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.
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.
DATING
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.
BEWARE THE MALE PROFESSOR TRAP
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.
DRINKING
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.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Friday, August 22, 2014
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The "Here We Go Again" File: Newlyweds and Reality TV
Not so long ago, in late summer of 2003, the world (well, at least the part of the world that watched MTV) was introduced to former boy-bander Nick Lachey and his wife, pop princess Jessica Simpson. She was the buxom "dumb blond" known as much for her purported virginity and controlling daddy/manager as her singing chops, and Nick was the level-headed, down to earth chap who tolerated Jessica's naivete bordering on idiocy. He laughed at her, we laughed at them, and after 41 episodes of their televised marriage (and 3 years of their ACTUAL marriage), the pair filed for divorce. And while the two have moved on to other partners, the damage was done, and soon, like lambs led to the slaughter, other couples signed up for their 15 minutes of fame and reality TV marital curse was born.
Bravo's "Real Housewives of Orange County" launched in 2006 (a.k.a. the year that Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson's divorce was finalized) and a whole new crop of husbands and wives were spilling the inner workings of their relationships on basic cable. By the end of the first season, marriages were on the brink, and now, seven years later, all of those first season Orange County marriages have ended. In fact, in successive iterations of the "Real Housewives" franchise, reality TV marriages from Beverly Hills to Atlanta to Washington, DC, New York, New Jersey and Miami have continued on the fast-track to reality TV divorce.
So, we've all learned a valuable lesson, right?
Marriage + reality TV = bad news
Apparently, I'll need to adjust the learning curve because Bravo debuted a new show called simply, "Newlyweds: The First Year" which puts four newlywed couples in front of the cameras for the first 365 days (and nights) of their marriages. There's John and Kathryn, the former independent city gal who left the mean streets of Manhattan for the life of a stay-at-home wife with a honeymoon baby on the way. Tarz and Tina - he, a tech entrepreneur and she a Bollywood actress looking to have a baby before her biological clock stops ticking. Blair and Jeff - the handsome gay couple overcoming Jeff's painful rejection by his family. And, lastly, Alaska and Kim - the A&R rep for a music label and his stylish stylist wife, torn between the east and west coasts, and struggling for control in their marriage.
So why would anyone sign up for this? What would possess two people who have committed themselves to a partnership eternal to allow cameras access to every fight, every pregnancy test, every eye roll, every empty toilet tissue roll, dirty bath towel, and unintended slight? I don't have an answer, but, for those of you with dreams of spilling the beans about your marital habits on camera, DON'T!
Look, I'm a married woman and I have lots of friends who are married, as well, and the one thing that a marriage definitely doesn't need is an audience. Your marriage is not a play, it's not a movie - if it was, you'd have better writers and your choice of actors and actresses to stand in as a body double for some of those close-ups. Like Ben Affleck's Academy Awards acceptance speech, marriage is messy, in that there generally are no clear-cut winners and losers. There is commitment and love and partnership, and they form the boundaries within which the chaos and challenges of lives lived together exist. A camera is not a silent, objective witness that can settle your domestic clashes, but the couples featured on reality TV treat the camera as such. Instead of building love and trust and good communication with each other, reality TV couples argue their case before the camera, and, once the episode airs, before the social media universe. True intimacy is destroyed as viewers line up behind Team Kim or Team Alaska.
Now, if you think that I'm anticipating an epidemic of more reality TV-induced divorces, I'm not. But, I am concerned that the bad habits of reality TV might have filtered into our everyday lives. Pay a visit to YouTube and you'll see thousands of videos in the "promposal" genre, an adolescent off-shoot of the unique proposal phenomenon that has been going full-steam over the past few years. This isn't cute - it's a cry for help that you shouldn't click to view. I'm just saying:)
Bravo's "Real Housewives of Orange County" launched in 2006 (a.k.a. the year that Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson's divorce was finalized) and a whole new crop of husbands and wives were spilling the inner workings of their relationships on basic cable. By the end of the first season, marriages were on the brink, and now, seven years later, all of those first season Orange County marriages have ended. In fact, in successive iterations of the "Real Housewives" franchise, reality TV marriages from Beverly Hills to Atlanta to Washington, DC, New York, New Jersey and Miami have continued on the fast-track to reality TV divorce.
So, we've all learned a valuable lesson, right?
Marriage + reality TV = bad news
Apparently, I'll need to adjust the learning curve because Bravo debuted a new show called simply, "Newlyweds: The First Year" which puts four newlywed couples in front of the cameras for the first 365 days (and nights) of their marriages. There's John and Kathryn, the former independent city gal who left the mean streets of Manhattan for the life of a stay-at-home wife with a honeymoon baby on the way. Tarz and Tina - he, a tech entrepreneur and she a Bollywood actress looking to have a baby before her biological clock stops ticking. Blair and Jeff - the handsome gay couple overcoming Jeff's painful rejection by his family. And, lastly, Alaska and Kim - the A&R rep for a music label and his stylish stylist wife, torn between the east and west coasts, and struggling for control in their marriage.
So why would anyone sign up for this? What would possess two people who have committed themselves to a partnership eternal to allow cameras access to every fight, every pregnancy test, every eye roll, every empty toilet tissue roll, dirty bath towel, and unintended slight? I don't have an answer, but, for those of you with dreams of spilling the beans about your marital habits on camera, DON'T!
Look, I'm a married woman and I have lots of friends who are married, as well, and the one thing that a marriage definitely doesn't need is an audience. Your marriage is not a play, it's not a movie - if it was, you'd have better writers and your choice of actors and actresses to stand in as a body double for some of those close-ups. Like Ben Affleck's Academy Awards acceptance speech, marriage is messy, in that there generally are no clear-cut winners and losers. There is commitment and love and partnership, and they form the boundaries within which the chaos and challenges of lives lived together exist. A camera is not a silent, objective witness that can settle your domestic clashes, but the couples featured on reality TV treat the camera as such. Instead of building love and trust and good communication with each other, reality TV couples argue their case before the camera, and, once the episode airs, before the social media universe. True intimacy is destroyed as viewers line up behind Team Kim or Team Alaska.
Now, if you think that I'm anticipating an epidemic of more reality TV-induced divorces, I'm not. But, I am concerned that the bad habits of reality TV might have filtered into our everyday lives. Pay a visit to YouTube and you'll see thousands of videos in the "promposal" genre, an adolescent off-shoot of the unique proposal phenomenon that has been going full-steam over the past few years. This isn't cute - it's a cry for help that you shouldn't click to view. I'm just saying:)
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Nation of Hoarders
As I left my house Saturday morning, I noticed dozens of people picking through mountains of stuff assembled on various tables scattered along a sidewalk. It was my neighborhood's annual yard sale, and, judging by the large number of cars and trucks parked on either side of the street, this year's was a success. I've never had the urge to stop by yard sales, which is a pity as this was the third or fourth yard sale I'd passed this week. At one yard sale, we saw a woman practically skipping down a suburban Virginia street with a colossal 60-roll package of toilet tissue. You would have thought she'd just bought a Tom Ford-era Gucci dress in her size for a nickel!!
Maybe it's the recession that's fueling the yard sale craze. With consumer credit in a curious place, that buyer's rush has to be satisfied some way, so why not with a slightly used $3 denim jacket from Old Navy that you picked up from a stranger in their driveway?? But, really, this urge to have and to hold can become dangerous and obsessive. The Target stores have reported that their launch of a mid-priced line of housewares and apparel by Italian fashion house Missoni has resulted in a rash of buyers snapping up the items in bulk, cleaning out entire store inventories, and then reselling these items with a stiff mark-up on online auction sites like eBay. This takes the house-flipping concept to a new low!!
And what about couponing sites like Groupon?? That's great that you can get parachuting lessons for $15 instead of $115, and a $20 bag of groceries for $10 from your favorite whole foods store, and dinner for two for $30, but does anyone ever ask themselves, "do I really need this?" Why are we so consumed with consuming?
I guess, then, it's little wonder why the reality show, "Hoarders" has become so popular. While the cameras roll, we see living rooms piled waist-high with newspapers, kitchens overwhelmed by dirty pots and pans, whole bedrooms packed to the gills with clothing and trash, and, in the midst of it all, a person and their story of loss and loneliness. They stuff more and more and more things into their homes in an attempt to fill the emotional void. Some of them confront this crisis and clean up their act, but some will not, either way, it doesn't matter because the American TV-viewing public loves "Hoarders." Maybe it's good, old-fashioned schadenfreude that makes the show's fans tune in, but I think it's a lurking feeling that we have more in common with the hoarders than we're comfortable admitting. We want it, and we want it NOW, and we want it ALL!
You'd think we'd learned our lessons about the dangers of unfettered appetites, what with the now-global economic crisis, but I guess not. We still want and we still buy, only now, instead of plunking down our credit card at a pricey department store, we throw down cash for another's trash and claim it as treasure, and we don't even use it! How sad is that?? Hoarders take no pleasure in all that they've accumulated. They feel compulsion but not joy. Maybe joy is something that we all could use - real joy at our connections to each other instead of to another thing. I'm just saying:)
Maybe it's the recession that's fueling the yard sale craze. With consumer credit in a curious place, that buyer's rush has to be satisfied some way, so why not with a slightly used $3 denim jacket from Old Navy that you picked up from a stranger in their driveway?? But, really, this urge to have and to hold can become dangerous and obsessive. The Target stores have reported that their launch of a mid-priced line of housewares and apparel by Italian fashion house Missoni has resulted in a rash of buyers snapping up the items in bulk, cleaning out entire store inventories, and then reselling these items with a stiff mark-up on online auction sites like eBay. This takes the house-flipping concept to a new low!!
And what about couponing sites like Groupon?? That's great that you can get parachuting lessons for $15 instead of $115, and a $20 bag of groceries for $10 from your favorite whole foods store, and dinner for two for $30, but does anyone ever ask themselves, "do I really need this?" Why are we so consumed with consuming?
