The sort of day I'm having: I took my son for his first eye exam (necessary for kindergarten) and I waited a month to get in to see this recommended ophthalmologist. We had a 9:15 appointment and I was even naive enough to think that we might have time for some playground shenanigans before school started at noon. Oh, sweet, optimistic me.
We were there until noon, nearly three hours, we were late for kindergarten, though we could have gone but the deciding factor was that my son's pupils were dilated like Jim Morrison's on a bender due to approximately four different eye drops that I was not anticipating so I was unable to prepare him. Thus, from hour two until hour three, there was a lot of crying and general anxiety about his newly compromised vision.
The good news? My son has perfect, 20/20 vision! The bad news? He needs glasses anyway! How, what, come again, huh? He has a condition called accommodative esotropia, which is a latent (undetectable without sensitive equipment) inward crossing of the eye, which causes double vision. After an eternity of my poor boy reading numbers and letters off the screen (did a perfect job, I might add), having the lights turned off, his doctor peering into his cranium via his eye using a miner light contraption, covering his eyes one at a time with a plastic strip, having his six-year-old self sit still as she determined his prescription AND having her mutter incomprehensibly to no one in particular but then speak again in exactly the same mumbling tone (seriously, it was like, "...mgrapmmm...hmmm...mmmm...good...mmmph...") and expect me to be able to hear her, I was pretty much ready to karate chop strangers. Not to mention him missing kindergarten on our first week of school when I have writing to do.
What with having a hungry, bleary-eyed Lizard King as a son, we decided to go home and make the German Apple Cake from The Joy of Vegan Baking to console ourselves.
Shalom, everyone/
Friday, August 29, 2008
Obama's speech...
I didn't watch Barack Obama's entire speech at the DNC last night, but what I saw gave me some hope.
Admittedly, I am pretty disgusted by the Democratic party as a whole and I hold them as accountable as the Bush administration for our nation's spiraling problems: the war in Iraq, the inequality of our public education system, the entrenched corporate influence everywhere. They have failed to be a voice of the people, failed quite astonishingly at this. When I see Dennis Kucinich speak, as I did addressing the DNC a few days ago, I think to myself, "Why is this man treated like he's such a joke?" The Democratic establishment, they are the joke, but it's one of those not-funny, makes-your-stomach-hurt-to-think-of kind of jokes. He said something very wise in his speech: he said that he is not talking about a shift from right to left, he is talking about a shift from down to up. This may not seem revolutionary at face value, but it is. He is talking about disregarding that old dial, the one that trapped us into believing in the false duality of the Republicans versus the Democrats, and create a new one, one reflecting deep change, true progress. Again, I have to ask, why is this man treated as such a joke?
Anyway, back to Obama. I cannot imagine that McCain and his tired old cronies can generate even a small percentage of the passion that Obama did in that Denver stadium, not even if they had Merlin whipping up a tempest in his cauldron. The debates between them, I think and hope, will look like the Kennedy/Nixon match up and the Chicago senator will blow that old war monger out of the water. He is the old guard, despite his largely mythic and construed maverick persona, and the people are tired of it. McCain is more of the same, and we cannot abide any more of the same. Obama, while he still gives unfortunate lipservice to the importance of nuclear development and various other Eisenhower-era values, does represent a change in the guard here, not necessarily from down to up, but at least from down to middle. That's something! And I can only hope that the mixed race child of a single mother would be personally aware of how working people are living today. I can only hope that he's not so shielded that he is out of touch with this.
So I am guardedly hopeful. Barack and Michelle Obama: they have exactly the sort of image - I'm sorry if that sounds superficial, but it's absolutely the right word - we need on the world stage representing our country as soon as possible. I am not swept up in Obamamania, but after these last eight years of an utterly atrocious administration that makes decisions befitting such an outfit of robber barons and crooks, I am hopeful that something different can occur with him. And we desperately need something different.
Shalom, everyone.
Admittedly, I am pretty disgusted by the Democratic party as a whole and I hold them as accountable as the Bush administration for our nation's spiraling problems: the war in Iraq, the inequality of our public education system, the entrenched corporate influence everywhere. They have failed to be a voice of the people, failed quite astonishingly at this. When I see Dennis Kucinich speak, as I did addressing the DNC a few days ago, I think to myself, "Why is this man treated like he's such a joke?" The Democratic establishment, they are the joke, but it's one of those not-funny, makes-your-stomach-hurt-to-think-of kind of jokes. He said something very wise in his speech: he said that he is not talking about a shift from right to left, he is talking about a shift from down to up. This may not seem revolutionary at face value, but it is. He is talking about disregarding that old dial, the one that trapped us into believing in the false duality of the Republicans versus the Democrats, and create a new one, one reflecting deep change, true progress. Again, I have to ask, why is this man treated as such a joke?
