Chris Rock said it best: when you're raising a daughter, the best you can hope for sometimes is to keep her off the stripper pole. And Dad, as the most important man in your daughter's life, a great deal of the role your daughter chooses to play in life does indeed result from your interactions with her. To her, you are Every Man, and every man she seeks after you she will model after you.
Feeling the pressure yet? Well, having babies ain't for sissies. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
Your assurance, Dad, that your daughter is feminine and attractive will go a long way. If she doesn't get your approval and attention, chances are she's going to find it somewhere else, and that somewhere else may or may not be attached to a wallet chain. And if she might just give up her goals for achievement in the process.
Breathing into a paper bag just yet, Dad? Fear not. Here are some excellent Father's Day tips about how to demonstrate to her to choose men who don't expect her to be incompetent or helpless:
Change the cliches. Don't just compliment your daughter on her looks but her internal qualities as well. When other adults say, "You're so beautiful," add something like "...and she's smart, too," or "...and she's very creative and clever." Do you treat women like objects? Because your daughter is watching you. Compliment other women on their talents and achievements in front of her instead. Expose her to unusual but talented women (paging Frida Kahlo and Georgia O'Keefe!).
Rethink fairy tales. Which of the following did you learn from Disney princesses: a woman's life ends after marriage, and they're most appealing either sleeping or dead. Only the evil ones go after what they want. Magic plays a major role in women's lives, and we can't solve problems without help from men or the supernatural. Men are transformed by the love of a "good" woman. Beauty is your most important asset. I could go on. LIES, I TELL YOU. LIES.
Teach her she's an individual. She is who she is due to her passions, talents, skills, values, strengths, weaknesses...not on gender roles. Provide opportunities for her to articulate and define who she is. Support her as an achiever. Expose her to experiences that support an achievement identity. Don't compare her appearance to others. Point out the misleading messages of media. DO NOT LABEL HER.
Know the parenting rules of thumb. Your daughter needs unconditional love. Now, that doesn't mean doing anything she wants without consequence. But she needs to know there's always a home base, no matter how badly she screws up. Take joy in her. Tell her you enjoy her. Your daughter needs a physically and emotionally safe and secure environment. Respect her individuality, no matter how matter how badly you want to shave off that pink hair and start over. Give her time and attention...especially AFTER menses begins, men. Don't get all squeamish and leave her to mom once her breasts bud. She needs you more than ever as a young woman.
Communicate openly and honestly with your daughter. Be a good role model. Keep stress low. Teach her the difference between aggression, passive-aggression, and passivity. Model assertiveness to her, and make sure she knows the difference between healthy criticism and abuse. Model clear and concise communication. Use "I" messages instead of "you" messages. And again, don't pass off all the important talks to mom.
Shut up and listen. Make sure your daughter feels she has your attention. STEP AWAY FROM THE SMARTPHONE. Don't use sarcasm, flippancy, or threats. When she's telling you something, be aware: she's looking for approval and recognition. NEVER pass up an opportunity to praise her intelligence and integrity. Don't interrupt...you don't know what you think she's going to say. Limit the "why" question, which tends to make people defensive. "What were you working on instead of your paper?" is much better than "Why the hell didn't you finish that paper?"
Respect her differences. You don't have to endorse them, but acknowledge her feelings. "I hate her!" shouldn't be met with, "No, you don't." Explore where she's coming from instead of denying them.
The best way to abstinence is career education. Teach your daughter work is fun, that she is a good worker, that she can be anything she wants to be. As a teen, is it imperative to send the message that a woman MUST be able to support herself financially. Your manta to her? YOU CAN DO IT.
Sports. Teach her sports are fun and not just for males. Give her balls and athletic gear. Tell her she's a good athlete when she's young. Teach her athletics are just as important for girls as they are for boys. IT IS NOT UNFEMININE TO BE AN ATHLETE. Let her choose her sport. Let her watch on TV and participate in sports discussions. Physical fitness is a lifelong priority.
The above strategies will help you keep the spirit of Father's Day the whole year around. Set her on the path to a happy and successful adulthood. The challenges of being female have never been so complex. Raise your daughter to be confident and capable. Your job has never been more important, Dad. But you can do it Keep her off the pole, gentlemen. Keep her off the pole. And happy Father's Day.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Fifty Shades of Social Commentary
Unless you've been living under the proverbial rock, you are probably aware of a set of books that have sat atop The New York Times Bestseller List for the past eleven weeks. This trilogy has both titillated and inflamed public opinion, sparking a media controversy over what is being called, rather unattractively in my opinion, "mommy porn." Shudder. Do you know the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy? Because you'd be hard pressed to avoid the firestorm of public opinion set off over this first book in a triology of paperbacks that Wikipedia describes thusly:
Fifty Shades of Grey is a 2011 erotic fiction novel by British author E. L. James. Set largely in Seattle, it is the first installment in a trilogy that traces the deepening relationship between college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and a young business magnate, Christian Grey. It is notable for its explicitly erotic scenes featuring elements of BDSM.
And guys, these books are causing massive queries at local libraries. Reports are even sales of...erm, supplies discussed in the books are through the roof. Evidently, not only does the trilogy stimulate you, but it has the power to stimulate the economy with a staggering boost in sales in...shall we say..."associated items."
This Fifty Shades is a phenomenon, y'all, and I'm not embarrassed to say that for your sake, yes, you, dear reader, I was willing to examine this Fifty Shades missive as research. Don't say I've never done anything for you. My research was painstaking, but you're totally worth it. You're welcome.
So I can safely at least say one impression after initial perusing of the novel: the prose is dreadful. It ain't literature. Now, it's a page-turner. It's not *clears throat* dull. But it's also not the first time the wildly popular and critically acclaimed have parted ways (hello, Twilight series).
"Pulp fiction" has been around for a hundred or more years. So what is it exactly about Fifty Shades of Grey? For everyone being so bent out of shape about it, clearly someone is buying it. This book is more popular with married women over thirty than Starbucks and Glenlivet put together.
So is this "mommy porn," as the media refers to it? What does the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey have to say about us as a society? To wit:
Porn is already mainstream for men. At least soft porn. And men aren't shy about it. It's widely and unabashedly utilized. Underwear commercials, beer commercials...Those hotel channels are multiple for a reason. Have you SEEN the swimsuit addition of Sports Illustrated? Although I will admit Kate Upton wrestling that chest to stay inside a bikini top may or may not be a sweat-breaking activity you could call "sport." But I digress.
My point: titillating pictures of barely dressed women are mainstream. I hide magazine covers from my small sons, and God help me should they ever access even the TITLES to the adult movies I can rent from my home. These titles are not, shall we say, designed to appeal to females. I mean: no one's in the dark about what heterosexual men like, right?
Strip clubs and lap dances at bachelor parties are not uncommon. Can we be surprised at the onset of mainstream porn for women? Or the sparking of a conversation regarding what women find arousing? From the media, you'd think all our fantasies surround consumerism. Seems like they think our fantasies stop at fashion. Breaking news: sometimes these fantasies do not involving ironing. Or marriage. OR BABIES.
According to Prevention magazine, a new Australian study states that 27% percent of wives would like to have more sex. That's nearly one in three, people, and it makes me sad. But get this: 22% of married women in their 50s and 38% percent of married women in their 60s haven't had sex in the past year. A bit of a desire gap, methinks.
America isn't as Puritan as we claim to be. Let's face it, America has a double standard when it comes to sex. We force people into roles, and then we're scandalized when they can't live up to Puritan standards. Our sexual identity is a huge part of who we are as a person. Yet, we as a society seem incapable of discussing it on a level higher than, say, Beavis and Butthead would. Or we're too repressed to talk about it at all. Nothing that happens in Fifty Shades is NEW, from what I've seen.
Women fantasize about being served. SETTLE DOWN. I don't mean THAT. I mean, In the book, Christian Grey washes Ana's hair, he puts money in her bank account, he gets her to eat — and et cetera, which I of course will not discuss here in a family publication. But let's face it, as women, a man that anticipates what you want and need before you express it? NOW, THAT'S HOT. When you're the driving force behind a home and a family, you can indeed fantasize about someone else coming the hell in and taking over for a change.
Ah. To be effortlessly, totally understood. However, speaking up can be tough for many women, and it's no surprise if overworked women — especially moms, who spend a lot of their time pleasing others — want their needs fulfilled without having to spell them out. Now, THAT'S a fantasy.
So whether you believe Fifty Shades of Grey is not only a sign of the complete and total moral breakdown of America or merely the raised social consciousness of the normal needs and fantasies of grown women, you can't deny the craze the trilogy has set off. You can just wonder if Kristen Stewart will get the lead in the movie. Fifty Shades. It's here. And as the case with Nickelback, more of you are fans than are willing to admit it.
Fifty Shades of Grey is a 2011 erotic fiction novel by British author E. L. James. Set largely in Seattle, it is the first installment in a trilogy that traces the deepening relationship between college graduate, Anastasia Steele, and a young business magnate, Christian Grey. It is notable for its explicitly erotic scenes featuring elements of BDSM.
And guys, these books are causing massive queries at local libraries. Reports are even sales of...erm, supplies discussed in the books are through the roof. Evidently, not only does the trilogy stimulate you, but it has the power to stimulate the economy with a staggering boost in sales in...shall we say..."associated items."
This Fifty Shades is a phenomenon, y'all, and I'm not embarrassed to say that for your sake, yes, you, dear reader, I was willing to examine this Fifty Shades missive as research. Don't say I've never done anything for you. My research was painstaking, but you're totally worth it. You're welcome.
So I can safely at least say one impression after initial perusing of the novel: the prose is dreadful. It ain't literature. Now, it's a page-turner. It's not *clears throat* dull. But it's also not the first time the wildly popular and critically acclaimed have parted ways (hello, Twilight series).
"Pulp fiction" has been around for a hundred or more years. So what is it exactly about Fifty Shades of Grey? For everyone being so bent out of shape about it, clearly someone is buying it. This book is more popular with married women over thirty than Starbucks and Glenlivet put together.
So is this "mommy porn," as the media refers to it? What does the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey have to say about us as a society? To wit:
Porn is already mainstream for men. At least soft porn. And men aren't shy about it. It's widely and unabashedly utilized. Underwear commercials, beer commercials...Those hotel channels are multiple for a reason. Have you SEEN the swimsuit addition of Sports Illustrated? Although I will admit Kate Upton wrestling that chest to stay inside a bikini top may or may not be a sweat-breaking activity you could call "sport." But I digress.
My point: titillating pictures of barely dressed women are mainstream. I hide magazine covers from my small sons, and God help me should they ever access even the TITLES to the adult movies I can rent from my home. These titles are not, shall we say, designed to appeal to females. I mean: no one's in the dark about what heterosexual men like, right?
Strip clubs and lap dances at bachelor parties are not uncommon. Can we be surprised at the onset of mainstream porn for women? Or the sparking of a conversation regarding what women find arousing? From the media, you'd think all our fantasies surround consumerism. Seems like they think our fantasies stop at fashion. Breaking news: sometimes these fantasies do not involving ironing. Or marriage. OR BABIES.
According to Prevention magazine, a new Australian study states that 27% percent of wives would like to have more sex. That's nearly one in three, people, and it makes me sad. But get this: 22% of married women in their 50s and 38% percent of married women in their 60s haven't had sex in the past year. A bit of a desire gap, methinks.
America isn't as Puritan as we claim to be. Let's face it, America has a double standard when it comes to sex. We force people into roles, and then we're scandalized when they can't live up to Puritan standards. Our sexual identity is a huge part of who we are as a person. Yet, we as a society seem incapable of discussing it on a level higher than, say, Beavis and Butthead would. Or we're too repressed to talk about it at all. Nothing that happens in Fifty Shades is NEW, from what I've seen.
Women fantasize about being served. SETTLE DOWN. I don't mean THAT. I mean, In the book, Christian Grey washes Ana's hair, he puts money in her bank account, he gets her to eat — and et cetera, which I of course will not discuss here in a family publication. But let's face it, as women, a man that anticipates what you want and need before you express it? NOW, THAT'S HOT. When you're the driving force behind a home and a family, you can indeed fantasize about someone else coming the hell in and taking over for a change.
Ah. To be effortlessly, totally understood. However, speaking up can be tough for many women, and it's no surprise if overworked women — especially moms, who spend a lot of their time pleasing others — want their needs fulfilled without having to spell them out. Now, THAT'S a fantasy.
So whether you believe Fifty Shades of Grey is not only a sign of the complete and total moral breakdown of America or merely the raised social consciousness of the normal needs and fantasies of grown women, you can't deny the craze the trilogy has set off. You can just wonder if Kristen Stewart will get the lead in the movie. Fifty Shades. It's here. And as the case with Nickelback, more of you are fans than are willing to admit it.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
I Know Why You're Single, or: Get Out of Your Way
You, my friend, are in your own way. You come to counselors, online dating ("Christian Mingle"? That sounds like a Ben and Jerry's flavor), career coaches, and religion to make your life better, yet nothing improves. But I know why you are still single. Or can't get that promotion. Or are just plain stuck. And no, it isn't circumstances or bad luck. It is due to the fact that you are, or can be, a Terribly Difficult Person.
Don't get me wrong! I have been labeled Difficult a good portion of my life. Sadly, anyone can become a Difficult Person without too much provocation. Usually, it's the result of some childhood wounding or a past hot button push that can bring out the worst in us as we fight our demons. For example, I am sad to report I have an official Authority Problem due to some bad past experiences. It took me awhile to realize that every cop, teacher, or indeed authority figure didn't have to prompt me to be Difficult. They weren't my father.
Difficult people get in their own way because:
You're hostile. You're too intense. You're irritable and cynical, and you lack insight into this fact. You tailgate on the road and whip in and out of traffic. You treat subordinates or anyone without the power or position to stand up to you rudely. You blow up at the waitress when your card is declined. You think you're Seth MacFarlane with your use of insult humor. You are here to burn this mother to the ground. You leave nasty anonymous comments on the internet. You're mistrustful and never wrong. And you have no insight into how your reactivity brings out the same aggressive response in others.You are Chris Brown throwing a chair through an ABC morning show window. You are, God help you, Mel Gibson.
You're passive aggressive. Hostility's less sexy cousin, the less obvious use of aggression. Don't fear the friend who punches you. Fear the enemy who hugs you. This is aggression by deniable means: sabotage, behind-the-back duplicity, dragging your feet. This is the housewife who says to herself Well I'll just show you by spending all the money. This is tossing a poisoned steak over the neighbor's fence to stop a dog-barking problem...and then feigning your innocence. Or my favorite: hiding behind "I'm just kidding! You're so sensitive" mind-screw or the use of sarcasm. You are Mother Gothel from Tangled. Delightful.
You're ego maniacal. You come first, last, and forever. Everything is personal. You have high standards for everyone else's behavior, you can't compromise, and you lose it when there's a problem. You probably think this paragraph is about you. You are always, always right. And you'd rather have everyone know you're right than actually come up with solutions to problems. Reality TV has made the Ego Maniac a easily recognized Difficult Person. Congrats! You are Donald Trump.
You have a serious swagger deficit. You're pessimistic and anxious, a naysayer that downplays the solutions others suggest. You're unhappy, and it doesn't take much of an obstacle in life to take you there. You don't realize worrying about problems is not contributing to the solution or being helpful. You, my friend, are what I call The Yeahbut Rabbit. You kick up doubts and negativity. And you can't be influenced to be different. You, sadly, are George Costanza. But a painfully unfunny version.
You are terrified of rejection. You're always scanning for slights or insults from others and usually find them whether they were meant or not. Everyone always hurts you on purpose or for sport, according to you. And then you come undone and after me for the perceived slights. My inbox is full of your deep thoughts regarding my dark motives against you. "Are you mad at me?" you constantly whimper. You're needy, and it ain't pretty. Your sensitivity to being rejected puts a chip on your shoulder the size of a city block. Because according to you, I and the world are constantly devaluing or disrepecting you. And it makes me want to devalue or disrespect you. You, egad, are Marilyn Monroe.
So, as one recovering Difficult Person to another, let's stop overreacting, shall we? This isn't Jersey Shore or Survivor. A little restraint over life won't hurt you. In fact, I think it's high time we brought back the use of restraint when we're provoked. These above listed are character defects. While highly entertaining in, say, an episode of Cheaters, in real life? These personality traits just make you Incredibly Difficult. And not entertaining in the least. It's called stoicism, folks. And I say we look back into it as a society. Or hey! Maybe we should just bring back public shaming.
Don't get me wrong! I have been labeled Difficult a good portion of my life. Sadly, anyone can become a Difficult Person without too much provocation. Usually, it's the result of some childhood wounding or a past hot button push that can bring out the worst in us as we fight our demons. For example, I am sad to report I have an official Authority Problem due to some bad past experiences. It took me awhile to realize that every cop, teacher, or indeed authority figure didn't have to prompt me to be Difficult. They weren't my father.
Difficult people get in their own way because:
You're hostile. You're too intense. You're irritable and cynical, and you lack insight into this fact. You tailgate on the road and whip in and out of traffic. You treat subordinates or anyone without the power or position to stand up to you rudely. You blow up at the waitress when your card is declined. You think you're Seth MacFarlane with your use of insult humor. You are here to burn this mother to the ground. You leave nasty anonymous comments on the internet. You're mistrustful and never wrong. And you have no insight into how your reactivity brings out the same aggressive response in others.You are Chris Brown throwing a chair through an ABC morning show window. You are, God help you, Mel Gibson.
You're passive aggressive. Hostility's less sexy cousin, the less obvious use of aggression. Don't fear the friend who punches you. Fear the enemy who hugs you. This is aggression by deniable means: sabotage, behind-the-back duplicity, dragging your feet. This is the housewife who says to herself Well I'll just show you by spending all the money. This is tossing a poisoned steak over the neighbor's fence to stop a dog-barking problem...and then feigning your innocence. Or my favorite: hiding behind "I'm just kidding! You're so sensitive" mind-screw or the use of sarcasm. You are Mother Gothel from Tangled. Delightful.
You're ego maniacal. You come first, last, and forever. Everything is personal. You have high standards for everyone else's behavior, you can't compromise, and you lose it when there's a problem. You probably think this paragraph is about you. You are always, always right. And you'd rather have everyone know you're right than actually come up with solutions to problems. Reality TV has made the Ego Maniac a easily recognized Difficult Person. Congrats! You are Donald Trump.
