“Hello, Bill? I was about to say, 'It’s me, Lisa,' but I know you have caller ID, if anybody does. Anyhow, I know you’re into charity and all that, so I was wondering if you and Melinda and the rest of the Foundation would like to sponsor me as a writer, while I work on a book?”
“Well, yes, I realize you’re working on fighting AIDS and poverty in third-world nations, but I know you love the arts. How? Well, I read you had digital 'paintings' that could be customized in every room of your house by the guests in them. You don’t? Yeah, that would have been cool, but I see what you mean about it being kind of tacky.”
“Anyhoo, I was thinking you could be my patron while I write, so I don’t have to feel guilty that I don’t have a real job, or a paycheck, or a chance of ever getting a paycheck, and then when I say I have to ‘work’ I won’t feel like I’m lying, or that people are giving me pitying looks when they ask how the book is coming. And also so that when I go to Starbuck’s to write, I don’t have to be distracted by the couple sitting next to me with their laptops unopened, who are clearly there not to work, but to have an affair. Plus, it would be a lot easier to pay for all those lattes if I had some income coming in.”
“Really? Wow! That’s generous of you. That’s a little more than I was thinking, but if that’s the number you have in mind, fine with me. It won’t take too much away from the Foundation and the AIDS treatment and the Malaria tents, will it? Tell you what, when I get a book deal, I can repay you out of the royalties. Or, here’s an idea -- . You know Steven, right? Maybe you could help me get an option on a movie adaptation, and then we could split the proceeds. 50-50!”
“To keep things on a professional level, I would give you weekly progress reports, and post chapters as I complete them for you to comment on. Just big-picture stuff. I don’t expect you to copyedit for me, heh heh. Not for what you’re paying me.”
“I do have a lot of good ideas! I guess that’s why I’m a writer. Maybe next time you need a TV ad written for Microsoft you can come to me instead of Jerry Seinfeld. That one didn’t pan out too well, did it? Don’t worry, for every viable idea I have, I have a drawerful of duds. We creative people are like that.”
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
No Country for Old Women
They say it's no country for old men, but we all know it's really no country for old women. Hell, it's no planet for old women, unless there's some place I don't know about where they dig stretch marks and spider veins. Witness Courteney Cox, a truly (physically) lovely woman, who seems to have established herself as an example of aging gracefully, which in this day means not visibly aging at all. Except Ms. Cox, who advertises a product called Kinerase (which means "kind of" erases your wrinkles, except not really, because that's not technically possible) has come clean about overdoing Botox. Apparently, there's such a thing as "just enough" botulism one can inject in one's face, and then there's too much. It's a fine (no pun intended) line.
Worse still, Cox was once quoted as saying she'd made a pact with fellow actor Elisabeth Shue never to have plastic surgery, because the two women believed they were "role models" for young girls. Excuse me, but doesn't being a role model imply that you've done something worthy of modeling? And since when can you nominate yourself for role modelship? Isn't somebody supposed to do that for you?
Last night -- being neither a role model nor an advertising spokesperson, but just a mom trying to scrounge up enough ingredients for dinner -- I was at Dominick's buying exactly one bottle of dry white wine for the sole in lemon-butter sauce I was making (I was!). A man/boy stood in front of me in line, hopping around while he waited to buy his energy drink and package of Starburst. (Personally, I thought he had enough energy without the caffeine and sugar, but what do I know.)
Suddenly, he leaned toward me and said, sotto voce, "I couldn't help but notice how attractive you are."
"Excuse me?" I asked, also leaning forward. I thought maybe he needed to borrow a quarter or something and was embarrassed to have the cashier overhear.
"I noticed how attractive you are. I wondered if I could get your phone number."
"Are you kidding?" I asked.
"I can't notice how attractive you are?" Apparently he had a finite number of pickup lines.
"Is this a joke?" I wasn't smiling. "Because, No. 1, I'm 15 years older than you, and No. 2, I'm married."
"You're married? Oh, sorry."
He turned around, and we commenced ignoring each other until the woman with the three bags of groceries in the Express lane was finished, and we could get our purchases rung up and go on our respective white wine/energy drink laden ways.
I was steamed. This guy and I hadn't so much as made eye contact, unless he had extra peepers in the back of his head, and mine had inadvertently met his before he made his big move. It had to be a joke, right, because what else would prompt a 20-something to ask a 40-something for her phone number without any contact whatsoever?
I'd like to believe that I'm really hot, just as I'd like to believe in life on other planets and the possibility of nailing some Jimmy Choo's at Nordstrom's Rack, but I was bathed in the super-white light of the grocery store, the kind of light otherwise reserved for interrogation rooms and DUI suspects, and there was no mistaking that I was somebody's mom, because I couldn't so much as dig in my purse for my wallet without first dredging up a box of crayons and a Matchbox car. Even without a child in tow, I ooze mom-mones, the kind of anti-phermone that drives men. Away. Fast.
Once and for all, the myth of the MILF is ready for debunking.
You see, there really is no MILF that anybody wants to ILF, unless it's an accidental mother. An accidental mother is somebody who was something else first, say Gwen Stefani or Jessica Alba, who proceeds to have a child and then goes on primarily being what she already was: a rock star or a starlet. With a nanny.
The key to being a MILF is not to look like a mother, at all. No mommy tummy, no mom jeans (see, even the word is a pejorative!), no purse full of Matchboxes, unless they're from all the trendy clubs you've visited recently, while your precious babies were home asleep on the couch with the nanny.
So why can't I accept my gymnastics-mom status and go along my merry way? Because even I couldn't believe some stranger wanted to "hook up" with me. Isn't that how the kids say it these days? I wouldn't know, because my kid is only four, and the only hooking up he is doing is Mr. Potato Head's nose to his face.
Worse still, Cox was once quoted as saying she'd made a pact with fellow actor Elisabeth Shue never to have plastic surgery, because the two women believed they were "role models" for young girls. Excuse me, but doesn't being a role model imply that you've done something worthy of modeling? And since when can you nominate yourself for role modelship? Isn't somebody supposed to do that for you?
Last night -- being neither a role model nor an advertising spokesperson, but just a mom trying to scrounge up enough ingredients for dinner -- I was at Dominick's buying exactly one bottle of dry white wine for the sole in lemon-butter sauce I was making (I was!). A man/boy stood in front of me in line, hopping around while he waited to buy his energy drink and package of Starburst. (Personally, I thought he had enough energy without the caffeine and sugar, but what do I know.)
Suddenly, he leaned toward me and said, sotto voce, "I couldn't help but notice how attractive you are."
"Excuse me?" I asked, also leaning forward. I thought maybe he needed to borrow a quarter or something and was embarrassed to have the cashier overhear.
"I noticed how attractive you are. I wondered if I could get your phone number."
"Are you kidding?" I asked.
"I can't notice how attractive you are?" Apparently he had a finite number of pickup lines.
"Is this a joke?" I wasn't smiling. "Because, No. 1, I'm 15 years older than you, and No. 2, I'm married."
"You're married? Oh, sorry."
He turned around, and we commenced ignoring each other until the woman with the three bags of groceries in the Express lane was finished, and we could get our purchases rung up and go on our respective white wine/energy drink laden ways.
I was steamed. This guy and I hadn't so much as made eye contact, unless he had extra peepers in the back of his head, and mine had inadvertently met his before he made his big move. It had to be a joke, right, because what else would prompt a 20-something to ask a 40-something for her phone number without any contact whatsoever?
