I sat on my couch with a big smile eating popcorn and flipping from MSNBC to CNN the day that bastard from Tyco, Dennis Kozlowski, was sentenced. I had anticipated this day for the past few years, and it was quite entertaining to watch it play out. Bernard Ebbers finally got his a few days ago to my great amusement, and I’m thinking about holding a SuperBowl-esque type of soiree when those assholes from Enron get sentenced next year. It tickles me to no end to watch these guys leaving the courtroom in tears all the while hoping they get into one of those swanky prisons where they might not have to be the fresh meat on the cellblock. If you think I’m cruel just keep this in mind: because good ol’ Dennis had to have a $6,000 shower curtain, that lovely 70 year old lady who worked the secretary pool faithfully for her entire life, and just wanted to stay home knit and spend time with her grandkids, now has to work as a greeter at Wal-Mart. Okay, I’m not so bad now, right?
It’s no secret that I think corporate America will be the end of our democracy dream, but every once in awhile the people do have a victory and something really great like a trial or a humorous public disaster comes out of it. The next public disaster I’m waiting for, with baited breath I might add, is the Botox blowup. Oh that’s going to be a great popcorn day when that shit hits the fan.
When I first heard of Botox, I thought it was like Jews for Jesus, one big joke. I was stunned to find out that people really participated and believed in something so ludicrous. My first lesson in Botulism 101 was the day I opened a can of fruit cocktail, poured some in a bowl for myself, and left the half empty can in the fridge. My mom flew into a complete rage and informed me that any food left in the can for too long would develop botulism, and botulism can kill you. In other words, Botulism = Death. I was absolutely in awe when I heard of people injecting the rotten fruit cocktail bacteria into their foreheads to paralyze the face and make wrinkles disappear. Are these people on crack!?!
Needless to say, I immediately began to figure out exactly when this Botox usage would result in a Primetime News/60 Minutes public disaster. I figure by mid to late 2008 there will be a rumbling amongst those in the beauty industry that maybe Botox wasn’t the youth savior everyone banked on. Then we’ll see it! A report anchored by Stone Phillips profiling a B-list actress whose career looked bright until a beauty treatment shattered her dreams of stardom. She’ll appear in the cheesy soft light that they always put people in when they do those interviews, especially if Barbara Walters is involved. They will show her young pictures and clips from her crappy, second rate films then the camera will snap to a shot of her walking outside of her quiet Iowa community (since she will have had to move back to her small town because of the damage). They will then begin the interview with the would-be starlet who now has a Boris Karloff as Frankenstein-ish sloping forehead complete with the thick, heavy brow. Think about it, these people are paralyzing their forehead muscles and skin loses elasticity over time, the result is bound to be a sloping Frankenstein forehead.
There will, of course, be lawsuits by former Botox users who now need the money to get corrective surgery to fix their sloping Frankenstein foreheads. The B-list actress will give dramatic testimony in court swearing that she could have been at an Oscar party with A-listers had it not been for the Botox damage. Of course, she will conveniently leave out that fact that her acting sucks and that she did porn when she first got to Hollywood, both of which are automatic disqualifications for A-list membership. During all of the dramatics on television, and the hoopla that will inevitably find its way into most magazines, I will be munching my popcorn and enjoying the spectacle.
Although I will probably feel sorry for a few Botox users, like that fellow suburban mom who saved the extra grocery money to get Botox in an attempt to look more attractive to her husband, the majority of the future Botox victims will be vain idiots who deserved the sloping Frankenstein forehead. I doubt they missed the “botulism is bad” lecture from their mothers, so they were aptly warned. There was also the silicon breast implant public disaster of the late ‘80s that should have made them think twice about Botox. Most people’s earliest memory of silicon is that little package that comes inside certain toys, you know, the one that glares “DO NOT EAT”.
While I don’t wish harm on most people, let’s face it, when idiots who bring harm on themselves finally get theirs, it’s really funny. The Botox public disaster will be just as amusing as the breast implant disaster, and will probably end the same way. The doctors who were so willing to shoot peoples’ heads full of botulism will end up offering a wonderful new surgical procedure to remove the sloping Frankenstein forehead for just a small cost of about $20,000.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Shopping in Bulk
I loathe grocery shopping, but accept the task on a bi-monthly basis, because my family tends to get grouchy when I don’t feed them. I choose to do my food shopping at night, so that I don’t have to schlep the girl to the store with me. Shopping is hell, but trying to eliminate a grocery list with a toddler is like having a psychotic midget with Tourettes trying to commit suicide via shopping cart disaster. I don’t dare send my husband to do the shopping, because he will only return with items that were on sale, whether we need them or not. To date, my pantry still holds three cans of evaporated milk from the ten for $4.00 Albertson’s ad of 2001.
I brave the task alone, but prefer to extend the timeframe between grocery shopping excursions by buying in bulk. My husband is a huge fan of Costco. I mean the guy is obsessed with shopping there. Every time we are in a regular grocery store, he will make note that Costco has a much better value on nearly every item. By the time we leave the store, I’m ready to bludgeon him to death with Costco’s semi-annual coupon book.
Buying in bulk is a double-edged sword. Sure you can get a ten gallon drum of pickles for only $3.99, but does your family really consume that many pickles? I usually try to buy stuff that I don’t want to have to buy on a regular basis like toilet paper. Perishable things are terrible to buy in bulk, but when you break down the costs how can you turn down 5 lbs. of pepperoni for $6.59, especially when you can freeze it!
Bulk food places are perfect spots for people watching. If you have ever wondered whether there is validity to the statistics on obesity in the United States, spend an afternoon at Sam’s Club. The largest people in our country jet around in those motorized carts provided by the shopping center ordering their chubby kids to grab multiple cans of Stagg chili. Kids and adults of all sizes converge on the sample people like angry swarms of wasps. I often feel sorry for those nice folks in hairnets armed only with a pair of steel tongs and tiny plastic sporks. The most amusing part of people watching in bulk food stores is not just the people themselves, but also the items they purchase. Does someone who weighs at least 300 lbs. really need the 5 gallon drum of Dreyer’s ice cream or the $45.00 pork roast?
By far the best food shopping experience I have ever had in my life happened on the eve of the new millennium. My friend and I entered Winco, a discount supermarket that makes you bag your own groceries in exchange for lower prices, to pick up some munchies for our New Year’s party the next day. We knew the experience might be slightly more amusing than usual, because we had been smoking pot for two hours prior to our shopping trip. We never imagined that we were walking into the center of chaos. People were going ape shit throwing items, not in shopping carts, but onto portable flatbed hand trucks.
A large, blonde woman with Jackie O style glasses nearly pushed us over in the dairy isle as she proceeded to load eight gallons of milk onto her hand truck. My friend and I watched as the milk lady’s eye flashed with horror at the thought of having to forgo moo juice for an indeterminate amount of time. We decided to hang out near the checkout lines; because the opportunity to see morons in action was hands-down the best free entertainment we could have possibly wished for. Most people had loaded either a hand truck or two shopping carts full of groceries as if it were never going to see food again. I spent the next day on the couch watching New Year’s celebrations around the world, and recovering from the muscle stiffness that had settled into my abdomen from laughing hysterically for two hours straight the previous night. To this day, I can’t remember what we went into the store for, but I’ll never forget the experience.
Unfortunately, I will never have the opportunity to repeat that terrific night grocery shopping since I’m a mom now, and smoking pot is out of the question. I also doubt that I’ll live to see the next millennium no matter how many vitamins I take. I’ll just have to be satisfied with doing my bi-monthly excursions to the store, and amuse myself with the site of enormous Americans stuffing potato chips and candy into their carts, but yelling at their kids to “Grab the Diet Soda!”
I brave the task alone, but prefer to extend the timeframe between grocery shopping excursions by buying in bulk. My husband is a huge fan of Costco. I mean the guy is obsessed with shopping there. Every time we are in a regular grocery store, he will make note that Costco has a much better value on nearly every item. By the time we leave the store, I’m ready to bludgeon him to death with Costco’s semi-annual coupon book.
Buying in bulk is a double-edged sword. Sure you can get a ten gallon drum of pickles for only $3.99, but does your family really consume that many pickles? I usually try to buy stuff that I don’t want to have to buy on a regular basis like toilet paper. Perishable things are terrible to buy in bulk, but when you break down the costs how can you turn down 5 lbs. of pepperoni for $6.59, especially when you can freeze it!
Bulk food places are perfect spots for people watching. If you have ever wondered whether there is validity to the statistics on obesity in the United States, spend an afternoon at Sam’s Club. The largest people in our country jet around in those motorized carts provided by the shopping center ordering their chubby kids to grab multiple cans of Stagg chili. Kids and adults of all sizes converge on the sample people like angry swarms of wasps. I often feel sorry for those nice folks in hairnets armed only with a pair of steel tongs and tiny plastic sporks. The most amusing part of people watching in bulk food stores is not just the people themselves, but also the items they purchase. Does someone who weighs at least 300 lbs. really need the 5 gallon drum of Dreyer’s ice cream or the $45.00 pork roast?