You have a serious swagger deficit. You're pessimistic and anxious, a naysayer that downplays the solutions others suggest. You're unhappy, and it doesn't take much of an obstacle in life to take you there. You don't realize worrying about problems is not contributing to the solution or being helpful. You, my friend, are what I call The Yeahbut Rabbit. You kick up doubts and negativity. And you can't be influenced to be different. You, sadly, are George Costanza. But a painfully unfunny version.
You are terrified of rejection. You're always scanning for slights or insults from others and usually find them whether they were meant or not. Everyone always hurts you on purpose or for sport, according to you. And then you come undone and after me for the perceived slights. My inbox is full of your deep thoughts regarding my dark motives against you. "Are you mad at me?" you constantly whimper. You're needy, and it ain't pretty. Your sensitivity to being rejected puts a chip on your shoulder the size of a city block. Because according to you, I and the world are constantly devaluing or disrepecting you. And it makes me want to devalue or disrespect you. You, egad, are Marilyn Monroe.
So, as one recovering Difficult Person to another, let's stop overreacting, shall we? This isn't Jersey Shore or Survivor. A little restraint over life won't hurt you. In fact, I think it's high time we brought back the use of restraint when we're provoked. These above listed are character defects. While highly entertaining in, say, an episode of Cheaters, in real life? These personality traits just make you Incredibly Difficult. And not entertaining in the least. It's called stoicism, folks. And I say we look back into it as a society. Or hey! Maybe we should just bring back public shaming.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Yahoo Mom v. Boo Hoo Mom
It's hard to believe, folks, but the day has finally come. My four year old daughter is now officially my five year old daughter, and today is her graduation day from pre-kindergarten. Le sigh. The day I never thought would arrive has: as of the fall, my day care expenses are done, and we are set to put our last child into elementary school. I'm giddy with the prospect as I've been subcontracting out the child care job since 2003. 2003! Someone's really going to have to pinch me, y'all, because my kids are doing what everyone always threatened me they would but I didn't dare believe: they're growing up.
There was a time when I sincerely doubted my children would ever evolve. There was a particularly damaging post-partum period of time after the birth of my second and very cranky and colicky son where I would have sworn to you that the Earth had, indeed, ceased to spin on its axis and that time was standing still. But lo: turn around, and now it seems the days of macaroni pictures and Sesame Street are quickly getting behind me. The hand prints I constantly wipe up are getting larger and larger.
It seems like a dream. I have no more toddlers. No more pudgy cheeks and sturdy legs and baby talk. I will release my daughter to what will become her second family: her gaggle of new friends and teachers at her kindergarten. My last baby is off to school. Soon, I will be confronted with eyerolls, black nail polish, and shorts that say things across her butt. My last baby is about to sashay into the world of public education, and I am of two minds: YAHOO mind...but a bit of BOOHOO mind as well:
YAHOO: Public school is free!
BOOHOO: They let kids from the public in.
YAHOO: My days will be free from child care!
BOOHOO: There will be no excuse to not do housework.
YAHOO: Now all my kids get dropped at the same time of day!
BOOHOO: And that time of day is ungodly early.
YAHOO: Only one spot to drop off and pick up!
BOOHOO: Three sets of homework to facilitate after school instead of two.
YAHOO: My daughter will thrive learning all day!
BOOHOO: I won't be able to get away with spelling dirty words in front of anyone any more.
YAHOO: My daughter will make new friends!
BOOHOO: Let's hope they're not like Paris Hilton. Or Bristol Palin.
YAHOO: My kid will be exposed to more diversity!
BOOHOO: She'll learn cuss words in more than one language.
YAHOO: She'll have wonderful opportunities to create and stretch!
BOOHOO: And I'll be operating the glue gun.
YAHOO: She'll learn to read!
BOOHOO: I'll have to hide my copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.
YAHOO: She'll be improving her social skills!
BOOHOO: She'll be better than ever at manipulating her father.
YAHOO: She'll become independent minded!
BOOHOO: Which better not translate to a butterfly tattoo or a pierced eyebrow.
So, in parenting, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and it may or may not be that of an oncoming train. Yes, it's a mixed bag, this raising of the offspring, their inevitable morph into actual people. You beg them to grow, then you get misty when they oblige. Oh, well. You can't put a brick on their heads and keep them from growing any more than when I tried to force my angry newborn son to age by the sheer force of my will.
Nah, I guess I'm okay being both the Yahoo Mom and the Boohoo Mom as Miss Thang launches herself into the world of institutionalized learning. Sure, I'll miss my finger-paintings and stick-figure drawings as time inevitably marches (and usually all over my face. But I digress).
But as it turns out, the more love you invest in these little boogers, the more interest it seems to collect. So go ahead and grow, little ones. Mommy will find a way to always be nearby, sometimes to your great shame and chagrin. It's my job no matter how old you get. As the story goes: as long as you're living, your Mommy I'll be.
There was a time when I sincerely doubted my children would ever evolve. There was a particularly damaging post-partum period of time after the birth of my second and very cranky and colicky son where I would have sworn to you that the Earth had, indeed, ceased to spin on its axis and that time was standing still. But lo: turn around, and now it seems the days of macaroni pictures and Sesame Street are quickly getting behind me. The hand prints I constantly wipe up are getting larger and larger.
It seems like a dream. I have no more toddlers. No more pudgy cheeks and sturdy legs and baby talk. I will release my daughter to what will become her second family: her gaggle of new friends and teachers at her kindergarten. My last baby is off to school. Soon, I will be confronted with eyerolls, black nail polish, and shorts that say things across her butt. My last baby is about to sashay into the world of public education, and I am of two minds: YAHOO mind...but a bit of BOOHOO mind as well:
YAHOO: Public school is free!
BOOHOO: They let kids from the public in.
YAHOO: My days will be free from child care!
BOOHOO: There will be no excuse to not do housework.
YAHOO: Now all my kids get dropped at the same time of day!
BOOHOO: And that time of day is ungodly early.
YAHOO: Only one spot to drop off and pick up!
BOOHOO: Three sets of homework to facilitate after school instead of two.
YAHOO: My daughter will thrive learning all day!
BOOHOO: I won't be able to get away with spelling dirty words in front of anyone any more.
YAHOO: My daughter will make new friends!
BOOHOO: Let's hope they're not like Paris Hilton. Or Bristol Palin.
YAHOO: My kid will be exposed to more diversity!
BOOHOO: She'll learn cuss words in more than one language.
YAHOO: She'll have wonderful opportunities to create and stretch!
BOOHOO: And I'll be operating the glue gun.
YAHOO: She'll learn to read!
BOOHOO: I'll have to hide my copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.
YAHOO: She'll be improving her social skills!
BOOHOO: She'll be better than ever at manipulating her father.
YAHOO: She'll become independent minded!
BOOHOO: Which better not translate to a butterfly tattoo or a pierced eyebrow.
So, in parenting, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and it may or may not be that of an oncoming train. Yes, it's a mixed bag, this raising of the offspring, their inevitable morph into actual people. You beg them to grow, then you get misty when they oblige. Oh, well. You can't put a brick on their heads and keep them from growing any more than when I tried to force my angry newborn son to age by the sheer force of my will.
Nah, I guess I'm okay being both the Yahoo Mom and the Boohoo Mom as Miss Thang launches herself into the world of institutionalized learning. Sure, I'll miss my finger-paintings and stick-figure drawings as time inevitably marches (and usually all over my face. But I digress).
But as it turns out, the more love you invest in these little boogers, the more interest it seems to collect. So go ahead and grow, little ones. Mommy will find a way to always be nearby, sometimes to your great shame and chagrin. It's my job no matter how old you get. As the story goes: as long as you're living, your Mommy I'll be.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Do This, Not That: Your Kid's Party Edition
It is that time of year again. Birthday party season is once upon us here at Chez Counce. My daughter, my last baby, turns five next week. Le sigh. On one hand, I find myself wistful that chubby, sturdy toddler things are of the past; however, there is a strong part of me that wants to go ahead and chase her into that elementary school before August ever gets here. Having had her two brothers to be the sibling cattle catchers in my pasture of child-rearing, to so speak, leaves her a bit robbed in the sentiment department regarding her departure for kindergarten.
Oh, but don't feel too sorry for the girl. There are an awful lot of pros to being third born outside of finding me emotionally broken by her brothers and thusly in a vulnerable posture, it turns out. My daughter will benefit from the lessons I have learned from having had to juggle Borg designations One of Three and Two of Three before the arrival of her, Three of Three. There was a time, believe it or not, fair reader, where a birthday party for my children has indeed gotten the better of me.
There was a time when I believed an invitation simply wasn't an invitation unless it had been engraved. That there should be elaborate balloon structures. Theme music. THEME MUSIC, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Oh, what a child I was myself. I have rented every bounce house, pizza joint, swimming pool, and amusement hall of every stripe in my children's short lives, giving up an inordinate amount of scratch in the process. And the crying over all the planning and coordinating. There may or may not have been weeping and gnashing of teeth over the detailed planning.
Surely not YOU, Eliska! says you, my gentle reader. But yes: there is indeed a reason this blog is called momma drama. Not always was I the well seasoned (that's something old chicks call themselves) parenting machine that you see before you. If you can imagine it, there was a time when planning my boys' birthday party could leave lasting scarring. One and Two of Three, for convoluted machinations of the universe I might have to share in another blog post, have birthdays that fall on August 7th and August 8th. Up until now, these birthdays were combined into what can only be described kindly as Birthdaypalooza. They: the rock stars. I: only the roadie.
But over the years, I have lived, and I have learned. I have thrown huge, P Diddy-style celebrations that broke the bank. I have made the mistakes and lived to tell the tale. Like Prince, I'm here to tell you: there's something else. Once again and luckily for you, I have collected some of the more advisable Do's and Don'ts of kid parties that will hopefully spare you some of the angst I have experienced over the last decade planning literally dozens of these toddler bashes. Let me lay some wisdom on you for when you're thinking about your offspring's next natal fete:
Don't spend a ton of cash printing up custom-job invites. Unless it's their first birthday party, and you're saving it for the baby book, you might as well wipe your heinie with one. It goes straight in my trash after the information goes in my Blackberry.
Do indicate a clear RSVP phone and email. I don't want to call you. I don't know you. Let me slink into your inbox to say we're coming and to ask you about what particular brand of Chinese made plastic crap your kid wants for a gift.
Don't be surprised when a dozen people show up without RSVPing. Have extra favors on hand, or risk making your son's best friend's little sister think you are the Wicked Witch who Withholds Toys From You But No Others. A good rule of thumb is to double the size of the "yes" responses. A sad commentary on today's society? Perhaps, again, appropriate for another blog. But I digress.
Do consider not going over the top with some elaborate theme and decide our children will be sitting quietly making adorable things within this theme. Usually you are much more impressed with your adorable crafts than they are. The kids want to run amok, and we should let them. Ponder that birthday party "themes" where I grew up included "Ain't You Damn Glad We Had You," "Clothes Are A Perfectly Good Present," and "Cake, Ice Cream, and Getting Sick on the Merry Go Round." These kids are three. They'll be in therapy for some other reason than a party lacking an animatronic, singing Mater centerpiece, I assure you.
Don't make me participate. Let me state in no uncertain terms: the best kid's party is where my child joins a group of other children for raucous fun. Need I repeat:"raucous fun" does not include my forcing my three year old to sit and create a place mat or picture frame. Crafts are fun for middle aged mothers. Not so much for kids when there's sugar to inhale by the pound and a pack to run with.
Ai yi yi, those crafts. Which I must facilitate. Because he's three. Please. Just. Don't. Someone sent me and a crowd of children and parents on a scavenger hunt inside a crowded multi-purpose building, and I think I contracted a panic disorder from that experience I still can't shake. For the love of God, just give me a chair in a corner to huddle in. Are there chairs at this event for the adults? BECAUSE THERE SHOULD BE CHAIRS.
Do have the etiquette to make yourself known as the host or hostess. It's not up to me to find you at your kid's party. I know you're busy. But notice people as we bring our kids in, speak, smile, introduce us to other parents. None of us want to be there, sorry, and it might be nice to have someone to chat to in this particular kind of hostage situation. Circulate.
Don't be afraid to offer guests an adult beverage. Wait? What? Oh, yes...believe it or not, I had a mom give me just one of those mini-bar bottles of wine for the party and no more. Genius! No DUI and still a much smoother experience. Oh, and there are places who will not allow you to bring in outside food and drink. Boycott them.
Do realize any more than one drink for adult guests as a kid's party is a bad, bad idea. If you need a bar, you need a babysitter and a cab driver. And not to be surrounded by images of Dora the Explorer or Kung Fu Panda. Shudder.
Don't be a noodge about food on your kid's birthday. If they're not allergic to it, for the love of all that's holy, just let them have it. Let them land face first in cake. I'm not afraid to say it: YOUR CAKE MADE WITH APPLESAUCE SUCKED. We just all pretended. Could they not have sugar just for their birthday? You're harshing his mellow. Hey, and what's wrong with a bottle of water or a fruit plate for the adults? We did just get your kid a kick ass toy. And there's no chairs.
Do relax and have fun. Your kid won't remember if the cups and plates matched the balloons or if the goody bags were worthy of his friendship. He will, however, remember your morphing into the Shrieking Birthday Harridan. And he will invest money in therapy over it. Remember, it's not your day as a parent...and it's supposed to be fun and relaxed.
So I'm hoping you'll gain from my harrowing experiences. Children's birthday parties are a necessary evil for adults, but they can be less painful when thrown by other, empathic adults who have felt your pain. Godspeed. Think of me as I chug through the milestone party that will take my beloved baby girl out of the "toddler" category and into the "school aged" one. Hey, but if you're lucky enough to be invited to MY kid's bash, we might just get to toast it over some finely aged, single serving Gallo.
Oh, but don't feel too sorry for the girl. There are an awful lot of pros to being third born outside of finding me emotionally broken by her brothers and thusly in a vulnerable posture, it turns out. My daughter will benefit from the lessons I have learned from having had to juggle Borg designations One of Three and Two of Three before the arrival of her, Three of Three. There was a time, believe it or not, fair reader, where a birthday party for my children has indeed gotten the better of me.
There was a time when I believed an invitation simply wasn't an invitation unless it had been engraved. That there should be elaborate balloon structures. Theme music. THEME MUSIC, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Oh, what a child I was myself. I have rented every bounce house, pizza joint, swimming pool, and amusement hall of every stripe in my children's short lives, giving up an inordinate amount of scratch in the process. And the crying over all the planning and coordinating. There may or may not have been weeping and gnashing of teeth over the detailed planning.
Surely not YOU, Eliska! says you, my gentle reader. But yes: there is indeed a reason this blog is called momma drama. Not always was I the well seasoned (that's something old chicks call themselves) parenting machine that you see before you. If you can imagine it, there was a time when planning my boys' birthday party could leave lasting scarring. One and Two of Three, for convoluted machinations of the universe I might have to share in another blog post, have birthdays that fall on August 7th and August 8th. Up until now, these birthdays were combined into what can only be described kindly as Birthdaypalooza. They: the rock stars. I: only the roadie.
But over the years, I have lived, and I have learned. I have thrown huge, P Diddy-style celebrations that broke the bank. I have made the mistakes and lived to tell the tale. Like Prince, I'm here to tell you: there's something else. Once again and luckily for you, I have collected some of the more advisable Do's and Don'ts of kid parties that will hopefully spare you some of the angst I have experienced over the last decade planning literally dozens of these toddler bashes. Let me lay some wisdom on you for when you're thinking about your offspring's next natal fete:
Don't spend a ton of cash printing up custom-job invites. Unless it's their first birthday party, and you're saving it for the baby book, you might as well wipe your heinie with one. It goes straight in my trash after the information goes in my Blackberry.
Do indicate a clear RSVP phone and email. I don't want to call you. I don't know you. Let me slink into your inbox to say we're coming and to ask you about what particular brand of Chinese made plastic crap your kid wants for a gift.
Don't be surprised when a dozen people show up without RSVPing. Have extra favors on hand, or risk making your son's best friend's little sister think you are the Wicked Witch who Withholds Toys From You But No Others. A good rule of thumb is to double the size of the "yes" responses. A sad commentary on today's society? Perhaps, again, appropriate for another blog. But I digress.
Do consider not going over the top with some elaborate theme and decide our children will be sitting quietly making adorable things within this theme. Usually you are much more impressed with your adorable crafts than they are. The kids want to run amok, and we should let them. Ponder that birthday party "themes" where I grew up included "Ain't You Damn Glad We Had You," "Clothes Are A Perfectly Good Present," and "Cake, Ice Cream, and Getting Sick on the Merry Go Round." These kids are three. They'll be in therapy for some other reason than a party lacking an animatronic, singing Mater centerpiece, I assure you.
Don't make me participate. Let me state in no uncertain terms: the best kid's party is where my child joins a group of other children for raucous fun. Need I repeat:"raucous fun" does not include my forcing my three year old to sit and create a place mat or picture frame. Crafts are fun for middle aged mothers. Not so much for kids when there's sugar to inhale by the pound and a pack to run with.
Ai yi yi, those crafts. Which I must facilitate. Because he's three. Please. Just. Don't. Someone sent me and a crowd of children and parents on a scavenger hunt inside a crowded multi-purpose building, and I think I contracted a panic disorder from that experience I still can't shake. For the love of God, just give me a chair in a corner to huddle in. Are there chairs at this event for the adults? BECAUSE THERE SHOULD BE CHAIRS.
Do have the etiquette to make yourself known as the host or hostess. It's not up to me to find you at your kid's party. I know you're busy. But notice people as we bring our kids in, speak, smile, introduce us to other parents. None of us want to be there, sorry, and it might be nice to have someone to chat to in this particular kind of hostage situation. Circulate.
Don't be afraid to offer guests an adult beverage. Wait? What? Oh, yes...believe it or not, I had a mom give me just one of those mini-bar bottles of wine for the party and no more. Genius! No DUI and still a much smoother experience. Oh, and there are places who will not allow you to bring in outside food and drink. Boycott them.
Do realize any more than one drink for adult guests as a kid's party is a bad, bad idea. If you need a bar, you need a babysitter and a cab driver. And not to be surrounded by images of Dora the Explorer or Kung Fu Panda. Shudder.
Don't be a noodge about food on your kid's birthday. If they're not allergic to it, for the love of all that's holy, just let them have it. Let them land face first in cake. I'm not afraid to say it: YOUR CAKE MADE WITH APPLESAUCE SUCKED. We just all pretended. Could they not have sugar just for their birthday? You're harshing his mellow. Hey, and what's wrong with a bottle of water or a fruit plate for the adults? We did just get your kid a kick ass toy. And there's no chairs.
