn't walk or talk right now, here's a glimpse into your future:
You will enter the stores on November 1 to discover the North Pole has vomited all over them. Think the early Christmas decorations are annoying now? Your child will think these decorations are AMAZING. And that Christmas is pretty much tomorrow. Let the pleading begin! Time to enjoy a searing case of the Gimmes. You will not enter a retail establishment with your children safely again until 2012.
You can also look forward to more Christmas movies and shows than you thought existed. Oh, you have warm, fuzzy memories about all the wonderful specials like the Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon and from Rudolph and Frosty from when you were small? Your love for these will be crushed like a bug after the first fifty viewings.
But enjoy the quality shows, because with small children, there is no avoiding the odiferous dreck. Kids are not Roger Ebert. They don't care. You will watch the loathsome Jim Carrey bastardize your beloved childhood memories of the Grinch. You will watch talking golden retrievers dressed as Santa. You will watch Ahnold JINGLE ALL ZE WAY. And you will not be able to curse out loud.
If you have small children at Christmas, another certainty is YOU WILL CRAFT. And craft some more. Before December first, you will have already made forty gingerbread foam ornaments, created twenty two wooden holiday door hangers (colored with markers), and have written approximately eighty different drafts of letters to Santa. Not to mention the creation of a Crayola picture gallery in your home devoted to the love of all things Kringle.
Speaking of Saint Nick, you will also spend a great deal of time threatening to text him about your children's behavior only to end up having your children point out "He sees me when I'm sleeping and knows when I'm awake ALREADY." You will have to corral these small children for hours as you wait in line for unconvincing Santas and surly, picture-taking elves. You will wonder: does Santa's beard smell faintly of booze? And is that a cigarette burn on his red suit?
You don't think you will, but you will be willing to arm wrestle other parents for the last Neck Tat Elmo or Stripper Pole Barbie. You will resist the urge to drive your Toys R Us buggy into other shopping parents like Leather Tuscadero at a demolition derby.
If you have small children,you will sing Christmas carols until July 2012.
If you have small children, you will bake. You will bake gingerbread men who will end up looking like they were decorated by a band of drunken monkeys. You may, indeed, make a gingerbread house with sloping walls held together by a bucket of icing. There will be cookies of every stripe.You will schlep these baked goods to teachers, friends, the letter carrier, and indeed, any person your child has had contact with EVER.
If you have small children, you will wrap presents while shut in your walk in closet. You will learn the subterfuge of a Jason Bourne in your purchase and hiding of these gifts. You will position the Elf on the Shelf every night. DON'T FORGET TO MOVE THE ELF. You will stay up until 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve assembling toys and bicycles in the sub-freezing temperatures in the garage in order to avoid being heard and busted. You will use four, five, and six letter words because you had no idea you needed a Phillips head screwdriver. YOU WILL SPEND YOUR 401K ON BATTERIES.
Yes, parents, you will do all of this and more. And you will like it and be thankful for the opportunity to spoil your children beyond repair. Because like Kim Jong Il, they may be short, sometimes delusional and demanding dictators, but it doesn't change the fact that Christmas is for them: our kids. Making wonderful Christmas memories for the brief time our children are small and believe in magic? That, dear reader, is truly a gift.
But seriously. Y'all ever do a Christmas season with small children? It's not for the feint of heart, I assure you. We're talking about a slow build from Halloween to New Year's Day to a frothing holiday frenzy. If you don't have small children, if you're thinking about having children, or if your child doesn't walk or talk right now, here's a glimpse into your future:
You will enter the stores on November 1 to discover the North Pole has vomited all over them. Think the early Christmas decorations are annoying now? Your child will think these decorations are AMAZING. And that Christmas is pretty much tomorrow. Let the pleading begin! Time to enjoy a searing case of the Gimmes. You will not enter a retail establishment with your children safely again until 2012.
You can also look forward to more Christmas movies and shows than you thought existed. Oh, you have warm, fuzzy memories about all the wonderful specials like the Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon and from Rudolph and Frosty from when you were small? Your love for these will be crushed like a bug after the first fifty viewings.
But enjoy the quality shows, because with small children, there is no avoiding the odiferous dreck. Kids are not Roger Ebert. They don't care. You will watch the loathsome Jim Carrey bastardize your beloved childhood memories of the Grinch. You will watch talking golden retrievers dressed as Santa. You will watch Ahnold JINGLE ALL ZE WAY. And you will not be able to curse out loud.
If you have small children at Christmas, another certainty is YOU WILL CRAFT. And craft some more. Before December first, you will have already made forty gingerbread foam ornaments, created twenty two wooden holiday door hangers (colored with markers), and have written approximately eighty different drafts of letters to Santa. Not to mention the creation of a Crayola picture gallery in your home devoted to the love of all things Kringle.
Speaking of Saint Nick, you will also spend a great deal of time threatening to text him about your children's behavior only to end up having your children point out "He sees me when I'm sleeping and knows when I'm awake ALREADY." You will have to corral these small children for hours as you wait in line for unconvincing Santas and surly, picture-taking elves. You will wonder: does Santa's beard smell faintly of booze? And is that a cigarette burn on his red suit?
You don't think you will, but you will be willing to arm wrestle other parents for the last Neck Tat Elmo or Stripper Pole Barbie. You will resist the urge to drive your Toys R Us buggy into other shopping parents like Leather Tuscadero at a demolition derby.
If you have small children,you will sing Christmas carols until July 2012.
If you have small children, you will bake. You will bake gingerbread men who will end up looking like they were decorated by a band of drunken monkeys. You may, indeed, make a gingerbread house with sloping walls held together by a bucket of icing. There will be cookies of every stripe.You will schlep these baked goods to teachers, friends, the letter carrier, and indeed, any person your child has had contact with EVER.
If you have small children, you will wrap presents while shut in your walk in closet. You will learn the subterfuge of a Jason Bourne in your purchase and hiding of these gifts. You will position the Elf on the Shelf every night. DON'T FORGET TO MOVE THE ELF. You will stay up until 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve assembling toys and bicycles in the sub-freezing temperatures in the garage in order to avoid being heard and busted. You will use four, five, and six letter words because you had no idea you needed a Phillips head screwdriver. YOU WILL SPEND YOUR 401K ON BATTERIES.
Yes, parents, you will do all of this and more. And you will like it and be thankful for the opportunity to spoil your children beyond repair. Because like Kim Jong Il, they may be short, sometimes delusional and demanding dictators, but it doesn't change the fact that Christmas is for them: our kids. Making wonderful Christmas memories for the brief time our children are small and believe in magic? That, dear reader, is truly a gift.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Saving Christmas
How was your Thanksgiving? I have to say, somewhat to my concern for the opposite, the family gathering went pretty well. Historically, the challenge of hosting the meal and dealing with extended family dynamics has become, ahem, overwhelming. We're talking three structured trips to the grocery store and putting on your Paula Deen and/or your best Martha Stewart, folks, and it's not for the disorganized or feint of heart.
So how did it go for you? Was the holiday relaxing and fun for you? Or did you spend it drunk and angry? Did you work yourself in the kitchen and hosting until you were too tired and maybe resentful to enjoy yourself? If you did, fear not. I get it. I've alluded in the past to the fact that I have not always been known for being unflappable. So I'm pleased to say this year, for a delightful change, I emerged from Thanksgiving unscathed.
I did it! It wasn't "perfect." I allowed myself to forgo, for example, the use of crystal or china that requires hand washing. The centerpiece was a flock of pine cone turkeys made by my small children. The turkey was deep fried by someone else, and my pies were furnished by my chef, Albert Sons. I, for once, wrestled my perfectionism to the ground and good sense prevailed.
But if for whatever reason your Thanksgiving with the family wasn't everything you wanted it to be, don't give up on Christmas family gatherings yet! I'm here to share a few pearls you might utilize to make your Christmas family gathering one you won't dread. These little maneuvers saved my holiday bacon:
Shut your pie hole. It's always hilarious to watch your liberal cousin argue with your conservative uncle until their faces are purple, right? You're not going to convince someone to change their views over the egg nog, folks. It's not the time. Just be quiet for the holidays. You can fist fight at the next funeral or birthday party. It won't kill you to take a minute off from being right for Christmas. Good guideline: if it's about sex, religion, or politics? JUST DON'T.
Change the subject. It takes two to tango. You do not have to participate in the madness. "Why aren't you married yet?" can become "My GOODNESS the Cowboys are so terrible this year" so easily. Ask something about them or their outfit. Chances are, they're like me and would rather really talk about themselves anyway.
Lay off the egg nog. Alcohol does NOT relieve stress, especially. It is a depressant. It will not make anything more tolerable. Save it for the happy hour with your friends to describe the debacle your holiday was, when you can take a cab and escape.
Get a break. Take a walk, have your own car if you can, get a hotel if you can, stay with a friend instead of contentious relatives. Retire to your bedroom area early to read or meditate. Take an extra long shower. But there are clever ways to get some breathing room. When the topic turns somewhere that makes you queasy, take that bathroom break. My family thinks I have a bladder the size of a pea.
So I hope your Thanksgiving was all you wanted it to be and you were relaxed and at ease. But if it looked a little more Griswold-esque, I'm hoping the above wisdom helps salvage your Christmas or other holiday family gathering. Because as I always say, beware: the definition of a "dysfunctional family" is a family with more than one member in it.
So how did it go for you? Was the holiday relaxing and fun for you? Or did you spend it drunk and angry? Did you work yourself in the kitchen and hosting until you were too tired and maybe resentful to enjoy yourself? If you did, fear not. I get it. I've alluded in the past to the fact that I have not always been known for being unflappable. So I'm pleased to say this year, for a delightful change, I emerged from Thanksgiving unscathed.
I did it! It wasn't "perfect." I allowed myself to forgo, for example, the use of crystal or china that requires hand washing. The centerpiece was a flock of pine cone turkeys made by my small children. The turkey was deep fried by someone else, and my pies were furnished by my chef, Albert Sons. I, for once, wrestled my perfectionism to the ground and good sense prevailed.
But if for whatever reason your Thanksgiving with the family wasn't everything you wanted it to be, don't give up on Christmas family gatherings yet! I'm here to share a few pearls you might utilize to make your Christmas family gathering one you won't dread. These little maneuvers saved my holiday bacon:
Shut your pie hole. It's always hilarious to watch your liberal cousin argue with your conservative uncle until their faces are purple, right? You're not going to convince someone to change their views over the egg nog, folks. It's not the time. Just be quiet for the holidays. You can fist fight at the next funeral or birthday party. It won't kill you to take a minute off from being right for Christmas. Good guideline: if it's about sex, religion, or politics? JUST DON'T.
Change the subject. It takes two to tango. You do not have to participate in the madness. "Why aren't you married yet?" can become "My GOODNESS the Cowboys are so terrible this year" so easily. Ask something about them or their outfit. Chances are, they're like me and would rather really talk about themselves anyway.
Lay off the egg nog. Alcohol does NOT relieve stress, especially. It is a depressant. It will not make anything more tolerable. Save it for the happy hour with your friends to describe the debacle your holiday was, when you can take a cab and escape.
Get a break. Take a walk, have your own car if you can, get a hotel if you can, stay with a friend instead of contentious relatives. Retire to your bedroom area early to read or meditate. Take an extra long shower. But there are clever ways to get some breathing room. When the topic turns somewhere that makes you queasy, take that bathroom break. My family thinks I have a bladder the size of a pea.
So I hope your Thanksgiving was all you wanted it to be and you were relaxed and at ease. But if it looked a little more Griswold-esque, I'm hoping the above wisdom helps salvage your Christmas or other holiday family gathering. Because as I always say, beware: the definition of a "dysfunctional family" is a family with more than one member in it.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Doing the Holiday Flap
I was doing okay until the turkey cake fell on its face. It was such a cute cake, store-bought, naturally (you are all familiar with my being domestically challenged). But as it was a two layer cake cut in half and frosted standing on its side to resemble a turkey, once it hit the Texas heat outside the store, the face layer was too heavy with frosting. So, to my chagrin, the turkey did a face plant just sitting on my counter.
I was going to be mother of the year with that stupid cake at my eight year old son's school Thanksgiving feast, dammit. And my life is scheduled to the nanosecond. I have every remaining moment of 2011 planned for. Anything less than clockwork precision must result in chaos. I had NO time to go get another turkey-themed dessert. Could I swap shower time for another trip to the bakery? The feast was the next day. Second graders required cake. And thus hyperventilating began. It was starting...
I was doing what I like to call the Holiday Flap. And no, it's not a dance I learned from Yo Gabba Gabba or The Wiggles, although that might be a reasonable inference. Instead, the Holiday Flap is an unfortunate family tradition, a snit I have a tendency to get into this time of year if I'm not careful as I am an official recovering perfectionist. And it ain't pretty, folks.
Oh, admit it. No matter how organized you are, how many of you hop on the Panic Attack Express chugging out of Angst Station when it comes to this time of year? Planning and executing a Thanksgiving of epic proportions for dozens of family members? Figuring out how to make a beer budget pay for the champagne wishes of your children and other loved ones? Unable to produce a Christmas card photo without anyone crying in it? Will you get these cards mailed before Valentine's Day this year? Are you navigating crowded, overheated stores, traffic, and disgruntled retail employees?
It can strike fear into the most sturdy of souls, the Triumvirate of Holidays: Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve. If the above description reminds you of yourself, gets your heart rate up a little bit, then you, too, my friend, can get to dancing the Holiday Flap if you aren't careful. Because depending on your expectations, it's possible, nay, far too easy work yourself into a lather trying to produce your "ideal" holiday season.
