Real quick, although I may revisit the subject later, our president is an embarrassment. But what's worse is that there are actually people who elected him! There are people who share his vision of America and they may get it; they may win. Not a few crackpots and snake-handlers and wandering Old Testament street-preachers, but enough people to swing a national election.
How do these people live with themselves? How can they listen to this man, watch him on TV, and not see that he is, at best, a HUGE role model to the developmentally disabled? I can understand republican party-lines; I pretty much follow democratic ones. But if we had a democratic president as painfully stupid as GW Bush I would be able to say "Fine. You know what? There's one incredibly horribly incompetent ignorant democrat out there, and he's the one in office." I mean, read through the quotes in the link above! The man makes Paris Hilton look like Stephen Hawking. If he were running any other nation, I would laugh and laugh, but he's here so it's more sad than funny. I really do wonder just how far his eight years in office will turn out to have set us back. How long will it take, how many competent presidents must we elect in that time, to undo what Bush has done? He's already left a legacy in the Supreme Court. He has already done so much to validate homophobia and a Christian sense of superiority. He has already, by admission of his own prejudices, given an implied government sanction to hatred and intolerance, and tried to add it to the US Constitution. Considering the freedoms and individual rights this country is based on, he should not only be impeached, but tried for treason as well. And not just for the gays; I hear he may be tapping straight phones too.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The First Day Of Third Grade
I hate the first day of school. I always get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like I'm feeding her to the lions. Someday I will look back on that feeling and know I should have listened to it, but by then it will be too late. She will have become a drone. But I know that I don't have the means to home-school her and that she needs the social interaction, so I send her off on her scooter with her stiff new backpack strapped on, knowing that the teachers are waiting to strip her of all remnants of individuality.
On the first day of kindergarten we send dozens of happy enthusiastic children off to school, and by second grade they want to drop out. Why? Not because they are tired of learning. No, it's because deep down they instinctively resist being transformed into mindless herds of cattle, pushed single-file through the school system, unable to even take a tylenol or cough drop without it being spoon-fed to them by the school nurse. It's sad to watch, to see my daughter , whom I have raised and nurtured for eight years, disappear into some random cookie-cutter image of Standard Caucasian Female. So far she's done okay, but for how long?
She still prefers Rachael Ray to Hilary Duff, and Animal Planet to MTV, and I encourage it. But someday soon her Christmas wish list will include a Britney Spears CD, her Tony Shaloub as Monk poster will be replaced by some over-styled boyband, and wardrobe arguments will go from "You've outgrown those pants, they're too short" to "You are NOT leaving this house with your belly showing!"
It's not that I resist her growing up. Well, not much anyway. It's that I resist her being made into a conformist by teachers too under-staffed and under-motivated to deal with individuals. We send these kids off to schools to be made just like all the others ("See how Johnny colors inside the lines? Don't you want to do it just like he does?") and then we wonder why they succumb so easily to peer pressure. We didn't raise them to do things just because the other kids do them, did we? Well no, we didn't. But while our time with them was spent arguing about teeth-brushing and homework and bedtimes, while we made dinner and sorted laundry, we spent far less time with them than we thought. From age five on, we hand them off to teachers and soccer coaches and troop leaders, and as long as they don't get molested we think it's fine. But none of those people are in the business of thinking about the adult they're helping to shape. They want high test scores and game scores and more patches ironed on a vest. They teach competition, not compassion. Labor, not love.
I think I'm going to spend more time with her this year. Not get as worked up about teacher reports as I have in the past. Let them worry about classroom participation for a year; I'll worry about exactly who I may be sending off to college in a decade.
On the first day of kindergarten we send dozens of happy enthusiastic children off to school, and by second grade they want to drop out. Why? Not because they are tired of learning. No, it's because deep down they instinctively resist being transformed into mindless herds of cattle, pushed single-file through the school system, unable to even take a tylenol or cough drop without it being spoon-fed to them by the school nurse. It's sad to watch, to see my daughter , whom I have raised and nurtured for eight years, disappear into some random cookie-cutter image of Standard Caucasian Female. So far she's done okay, but for how long?
She still prefers Rachael Ray to Hilary Duff, and Animal Planet to MTV, and I encourage it. But someday soon her Christmas wish list will include a Britney Spears CD, her Tony Shaloub as Monk poster will be replaced by some over-styled boyband, and wardrobe arguments will go from "You've outgrown those pants, they're too short" to "You are NOT leaving this house with your belly showing!"
It's not that I resist her growing up. Well, not much anyway. It's that I resist her being made into a conformist by teachers too under-staffed and under-motivated to deal with individuals. We send these kids off to schools to be made just like all the others ("See how Johnny colors inside the lines? Don't you want to do it just like he does?") and then we wonder why they succumb so easily to peer pressure. We didn't raise them to do things just because the other kids do them, did we? Well no, we didn't. But while our time with them was spent arguing about teeth-brushing and homework and bedtimes, while we made dinner and sorted laundry, we spent far less time with them than we thought. From age five on, we hand them off to teachers and soccer coaches and troop leaders, and as long as they don't get molested we think it's fine. But none of those people are in the business of thinking about the adult they're helping to shape. They want high test scores and game scores and more patches ironed on a vest. They teach competition, not compassion. Labor, not love.
I think I'm going to spend more time with her this year. Not get as worked up about teacher reports as I have in the past. Let them worry about classroom participation for a year; I'll worry about exactly who I may be sending off to college in a decade.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
A Look Into My Brain
I just happened upon another mom's blog, albeit a much more glamorous mom than me. But I realized that her description, or the one she endorses anyway, of depression fits me. Then again, so do the symptoms of chronic anxiety, and the ones for Adult ADD. I know I have something; my moods don't fit my thoughts.
My father died three years ago, after declaring himself cured of colon cancer. As I look back on it, my belief in that statement was incredibly naive. Even if the cancer had been confined to one area, and that had been removed, any doctor would have followed up with a hearty dose of radiation, just to be sure. But he was my father, so I believed him when he said he was getting better. Until I got the call late one morning that he had died the previous evening. No chance to say "goodbye" or "I love you" or any of the things you think you'll be able to tell your father when he dies. To make it worse, he had made all of his own funeral arrangements, which is to say none. By the time I was even told of his death he was already cremated and safely stored in a plastic box on my uncle's passenger seat. I got depressed. I had seen many a psychiatrist's office in my young life, but this time was different. I found a therapist I liked, not just one I felt was (or wasn't) capable. I was put on a mood stabilizer and all was going so well. Until within one month my therapist took a job elsewhere and I lost my job, along with my health insurance. I tapered off the meds and tried to "suck it up".
Now, however, I find it more and more difficult to suck it up. I have no patience, no attention span, and am constantly irritable and/or irritated. It's like that part of PMS where nothing goes right and you just want to scream and cry at the same time, and god help anyone who has the nerve to ask what's wrong. Except that for me, it's every day. And Tom doesn't understand. Apparently I've become so talented at sucking it up that he hasn't seen anything amiss. Well, that and the fact that he's never home. Also, I guess his ex girlfriends were all pretty bitchy, so he thinks it's just normal female behavior. Either way, it's hard to justify the expense of medical treatment and prescriptions to a man who doesn't see a problem. But I see it, I have to live it. And I don't really think it's depression because I like my life. I like myself. I just don't like my moods. I have 100 things I want to do but I can't decide which to do first, and I get bored with them once I start anyway.
I have called three clinics looking for an appointment with a doctor and finally got one to be screened for ADD. Unfortunately it's with the same doctor who refused to prescribe anything for me last time. He seems to feel I'm a little out of his league. I hope I get some help at least figuring out what's wrong with me. It has to be chemical; it's sure not situational. I'll write more when I find out what happens.
My father died three years ago, after declaring himself cured of colon cancer. As I look back on it, my belief in that statement was incredibly naive. Even if the cancer had been confined to one area, and that had been removed, any doctor would have followed up with a hearty dose of radiation, just to be sure. But he was my father, so I believed him when he said he was getting better. Until I got the call late one morning that he had died the previous evening. No chance to say "goodbye" or "I love you" or any of the things you think you'll be able to tell your father when he dies. To make it worse, he had made all of his own funeral arrangements, which is to say none. By the time I was even told of his death he was already cremated and safely stored in a plastic box on my uncle's passenger seat. I got depressed. I had seen many a psychiatrist's office in my young life, but this time was different. I found a therapist I liked, not just one I felt was (or wasn't) capable. I was put on a mood stabilizer and all was going so well. Until within one month my therapist took a job elsewhere and I lost my job, along with my health insurance. I tapered off the meds and tried to "suck it up".
