This week, we saw the end of another season of Bravo's Top Chef, with a new Celebrity Chef wannabe crowned as winner. The romance of the chef lives on, and on and on. It's a world of foul-mouthed, tatted-up boys unleashing their vast mental stores of culinary whoop-ass on each other. There's trash-talk, moments of self-doubt, and triumphant, tasty brilliance. I've seen the chef-testants (Bravo's word, not mine) make a dish from the contents of the lowly vending machine. I've seen them fashion potatoes into pasta, and magic fois gras hamburgers. But for all of their creativity and ingenuity, the best Top Chef I've ever known was my Grandmother.
Grandma was a visionary. Long before we started praising those daring French chefs and their use of organ meats, Grandma was serving up her own Southern-fried charcuterie - basically, whatever was on sale at the grocery store that week. The dish made its debut at the Sunday family dinner. If there was a sale on whole chickens, then chicken it was for Sunday and chicken it would be for the rest of the week!
Sunday - chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables
Monday - chicken and potato pancakes (made from Sunday's mashed potatoes)
Tuesday - chicken and dumplings served with Sunday's vegetables
Wednesday - chicken soup with biscuits
Thursday - chicken casserole
Friday - No chicken (Grandma was a pre-Vatican II RC, so no meat on Fridays, ever!!!)
My sweet little grandmother managed to do all of this in her floral, zippered house dress and scuffs, instead of chef's whites and expensive clogs. Instead of bravado, she served up daily brilliance with a smile and we were all well fed and happy. She didn't "stage" with the likes of Eric Ripert, but she learned her killer culinary techniques from some of the best cooks she knew: from her sister, Alice, she learned the art of the bundt cake. From her sister, Hilda, she learned how to make the best sheet cake I've ever tasted. From her sister, Lucille, she learned to make the fluffiest and most buttery dinner roll on this earth. And from her mom, she learned everything else. In her younger days, she had been a line cook, actually the cook, for my Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen's small luncheonette. She'd occasionally work there when I was a little girl, and during my summers, I'd accompany her there and watch her in action.
Having never attended The Culinary Institute of America, my grandmother learned by holding her feet to the fire, or should it be the meat to the fire (I know, bad pun! Bad pun!!). She may not have been able to tell you what a brunoise (food cut into a very fine chop) is, but she had the technique to execute it. Her only kitchen knife, which she used for cutting vegetables and butchering meat, wasn't anything you'll see in a Williams-Sonoma catalogue.
As for food and wine pairings, well just forget that. My grandmother only liked one wine and it was Manischewitz (with one ice cube added). Even now, when I have a bit of port after dinner, I think of Grandma with her juice glass of Manischewitz, and the sound of the lone ice cube clattering to the bottom of the glass as she finished. And so here's a toast to you, Grandma, for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner that you cooked with your own hands just for me. Yelp and Zagat's may have overlooked you, but you have 3 Michelin stars in my heart - I'm just saying:)
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Hollywood's "Daddy Issues"
So now it's official - 26-year-old actress Scarlett Johansson and 50-year-old actor/activist/abuser of paparazzi/ex-husband of Madonna Sean Penn are dating. Creepy though this is, it's also troubling, as we now have clear, incontrovertible proof that Hollywood has Daddy Issues. I know, you're wondering how can Hollywood have Daddy Issues? Usually, this term is flippantly reserved for ladies in clear-heels dancing for cash tips and implies that these young girls, so unloved and rejected by their fathers, will do anything to score an older man's attention and simulate that missing dynamic. What I mean, though, is that the rulers of Hollywood - the men who produce, direct, and star in films - love this myth, and if you're an actress with success on her mind, then you'd be wise to get with the program. Think I'm Just Saying is off her rocker???Let's apply this methodology to Scarlett.