Do relax and have fun. Your kid won't remember if the cups and plates matched the balloons or if the goody bags were worthy of his friendship. He will, however, remember your morphing into the Shrieking Birthday Harridan. And he will invest money in therapy over it. Remember, it's not your day as a parent...and it's supposed to be fun and relaxed.
So I'm hoping you'll gain from my harrowing experiences. Children's birthday parties are a necessary evil for adults, but they can be less painful when thrown by other, empathic adults who have felt your pain. Godspeed. Think of me as I chug through the milestone party that will take my beloved baby girl out of the "toddler" category and into the "school aged" one. Hey, but if you're lucky enough to be invited to MY kid's bash, we might just get to toast it over some finely aged, single serving Gallo.
Friday, May 11, 2012
I Love You, TV Mom.
It so totally should have been the other way around. Why wasn't I a mom in the 1970s and a kid in the 2000's? Back when I was a kid, during the "me" generation, when we were Up With People, and You Were OK and I Was OK and smiley faces were omnipresent, we children were treated like the non-income-generating resource consumers that we were.
Families were not nearly as child-centered back in the day. I had three babies during the 2000-2009 period, a time of Baby Einstein videos, attachment parenting, and the pressure to make your own organic baby food. I blame Clinton for the prosperity of the times, but I digress. My point? 1970s Moms drank and smoked their way through pregnancies and enjoyed hot dogs and stinky cheese. They dyed their hair with extreme prejudice and never, never did they have to experience the guilt of reading What to Expect When You're Expecting. Good, good times.
Child-rearing was a totally different experience back in the day. In the 1970s, we who were children got away with behaviors that would make today's mommy bloggers swoon: no helmets or pads! Rides in the back of Grandaddy's pick-up truck with no five-point harnesses in sight! Sugar Smacks for breakfast! Every other meal of the day prepared in a microwave! Crisco was, if I am not mistaken, one of the four food groups then.
Also a feature of my 70s upbringing: unlimited television time, which was less of a boon when there were only three channels and two shows apiece a kid might want to see. You can only get so much mileage out of The Electric Company and Zoom, after all. But moms of the 1970s had no problem not being our favorite toys, even if that meant letting us watch whatever flickered across the pre-cable-days screen, a la Mad Men's Sally Draper. As a kid when things got dicey, you got sent out, mercifully, to watch TV, while the adults drank.
And so I largely grew up sitting in a dark room watching my beloved TV, being raised by my TV moms. Oh, I loved my TV moms. So flat, so two dimensional, so able to solve any problem her child had within the allotted half hour, a beautiful foil to their somehow always dumpy and hapless husbands: these were women to be admired.
They weren't, of course, real, but I loved them and wished somehow I could vanish into their little sitcom worlds if only to be fictitiously raised by them for a only a little while. And so, and in honor of Mother's Day, I am compelled to present you with a tribute to TV's Best Moms Ever:
Edith Bunker. Oh, I still love to belt out "Those Were the Days" from All In the Family in my best Edith voice. Forever calm, loving, and unflappable, Mrs. Archie Bunker never did acquiesce to stifle herself. She was proud to put Archie's dinner on the table for him and provide a foil for his bombast. No matter how offensive or borderline abusive Archie could get, Edith gave you the idea she used a stupid act to get away with being the smartest character in the room. And wasn't Gloria a sweet kid? You know that was all Edith. Edith Bunker: one of the most patient mothers in all of TV history.
Carol Brady. Who couldn't love The Brady Bunch's cool blonde Carol Brady? She had six kids, and they never had a fist fight that we saw, anyway. Carol was super mod with her sleek signature bob with the fringe and the mini-skirts and go-go boots she could rock. I envied her Alice, her ginormous split level house, and her hot architect hubby. Carol always loved the boys as her own, and you never doubted she would be able to advise a son about jock itch with just as much aplomb as when she counseled Jan through her broken nose and overshadowing by Marcia. Plus, her daughters always looked hot, too. How did she do it all?
Louise "Weezy" Jefferson. On The Jeffersons, Weezy dealt with another blowhard husband and the trials and tribulations of movin' on up. Interestingly, Weezy really did seem to find George's sawed-off hotheadedness...well, kind of hot. She and Florence were comedy gold. And she showed sensitivity and embraced diversity as she interacted with mixed-race couple Tom and Helen Willis. Trappings of money and success didn't change Weezy either, or make her lose her street smarts. Weezy was a loving and patient mom to Lionel and had a heart of gold. She deserved a medal for her patience with George, and it never flagged. God bless you, Weezy.
Marion Cunningham. Oh, Mrs. C. Happy Days, indeed. Mrs. C welcomed a biker into her home and loved him like a Poindexter, the only one who dared to call Fonzie by his birth name, Arthur. She dressed like Donna Reed and cooked like Betty Crocker. She didn't let Joanie grow up too quickly (although you know she and Chachi were hooking up). She was Ritchie's calming influence, and she was surrogate mom to Ralph and Potsie. She, too, had a rather sardonic husband that just never seemed to take the lilt out of her voice. Marion is known for her witty comments, always-clean house, raising wholesome kids. When she wasn't dancing with the Fonz.
Edna Garrett. While Edna Garrett did indeed have two sons of her own, it wasn't her guidance of them that inspired my adoration of the Facts of Life mother figure. God knows what would have gone on at that Eastland Academy without her. I swear I think there was some sexual tension between Blair and Jo. But I digress. The best mothering quality Mrs. Garrett had was an uncanny ability to allow her blow-dried charges to make their mistakes and draw their own conclusions and lessons from the consequences of these decisions. Blair smoked a joint once, and Mrs. Garrett didn't even cluck. Her calm management of all those females is to be admired too; I imagine once all those menstrual cycles synched up, that group made the Avengers look like sniveling wimps.
Peggy Bundy. I save my very favorite TV mom for last. On Married...With Children, the wife of shoe salesman Al refused to cook or clean for the family. I have loved her ever since she leaped to her feet at the sound of Al hitting the door. She'd drop her magazine and grab a vacuum, pretending she'd been working. Oh, my heroine Peggy, who drops cigarette butts in the salad. The hair! The heels! The tight pants! And despite her obvious dearth of parenting skills, Peggy still obviously loved her kids, even if she refused to feed them. And she was always nagging Al for sex. Peggy Bundy: unmasking mothers' dark secrets. Who doesn't love Peggy?
There they are, my very favorite TV moms. Happy Mother's Day to them. And happy Mother's Day to you, be you one or just born of one. Don't worry if you don't feel like the ideal mom to your kids, or if maybe you didn't end up with an ideal mom yourself. All moms have their good points: you turned out pretty awesome, didn't you? Enjoy the day. If you're separated from your mom for some reason, don't fret. Because any time you need mom? She's right there for you, available in syndication.
Families were not nearly as child-centered back in the day. I had three babies during the 2000-2009 period, a time of Baby Einstein videos, attachment parenting, and the pressure to make your own organic baby food. I blame Clinton for the prosperity of the times, but I digress. My point? 1970s Moms drank and smoked their way through pregnancies and enjoyed hot dogs and stinky cheese. They dyed their hair with extreme prejudice and never, never did they have to experience the guilt of reading What to Expect When You're Expecting. Good, good times.
Child-rearing was a totally different experience back in the day. In the 1970s, we who were children got away with behaviors that would make today's mommy bloggers swoon: no helmets or pads! Rides in the back of Grandaddy's pick-up truck with no five-point harnesses in sight! Sugar Smacks for breakfast! Every other meal of the day prepared in a microwave! Crisco was, if I am not mistaken, one of the four food groups then.
Also a feature of my 70s upbringing: unlimited television time, which was less of a boon when there were only three channels and two shows apiece a kid might want to see. You can only get so much mileage out of The Electric Company and Zoom, after all. But moms of the 1970s had no problem not being our favorite toys, even if that meant letting us watch whatever flickered across the pre-cable-days screen, a la Mad Men's Sally Draper. As a kid when things got dicey, you got sent out, mercifully, to watch TV, while the adults drank.
And so I largely grew up sitting in a dark room watching my beloved TV, being raised by my TV moms. Oh, I loved my TV moms. So flat, so two dimensional, so able to solve any problem her child had within the allotted half hour, a beautiful foil to their somehow always dumpy and hapless husbands: these were women to be admired.
They weren't, of course, real, but I loved them and wished somehow I could vanish into their little sitcom worlds if only to be fictitiously raised by them for a only a little while. And so, and in honor of Mother's Day, I am compelled to present you with a tribute to TV's Best Moms Ever:
Edith Bunker. Oh, I still love to belt out "Those Were the Days" from All In the Family in my best Edith voice. Forever calm, loving, and unflappable, Mrs. Archie Bunker never did acquiesce to stifle herself. She was proud to put Archie's dinner on the table for him and provide a foil for his bombast. No matter how offensive or borderline abusive Archie could get, Edith gave you the idea she used a stupid act to get away with being the smartest character in the room. And wasn't Gloria a sweet kid? You know that was all Edith. Edith Bunker: one of the most patient mothers in all of TV history.
Carol Brady. Who couldn't love The Brady Bunch's cool blonde Carol Brady? She had six kids, and they never had a fist fight that we saw, anyway. Carol was super mod with her sleek signature bob with the fringe and the mini-skirts and go-go boots she could rock. I envied her Alice, her ginormous split level house, and her hot architect hubby. Carol always loved the boys as her own, and you never doubted she would be able to advise a son about jock itch with just as much aplomb as when she counseled Jan through her broken nose and overshadowing by Marcia. Plus, her daughters always looked hot, too. How did she do it all?
Louise "Weezy" Jefferson. On The Jeffersons, Weezy dealt with another blowhard husband and the trials and tribulations of movin' on up. Interestingly, Weezy really did seem to find George's sawed-off hotheadedness...well, kind of hot. She and Florence were comedy gold. And she showed sensitivity and embraced diversity as she interacted with mixed-race couple Tom and Helen Willis. Trappings of money and success didn't change Weezy either, or make her lose her street smarts. Weezy was a loving and patient mom to Lionel and had a heart of gold. She deserved a medal for her patience with George, and it never flagged. God bless you, Weezy.
Marion Cunningham. Oh, Mrs. C. Happy Days, indeed. Mrs. C welcomed a biker into her home and loved him like a Poindexter, the only one who dared to call Fonzie by his birth name, Arthur. She dressed like Donna Reed and cooked like Betty Crocker. She didn't let Joanie grow up too quickly (although you know she and Chachi were hooking up). She was Ritchie's calming influence, and she was surrogate mom to Ralph and Potsie. She, too, had a rather sardonic husband that just never seemed to take the lilt out of her voice. Marion is known for her witty comments, always-clean house, raising wholesome kids. When she wasn't dancing with the Fonz.
Edna Garrett. While Edna Garrett did indeed have two sons of her own, it wasn't her guidance of them that inspired my adoration of the Facts of Life mother figure. God knows what would have gone on at that Eastland Academy without her. I swear I think there was some sexual tension between Blair and Jo. But I digress. The best mothering quality Mrs. Garrett had was an uncanny ability to allow her blow-dried charges to make their mistakes and draw their own conclusions and lessons from the consequences of these decisions. Blair smoked a joint once, and Mrs. Garrett didn't even cluck. Her calm management of all those females is to be admired too; I imagine once all those menstrual cycles synched up, that group made the Avengers look like sniveling wimps.
Peggy Bundy. I save my very favorite TV mom for last. On Married...With Children, the wife of shoe salesman Al refused to cook or clean for the family. I have loved her ever since she leaped to her feet at the sound of Al hitting the door. She'd drop her magazine and grab a vacuum, pretending she'd been working. Oh, my heroine Peggy, who drops cigarette butts in the salad. The hair! The heels! The tight pants! And despite her obvious dearth of parenting skills, Peggy still obviously loved her kids, even if she refused to feed them. And she was always nagging Al for sex. Peggy Bundy: unmasking mothers' dark secrets. Who doesn't love Peggy?
There they are, my very favorite TV moms. Happy Mother's Day to them. And happy Mother's Day to you, be you one or just born of one. Don't worry if you don't feel like the ideal mom to your kids, or if maybe you didn't end up with an ideal mom yourself. All moms have their good points: you turned out pretty awesome, didn't you? Enjoy the day. If you're separated from your mom for some reason, don't fret. Because any time you need mom? She's right there for you, available in syndication.
Friday, May 4, 2012
The Four Horsemen of the Marital Apocalypse
I'm often asked how Hubs and I have managed to stay married for sixteen years, have three kids, and keep from committing splattery homicide. How do you, people inquire, keep from a nasty, Deion-and-Pilar-Sanders-style divorce after all that time? The methods Hubs and I incorporate in order to keep the peace are many and well-utilized. The absence of domestic violence between us is not just because I would die before I was photographed at the Collin County jail in the infamous Mug Shot Towel (gray is so not my color).
It is true we were both born to parents with long marriages and famously concrete heads, so we come by those variables naturally, I suppose, which help elongate our union. And while hard-headedness may or may not play a factor in whether or not your marriage succeeds or fails, believe it or not, there is a science surrounding what factors and variables are associated with successful forty-plus year marriages (evidently not killing one another or divorcing is considered "success" within marriage. And it totally is).
Psychologist John Gottman has spent twenty years studying what it takes to make a marriage prevail. He's unmasked a lot of myths people believe about marriage, too. Turns out more sex doesn't necessarily improve your marriage. Frequent arguing does not actually lead to divorce, can you believe that one? Turns out how you argue and how you make repairs matters more.
Other interesting and fun divorce-busting facts: wives who make sour faces when your man talks? You're more likely to be separated from that guy within four years. There's a reason husbands withdraw from arguments: emotional flooding. We're the athletes of the relationship skills. We can sprint. Men? Well, let's be kind and say getting frequently winded is a problem.
Believe it or not, Gottman did a study of 2,000 married couples over twenty years, and the result? He can predict within 94 percent accuracy which people will stay married and which will divorce. Stunning, but scientifically accurate. And not surprisingly, Gottman isolated certain attitudes that can single-handedly doom your relationship. He called these attributes The Four Horsemen of the Marital Apocalypse. See if you recognize the presence of any of the following attitudes and the behaviors that go with them in your romantic relationship:
Criticism. It's a tough struggle for me in life, really, to be right about everything. It can be such a burden. But when I start enlightening Hubs about the correct way to do...well, everything, the first Horseman enters the building. Now, complaining isn't criticizing. When I moan about Hubs leaving every empty container ever out on the counter, that's complaining. Not attractive, but not a Horseman. But if I attack Hubs' character or personality? That's criticizing.
Contempt. And yes, the familiarity of marriage can breed it. Words and body language communicate your disgust and your thoughts that your partner is stupid, incompetent, a fool. You don't admire your spouse. Compliments and admiration are hard to hold onto in the presence of contempt, and all of the sudden there's no mutual attraction.
Boom. Welcome, Second Horseman. Wanna stay married? Keep the contempt out of your conversations. Especially insults, name calling, mockery, and my favorite, hostile humor. Wait. What? Don't forget to eliminate the non-verbal contempt, too. Sneering, rolling your eyes, curling a lip, picking lint off your skirt while he's trying to communicate with you...all are loud body language.
Defensiveness. So once contempt has galloped into your marital bedroom, nostrils flaring and harness jingling, our third Horseman defensiveness is not far behind. Makes sense to want to protect yourself from insults, but the innocence game is hardly authentic. But defensive phrases and the attitude they express escalate arguments. Watch out for these defensive moves in particular: denying responsibility. Making excuses. Repeating yourself.
Oh, and this is a good one: reading your partner's mind which you just KNOW is full of negative judgements about you. "Yes, but"ting. Cross-complaining: "We never have anyone over because you're so antisocial." "No, it's just that you never clean up the place."Ouch. And watch out for the body language of defensiveness: fake smile, shifting from side to side like you're going to get sucker-punched, folding your arms. There's the Third Horseman. And finally:
Stonewalling. Once the other Horsemen have taken up residence in your honeymoon cottage, pooping all over your hopes and dreams, stonewalling can represent rock bottom. And it's pretty self-explanatory. The stonewaller just removes him or herself from the situation by turning into a stone wall. Oh, you're not trying to be neutral. You know this. You are exerting icy power, distance, and, my favorite: smugness, which makes me want to throat punch you. And not surprisingly, it's much more upsetting for women when men do it than the other way around.
So the moral to the story of a successful marriage? Don't let the Four Horsemen contribute to a grinding cycle of negativity. Don't let complaining turn to criticism, let criticism slide to contempt, become defensive because of the contempt, and then stonewall to avoid the erosion of your relationship. The good news is some negativity is just the spice your marriage needs to keep it strong...as long as y'all know how to play it.
It is true we were both born to parents with long marriages and famously concrete heads, so we come by those variables naturally, I suppose, which help elongate our union. And while hard-headedness may or may not play a factor in whether or not your marriage succeeds or fails, believe it or not, there is a science surrounding what factors and variables are associated with successful forty-plus year marriages (evidently not killing one another or divorcing is considered "success" within marriage. And it totally is).
Psychologist John Gottman has spent twenty years studying what it takes to make a marriage prevail. He's unmasked a lot of myths people believe about marriage, too. Turns out more sex doesn't necessarily improve your marriage. Frequent arguing does not actually lead to divorce, can you believe that one? Turns out how you argue and how you make repairs matters more.
Other interesting and fun divorce-busting facts: wives who make sour faces when your man talks? You're more likely to be separated from that guy within four years. There's a reason husbands withdraw from arguments: emotional flooding. We're the athletes of the relationship skills. We can sprint. Men? Well, let's be kind and say getting frequently winded is a problem.
Believe it or not, Gottman did a study of 2,000 married couples over twenty years, and the result? He can predict within 94 percent accuracy which people will stay married and which will divorce. Stunning, but scientifically accurate. And not surprisingly, Gottman isolated certain attitudes that can single-handedly doom your relationship. He called these attributes The Four Horsemen of the Marital Apocalypse. See if you recognize the presence of any of the following attitudes and the behaviors that go with them in your romantic relationship:
Criticism. It's a tough struggle for me in life, really, to be right about everything. It can be such a burden. But when I start enlightening Hubs about the correct way to do...well, everything, the first Horseman enters the building. Now, complaining isn't criticizing. When I moan about Hubs leaving every empty container ever out on the counter, that's complaining. Not attractive, but not a Horseman. But if I attack Hubs' character or personality? That's criticizing.
Contempt. And yes, the familiarity of marriage can breed it. Words and body language communicate your disgust and your thoughts that your partner is stupid, incompetent, a fool. You don't admire your spouse. Compliments and admiration are hard to hold onto in the presence of contempt, and all of the sudden there's no mutual attraction.