I guess, then, it's little wonder why the reality show, "Hoarders" has become so popular. While the cameras roll, we see living rooms piled waist-high with newspapers, kitchens overwhelmed by dirty pots and pans, whole bedrooms packed to the gills with clothing and trash, and, in the midst of it all, a person and their story of loss and loneliness. They stuff more and more and more things into their homes in an attempt to fill the emotional void. Some of them confront this crisis and clean up their act, but some will not, either way, it doesn't matter because the American TV-viewing public loves "Hoarders." Maybe it's good, old-fashioned schadenfreude that makes the show's fans tune in, but I think it's a lurking feeling that we have more in common with the hoarders than we're comfortable admitting. We want it, and we want it NOW, and we want it ALL!
You'd think we'd learned our lessons about the dangers of unfettered appetites, what with the now-global economic crisis, but I guess not. We still want and we still buy, only now, instead of plunking down our credit card at a pricey department store, we throw down cash for another's trash and claim it as treasure, and we don't even use it! How sad is that?? Hoarders take no pleasure in all that they've accumulated. They feel compulsion but not joy. Maybe joy is something that we all could use - real joy at our connections to each other instead of to another thing. I'm just saying:)
Monday, July 25, 2011
Can a Stay-at-Home Mom Still Be a Feminist?
Over the weekend, my husband and I had the chance to visit with a dear friend and his 16-year-old daughter. They were in town for the daughter's basketball tournament, and in-between the morning and evening games, we took father and daughter, as well as another teammate and her family, out for lunch and an afternoon in Georgetown. Amidst the discussions of favorite tennis shoes and Blackberry vs. iPhone, I peppered the girls with questions about the college campuses they'd visited, their future plans of study, and their career goals so far. Their answers were inspired, and, obviously, well thought out. One wanted to be a dentist and the other wanted a career as a speech pathologist. I was impressed and excited for these young women and their futures.
They reminded me of my friends and I as we sat around our college dorm 20 years ago spinning out what our future lives would be. My generation was really the first generation of girls raised from birth in the fires of feminist thought. We were the daughters of bra burners, or at least those who knew bra burners. Most of our moms worked outside of the home and told us to dream our biggest dreams of academic and career success, but still learn how to cook and take care of a house; while some moms railed against the feminist movement, seeing in it an attack on the traditions and norms upon which they had based their lives, while still encouraging their daughters to study hard and get good grades. The messages from our mothers were often conflicting: We were to live limitless lives in a world that seeks to limit us.
After graduation, some of us went straight to grad school, and others waded into the work world, taking the entry level gig that would get them to their dream job. We moved apartments, we moved cities and some of us moved countries, for work and opportunities. And soon, we started to fall in love. We daughters of feminism had to figure out a way to fit the institution of marriage and family to our sense of self. So how are we doing so far??? Well, it's complicated.
For those of us who chose marriage and children and work, we're living the feminist ideal of having it all. But we're paying a price in terms of sleep, sex, and, sometimes, our sanity. Life is lived on a constant treadmill and a work day that stretches far beyond office hours. That limitless life we were planning back in college has become one of endless to-do lists. Some of us decided that you may be able to have it all, but just not at the same time, and so we began a slow retreat away from the cubicle and back home to the play date. Women who had masters degrees and corporate accounts made the most difficult of decisions, leaving our feminist forebears to ask why. Why would these accomplished, highly praised and highly valued women turn their backs on all of their hard-fought success to go back to June Cleaver? And does this mean that they've rejected feminism?
For my generation, it would seem that feminism hasn't done us any favors. Heresy, I know, but hear me out. Yes, feminism's epic fights for academic and workplace equality made net gains in the number of women attending and completing college, and provided women in the workforce with far greater and better quality opportunities. But feminism also left us to fend for ourselves when it came to our intimate, romantic relationships and its by-products of marriage and family. Are we supposed to get married and have babies and then have careers? Or are we supposed to have careers and then marriages and babies? And what if we waited too long and no one's left to marry us and we can't have babies? And if I'm married and we're supposed to be equals, but my husband's more demanding eight-figure job requires that he work weekends and late nights, which forces me to work a reduced schedule in order to ferry the kids around to all of their team practices and ballet classes, then how am I supposed to live the feminist ideal? And just when am I supposed to be happy?
The two-dimensionality of nascent feminist thought has evolved to fit the various contexts in which we women live. This struggle with feminism takes feminism down to its purest form, going beyond the notion of equality of the sexes. At the core of feminism is the concept of choice: we women have the capacity to make the choices that are best for us. This is profound and essential. It unites the stay-at-home mom with the work-for-pay mom, and the married woman with the divorcee. And we need this unity now more than ever. We are living in strange and dangerous times for women and the young girls who will one day join our number. Issues around women and our health are being decided by politicians and not physicians. Thirteen and fourteen-year-old girls are encouraged by their twenty-something idols and reality TV stars to dress and act-out in over-sexualized ways. And "friends with benefits" style trysts have become a part of the normal course of a young woman's intimate history. Now more than ever, we need young women to not think of feminism as a four letter word meant to stop their fun, but as a simple question: by doing this, am I making a choice that is best for me? I'm just saying.
They reminded me of my friends and I as we sat around our college dorm 20 years ago spinning out what our future lives would be. My generation was really the first generation of girls raised from birth in the fires of feminist thought. We were the daughters of bra burners, or at least those who knew bra burners. Most of our moms worked outside of the home and told us to dream our biggest dreams of academic and career success, but still learn how to cook and take care of a house; while some moms railed against the feminist movement, seeing in it an attack on the traditions and norms upon which they had based their lives, while still encouraging their daughters to study hard and get good grades. The messages from our mothers were often conflicting: We were to live limitless lives in a world that seeks to limit us.
After graduation, some of us went straight to grad school, and others waded into the work world, taking the entry level gig that would get them to their dream job. We moved apartments, we moved cities and some of us moved countries, for work and opportunities. And soon, we started to fall in love. We daughters of feminism had to figure out a way to fit the institution of marriage and family to our sense of self. So how are we doing so far??? Well, it's complicated.
For those of us who chose marriage and children and work, we're living the feminist ideal of having it all. But we're paying a price in terms of sleep, sex, and, sometimes, our sanity. Life is lived on a constant treadmill and a work day that stretches far beyond office hours. That limitless life we were planning back in college has become one of endless to-do lists. Some of us decided that you may be able to have it all, but just not at the same time, and so we began a slow retreat away from the cubicle and back home to the play date. Women who had masters degrees and corporate accounts made the most difficult of decisions, leaving our feminist forebears to ask why. Why would these accomplished, highly praised and highly valued women turn their backs on all of their hard-fought success to go back to June Cleaver? And does this mean that they've rejected feminism?
For my generation, it would seem that feminism hasn't done us any favors. Heresy, I know, but hear me out. Yes, feminism's epic fights for academic and workplace equality made net gains in the number of women attending and completing college, and provided women in the workforce with far greater and better quality opportunities. But feminism also left us to fend for ourselves when it came to our intimate, romantic relationships and its by-products of marriage and family. Are we supposed to get married and have babies and then have careers? Or are we supposed to have careers and then marriages and babies? And what if we waited too long and no one's left to marry us and we can't have babies? And if I'm married and we're supposed to be equals, but my husband's more demanding eight-figure job requires that he work weekends and late nights, which forces me to work a reduced schedule in order to ferry the kids around to all of their team practices and ballet classes, then how am I supposed to live the feminist ideal? And just when am I supposed to be happy?
The two-dimensionality of nascent feminist thought has evolved to fit the various contexts in which we women live. This struggle with feminism takes feminism down to its purest form, going beyond the notion of equality of the sexes. At the core of feminism is the concept of choice: we women have the capacity to make the choices that are best for us. This is profound and essential. It unites the stay-at-home mom with the work-for-pay mom, and the married woman with the divorcee. And we need this unity now more than ever. We are living in strange and dangerous times for women and the young girls who will one day join our number. Issues around women and our health are being decided by politicians and not physicians. Thirteen and fourteen-year-old girls are encouraged by their twenty-something idols and reality TV stars to dress and act-out in over-sexualized ways. And "friends with benefits" style trysts have become a part of the normal course of a young woman's intimate history. Now more than ever, we need young women to not think of feminism as a four letter word meant to stop their fun, but as a simple question: by doing this, am I making a choice that is best for me? I'm just saying.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Jock vs Genius: Does the High School You Really Make a Difference?
One of my not-so guilty pleasures is watching a bit of escapist TV from my high school years. More frequently than I care to admit, I'll check in on the gang at Bayside High on "Saved by the Bell". There's Lisa Turtle, the ebony fashion plate and gossip; Kelly Kapowski, the cheerleader and object of desire extraordinaire; A.C. Slater, the muscle-bound hunk who made his cheesy brand of misogyny look adorable; Ms. Spano, the brainiac and uber-feminist; Screech Powers, the nerd whose heart belonged to Lisa Turtle, even after Tori Spelling's guest stint as Violent, the Nerdette; and, of course, the blond haired Adonis, that smirking, acid-wash denim wearing charmer, Zack Morris. These kids ruled the halls of Bayside, well, at least from 1989-1993, and while the actors who played these characters grew up, with some becoming porn stars (Screech), and others becoming Las Vegas strippers with a heart of gold (Ms. Spano), with the power of TV and TBS in particular, their "Saved by the Bell" alter egos live on 5 days a week.
For those of us well past our own high school years, it's interesting, to me, how much who we were in high school informs who we are as adults. I can look at the thirty-something mom rocking the booty shorts in Starbucks and wonder if she was the high school homecoming queen or the most popular girl. And maybe that faux celebrity attempting to stretch her Fifteen Minutes was the creepy girl who roamed her high school halls friendless and is still yearning for attention and validation.
This is more than just a fun past time, though. Sometimes these high school dramas extend to the adult workplace. In fact, one of the most epic battles I've ever seen, between a manager and her right hand man, looked more like a high school cafeteria brawl than a disagreement between two professionals.