Anyway, back to Obama. I cannot imagine that McCain and his tired old cronies can generate even a small percentage of the passion that Obama did in that Denver stadium, not even if they had Merlin whipping up a tempest in his cauldron. The debates between them, I think and hope, will look like the Kennedy/Nixon match up and the Chicago senator will blow that old war monger out of the water. He is the old guard, despite his largely mythic and construed maverick persona, and the people are tired of it. McCain is more of the same, and we cannot abide any more of the same. Obama, while he still gives unfortunate lipservice to the importance of nuclear development and various other Eisenhower-era values, does represent a change in the guard here, not necessarily from down to up, but at least from down to middle. That's something! And I can only hope that the mixed race child of a single mother would be personally aware of how working people are living today. I can only hope that he's not so shielded that he is out of touch with this.
So I am guardedly hopeful. Barack and Michelle Obama: they have exactly the sort of image - I'm sorry if that sounds superficial, but it's absolutely the right word - we need on the world stage representing our country as soon as possible. I am not swept up in Obamamania, but after these last eight years of an utterly atrocious administration that makes decisions befitting such an outfit of robber barons and crooks, I am hopeful that something different can occur with him. And we desperately need something different.
Shalom, everyone.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Is there an echo in here?...
Remember how Hillary Clinton was actively loathed and depicted by the Limbaugh's of the world as a calculating, power hungry she-devil for having the audacity to be a woman of accomplishment and confidence way back when her husband was running for president the first time? I am not and have never been much of a Clinton fan but much of what was leveled at her has always smacked of plain, old fashioned, garden variety misogyny. (There is plenty to criticize about Senator Clinton that is not rooted in the fact of her being a female, especially her continued support of overseas aggression* and that she has not accomplished much in terms of a progressive voting record since she became a senator. She is not alone in this: the Democratic politican as a spineless, sniveling whiner is the absolute gold standard with the exception of a few decent but relatively powerless folks like Kucinich. Oh, Nancy Pelosi, you have failed us.)
Anyway, I did not see Michelle Obama's speech the other night, but I was telling John a while back when people started first grumbling about her - she's too harsh! And this Harvard-educated lawyer and her husband hate "whitey!" (can't they do any better than this?) - that if we thought people were threatened by Hillary, wait until this educated and accomplished woman of color is masticated by U.S. talk radio. I wonder what is going to be her symbolic act of penance to mainstream America for her confidence and achievement. Will she have to bake cookies like Hillary? (GAH!!) Will she have to make a declaration on public record of all of her shortcomings and failures in chronological order? Will she have to demonstrate her two left feet on Dancing With The Stars? Only time will tell.
Shalom, everyone.
*I wonder if there is a word that's the female equivalent of "emasculation" (to strip a man of his masculinity and thus his power as a male, with the implication that he has become a pansy, a.k.a., a woman)? Efemization? Efemalezation? I need a equivalent word to describe the process of stripping a woman of her vital female power and turning her into an honorary male. I'm pretty sure this is what happened to Hillary Clinton somewhere along the road.
Anyway, I did not see Michelle Obama's speech the other night, but I was telling John a while back when people started first grumbling about her - she's too harsh! And this Harvard-educated lawyer and her husband hate "whitey!" (can't they do any better than this?) - that if we thought people were threatened by Hillary, wait until this educated and accomplished woman of color is masticated by U.S. talk radio. I wonder what is going to be her symbolic act of penance to mainstream America for her confidence and achievement. Will she have to bake cookies like Hillary? (GAH!!) Will she have to make a declaration on public record of all of her shortcomings and failures in chronological order? Will she have to demonstrate her two left feet on Dancing With The Stars? Only time will tell.
Shalom, everyone.
*I wonder if there is a word that's the female equivalent of "emasculation" (to strip a man of his masculinity and thus his power as a male, with the implication that he has become a pansy, a.k.a., a woman)? Efemization? Efemalezation? I need a equivalent word to describe the process of stripping a woman of her vital female power and turning her into an honorary male. I'm pretty sure this is what happened to Hillary Clinton somewhere along the road.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Bittersweetness is another face of love...