But I'm here to say, not unlike Prince, there's something else. It's not too late to get a grip whatever your budget or time limitations. Believe it or not, it's actually possible to relax and actually enjoy this time of year. No, no, no; I haven't been drinking. Really. Here's some of what I do to avoid dancing the Holiday Flap:
Modify expectations. People can have some pretty rigid ideas about what MUST happen for the holidays. My house MUST be decorated as if Clark Griswold was involved. We MUST have a gigantic holiday meal exactly recreated from Gramma's or Mom's menu. By scratch, of course. I MUST have a professionally produced photo of my children dressed as elves, pink cheeked and smiling, for my professionally printed Christmas cards. Every gift given MUST be thoughtful, appropriate, and wrapped as if by Martha Stewart. You get my drift. Y'all. Please. In counseling, we call this "musterbation." Unwanted emotions can only follow.
Make instead your goal that people can enjoy YOU, relaxed and at peace. They won't remember the dinner menu, but they'll remember your hysteria over it. Take out just some decorations, or none if it means you maintain your good mood. Feel good about budgeting appropriately. People don't care if you give them homemade goods; in fact, it feels awesome to be so important that you are thinking of them even in the face of less than satisfactory financial situations.
When it comes to food, it's okay to get help. I may never cook a turkey again. I've been emotionally scarred. I'm totally okay with catering the whole meal or asking family members to bring their favorite dish. I'm also WAY okay with eating off the every day plates (related: Getting married? Never sign up for the china with the gold band around the outside of the plate. You have to hand wash them. But I digress). I even give you permission to use*GASP* paper ones.
Don't "should" all over yourself. The only thing you HAVE to do this holiday season, my dears, is stay the color you are and die. The rest is choice. "Must" and "should" can ruin your holidays. Because I take all my moral lessons from cartoons, I will borrow from the Grinch: Christmas Day is in our grasp as long as we have hands to clasp. Loved ones are all we need to be merry.
Avoid doing the Holiday Flap. Once I started slowing down, breathing, and identifying the musts and shoulds I associated with my now-prone turkey cake (just a few well placed toothpicks and the disaster could have been avoided!), I could tell myself: keep cool, baby. I'll have time to pick something else up...or I won't. But I'll be giving me and my loved ones the best gift of all: a relaxed and fun-loving me. Oh, and upside-down turkey cake for dessert.
I was going to be mother of the year with that stupid cake at my eight year old son's school Thanksgiving feast, dammit. And my life is scheduled to the nanosecond. I have every remaining moment of 2011 planned for. Anything less than clockwork precision must result in chaos. I had NO time to go get another turkey-themed dessert. Could I swap shower time for another trip to the bakery? The feast was the next day. Second graders required cake. And thus hyperventilating began. It was starting...
I was doing what I like to call the Holiday Flap. And no, it's not a dance I learned from Yo Gabba Gabba or The Wiggles, although that might be a reasonable inference. Instead, the Holiday Flap is an unfortunate family tradition, a snit I have a tendency to get into this time of year if I'm not careful as I am an official recovering perfectionist. And it ain't pretty, folks.
Oh, admit it. No matter how organized you are, how many of you hop on the Panic Attack Express chugging out of Angst Station when it comes to this time of year? Planning and executing a Thanksgiving of epic proportions for dozens of family members? Figuring out how to make a beer budget pay for the champagne wishes of your children and other loved ones? Unable to produce a Christmas card photo without anyone crying in it? Will you get these cards mailed before Valentine's Day this year? Are you navigating crowded, overheated stores, traffic, and disgruntled retail employees?
It can strike fear into the most sturdy of souls, the Triumvirate of Holidays: Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve. If the above description reminds you of yourself, gets your heart rate up a little bit, then you, too, my friend, can get to dancing the Holiday Flap if you aren't careful. Because depending on your expectations, it's possible, nay, far too easy work yourself into a lather trying to produce your "ideal" holiday season.
But I'm here to say, not unlike Prince, there's something else. It's not too late to get a grip whatever your budget or time limitations. Believe it or not, it's actually possible to relax and actually enjoy this time of year. No, no, no; I haven't been drinking. Really. Here's some of what I do to avoid dancing the Holiday Flap:
Modify expectations. People can have some pretty rigid ideas about what MUST happen for the holidays. My house MUST be decorated as if Clark Griswold was involved. We MUST have a gigantic holiday meal exactly recreated from Gramma's or Mom's menu. By scratch, of course. I MUST have a professionally produced photo of my children dressed as elves, pink cheeked and smiling, for my professionally printed Christmas cards. Every gift given MUST be thoughtful, appropriate, and wrapped as if by Martha Stewart. You get my drift. Y'all. Please. In counseling, we call this "musterbation." Unwanted emotions can only follow.
Make instead your goal that people can enjoy YOU, relaxed and at peace. They won't remember the dinner menu, but they'll remember your hysteria over it. Take out just some decorations, or none if it means you maintain your good mood. Feel good about budgeting appropriately. People don't care if you give them homemade goods; in fact, it feels awesome to be so important that you are thinking of them even in the face of less than satisfactory financial situations.
When it comes to food, it's okay to get help. I may never cook a turkey again. I've been emotionally scarred. I'm totally okay with catering the whole meal or asking family members to bring their favorite dish. I'm also WAY okay with eating off the every day plates (related: Getting married? Never sign up for the china with the gold band around the outside of the plate. You have to hand wash them. But I digress). I even give you permission to use*GASP* paper ones.
Don't "should" all over yourself. The only thing you HAVE to do this holiday season, my dears, is stay the color you are and die. The rest is choice. "Must" and "should" can ruin your holidays. Because I take all my moral lessons from cartoons, I will borrow from the Grinch: Christmas Day is in our grasp as long as we have hands to clasp. Loved ones are all we need to be merry.
Avoid doing the Holiday Flap. Once I started slowing down, breathing, and identifying the musts and shoulds I associated with my now-prone turkey cake (just a few well placed toothpicks and the disaster could have been avoided!), I could tell myself: keep cool, baby. I'll have time to pick something else up...or I won't. But I'll be giving me and my loved ones the best gift of all: a relaxed and fun-loving me. Oh, and upside-down turkey cake for dessert.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A Very Racist Thanksgiving
So someone asked me to write about my most memorable Thanksgiving.
A Thanksgiving memory that stands out for me? Now, y'all know me. You know it's not going to be Norman Rockwell. But it was something.
Sixteen years ago, I got engaged to Hubs. I was so happy and thrilled to have him share a Thanksgiving dinner with me and my extended family. As eccentric (and I'm using the word "eccentric" here in order to be generous) as this older generation can be, it was the first time for Hubs to meet my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and I could show off my cute engineer. Nothing could mar the day for me. Right? Oh, just wait.
Soon-to-be-Hubs and arrive early in the morning to my parents' house. A little exposition: for some reason, my father had a "tradition" where the males go into the front yard and rake leaves every Thanksgiving morning. My brothers always hated that little tradition, and I have to say my heart soared when now-Hubs looked at my father like he had a third eye when Dad suggested he grab a rake. "No thanks," said my mild-mannered Hubs, leaving Dad speechless. Hubs then proceeded to settle in the kitchen where the women were cooking, choosing to hang with the females and all the butter. I loved him so for this.
But the good times really started when the meal was all over. Hubs and I, chilling over empty pie plates and full bellies, silent as we often are around our Mississippi elders, listening to them talk about topics we're not willing to wade in to with them. Because old people from Mississippi can be startlingly...well, shall we say "not in step" with oh, well, this century. But we love them and try to just smile and nod and let them repeat Fox News talking points.
So I'm a little hazy from the carb coma when the topic of race comes up among my family. Now, my grandmother grew up in the Mississippi Delta in the Depression era, the daughter of a sharecropper. And let's just say I come by being opinionated honestly. So I'm kind of paying attention as all my family is talking about race while feeling more and more self-conscious. The opinions being bandied about...let's just say...are not mainstream. And it's getting more and more uncomfortable. And then....well, for my now-Hubs first meeting with my grandmother, he hears her defending her use of...well, a very delicate word. That white people really have NO RIGHT EVER UTTERING.
And I'm wanting to crawl under the table.
But here's the memorable part: Hubs, being Hubs, laughed off my concern and embarrassment and assured me he knew he wasn't marrying a crazy person from crazy people. Evidently, growing up in Mississippi, he had actually been exposed to racism before. Who knew? But I was so relieved he wasn't worked up about it, didn't project it on to me, and continued to be polite, loving, and non-judgmental when no one would expect him to be.
My grandmother has since passed, but I still think my husband's first time meeting her was my most memorable Thanksgiving...and despite the overtones, made me realize how thankful I was then and am now that my Hubs is who he is. And that he's mine.
A Thanksgiving memory that stands out for me? Now, y'all know me. You know it's not going to be Norman Rockwell. But it was something.
Sixteen years ago, I got engaged to Hubs. I was so happy and thrilled to have him share a Thanksgiving dinner with me and my extended family. As eccentric (and I'm using the word "eccentric" here in order to be generous) as this older generation can be, it was the first time for Hubs to meet my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and I could show off my cute engineer. Nothing could mar the day for me. Right? Oh, just wait.
Soon-to-be-Hubs and arrive early in the morning to my parents' house. A little exposition: for some reason, my father had a "tradition" where the males go into the front yard and rake leaves every Thanksgiving morning. My brothers always hated that little tradition, and I have to say my heart soared when now-Hubs looked at my father like he had a third eye when Dad suggested he grab a rake. "No thanks," said my mild-mannered Hubs, leaving Dad speechless. Hubs then proceeded to settle in the kitchen where the women were cooking, choosing to hang with the females and all the butter. I loved him so for this.
But the good times really started when the meal was all over. Hubs and I, chilling over empty pie plates and full bellies, silent as we often are around our Mississippi elders, listening to them talk about topics we're not willing to wade in to with them. Because old people from Mississippi can be startlingly...well, shall we say "not in step" with oh, well, this century. But we love them and try to just smile and nod and let them repeat Fox News talking points.
So I'm a little hazy from the carb coma when the topic of race comes up among my family. Now, my grandmother grew up in the Mississippi Delta in the Depression era, the daughter of a sharecropper. And let's just say I come by being opinionated honestly. So I'm kind of paying attention as all my family is talking about race while feeling more and more self-conscious. The opinions being bandied about...let's just say...are not mainstream. And it's getting more and more uncomfortable. And then....well, for my now-Hubs first meeting with my grandmother, he hears her defending her use of...well, a very delicate word. That white people really have NO RIGHT EVER UTTERING.
And I'm wanting to crawl under the table.
But here's the memorable part: Hubs, being Hubs, laughed off my concern and embarrassment and assured me he knew he wasn't marrying a crazy person from crazy people. Evidently, growing up in Mississippi, he had actually been exposed to racism before. Who knew? But I was so relieved he wasn't worked up about it, didn't project it on to me, and continued to be polite, loving, and non-judgmental when no one would expect him to be.
My grandmother has since passed, but I still think my husband's first time meeting her was my most memorable Thanksgiving...and despite the overtones, made me realize how thankful I was then and am now that my Hubs is who he is. And that he's mine.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Penn State: Never Again
Well, I'm usually all about bringing the funny, but I have to admit, the topic crowding my mind this week isn't funny at all. You see, I have an eight year old son. And I love college football more than a fat kid loves ice cream. So the news coming out of Penn State the last couple of days? Let's just say as usual, I am opinionated.
Yes, I love college football. But I don't care how many wins you rack up, championships you win, or records you break if you achieved those things while you're covering up for your buddy's diddling little boys.
Even my hometown was rocked this week by allegations a well-known and trusted doctor in our area abused teenaged girls under his care. I know of a woman who went to a Collin County preacher who called himself a counselor for her prior sexual abuse...only to be abused by the counselor.
But enough about the darkness. I've decided, in my usual indomitable-spirit fashion, to focus on the positives about the situation at Penn State.
First: can anyone understand what it must take for eight young men to break the secret of sexual abuse? Human beings are so cool how they gravitate to heal, but to bring the actions of such powerful men into light? That took some nerve. Good for them. They will help other children who are being abused know: it doesn't matter who it is or how beloved abusers are. And even though teenagers don't think they're children? They are. If someone over 21 is having sex with a teenager? That person is a criminal. There is no such thing as a Lolita.
The Penn State response by officials, too, was spot on. Heads are rolling. Hopefully more criminal charges will be coming. The college was right not to allow Joe Paterno to leave on his own terms.
I'm also glad the topic of sexual abuse is front and center. We're all talking about it. We're talking about how to stop it, how to spot it, how to protect children. We're talking about how no one is above scrutiny: not clergy, not coaches, not anyone.
I know that some of you reading have been sexually abused as children. Statistics say numbers may be as high as 3 in 5. I hope the Penn State scandal will give you cause to consider breaking your silence. Because that's the most powerful and wonderful thing that has happened: those young men were courageous enough to break the silence. Now their healing can begin. Can you talk to someone about what happened to you? Because it wasn't your fault.
Penn State is also calling attention to the fact that sexual abuse does NOT usually happen with someone the child doesn't know. Most assaults are from family or close friends to the family. As a result, victims have mixed feelings about their experience and their assailant. Usually a predator takes his (usually his, sometimes her) time to groom the child and their family to trust and care for them. Sexual advances are slowly led up to, and a child is torn about both their responsibility in what happened and shame for caring about someone who would hurt them so. Make the assailant a parent, and a child just can't cope.
Lastly, and this is so key: as a parent, have a close relationship with your child. Make them know you believe them. Talk with them about what's going on. And as excruciating as it might be for you, talk to them about their physical boundaries. Insist they will never get into trouble for "telling" on another adult. Have an emotionally intimate relationship with your opposite-sex kid. Daughters need their fathers to talk to about men, and sons need their mothers to talk to about girls. Teach them: some people are friendly. Some are not. And some are dangerous.
So I apologize for the lack of hilarity this week. But to highlight the positive aspects of what is otherwise a horrible tragedy seemed the way to continue to raise awareness of the prevalence of child sexual abuse.
Again: break the silence. If something like this has happened to you in the past, break the silence. If not with a pro, with someone you love who loves you. Tell it.
Because we're only sick as our secrets.