Now, however, I find it more and more difficult to suck it up. I have no patience, no attention span, and am constantly irritable and/or irritated. It's like that part of PMS where nothing goes right and you just want to scream and cry at the same time, and god help anyone who has the nerve to ask what's wrong. Except that for me, it's every day. And Tom doesn't understand. Apparently I've become so talented at sucking it up that he hasn't seen anything amiss. Well, that and the fact that he's never home. Also, I guess his ex girlfriends were all pretty bitchy, so he thinks it's just normal female behavior. Either way, it's hard to justify the expense of medical treatment and prescriptions to a man who doesn't see a problem. But I see it, I have to live it. And I don't really think it's depression because I like my life. I like myself. I just don't like my moods. I have 100 things I want to do but I can't decide which to do first, and I get bored with them once I start anyway.
I have called three clinics looking for an appointment with a doctor and finally got one to be screened for ADD. Unfortunately it's with the same doctor who refused to prescribe anything for me last time. He seems to feel I'm a little out of his league. I hope I get some help at least figuring out what's wrong with me. It has to be chemical; it's sure not situational. I'll write more when I find out what happens.
Monday, August 14, 2006
To Adopt Or Not To Adopt
My daughter's father came for a visit the other day. He usually stops by in late summer, sometimes just once and sometimes for a few consecutive weekends, but the longest it's ever lasted was until Halloween. I don't know why it's always in late summer, but that's how it's worked out for the last 5 or 6 years. So this time I asked him if he would be willing to let Tom adopt. It would depend, of course, on cost and whether or not she wanted to be adopted, but I wanted to know if Eric would be willing to sign off. I didn't get an answer but I am thinking seriously about this. It wouldn't change much but her name, but it would eliminate the possibility of Eric getting custody should I die.
I dated Eric for two months when I was eighteen. Apparently, dating me filled him with such self-esteem that he decided he could do better. He also decided that my mere presence among our friends was cause for violence. I applied for a restraining order at one point, but never followed through with it. I figured restraining orders were for battered wives, not ex-girlfriends who could probably avoid a beating by avoiding mutual friends. But I didn't avoid those friends, and Eric and I were sort of on-again off-again until I heard that he had impregnated a fifteen year old. At that point, I asked him to leave my apartment and didn't really see him again until about a year later. They had broken up and he had gotten locked out of the place he was staying at, and I told him he could crash at my place. I shared the bed, figuring that if he tried to start anything, I could just tell him no; it had happened before. But it didn't work out this time. I woke up the next day pregnant.
He ended up getting back together with his son's mother, and when I told him I was pregnant, I got no response. I've already covered the decision to raise my daughter alone in other posts here. Just suffice it to say that aside from the occasional ten dollar bill offered in hopes of winning my affections, he has never paid any child support. She was 3 weeks old the first time he saw her, though I had called him from the hospital the day she was born. He has given her one birthday gift and no cards or gifts for any other holiday. He is basically just a guy with similar features who comes by once or twice a year to say Hi. She calls him Eric.
But now she has a dad, a man who know her likes and dislikes, who buys her souvenir magnets and postcards from all over the country, who thinks of her as his own, who loves her. Legally she has no father; the space on her birth certificate is blank. Eric never came to the hospital to sign it, and the DNA test we got to prove paternity to him was never entered into any court files. I would like her to have a father, and for her to have the same name as future siblings. I would like to know that if I were to die, that a toothless pizza delivery guy couldn't split up my kids by staking a claim to one. I would like to know that if Tom were to die, that all of the kids would get the same Social Security benefits. But most of all, I would like to be rid of that tiny fear in the back of my head that someday Eric will pop up and try to get visitation rights. Adoption or not, I wouldn't tell my daughter that she couldn't see him. But if she did not want to, I don't want to ever have to make her. He has a history of drug use, of drinking, of living in filth. He has no respect for personal hygiene. Simply put, he's not good enough for her. But Tom is. I just hope Eric agrees to sign off. Once I get everyone to say they would go through with an adoption, then I will ask her if she wants to be adopted. Then maybe my 'big happy family with one last name on the mailbox' fantasy will come true.
I dated Eric for two months when I was eighteen. Apparently, dating me filled him with such self-esteem that he decided he could do better. He also decided that my mere presence among our friends was cause for violence. I applied for a restraining order at one point, but never followed through with it. I figured restraining orders were for battered wives, not ex-girlfriends who could probably avoid a beating by avoiding mutual friends. But I didn't avoid those friends, and Eric and I were sort of on-again off-again until I heard that he had impregnated a fifteen year old. At that point, I asked him to leave my apartment and didn't really see him again until about a year later. They had broken up and he had gotten locked out of the place he was staying at, and I told him he could crash at my place. I shared the bed, figuring that if he tried to start anything, I could just tell him no; it had happened before. But it didn't work out this time. I woke up the next day pregnant.
He ended up getting back together with his son's mother, and when I told him I was pregnant, I got no response. I've already covered the decision to raise my daughter alone in other posts here. Just suffice it to say that aside from the occasional ten dollar bill offered in hopes of winning my affections, he has never paid any child support. She was 3 weeks old the first time he saw her, though I had called him from the hospital the day she was born. He has given her one birthday gift and no cards or gifts for any other holiday. He is basically just a guy with similar features who comes by once or twice a year to say Hi. She calls him Eric.
But now she has a dad, a man who know her likes and dislikes, who buys her souvenir magnets and postcards from all over the country, who thinks of her as his own, who loves her. Legally she has no father; the space on her birth certificate is blank. Eric never came to the hospital to sign it, and the DNA test we got to prove paternity to him was never entered into any court files. I would like her to have a father, and for her to have the same name as future siblings. I would like to know that if I were to die, that a toothless pizza delivery guy couldn't split up my kids by staking a claim to one. I would like to know that if Tom were to die, that all of the kids would get the same Social Security benefits. But most of all, I would like to be rid of that tiny fear in the back of my head that someday Eric will pop up and try to get visitation rights. Adoption or not, I wouldn't tell my daughter that she couldn't see him. But if she did not want to, I don't want to ever have to make her. He has a history of drug use, of drinking, of living in filth. He has no respect for personal hygiene. Simply put, he's not good enough for her. But Tom is. I just hope Eric agrees to sign off. Once I get everyone to say they would go through with an adoption, then I will ask her if she wants to be adopted. Then maybe my 'big happy family with one last name on the mailbox' fantasy will come true.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
My Dirty Secret
I have a secret. I try to hide it from most of my more casual acquaintances, but it gets out anyway, so I'm spilling it right now. I married a republican jock.
I am, if you haven't already guessed, a very liberal democrat. I don't want to legalize recreational pot or anything. I just tend to be pretty open-minded on the social topics. Tom, on the other hand, is a republican. He thinks George W is a fine leader worthy of respect. How can anyone other than Pat Robertson think that? I just don't get it. My nightly news program is hosted by Jon Stewart and I'm happy with that. Tom has the truck radio turned to Fox News all day. We have learned not to debate politics.
I believe that there's a tiny part of all people that stays in high school. It's the part that gets nervous before a reunion or smiles when the adult version of the football captain smiles at us. So it was quite shocking for me to learn that my husband was a football star. He was Mr Popular. I was not popular. I wore black and kept to myself. In a packed cafeteria, I sat alone. I never wore black lipstick, or dyed my hair black or any of the stuff kids do these days, but I was extreme for back then. Basically, I was Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. And Tom was Emilio Estevez. Ironically enough, those two characters ended up together in the film, but we all know that wouldn't happen in real life.
Normally, my husband's high school status and political affiliations don't bother me much. In fact, they rarely occur to me. But we are planning to have more children and I fear that he will encourage our son to one day forsake books for balls, and college for the military. I grew up despising jocks, seeing letterman jackets as a modern-day equivalent of SS armbands. And being raised by a mother who harassed military recruiters at every chance, I see military service as one of the least intelligent forms of suicide. Want to see the world? Fine, join the Peace Corps or Doctors Without Borders. Anything but making yourself cannon fodder for the government's agenda. If we were fighting our own war I may feel different; I certainly did when we went to Afghanistan. But more often than not, we are fighting over oil or jumping into other countries' civil wars. Look at our current record. Osama attacked us, so we dropped the ball on catching him and instead got Saddam.
But back to my husband the republican jock. I have come to accept football games in my living room and he has come to accept my unique way of telling him what happened while he was in the bathroom. "The blue guy hit the red guy and then they all piled up." And he has come to admit that perhaps there is no logical argument against equal rights for gays. I'll never be able to see GW Bush as more than a potty-trained circus monkey, and he'll probably never see Bill Clinton as more than the guy who got blowjobs in the oval office, but we try to meet somewhere in the middle, or at least pretend to.
I just don't think I will ever get used to his old high school stories about being one of the popular guys, dating the popular girls. I can't even imagine what he thinks of my "I had the worthless jock's car towed out of the school parking lot" tales. Maybe opposites really do attract. Or maybe the puffed-up jocks just come crashing down to Earth once they finally blow out their knees or fumble the winning touchdown, or whatever it is that makes star athletes real people again.