By far the best food shopping experience I have ever had in my life happened on the eve of the new millennium. My friend and I entered Winco, a discount supermarket that makes you bag your own groceries in exchange for lower prices, to pick up some munchies for our New Year’s party the next day. We knew the experience might be slightly more amusing than usual, because we had been smoking pot for two hours prior to our shopping trip. We never imagined that we were walking into the center of chaos. People were going ape shit throwing items, not in shopping carts, but onto portable flatbed hand trucks.
A large, blonde woman with Jackie O style glasses nearly pushed us over in the dairy isle as she proceeded to load eight gallons of milk onto her hand truck. My friend and I watched as the milk lady’s eye flashed with horror at the thought of having to forgo moo juice for an indeterminate amount of time. We decided to hang out near the checkout lines; because the opportunity to see morons in action was hands-down the best free entertainment we could have possibly wished for. Most people had loaded either a hand truck or two shopping carts full of groceries as if it were never going to see food again. I spent the next day on the couch watching New Year’s celebrations around the world, and recovering from the muscle stiffness that had settled into my abdomen from laughing hysterically for two hours straight the previous night. To this day, I can’t remember what we went into the store for, but I’ll never forget the experience.
Unfortunately, I will never have the opportunity to repeat that terrific night grocery shopping since I’m a mom now, and smoking pot is out of the question. I also doubt that I’ll live to see the next millennium no matter how many vitamins I take. I’ll just have to be satisfied with doing my bi-monthly excursions to the store, and amuse myself with the site of enormous Americans stuffing potato chips and candy into their carts, but yelling at their kids to “Grab the Diet Soda!”
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The Neighborhood Exercise Squad
I see them in the morning sometimes when I'm forced to open my front door before noon for a deliveryman or when I’m running something out to my husband that he left behind. They are usually found in pairs sporting designer workout clothes and Velcro wrist weights as they walk their little, fluffy, white dogs. They smile at me and wave and I return the greeting only to go back inside and sneer. I’ve been invited along on one of the morning excursions conducted by the group I like to refer to as the Neighborhood Exercise Squad, but I am usually able to come up with some half-baked excuse to decline.
I have nothing against exercise. I workout four nights a week at home in the comfort and solitude of the spare room. However, the idea of participating in group exercise seems contradictory to the whole point of working out in the first place. Exercising, to me, is like praying. You do it in a room full of others who are participating in the same thing, but you do it on your own. When I was going to a gym, I did it solo. In fact, those women, and sometimes men, who would go in pairs and have conversations while sitting side by side on the machines really pissed me off. Here I was, sweaty and pumped up, trying to blast through my workout while they were discussing what dish they were going to bring to the Ladies Auxiliary Potluck.
I workout in my room, alone, on my recumbent exercise bike for 45 minutes, while listening to an MP3 player loaded with hard-assed rock. Even if I tried my best to join the Neighborhood Exercise Squad, I would be an automatic standout. Most of those ladies are in excellent shape, and I am not. I put on a ton during my pregnancy, because YAHOO I was pregnant and I could live off of spicy Thai food and chocolate ice cream. I thought I would have the baby weight gone by my daughter’s first birthday, but I procrastinated and only recently had the desire to look good naked again.
Besides my ass being larger than the other speed-walking mavens, I do not have the proper attire required for membership. They are often seen wearing designer workout ensembles such as Tommy Hilfiger, Juicy Couture, and other expensive duds. This is a completely ridiculous concept to me: spend a fortune on clothes just to sweat in them. My workout uniform is quite different. I grab an old t-shirt usually from a rock show that I attended back in the day. If it’s winter, I wear the sweatpants that I stole from my husband, if it’s summer I wear the bicycle shorts that I stole from my sister, both of which are bleach-stained and have a small hole in the crotch. I tie my hair back, and usually workout barefoot. The only item in my stylish workout outfit that I have made any effort to spend money on is my sports bra, because it’s better to have good support than to have to get those suckers surgically relocated when you hit your 40s.
I do have a dog, but I can tell you right now, he’s not up for the walk. The dogs that accompany the Neighborhood Exercise Squad are those peppy, little furballs with as much energy as their owners. Unfortunately, my dog’s energy level is equal to mine in the morning, so he collapses like a lump on the kitchen floor after his morning pee until the baby and I make our way upstairs for her bath around 9:30 a.m. Fozzy is a curly black-haired, Cocker Spaniel/Poodle mix that looks like a fuzzy beer keg with legs. He is a sweet dog, but the term “well fed” would be an understatement for him. We do walk Fozzy, but keep the distance to and from the house reasonable, and we never come close to a brisk pace.
Aside from the lack of attire and the portable pet, I have no desire to carry on any kind of a decent conversation in the morning, especially one where the subject would fall along the lines of neighborhood gossip, my husband’s work, or my child’s school activities. I am a proper yenta and do love gossip, but I could care less who in the neighborhood just bought a new car or might be getting divorced. My husband hates his current job, so I don’t really take any joy in re-hashing that situation to strangers, and since we are the only Jewish family in the neighborhood, my daughter doesn’t attend the same pre-school as her neighborhood toddler counterparts. I would just be trailing behind the Neighborhood Exercise Squad silently looking like a schlep, and wondering why the hell anyone would want an “exercise buddy” when they aren’t lifting heavy amounts of weight.
For now I’m content getting into my grungy clothes at around 10:00 p.m. and sweating my guts out to a delicious blend of Disturbed, Godsmack, Slipknot, and Danzig, while my lazy dog plays dead in the hall relieved that he doesn’t have to try and outdo the decorative furballs at the first crack of dawn.
I have nothing against exercise. I workout four nights a week at home in the comfort and solitude of the spare room. However, the idea of participating in group exercise seems contradictory to the whole point of working out in the first place. Exercising, to me, is like praying. You do it in a room full of others who are participating in the same thing, but you do it on your own. When I was going to a gym, I did it solo. In fact, those women, and sometimes men, who would go in pairs and have conversations while sitting side by side on the machines really pissed me off. Here I was, sweaty and pumped up, trying to blast through my workout while they were discussing what dish they were going to bring to the Ladies Auxiliary Potluck.
I workout in my room, alone, on my recumbent exercise bike for 45 minutes, while listening to an MP3 player loaded with hard-assed rock. Even if I tried my best to join the Neighborhood Exercise Squad, I would be an automatic standout. Most of those ladies are in excellent shape, and I am not. I put on a ton during my pregnancy, because YAHOO I was pregnant and I could live off of spicy Thai food and chocolate ice cream. I thought I would have the baby weight gone by my daughter’s first birthday, but I procrastinated and only recently had the desire to look good naked again.
Besides my ass being larger than the other speed-walking mavens, I do not have the proper attire required for membership. They are often seen wearing designer workout ensembles such as Tommy Hilfiger, Juicy Couture, and other expensive duds. This is a completely ridiculous concept to me: spend a fortune on clothes just to sweat in them. My workout uniform is quite different. I grab an old t-shirt usually from a rock show that I attended back in the day. If it’s winter, I wear the sweatpants that I stole from my husband, if it’s summer I wear the bicycle shorts that I stole from my sister, both of which are bleach-stained and have a small hole in the crotch. I tie my hair back, and usually workout barefoot. The only item in my stylish workout outfit that I have made any effort to spend money on is my sports bra, because it’s better to have good support than to have to get those suckers surgically relocated when you hit your 40s.
I do have a dog, but I can tell you right now, he’s not up for the walk. The dogs that accompany the Neighborhood Exercise Squad are those peppy, little furballs with as much energy as their owners. Unfortunately, my dog’s energy level is equal to mine in the morning, so he collapses like a lump on the kitchen floor after his morning pee until the baby and I make our way upstairs for her bath around 9:30 a.m. Fozzy is a curly black-haired, Cocker Spaniel/Poodle mix that looks like a fuzzy beer keg with legs. He is a sweet dog, but the term “well fed” would be an understatement for him. We do walk Fozzy, but keep the distance to and from the house reasonable, and we never come close to a brisk pace.
Aside from the lack of attire and the portable pet, I have no desire to carry on any kind of a decent conversation in the morning, especially one where the subject would fall along the lines of neighborhood gossip, my husband’s work, or my child’s school activities. I am a proper yenta and do love gossip, but I could care less who in the neighborhood just bought a new car or might be getting divorced. My husband hates his current job, so I don’t really take any joy in re-hashing that situation to strangers, and since we are the only Jewish family in the neighborhood, my daughter doesn’t attend the same pre-school as her neighborhood toddler counterparts. I would just be trailing behind the Neighborhood Exercise Squad silently looking like a schlep, and wondering why the hell anyone would want an “exercise buddy” when they aren’t lifting heavy amounts of weight.
For now I’m content getting into my grungy clothes at around 10:00 p.m. and sweating my guts out to a delicious blend of Disturbed, Godsmack, Slipknot, and Danzig, while my lazy dog plays dead in the hall relieved that he doesn’t have to try and outdo the decorative furballs at the first crack of dawn.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
I Married the Grill Master!?!
It started innocently enough with a small, round charcoal grill, the kind you can get at the grocery store for $19.99. It was the grill we owned at our small apartment, but as soon as Jeff and I moved into our first house, the Albertson’s grill wasn’t enough. He needed something bigger, something to satisfy the manly urge to cook meat over an open flame outdoors. Perhaps the desire to grill is a nod to the Neanderthal that still exists in the back of the cortex of every man. They are pretty civilized, some way more than others, but even the most refined of the sex needs to dowse a slab of ribs with sauce and enter the house with platter in hand like they’ve just been on a month-long hunt in the wilds of the jungle. The worst part is that I’m married to that man, the one called Grill Master.