Boom. Welcome, Second Horseman. Wanna stay married? Keep the contempt out of your conversations. Especially insults, name calling, mockery, and my favorite, hostile humor. Wait. What? Don't forget to eliminate the non-verbal contempt, too. Sneering, rolling your eyes, curling a lip, picking lint off your skirt while he's trying to communicate with you...all are loud body language.
Defensiveness. So once contempt has galloped into your marital bedroom, nostrils flaring and harness jingling, our third Horseman defensiveness is not far behind. Makes sense to want to protect yourself from insults, but the innocence game is hardly authentic. But defensive phrases and the attitude they express escalate arguments. Watch out for these defensive moves in particular: denying responsibility. Making excuses. Repeating yourself.
Oh, and this is a good one: reading your partner's mind which you just KNOW is full of negative judgements about you. "Yes, but"ting. Cross-complaining: "We never have anyone over because you're so antisocial." "No, it's just that you never clean up the place."Ouch. And watch out for the body language of defensiveness: fake smile, shifting from side to side like you're going to get sucker-punched, folding your arms. There's the Third Horseman. And finally:
Stonewalling. Once the other Horsemen have taken up residence in your honeymoon cottage, pooping all over your hopes and dreams, stonewalling can represent rock bottom. And it's pretty self-explanatory. The stonewaller just removes him or herself from the situation by turning into a stone wall. Oh, you're not trying to be neutral. You know this. You are exerting icy power, distance, and, my favorite: smugness, which makes me want to throat punch you. And not surprisingly, it's much more upsetting for women when men do it than the other way around.
So the moral to the story of a successful marriage? Don't let the Four Horsemen contribute to a grinding cycle of negativity. Don't let complaining turn to criticism, let criticism slide to contempt, become defensive because of the contempt, and then stonewall to avoid the erosion of your relationship. The good news is some negativity is just the spice your marriage needs to keep it strong...as long as y'all know how to play it.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Parenting's Guilty Pleasures
If you're a parent, you know the Herculean nature of the toughest job on the planet. It's a marathon, a Homeric journey, parenting, and it's not glamorous work. Intensive parenting can be repetitive, dirty, exhausting, and boring. You've got to grab what you can to keep going, find the little rewards for yourself to stave off the occasional, nagging resentment and help make the whole endeavor a little less stressful. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the ten most guilty pleasures of parents that help make the whole child-rearing experience a little more pleasant:
1. Kid's leftovers. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken strips and nuggets. Pizza crusts (or "bones," as we call them around here). Happy meal cheeseburger halves. I would never buy and eat these foods for myself as often as my kids get them. Luckily, anything I shove in my mouth over the sink while cleaning up after dinner has no calories. Likewise with any leftovers. I circle my children's half-eaten meals like a vulture. Again, if it's half a quesadilla on a Hello Kitty plate, it doesn't count.
2. Trashy, stupid, or R rated TV and movies. As parenting shaves IQ points off of you, you will find great relief in stopping thinking after the children go to bed. The History Channel or NOVA will put you to sleep anyway. You will be a beaten person by the end of the day. You will take pleasure in slipping into a semi-coma as the Jersey Shore crowd fist pumps or as Donald Trump fires people. You will be surprised to find yourself slack-jawed in front of anything that doesn't require you to use your brain. You will want cursing and adult content. You will want to live vicariously through violent programming.
3. Free babysitting and time away from the kids. So many parents feel badly about grandparents or other family and friends watching our kids while we escape. Don't. Run. Run like the wind. It's a parenting trade secret that it is indeed okay to be happy to be away from the kids and even better to not talk about them at all while you're out. They nagged you for grandchildren. Arm them with sugar and children's programming and don't look back.
4. Any and all child restraint toys. People without children think Johnny Jump-Ups, walkers, and play pens are for children's amusement. Not so. These apparati are for keeping the rug rat in one spot so you can doze on the couch. I think once I've left my kid in an automatic swing so long his legs went blue. At least the Baby Einstein bouncer taught me a little about classical music.
5. The post-bedtime tipple. Oh, I'll just say it. WINE. Just be careful not to combine with social media, or the next morning you may find some really interesting string of You Tube clips you posted on Facebook that you'd like to take back. For the love of Mike, don't drink and tweet.
6. Watching other people's kids freak out in public. I'm sorry, but it's true. Your kid is just as embarrassing as mine, and it makes me feel better. Let's not talk about how this reflects poorly on me. Just know I feel your pain as we exchange apologetic grimaces in the toy aisle.
7. Staying up too late. A guilty pleasure while it's happening, a feeling of death warmed over follows in the morning. But combined with numbers 2 and 5, it becomes pretty easy to tell yourself you'll sleep when you're dead. Related:
8. Coffee and coffee accessories. Coffee. Or as we at my home refer to it: The Life-Giving Elixir. Surely I must own stock in Starbucks as many lattes as I've purchased there. I have collected cabinets full of mugs with witty and/or pithy sayings on them. I have every creamer flavor known to man. Did you know they make caramel sauce for coffee? I do. Approach me before I've had coffee in the morning and risk drawing back a bloody stump.
9. Casual wear. God created yoga pants and hats because he loves us and understands it's hard to get a shower when you've got small kids. You're not a parent until you've sat in carpool in your pajama pants and/or barefoot. Bonus points if you manage to get fully dressed but still walk out of the house in your slippers.
10. The 45-minute bathroom visit. Let's face it: if you have to sit in the bathroom for 45 minutes, you don't have to go. You're hiding. Which I endorse wholeheartedly. Other good places to hide from your children for a breather: the master bedroom closet is usually big enough. The back yard. And one of my favorites: the laundry room. If you're like me, there's probably a pile of laundry big enough to crawl into and disappear for a week.
So, Godspeed, my fellow parents. Consider this my blessing to grab what you can to keep moving when the going gets tough. Having children is not unlike a hostage situation. You gotta do what you gotta do to stay sane and survive the tough times. Now if you'll forgive me, I'm going to take my wine and trashy magazine and go perch, oh so quietly, on top of the dryer for awhile. Cheers.
1. Kid's leftovers. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken strips and nuggets. Pizza crusts (or "bones," as we call them around here). Happy meal cheeseburger halves. I would never buy and eat these foods for myself as often as my kids get them. Luckily, anything I shove in my mouth over the sink while cleaning up after dinner has no calories. Likewise with any leftovers. I circle my children's half-eaten meals like a vulture. Again, if it's half a quesadilla on a Hello Kitty plate, it doesn't count.
2. Trashy, stupid, or R rated TV and movies. As parenting shaves IQ points off of you, you will find great relief in stopping thinking after the children go to bed. The History Channel or NOVA will put you to sleep anyway. You will be a beaten person by the end of the day. You will take pleasure in slipping into a semi-coma as the Jersey Shore crowd fist pumps or as Donald Trump fires people. You will be surprised to find yourself slack-jawed in front of anything that doesn't require you to use your brain. You will want cursing and adult content. You will want to live vicariously through violent programming.
3. Free babysitting and time away from the kids. So many parents feel badly about grandparents or other family and friends watching our kids while we escape. Don't. Run. Run like the wind. It's a parenting trade secret that it is indeed okay to be happy to be away from the kids and even better to not talk about them at all while you're out. They nagged you for grandchildren. Arm them with sugar and children's programming and don't look back.
4. Any and all child restraint toys. People without children think Johnny Jump-Ups, walkers, and play pens are for children's amusement. Not so. These apparati are for keeping the rug rat in one spot so you can doze on the couch. I think once I've left my kid in an automatic swing so long his legs went blue. At least the Baby Einstein bouncer taught me a little about classical music.
5. The post-bedtime tipple. Oh, I'll just say it. WINE. Just be careful not to combine with social media, or the next morning you may find some really interesting string of You Tube clips you posted on Facebook that you'd like to take back. For the love of Mike, don't drink and tweet.
6. Watching other people's kids freak out in public. I'm sorry, but it's true. Your kid is just as embarrassing as mine, and it makes me feel better. Let's not talk about how this reflects poorly on me. Just know I feel your pain as we exchange apologetic grimaces in the toy aisle.
7. Staying up too late. A guilty pleasure while it's happening, a feeling of death warmed over follows in the morning. But combined with numbers 2 and 5, it becomes pretty easy to tell yourself you'll sleep when you're dead. Related:
8. Coffee and coffee accessories. Coffee. Or as we at my home refer to it: The Life-Giving Elixir. Surely I must own stock in Starbucks as many lattes as I've purchased there. I have collected cabinets full of mugs with witty and/or pithy sayings on them. I have every creamer flavor known to man. Did you know they make caramel sauce for coffee? I do. Approach me before I've had coffee in the morning and risk drawing back a bloody stump.
9. Casual wear. God created yoga pants and hats because he loves us and understands it's hard to get a shower when you've got small kids. You're not a parent until you've sat in carpool in your pajama pants and/or barefoot. Bonus points if you manage to get fully dressed but still walk out of the house in your slippers.
10. The 45-minute bathroom visit. Let's face it: if you have to sit in the bathroom for 45 minutes, you don't have to go. You're hiding. Which I endorse wholeheartedly. Other good places to hide from your children for a breather: the master bedroom closet is usually big enough. The back yard. And one of my favorites: the laundry room. If you're like me, there's probably a pile of laundry big enough to crawl into and disappear for a week.
So, Godspeed, my fellow parents. Consider this my blessing to grab what you can to keep moving when the going gets tough. Having children is not unlike a hostage situation. You gotta do what you gotta do to stay sane and survive the tough times. Now if you'll forgive me, I'm going to take my wine and trashy magazine and go perch, oh so quietly, on top of the dryer for awhile. Cheers.
Friday, April 20, 2012
The Mommy War That Wasn't
Did you blink and miss the "Mommy Wars" this week the media tried to launch? They're so cute, the media, running memes up the flag pole to see just who will salute. But, as often is the case, we women were sorely underestimated in our ability to see and call shenanigans. The "Mommy Wars" just didn't seem to put the fire in the bellies of American women. I think we were too busy with laundry to watch a lot of the coverage.
First of all, I would like to point out the annoying quality of the term "Mommy Wars" anyway. I don't like anyone but my children calling me "Mommy" (it's creepy even when Hubs does it), so enough with the "Mommy bloggers," "Mommy Wars," etc. I'm not "mommying." Isn't it just parenting? "Mommy" somehow doesn't sound like a power player.
I also find it fascinating that there is an ongoing argument about whether mothers should hold paid employment outside of child-rearing and domestic management, but there's no discussion about whether or not Daddy should "come home" (it's made to sound like if a woman works somewhere besides at her house she has r-u-n-n-o-f-t). Where are the villagers with pitchforks for the men who dare keep their office job after the baby is born? And if I'm a "stay at home mom," why am I in the damned mini-van so much? But I digress.
Don't know to what "Mommy" media frenzy I am referring? In case you haven't noticed, this is a presidential election year (wake me in December, please), and that means pandering season. It also means a lot of meat puppets out shouting nonsense over each other until someone makes a sound bite that can rotate for the next news cycle.
So enter Hilary Rosen, Democrat. I still don't know what her job is, per se, except she's supposed to be a some kind of media and communication expert, and she's supposed to get me to vote for Obama. She could have been CNN's Senior Fallopial Correspondent for all I know, but all of the sudden, this Rosen person has said during one of these many cable news yammerfests that Mitt Romney's wife, Ann, mother of five, has, quote, "never worked a day of her life."
Cue the sturm und drang. Now, I believe Rosen was trying to say Ann Romney is a stranger to what most women go through and has never worried financially for herself or her family, having never having had to depend on a paid career to support them. You'd think a communication expert would have more expertly communicated this concept. Alas. The Romney camp was all over Rosen's statement like white on...well, Romney.
Clearly, I was told, there is a "Mommy War" between what the media calls "working mothers" and "stay at home mothers." Elitist, shrubbery-hugging, latte-sipping, penis-envying, arugula-munching working mothers think stay at home mothers are reading The National Enquirer, eating bon bons, and gossiping over the fence with Gladys Kravitz while kowtowing to their men. Stay at home mothers are contemptuous of cold-hearted career-driven harpies who want to be men, care about money and an expensive lifestyle more than their families, and have other people to raise their children.
To which the collective "Meh" was raised. Because it turns out women are women before they're Republican or Democratic. And mothers? Well, we could snicker at the clearly amped-up umbrage because we all know: if you're a mother, or a father, for that matter, who cares....of any color, race, creed, or tax bracket...you are working your ass off. And we all know it. We're not turning on one another. Sorry, mainstream media. That dog, as Dr. Phil so colorfully puts it, just won't hunt.
Sure, I may wish I had Ann Romney's millions, but I'd rather be poorer than a church mice than raise five sons. Three kids has almost left me insane and exhausted. Five? You would have had to strap ME to the top of the car instead of Seamus the Irish setter. Even with a nanny apiece. Because as any mother knows, there's Mom...and there's Not The Mom. It happens from birth. Even the most progressive of fathers, intent with matching diaper change to diaper change with his wife will one day hear these words: "NO! I! ONLY! WANT! MOMMY!"
It made me wonder if the people behind this "Mommy War" story are even aware of the realities of how parenting happens these days. There are no two armies of mothers, like Dr. Suess' Star Bellied Sneetches and Those Without Stars Upon Thars. There are women...and men...who work. We work full time, part time, at home, at our children's schools and day care centers. There are people with the resources to choose not to draw a paycheck while their children are living with them and make child-rearing their profession. There are people who have absolutely no financial wiggle room for this option to be available.
As usual, it seems those in government are a good bit behind in the times in assuming American homes only look two possible ways in this century. The "Mommy Wars" non-controversy was exactly that, because it harkens from a different time than now. Now, we call it parenting. And it's the hardest job anyone will ever work, male, female, rich, poor or otherwise. Let's just hope this silly brouhaha has raised the collective American conscious regarding how much effort it does, indeed, take to be a parent, whether or not you're paid to do something else as well.
First of all, I would like to point out the annoying quality of the term "Mommy Wars" anyway. I don't like anyone but my children calling me "Mommy" (it's creepy even when Hubs does it), so enough with the "Mommy bloggers," "Mommy Wars," etc. I'm not "mommying." Isn't it just parenting? "Mommy" somehow doesn't sound like a power player.
I also find it fascinating that there is an ongoing argument about whether mothers should hold paid employment outside of child-rearing and domestic management, but there's no discussion about whether or not Daddy should "come home" (it's made to sound like if a woman works somewhere besides at her house she has r-u-n-n-o-f-t). Where are the villagers with pitchforks for the men who dare keep their office job after the baby is born? And if I'm a "stay at home mom," why am I in the damned mini-van so much? But I digress.
Don't know to what "Mommy" media frenzy I am referring? In case you haven't noticed, this is a presidential election year (wake me in December, please), and that means pandering season. It also means a lot of meat puppets out shouting nonsense over each other until someone makes a sound bite that can rotate for the next news cycle.
So enter Hilary Rosen, Democrat. I still don't know what her job is, per se, except she's supposed to be a some kind of media and communication expert, and she's supposed to get me to vote for Obama. She could have been CNN's Senior Fallopial Correspondent for all I know, but all of the sudden, this Rosen person has said during one of these many cable news yammerfests that Mitt Romney's wife, Ann, mother of five, has, quote, "never worked a day of her life."
Cue the sturm und drang. Now, I believe Rosen was trying to say Ann Romney is a stranger to what most women go through and has never worried financially for herself or her family, having never having had to depend on a paid career to support them. You'd think a communication expert would have more expertly communicated this concept. Alas. The Romney camp was all over Rosen's statement like white on...well, Romney.
Clearly, I was told, there is a "Mommy War" between what the media calls "working mothers" and "stay at home mothers." Elitist, shrubbery-hugging, latte-sipping, penis-envying, arugula-munching working mothers think stay at home mothers are reading The National Enquirer, eating bon bons, and gossiping over the fence with Gladys Kravitz while kowtowing to their men. Stay at home mothers are contemptuous of cold-hearted career-driven harpies who want to be men, care about money and an expensive lifestyle more than their families, and have other people to raise their children.
To which the collective "Meh" was raised. Because it turns out women are women before they're Republican or Democratic. And mothers? Well, we could snicker at the clearly amped-up umbrage because we all know: if you're a mother, or a father, for that matter, who cares....of any color, race, creed, or tax bracket...you are working your ass off. And we all know it. We're not turning on one another. Sorry, mainstream media. That dog, as Dr. Phil so colorfully puts it, just won't hunt.
Sure, I may wish I had Ann Romney's millions, but I'd rather be poorer than a church mice than raise five sons. Three kids has almost left me insane and exhausted. Five? You would have had to strap ME to the top of the car instead of Seamus the Irish setter. Even with a nanny apiece. Because as any mother knows, there's Mom...and there's Not The Mom. It happens from birth. Even the most progressive of fathers, intent with matching diaper change to diaper change with his wife will one day hear these words: "NO! I! ONLY! WANT! MOMMY!"
It made me wonder if the people behind this "Mommy War" story are even aware of the realities of how parenting happens these days. There are no two armies of mothers, like Dr. Suess' Star Bellied Sneetches and Those Without Stars Upon Thars. There are women...and men...who work. We work full time, part time, at home, at our children's schools and day care centers. There are people with the resources to choose not to draw a paycheck while their children are living with them and make child-rearing their profession. There are people who have absolutely no financial wiggle room for this option to be available.
As usual, it seems those in government are a good bit behind in the times in assuming American homes only look two possible ways in this century. The "Mommy Wars" non-controversy was exactly that, because it harkens from a different time than now. Now, we call it parenting. And it's the hardest job anyone will ever work, male, female, rich, poor or otherwise. Let's just hope this silly brouhaha has raised the collective American conscious regarding how much effort it does, indeed, take to be a parent, whether or not you're paid to do something else as well.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
An Open Letter to Hawkins Crawford Romo
Dear Hawk:
Yep, Hawk. I just know that's what they're going to call you. This name of yours may or may not be the first Texas weirdness you will probably experience as the first born son of the very famous Tony Romo and your mom, the slightly less famous but fabulously blonde and toothy Candace Crawford Romo. Plus, barring some sudden Tim Tebow-esque quick changes in loyalty, you will be raised in this strange, strange and sometimes plastic- and silicone-based place called Dallas. This can be both a blessing and a curse.
Given the above and that I am nothing if all about the children, I thought I would pen you a little note you can reference for some guidance in how not to become what I call a Dallas Douche as you grow up into a good little Texan. Have you seen Good Christian Bitches? Oh, wait. You're a newborn. But let's just say none of us wants you to grow up thinking hard times are leaves in the pool and your Beemer in the shop.