I am, if you haven't already guessed, a very liberal democrat. I don't want to legalize recreational pot or anything. I just tend to be pretty open-minded on the social topics. Tom, on the other hand, is a republican. He thinks George W is a fine leader worthy of respect. How can anyone other than Pat Robertson think that? I just don't get it. My nightly news program is hosted by Jon Stewart and I'm happy with that. Tom has the truck radio turned to Fox News all day. We have learned not to debate politics.
I believe that there's a tiny part of all people that stays in high school. It's the part that gets nervous before a reunion or smiles when the adult version of the football captain smiles at us. So it was quite shocking for me to learn that my husband was a football star. He was Mr Popular. I was not popular. I wore black and kept to myself. In a packed cafeteria, I sat alone. I never wore black lipstick, or dyed my hair black or any of the stuff kids do these days, but I was extreme for back then. Basically, I was Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. And Tom was Emilio Estevez. Ironically enough, those two characters ended up together in the film, but we all know that wouldn't happen in real life.
Normally, my husband's high school status and political affiliations don't bother me much. In fact, they rarely occur to me. But we are planning to have more children and I fear that he will encourage our son to one day forsake books for balls, and college for the military. I grew up despising jocks, seeing letterman jackets as a modern-day equivalent of SS armbands. And being raised by a mother who harassed military recruiters at every chance, I see military service as one of the least intelligent forms of suicide. Want to see the world? Fine, join the Peace Corps or Doctors Without Borders. Anything but making yourself cannon fodder for the government's agenda. If we were fighting our own war I may feel different; I certainly did when we went to Afghanistan. But more often than not, we are fighting over oil or jumping into other countries' civil wars. Look at our current record. Osama attacked us, so we dropped the ball on catching him and instead got Saddam.
But back to my husband the republican jock. I have come to accept football games in my living room and he has come to accept my unique way of telling him what happened while he was in the bathroom. "The blue guy hit the red guy and then they all piled up." And he has come to admit that perhaps there is no logical argument against equal rights for gays. I'll never be able to see GW Bush as more than a potty-trained circus monkey, and he'll probably never see Bill Clinton as more than the guy who got blowjobs in the oval office, but we try to meet somewhere in the middle, or at least pretend to.
I just don't think I will ever get used to his old high school stories about being one of the popular guys, dating the popular girls. I can't even imagine what he thinks of my "I had the worthless jock's car towed out of the school parking lot" tales. Maybe opposites really do attract. Or maybe the puffed-up jocks just come crashing down to Earth once they finally blow out their knees or fumble the winning touchdown, or whatever it is that makes star athletes real people again.
Friday, August 04, 2006
The Bush Woman
No, not Laura, and not some half-naked tribal matron in National Geographic either, although I secretly like the idea that some of you may picture her this way. The Bush Woman, as I call her in an attempt to convince myself that she is too insignificant to warrant remembering her first name, is my antithesis. She is the embodiment of all the snooty moms from The New Adventures of Old Christine.
I live in a town of 4400 people, surrounded by corn and soybean fields. There is one high school, 4 stop lights, and an estimated 23 Christian churches. I may be exaggerating about the churches, but not by much. My daughter goes to school with a normal little girl, unremarkable to casual observance. But the girl's mother is the one I can't stand.
You know the type, always drops her kid off at 8am in perfect hair and make-up, president of the PTA, the first name on the class party volunteer sheet. There are other mothers more involved than me, more put together than me, but this one somehow surpasses all of them combined. Her husband owns his own business, and she drives a huge pick-up truck emblazoned with the company name, lest anyone think her any less than the wife of a successful entrepreneur. She gained quite a bit of weight when pregnant a few years ago, but it doesn't make me happy like it should. Probably because she doesn't seem to care. She still carries herself as though she is perfect, but worse, like she is MORE perfect than any of the rest of us. She is the woman who has never made a bad choice in her life. She never dated a loser, never got a tattoo she regrets, never woke up hungover hearing stories of what she did the night before. She married a great man and had great children, and no doubt lives in an great house full of great furnishings. She's Donna Reed, and it makes those of us who struggle look like Peg Bundy.
The obvious solution would be to shrug it off. Declare her to be a snob and then go on my way, but come on! Who really has the self-esteem to walk by that upturned perfectly formed nose and not want to sock her in the stomach? So I should just avoid her, avoid even seeing her. But I can't! She's the one taking the money at the school book fair. She's the one helping the kids with their costumes for the Halloween parade. She's the one walking out of the parent-teacher conference while I wait to go in, thanking the teacher for all the praise. I'm the one waiting to hear how my kid can't concentrate and doesn't participate in class. Hello! My kid can't concentrate because she's been reading at a junior high level for 2 years and you're trying to explain how to pluralize words ending with S.
The worst part is, Bush Woman syndrome will be passed on to the daughter. Her father owns a business, her name is one that has been in this town for generations, and she's not disfigured. She will be prom queen, class president, and have all the right extra-curricular activities on her college resume. In high school, she will have no acne, braces that make her look all-American rather than awkward, and in gym class she will complain about having to shave her legs every week to keep them smooth. She will get a car on her 16th birthday, a $300 prom dress, and date the football star of the class ahead of hers. She will go off to college and continue her charmed life, and then move right back to this town to breed another generation of Bush Women with a different but equally revered last name.
I live in a town of 4400 people, surrounded by corn and soybean fields. There is one high school, 4 stop lights, and an estimated 23 Christian churches. I may be exaggerating about the churches, but not by much. My daughter goes to school with a normal little girl, unremarkable to casual observance. But the girl's mother is the one I can't stand.
You know the type, always drops her kid off at 8am in perfect hair and make-up, president of the PTA, the first name on the class party volunteer sheet. There are other mothers more involved than me, more put together than me, but this one somehow surpasses all of them combined. Her husband owns his own business, and she drives a huge pick-up truck emblazoned with the company name, lest anyone think her any less than the wife of a successful entrepreneur. She gained quite a bit of weight when pregnant a few years ago, but it doesn't make me happy like it should. Probably because she doesn't seem to care. She still carries herself as though she is perfect, but worse, like she is MORE perfect than any of the rest of us. She is the woman who has never made a bad choice in her life. She never dated a loser, never got a tattoo she regrets, never woke up hungover hearing stories of what she did the night before. She married a great man and had great children, and no doubt lives in an great house full of great furnishings. She's Donna Reed, and it makes those of us who struggle look like Peg Bundy.
The obvious solution would be to shrug it off. Declare her to be a snob and then go on my way, but come on! Who really has the self-esteem to walk by that upturned perfectly formed nose and not want to sock her in the stomach? So I should just avoid her, avoid even seeing her. But I can't! She's the one taking the money at the school book fair. She's the one helping the kids with their costumes for the Halloween parade. She's the one walking out of the parent-teacher conference while I wait to go in, thanking the teacher for all the praise. I'm the one waiting to hear how my kid can't concentrate and doesn't participate in class. Hello! My kid can't concentrate because she's been reading at a junior high level for 2 years and you're trying to explain how to pluralize words ending with S.
The worst part is, Bush Woman syndrome will be passed on to the daughter. Her father owns a business, her name is one that has been in this town for generations, and she's not disfigured. She will be prom queen, class president, and have all the right extra-curricular activities on her college resume. In high school, she will have no acne, braces that make her look all-American rather than awkward, and in gym class she will complain about having to shave her legs every week to keep them smooth. She will get a car on her 16th birthday, a $300 prom dress, and date the football star of the class ahead of hers. She will go off to college and continue her charmed life, and then move right back to this town to breed another generation of Bush Women with a different but equally revered last name.
Friday, July 28, 2006
So don't look
In a mall full of Victoria's Secret window displays and teenage PDA's, I would think that a baby nursing in the food court would be easily overlooked. But my experience with my own daughter during her first year taught me that people, especially women, will look long and hard for a glimpse of nipple just to be able to give you a dirty look. In corner booths and outside dressing rooms, I have gotten those looks. The ones that seem to ask, "Have you no shame?" and, "Do you have to do that here?" Well the answer was and always will be simple. Yes, I have to feed my baby when she's hungry. And as long as I make some effort to be discreet, with a blanket over my shoulder and a seat in the corner, then the nay-sayers should make an equal effort not to see what they know is coming and yet wait for.