When I was in the fourth grade, I used to spend time over at my friend, Lynette’s house. Her dad was a Grill Master, too, and would don an apron while tending to a grill with the intensity of a scientist trying to develop cold fusion. Lynette and I would watch him intently as he would yell to her mom to bring him various sauces, spices, and other grilling accoutrements. It was much like watching a surgical team; he was the doctor and Lynn’s mom was the attending nurse. Scalpel – check, clamp – check, basting brush – check. We would giggle furiously at this warped interaction and kind of make fun of him. Now I’m married to that guy.
Jeff is a sensible man with an MBA who doesn’t believe in things like paying for a specialty brand or spending frivolously on unnecessary things. He would never try to keep up with the Jones’ or engage in the materialistic pissing contests that are often popular in Suburbia. However, when it comes to the whole grill thing, it’s Jekyll and Hyde.
We are now in our second house, and we didn’t even take the old propane grill with us. If you guessed it was too small for the new house, you would be correct. Jeff price-compared grills for an entire month emailing grill manufacturers, combing the sales ads, going into stores and talking with department managers, and calling everyone he knew to get opinions on which grill would be the best purchase. After watching this process and the man-hours involved, I’m convinced of two things:
1. My husband is somewhat insane.
2. We definitely got the best grill for the price.
He traded in propane and chose instead to have a gas line plumbed into the stainless steel beast that now occupies the upper left side of our yard. The grill has its own small patio, and is so large that you could basically walk a whole cow right into the damn thing. Jeff is like a child at Hanukkah who just got the prized action figure. He is so thrilled with his grill.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. Along with the grill comes a whole host of items that one needs in order to become a fully realized Grill Master. There are the tools, which include the mandatory large spatula that never fits into the dishwasher properly, the tongs that open when you’re trying to clean them splashing soapy sauce all over your shirt, and a grilling knife the size of a machete. My husband has two sets of grill tools, just in case one is dirty. He has a set of skewers for shish kabobs, a vented tray for roasted veggies, and his latest find, a special wood chip box that sits in the grill while you barbecue and gives the meat the flavor of whatever wood you choose.
I have yet to get to the part that makes me shake my head while my mind screams, “what the fuck,” and that would be the outfit. I partially blame myself, because I got him the black grilling apron that says “MBA: Master Barbecuer’s Association”, for a graduation present. But I didn’t get him the chef’s hat! How did I end up married to Lynette’s dad? I always made it a practice to avoid men like that. With Jeff’s education and down-to-earth nature, I thought he’d be different, but I was really wrong. Maybe the Grill Master phenomena is inevitable when you make your home in the ‘burbs. Perhaps it’s a way for men to still feel like they have control of something around the house. Could it be that they lay there at night thinking: “she decorates the house, tells the kids what to do, picks out the art on the walls, but damn it, I cook raw meat outside over fire.”
Aside from finding the whole Grill Master thing strange, I’m not at liberty to complain about it. If he’s grilling, I don’t have to cook! Side dishes are just two minutes in the microwave, and since I am not the Grill Master, I can’t possibly clean the grilling tools correctly, so he does that, too. In the end, I run spices and sauces out to him at his beck and call, all the while wondering why the hell he never wants to cook when the fire is inside the house.
When I was in the fourth grade, I used to spend time over at my friend, Lynette’s house. Her dad was a Grill Master, too, and would don an apron while tending to a grill with the intensity of a scientist trying to develop cold fusion. Lynette and I would watch him intently as he would yell to her mom to bring him various sauces, spices, and other grilling accoutrements. It was much like watching a surgical team; he was the doctor and Lynn’s mom was the attending nurse. Scalpel – check, clamp – check, basting brush – check. We would giggle furiously at this warped interaction and kind of make fun of him. Now I’m married to that guy.
Jeff is a sensible man with an MBA who doesn’t believe in things like paying for a specialty brand or spending frivolously on unnecessary things. He would never try to keep up with the Jones’ or engage in the materialistic pissing contests that are often popular in Suburbia. However, when it comes to the whole grill thing, it’s Jekyll and Hyde.
We are now in our second house, and we didn’t even take the old propane grill with us. If you guessed it was too small for the new house, you would be correct. Jeff price-compared grills for an entire month emailing grill manufacturers, combing the sales ads, going into stores and talking with department managers, and calling everyone he knew to get opinions on which grill would be the best purchase. After watching this process and the man-hours involved, I’m convinced of two things:
1. My husband is somewhat insane.
2. We definitely got the best grill for the price.
He traded in propane and chose instead to have a gas line plumbed into the stainless steel beast that now occupies the upper left side of our yard. The grill has its own small patio, and is so large that you could basically walk a whole cow right into the damn thing. Jeff is like a child at Hanukkah who just got the prized action figure. He is so thrilled with his grill.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. Along with the grill comes a whole host of items that one needs in order to become a fully realized Grill Master. There are the tools, which include the mandatory large spatula that never fits into the dishwasher properly, the tongs that open when you’re trying to clean them splashing soapy sauce all over your shirt, and a grilling knife the size of a machete. My husband has two sets of grill tools, just in case one is dirty. He has a set of skewers for shish kabobs, a vented tray for roasted veggies, and his latest find, a special wood chip box that sits in the grill while you barbecue and gives the meat the flavor of whatever wood you choose.
I have yet to get to the part that makes me shake my head while my mind screams, “what the fuck,” and that would be the outfit. I partially blame myself, because I got him the black grilling apron that says “MBA: Master Barbecuer’s Association”, for a graduation present. But I didn’t get him the chef’s hat! How did I end up married to Lynette’s dad? I always made it a practice to avoid men like that. With Jeff’s education and down-to-earth nature, I thought he’d be different, but I was really wrong. Maybe the Grill Master phenomena is inevitable when you make your home in the ‘burbs. Perhaps it’s a way for men to still feel like they have control of something around the house. Could it be that they lay there at night thinking: “she decorates the house, tells the kids what to do, picks out the art on the walls, but damn it, I cook raw meat outside over fire.”
Aside from finding the whole Grill Master thing strange, I’m not at liberty to complain about it. If he’s grilling, I don’t have to cook! Side dishes are just two minutes in the microwave, and since I am not the Grill Master, I can’t possibly clean the grilling tools correctly, so he does that, too. In the end, I run spices and sauces out to him at his beck and call, all the while wondering why the hell he never wants to cook when the fire is inside the house.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Noggin Channel Endings You Will Never See
I’m one of those bad mothers that let her child watch television. However, I’m not one of those really bad mothers, because I do control what she watches. Those really bad mothers are the ones who let their kids watch World Wrestling Entertainment, then imitate the moves on their younger siblings resulting in severed limbs and death. I just let Rachael watch the Noggin Channel.
Noggin bills itself as “preschool on tv”, and doesn’t have commercials. While pregnant with Rachael I took a ‘Children and Television’ class, and to Noggin’s credit, they carry some of the best children’s programming on tv. Rachael loves her Noggin, and so do I. Sometimes Noggin is the only thing that allows me to check my email, wash my hair, or fix dinner without having a toddler attached to my hip.
The only bad thing about Noggin is that it is annoying as hell. I sit there watching shows like Dora the Explorer, 64 Zoo Lane, and Blue’s Clues asking logical questions that don’t belong in the arena of children’s television such as:
· Why is it that Lucy on 64 Zoo Lane hangs out in a zoo every night and never gets eaten by the lion?
· How come Dora always needs a map for directions when she is the most well traveled girl in her little Dora land?
· How come Oswald can exist just fine on land, despite the fact that he’s an octopus?
· In the cartoon, Franklin, how come every other animal except Franklin and his sister, Harriet, is known by their species (i.e. Beaver, Bear, Fox, etc.)?
Noggin never answers these questions! What I find even more disturbing is the fact that I’m even asking these questions in the first place. Once upon a time, I actually used my brain for more important things like reading academic texts on Cultural Studies and Communication. Now I regularly help Rachael keep track of how many clues Steve or Joe has found, and what Blue left those clues for.
On a much darker note, I find myself dreaming up different endings than the ones that make my little munchkin squeal with delight. I picture an episode of Dora the Explorer, where Dora has had enough of Swiper’s petty theft, and in true Latina style, gathers her cousins for a beat down at the Tall Mountain. FYI—I grew up with Latinas and befriended many of them, and I know how they deal with someone who does them wrong. They don’t have the same forgiveness in their hearts that Dora does.
I watch Franklin and dream of the day when the friendly turtle along with his pals Bear, Snail, and Fox do an intervention on Beaver and let her know what a spoiled bitch she really is. Creators of the show Oswald, I know are secretly dying to do an episode where Oswald would tell everyone to “screw off” when they wanted him to watch their pet, egg, or whatever responsibility they seem to saddle him with on a regular basis. An octopus should not be so high stressed. An episode of Miffy where Auntie Alice catches Miffy and Melanie huffing glue behind Grunty’s house would make for a good laugh. Last but not least, the day eventually comes when Maisy, Talullah, and Cyril will have to watch Charlie get on the short bus, because they learn that he is severely mentally retarded. Just for honorable mention, an episode of 64 Zoo Lane where Lucy gets eaten by the boa constrictor or the lion would validate the earlier mentioned question.