Let me set the scene: The manager was over-the-top efficient, and a practitioner of what I will call Blackberry Jujitsu, blazing back lightening fast emails and responses, with her thumbs flying across that wee keyboard. She arrived early and left late, and in between she left her office only for meetings. There was no lunch for her, rather, she was on a regimen of multiple little meals, eaten methodically at her desk. Conversations were terse and pointed affairs, and were kept as short as her close-cropped hair. Her right hand man was her complete opposite. His conversations with office mates and clients were languorous and organic. Lunches were eaten away from the office, and there were even 15 minute walks thrown in to get the blood and ideas flowing. He arrived on-time and he left late only when there were deadlines to be made. And, while he had a Blackberry, he preferred to let the first barrage of emails and responses go out from his boss, and then, when the waters had calmed, he'd chime in and get the information that was needed.
At first, their styles appeared to complement each other, like good cop/bad cop. The right hand man was collegial and made fast friends of everyone from the mail room bunch to the CEO. And when his manager sent one of her screaming emails to one of the staff, it was her right hand man who smoothed over her off-putting tone and made the offended party feel valued. But over time, his manager became suspicious of his intentions.
Educationally, the manager and her right hand man were similar, and while the argument could be made for gender issues fueling their different styles, a rather important piece of the puzzle resides in their high school days.
The manager had spent her high school days as one of the outsiders - working with the theatre people, going to hear garage bands in seedy bars, wearing black jeans and black t-shirts on every occasion. She was ostracized and bullied for her style of dress and for her weirdo associations. She was "Carrie" without the witchcraft. Her right hand man, though, had been popular in an effortless sort of way. He'd been a social gadfly, hanging out with all of the cliques, while still maintaining several close friendships. He sang in the choir and played sports. He'd not only known acceptance, but he'd known it on an epic scale. Any wonder, then, that later on in life, these two would clash?? If you think about it, this fight had been brewing since high school.
Sound ridiculous?? You bet it is! But how many of us have been there?
Try this experiment: At your next staff meeting, I want you to look around the table, and watch, really watch, and listen to them. Remember that old Toastmaster's tip where you should imagine everyone naked in order to calm your nerves before delivering a speech? Well, imagine them with their old high school gear! See the 40-year-old senior partner who doesn't look you in the eye and spends the whole meeting glued to his Blackberry as that 16-year-old sporting his Dungeons and Dragons t-shirt and military surplus shop field bag. And take a long enough look at his long-suffering admin and you might see the shy and mousy 18-year-old girl who dutifully tried to get all of her classmates to sign her yearbook, even though none of them was her friend.
OK, so this method hasn't received the institutional seal of approval of a Myers Briggs, but it's a hell of lot more fun - I'm just saying:)
For those of us well past our own high school years, it's interesting, to me, how much who we were in high school informs who we are as adults. I can look at the thirty-something mom rocking the booty shorts in Starbucks and wonder if she was the high school homecoming queen or the most popular girl. And maybe that faux celebrity attempting to stretch her Fifteen Minutes was the creepy girl who roamed her high school halls friendless and is still yearning for attention and validation.
This is more than just a fun past time, though. Sometimes these high school dramas extend to the adult workplace. In fact, one of the most epic battles I've ever seen, between a manager and her right hand man, looked more like a high school cafeteria brawl than a disagreement between two professionals.
Let me set the scene: The manager was over-the-top efficient, and a practitioner of what I will call Blackberry Jujitsu, blazing back lightening fast emails and responses, with her thumbs flying across that wee keyboard. She arrived early and left late, and in between she left her office only for meetings. There was no lunch for her, rather, she was on a regimen of multiple little meals, eaten methodically at her desk. Conversations were terse and pointed affairs, and were kept as short as her close-cropped hair. Her right hand man was her complete opposite. His conversations with office mates and clients were languorous and organic. Lunches were eaten away from the office, and there were even 15 minute walks thrown in to get the blood and ideas flowing. He arrived on-time and he left late only when there were deadlines to be made. And, while he had a Blackberry, he preferred to let the first barrage of emails and responses go out from his boss, and then, when the waters had calmed, he'd chime in and get the information that was needed.
At first, their styles appeared to complement each other, like good cop/bad cop. The right hand man was collegial and made fast friends of everyone from the mail room bunch to the CEO. And when his manager sent one of her screaming emails to one of the staff, it was her right hand man who smoothed over her off-putting tone and made the offended party feel valued. But over time, his manager became suspicious of his intentions.
Educationally, the manager and her right hand man were similar, and while the argument could be made for gender issues fueling their different styles, a rather important piece of the puzzle resides in their high school days.
The manager had spent her high school days as one of the outsiders - working with the theatre people, going to hear garage bands in seedy bars, wearing black jeans and black t-shirts on every occasion. She was ostracized and bullied for her style of dress and for her weirdo associations. She was "Carrie" without the witchcraft. Her right hand man, though, had been popular in an effortless sort of way. He'd been a social gadfly, hanging out with all of the cliques, while still maintaining several close friendships. He sang in the choir and played sports. He'd not only known acceptance, but he'd known it on an epic scale. Any wonder, then, that later on in life, these two would clash?? If you think about it, this fight had been brewing since high school.
Sound ridiculous?? You bet it is! But how many of us have been there?
Try this experiment: At your next staff meeting, I want you to look around the table, and watch, really watch, and listen to them. Remember that old Toastmaster's tip where you should imagine everyone naked in order to calm your nerves before delivering a speech? Well, imagine them with their old high school gear! See the 40-year-old senior partner who doesn't look you in the eye and spends the whole meeting glued to his Blackberry as that 16-year-old sporting his Dungeons and Dragons t-shirt and military surplus shop field bag. And take a long enough look at his long-suffering admin and you might see the shy and mousy 18-year-old girl who dutifully tried to get all of her classmates to sign her yearbook, even though none of them was her friend.
OK, so this method hasn't received the institutional seal of approval of a Myers Briggs, but it's a hell of lot more fun - I'm just saying:)
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Have You Had Enough of "Good Enough"?
The other day as I was flipping through the mail, I spotted my college alumni magazine. Page after page, in full color, were the stories of CEOs, scientists, and others who'd met with success in their post-collegiate lives. There were also the new brides and grooms surrounded by their alumni bridesmaids and groomsmen, and the parade of babies sporting their "future alumni" onesies. Some of the faces were familiar to me, as I remembered them sprinting across the campus plaza, sporting nasty plaid flannel pajama bottoms, a college sweatshirt, and a backpack, en route to the dining hall before they closed up the breakfast service for the morning. For most of us, college was an intense time - filled with some of the best times of our lives, and the worst. It was all extremes in college as we sorted through the perils of young adulthood and a future which seemed fat with possibility. At every turn, our parents and professors seemed to always be talking about our "potential", this nebulous, formless blob of endless pathways.
After graduation, "potential" pops up again, as parents try to steer the young graduate into a graduate school program or the world of work. This time, though, instead of exploring your "potential", as you were encouraged to do in the halcyon days of campus life, your "potential" has an expiration date. "Don't waste your potential" becomes the battle cry, and soon you hear the clock ticking down the years, months, weeks, and days until your "potential" withers and dies, usually around the time of your 30th birthday or the arrival of your first child, and then it's time to crown the next, new crop of children with the burden of "potential".
I don't know about you, but it seems odd to me that we, as humans, can see potential so clearly in the young, while confining our older selves to lives that are good enough. I watched my parents do this - sacrifice themselves to the Goddess of Potential residing in my childhood body. I had piano lessons and voice lessons and ballet lessons and my mom had endless hours driving me around and waiting for me. The dreams she'd had for herself were, instead, placed upon my seven-year-old shoulders and Mom lived a good enough life in order to give me an extraordinary start.
The Good Enough Life seems to be thriving, still, with a steadily growing membership. It's appeal is understandable, because the Good Enough Life seems effortless. There aren't many surprises in the Good Enough Life, there are only routine and repetition - the evil twins of existence who slap down anything that smacks of adventure and creativity. Maybe it's time for something more than good enough?
Now, I'm not going to go all Oprah on you and demand that you "live your best life now." It's hard for me to imagine that someone with billions of dollars doesn't have the means to live her best life! So think of me as a Local Oprah, who's got credit card bills, a pile of laundry, and a stack of newspapers she has to remember to put out for the Monday recycling pick-up, and believe me when I tell you that if you want something more than the good enough you have then you have to do it.
Living beyond good enough means doesn't mean living beyond your means, rather it means transcending your means. If you're the carpool mom, and the pick up the dry cleaning mom, and the cook breakfast/lunch/dinner mom who loved drawing and painting before she was a mother, than push beyond good enough and enroll in an art class. Don't have the money for an art class? Then make a space in your garage or your basement or your kitchen and just do it. Set a boundary for yourself that's kid-free/chore-free/worry-free and go beyond your good enough. Demand this for yourself.
Living beyond the good enough also means ending the excuses. How many times have you uttered the phrase "I can't...because" either mentally or out loud in a day? For the good enough life, this phrase is its motto. I can't take a tap dance class because my husband won't pick up the kids from soccer. I can't write for an hour a day because I have to work late. I can't volunteer at a mission because no one will cook dinner for my family. Eliminate this phrase, and, instead, focus your energy on figuring out how you can!
And, by the way, you might want to also drop the phrase "I used to" from your vocabulary, too. Free yourself from what you used to do, and who you used to be. I used to be skinny and I used to have hair that was not grey. You can twist yourself into knots over "used to", and that sort of navel-gazing is just fine for the good enough life because it drains you and defeats you, and soon, you're saying, "I can't...because."
This is a way of thinking that goes beyond the big, bad scary Potential. In fact, what I'm advocating may seem puny when compared to the grandeur of untapped, raw Potential, but some of the things that have defined me were these small moments when I was stepping outside of the good enough life. So, have you had enough of good enough? I'm just saying.
After graduation, "potential" pops up again, as parents try to steer the young graduate into a graduate school program or the world of work. This time, though, instead of exploring your "potential", as you were encouraged to do in the halcyon days of campus life, your "potential" has an expiration date. "Don't waste your potential" becomes the battle cry, and soon you hear the clock ticking down the years, months, weeks, and days until your "potential" withers and dies, usually around the time of your 30th birthday or the arrival of your first child, and then it's time to crown the next, new crop of children with the burden of "potential".