I am a BIG nursing advocate. There have been plenty of articles claiming that it makes a child smarter and healthier, that it cuts down on colic and the chances of obesity later in life. I have heard plenty of arguments against nursing, but none of them have made much sense to me. One girl claimed it was incestuous to make her son suck on her nipple. (Believe me, when your breasts are sore and hot and rock-hard, they cease to be in any way sexual. And if nursing is incestuous, what is the cleaning after a diaper change?) One said she couldn't nurse her second child because it had made her first-born too dependent on her. (Hello! That's motherhood.) I have heard that it makes your breasts sag. (Actually, letting them decrease in size slowly through weaning rather than rapidly by just letting all the milk dry up at once lets the skin shrink back and may help the breasts to not sag.) I've heard that formula-fed babies sleep longer. (That's true, because it takes longer for them to digest what they're not meant to eat in the first place. Same number of nutrients per feeding, but less overall.) And a friend of my mother's once tried to dissuade me from nursing with the argument that it's easier to bottle feed. How is that easier? Measuring and mixing, checking temperatures, fixing up bottles in the middle of the night, packing all those bottles and formula in the diaper bag just to leave the house. How is that any easier than grabbing a couple extra pads and then heading out the door, or rolling over and latching the baby on in the night? You never have to worry about getting all the powder dissolved, the milk is never too hot, and you certainly don't have to sterilize your own nipples. And breastmilk is healthier. Formula companies are constantly trying to come up with a product that is easier to digest, that has the right kinds of fats and nutrients. They try to make their product closer to breastmilk every day, because breastmilk is the best. We all know that a person can't live off of bottled vitamins, no matter how much they get. But formula is the same thing. It's like an adult refusing to eat any food, only supplements. They can take all the vitamins the body needs, in pill form, but they will still be malnourished in the end. Formula fed babies don't test as malnourished, but they're only on formula for a year.
No, I'm not one of those women who advocates breastfeeding children until they're tying their own shoes. But I don't think formula should be used when there's not a need. Women who are able to nurse, who have no illnesses, whose babies aren't allergic, should nurse for the first year. It's possible even for an adoptive mother to nurse, if she uses a breast pump daily to stimulate milk production. Babies should go from breast to cup, with no "supplemental" formula thrown in. Nursing for a short while is better than not at all, but it's a far cry from going the whole route. Bottles can be a great tool in helping the father bond by feeding the baby, but with a breast pump, the only reason to use formula is financial. Nursing takes time that a lot of women need to work during.
I can't imagine looking down at my newborn child, gazing into those eyes, and thinking, "It's only second best for my baby." And I don't know why there's no help to make it that no woman ever has to. Nursing should be covered by the Family Medical Leave Act, as well as any laws that need to be passed, or programs instituted, so that women can afford to stay home to breastfeed. There should be evenly spaced breaks for mothers to pump their milk, and a reasonably private area provided for them to do it in. Maternity leave should be paid and last long enough for a routine to be established for the mother and child. And I'm sure that if we took the tax money that currently goes toward all those cans of formula bought with welfare, we could come up with some sort of incentive program for mothers to stay home and nurse. Obesity, and its complications, cost this country millions of dollars each year. Breastfeeding has been shown to cut obesity rates, both because of the nutritional value of the milk and the fact that no one can force a baby to take all 4 ounces from the breast. Breastfeeding boosts immunities, reducing medical costs. Breastfeeding has been linked to higher intelligence, which often leads to higher paying jobs (and higher taxes) and is therefore better for the economy. Doctors need to actively promote breastfeeding above formula. By encouraging all women who can to nurse their babies, they will also be putting millions of women in the position to pressure policy makers to make it easier to do. And in just a couple generations, we will have smarter and healthier children. We need to make formula feeding more difficult, and breastfeeding easier.
I am a BIG nursing advocate. There have been plenty of articles claiming that it makes a child smarter and healthier, that it cuts down on colic and the chances of obesity later in life. I have heard plenty of arguments against nursing, but none of them have made much sense to me. One girl claimed it was incestuous to make her son suck on her nipple. (Believe me, when your breasts are sore and hot and rock-hard, they cease to be in any way sexual. And if nursing is incestuous, what is the cleaning after a diaper change?) One said she couldn't nurse her second child because it had made her first-born too dependent on her. (Hello! That's motherhood.) I have heard that it makes your breasts sag. (Actually, letting them decrease in size slowly through weaning rather than rapidly by just letting all the milk dry up at once lets the skin shrink back and may help the breasts to not sag.) I've heard that formula-fed babies sleep longer. (That's true, because it takes longer for them to digest what they're not meant to eat in the first place. Same number of nutrients per feeding, but less overall.) And a friend of my mother's once tried to dissuade me from nursing with the argument that it's easier to bottle feed. How is that easier? Measuring and mixing, checking temperatures, fixing up bottles in the middle of the night, packing all those bottles and formula in the diaper bag just to leave the house. How is that any easier than grabbing a couple extra pads and then heading out the door, or rolling over and latching the baby on in the night? You never have to worry about getting all the powder dissolved, the milk is never too hot, and you certainly don't have to sterilize your own nipples. And breastmilk is healthier. Formula companies are constantly trying to come up with a product that is easier to digest, that has the right kinds of fats and nutrients. They try to make their product closer to breastmilk every day, because breastmilk is the best. We all know that a person can't live off of bottled vitamins, no matter how much they get. But formula is the same thing. It's like an adult refusing to eat any food, only supplements. They can take all the vitamins the body needs, in pill form, but they will still be malnourished in the end. Formula fed babies don't test as malnourished, but they're only on formula for a year.
No, I'm not one of those women who advocates breastfeeding children until they're tying their own shoes. But I don't think formula should be used when there's not a need. Women who are able to nurse, who have no illnesses, whose babies aren't allergic, should nurse for the first year. It's possible even for an adoptive mother to nurse, if she uses a breast pump daily to stimulate milk production. Babies should go from breast to cup, with no "supplemental" formula thrown in. Nursing for a short while is better than not at all, but it's a far cry from going the whole route. Bottles can be a great tool in helping the father bond by feeding the baby, but with a breast pump, the only reason to use formula is financial. Nursing takes time that a lot of women need to work during.
I can't imagine looking down at my newborn child, gazing into those eyes, and thinking, "It's only second best for my baby." And I don't know why there's no help to make it that no woman ever has to. Nursing should be covered by the Family Medical Leave Act, as well as any laws that need to be passed, or programs instituted, so that women can afford to stay home to breastfeed. There should be evenly spaced breaks for mothers to pump their milk, and a reasonably private area provided for them to do it in. Maternity leave should be paid and last long enough for a routine to be established for the mother and child. And I'm sure that if we took the tax money that currently goes toward all those cans of formula bought with welfare, we could come up with some sort of incentive program for mothers to stay home and nurse. Obesity, and its complications, cost this country millions of dollars each year. Breastfeeding has been shown to cut obesity rates, both because of the nutritional value of the milk and the fact that no one can force a baby to take all 4 ounces from the breast. Breastfeeding boosts immunities, reducing medical costs. Breastfeeding has been linked to higher intelligence, which often leads to higher paying jobs (and higher taxes) and is therefore better for the economy. Doctors need to actively promote breastfeeding above formula. By encouraging all women who can to nurse their babies, they will also be putting millions of women in the position to pressure policy makers to make it easier to do. And in just a couple generations, we will have smarter and healthier children. We need to make formula feeding more difficult, and breastfeeding easier.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Karma
What goes around comes around. I believe that, and I believe that although it may not relate directly to the recipient, it evens out over all. Call me crazy, but I think that when whites oppress minority races over hundreds of years in the US, it's kind of poetic that soon we will be the minority. And I think that when "gay-panic" is considered by some to be a viable criminal defense, that it's right when it comes back to haunt the straights.
There's a guy in the Castro district of San Francisco complaining of overwhelmingly gay culture being thrust upon his family. Isn't that a little absurd in the gayest part of the gayest town in America? And now the people in P-Town Mass, complaining that they get called "breeders" by gays, and trying to somehow explain the difference between opposing a ban on gay marriage and bigotry. I'd love to hear that argument.
"I think you and your life are wrong and should be banned by law, but I'm not prejudiced or anything." Does that make any sense to anyone, because I really can't see how. There are only three real arguments against gay marriage. 1) It will cost more in spousal benefits. That's true, but much too selfish and outwardly prejudicial to admit for most. 2) My religion says it's evil. That's usually true as well, but we live in a secular nation so it's not really legally relevant. And finally 3) Sexuality is so fragile that if the government in ANY way endorses homosexuality as an acceptable practice, our children will embrace it. That belief, my friends, is brought on by people so homophobic and insecure in their own sexuality that they believe everyone is as close to gay as they are. I believe the answer for these people is some serious soul-searching, not law-passing.
The facts as I see them are that gays are here anyway, no matter what people want. They sometimes marry straight, which eventually drives up the divorce rate, and usually do so out of shame. "If I don't live it, I can't be it." That never works. A gay is a gay is a gay. Gays already have children, either through artificial insemination, surrogacy, or previous straight relationships. So the only thing marriage laws could give these kids is stability. Heaven forbid we legalize THAT. But most of all, when a great number of Americans were opposed to equal rights for blacks, or women, this nation did what was right anyway. We legalized interracial marriage and property laws for single women, and the rights for Jews and Muslims and women and blacks to teach our children. This country is NOT a democracy, with each person holding an equal vote, and it never has been. This country is a republic, where we elect our representatives to do what is best for us, in the hope that with the education and experience they brag about during campaigns, they will do right by us and set into motion laws to protect future generations.