On this note, allow me to, in the interest of your future, give you some ideas about how to maintain your realness and assure your safe passage into adulthood here in the DF Dub:
Consider not being called "Hawk," which sounds like a character ON the show Dallas, not a child FROM the city of Dallas. Perhaps "Ford" would have less of the douche factor. At least they didn't name you Landry or after a city, county, or city in Texas. I think those come with an automatic DSM diagnosis.
I don't care what Daddy does. NEVER WEAR A KANGOL. I blame the many head shots he's taken. Concussions make you do funny things like go to Mexico to party right before the playoffs. Silly Daddy.
Do not in any circumstance allow yourself to be used by Jerry Jones to sell chicken or pizza. Left to his own devices, he'll dangle you in front of reptiles like the Crocodile Hunter did with his two month old son. Jerry's clownish commercials are the height of douchebaggery. I fully expect him to break into a soft shoe. The man is a cartoon. Don't be forced into breaking bread sticks with him.
Don't let Uncle Chace talk you into smoking any of that wacky tobaccy. Those Hollywood types are dicey. On that note: if you take nothing else away from any of this missive, DO NOT PARTICIPATE IN REALITY TV.
If you run into Jessica Simpson, don't say you heard she cursed Daddy.
Don't just consider the debutantes to date. Pretty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.
Football, contrary to popular belief, is not a religion. It's okay to not follow in your father's footsteps.
Don't go near Rowdy. He's creepy.
Life does exist beyond Al Biernat's, Ghost Bar, and Neiman's. Related: there are other zip codes besides 214.
You can count on Daddy for at least the first three quarters of your life. Forgive him if he drops you in December. And Mommy for the times you will find her sobbing in the closet.
That's it. So go forth, Hawk, or Ford, or whatever you'll be called. I wish you Godspeed in this almost certain circus into which you have been born. At least you've got your Uncle Whitten. He's usually pretty good at making your Dad look better. And of course you have us, the Dallas Cowboys fans and community. We're incredibly loyal and very forgiving. Between seasons. As long as you're winning. Hey, but with the charmed life you've been born into? So far, so good.
Love,
Eliska
Yep, Hawk. I just know that's what they're going to call you. This name of yours may or may not be the first Texas weirdness you will probably experience as the first born son of the very famous Tony Romo and your mom, the slightly less famous but fabulously blonde and toothy Candace Crawford Romo. Plus, barring some sudden Tim Tebow-esque quick changes in loyalty, you will be raised in this strange, strange and sometimes plastic- and silicone-based place called Dallas. This can be both a blessing and a curse.
Given the above and that I am nothing if all about the children, I thought I would pen you a little note you can reference for some guidance in how not to become what I call a Dallas Douche as you grow up into a good little Texan. Have you seen Good Christian Bitches? Oh, wait. You're a newborn. But let's just say none of us wants you to grow up thinking hard times are leaves in the pool and your Beemer in the shop.
On this note, allow me to, in the interest of your future, give you some ideas about how to maintain your realness and assure your safe passage into adulthood here in the DF Dub:
Consider not being called "Hawk," which sounds like a character ON the show Dallas, not a child FROM the city of Dallas. Perhaps "Ford" would have less of the douche factor. At least they didn't name you Landry or after a city, county, or city in Texas. I think those come with an automatic DSM diagnosis.
I don't care what Daddy does. NEVER WEAR A KANGOL. I blame the many head shots he's taken. Concussions make you do funny things like go to Mexico to party right before the playoffs. Silly Daddy.
Do not in any circumstance allow yourself to be used by Jerry Jones to sell chicken or pizza. Left to his own devices, he'll dangle you in front of reptiles like the Crocodile Hunter did with his two month old son. Jerry's clownish commercials are the height of douchebaggery. I fully expect him to break into a soft shoe. The man is a cartoon. Don't be forced into breaking bread sticks with him.
Don't let Uncle Chace talk you into smoking any of that wacky tobaccy. Those Hollywood types are dicey. On that note: if you take nothing else away from any of this missive, DO NOT PARTICIPATE IN REALITY TV.
If you run into Jessica Simpson, don't say you heard she cursed Daddy.
Don't just consider the debutantes to date. Pretty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.
Football, contrary to popular belief, is not a religion. It's okay to not follow in your father's footsteps.
Don't go near Rowdy. He's creepy.
Life does exist beyond Al Biernat's, Ghost Bar, and Neiman's. Related: there are other zip codes besides 214.
You can count on Daddy for at least the first three quarters of your life. Forgive him if he drops you in December. And Mommy for the times you will find her sobbing in the closet.
That's it. So go forth, Hawk, or Ford, or whatever you'll be called. I wish you Godspeed in this almost certain circus into which you have been born. At least you've got your Uncle Whitten. He's usually pretty good at making your Dad look better. And of course you have us, the Dallas Cowboys fans and community. We're incredibly loyal and very forgiving. Between seasons. As long as you're winning. Hey, but with the charmed life you've been born into? So far, so good.
Love,
Eliska
Friday, April 6, 2012
See Momma Run
Guys! Guess what! I just ran my first 5K. I was so smug afterwards. I have these really weird friends who think running races together passes for fun. I know, I know: a 5K is small potatoes to some of you uber athletes I watched tear past me on the way to the finish line. I'm no iron man. My pals and I ran the 5K and then drank like we had completed a marathon. But if you know any of my history at all, the fact that I ran a 5K race at all is really quite miraculous. I am proud.
I was born to a sluggish family, you see, a long line of TV viewers whose ability to keep the couches from floating off the floor is well documented. We love to WATCH sports, sure. We may have even made some drunken threats in the living room about suiting up for our college football team because they were stinking up the joint. Somehow these threats were never realized.
To actually move? To say I am not athletically inclined is to be quite kind. I, sadly, am clumsy. There's no way around it. I was born splay-footed and with the vision (if not the loveable affability) of Mr. Magoo. My hand-to-eye coordination was and is non-existent. I frequently walk into door jambs and knock over wine glasses (okay, that may not be so much about my coordination). I was raised with the idea that to run without anybody chasing you was pure absurdity.
Oh, but Momma tried. First it was gymnastic classes. I found that if I was very, very, quiet on gym class day (and mom had a couple of cocktails with lunch), mom might forget to take me. I remember holding my breath as we drove around after school: would she remember the lesson? No? SCORE. Me: 1. Balance beam: 0. My trying to bounce over a pommel horse was comedic gold. My cartwheels were more like flat tires.
Then there were tennis lessons I didn't want when I was ten. That ended badly when my parents showed up early to pick me up from one of these lessons and discovered my plan to merely hang around on the park benches and not participate in them. At all. I've repressed a lot of my parents' reaction to my genius scheme, but I think mom and dad took turns driving home so they could beat me. This was my first experience with being grounded. But it worked: no more tennis lessons were scheduled for the likes of me.
My next foray into moving was as a teenager. It was the 80s, the time of Jane Fonda, her striped leotard, and her damnable legwarmers. I do wish I had a dime for every butt lift I did in the privacy of my room, Jane spinning on the turntable, encouraging me to squeeze....squeeze while Jimmy Buffet crooned "Changes In Attitude, Changes In Latitude." Oh, how I did cuss Jane.
I bounced through aerobics classes. Now these classes are called "Zumba" or "Jazzercise" or what have you, but in the end, a bunch of people bouncing around like mental patients while trying not to sock each other with flailing limbs is the same no matter what the decade. My desire to throat punch cheerful work-out class teachers, resplendent in pony tails that mean business, has not changed over time, it turns out. And I discovered I never, never want to be in front of a full length mirror bouncing again. No matter how iron clad the undergarments. It's just not wise. Trust me. Nobody wants to witness that.
So then college, and twelve ounce curls of beer cans were pretty much the extent of my exercise there for awhile. And my health (and girth) showed the impact of my sloth-like attitude. I had pretty much accepted a life of being overweight and inactive. But I met a friend who simply wasn't having it. She showed up, uninvited, nay, truly unwanted, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I found my heinie being hauled out for long walks against my pudgy will.
I really did find a joy in exercise at that point. But then life: marriage, a move, three kids in four years...and boom. Sedentary again. My weight was under control by now...so why bother? But as the stress of keeping all my proverbial balls in the air built, I was learning more and more about the healitive powers of exercise for mental health. It was annoying, really, how an exercise program was correlated with recovery from everything: cancer. Depression. Substance dependence. Dammit. There was going to be no way around it.
So when I re-committed to an exercise program, it was the first time I wasn't trying to narrow the size of my butt but instead manage my moods. It was time to start being an example to my clients. The idea of working out when it wasn't about how I looked was alien.There was no product of a pant size or number on the scale I was trying to reach. There was only process of revving up the machine and hopefully staying sane.
So the rumors are true. Exercise is really the magic bullet. There are no two ways around it. But I've discovered something else about an exercise regime: you get better at stuff over time. You can run instead of walk. You can run faster and longer over time. You can pick up heavier and heavier loads. And with each fitness goal accomplishment, there is a confidence you acquire that no one can take away from you.
And now I'm putting my program to work for the community by setting goals of completing charity runs. My workout is now more meaningful in every way. My values of self-care and community service are dovetailing, and I love it. Not to mention when there's a bar at the end of the course. It's the perfect carrot on a stick.
Now you. If I can do it, anyone can do it. Just start. Take one french fry off your plate. Walk in place during the commercials of your TV shows. Start anywhere. It doesn't matter. But the way you'll feel when you achieve your first goal (which may be just starting) will be addictive. Do it. Set a goal, no matter how small it seems to you. Meet it. Set another. Watch how you feel better. Move. It works. And it's a lot cheaper than therapy. Wait. What?
I was born to a sluggish family, you see, a long line of TV viewers whose ability to keep the couches from floating off the floor is well documented. We love to WATCH sports, sure. We may have even made some drunken threats in the living room about suiting up for our college football team because they were stinking up the joint. Somehow these threats were never realized.
To actually move? To say I am not athletically inclined is to be quite kind. I, sadly, am clumsy. There's no way around it. I was born splay-footed and with the vision (if not the loveable affability) of Mr. Magoo. My hand-to-eye coordination was and is non-existent. I frequently walk into door jambs and knock over wine glasses (okay, that may not be so much about my coordination). I was raised with the idea that to run without anybody chasing you was pure absurdity.
Oh, but Momma tried. First it was gymnastic classes. I found that if I was very, very, quiet on gym class day (and mom had a couple of cocktails with lunch), mom might forget to take me. I remember holding my breath as we drove around after school: would she remember the lesson? No? SCORE. Me: 1. Balance beam: 0. My trying to bounce over a pommel horse was comedic gold. My cartwheels were more like flat tires.
Then there were tennis lessons I didn't want when I was ten. That ended badly when my parents showed up early to pick me up from one of these lessons and discovered my plan to merely hang around on the park benches and not participate in them. At all. I've repressed a lot of my parents' reaction to my genius scheme, but I think mom and dad took turns driving home so they could beat me. This was my first experience with being grounded. But it worked: no more tennis lessons were scheduled for the likes of me.
My next foray into moving was as a teenager. It was the 80s, the time of Jane Fonda, her striped leotard, and her damnable legwarmers. I do wish I had a dime for every butt lift I did in the privacy of my room, Jane spinning on the turntable, encouraging me to squeeze....squeeze while Jimmy Buffet crooned "Changes In Attitude, Changes In Latitude." Oh, how I did cuss Jane.
I bounced through aerobics classes. Now these classes are called "Zumba" or "Jazzercise" or what have you, but in the end, a bunch of people bouncing around like mental patients while trying not to sock each other with flailing limbs is the same no matter what the decade. My desire to throat punch cheerful work-out class teachers, resplendent in pony tails that mean business, has not changed over time, it turns out. And I discovered I never, never want to be in front of a full length mirror bouncing again. No matter how iron clad the undergarments. It's just not wise. Trust me. Nobody wants to witness that.
So then college, and twelve ounce curls of beer cans were pretty much the extent of my exercise there for awhile. And my health (and girth) showed the impact of my sloth-like attitude. I had pretty much accepted a life of being overweight and inactive. But I met a friend who simply wasn't having it. She showed up, uninvited, nay, truly unwanted, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I found my heinie being hauled out for long walks against my pudgy will.
I really did find a joy in exercise at that point. But then life: marriage, a move, three kids in four years...and boom. Sedentary again. My weight was under control by now...so why bother? But as the stress of keeping all my proverbial balls in the air built, I was learning more and more about the healitive powers of exercise for mental health. It was annoying, really, how an exercise program was correlated with recovery from everything: cancer. Depression. Substance dependence. Dammit. There was going to be no way around it.
So when I re-committed to an exercise program, it was the first time I wasn't trying to narrow the size of my butt but instead manage my moods. It was time to start being an example to my clients. The idea of working out when it wasn't about how I looked was alien.There was no product of a pant size or number on the scale I was trying to reach. There was only process of revving up the machine and hopefully staying sane.
So the rumors are true. Exercise is really the magic bullet. There are no two ways around it. But I've discovered something else about an exercise regime: you get better at stuff over time. You can run instead of walk. You can run faster and longer over time. You can pick up heavier and heavier loads. And with each fitness goal accomplishment, there is a confidence you acquire that no one can take away from you.
And now I'm putting my program to work for the community by setting goals of completing charity runs. My workout is now more meaningful in every way. My values of self-care and community service are dovetailing, and I love it. Not to mention when there's a bar at the end of the course. It's the perfect carrot on a stick.
Now you. If I can do it, anyone can do it. Just start. Take one french fry off your plate. Walk in place during the commercials of your TV shows. Start anywhere. It doesn't matter. But the way you'll feel when you achieve your first goal (which may be just starting) will be addictive. Do it. Set a goal, no matter how small it seems to you. Meet it. Set another. Watch how you feel better. Move. It works. And it's a lot cheaper than therapy. Wait. What?
Thursday, March 29, 2012
What Every Girl Should Know, or: Teach Your Children Well
I can't believe it. But my baby, my little girl, my last child, will be starting kindergarten in the fall. Am I a "yahoo" mom or a "boo hoo" mom about this? I must confess to mixed feelings. Having sent two other of my chicks out of the nest to institutional learning facilities already, it's not my first time at the rodeo, to use some Texas-speak, so I'm not exactly verklempt, but at the same time not overjoyed and impatient for her to get on with it.
I'm used to my chickens flying the nest. But this is my last time to send a baby to kindergarten. Soon, all my precious pearls will be surly teens that sleep until noon and largely reek of Axe body spray. I can get nostalgic, but I must admit a little excitement about the new stage, too. Long stretches of time talking to people over three feet tall! Lunch without a chicken nugget in sight! I'm not going to know how to behave.
I, indeed, grow a little dizzy at thinking about the prospects of freedom during the school hours. Leaving the house without children! What a heady proposition. And the cash! My lord, the money I have shelled out since I have been paying for day care, full or partial since 2003, could fund an African nation for a decade. I may or may not go on some kind of Thelma and Louise-type spree.
This is my only girl to launch, too. I do so with some trepidation, knowing first hand how school can be. The dawn of her first year out of my clutches has me musing about what the future at school holds for her (again with the musing). There are so many lessons I want to impart to my daughter as she navigates elementary school, junior high, and the Lord of the Flies experience that is high school. The world can treat females harshly.
After spending some time meditating on what a girl really needs to know, I did derive list of wishes and my hopes for her future as she matures and becomes the lovely young lady I know she can be. Oh sure, we're teaching her she is not the sum of her looks, her rights to defend herself, physically or verbally, and other important things a girl needs to know here in Texas, like the difference between a semi- and a fully automatic rifle and how to properly clean her .38.
But on a more micro-scale, I decided there were a few pieces of advice you might not find in a parenting self-help book that carry as much weight. I want my daughter to be aware of all the traps that can hold her back. And on that note, I beg of you to review another few nuggets of truth I want to impart to her and judge if your daughter, too could not benefit:
1. May your greatest fear will be that there is no such thing as PMS and that it's just your personality.
2. It is possible to be both smart AND pretty.
3. It is possible to be funny AND be taken seriously. In fact, being funny will make people listen to you and respect you (see Jon Stewart. Even though he is a dude).
4. Being catty is not the same as being funny.
5. Thongs attract no one substantial.
6. Do not photograph yourself naked. Ever. EVER. At any time. Related: use of the "trout mouth" pose, either combined with a flashed peace/gang sign is never appropriate either.
7. Choose your friends wisely. That weird kid everyone made fun of was Bill Gates.
8. Wearing pajama pants in public means you have given up on life.
9. Bigger boobs are not necessarily good. See: unwanted attention, backaches, inability to jog without giving yourself black eyes, and brutal underwear.
10. Don't make a scene. This isn't reality TV. This is reality.
11. Do not date anyone who honks for you to come out to his car. This practice is acceptable when dropping off a package, not picking up a person.
12. Words printed on your butt make you somebody's property.
13. Dates do not take place anywhere there is a bed present.
14. Women should not speak in questions. Ever notice how women always ask everything by raising their tone at the end of their sentences, so everything they say sounds like an inquiry. And this one time? At band camp? Like that.
15. Know what a "douche canoe" is and how to avoid one at all costs.
Small details, and yet the devil is in them, no? So here's to raising our daughters well. If we do, hopefully there will be fewer butterfly tattoos and strippers all around. Here's to parenting females in a wild new world. Buckle up.
I'm used to my chickens flying the nest. But this is my last time to send a baby to kindergarten. Soon, all my precious pearls will be surly teens that sleep until noon and largely reek of Axe body spray. I can get nostalgic, but I must admit a little excitement about the new stage, too. Long stretches of time talking to people over three feet tall! Lunch without a chicken nugget in sight! I'm not going to know how to behave.
I, indeed, grow a little dizzy at thinking about the prospects of freedom during the school hours. Leaving the house without children! What a heady proposition. And the cash! My lord, the money I have shelled out since I have been paying for day care, full or partial since 2003, could fund an African nation for a decade. I may or may not go on some kind of Thelma and Louise-type spree.
This is my only girl to launch, too. I do so with some trepidation, knowing first hand how school can be. The dawn of her first year out of my clutches has me musing about what the future at school holds for her (again with the musing). There are so many lessons I want to impart to my daughter as she navigates elementary school, junior high, and the Lord of the Flies experience that is high school. The world can treat females harshly.
After spending some time meditating on what a girl really needs to know, I did derive list of wishes and my hopes for her future as she matures and becomes the lovely young lady I know she can be. Oh sure, we're teaching her she is not the sum of her looks, her rights to defend herself, physically or verbally, and other important things a girl needs to know here in Texas, like the difference between a semi- and a fully automatic rifle and how to properly clean her .38.