There is an orange-y/pink sherbet sunset (or maybe it is vegan and a sorbet sunset), bright burnished gold at the bottom, and my son is asleep in our spare bedroom. It is very early for my little night owl to be slumbering. This is late August, a very bittersweet time many of us, but the locusts are still buzzing away, unaware (probably? I think?) of the cruel winter that seems inconceivable, almost laughable, on a luxurious night like this one. My husband is working on his Stuff, and as I wrote this paragraph, the deep indigo of the sky is pushing down on my gauzy band of sunset, squeezing it out. Sunsets, like August, remind me of the fleeting nature of pleasure, of time. I want to grasp life's beauty (how's that for a little Heartfelt Themes in Poetry 101, but it's true) and I have difficulty loosening my grip sometimes. I would be one of those Buddhist monks begging to design my sand mandala in concrete. I'm not very Zen most times, I'm afraid.
There is nothing like having a child, perhaps, that teaches us how very ephemeral life is which can be both reassuring and painful. Love or enjoyment mixed with sadness is the nature of bittersweetness, usually wrapped together with a note of longing for what is no longer. Judaism, the religious tradition in which I was raised, has bittersweetness seemingly at it's very core: an appreciation for what is (or recently was) and a knowledge that it will soon be no longer (or has past). I think it's because of the Jew in me - or, at least, that's what I blame - that I have such a propensity toward tears and emotionality. (I also love to laugh, of course, and any of my friends would confirm that I am an absolute goofball, but this is part of the Jewish Thing, too: laugh now, because tears are right around the corner.) My mom is the same way with crying. I remember as a child I was leaving a medical building for my annual checkup with my mom and there was a woman on the elevator with us who was quietly weeping to herself. It seemed clear that she got some bad news at one of the doctor's offices. As we were going down the floors, my mom turned to her and said, "Can I help you with something?" The woman shook her head, saying nothing, and hurried off the elevator. My mom was already crying in solidarity.
I'd like to say here that qualities of bittersweetness can very poetic and can lend to artistic, soulful expression. It is also very easy to abuse and make saccharine. I'm sorry to anyone if I'm crossing that line.
Continuing on the theme of sunsets being extinguished and August tick-tocking past, my son has finished the preschool he has been at since he was three and is going to be entering kindergarten in a few days. This is (was? Again, the bittersweet) such a lovely place. It is run out of the home of a Korean-born, Jewish-converted woman who has such a magical touch with the children. I'll call her Ms. K. You know that expression "an iron fist in a velvet glove"? That's Ms. K, though the word fist is far too violent sounding. The meaning, though, is that she is that perfect combination of strength and softness. She does not allow the children misbehave, and she has very subtle but effective ways of handling misbehavior, but if a child is misbehaving because of something rooted in the emotions, she is unerringly compassionate, loving and gentle. She has three other teachers - three life-affirming, committed and lovely young women - who work at her sweet little home school. They each have a unique approach and particular gifts, but they are all united in the core values of Ms. K's preschool: to help children feel cherished, important and respected, giving them the very best start as they make their way through the world.
Ms. K has a background in painting, so the school's walls have some beautiful paintings throughout. There are also sweet drawings and seed/bean works on the walls made by the children. Every day before snack time, the children rest and reflect while Ms. K plays the piano; after a few minutes, she calls them each up one at a time to stretch and they take a seat at their respective tables for a simple meal, usually crispy bread and fresh fruit. The school is on the second floor of Ms. K's home, and though creativity is encouraged, it is never, ever chaotic. All the scarves and wooden blocks and tea cups are put away in their appropriate containers by the children when play time is over. In order to foster a sense of peace, there must be order. Once you have order, and thus peace, then creativity can flourish. (The myth or stereotype of the artist thriving in chaos may be very entrenched but I don't find it particularly honest. When my life is disorderly, I can't focus on creating because I'm too busy dealing with the chaos. When my life has an overriding order to it, though, I can thrive much more as a creative person.)