I don't know about you, but it seems odd to me that we, as humans, can see potential so clearly in the young, while confining our older selves to lives that are good enough. I watched my parents do this - sacrifice themselves to the Goddess of Potential residing in my childhood body. I had piano lessons and voice lessons and ballet lessons and my mom had endless hours driving me around and waiting for me. The dreams she'd had for herself were, instead, placed upon my seven-year-old shoulders and Mom lived a good enough life in order to give me an extraordinary start.
The Good Enough Life seems to be thriving, still, with a steadily growing membership. It's appeal is understandable, because the Good Enough Life seems effortless. There aren't many surprises in the Good Enough Life, there are only routine and repetition - the evil twins of existence who slap down anything that smacks of adventure and creativity. Maybe it's time for something more than good enough?
Now, I'm not going to go all Oprah on you and demand that you "live your best life now." It's hard for me to imagine that someone with billions of dollars doesn't have the means to live her best life! So think of me as a Local Oprah, who's got credit card bills, a pile of laundry, and a stack of newspapers she has to remember to put out for the Monday recycling pick-up, and believe me when I tell you that if you want something more than the good enough you have then you have to do it.
Living beyond good enough means doesn't mean living beyond your means, rather it means transcending your means. If you're the carpool mom, and the pick up the dry cleaning mom, and the cook breakfast/lunch/dinner mom who loved drawing and painting before she was a mother, than push beyond good enough and enroll in an art class. Don't have the money for an art class? Then make a space in your garage or your basement or your kitchen and just do it. Set a boundary for yourself that's kid-free/chore-free/worry-free and go beyond your good enough. Demand this for yourself.
Living beyond the good enough also means ending the excuses. How many times have you uttered the phrase "I can't...because" either mentally or out loud in a day? For the good enough life, this phrase is its motto. I can't take a tap dance class because my husband won't pick up the kids from soccer. I can't write for an hour a day because I have to work late. I can't volunteer at a mission because no one will cook dinner for my family. Eliminate this phrase, and, instead, focus your energy on figuring out how you can!
And, by the way, you might want to also drop the phrase "I used to" from your vocabulary, too. Free yourself from what you used to do, and who you used to be. I used to be skinny and I used to have hair that was not grey. You can twist yourself into knots over "used to", and that sort of navel-gazing is just fine for the good enough life because it drains you and defeats you, and soon, you're saying, "I can't...because."
This is a way of thinking that goes beyond the big, bad scary Potential. In fact, what I'm advocating may seem puny when compared to the grandeur of untapped, raw Potential, but some of the things that have defined me were these small moments when I was stepping outside of the good enough life. So, have you had enough of good enough? I'm just saying.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Food and Love and the Marital Waistline
I guess I should have known that there was going to be trouble from that first time we met. It was across a table at a group dinner when I met the man who would become my husband. And when we eventually went on our first date, it was at another table, at another dinner. This scene would be repeated throughout our courtship - a wonderful meal, a bottle of wine, and delightful conversations. With each new food discovery we made ever more interesting personal discoveries. We traveled the globe, with stops in India, the Middle East, Africa, China, Thailand, and France, all on a dinner plate, and we fell in love. It was intoxicating, fulfilling, and filling, very filling!
We celebrated our engagement in New Orleans, a city known as much for its food as its sensuality. There were doughy, hot beignets in the morning, muffalottas in the afternoon, and andouille-filled nights. We let the good times roll, and by trip's end, well, lets just say that my waistline was beginning the rapid transition from buttons to elastic!
Fast forward 10 years later and our love and our waistlines have continued to grow, and so have the numbers of other couples who share in our same dilemma. When your "plus one" becomes a "plus 20, 30, 40", you start to look for the root of the problem.
Before I met my husband, I was living and working in the city, going to the gym most mornings, and walking the 3-mile round trip to my office before heading out to after-work gallery openings. And pre-We, my hubby was traveling across the country and around the world and in the best shape of his life. So what happened???
Well, let me disclose the sometimes ugly truth of coupling: food becomes your activity.
When the two become one, the difficult dance of merging two people with two sets of friends and two sets of interests can become overwhelming. If she likes to salsa dance at a sweaty club on a Friday night, but he likes to spend Friday nights playing basketball with his friends, as their relationship with each other deepens, the compromises start - maybe he doesn't need to shoot hoops every Friday night, and maybe she doesn't have to salsa dance at some stuck-up club on a Friday night in order to get her weekly thrill. And food soon becomes the neutral zone, a space that's not his or hers, but theirs - you know, like Pottery Barn furniture in a hetero couple's home!
If you're in a romantic relationship try this exercise: For one week, keep an activity log, include activities, like going to the gym, dinner and a movie, or visiting a museum. Include details about all of your meals as well as if you did the activity with or without your significant other. Feeling adventurous? Keep your activity log for 4 weeks. You'll see some interesting trends. I tried this and was dismayed to learn how many of our activities involved food.
De-coupling food from the couple equation is hard to do, and my husband and I are working hard. Some days are wonderful low-calorie/high activity days. And some days, well, not so good, but we're trying and enjoying this new journey. I hit the road with him and he walks the museums with me and food, well, it's just that stuff we grab before heading to the next adventure. I'm just saying:)
We celebrated our engagement in New Orleans, a city known as much for its food as its sensuality. There were doughy, hot beignets in the morning, muffalottas in the afternoon, and andouille-filled nights. We let the good times roll, and by trip's end, well, lets just say that my waistline was beginning the rapid transition from buttons to elastic!
Fast forward 10 years later and our love and our waistlines have continued to grow, and so have the numbers of other couples who share in our same dilemma. When your "plus one" becomes a "plus 20, 30, 40", you start to look for the root of the problem.
Before I met my husband, I was living and working in the city, going to the gym most mornings, and walking the 3-mile round trip to my office before heading out to after-work gallery openings. And pre-We, my hubby was traveling across the country and around the world and in the best shape of his life. So what happened???
Well, let me disclose the sometimes ugly truth of coupling: food becomes your activity.
When the two become one, the difficult dance of merging two people with two sets of friends and two sets of interests can become overwhelming. If she likes to salsa dance at a sweaty club on a Friday night, but he likes to spend Friday nights playing basketball with his friends, as their relationship with each other deepens, the compromises start - maybe he doesn't need to shoot hoops every Friday night, and maybe she doesn't have to salsa dance at some stuck-up club on a Friday night in order to get her weekly thrill. And food soon becomes the neutral zone, a space that's not his or hers, but theirs - you know, like Pottery Barn furniture in a hetero couple's home!
If you're in a romantic relationship try this exercise: For one week, keep an activity log, include activities, like going to the gym, dinner and a movie, or visiting a museum. Include details about all of your meals as well as if you did the activity with or without your significant other. Feeling adventurous? Keep your activity log for 4 weeks. You'll see some interesting trends. I tried this and was dismayed to learn how many of our activities involved food.
De-coupling food from the couple equation is hard to do, and my husband and I are working hard. Some days are wonderful low-calorie/high activity days. And some days, well, not so good, but we're trying and enjoying this new journey. I hit the road with him and he walks the museums with me and food, well, it's just that stuff we grab before heading to the next adventure. I'm just saying:)
Friday, May 20, 2011
Cleaning House or Playing House
Political pundits and other talking heads making the media rounds this week haven't been the only people talking about Governor Schwarzenegger and his household help. My mom has been burning up my telephone, feverishly sharing every new twist and turn of the story that she's learned from the ladies of "The View" or on "Extra" or "Entertainment Tonight." She's been giddy over this scandal, and I shouldn't wonder why, for this scandal does several things for Mom:
In my mom's mind, cleaning and cooking connect you to the most intimate parts of a person. The act of doing isn't just a necessity, but it's an intimate dialogue. I used to think she was a bit kooky, until I started dating the man that I eventually married. Now, I'm not vacuuming the house in high heels (we've covered that already!) but marital intimacy is built on a daily diet of little things - loading and unloading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, putting out the garbage. So now, insert a stranger into the mix, a strange person who loads and unloads the dishwasher, who folds the laundry, who puts out the garbage, a person who does this for pay in the intimate space of your home. Things can get twisted!
Now, I'm not saying that we should hold the Feminist movement over the balcony by its ankles. No, I think that each person in a household should contribute to the upkeep and care of the home through their physical effort. Heck, "The Walton's" all pitched in and they sure as hell loved each other (I know, it was television, but just work with me!). I am saying, though, that sometimes a load of dirty laundry is more than the sum of its smelly parts. There are some days when everything that can go wrong does go wrong and yet the thing that makes me happy is my husband thanking me for picking up his favorite cheese from the market. These little acts make a marriage and make a home, and let no man or maid put asunder. I'm just saying:)
- It involves politics AND Hollywood;
- It proves her theory that Schwarzenegger was a womanizing pig who should never have been allowed to breach the gates of Camelot;
- It proves my mom's theory that you should never have another woman clean your house!
In my mom's mind, cleaning and cooking connect you to the most intimate parts of a person. The act of doing isn't just a necessity, but it's an intimate dialogue. I used to think she was a bit kooky, until I started dating the man that I eventually married. Now, I'm not vacuuming the house in high heels (we've covered that already!) but marital intimacy is built on a daily diet of little things - loading and unloading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, putting out the garbage. So now, insert a stranger into the mix, a strange person who loads and unloads the dishwasher, who folds the laundry, who puts out the garbage, a person who does this for pay in the intimate space of your home. Things can get twisted!