For those that think I’m callous for wishing horrible circumstances on a group of sweet and innocent cartoon characters, you watch this shit constantly and see how quickly your sanity slips away. Despite my fantasy endings, I’m generally very pleased with Noggin. Although I am constantly reminded by “much better mothers” who don’t let their kids watch tv, about the benefits of raising children in a world void of pop culture, I know the truth about what they’re doing.
I remember those “no tv” kids from grade school. They were the ones who didn’t get the jokes or references the other kids would use on the playground. Those of us, whose minds were polluted with tv, thought they were weird, and we would watch, as they would end up segregated with the other “no tv” kids. While I appreciate another parent’s choice in how they raise their kids, I would hope that they would extend me the same courtesy. They never do, of course, and boast about how much their child is just drawn to books, because they don’t have tv. Well, I’m glad to hear that, now here’s my boast. My child understands basic elementary Spanish, because Dora has taught her how to speak it. Dora has also instilled in Rachael that she should be adventurous, but should also be responsible enough to pack the tools necessary for a great adventure. Rachael realizes that sharing and valuing friendships are important values, because Franklin and Little Bear have reminded her. Blue regularly challenges Rachael to use basic deductive reasoning to figure out a situation for herself. And finally, Dan Zanes (formerly of the Del Fuegos) has helped my daughter recognize that good music, whether it is for children or adults, is worthy of audience participation.
I may be a bad mother, because I let Rachael watch television. I might be evil, because I think of gruesome endings to her favorite shows. Frankly, I don’t care, and actually I’ve been called worse.
Noggin bills itself as “preschool on tv”, and doesn’t have commercials. While pregnant with Rachael I took a ‘Children and Television’ class, and to Noggin’s credit, they carry some of the best children’s programming on tv. Rachael loves her Noggin, and so do I. Sometimes Noggin is the only thing that allows me to check my email, wash my hair, or fix dinner without having a toddler attached to my hip.
The only bad thing about Noggin is that it is annoying as hell. I sit there watching shows like Dora the Explorer, 64 Zoo Lane, and Blue’s Clues asking logical questions that don’t belong in the arena of children’s television such as:
· Why is it that Lucy on 64 Zoo Lane hangs out in a zoo every night and never gets eaten by the lion?
· How come Dora always needs a map for directions when she is the most well traveled girl in her little Dora land?
· How come Oswald can exist just fine on land, despite the fact that he’s an octopus?
· In the cartoon, Franklin, how come every other animal except Franklin and his sister, Harriet, is known by their species (i.e. Beaver, Bear, Fox, etc.)?
Noggin never answers these questions! What I find even more disturbing is the fact that I’m even asking these questions in the first place. Once upon a time, I actually used my brain for more important things like reading academic texts on Cultural Studies and Communication. Now I regularly help Rachael keep track of how many clues Steve or Joe has found, and what Blue left those clues for.
On a much darker note, I find myself dreaming up different endings than the ones that make my little munchkin squeal with delight. I picture an episode of Dora the Explorer, where Dora has had enough of Swiper’s petty theft, and in true Latina style, gathers her cousins for a beat down at the Tall Mountain. FYI—I grew up with Latinas and befriended many of them, and I know how they deal with someone who does them wrong. They don’t have the same forgiveness in their hearts that Dora does.
I watch Franklin and dream of the day when the friendly turtle along with his pals Bear, Snail, and Fox do an intervention on Beaver and let her know what a spoiled bitch she really is. Creators of the show Oswald, I know are secretly dying to do an episode where Oswald would tell everyone to “screw off” when they wanted him to watch their pet, egg, or whatever responsibility they seem to saddle him with on a regular basis. An octopus should not be so high stressed. An episode of Miffy where Auntie Alice catches Miffy and Melanie huffing glue behind Grunty’s house would make for a good laugh. Last but not least, the day eventually comes when Maisy, Talullah, and Cyril will have to watch Charlie get on the short bus, because they learn that he is severely mentally retarded. Just for honorable mention, an episode of 64 Zoo Lane where Lucy gets eaten by the boa constrictor or the lion would validate the earlier mentioned question.
For those that think I’m callous for wishing horrible circumstances on a group of sweet and innocent cartoon characters, you watch this shit constantly and see how quickly your sanity slips away. Despite my fantasy endings, I’m generally very pleased with Noggin. Although I am constantly reminded by “much better mothers” who don’t let their kids watch tv, about the benefits of raising children in a world void of pop culture, I know the truth about what they’re doing.
I remember those “no tv” kids from grade school. They were the ones who didn’t get the jokes or references the other kids would use on the playground. Those of us, whose minds were polluted with tv, thought they were weird, and we would watch, as they would end up segregated with the other “no tv” kids. While I appreciate another parent’s choice in how they raise their kids, I would hope that they would extend me the same courtesy. They never do, of course, and boast about how much their child is just drawn to books, because they don’t have tv. Well, I’m glad to hear that, now here’s my boast. My child understands basic elementary Spanish, because Dora has taught her how to speak it. Dora has also instilled in Rachael that she should be adventurous, but should also be responsible enough to pack the tools necessary for a great adventure. Rachael realizes that sharing and valuing friendships are important values, because Franklin and Little Bear have reminded her. Blue regularly challenges Rachael to use basic deductive reasoning to figure out a situation for herself. And finally, Dan Zanes (formerly of the Del Fuegos) has helped my daughter recognize that good music, whether it is for children or adults, is worthy of audience participation.
I may be a bad mother, because I let Rachael watch television. I might be evil, because I think of gruesome endings to her favorite shows. Frankly, I don’t care, and actually I’ve been called worse.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Selfish Days Gone By
I miss being selfish. Those fabulous trips to the bookstore when I would spend two hours perusing the new titles while sipping a Grande-sized coffee drink then eventually leaving with a minimum of $50 worth of shit that I didn’t need. Selfishness is one of those double-edged swords. Our society supposedly looks down on the selfish, yet the most selfish people grace the covers of nearly every publication on the newsstand.
I’m not a selfish person in general. I would go out of my way to help anyone, and my husband bitches at me on a regular basis for donating to various causes. However, when I decided to have a baby, I never thought about the fact that I would be turning in my ability to be selfish. Whether it was the purchase of useless crap at a bookstore, or getting to sleep in until 11:00 am on a Sunday, I was able to do what I wanted. Not anymore!
I learned about the sin of being selfish after becoming a mother from my own mother. When I was in the second grade, I befriended a wonderful kid with a big smile. His name was Christopher and he had two younger sisters. All three kids always looked unkempt from their tattered clothes that never quite fit right and were probably purchased at second-hand stores or garage sales, to the hair that was constantly disheveled. The only reason Chris was popular was because he was nice. As a rule in grade school, if you were a poor kid, you were most certainly unpopular. His mother, on the other hand, was always dressed to the nines. She got her hair done at a salon, walked around in a white, rabbit’s fur jacket and had her nails done weekly. These were the days before Vietnamese nail salons when it was an expensive luxury. My mother always took every opportunity when she saw Chris’ mother in public to trash her to me quietly. She thought it was awful that any woman would outfit herself at the expense of having her kids look like “ragamuffins”. My mother would regularly forego her own wants in favor of using the minimal resources at her disposal for us kids.
Even now, I still apply my mother’s selfless philosophy when it comes to my daughter. She gets everything she needs first, and I don’t feel all that bad about giving up my financial selfishness. Given the unpleasant size of my ass, I would rather buy a cute outfit for her than spend one minute having to try on clothes in front of a cruel and unforgiving tri-fold mirror. I still make the occasional excursion to the bookstore when I find myself ready to take out my entire household, including the dog, execution-style, and the only thing that stops me is the episode of Law & Order I watched the night before. Although I enjoy the latte, but usually leave empty-handed, and that’s okay by me.
What I find myself missing the most is my selfish time. I remember when a plane ride used to be a pleasant and peaceful time when I could catch up on some reading, now it’s Toddler Wrestlemania. The worst part is watching my husband, when he’s not too much of a coward to travel with me and my daughter, sitting in the seat beside me reading and sipping his coffee while I make a guestimate on how many bruises her little Striderites are going to leave on my thighs. Again, I keep that episode of Law & Order in mind. I miss sitting down at a restaurant, of my choice, with a cartoon character nowhere in sight, and having a leisurely meal. Morning sex has now become one of those memories from my former life as a childless, sexy woman when I would rock my husband’s world before fixing breakfast. Now we lay there like lumps, both slightly awake when my daughter calls for us from her crib, eventually one of us gives in and walks down the hall to get her. We bring her back to our room, putting her down in the middle of our king-sized bed where we lay fully clothed. She watches Noggin and sucks down a bottle, kicking me in the side with her foot and slapping Jeff in the head with her stuffed bear, while we scramble for a few more minutes of precious sleep.
