Ok, I tried to keep this sort of light and funny, but in the light of a recent hateful ruling passed by the state of Connecticut (the jowly Governor seemed to be right on-board with this one), I have to rant. Really. And bless Steve Colbert who brought this to my attention with a hard-hitting and hilarious show about this. According to Steve, this ruling prevented a man in Connecticut from retrieving the dead body of his LOVER. Somehow, loving someone of the same sex when they are dead seemed to be part of the whole gay-marriage imbroglio, where people trumpet the "one man-one woman" rule, as if hoardes of animals (somewhere over 300 I read) never get it on with species of the same sex. As Steve pointed out, we musn't even have cemetaries where gay couples can be buried side by side. Only one man and one dead woman are to be allowed. He also had a riff about "gay zombies" which was wonderful, but which my feeble and shattered brain has lost.
Why so afraid, oh, jowly-chinned governor with the little mean eyes? How can it possibly effect you to have either same-sex marriage or same-sex deaths and cemetaries? Somehow, in our need to pander to the fearful Christian right and folks who support DOMA, we have let cruelty seep into our veins, our mouths, our eyes. As a wildly liberal Christian, I always find it sustaining that Jesus not once--not ever--said anything against homosexuality. Lots about the evils of money. Lots about the evils of rigidly adhering to rules which are impossible to follow. A great deal about letting go of fear and anxiety. So I'm about ready for some light-imbued mystic from another dimension to crash through the doors of this culture and say, gently but firmly, "Fear not." And, "Peace be with you."
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Bite Me, Dating Scene!
I must confess that I am not in the current dating scene nor have I been in it since I was twenty years old, which was a gazillion years ago. I've had friends who divorced and then tried getting back into the dating scene, including one thing which amazed me--High Speed Dating. It's sort of like musical chairs with potential dates; you sit at a table with one guy (assuming you're into guys, that is), talk rapidly about anything you can think of (I would probably blather about my dog) , and when the buzzer sounds, you leap to the next table for another intimate encounter. Wow. Talk about spending time trying to get to know someone! Whatever happened to that?
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
In Praise of Small Dogs
Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Bite Me, Pseudo-Girdles!
All right, I've reached that age. It used to be that my mother-in-law would assess my hip width with a strict gaze, making little motions with one hand, pursing her lips, and then saying--"You know, Ann, you've got good hips for child-bearing!" Happy to know that, mom-in-law! And these hips did happily accomodate two babies. But somehow, we have gone from the fruitful-of-loins category to the needing-to-be-reined-in category. I rammed up against this a few weeks back when I was shopping at my favorite high-end store which I can no longer afford to shop in. I think I had managed to find some garment under $100 (perhaps it was one sock, not even a pair), when the saleslady gave me an assessing look, and with a little purse of her lips mentioned that, "I wear this tightening pair right under my dressy pants, say, if I'm going to a wedding or something." What in hell was she talking about? "Tightening pair?" "You mean GIRDLE?" I replied in a bitter voice. She shook her head. " Not really that, just--tightening," she made the same motion with her hand as my mother-in-law had done years ago. But this time it was clear: the width of my body was no longer to be celebrated and acclaimed--it was to be reined in and reduced.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sexy Older Men, Unite!
I am getting tired of smooth-faced men in movies and on the television, as if all of us women out here were in our twenties and looking for amorous partners of the young persuasion. I'm not sure when this happened--when I stopped looking at gorgeous young men and turned my gaze, instead, to older men, preferably with a lot of gray on their heads, and with faces seamed with laughter and years of personal history. It is unutterably entrancing to see a man with a lived-in face: I can almost trace the lines with one finger: there, those are from your first divorce; there, those around your mouth are from laughing at your toddler going fishing in the toilet bowl one day; there, that dent in your chin is from clenching your teeth when you had a teenager driving on the freeway; and there, on your forehead, lines of concentration, from working long hours, studying, and just--showing up, day after day after day.
That's what I find sexy. A lived-in face and a lived-in body. And someone who remembers the same generation of music that I do, similar jokes, and foods that no longer grace the supermarket shelves, like cereals with Sergeant Preston decoder rings. It makes me feel at home.