Scarlett Johansson, with her throaty voice, plush lips, and curvaceous body has been compared to a latter-day pin-up girl, and a real-life Jessica Rabbit. She made her big-screen debut when she was only nine years old, encouraged by what looks to be a large, supportive family. But soon, like Britney and Miley, Scarlett the little girl became Scarlett the woman, and the Hollywood Hyper-Sexualization Machine was in full throttle. It was like the dirty old men that inhabit Tinseltown had been lying in wait, anxiously wringing their hands over what they would do once this precious little thing reached the legal age of consent! And while the rumor mill linked Scarlett to names such as Benicio del Toro (a.k.a. the Puerto Rican Brad Pitt) and Justin "[Junk] in the Box" Timberlake, her actual connections with older men show an interesting pattern.
Her role in Sofia Coppola's "Lost in Translation" had her playing the romantic lead opposite Bill Murray. Look, I loved him on "Saturday Night Live" - I even liked him in "What About Bob", but the fact that this man was 34 years old when Scarlett was born??? That's creepy!
Let's move onto another movie starring Scarlett - "Girl with a Pearl Earring," where she plays a young maid and inspiration for the Dutch painter Vermeer's 17th Century painting by the same name. Colin Firth was cast as Vermeer, and the story takes on the rather traditional turn of the older man teaching the young woman and guiding her to understanding her blossoming sexuality. Sounds rather sweet, doesn't it - until you realize that Colin Firth was 24 years old when Scarlett was born!! That's one more point for the creepy side.
And then there was Scarlett's three-movie arc with Woody Allen ("Match Point", "Scoop", and "Vicky Cristina Barcelona") - she may have earned a PhD in the Creep Factor with that! I'm sure that he and his ex-stepdaughter/wife Soon-Yi Previn, and their 34 year age gap, served as constant sources of inspiration for Scarlett! In one of the creepiest quotes ever, Woody Allen, when asked about his impressions of Scarlett during the filming of "Match Point" described Scarlett as "sexually overwhelming." She was 20 years old at the time. That's Double Creepy!!
By the time Scarlett announced she was getting married to actor Ryan Reynolds, who is 8 years older than her, we thought "great!!" Yes, he was older, but we were thrilled that the age gap hadn't hit double digits. This is progress people!!
But soon that progress was put to the test when Scarlett headed to Broadway to play yet another sultry, under aged seductress to a hard-edged, older man in Arthur Miller's, "A View from the Bridge." The chipmunk-cheeked actor Liev Schreiber was 17 years older than his leading lady, and while the critics heaped praise on the inspired casting of this production, all I could think was YUCK!!
Last year brought with it the end of Scarlett's marriage to Ryan Reynolds, and now she's back in the saddle with yet another Old Raisin! Hollywood's old coots must be beside themselves with joy for their Lolita myth has been restored. Maybe she and Sean Penn can do a remake of "Love in the Afternoon", with Sean Penn in Gary Cooper's role and Scarlett replacing Audrey Hepburn. Don't know what the story's about? Well, an older, more sophisticated man meets a younger woman who discovers her blossoming sexuality.....I'm just saying!!
Scarlett Johansson, with her throaty voice, plush lips, and curvaceous body has been compared to a latter-day pin-up girl, and a real-life Jessica Rabbit. She made her big-screen debut when she was only nine years old, encouraged by what looks to be a large, supportive family. But soon, like Britney and Miley, Scarlett the little girl became Scarlett the woman, and the Hollywood Hyper-Sexualization Machine was in full throttle. It was like the dirty old men that inhabit Tinseltown had been lying in wait, anxiously wringing their hands over what they would do once this precious little thing reached the legal age of consent! And while the rumor mill linked Scarlett to names such as Benicio del Toro (a.k.a. the Puerto Rican Brad Pitt) and Justin "[Junk] in the Box" Timberlake, her actual connections with older men show an interesting pattern.
Her role in Sofia Coppola's "Lost in Translation" had her playing the romantic lead opposite Bill Murray. Look, I loved him on "Saturday Night Live" - I even liked him in "What About Bob", but the fact that this man was 34 years old when Scarlett was born??? That's creepy!
Let's move onto another movie starring Scarlett - "Girl with a Pearl Earring," where she plays a young maid and inspiration for the Dutch painter Vermeer's 17th Century painting by the same name. Colin Firth was cast as Vermeer, and the story takes on the rather traditional turn of the older man teaching the young woman and guiding her to understanding her blossoming sexuality. Sounds rather sweet, doesn't it - until you realize that Colin Firth was 24 years old when Scarlett was born!! That's one more point for the creepy side.
