tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10974292288792559382024-03-06T02:06:23.133-05:00I'm Just SayingI'm Just Saying is a blog that provides a fresh, smarty-pants take on topics ranging from fashion to celebrity news, foreign affairs and government, fine and not-so-fine arts, relationships and religion, and everything in between.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-66665027456152804502016-07-07T22:31:00.001-04:002016-07-07T22:31:16.000-04:00I'm Just Saying: A Death In Our Family<a href="http://imjustsaying-shannonphotogal.blogspot.com/2016/07/a-death-in-our-family.html?spref=bl">I'm Just Saying: A Death In Our Family</a>: So here we are again - communities enraged and demanding action, tweeted sentiments from the famous folks, eloquent words from our nation&#3...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-31927472255363341052016-07-07T22:25:00.001-04:002016-07-07T22:27:32.297-04:00A Death In Our FamilySo here we are again - communities enraged and demanding action, tweeted sentiments from the famous folks, eloquent words from our nation's Commander in Chief, and the dueling camps shouting "Black Lives Matter"/"Blue Lives Matter"/"All Lives Matter" while television cameras stand poised and waiting for the balloon of frustration to pop and set our streets on fire. But all I feel is sympathy for two families grieving the wasted lives of two black men who made a difference every day in the lives of their families, their friends and their communities. Five little children will wake up every day for the rest of their lives knowing that their daddy is gone and will never return. A young woman will never be able to close her eyes at night without seeing her boyfriend killed before her eyes. Two men died, and though they were not related to me by blood or by marriage it still feels as if there has been a death in the family.<br />
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A look through my Facebook posts showed me that I wasn't alone in this sense of communal grief. One of my friends, who is white, told me that he felt ashamed to face his friends who are black. What he might not have guessed, though, was that I, too, felt ashamed of my own inaction and fear. I have consciously chosen to stay out of tough conversations regarding race and racial violence out of a sense of self-preservation. In college, black student enrollment on my campus hovered around 20-30 students out of 1100 students total. What this meant in practical terms was that acts of racism on campus went unanswered.<br />
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My graduate school career was almost the exact opposite - no racist jokes or overt acts of racism - but there was a pressure to conform to a certain flatness of being that de-gendered, un-raced, and erased cultural and sexual forms of self-expression that might mar the soup of inclusivity. In this pre-NPR StoryCorps framework, one could talk about racism and sexism and any other "-ism" as if they happened outside of ourselves. This approach allowed us to dissect and discuss and dialog (used here as a verb) in a way that allowed everyone to fully engage without being labeled as victim or aggressor. Yet, even in this environment I was uncomfortable with sharing just how <i><b>uncomfortable</b></i> this process made me feel. To share my experiences would mean that I would have to share my own feelings of helplessness and fear and anger and once you go there it's difficult for people to un-see it. But, that's what happens when we grieve - the masks come off and we're face to face with the rawness of sorrow, and sorrow is what I feel right now, and it's really what we all feel, isn't it?<br />
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Let's unmask ourselves and look at a world whose face is contorted in sorrow. Sorrow for the deaths of these two black men and the thousands of others killed in this country; sorrow for the thousands of people slaughtered in acts of terrorism; sorrow for the mothers, sisters, daughters and aunts who are raped and murdered; sorrow for the military families whose loved ones are not coming home; sorrow for the scores of refugees who, right now, are braving oceans with their babies and belongings strapped on their backs looking for a safe place; and yes, even the sorrow of a law enforcement officer who has taken someone's life and is beginning to question how it all got so out of hand so quickly.<br />
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I thought that I was creating a safe space for myself where I could hold the sorrow at bay. I used anger and sarcasm - every weapon I had at my disposal to distance myself from my feelings. But, there is no such thing as a safe space. The barriers we erect can and will be breached because sorrow has no gender, race, religion or nationality. Growing up Roman Catholic, I remembered the nuns teaching us about the saints and what was called the "gift of tears" - a way that the Holy Spirit manifested itself through their tears during times of distress. Pope Francis has spoken several times about the "gift of tears":<br />
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<i style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: "droid serif" , serif; font-size: 15px;">We are a society that has forgotten the experience of weeping, of 'suffering with'.</span> </i><br />
-Pope Francis, Excerpt from homily delivered in Lampedusa, Italy July 2013<br />
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On the day that we buried my father, I let go of all dignity and decorum and collapsed weeping into the arms of my friends who had come to mourn with me. They held me up and my sorrow became our sorrow. And so we all mourn together, now - black people, brown people, white people, men, women, transgender, cisgender, lesbian, gay, straight, questioning - because there has been a death in our family. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-74828659275960514132015-12-11T22:58:00.001-05:002015-12-11T23:00:30.117-05:00Pulling the Plug on "Perfect"<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A few weeks ago, I had an epiphany. Well, maybe not an epiphany, but it was a moment where I actually paid attention to the words coming out of my mouth at the exact moment I was uttering them. I had met up for dinner with an old friend and since I was on his turf I asked him to pick the place. We walked around the neighborhood near my hotel and while I was tapping away on Yelp my friend stopped in front of a restaurant that, as luck would have it, he'd been wanting to try for quite some time. So I put my phone in my pocket and declared, "perfect!" before heading inside and motioning for him to follow. Once inside I didn't need Yelp to tell me that this was a happening place - it was packed, so packed that two would-be diners who, like us, had walked in off of the mean streets of the Upper West Side of Manhattan, were quoted a wait time of 40 minutes. My friend looked worried but then the twosome ahead of us decided that this was too much of a scene and they folded like an over-the-knee boot sitting in your closet. At their departure, I exclaimed, "perfect!", and then headed for the bar after giving the hostess our name. At the bar, adorned with mixologist gear of almost fetishtistic proportions and complexity, we ordered our fancy drinks served by our over-pierced, over-tatted, over-mustached drink specialists (apparently "bartender" is so basic) to which I responded, "perfect!". Soon, I realized that I was vomiting perfection all over the place to the servers, to busboys, to the doorman at my hotel after dinner. This was distressing, but the worst was yet to come, because later that night as my husband and I were settling into our hotel bed and going over plans for the next day, I noticed that our conversation was being carpet-bombed by "perfects" - <i>and we'll leave and get coffee by 8am? <b>PERFECT!</b>...then we can get back here, pack, and grab lunch? <b>PERFECT!</b>...and we have cash to tip the maids already. <b>PERFECT!!</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Just what the hell is going on?? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I needed to trace this contagion back to its source, but that's easier said than done. But, I had to do something because this outbreak was almost as bad as the "at the end of the day" bug that spread from think-tanks, to boardrooms, to bad reality TV shows faster than you can say "PERFECT"! So I began stalking "perfect" and what I found was enlightening and a bit scary. I started by laying a trap - I told my husband that he had to stop using "perfect." He was puzzled why I should have a problem with such a nifty word, but he played along, in as much as every time he said "PERFECT!" he held his hands up to his mouth like a 5 year old who'd been caught saying a bad word. This little experiment resulted in him noticing just how "PERFECT!" he had been making things verbally. As far as I could tell, when he was talking to me or any other close relative, he seemed to use the P-word as a means of saying, "I hear you - no, I really hear you," but also as a means to stop all further conversations about a topic, so that "perfect" meant, "we're done here so stop over thinking things." So was he using the p-word to pacify or to give assurance or both?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I also made a mental inventory of my own personal p-word use. I always use it at work, but I also become a heavy user of the p-word when I'm planning anything with my family. I use "perfect" as a means of moving things along as my family can take a looooong while to get it together so when we're on our annual family vacation, things like selecting a restaurant for lunch or deciding whether or not to take my nephews to the pool before or after breakfast become bogged down in indecisiveness. Growing up in this atmosphere was bad enough but as an adult I've lost the ability to function according to the rules of my family's dysfunction so I plan everything and then verbally pound them with "PERFECT!" as I lay out the plan for the days. When I clench my teeth and say, "PERFECT!" that's the equivalent of the airline captain and crew doing cross checks before take-off, so sit in your seat and buckle up because this plane is taking off!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But, what's so wrong with being "perfect"? First, we're humans so it's impossible to be perfect. Secondly, striving for perfection might be great when you're running a marathon, but most of life involves working in groups and demanding perfection always leaves you some pretty thin margins for things like forgiveness and perspective.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, I'm going on a "PERFECT!" cleanse, and what a great time to start this since I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet nor have I written one Christmas card! I don't know how long it will last and I don't know what I'll discover on the other side of perfection, but I have a feeling I'll like it.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-48222006024289036432015-11-24T20:29:00.001-05:002015-11-24T20:29:48.669-05:00Getting to Know You: How to Relate to Your Relatives During the Holidays<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Well, the great Thanksgiving pilgrimage has begun and as you head over the river and through the woods to your relatives, some of you may be dreading a turkey day that comes with judgmental relatives, healthy servings of shade, and conversations that rarely progress beyond "can you believe how hot/cold/icy/snowy it is today?" But, I think there's a deeper issue - how little we know our relatives. Whether you're breaking the wishbone with your blood relatives or your in-laws, it's a sure bet that you don't know as much about each other as you assume you do. And I'm not talking about your hopes and dreams and fears, I mean basic stuff like favorite food, favorite color, favorite movie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For blood relatives who've known each other for most of their lives, the Thanksgiving table turns into a session of Mad Libs: The "remember that time..." edition. There are certain stories that make up the family mythology and the ritualistic retelling of these tales further cements the familial bond - or something like that! But, these stories sometimes don't allow for the telling of new stories and the family becomes frozen in a narrative loop that doesn't allow the characters in these stories to develop an interior life and to progress. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Crazy Uncle Duck who accidentally blew up the family barn when he was 12 years old while deep frying a turkey will always be that character, even when he's 20 and in college, when he's 27 and doing his medical school residency, and when he's 45 and is tops in his field as an orthopedic surgeon. There is comfort in hearing this story and in telling this story. But, Uncle Duck - who now goes by Ben - might hate this story, and he might wonder why the family seems disinterested in who he has become and the journey he's taken to get there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In studying Biblical literature, the phrase "closed text" is used to describe a list of scriptural books considered to be authoritative, to which nothing more may be added. For instance, the books that comprise the Torah. In our family lives, we can become the human equivalent of "closed texts", not allowing space for the natural evolution that happens in human beings, and greeting these changes at the holiday table with scorn, disgust, derision, or dismissal. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Years ago, when I was in grad school - broke and hundreds of miles away from home - I had the best Thanksgiving of my life. It was at the Westin Copley Place with a dozen or so other grad students, a couple of whom were my friends and the rest of whom were strangers. We laughed, we talked, we ate too much and over the course of several hours we got to know each other. We were genuinely interested in learning about each other and by the end of the night new friendships were forged and established friendships were deepened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, starting this Thanksgiving, get to know your families. Ask them the who/what/why/where/how questions that a reporter or a stranger in an airport bar would ask. Bypass the family shorthand and truly engage with your family. If you're with your in-laws, don't let them cut their long stories short, assuming that your significant other has given you a pre-dinner briefing about who begat who and whom divorced whom. And if you're the one bringing your significant other into the family fold, let them get to know your family members one on one. Seat them next to a favorite aunt and let the two of them have a dialogue and get to know one another. It's better for your relatives to <b><i>experience </i></b>first-hand how wonderful your partner is and not hear <b><i>about </i></b>it from you. In short, don't talk about each other, rather talk to each other. The holidays are annual opportunities to check in with each other - don't miss your chance.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-7586075067297269262015-07-20T13:58:00.001-04:002015-07-20T13:58:03.324-04:00Oh Dear God, Not Another Talk About Racism: Dispatches from the Post-Racial Era<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These were the words running through my mind at a recent brunch with some old friends as the subject of racism came up - well, actually, it didn't start off as a discussion about racism, it started off as a discussion about the possible lynching of Sandra Bland and why I don't take long-distance solo drives through certain areas of the United States, so really, it was a discussion about logistics and the shortcomings of GPS maps that may give you turn-by-turn directions, but are silent as to whether or not persons of color, like myself, might want to bypass certain routes in order to arrive at our final destinations ALIVE! Come to think of it, I guess it WAS a discussion about racism. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The friends are a married couple and the wife and I met while in college. The husband was a later edition. My friend and I are like sisters. We've been there for each through the questionable hair decisions of our college days, job searches, still more questionable hair decisions, boyfriends, marriage, parental illness and death, and the birth of children. When our husbands are with us, she and I still talk a thousand miles a minute as our spouses try to get a word in, here and there. On issues of religion and social justice, she and I are in sync, but her husband is more conservative in his stance on certain issues. While he and I don't always agree, I was shocked when he responded to my fears and concerns around traveling to certain potentially hostile places with the following statement:<i><b> I don't see it</b></i>. The "it" he was referring to was racism. And that, my friends, was when the "it" hit the fan!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let me walk you through his argument: Racism exists now because we (meaning minorities) keep talking about it. If we stopped talking about our differences, then we'd all just get along and racism would end.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But, there's more: The nine African-American church members murdered in Charleston, SC died not because of the actions of the racist shooter, but because minorities keep talking about racism and the media continues to cover minorities talking about racism, so much so that WE minorities have created the construct that fueled the racial hatred in the shooter. Oh, and, of course, President Obama is responsible for everything that's wrong in this country.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there you have it - finally, I now know how to eliminate racism from this country. Dr. King must be shouting Hallelujah in that heavenly kingdom: let's just stop talking about it! Who knew it was all so easy!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Racism is like your childhood imaginary friend, I guess. Like that movie "Drop Dead Fred" where the heroine reunites with her imaginary friend as a psychological crutch as she navigates the tough stuff of adulthood, including her divorce from a philandering husband. I'm so glad that I got <i><b>whitemalesplained </b></i>about racism before it was too late. Maybe, if talking about racism only perpetuates racism and NOT talking about racism ends racism, then maybe we should stop talking about rape or about suicide or about genocide. Don't you all feel great now that these burdens have been lifted from our shoulders??</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was offended, as you can tell. The intellectual in me was offended. This college educated professional whose own Italian American family had dealt with racism when they first came to this country seemed to be either ignoring or ignorant of how racism affected his own family. But the emotional side of me was just plain hurt. After almost 20 years of friendship, I was blown away by his inability to empathize with his friend sitting across from him. I wanted to cry because "I don't see it" means that he doesn't see ME. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's hard when your friends disappoint you, and it's harder, still, to forgive them. But the hard way is, unfortunately, the only way to break through someone's ignorance. I'd love for racism to die, but its death won't just happen because we've silenced the conversations about it. It's disheartening to think that Trayvon, Charleston, Sandra Bland, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner haven't been enough to move this man into "seeing" racism. But, maybe the issue here is scale. It's easy to push platitudes and axioms pulled from political talking points and applied to large-scale stories that have grabbed international headlines. It's an easy thing to debate the issues, but how do you deal with an actual someone and not a some thing? This is the hard work and it can only be done one person at a time, and one conversation at a time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-53296323916424651292015-07-13T21:36:00.002-04:002015-07-13T21:36:42.200-04:00Lies, Damn Lies: Why "The Bachelorette" Makes Me Mad, Not Sad<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every season "The Bachelorette" seems like it goes on waaaaaay longer than it should. With this year's "Bachelorette", Kaitlyn, the producers must be beside themselves with glee. She's the whole package: weirdly-spelled first name, bobble-head body, baby talk voice with an old-man belly laugh, overly-large teeth, she can cry with the snap of a finger, she likes to be "goofy", oh, and she likes sex. Finally, they can put to bed the delicate metaphors like "fantasy suite" and "overnights" (you know, like they're a bunch of 12 year old girls having a sleepover, complete with popcorn and Taylor Swift on the radio), and all of the other linguistic gymnastics that the writers' room agonized over for lo these many years in order to avoid directly addressing the simple chemistry when hordes of telegenic young singles combine in dreamy exotic locations supplied with liquor, hot tubs, and cameras. But this "Bachelorette" is a monster of reality TV's own making. The reality TV universe has finally turned the corner and produced its own spawn!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cue the scary music and the clap of thunder!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's right, Dr. Frankenstein has been hard at work because Kaitlyn isn't real. Sure, she looks like she's made of flesh, blood and bone, but her brain was swapped out long ago for a processing system that runs on bottle caps and lip gloss. Think about it - is she really such a cool girl who is down for anything? Who's idea of a great first date involves sloppy burgers and beer in a bottle? She came to the show's producers fully-formed. She'd probably already sketched out some notes as to who her character "Kaitlyn" would be - what motivates her, what angers her, who her enemies are and what the arc of her storyline would be. I wouldn't be surprised if she was running lines with her girlfriends every night after she got home from her day job in the weeks leading up to the submission of her audition tape. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And it's not just "Kaitlyn" that's not real, just take a look at the bachelors. There's The Soulful One, The Moody One, The One Who Picks a Fight Before the Rose Ceremony, The One Who Rats Out The One Who is a Liar Who is Then Sent Home, The One Who Fools The Bachelorette But Not America - all of whom know how to cause the dreaded "drama" and all of whom think that every romantic cliche thrown up to them as a date is "amazing" as they "follow their heart" on this "journey" to, you know, "find love" and, when not handed a rose, spend their limo drive into the sunset wondering how they'll "process what's just happened." ENOUGH!! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Look, there was a time when reality TV was authentic. They called them documentaries and they were unflinching and real. The first season of MTV's "Real World" reads more like a documentary in that it makes you deeply uncomfortable because it's so real with all of the awkwardness and that feeling when you're stuck on a full flight with a couple who are having the worst argument of their marriage, like way worse than Elaine Benes and David Putty on that episode of "Seinfeld" and minus the comedic genius of Larry David. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But now reality TV is stocked with heroes and villains who arrive fully-formed and aren't created by post-production slight of hand in the editing suite. Slowly, we, the general public, have become characters in our own reality shows. Creation of the alter ego usually begins with creating your first social media account. The profile questions - favorite films, favorite music, hobbies/interests - are all opportunities to create yourself, or recreate yourself. Some of us bring these cyber ids off of the screen and into the four dimensional world and then boomerang back to the screen - at least that's what I think Instagram is for, right? I mean if you've described yourself as a foodie then eating at a fancy restaurant having a great meal is your THANG, but it doesn't really count until you take a photo of the meal at the fancy restaurant, Instagram it out to your followers, and then tag the heck out of it so that the fancy restaurant knows that you're eating there and loving it because you're a foodie, that's what you do! We've become wedded to the weird internal storyline that appears to be guiding our lives, and we have become insistent on maintaining a narrative consistency with the characters we've created. We've made existence boring and predictable and that makes me mad - not disappointed, not sad, not angry, just MAD. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, let's mix it up a little bit. Stop trying to be "The [fill in the blank]" and just BE. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-84698977149059610122015-04-16T14:51:00.000-04:002015-04-16T14:51:16.413-04:00Make It Stop: When Did TV Become So Demanding?