Gays and lesbians, and transgendered people, are our parents, our siblings, our children, and our spouses. We need to stand up for them whether their sex lives makes us sick or not. Because we never know what happens in anyone's bedroom. The happily married elderly couple next door may have leather straps and plastic toys under their bed, and the gays may prefer to just cuddle. No one knows what happens behind closed doors, and it is not anyone's place to judge what they assume happens, or to judge the person by the sex life. It's just not right.
There's a guy in the Castro district of San Francisco complaining of overwhelmingly gay culture being thrust upon his family. Isn't that a little absurd in the gayest part of the gayest town in America? And now the people in P-Town Mass, complaining that they get called "breeders" by gays, and trying to somehow explain the difference between opposing a ban on gay marriage and bigotry. I'd love to hear that argument.
"I think you and your life are wrong and should be banned by law, but I'm not prejudiced or anything." Does that make any sense to anyone, because I really can't see how. There are only three real arguments against gay marriage. 1) It will cost more in spousal benefits. That's true, but much too selfish and outwardly prejudicial to admit for most. 2) My religion says it's evil. That's usually true as well, but we live in a secular nation so it's not really legally relevant. And finally 3) Sexuality is so fragile that if the government in ANY way endorses homosexuality as an acceptable practice, our children will embrace it. That belief, my friends, is brought on by people so homophobic and insecure in their own sexuality that they believe everyone is as close to gay as they are. I believe the answer for these people is some serious soul-searching, not law-passing.
The facts as I see them are that gays are here anyway, no matter what people want. They sometimes marry straight, which eventually drives up the divorce rate, and usually do so out of shame. "If I don't live it, I can't be it." That never works. A gay is a gay is a gay. Gays already have children, either through artificial insemination, surrogacy, or previous straight relationships. So the only thing marriage laws could give these kids is stability. Heaven forbid we legalize THAT. But most of all, when a great number of Americans were opposed to equal rights for blacks, or women, this nation did what was right anyway. We legalized interracial marriage and property laws for single women, and the rights for Jews and Muslims and women and blacks to teach our children. This country is NOT a democracy, with each person holding an equal vote, and it never has been. This country is a republic, where we elect our representatives to do what is best for us, in the hope that with the education and experience they brag about during campaigns, they will do right by us and set into motion laws to protect future generations.
Gays and lesbians, and transgendered people, are our parents, our siblings, our children, and our spouses. We need to stand up for them whether their sex lives makes us sick or not. Because we never know what happens in anyone's bedroom. The happily married elderly couple next door may have leather straps and plastic toys under their bed, and the gays may prefer to just cuddle. No one knows what happens behind closed doors, and it is not anyone's place to judge what they assume happens, or to judge the person by the sex life. It's just not right.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Christmas in July
Tell me, women. What is your shopping dream? No, not the fancy shoes and Tiffany's dream, the real one. The not at all glamorous one. Well I got that dream.
A couple weeks ago Tom was home on shopping day, and he got to see how I spend my household allowance. After dog food, toilet paper, cream rinse, and dish soap, I had enough money for absolutely none of the foods he likes to eat. No red meant, no $10 frozen pizzas. So this week, he took me to Wal-Mart. We bought all of the little household things that cut down the grocery budget. We bought toilet paper and paper towels, toothpaste and shampoo, razor blades and contact solution and those overpriced feminine products we have to buy. We filled two carts and spent way too much. I'm not exactly sure if it was the sad state of the pantry that prompted this shopping spree, or guilt, but I liked it either way. Tom lost his wedding ring and we had to spend almost $300 on a new one, so I guess stocking up on Tide and Snuggle wasn't that bad. The point is that for a few months I won't have to decide between food and toothpaste. This will help since soon I'll be buying sack-lunch supplies and even though I try to shop cheap, it's hard to buy anything an 8 year old will eat cold on a budget.
A couple weeks ago Tom was home on shopping day, and he got to see how I spend my household allowance. After dog food, toilet paper, cream rinse, and dish soap, I had enough money for absolutely none of the foods he likes to eat. No red meant, no $10 frozen pizzas. So this week, he took me to Wal-Mart. We bought all of the little household things that cut down the grocery budget. We bought toilet paper and paper towels, toothpaste and shampoo, razor blades and contact solution and those overpriced feminine products we have to buy. We filled two carts and spent way too much. I'm not exactly sure if it was the sad state of the pantry that prompted this shopping spree, or guilt, but I liked it either way. Tom lost his wedding ring and we had to spend almost $300 on a new one, so I guess stocking up on Tide and Snuggle wasn't that bad. The point is that for a few months I won't have to decide between food and toothpaste. This will help since soon I'll be buying sack-lunch supplies and even though I try to shop cheap, it's hard to buy anything an 8 year old will eat cold on a budget.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Not So Bad After All
Thirty has actually been pretty good to me. I think I may like it after all. I read once that Nicolas Cage said there's a certain grace that comes with age. Or something to that affect; it was in Reader's Digest, look it up. Anyway, I think he was right. I got this sensation, almost like an epiphany without the BAM. I can be old if I want to. I can go braless on laundry day (cameras in phones but no technology to avoid hand wash only?!), I can admit that I crochet and make quilts out of baby clothes, I can make that odd grunting sound when I sit down. (Not that I make that sound of course, but I can if I want to.) I don't have to be Young Chuck anymore; I can just be Chuck. It's liberating. I can go to Subway in my slippers (but not my robe, don't worry) and not worry about whether or not the high school kid in the booth thinks I'm trailer trash. Maybe milf isn't a way of saying 'hot for her age', but rather a way of saying 'hot and confident'. Why do I have such new self-esteem? Two people: Tom and Oprah.
Tom, my husband, gave me the perfect thirtieth birthday gift. Actually a whole box full of them. When we were first married he needed surgery on his shoulder (tore the bicep right off the bone, OUCH) and was in a sling, homebound, for almost 4 months. Having been on the road almost constantly for over 2 years, he got extreme cabin fever and became irritable to a PMS degree. One night he asked me what the hell I was doing with all that yarn so I showed him a simple chain stitch and he started to crochet, about the only thing he could do with only one arm and hand. This year my husband gave me, for my birthday, a twin sized afghan he crocheted me for over a year, from his time at home post-op to the week before I got it. For a big bad trucker-man to crochet a blanket in the back of his Freightliner for a year, it's got to take some real affection. Also in the box, the chick flick I'd liked the ads for (he actually heard me?) and clothes. Yes clothes. Not nighties or push-up bras, but real clothes I loved. I usually wear t-shirts and jeans, so for him to know what feminine clothes wouldn't make me ill shows he really knows me. Even Jame said she would hesitate to buy me these clothes. My husband knows me so well, and still loves me. It's a big ego boost.
Oprah, well she reran a show on dressing thinner. In it was some very useful information on finding the right bra. So I grabbed my sewing tape and measured my ribs. I hadn't been measured since I weaned my daughter seven years ago and was surprised to find that I have lost four inches in that time. The show also mentioned that for every band size difference, there is a one inch cup size difference. So a 34B cup is one inch deeper than a 32B cup. I went from a 36A to a 32C overnight. I found some bras that fit and bought two. Now my boobs (finally) stick out farther than my belly and I look thinner and, well, more buxom. I have always felt self-conscious about my chest. In fact, when I first talked to Tom, over the phone, I described myself as short and thin with my chest on backwards. Being an A cup can be hard. But now I am a C cup, one size bigger than the implants I used to wish for. Maybe I am a milf.
I don't think I'm going to claim 50 like I planned to. I think I'm going to proudly claim 30. I have had some fun getting here, and I have good people to share it with, my family and friends, and I don't think I need to lie one way or the other about it. I'll still dye my grays and slather on wrinkle cream, but I always dyed my hair anyway and the wrinkle cream...well you have to start that young. Maybe thirty really IS the new twenty, but better. Not so much insecurity, not so much fashion. More honesty and self-awareness. My boobs may sag more than they did at twenty, and my roots may be a touch lighter in places, but the drama is toned down and the priorities are straighter. It more than evens out. I think I like thirty.
But don't even ask me to contemplate forty.
Tom, my husband, gave me the perfect thirtieth birthday gift. Actually a whole box full of them. When we were first married he needed surgery on his shoulder (tore the bicep right off the bone, OUCH) and was in a sling, homebound, for almost 4 months. Having been on the road almost constantly for over 2 years, he got extreme cabin fever and became irritable to a PMS degree. One night he asked me what the hell I was doing with all that yarn so I showed him a simple chain stitch and he started to crochet, about the only thing he could do with only one arm and hand. This year my husband gave me, for my birthday, a twin sized afghan he crocheted me for over a year, from his time at home post-op to the week before I got it. For a big bad trucker-man to crochet a blanket in the back of his Freightliner for a year, it's got to take some real affection. Also in the box, the chick flick I'd liked the ads for (he actually heard me?) and clothes. Yes clothes. Not nighties or push-up bras, but real clothes I loved. I usually wear t-shirts and jeans, so for him to know what feminine clothes wouldn't make me ill shows he really knows me. Even Jame said she would hesitate to buy me these clothes. My husband knows me so well, and still loves me. It's a big ego boost.