I'd like to believe that I'm really hot, just as I'd like to believe in life on other planets and the possibility of nailing some Jimmy Choo's at Nordstrom's Rack, but I was bathed in the super-white light of the grocery store, the kind of light otherwise reserved for interrogation rooms and DUI suspects, and there was no mistaking that I was somebody's mom, because I couldn't so much as dig in my purse for my wallet without first dredging up a box of crayons and a Matchbox car. Even without a child in tow, I ooze mom-mones, the kind of anti-phermone that drives men. Away. Fast.
Once and for all, the myth of the MILF is ready for debunking.
You see, there really is no MILF that anybody wants to ILF, unless it's an accidental mother. An accidental mother is somebody who was something else first, say Gwen Stefani or Jessica Alba, who proceeds to have a child and then goes on primarily being what she already was: a rock star or a starlet. With a nanny.
The key to being a MILF is not to look like a mother, at all. No mommy tummy, no mom jeans (see, even the word is a pejorative!), no purse full of Matchboxes, unless they're from all the trendy clubs you've visited recently, while your precious babies were home asleep on the couch with the nanny.
So why can't I accept my gymnastics-mom status and go along my merry way? Because even I couldn't believe some stranger wanted to "hook up" with me. Isn't that how the kids say it these days? I wouldn't know, because my kid is only four, and the only hooking up he is doing is Mr. Potato Head's nose to his face.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
What I Did on My Summer Vacation
September is here at last! The kids are back in school, and I finally have a moment to myself to blog. Phew! It was a busy summer, to say the least. We started the season off with a quick trip to the Hamptons, where we ended up bunking next to the Jolie-Pitts, of all people! They were completely charming, actually, but the paps were so annoying! We ended up taking advantage of Angie's kind offer to use their Chateau in France, as it was empty. Let me tell you, it was no mean feat to get little Ian a passport on such short notice, but fortunately, Timmy's brother's partner's father, Chancellor Palmeroy III, pulled some strings, and we were off in no time!
France, as always, was to die for, but it seemed like in no time at all we were back home. Quel boring! I mean, the neighborhood pool is fine a few times, and the park, and the beach, and the Children's Museum, but really, it's just kids, kids, kids everywhere! What's a discerning mom to do? So, Timmy and I left Ian with Nanny, and headed off for some "us" time at our pied a terre in the city. It was so funny -- Tim kept running into Oprah on his morning jog! Finally, I had to go with him just so I could meet her, and you all know how much I hate exercise! Timmy always says if I had to choose between exercising and being mauled by a bear, I'd pick the bear. Ha. Anyhow, Oprah was completely charming, but she looks so different without makeup!
Tim was able to virtual commute via the laptop and his Blackberry, but then, quel horror! -- a computer malfunction left us without the Internet for more than a month! Steve (Jobs) was so sweet about it. He apologized left and right, and even offered to jet in to fix it himself, but we told him to just take care of his cancer, poor man, and we'd go to the Genius Bar like everyone else. Anyhow, Tim's boss is soooo good about giving him the summers off. Really, it's embarrassing how well that man treats him!
So finally, after all those weeks, I got my computer back and had tons of interesting tidbits to blog about, what with France and Oprah, etc., but by then, it was time for our month at the cottage by the lake. I can't tell you which lake, because, wouldn't you know it, another celebrity ended up next door, building a glass monstrosity which is not at all architecturally in keeping with the darling little Arts & Crafts bungalows we've all restored so painstakingly. Muffy was miffed, I'll tell you. And there was all this extra security because of "those people" -- we can't even tell you their initials, but I'll give you a hint -- she takes better care of her Chihuahua than her kids, and he's covered in tattoos but is secretly a Republican -- so that we could hardly get in or out of our own driveway. Quel irritating.
Of course, it's too remote up there for any Internet connection, so we live quite primatively. I couldn't have blogged even if I'd wanted to! It was so cute: Ian and one of his little friends "camped out" in the backyard with Nanny one night, but we had to run an extension cord out the door for the DVD player and the Xbox, and they kept coming in to use the bidet! I laughed so hard, a very nice, fruity but not too fruity Sauvignon Blanc came out of my nose!
Well, that wraps up my summer vacation. Hope yours was just as smashing! Ta ta for now!
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Space Junk
I’m tired of recycling. Worse, I’m tired of not recycling, and worrying that my neighbors are not recycling (somebody threw an empty Pamper’s box in the dumpster just this week!), and that the organic buckwheat noodles I got at Trader Joe’s do not come in packaging marked #1 through 7 but excluding 6. I’m tired of amassing gigantic quantities of grocery bags, which, now that I no longer have a dog, cannot be used up in scooping poop, so that I’m forced to carry one of those reusable plastic bags on my 7 to 12 trips to the store a week.
And I’m going to have to ask the drycleaner not to put my clothes in a plastic bag. Or should I even be drycleaning? There’s an organic cleaner over on Roosevelt, but it’s sooo far away. Would the gas I use to drive there cancel out the organicness? And which laundry soap is better, the concentrated version in the smaller package, or the biodegradable one in the larger package? I’ve already switched to phosphate-free powdered dishwashing detergent, because the liquid stuff comes in plastic. But then I’ve heard paper bags are worse than plastic, so am I wrong there?
No bottled water—too much waste. No more bleach, bad for birdies and the water supply. And I guess I should stop driving around in my car with the air on and the windows open, so I can still sort of experience that I’m spending time outside.
Al, damnit, you’ve ruined it for everybody! I’ll give you an inconvenient truth—I think the Prius looks like a used bar of soap, but I’m going to have to buy one next time around whether I like it or not. I really can’t think about anything anymore without worrying about its effect on the environment. But not being a complainer (ha ha), I’ve put my trusty little brain to use and come up with at least a partial solution.
Let’s ship our waste into space!
Before you say no, let’s think about it for a minute. While most scientists—both crackpots and normals—agree that it’s likely there’s life out there somewhere, have we found any yet? After spending gazillions of dollars on space exploration, the closest we’ve come is believing there might have been water on Mars. And possibly some little microorganisms.
So why not ship our hazmat into the outer reaches? As in, beyond Earth and its holey ozone layer, where we puny earthlings reside, slathering ourselves with sunscreen for our trips to the recycling bin. We could either launch it as far as possible—without, say, accidentally blowing up the sun—or we could send it to orbit around some dark and empty place.
Pluto gets my vote. Poor thing isn’t even a planet anymore, so nobody can object. True, we don’t own Pluto, but do we own Earth? Because we’re sure junking up that nicely! I just read recently about a company in Alaska dumping raw sewage into the ocean. I kind of forgot we did that, but why should we be allowed to? Instead, let’s say we take our industrial waste, our used needles, and the rest of the 4 to 5 pounds of garbage generated by the 300 million Americans each day* to Cape Canaveral and get rid of it once and for all.
It’s sort of like the way you clean when your in-laws call and say they’re in the neighborhood, can they stop by? Unopened mail goes in the oven, dirty laundry is piled on top of the washer, toys get kicked under the sofa. Out of sight, out of mind.
As an added bonus, America, whose empire seems to be on the wane, can pioneer a new industry. China and India—so smugly manufacturing everything in the world and taking the customer service calls to boot—will quake before the financial might of the Intergalactic American Waste Management Company (NASDAQ: IAWM).
Can I be the C.E.O.? The rest of you can dress casually every day, and there will be free organic popcorn and free-trade, organic coffee in the break room. But I draw the line at that 40-grit recycled toilet paper. Girl’s gotta have her standards.
* Wikipedia.