Now, I'm not saying that we should hold the Feminist movement over the balcony by its ankles. No, I think that each person in a household should contribute to the upkeep and care of the home through their physical effort. Heck, "The Walton's" all pitched in and they sure as hell loved each other (I know, it was television, but just work with me!). I am saying, though, that sometimes a load of dirty laundry is more than the sum of its smelly parts. There are some days when everything that can go wrong does go wrong and yet the thing that makes me happy is my husband thanking me for picking up his favorite cheese from the market. These little acts make a marriage and make a home, and let no man or maid put asunder. I'm just saying:)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Maria and Arnold: The End of the Political Marriage
Well, after 25 years of marriage, it appears that the party is over for Maria Shriver and former Governor-slash-celluloid he-man Arnold Schwarzenegger. The two announced their separation and I and the rest of the world are stunned. Granted, we were stunned when they first got together - she, with a political pedigree, and he with his spray butter, muscles, and Conan the Barbarian flicks. What a crazy pair!! Truth be told, we were shocked that they made it past their first wedding anniversary, but by the time they survived the seventh year, itch-free, well, we kind've took them for granted. The last time I felt this way was when Al and Tipper Gore announced the end of their 40-year marriage. My heart sank, I mean they could've split in January 2000 and spared everyone the spectacle of their infamous sloppy kiss at the 2000 Democratic National Convention! But all of this makes me think that we may be witnessing the evolution of the political marriage.
The political marriage has always been a subject of speculation for those of us who watch them from a distance. We're always looking for a magical doorway into this most intimate of relationships. Why? Mostly because we're just curious about this carefully crafted political character and wondering what percentage of what we see is an act. There are some of us, though, who want to find the weakness in a person, and where better to dig for dirt than in the backyard of their marriage.
The political marriage follows a timeworn trajectory, beginning with the dashing, ambitious young man meeting and marrying the demure, yet practical young lady, who bears him the perfect, camera-ready offspring. He begins his quest for elective life and she begins her tour of duty slogging it out in the mine-fields of campaign stops and ladies' luncheons. Along the way there are defeats, election nights where she and the kids stand supportively behind the husband-candidate while he makes a heart-felt speech thanking the troops, congratulating the other guy who won, and pledging to run again, and win the next time. And then there will be victories, and there she'll be, the political wife of a winning candidate, resplendent and shining, smiling as she stands next to her husband, passing the cherubic children to him so that he may hoist them high into the air for the cameras to see. Now, there will be tough times - when the poll numbers show how dissatisfied the voters are with her husband, or when the whispers begin about her husband and some sweet young thing, but the political wife will keep her head up, smiling broadly, clutching the hands of her little ones as she attempts to break through the gaggle of press blocking her way to the kids' elementary school. And when the indiscretion is confirmed, it will be the political wife who will stand propped up next to her husband, suffering the glare of the flashbulbs while her husband reads his prepared statement. And when he leaves elective political life, it will be the political wife who will attend to him.
I've got to admit - I'm surprised that ANY political marriages survive at all! I mean, imagine having to listen to pundits and the opinionated masses ripping apart your husband or wife in the never-ending churn of the 24-hour news cycle? Think about it! How could Laura Bush muster any romantic feeling with that dufus Will Ferrell pretending to be her husband??
And don't forget that the political marriage seems always to require sacrifice on the part of the people who weren't elected at all. Sure, Chris Matthews might grill your elected spouse like a July 4th barbecue at 5:00PM, but at 7:00PM, your spouse could get a standing ovation from the 1500 people attending a rally on his behalf! And what do you, oh loyal political spouse get in return? You get to be the single parent, attending your children's soccer games (alone!), getting dinner on the table (ALONE!), dressing yourself and the kids and rushing over to that 7:00PM rally with a smile plastered on your face so that no one knows how much that SOB getting all of that love and attention takes you completely for granted.
I say that it's about time that the Maria Shrivers and the Tipper Gores stood up and walked out. Maybe the next generation of political marriages will be based on truly equitable partnerships. We're starting to see some examples of that. The First Lady of France has kept her day job as model/singer/actress, and here in the U.S. Dr. Jill Biden is inspiring students everyday in her job as a professor. If there's one lesson to take away from the political marriage it's this - it must have balance. I'm just saying:)
The political marriage has always been a subject of speculation for those of us who watch them from a distance. We're always looking for a magical doorway into this most intimate of relationships. Why? Mostly because we're just curious about this carefully crafted political character and wondering what percentage of what we see is an act. There are some of us, though, who want to find the weakness in a person, and where better to dig for dirt than in the backyard of their marriage.
The political marriage follows a timeworn trajectory, beginning with the dashing, ambitious young man meeting and marrying the demure, yet practical young lady, who bears him the perfect, camera-ready offspring. He begins his quest for elective life and she begins her tour of duty slogging it out in the mine-fields of campaign stops and ladies' luncheons. Along the way there are defeats, election nights where she and the kids stand supportively behind the husband-candidate while he makes a heart-felt speech thanking the troops, congratulating the other guy who won, and pledging to run again, and win the next time. And then there will be victories, and there she'll be, the political wife of a winning candidate, resplendent and shining, smiling as she stands next to her husband, passing the cherubic children to him so that he may hoist them high into the air for the cameras to see. Now, there will be tough times - when the poll numbers show how dissatisfied the voters are with her husband, or when the whispers begin about her husband and some sweet young thing, but the political wife will keep her head up, smiling broadly, clutching the hands of her little ones as she attempts to break through the gaggle of press blocking her way to the kids' elementary school. And when the indiscretion is confirmed, it will be the political wife who will stand propped up next to her husband, suffering the glare of the flashbulbs while her husband reads his prepared statement. And when he leaves elective political life, it will be the political wife who will attend to him.
I've got to admit - I'm surprised that ANY political marriages survive at all! I mean, imagine having to listen to pundits and the opinionated masses ripping apart your husband or wife in the never-ending churn of the 24-hour news cycle? Think about it! How could Laura Bush muster any romantic feeling with that dufus Will Ferrell pretending to be her husband??
And don't forget that the political marriage seems always to require sacrifice on the part of the people who weren't elected at all. Sure, Chris Matthews might grill your elected spouse like a July 4th barbecue at 5:00PM, but at 7:00PM, your spouse could get a standing ovation from the 1500 people attending a rally on his behalf! And what do you, oh loyal political spouse get in return? You get to be the single parent, attending your children's soccer games (alone!), getting dinner on the table (ALONE!), dressing yourself and the kids and rushing over to that 7:00PM rally with a smile plastered on your face so that no one knows how much that SOB getting all of that love and attention takes you completely for granted.
I say that it's about time that the Maria Shrivers and the Tipper Gores stood up and walked out. Maybe the next generation of political marriages will be based on truly equitable partnerships. We're starting to see some examples of that. The First Lady of France has kept her day job as model/singer/actress, and here in the U.S. Dr. Jill Biden is inspiring students everyday in her job as a professor. If there's one lesson to take away from the political marriage it's this - it must have balance. I'm just saying:)
Friday, May 6, 2011
Eddie Bauer Presents: Mother's Day!
Well it won't be long, now, before the roses, the slightly over-cooked/underdone/mostly spilled breakfasts in bed, the perfumes perfectly packaged (along with the free-gift-with-purchase tote bag), and the over-crowded brunches staffed by energetic young waiters and waitresses just praying for the day to end. That's right, it's Mother's Day 2011, but you didn't need me to tell you. The explosion of pastels in the greeting card section of the supermarket heralded the arrival of this most curious of holidays. Mother's Day conjures up images of Dear Old Mom in her rocker on the front porch of a Thomas Kinkade Victorian farmhouse, just waiting for her adoring kiddos and grandkiddos to come calling with flowers and boxes of chocolates.
If the world of marketing is to be believed, motherhood means white cotton eyelet sundresses, rivers of pink and green and marigold, brightly colored hats that would make a royal wedding attendee blush with embarrassment, and the ripples of laughter from golden-haired children locking hands with their cover-girl mom and dancing around barefoot in a circle in a thick carpet of green grass. If this is motherhood then sign me up!!
At my house, the sales catalogs started stacking up a few weeks ago and their images of motherhood are interesting, to say the least. In the upscale Garnet Hill, mom and daughter appear on a white, seamless backdrop attired in casual opulence - a knit dress just under $200 for mom, and on the daughter a pair of shoes that will cost you a bit more than something you'd find at Payless.
Eddie Bauer, though, prefers to tuck the kids out of camera shot, opting to locate mom on the Serengeti, as if she'd been whisked away on safari! At other times, she's on her sailboat or carrying her surfboard. Catalog mom is quite the adventurer! Now I know, and I'm sure Eddie Bauer knows, that if you're going to sell a pair of khakis to a mother of two, it's probably best to amp up the coolness factor. I also know that this cool mom does exist - I'm sure, for instance, that when serial mom Angelina Jolie takes a jog on the beach with her little ones that she does so appropriately attired, and in slow motion.
But, seriously, sometimes I wish there was a little more truth in advertising. So show me those cute capri pants, but show them with the paint stains from a freewheeling finger painting session with my 3-year-old. You want me to buy my sister a button-down tunic? Well could you show it to me in a color that camouflages the crusty red tomato sauce that ends up there after she pulls her toddler out of the pizza parlour high chair?? And while I know those adorable high heeled wedges would look ever so smart, will I be able to run in them while clutching a vomiting 5-year-old to the department store bathroom??
Look, I don't expect miracles, and after Sunday, the pastel parade of motherhood will end, and then it's on to charcoal grills, lawnmowers, and tool belts because, you guessed it, it'll be time for Father's Day! I'm just saying:)
If the world of marketing is to be believed, motherhood means white cotton eyelet sundresses, rivers of pink and green and marigold, brightly colored hats that would make a royal wedding attendee blush with embarrassment, and the ripples of laughter from golden-haired children locking hands with their cover-girl mom and dancing around barefoot in a circle in a thick carpet of green grass. If this is motherhood then sign me up!!
At my house, the sales catalogs started stacking up a few weeks ago and their images of motherhood are interesting, to say the least. In the upscale Garnet Hill, mom and daughter appear on a white, seamless backdrop attired in casual opulence - a knit dress just under $200 for mom, and on the daughter a pair of shoes that will cost you a bit more than something you'd find at Payless.
Eddie Bauer, though, prefers to tuck the kids out of camera shot, opting to locate mom on the Serengeti, as if she'd been whisked away on safari! At other times, she's on her sailboat or carrying her surfboard. Catalog mom is quite the adventurer! Now I know, and I'm sure Eddie Bauer knows, that if you're going to sell a pair of khakis to a mother of two, it's probably best to amp up the coolness factor. I also know that this cool mom does exist - I'm sure, for instance, that when serial mom Angelina Jolie takes a jog on the beach with her little ones that she does so appropriately attired, and in slow motion.