Oprah, well she reran a show on dressing thinner. In it was some very useful information on finding the right bra. So I grabbed my sewing tape and measured my ribs. I hadn't been measured since I weaned my daughter seven years ago and was surprised to find that I have lost four inches in that time. The show also mentioned that for every band size difference, there is a one inch cup size difference. So a 34B cup is one inch deeper than a 32B cup. I went from a 36A to a 32C overnight. I found some bras that fit and bought two. Now my boobs (finally) stick out farther than my belly and I look thinner and, well, more buxom. I have always felt self-conscious about my chest. In fact, when I first talked to Tom, over the phone, I described myself as short and thin with my chest on backwards. Being an A cup can be hard. But now I am a C cup, one size bigger than the implants I used to wish for. Maybe I am a milf.
I don't think I'm going to claim 50 like I planned to. I think I'm going to proudly claim 30. I have had some fun getting here, and I have good people to share it with, my family and friends, and I don't think I need to lie one way or the other about it. I'll still dye my grays and slather on wrinkle cream, but I always dyed my hair anyway and the wrinkle cream...well you have to start that young. Maybe thirty really IS the new twenty, but better. Not so much insecurity, not so much fashion. More honesty and self-awareness. My boobs may sag more than they did at twenty, and my roots may be a touch lighter in places, but the drama is toned down and the priorities are straighter. It more than evens out. I think I like thirty.
But don't even ask me to contemplate forty.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
He Did It
Maybe you haven't heard of Kyle MacDonald, but I have. I even let my daughter offer to trade our living room chair to him. But her chair was trumped by Kyle's ultimate goal: a house. She is of course disappointed, but I'm working on that. It is, after all, an unfurnished house. But, childhood heartbreak aside, I am happy for Kyle. I could describe his quest but it's all over if you want to google him so I'll let it go at that. The sad part is, I will never ever have the sort of spontaneous adventure and stardom he has achieved, and that realization is what makes my joy for him bittersweet.
It is my thirtieth birthday. It is also the third year in a row that my father has not called at 6am to wish me a happy birthday, but death does tend to make people blow off traditions that way. So far the birthday has been okay. My brother called yesterday to say he went in on a gift with our mom, and jokingly asked if I was 30, saying it as if it were 60. I told him he's losing his hair. It wasn't until then that he realized that I actually was turning thirty. Maybe that means I don't look it, but more likely it's indicative of my brother's interest in me, or in the math required to add two years to his own age.
They say thirty is the new twenty, but I don't feel twenty, or even thirty. I feel 40. Or at least as I imagine forty to feel like. I feel almost menopausal. I realize that the characters on Friends were in their thirties. I realize that thirty is the minimum age required to play a high school student in any Hollywood project. But I'm more Jill Taylor than Monica Bing. Debra Barone, not Donna Pinciotti. Have I mentioned yet the Hell it is to have a best friend who looks like Donna Pinciotti? Yep, Jame is Donna, and I am Kitty. Not even Midge, Kitty. And for everyone who didn't follow That 70's Show, disregard the last couple of lines. I don't yet know how to make the names turn into little blue links to Google search results. Yeah, I'm too old to work the internet. I can remember when it was just Bill Clinton's promise of a future "information superhighway".
I'd like some comments on this page of mine. So, anyone with a story of a thirtieth birthday meltdown, post it here. I need to take comfort in knowing I'm not alone here. PS- the first person to send me an over-the-hill e-card gets hexed by this old crone.
It is my thirtieth birthday. It is also the third year in a row that my father has not called at 6am to wish me a happy birthday, but death does tend to make people blow off traditions that way. So far the birthday has been okay. My brother called yesterday to say he went in on a gift with our mom, and jokingly asked if I was 30, saying it as if it were 60. I told him he's losing his hair. It wasn't until then that he realized that I actually was turning thirty. Maybe that means I don't look it, but more likely it's indicative of my brother's interest in me, or in the math required to add two years to his own age.
They say thirty is the new twenty, but I don't feel twenty, or even thirty. I feel 40. Or at least as I imagine forty to feel like. I feel almost menopausal. I realize that the characters on Friends were in their thirties. I realize that thirty is the minimum age required to play a high school student in any Hollywood project. But I'm more Jill Taylor than Monica Bing. Debra Barone, not Donna Pinciotti. Have I mentioned yet the Hell it is to have a best friend who looks like Donna Pinciotti? Yep, Jame is Donna, and I am Kitty. Not even Midge, Kitty. And for everyone who didn't follow That 70's Show, disregard the last couple of lines. I don't yet know how to make the names turn into little blue links to Google search results. Yeah, I'm too old to work the internet. I can remember when it was just Bill Clinton's promise of a future "information superhighway".
I'd like some comments on this page of mine. So, anyone with a story of a thirtieth birthday meltdown, post it here. I need to take comfort in knowing I'm not alone here. PS- the first person to send me an over-the-hill e-card gets hexed by this old crone.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Fightin' Words
I went out last night, bar-hopped all 2 bars in this tiny little burg, and ran into an old friend. Well, an acquaintance, I guess. She's always really nice to me and seems rather personable but she also seems like the type of woman you don't want to get upset with. You know the type. They fight at the drop of a hat for the tiniest of reasons. We were in a rather crowded room and I was always a bit leery, waiting for someone across the room to shoot a less than happy facial expression in her general direction, or as she may put it "give her a dirty look".
I have never understood people who fight. I can understand being so outraged that you feel moved to physical violence. But some people seem eternally primed to sock some stranger in the mouth. I think I was twelve when I first watched Road House and noticed that the tough-looking girl in the push-up bra did NOT get the hot bouncer in the end, but the smart and natural-looking lady doctor did. Also, all the men who actually seemed to like fighting came across as fumbling idiots while Patrick Swayze remained hot and unflappable. What did I learn from this? Fighting is unfeminine and makes you look dumb.
Maybe I think too much. Fighting words and dirty looks have never had much of an effect on me. If they're coming from someone I don't know then I really don't care what the opinion being expressed is. It's a stranger and their opinion is baseless. If it's a friend of mine, someone whose opinion may actually have some impact, then I'm generally more inclined to try to resolve the conflict. Either way, I don't like pain. Even if I clobbered my opponent (not likely) I would still hurt my knuckles. And probably take at least a couple defensive hits as well. Better to avoid conflict, at least of the physical sort. It causes less bleeding, results in less assault charges, and leads to a much more peaceful night out. Call me slut or cunt or whore, it really doesn't bother me much. They're all just nouns, and not even ones that I feel fit. As Dalton said, Cocksucker is just "two nouns combined to elicit a prescribed response."
I have never understood people who fight. I can understand being so outraged that you feel moved to physical violence. But some people seem eternally primed to sock some stranger in the mouth. I think I was twelve when I first watched Road House and noticed that the tough-looking girl in the push-up bra did NOT get the hot bouncer in the end, but the smart and natural-looking lady doctor did. Also, all the men who actually seemed to like fighting came across as fumbling idiots while Patrick Swayze remained hot and unflappable. What did I learn from this? Fighting is unfeminine and makes you look dumb.
Maybe I think too much. Fighting words and dirty looks have never had much of an effect on me. If they're coming from someone I don't know then I really don't care what the opinion being expressed is. It's a stranger and their opinion is baseless. If it's a friend of mine, someone whose opinion may actually have some impact, then I'm generally more inclined to try to resolve the conflict. Either way, I don't like pain. Even if I clobbered my opponent (not likely) I would still hurt my knuckles. And probably take at least a couple defensive hits as well. Better to avoid conflict, at least of the physical sort. It causes less bleeding, results in less assault charges, and leads to a much more peaceful night out. Call me slut or cunt or whore, it really doesn't bother me much. They're all just nouns, and not even ones that I feel fit. As Dalton said, Cocksucker is just "two nouns combined to elicit a prescribed response."
Thursday, June 29, 2006
A New Stigma?
The FDA has passed it, now the government agency in charge of such things has handed down its recommendation that it become routine for all girls. It's the new HPV vaccine. I think it's a great idea. Doctors have long known that HPV, the virus that causes genital warts, can cause cervical cancer, but only recently have they announced that almost all, if not all, cases of cervical cancer are caused by HPV. But if this vaccine works as planned, cervical cancer may be a thing of the past. The key words here, though, are As Planned. The vaccine isn't against cancer but rather against a sexually transmitted disease that causes cancer. And people tend to get funny about sexually transmitted diseases.
How many parents, when looking at their sweet little 11 year old girl, are going to decide that she is too good for some VD vaccine? How many of the religious right are going to puff themselves up and declare to the doctor that only sluts need THAT shot? Some parents refuse to provide access to condoms to their children; are these parents going to pay for a VD shot, or put their little girl through one more pinprick because scientists in Washington only know the statistics, not their little angel? And will the self-righteous now stop getting pap smears, because they don't see themselves as being at risk anymore?