Yes, I love college football. But I don't care how many wins you rack up, championships you win, or records you break if you achieved those things while you're covering up for your buddy's diddling little boys.
Even my hometown was rocked this week by allegations a well-known and trusted doctor in our area abused teenaged girls under his care. I know of a woman who went to a Collin County preacher who called himself a counselor for her prior sexual abuse...only to be abused by the counselor.
But enough about the darkness. I've decided, in my usual indomitable-spirit fashion, to focus on the positives about the situation at Penn State.
First: can anyone understand what it must take for eight young men to break the secret of sexual abuse? Human beings are so cool how they gravitate to heal, but to bring the actions of such powerful men into light? That took some nerve. Good for them. They will help other children who are being abused know: it doesn't matter who it is or how beloved abusers are. And even though teenagers don't think they're children? They are. If someone over 21 is having sex with a teenager? That person is a criminal. There is no such thing as a Lolita.
The Penn State response by officials, too, was spot on. Heads are rolling. Hopefully more criminal charges will be coming. The college was right not to allow Joe Paterno to leave on his own terms.
I'm also glad the topic of sexual abuse is front and center. We're all talking about it. We're talking about how to stop it, how to spot it, how to protect children. We're talking about how no one is above scrutiny: not clergy, not coaches, not anyone.
I know that some of you reading have been sexually abused as children. Statistics say numbers may be as high as 3 in 5. I hope the Penn State scandal will give you cause to consider breaking your silence. Because that's the most powerful and wonderful thing that has happened: those young men were courageous enough to break the silence. Now their healing can begin. Can you talk to someone about what happened to you? Because it wasn't your fault.
Penn State is also calling attention to the fact that sexual abuse does NOT usually happen with someone the child doesn't know. Most assaults are from family or close friends to the family. As a result, victims have mixed feelings about their experience and their assailant. Usually a predator takes his (usually his, sometimes her) time to groom the child and their family to trust and care for them. Sexual advances are slowly led up to, and a child is torn about both their responsibility in what happened and shame for caring about someone who would hurt them so. Make the assailant a parent, and a child just can't cope.
Lastly, and this is so key: as a parent, have a close relationship with your child. Make them know you believe them. Talk with them about what's going on. And as excruciating as it might be for you, talk to them about their physical boundaries. Insist they will never get into trouble for "telling" on another adult. Have an emotionally intimate relationship with your opposite-sex kid. Daughters need their fathers to talk to about men, and sons need their mothers to talk to about girls. Teach them: some people are friendly. Some are not. And some are dangerous.
So I apologize for the lack of hilarity this week. But to highlight the positive aspects of what is otherwise a horrible tragedy seemed the way to continue to raise awareness of the prevalence of child sexual abuse.
Again: break the silence. If something like this has happened to you in the past, break the silence. If not with a pro, with someone you love who loves you. Tell it.
Because we're only sick as our secrets.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
How to Fail Spectacularly
Mistakes were made. Poor judgement was enlisted. Hasty decisions were made, and all of these factors resulted in a huge waste of financial resources and time. People were greatly inconvenienced, emotions were inflamed, innocents were negatively affected. Sturm und drang ensued.
Am I talking about Kim Kardashian's wedding? NO! Well, yes and no. Actually I am the one who pulled a giant boner this week. I did what all humans do eventually: make a mistake. This mistake happened to be on a pretty impressive scale given my age, general intelligence and training, but nonetheless, it occurred. Because, as I heard Ernie sing on Sesame Street when I was a child, "Everyone makes mistakes oh yes they do." Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not perfect. Who knew, right?
But I could be talking about Kim Kardashian. I could be talking about you, I imagine. I'm sure you can conjure up a memory, no matter how recent, of making a cringe-worthy mistake you sincerely regretted then and still do now. Mean words you wanted back in your mouth the minute they were out. Doing something cruel or petty or careless.
So what do you and Kim and I need to do to handle life's eventual screw-ups? Luckily, there's a way to fail spectacularly. First:
Own it. This may be the hardest part of turning failures into growth. You have to have the ego strength to look at yourself and take responsibility for your actions. Yup. That was a stupid thing to do. Sometimes it's bound to happen. What's important to remember is it's just what you did; it's NOT WHO YOU ARE. Everyone makes mistakes both by accident and premeditation sometimes.
Feel it. Explore. Feel down, embarrassed, dumb. Feeling guilty? Guilt can be a great motivator for change. Guilt says, "Wow, shouldn't have done that. Won't be doing that again!" I for one think Kim and I are not going to repeat some of the actions that got us into our particular messes. Now shame is different. Shame says, "There is something wrong with ME." Talk to a pro, please, if you feel shame. Because I'm betting that feeling isn't all about what's happening right now, now, is it?
Limit the pity party. Have a bad day, week over the mistake if you need. By all means, talk to people who can support you and remind you of your worth. But put a time restraint on how long you're going to wear that hair shirt. Self-flagellation is counter-productive and won't help you move on to make meaning of your mistake and fail spectacularly, which I'm meaning in a positive context here.
Let others have their feelings. My mistake cost others. Others have a right to be angry if your actions impact them. Ask for forgiveness, apologize. Tell them you must move on in order to make meaning of the situation but that you understand they are on their own time table. Asking what can be done to make amends goes a long way too.
Make meaning. I, for one, have changed as a result of making my spectacular fail. Let's just say, for the epic proportions of THIS particular fail, I got off easy. Unfortunately, others suffered who had nothing to do with my poor decisions. I am determined not to be as selfish in the future. I am determined be a much more responsible human. I even think I influenced a friend to make fewer mistakes by sharing my story with her.
So Kim, if you're reading this (and Kim Kardashian obviously awaits my counsel with the bated breath of Oprah for Dr. Phil), I, for one, am not judging you. You are human and need to be loved (with apologies to Morrissey here). You made some mistakes in that pursuit. I mean, this guy over Reggie Bush? But I digress. Kim, just own your part in it, get support through the divorce blues, realize you are the expert on you and no one else, and then donate all that money to healthcare for the homeless.
Because then, Kim darling, you and I will have failed spectacularly.
Am I talking about Kim Kardashian's wedding? NO! Well, yes and no. Actually I am the one who pulled a giant boner this week. I did what all humans do eventually: make a mistake. This mistake happened to be on a pretty impressive scale given my age, general intelligence and training, but nonetheless, it occurred. Because, as I heard Ernie sing on Sesame Street when I was a child, "Everyone makes mistakes oh yes they do." Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not perfect. Who knew, right?
But I could be talking about Kim Kardashian. I could be talking about you, I imagine. I'm sure you can conjure up a memory, no matter how recent, of making a cringe-worthy mistake you sincerely regretted then and still do now. Mean words you wanted back in your mouth the minute they were out. Doing something cruel or petty or careless.
So what do you and Kim and I need to do to handle life's eventual screw-ups? Luckily, there's a way to fail spectacularly. First:
Own it. This may be the hardest part of turning failures into growth. You have to have the ego strength to look at yourself and take responsibility for your actions. Yup. That was a stupid thing to do. Sometimes it's bound to happen. What's important to remember is it's just what you did; it's NOT WHO YOU ARE. Everyone makes mistakes both by accident and premeditation sometimes.
Feel it. Explore. Feel down, embarrassed, dumb. Feeling guilty? Guilt can be a great motivator for change. Guilt says, "Wow, shouldn't have done that. Won't be doing that again!" I for one think Kim and I are not going to repeat some of the actions that got us into our particular messes. Now shame is different. Shame says, "There is something wrong with ME." Talk to a pro, please, if you feel shame. Because I'm betting that feeling isn't all about what's happening right now, now, is it?
Limit the pity party. Have a bad day, week over the mistake if you need. By all means, talk to people who can support you and remind you of your worth. But put a time restraint on how long you're going to wear that hair shirt. Self-flagellation is counter-productive and won't help you move on to make meaning of your mistake and fail spectacularly, which I'm meaning in a positive context here.
Let others have their feelings. My mistake cost others. Others have a right to be angry if your actions impact them. Ask for forgiveness, apologize. Tell them you must move on in order to make meaning of the situation but that you understand they are on their own time table. Asking what can be done to make amends goes a long way too.
Make meaning. I, for one, have changed as a result of making my spectacular fail. Let's just say, for the epic proportions of THIS particular fail, I got off easy. Unfortunately, others suffered who had nothing to do with my poor decisions. I am determined not to be as selfish in the future. I am determined be a much more responsible human. I even think I influenced a friend to make fewer mistakes by sharing my story with her.
So Kim, if you're reading this (and Kim Kardashian obviously awaits my counsel with the bated breath of Oprah for Dr. Phil), I, for one, am not judging you. You are human and need to be loved (with apologies to Morrissey here). You made some mistakes in that pursuit. I mean, this guy over Reggie Bush? But I digress. Kim, just own your part in it, get support through the divorce blues, realize you are the expert on you and no one else, and then donate all that money to healthcare for the homeless.
Because then, Kim darling, you and I will have failed spectacularly.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Practicing the Rs of Downtime, or: Sit Down and Shut Up
Y'all are making me tired. Seriously. Now, I've hardly been accused of being terribly ambitious in life, but some of you over-achievers are really exhausting me these days. The fellow mother at the daycare bringing jam-packed, decorated Halloween goodie bags for all the kids in our class? Really? You're making the rest of us look bad. And judging from dealing with some of you in public, it's not making you all that happy, anyway.
There wasn't a lot I loved about growing up in the rural South, but let me tell you this: folks there bring sitting and just being to an art form. Things are sloooow in the South. We even stretch out words and give them extra syllables. With swings and rocking chairs on the porch, you could keep track of the whole town...or just take in a cool rain storm. The whole point was not DOING. Hopefully with a nice glass of the table wine of the South: sweet tea.
So! I'm here to bring some of that old fashioned Southern goodness and give you an excuse to sit down already. Jeez Louise. Being productive is way overrated. Plus, it's turning you into a road-raging, scowling grump. Luckily, you have me to help you manage your stress and prioritize some downtime. Because a lot of you don't seem to EVER be still and quiet. And you don't seem to be familiar with the concept of what the experts call eustress, which is actually stress caused by positive happenings in your life. Weddings, babies: wonderful experiences, but they cause stress.
What IS downtime, anyway? Europeans seem to get it. You don't see them working 60 hours a week. And they've got better health (despite all that cheese and cream and wine the French eat), less depression, and BETTER PRODUCTIVITY. So let's talk about how we get some of that good stuff for us, shall we? I like to call downtime the 3 R's for adults. No, not reading, riting, and rithmatic (did I mention I was raised in the rural South?). I'm talking rest, recreation, and relationships. Time to make time.
How much downtime is enough? Experts say we need an hour a day, a day a week, and a week every three to four months. Did you just do a spit take? I know, I know. Hubs comes from a family that very much values busy-ness, and I will admit I can get looked at sideways when I insist on chilling for my mental health. You might need to let go of perfectionism. Yes, this means sometimes my kitchen floor is crunchy. But downtime is reasonable and even, I dare say, necessary for balance and health. And in my case, to prevent homicide or matricide. Better to stick to my kitchen table, I assure you, than to value a clean house over my sanity. So let's take a look at each R, shall we?
Relationships. Do you SEE your family at all, or are you just texting each other your whereabouts? Speaking of texts, when you're together, are you actually looking up from your electronic device long enough to gaze into someone's eyes? When's the last time you completed a project with a loved one? Or just enjoyed learning about the other's inner world? If you think about it, it's been awhile. Try a no-screen rule for an hour. Revive the art of conversation. Talk about how every sports team in Dallas SUCKS. Sorry. Perhaps the Rangers will win the World Series after the publication of this, but Tony Romo alone has sent me into therapy. I heard he threw three interceptions during the bye week. I bet he'll be a great father for at least the first two trimesters of his wife's pregnancy. But I digress.
Recreation. Hey, remember fun? Yeah, me neither. This won't work. Recreation is any activity you do for sheer pleasure. For me, I have to admit to a pretty active TV and Twitter addiction. Some people like a game of pick-up basketball, others like to bake a loaf of bread...hell, some people even tell me they like to clean, but then I look at them like they've grown a third eyeball. But whatever floats your proverbial boat, is fun to do, and is preferably creative. You don't have to be good at it. Somebody once said: if the voice in your head says you can't paint, the only way to silence it is to paint.
Rest. And here's the one we as Americans just can't seem to wrap our head around. Rest means doing nothing. Just keeping the couch from floating off the floor. Meditating. Porch sitting. Because it is SO important to spend time inside your own head, hearing your own voice, placing your attention there. And we virtually never do it. Rest means being a human being, not a human doing. Rest is getting back in touch with that "I" you really are. Ever heard that phrase, "I am so sick of myself"? Well, that means there's an "myself" for that "I" to get sick of. That "I" is the seat of consciousness, your soul, and trust me. It needs tending. Deepak Chopra and Eckhart Tolle have my back on this one.
So go forth and do nothing, my babies! As we roll into the holiday season, Thanksgiving and Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or the milieu of your choice, stress can be as common a side dish as stuffing and pumpkin pie. Both good stress and bad. Combat it. Because your family won't remember what gift you got them. But they will totally remember if you're a screamy crazy person for the season. You've got my permission (and yes, sometimes even my urging) to sit down. And occasionally? Shut up. It's good for you and for me.
There wasn't a lot I loved about growing up in the rural South, but let me tell you this: folks there bring sitting and just being to an art form. Things are sloooow in the South. We even stretch out words and give them extra syllables. With swings and rocking chairs on the porch, you could keep track of the whole town...or just take in a cool rain storm. The whole point was not DOING. Hopefully with a nice glass of the table wine of the South: sweet tea.
So! I'm here to bring some of that old fashioned Southern goodness and give you an excuse to sit down already. Jeez Louise. Being productive is way overrated. Plus, it's turning you into a road-raging, scowling grump. Luckily, you have me to help you manage your stress and prioritize some downtime. Because a lot of you don't seem to EVER be still and quiet. And you don't seem to be familiar with the concept of what the experts call eustress, which is actually stress caused by positive happenings in your life. Weddings, babies: wonderful experiences, but they cause stress.