And I’m going to have to ask the drycleaner not to put my clothes in a plastic bag. Or should I even be drycleaning? There’s an organic cleaner over on Roosevelt, but it’s sooo far away. Would the gas I use to drive there cancel out the organicness? And which laundry soap is better, the concentrated version in the smaller package, or the biodegradable one in the larger package? I’ve already switched to phosphate-free powdered dishwashing detergent, because the liquid stuff comes in plastic. But then I’ve heard paper bags are worse than plastic, so am I wrong there?
No bottled water—too much waste. No more bleach, bad for birdies and the water supply. And I guess I should stop driving around in my car with the air on and the windows open, so I can still sort of experience that I’m spending time outside.
Al, damnit, you’ve ruined it for everybody! I’ll give you an inconvenient truth—I think the Prius looks like a used bar of soap, but I’m going to have to buy one next time around whether I like it or not. I really can’t think about anything anymore without worrying about its effect on the environment. But not being a complainer (ha ha), I’ve put my trusty little brain to use and come up with at least a partial solution.
Let’s ship our waste into space!
Before you say no, let’s think about it for a minute. While most scientists—both crackpots and normals—agree that it’s likely there’s life out there somewhere, have we found any yet? After spending gazillions of dollars on space exploration, the closest we’ve come is believing there might have been water on Mars. And possibly some little microorganisms.
So why not ship our hazmat into the outer reaches? As in, beyond Earth and its holey ozone layer, where we puny earthlings reside, slathering ourselves with sunscreen for our trips to the recycling bin. We could either launch it as far as possible—without, say, accidentally blowing up the sun—or we could send it to orbit around some dark and empty place.
Pluto gets my vote. Poor thing isn’t even a planet anymore, so nobody can object. True, we don’t own Pluto, but do we own Earth? Because we’re sure junking up that nicely! I just read recently about a company in Alaska dumping raw sewage into the ocean. I kind of forgot we did that, but why should we be allowed to? Instead, let’s say we take our industrial waste, our used needles, and the rest of the 4 to 5 pounds of garbage generated by the 300 million Americans each day* to Cape Canaveral and get rid of it once and for all.
It’s sort of like the way you clean when your in-laws call and say they’re in the neighborhood, can they stop by? Unopened mail goes in the oven, dirty laundry is piled on top of the washer, toys get kicked under the sofa. Out of sight, out of mind.
As an added bonus, America, whose empire seems to be on the wane, can pioneer a new industry. China and India—so smugly manufacturing everything in the world and taking the customer service calls to boot—will quake before the financial might of the Intergalactic American Waste Management Company (NASDAQ: IAWM).
Can I be the C.E.O.? The rest of you can dress casually every day, and there will be free organic popcorn and free-trade, organic coffee in the break room. But I draw the line at that 40-grit recycled toilet paper. Girl’s gotta have her standards.
* Wikipedia.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Inventions I Am Working On
Not many of you know this, but in addition to being a fabulously talented writer and jewelry designer (in my own mind), I am also an inventor. Following the success of the iBra®*, I’d like to introduce you to some other ideas I’m working on.
The Bone Fone™ — get rid of your cell phone and your land line with this handy device, a phone embedded in your skull! Solar powered and completely voice activated. Never have to dial and drive again, or wear that geeky Blue-tooth enabled hardware. Guaranteed to be radiation free. (Actual test results may vary.)
UniBanc™ — When there’s only one bank, and in fact, one company, we can move to a truly cashless society. Take the ease of online bill pay and multiply it by, like, a million, with UniBanc’s new single-source “banking and everything else” service. Credit cards, utilities, checking, savings, CDs, paychecks, the vig on your gambling debts, you name it! Simply log on to your UniBanc account to access a gigantic ledger of credits and debits, click “okay” and you’re done! Never balance a checkbook again, and enjoy e-mail alerts to tell you when you’re running out of money. Users with exceptionally good credit have the option to pay bills late for exorbitant fees, just like in the old days!
Personal Barcode® — sure, tattooed ID numbers used to have a negative connotation, but imagine how easy your life will be if you no longer have to remember 75 different passwords and user IDs. Simply wave your own personal barcode, tattooed on your skin in the ink color of your choice, over your laptop scanner, and you’re logged into all your accounts at once. Never sit at your keyboard, typing endless variations of “sexydiva” and your toddler’s birthday again.
As you can see, simplifying life is one of my goals as an inventor—that, and bringing humankind one step closer to being at one with technology. Instead of getting a Roomba, be one! (“VacuLeg” patent pending.) As my husband can attest, I am all about efficiency. Why just this week, I found a way to eke another inch of space from the dishwasher through an innovative new “nesting” technique (some call it cramming). And while he thinks it’s gross to drink what he has dubbed “Hillbilly Brew,” I say using the coffeemaker every other day saves electricity! The natural antioxidants found in coffee cancel out any icky bacteria that may form in the unwashed pot.
When I’m not inventing or writing and abandoning a new novel every week, I also like to come up with marketing campaigns. A friend of mine is interviewing with a county forest preserve, and I was driving to her house the other day, passing all the lovely trees along the construction site, I mean highway, when I came up with “Got Wood?” Then I thought, gee, this could work for the Viagra people, too!
As if that’s not enough, I’m also working to improve our government. I recently came up with the Fat Tax. Sure, eat all the transfats you want, as long as you’re willing to pay the price (I propose 10 cents per gram). This goes for restaurants and consumers alike, and is sure to cut down on the high cost of obesity in this country.
I think I’ll have to get one of those handheld recorders to keep track of all the great ideas that pop into my head. Hey, what about a recorder embedded into your palm! “Talk to the hand” could take on a whole new meaning!
* The iBra—simply tuck your iPod into your bra while you’re working around the house, and never bother with that dorky black armband again. Men, if your cord is long enough, you can stash your iPod wherever you’d like. I just don’t want to hear about it.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
For the Record
Wouldn’t it be funny if my husband and I got into a blog war, where I said on my blog that I wasn’t in the mood for sex, and he said on his blog that sex with me was a giant chore, too?
And then I could come back with, “Oh yeah, well you leave the cupboard doors open all the time.”
And he could say, “You leave stuff on the stairs where people could trip!”
“But you never do!”
“I did. Once.”
“Why were you walking on the outer-most corner of the stairs anyhow? If you’re so coordinated, you shouldn’t be tripping. And by the way, why do you think I’m melodramatic? That’s the single most hurtful thing you could ever say to me. Just because I’m emotional doesn’t mean I’m not genuine. I’m a writer—if I don’t have that, I have nothing. And I did not leave that sock on the stairs. Ian did.”
And so on. It would really clear the air, so instead of spending three days not talking to each other, we could spend the same three days insulting each other over the Internet! My trigger finger is itching already.
But, the truth is that having sex with my husband is really super-fun, as is having sex with me. In fact—and this is just a self-serving aside—I’m the best kisser in the world. It’s true. Somebody has to be, and it’s me. You might think it’s a shame that it’s not Jessica Alba or Justin Timberlake or somebody hot, but why should they get all the luck? I’ve tested my hypothesis, and everybody I’ve kissed always agrees. I’ll kiss you if you want, to prove it. As long as you have fresh breath and all of your own teeth.
And then I could come back with, “Oh yeah, well you leave the cupboard doors open all the time.”
And he could say, “You leave stuff on the stairs where people could trip!”
“But you never do!”
“I did. Once.”