But, seriously, sometimes I wish there was a little more truth in advertising. So show me those cute capri pants, but show them with the paint stains from a freewheeling finger painting session with my 3-year-old. You want me to buy my sister a button-down tunic? Well could you show it to me in a color that camouflages the crusty red tomato sauce that ends up there after she pulls her toddler out of the pizza parlour high chair?? And while I know those adorable high heeled wedges would look ever so smart, will I be able to run in them while clutching a vomiting 5-year-old to the department store bathroom??
Look, I don't expect miracles, and after Sunday, the pastel parade of motherhood will end, and then it's on to charcoal grills, lawnmowers, and tool belts because, you guessed it, it'll be time for Father's Day! I'm just saying:)
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Day He Put a Ring on It:)
My left hand and I have had an extraordinary relationship over the years. When I would hang out with my grandmother, she'd let me play in her jewelry box and I'd adorn every finger of my left hand with one of many rings - some real, some costume. I felt like a little Lana Turner with my bejeweled and elegant hands, but instead of holding a glass of scotch or a champagne flute, my little hands would artfully grip a plastic tumbler filled to the brim with apple juice. As I grew older, so did my left hand and her maturing taste left no room for mere baubles. This sartorial shift coincided with some major events in my life - teenage birthdays, high school graduations, etc. - and gifts of gold and pearls and diamonds from Mom and Dad, and Grandma.
In college, though, silver had become all of the rage, along with grungy flannel, jeans with intentional holes at the knees, and a hippy-chic that put a permanent stench of musk oil and hemp in the halls of the campus dorms. Caravans of merchants descended on my college campus, filling the campus center with their cheap treasures, and soon, my left hand was overloaded with silver trinkets, channeling a latter day Stevie Nicks and her gypsy toughness.
In the years after school, my left hand told the stories of my life, from first big job (gold signet class ring), to evenings out with my girlfriends (silver black onyx ring), to symphony orchestra concerts (gold dome ring), and first dates (chunky polished silver band paired with silver garnet ring). I changed my rings as I changed my moods, until, one day 10 years ago, I was given a ring unlike any other I'd had before. By now, you must have guessed that this was an engagement ring, and this week I and the man who gave me that ring will celebrate that day, and all of the days since. If the stories of my life can be told by my left hand, then the story is a love story. I may not be able to dance in a onesie, a la Beyonce, but I'm so glad he put a ring on it:) I'm just saying!
In college, though, silver had become all of the rage, along with grungy flannel, jeans with intentional holes at the knees, and a hippy-chic that put a permanent stench of musk oil and hemp in the halls of the campus dorms. Caravans of merchants descended on my college campus, filling the campus center with their cheap treasures, and soon, my left hand was overloaded with silver trinkets, channeling a latter day Stevie Nicks and her gypsy toughness.
In the years after school, my left hand told the stories of my life, from first big job (gold signet class ring), to evenings out with my girlfriends (silver black onyx ring), to symphony orchestra concerts (gold dome ring), and first dates (chunky polished silver band paired with silver garnet ring). I changed my rings as I changed my moods, until, one day 10 years ago, I was given a ring unlike any other I'd had before. By now, you must have guessed that this was an engagement ring, and this week I and the man who gave me that ring will celebrate that day, and all of the days since. If the stories of my life can be told by my left hand, then the story is a love story. I may not be able to dance in a onesie, a la Beyonce, but I'm so glad he put a ring on it:) I'm just saying!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Single in the Suburbs??
Recently, a single friend of mine hinted that she might be looking to relocate to the Washington, DC area. When I asked her where she was thinking of settling, she said she didn't know yet, but, she did know that she'd be living downtown in DC, and not in one of the Maryland or Northern Virginia suburbs. I asked her why, and she said that as a single person, there just wasn't much for her out in the 'burbs. I didn't have the heart to tell her that as a married person, there's not much out here for us, either!
Don't get me wrong, I mean I love all of that open parking, large closet space, and lower taxes, but if I as a married person find suburban living to be a bit confining and isolated, then how must it be to be single in the suburbs? Let's be frank, the suburbs were set up to be places where one slept before having to go back to the city to work the next day. Their mission was clean, affordable housing for families, with a backyard for everyone. Social networks were formed through your children and the activities that brought them into contact with your neighbors' children. Fast forward to 2011 and while there have been noticeable upgrades in the suburban experience, the family still remains the locus for most social networks.
Recently, some of my single suburban friends have described to me the perils of life in the cul-de-sac. From having to "work it" at the supermarket or the lame bar at the Uno's Pizzeria in order to find the man or the woman of their dreams. My single women friends have told me of the frustrations of feeling somewhere between ostracized and pitied in their family-friendly neighborhoods, of getting the stink-eye from the soccer mom when she catches soccer dad showing more interest than he should in the single female neighbor.
And if you think that living single in the suburbs is hard, dating single in the suburbs is even more of a challenge. Long before their more urban brothers and sisters turned to online dating and made it hip to log-on for love, singles in the suburbs were trading in their tired happy hours for a computer and a WI-FI spot. Why? Because the suburbs are the least friendly place on earth for adult singles. The families who inhabit the suburbs have a social radius that tracks their children's activities and interests - that means their social circle includes their children's friends, and the parents of those friends, as well as those they meet at their child's school and church. If you're a single adult with no direct connection to these families, then there's simply no room for you. To make matters worse, suburban singles are usually in the suburbs due to proximity to work, and so they become workaholics, thereby not only sealing their single fate, but seriously curtailing their ability to enjoy life, in general.
So what to do?? Well, you know I'm going to suggest moving to the city. City life is not going to instantly get you a mate - I'd be lying if I said that. So why the affection for the city?? There's simply more to do. City life doesn't revolve around family life. There's no Red Robin or Chuck E. Cheese downtown, and the big cultural highlight on a Friday night isn't the pan flute trio and face-painters at the parking lot of the Panera Bread. There are a greater depth and breadth of things to do in the city, and if you want to be happy and be single, variety is the stuff of life.
Of course, I have to acknowledge that for a lot of my single friends, the city is out of the question - because of cost or commute times. So, here are a few survival strategies that I've heard from some of my more happy suburban single friends:
Don't get me wrong, I mean I love all of that open parking, large closet space, and lower taxes, but if I as a married person find suburban living to be a bit confining and isolated, then how must it be to be single in the suburbs? Let's be frank, the suburbs were set up to be places where one slept before having to go back to the city to work the next day. Their mission was clean, affordable housing for families, with a backyard for everyone. Social networks were formed through your children and the activities that brought them into contact with your neighbors' children. Fast forward to 2011 and while there have been noticeable upgrades in the suburban experience, the family still remains the locus for most social networks.
Recently, some of my single suburban friends have described to me the perils of life in the cul-de-sac. From having to "work it" at the supermarket or the lame bar at the Uno's Pizzeria in order to find the man or the woman of their dreams. My single women friends have told me of the frustrations of feeling somewhere between ostracized and pitied in their family-friendly neighborhoods, of getting the stink-eye from the soccer mom when she catches soccer dad showing more interest than he should in the single female neighbor.
And if you think that living single in the suburbs is hard, dating single in the suburbs is even more of a challenge. Long before their more urban brothers and sisters turned to online dating and made it hip to log-on for love, singles in the suburbs were trading in their tired happy hours for a computer and a WI-FI spot. Why? Because the suburbs are the least friendly place on earth for adult singles. The families who inhabit the suburbs have a social radius that tracks their children's activities and interests - that means their social circle includes their children's friends, and the parents of those friends, as well as those they meet at their child's school and church. If you're a single adult with no direct connection to these families, then there's simply no room for you. To make matters worse, suburban singles are usually in the suburbs due to proximity to work, and so they become workaholics, thereby not only sealing their single fate, but seriously curtailing their ability to enjoy life, in general.
So what to do?? Well, you know I'm going to suggest moving to the city. City life is not going to instantly get you a mate - I'd be lying if I said that. So why the affection for the city?? There's simply more to do. City life doesn't revolve around family life. There's no Red Robin or Chuck E. Cheese downtown, and the big cultural highlight on a Friday night isn't the pan flute trio and face-painters at the parking lot of the Panera Bread. There are a greater depth and breadth of things to do in the city, and if you want to be happy and be single, variety is the stuff of life.
Of course, I have to acknowledge that for a lot of my single friends, the city is out of the question - because of cost or commute times. So, here are a few survival strategies that I've heard from some of my more happy suburban single friends:
- Vacation, not stay-cation: If you have vacation time, then use it to go somewhere cool. Travel with your BFFs from grad school to the Bahamas or take a solo safari and see the riches and beauty of Africa. In short, don't wait to see the world until you've found Mr. or Mrs. Right - go forth and earn those travel miles and redeem them for an iPad!
- Saturday morning. Supermarket. Be There: Want to know the marital bliss that you're missing out on? Just travel to the supermarket on Saturday morning and I guarantee that you'll be glad that you're single!!
- Daytripping: Just because you don't live in the city, it doesn't mean that you can't visit for fun, does it? So get that passport stamped, and bring enough change for the parking meter, and hang out downtown. Find a great outdoor cafe and bring a book, or, better yet, browse for a book at a funky city bookstore - extra points if it sells used books and coffee!
- Don't get a dog: It's tempting to get the dog. They're great company, and you can meet people when you walk the dog. But, here's the deal - you're living in the suburbs so you know who you're meeting while you're out walking your dog?? People who are not single!!! You also have a million and one reasons to cut short your wonderful evening in the city so that you can get home before Pete the Dog has a piddle party on your living room rug. Need a pet?? Get a cat if you need one!
- Throw a party at your home: Invite your single and mated friends over to your pad and get your host on!! Why should the married folks have all of the fun of people eating their food and drinking their booze? OK, that sounded more bitter than I'd intended, but hear me out. Wanting to show your friends hospitality is only natural, so do it. You've got all of that space and free parking, so why not put it to good use?