What IS downtime, anyway? Europeans seem to get it. You don't see them working 60 hours a week. And they've got better health (despite all that cheese and cream and wine the French eat), less depression, and BETTER PRODUCTIVITY. So let's talk about how we get some of that good stuff for us, shall we? I like to call downtime the 3 R's for adults. No, not reading, riting, and rithmatic (did I mention I was raised in the rural South?). I'm talking rest, recreation, and relationships. Time to make time.
How much downtime is enough? Experts say we need an hour a day, a day a week, and a week every three to four months. Did you just do a spit take? I know, I know. Hubs comes from a family that very much values busy-ness, and I will admit I can get looked at sideways when I insist on chilling for my mental health. You might need to let go of perfectionism. Yes, this means sometimes my kitchen floor is crunchy. But downtime is reasonable and even, I dare say, necessary for balance and health. And in my case, to prevent homicide or matricide. Better to stick to my kitchen table, I assure you, than to value a clean house over my sanity. So let's take a look at each R, shall we?
Relationships. Do you SEE your family at all, or are you just texting each other your whereabouts? Speaking of texts, when you're together, are you actually looking up from your electronic device long enough to gaze into someone's eyes? When's the last time you completed a project with a loved one? Or just enjoyed learning about the other's inner world? If you think about it, it's been awhile. Try a no-screen rule for an hour. Revive the art of conversation. Talk about how every sports team in Dallas SUCKS. Sorry. Perhaps the Rangers will win the World Series after the publication of this, but Tony Romo alone has sent me into therapy. I heard he threw three interceptions during the bye week. I bet he'll be a great father for at least the first two trimesters of his wife's pregnancy. But I digress.
Recreation. Hey, remember fun? Yeah, me neither. This won't work. Recreation is any activity you do for sheer pleasure. For me, I have to admit to a pretty active TV and Twitter addiction. Some people like a game of pick-up basketball, others like to bake a loaf of bread...hell, some people even tell me they like to clean, but then I look at them like they've grown a third eyeball. But whatever floats your proverbial boat, is fun to do, and is preferably creative. You don't have to be good at it. Somebody once said: if the voice in your head says you can't paint, the only way to silence it is to paint.
Rest. And here's the one we as Americans just can't seem to wrap our head around. Rest means doing nothing. Just keeping the couch from floating off the floor. Meditating. Porch sitting. Because it is SO important to spend time inside your own head, hearing your own voice, placing your attention there. And we virtually never do it. Rest means being a human being, not a human doing. Rest is getting back in touch with that "I" you really are. Ever heard that phrase, "I am so sick of myself"? Well, that means there's an "myself" for that "I" to get sick of. That "I" is the seat of consciousness, your soul, and trust me. It needs tending. Deepak Chopra and Eckhart Tolle have my back on this one.
So go forth and do nothing, my babies! As we roll into the holiday season, Thanksgiving and Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or the milieu of your choice, stress can be as common a side dish as stuffing and pumpkin pie. Both good stress and bad. Combat it. Because your family won't remember what gift you got them. But they will totally remember if you're a screamy crazy person for the season. You've got my permission (and yes, sometimes even my urging) to sit down. And occasionally? Shut up. It's good for you and for me.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Autumn! Or: Best. Season. EVAH.
It's FALL, baby! Or as we like to call it in Texas, Just Had Summer. But I am LOVING IT! Autumn is truly more welcome than usual around here after the most brutal summer on record, but regardless of the roasting we've endured in the previous season, Fall is my favorite time of year and always has been. Oh, Fall. Why do I adore you? Let me count and pontificate on the ways.
It bears repeating: IT'S NOT HOT. Oh, sure, it still climbs into the mid-eighties, which some soft New England types still might complain about. But not us Texans. We just had seventy days above one hundred degrees in this neck of the woods. We are loving us some eighties. The air is dry, and the nights are downright chilly. I love the time of the year when the kids have to bundle up in the morning (even though we lose a number of jackets as they are unnecessary after school lets out). So what if the colorful foliage this year is due to the summer killing every piece of living vegetation in Texas? We'll take it.
Two words: Football Season. Yes, I capitalized it. I was born and bred in the South. Football is a religion here, you see. More importantly, I was brought up within the ranks of the One True and Righteous College Football Conference: The SEC. Sorry, Big 12. When you have to play LSU, Alabama, and Auburn in your first month of the schedule, we'll talk. Women in the South know and adore their college football. There's nothing like watching a good conservative Christian blonde in Gucci heels suddenly scream,"TACKLE THAT SUMBITCH AND BREAK HIS LEGS!"At Southern colleges, game days meant semi-formal dress for the stadium, and your date WEARS A TIE. We are, indeed, ready for some football.
It's all about the comfort food. Ah, fall. Season of pumpkin breads, pies, muffins, and mostly importantly, spice lattes. When you haven't had a hot meal for four months because you can't bear to turn on an oven in the heat, it's heaven to cram your face full with hot soups, chili, and grits. Oh, grits. Bearer of cheese, shrimp, butter...pretty much whatever you really want to be eating can be delivered by the marvelous mush that is grits. Northerners should look into it. Hot food: GET INTO MAH BELLY.
Halloween! Coolest. Holiday. Ever. What beats costumed, socially endorsed door to door panhandling for chocolate? I love Halloween. I love watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! until my kids insist on watching something from this century. And horror movies! Why do I adore them? I can only blame my childhood, but I'm watching Halloween with the original scream queen Jamie Lee Curtis EVERY YEAR. As well as Carrie, but that's about my twisted high school revenge fantasies and is best kept between my therapist and me. I'm sure my rich inner life is also why at this time of year I also must throw toast at Tim Curry on a movie screen. While dressed as a maid in garters.
Fairs and carnivals. I am a sap for all fair traditions: I want stuffed animals to be won bravely for me on the midway by Hubs shooting water into a clown's mouth. I want cotton candy. I MUST HAVE THE FLETCHER CORNY DOG or there will be sulking until next September. I want a fried door knob if that's what's won the top fair food prize. I don't care. I ain't skerred. I want to be breathless at the top of the Texas Star Ferris wheel. I even want to volunteer at my kid's carnival for the ring toss game. Oh. Wait. No, I actually don't want to do that. But I am, because have I mentioned I love Fall?
Thanksgiving! It's like a carbohydrate parade into Christmas! I'm outing myself as a food enthusiast, but it's so true. What other time of year to I get to wrestle a huge dead bird, bathe him in salt water, truss him up, stuff him with MORE food, and cram him into my oven for hours? I love all the old familiar, complicated casseroles I don't make any other time of year. I even love my mother burning the rolls on the bottom year after year because she has no idea how to work my stove.
I hope you're finding as much to be grateful for this season as well! If nothing else, we gain an hour of sleep, and sleep is totally the new sex, right? There's a lot of fun to the season, folks. Grab you a corny dog, get into costume, ride that roller coaster and buy a bigger pair of pants. Because 2011 is waning. And if you're like me, you've fallen for Fall.
It bears repeating: IT'S NOT HOT. Oh, sure, it still climbs into the mid-eighties, which some soft New England types still might complain about. But not us Texans. We just had seventy days above one hundred degrees in this neck of the woods. We are loving us some eighties. The air is dry, and the nights are downright chilly. I love the time of the year when the kids have to bundle up in the morning (even though we lose a number of jackets as they are unnecessary after school lets out). So what if the colorful foliage this year is due to the summer killing every piece of living vegetation in Texas? We'll take it.
Two words: Football Season. Yes, I capitalized it. I was born and bred in the South. Football is a religion here, you see. More importantly, I was brought up within the ranks of the One True and Righteous College Football Conference: The SEC. Sorry, Big 12. When you have to play LSU, Alabama, and Auburn in your first month of the schedule, we'll talk. Women in the South know and adore their college football. There's nothing like watching a good conservative Christian blonde in Gucci heels suddenly scream,"TACKLE THAT SUMBITCH AND BREAK HIS LEGS!"At Southern colleges, game days meant semi-formal dress for the stadium, and your date WEARS A TIE. We are, indeed, ready for some football.
It's all about the comfort food. Ah, fall. Season of pumpkin breads, pies, muffins, and mostly importantly, spice lattes. When you haven't had a hot meal for four months because you can't bear to turn on an oven in the heat, it's heaven to cram your face full with hot soups, chili, and grits. Oh, grits. Bearer of cheese, shrimp, butter...pretty much whatever you really want to be eating can be delivered by the marvelous mush that is grits. Northerners should look into it. Hot food: GET INTO MAH BELLY.
Halloween! Coolest. Holiday. Ever. What beats costumed, socially endorsed door to door panhandling for chocolate? I love Halloween. I love watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! until my kids insist on watching something from this century. And horror movies! Why do I adore them? I can only blame my childhood, but I'm watching Halloween with the original scream queen Jamie Lee Curtis EVERY YEAR. As well as Carrie, but that's about my twisted high school revenge fantasies and is best kept between my therapist and me. I'm sure my rich inner life is also why at this time of year I also must throw toast at Tim Curry on a movie screen. While dressed as a maid in garters.
Fairs and carnivals. I am a sap for all fair traditions: I want stuffed animals to be won bravely for me on the midway by Hubs shooting water into a clown's mouth. I want cotton candy. I MUST HAVE THE FLETCHER CORNY DOG or there will be sulking until next September. I want a fried door knob if that's what's won the top fair food prize. I don't care. I ain't skerred. I want to be breathless at the top of the Texas Star Ferris wheel. I even want to volunteer at my kid's carnival for the ring toss game. Oh. Wait. No, I actually don't want to do that. But I am, because have I mentioned I love Fall?
Thanksgiving! It's like a carbohydrate parade into Christmas! I'm outing myself as a food enthusiast, but it's so true. What other time of year to I get to wrestle a huge dead bird, bathe him in salt water, truss him up, stuff him with MORE food, and cram him into my oven for hours? I love all the old familiar, complicated casseroles I don't make any other time of year. I even love my mother burning the rolls on the bottom year after year because she has no idea how to work my stove.
I hope you're finding as much to be grateful for this season as well! If nothing else, we gain an hour of sleep, and sleep is totally the new sex, right? There's a lot of fun to the season, folks. Grab you a corny dog, get into costume, ride that roller coaster and buy a bigger pair of pants. Because 2011 is waning. And if you're like me, you've fallen for Fall.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Paging Dr. Seuss: A Mother's ABCs
Big A, little a. What begins with A? Angst, anger, aggravation, A A A.
Big B, little b. What begins with B? Baby barf and back-talk, B B B.
Big C, little c. What begins with C? Cacophony and crying children, C C C.
Big D, little d. What begins with D? Dying dreams, dirty diapers, and a dog to ride, too.
Big E, little e. What begins with E? Ear pollution, ego death, excrement, E E E.
Big F, little F. Feelings of failure, F F F.
Big G, little g. What begins with G? Guzzling Grey Goose, G G G.
Big H, little h. A hat for the car pool lane. Hooray! Hooray!
Big I, little i. I I I. My children are irate, and so am I.
Big J, little j. What begins with J? Juice box, jelly stain, and morning joe begin that way.
Big K, little k. Kleenex. Kerfuffles. Kafkaesque existence and karate lessons, too.
Big L, little l. Little Lola Lop. Large lap. Lazy mommy's lamentations over her lot.
Big M, little m. Many messy minions making midnight messes in the moonlight. Mighty tired.
Big N, little n. What begins with those? Nine new pairs of shoes this year and noses pouring snot.
O is very useful. You use it when you say, "Oh hell no you didn't!" and "Oh God get me through this day."
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNO...P.
Pee in pink pajamas. Puking in a pail. Pulling on the puppy's ears, and now mom's pulling out her hair.
Big Q, little q, what begins with Q? The quick Queen of Quincy and her quagmire of poo.
Big R, little r. Rosy Robin Ross. On account of raging hormones, Rosy's looking ridiculous.
Big S, little s. Silly Sammy Slick. If mommy's got some free time, you know that's when he's sick, sick, sick.
T..T t...t. What begins with T? Time with a two year old sends mommy up a tree.
Big V, little v. What begins with V? Valium and vitriol. V V V.
W...w...W. Get used to washing as it is now all that you will do.
X is very useful if your name is Nixie Knox. It also comes in handy writing "I used to be a fox."
Big Y, little y. Yawning. Yellow yack. Also for your lost youth, for yelling "Put that back!"
ABCDEFG...HIJKLMNOP...QRSTUV...W...X...Y...and...Z.
Big Z, little Z. What begins with Z? It stands for all my missing sleep. Cause I'm a mom, you see.
Big B, little b. What begins with B? Baby barf and back-talk, B B B.
Big C, little c. What begins with C? Cacophony and crying children, C C C.
Big D, little d. What begins with D? Dying dreams, dirty diapers, and a dog to ride, too.
Big E, little e. What begins with E? Ear pollution, ego death, excrement, E E E.
Big F, little F. Feelings of failure, F F F.
Big G, little g. What begins with G? Guzzling Grey Goose, G G G.
Big H, little h. A hat for the car pool lane. Hooray! Hooray!
Big I, little i. I I I. My children are irate, and so am I.
Big J, little j. What begins with J? Juice box, jelly stain, and morning joe begin that way.
Big K, little k. Kleenex. Kerfuffles. Kafkaesque existence and karate lessons, too.
Big L, little l. Little Lola Lop. Large lap. Lazy mommy's lamentations over her lot.
Big M, little m. Many messy minions making midnight messes in the moonlight. Mighty tired.
Big N, little n. What begins with those? Nine new pairs of shoes this year and noses pouring snot.
O is very useful. You use it when you say, "Oh hell no you didn't!" and "Oh God get me through this day."
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNO...P.
Pee in pink pajamas. Puking in a pail. Pulling on the puppy's ears, and now mom's pulling out her hair.