<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was growing up, Friday nights meant Mom, Grandma, my sister and I sitting in the basement with the television tuned to CBS and the strains of the "The Dukes of Hazzard" theme music emanating from the console color TV's mono speakers. After the theme song came the commercial break, during which snacks were retrieved from the kitchen, conversations were had among us family members, and an occasional phone call from friends or extended family was taken. By the time the citizens of Hazzard had survived whatever misadventure the writers had managed to throw at them in the span of an hour, the closing credits would roll and another commercial break, during which we made bathroom runs, and then the opening credits and theme song of the next show would begin. It was a kindlier, gentler time for lovers of TV. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nowadays, though, TV has become a fully immersive process, with theme songs scrapped for cold opens that thrust the viewer immediately into the action, and closing credits that bleed seamlessly into the next show, leaving a viewer barely able to digest whatever dramatic action just occurred. And don't get me started on what happens within the show with non-linear narratives that circle and bend so much that they've yielded a new phrase: "twisty." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Screenwriter Shonda Rhimes - the talented mind behind "Grey's Anatomy", "Private Practice", "Scandal" and "How to Get Away with Murder" - is the Queen of Twisty, with plotlines that send a viewer to the edge of their seats in the opening seconds of a show and then grab you by the collar, pulling you onto your feet and up onto your tippy-toes before hurling you against a wall and kicking you in the gut after you've dropped to the floor. That's "twisty". "Twisty" could also be used to describe the level of physical gore that Ms. Rhimes manages to pump into, or, maybe more accurately, out of, her characters. So violent is the imagery that she puts onto the television screen that I'm forced to look away frequently with the mute button on until my husband yells "all clear"! Television has literally become all-consuming with a "don't-look-away-or-you'll-miss-it" attitude that's becoming a turn-off. I was three-episodes into "How to Get Away with Murder" before I realized what the hell was going on and by the end of the season I was glad for the summer hiatus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And if the plotlines don't exhaust you, trying to stay caught up on your favorite shows on Hulu, OnDemand, and TiVo will. If you have any sort of a life and can't watch your favorite show during its first run, then you're doomed to schedule an alternate time to watch your shows. A work change forced me to watch an entire season of a show via OnDemand. I felt like I was handed a homework assignment. My adjusted viewing schedule also meant that I had to avoid all social media, since people love sharing plotline reveals as if they had some juicy gossip! Another thing I avoid is Netflix (sorry, not sorry) and the binge-watching trap. The idea of being tethered to my TV for a day and a night because I have to watch the entirety of a season's episodes of "House of Cards" is astounding to me, especially when there's not a blizzard or I'm not recovering from a really awful flu that forces me onto my sofa for a 48-hour period.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do we need this generation's version of former First Lady Nancy Reagan telling us to "just say no" to being consumed by television? Does current First Lady Michelle Obama have to personally come into our living rooms to say, "let's move", in order for us to step away from the flatscreen? I don't know what the answer is, but I know that the producers and writers and directors of TV aren't going to solve this problem, especially when they created the problem. They took the passive TV viewers of past generations and made them into active participants generating their own content based on the shows we watch. We tweet, we Facebook, we Instagram our way through these shows - sharing our reactions with the world, or just that little corner of our world where other fans of this particular show join in virtual community with each other. Who has time for snacks or the bathroom when there's breaking news about a character who was killed/not killed/kidnapped that has to be shared with your social media followers? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You know, I'm starting to think that maybe TV hasn't become more demanding - maybe we've become more demanding and TV is just trying to catch up with <b><i>us</i></b>! Maybe <b><i>we </i></b>need to create a community for ourselves that stretches beyond our lonely couches and out into the world. Maybe we need television to consume us because we no longer allow ourselves to be consumed by things that really matter anymore. I mean I can always count on <i>Shondaland </i>to serve up twists and turns every Thursday night, but can I deliver the same high when I'm the screenwriter of my own life? </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-58487473404939097172015-03-11T19:15:00.000-04:002015-03-11T19:15:26.852-04:00OMG! Not Another Kim and Kanye Headline!<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">March is National Women's Month and the theme is "Weaving the Stories of Women's Lives". And, in a strange twist of fate, as we honor women like Delilah L. Beasley (1867-1934), the first African American woman to be regularly published in a major metropolitan newspaper, the rest of the world seems to be celebrating another woman who is, also, regularly featured in every major metropolitan newspaper around the globe - Kim Kardashian. Kim and her husband, Kanye, have topped the headlines almost daily since New York Fashion Week when her daughter, North West, had a meltdown front row at a fashion show while seated next to Anna Wintour. And the Ides of March have only increased the Kimye Krazy factor as they took their show across the Atlantic. And maybe it was jet lag, or too much sugar from those United Airlines ice cream sundaes they serve in business and first class (so good), but there's been even more of a frenzy: Look!! Kim's dyed her hair blond like that kid from "Harry Potter"!! Kim and Kanye are at the center of a photographer scrum at the Louis Vuitton show during Paris Fashion Week!! OMG, Kanye's written a song called, "Awesome" that's dedicated to Kim which includes lines such as these: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You look too good to be at work/ You feel too good to ever hurt/I hope you ready for tonight/I'm gon cook, you'll be dessert.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And let's not forget the visuals to accompany this love story, including video footage of Kanye casing his wife's scantily clad form as she stepped out to greet her public in a sheer bodysuit and plunging bra, as well as a photo of Kanye with a death grip on his wife's posterior while they walked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I get it, Kimye - you're a married couple with a young child and you're feeling frisky and trying for a second one. That's your business. But, what's troubling is that the family business also involves your wife's body,or, specifically, one piece of her anatomy, and there's a name for that and it rhymes with "flooring" or "ostitution" (OK, that second word isn't even a word, sorry). Every piece of video footage, every rap lyric, every photograph - these become part of a larger story, of our larger story as women. I'm troubled that Kim doesn't see that her individual choices have a larger impact, and not just because she is a public figure. She has the financial means to dress herself in a way that highlights her beauty, but she chooses, instead, to squeeze into latex dresses that hug her bottom, see-through body-stockings, and visible G-strings to keep the cameras flashing and keep the money flowing. There are young girls in this world being savagely beaten just because they dare to learn to read and seek an education while Kim brags on-camera about sneaking off-set at a fashion shoot (where she's clad in ridiculously expensive designer duds) to have a quickie with her husband! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Look, I don't want to slut-shame Kim K. She can wear what she wants - it's her body, after all. But, I think we <i>should </i>dumb-shame her. That's right - <i><b>dumb-shaming</b></i>, because she should know better. She was raised in privilege and given an education that most of us are still paying off, and yet she refuses to engage in higher-level thought. To put it simply, she should not only know better, but she should act better. As women, if the stories of our individual lives are truly woven together, then as little North West grows into her womanhood, how will her mom's story affect her? </span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-69978679286681545002015-02-02T17:32:00.003-05:002015-02-02T17:32:17.260-05:00Microphone Check: On NPR, Race, and Code-Switching<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When my husband emailed the <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/codeswitch/2015/01/29/382437460/challenging-the-whiteness-of-public-radio" target="_blank">link </a>to an NPR news story last week, I rolled my eyes, as I usually do when he shares all things NPR with me. I'm not a fan of NPR. And it's not because I worked on commercial radio in a market where the local NPR station was competition for us. OK, it's not just because of that. No, NPR has always irritated me because of the vocal delivery of the on-air hosts and reporters. Their measured, vibrato-less speech, the vocal equivalent of wrapping oneself in a warm, but not too warm, blanket for a nap in your perfectly shabby-chic fixer Craftsman house with the assurance that everything is alright. The NPR voice has always been, for me, the voice of smugness. And so, I've rejected the NPR worldview as they report from war-torn ports of call around the globe while putting a reassuring hand on your tummy, rubbing gently and cooing, "There, there. It's OK."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, back to the link forwarded to me by my husband. Well, the title sounded promising - "Challenging the Whiteness of Public Radio". The author, Chenjerai Kumanyika, an African American man who is an assistant professor at Clemson University, had been putting the finishing touches on the script for a piece he'd done about fishermen, but as he was doing a final review of the piece before he recorded it, the only voice he could hear internally was what he considered to be the kind of white voice typically heard on public radio: "Without being directly told, people like me learn that our way of speaking isn't professional. And you start to imitate the standard or even hide the distinctive features of your own voice."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Throughout my life, I've been ridiculed by other African Americans for "talking white." My mom had always "talked proper", which I think was code back in the day for "talking white." Mom had been a studious child, and a voracious reader at one of the top schools in the area during segregation. Mom had occupied the hours of her childhood taking piano lessons, and watching great Hollywood movies, or visiting with her school teacher aunt who loved reading out loud. By second grade, I had transferred to a predominately white school and was also spending my free time at the piano, reading, and watching old movies with my grandmother. And so like other children, my vocal patterns mimicked my environment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I wasn't aware that there was a problem until high school. My high school was about 70 percent African American. This was the first time since first grade that I was in an environment where most of the people looked like me. But, not everybody sounded like me, and so I learned that this could be a problem. I became socially isolated. It was a small school so you knew everybody, but friendships were rare for me. Mom was still over-protective and I wasn't allowed to socialize with anyone beyond the school day. So no parties, no Friday nights at the movies with my girlfriends, and definitely no sleepovers. I was missing out on first-person interactions with black culture. I relied on cable TV to educate me, with shows like "Rap City" and "Yo!MTV Raps." There were the trips to the beauty parlor and the ready supply of <i>Ebony</i>, <i>Jet</i>, <i>Essence </i>and <i>Black Enterprise</i> magazines. But even among the black women gathered for our relaxers and press and curls, my manner of speaking was either cause for laughter or alarm, though they all seemed to excuse me when they saw one of my textbooks tucked under my plastic cape, and then they'd all cluck that I was getting my education and so "talking white" was just a way of getting by and getting ahead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the time I'd made it to undergrad, at another predominately white school where I was a super-minority, my fluidity in "talking white" was more muscle memory and no one made mention of it, not even the ladies at the hairdresser. All was well until just a few years after grad school when I took a job at a classical music radio station and listened to my voice on my first aircheck tape. In my head, my voice sounded deep and assertive but on-tape, it sounded leaden and overly formal. My boss coached me to smile more, get conversational and more friendly, to sound like the other women DJs on my station. Did I mention that those other women were white? What he failed to understand was that part of my on-air problem was a continual inner dialogue on race that I was having every time I opened the mic: <i>Did I sound too black? Would the white listeners reject me for sounding black?