In burying my selfishness, I’ve also had to let go of the fact that I can no longer exist as a single entity anymore. I am now the mother and wife in a family. I can’t just quit my job, break up with my boyfriend, move to Europe and backpack around living off my wits and charm. Despite the fact that I would never throw that much caution to the wind, in the back of my mind there was a wonderful comfort in knowing that I could. If I wanted to, I could be 100% selfish just leave everything behind and go off on my own. I can’t do that now, and sometimes I find myself wondering why I didn’t do that when I had the chance. I sit around questioning whether my life would have been better had I kept myself solo, and if I would be doing something more exciting with my days than changing diapers and fixing dinner.
In my yearning for the loss of my selfishness, like thunder erupting in my brain, my subconscious reminds me of my lonely life prior to Jeff and Rachael. When I would sleep alone in bed at night wanting desperately to feel another body laying beside me or watching women snuggling their chubby, little babies wishing I had someone cute to call me “mommy”. The fact that life seems to be one big series of trade-offs is such a hard realization to come to. You read all of the time about those budding actors or musicians who suddenly become famous, and end up nearly suicidal, because no one ever told them that there was going to be a downside.
For now, 99% of the time, I’m cool with foregoing my selfishness, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to long for it, especially when I’m trying to cop a squat in the bathroom and there’s a toddler sitting on my lap unrolling the entire roll of toilet paper.
I’m not a selfish person in general. I would go out of my way to help anyone, and my husband bitches at me on a regular basis for donating to various causes. However, when I decided to have a baby, I never thought about the fact that I would be turning in my ability to be selfish. Whether it was the purchase of useless crap at a bookstore, or getting to sleep in until 11:00 am on a Sunday, I was able to do what I wanted. Not anymore!
I learned about the sin of being selfish after becoming a mother from my own mother. When I was in the second grade, I befriended a wonderful kid with a big smile. His name was Christopher and he had two younger sisters. All three kids always looked unkempt from their tattered clothes that never quite fit right and were probably purchased at second-hand stores or garage sales, to the hair that was constantly disheveled. The only reason Chris was popular was because he was nice. As a rule in grade school, if you were a poor kid, you were most certainly unpopular. His mother, on the other hand, was always dressed to the nines. She got her hair done at a salon, walked around in a white, rabbit’s fur jacket and had her nails done weekly. These were the days before Vietnamese nail salons when it was an expensive luxury. My mother always took every opportunity when she saw Chris’ mother in public to trash her to me quietly. She thought it was awful that any woman would outfit herself at the expense of having her kids look like “ragamuffins”. My mother would regularly forego her own wants in favor of using the minimal resources at her disposal for us kids.
Even now, I still apply my mother’s selfless philosophy when it comes to my daughter. She gets everything she needs first, and I don’t feel all that bad about giving up my financial selfishness. Given the unpleasant size of my ass, I would rather buy a cute outfit for her than spend one minute having to try on clothes in front of a cruel and unforgiving tri-fold mirror. I still make the occasional excursion to the bookstore when I find myself ready to take out my entire household, including the dog, execution-style, and the only thing that stops me is the episode of Law & Order I watched the night before. Although I enjoy the latte, but usually leave empty-handed, and that’s okay by me.
What I find myself missing the most is my selfish time. I remember when a plane ride used to be a pleasant and peaceful time when I could catch up on some reading, now it’s Toddler Wrestlemania. The worst part is watching my husband, when he’s not too much of a coward to travel with me and my daughter, sitting in the seat beside me reading and sipping his coffee while I make a guestimate on how many bruises her little Striderites are going to leave on my thighs. Again, I keep that episode of Law & Order in mind. I miss sitting down at a restaurant, of my choice, with a cartoon character nowhere in sight, and having a leisurely meal. Morning sex has now become one of those memories from my former life as a childless, sexy woman when I would rock my husband’s world before fixing breakfast. Now we lay there like lumps, both slightly awake when my daughter calls for us from her crib, eventually one of us gives in and walks down the hall to get her. We bring her back to our room, putting her down in the middle of our king-sized bed where we lay fully clothed. She watches Noggin and sucks down a bottle, kicking me in the side with her foot and slapping Jeff in the head with her stuffed bear, while we scramble for a few more minutes of precious sleep.
In burying my selfishness, I’ve also had to let go of the fact that I can no longer exist as a single entity anymore. I am now the mother and wife in a family. I can’t just quit my job, break up with my boyfriend, move to Europe and backpack around living off my wits and charm. Despite the fact that I would never throw that much caution to the wind, in the back of my mind there was a wonderful comfort in knowing that I could. If I wanted to, I could be 100% selfish just leave everything behind and go off on my own. I can’t do that now, and sometimes I find myself wondering why I didn’t do that when I had the chance. I sit around questioning whether my life would have been better had I kept myself solo, and if I would be doing something more exciting with my days than changing diapers and fixing dinner.
In my yearning for the loss of my selfishness, like thunder erupting in my brain, my subconscious reminds me of my lonely life prior to Jeff and Rachael. When I would sleep alone in bed at night wanting desperately to feel another body laying beside me or watching women snuggling their chubby, little babies wishing I had someone cute to call me “mommy”. The fact that life seems to be one big series of trade-offs is such a hard realization to come to. You read all of the time about those budding actors or musicians who suddenly become famous, and end up nearly suicidal, because no one ever told them that there was going to be a downside.
For now, 99% of the time, I’m cool with foregoing my selfishness, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to long for it, especially when I’m trying to cop a squat in the bathroom and there’s a toddler sitting on my lap unrolling the entire roll of toilet paper.
My Struggle with the Minivan Hierarchy
I always hated minivans. They were ugly, very uncool, and every Mormon family in Idaho owned one. Mormons are sweet people, mostly, but none of them are cool, no matter how hard they try to be during their teenage years they seriously fall short of this characteristic. When they become adults and get married, they begin having kids as soon as they can consummate and along comes the minivan purchase.
I swore I would never drive one of these uncool, family mobiles, but my Ford Taurus seemed to be shrinking over time. I realized that I would need something larger one fateful day at Target when I purchased one of those enormous Rubbermaid tubs to store Rachael’s outgrown baby clothes in. I spent 15 minutes in the parking lot re-arranging the car trying to fit the blue container in somehow. Nearly resigning myself to thinking that I would have to return it, I finally came up with a configuration that would accommodate Rachael, my mother-in-law, myself, a couple of boxes of crap from the trunk, and the Rubbermaid tub. The ride home was uncomfortable, not only for the fact that we were stuck in the car like sardines, but because I came to realization that I needed a bigger vehicle.
At heart, I am a minimalist. I don’t like to hang onto things. Four years ago, I moved back to Seattle with one large suitcase and a carry-on and didn’t retrieve the rest of my things for nearly a year. I’m not a packrat, and I pride myself on traveling light. After relaying my Rubbermaid tub experience to my husband, he decided that we should begin looking at Volvo station wagons. Not very cool, but at least it wasn’t a minivan.
We continued to face the problem of borrowing vehicles from our friends when we made a large purchase, and during Memorial Day Weekend it happened. My in-laws were up along with Jeff’s Auntie Tama and Uncle Jerry. They would spend Memorial Day Weekend with us then the four of them would travel through Canada and come back two weeks later for Jeff’s graduation. For the roadtrip, they rented a minivan; a Ford Freestar. On a Sunday, we all loaded into the minivan for a trip down to Pike Place Market for their annual street fair. It was a pleasant drive as we all traveled comfortably in the accommodating caravan. Rachael had her grandma on one side and great auntie on the other while Jeff and I kicked back in the captain’s chairs. Uncle Jerry drove and Jeff’s stepdad, Herb, co-piloted. It was a relaxing, trouble-free adventure. Jeff and I were in bed that night when he asked me what I thought of the vehicle. I sat up in bed and made the cathartic statement: “Fuck, I want a minivan!”
I kicked myself for days afterward. I was completely selling out to the man. Jeff was delighted, because we could get a decent used minivan a lot cheaper than a used Volvo. (Since I’m married to a man, who is like myself, a cheap-assed Jew, we never buy new cars due to the automatic depreciation).
As we embarked on our search for a minivan we discovered a hierarchical structure that had engrained itself in American culture unrecognizable to those who drove anything besides the family wagon of the new millennium. At the top of the scale, like a shining trophy sits the Honda Odyssey. Boasting its superior quality and reliability, this beacon of vehicular engineering has everything a family could need such as sensors on the doors to keep little fingers from getting smushed and an in-car entertainment system that was better than the one at my house. It also had stow ‘n’ go seats that collapsed into secret compartments below the floor of the car…friggin’ storable seats! It was also hella expensive. A new one costs just as much as a cool car, and unfortunately there’s no “sorry your youth’s gone” mercy discount.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is the Kia Sedona. Jeff made me test drive one of these beauties as a base of comparison for all of the other test-drives to follow. I think he was secretly hoping that I would love it, so that he would only have to spend a small amount to satisfy my minivan obsession. Remember, the cheap-assed Jew thing. Moving on. The Kia is clunky and doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite describe it, but despite the salesguy boasting the 5-star safety rating, I felt like I was driving an embellished roller skate. I knew that if this thing was in an accident, the drunk in the other car was going to win the battle of the head-on collision. Despite the final high-pressure sale, we passed on the Sedona. One person told me that this was the best minivan for families who wanted a minivan, but couldn’t afford any other brand. My word of advice to those families is to pass on the new Kia in favor of something used with independent suspension.