But on a more micro-scale, I decided there were a few pieces of advice you might not find in a parenting self-help book that carry as much weight. I want my daughter to be aware of all the traps that can hold her back. And on that note, I beg of you to review another few nuggets of truth I want to impart to her and judge if your daughter, too could not benefit:
1. May your greatest fear will be that there is no such thing as PMS and that it's just your personality.
2. It is possible to be both smart AND pretty.
3. It is possible to be funny AND be taken seriously. In fact, being funny will make people listen to you and respect you (see Jon Stewart. Even though he is a dude).
4. Being catty is not the same as being funny.
5. Thongs attract no one substantial.
6. Do not photograph yourself naked. Ever. EVER. At any time. Related: use of the "trout mouth" pose, either combined with a flashed peace/gang sign is never appropriate either.
7. Choose your friends wisely. That weird kid everyone made fun of was Bill Gates.
8. Wearing pajama pants in public means you have given up on life.
9. Bigger boobs are not necessarily good. See: unwanted attention, backaches, inability to jog without giving yourself black eyes, and brutal underwear.
10. Don't make a scene. This isn't reality TV. This is reality.
11. Do not date anyone who honks for you to come out to his car. This practice is acceptable when dropping off a package, not picking up a person.
12. Words printed on your butt make you somebody's property.
13. Dates do not take place anywhere there is a bed present.
14. Women should not speak in questions. Ever notice how women always ask everything by raising their tone at the end of their sentences, so everything they say sounds like an inquiry. And this one time? At band camp? Like that.
15. Know what a "douche canoe" is and how to avoid one at all costs.
Small details, and yet the devil is in them, no? So here's to raising our daughters well. If we do, hopefully there will be fewer butterfly tattoos and strippers all around. Here's to parenting females in a wild new world. Buckle up.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Whoops: There Goes Reality
Okay, so I watch Jersey Shore. NO! Wait! Don't stop reading this! Don't turn away just yet. I know I will be judged by some for tuning in to watch the Orange Ones, but you have to understand a little about me here. I consider myself a sort of an anthropologist. A sociologist, if you will. A Watcher of People. Tuning in was a cultural scientific endeavor, you see, the watching of the Jersey Shore. Most professional. These people are Northerners, y'all. They could be biting the heads of chickens for all I knew. Investigation was needed.
Because seriously: I tuned in the second or third season (the one before Italy; not a lot different happens from episode to episode, so it's hard to differentiate) after watching the show blow up in its initial popularity without me. From the outside and to me, these Jersey Shore people were an entirely different culture, nay, a wholly different species than me. A grating, audibly dressed species, albeit, but nonetheless: it was like a car wreck at which eventually even I couldn't resist a stare. What were they doing?
I couldn't resist finding out: who was this Snooki who made more money than I, silly me with my post graduate degrees, could ever dream about? What was a Situation, and why were his sunglasses always half down and his shirt half up? Would fake boobs actually keep one afloat in salt water? INQUIRING MINDS HAD TO KNOW.
Yes, I am a "cultural anthropologist and entertainment sociologist." That sounds so much classier than "television addict and media lemming." Whatever the case, I was determined to get a bead on why these characters seemed to resound so much with so many Americans. If you didn't love Jersey Shore, you loved to hate Jersey Shore. I knew going in that partially, the popularity had to do with the train wreck that these...kids? What are they, 40?...seemed to be. I'm always up for a good train wreck by trade.
Of course, MTV profited handsomely by encouraging the Jersey Shore cast to bring in the eyeballs with the drama. The more arrests and fistfights the better. MTV sat back and just coolly shot footage of car wrecks, both literal and figurative, that the cast created. How do you top getting arrested or doing a face plant on Italian cobblestones? When you're competing with the interwebs, that's a lot of pressure for a Snooki or a Situation. Or anyone, I would think, with a discernible lack of talent who is being paid to appear on television.
Fascinating to me! People paid handsomely to...do what? They don't perform, per se. They don't really do much of anything. And this is where I wonder if there wasn't a little social irresponsibility on the entertainment industry's part in what happened next. What at first looked like a cute Spring Break blow-out became a lifestyle for the Jersey Shore bunch, the work they were paid to do.
Snooki's falling down, punching people, flashing her undercarriage, getting arrested. Deana gets drunk and lets her panties fall around her ankles dancing. Situation's smashed and passing out on couches in restaurants in between twitching, jumping, and being paranoid. Jenni charmingly will drop her drawers and pee just about anywhere.Vinny developed an anxiety disorder so disabling he packed up and left the show for weeks before being put on the spot to return. Ron commits domestic violence with Sammi. Most of the cast treat sex partners like Kleenex. Then suddenly the cast finds its collective age closer to 30 than 20. And MTV didn't think there would be a little emotional fall-out?
It's a new dawn at the Jersey Shore as its sixth, yes, sixth season comes into the planning stage. Snooki is now pregnant and engaged, carrying the guido baby she has wanted with Jionni forever. The Situation finds himself in treatment for drug abuse or dependence, but when he's out of rehab, he doesn't want to give up the big bucks he gets for appearing in the very nightclubs where he drugged and drank until he couldn't stand. How will the show handle the cast's changes? Will there be changes?
Because after all, will the same viewing audience love the Shore cast when they're watching Snooki gestate and shop for a breast pump with the same fervor that they did watching her roam the streets of Italy, falling down and barefoot, drunk and screaming? What if getting off speed will make for a kinder, more gentle Situation who doesn't scheme with the Unit (Yes, yes, yes, insert snark about these silly names here)? What if half the cast chooses not to drink, or in Vinny's case, club (turns out crowds, flashing lights and pounding music ain't too good for anxiety symptoms)? Will MTV step in? Or step back?
If MTV steps in to take care of their cast, will they kill their show? Will big bucks win over the health of these aging cast members? Is it at all possible to address the fact that the Shore lifestyle, which includes binge drinking as de rigueur, isn't so cute and can, in fact, only lead to crazy, jail, or dead? Is there a way MTV can seize this moment to expose their young audience to the fact that in real life, the way you act when you're really hammered is really not so endearing?
I'm interested to see where my little anthropologic foray into the psyches of both the MTV programming team and the Jersey Shore crew ends up next. The party's largely over. Summer is not never-ending. Time marches on. But I don't think anyone could have told me that in my early twenties either. That I would, eventually and against my will, be dragged into adulthood and maturity kicking and screaming.
Don't get me wrong! I'm not a sourpuss. I like friendship, wine, and song as much as any other human. But Abe Simpson was right: I was "with it" once. Then, they changed what "it" is. Now, what "it" is is scary and strange. It'll happen to you. And I think we're watching something like that hit the Jersey Shore cast. Here's hoping the entertainment industry doesn't chew them up and spit them out like bad chicken parm. And that the twenty-somethings who want to model their lifestyles after Snooki and Sitch realize it's just a little too much reality. Even at the Jersey Shore.
Because seriously: I tuned in the second or third season (the one before Italy; not a lot different happens from episode to episode, so it's hard to differentiate) after watching the show blow up in its initial popularity without me. From the outside and to me, these Jersey Shore people were an entirely different culture, nay, a wholly different species than me. A grating, audibly dressed species, albeit, but nonetheless: it was like a car wreck at which eventually even I couldn't resist a stare. What were they doing?
I couldn't resist finding out: who was this Snooki who made more money than I, silly me with my post graduate degrees, could ever dream about? What was a Situation, and why were his sunglasses always half down and his shirt half up? Would fake boobs actually keep one afloat in salt water? INQUIRING MINDS HAD TO KNOW.
Yes, I am a "cultural anthropologist and entertainment sociologist." That sounds so much classier than "television addict and media lemming." Whatever the case, I was determined to get a bead on why these characters seemed to resound so much with so many Americans. If you didn't love Jersey Shore, you loved to hate Jersey Shore. I knew going in that partially, the popularity had to do with the train wreck that these...kids? What are they, 40?...seemed to be. I'm always up for a good train wreck by trade.
Of course, MTV profited handsomely by encouraging the Jersey Shore cast to bring in the eyeballs with the drama. The more arrests and fistfights the better. MTV sat back and just coolly shot footage of car wrecks, both literal and figurative, that the cast created. How do you top getting arrested or doing a face plant on Italian cobblestones? When you're competing with the interwebs, that's a lot of pressure for a Snooki or a Situation. Or anyone, I would think, with a discernible lack of talent who is being paid to appear on television.
Fascinating to me! People paid handsomely to...do what? They don't perform, per se. They don't really do much of anything. And this is where I wonder if there wasn't a little social irresponsibility on the entertainment industry's part in what happened next. What at first looked like a cute Spring Break blow-out became a lifestyle for the Jersey Shore bunch, the work they were paid to do.
Snooki's falling down, punching people, flashing her undercarriage, getting arrested. Deana gets drunk and lets her panties fall around her ankles dancing. Situation's smashed and passing out on couches in restaurants in between twitching, jumping, and being paranoid. Jenni charmingly will drop her drawers and pee just about anywhere.Vinny developed an anxiety disorder so disabling he packed up and left the show for weeks before being put on the spot to return. Ron commits domestic violence with Sammi. Most of the cast treat sex partners like Kleenex. Then suddenly the cast finds its collective age closer to 30 than 20. And MTV didn't think there would be a little emotional fall-out?
It's a new dawn at the Jersey Shore as its sixth, yes, sixth season comes into the planning stage. Snooki is now pregnant and engaged, carrying the guido baby she has wanted with Jionni forever. The Situation finds himself in treatment for drug abuse or dependence, but when he's out of rehab, he doesn't want to give up the big bucks he gets for appearing in the very nightclubs where he drugged and drank until he couldn't stand. How will the show handle the cast's changes? Will there be changes?
Because after all, will the same viewing audience love the Shore cast when they're watching Snooki gestate and shop for a breast pump with the same fervor that they did watching her roam the streets of Italy, falling down and barefoot, drunk and screaming? What if getting off speed will make for a kinder, more gentle Situation who doesn't scheme with the Unit (Yes, yes, yes, insert snark about these silly names here)? What if half the cast chooses not to drink, or in Vinny's case, club (turns out crowds, flashing lights and pounding music ain't too good for anxiety symptoms)? Will MTV step in? Or step back?
If MTV steps in to take care of their cast, will they kill their show? Will big bucks win over the health of these aging cast members? Is it at all possible to address the fact that the Shore lifestyle, which includes binge drinking as de rigueur, isn't so cute and can, in fact, only lead to crazy, jail, or dead? Is there a way MTV can seize this moment to expose their young audience to the fact that in real life, the way you act when you're really hammered is really not so endearing?
I'm interested to see where my little anthropologic foray into the psyches of both the MTV programming team and the Jersey Shore crew ends up next. The party's largely over. Summer is not never-ending. Time marches on. But I don't think anyone could have told me that in my early twenties either. That I would, eventually and against my will, be dragged into adulthood and maturity kicking and screaming.
Don't get me wrong! I'm not a sourpuss. I like friendship, wine, and song as much as any other human. But Abe Simpson was right: I was "with it" once. Then, they changed what "it" is. Now, what "it" is is scary and strange. It'll happen to you. And I think we're watching something like that hit the Jersey Shore cast. Here's hoping the entertainment industry doesn't chew them up and spit them out like bad chicken parm. And that the twenty-somethings who want to model their lifestyles after Snooki and Sitch realize it's just a little too much reality. Even at the Jersey Shore.
Friday, March 16, 2012
What I Didn't Do on My Spring Break
Spring break! I'm still musing how I morphed from the college student who spent this time largely intoxicated and wearing as few clothes as possible into the doughy mother of today that now spends spring break in places like zoos and museums and the canto of hell that is the Lego store at the mall. Where did the trash can punch, belly shirts, baby oil, and iodine days go? Le sigh. With all due apologies to Bob Dylan, the times, indeed, have a'changed.
For me, spring break now has become a study in survival instead of a week of beer pong and sunburn. Spring break, twenty-first century momma style, is now figuring out how to entertain the heathens until those cruel teachers open up their school doors again. And this year, I experienced particular trepidation as Hubs got it into his head that the family should go camping. Yep. You read that right. Camping. Outdoors. He wanted to take them fishing. Who in their right mind puts a sharp hook on the end of a long string for a kid under the age of eight to fling around on a pole? It can't end well.
Full disclosure: I am what can be only generously called "indoorsy." I don't mind the outdoors, per se. As long as it's screened in. And has an outlet for my hair dryer. But I am repulsed and, indeed (I can own it), even frightened by most bugs. Mosquitoes consider me a fine delicacy. My pheromones must smell like barbeque sauce. And I don't think I've been without internet access since...well, the dawn of the internet.
Continued frankness: a "vacation" for me does not involve traveling anywhere with my three children under the age of eight. This is not "time off." It's just parenting in more stressful circumstances. I know, I know. I'm about to get blasted by you June Cleavers who seem to actually enjoy making peanut butter crackers in a moving car, but I'm coming out of the mommy closet on this one. It's just a beating for me. Have you ever traveled with small children? They are the rock stars. They have wild mood swings and unreasonable demands.You're just the roadie. There may or may not be peeing out the sliding door of the mini-van. It's just ugly.
So I must confess I was not looking forward to this planned spring break camping trek: the packing, the unpacking, the hauling of food, the non-stop confusion...all jokes aside, I was starting to feel overwhelmed and resentful. My kids have been at each other's throats this week. The only way it could be worse would be to trap us all in two rooms in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma. It became more and more clear to me I just might end up committing Harakiri if forced to camp.
Now, being a female, I started feeling guilty, because if you possess ovaries, this is what one does. Hell, being a mother, you get used to the constant and grinding feeling of inadequacy, so my dread of this camping trip just pegged out the Guilt-O-Meter. I want to show my kids a good time. But I was going to hate this experience, perhaps even affect their good time. Not to mention perhaps strangle my cheerful spouse. What's a mom to do?
Option A: Go camping. Sulk. Scratch. Not sleep. Eat a hot dog off a stick. Come home to a filthy house that hasn't been cleaned because it's spring break and the kids are home. Stress over packing, food, timing, refereeing. Become overcome with the noise, the confusion, the...oh, I'll just say it...just too much damn togetherness for me. Because this is true confession time, ladies. I am here to say, fearlessly, what a lot of you are thinking: I just wish I could have a few days of vacation for myself. Away from my family. Please, put down the pitch fork.
Now, don't get me wrong. I adore my brood. I love Hubs. But since the birth of my first child almost nine years ago, I have been alone about ten minutes. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But it's been a challenge to say the least. In order to raise several small children without lasting emotional damage to anyone, there is an alchemy of self-care that a woman must participate in or become the main character in The Yellow Wallpaper. You can't pour a gallon of milk in a shot glass, people, but that's what a lot of moms do.
So, it's camping eve. And it occurs to me I could do something radical. There was, in actuality, an Option B: I could choose to not go camping. I was ashamed to even admit I had the thought. At first. But the more I thought about it, the more intoxicating the idea became. Two days alone? The possibility of sleeping for maybe twenty hours straight? Wiping no one's heinie but mine? But I was wracked with shame. Could I dare? What kind of mother wants her family to go on a vacation without her?
Turns out: ALL OF US. But wanting time to yourself for women is like admitting you're a Nickelback fan: you expect to be ridiculed. To care for ourselves as fiercely as we care for our family and friends? Preposterous. But the thought of not bathing, feeding, or shuttling short people to lessons of every stripe for two days? Having a chance to clean ALL THE THINGS and have them stay that way for more than half an hour? I started wanting this break like a fat kid wants cake.
Oh, the mental struggle. But as a trail-blazer and mom advocate, I decided to bring up the matter to Hubs. He is a prince among men. He told me no problem. He could handle it all (and he can, y'all, he's a toddler whisperer). He said enjoy. He said he got it. I just about wept in relief. I had been given the green light for my camping reprieve.
Now, there are those out there who would judge me. Judge on. All I'm saying is for me, there isn't much a Twilight movie marathon, a cold bottle of pinot, and a slab of Spanish cheese can't cure. The house has been my own private spa for the last twenty four hours. It, as the kids say, IS ALL GOOD.
Moral to the story? Listen to yourself. There are a lot of people who would call me "selfish" for taking 48 hours to myself while my spouse hauls the kids for their s'more and hiking time. I am actually probably related to most of these people. But, y'all: I am the expert on my own mental health, on my challenges, on what I need to stay balanced, on my marriage, on my kids and their needs. NOBODY ELSE IS. As long as I am working with my spouse and taking his needs into account, it's not only okay to do what I need to care for myself. It's a must.
Get what you need, mommas! And daddies and singletons too, for that matter. Even though I felt some guilt at grabbing this time alone initially, I am now proud of myself for being brave enough to shout down the Committee. You know, that group of critical voices in your head that try to shame you into being perfect? Do you, y'all. If it works for your family, it doesn't have to look like anyone else's system. Get the balance you need. It makes you a better parent. I am going to be rested and ready to put my Supermom cape back on in a big way thanks to my spring break.
So you have permission from this professional: Get a real break for yourself. Do some radical relaxation. The kind that makes you think you might need to feel guilty about it. Practice some fanatical self care. Come on in. The water, so to speak, is fine. I've got to confess I'm more relaxed than I have been in a long time. I wish you the same. But I've got to go...the Brad Pitt film festival is about to start.
Happy spring break indeed, y'all!
For me, spring break now has become a study in survival instead of a week of beer pong and sunburn. Spring break, twenty-first century momma style, is now figuring out how to entertain the heathens until those cruel teachers open up their school doors again. And this year, I experienced particular trepidation as Hubs got it into his head that the family should go camping. Yep. You read that right. Camping. Outdoors. He wanted to take them fishing. Who in their right mind puts a sharp hook on the end of a long string for a kid under the age of eight to fling around on a pole? It can't end well.
Full disclosure: I am what can be only generously called "indoorsy." I don't mind the outdoors, per se. As long as it's screened in. And has an outlet for my hair dryer. But I am repulsed and, indeed (I can own it), even frightened by most bugs. Mosquitoes consider me a fine delicacy. My pheromones must smell like barbeque sauce. And I don't think I've been without internet access since...well, the dawn of the internet.
Continued frankness: a "vacation" for me does not involve traveling anywhere with my three children under the age of eight. This is not "time off." It's just parenting in more stressful circumstances. I know, I know. I'm about to get blasted by you June Cleavers who seem to actually enjoy making peanut butter crackers in a moving car, but I'm coming out of the mommy closet on this one. It's just a beating for me. Have you ever traveled with small children? They are the rock stars. They have wild mood swings and unreasonable demands.You're just the roadie. There may or may not be peeing out the sliding door of the mini-van. It's just ugly.