And what of the millions of women who are too old for the shot, or who already are carrying the virus? Is the local American Legion hall going to be as willing to host a benefit pancake breakfast for the loving mother of 2 when it becomes public knowledge that there's a sexual link to the cancer that's killing her? Will the public adopt a "She brought it on herself" attitude towards women with cervical cancer? Will these cancer patients go from being heroic fighters to sluts whose past caught up with them? I think back now on the women I know who have had precancerous cells found during routine pap smears, and I wonder if they would have held up so well through the news, or had the same support from their families, had it been known then that it was probably caused by an STD. I picture people being alone with the news of their cancers, embarrassed to tell their loved ones. I imagine women being ostracized at cancer support groups, told that they don't have the same right to sympathy because they caused their cancers. I imagine rape victims who have finally gotten past their traumas being needlessly reminded of it at a doctor's office years later. Cancer has to be hard enough to deal with without blame and doubt. I'm all for this vaccine and I plan to have it given to my daughter when she's old enough. I'm just waiting for the backlash to hit those who have or have had cervical cancer. It seems to me that all the media about the link to HPV may give cervical cancer patients and survivors a new stigma, like the one faced by people with HIV.
How many parents, when looking at their sweet little 11 year old girl, are going to decide that she is too good for some VD vaccine? How many of the religious right are going to puff themselves up and declare to the doctor that only sluts need THAT shot? Some parents refuse to provide access to condoms to their children; are these parents going to pay for a VD shot, or put their little girl through one more pinprick because scientists in Washington only know the statistics, not their little angel? And will the self-righteous now stop getting pap smears, because they don't see themselves as being at risk anymore?
And what of the millions of women who are too old for the shot, or who already are carrying the virus? Is the local American Legion hall going to be as willing to host a benefit pancake breakfast for the loving mother of 2 when it becomes public knowledge that there's a sexual link to the cancer that's killing her? Will the public adopt a "She brought it on herself" attitude towards women with cervical cancer? Will these cancer patients go from being heroic fighters to sluts whose past caught up with them? I think back now on the women I know who have had precancerous cells found during routine pap smears, and I wonder if they would have held up so well through the news, or had the same support from their families, had it been known then that it was probably caused by an STD. I picture people being alone with the news of their cancers, embarrassed to tell their loved ones. I imagine women being ostracized at cancer support groups, told that they don't have the same right to sympathy because they caused their cancers. I imagine rape victims who have finally gotten past their traumas being needlessly reminded of it at a doctor's office years later. Cancer has to be hard enough to deal with without blame and doubt. I'm all for this vaccine and I plan to have it given to my daughter when she's old enough. I'm just waiting for the backlash to hit those who have or have had cervical cancer. It seems to me that all the media about the link to HPV may give cervical cancer patients and survivors a new stigma, like the one faced by people with HIV.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sink or Swim?
I have been wondering lately if perhaps we don't live in a nation of life preservers. It seems like "sink or swim" isn't a viable life philosophy anymore. I'm not talking about the homeless here; I can't even begin to understand what they go through and therefore will offer no points of view. I mean the people who struggle or don't, who use welfare and food banks because they qualify, whether they really need it or not. I live in a very small town in Illinois, where $400 a month will rent you a decent house with a yard, or at least half a duplex. But since it is Illinois, all of the state-set income levels have to apply to people in Chicago too. And obviously, Chicago has a much higher cost of living. So, I see many people who make enough to pay their bills and buy their food/clothing/gasoline, but then find that they cannot afford to go to the bar twice a week, or pay babysitters when they want time away, or get the 200 channel package from the cable company, so they go get the welfare card to pay for the necessities so that the income can go to the luxuries. When you see 3 brand new mini-vans driven by parents in leather coats pull up to the food bank for government cheese and powdered milk, it makes you wonder where your taxes go.
I believe the problem is pride. Not enough of it, to be exact. Or at least, not the right kind. People seem to have confused an entitlement attitude with personal pride. The same people who are willing to spill blood over a dirty look are perfectly happy sometimes to spend food stamps on a bag of Doritos. What happened to the pride people used to feel in providing for their families? When did walking into the public aid office become providing? When was the shame wiped off the Link card?
I know a girl who had 2 kids with her live-in boyfriend, and then told the state both times that she had conceived at a party while drunk and therefore could not provide a name for a paternity test. She knew that her boyfriend was the father of both kids, but she didn't want the state to take any of his income out of that house to reimburse the welfare. So she had it written in her children's government files that they not only had no father, but that they were the result of one night stands so random that not even a first name and a hangout could be provided to track them down. What's worse is that because of people like this, other people who really do need the help, because they've fallen on tough times not sat themselves down in them, sometimes don't get it. Charitable organizations run out of money to give. Food banks run low or empty. Taxes go up and that puts more people in the position where they might have to consider welfare. I am very glad that I can afford to stay home. But it wasn't that long ago that I had to go without so that my daughter didn't have to. I took what family and friends offered me; my house was decorated in hand-me-downs and my closet was full of clothes other people had tired of, but it was offered and the taxes that pay for welfare aren't. I couldn't afford to buy clothes or cd's or even rent movies. I could have done all that if I'd gone on food stamps and Medicaid, but I didn't want to raise my daughter to expect a free ride. I just wonder when that mentality became rare. What happened to the work ethic?
I believe the problem is pride. Not enough of it, to be exact. Or at least, not the right kind. People seem to have confused an entitlement attitude with personal pride. The same people who are willing to spill blood over a dirty look are perfectly happy sometimes to spend food stamps on a bag of Doritos. What happened to the pride people used to feel in providing for their families? When did walking into the public aid office become providing? When was the shame wiped off the Link card?
I know a girl who had 2 kids with her live-in boyfriend, and then told the state both times that she had conceived at a party while drunk and therefore could not provide a name for a paternity test. She knew that her boyfriend was the father of both kids, but she didn't want the state to take any of his income out of that house to reimburse the welfare. So she had it written in her children's government files that they not only had no father, but that they were the result of one night stands so random that not even a first name and a hangout could be provided to track them down. What's worse is that because of people like this, other people who really do need the help, because they've fallen on tough times not sat themselves down in them, sometimes don't get it. Charitable organizations run out of money to give. Food banks run low or empty. Taxes go up and that puts more people in the position where they might have to consider welfare. I am very glad that I can afford to stay home. But it wasn't that long ago that I had to go without so that my daughter didn't have to. I took what family and friends offered me; my house was decorated in hand-me-downs and my closet was full of clothes other people had tired of, but it was offered and the taxes that pay for welfare aren't. I couldn't afford to buy clothes or cd's or even rent movies. I could have done all that if I'd gone on food stamps and Medicaid, but I didn't want to raise my daughter to expect a free ride. I just wonder when that mentality became rare. What happened to the work ethic?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
On Hold or Over?
I had my daughter when I was 21. She was conceived during an immediately regretted fling with an ex and when I found out I was pregnant I knew that keeping the baby would be tantamount to using a sperm bank. I would have no help. I have always known that abortion was something I could never do unless testing showed tay-sachs or some other horrific disease which would cause extreme pain and then childhood death. So I thought about adoption which wasn't odd since many members of my family are adopted, and decided on that. It would be best for the baby, since I couldn't support a child enough to give it any of the things I thought babies should have. And welfare wasn't an option. I figured that if I knew from the very start that I couldn't take care of the child myself that I had no business expecting the tax-payers to foot the bill. Welfare is a last resort, not a first resource. But my mother told me about guardianship. If someone volunteers to become legal guardian of a child, the mother does not have to give up rights and the other person's medical insurance would cover the baby. So I kept my daughter, bought cheap diapers (they were the only thing I asked for at my shower), breastfed for the first year, and made babyfood in the blender.
Now Tom and I have been married for about a year and a half, and as the plan to get his vasectomy reversed keeps getting pushed back (it costs like 7 grand) I wonder how old I will be when our kids are born. Medical reasons aside, I don't want to have kids past 35. I made the conscious decision to cut that chunk of my life from the middle. Lots of people have their kids in their 40s, and that's fine. They have the 20 years before that to take vacations and go out with friends, to be unencumbered. I, however, planned on doing all that from maybe 45 on. I want to retire someday and travel, go on cruises, take classes. I don't want to be 60 trying to put a kid through college. Tom doesn't understand that since he's almost 40 now. But he drives, he sees the country all the time, and he has had the freedom to run to the grocery store at 2am. So if we have kids, which is something we both want, then it's going to have to be in the next 5 years. I would like my child-bearing years to overlap for at least a little while with my kids'. I don't want to break my hip moving someone's CD collection into a dorm somewhere. I like the idea of putting the party years on hold for children, not of them being over forever.