</i> And so I dug in, trying to hone my voice into a listener-friendly level of whiteness. This, in the days before we talked about things like code-switching. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the end, I failed. Anonymous listeners posted nasty comments about me, wondering if I was black and, if I was, what I was doing on a classical music station. The constant anxiety of trying to keep my black from showing distracted me from loving my job. Scrubbing every script so that my cultural references weren't too...exotic. Carefully crafting on-air smalltalk that embodied the smug familiarity of public radio. I had enough!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember one conversation with my former boss before we called it a day, where he was critiquing my on-air performance. He wanted me to get more comfortable, more relatable, to share my authentic self with the listeners. I didn't have an answer for him that day, but I do now. It's hard to give your authentic self when you've been suppressing so much of it for so long. I don't actually know what I really sound like. Writing this makes me so sad because that part of me - my voice - is gone and I can never reclaim it. Maybe that's why I don't listen to NPR. Maybe it's the realization that one of those highly-educated people of color reporting across the airwaves had to black-check themselves before they did their job. Maybe it's knowing that there is a cost to that behavior. </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-44633679474385523432015-01-06T16:32:00.001-05:002015-01-06T16:32:44.545-05:00Branding Your Brand New Year<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Around this time, several years ago, as we were hauling the Christmas tree out to the curb and enjoying the last of the pumpkin pies, my husband and I got to talking about resolutions for the New Year. He shared with me a resolution that he and his sister had made some years before in order to jump start their fitness and exercise plans for the New Year. It was simple, yet effective: "Put the sneakers on." Those words fueled their actions. Had a tough day at work and don't feel like going to the gym for the day's workout? Well, just put the sneakers on. These were words that went beyond the vagary of most resolutions, and went into a direct action. Put the sneakers on. It was, and it is, still, pure genius.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over the years, we've continued this tradition of branding the brand New Year. One year it was "clear the clutter," and that issued in a top to bottom effort to organize our household stuff. Another year it was "purge the circle" - ridding ourselves of toxic relationships that were dragging us down and not lifting us up. This was a hard one to execute, but the results were tremendously freeing and soul-satisfying. So what's on tap for 2015? Maybe "read more books," although Facebook's <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/amitchowdhry/2015/01/05/mark-zuckerberg-book-club/">Mark Zuckerberg</a> has already claimed that with his New Year's promise to read a new book every other week, and Arianna Huffington has also pledged to read more good books. I like soup, so maybe our 2015 brand could be EAT MORE SOUP. Although that sounds more like a Campbell's Soup advertisement. "Just do it" has been done to death.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There were some years where the theme just presented itself, but this year, it's a bit of a jumble. We're being pushed and pulled into so many different directions with aging parents, our own aging bodies, and work, work, work. Never have we needed spiritual, mental and physical rejuvenation more, and never have we had so little time to achieve it. For now, though, I'll be content to stop, take a slow and deep breath, and hold onto the brief stillness of this brand new, unbranded New Year, like freshly fallen snow. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-52292308814980328482014-12-14T00:20:00.000-05:002014-12-14T00:20:42.713-05:00Just Keep It To Yourself: Enough with the Public Marriage Proposals!<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, it's the holiday season - a time when red and green can be worn at the same time on the same person, a time when fat-shaming is traded in for adoration of a chubby man bearing gifts on his long-haul flight around the world, and a time when jewelry is purchased and someone gets down on bended knee and says the two scariest words ever, "Marry me." The engagement ring - the ultimate stocking stuffer - is often the unexpected guest during the holiday season. The period between Thanksgiving and the New Year is the busiest time of year for marriage proposals, and why not? After all, this is the usual time of year when couples travel to the hometowns of their significant others. And there, in the glow of the family hearth and home, surrounded by loving strangers in questionable yet kitschy Christmas togs, reeking of holiday cheer and nostalgia, things happen and soon you're watching the guy you've fallen in love with making his ugly cry-face while fumbling with an expensive ring while your nana and pop-pop watch in silent horror as their turkey breast gets cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As you may have guessed, I'm not a fan of the public marriage proposal, but, in this social media age, I've been outvoted. Instead of a quiet moment between two people, marriage proposals must go big, bigger, biggest, with stories abounding of elaborate proposals involving flash mobs and choreography that's more involved and twistier than a "Scandal" plot line. But, as anyone knows, the bigger the production, the more likely that things will go wrong, which is why a whole sub-category called <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/nickw44/11-failed-marriage-proposals-that-will-make-you-cr-gmia">marriage proposal fails</a> now exists. This past week, a <a href="http://metro.co.uk/2014/12/13/lotharios-marriage-proposal-fail-in-a-crane-is-going-to-cost-someone-a-lot-of-money-4986121/">marriage proposal</a> ended in a man dangling from a crane and a hole in the roof of his girlfriend's house. And the pitfalls of the over-the-top marriage proposal are not limited to property damage. Asking someone to commit to spending the rest of their life with you requires that they consider the question carefully, and that consideration might take longer than the few seconds of space after you say the words and spring the ring. Imagine the unbelievable pressure it puts on a person when this proposal of marriage is delivered in front of a roomful of family members and close friends, or on a jumbo screen in a stadium or other large, public event. Is this public proposal a hint of things to come? Will you tell my family at the Thanksgiving table that we're going to try to have children, in fact, we'll be "trying" in the guest bedroom after you serve the pumpkin pie! ?? Will you be live-Tweeting from the delivery room with pithy hash tags like #cervix or #AhPushIt? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So just keep it to yourself, please! It will be great practice for the rest of your married life:)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-70923029186161822982014-11-24T23:17:00.000-05:002014-11-24T23:17:08.081-05:00These Little Boys: On Life and Death and Race<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This past Saturday a 13 year boy became a Bar Mitzvah, an occasion marked by the gathering of his family members and cherished friends, from camp, preschool, Sunday school, and junior high. Dressed in their finest, guests ate well and danced to everything from that old classic "Shout" to "YMCA" and the latest hits by Nicki Minaj. There were ice cream dessert bars for adults and kids alike, and amped up versions of childhood games like musical chairs and Coke and Pepsi. There were glow sticks, blinking plastic novelty rings, and plenty of smiles and laughter, all celebrating the greatest accomplishment, so far, in a boy's life. Maybe this doesn't mean anything to you, this religious ceremony that welcomes teenage Jewish boys into assuming responsibility for their actions and for their Jewish faith. But for these boys, and the girls who become Bat Mitzvahs, these occasions will help to prepare the ground for their future accomplishments as adults. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am not Jewish, but as a photographer, present for these important life events, I have often wondered about the lives of these little boys compared to the lives of my three African-American nephews and their friends of color. Two of my nephews, ages 14 and 12 and attending struggling public schools, are already experiencing the frustrations of being left behind academically. And we're trying, my family and I, we're trying and praying with all of our might to right this ship, to protect these boys in their boyhood and, yet, prepare them for an adult world that is forced on them all too soon. Try as we do to give them ice cream filled Saturdays, and happy family times, on a night like this, I feel powerless, but not hopeless. My nephews, these 3 little boys, are my little boys, and your little boys. So for tonight, before I feel discouraged, I'm going to look at a photo of my little boys, and I'll keep on, we'll keep on, loving you and protecting you, and all of these little boys.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My beautiful three nephews</span></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-23112574178877820112014-11-07T17:13:00.001-05:002014-11-07T17:13:49.785-05:00Lena Dunham Needs a Hug<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Since I'm much too lazy to join the Netflix cult, my down times usually involve a marathon viewing session of whatever's on cable, which often means reruns of <i>Sex & The City</i>. And while I loved this show so much in my twenties when the episodes first aired, now, in my 40s and married for almost 13 years, I can honestly call out Carrie & Company for being drama-seeking jerks. You make yourself available sexually for a man who refuses to commit to you? Guess what? You've lost the right to be angry at him. You want to agonize over every little detail of your boyfriend, then guess what? You're definitely going to find something wrong with him. At a certain point you have to wonder if the original working title for <i>Sex & The City</i> was <i>I Love Drama</i>! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So why bash a show that's been dead and buried for a decade? Because in the wake of Carrie Bradshaw, another over-sharing young woman hitting the sheets and the streets of NYC has emerged and is in the process of enraging, or engaging depending on your point of view, a new generation of viewers. Her name is Lena Dunham - and if simply seeing her name in print here is making you see red, then you've heard of her, and you might also hate her. People have been trash-talking Miss Lena for the past few years as her HBO series, <i>Girls </i>has become the media's poster child for the privileged, majority white, millennials who currently hold the title for Most Vilified. Poor Lena! Sure, she undresses, a lot, on her show, and in a way that can make viewers squeamish, but it's her body and it's her thing. I don't think she does it to titillate, in fact the act is more like that of a toddler innocently shedding their clothes and streaking through the house, you know, because toddlers are craycray that way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lena's latest controversy is unfolding now while she's on tour promoting her book, "Not That Kind of Girl." One passage, in particular, has set off red flags as it seems to describe an act of pedophilia possibly performed by Miss Lena on her baby sister. Reading the passage, I wondered several things, including: did this really happen, where were their parents, why write about this, and WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS GIRL? Seriously, what's wrong with this child? As it happens, I wasn't the only one curious about her motivation - both to do this miserable thing and to write about it. A Twitter war was declared, leading Miss Lena to take a break from her book tour and her nearly 2 million Twitter followers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's the oddest thing, until you realize that this child grew up in the afterglow of <i>Sex & The City</i> and in the emergence of reality TV and celebrity culture. Somehow, Miss Lena, became confused. Look, I never, ever thought that Sarah Jessica Parker the actress was the character Carrie Bradshaw, but clearly, the fashion designers and stylists working with the actress encouraged her to embody the Carrie mystique every time she graced a red carpet. Soon, Sarah Jessica Parker BECAME Carrie, I mean she even has her own trendy shoe line, something that's so Carrie! So is Lena Dunham really her Girls character, Hannah Horvath? Or is Hannah actually Lena hiding in plain sight? Who knows, who will ever know? At some point, though, who will care? Let's not disparage Miss Lena, instead, hug her because, like those who've gone before her on those NYC streets, her genius and promise will air on a basic cable channel on a weekday afternoon.