You have to love Washington, D.C. I’m not what you would call a news junkie but even someone like me knows that our government is in the throes of addressing some of the most trying times on our history.
Some of the highlights of our situation: the highest unemployment in a generation; the financial, housing, media and automobile industries in tatters and surviving on life support at this point; continued unrest and violence in the Middle East, including the possibly escalating war in Afghanistan and the madman at the helm in Iran; and finally, the debate about health care that rages on from coast to coast. In the midst of these headlines, we've had an ACORN scandal, an Olympic debacle, and news about any number of personal indiscretions committed by our elected officials that have come to light.
Yes, Washington seems to be occupied by a number of critical issues. Which is why I was delighted to hear that in the midst of all this, the House Energy and Commerce Committee is taking on one of the most pressing problems of all, by enacting the Commercial Advertising Loudness Mitigation Act, also known as C.A.L.M. This is exactly what you think it is.
You know how you plop down at night, all set to click through something like 400 channels as you look for the same old movie to watch on TNT (The Shawshank Redemption / Lord of the Rings) or AMC (Lonesome Dove / A Few Good Men) or TBS (Wedding Crashers / Titanic) and once in a while, you find yourself somehow stuck in a commercial break? Or maybe you somehow forgot to DVR a program or a movie and you are forced to watch it in “real time,” not in "recorded time" that would allow you to fast-forward through every break. As a result, you get confronted with a commercial or two, a circumstance that’s usually as rare as Congress putting something to a vote. But like every twenty-first century American with access to a keyboard or keypad of any kind, instead of watching it attentively, you surf the net or send a text message or Twitter something or update your Facebook status or check your bank balance or read your work email or buy something online or play thirteen quick games of Solitaire or Bejeweled to pass the time until the program begins again.
But it’s not that simple. Ever notice how the commercials are much LOUDER than the program you’re watching? That’s not an accident or your imagination. In this age of TIVO, DVR and HULU, networks are desperate to have someone watch their commercials before they lose every single advertiser that still pays attention when they announce their fall season programming. If they have to assault your senses to do it, they will.
But like I said, that should come to an end. We have Washington on our side. I suppose if the Commercial Advertising Loudness Mitigation Act gets passed, we’ll get some relief from commercials shouting at us every night. Thank God the House Energy and Commerce Committee knows where to focus their energy and effort.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The New "It" Couple. If by "it," you mean pointless.
Who is the world are Giuliana and Bill?? (It’s okay, I never heard of them either.) Then I spent the better part of three days sleeping – or restlessly not sleeping as the case may be – in bed with the flu, or what felt like the flu. In my fevered state, I flipped through a number of vapid television shows. And although I never watched an episode, I was intrigued by what appears to be TV’s new power couple, Giuliana and Bill.
Let me see if I understand this. Bill Rancic once found (semi)fame as the first season’s winner on The Apprentice. According to his Style TV biography, many years before he appeared on television, he started a company called Cigars Around the World, which is a multi-million dollar organization today. How someone who founded a multi-million dollar company needed to find his way into the business world as Donald Trump’s apprentice is a mystery to me but let’s leave aside that for now. Since his Apprentice victory, Bill has gone on to a career as – what else?- a motivational speaker and author of not one, but two books.
Giuliana (DePandi) Rancic is a former entertainment reporter (now anchor and managing editor of E! News) who met Bill when she interviewed him. Born in Italy, her family moved to Washington, D.C. when she was 7 years old, where Giuliana promptly taught herself English by watching television. Not surprisingly, she has also written a book and produced such television gold as “Celebrity Rap Superstar” and “Nicole Richie: Her Simple Life.” And aren’t we all the richer for it?
According to the website, the show also features someone named Matt Jacobi, who works as Giuliana’s personal assistant. He “is always there to help Giuliana manage her hectic, high-profile life.” Whatever.
I truly don’t get us. Or at least I don’t get the people who produce and sell programs like this to networks and eventually to us. A “reality” show winner marries an entertainment reporter and there it is. That’s a show. Someone tests the concept with focus groups, and concludes that, yes, in fact we may all just want to follow their every “unscripted” move.
You have to feel sorry for good old Mary Hart. I wonder if she thinks she was born too early? Where were all these reality shows when she was younger and the only female entertainment reporter any of us could name?
All I know is that this week’s promo for G & B centered around a “guys’ night out” in Las Vegas where Bill and his friends get away from their wives and families. As Bill himself says, “What could be better than that?”