Anyway, Ms. K's school has been a very big part of our lives for three years. I have learned so much from her and her school. Her approach - always the perfect, precise measurement of what is needed in any given situation - is something I find both admirable and deeply humbling. Being a parent will expose your very nexus of frailties sometimes. I can be short-tempered, impatient, demanding and harsh in ways that I never knew possible. (Of course, there is that infinite wellspring of love to soften the blow.) Observing Ms. K with the children (always listening, always fair, always encouraging) has helped to give me something to aspire to as a mother. The way she brightens a room with her warm smile has made me more aware of the simple gift we give with the corners of the mouth lifted upward. The way that she always greets the children as they are arriving as though she hadn't seen them in weeks - five days a week she does this - and they are very special to her, well, that is the mark of a very remarkable person, someone who is so enriched by giving. The way she has told me so many times in my more weak and worried moments that my son - different from the others because of his very essence, which I know to be a good thing ultimately - is a unique individual who is a gift to be treasured and nurtured. I will try to internalize this because I know it to be true, too.
Friday was my son's last day at school, which was technically camp. He is officially kindergarten bound. I knew that I would be sad and I certainly cried, especially when I was picking him up. He looked up at me, his eyes worried, and asked why I was doing that, why I was crying and I told him that I would miss his school. I hate crying in front of my son but I couldn't avoid it. If I could have, I would have told him that my tears were bittersweet: gratitude toward Ms. K and her school, and sadness about it ending. (There is also bittersweetness about my little boy growing up and that's related but distinct.) The sadness, though, is brightened immeasurably by the gratitude. I feel so fortunate to have shared this time of my life with such a special person, and I am so deeply glad that my son got this exquisite and absolutely uncommon start in life.
Life is fleeting. Make the most of it while it is happening.
Shalom, everyone.
There is nothing like having a child, perhaps, that teaches us how very ephemeral life is which can be both reassuring and painful. Love or enjoyment mixed with sadness is the nature of bittersweetness, usually wrapped together with a note of longing for what is no longer. Judaism, the religious tradition in which I was raised, has bittersweetness seemingly at it's very core: an appreciation for what is (or recently was) and a knowledge that it will soon be no longer (or has past). I think it's because of the Jew in me - or, at least, that's what I blame - that I have such a propensity toward tears and emotionality. (I also love to laugh, of course, and any of my friends would confirm that I am an absolute goofball, but this is part of the Jewish Thing, too: laugh now, because tears are right around the corner.) My mom is the same way with crying. I remember as a child I was leaving a medical building for my annual checkup with my mom and there was a woman on the elevator with us who was quietly weeping to herself. It seemed clear that she got some bad news at one of the doctor's offices. As we were going down the floors, my mom turned to her and said, "Can I help you with something?" The woman shook her head, saying nothing, and hurried off the elevator. My mom was already crying in solidarity.
I'd like to say here that qualities of bittersweetness can very poetic and can lend to artistic, soulful expression. It is also very easy to abuse and make saccharine. I'm sorry to anyone if I'm crossing that line.
Continuing on the theme of sunsets being extinguished and August tick-tocking past, my son has finished the preschool he has been at since he was three and is going to be entering kindergarten in a few days. This is (was? Again, the bittersweet) such a lovely place. It is run out of the home of a Korean-born, Jewish-converted woman who has such a magical touch with the children. I'll call her Ms. K. You know that expression "an iron fist in a velvet glove"? That's Ms. K, though the word fist is far too violent sounding. The meaning, though, is that she is that perfect combination of strength and softness. She does not allow the children misbehave, and she has very subtle but effective ways of handling misbehavior, but if a child is misbehaving because of something rooted in the emotions, she is unerringly compassionate, loving and gentle. She has three other teachers - three life-affirming, committed and lovely young women - who work at her sweet little home school. They each have a unique approach and particular gifts, but they are all united in the core values of Ms. K's preschool: to help children feel cherished, important and respected, giving them the very best start as they make their way through the world.
Ms. K has a background in painting, so the school's walls have some beautiful paintings throughout. There are also sweet drawings and seed/bean works on the walls made by the children. Every day before snack time, the children rest and reflect while Ms. K plays the piano; after a few minutes, she calls them each up one at a time to stretch and they take a seat at their respective tables for a simple meal, usually crispy bread and fresh fruit. The school is on the second floor of Ms. K's home, and though creativity is encouraged, it is never, ever chaotic. All the scarves and wooden blocks and tea cups are put away in their appropriate containers by the children when play time is over. In order to foster a sense of peace, there must be order. Once you have order, and thus peace, then creativity can flourish. (The myth or stereotype of the artist thriving in chaos may be very entrenched but I don't find it particularly honest. When my life is disorderly, I can't focus on creating because I'm too busy dealing with the chaos. When my life has an overriding order to it, though, I can thrive much more as a creative person.)