In the following week, I would test drive the Mazda MPV and the Toyota Sienna. Both are excellent middle of the road vans. If you own one of these, along with most of the “Made in the USA” brands, you are living well. If you pilot a Kia, you are low income, and if you drive an Odyssey then you are probably the spoiled wife of a man who has sweet-assed stock options from Microsoft, Boeing or one of the other big corporations around the Puget Sound, especially if he owns something like a SUV, Lexus or Mercedes. In our neighborhood, most people own the Sienna with a few Odysseys and a peppering of other brands like Mazda, Nissan and the guy near the end of the block who has a Town & Country.
It is mid-July and we have yet to purchase our minivan. I am more aware of the advertisements since I know that I will be at the helm of my own family wagon soon enough. Last night there was a flashy ad on television boasting of a shiny new van with individual sunroofs over each seat, and seats that were removable, collapsible and could possibly have an “eject” button that shoots you into the air through one of those sunroofs if hit by another car. You know how those ads are. The kicker of this ad was the way they showed the very attractive, brunette (because blondes are for fun, not for moms) storing a surfboard and a mountain bike while proclaiming that moms have changed.
I know they were trying to play down the dork factor of driving a minivan, but the fact is that minivans are not cool. Teenage and twenty-something guys are not buying minivans to pick up chicks. Women without kids are not buying minivans to go on roadtrips with their friends. Point blank, nearly no one who doesn’t have kids or grandkids owns a minivan. This endearing fact is the same with the minivan hierarchy. Rich folks don’t buy Sedonas.
I will probably end up with a Mazda or a Toyota as long as my husband can get a good price on a used one. He asked me what color I wanted the other night, and I told him I would like a champagne color…on a hot, little, two-seater like the new Thunderbird. He asked me to be serious, and I told him that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about color, because I didn’t want to own one in the first place. I will drive the damn minivan out of necessity and look forward to the day when I don’t have to deal with car seats and can trade my Mormon mobile for something cool. Until then, every time I pull out the remote entry keychain I’ll roll my eyes a little knowing that I’ve officially sold out to the man and joined millions of Americans in the minivan hierarchy.
I swore I would never drive one of these uncool, family mobiles, but my Ford Taurus seemed to be shrinking over time. I realized that I would need something larger one fateful day at Target when I purchased one of those enormous Rubbermaid tubs to store Rachael’s outgrown baby clothes in. I spent 15 minutes in the parking lot re-arranging the car trying to fit the blue container in somehow. Nearly resigning myself to thinking that I would have to return it, I finally came up with a configuration that would accommodate Rachael, my mother-in-law, myself, a couple of boxes of crap from the trunk, and the Rubbermaid tub. The ride home was uncomfortable, not only for the fact that we were stuck in the car like sardines, but because I came to realization that I needed a bigger vehicle.
At heart, I am a minimalist. I don’t like to hang onto things. Four years ago, I moved back to Seattle with one large suitcase and a carry-on and didn’t retrieve the rest of my things for nearly a year. I’m not a packrat, and I pride myself on traveling light. After relaying my Rubbermaid tub experience to my husband, he decided that we should begin looking at Volvo station wagons. Not very cool, but at least it wasn’t a minivan.
We continued to face the problem of borrowing vehicles from our friends when we made a large purchase, and during Memorial Day Weekend it happened. My in-laws were up along with Jeff’s Auntie Tama and Uncle Jerry. They would spend Memorial Day Weekend with us then the four of them would travel through Canada and come back two weeks later for Jeff’s graduation. For the roadtrip, they rented a minivan; a Ford Freestar. On a Sunday, we all loaded into the minivan for a trip down to Pike Place Market for their annual street fair. It was a pleasant drive as we all traveled comfortably in the accommodating caravan. Rachael had her grandma on one side and great auntie on the other while Jeff and I kicked back in the captain’s chairs. Uncle Jerry drove and Jeff’s stepdad, Herb, co-piloted. It was a relaxing, trouble-free adventure. Jeff and I were in bed that night when he asked me what I thought of the vehicle. I sat up in bed and made the cathartic statement: “Fuck, I want a minivan!”
I kicked myself for days afterward. I was completely selling out to the man. Jeff was delighted, because we could get a decent used minivan a lot cheaper than a used Volvo. (Since I’m married to a man, who is like myself, a cheap-assed Jew, we never buy new cars due to the automatic depreciation).
As we embarked on our search for a minivan we discovered a hierarchical structure that had engrained itself in American culture unrecognizable to those who drove anything besides the family wagon of the new millennium. At the top of the scale, like a shining trophy sits the Honda Odyssey. Boasting its superior quality and reliability, this beacon of vehicular engineering has everything a family could need such as sensors on the doors to keep little fingers from getting smushed and an in-car entertainment system that was better than the one at my house. It also had stow ‘n’ go seats that collapsed into secret compartments below the floor of the car…friggin’ storable seats! It was also hella expensive. A new one costs just as much as a cool car, and unfortunately there’s no “sorry your youth’s gone” mercy discount.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is the Kia Sedona. Jeff made me test drive one of these beauties as a base of comparison for all of the other test-drives to follow. I think he was secretly hoping that I would love it, so that he would only have to spend a small amount to satisfy my minivan obsession. Remember, the cheap-assed Jew thing. Moving on. The Kia is clunky and doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite describe it, but despite the salesguy boasting the 5-star safety rating, I felt like I was driving an embellished roller skate. I knew that if this thing was in an accident, the drunk in the other car was going to win the battle of the head-on collision. Despite the final high-pressure sale, we passed on the Sedona. One person told me that this was the best minivan for families who wanted a minivan, but couldn’t afford any other brand. My word of advice to those families is to pass on the new Kia in favor of something used with independent suspension.
In the following week, I would test drive the Mazda MPV and the Toyota Sienna. Both are excellent middle of the road vans. If you own one of these, along with most of the “Made in the USA” brands, you are living well. If you pilot a Kia, you are low income, and if you drive an Odyssey then you are probably the spoiled wife of a man who has sweet-assed stock options from Microsoft, Boeing or one of the other big corporations around the Puget Sound, especially if he owns something like a SUV, Lexus or Mercedes. In our neighborhood, most people own the Sienna with a few Odysseys and a peppering of other brands like Mazda, Nissan and the guy near the end of the block who has a Town & Country.
It is mid-July and we have yet to purchase our minivan. I am more aware of the advertisements since I know that I will be at the helm of my own family wagon soon enough. Last night there was a flashy ad on television boasting of a shiny new van with individual sunroofs over each seat, and seats that were removable, collapsible and could possibly have an “eject” button that shoots you into the air through one of those sunroofs if hit by another car. You know how those ads are. The kicker of this ad was the way they showed the very attractive, brunette (because blondes are for fun, not for moms) storing a surfboard and a mountain bike while proclaiming that moms have changed.
I know they were trying to play down the dork factor of driving a minivan, but the fact is that minivans are not cool. Teenage and twenty-something guys are not buying minivans to pick up chicks. Women without kids are not buying minivans to go on roadtrips with their friends. Point blank, nearly no one who doesn’t have kids or grandkids owns a minivan. This endearing fact is the same with the minivan hierarchy. Rich folks don’t buy Sedonas.
I will probably end up with a Mazda or a Toyota as long as my husband can get a good price on a used one. He asked me what color I wanted the other night, and I told him I would like a champagne color…on a hot, little, two-seater like the new Thunderbird. He asked me to be serious, and I told him that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about color, because I didn’t want to own one in the first place. I will drive the damn minivan out of necessity and look forward to the day when I don’t have to deal with car seats and can trade my Mormon mobile for something cool. Until then, every time I pull out the remote entry keychain I’ll roll my eyes a little knowing that I’ve officially sold out to the man and joined millions of Americans in the minivan hierarchy.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Motherhood: The Fear and the Glory
That first night in the hospital after I had my daughter, Rachael, was one of the most restless nights of my life. My body was still a little sore from the whole birth thing, but thankfully I had had the sense to realize that I was not all that into pain and told my wonderful doctor at three months pregnant that I would like an epidural. She smiled at me believing that I wanted to wait until I was in labor for the back-breaking shot, but I could have used one then, too.
In an effort to give you maximum bonding time, they put the baby in a shallow, serving table contraption and let them “sleep” in the room with you. I didn’t get hardly a wink that night. Frankly, I was too freaked to sleep. From now on, and ‘til the day I die, I had this person who was now my number one priority. During my time as a pregnant woman I had all of these goofy and endearing fantasies about life with a baby, but now that I was actually faced with an infant I realized that I was completely unprepared. I had not been around babies in at least 15 years. My husband, Jeff, and I were the first couple, amongst our friends, to have a baby, and I was walking into full-time childcare with no experience. New motherhood is like walking into the cockpit of a 747 and having someone tell you to fly the plane safely to Detroit.