And then there was Scarlett's three-movie arc with Woody Allen ("Match Point", "Scoop", and "Vicky Cristina Barcelona") - she may have earned a PhD in the Creep Factor with that! I'm sure that he and his ex-stepdaughter/wife Soon-Yi Previn, and their 34 year age gap, served as constant sources of inspiration for Scarlett! In one of the creepiest quotes ever, Woody Allen, when asked about his impressions of Scarlett during the filming of "Match Point" described Scarlett as "sexually overwhelming." She was 20 years old at the time. That's Double Creepy!!
By the time Scarlett announced she was getting married to actor Ryan Reynolds, who is 8 years older than her, we thought "great!!" Yes, he was older, but we were thrilled that the age gap hadn't hit double digits. This is progress people!!
But soon that progress was put to the test when Scarlett headed to Broadway to play yet another sultry, under aged seductress to a hard-edged, older man in Arthur Miller's, "A View from the Bridge." The chipmunk-cheeked actor Liev Schreiber was 17 years older than his leading lady, and while the critics heaped praise on the inspired casting of this production, all I could think was YUCK!!
Last year brought with it the end of Scarlett's marriage to Ryan Reynolds, and now she's back in the saddle with yet another Old Raisin! Hollywood's old coots must be beside themselves with joy for their Lolita myth has been restored. Maybe she and Sean Penn can do a remake of "Love in the Afternoon", with Sean Penn in Gary Cooper's role and Scarlett replacing Audrey Hepburn. Don't know what the story's about? Well, an older, more sophisticated man meets a younger woman who discovers her blossoming sexuality.....I'm just saying!!
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Birth and Death of Chocolate City: A New Perspective on Washington, DC
Last weekend, my husband and I took my mom and dad on a field trip down memory lane. Our destination was Ben's Chili Bowl, the eatery made famous in recent years by a visit from a certain White House resident who goes by the name of POTUS. But Ben's Chili Bowl already had established a warm spot in the hearts of the citizens of the Nation's Capitol, and not just because of its chili and cheese Philly half-smokes! Ben Ali and his wife, Virginia, opened Ben's Chili Bowl in 1958 on U Street. The street was dotted with clubs where legendary black entertainers performed, earning the area the nickname of the "Black Broadway". U Street was a part of the Shaw neighborhood, and it was into this neighborhood that my dad and his mom settled upon their arrival from rural southeast Virginia.
To my dad and others like him, DC was the land of opportunity, where a black man could own his own home, start a business, and eat a hot dog seated next to stars like Ella Fitzgerald or Bill Cosby. He was a frequent visitor to Ben's Chili Bowl, in good times and in bad, and the bad times came with the riots of 1968. The riots tore through the city, leaving city blocks in tatters. In the first few days after the riots, while the streets of DC were still smoldering, Ben's Chili Bowl was one of the few restaurants open to feed the exhausted firefighters and volunteers who were working to restore order. The aftermath of the riots would bring about some of the most profound changes in DC. The city's white population fled to the safety of the suburbs in large numbers, and in the years to follow, Washington, DC became Chocolate City.
My dad considered himself one of the lucky ones, having forsaken his adopted city shortly before the riots to take up his role as husband, and later as father in the suburbs outside of DC. However, he made frequent return trips to the old neighborhood to visit his mom. By the 1970's, seven out of ten of every Washingtonian was black, but those numbers don't really portray the state of their existence in those sections of the city that had been leveled by the '68 riots. The city block on which his mother lived had been the epicenter of the riots, and was several bus rides away from all of the necessities one needed for life. It was also turning exceedingly dangerous as open air drug markets and violent crime took over the landscape. There was a growing divide between the blacks who "made it" and were living the suburban dream of manicured lawns and thriving children, and the blacks who were "stuck" in the city.