“Why were you walking on the outer-most corner of the stairs anyhow? If you’re so coordinated, you shouldn’t be tripping. And by the way, why do you think I’m melodramatic? That’s the single most hurtful thing you could ever say to me. Just because I’m emotional doesn’t mean I’m not genuine. I’m a writer—if I don’t have that, I have nothing. And I did not leave that sock on the stairs. Ian did.”
And so on. It would really clear the air, so instead of spending three days not talking to each other, we could spend the same three days insulting each other over the Internet! My trigger finger is itching already.
But, the truth is that having sex with my husband is really super-fun, as is having sex with me. In fact—and this is just a self-serving aside—I’m the best kisser in the world. It’s true. Somebody has to be, and it’s me. You might think it’s a shame that it’s not Jessica Alba or Justin Timberlake or somebody hot, but why should they get all the luck? I’ve tested my hypothesis, and everybody I’ve kissed always agrees. I’ll kiss you if you want, to prove it. As long as you have fresh breath and all of your own teeth.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Bad Moms Club
I know a lot of bad moms. They have nannies when they don’t have jobs, they get sitters to go shopping, they go to spas for the weekends with their girlfriends. Most of them have housekeepers and painstakingly highlighted hair. I don’t use a sitter and my hair is frighteningly D.I.Y. My floors are encrusted with Cheerios, and each drawer in my house is stuffed like a Rubik’s Cube, where moving one item requires moving another, and so on.
Of course I envy these women. My son goes to preschool four days a week, minus when he’s sick (40 percent of the time) and for Teachers’ Institute Days (27 a year); conferences; winter, spring and summer breaks; and major and minor holidays, including Presidents’ Day and Casmir Pulaski Day, a special Chicago-only holiday. (In L.A. they have Jean Carruther’s Day, named for the woman who invented Botox.)
This leaves me two and a half hours a day, four times a week, to myself—hours that pass like lightning. (Greased, oiled, and otherwise speed-enhanced lightning.) Dropping off Ian takes 15 minutes. Then I zip through 30 minutes of housework—just enough to keep the house from being declared a Hazmat site, but not enough for it to be actually considered clean. This leaves me something like an hour and a half before I have to pick up Ian. Generally, I write or make stuff. Jewelry, soup, whatever.
One day recently my husband stayed home sick, and I wondered when he was going to notice how I passed my time. It happened to be a day I had to finish some jewelry for the school auction, so I sat hunched over my work the whole time Ian was at school, ear buds in place, coffee mug in hand. He did complain, after a while, but only because I used his sick self to watch Ian, so I could have even more time to myself.
Because there’s the rub. No matter how productively those two hours pass, it’s not enough. I can’t write a book, or learn my craft the way I really want to. I can’t take a class or go to yoga. (The times don’t fit the schedule). I can’t get on the train and meet a friend downtown for lunch, because what if I didn’t get back on time, and Ian was left on the school playground with a disgruntled teacher? What I can accomplish is to post a new blog about twice a month. I make a few new pieces of jewelry a week, and the other day, I even washed the floors. (I had to. The crunching noise was getting on my nerves.)
It’s not that I love my son less than I did before he was born. I loved him the instant the doctor laid him on my chest. Earlier, really, when I felt him lurching around in my belly, hiccupping, his heels pressing against my skin. But it’s hard to see your old life passing you by. I’ve forgotten how to use software I used to use on a daily basis. I no longer have a “city” wardrobe that fits or is close to being in style. And the things I try to accomplish and which give me some sense of self—outside of being a mother and wife—are never given enough time to do well or fully. I don’t even feel that I’m that good of a mom anymore. And that’s the really sad part.
The first two years of Ian’s life were a cakewalk for me. Sure, I was stressed out about all the newness. How scary the first bath was. Figuring out the changing table at Target. Carrying those damn car seats back and forth to the chiropractor. It was easy to be a good mom, though. I would always ask myself what the “right” thing to do was. If I suspected Ian needed a diaper change, I would check him. If I thought he had a fever, I would take his temperature. In the mornings—and I am not a morning person—I would lie awake waiting for him to wake up.
My son and I had something childcare experts call “goodness of fit,” which basically means we liked each other immediately. We had the same goals: to sleep, breastfeed or be breastfed, and gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes. We’re so strongly bonded that—two and a half years after I stopped nursing him—he sticks his hand down my shirt for comfort the way some kids suck their thumbs. (After he sticks his hand down my shirt, he holds his hand to his face and sucks in my scent, like Dennis Hopper and his oxygen mask in Blue Velvet. Only cuter.)
Novelist Ayelet Waldman caused a furor a while back proclaiming that she loved her husband, fellow novelist Michael Chabon, more than her children. (Hell, I love Michael Chabon more than her children. His grocery list could win a Pulitzer.) I’m the other kind of mom, the one who falls so deeply in love with her child she has to be reminded that she has a husband. That she needs to treat her man as respectfully and lovingly as she treats her child. It’s the way I’m wired.
But my son is growing up. His needs differ from mine. He wants to run and jump and play Transformers, and I still want to snuggle. He wants to ride his bike and build snow-robots, and I want to read the New Yorker and nap. In addition to being good with babies, I’m wired to be, well, selfish. The good mothers I know tend to fall in two camps: superachievers and martyrs. The superachievers outsource a lot, and the martyrs give up everything for their kids. Showering, working, having friends over the age of six. The latter group doesn’t seem very happy, but they’re patient as saints. Picture them with a toddler at each end of the rack, cranking the wheel tighter and tighter, until they’re so stretched out, even their high-waisted mom jeans don’t fit anymore. And all they would say is, “Honey, make sure you let your sister have a turn.”
The middle-of-the-road moms, like me, feel like we do everything half-assed. We don’t give enough to our kids, and we don’t have enough left for ourselves. Not to mention our husbands. (Sex? Please. As in, please get off me.) We lose our keys and our debit cards, the cat box is always dirty, and the five-second rule becomes the “if I didn’t see it, he didn’t eat it” rule.
I got an e-mail from an old friend recently who blew me off the couch with a litany of all the activity in her life. No less than three books going, conferences, music, nature, freelance work. As I remember it, she’s also a good cook and a master gardener. Hell, even her kids are published poets! I wanted to crawl in a virtual hole and hide. Since it was e-mail, I should have just lied. “Oh yeah, I’m meeting my agent in New York next week,” blah blah blah. But she’d probably Google me and find out I’m full of shit. So I fessed up to being a loser and quietly excused myself, vowing to rewrite my bio on Facebook with a lot less attention to the truth.
The truth is, I need a little life to myself to be a good mom. I need Ian to watch Scooby Doo sometimes so I can write. Or read. Or talk on the phone to my mom for an hour. Because my mom showed me that a whole person makes me a better parent. In fact, a good one.
(Thanks, Mom.)
Of course I envy these women. My son goes to preschool four days a week, minus when he’s sick (40 percent of the time) and for Teachers’ Institute Days (27 a year); conferences; winter, spring and summer breaks; and major and minor holidays, including Presidents’ Day and Casmir Pulaski Day, a special Chicago-only holiday. (In L.A. they have Jean Carruther’s Day, named for the woman who invented Botox.)
This leaves me two and a half hours a day, four times a week, to myself—hours that pass like lightning. (Greased, oiled, and otherwise speed-enhanced lightning.) Dropping off Ian takes 15 minutes. Then I zip through 30 minutes of housework—just enough to keep the house from being declared a Hazmat site, but not enough for it to be actually considered clean. This leaves me something like an hour and a half before I have to pick up Ian. Generally, I write or make stuff. Jewelry, soup, whatever.