After a few months of hits and misses, like those tired days when you completely forget to put the diaper on before the sleeper, and some serious amounts of Zoloft for the post-partum depression (Kiss my ass, Tom Cruise!), I had the mother thing down. My sweet little, peanut baby is now a destructive, mischievous toddler who watches Dora the Explorer and steals household objects on a regular basis. She hides her finds in the elephant toy box that my mom refurbished as a memento from my childhood. The last time I cleaned it out I found the following: two pairs of Jeff’s socks, a role of toilet paper, one of the dog’s bandanas, and a package of maxi pads; all of the essentials in life that you need during a good disposable cotton shortage.
I am now left to wrestle with my fears of how my child might turn out. She is creative, energetic, and smart as a whip figuring out everything from childproof locks to remote controls quickly. A smart kid is a double-edged sword. While you rejoice in the fact that they are advanced, as you watch them stack their pillows and stuffed animals one on top of the other to build a makeshift platform so they can leap out of the crib, you realize that you are screwed. She will always try to get one past you, and you’re going to have to keep on your toes in order to get her from childhood to a productive adult safely and without any unwanted teenage pregnancies.
I look at my little one and wonder what she’ll be like as a teenager. My worst fear is not that she will be one of those obnoxious goth girls who wants to dye her hair jet black and wear lots of purple velvet, but that she will become something far worse: a mall chick. You know what I mean when I say, “mall chick”. Those pretentious, bitchy, shiny-haired, too-skinny blondies who use the word “like” way too much, and won’t speak to you unless you have a designer handbag. They usually travel in packs of three, and one of them is always a Brittney or Ashley. Their male counterparts are those white guys who talk like they are from the ghetto and dress in designer clothes that hang off their ass like its melting candle wax. Most of them have never met a black person, but they think they know everything about black culture. I can’t stand the mall chicks and the white ghetto boys. My worst fear is that Rachael will become one of them in an attempt to rebel.
As a punk mama, it wouldn’t affect me one bit if she picked a rainbow hair color or got a piercing, although my straight-laced husband would completely flip. I wouldn’t care if she listened to hardcore music, in fact, she would probably be able to help me find new stuff to listen to. I dream of the day that we can sit side by side and watch The Ramones: End of the Century documentary and I can teach her everything I know about punk music. When she has the desire to dye her hair black, although it may not be the best color for her, I will step in and help her avoid winding up with a black stained neck.
Alas, these dreams probably won’t happen. Somewhere in a Superman Bizarro-like universe, which is probably a few exits up I-405 in Bellevue, there is a mommy with a 19-month-old little girl looking forward to the day that she can take her shiny-haired blondie to the mall and buy designer handbags together. In the future I imagine we meet while sitting on one of the benches at the mall as her daughter shops at Hot Topic and Rachael is perusing the goods at Nordstrom. We give each other a resigned look as we envy each other’s teenagers both secretly knowing that these results were inevitable. We sip our Starbucks coffee beverages gratefully, because we know that if we are at least in the proximity of our college bound, teenage girls and neither one of them are pregnant, shiny or falsely black hair aside, we’ve done our jobs.
I guess that’s the whole purpose of motherhood; do your best and hope that your kid doesn’t need too much therapy. Love your kids no matter how they turn out, and get them from childhood to adulthood while supporting their dreams and helping them make a happy life. I’ve heard someday they will reward you with grandchildren, but I think they reward you a little bit everyday even if its just looking sweet as they sleep after spending all of their waking hours throwing around the laundry you just folded and terrorizing the dog. As a punk mama I rejoice in the fact that I have no conceived expectations for my child other than asking her to always do her best. If her best is to be a “C” student, then so be it. I don’t expect her to be a beauty queen, a genius, a prodigy, or talented in any way. I just want her to figure out what she likes and find a dream to pursue. If that dream is to own a designer handbag, then I’ll deal with it, but if her dream just happens to involve hardcore music, then I’ll do a little happy Snoopy dance.
Either way, she’s my baby, and I’m her mommy and in the end, we go about our day. She poops, I change the diaper. She makes a mess eventually I clean it up. She enjoys watching Dora; I slightly go insane little by little listening to the annoying music. She sits in her car seat during a drive; I switch between the punk and hardcore music channels on XFM. After all, a little subliminal context never hurt anyone.
In an effort to give you maximum bonding time, they put the baby in a shallow, serving table contraption and let them “sleep” in the room with you. I didn’t get hardly a wink that night. Frankly, I was too freaked to sleep. From now on, and ‘til the day I die, I had this person who was now my number one priority. During my time as a pregnant woman I had all of these goofy and endearing fantasies about life with a baby, but now that I was actually faced with an infant I realized that I was completely unprepared. I had not been around babies in at least 15 years. My husband, Jeff, and I were the first couple, amongst our friends, to have a baby, and I was walking into full-time childcare with no experience. New motherhood is like walking into the cockpit of a 747 and having someone tell you to fly the plane safely to Detroit.
After a few months of hits and misses, like those tired days when you completely forget to put the diaper on before the sleeper, and some serious amounts of Zoloft for the post-partum depression (Kiss my ass, Tom Cruise!), I had the mother thing down. My sweet little, peanut baby is now a destructive, mischievous toddler who watches Dora the Explorer and steals household objects on a regular basis. She hides her finds in the elephant toy box that my mom refurbished as a memento from my childhood. The last time I cleaned it out I found the following: two pairs of Jeff’s socks, a role of toilet paper, one of the dog’s bandanas, and a package of maxi pads; all of the essentials in life that you need during a good disposable cotton shortage.
I am now left to wrestle with my fears of how my child might turn out. She is creative, energetic, and smart as a whip figuring out everything from childproof locks to remote controls quickly. A smart kid is a double-edged sword. While you rejoice in the fact that they are advanced, as you watch them stack their pillows and stuffed animals one on top of the other to build a makeshift platform so they can leap out of the crib, you realize that you are screwed. She will always try to get one past you, and you’re going to have to keep on your toes in order to get her from childhood to a productive adult safely and without any unwanted teenage pregnancies.
I look at my little one and wonder what she’ll be like as a teenager. My worst fear is not that she will be one of those obnoxious goth girls who wants to dye her hair jet black and wear lots of purple velvet, but that she will become something far worse: a mall chick. You know what I mean when I say, “mall chick”. Those pretentious, bitchy, shiny-haired, too-skinny blondies who use the word “like” way too much, and won’t speak to you unless you have a designer handbag. They usually travel in packs of three, and one of them is always a Brittney or Ashley. Their male counterparts are those white guys who talk like they are from the ghetto and dress in designer clothes that hang off their ass like its melting candle wax. Most of them have never met a black person, but they think they know everything about black culture. I can’t stand the mall chicks and the white ghetto boys. My worst fear is that Rachael will become one of them in an attempt to rebel.
As a punk mama, it wouldn’t affect me one bit if she picked a rainbow hair color or got a piercing, although my straight-laced husband would completely flip. I wouldn’t care if she listened to hardcore music, in fact, she would probably be able to help me find new stuff to listen to. I dream of the day that we can sit side by side and watch The Ramones: End of the Century documentary and I can teach her everything I know about punk music. When she has the desire to dye her hair black, although it may not be the best color for her, I will step in and help her avoid winding up with a black stained neck.
Alas, these dreams probably won’t happen. Somewhere in a Superman Bizarro-like universe, which is probably a few exits up I-405 in Bellevue, there is a mommy with a 19-month-old little girl looking forward to the day that she can take her shiny-haired blondie to the mall and buy designer handbags together. In the future I imagine we meet while sitting on one of the benches at the mall as her daughter shops at Hot Topic and Rachael is perusing the goods at Nordstrom. We give each other a resigned look as we envy each other’s teenagers both secretly knowing that these results were inevitable. We sip our Starbucks coffee beverages gratefully, because we know that if we are at least in the proximity of our college bound, teenage girls and neither one of them are pregnant, shiny or falsely black hair aside, we’ve done our jobs.
I guess that’s the whole purpose of motherhood; do your best and hope that your kid doesn’t need too much therapy. Love your kids no matter how they turn out, and get them from childhood to adulthood while supporting their dreams and helping them make a happy life. I’ve heard someday they will reward you with grandchildren, but I think they reward you a little bit everyday even if its just looking sweet as they sleep after spending all of their waking hours throwing around the laundry you just folded and terrorizing the dog. As a punk mama I rejoice in the fact that I have no conceived expectations for my child other than asking her to always do her best. If her best is to be a “C” student, then so be it. I don’t expect her to be a beauty queen, a genius, a prodigy, or talented in any way. I just want her to figure out what she likes and find a dream to pursue. If that dream is to own a designer handbag, then I’ll deal with it, but if her dream just happens to involve hardcore music, then I’ll do a little happy Snoopy dance.
Either way, she’s my baby, and I’m her mommy and in the end, we go about our day. She poops, I change the diaper. She makes a mess eventually I clean it up. She enjoys watching Dora; I slightly go insane little by little listening to the annoying music. She sits in her car seat during a drive; I switch between the punk and hardcore music channels on XFM. After all, a little subliminal context never hurt anyone.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
How the Hell Did I Get Here?
I live in a great neighborhood in a beautiful house in a picturesque Seattle suburb soon to be known as Fairwood. Apparently some of those residing in the Fairwood area don’t think the City of Renton is improving quick enough, and since they just paid over $400,000 for their house, they don’t want to have “Renton” in their address. I don’t care about any of that pretentious bullshit all I want to know is if it’s going to cost me more money when I have to pay taxes.