That's what I find sexy. A lived-in face and a lived-in body. And someone who remembers the same generation of music that I do, similar jokes, and foods that no longer grace the supermarket shelves, like cereals with Sergeant Preston decoder rings. It makes me feel at home.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Kindergarten Boot Camp
From watching my kids go through school, I've been aware of the increase in high-stakes testing throughout the grades, starting in elementary school. I've always thought standardized testing to be a piss-poor way of assessing kids' abilities, but things have fallen to a new level (don't get me started on No Child Left Behind) with kindergartens and what is currently happening. In last week's Boston Gobe magazine, I was horrified to read about kindergarten kids being not only assessed for "kindergarten readiness" (what? You can hold a pencil upright without falling over?) but judged on their performance in "class." Recess now only occupies 30 minutes in many classrooms, says the Globe, and 2-3 hours are spent on instructing kids in reading, writing, and being tested in said areas. Wow, what the hell happened?
Here's my theory: having just finished a book set during the Salem Witch trials of 1692 ("The Father of Lies", 20011, HarperCollins), I am saturated with Puritan culture and all of its wonderful abilities to bring out the best in children. I think we've never left this behind, no matter that we have girls piercing their bellybuttons, and TV shows with gyrating participants. This need to probe the depths of our children--to assess whether they are "worthy" and "saved," a frequent occurence in 1692, has not left us. We just dress fancier and flashier, have more cash, but certainly don't drink more. (Little known fact about Salem: lots of drunkenness occured there, and I won't mention bestiality....) Why the hell can't we let kids just be....kids? And get on with the business of climbing ladders, sailing down slides, twirling on ropes, playing tag, and all of the other wonderful activities that let children develop into the great people they will be? Why must we continue to measure, assess, and weigh? Puritans. Still alive. In us. In our culture. Bite me, testing firms, destroyers of childhood!
Here's my theory: having just finished a book set during the Salem Witch trials of 1692 ("The Father of Lies", 20011, HarperCollins), I am saturated with Puritan culture and all of its wonderful abilities to bring out the best in children. I think we've never left this behind, no matter that we have girls piercing their bellybuttons, and TV shows with gyrating participants. This need to probe the depths of our children--to assess whether they are "worthy" and "saved," a frequent occurence in 1692, has not left us. We just dress fancier and flashier, have more cash, but certainly don't drink more. (Little known fact about Salem: lots of drunkenness occured there, and I won't mention bestiality....) Why the hell can't we let kids just be....kids? And get on with the business of climbing ladders, sailing down slides, twirling on ropes, playing tag, and all of the other wonderful activities that let children develop into the great people they will be? Why must we continue to measure, assess, and weigh? Puritans. Still alive. In us. In our culture. Bite me, testing firms, destroyers of childhood!
Monday, August 31, 2009
September & New Jeans
Somehow, being the techno-boob that I am (can I text? Noooo), I've managed to either erase or disappear my second post about jeans, called, "It's the Jeans Thing." It was mildly amusing but not over the top, and this gives me the opportunity to do more with it.
September always meant new jeans at our house. We'd set out, appropriately attired for a shopping trip, and go to a department store which was my idea of heaven: sweet-scented soaps for beloved grandmas; hosiery (say that three times slowly--it sounds sexual or at least connected to food) folded in crisp tissue paper in sleek boxes; lawn furniture, assuming one had a lawn; glassware; classic coats for women; and jeans. You'd try on one or two pairs, seize one, pay in cash, and drive home. I'd put the folded pair in my bottom drawer and wake the next morning, full of anticipation, padding over to the drawer to push my nose into the new jeans. Besides the scent of brewed coffee and a clean baby's neck, is there anything more evocative than new jeans? It speaks of beginnings, starting over, the next grade in school where you would actually get to be a "big kid," and the comfort of after school clothes once we came home. You'd wear said jeans until you either outgrew them or wore them out, which I did frequently due to my wild habit of sliding down the slate roof of our tall barn. My mother must have channeled Bruno Bettleheim, for she never took me to task for my shredded jeans.
But, I ask you! The Boston Globe Magazine a week ago featured a fashion section (why does that word make me feel weary and in instant need of a glass of wine) on jeans designed to flatter your odd body; disguise those thick thighs, the pooching-out stomach, the short legs, the flat butt, or whatever appendages this society deems unacceptable. That's why the word "fashion" makes me want to drink wine, because it is a cover word for--"you are unacceptable as you are. Let us fix you up, baby!" But, get this: the jeans ran from $138-$158 dollars PER PAIR. That would have bought us enough jeans to see us through to adulthood in the old days. Do you know anyone who can afford that for jeans? And in this time of deep recession, no matter that the pundits tell us we are scooting out of it? Tell that to the jobless people, to the woman who is losing her home down the street. Don't get me started.