Anyway, Ms. K's school has been a very big part of our lives for three years. I have learned so much from her and her school. Her approach - always the perfect, precise measurement of what is needed in any given situation - is something I find both admirable and deeply humbling. Being a parent will expose your very nexus of frailties sometimes. I can be short-tempered, impatient, demanding and harsh in ways that I never knew possible. (Of course, there is that infinite wellspring of love to soften the blow.) Observing Ms. K with the children (always listening, always fair, always encouraging) has helped to give me something to aspire to as a mother. The way she brightens a room with her warm smile has made me more aware of the simple gift we give with the corners of the mouth lifted upward. The way that she always greets the children as they are arriving as though she hadn't seen them in weeks - five days a week she does this - and they are very special to her, well, that is the mark of a very remarkable person, someone who is so enriched by giving. The way she has told me so many times in my more weak and worried moments that my son - different from the others because of his very essence, which I know to be a good thing ultimately - is a unique individual who is a gift to be treasured and nurtured. I will try to internalize this because I know it to be true, too.
Friday was my son's last day at school, which was technically camp. He is officially kindergarten bound. I knew that I would be sad and I certainly cried, especially when I was picking him up. He looked up at me, his eyes worried, and asked why I was doing that, why I was crying and I told him that I would miss his school. I hate crying in front of my son but I couldn't avoid it. If I could have, I would have told him that my tears were bittersweet: gratitude toward Ms. K and her school, and sadness about it ending. (There is also bittersweetness about my little boy growing up and that's related but distinct.) The sadness, though, is brightened immeasurably by the gratitude. I feel so fortunate to have shared this time of my life with such a special person, and I am so deeply glad that my son got this exquisite and absolutely uncommon start in life.
Life is fleeting. Make the most of it while it is happening.
Shalom, everyone.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness (A Recipe)...
You have had a very challenging day with your six-year-old. You fantasize about running away from home; contemplate belatedly putting him up for adoption and how you will break this news to him ("This just isn't working out..."). This boy of yours - with eyes like your eyes, you have heard, your first and only born - giggles with sadistic glee each time he manages to get under your skin today, which is often but not without skill on his part, and you start to see a flicker of the teenager him, with his cool indifference to your pain.
Still, he is six and he does not like to see his mother crying, hopelessly tangled in a knot of
merging highways from four directions in the distant suburbs, a bitter reminder to her that the suburbs are the Devil's Lair, that the architects of these cement torture chambers deserve to traverse them in construction zones for eternity. It is not lost on either of them that their Bermuda Triangulation was precipitated by him screeching (yet again, she grinds her teeth) like an orangutan until she misses her exit. They are an hour late to meet friends, but thankfully they are forgiving friends. The mother reverts back to how she dealt with anger in her childhood: a seething, hissing figure, more radiator than person, glowering at her son as he happily skips with his friend and moves on.
He has not forgotten, though. He is tentative around her, certainly aware of their power imbalance. Finally back home, she has cooled off and he is seeking companionship from her after the deep freeze of their day together. He is missing his friend, his mother. She makes an overture: what should they make for dinner? "Something that I like to sneak on," he says, a hopeful sound in his voice. She knows that he likes to sneak on tofu and vegan cheese. After some negotiation and an only mildly awful trip to the grocery store, they settle on pasta with roasted vegetables and the breaded tofu nuggets that will broker the forgiveness deal between them.
He pours the marinade and swishes it over the tofu; he dips the cubes in the breading and gingerly places the coated pieces on a plate. She thanks him, perhaps too enthusiastically, but she is grateful for the opportunity. She sneaks glances at his little hands, still pudgy from toddlerhood but with fingers that are trying to be nimble and deft. He is proud of his work and trying and she loves him at moments like these more than she can ever express.
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness
1 pound firm tofu, drained and cubed
Marinade
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup tamari
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1-inch piece of ginger, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Place the tofu in a 9X9 pan and pour the marinade over it. Let it marinate for at least twenty minutes. Remove cubes and keep the marinade for future use.