While last week's release of the latest Census data - showing an 11% decrease in Washington, DC's African-American population - made for blaring headlines, there is a much more intimate narrative at work here. Sitting at a table at Ben's Chili Bowl, and listening as my mom and dad and Virginia Ali spoke of old times, I was suddenly struck by how profound a loss is the loss of a community of shared experience. But I was also struck by how these new residents will erect their own communities of meaning.
I'm just saying.
To my dad and others like him, DC was the land of opportunity, where a black man could own his own home, start a business, and eat a hot dog seated next to stars like Ella Fitzgerald or Bill Cosby. He was a frequent visitor to Ben's Chili Bowl, in good times and in bad, and the bad times came with the riots of 1968. The riots tore through the city, leaving city blocks in tatters. In the first few days after the riots, while the streets of DC were still smoldering, Ben's Chili Bowl was one of the few restaurants open to feed the exhausted firefighters and volunteers who were working to restore order. The aftermath of the riots would bring about some of the most profound changes in DC. The city's white population fled to the safety of the suburbs in large numbers, and in the years to follow, Washington, DC became Chocolate City.
My dad considered himself one of the lucky ones, having forsaken his adopted city shortly before the riots to take up his role as husband, and later as father in the suburbs outside of DC. However, he made frequent return trips to the old neighborhood to visit his mom. By the 1970's, seven out of ten of every Washingtonian was black, but those numbers don't really portray the state of their existence in those sections of the city that had been leveled by the '68 riots. The city block on which his mother lived had been the epicenter of the riots, and was several bus rides away from all of the necessities one needed for life. It was also turning exceedingly dangerous as open air drug markets and violent crime took over the landscape. There was a growing divide between the blacks who "made it" and were living the suburban dream of manicured lawns and thriving children, and the blacks who were "stuck" in the city.
While last week's release of the latest Census data - showing an 11% decrease in Washington, DC's African-American population - made for blaring headlines, there is a much more intimate narrative at work here. Sitting at a table at Ben's Chili Bowl, and listening as my mom and dad and Virginia Ali spoke of old times, I was suddenly struck by how profound a loss is the loss of a community of shared experience. But I was also struck by how these new residents will erect their own communities of meaning.
I'm just saying.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Chris Brown and Charlie Sheen: Separate and Unequal??
It's been quite a week for (in)famous (alleged) batterers of women. Charlie Sheen sells out Madison Square Garden while denying rumors that he's returned to "Two and a Half Men," and hip-hop artist Chris Brown emerges shirtless from the Good Morning America NYC studio after a violent rage caused by a tough interview. Somewhere the ghost of Ike Turner is kicking himself and wishing he was alive right now!! What a terrific time to be a male star who abuses women. The world is your oyster - you can release your comeback album, throw temper tantrums (and chairs), play the victim, and be treated to a lap dance in a 12-hour period (Mr. Brown); or you can have two strippers/porn stars babysit your children and can cash in on the psycho-babblings of your Twitter feed (Mr. Sheen).
But, alas, not all is well. Following the firestorm that erupted after his post-GMA tirade, Chris Brown tweeted that he was angry that the media continues to bring up his domestic violence, while Charlie Sheen is given a pass (the actual tweet contained some spicier verbiage!). So is there a double standard in the treatment of Chris Brown and Charlie Sheen? Yes, there is. So what is it based on? The answer may not be so obvious. Here are some factors that may be at work:
But, alas, not all is well. Following the firestorm that erupted after his post-GMA tirade, Chris Brown tweeted that he was angry that the media continues to bring up his domestic violence, while Charlie Sheen is given a pass (the actual tweet contained some spicier verbiage!). So is there a double standard in the treatment of Chris Brown and Charlie Sheen? Yes, there is. So what is it based on? The answer may not be so obvious. Here are some factors that may be at work:
- Race - The image of the violent, angry black man is, unfortunately, still a go-to stereotype in the minds of some, and images of a snarling, smirking, and shirtless Chris Brown only serve to reinforce this prejudice. He has been portrayed as an animalistic, violent thug, while Charlie Sheen is viewed as the sad, drunken uncle that your mom warns you about whose completely harmless. His rantings are fodder for "The Soup" and his jovial, even affable manner, has made him a media darling.