One day recently my husband stayed home sick, and I wondered when he was going to notice how I passed my time. It happened to be a day I had to finish some jewelry for the school auction, so I sat hunched over my work the whole time Ian was at school, ear buds in place, coffee mug in hand. He did complain, after a while, but only because I used his sick self to watch Ian, so I could have even more time to myself.
Because there’s the rub. No matter how productively those two hours pass, it’s not enough. I can’t write a book, or learn my craft the way I really want to. I can’t take a class or go to yoga. (The times don’t fit the schedule). I can’t get on the train and meet a friend downtown for lunch, because what if I didn’t get back on time, and Ian was left on the school playground with a disgruntled teacher? What I can accomplish is to post a new blog about twice a month. I make a few new pieces of jewelry a week, and the other day, I even washed the floors. (I had to. The crunching noise was getting on my nerves.)
It’s not that I love my son less than I did before he was born. I loved him the instant the doctor laid him on my chest. Earlier, really, when I felt him lurching around in my belly, hiccupping, his heels pressing against my skin. But it’s hard to see your old life passing you by. I’ve forgotten how to use software I used to use on a daily basis. I no longer have a “city” wardrobe that fits or is close to being in style. And the things I try to accomplish and which give me some sense of self—outside of being a mother and wife—are never given enough time to do well or fully. I don’t even feel that I’m that good of a mom anymore. And that’s the really sad part.
The first two years of Ian’s life were a cakewalk for me. Sure, I was stressed out about all the newness. How scary the first bath was. Figuring out the changing table at Target. Carrying those damn car seats back and forth to the chiropractor. It was easy to be a good mom, though. I would always ask myself what the “right” thing to do was. If I suspected Ian needed a diaper change, I would check him. If I thought he had a fever, I would take his temperature. In the mornings—and I am not a morning person—I would lie awake waiting for him to wake up.
My son and I had something childcare experts call “goodness of fit,” which basically means we liked each other immediately. We had the same goals: to sleep, breastfeed or be breastfed, and gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes. We’re so strongly bonded that—two and a half years after I stopped nursing him—he sticks his hand down my shirt for comfort the way some kids suck their thumbs. (After he sticks his hand down my shirt, he holds his hand to his face and sucks in my scent, like Dennis Hopper and his oxygen mask in Blue Velvet. Only cuter.)
Novelist Ayelet Waldman caused a furor a while back proclaiming that she loved her husband, fellow novelist Michael Chabon, more than her children. (Hell, I love Michael Chabon more than her children. His grocery list could win a Pulitzer.) I’m the other kind of mom, the one who falls so deeply in love with her child she has to be reminded that she has a husband. That she needs to treat her man as respectfully and lovingly as she treats her child. It’s the way I’m wired.
But my son is growing up. His needs differ from mine. He wants to run and jump and play Transformers, and I still want to snuggle. He wants to ride his bike and build snow-robots, and I want to read the New Yorker and nap. In addition to being good with babies, I’m wired to be, well, selfish. The good mothers I know tend to fall in two camps: superachievers and martyrs. The superachievers outsource a lot, and the martyrs give up everything for their kids. Showering, working, having friends over the age of six. The latter group doesn’t seem very happy, but they’re patient as saints. Picture them with a toddler at each end of the rack, cranking the wheel tighter and tighter, until they’re so stretched out, even their high-waisted mom jeans don’t fit anymore. And all they would say is, “Honey, make sure you let your sister have a turn.”
The middle-of-the-road moms, like me, feel like we do everything half-assed. We don’t give enough to our kids, and we don’t have enough left for ourselves. Not to mention our husbands. (Sex? Please. As in, please get off me.) We lose our keys and our debit cards, the cat box is always dirty, and the five-second rule becomes the “if I didn’t see it, he didn’t eat it” rule.
I got an e-mail from an old friend recently who blew me off the couch with a litany of all the activity in her life. No less than three books going, conferences, music, nature, freelance work. As I remember it, she’s also a good cook and a master gardener. Hell, even her kids are published poets! I wanted to crawl in a virtual hole and hide. Since it was e-mail, I should have just lied. “Oh yeah, I’m meeting my agent in New York next week,” blah blah blah. But she’d probably Google me and find out I’m full of shit. So I fessed up to being a loser and quietly excused myself, vowing to rewrite my bio on Facebook with a lot less attention to the truth.
The truth is, I need a little life to myself to be a good mom. I need Ian to watch Scooby Doo sometimes so I can write. Or read. Or talk on the phone to my mom for an hour. Because my mom showed me that a whole person makes me a better parent. In fact, a good one.
(Thanks, Mom.)
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Internal Twin Theory
One of my favorite theories about myself (see Navel Gazing, Chapter 1) is that I was nearly a twin. Physical evidence abounds: the right side of my hair flips out, the left side under; the right side of my chin is a bit longer than the left; my right eye a bit bigger. Even my right breast (if you’ll excuse me for pointing it out) is bigger than the left. As an embryo, I was clearly destined to be a twin. My egg-self started to split in two, changed its mind, and left me with two selves, me and my internal twin.
This internal twin is the opposite of me in every way. I am nice; my twin is nasty. I am loving; my twin is cold. I am happy; my twin is depressive. I recycle; my twin doesn’t. As you might guess, living with me can be difficult. I’ve been called, over the years: complicated (my mother), high-strung (ex-husband), “a rollercoaster,” (husband) and a spitfire (therapist). If I had a motto it would be, “When she was good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was horrid.” (See Mother Goose.)
You might think it’s kind of exciting—or at least not boring—to be me. But it’s getting old. I spend a lot of time (see Navel Gazing, Chapter 2) beating myself up for my behavior, but then I go on to make the same mistakes, over and over. F’rinstance, this winter I seem to have lost not one, but two friends. Without even trying! One friend I’d known more than 10 years; the other I had just met.
You could say I’m an acquired taste. It takes people a while to fall in love with me, to get past the shyness and weirdness to my odd, inner charm. But once they do, I reward them by giving as much as I can, just as they reward me with their amazing, inspiring selves. My soul glows after hanging out with one of my buddies.
But what seems to happen is that my twin goes around offending people when I’m not looking. I’ll call my longtime and recently estranged friend Exhibit A. A, whose own children are my age, was counseling me on the phone one day about my son’s behavior. (He didn’t want me to talk on the phone just then and was vocal in letting me know.) Natch, he’s my son—of course he’s mouthy. He’s four, smart, independent, and an only child. But his preschool teacher calls him “Golden Ian,” and his gymnastics coach says he loves a challenge and listens “most of the time.” He’s a great kid. So I defended him, saying “He’s only four,” and that type of thing. She persisted, and I couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Unbelievably, my friend seems to be dumping me over this. It’s March and we still haven’t exchanged Christmas presents, and she left me a voicemail recently, advising me not to get her a birthday gift because she’s “cutting back on presents for friends.” Ouch.
What I want to know is, why can’t we talk about it? Does she love me so little that our friendship has to end over one frustrating phone call? Is there something else I’ve done wrong? But I can’t ask her about it because of Exhibit B, which (or who) is the new friend I’ve also apparently alienated, and who (or which) seems to indicate to me that “talking it out” is not acceptable.
Right after B and I met, just a few months ago, she proposed that we collaborate on a writing project. She was a pro, I was a pro, so I was gung-ho on the idea right away. B even had an editor friend we could submit to directly, so we were both convinced the project was marketable. I did my end of the work, and for several months she convinced me she was “really cooking” on the idea, until she finally admitted she couldn’t do it. No apology.