Crispy Coating
1 cup nutritional yeast (the big flakes, not the powder, for goodness sake)
1/3 cup breadcrumbs (gluten-free rice style worked well here)
1/4 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs found at natural foods store)
1/2 tablespoon garlic powder
2 teaspoons dried basil
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Mix this together in a big bowl. Roll the tofu cubes around in this and place on a plate.
Heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Cook the nuggets in this, taking care to not crowd them, for five minutes, turning them to brown all over. Do this as many times as you need to until all the tofu is done. You may need to re-oil the pan.
Enjoy and forgive.
Still, he is six and he does not like to see his mother crying, hopelessly tangled in a knot of
merging highways from four directions in the distant suburbs, a bitter reminder to her that the suburbs are the Devil's Lair, that the architects of these cement torture chambers deserve to traverse them in construction zones for eternity. It is not lost on either of them that their Bermuda Triangulation was precipitated by him screeching (yet again, she grinds her teeth) like an orangutan until she misses her exit. They are an hour late to meet friends, but thankfully they are forgiving friends. The mother reverts back to how she dealt with anger in her childhood: a seething, hissing figure, more radiator than person, glowering at her son as he happily skips with his friend and moves on.
He has not forgotten, though. He is tentative around her, certainly aware of their power imbalance. Finally back home, she has cooled off and he is seeking companionship from her after the deep freeze of their day together. He is missing his friend, his mother. She makes an overture: what should they make for dinner? "Something that I like to sneak on," he says, a hopeful sound in his voice. She knows that he likes to sneak on tofu and vegan cheese. After some negotiation and an only mildly awful trip to the grocery store, they settle on pasta with roasted vegetables and the breaded tofu nuggets that will broker the forgiveness deal between them.
He pours the marinade and swishes it over the tofu; he dips the cubes in the breading and gingerly places the coated pieces on a plate. She thanks him, perhaps too enthusiastically, but she is grateful for the opportunity. She sneaks glances at his little hands, still pudgy from toddlerhood but with fingers that are trying to be nimble and deft. He is proud of his work and trying and she loves him at moments like these more than she can ever express.
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness
1 pound firm tofu, drained and cubed
Marinade
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup tamari
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1-inch piece of ginger, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Place the tofu in a 9X9 pan and pour the marinade over it. Let it marinate for at least twenty minutes. Remove cubes and keep the marinade for future use.
Crispy Coating
1 cup nutritional yeast (the big flakes, not the powder, for goodness sake)
1/3 cup breadcrumbs (gluten-free rice style worked well here)
1/4 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs found at natural foods store)
1/2 tablespoon garlic powder
2 teaspoons dried basil
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Mix this together in a big bowl. Roll the tofu cubes around in this and place on a plate.
Heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Cook the nuggets in this, taking care to not crowd them, for five minutes, turning them to brown all over. Do this as many times as you need to until all the tofu is done. You may need to re-oil the pan.
Enjoy and forgive.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Guilty pleasures...
I realize that my posts might come across like I'm some superior, self-righteous crank which I am totally not, but that runs the risk of sounding obnoxious as well, so with that in mind, plus the fact that I have no inspiration behind a post tonight, I offer you, dear reader, a sampling of my most guilty pleasures. Bear in mind that these are just the ones that I will reveal, so you can use your imagination for those that I am keeping to myself. (And, no, you sicko, that isn't one of them.)
1. I watch I Love Money. I watch nothing else on TV but I do watch what may be the absolute nadir of the VH1's Celebreality oeuvre, which is saying a lot, and it is every bit as car-wrecktacular, peeking through your fingers horrifying as you can imagine. Yet I watch, week after week. I have also lost precious IQ points - points that I just don't have to spare - because of it, too, yet I am addicted to these idiots. Every Sunday at 8:00, my Superego says to my Id, all sanctimoniously, "At the end of your life, are you going to wish you spent more time with your son or are you going to regret having missed I Love Money?" and every Sunday at 8:00, my Id shoulder checks my Superego and says, "Shut the eff up, you prig."
2. Along the same lines, I have People magazine and the National Enquirer within arm's reach. I did not buy these tabloids: my mother did and I am borrowing them. [I feel like I should apologize to Elizabeth Edwards, who is staring back at me so guilelessly from the cover of People: Elizabeth, it's not what it looks like. And, yes, honey, your husband's a major schmuck. Major. Can I buy you a margarita?] I have possession of these magazines for research purposes only. Strictly for research purposes.