- Bimbo vs. Good Girl - Charlie Sheen has a long history of violence against women, however, with the exception of Kelly Preston, whom he shot in 1990 when they were engaged, these women have either had careers in the adult entertainment industry or were abusing drugs and alcohol. These women were no match for Sheen and his millions, and a public who believes the worst when it comes to certain types of women who do certain kinds of things with men. Contrast this situation with Chris Brown who had the nerve to rough up Rihanna, a "nice" girl who was successful on her own. The fact that the two had been in a long-term committed relationship only added to the public's sense of betrayal, after all we'd watched them on countless red carpets together. Add to this that there were actual photos showing Rihanna's bruised, puffy punch-battered face and you've got a slam dunk!
- Addiction vs. Anger - The treatment of addiction is both illusive and frustrating, and for celebrities the fame and narcissism can make addiction fatal. Reality shows, like the repulsive "Celebrity Rehab," and the over-the-top "Being Bobby Brown," while exploiting their celeb subjects, have also taken us behind the fame wall and made us sympathetic to those wrestling with addiction. It's become standard operating procedure for celebrities like La-Lohan to sign themselves immediately into a rehab facility following extremely bad behavior. We can forgive addiction. So it's little wonder that Charlie Sheen has found a soft spot in the hearts and minds of so many, after all, his rages were fueled by addiction, or so we assume, and so he is given a pass. Not so with Chris Brown, though. He's an angry man, that's it, pure and simple - case closed!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
When "The Rules" Ruled the World: A 2011 Update on a Relationship Classic
The Rules. Do you remember it? This slender tome with a diamond engagement ring as its cover illustration rocked the dating world, breaking open the myths of gender equality and exposing the soft, underbelly of the modern single woman. We, the Young and the Ring-less, snatched up the book as if it were pure gold. After all, its two authors - Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider - promised us a life of marital bliss with these, "time-tested secrets for capturing the heart of Mr. Right." So I caved. It was 1996 and I thought, "why not?"
In all, there were 35 Rules, beginning with Rule #1 - "Be a Creature Unlike Any Other." While this one sounded rather Sphinx-like, the others seemed like a throw-back to the 1950s, like Rule #2 - "Don't talk to a man first (and don't ask him to dance)," or this one, Rule #3 - "Don't stare at men or talk too much." The more I read, the more incredulous I was, but, I was also feeling another, unexpected emotion - wonder. Wondering if I did talk too much. Wondering if my flirty glances at men were indeed too much. In short, The Rules made me a self-doubting basket case. And just when I thought I'd had enough, then came Rule #33 - "Do The Rules and you'll live happily ever after." Awesome, just when I thought I was out, The Rules dragged me back again!#%*&!!!
Looking back at my dog-eared, and much thumbed-through copy of The Rules, I'm shocked that I was led down this path by two uncredentialed hacks, but a lot of us were so I figure I was in good company. There's a whole new generation of young ladies, though, dating footloose and fancy-free, flagrantly violating The Rules!! Technology is to blame for a lot of it. In this age of texting, Tweeting, and Facebooking, Rule #5 ("Don't call him and rarely return his calls") is unthinkable. And Rules #19 ("Don't open up too fast") and #20 ("Be honest but mysterious") are counter intuitive in our over-share culture where your Flickr gallery allows you to instantly upload a highlight reel of every hour of your day!
So let's write our own rules, The I'm Just Saying Relationship and Dating Rules 2011. Here goes:
In all, there were 35 Rules, beginning with Rule #1 - "Be a Creature Unlike Any Other." While this one sounded rather Sphinx-like, the others seemed like a throw-back to the 1950s, like Rule #2 - "Don't talk to a man first (and don't ask him to dance)," or this one, Rule #3 - "Don't stare at men or talk too much." The more I read, the more incredulous I was, but, I was also feeling another, unexpected emotion - wonder. Wondering if I did talk too much. Wondering if my flirty glances at men were indeed too much. In short, The Rules made me a self-doubting basket case. And just when I thought I'd had enough, then came Rule #33 - "Do The Rules and you'll live happily ever after." Awesome, just when I thought I was out, The Rules dragged me back again!#%*&!!!