Big Q, little q, what begins with Q? The quick Queen of Quincy and her quagmire of poo.
Big R, little r. Rosy Robin Ross. On account of raging hormones, Rosy's looking ridiculous.
Big S, little s. Silly Sammy Slick. If mommy's got some free time, you know that's when he's sick, sick, sick.
T..T t...t. What begins with T? Time with a two year old sends mommy up a tree.
Big V, little v. What begins with V? Valium and vitriol. V V V.
W...w...W. Get used to washing as it is now all that you will do.
X is very useful if your name is Nixie Knox. It also comes in handy writing "I used to be a fox."
Big Y, little y. Yawning. Yellow yack. Also for your lost youth, for yelling "Put that back!"
ABCDEFG...HIJKLMNOP...QRSTUV...W...X...Y...and...Z.
Big Z, little Z. What begins with Z? It stands for all my missing sleep. Cause I'm a mom, you see.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
A Mother's Prayer, or: Losing My Religion
Are you there, God? It's me, Eliska.
I'm needing some serious assistance with this parenting thing, God. I'm telling you, these children are making me lose my religion. I need Your intervention. I know anything is possible with You. But if I'm going to make it out of this alive and sane, You've gotta take the wheel. Stat. Because the family cray-cray is about to get me. Just a few simple requests, O Lord, and I know You've got my back. You've gotta help me make a stand here.
For example, could You please sweet baby Jesus have my children stop shouting EVERY WORD THEY UTTER instead of speaking? And while You're at it, it'd be nice if they'd not all talk at once every now and then. Have mercy: make the whining stop. Are moments of silence even possible? I do so miss the sound of my own voice in my head. Could You inspire my daughter to give up debating everything up to and including the color of the sky? And it would be REALLY cool if the six year old's automatic reply to any request would be something not oppositional.
Give me the strength to answer a thousand stupid knock-knock jokes, apply a gazillion temporary tattoos, explain how and why everything anywhere in the world is the way it is at any time. Make the grocery store much more fun. Because I live there. Let me wipe up heinies, boogers, and spilled food and drink with a smile. Related: can my mini-van smell less deep fried?
Could you make it where I don't have to hold down anyone to brush his teeth, clip his nails, or give him medicine while he screams blue murder? Could You make it where my child will blow his nose instead of wiping lovely green, slimy snot all over his sleeve, rubbing his face raw in the process, and then screaming about how his face hurts? Could brushing the four year old's hair not inspire me to either shave her head or snatch her bald? Could farts and poop become significantly less funny?
Could You arrange bath times that do not include pooping and/or peeing in the tub or on one another, screaming if water comes in contact with anybody's head, and fights over having to get both in and out of the shower and in what order the children will get in? Could my house resemble The Lord of the Flies a little less? I mean, the argument over the INVISIBLE PLATE OF COOKIES? Really?
Sweet Jesus, give me strength to accept all of Harry Potter's spells cast over me, the patience to dress children who go limp like linguine (have you ever tried to put a sock on a cooked piece of pasta? Welcome to life with my four year old), and the will to keep smiling when the eight year old says such gems as "I know where you got that big belly. From having me!"
Help me, O Lord, with the heavy burden of children's programming. Take the Wow Wow Wubsy theme song from my head. Dispense with my desire to spray for Muppets and my aversion to talking golden retrievers. Elmo doesn't mean any harm. But his voice makes me want to stuff my ears with ground glass. Remove my loathing for all things superhero-related and give me the ability to fasten countless towels around necks with safety pins again and again without ire.
In Your infinite mercy, sweet Jesus, please, please, PLEASE inspire my daughter to allow her father to do ANYTHING for her. Change her heart where a glass of juice poured by her father is acceptable to drink. See into her soul. Make it possible for him to kiss her goodbye. Help her realize she weighs forty pounds and can no longer be carried without my becoming a slightly curved person with arms a couple of inches longer than everyone else's. Oh, and any time You could get her to wake up and use the bathroom in the night as opposed to peeing her pants would be awesome.
Related: O JESUS, LET ME GO TO THE BATHROOM BY MYSELF. With the door actually closed.
And Jesus, is it possible when I take the children to the park or a similar type amusement that they actually leave my side and go play? As opposed to all three of them standing around me arguing? Other children do so enjoy playground equipment, bounce houses, and birthday party activities. Why can't mine?
May my children not drop toys and clothes where they stand, stop using Tae Kwan Do in a harmful manner, and eat something besides chicken nuggets and cheese pizza. Make any and all clothing acceptable to wear if it fits them. Make it known to them the word "please" doesn't change my answer from no to yes. Enable them to sleep past six in the morning. Protect me from their many bodily fluids.
Lastly, sweet Jesus, change my heart to one filled with gratitude. I can have a dozen children when many women long for even one. Fill my heart with joy as I tackle eight-foot-high mountains of laundry, unending loads of dishes (it's like Fantasia!), and on the third sweep-and-mop of the kitchen floor of the day. Fill my soul with cheer as I sit in the car pool line, surely widening the hole in the ozone on a daily basis. Forgive our monstrous carbon footprint. Make going broke more attractive.
Because the days may be long, but childhood is short. Let me gladly take on the most mundane, boring, and dirty of tasks as my sacred job of motherhood. As opposed to feeling murderous.
Because my cup, indeed, runneth over.
AMEN.
I'm needing some serious assistance with this parenting thing, God. I'm telling you, these children are making me lose my religion. I need Your intervention. I know anything is possible with You. But if I'm going to make it out of this alive and sane, You've gotta take the wheel. Stat. Because the family cray-cray is about to get me. Just a few simple requests, O Lord, and I know You've got my back. You've gotta help me make a stand here.
For example, could You please sweet baby Jesus have my children stop shouting EVERY WORD THEY UTTER instead of speaking? And while You're at it, it'd be nice if they'd not all talk at once every now and then. Have mercy: make the whining stop. Are moments of silence even possible? I do so miss the sound of my own voice in my head. Could You inspire my daughter to give up debating everything up to and including the color of the sky? And it would be REALLY cool if the six year old's automatic reply to any request would be something not oppositional.
Give me the strength to answer a thousand stupid knock-knock jokes, apply a gazillion temporary tattoos, explain how and why everything anywhere in the world is the way it is at any time. Make the grocery store much more fun. Because I live there. Let me wipe up heinies, boogers, and spilled food and drink with a smile. Related: can my mini-van smell less deep fried?
Could you make it where I don't have to hold down anyone to brush his teeth, clip his nails, or give him medicine while he screams blue murder? Could You make it where my child will blow his nose instead of wiping lovely green, slimy snot all over his sleeve, rubbing his face raw in the process, and then screaming about how his face hurts? Could brushing the four year old's hair not inspire me to either shave her head or snatch her bald? Could farts and poop become significantly less funny?
Could You arrange bath times that do not include pooping and/or peeing in the tub or on one another, screaming if water comes in contact with anybody's head, and fights over having to get both in and out of the shower and in what order the children will get in? Could my house resemble The Lord of the Flies a little less? I mean, the argument over the INVISIBLE PLATE OF COOKIES? Really?
Sweet Jesus, give me strength to accept all of Harry Potter's spells cast over me, the patience to dress children who go limp like linguine (have you ever tried to put a sock on a cooked piece of pasta? Welcome to life with my four year old), and the will to keep smiling when the eight year old says such gems as "I know where you got that big belly. From having me!"
Help me, O Lord, with the heavy burden of children's programming. Take the Wow Wow Wubsy theme song from my head. Dispense with my desire to spray for Muppets and my aversion to talking golden retrievers. Elmo doesn't mean any harm. But his voice makes me want to stuff my ears with ground glass. Remove my loathing for all things superhero-related and give me the ability to fasten countless towels around necks with safety pins again and again without ire.
In Your infinite mercy, sweet Jesus, please, please, PLEASE inspire my daughter to allow her father to do ANYTHING for her. Change her heart where a glass of juice poured by her father is acceptable to drink. See into her soul. Make it possible for him to kiss her goodbye. Help her realize she weighs forty pounds and can no longer be carried without my becoming a slightly curved person with arms a couple of inches longer than everyone else's. Oh, and any time You could get her to wake up and use the bathroom in the night as opposed to peeing her pants would be awesome.
Related: O JESUS, LET ME GO TO THE BATHROOM BY MYSELF. With the door actually closed.
And Jesus, is it possible when I take the children to the park or a similar type amusement that they actually leave my side and go play? As opposed to all three of them standing around me arguing? Other children do so enjoy playground equipment, bounce houses, and birthday party activities. Why can't mine?
May my children not drop toys and clothes where they stand, stop using Tae Kwan Do in a harmful manner, and eat something besides chicken nuggets and cheese pizza. Make any and all clothing acceptable to wear if it fits them. Make it known to them the word "please" doesn't change my answer from no to yes. Enable them to sleep past six in the morning. Protect me from their many bodily fluids.
Lastly, sweet Jesus, change my heart to one filled with gratitude. I can have a dozen children when many women long for even one. Fill my heart with joy as I tackle eight-foot-high mountains of laundry, unending loads of dishes (it's like Fantasia!), and on the third sweep-and-mop of the kitchen floor of the day. Fill my soul with cheer as I sit in the car pool line, surely widening the hole in the ozone on a daily basis. Forgive our monstrous carbon footprint. Make going broke more attractive.
Because the days may be long, but childhood is short. Let me gladly take on the most mundane, boring, and dirty of tasks as my sacred job of motherhood. As opposed to feeling murderous.
Because my cup, indeed, runneth over.
AMEN.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
How To Be Better at Practically Everything
Oh, America. What am I going to do with you? I love you, baby, but to quote the immortal Carlos Santana, you got to change your evil ways. Of course, I know this happens one person at a time. I've got musings (quelle surprise! More musings!) on how to be better, citizen by citizen. Of course, this doesn't apply to you. Just forward it on passive-aggressively to an in-law or something. Oh, I kid.
Read something. And by someone you just might not agree with. Too many of us have our select Facebook friends, the cherry-picked Tweeters we follow, and our specific blogs and news sites we visit each day. But I'm here to tell you: there's something else. There ARE intelligent debaters on each side of an issue. I may bang my head on the kitchen table after doing it, but I respect someone who has a nimble mind, even if we disagree. I know the voice of moderation is hard to hear over the partisan vitriol and nastiness that seems to be our new way of communication in America. Seems sometimes somebody wants another civil war. But it does your brain good exercise to think in different patterns. And by the way, if you only have one wing, right or left, you're going to end up flying in a circle. It's just physics, folks.
Move. And somewhere besides between the TV and the refrigerator. It's not necessary to overhaul your whole lifestyle. I'm not asking you to struggle into spandex. That would be wrong and cruel (and a workout of its own, fodder for another blog). But if the dog wouldn't like a little trot outside, I bet the kids would. Or maybe you're like me, and it's just an excellent excuse for alone time. Twenty minutes. Three times a week. No biggie. It's a powerful anti-depressant. And judging from the scowls on some of the pusses I've seen out in public lately, you could use one.
Eat something. Something that isn't made by Yum Brands, Inc., for crying out loud. I think some of you are kept alive merely by preservatives. Related: water doesn't need to be flavored to be palatable. Start small. Make a promise to yourself SOMETHING you eat today won't come in a wrapper.
Say something. Directly. Not all sideways. Don't sulk and puff and sigh to make me ask what's wrong with you. Speak. If you have beef, I will not know it unless you tell it. TO ME, not our mutual friend. Or my favorite: the Sideways Status Update. You've seen it. You've got that Facebook friend or family member who loves to post something cryptic to get attention. If your status says something like, "...is so disappointed to think a friend could treat me this way," you're sharing that in hopes to get attention. JUST TALK TO THE PERSON. Chances are they, like you, are so wrapped up in their own nonsense they have no idea you've got your knickers in a knot.
Here's some prompts about how to be assertive: I want. I need. I feel happy/sad/angry when you do a certain thing. I would prefer another thing. Dang, that sounds elementary, but I'm telling you, it seems no one can just say what's on their mind without losing it. And there are choices between doormat and sledgehammer, people. There's a way to be heard without being Ann Coulter. Ooh, I just had an involuntary shudder.
Stop saying things. Pay close attention to what you're going to say before you say it today. Give whatever you are about to utter this litmus test: Is it a complaint or criticism? THEN JUST DON'T. You'll be shocked if you pay attention how much we do this. Is what you're about to say kind? Loving? Ethical? If the answer is no, then for the love of all that is holy, SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE.
Turn your eyeballs out. Think about someone else for a change. Check your ego size. And trust me, this is spoken by the Ego That Ate Manhattan. If you can't put someone else first, realize that when you look to help others you get to feel smug. And they'll do stuff for you. Whatever gets you through the night, pal.
Act as if. If you want to be better, you've got to act as if you are better. Because if you wait until you FEEL like being a better person, you're going to keep waiting. Feelings follow action, not the other way around.
Pray or meditate. Spirituality is linked with happiness and well-being. But I'm sure there are some atheists out there who are just hilarious. Either way, the mindfulness that is required for meditation or prayer will at least calm your body down, center and ground you, and make you easier for us to deal with.
So that's how to be better at everything in what? A thousand words or less? You're welcome. And don't think for a minute I didn't write this post as a reminder for the most thick-headed egomaniac I know. Which would be me. Let's own it, shall we? America can use some bettering.
Read something. And by someone you just might not agree with. Too many of us have our select Facebook friends, the cherry-picked Tweeters we follow, and our specific blogs and news sites we visit each day. But I'm here to tell you: there's something else. There ARE intelligent debaters on each side of an issue. I may bang my head on the kitchen table after doing it, but I respect someone who has a nimble mind, even if we disagree. I know the voice of moderation is hard to hear over the partisan vitriol and nastiness that seems to be our new way of communication in America. Seems sometimes somebody wants another civil war. But it does your brain good exercise to think in different patterns. And by the way, if you only have one wing, right or left, you're going to end up flying in a circle. It's just physics, folks.