So I must confess I was not looking forward to this planned spring break camping trek: the packing, the unpacking, the hauling of food, the non-stop confusion...all jokes aside, I was starting to feel overwhelmed and resentful. My kids have been at each other's throats this week. The only way it could be worse would be to trap us all in two rooms in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma. It became more and more clear to me I just might end up committing Harakiri if forced to camp.
Now, being a female, I started feeling guilty, because if you possess ovaries, this is what one does. Hell, being a mother, you get used to the constant and grinding feeling of inadequacy, so my dread of this camping trip just pegged out the Guilt-O-Meter. I want to show my kids a good time. But I was going to hate this experience, perhaps even affect their good time. Not to mention perhaps strangle my cheerful spouse. What's a mom to do?
Option A: Go camping. Sulk. Scratch. Not sleep. Eat a hot dog off a stick. Come home to a filthy house that hasn't been cleaned because it's spring break and the kids are home. Stress over packing, food, timing, refereeing. Become overcome with the noise, the confusion, the...oh, I'll just say it...just too much damn togetherness for me. Because this is true confession time, ladies. I am here to say, fearlessly, what a lot of you are thinking: I just wish I could have a few days of vacation for myself. Away from my family. Please, put down the pitch fork.
Now, don't get me wrong. I adore my brood. I love Hubs. But since the birth of my first child almost nine years ago, I have been alone about ten minutes. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But it's been a challenge to say the least. In order to raise several small children without lasting emotional damage to anyone, there is an alchemy of self-care that a woman must participate in or become the main character in The Yellow Wallpaper. You can't pour a gallon of milk in a shot glass, people, but that's what a lot of moms do.
So, it's camping eve. And it occurs to me I could do something radical. There was, in actuality, an Option B: I could choose to not go camping. I was ashamed to even admit I had the thought. At first. But the more I thought about it, the more intoxicating the idea became. Two days alone? The possibility of sleeping for maybe twenty hours straight? Wiping no one's heinie but mine? But I was wracked with shame. Could I dare? What kind of mother wants her family to go on a vacation without her?
Turns out: ALL OF US. But wanting time to yourself for women is like admitting you're a Nickelback fan: you expect to be ridiculed. To care for ourselves as fiercely as we care for our family and friends? Preposterous. But the thought of not bathing, feeding, or shuttling short people to lessons of every stripe for two days? Having a chance to clean ALL THE THINGS and have them stay that way for more than half an hour? I started wanting this break like a fat kid wants cake.
Oh, the mental struggle. But as a trail-blazer and mom advocate, I decided to bring up the matter to Hubs. He is a prince among men. He told me no problem. He could handle it all (and he can, y'all, he's a toddler whisperer). He said enjoy. He said he got it. I just about wept in relief. I had been given the green light for my camping reprieve.
Now, there are those out there who would judge me. Judge on. All I'm saying is for me, there isn't much a Twilight movie marathon, a cold bottle of pinot, and a slab of Spanish cheese can't cure. The house has been my own private spa for the last twenty four hours. It, as the kids say, IS ALL GOOD.
Moral to the story? Listen to yourself. There are a lot of people who would call me "selfish" for taking 48 hours to myself while my spouse hauls the kids for their s'more and hiking time. I am actually probably related to most of these people. But, y'all: I am the expert on my own mental health, on my challenges, on what I need to stay balanced, on my marriage, on my kids and their needs. NOBODY ELSE IS. As long as I am working with my spouse and taking his needs into account, it's not only okay to do what I need to care for myself. It's a must.
Get what you need, mommas! And daddies and singletons too, for that matter. Even though I felt some guilt at grabbing this time alone initially, I am now proud of myself for being brave enough to shout down the Committee. You know, that group of critical voices in your head that try to shame you into being perfect? Do you, y'all. If it works for your family, it doesn't have to look like anyone else's system. Get the balance you need. It makes you a better parent. I am going to be rested and ready to put my Supermom cape back on in a big way thanks to my spring break.
So you have permission from this professional: Get a real break for yourself. Do some radical relaxation. The kind that makes you think you might need to feel guilty about it. Practice some fanatical self care. Come on in. The water, so to speak, is fine. I've got to confess I'm more relaxed than I have been in a long time. I wish you the same. But I've got to go...the Brad Pitt film festival is about to start.
Happy spring break indeed, y'all!
Friday, March 9, 2012
Like, Bag those Fashions! Or: Gag Me with a Spoon
Ah, the 1980s. A magical time where we all believed in capitalism with all our might. Arnold told us he'd be back. We inquired about where, indeed, the beef was located. Alf proclaimed, "I kill me." Michael Douglas slithered as Gordon Gekko. We were gagged with spoons. Alexis and Crystal had sequined, shoulder-padded cat fights. People wore some terrible, terrible clothing. Why did you think everyone did all that cocaine and had all that pre-AIDS sex? To get one another out of those horrible fashions.
But dismayingly, inexplicably, and like megalomania, 1980s-style clothing is, indeed, evidently back in fashion. As far as I can tell. Being the elderly, I have to go by the thick glossy magazines that threaten my self-esteem and by what's on the rack at my local stores. But everything I'm seeing right now makes me look like Claire Huxtable. And it's bad, people. BAD. These trends were horrifying enough back then. This is like returning to an abusive relationship. We need an intervention, and I'm glad to provide one. Behold: 80s trends that do not look good on you, or indeed, anyone now or ever:
Flashdance-style loose tunics and belly shirts. You are not Irene Cara (look it up, whippersnappers). And unless you are the taut captain of the high school cheerleading squad, you do not have the belly to pull this off. And then it would still be inappropriate. Trust me. And these tunics are particularly offensive when paired with...
Big obnoxious patterns. A five year old doesn't look good in polka dots. You don't either. Giant stripes, pink animal prints...Your shirt, ideally, should not be audible. Which leads me to...
Neon colors. We had a saying back in the 80s, and it still applies here: friends don't let friends wear neon. I don't care if Oprah's wearing orange pants and Gayle's in bright green. They are misguided. Breathtaking wealth doesn't save you from fashion faux pas. The average American female tuchus is a size fourteen. That's a lot of pants seat. It is ill advised for that seat to be teal.
Spandex leggings or 'jeggings': Have you seen the average American? For the love of all that is holy: most of us look like we are stuffed in sausage casings when we don this abhorrence. And no giant, Demi-Moore-in-About-Last-Night oversized-dress-sweater can or will conceal the crime that are my thighs in Lycra.
Shoulder pads. Unless it's a particularly good sale at Neiman's or you have some other plausible reason to tackle someone, you probably should not resemble a defensive end.
Crimped hair. It was as wrong on Debbie Harry as it is on Rihanna. I want to buy you conditioner.
Leg warmers. This is not Black Swan. These are to be forgiven only in transit to or from an actual ballet lesson.
Leotards. See above. Plus, aren't these just onesies for grown women? It is so wrong for anyone over the age of fourteen months to have their shirt snap at the crotch.
Jelly shoes. Especially in Texas. We've got way too much heat and skin. The smell of people's feet stuffed in plastic is like napalm here. And there's got to be a name for the feet-fat that squishes out, waffle style, from between the straps. Shudder.
Scrunchies. I am not a Heather, but you can consider me the new sheriff in town, of sorts. Just. No.
Bedazzling. There are WAY too many sequins out there right now. I blame Snooki for what I'm calling the Jersification of the nation. It's tacky, y'all. As are press on nails (whether "active" or "glamor length." It's irrelevant).
Headbands. Not the ones that sit on top of your head. The ones across the forehead. A la Peaches Geldof. The wrong is strong with this one.
Jams. The big, flowered, knee-length shorts? GOD FORBID. Can Panama Jack or Coke brand clothing be far behind? WE MUST STOP THE MADNESS. For the good of the children.
Swatch watches. See above re: plastic accessories and sweaty people. And on account of the general hideousness.
Members Only jackets. I forgive this on Paris Jackson alone.
Rat tails. They're called RAT tails. How flattering could they have ever been? And finally:
Bubble skirts. I can say with authority that any garment that "bubbles" anywhere near your hips? Not just a no. But a HELL NO. I cannot reiterate this enough.
So, as usual, you're welcome. Please, consider your fellow man in the selection of your outerwear. I'm allergic to ugly. These are items I have indeed seen in high-end stores lately. We may or may not be doomed. But one thing you can count on: you will not see me out in a turquoise jacket.
Flannel and ripped jeans always did suit me better, after all. Wake me up not when it's time to go-go, please, but when it's time for the 90s styles to make a repeat. Except for the Hammer pants. Natch.
But dismayingly, inexplicably, and like megalomania, 1980s-style clothing is, indeed, evidently back in fashion. As far as I can tell. Being the elderly, I have to go by the thick glossy magazines that threaten my self-esteem and by what's on the rack at my local stores. But everything I'm seeing right now makes me look like Claire Huxtable. And it's bad, people. BAD. These trends were horrifying enough back then. This is like returning to an abusive relationship. We need an intervention, and I'm glad to provide one. Behold: 80s trends that do not look good on you, or indeed, anyone now or ever:
Flashdance-style loose tunics and belly shirts. You are not Irene Cara (look it up, whippersnappers). And unless you are the taut captain of the high school cheerleading squad, you do not have the belly to pull this off. And then it would still be inappropriate. Trust me. And these tunics are particularly offensive when paired with...
Big obnoxious patterns. A five year old doesn't look good in polka dots. You don't either. Giant stripes, pink animal prints...Your shirt, ideally, should not be audible. Which leads me to...
Neon colors. We had a saying back in the 80s, and it still applies here: friends don't let friends wear neon. I don't care if Oprah's wearing orange pants and Gayle's in bright green. They are misguided. Breathtaking wealth doesn't save you from fashion faux pas. The average American female tuchus is a size fourteen. That's a lot of pants seat. It is ill advised for that seat to be teal.
Spandex leggings or 'jeggings': Have you seen the average American? For the love of all that is holy: most of us look like we are stuffed in sausage casings when we don this abhorrence. And no giant, Demi-Moore-in-About-Last-Night oversized-dress-sweater can or will conceal the crime that are my thighs in Lycra.
Shoulder pads. Unless it's a particularly good sale at Neiman's or you have some other plausible reason to tackle someone, you probably should not resemble a defensive end.
Crimped hair. It was as wrong on Debbie Harry as it is on Rihanna. I want to buy you conditioner.
Leg warmers. This is not Black Swan. These are to be forgiven only in transit to or from an actual ballet lesson.
Leotards. See above. Plus, aren't these just onesies for grown women? It is so wrong for anyone over the age of fourteen months to have their shirt snap at the crotch.
Jelly shoes. Especially in Texas. We've got way too much heat and skin. The smell of people's feet stuffed in plastic is like napalm here. And there's got to be a name for the feet-fat that squishes out, waffle style, from between the straps. Shudder.
Scrunchies. I am not a Heather, but you can consider me the new sheriff in town, of sorts. Just. No.
Bedazzling. There are WAY too many sequins out there right now. I blame Snooki for what I'm calling the Jersification of the nation. It's tacky, y'all. As are press on nails (whether "active" or "glamor length." It's irrelevant).
Headbands. Not the ones that sit on top of your head. The ones across the forehead. A la Peaches Geldof. The wrong is strong with this one.
Jams. The big, flowered, knee-length shorts? GOD FORBID. Can Panama Jack or Coke brand clothing be far behind? WE MUST STOP THE MADNESS. For the good of the children.
Swatch watches. See above re: plastic accessories and sweaty people. And on account of the general hideousness.
Members Only jackets. I forgive this on Paris Jackson alone.
Rat tails. They're called RAT tails. How flattering could they have ever been? And finally:
Bubble skirts. I can say with authority that any garment that "bubbles" anywhere near your hips? Not just a no. But a HELL NO. I cannot reiterate this enough.
So, as usual, you're welcome. Please, consider your fellow man in the selection of your outerwear. I'm allergic to ugly. These are items I have indeed seen in high-end stores lately. We may or may not be doomed. But one thing you can count on: you will not see me out in a turquoise jacket.
Flannel and ripped jeans always did suit me better, after all. Wake me up not when it's time to go-go, please, but when it's time for the 90s styles to make a repeat. Except for the Hammer pants. Natch.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Turn Your Head and Cough, or: The Joys of Aging
Mick Jagger said it: What a drag it is getting old.
Okay, so I'm not that old yet. But I am old enough where the doctors do that thing where they quit trying to fix you and instead start saying "Well, these things are to be expected at your age," or "Yes, that's common in people over forty. You'll have to ice it."
The first time my pains were poo-pooed, I was a little put out. Why was my doctor refusing to fix me!? My baby-carrying shoulder hurts! But evidently people my age are expected to play through the pain, rub some dirt on it. I'm now the little Dutch boy with my finger stuck in the dyke, holding back a flood of inevitable, age-related physical decline. Good times.
There's no dignity to this middle-aged war against time, either. The good news is that any decorum I had was lost during the birth of my children, anyway. There is no etiquette to a postpartum shower with a nurse you've never met, your stomach stapled shut and taped over with saran wrap, your innards sliding out onto the tile in chunks (sorry, guys, but actual childbirth ain't cute). I was mortified, but to her credit, that nurse made that experience seem as natural as taking my blood pressure. But I digress.
So just when I think there's nothing more embarrassing the medical community can do to me, I am told by my lady-bits doctor it's time for the rite of passage every woman must endure: my first mammogram.
No problem, I thought. I've breastfed three babies. I've whipped out these puppies to do so in front of my father-in-law and hosts of other friends and relations. I've breastfed in exotic locales: the Dallas World Aquarium. At a staff meeting at a counseling agency. On the side of the road in the rural Mississippi delta. In the Collin County, Texas courthouse (making some officials nervous with the sound of my breast pump in the handicapped stall. I might have argued at the time it WAS a weapon, but again, I digress).
How humiliating could a breast exam be? I thought smugly. And with this bravado and not a clue about what to expect, I rolled up my local hospital to present the girls. After being greeted by a couple of women who had me sign more autographs than Justin Bieber at a bat mitzvah, I was then whisked into a dressing room. No deodorant or perfume allowed (who knew?), so I am then treated to an invigorating upper-body wet wipe. Besmocked, I join the other ladies in the waiting room, and we are all resplendent in our matching pink flowered fashions and with our awkward, limited eye contact.
As this is a family publication, I will not go into too much detail about the actual procedure. Let me suffice to say it included small Vietnamese women, kneading, and what I can only describe as boob patties. There really are not words for the experience of seeing a tender, very private part of you flattened like a cheek cell from eighth grade science on a glass slide. Surreal doesn't quite cover it.
The following sonogram to take a closer look was also a tad Kafkaesque. Let's just say I'm glad the cold gel of the pregnant belly is mercifully warmed for your more northern regions. I was also relieved the time I spent alone on the table, draped with a towel, waiting for the doctor to come tell me what he saw, was short. Fortunately for me, the news was good: an all clear. I said a silent prayer for the women who had been on the same table who weren't. And thankfully got the goo off my chest.
So I'm patched together for now, and I'm starting to get convinced if a doctor asked me to strip down and tap dance while singing an aria from Tosca, I'd obediently disrobe and begin vocal warm-up. I know this getting older thing is not for the feint of heart. There are more medical indignities to come. There is the inevitably, of course, of the dreaded colonoscopy to which we all must eventually succumb. But I'm telling y'all: I might need my doctor to buy me dinner and a movie before THAT seems right.
Oh, well. In the end, having your every orifice probed and your fleshy bits squeezed by the docs are acts of self-love. It beats the alternative. So I will not go gently into that good night. I'm living to a hundred, dammit, if for no other reason than to give my children hell as long as humanly possible. You do the same. Turn your head and cough. Take care of yourself despite the un-stateliness of it all. There's no stopping the march of time. I just wish it would stop marching all over my face.
To quote the great David Bowie: time may change me, but I can't change time. There may be more and more upkeep on the temple (cathedral?) as I ripen, sure. I refuse to be in denial. It may take some humbling experiences with gowns in which the dimpled, stark whiteness of my heinie cannot be obscured. I may indeed need to require a level of intimacy with med techs to which I will have to grow accustomed. Accoutrement to stay healthy and young at heart may be necessary.
But hey. At least my bifocals will allow me to read my bar tab accurately.
Okay, so I'm not that old yet. But I am old enough where the doctors do that thing where they quit trying to fix you and instead start saying "Well, these things are to be expected at your age," or "Yes, that's common in people over forty. You'll have to ice it."
The first time my pains were poo-pooed, I was a little put out. Why was my doctor refusing to fix me!? My baby-carrying shoulder hurts! But evidently people my age are expected to play through the pain, rub some dirt on it. I'm now the little Dutch boy with my finger stuck in the dyke, holding back a flood of inevitable, age-related physical decline. Good times.
There's no dignity to this middle-aged war against time, either. The good news is that any decorum I had was lost during the birth of my children, anyway. There is no etiquette to a postpartum shower with a nurse you've never met, your stomach stapled shut and taped over with saran wrap, your innards sliding out onto the tile in chunks (sorry, guys, but actual childbirth ain't cute). I was mortified, but to her credit, that nurse made that experience seem as natural as taking my blood pressure. But I digress.
So just when I think there's nothing more embarrassing the medical community can do to me, I am told by my lady-bits doctor it's time for the rite of passage every woman must endure: my first mammogram.
No problem, I thought. I've breastfed three babies. I've whipped out these puppies to do so in front of my father-in-law and hosts of other friends and relations. I've breastfed in exotic locales: the Dallas World Aquarium. At a staff meeting at a counseling agency. On the side of the road in the rural Mississippi delta. In the Collin County, Texas courthouse (making some officials nervous with the sound of my breast pump in the handicapped stall. I might have argued at the time it WAS a weapon, but again, I digress).
How humiliating could a breast exam be? I thought smugly. And with this bravado and not a clue about what to expect, I rolled up my local hospital to present the girls. After being greeted by a couple of women who had me sign more autographs than Justin Bieber at a bat mitzvah, I was then whisked into a dressing room. No deodorant or perfume allowed (who knew?), so I am then treated to an invigorating upper-body wet wipe. Besmocked, I join the other ladies in the waiting room, and we are all resplendent in our matching pink flowered fashions and with our awkward, limited eye contact.
As this is a family publication, I will not go into too much detail about the actual procedure. Let me suffice to say it included small Vietnamese women, kneading, and what I can only describe as boob patties. There really are not words for the experience of seeing a tender, very private part of you flattened like a cheek cell from eighth grade science on a glass slide. Surreal doesn't quite cover it.