I find myself living a life that ten years ago would have been on my “Things I Really Hate” list. I have one child, a husband, and a dog. I don’t drive a minivan, but I think of getting one every time I struggle to free my writhing toddler from her car seat and smack her head in the process. My life is a suburban dream. On paper I should be happy, but something about this life just doesn’t gel with me. I’ve spent a lot of money and time thinking about this and I’ve finally come to the conclusion: I’m a punk.
At 32 years old I feel the same way about some things as I did when I was 15. I still hate the government, most corporations, pop music, the majority of the crap on TV, magazines with airbrushed models on the covers, people who tell me what to do, and the dictates of a routine schedule. I find the suburbs dreadfully boring, and become invigorated every time I go to the city. Some of the best years of my life, so far, have been when I was working in the music industry or traveling the world. I still listen to hardcore music; the kind that would scare the hell out of my neighbors, and make their kids smile.
I’m caught in a life that is somewhere between Wisteria Lane and CBGB, and I’m having some difficulty making it all add up. Just like in therapy, I have to start at the beginning.
My parents divorced when I was nine months old. They were teenagers at the time, and were practicing the type of birth control popular during the time of the “peace and love generation”: drop acid, have sex and see what happens. My mom and I were a team living on our own in a small Connecticut town until a few years later when my younger sister, Misty, came along. Then one night, for no reason, we moved across country to Idaho. That’s right, we went from a small town in New England to the bastard child, and the most uncool part, of the Pacific Northwest. I would find out later in life after my mother’s death that she worked for an employer that resembled Tony Soprano, in almost every way, and one night got pinched by the cops in a bust. At that moment she realized that perhaps her career choice wasn’t the best one, and wanted away from that life. Hence we moved to the last place they, or anyone, would think to look: a small town of 19,000 called Nampa. I never forgave my mother for that.
The only positive thing that came out of an upbringing in Idaho was the healthy development of my punk attitude and outlook. Small, shithole towns with little hope and a dismal future are the most ideal breeding grounds for punks. While growing up in Nampa, I got a top-notch education in how to hate people, how to despise organized religion, and what “thinking outside the box” truly means, since no one else did. Nampa was a two-class society divided into those kids who were from “good”, middle class homes, and those who weren’t. You have probably concluded that given my mother’s runaway status, and the fact that she was lugging two kids along that we weren’t exactly swimming in wealth. We were downright poor, and would move to a new apartment every six months until I was 12 years old. The moving thing had nothing to do with our financial status and had more to do with the whole running from the mob thing my mom was involved in earlier in her life. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.
I hung out with the “stoners” despite never touching drugs until I was in my second year of college. I always harbored the belief that if I tried drugs, I would wind up being a junkie loser who worked at a convenience store and lived in Nampa for the rest of my life. The stoners were a great group of kids, and we all liked the same kind of music. By age 12, my mom and step dad had purchased a small hotel and my sister and I, along with a younger brother, Matthew, moved into a 1,000 square foot house with a front façade that served as the hotel office. It was on the bad side of town, but the “bad side of town” in Nampa still meant that in the 1980s you could keep just a screen door closed on a hot summer’s night and no one would break into your house.
On the good side of town lived a group of upper middle class, white kids known as “preppies”. Preppies listened to pop music and wore Izod shirts with the collar up. They participated in sports and sat in the lower bleachers during lame-assed pep assemblies. Their cars were nicer pieces of shit, and most of them quit riding the school bus by 16. The preppies were the group that didn’t have to worry about money for college or whether one of their parents might come home drunk. The group I hung out with were the ones who were never supposed to succeed, but in the end, we did. As I sit and write this 14 years after graduation, a good portion of the preppies I had little regard for ended up in and out of rehab, divorced, going from job to job, and mostly miserable. My stoner buddies ended up similar to me: making a good living, residing in a beautiful house in the suburbs with happy, fully functional kids, driving a minivan, and doing okay. I often wonder though if they now find themselves in the same predicament. If they look around and wonder how they went from wearing a faded jean jacket with a Misfits “Fiend Club” backpatch while smoking cigarettes behind the Maverick gas station at lunch to wearing an awful Hawaiian shirt while nursing a microbrew and socializing at the neighborhood 4th of July barbecue. What the fuck happened to us?
Maybe it was growing up poor in dysfunctional families that led us to something so normal. On the other hand, we despised normal and still do. Perhaps in resisting so hard what society told us to do, we ended up following that path on a subconscious level. Then again, maybe we were all just a bunch of lazy asses, and it was easier to hang out in the ‘burbs rather than subverting the dominate paradigm. Either way, I can’t be the only one asking what happened.
I find myself living a life that ten years ago would have been on my “Things I Really Hate” list. I have one child, a husband, and a dog. I don’t drive a minivan, but I think of getting one every time I struggle to free my writhing toddler from her car seat and smack her head in the process. My life is a suburban dream. On paper I should be happy, but something about this life just doesn’t gel with me. I’ve spent a lot of money and time thinking about this and I’ve finally come to the conclusion: I’m a punk.
At 32 years old I feel the same way about some things as I did when I was 15. I still hate the government, most corporations, pop music, the majority of the crap on TV, magazines with airbrushed models on the covers, people who tell me what to do, and the dictates of a routine schedule. I find the suburbs dreadfully boring, and become invigorated every time I go to the city. Some of the best years of my life, so far, have been when I was working in the music industry or traveling the world. I still listen to hardcore music; the kind that would scare the hell out of my neighbors, and make their kids smile.
I’m caught in a life that is somewhere between Wisteria Lane and CBGB, and I’m having some difficulty making it all add up. Just like in therapy, I have to start at the beginning.
My parents divorced when I was nine months old. They were teenagers at the time, and were practicing the type of birth control popular during the time of the “peace and love generation”: drop acid, have sex and see what happens. My mom and I were a team living on our own in a small Connecticut town until a few years later when my younger sister, Misty, came along. Then one night, for no reason, we moved across country to Idaho. That’s right, we went from a small town in New England to the bastard child, and the most uncool part, of the Pacific Northwest. I would find out later in life after my mother’s death that she worked for an employer that resembled Tony Soprano, in almost every way, and one night got pinched by the cops in a bust. At that moment she realized that perhaps her career choice wasn’t the best one, and wanted away from that life. Hence we moved to the last place they, or anyone, would think to look: a small town of 19,000 called Nampa. I never forgave my mother for that.
The only positive thing that came out of an upbringing in Idaho was the healthy development of my punk attitude and outlook. Small, shithole towns with little hope and a dismal future are the most ideal breeding grounds for punks. While growing up in Nampa, I got a top-notch education in how to hate people, how to despise organized religion, and what “thinking outside the box” truly means, since no one else did. Nampa was a two-class society divided into those kids who were from “good”, middle class homes, and those who weren’t. You have probably concluded that given my mother’s runaway status, and the fact that she was lugging two kids along that we weren’t exactly swimming in wealth. We were downright poor, and would move to a new apartment every six months until I was 12 years old. The moving thing had nothing to do with our financial status and had more to do with the whole running from the mob thing my mom was involved in earlier in her life. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.
I hung out with the “stoners” despite never touching drugs until I was in my second year of college. I always harbored the belief that if I tried drugs, I would wind up being a junkie loser who worked at a convenience store and lived in Nampa for the rest of my life. The stoners were a great group of kids, and we all liked the same kind of music. By age 12, my mom and step dad had purchased a small hotel and my sister and I, along with a younger brother, Matthew, moved into a 1,000 square foot house with a front façade that served as the hotel office. It was on the bad side of town, but the “bad side of town” in Nampa still meant that in the 1980s you could keep just a screen door closed on a hot summer’s night and no one would break into your house.
On the good side of town lived a group of upper middle class, white kids known as “preppies”. Preppies listened to pop music and wore Izod shirts with the collar up. They participated in sports and sat in the lower bleachers during lame-assed pep assemblies. Their cars were nicer pieces of shit, and most of them quit riding the school bus by 16. The preppies were the group that didn’t have to worry about money for college or whether one of their parents might come home drunk. The group I hung out with were the ones who were never supposed to succeed, but in the end, we did. As I sit and write this 14 years after graduation, a good portion of the preppies I had little regard for ended up in and out of rehab, divorced, going from job to job, and mostly miserable. My stoner buddies ended up similar to me: making a good living, residing in a beautiful house in the suburbs with happy, fully functional kids, driving a minivan, and doing okay. I often wonder though if they now find themselves in the same predicament. If they look around and wonder how they went from wearing a faded jean jacket with a Misfits “Fiend Club” backpatch while smoking cigarettes behind the Maverick gas station at lunch to wearing an awful Hawaiian shirt while nursing a microbrew and socializing at the neighborhood 4th of July barbecue. What the fuck happened to us?
Maybe it was growing up poor in dysfunctional families that led us to something so normal. On the other hand, we despised normal and still do. Perhaps in resisting so hard what society told us to do, we ended up following that path on a subconscious level. Then again, maybe we were all just a bunch of lazy asses, and it was easier to hang out in the ‘burbs rather than subverting the dominate paradigm. Either way, I can’t be the only one asking what happened.
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