- Don't forget the flirt: One of the problems with online dating is that it can quickly become all about getting a result (a date, a ring, a station wagon filled with adorable kiddies), so don't forget the skills that Mother Nature gave you!! The art of flirting is one of the best things in life, so don't forget how it's done and when to do it (e.g. not with the soccer dads).
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Cleaning House: How a Hoover and some Lysol Brought Me Back to Sanity
I'm typing this post with achy arms, a sore back, and a sense of satisfaction because yesterday I cleared my calendar and took the day off from work to clean my house. I know, it sounds crazy and a bit backwards to hear a woman praising her domestic side, but I'm not writing this as a woman craving to bring back the days of "Leave it to Beaver" and the high-heeled pump posse who vacuumed the living rooms of yester-year, rather, I'm writing this as a human being who finally had it up to here with my mess. The catalyst for this wasn't a specific event, nor was it the result of a marathon viewing of "Hoarders" or "Clean House." It was, instead, a call to order the disorder that's surrounded me.
For the record, I've always liked certain aspects of the housecleaning experience. Dusting the furniture was always cool because of the shine and the lemony scent of the wood polish that was left behind. The best was walking back into the house and getting two nostrils full of Lemon Pledge - it was like all was right with the world. I took to mopping for the same reason because who doesn't dig the fresh clean scent of Lysol. Growing up, Saturdays were devoted to Mom, my sister and I cleaning the house. Out would come the bag of dust rags - mostly old t-shirts - the vacuum (in which I once caught my dead dog Tory's tail - go figure!), the brooms, dustpans, mop and bucket, trash bags, and all of the liquids and polishes needed for the tasks at hand. We would pick our desired area of dust-busting and hop to it, with the Metropolitan Opera broadcast blaring on the stereo. A few hours later, our work complete, we'd head out for some fun, and, returning home, we'd be greeted by the smell of clean.
Cleaning the house wasn't a political act when I was growing up, but it easily could have been. My maternal grandmother earned her living cleaning the houses of others, and my paternal grandmother was still cleaning office buildings well into her 70s. For these two women, cleaning for money was what they had to do for their families' survival, but there was also personal pride and peace of mind in keeping their own homes spotless.
By the time I got to college, though, a clean house was the last thing on my mind. I blithely made piles on top of piles, creating a mighty tower of shirts, skirts, and pants that was architecturally impressive but structurally unsound. When my parents visited me on campus, the state of my room was tops in all of our discussions. Fueled by the feminist thinkers who demanded an end to the rituals of cooking and cleaning that had imprisoned women, I made my mess my mission.
My rebellion continued through graduate school, and, by then, I was joined by several of my girlfriends, all of us questioning the value of Windex in our post-grad lives, but already cracks were beginning to show in my hardened stance. In an effort to reduce parent-child tensions, I'd taken to cramming my clothing piles into a bedroom closet whenever Mom and Dad visited. After they'd leave, though, I started to notice the extra square footage and I liked what I saw. Soon, I started thinking of making my temporary solution a permanent state.
Bit by bit, I made my way back to a clean house, until I got married. It seems that somehow, through some freak hiccup in the Matrix, I, a former maker of piles, had inadvertently fallen in love with a serial stacker. Backsliding was inevitable, and epic. My husband suggested getting a maid, but I resisted, and not because I like my mess, and not because I had come to believe that it was my duty as the lady of the house to clean. No, I resisted because getting into the habit of having someone else clean up the mess that I've made is a dangerous habit. It can produce a thoughtlessness, an unconcern for the consequences of my actions.
We give children chores because it teaches them responsibility and shows them the value of contributing to group living, but as adults we shirk these duties. In the nuclear family, it's the woman who cleans while the men folk and the children make the mess. I have lots of friends who, in order to keep their sanity, happily fork over money for a cleaning lady. They figure it's better than the argument they'd have with their husbands. And maybe they're right, but it still doesn't solve the underlying problem of the mess that your mess leaves behind.
Which brings me to my clean-a-thon the other day. When I finished cleaning, I walked from room to room, inspecting my progress and I felt calm. My mind wasn't racing, I was relaxed and I cracked open a book. My physical connection with my space had resulted in peace of mind. I could smell the Lysol and the memories of my childhood, and I was home:) I'm just saying.
For the record, I've always liked certain aspects of the housecleaning experience. Dusting the furniture was always cool because of the shine and the lemony scent of the wood polish that was left behind. The best was walking back into the house and getting two nostrils full of Lemon Pledge - it was like all was right with the world. I took to mopping for the same reason because who doesn't dig the fresh clean scent of Lysol. Growing up, Saturdays were devoted to Mom, my sister and I cleaning the house. Out would come the bag of dust rags - mostly old t-shirts - the vacuum (in which I once caught my dead dog Tory's tail - go figure!), the brooms, dustpans, mop and bucket, trash bags, and all of the liquids and polishes needed for the tasks at hand. We would pick our desired area of dust-busting and hop to it, with the Metropolitan Opera broadcast blaring on the stereo. A few hours later, our work complete, we'd head out for some fun, and, returning home, we'd be greeted by the smell of clean.
Cleaning the house wasn't a political act when I was growing up, but it easily could have been. My maternal grandmother earned her living cleaning the houses of others, and my paternal grandmother was still cleaning office buildings well into her 70s. For these two women, cleaning for money was what they had to do for their families' survival, but there was also personal pride and peace of mind in keeping their own homes spotless.
By the time I got to college, though, a clean house was the last thing on my mind. I blithely made piles on top of piles, creating a mighty tower of shirts, skirts, and pants that was architecturally impressive but structurally unsound. When my parents visited me on campus, the state of my room was tops in all of our discussions. Fueled by the feminist thinkers who demanded an end to the rituals of cooking and cleaning that had imprisoned women, I made my mess my mission.
My rebellion continued through graduate school, and, by then, I was joined by several of my girlfriends, all of us questioning the value of Windex in our post-grad lives, but already cracks were beginning to show in my hardened stance. In an effort to reduce parent-child tensions, I'd taken to cramming my clothing piles into a bedroom closet whenever Mom and Dad visited. After they'd leave, though, I started to notice the extra square footage and I liked what I saw. Soon, I started thinking of making my temporary solution a permanent state.
Bit by bit, I made my way back to a clean house, until I got married. It seems that somehow, through some freak hiccup in the Matrix, I, a former maker of piles, had inadvertently fallen in love with a serial stacker. Backsliding was inevitable, and epic. My husband suggested getting a maid, but I resisted, and not because I like my mess, and not because I had come to believe that it was my duty as the lady of the house to clean. No, I resisted because getting into the habit of having someone else clean up the mess that I've made is a dangerous habit. It can produce a thoughtlessness, an unconcern for the consequences of my actions.
We give children chores because it teaches them responsibility and shows them the value of contributing to group living, but as adults we shirk these duties. In the nuclear family, it's the woman who cleans while the men folk and the children make the mess. I have lots of friends who, in order to keep their sanity, happily fork over money for a cleaning lady. They figure it's better than the argument they'd have with their husbands. And maybe they're right, but it still doesn't solve the underlying problem of the mess that your mess leaves behind.
Which brings me to my clean-a-thon the other day. When I finished cleaning, I walked from room to room, inspecting my progress and I felt calm. My mind wasn't racing, I was relaxed and I cracked open a book. My physical connection with my space had resulted in peace of mind. I could smell the Lysol and the memories of my childhood, and I was home:) 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.
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:)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
All Plugged in and Nothing to Say: The Art of Conversation in 2011
The other day, as my hubby and I sat staring at the glow from our PDAs, we attempted a conversation about the latest news happenings, only to discover that we were both sourcing the same article on Huff Post. A second attempt landed a similar result, only this time the source was a New York Times article. A third attempt was called off, and we, instead, resumed our online wanderings with only the click of the trackball and the slide of the finger across the touchscreen punctuating the silence.
Welcome to Conversation 2011.
With so much information at our fingertips, we are constantly grabbing little bits of facts and cramming them into our heads, only to instantly regurgitate them to each other. Information becomes circular, and pretty soon you hear that same cool factoid that you'd just read spilling out of the mouth of someone else, or see it in someone's Twitter feed. And sadly, this is what passes for conversation.
When I was in college, taking the liberal arts educational equivalent of circuit training - with classes in philosophy, history, literature, science, math, and religion - I remember conversations that lasted from noon to night-time. We talked about everything and in every way. Sure, we had hours of classroom lectures and hundreds of pages of textbooks to draw upon, but our discussions were more than just spitting out what we had memorized. We digested and played with the facts that we learned, exploding them and creating new worlds of meaning and possibility.
That's all changed, and not just because of the passage of a couple of decades. Our entire experience of information has been forever altered by the technological leaps that continue to transform how we access information. We see so much so fast that it's like Lucy and Ethel at the candy factory! We've become great generalists who can quote lots of little things about lots and lots of things, all without a depth and a connection to the subject matter. We are familiar with things, but we don't know them.
The quality of our conversations, then, becomes a casualty. So I'm on a mission to restore the art of conversation to its former glory. First, I've got to get some basic training under my belt. That's right - back to reading one book a week, reading the daily newspaper cover to cover, and avoiding the snack time served up on one of those news aggregator sites. I'll steer clear of CNN Headline News and spend a little quality time with C-SPAN. While I may not be able to go cold turkey on "The Today Show", I'll limit my viewing to thirty minutes and will read more background pieces on the topics that the show covers.
The second component to this basic training is creating better opportunities for conversation, which means scheduling brunches and dinners with people. This one's a bit tricky, but I'll take it on. Sitting down at a meal takes people away from those distractions that interfere with great conversations, and, untethered from your PDAs, you may even find the space to flex those mental muscles! Of course, there's the danger that, once at table with these people, you find that you have nothing to say to each other. But you can always pull out your iPhones and compare apps, if need be - just think of your phone like one of those "break glass in case of emergency" boxes! I'm just saying:)
Welcome to Conversation 2011.