So I got mad. Mad because she had the energy for 50 simultaneous projects of her own, and I felt like I’d been misled and disregarded. I told her (over e-mail, because my twin is confrontational, but I am a wienie) that I was disappointed as simply and honestly as I could, and she freaked out. A couple of e-mails went back and forth, where I continued to expect an apology and she continued to maintain how horribly I had injured her. We got nowhere. I tried to apologize—or at least explain—and she pretended like we were fine. But then a week later, she included me on a group e-mail. I responded with a “nice to hear from ya,” but she shot back, saying she was “too scared” to open my message and that she would “try in a few days when she didn’t feel so stressy and weak.” (She had a cold.) I haven’t heard from her since. (My twin wants to say, “Gosh, sorry, I didn’t know that you had cancer,” but I won’t let her.)
Now I feel a flutter of agitation (hope times fear) every time I check my e-mail, but nothing from B. I am hurt, but my twin is angry, so angry that her heart beats faster when we go online, and she thinks of cruel things to say to this weak, stressed-out human being whose emotional development stopped roughly at the third grade. (I’m a third grader too, but maybe that’s not a good thing to have in common). I remind my twin of the things we like about B: her humor, her creativity, her penchant for glitter.
In the end, both halves of me feel like crap. I would have done anything for A, and B really seemed like the coolest person I had met in a while. I forgave her for dissing me because I didn’t like Roller Derby, and switched to McDonald’s instead of Starbucks for our coffee dates, because French Roast gives her the jitters. I proved myself willing to compromise. But when someone erases you from memory after your first disagreement, what can you do? And as for A, aren’t we supposed to be able to disagree, sometimes, after 10 years? Isn’t friendship like marriage, where you have to work through your differences?
The timing of these two incidents has made for a rough winter. The sun is gone, the air is cold, my confidence is shot. And I am left to wonder what lesson I should have learned from all this. Is it that we can never admit to each other if we’re hurt, let down, or offended? Or is it that we should never be hurt, let down, or offended? Maybe a friendship that doesn’t have room for any of these isn’t that deep of a friendship after all. Or maybe it’s just not worth fighting for.
This internal twin is the opposite of me in every way. I am nice; my twin is nasty. I am loving; my twin is cold. I am happy; my twin is depressive. I recycle; my twin doesn’t. As you might guess, living with me can be difficult. I’ve been called, over the years: complicated (my mother), high-strung (ex-husband), “a rollercoaster,” (husband) and a spitfire (therapist). If I had a motto it would be, “When she was good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was horrid.” (See Mother Goose.)
You might think it’s kind of exciting—or at least not boring—to be me. But it’s getting old. I spend a lot of time (see Navel Gazing, Chapter 2) beating myself up for my behavior, but then I go on to make the same mistakes, over and over. F’rinstance, this winter I seem to have lost not one, but two friends. Without even trying! One friend I’d known more than 10 years; the other I had just met.
You could say I’m an acquired taste. It takes people a while to fall in love with me, to get past the shyness and weirdness to my odd, inner charm. But once they do, I reward them by giving as much as I can, just as they reward me with their amazing, inspiring selves. My soul glows after hanging out with one of my buddies.
But what seems to happen is that my twin goes around offending people when I’m not looking. I’ll call my longtime and recently estranged friend Exhibit A. A, whose own children are my age, was counseling me on the phone one day about my son’s behavior. (He didn’t want me to talk on the phone just then and was vocal in letting me know.) Natch, he’s my son—of course he’s mouthy. He’s four, smart, independent, and an only child. But his preschool teacher calls him “Golden Ian,” and his gymnastics coach says he loves a challenge and listens “most of the time.” He’s a great kid. So I defended him, saying “He’s only four,” and that type of thing. She persisted, and I couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Unbelievably, my friend seems to be dumping me over this. It’s March and we still haven’t exchanged Christmas presents, and she left me a voicemail recently, advising me not to get her a birthday gift because she’s “cutting back on presents for friends.” Ouch.
What I want to know is, why can’t we talk about it? Does she love me so little that our friendship has to end over one frustrating phone call? Is there something else I’ve done wrong? But I can’t ask her about it because of Exhibit B, which (or who) is the new friend I’ve also apparently alienated, and who (or which) seems to indicate to me that “talking it out” is not acceptable.
Right after B and I met, just a few months ago, she proposed that we collaborate on a writing project. She was a pro, I was a pro, so I was gung-ho on the idea right away. B even had an editor friend we could submit to directly, so we were both convinced the project was marketable. I did my end of the work, and for several months she convinced me she was “really cooking” on the idea, until she finally admitted she couldn’t do it. No apology.
So I got mad. Mad because she had the energy for 50 simultaneous projects of her own, and I felt like I’d been misled and disregarded. I told her (over e-mail, because my twin is confrontational, but I am a wienie) that I was disappointed as simply and honestly as I could, and she freaked out. A couple of e-mails went back and forth, where I continued to expect an apology and she continued to maintain how horribly I had injured her. We got nowhere. I tried to apologize—or at least explain—and she pretended like we were fine. But then a week later, she included me on a group e-mail. I responded with a “nice to hear from ya,” but she shot back, saying she was “too scared” to open my message and that she would “try in a few days when she didn’t feel so stressy and weak.” (She had a cold.) I haven’t heard from her since. (My twin wants to say, “Gosh, sorry, I didn’t know that you had cancer,” but I won’t let her.)
Now I feel a flutter of agitation (hope times fear) every time I check my e-mail, but nothing from B. I am hurt, but my twin is angry, so angry that her heart beats faster when we go online, and she thinks of cruel things to say to this weak, stressed-out human being whose emotional development stopped roughly at the third grade. (I’m a third grader too, but maybe that’s not a good thing to have in common). I remind my twin of the things we like about B: her humor, her creativity, her penchant for glitter.
In the end, both halves of me feel like crap. I would have done anything for A, and B really seemed like the coolest person I had met in a while. I forgave her for dissing me because I didn’t like Roller Derby, and switched to McDonald’s instead of Starbucks for our coffee dates, because French Roast gives her the jitters. I proved myself willing to compromise. But when someone erases you from memory after your first disagreement, what can you do? And as for A, aren’t we supposed to be able to disagree, sometimes, after 10 years? Isn’t friendship like marriage, where you have to work through your differences?
The timing of these two incidents has made for a rough winter. The sun is gone, the air is cold, my confidence is shot. And I am left to wonder what lesson I should have learned from all this. Is it that we can never admit to each other if we’re hurt, let down, or offended? Or is it that we should never be hurt, let down, or offended? Maybe a friendship that doesn’t have room for any of these isn’t that deep of a friendship after all. Or maybe it’s just not worth fighting for.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Commandments 11 Through 14
I only have 44 minutes to write this week’s blog. Blog Day was officially yesterday, but I spent my allotted time writing something that ended up too cranky to publish. So I’m trying again and posting the result whether it’s good or bad, because I’m the boss of my blog, and I believe it will get me “discovered,” like the woman who wrote the screenplay for Juno, without first having to become a stripper.
Here’s my beef: an anti-drug organization recently launched an e-mail petition that asked everyone to agree that drugs are bad. But then, if you didn’t sign and forward the petition, which proposed no further action, “your selfishness would know no bounds.”