The following sonogram to take a closer look was also a tad Kafkaesque. Let's just say I'm glad the cold gel of the pregnant belly is mercifully warmed for your more northern regions. I was also relieved the time I spent alone on the table, draped with a towel, waiting for the doctor to come tell me what he saw, was short. Fortunately for me, the news was good: an all clear. I said a silent prayer for the women who had been on the same table who weren't. And thankfully got the goo off my chest.
So I'm patched together for now, and I'm starting to get convinced if a doctor asked me to strip down and tap dance while singing an aria from Tosca, I'd obediently disrobe and begin vocal warm-up. I know this getting older thing is not for the feint of heart. There are more medical indignities to come. There is the inevitably, of course, of the dreaded colonoscopy to which we all must eventually succumb. But I'm telling y'all: I might need my doctor to buy me dinner and a movie before THAT seems right.
Oh, well. In the end, having your every orifice probed and your fleshy bits squeezed by the docs are acts of self-love. It beats the alternative. So I will not go gently into that good night. I'm living to a hundred, dammit, if for no other reason than to give my children hell as long as humanly possible. You do the same. Turn your head and cough. Take care of yourself despite the un-stateliness of it all. There's no stopping the march of time. I just wish it would stop marching all over my face.
To quote the great David Bowie: time may change me, but I can't change time. There may be more and more upkeep on the temple (cathedral?) as I ripen, sure. I refuse to be in denial. It may take some humbling experiences with gowns in which the dimpled, stark whiteness of my heinie cannot be obscured. I may indeed need to require a level of intimacy with med techs to which I will have to grow accustomed. Accoutrement to stay healthy and young at heart may be necessary.
But hey. At least my bifocals will allow me to read my bar tab accurately.
Friday, February 24, 2012
The Broccoli Wars
I have become a food Nazi. I don't know how exactly it happened. It's really quite remarkable how much my attitude about food has changed over my life. My childhood, after all, took place in the 70s. It was a decade of Sugar Pops cereal, microwaved hotdogs, and the Kool-Aid man crashing through walls with pitchers full of his sugary bounty. My baloney had a first name, and it was O-S-C-A-R. There were sponsored cartoons by the dairy industry that played between cartoons after school: "I hanker for a hunka...a slice a slab a chunka...I hanker for a hunk of cheese!" Oh, I definitely hankered for a hunk of cheese.
Not to mention I was raised in the deep South, so the memories of glorious mountains of Crisco melting in a deep fryer on almost a daily basis are still with me. Chicken fried steak. Fried chicken. Fried tacos. Homemade french fries. Hell, I believe I even could have eaten a deep-fried doorknob under the right circumstances. There were vegetables, sure. All prepared lovingly with fatback or butter. Every Southern home had a container of leftover bacon grease on the stove top to spoon into dishes. On account of the deliciousness. I kid you not. And I loved it all. Unfortunately, as I matured, my love of this type of cuisine did broaden me through the beam considerably.
So despite my deep and abiding love for craptacular food, I was dragged kicking and screaming into maturity when I decided to try to get pregnant...and discovered my alarming cholesterol levels that were going along with the extra weight I was carrying. The effects of poor food choice were no longer just cosmetic for me.
For the first time, I realized my eating habits and the subsequent effects on my health didn't just impact me. There were people who needed me not to drop dead of a massive coronary event. And somehow, over time, with the help of friends who were awesome cooks, I became a foodie. Refrigerated doughs no longer enticed me. I stepped away from the fried cheese. I embraced, GASP, vegetables. And not cooked with bacon fat or Velveeta, either.
I never enforced my new, more healthy habits on my family, though, even though eventually I narrowed my heinie to a single-digit pants size and corrected my cholesterol problems. I didn't want to go to war with my children over food and make the dinner table a battleground. I feared risking my relationship with them by being too controlling. I wanted them to feel like they had choices. They'll mature, I said. Their tastes will change. I give them vitamins, I told myself. It's all good. And it was...until my husband was diagnosed with liver disease.
As frightening as Hubs' diagnosis was, I was told by his medical team that there was plenty we could do to take care of his lemon of a liver...and most of it was nutritional. He needed mega-doses of certain vitamins, and supplements weren't going to be enough.
He needed to re-haul his diet. And having been told, I was on it. Being the information wonk that I am, I did thorough research on the foods that packed the nutrients he needed as well as ways I could prepare these foods so he might actually eat them. I, in a scant few months, became an excellent and creative organic chef. An honorary PhD in nutrition was born, and the broccoli wars were begun.
But I was loathe to enforce this diet on my children. Hubs is a grown-up, and I was having trouble enough converting HIM. Like their mother, my kids can be a bit...comment se dit?...recalcitrant. Self, I said to myself, don't all children live on chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and pizza? What's a childhood without Cheetos and cupcakes? None of my children were overweight, I rationalized. They were active. But I made different meals for each one of them daily. I capitulated to what they insisted on eating. And I can own it: it was easier, and I felt overwhelmed. They outnumber me, you see.
But then: I had what we in the counseling and theology circles call a Come To Jesus meeting with a naturopathic doctor in the form of a six hour workshop about the biology of happiness. What I learned from her was astonishing. She gently pointed out that the lack of protein, the chemicals, the sugar my children ingested might...just might...have something to do with why they often act like baboons on crack. She explained the brain chemistry of how vitamins and protein impact mental health...and the role it plays in mood and attention span...and behavior.
Duh, as my eight year old son would say. I realized I had gradually decided to take the path of least resistance to the detriment of my children and despite what I knew as a professional counselor. Yikes. I couldn't wait for THEM to get sick before I radically changed their diet as I had Hubs'. As Sam Cooke sang, a change is gonna come. There's a new sheriff in town at Chez Counce, y'all. Pray for me. But I will embrace the Food Nazi label gladly if it makes my children act any less like hellions. If it helps my dyslexic son succeed in school. If it impacts their happiness and success positively in any way.
You see, I made a common parental mistake: I had confused generosity with duty when it came to my children's diet. It's very generous to give my son Pringles and cupcakes when he wants them. It makes me very popular. I am assured at the time that I am the best mommy ever. Indeed, forcing more nutritious choices on the kids has rendered me, for the moment, momma non gratis.
My daughter is angry with me even as I type this. I won't let her have chocolate Cheerios for lunch. I'm taking a beating. Along with a side of sullenness and tantrums. But I'm determined to remember my duty by them. Not always popular, but the right thing to do. Because I have my children's best interests at heart, I'm now in it to win it...no matter how much aggravation ends up on the menu.
Not to mention I was raised in the deep South, so the memories of glorious mountains of Crisco melting in a deep fryer on almost a daily basis are still with me. Chicken fried steak. Fried chicken. Fried tacos. Homemade french fries. Hell, I believe I even could have eaten a deep-fried doorknob under the right circumstances. There were vegetables, sure. All prepared lovingly with fatback or butter. Every Southern home had a container of leftover bacon grease on the stove top to spoon into dishes. On account of the deliciousness. I kid you not. And I loved it all. Unfortunately, as I matured, my love of this type of cuisine did broaden me through the beam considerably.
So despite my deep and abiding love for craptacular food, I was dragged kicking and screaming into maturity when I decided to try to get pregnant...and discovered my alarming cholesterol levels that were going along with the extra weight I was carrying. The effects of poor food choice were no longer just cosmetic for me.
For the first time, I realized my eating habits and the subsequent effects on my health didn't just impact me. There were people who needed me not to drop dead of a massive coronary event. And somehow, over time, with the help of friends who were awesome cooks, I became a foodie. Refrigerated doughs no longer enticed me. I stepped away from the fried cheese. I embraced, GASP, vegetables. And not cooked with bacon fat or Velveeta, either.
I never enforced my new, more healthy habits on my family, though, even though eventually I narrowed my heinie to a single-digit pants size and corrected my cholesterol problems. I didn't want to go to war with my children over food and make the dinner table a battleground. I feared risking my relationship with them by being too controlling. I wanted them to feel like they had choices. They'll mature, I said. Their tastes will change. I give them vitamins, I told myself. It's all good. And it was...until my husband was diagnosed with liver disease.
As frightening as Hubs' diagnosis was, I was told by his medical team that there was plenty we could do to take care of his lemon of a liver...and most of it was nutritional. He needed mega-doses of certain vitamins, and supplements weren't going to be enough.
He needed to re-haul his diet. And having been told, I was on it. Being the information wonk that I am, I did thorough research on the foods that packed the nutrients he needed as well as ways I could prepare these foods so he might actually eat them. I, in a scant few months, became an excellent and creative organic chef. An honorary PhD in nutrition was born, and the broccoli wars were begun.
But I was loathe to enforce this diet on my children. Hubs is a grown-up, and I was having trouble enough converting HIM. Like their mother, my kids can be a bit...comment se dit?...recalcitrant. Self, I said to myself, don't all children live on chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and pizza? What's a childhood without Cheetos and cupcakes? None of my children were overweight, I rationalized. They were active. But I made different meals for each one of them daily. I capitulated to what they insisted on eating. And I can own it: it was easier, and I felt overwhelmed. They outnumber me, you see.
But then: I had what we in the counseling and theology circles call a Come To Jesus meeting with a naturopathic doctor in the form of a six hour workshop about the biology of happiness. What I learned from her was astonishing. She gently pointed out that the lack of protein, the chemicals, the sugar my children ingested might...just might...have something to do with why they often act like baboons on crack. She explained the brain chemistry of how vitamins and protein impact mental health...and the role it plays in mood and attention span...and behavior.
Duh, as my eight year old son would say. I realized I had gradually decided to take the path of least resistance to the detriment of my children and despite what I knew as a professional counselor. Yikes. I couldn't wait for THEM to get sick before I radically changed their diet as I had Hubs'. As Sam Cooke sang, a change is gonna come. There's a new sheriff in town at Chez Counce, y'all. Pray for me. But I will embrace the Food Nazi label gladly if it makes my children act any less like hellions. If it helps my dyslexic son succeed in school. If it impacts their happiness and success positively in any way.
You see, I made a common parental mistake: I had confused generosity with duty when it came to my children's diet. It's very generous to give my son Pringles and cupcakes when he wants them. It makes me very popular. I am assured at the time that I am the best mommy ever. Indeed, forcing more nutritious choices on the kids has rendered me, for the moment, momma non gratis.
My daughter is angry with me even as I type this. I won't let her have chocolate Cheerios for lunch. I'm taking a beating. Along with a side of sullenness and tantrums. But I'm determined to remember my duty by them. Not always popular, but the right thing to do. Because I have my children's best interests at heart, I'm now in it to win it...no matter how much aggravation ends up on the menu.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Hijacked American Brain
Whitney Houston. Josh Hamilton. The TCU football team. My goodness. Drugs and alcohol and their misuse are front and center in the news lately, as are opinions about those who partake. Speculation is that Houston died as a result of combining drugs and alcohol. Josh Hamilton ends up in a bar despite the fact it will cost him a millionaire's career and maybe his family. Young, privileged kids with their whole lives in front of them inexplicably decide to dabble in a little behind-the-scenes pharmaceutical sales.
And the judgments are flowing. Two LA radio hosts were suspended for calling Houston a "crack ho." The comments and call-ins about Hamilton and the college kids at TCU online and on radio sports shows are blistering. And I'm finding everyone's smug outrage a smidge hypocritical. Because if I've learned anything from years in the mental health counseling biz, it is this: if you're pointing a finger, there's four more pointing back at you.
Be honest: ever had a couple of drinks with dinner and driven afterwards? If not, next time you're out, look around at the other tables and see how many people are. Or does your doctor give you a prescription for "mommy's little helpers" (known in the suburban set as Xanax or Valium)? Or maybe you wait until the kids go to bed before you drink a bottle of wine...just because you can't sleep?
Oh, America's got a problem, all right. And it's what I call a bio-psycho-socio-spiritual problem. How does addiction happen? Experts have isolated the root causes:
Biology. If you have a mother or father who was troubled by drugs and alcohol, you are four times more likely to develop a problem yourself...before you ever even pick up the substance. There's a particular link between men and their sons. Addiction is a family disease. Funny thing, too: substance abuse isn't the problem, folks. Substance abuse is a symptom of the problem. We use substances to solve our problems: something akin to using a shovel to hammer a nail in the wall. Might get the job done, sure, but there's a lot of collateral damage.
Psychology. Depression, anxiety, other mood disorders: if you have a mental health issue, you are at increased risk of developing a dependence or abuse problem. There are personality traits that can precede misuse of drugs and alcohol too. Some people aren't easily stimulated, or they're risk takers. But instead of skydiving or bungee-jumping, however, these individuals say to themselves: let's take ten tabs of acid and see what happens! Undiagnosed mental health problems can play a big role in why people medicate themselves.
Sociology. Nurture plays a big role in who develops an addiction problem as well as nature. Your race, your neighborhood, your socioeconomics all factor in. Were you bullied at school? Suffer physical, sexual, emotional abuse? Were you over-indulged? Neglected? All load the dice in favor of addiction.
Spiritual. In the end, addiction is really a spiritual sickness, a chronic emptiness, the ultimate isolation from God. It's the hope that something outside of yourself, whether that be meth, booze, food, sex, or designer clothes can make you somehow better. People throw a lot of different things in a lot of different holes trying to fill up, never understanding everything they need to calm down and feel whole is already inside.
Have all of the above whammies or a combination thereof, and poor coping mechanisms are hard to avoid using if you've never been taught to self soothe in a healthy way. So, I don't judge anyone who's got a disease. Once you dump copious amounts of mood-altering substances on the brain, it's chemical ability to experience pleasure is completely changed. After you've experienced these powerful but fake highs over and over, a good sandwich or winning a contest just doesn't do it for the addict any more. After some time, it's not about partying. It's about getting out of bed.
And this is disease that is primarily defined by the symptom that people refuse to admit they have it. Addiction is a progressive and deadly condition, and there are only three outcomes to it without intervention: dead. Crazy. Or jailed. These ways are the only ways an substance dependence problem can end without treatment.
If you wonder if you have a problem, you have a problem. Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous are correlated with successful recovery, true, but please: get evaluated by a substance abuse counselor. Treatment and support are two different things, and you need them both. There are no shortcuts. But if you have cancer, you just don't go to a support group and talk about it. Or tell the doctor, "No, I don't think I'll do chemotherapy. It's too hard, and I don't want to lose my hair." If you don't treat your diabetes, it's still there. And it will blind you and take your feet before it kills you.
If you are related to someone who has a problem, there's help for you at Al-Anon. Please go talk to other family and friends of addicts.Turning a blind eye, refusing to speak up enables your loved one to keep killing themselves. But in order to wage war against illicit substance dependence and abuse, we've got to get past the stigma and silence and shame that surrounds addiction. We need to drop the judgement. Because we're in denial. And in recovery, that stands for "Don't Even Know I Am Lying."
And the judgments are flowing. Two LA radio hosts were suspended for calling Houston a "crack ho." The comments and call-ins about Hamilton and the college kids at TCU online and on radio sports shows are blistering. And I'm finding everyone's smug outrage a smidge hypocritical. Because if I've learned anything from years in the mental health counseling biz, it is this: if you're pointing a finger, there's four more pointing back at you.
Be honest: ever had a couple of drinks with dinner and driven afterwards? If not, next time you're out, look around at the other tables and see how many people are. Or does your doctor give you a prescription for "mommy's little helpers" (known in the suburban set as Xanax or Valium)? Or maybe you wait until the kids go to bed before you drink a bottle of wine...just because you can't sleep?
Oh, America's got a problem, all right. And it's what I call a bio-psycho-socio-spiritual problem. How does addiction happen? Experts have isolated the root causes:
Biology. If you have a mother or father who was troubled by drugs and alcohol, you are four times more likely to develop a problem yourself...before you ever even pick up the substance. There's a particular link between men and their sons. Addiction is a family disease. Funny thing, too: substance abuse isn't the problem, folks. Substance abuse is a symptom of the problem. We use substances to solve our problems: something akin to using a shovel to hammer a nail in the wall. Might get the job done, sure, but there's a lot of collateral damage.
Psychology. Depression, anxiety, other mood disorders: if you have a mental health issue, you are at increased risk of developing a dependence or abuse problem. There are personality traits that can precede misuse of drugs and alcohol too. Some people aren't easily stimulated, or they're risk takers. But instead of skydiving or bungee-jumping, however, these individuals say to themselves: let's take ten tabs of acid and see what happens! Undiagnosed mental health problems can play a big role in why people medicate themselves.
Sociology. Nurture plays a big role in who develops an addiction problem as well as nature. Your race, your neighborhood, your socioeconomics all factor in. Were you bullied at school? Suffer physical, sexual, emotional abuse? Were you over-indulged? Neglected? All load the dice in favor of addiction.
Spiritual. In the end, addiction is really a spiritual sickness, a chronic emptiness, the ultimate isolation from God. It's the hope that something outside of yourself, whether that be meth, booze, food, sex, or designer clothes can make you somehow better. People throw a lot of different things in a lot of different holes trying to fill up, never understanding everything they need to calm down and feel whole is already inside.
Have all of the above whammies or a combination thereof, and poor coping mechanisms are hard to avoid using if you've never been taught to self soothe in a healthy way. So, I don't judge anyone who's got a disease. Once you dump copious amounts of mood-altering substances on the brain, it's chemical ability to experience pleasure is completely changed. After you've experienced these powerful but fake highs over and over, a good sandwich or winning a contest just doesn't do it for the addict any more. After some time, it's not about partying. It's about getting out of bed.
And this is disease that is primarily defined by the symptom that people refuse to admit they have it. Addiction is a progressive and deadly condition, and there are only three outcomes to it without intervention: dead. Crazy. Or jailed. These ways are the only ways an substance dependence problem can end without treatment.
If you wonder if you have a problem, you have a problem. Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous are correlated with successful recovery, true, but please: get evaluated by a substance abuse counselor. Treatment and support are two different things, and you need them both. There are no shortcuts. But if you have cancer, you just don't go to a support group and talk about it. Or tell the doctor, "No, I don't think I'll do chemotherapy. It's too hard, and I don't want to lose my hair." If you don't treat your diabetes, it's still there. And it will blind you and take your feet before it kills you.
If you are related to someone who has a problem, there's help for you at Al-Anon. Please go talk to other family and friends of addicts.Turning a blind eye, refusing to speak up enables your loved one to keep killing themselves. But in order to wage war against illicit substance dependence and abuse, we've got to get past the stigma and silence and shame that surrounds addiction. We need to drop the judgement. Because we're in denial. And in recovery, that stands for "Don't Even Know I Am Lying."
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