Move. And somewhere besides between the TV and the refrigerator. It's not necessary to overhaul your whole lifestyle. I'm not asking you to struggle into spandex. That would be wrong and cruel (and a workout of its own, fodder for another blog). But if the dog wouldn't like a little trot outside, I bet the kids would. Or maybe you're like me, and it's just an excellent excuse for alone time. Twenty minutes. Three times a week. No biggie. It's a powerful anti-depressant. And judging from the scowls on some of the pusses I've seen out in public lately, you could use one.
Eat something. Something that isn't made by Yum Brands, Inc., for crying out loud. I think some of you are kept alive merely by preservatives. Related: water doesn't need to be flavored to be palatable. Start small. Make a promise to yourself SOMETHING you eat today won't come in a wrapper.
Say something. Directly. Not all sideways. Don't sulk and puff and sigh to make me ask what's wrong with you. Speak. If you have beef, I will not know it unless you tell it. TO ME, not our mutual friend. Or my favorite: the Sideways Status Update. You've seen it. You've got that Facebook friend or family member who loves to post something cryptic to get attention. If your status says something like, "...is so disappointed to think a friend could treat me this way," you're sharing that in hopes to get attention. JUST TALK TO THE PERSON. Chances are they, like you, are so wrapped up in their own nonsense they have no idea you've got your knickers in a knot.
Here's some prompts about how to be assertive: I want. I need. I feel happy/sad/angry when you do a certain thing. I would prefer another thing. Dang, that sounds elementary, but I'm telling you, it seems no one can just say what's on their mind without losing it. And there are choices between doormat and sledgehammer, people. There's a way to be heard without being Ann Coulter. Ooh, I just had an involuntary shudder.
Stop saying things. Pay close attention to what you're going to say before you say it today. Give whatever you are about to utter this litmus test: Is it a complaint or criticism? THEN JUST DON'T. You'll be shocked if you pay attention how much we do this. Is what you're about to say kind? Loving? Ethical? If the answer is no, then for the love of all that is holy, SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE.
Turn your eyeballs out. Think about someone else for a change. Check your ego size. And trust me, this is spoken by the Ego That Ate Manhattan. If you can't put someone else first, realize that when you look to help others you get to feel smug. And they'll do stuff for you. Whatever gets you through the night, pal.
Act as if. If you want to be better, you've got to act as if you are better. Because if you wait until you FEEL like being a better person, you're going to keep waiting. Feelings follow action, not the other way around.
Pray or meditate. Spirituality is linked with happiness and well-being. But I'm sure there are some atheists out there who are just hilarious. Either way, the mindfulness that is required for meditation or prayer will at least calm your body down, center and ground you, and make you easier for us to deal with.
So that's how to be better at everything in what? A thousand words or less? You're welcome. And don't think for a minute I didn't write this post as a reminder for the most thick-headed egomaniac I know. Which would be me. Let's own it, shall we? America can use some bettering.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
That's Right, You're Not From Texas
Wow. Ever since Governor Goodhair (rest in peace, Molly Ivins) threw his giant, oversized cowboy hat into the presidential ring, Texas has really been thrown back into the national spotlight. And not always in a good way. Being a blue chick in this, the reddest county in the reddest state in the union, I can dig it. I've long moaned about many disappointing aspects of Texas, such as the government's allegiance to businesses over humans, for example.
But when the state caught fire after Perry prayed for rain? It got nasty. That's when I started to see and hear some downright unfair commentary about Texas and Texans that got my back up. And even though I am not considered a "real" Texan (you have to be born here to be called that; they actually make certificates. I am not making this up. I am merely considered a Texasissippian), I feel the need to defend what I call home.
Because that's actually the first example of the coolness of my state. Velvet rope stuff! Not everyone gets to call themselves a member of this exclusive club. Texas may be a dysfunctional family, but we are definitely a family. We may fistfight each other, but for an outsider...God forbid, a Northerner...say something sideways about us? We'll all band together to stomp a crater in your behind. I love the cohesiveness and pride of Texans. Even if some of them don't want to be confused with the facts.
It seemed timely, what with the unending supply of unintentional humor Perry is providing the nation, to spread a little knowledge on the state for those not familiar with actual Texas culture. You should know from an insider a little about how cool being a Texan...er, Texasissippian...can be.
Yes, that's right: TEXAS CAN BE VERY, VERY COOL. There's a toughness here, a George-Bush-clearing-brush kind of mentality. Plenty of elbow grease. Forget New York; if you can make it here in the land of the scorpions and searing heat, THEN, my friend, you can truly make it anywhere. Surviving the summers here just gives us more swagger. It's like getting a tattoo, going through your first Texas summer. After awhile, July comes, and you just break out your Clint Eastwood squint. Bring it.
And Texas females are particularly amazing, speaking of swagger. Don't let the big hair and soft accents fool you, my friend. Most of us can throw a punch while never creasing our designer clothes or tipping over in our six inch heels. We know football stats and can hold our margaritas. Did you ever see Ann Richards on her pearl white Harley?
Some Texas-sized misconceptions I'd like to address:
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a cowboy or JR Ewing. Guys. Most of us live in very urban areas. We work for Texas Instruments, AT&T, EDS, Frito-Lay, Ericsson....very little wrangling going on in the halls of the tech industry (unless you count jostling for stock options). We don't all drive trucks or wear cowboy boots. Most of us don't own a belt buckle off of which you could serve a turkey. Some of us even have an active loathing for Toby Keith.
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a hayseed who votes Republican. Much of Texas is actually urban. Dallas itself is actually a blue city. We have a thriving gay community and one of the largest gay churches in the nation. George Michael's partner is from here (whoops! He and Kenny Goss just broke up, I forgot), and they owned an art gallery downtown. Dallas runs a close third in the fashion industry behind New York and Los Angeles. Two words for you: Neiman Marcus. Austin, also blue, is one of the hippest cities in the nation.
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a rich jerk who belongs to a country club. Okay, this one is mostly true. NO! I kid. Actually, 51% of Texans earn $33,000 a year...or less. We're second in food security in the nation. I've never met a murdering cheerleader. You'll never see a reality show about all the hard-working, two-income families here. Regular Texans are not the car wreck "Dallas' Most Eligible" are, but everyone loves to rubber-neck a wreck. Related: they're most eligible BECAUSE THEY'RE REPUGNANT AND NO ONE WANTS THEM. But I digress.
Myth: Texas hates immigrants. Boy, this couldn't be farther from the truth. What you hear from elected Texas officials does not reflect the love this state has for the Mexican culture. It is inseparable from Texas culture. Mexican food, Catholicism, mariachi...Texas wouldn't have its identity without its spicy dash of Spanish culture. White and brown have lived and loved happily here together for decades...and we wouldn't have it any other way.
Myth: Texas weather is unbearable. Okay, we crowded "unbearable" a little this summer with seventy days above 100 degrees. But on the whole, the rest of the year is mild and amazing. We have beautiful hiking, river tubing, and camping areas. There isn't a ton of rain to depress you. Bonus: we don't wear much sometimes because of the heat. But come visit us in April or October, because there isn't a prettier state in the union then. And lastly:
Myth: God is punishing Texas with heat and fire because we are evil and stupid. This isn't even funny as a joke, y'all. Over 500 houses were lost in wildfires. No matter what your politics, you don't deserve that. I forgive those who made the jokes; they're just trying to say something hideous and undeserved would never happen to THEM. It wasn't right when Pat Robertson said it about Katrina and New Orleans. It's not right to say it about Perry and the fires.
So even though I don't get to call myself a "real" Texan, I sure am affiliated. Even in my Dallas suburb, I am surrounded by eclectic artists, very cool musicians, intellects, and a healthy counter-culture (shout out to my favorite biker bar right now). In small town Texas. We ain't leaving, because it's our state too. The bumper sticker reads "Keep Austin Weird" down in the capital, y'all. And guess what? We might just turn the whole state.
So, if you're ever in Texas, look up your favorite McKinney Momma. I'll show you cool Texas. It really is like Lyle Lovett sings: That's right, you're not from Texas. But Texas wants you anyway.
But when the state caught fire after Perry prayed for rain? It got nasty. That's when I started to see and hear some downright unfair commentary about Texas and Texans that got my back up. And even though I am not considered a "real" Texan (you have to be born here to be called that; they actually make certificates. I am not making this up. I am merely considered a Texasissippian), I feel the need to defend what I call home.
Because that's actually the first example of the coolness of my state. Velvet rope stuff! Not everyone gets to call themselves a member of this exclusive club. Texas may be a dysfunctional family, but we are definitely a family. We may fistfight each other, but for an outsider...God forbid, a Northerner...say something sideways about us? We'll all band together to stomp a crater in your behind. I love the cohesiveness and pride of Texans. Even if some of them don't want to be confused with the facts.
It seemed timely, what with the unending supply of unintentional humor Perry is providing the nation, to spread a little knowledge on the state for those not familiar with actual Texas culture. You should know from an insider a little about how cool being a Texan...er, Texasissippian...can be.
Yes, that's right: TEXAS CAN BE VERY, VERY COOL. There's a toughness here, a George-Bush-clearing-brush kind of mentality. Plenty of elbow grease. Forget New York; if you can make it here in the land of the scorpions and searing heat, THEN, my friend, you can truly make it anywhere. Surviving the summers here just gives us more swagger. It's like getting a tattoo, going through your first Texas summer. After awhile, July comes, and you just break out your Clint Eastwood squint. Bring it.
And Texas females are particularly amazing, speaking of swagger. Don't let the big hair and soft accents fool you, my friend. Most of us can throw a punch while never creasing our designer clothes or tipping over in our six inch heels. We know football stats and can hold our margaritas. Did you ever see Ann Richards on her pearl white Harley?
Some Texas-sized misconceptions I'd like to address:
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a cowboy or JR Ewing. Guys. Most of us live in very urban areas. We work for Texas Instruments, AT&T, EDS, Frito-Lay, Ericsson....very little wrangling going on in the halls of the tech industry (unless you count jostling for stock options). We don't all drive trucks or wear cowboy boots. Most of us don't own a belt buckle off of which you could serve a turkey. Some of us even have an active loathing for Toby Keith.
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a hayseed who votes Republican. Much of Texas is actually urban. Dallas itself is actually a blue city. We have a thriving gay community and one of the largest gay churches in the nation. George Michael's partner is from here (whoops! He and Kenny Goss just broke up, I forgot), and they owned an art gallery downtown. Dallas runs a close third in the fashion industry behind New York and Los Angeles. Two words for you: Neiman Marcus. Austin, also blue, is one of the hippest cities in the nation.
Myth: Everyone in Texas is a rich jerk who belongs to a country club. Okay, this one is mostly true. NO! I kid. Actually, 51% of Texans earn $33,000 a year...or less. We're second in food security in the nation. I've never met a murdering cheerleader. You'll never see a reality show about all the hard-working, two-income families here. Regular Texans are not the car wreck "Dallas' Most Eligible" are, but everyone loves to rubber-neck a wreck. Related: they're most eligible BECAUSE THEY'RE REPUGNANT AND NO ONE WANTS THEM. But I digress.
Myth: Texas hates immigrants. Boy, this couldn't be farther from the truth. What you hear from elected Texas officials does not reflect the love this state has for the Mexican culture. It is inseparable from Texas culture. Mexican food, Catholicism, mariachi...Texas wouldn't have its identity without its spicy dash of Spanish culture. White and brown have lived and loved happily here together for decades...and we wouldn't have it any other way.
Myth: Texas weather is unbearable. Okay, we crowded "unbearable" a little this summer with seventy days above 100 degrees. But on the whole, the rest of the year is mild and amazing. We have beautiful hiking, river tubing, and camping areas. There isn't a ton of rain to depress you. Bonus: we don't wear much sometimes because of the heat. But come visit us in April or October, because there isn't a prettier state in the union then. And lastly:
Myth: God is punishing Texas with heat and fire because we are evil and stupid. This isn't even funny as a joke, y'all. Over 500 houses were lost in wildfires. No matter what your politics, you don't deserve that. I forgive those who made the jokes; they're just trying to say something hideous and undeserved would never happen to THEM. It wasn't right when Pat Robertson said it about Katrina and New Orleans. It's not right to say it about Perry and the fires.
So even though I don't get to call myself a "real" Texan, I sure am affiliated. Even in my Dallas suburb, I am surrounded by eclectic artists, very cool musicians, intellects, and a healthy counter-culture (shout out to my favorite biker bar right now). In small town Texas. We ain't leaving, because it's our state too. The bumper sticker reads "Keep Austin Weird" down in the capital, y'all. And guess what? We might just turn the whole state.
So, if you're ever in Texas, look up your favorite McKinney Momma. I'll show you cool Texas. It really is like Lyle Lovett sings: That's right, you're not from Texas. But Texas wants you anyway.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
You Are Not Your Status, or: Talk to the Face
So I'm reading in the news that something like 80 percent of us use "social media" here in America these days. I do it; I Faceplace and Twit with the best of them. And on the whole, I think the whole thing's pretty smooth. Keeping in touch with far-away friends, getting the latest news...the whole Arab Spring revolutions could not have taken place without the internet, for example. All hail the power of the interwebs, right?
But then I'm scrolling though my Facebook postings this week. And in between posts between the local Harley shop (I'm saving up; see previous posts referencing my raging mid-life crisis) and updates about the fourth season of Sons of Anarchy (I'm obsessed; that's for another post), I see a status change from my brother:
"Joe Schmoe" (names have been changed to protect the blogged-about) "has changed his status from 'married' to 'single'."
SAY WHAT? Okay...
This post is followed by comments from my sister-in-law (do they become "out-laws" after the divorce?) about how it's an amicable split, they will always be friends, and some other astonishing posts. Complete with photos. And I'm all: do I press the "like" button on this? There's no "appalled" button on Facebook, it turns out.