Sadly, my selfishness does know some bounds. I don’t see the point in feeling guilty about not doing something that won’t actually do anything. Signing (or typing) your name and then giving it to other people you believe will do the same won’t convince anybody to “just say no” because it’s preaching to the choir, unless the friends you send it to happen to be sitting in front of the 7-11, checking their e-mail one last time before getting stoned. This so-called petition only puffs up the signers for having done some good, when no actual good was done. What can honestly be achieved with so little effort? You could take the five seconds it took to type your name and hit forward, and instead pluck a dollar from your wallet and donate it to MADD or Habitat for Humanity, or any do-good organization. At least once a week, the cashiers at my grocery store ask me to hand over a buck to fight lymphoma or some itis or osis, and I always say yes.* It doesn’t cost much, but it costs something.
The thing is, you don’t get something for nothing. (A lot of the time, you don’t even get something for something.) So stop forwarding e-mails that break the 11th through 13th Commandments: paranoia, guilt, and schmaltziness. If the e-mail draws upon the excessive use of angels, colored text, or the disclaimer “This was verified on Snopes.com,” think before you forward. If it promises that you will burn in Hell if you don’t comply, think. There are times you may still want to forward a dopey message, if the message outweighs the dopiness. For example, you’re sharing a safety alert IN PURPLE about falling out the window because you, personally, have fallen out the window, or you have some choice piece of information that no other reasonably well-informed adult is privy to. Because, you know what? We all get the news, whether it’s from Jon Stewart or The Economist. We know (sorta) how to prevent identity theft, eat right, and not get poisoned by toilet bowl cleaner, and none of us can afford to waste time passing on empty threats and promises.
If you’re really smart, you may feel confident applying the lesser-known 14th Commandment, called Know Thine Audience. Then, you can pick and choose who gets the e-mails about fluffy animals (mostly females, current pet owners, and people without allergies) and who gets the ones about keeping potassium iodide in the house in case of a nuclear event (your grandma and everyone she knows).
I realize that no one will ever forward me anything, ever again. I’ll miss the photos of kittens being nursed by dogs, toddlers flushing interesting objects down the toilet, and the news that a meteor is going to destroy the earth at 10:32 this evening. I won’t miss the threats of ostracism if I fail to participate in the next chain mail. Because, believe me, a crab like me can think of plenty o’ ways to get myself ostracized, without having to resort to mumbo jumbo.
However, if the world really is going to end tonight? Please tell me. I’ll tell you—and your 115 best friends.
*Well, once I said no, but I’m not a saint.
Here’s my beef: an anti-drug organization recently launched an e-mail petition that asked everyone to agree that drugs are bad. But then, if you didn’t sign and forward the petition, which proposed no further action, “your selfishness would know no bounds.”
Sadly, my selfishness does know some bounds. I don’t see the point in feeling guilty about not doing something that won’t actually do anything. Signing (or typing) your name and then giving it to other people you believe will do the same won’t convince anybody to “just say no” because it’s preaching to the choir, unless the friends you send it to happen to be sitting in front of the 7-11, checking their e-mail one last time before getting stoned. This so-called petition only puffs up the signers for having done some good, when no actual good was done. What can honestly be achieved with so little effort? You could take the five seconds it took to type your name and hit forward, and instead pluck a dollar from your wallet and donate it to MADD or Habitat for Humanity, or any do-good organization. At least once a week, the cashiers at my grocery store ask me to hand over a buck to fight lymphoma or some itis or osis, and I always say yes.* It doesn’t cost much, but it costs something.
The thing is, you don’t get something for nothing. (A lot of the time, you don’t even get something for something.) So stop forwarding e-mails that break the 11th through 13th Commandments: paranoia, guilt, and schmaltziness. If the e-mail draws upon the excessive use of angels, colored text, or the disclaimer “This was verified on Snopes.com,” think before you forward. If it promises that you will burn in Hell if you don’t comply, think. There are times you may still want to forward a dopey message, if the message outweighs the dopiness. For example, you’re sharing a safety alert IN PURPLE about falling out the window because you, personally, have fallen out the window, or you have some choice piece of information that no other reasonably well-informed adult is privy to. Because, you know what? We all get the news, whether it’s from Jon Stewart or The Economist. We know (sorta) how to prevent identity theft, eat right, and not get poisoned by toilet bowl cleaner, and none of us can afford to waste time passing on empty threats and promises.
If you’re really smart, you may feel confident applying the lesser-known 14th Commandment, called Know Thine Audience. Then, you can pick and choose who gets the e-mails about fluffy animals (mostly females, current pet owners, and people without allergies) and who gets the ones about keeping potassium iodide in the house in case of a nuclear event (your grandma and everyone she knows).
I realize that no one will ever forward me anything, ever again. I’ll miss the photos of kittens being nursed by dogs, toddlers flushing interesting objects down the toilet, and the news that a meteor is going to destroy the earth at 10:32 this evening. I won’t miss the threats of ostracism if I fail to participate in the next chain mail. Because, believe me, a crab like me can think of plenty o’ ways to get myself ostracized, without having to resort to mumbo jumbo.
However, if the world really is going to end tonight? Please tell me. I’ll tell you—and your 115 best friends.
*Well, once I said no, but I’m not a saint.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The New Monday
If 40 is the new 30, is Wednesday the new Monday? Because if it’s that easy to shave 10 years off your age, we could just as easily remodel a few other things around here. The calendar, for starters. It’s a known fact that the only people who like Monday are employees of Oprah, who can reasonably start each week with the hope that their boss is going to give them something cool. Like a car or a smallish Pacific islands.
Following this line of thinking, a layoff can be termed a sabbatical, in which you finally get to take time for you and your life coach. A divorce can be the perfect opportunity to hone your web-surfing skills. It’s like writing your resume—it’s all in how you spin it. Hate to floss? Could not flossing be the New Flossing? File your taxes in October last year? Maybe procrastination could be the New Proactive! They both start with P. It won’t mess up the dictionary that much.
The only catch is that the New 40 is fleeting. True, you do wake up on your birthday and say, “Man, I look good! I should model for J. Jill!” Two years later, though, and the dew is off the rose and you are the New 42, also known as 75. Whereupon you realize that everybody your age looks younger than you, and you are now living the Dog Years, in which each single year ages you seven. This does not happen to the celebrity who shares your birthday and who appears all airbrushed in Vogue, but can’t possibly be airbrushed on David Letterman, because film is 24 frames per second, and there aren’t enough airbrushers to go around for that.
The New Monday, by contrast, is still dew-drop fresh, mostly because I just invented it, but also because … what’s the downside of a four-day weekend? Surely three days is enough time to spend with those annoying people at work, doing that annoying work-type stuff. Wednesday benefits, too. Instead of being Hump Day, the marker of the dreary interminability of the workweek, it’s now the poster child for extended free time.
Of course, there’s decreased productivity to worry about, eventually leading to a declining gross domestic product, as slacker-mode turns us from America the Beautiful into, say, Spain.* A country content to rely on the beauty of its thousand-year old architecture and the freedom to nap during the day. Also, some people (I guess) like their jobs and derive fulfillment from them, or—more weirdly—have an odd sort of work ethic that requires them to get things done. Like Starbucks baristas and volunteers for Doctors Without Borders.
On the flip side, the lives of dogs will improve during the reign of the New Monday. Two fewer days a week at Doggy Day Care, or less crate-time for you cheapskates out there. Cats might be freaked out and start pooping in the bathtub, though. They don’t like change.
Yes, the world can be a better place, and it’s pretty easy to get to. Just plug in your GPS and spin.
* I have a friend in Spain, so I am allowed to say this. She has a view of the Mediterranean from her window. Plus, in Spain you get to drink all the Sangria you want.