3. Regarding this topic, do men have an equivalent of the "guilty pleasure" or is that strictly a female thing, invented to create yet more self-loathing among women? If a guy wants to do something, doesn't he just generally do it, no guilt or excuses necessary (figuring that it is within the bounds of law)? Anyway, more guilty pleasures: Ah-laska chocolate syrup; the Go-Go's CD I just bought (though it was used, which mitigates some of the guilt); filling my reusable mug with unpaid-for iced tea at various establishments that do NOT rhyme with Manera or Shipotle (and squeezing in a little lemon for good measure).
I honestly can't think of anything else. I'm such a priss.
Shalom, everyone.
1. I watch I Love Money. I watch nothing else on TV but I do watch what may be the absolute nadir of the VH1's Celebreality oeuvre, which is saying a lot, and it is every bit as car-wrecktacular, peeking through your fingers horrifying as you can imagine. Yet I watch, week after week. I have also lost precious IQ points - points that I just don't have to spare - because of it, too, yet I am addicted to these idiots. Every Sunday at 8:00, my Superego says to my Id, all sanctimoniously, "At the end of your life, are you going to wish you spent more time with your son or are you going to regret having missed I Love Money?" and every Sunday at 8:00, my Id shoulder checks my Superego and says, "Shut the eff up, you prig."
2. Along the same lines, I have People magazine and the National Enquirer within arm's reach. I did not buy these tabloids: my mother did and I am borrowing them. [I feel like I should apologize to Elizabeth Edwards, who is staring back at me so guilelessly from the cover of People: Elizabeth, it's not what it looks like. And, yes, honey, your husband's a major schmuck. Major. Can I buy you a margarita?] I have possession of these magazines for research purposes only. Strictly for research purposes.
3. Regarding this topic, do men have an equivalent of the "guilty pleasure" or is that strictly a female thing, invented to create yet more self-loathing among women? If a guy wants to do something, doesn't he just generally do it, no guilt or excuses necessary (figuring that it is within the bounds of law)? Anyway, more guilty pleasures: Ah-laska chocolate syrup; the Go-Go's CD I just bought (though it was used, which mitigates some of the guilt); filling my reusable mug with unpaid-for iced tea at various establishments that do NOT rhyme with Manera or Shipotle (and squeezing in a little lemon for good measure).
I honestly can't think of anything else. I'm such a priss.
Shalom, everyone.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
These old friends...
I have been in a nostalgic mood lately, though I'm not sure why. According to an astrologer, that might be how things are aspected in my chart, though a traditional Chinese medicine practitioner might believe that an organ or two could be out of whack. A psychoanalyst might say that I have unresolved issues that are causing me to resist living in the present. I will let the astrologer, Chinese medicine practitioner and psychoanalyst hash it out among themselves until they come to some sort of consensus - this sort of demographic is terrifyingly close to an assembly that could happen in my actual life - but in the meantime, I will just follow this whim and see where it leads me.
In all probability, it is writing for this blah-ggg that is causing my self-reflection, which in turn causes me some duress because I despise solipsism and navel-gazing so I am especially sensitive of being a perpetrator myself. That all being said, I can't deny that something in me is turning to the past, to old friends and heartless bastards alike, but especially the friends. I think that I am seeking some nourishment from these old ties, some validation that we were at one time very important to one another. I think the previous post about family got me thinking again about my particular group of college friends and our platonic but very passionate connection to one another. (Are women ever able to recreate these fervent relationships after, say, the age of 23?). Over the years - my immediate post-collegiate career was during the antediluvian period prior to electronic messages - the group of us just drifted apart, separated mostly by just plain and simple physical distance. I think that if the magic of email were around when we moved apart, we would likely still be in one another's lives.
We found each other when we were juniors, brought together by a rare and bold synergy that was palpable to all of us, and it was electric when we were together. We were all feminists, all activists, all finding our way through the world, all seeking something, namely, family. We were urban and from small towns, affluent and impoverished, lesbian, bisexual and straight, but it was the first time in my life that cliché from the 1970s had a personal meaning: sisterhood is powerful. Indeed, it is. Sisterhood cut through any superficial differences. (It wasn't all perfect, though for a time it was idyllic: we fell victim to a major schism toward the end, based on some pretty uncool, selfish behavior. Still, for a time it was magical.)