Now, I didn't think I was a curmudgeon. And maybe I am insane to say this, but why would anyone want to break this kind of information on a social media site as opposed to sharing the news in a more personal and private way? My brother is ten years younger than me, but still. Is this how the young people do stuff these days? Maybe I'm just having one of those "get off my lawn" kind of moments.
Perhaps I'm asking too much. Maybe it is terribly old fashioned to actually speak to people any more. Even when I'm out with the girls, everyone's got their smart phones out updating their status and posting photos and showing each other links and photos online. Am I awfully out of touch that I would just like to talk at your face?
I'm not sure too much of a good thing isn't turning us into a nation of the emotionally retarded. Our IQs may or may not be slipping as a nation, but I swear we're shaving points off our EQ, our emotional quotient, by the hour. The art of conversation has deteriorated to the point that I've got 140 characters before I lose your attention. The fact you've read this post this far clearly indicates you're above average.
And I'm not even getting into the scary, anonymous part of social media. On Twitter, almost no one uses their actual identifying information, and that enables what people call "trolls." Hate and vitriol flows freely, because no one can be held accountable for what they say. Like the road-rager who feels protected by the interior of his car, the internet troll hides behind some inane handle like @twinkiebutt077 and says things they would never have the nerve to say to someone's face on account of the throat-punching that would inevitably follow.
So here's the challenge: y'all get in touch with your inner human today. OH YEAH I FORGOT YOU'RE ALL HUMAN. Have you forgotten it? Have a conversation with another human today. You know. All those other warm bodies staring at their phones too. With your voice. Remember eye contact? Sigh. Those were the good old days. If I get a smile AND eye contact, I might just pass out. I miss the days of verbal status checks.
If you can say it in person, do that. We are not the Borg, people. Let's rejoin humanity. If you can call instead of text, DO THAT. Walk down the hall instead of writing that email. I know! Real live people can be scary. But I know we have it in us to like a few without having to be in front of a screen to press a button on Facebook to do so. Technology is great. But a laptop or your smart phone? It won't hug you back.
But then I'm scrolling though my Facebook postings this week. And in between posts between the local Harley shop (I'm saving up; see previous posts referencing my raging mid-life crisis) and updates about the fourth season of Sons of Anarchy (I'm obsessed; that's for another post), I see a status change from my brother:
"Joe Schmoe" (names have been changed to protect the blogged-about) "has changed his status from 'married' to 'single'."
SAY WHAT? Okay...
This post is followed by comments from my sister-in-law (do they become "out-laws" after the divorce?) about how it's an amicable split, they will always be friends, and some other astonishing posts. Complete with photos. And I'm all: do I press the "like" button on this? There's no "appalled" button on Facebook, it turns out.
Now, I didn't think I was a curmudgeon. And maybe I am insane to say this, but why would anyone want to break this kind of information on a social media site as opposed to sharing the news in a more personal and private way? My brother is ten years younger than me, but still. Is this how the young people do stuff these days? Maybe I'm just having one of those "get off my lawn" kind of moments.
Perhaps I'm asking too much. Maybe it is terribly old fashioned to actually speak to people any more. Even when I'm out with the girls, everyone's got their smart phones out updating their status and posting photos and showing each other links and photos online. Am I awfully out of touch that I would just like to talk at your face?
I'm not sure too much of a good thing isn't turning us into a nation of the emotionally retarded. Our IQs may or may not be slipping as a nation, but I swear we're shaving points off our EQ, our emotional quotient, by the hour. The art of conversation has deteriorated to the point that I've got 140 characters before I lose your attention. The fact you've read this post this far clearly indicates you're above average.
And I'm not even getting into the scary, anonymous part of social media. On Twitter, almost no one uses their actual identifying information, and that enables what people call "trolls." Hate and vitriol flows freely, because no one can be held accountable for what they say. Like the road-rager who feels protected by the interior of his car, the internet troll hides behind some inane handle like @twinkiebutt077 and says things they would never have the nerve to say to someone's face on account of the throat-punching that would inevitably follow.
So here's the challenge: y'all get in touch with your inner human today. OH YEAH I FORGOT YOU'RE ALL HUMAN. Have you forgotten it? Have a conversation with another human today. You know. All those other warm bodies staring at their phones too. With your voice. Remember eye contact? Sigh. Those were the good old days. If I get a smile AND eye contact, I might just pass out. I miss the days of verbal status checks.
If you can say it in person, do that. We are not the Borg, people. Let's rejoin humanity. If you can call instead of text, DO THAT. Walk down the hall instead of writing that email. I know! Real live people can be scary. But I know we have it in us to like a few without having to be in front of a screen to press a button on Facebook to do so. Technology is great. But a laptop or your smart phone? It won't hug you back.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Too Old to Kid, Too Soft to Rock?
Where DOES hot go to die? Sorry, folks. It's that time of year again for me: my birthday is in September. I'm turning forty-mumble, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm having a mid-life crisis. Or perhaps just trying to stave one off by re-enacting my adolescence. I mean, I'm having a great time since I left the office and began blogging! Maybe that's why I'm suspicious. Aren't grownups supposed to be much more serious? Weren't we told by authority figures if it's fun, it's probably bad?
I'm asking because something weird happened after I stopped running my office, came home to write and be more present with the kids. Over the summer? I turned into an artist. Or at least some version of me that slowed WAY down, dressed the way she wanted, and said whatever she wanted online. And this chick? Most noticeably, a much more relaxed and happy bohemian. The pleasant change has me musing: I loved my old job, but was I becoming it? Did my suit have a secret plot to turn me into a Republican? Or someone equally as grim?
Don't worry; I haven't totally gone all Lester from American Beauty. No smoking pot while lifting weights in the garage for me. Yet. Oh, I kid. But it does seem to me like once you hit a certain age as an adult, you're expected to behave and look a certain way. There's a scene in Steel Magnolias in which Ouiser says she grows vegetables, for example, because that's what old Southern women do. I HATE GARDENING. I am not fated to raise tomatoes, dammit.
And I didn't notice how much I was stifling myself in that suit every day until I left it in the closet. That I had resigned myself to a life of selling myself as a "professional." I was looking all Lawrence Welk but feeling Motley Crue. I was like a mild-mannered alter ego by day to my word-slinging, by-night superhero self.
Changing jobs took some chutzpah but gave an unexpected gift: appreciation for the ease of authenticity. You can't write well in any voice but your own. It involves pretty much sitting down and opening a vein for you (sidebar: you're welcome). If I could disguise my insides at the office, there's no doing that as a writer and succeeding at it.
So here's some things I have learned about my authentic self I now embrace publicly at the risk of ridicule: I enjoy dressing like a fourteen year old boy, a la Sarah Silvernan. My love for heavy metal music and Harley Davidsons may, indeed, be cliched and/or cringe worthy. I think tattoos are sexy. Well. Some tattoos. I get way too much enjoyment out of popular culture. I will never become a morning person. I am energized at nightspots, parties, and with my girlfriends. I must dance to live music weekly to maintain my sanity. I am opinionated. None of this changes just because my age keeps advancing. I'm weird. I'm here. Get used to it.
If it's a mid-life crisis, it's teaching me this: I gotta do me. The real me. Not a watered-down, Reader's Digest Condensed Version, family-friendly version of me. I can be an acquired taste; some of y'all aren't going to like me. But the plan is for me to like me best of all.
Are you doing the real you? You're beautiful in there, you know. It took a career shift to show me how muted my voice had become. It happens slowly, inch by inch. There's maturity, sure. But when does it become surrender, or worse: hiding to avoid standing out? I hope you'll do something today for yourself that lets your freak flag fly.
So welcome to the first day of the rest of my mid-life crisis! I promise I'm going to be a LOT more fun this way. On account of the immaturity and non-professionalism, of course. Much more fun to read about anyway, right? Right. And thanks for coming along.
I'm asking because something weird happened after I stopped running my office, came home to write and be more present with the kids. Over the summer? I turned into an artist. Or at least some version of me that slowed WAY down, dressed the way she wanted, and said whatever she wanted online. And this chick? Most noticeably, a much more relaxed and happy bohemian. The pleasant change has me musing: I loved my old job, but was I becoming it? Did my suit have a secret plot to turn me into a Republican? Or someone equally as grim?
Don't worry; I haven't totally gone all Lester from American Beauty. No smoking pot while lifting weights in the garage for me. Yet. Oh, I kid. But it does seem to me like once you hit a certain age as an adult, you're expected to behave and look a certain way. There's a scene in Steel Magnolias in which Ouiser says she grows vegetables, for example, because that's what old Southern women do. I HATE GARDENING. I am not fated to raise tomatoes, dammit.
And I didn't notice how much I was stifling myself in that suit every day until I left it in the closet. That I had resigned myself to a life of selling myself as a "professional." I was looking all Lawrence Welk but feeling Motley Crue. I was like a mild-mannered alter ego by day to my word-slinging, by-night superhero self.
Changing jobs took some chutzpah but gave an unexpected gift: appreciation for the ease of authenticity. You can't write well in any voice but your own. It involves pretty much sitting down and opening a vein for you (sidebar: you're welcome). If I could disguise my insides at the office, there's no doing that as a writer and succeeding at it.
So here's some things I have learned about my authentic self I now embrace publicly at the risk of ridicule: I enjoy dressing like a fourteen year old boy, a la Sarah Silvernan. My love for heavy metal music and Harley Davidsons may, indeed, be cliched and/or cringe worthy. I think tattoos are sexy. Well. Some tattoos. I get way too much enjoyment out of popular culture. I will never become a morning person. I am energized at nightspots, parties, and with my girlfriends. I must dance to live music weekly to maintain my sanity. I am opinionated. None of this changes just because my age keeps advancing. I'm weird. I'm here. Get used to it.
If it's a mid-life crisis, it's teaching me this: I gotta do me. The real me. Not a watered-down, Reader's Digest Condensed Version, family-friendly version of me. I can be an acquired taste; some of y'all aren't going to like me. But the plan is for me to like me best of all.
Are you doing the real you? You're beautiful in there, you know. It took a career shift to show me how muted my voice had become. It happens slowly, inch by inch. There's maturity, sure. But when does it become surrender, or worse: hiding to avoid standing out? I hope you'll do something today for yourself that lets your freak flag fly.
So welcome to the first day of the rest of my mid-life crisis! I promise I'm going to be a LOT more fun this way. On account of the immaturity and non-professionalism, of course. Much more fun to read about anyway, right? Right. And thanks for coming along.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Back To School Mommy Manifesto
Ah, school days, school days. Transitioning around here to the new routine has been a little rough. For the kids, sure. They're used to sleeping in and playing X-Box all day. However, I do confess they are doing better than their mother, who's new to this work-from-home, car pooling, full-court-press-mommy scene.
But I came home to work for this very moment: to up the parenting bar for myself, so to speak, to be more present and active with the kids, and so I say: bring it, school year! I OWN YOU.
So while I still have the energy, I've created myself a kind of Mommy Manifesto, if you will, of aspirations I have as we enter the 2011-12 school year. As God is my witness, this school year will be improved from the last by the sheer force of my iron will. Thus:
1. I will make lunches the night before school, not in the melee the morning of school, lay out the children's clothing, and have backpacks ready to go. I will not be afraid of the parent-teacher communication folder. I will open it on occasion. Red stars mean you're exceptionally well behaved, I'm sure.
2. I will forgive myself daily for the fact my children eat nothing for lunch but peanut butter and chicken nuggets.I will tune out the guilt I get from chirpy mothers who somehow get their kids to eat carrot sticks and apple slices without emotional scarring.
3. I will cancel any and all parenting magazines. This prevents my despair over my inability to shape food into cutesy vegetable faces, facilitate crafts Martha Stewart couldn't complete without staff, and the realization my children dress like Depression era hobos.
3. I will make as few car pool trips in my pajamas as I can muster. I will wear shoes in the car. Either that or sleep in my workout clothes so when you see me, you'll think I'm on my way to the gym instead of back to bed. I will embrace wearing a hat. Related: I will not curse other parents who are immaculately dressed, alert, and relaxed at 6:30 am. Even though I hate you and your superior organizational skills with the heat of a thousand suns.
4. Related: I don't care how awesome Sons of Anarchy is, I will not stay up until the middle of the night on a school night just because I'm enjoying a) silence and b) R rated programming.
5. I will not actively hide from school staff.
6. I will volunteer cheerfully. I will not sulk by the ring toss at the fall carnival checking my watch and changing the rules to the game so we can run out of supplies earlier and go home. Hell, I might even face paint with a smile.
7. I will attend a pep rally with the kids. Never mind that I used to hide in the bathroom as a teenager from the pep rallies at my own school. No matter how I feel about hundreds of kids screaming in an echo chamber of a gymnasium. I will not scowl when I do. I will don, albeit reluctantly, "spirit wear."
8. I will not complete my children's projects for them the night before they're due because I've been too busy to help them, and I won't leave them alone to do it all themselves. I will not allow this year, for example, a rock glued to the bottom of a shoebox with sand thrown in the bottom to be called a diorama. ("No, really, it's a representation of the ecosystem in Afghanistan! Yeah! That's the ticket!")
9. I will resist the urge to throw elbows at other parents who crowd their way in front of me at school programs. I will not judge you for bringing what is clearly the equivalent of a news crew to record your child's breathless rendition of "The Turkey Boogie" at the Thanksgiving program.
10. I will not arrange bakery cookies on a plate and pass them off as home made. I will not search the house frantically the night before the class Christmas party and end up wrapping paper clips or a used stapler as a teacher gift.
I thought about also including a promise to chaperone a field trip, but forgive me. I'm only human. Herding hundreds of kids with sack lunches in a school bus? I'm not woman enough. Clearly so much growth for me left to be had. But these above aspirations are just a few musings I've had on how to make this one a better school year. I'm also kind of sure this manifesto resembles New Year's resolutions in that I really, really mean them. For at least the next ten days. Best of luck this year, parents! We're going to need it.
But I came home to work for this very moment: to up the parenting bar for myself, so to speak, to be more present and active with the kids, and so I say: bring it, school year! I OWN YOU.