Looking back at my dog-eared, and much thumbed-through copy of The Rules, I'm shocked that I was led down this path by two uncredentialed hacks, but a lot of us were so I figure I was in good company. There's a whole new generation of young ladies, though, dating footloose and fancy-free, flagrantly violating The Rules!! Technology is to blame for a lot of it. In this age of texting, Tweeting, and Facebooking, Rule #5 ("Don't call him and rarely return his calls") is unthinkable. And Rules #19 ("Don't open up too fast") and #20 ("Be honest but mysterious") are counter intuitive in our over-share culture where your Flickr gallery allows you to instantly upload a highlight reel of every hour of your day!
So let's write our own rules, The I'm Just Saying Relationship and Dating Rules 2011. Here goes:
- Don't post naked/scantily clad photos of yourself on your Facebook page because the boys who see your page might think you're a tramp.
- The "I'm so buzzed" pics that you snap on your camera phone make you look like a sweaty mess. If you're going out for a raucous evening with your posse, either leave the phone at home or keep it tucked safely in the pocket of your jeans.
- If you go to your friends' weddings, don't take too many trips to the bar. The man of your dreams might be a cute cousin of the groom, so you just might be singing your stunning, staggering version of Ke$ha's "Don't Stop" in front of people who could be your future in-laws!!
- Catching up on your reading doesn't mean paying a visit to Wikipedia. Being stupid is never attractive, not even if you're an over-paid television actor who wears hokey shirts and has a last name that rhymes with "clean."
- Maybe it's not a good idea to tell the guy on your first date about your gluten-free, vegan, organic diet. Instead, skip dinner and go listen to a band.
- If you spend your first date together sharing your iPhone apps, it does not mean that you should start shopping for engagement rings!
- Ugg boots are NOT suitable for every dating occasion and outfit, so leave the Chewbacca footwear to the ski slopes and bust out a nice ballet flat for date night.
- If he picks you up for your date in a Zip Car then he should go home ALONE in the Zip Car!!
- Pausing the date several times in order to upload your review on Yelp is obnoxious - your thoughts on the ragout of candied cherry tomatoes is just not that important, so get over yourself.
- If you're non-exclusively dating, then resist the urge to hit the "Like" button every time your part-time beau updates their status.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Don't Diss the Clogs: One Woman's Crusade Against the Agony of De-Feet!
Recently, celebrity shoe-meister Christian Louboutin announced from his 5-inch Mount Olympus that he detests clogs - I'm talking the shoes, not those pesky plumbing problems. For those not in the know, today's clogs are a far cry from the old wooden shoes your grandparents brought back from their trip to Holland. The clog is a rugged, comfortable piece of footwear - maybe not so stylish if you equate style with excruciatingly painful strutting about on sky-high stilts.
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Our before My, and We before I: A Crash Course in Relationship Linguistics
There was a time in my not-so-distant past that I was an "I", and what was mine was mine. But that was when I was single. Oh, occasionally when I was dating a fellow I'd slip in the odd "we" or "our", but never within earshot of the guy or he'd be sprinting out the door! It seems that a pronoun change says more about commitment than putting a ring on it.
But I must admit that after all these years of marriage, I find myself uneasy and on the cusp of rebellion against the customs which dictate that "we" come before "I." I once sent a birthday present to a friend of mine, a friend whom I'd cultivated and known for years prior to meeting the man who would become my husband. She's single and the present was intended for her and her alone. So when the thank you card arrived at my home addressed to both my husband and I, I was beyond peeved. He hadn't remembered her birthday, special ordered the blinged out t-shirt, or selected the poignant-yet-funny birthday card - I did! I hadn't even signed his name to the card, or used our joint mailing labels (that's right, I keep my very own solo mailing labels!). No where in that perfectly packed parcel of birthday delights had I indicated that my husband was in any way involved in this process, and yet the thank you note was addressed to both of us.
I'm still baffled by this one!