I distinctly remember a caravan of us driving to Topeka in support of upholding Roe V. Wade, and, more vividly, a different caravan to Wichita, screaming in transgressive unison to Patti Smith's Horses album (until we were, appropriately, hoarse), on our way to protest the Miss America contest, where we wore tiaras and sashes painted with Miss Stake and Miss Ogyny and whatever else tickled our collective fancy. We raced back to our friend's father's house - a stern-faced lawyer who was not expecting us - to watch ourselves on the news, eat cake and crack up. We had topless sleepover parties because we thought it was funny, we cried over our childhoods, we cooked together and, more than anything, laughed our asses off. I have so many stories from this time in my life, but I'm thinking that it's wise to parse them out sparingly if I'm going to be blah-ggging. (Yes, I'm keeping that new spelling for now.)
Anyway, last night, I couldn't sleep - what else is new? - so I did some internet searches on three old friends of mine from this time, women who, for the most part, I haven't been in contact with in more than ten years. One is a professor of psychology with a feminist bent and a published author. Another is the executive director of the only freestanding birth center/natural pregnancy center in her state. The third is the executive director of a bi, lesbian, and transgendered abuse survivor organization.
I am so proud of these old friends of mine, women I have been out of touch with for years but will consider lifelong friends. I'd like to think that we all helped to shape one another during this crucial time in our individual lives, helping to form the people we would become and help to create a standard together of living with authenticity and gusto.
I love my friends, even the ones who are no longer in my life. Hopefully one day that will change.
Shalom, everyone.
In all probability, it is writing for this blah-ggg that is causing my self-reflection, which in turn causes me some duress because I despise solipsism and navel-gazing so I am especially sensitive of being a perpetrator myself. That all being said, I can't deny that something in me is turning to the past, to old friends and heartless bastards alike, but especially the friends. I think that I am seeking some nourishment from these old ties, some validation that we were at one time very important to one another. I think the previous post about family got me thinking again about my particular group of college friends and our platonic but very passionate connection to one another. (Are women ever able to recreate these fervent relationships after, say, the age of 23?). Over the years - my immediate post-collegiate career was during the antediluvian period prior to electronic messages - the group of us just drifted apart, separated mostly by just plain and simple physical distance. I think that if the magic of email were around when we moved apart, we would likely still be in one another's lives.
We found each other when we were juniors, brought together by a rare and bold synergy that was palpable to all of us, and it was electric when we were together. We were all feminists, all activists, all finding our way through the world, all seeking something, namely, family. We were urban and from small towns, affluent and impoverished, lesbian, bisexual and straight, but it was the first time in my life that cliché from the 1970s had a personal meaning: sisterhood is powerful. Indeed, it is. Sisterhood cut through any superficial differences. (It wasn't all perfect, though for a time it was idyllic: we fell victim to a major schism toward the end, based on some pretty uncool, selfish behavior. Still, for a time it was magical.)
I distinctly remember a caravan of us driving to Topeka in support of upholding Roe V. Wade, and, more vividly, a different caravan to Wichita, screaming in transgressive unison to Patti Smith's Horses album (until we were, appropriately, hoarse), on our way to protest the Miss America contest, where we wore tiaras and sashes painted with Miss Stake and Miss Ogyny and whatever else tickled our collective fancy. We raced back to our friend's father's house - a stern-faced lawyer who was not expecting us - to watch ourselves on the news, eat cake and crack up. We had topless sleepover parties because we thought it was funny, we cried over our childhoods, we cooked together and, more than anything, laughed our asses off. I have so many stories from this time in my life, but I'm thinking that it's wise to parse them out sparingly if I'm going to be blah-ggging. (Yes, I'm keeping that new spelling for now.)
Anyway, last night, I couldn't sleep - what else is new? - so I did some internet searches on three old friends of mine from this time, women who, for the most part, I haven't been in contact with in more than ten years. One is a professor of psychology with a feminist bent and a published author. Another is the executive director of the only freestanding birth center/natural pregnancy center in her state. The third is the executive director of a bi, lesbian, and transgendered abuse survivor organization.
I am so proud of these old friends of mine, women I have been out of touch with for years but will consider lifelong friends. I'd like to think that we all helped to shape one another during this crucial time in our individual lives, helping to form the people we would become and help to create a standard together of living with authenticity and gusto.
I love my friends, even the ones who are no longer in my life. Hopefully one day that will change.
Shalom, everyone.
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