By making jeans so damn expensive, our culture has taken away the joy of new jeans--the sweeet smell, the crisp folds, the sense of promise inherent in that blue color. It's more like investing in a stock portfolio than enjoying your five senses.
So, here's to new beginnings; here's to September with the swallows massed on telephone lines, ready to sail south; here's to children waiting for schoolbuses, their feet tapping in anticipation; here's to parents heaving sighs of relief at gettting their houses back.
Enjoy September--enjoy your new jeans at a reasonable cost--and Bite Me, Fashionistas!
September always meant new jeans at our house. We'd set out, appropriately attired for a shopping trip, and go to a department store which was my idea of heaven: sweet-scented soaps for beloved grandmas; hosiery (say that three times slowly--it sounds sexual or at least connected to food) folded in crisp tissue paper in sleek boxes; lawn furniture, assuming one had a lawn; glassware; classic coats for women; and jeans. You'd try on one or two pairs, seize one, pay in cash, and drive home. I'd put the folded pair in my bottom drawer and wake the next morning, full of anticipation, padding over to the drawer to push my nose into the new jeans. Besides the scent of brewed coffee and a clean baby's neck, is there anything more evocative than new jeans? It speaks of beginnings, starting over, the next grade in school where you would actually get to be a "big kid," and the comfort of after school clothes once we came home. You'd wear said jeans until you either outgrew them or wore them out, which I did frequently due to my wild habit of sliding down the slate roof of our tall barn. My mother must have channeled Bruno Bettleheim, for she never took me to task for my shredded jeans.
But, I ask you! The Boston Globe Magazine a week ago featured a fashion section (why does that word make me feel weary and in instant need of a glass of wine) on jeans designed to flatter your odd body; disguise those thick thighs, the pooching-out stomach, the short legs, the flat butt, or whatever appendages this society deems unacceptable. That's why the word "fashion" makes me want to drink wine, because it is a cover word for--"you are unacceptable as you are. Let us fix you up, baby!" But, get this: the jeans ran from $138-$158 dollars PER PAIR. That would have bought us enough jeans to see us through to adulthood in the old days. Do you know anyone who can afford that for jeans? And in this time of deep recession, no matter that the pundits tell us we are scooting out of it? Tell that to the jobless people, to the woman who is losing her home down the street. Don't get me started.
By making jeans so damn expensive, our culture has taken away the joy of new jeans--the sweeet smell, the crisp folds, the sense of promise inherent in that blue color. It's more like investing in a stock portfolio than enjoying your five senses.
So, here's to new beginnings; here's to September with the swallows massed on telephone lines, ready to sail south; here's to children waiting for schoolbuses, their feet tapping in anticipation; here's to parents heaving sighs of relief at gettting their houses back.
Enjoy September--enjoy your new jeans at a reasonable cost--and Bite Me, Fashionistas!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Bite Me Life #1
Is anyone else out there as frustrated as I am by modern life and the things that are supposed to make it easier, better, sexier, and more fulfilling? Just on a small note: making rice tonight for stir-fried bay scallops with Asian sauce, I stuggled to open the damned rice. What happened to the good old bags which you opened and then fastened with a twist-em? But no! Some suits in a dimly-lit office decided to do away with a perfectly good system and substitute something meant to be an improvement. Now it has a slide-em opener and closer. You know how it goes: You seize the rice bag firmly in your left hand, get a grip on the scissors (rather dull), and cut away at the rice bag. Try and open it. Nope! Cut again, lower, and still no result. By now I am beginning to sweat and wishing I knew some wild Croatian swear words which which would insult the parentage of this particular rice bag. Finally, in a sweaty rush, I pull open the rice bag and grains scatter onto the floor. The mad Jack Russell terrier appreciates this and cleans them up. Then I try and close the bag again. No score. Nada. Get out that green twist-em and whip the bag into shape, stick it into the closet, and pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay.
It's just that I feel I have failed--not majorly--but still failed in mastering rice bags. I think life is hard enough--what with growing kids, in-laws, various insane relatives, cars which spew carbon, houses which slump when I am not looking, not to say my retirement fund and the need to pay for college education. Do I NEED to worry about my prowress with a rice bag? I ask you.
It's just that I feel I have failed--not majorly--but still failed in mastering rice bags. I think life is hard enough--what with growing kids, in-laws, various insane relatives, cars which spew carbon, houses which slump when I am not looking, not to say my retirement fund and the need to pay for college education. Do I NEED to worry about my prowress with a rice bag? I ask you.
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