The whole "we" before "I" debate can become even more prickly when the matter involves one of the most vile phrases ever: "we're pregnant!" We've all heard that one, and some of us have even spoken those words. And, I get what the phrase is meant to convey - that Dear Old Dad has a place in the vortex of pregnancy. We've all read chapter and verse about how dads can feel left out of the process and, seeking to minimize those feelings, we go all inclusive. But, guess what, unless dads-to-be have finagled a way to gain 30-60 pounds, make their breasts tender, and strap a watermelon on so that it's resting inconveniently on their bladders and forcing them to sleep on their backs for 9 months then "WE" are not pregnant! Now, I don't want to come off as an absolutist, so for those of you who love using this phrase, please, go right ahead, but don't just save it up for pre-natal uses. How's about this: "we're having our period" or, "we look fat in these jeans." Does that sound ridiculous?? Good - case closed!
Look, I'm sure that "we" works better than "I" in some of those tricky situations that couples often find themselves confronting. For instance, it sounds much better to say, "We can't make it to dinner with you" than to say, "I can't stand your husband so I won't be joining you for dinner." And, "we're sorry we're late" is much classier than saying, "Sorry that I spent so much time begging my husband to get dressed to come to your tedious party, which made us late." "We" avoids conflict and lets people fill in the blank in their own minds as to what or who the problem is. It's a very useful united front, that is until the couple divorces, and that "we" gets dropped like a bad habit!
But still, I don't understand why the "we" persists. Hmm. Maybe, it's because the "we" must persist. Maybe it's a means of protecting our fragile psyches from the existential angst that occasionally unmasks the unknown void as our physical bodies journey towards their end. Wow, that got really deep, didn't it?? I'm just saying:)
But I must admit that after all these years of marriage, I find myself uneasy and on the cusp of rebellion against the customs which dictate that "we" come before "I." I once sent a birthday present to a friend of mine, a friend whom I'd cultivated and known for years prior to meeting the man who would become my husband. She's single and the present was intended for her and her alone. So when the thank you card arrived at my home addressed to both my husband and I, I was beyond peeved. He hadn't remembered her birthday, special ordered the blinged out t-shirt, or selected the poignant-yet-funny birthday card - I did! I hadn't even signed his name to the card, or used our joint mailing labels (that's right, I keep my very own solo mailing labels!). No where in that perfectly packed parcel of birthday delights had I indicated that my husband was in any way involved in this process, and yet the thank you note was addressed to both of us.
I'm still baffled by this one!
The whole "we" before "I" debate can become even more prickly when the matter involves one of the most vile phrases ever: "we're pregnant!" We've all heard that one, and some of us have even spoken those words. And, I get what the phrase is meant to convey - that Dear Old Dad has a place in the vortex of pregnancy. We've all read chapter and verse about how dads can feel left out of the process and, seeking to minimize those feelings, we go all inclusive. But, guess what, unless dads-to-be have finagled a way to gain 30-60 pounds, make their breasts tender, and strap a watermelon on so that it's resting inconveniently on their bladders and forcing them to sleep on their backs for 9 months then "WE" are not pregnant! Now, I don't want to come off as an absolutist, so for those of you who love using this phrase, please, go right ahead, but don't just save it up for pre-natal uses. How's about this: "we're having our period" or, "we look fat in these jeans." Does that sound ridiculous?? Good - case closed!
Look, I'm sure that "we" works better than "I" in some of those tricky situations that couples often find themselves confronting. For instance, it sounds much better to say, "We can't make it to dinner with you" than to say, "I can't stand your husband so I won't be joining you for dinner." And, "we're sorry we're late" is much classier than saying, "Sorry that I spent so much time begging my husband to get dressed to come to your tedious party, which made us late." "We" avoids conflict and lets people fill in the blank in their own minds as to what or who the problem is. It's a very useful united front, that is until the couple divorces, and that "we" gets dropped like a bad habit!
But still, I don't understand why the "we" persists. Hmm. Maybe, it's because the "we" must persist. Maybe it's a means of protecting our fragile psyches from the existential angst that occasionally unmasks the unknown void as our physical bodies journey towards their end. Wow, that got really deep, didn't it?? I'm just saying:)
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