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-57338442310334318372014-09-25T13:48:00.001-04:002014-09-25T13:48:20.388-04:00On Race: Coming to Terms with My Kelsey Problem<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hi, my name is Kelsey! We haven't met, yet, or maybe we have. Maybe you've seen me at Starbucks ahead of you and ordering three skinny pumpkin spice lattes and two iced mocha decafs while pulling my wet hair into a messy low-pony on that day you were running late for your 8:00am conference call. Sorry about that, but I had to grab some caffeine courage for my office biotches, you know! Hey, and super sorry about the maj coffee spillage that happened when my friend texted me about her bangs emergency and I attempted to hold my iPhone to read the text and then tried to reply to the text while balancing those two coffee trays. I felt to Lena Dunham that day, you know? Oh, you don't know! Really?? She's on "Girls" on HBO! I can't believe you haven't seen it!! Well, gotta run - BYYYYYYYEEEEE!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">OK, that never happened. This was a fictional conversation between a fictional character named "Kelsey" and, an unwitting player in her life's drama, a fictional character that I'll call "Shandra." It's kind've funny, but, like a "Law & Order" episode, this scene was ripped from the headlines of my life, and, perhaps the lives of others. My fictional "Kelsey" is based on the flesh and blood Kelseys I meet everyday. She is buoyant, forever smiling, chirpy, and full of pluck. She is well-coiffed, though she spends countless hours with her hands in her hair - whether pulling it back with the elastic band that she always wears on her wrist, tucking it behind her ear, or maniacally running her fingers through it and furiously scooping it all to one side or the other or straight back if she really wants to get nuts. Her nails are always buffed and polished, and when they're not, she calls attention to the fact and tells a ripping yarn about why they're not done that usually involves a weird weekend DIY project with her roommates or baking brownies. Yes, brownies - Kelseys love to bake brownies and eat brownies, though not too many. And when they are seen eating their homemade confections, the Kelsey will, undoubtedly, call attention to how massive her gut/butt is, though she's usually south of a US size 8. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Are you rolling your eyes yet? Or, are you nodding in agreement? Maybe you're doing both, like me!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Kelseys in the workplace are especially difficult to navigate. They are hardcore people-pleasers. Need someone to manage the office birthday party celebrations? Kelsey's there, with her well worn Rachel Ray cookbook and its perfect birthday brownie recipe! Need someone to work late every night for a year without asking for overtime, a raise, or a promotion? Kesley will do it, and she'll do it with a smile. She'll even come in on weekends, wearing her favorite Ann Taylor jewel tone cardi, skinny jeans, ballet flat, and plain white JCrew t-shirt, along with her faux, oversized pearl stud earrings. And don't worry, she'll stop by Starbucks on her way in for coffees for the whole team. I mean, they have to have something decent to drink with the 4 dozen brownies she managed to bake in the hours between working until 10pm on Friday night and arriving at 9am on Saturday morning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Kelseys function best in groups where they can stand out, although they hate to call attention to themselves. After work, packs of Kelseys (or is it gaggles, or a murder, no, that's crows) go to the nearest watering hole where they drink shots and call their fellow Kelseys "biotches" at the top of their lungs while precariously balancing an overflowing pilsner glass as they navigate through the throngs of other Kelseys looking to get their drink on! Oh, and here's another note, Kelseys always like to get something "on" - get my laundry on, get my drink on, get my tan on, get my party on - maybe it's because a Kelsey is always "on", which is why after stopping at the bar, the Kelsey then heads to the gym for SoulCycle or some sort of fitness bootcamp. Kelseys like the camaraderie of group classes or team sports, although she'll run a half-marathon for a cause, so for all you trying desperately to recruit for the company kickball team look no further than the Kelsey in your own backyard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, what's my beef with the Kelseys? I guess I have to go back to my childhood and my first Kelsey. At the start of second grade, the parents made my sister and I switch to a school closer to home, which meant goodbye to the 35-minute morning commute and hello to a school down the street from us. The change of venue, though, also meant goodbye to the black teachers and classmates I'd grown to love and hello to a predominately white elementary school. All at once, I was a little, fat black girl with unreasonable hair (read: nappy), a shiny face (Grandma liked to Spackle Vaseline on my face EVERY morning), a strange smile (a gap between my front teeth which I proudly display now), and no fashion sense (c'mon, I was a fat kid in the 1970s!). And there were the Kelseys - with their cool Barbie dolls, strawberry lip gloss, perfect penmanship (complete with hearts over their "i"s), and Hello Kitty pencil cases. In the presence of the Kelseys, I felt lacking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By undergrad, I knew how to deal in the Kelsey-rich environment of my small, southern, nearly 100% white college and I seemed to thrive. But, I could see some cracks beginning to form and the Kelsey-tolerance I thought I'd built up was starting to wane. The Kelseys were the ones going on dates, getting boyfriends and fraternity pins and engagement rings from the white boys on my campus. And me - well, when I wasn't being overlooked or mistaken for one of the dining hall or cleaning staff, I was the friend or the one those white boys wanted to take to bed, but not wed. I felt shame and anger,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After school, though, I learned that I was not alone. That there were others of us who've suffered the Kelsey Curse of feeling less than. In my first job after grad school, I tried to out-Kelsey the Kelseys, striving for perky and upbeat and positive. My white supervisors applauded me, but the black women in my office were divided with some giving me a lot of side-eye and others loving my can-do attitude, and hoping that we finally had a contender to fight the Kelsey scourge!! I was doing alright, and soon, I left for my dream job in radio, but, in a stunning twist, I found that what my new boss wanted me to BE a Kelsey. You see, somewhere I'd become confused, and had taken so much Kelsey into my bloodstream that people thought that I was a Kelsey. But, I'm not, and that's when I began to understand that my Kelsey problem was defining my life. I remember, at that time, going to a vocal coach who said that everyone who hosts their own radio or TV show has to find their voice - who they are, their point of view - and communicate that over the airwaves. It sounded so simple, unless you don't know who you are, and I didn't have a clue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had only defined myself in relation to the Kelseys of the world, and now I am able to see that I am more than I thought. All of the shame and the anger and the longing to belong had become tiresome. I hate thinking about all of the time I lost in the clutches of the Kelsey haze, and even though I have some minor twinges, like when I'm watching "Top Chef" or "Food Network Star" and see another black woman contestant knocked off of her game by some fresh-faced Kelsey, I'm aware of how good life is. Not perfect, but so very good. Too good to be consumed with the cult of Kelsey. So play with your hair, drink your pumpkin-spice beverage, bake your brownies, Zumba your little heart out - I'm over it, Kelsey! </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-49987303078082150212014-09-12T08:23:00.000-04:002014-09-12T08:23:47.623-04:00A Reality TV Vocabulary Primer<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, the Fall 2014 television season has begun, which means lots of new shows vying for our attention. Among these shows are new reality TV shows, and while the premises for these shows may have upped the OMG-quotient ("Dating Naked" comes to mind), they all include a very basic vocabulary that lets you, the viewer, know that yes, you have stumbled onto a reality show. So, for those of you who took a break over the summer from reality TV, or those of you who are (shocking!) reality TV virgins, here is the quick and dirty, definitive reality TV vocab primer - also known as Reality TV as a Second Language.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Castmate:</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is reality TV's name for a friend or a frenemy who appears in your same reality TV universe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Crazypants:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Used as an adjective or as a noun to describe a castmate or a castmate's activities which are particularly irksome, illegal, or that could potentially cause a danger to other castmates. Used in a sentence: Kim went all crazypants shotgunning quarts of milk at Phaedra's Black Cleopatra Costume Party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Disrespect:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Often used as a verb (NeNe disrespected Phaedra by not inviting her to her Superhero Drag Party) to describe actions by castmates that hurt the feelings of other castmates.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Drama:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The consequences from the thoughtless actions of a crazypants castmate. Drama can be caused by anyone at anytime and should be avoided AT ALL COSTS. One's ability to avoid drama is viewed as a virtue by other castmates.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Epic:</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not to be confused with the epic "Beowulf" that you read in high school, this use of the term "epic" can describe a plethora of activities or items. An example: Reza's <i>Cold Mountain</i> theme party was epic. Or this: <i>Reza drank an <b>epic </b>amount of espressos.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Girls:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Used most frequently by female castmates to describe other female castmates who may no longer technically qualify for the "girl" designation. An example: <i>This group of <b>girls </b>have so much drama.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Got your back:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Used as a term of endearment for one, or more, of one's castmates who consistently demonstrate loyalty. An example:<i> I thought Tamra <b>had my back</b>, by I was wrong.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Loving someone to death:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A turn of phrase used by castmates to describe their love of a fellow castmate, usually declared when the castmates are inebriated on a party bus or on one of the many forced group vacations castmates must go on with cameras rolling. Usually ending with a sloppy, weird hug.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Team [Insert Name]:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Groups of girls typically subdivide into teams when drama has arisen in the group. The team name denotes the principle parties involved in the altercation. An example: <i>In the matter of Jill vs. Bethanny, I'm <b>Team Jill</b></i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">That just happened:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Often, reality TV castmates must take on the role of narrator for their filmed realities in soliloquies spoken to their camera confessionals. In order, then, to express surprise/outrage/horror, they have developed a verbal shorthand, the phrase, "that just happened", though, spoken with a dramatic pause BETWEEN. EACH. WORD. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Throwing anyone under the bus:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The term, used to describe an act of betrayal, is in the Top Ten Reality TV Vocabulary Pantheon! And there seems to be no shortage of buses in the reality TV universe as castmates throw each other under buses weekly, and, sometimes, multiple times within one episode. It defies the laws of physics as some of these castmates do not appear to possess the requisite physical strength it would take to toss someone underneath a bus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Throwing up a little in your mouth:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This turn of phrase, used to describe a person or situation so vile that it elicits nausea and vomiting, is a staple of reality TV. It seems to have its roots in the Valley Girl speak of the 1980s and that era's popular phrase, "gag me with a spoon." </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-32922174326823838792014-08-28T12:50:00.000-04:002014-08-28T12:50:33.197-04:00Fashion, Feminism and Ferguson - Is Everything Old New Again?<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On a recent visit to Urban Outfitters, I felt like I was on a walk down memory lane, the 90's Grunge Edition. There, in red plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens boots, Nirvana t-shirts, and oversized, tattered sweaters were my college-aged self, only repackaged for children born in the 90's. I literally had clothing in my closet older than these children! It's a bit jarring, but I guess that everything old <i><b>IS </b></i>new again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nostalgia isn't always bad, but it's not always good. For instance, this past week, sexism was back on display and in our living rooms with the Ode d'booty on display at MTV's Video Music Awards (VMAs) where Nicki Minaj and a troop of strip club trained back up dancers dry-humped the stage whilst showing off their...assets? Not to be outdone, even Beyonce, with her young daughter in the front row, sang surrounded by a dozen female dancers lying on their backs, with their legs thrust into the air and spread eagle followed by synchronized pelvic thrusting, like some sort of XXX version of a Busby Berkeley musical. And while Beyonce is often referred to as an empowering female, to be admired for her body of work as well as her physical body, no matter how many times her stage set spells out "Feminist" in 20 foot neon letters, her placement as a feminist icon is difficult to digest when she never seems to be wearing pants! In fact, there were lots of pants-less strong women honored at the VMAs, with Taylor Swift, all seven feet of her, walked the red carpet in something that looked like a romper you'd put on your one-year-old. Jessie J. also got the "no pants" memo, leaving Ariana Grande with her high ponytail and knee-high sequined gogo boots looking like Margaret Thatcher compared to the other ladies. What happened, MTV? You wanted another Miley/Robin Thicke moment so desperately that you decided to turn the stage into a strip club? But, let's be real, music videos are about the shock value. The number of YouTube views and they hype, which means skin (female, primarily). Video directors, in league with music labels, want buzz so that means giving the people what they want, or telling them what they want. And it's obvious that they don't want feminism.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not to be outdone, the 66th Primetime Emmy Awards also did their part to take feminism back to the Dark Ages, or at least back to the time of <i>Mad Men, </i>when the president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences had Emmy Award-winning actress, Sofia Vergara, basically shut her mouth and stand up on a rotating platform, looking pretty whilst he tended to the manly task of explaining stuff using big words that pretty, dumb ladies can't possibly understand!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still feeling nostalgic for days gone by, well then let's take a trip to Ferguson, Missouri where an over-policed, majority-black, community is still reeling from the violent shooting death of an unarmed black teenager by a while police officer. Those protesting the killing of Michael Brown took their cause to the streets of Ferguson where they were met by police in military gear complete with assault rifles, hurling teargas at American taxpayers who were exercising their First Amendment right to assemble. It all felt so 1960s that I could hear Martha and the Vandellas singing "Dancing in the Streets"! When the local police are more occupying force with an inability to distinguish between the good people who love their community and the looters who seek to destroy that community, then something's got to change before another black family loses another black son. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But can things ever truly change? Can the community of Ferguson and the police learn to trust each other? Can women learn to rely on our talents and not our <i>tookus </i>to get noticed? I wish I knew the answers to these questions, but for now, I only know that I have a pair of steel-toed Doc Marten boots to dust off and I'm wondering if they'll go with my Calvin Klein jacket - I'm all for nostalgia but there's no need to go overboard!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-57673702970522715552014-08-22T16:02:00.001-04:002014-08-22T16:02:20.653-04:00The Freshman's Guide to College Life: The Daddy Issues Edition<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By now, your Facebook newsfeed is brimming with photos from proud parents of their smiling, happy children packing up and moving into their college freshmen dorms. And while my freshman year is many years behind me, I still remember that odd mixture of fear and excitement, of wariness in leaving my childhood home and my mother's arms and the joy of having a space of my own in a world about which my parents knew nothing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But, the only person who knew less than my parents was me, and so I want to talk directly to you, college freshman. While you may have impressive technological sophistication, and while you may think that you know everything (or, a bit more than your parents), everyone has a blind spot, especially the average college freshman, and, more specifically, a freshman woman with daddy issues. Maybe your parents had a bad marriage, maybe your father was emotionally withholding, mentally abusive, or simply not around. Maybe your daddy loves his second family better, or maybe he loves his job better. It doesn't matter, because young lady, you're arriving on campus on a mission, and that mission is to be loved AT ANY COST!! If you are this woman, or if you know this woman, here are simple tips to get you safely started at college and safely out the other side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><u>DATING</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's nothing wrong with dating, but if you've got daddy issues you should avoid the urge to merge at least during the first half of your freshman year. Why? You'll want to focus all of your attention on your new love, even if it interferes with your studies and with your ability to make and develop friendships. Soon you'll be scheduling your meals, laundry, and classes around your 'boo as your insecurities lead you to believe that any time apart means an imminent break-up. You'll sport his fraternity sweatshirt in the dining hall and be his own personal cheerleader during intramural basketball games. Slow down, girl! Get to know yourself and enjoy your independence. And when you do start dating on campus, don't date someone who lives in your dorm as you might be too tempted to casually "bump into" them in a manner that law enforcement calls "stalking." Remember, smothering your boyfriend doesn't make your daddy love you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><u>BEWARE THE MALE PROFESSOR TRAP</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yep, he's an authority figure, and, sure, he looks devastating in front of the chalk board in your freshmen English seminar class, but he's too old for you and, oh, and he's your professor. It's tempting, though, to seek out the affections of an older man, a man who might be old enough to the father who didn't love you enough/at all, but he's not interested, so stop before you make a fool of yourself. So don't wear that low-cut, semi-sheer tank top to his class. Don't lean seductively over his desk in said top to ask him a burning question you have about "Beowulf" before that class starts. And don't go to his office during office hours in that tank top to get his profound thoughts on Olde English vs. modern English. At best, he'll laugh at you and send you on your way, at worst, he'll hook up with you and now both of your academic careers are in jeopardy. So, keep things professional, and maybe check and see if a female professor teaches that same class. And if that female professor has a male teaching assistant, then re-read this paragraph from the top. Remember, seducing a male authority figure doesn't make your daddy love you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><u>DRINKING</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is a particularly dicey subject. Unless you're at a dry campus, most socializing on a typical college campus involves a red Solo cup and a keg. I'm not naive enough to tell you to "just say no" and harp on the countless stories on binge-drinking and excessive partying on college campuses, it's just that I never really figured out why the drinking culture was so pervasive on campus. Most college kids don't get drunk because they like the taste of beer and liquor (although, Moscato wine is like liquid candy), do they? From what I've seen, it seems as if they get drunk so they can tell tall tales of their tipsy shenanigans. It's like their intoxication becomes the cover for bad behavior, and for a girl with daddy issues, booze becomes a part of her male-attention seeking arsenal. Look at me, I just pounded 8 beers in a row! Look at me, I just downed 4 vodka shots!! Look at me, I just hooked up with 3 random dudes but I'm too drunk to remember their names!!! Don't be that girl. Listen, the boys who cheered you on while you downed a fifth of rum are not your friends. If they were, they wouldn't let you do something that could cause you injury or death. And their attention doesn't make your daddy love you.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-12686115712106003682014-08-20T17:33:00.000-04:002014-08-20T17:33:14.818-04:00Summer Hummer 3: How the Washington, DC Theatre Scene Takes Care of Its Own<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Life often brings unexpected circumstances, and for theatre professionals, who often work without the benefit of health insurance, those circumstances can jeopardize their physical and financial health. Enter: theatreWashington and their Taking Care of Our Own (TCOOO) initiative, a fund financed by the generous donations of theatre patrons and the theatre community at large. Donations to TCOOO are made throughout the year, but the signature event that raises the most donations to the fund in a single evening is The Summer Hummer, a DC version of Broadway Bares, with local DC theatre scenesters bumping and grinding for a great cause. This year's Summer Hummer, held at Signature Theatre, was the bawdiest ever with crazy costumes, great singing, and cheesecake and beefcake to spare. Here is the PG-13 highlights reel!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Patrick J. Hurston and Signature Theatre Artistic Director Eric Schaeffer at Summer Hummer</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLc1bL-NFjkgTUxIg-TdTZn_nvWYlvYMJmol6QnnvX7Yda9wGEhNQEodrIlWvCha6bkCYVnu1n3mjOTU1KFZVO5k1bUJkG3TWI7lA3kbFzxOMWu_qoDqRdfaztjZkhz7Fz-x0_2z2tCSD/s1600/2014SumHum3+(17).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLc1bL-NFjkgTUxIg-TdTZn_nvWYlvYMJmol6QnnvX7Yda9wGEhNQEodrIlWvCha6bkCYVnu1n3mjOTU1KFZVO5k1bUJkG3TWI7lA3kbFzxOMWu_qoDqRdfaztjZkhz7Fz-x0_2z2tCSD/s1600/2014SumHum3+(17).jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>theatreWashington President and CEO Linda Levy with Helen Hayes Award winning actor, Matthew DeLorenzo at Summer Hummer</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimeSlJHGbFDR78wpRtyuAZb-DRi7t7BlNxP1jzEkS92Tyw3f5ytcu3UJ8o9s5tadVZPkXMLBveet4IwE5DdauCo9myqetyZ0EUMp8TKP8IjMoqw1rZpV-EhmFQqImoFIHwsMajPO5M-12/s1600/2014SumHum3+(20).