So while I still have the energy, I've created myself a kind of Mommy Manifesto, if you will, of aspirations I have as we enter the 2011-12 school year. As God is my witness, this school year will be improved from the last by the sheer force of my iron will. Thus:
1. I will make lunches the night before school, not in the melee the morning of school, lay out the children's clothing, and have backpacks ready to go. I will not be afraid of the parent-teacher communication folder. I will open it on occasion. Red stars mean you're exceptionally well behaved, I'm sure.
2. I will forgive myself daily for the fact my children eat nothing for lunch but peanut butter and chicken nuggets.I will tune out the guilt I get from chirpy mothers who somehow get their kids to eat carrot sticks and apple slices without emotional scarring.
3. I will cancel any and all parenting magazines. This prevents my despair over my inability to shape food into cutesy vegetable faces, facilitate crafts Martha Stewart couldn't complete without staff, and the realization my children dress like Depression era hobos.
3. I will make as few car pool trips in my pajamas as I can muster. I will wear shoes in the car. Either that or sleep in my workout clothes so when you see me, you'll think I'm on my way to the gym instead of back to bed. I will embrace wearing a hat. Related: I will not curse other parents who are immaculately dressed, alert, and relaxed at 6:30 am. Even though I hate you and your superior organizational skills with the heat of a thousand suns.
4. Related: I don't care how awesome Sons of Anarchy is, I will not stay up until the middle of the night on a school night just because I'm enjoying a) silence and b) R rated programming.
5. I will not actively hide from school staff.
6. I will volunteer cheerfully. I will not sulk by the ring toss at the fall carnival checking my watch and changing the rules to the game so we can run out of supplies earlier and go home. Hell, I might even face paint with a smile.
7. I will attend a pep rally with the kids. Never mind that I used to hide in the bathroom as a teenager from the pep rallies at my own school. No matter how I feel about hundreds of kids screaming in an echo chamber of a gymnasium. I will not scowl when I do. I will don, albeit reluctantly, "spirit wear."
8. I will not complete my children's projects for them the night before they're due because I've been too busy to help them, and I won't leave them alone to do it all themselves. I will not allow this year, for example, a rock glued to the bottom of a shoebox with sand thrown in the bottom to be called a diorama. ("No, really, it's a representation of the ecosystem in Afghanistan! Yeah! That's the ticket!")
9. I will resist the urge to throw elbows at other parents who crowd their way in front of me at school programs. I will not judge you for bringing what is clearly the equivalent of a news crew to record your child's breathless rendition of "The Turkey Boogie" at the Thanksgiving program.
10. I will not arrange bakery cookies on a plate and pass them off as home made. I will not search the house frantically the night before the class Christmas party and end up wrapping paper clips or a used stapler as a teacher gift.
I thought about also including a promise to chaperone a field trip, but forgive me. I'm only human. Herding hundreds of kids with sack lunches in a school bus? I'm not woman enough. Clearly so much growth for me left to be had. But these above aspirations are just a few musings I've had on how to make this one a better school year. I'm also kind of sure this manifesto resembles New Year's resolutions in that I really, really mean them. For at least the next ten days. Best of luck this year, parents! We're going to need it.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Marriage: Now Without Divorce or Homicide!
When people hear I've been married over fifteen years with no arrests or appearances on the news, they start asking for my secret. Let's be honest: those of us with long marriages under our belt will admit there's love in it. Sure. But there's hatred and madness, too. So with more than half of marriages ending in divorce (and did you know about 65% of second marriages also end in divorce?), I'm here to give you a few pointers on how not only to stay married, but maybe even be glad you did.
Forget the breathless romance. Too many people are sold on the idea that you will always feel the way about your partner the way you did when you first met him. LIES! Even if you marry Gandhi, there will be a time when you will want to scream at him to get his damn sandals out from under the coffee table. Long marriages are based on friendship. So if y'all don't enjoy doing similar activities and mutual shared projects, it'll be hard. And when you're relationship isn't good, folks, the sex is the first thing to go. A good sex life is an indicator of an emotionally intimate relationship.
Realize you married who you married. I have discovered that men, indeed, are not tomatoes. You don't pick them and have them magically ripen on the shelf into the person you actually want. If he's not much of a talker now, he never will be. Marriage is not a magic wand that changes someone into someone else. Time to quit asking that tomato to be an apple. It's called maturity, folks. And guess what: you picked that tomato, honey. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
You suck, too. Realize that just like when your partner leaves empty containers in the fridge, making your head want to explode into a fine, pink mist, you too have foibles that make YOU less than easy to live with. Does my husband gnash his teeth every time I fail to alphabetize the spice rack? I have a theory. But here's what we do for each other: we review the list of each other's negative qualities and invite each other in, anyway. For every annoying thing your partner does, you irk him in kind. In the end, it just comes down to one question: But am I better off with or without this person?
Animus et fortis. Latin for "friendship and fidelity." This is a mindset, folks. Do you treat your partner as considerately as your best friend? Accept that you swore on an altar before God As You Understand Her to defend this person? If you look carefully, the old saying about hurting those closest to us is inevitably true. Do you speak more respectfully to retail store staff than your partner? Check that. And fidelity? It's not just keeping your underwear on, people. It means aligning your lot with your partner, being on their team and being head cheerleader for Team Marriage. At all times. Even when he or she is wearing his or her butt on his or her shoulders. Maybe even especially then.
They don't complete you. I am a romance addict; ask anyone. I'm addicted to soaps (don't judge me), chick flicks, and frothy Gothic English novels by Jane Eyre. But even I know that hubs and I are two separate people. Too many people, women especially, enter into relationships and lose themselves. And suddenly we're pouting because our partner wants time alone or with friends. Remember where you end and begin, friends. It's alright hubs wants to watch Dr. Who in one room while I read in another. Togetherness is not always all it's cracked up to be.
To everything, there is a season. My father's wedding day advice? "You're going to want a divorce one day. Just know it isn't an option." No, I didn't get my romantic streak from him, but perhaps my blunt honesty. Because the truth is you will want a divorce if you stay married long enough. Hell, you'll want to commit a splattery crime, I assure you. But kind of like knocking over a liquor store when you're broke, you just won't go there. There will be times you will wander more away from one another, and then seasons when you are closer than ever before.
Build yourself. Give up the fantasy your partner will change as well as trying to force your partner to change. Change instead your expectations of your partner and yourself. Let your partner do it their way. Make requests instead of demands, and accept "no" as an answer without getting angry or sulking.
Marriage. It ain't for the feint of heart, friends. Maybe it ain't even natural. But it can be deeply satisfying and mutually beneficial. But we've got to lose some of the ridiculous expectations we have about love and marriage that we've learned from the radio, TV, and movies. Because having a best friend with benefits for the rest of your life? That can definitely not suck.
Forget the breathless romance. Too many people are sold on the idea that you will always feel the way about your partner the way you did when you first met him. LIES! Even if you marry Gandhi, there will be a time when you will want to scream at him to get his damn sandals out from under the coffee table. Long marriages are based on friendship. So if y'all don't enjoy doing similar activities and mutual shared projects, it'll be hard. And when you're relationship isn't good, folks, the sex is the first thing to go. A good sex life is an indicator of an emotionally intimate relationship.
Realize you married who you married. I have discovered that men, indeed, are not tomatoes. You don't pick them and have them magically ripen on the shelf into the person you actually want. If he's not much of a talker now, he never will be. Marriage is not a magic wand that changes someone into someone else. Time to quit asking that tomato to be an apple. It's called maturity, folks. And guess what: you picked that tomato, honey. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
You suck, too. Realize that just like when your partner leaves empty containers in the fridge, making your head want to explode into a fine, pink mist, you too have foibles that make YOU less than easy to live with. Does my husband gnash his teeth every time I fail to alphabetize the spice rack? I have a theory. But here's what we do for each other: we review the list of each other's negative qualities and invite each other in, anyway. For every annoying thing your partner does, you irk him in kind. In the end, it just comes down to one question: But am I better off with or without this person?
Animus et fortis. Latin for "friendship and fidelity." This is a mindset, folks. Do you treat your partner as considerately as your best friend? Accept that you swore on an altar before God As You Understand Her to defend this person? If you look carefully, the old saying about hurting those closest to us is inevitably true. Do you speak more respectfully to retail store staff than your partner? Check that. And fidelity? It's not just keeping your underwear on, people. It means aligning your lot with your partner, being on their team and being head cheerleader for Team Marriage. At all times. Even when he or she is wearing his or her butt on his or her shoulders. Maybe even especially then.
They don't complete you. I am a romance addict; ask anyone. I'm addicted to soaps (don't judge me), chick flicks, and frothy Gothic English novels by Jane Eyre. But even I know that hubs and I are two separate people. Too many people, women especially, enter into relationships and lose themselves. And suddenly we're pouting because our partner wants time alone or with friends. Remember where you end and begin, friends. It's alright hubs wants to watch Dr. Who in one room while I read in another. Togetherness is not always all it's cracked up to be.
To everything, there is a season. My father's wedding day advice? "You're going to want a divorce one day. Just know it isn't an option." No, I didn't get my romantic streak from him, but perhaps my blunt honesty. Because the truth is you will want a divorce if you stay married long enough. Hell, you'll want to commit a splattery crime, I assure you. But kind of like knocking over a liquor store when you're broke, you just won't go there. There will be times you will wander more away from one another, and then seasons when you are closer than ever before.
Build yourself. Give up the fantasy your partner will change as well as trying to force your partner to change. Change instead your expectations of your partner and yourself. Let your partner do it their way. Make requests instead of demands, and accept "no" as an answer without getting angry or sulking.
Marriage. It ain't for the feint of heart, friends. Maybe it ain't even natural. But it can be deeply satisfying and mutually beneficial. But we've got to lose some of the ridiculous expectations we have about love and marriage that we've learned from the radio, TV, and movies. Because having a best friend with benefits for the rest of your life? That can definitely not suck.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
You Can't Fight Crime in a Thong: Mysogynist Madness
So, if you're like me and raising a daughter, have you noticed it's not getting any easier making sure she knows her worth isn't in her looks? Do you, like me, fear her highest aspiration will be only to be a Real Housewife, or God forbid, a Bachelorette? Luckily, my daughter has two older brothers, so she is constantly exposed to their toys, books, and shows. She's into action, so it wasn't too surprising when she asked for a Wonder Woman party for her birthday last year.
Now, the superhero world is clearly male-dominated, sure, but did you know it's practically impossible to buy Wonder Woman or Super Girl party decorations, toys, or clothes? When it comes to girls' toys, entertainment, and clothes, your choice is pretty much pretty much princess, diva, or brat. And even if you do see a strong, capable female in the media, she's always all tarted up. I'm looking at you, Lara Croft.
For further example, the new Justice League comic is out. And sure enough, Wonder Woman is hypersexualized. Here's some fun via Bleeding Cool: let's see what the male superheroes look like when they're posed like Wonder Woman (complete with the actual rendering of her at the bottom):
Men would never stand for such nonsense. I mean really, people. It's 2011. Are you basing your daughter's worth subtly on her looks? Are you praising your son for his efforts and your daughter for how pretty she is? Why are young girls' clothes getting sluttier and sluttier? Related: my daughter's young tuchus will never sport a message, thanks. When I see a pre-teen girl wearing the word "Juicy" across her behind, I fear a future on the pole for her.
And speaking of poles, shouldn't we be a little embarrassed we're speaking about poles? Pole dancing has come out of the strip clubs and into the fitness clubs. Ten year old model Thylane Lena-Rose Blondeau is featured spread out suggestively in the name of "fashion." Suri Cruise rocks high heels at age four. What's next? A porn career for Dora the Explorer?
Seriously, folks. If you're parenting, gain some awareness about how you interact with your daughter. If you're a female, check yourself. Are you sending the message of body acceptance? Or are you reinforcing the message that you are who you wear...and it better not be over a size 6? Make sure she understands her worth is based on the content of her character and how she behaves, not the size of her behind or what brand's stamped on it. Oh, a little princess fun can't hurt anyone. But raising a generation of women who think the only vehicle to success is being hot? Then I'm pretty sure the terrorists win.
Now, the superhero world is clearly male-dominated, sure, but did you know it's practically impossible to buy Wonder Woman or Super Girl party decorations, toys, or clothes? When it comes to girls' toys, entertainment, and clothes, your choice is pretty much pretty much princess, diva, or brat. And even if you do see a strong, capable female in the media, she's always all tarted up. I'm looking at you, Lara Croft.
For further example, the new Justice League comic is out. And sure enough, Wonder Woman is hypersexualized. Here's some fun via Bleeding Cool: let's see what the male superheroes look like when they're posed like Wonder Woman (complete with the actual rendering of her at the bottom):
Men would never stand for such nonsense. I mean really, people. It's 2011. Are you basing your daughter's worth subtly on her looks? Are you praising your son for his efforts and your daughter for how pretty she is? Why are young girls' clothes getting sluttier and sluttier? Related: my daughter's young tuchus will never sport a message, thanks. When I see a pre-teen girl wearing the word "Juicy" across her behind, I fear a future on the pole for her.
And speaking of poles, shouldn't we be a little embarrassed we're speaking about poles? Pole dancing has come out of the strip clubs and into the fitness clubs. Ten year old model Thylane Lena-Rose Blondeau is featured spread out suggestively in the name of "fashion." Suri Cruise rocks high heels at age four. What's next? A porn career for Dora the Explorer?
Seriously, folks. If you're parenting, gain some awareness about how you interact with your daughter. If you're a female, check yourself. Are you sending the message of body acceptance? Or are you reinforcing the message that you are who you wear...and it better not be over a size 6? Make sure she understands her worth is based on the content of her character and how she behaves, not the size of her behind or what brand's stamped on it. Oh, a little princess fun can't hurt anyone. But raising a generation of women who think the only vehicle to success is being hot? Then I'm pretty sure the terrorists win.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)