Now Tom and I have been married for about a year and a half, and as the plan to get his vasectomy reversed keeps getting pushed back (it costs like 7 grand) I wonder how old I will be when our kids are born. Medical reasons aside, I don't want to have kids past 35. I made the conscious decision to cut that chunk of my life from the middle. Lots of people have their kids in their 40s, and that's fine. They have the 20 years before that to take vacations and go out with friends, to be unencumbered. I, however, planned on doing all that from maybe 45 on. I want to retire someday and travel, go on cruises, take classes. I don't want to be 60 trying to put a kid through college. Tom doesn't understand that since he's almost 40 now. But he drives, he sees the country all the time, and he has had the freedom to run to the grocery store at 2am. So if we have kids, which is something we both want, then it's going to have to be in the next 5 years. I would like my child-bearing years to overlap for at least a little while with my kids'. I don't want to break my hip moving someone's CD collection into a dorm somewhere. I like the idea of putting the party years on hold for children, not of them being over forever.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Cultural References
I finally found the title bar!
Tom came home this morning. After a short nap, he decided to make an omelet. I'm trying to get him to eat healthier so I'm glad he's having an omelet instead of Doritos or Cocoa Puffs. I'll work on the canned mushrooms he put in later. Doesn't he hear when I point out that they're cooked down to nothing and then packed in salt-water? With his blood pressure, he does not need the sodium. I feel like Claire Huxtable when I talk to him about food. He can't live off truck stop trash forever and I'm not tired enough of him to want him to stroke out just yet, but give me time. Just wait till he sees that during his last trip I switched all the pasta in the house to whole-wheat. And got rid of the blue-box mac and cheese. Brown macaroni may not appeal so much to a meat and potatoes Nebraska farmboy like him.
Not that I'm blaming the Nebraska public school system, or ex-jock farmboys like my husband, but why doesn't he know any cultural references? Am I the only one who gets the jokes on TV? Am I the only one who understands Dennis Miller? When some town on the news bans sex offenders from living within city limits and I say "Welcome to Verona", I get a blank stare. When we see a shooting star and I tell him that somewhere there's a bald headed group of neutered fanatics waiting for it, he says, "Huh?" One Jonestown Kool-Aid joke, one Call me Ishmael, one red m&m or arsenic-tylenol joke! That's all I ask. I tell him; I am a funny person, it's just not funny when you have to explain it. How can the same man who probably knows by heart the cup size of every female cast member of Buffy The Vampire Slayer have gone through 38 years of life without picking up any cultural references at all? Maybe it IS the Nebraska Public School System. Maybe I should fear for my daughter when we finally move to Omaha.
Tom came home this morning. After a short nap, he decided to make an omelet. I'm trying to get him to eat healthier so I'm glad he's having an omelet instead of Doritos or Cocoa Puffs. I'll work on the canned mushrooms he put in later. Doesn't he hear when I point out that they're cooked down to nothing and then packed in salt-water? With his blood pressure, he does not need the sodium. I feel like Claire Huxtable when I talk to him about food. He can't live off truck stop trash forever and I'm not tired enough of him to want him to stroke out just yet, but give me time. Just wait till he sees that during his last trip I switched all the pasta in the house to whole-wheat. And got rid of the blue-box mac and cheese. Brown macaroni may not appeal so much to a meat and potatoes Nebraska farmboy like him.
Not that I'm blaming the Nebraska public school system, or ex-jock farmboys like my husband, but why doesn't he know any cultural references? Am I the only one who gets the jokes on TV? Am I the only one who understands Dennis Miller? When some town on the news bans sex offenders from living within city limits and I say "Welcome to Verona", I get a blank stare. When we see a shooting star and I tell him that somewhere there's a bald headed group of neutered fanatics waiting for it, he says, "Huh?" One Jonestown Kool-Aid joke, one Call me Ishmael, one red m&m or arsenic-tylenol joke! That's all I ask. I tell him; I am a funny person, it's just not funny when you have to explain it. How can the same man who probably knows by heart the cup size of every female cast member of Buffy The Vampire Slayer have gone through 38 years of life without picking up any cultural references at all? Maybe it IS the Nebraska Public School System. Maybe I should fear for my daughter when we finally move to Omaha.
Mid-Life Crisis
Okay, so as you all know, I turn 30 soon. Too soon. I believe I am having an early midlife crisis. Or perhaps, I will die at 60 and this IS my midlife. Anyway, I have decided to hate Teri Hatcher.
Don't pretend you don't know why. We all hate her. I am 30-ish and she is 40-something and she looks a hell of a lot better than me. A while ago it was Susan Sarandon, but now the milf posterchild is Teri, so I hate her. But still, I want to BE her. So, still in touch enough with reality to realize I will never look 25 at 45, I have devised a plan.
I will start lying about my age. Not by staying 29 until menopause; that's been overdone. No, I will claim to be turning 50 this year. Yes, FIFTY YEARS OLD. That way, I will get to be amazingly young looking. I may never be a milf, but I can be a grandmilf. AND my 38 year old husband will instantly become my trophy mate. I considered claiming 40, but what if I told someone I was 40 and they believed me too easily? Then, I would have a much worse midlife crisis to work through. As it is, I am merely lying about my age and slathering on wrinkle cream like I was sealing the driveway. It's a perfect plan. Since we plan to move in the next year or so, I will have thousands of unsuspecting people to lie about my age to. I will graciously accept their compliments and smile at their astounded disbelief. Of course, if someone believes 50 too easily, I may have to lie down in traffic.
Don't pretend you don't know why. We all hate her. I am 30-ish and she is 40-something and she looks a hell of a lot better than me. A while ago it was Susan Sarandon, but now the milf posterchild is Teri, so I hate her. But still, I want to BE her. So, still in touch enough with reality to realize I will never look 25 at 45, I have devised a plan.
I will start lying about my age. Not by staying 29 until menopause; that's been overdone. No, I will claim to be turning 50 this year. Yes, FIFTY YEARS OLD. That way, I will get to be amazingly young looking. I may never be a milf, but I can be a grandmilf. AND my 38 year old husband will instantly become my trophy mate. I considered claiming 40, but what if I told someone I was 40 and they believed me too easily? Then, I would have a much worse midlife crisis to work through. As it is, I am merely lying about my age and slathering on wrinkle cream like I was sealing the driveway. It's a perfect plan. Since we plan to move in the next year or so, I will have thousands of unsuspecting people to lie about my age to. I will graciously accept their compliments and smile at their astounded disbelief. Of course, if someone believes 50 too easily, I may have to lie down in traffic.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Just A Sidekick?
At not-quite-thirty years old, I am part of the sitcom generation. You know us; we wore flannel in high school and elected a president based on a saxophone solo on Arsenio. And we grew up on sitcoms. From Family Ties to The Cosby Show, from Roseanne to Will and Grace, we formed our lives' expectations around laugh tracks and slapstick. Our parents were the game-show generation, and our children will probably be the reality show generation. (Insert horrified scream here.)
So what do I do now when I look at my best friend/sidekick and realize that she is the star and I am the comic relief? Dr. Phil says to be the star of your own life story, but I am the dull one. Jame, the previously mentioned friend, is the Kate and I am the Allie. She is Alex P Keaton and I am Skippy. She is Grace while I am Nadine. It's depressing. She became my best friend, way back in the 8th grade, by being the rebellious tough one I wanted to be. She wore black eyeliner and tight acid-washed jeans and could get her hair to stand straight up in front without the acne headband I always got from hairspray. So now, ALMOST 17 years later, I look at her and see not the supporting role in my life story, but the starring role in a much more interesting one. She's the proud struggling single mother with the romantic and attentive soon-to-be-divorced boyfriend; I'm the stay-at-home mom pretending that picking up dog crap in the back yard makes my life busy and fulfilling. Either I need prozac (the housewife's REAL best friend) or I need to find someone somewhere who's maybe a little more boring than me to make myself the interesting character in the movie.
I want to be played by Shirley McClain, not Jessica Tandy, celebrity death notwithstanding.
So what do I do now when I look at my best friend/sidekick and realize that she is the star and I am the comic relief? Dr. Phil says to be the star of your own life story, but I am the dull one. Jame, the previously mentioned friend, is the Kate and I am the Allie. She is Alex P Keaton and I am Skippy. She is Grace while I am Nadine. It's depressing. She became my best friend, way back in the 8th grade, by being the rebellious tough one I wanted to be. She wore black eyeliner and tight acid-washed jeans and could get her hair to stand straight up in front without the acne headband I always got from hairspray. So now, ALMOST 17 years later, I look at her and see not the supporting role in my life story, but the starring role in a much more interesting one. She's the proud struggling single mother with the romantic and attentive soon-to-be-divorced boyfriend; I'm the stay-at-home mom pretending that picking up dog crap in the back yard makes my life busy and fulfilling. Either I need prozac (the housewife's REAL best friend) or I need to find someone somewhere who's maybe a little more boring than me to make myself the interesting character in the movie.
I want to be played by Shirley McClain, not Jessica Tandy, celebrity death notwithstanding.
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