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimeSlJHGbFDR78wpRtyuAZb-DRi7t7BlNxP1jzEkS92Tyw3f5ytcu3UJ8o9s5tadVZPkXMLBveet4IwE5DdauCo9myqetyZ0EUMp8TKP8IjMoqw1rZpV-EhmFQqImoFIHwsMajPO5M-12/s1600/2014SumHum3+(20).jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Members of the cast of Studio Theatre's "Rocky Horror" pose with orange-boaed conductor/songwriter Christopher Youstra</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VU2bV3cS3PqiA36WE_624iFtgFxl2hgxhQcUneHlRhJiMCkq-b40CVrPa6Pv3l7GHOb2HIwRb4FWGhyoqdYSLjFBwHfWJ3xECElAblM8QzdiHP4YspFya1Th2XtnsiIX8g1fmktt7pEI/s1600/2014SumHum3+(33).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VU2bV3cS3PqiA36WE_624iFtgFxl2hgxhQcUneHlRhJiMCkq-b40CVrPa6Pv3l7GHOb2HIwRb4FWGhyoqdYSLjFBwHfWJ3xECElAblM8QzdiHP4YspFya1Th2XtnsiIX8g1fmktt7pEI/s1600/2014SumHum3+(33).jpg" height="512" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Victor Shargai is all smiles at Summer Hummer 3</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjqrH6LxRAolGehkNMLcA92IvjyJGl6ZHToCYDEIIQp3QkY84ktpWFIlfpFiOP7hyphenhyphenlygLUoEmNvMeAfMepgfy3BWeZr-QNZ3qut8aOVcWR31r7bMn2f-f-e9pvGazjmIKd6hj4lSM8tRI/s1600/2014SumHum3+(37).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjqrH6LxRAolGehkNMLcA92IvjyJGl6ZHToCYDEIIQp3QkY84ktpWFIlfpFiOP7hyphenhyphenlygLUoEmNvMeAfMepgfy3BWeZr-QNZ3qut8aOVcWR31r7bMn2f-f-e9pvGazjmIKd6hj4lSM8tRI/s1600/2014SumHum3+(37).jpg" height="512" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Joshua Morgan of No Rules Theatre Company and Luigi Filiputti</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RhMZEtQI6-FQcg9FynxGmLM9FRxpEdjv5BHPsxdOOHEnrK1c0nW2suyTKNwENn4oHFJfDhTU4-4Bhk7aymX_H90e6MudRhX4VQmZ2SKWHx5FIPSFIx4bmzsP6WtHe94PVVIQr0MYjgpo/s1600/2014SumHum3+(46).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RhMZEtQI6-FQcg9FynxGmLM9FRxpEdjv5BHPsxdOOHEnrK1c0nW2suyTKNwENn4oHFJfDhTU4-4Bhk7aymX_H90e6MudRhX4VQmZ2SKWHx5FIPSFIx4bmzsP6WtHe94PVVIQr0MYjgpo/s1600/2014SumHum3+(46).jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Those gams belong to none other than actor Ryan Patrick Welsh</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Actors Bobby Smith and Erin Gardiner join conductor/composer Christopher Youstra in a squeeze and a giggle at Summer Hummer</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Actor Michael Litchfield crowdsurfs for donations at the Summer Hummer</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCAF4NC8kjmLExWgXWIaQLR6CLmrgjcWZ8lYJtjkrJmq7BwAqd6ETM8XSG2cN5AR6MGiLh3apm-GsHMnofC9jmqmrGNrgkHdWD_t5xNfXEmAzHUNQPEM_jnQwyTS6zBiP06MRIPuXgSAP/s1600/2014SumHum3Insta2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCAF4NC8kjmLExWgXWIaQLR6CLmrgjcWZ8lYJtjkrJmq7BwAqd6ETM8XSG2cN5AR6MGiLh3apm-GsHMnofC9jmqmrGNrgkHdWD_t5xNfXEmAzHUNQPEM_jnQwyTS6zBiP06MRIPuXgSAP/s1600/2014SumHum3Insta2.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>It's a boy dance party at the Summer Hummer</i></span></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-17730294396927953112014-08-13T12:36:00.000-04:002014-08-13T16:53:28.633-04:00Public Mourning and Social Media: The Celebrity Death Edition<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By now, you've seen countless news stories about the sudden and shocking death of actor and comic, Robin Williams. And your Facebook and Instagram feeds are teeming with RIPs, nanu-nanus, and images of Robin Williams, including screen shots from "Dead Poets Society," "Mrs. Doubtfire," and, most gut-wrenching of all, Robin Williams as the loveable, flamboyant Genie in Disney's "Aladdin", tenderly embracing the title character. We've now entered the celebrity tribute round of this morbid exercise, with comics and actors sharing their particular and personal special moments with the deceased, and even the President managed to get included in the conversation by offering up words of comfort as Mourner in Chief. And then former child star Todd Bridges had to go and open his mouth, calling Williams' suicide "cowardly," and he was soon joined by other anonymous minions spewing their digital venom at Williams and his family. The actor's daughter, Zelda Williams, was forced to quit Twitter and Instagram due to the rather outrageous behavior of these Internet trolls.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Welcome to Public Mourning and Social Media. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The death of a celebrity has always ushered in a time of public reflection. Celebrities enter our lives and a certain intimate bond is created. Maybe we watched them on a sitcom with our families when we were children, or on the big screen as a favorite action hero when we were teenagers. I grew up watching Robin Williams - in "Happy Days" and "Mork & Mindy." I remember laughing hysterically and singing every line of "You Ain't Never Had a Friend Like Me" from "Aladdin," and trying to copy Williams' Scottish brogue in "Mrs. Doubtfire." There are friends of mine for whom "Dead Poets Society" became a touchstone as it exposed their own teenage fears and hopes and dreams. It is only natural to want to reach out and grieve in community with others who feel this loss. Social media, then, can become an outlet for grief, for some - a virtual version of an Irish wake. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But, public mourning in social media can also expose our own vanity. Look at all of the "Likes" my quote from "Good Will Hunting" got! OhmyGod, Willie Geist on "Today" just said that my tribute in GIFs to Robin Williams got 2 million views on YouTube! Wow, did you see Jimmy Fallon/Norm MacDonald/Arsenio Hall/Carrot Top's tribute to Robin Williams - OMG I cried when I saw it! Look at me, I'm mourning! </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We clamour for the attention of our connection, no matter how tentative, to celebrity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I fear that we've reached a point where even our mourning for the not-famous is becoming tangled in the social media web. I've attended funerals where mourners have snapped photos of the open casket or of the burial plot with their smartphones for their Facebook newsfeed. What's next? A selfie with the coffin?? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">However, there's something even less outrageous, but more pervasive and unsettling, that's happening. It's a pressure to post about the deaths of our loved ones. There used to be the right to privacy about life and death and everything in between. Now, as we share our vacations, engagements, weddings, promotions, and births in real time, we also share sickness and death. When my father died, I felt compelled to post photos of Dad and our family in happier times, to share stories from our life together. With each "like", I felt there was one more person who must understand the pain I felt, a pain that would define me in a totally new way and that I wanted the world, or at least my corner of the world, to know. But, social media is a fickle thing - not everything you post is read by everyone you've "friended," not every "friend" really cares about what happens in your life. To demand and offer intimacy in the same action can be a danger and a disappointment as these moments become a part of continuous digital feed thrown out to be consumed or ignored by the masses. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, right this minute, take a breath and stop all of the liking/posting/tweeting/retweeting/regramming and any other sharing you're tempted to do after the latest celebrity death. Got some poetry you're itching to use on this monumental occasion - then keep it to yourself and save it for the eulogy of a loved one you actually know. If you're into prayer, then pray for Robin Williams' family and friends as they grieve for their loved one who has departed this earth too soon. Watch his movies and thank him for the moments of joy he brought to your life. Even better, imagine if Robin Williams was your father or your brother or your husband or your son or your friend and needed help. Stop posting and, instead, volunteer at a suicide prevention hotline or become aware of those around you in distress and try your best to help them.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-78786076351220504942014-05-22T18:02:00.001-04:002014-05-22T18:02:58.598-04:00Don't Look Down: A Graduation Guide for Parents<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over the past few weeks, my Facebook feed has made me abundantly aware that it's graduation season. Everyone, from kindergarten tots to the middle school-bound, high school seniors, and college grads are donning caps and gowns and big smiles. And their parents, in the precious few minutes of quiet, between hosting graduation brunches/lunches/dinners and posting photos of the celebrations, are reflecting on all that they have achieved, and by "they", I mean the parents. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These moments, when you dare to look down from the tightrope that we call ordinary time, can be deeply satisfying, but mostly, they just make you dizzy. On the day of my own college graduation over 20 years ago, I remember this weird, frozen look on my mom's face. She also had that same look on the day of my graduation from my master's program, and on my wedding day. Was it a look of gratitude? A little. But, mostly, it was a look of astonishment, a look of bewilderment that this grand experiment called parenthood, and its 6,570 days of dirty laundry, school lunches, colds, coughs, fevers, picky eaters, praying, door-slamming, sleepovers, Cub Scouts, more praying, swim meets, dance recitals, permission slips, first dates, more praying, and curfews was all coming to an end and that she'd made it! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So now, what do you do? Who do you become? Do you write that book you wanted to write? Do you take that trip that you always wanted? Do you finally quit that job that you've hated? You might not be wearing a cap and gown, but your child's graduation day marks the beginning of a new phase of your life, too:) </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-90671287612879046942014-02-21T21:52:00.000-05:002014-02-21T21:52:25.940-05:00The Big Chop: When a Haircut is More Than a Haircut<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This past week, the world was rocked by news out of the British Royal Palace that the deliciously lovely brown locks of the Duchess of Cambridge were under assault by, of all people, her mother-in-law! And this coming shortly on the heels of another royal pig-pile, this one involving her grandmother-in-law, the Queen, and her decree regarding Kate's hemlines (below the knee, ducky). Judging by the outflow of social media angst and anger over the suggestion that the Duchess adopt a shorter, more mommy-friendly hair cut, you had to wonder about the larger issues at stake. Was this yet another instance of royal meddling, the likes of which had been endured by another beauty who dared marry into the Buckingham Palace set? Was this a punch to the throat to feminism or was it just another case of female competition? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hair, it appears, is a very touchy subject these days. There was the "Afro-magnifico" of New York Mayor Bill de Blasio's son, as well as the natural hair looks of the daughter de Blasio and the mayor's wife. And the case of an African-American local TV news personality who was fired for wearing her hair in a natural, nonchemically-straightened style. Even the occupants of the White House get unnecessary attention over all things follicled - with the First Lady and her blow-out and the First Daughters and their natural hair styles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've gone through my own hair battles all of my life - from press and curls, to Jerri Curls, back to press and curls, to cornrows, to individuals, to relaxers, and now, most recently, a close-cropped natural 'fro. Women in the know call this "the big chop" - the super-short haircut to get all of the chemicals out of the hair and to return it to its virgin (and in my case tightly curled) state. This wasn't the first time I'd ever had my hair cut short, so this wasn't the deep trauma that you see on a daytime talk show ambush makeover where the victim with hair down to her waist has her hair cut to chin length. But, this was the first time that I'd had a short haircut minus the chemical hair straightener. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The day of the big chop, I walked out the salon and straight into the cold winter air. For the first time, I truly felt the cold wind whipping through my now substantially shorter hair! Over the next few weeks after the big chop, I did a slow roll-out of the new haircut to family, friends, clients, and I did my own internal focus group testing. Reaction among other black women has been consistently and sometimes overwhelmingly positive, depending on age. Young professionals in the under-30 age group thought my haircut was saucy and they loved how healthy my hair looked. My middle-aged group were a mixed bag, with some admiring my courage and others giving no reaction at all. Finally were the 55-plus group of black women, most of whom had already done their own big chop many years ago and who greeted me with words to the effect of, "isn't it nice to be free?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then there were the other reactions. These weren't negative reactions in the sense of what the hell did you do/this is awful/will it grow back? Instead, it was as if Harry Potter had thrown his invisibility cloak over me. I passed undetected through the offices of several clients - I mean they saw me, but they failed to recognize me. A couple of weeks ago, I was at the airport, on my way home from a five-day conference, and in the waiting area I saw a participant from that same conference. She and I have attended this conference for several years and we even shared a flight home after this same conference the year before. So when I said, "hello", I thought there would be some hint of recognition. There wasn't. When our flight landed, and we were all waiting to pick up our luggage, we were only a couple of feet apart, but still nothing. By the time I rolled my bags out to wait for my ride, this same woman came over to get into her idling black town car, mere inches from me, but still nothing. Even Facebook and it's facial recognition software were vexed, asking me if I wanted to tag a photo of me with the name of another friend who also happens to be a black woman with short hair and glasses (sorry Cynthia!). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I feel like I've disappeared, or have been reborn - I can't decide which. When my non-black friends first saw my hair, they all, to a person, noticed that I'd cut my hair. But, what they didn't know, and, perhaps, couldn't know, about this haircut was that its changes run deeper than the shortness of my hair. They couldn't know that these tightly-packed curls were a signal to all whom I meet that I am different and I love how I am different. They couldn't know that my life prior to the big chop meant avoiding any activities which could do harm to my chemically relaxed hair; half-day marathon appointments at the hairdresser; a constant search for and acquisition of umbrellas; and, in my case, not learning how to swim until I was an adult and sporting cornrows! I am learning to be beautiful in a world where people tell me that I'm not beautiful because my hair is too nappy, my skin too dark, and my body too large. And before you roll your eyes and wonder whether I'm going to dare to "go there" with that old chestnut, "beauty's on the inside", that's not where this is heading. Sure, your inside should be beautiful, but we need to expand our notions of outward, visible beauty, as well, just as I am doing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I think about it, the hardest adjustment I've had to make has been recognizing that my chemically straightened hair wasn't helping me to fit in, but was helping me to hide out, to disappear myself into the easily acceptable. I am trying, now, only to be myself and to love all of who I am, even if that makes some people uncomfortable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-54470080901034510922014-02-17T19:11:00.003-05:002014-02-17T19:11:54.196-05:00What Kind of Cat Are You: Trying to Curb My BuzzFeed Quiz Addiction<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hi, my name is Shannon and I can't stop taking BuzzFeed quizzes. There, I've admitted it, and I know I'm not alone. By now, you probably know what career you should actually have, how many children you should have, when you should have gotten married, what state you actually belong in, what kind of dog you are, which Jane Austen heroine you are, and what kind of parent you are - all thanks to Jonah Peretti, the founder of BuzzFeed, and his army of editors who've made the website into the stickiest little time-waster ever! And while I appreciate all of the psychological insights that a gal can garner over a 10-question quiz, I'm curious about why these quizzes are so seductive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's not like they're breaking new ground. When I was in college, my friends and I would take those Cosmo quizzes more seriously than our GREs, LSATs, and MCATs. However, those Cosmo quizzes were a bit more, shall we say, frisky, in terms of their content - from what kind of girlfriend are you to what your favorite sexual position says about you. You had a feeling that a team of Cosmo psychologists were working around the clock fashioning these quizzes, which, incidentally, seemed to go on forever, and which required deep introspection. Maybe my submissive tendencies in romantic relationships <i><b>were </b></i>sabotaging my workplace ambitions! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the time I entered graduate school, it was the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator personality test that was all the rage. This was the ultimate Cosmo quiz, only this time, instead of taking the test on a Friday night with a few glasses of wine with your girlfriends in front of the TV, this one was given to you in a classroom or at work. And the results of this test had implications far beyond your antics in the bedroom. Myers-Briggs produced the ultimate "aha" moment, putting the events of the test-takers lives inside of a framework that helped them to make sense of all of their successes and failures up to that point. So maybe my fear of public speaking had nothing to do with my intelligence, after all, and could be explained by my being a hardcore Introvert! In just four letters, a diagnosis for my life could be made, and also a prescription to fix what was wrong. No more ENTJ boyfriends for this INFP girl - no way!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Myers-Briggs, Cosmo, and now BuzzFeed, are all a variant on our need to diagnose where we are. They are a third-party observer who can assess how we're doing and if we're happy. Did we take the right job? Are we married to the right person? These quizzes are our opportunity to check in - like cheap forms of therapy. And then we share the results with each other, providing another opportunity for people to know us better. BuzzFeed may be a new technology, but within it is the oldest human need, that of intimacy through revelation. And now I'm off to find out if I'm a hipster and what font I am. Spoiler alert: I think I'm a hardcore Verdana, although I've played the harlot with Courier once or twice:)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-22455918857499990432014-01-27T12:51:00.000-05:002014-01-27T12:51:10.437-05:00Awards Shows and the Art of Giving Thanks<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's awards show season - that magical time of the year when miles of red carpet are burned through by the hordes of celebrities and their supporting cast of publicists, stylists, makeup artists, photographers, and correspondents yelling "what are you wearing" against the sonic boom of screaming fans penned behind metal barriers. It would seem the most self-serving of spectacles for all involved - from the fan looking to get social media gold with a selfie alongside a celebrity, to the reporter trying to get the "get" with an off-the-cuff celebrity moment that could go viral, to the stylist who can boast that they had intimate knowledge of the vast amounts of sticky tape they needed to use in order to help a certain starlet avoid a XXX moment on the red carpet, the designer whose dress graces the body of said starlet, the jeweler whose bobbles adorn the starlet, and on and on! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then the show begins, and that starlet, waiting anxiously in a vast auditorium, hears her name being called, and she takes her terrifying and exhilarating walk down the aisle, pushing past the cameras, and making her way up to the stage where two presenters await her with a gleaming statuette in their hands. In this moment, as the tears start, she begins the task of giving thanks. The pros will have memorized their list of those to thank or they will have prepared, in advance, a list of those to thank, and they will deliver that list flawlessly. But there are also those who have not prepared. For reasons having to do with superstition or an attempt to look humble, these folks don't prepare anything. So when their name is called, t</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">heir minds draw a blank, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">and they stammer and stumble their way through their acceptance speech, invariably forgetting those whose hard work, love and support brought them to this moment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is an experience that all of us can relate to - sometimes, we forget to thank those who contributed in ways big and small to what we have and what we have achieved. So, this awards season, don't forget to thank your own supporting cast.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-80993853620880241982014-01-23T15:26:00.001-05:002014-01-23T15:26:38.092-05:00I'm Just Saying: An Attitude of Ingratitude: What to do with Justin...<a href="http://imjustsaying-shannonphotogal.blogspot.com/2014/01/an-attitude-of-ingratitude-what-to-do.html?spref=bl">I'm Just Saying: An Attitude of Ingratitude: What to do with Justin...</a>: Well, it looks like Justin Bieber has, once again, proven that if you have a goal and work hard enough, you just might get your wish - congr...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1097429228879255938.post-33423637019639577822014-01-23T15:23:00.000-05:002014-01-23T15:23:38.874-05:00An Attitude of Ingratitude: What to do with Justin Bieber<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, it looks like Justin Bieber has, once again, proven that if you have a goal and work hard enough, you just might get your wish - congratulations on your <a href="http://www.tmz.com/2014/01/23/justin-bieber-arrested-dui-drunk-driving-miami-beach-drag-racing/">arrest </a>in Miami! You've come close, oh so close, before, Biebs, and we all collectively grieved your failure to get popped by the cops after your allegedly wild parties and flooring it in residential areas. But, now, you've made it and your smiling mug shot is a sort of class picture, for you have graduated to the ranks of the arrested. If only they had played "Pomp and Circumstance" for you as you pimp-rolled into the courtroom sporting your prison orange! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But that's not all! It seems in the hours leading up to your arrest you were one busy boy - hanging out (shirtless) in nightclubs and getting your (underage) "drink on"! And, oh look, you even resisted arrest??!! That's like hitting the trifecta! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Am I picking on you, Biebs? Am I just another one of those "haters" you've referenced who always seem to be "hating"? Or am I someone who cannot stomach the obvious ingratitude you have for the good fortune you have? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And while I guess I could give you a pass, you know, because you're 19 and had a tough childhood and that your fame and money-making ability has resulted in a largely unsupervised adolescence which is sputtering into a chaotic young adulthood, I do wonder about the man you will become. Unfortunately, ingratitude isn't something you age out of, like a hankering for Pop Rocks or a love of Teletubbies. Sometimes, life kicks the ingratitude out of you, like a vicious thug, and takes away those things that you were fortunate enough to have but treated with contempt. And I'm not just talking about money - no! Talent, adulation, respect - these can all wither away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So here's my advice - put your shirt on and get grateful! Instead of glamorizing your privileged white boy version of thug life, work to keep at-risk children out of the juvenile justice system. You see, you're slumming it and I'm calling your bluff - cease and desist! Stop glamorizing ghetto fabulous, stop twerking your heads off, stop buying lap dances at grungy strip clubs from women living at the fringes, and stop drinking all of the non-medicinal cough syrup you want because you get to retreat to your mansion and your millions. Stop treating your odyssey to the wrong side of the tracks as if it were a trip to Disneyland. And now that you're finally in jail, pull your pants up! I know this has nothing to do with gratitude on a large scale, but I'd certainly be grateful:)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08285005245408632952noreply@blogger.com0