With so much information at our fingertips, we are constantly grabbing little bits of facts and cramming them into our heads, only to instantly regurgitate them to each other. Information becomes circular, and pretty soon you hear that same cool factoid that you'd just read spilling out of the mouth of someone else, or see it in someone's Twitter feed. And sadly, this is what passes for conversation.
When I was in college, taking the liberal arts educational equivalent of circuit training - with classes in philosophy, history, literature, science, math, and religion - I remember conversations that lasted from noon to night-time. We talked about everything and in every way. Sure, we had hours of classroom lectures and hundreds of pages of textbooks to draw upon, but our discussions were more than just spitting out what we had memorized. We digested and played with the facts that we learned, exploding them and creating new worlds of meaning and possibility.
That's all changed, and not just because of the passage of a couple of decades. Our entire experience of information has been forever altered by the technological leaps that continue to transform how we access information. We see so much so fast that it's like Lucy and Ethel at the candy factory! We've become great generalists who can quote lots of little things about lots and lots of things, all without a depth and a connection to the subject matter. We are familiar with things, but we don't know them.
The quality of our conversations, then, becomes a casualty. So I'm on a mission to restore the art of conversation to its former glory. First, I've got to get some basic training under my belt. That's right - back to reading one book a week, reading the daily newspaper cover to cover, and avoiding the snack time served up on one of those news aggregator sites. I'll steer clear of CNN Headline News and spend a little quality time with C-SPAN. While I may not be able to go cold turkey on "The Today Show", I'll limit my viewing to thirty minutes and will read more background pieces on the topics that the show covers.
The second component to this basic training is creating better opportunities for conversation, which means scheduling brunches and dinners with people. This one's a bit tricky, but I'll take it on. Sitting down at a meal takes people away from those distractions that interfere with great conversations, and, untethered from your PDAs, you may even find the space to flex those mental muscles! Of course, there's the danger that, once at table with these people, you find that you have nothing to say to each other. But you can always pull out your iPhones and compare apps, if need be - just think of your phone like one of those "break glass in case of emergency" boxes! I'm just saying:)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Hey Ladies, Where's Our Hall Pass??
At some point, between the first time and the second time that the ad for the movie, "Hall Pass," I started to feel a slight twinge in my right forefinger. That twinge became a persistent poking that had spread to my entire right arm by the fourth or fifth viewing of the "Hall Pass" ad, and by the seventh viewing, I figured that I'd have to either change the TV channel, or scream my head off. "Hall Pass" stars an ensemble cast of c-list actors from television sitcoms, including that guy who looks like that guy from "The Hangover", but who's on "Saturday Night Live" in that red Adidas track suit doing the Running Man in that skit with that guy from that show that was on Nickelodeon. But I digress! "Hall Pass" is about a group of men who are given permission by their wives to indulge in a voyage of debauchery, with the understanding that after their romp, they'll return home to their significant others, fully sated.
What the wha??!!
I wish that "Hall Pass" was unique, but, sadly, it's just a carbon copy of "The Hangover", which starred that guy who's not Josh Lucas or Matthew McConaughey. And you might as well add in "Cedar Rapids" while you're at it, which, from its trailers, appears to be a mash-up of "Porkys" and "The Office"! In each of these movies, the men folk are free to roam, set loose on an open prairie populated by scantily clad ladies and a convenient and abundant supply of booze, snacks, and stripper poles. There are some ladies in these films who manage to keep their clothes on, though, and these women are called The Wives. They pop up at the worst possible moments, like when their husbands are having a good time with the scantily clad ladies, booze, snacks and stripper poles!
By the end of these films, the boys return home from their lost weekends, with a renewed and profound love for their wives. Sounds great, huh? HELL TO THE NO!!
So here's my question: where's my hall pass????
Answer: ask Thelma and Louise.
You all remember the film, "Thelma and Louise" don't you?? It's about two girls gone wild, out on a crazy tear after one of them suffers physical abuse at the hands of her significant other. Of course, this film doesn't include a cameo by boxer Mike Tyson, and the two titular heroines choose to hurl their car into the Grand Canyon rather than be caught alive! So here's the "takeaway" for us ladies - no hall pass for us!
You won't see "The Hangover Part 3: The Book Club Hits the Strip Club" anytime soon, or "Soccer Moms in Vegas" or "Bunko Gone Bad" at the local cineplex. You see, the sad truth is that when we think of women getting together and letting their hair down, we confine our thoughts to chardonney, shopping, and the spa. We don't get a hall pass because why would we need one? We are the Thing Planners, the Schedule Keepers, the List Makers, in short, the responsible ones. While men will be boys, women will always be women, at least that's how it is in the movies. But maybe that's not really what bugs me about these films. Maybe, it's that these movies are telling a truth, all be it from one point of view. I'm just saying!
What the wha??!!
I wish that "Hall Pass" was unique, but, sadly, it's just a carbon copy of "The Hangover", which starred that guy who's not Josh Lucas or Matthew McConaughey. And you might as well add in "Cedar Rapids" while you're at it, which, from its trailers, appears to be a mash-up of "Porkys" and "The Office"! In each of these movies, the men folk are free to roam, set loose on an open prairie populated by scantily clad ladies and a convenient and abundant supply of booze, snacks, and stripper poles. There are some ladies in these films who manage to keep their clothes on, though, and these women are called The Wives. They pop up at the worst possible moments, like when their husbands are having a good time with the scantily clad ladies, booze, snacks and stripper poles!
By the end of these films, the boys return home from their lost weekends, with a renewed and profound love for their wives. Sounds great, huh? HELL TO THE NO!!
So here's my question: where's my hall pass????
Answer: ask Thelma and Louise.
You all remember the film, "Thelma and Louise" don't you?? It's about two girls gone wild, out on a crazy tear after one of them suffers physical abuse at the hands of her significant other. Of course, this film doesn't include a cameo by boxer Mike Tyson, and the two titular heroines choose to hurl their car into the Grand Canyon rather than be caught alive! So here's the "takeaway" for us ladies - no hall pass for us!
You won't see "The Hangover Part 3: The Book Club Hits the Strip Club" anytime soon, or "Soccer Moms in Vegas" or "Bunko Gone Bad" at the local cineplex. You see, the sad truth is that when we think of women getting together and letting their hair down, we confine our thoughts to chardonney, shopping, and the spa. We don't get a hall pass because why would we need one? We are the Thing Planners, the Schedule Keepers, the List Makers, in short, the responsible ones. While men will be boys, women will always be women, at least that's how it is in the movies. But maybe that's not really what bugs me about these films. Maybe, it's that these movies are telling a truth, all be it from one point of view. I'm just saying!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Run Like Hell: A How-To Guide When Couples You Know De-Couple
While the world seems focused on Charlie Sheen and his polyamorous ways, I started thinking about the marital break-up that precipitated this current free-fall. While Charlie's plight has some very Hollywood elements to it, all marital break-ups have one thing in common: friends caught in the middle. And while no-fault divorce exists in the courtroom, in the living room or dining room or wherever friends gather, there is only war. Couples become friends with other couples, but if the marriage of one of those couples falls off of a cliff, then you might just find yourself hurtling into the void.
But how does this happen? Sometimes, it starts small, with little drips of information about the relationship being unintentionally leaked during an unguarded moment by Spouse A. Then, maybe there's an invitation to coffee where Spouse A wants to ask your advice about Spouse B. Next thing you know, you and your significant other are at dinner with this couple, and you're being dragged into the middle of a sudden disagreement between Spouse A and Spouse B.
But, you may say, I'm a reasonable person and I have a great relationship with MY spouse, so there's no danger in my counseling Spouse A. And I'd have to say you're completely wrong!
A marriage ending is like a bomb going off and it can injure those in closest proximity to it. So here's an easy to use how-to guide to get you through someone else's rough patch:
But how does this happen? Sometimes, it starts small, with little drips of information about the relationship being unintentionally leaked during an unguarded moment by Spouse A. Then, maybe there's an invitation to coffee where Spouse A wants to ask your advice about Spouse B. Next thing you know, you and your significant other are at dinner with this couple, and you're being dragged into the middle of a sudden disagreement between Spouse A and Spouse B.
But, you may say, I'm a reasonable person and I have a great relationship with MY spouse, so there's no danger in my counseling Spouse A. And I'd have to say you're completely wrong!
A marriage ending is like a bomb going off and it can injure those in closest proximity to it. So here's an easy to use how-to guide to get you through someone else's rough patch:
- Screen Your Calls - In this era of high-tech gadgetry meant to keep us in constant contact, you are always accessible. This is a not good if you've got a needy couple in crisis texting/calling/emailing every hour on the hour to tell you what an A.S.S. their significant other is. Call-screening is a time-honored practice, dating back to the very first answering machine.
- Get Thee to a Therapist - Maybe I shouldn't be the one that has to tell you this, but, guess what? You're probably not a therapist. Your combative couple friends may know that, but they willfully choose to ignore it when they start the Debbie Downer Download. And while it's nice to feel needed, don't give into the Siren Song of Seduction that is the Couple in Crisis. Instead, learn this phrase, practice it until it is burned into the synapses of your brain: "You know, maybe you should see a therapist." Now relax and breath. Ah:)
- Forget Neutral - Some friends of the de-coupling couple like to try to remain friends with both parties, and think that by stating this, and then listening to all of the pains and woes and trials and tribulations of both spouses that they're being fair and balanced and remaining neutral. News flash: there's no such thing as neutral in this situation. At some point, one or both of them will try to pump you for info on the other, and soon you'll find yourself called to testify in their testy divorce proceedings. Or, worse, your own spouse will choose a side and you'll find your own home life compromised as somebody else's mess seeps into your home.
- Stop Making Friends with Other Couples - After the couple has moved from crisis to counseling to divorce and onto living the newly single life, reflect back on your friendship and instead of trying to be friends with 2 people, why not try a friendship with one person. You see, couple friendships are so tricky because they're built on a false premise - the premise that if I like you that I must also like your spouse. That's such bunk! Friendship, true friendship, is a choice that happens when two people like each other and spend time with each other of their own free will. Deep friendship is an emotionally intimate relationship that grounds you and uplifts you. This isn't about liking one spouse and dis-liking the other spouse, it's truly about connection.
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