Following this line of thinking, a layoff can be termed a sabbatical, in which you finally get to take time for you and your life coach. A divorce can be the perfect opportunity to hone your web-surfing skills. It’s like writing your resume—it’s all in how you spin it. Hate to floss? Could not flossing be the New Flossing? File your taxes in October last year? Maybe procrastination could be the New Proactive! They both start with P. It won’t mess up the dictionary that much.
The only catch is that the New 40 is fleeting. True, you do wake up on your birthday and say, “Man, I look good! I should model for J. Jill!” Two years later, though, and the dew is off the rose and you are the New 42, also known as 75. Whereupon you realize that everybody your age looks younger than you, and you are now living the Dog Years, in which each single year ages you seven. This does not happen to the celebrity who shares your birthday and who appears all airbrushed in Vogue, but can’t possibly be airbrushed on David Letterman, because film is 24 frames per second, and there aren’t enough airbrushers to go around for that.
The New Monday, by contrast, is still dew-drop fresh, mostly because I just invented it, but also because … what’s the downside of a four-day weekend? Surely three days is enough time to spend with those annoying people at work, doing that annoying work-type stuff. Wednesday benefits, too. Instead of being Hump Day, the marker of the dreary interminability of the workweek, it’s now the poster child for extended free time.
Of course, there’s decreased productivity to worry about, eventually leading to a declining gross domestic product, as slacker-mode turns us from America the Beautiful into, say, Spain.* A country content to rely on the beauty of its thousand-year old architecture and the freedom to nap during the day. Also, some people (I guess) like their jobs and derive fulfillment from them, or—more weirdly—have an odd sort of work ethic that requires them to get things done. Like Starbucks baristas and volunteers for Doctors Without Borders.
On the flip side, the lives of dogs will improve during the reign of the New Monday. Two fewer days a week at Doggy Day Care, or less crate-time for you cheapskates out there. Cats might be freaked out and start pooping in the bathtub, though. They don’t like change.
Yes, the world can be a better place, and it’s pretty easy to get to. Just plug in your GPS and spin.
* I have a friend in Spain, so I am allowed to say this. She has a view of the Mediterranean from her window. Plus, in Spain you get to drink all the Sangria you want.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Spitting Out the Window
The nice thing about the Internet is that nobody spits on it while you browse it. Unless, of course, that’s your particular fetish. Then—for a small fee payable through your PayPal account—you can go to spitonmewhileiread.com, and a 19-year old Ukrainian woman in bondage gear will come to your house and spit on you, as requested.
But back to the Internet. Emily Dickinson was known to pause from her work to spit out the window at passersby. Then, the mad little genius (released from her fetish) would get back to scribbling her “letter to the world.” Her blog, if you will. Because blogging is this millennium’s Dear Diary. Our way to connect in our plugged in lives, where we Peapod our groceries and Zappos our shoes and fall in love on Match.com, from offices that consist of a Blackberry and a WiFi connection at Starbucks.
At first, I was revolted by the idea of blogging. Why is everybody so desperate for attention? Why does everyone assume what they have to say is worth hearing? Or that anybody cares enough to listen? But that’s just it. We want somebody to care. For our thoughts to have meaning, to resonate with others. To prove that we matter.
My husband is making me a web site (another project, another day with A.D.D.), and after many failed attempts to convey to him what I wanted—creative, personal, handmade, whimsical, not “store-ish”—I finally told him I wanted it to validate me as a human being. And the sad thing is, I meant it. My car doesn’t represent me, unless: “This is what I could afford and what was on the lot in red the day we wanted a car,” says it all. My clothes are pretty much: “This is what was on sale at Old Navy last time I had a fat day and 20 minutes in which to buy something that fit.” My house says me, inside at least, where there’s a lot of color and clutter and cat hair. Outside it says, “Nine other families are sharing this building to make it affordable for all of us to live in this town.”
So, does what people publish on the Internet validate them as human beings? Unfortunately, a lot of what is revealed is less like poetry and more like a glob of spit. People can be really scary to each other when they’re protected by the cape of invisibility. It’s worse than how we treat each other in our cars, shouting insults and flipping fingers. We do it because we can get away with it. While on Craigslist last week, placing a classified ad, I decided to peek into the writing forums. Ninety percent of the content was somebody flaming somebody else for the crime of simply replying to a post they must have wanted a reply to in the first place. It’s like every word written was an invitation for abuse. Sensitive soul that I am, it really bummed me out, because I read into it all sorts of ideas about the nature of human beings, whether we’re basically good or bad, whether society is in decline, blah blah blah.
If Emily Dickinson were alive today, would she blog? Would her letter to the world go heard or unheard, according to the whim of cyberspace? Would she be flamed for being different, or would agents and editors flock to her, eager to offer her a book deal and a movie option? Maybe she’d meet somebody on Match.com, get married, have babies, get fat, become a Jenny Craig spokesperson, and end up on reality TV. Maybe it’s better the Internet waited to get invented. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve become one of the gigabytes of people taking off the cape of invisibility.
This is my letter to the world. Is anybody listening?
But back to the Internet. Emily Dickinson was known to pause from her work to spit out the window at passersby. Then, the mad little genius (released from her fetish) would get back to scribbling her “letter to the world.” Her blog, if you will. Because blogging is this millennium’s Dear Diary. Our way to connect in our plugged in lives, where we Peapod our groceries and Zappos our shoes and fall in love on Match.com, from offices that consist of a Blackberry and a WiFi connection at Starbucks.
At first, I was revolted by the idea of blogging. Why is everybody so desperate for attention? Why does everyone assume what they have to say is worth hearing? Or that anybody cares enough to listen? But that’s just it. We want somebody to care. For our thoughts to have meaning, to resonate with others. To prove that we matter.
My husband is making me a web site (another project, another day with A.D.D.), and after many failed attempts to convey to him what I wanted—creative, personal, handmade, whimsical, not “store-ish”—I finally told him I wanted it to validate me as a human being. And the sad thing is, I meant it. My car doesn’t represent me, unless: “This is what I could afford and what was on the lot in red the day we wanted a car,” says it all. My clothes are pretty much: “This is what was on sale at Old Navy last time I had a fat day and 20 minutes in which to buy something that fit.” My house says me, inside at least, where there’s a lot of color and clutter and cat hair. Outside it says, “Nine other families are sharing this building to make it affordable for all of us to live in this town.”
So, does what people publish on the Internet validate them as human beings? Unfortunately, a lot of what is revealed is less like poetry and more like a glob of spit. People can be really scary to each other when they’re protected by the cape of invisibility. It’s worse than how we treat each other in our cars, shouting insults and flipping fingers. We do it because we can get away with it. While on Craigslist last week, placing a classified ad, I decided to peek into the writing forums. Ninety percent of the content was somebody flaming somebody else for the crime of simply replying to a post they must have wanted a reply to in the first place. It’s like every word written was an invitation for abuse. Sensitive soul that I am, it really bummed me out, because I read into it all sorts of ideas about the nature of human beings, whether we’re basically good or bad, whether society is in decline, blah blah blah.
If Emily Dickinson were alive today, would she blog? Would her letter to the world go heard or unheard, according to the whim of cyberspace? Would she be flamed for being different, or would agents and editors flock to her, eager to offer her a book deal and a movie option? Maybe she’d meet somebody on Match.com, get married, have babies, get fat, become a Jenny Craig spokesperson, and end up on reality TV. Maybe it’s better the Internet waited to get invented. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve become one of the gigabytes of people taking off the cape of invisibility.
This is my letter to the world. Is anybody listening?
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