Hmmm. I can think of something better; a few things actually. That reality show stars take their winnings and go away immediately after receiving their prizes? That reality show stars never get their own follow-up television shows? That not one of them ever publishes as much as a column, much less a book, or worse, two books??? That the next time a cable network decides to produce a show featuring a motivational speaker / entrepreneur / reality show winner / author married to an entertainment reporter /executive producer / author, someone with the ability to say no to this nonsense, and also with the sense God gave a flea, smacks them very hard across the face and turns it down.
Any one of those things could be better than a boys’ night out, especially one that will be documented for posterity on Giuliana and Bill.
Let me see if I understand this. Bill Rancic once found (semi)fame as the first season’s winner on The Apprentice. According to his Style TV biography, many years before he appeared on television, he started a company called Cigars Around the World, which is a multi-million dollar organization today. How someone who founded a multi-million dollar company needed to find his way into the business world as Donald Trump’s apprentice is a mystery to me but let’s leave aside that for now. Since his Apprentice victory, Bill has gone on to a career as – what else?- a motivational speaker and author of not one, but two books.
Giuliana (DePandi) Rancic is a former entertainment reporter (now anchor and managing editor of E! News) who met Bill when she interviewed him. Born in Italy, her family moved to Washington, D.C. when she was 7 years old, where Giuliana promptly taught herself English by watching television. Not surprisingly, she has also written a book and produced such television gold as “Celebrity Rap Superstar” and “Nicole Richie: Her Simple Life.” And aren’t we all the richer for it?
According to the website, the show also features someone named Matt Jacobi, who works as Giuliana’s personal assistant. He “is always there to help Giuliana manage her hectic, high-profile life.” Whatever.
I truly don’t get us. Or at least I don’t get the people who produce and sell programs like this to networks and eventually to us. A “reality” show winner marries an entertainment reporter and there it is. That’s a show. Someone tests the concept with focus groups, and concludes that, yes, in fact we may all just want to follow their every “unscripted” move.
You have to feel sorry for good old Mary Hart. I wonder if she thinks she was born too early? Where were all these reality shows when she was younger and the only female entertainment reporter any of us could name?
All I know is that this week’s promo for G & B centered around a “guys’ night out” in Las Vegas where Bill and his friends get away from their wives and families. As Bill himself says, “What could be better than that?”
Hmmm. I can think of something better; a few things actually. That reality show stars take their winnings and go away immediately after receiving their prizes? That reality show stars never get their own follow-up television shows? That not one of them ever publishes as much as a column, much less a book, or worse, two books??? That the next time a cable network decides to produce a show featuring a motivational speaker / entrepreneur / reality show winner / author married to an entertainment reporter /executive producer / author, someone with the ability to say no to this nonsense, and also with the sense God gave a flea, smacks them very hard across the face and turns it down.
Any one of those things could be better than a boys’ night out, especially one that will be documented for posterity on Giuliana and Bill.
A Celebration: Words and Music by Willy DeVille
I heard this news from one of the generous readers who commented on this post a few weeks ago. It sounds like a wonderful celebration of the man and his music.
Here is the invitation to all - thanks Sister Sue!
Come celebrate Willy DeVille's life and music!
Sat, 10/10/09 in NYC. 3pm - Tompkins Square Park. Avenue B side.
Share stories, emotions & Willy's amazing music.
Bring stories/music or simply be comforted by the company of other fans & friends.
We have RSVP's from Canada, San Francisco, Kansas City & more!
Don't miss this chance to celebrate Willy's life & music with people who understand & care.
RSVP to WDcelebration@gmail.com. But feel free to come whether you RSVP or not!
If bad weather or you join us late we'll be at:
Otto's Shrunken Head
538 E 14th St
NY, NY 10009
Here is the invitation to all - thanks Sister Sue!
Come celebrate Willy DeVille's life and music!
Sat, 10/10/09 in NYC. 3pm - Tompkins Square Park. Avenue B side.
Share stories, emotions & Willy's amazing music.
Bring stories/music or simply be comforted by the company of other fans & friends.
We have RSVP's from Canada, San Francisco, Kansas City & more!
Don't miss this chance to celebrate Willy's life & music with people who understand & care.
RSVP to WDcelebration@gmail.com. But feel free to come whether you RSVP or not!
If bad weather or you join us late we'll be at:
Otto's Shrunken Head
538 E 14th St
NY, NY 10009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Another* flying story
No, this isn’t another case of me wailing about delays and other assorted kinds of airline inflicted pain. In this story, although the airline ultimately irritated me, my complaint lies largely with my fellow passengers.
Here’s the story. Dallas / Fort Worth to Newark; the 5:45 pm departure. I’ve taken this flight many times and it often lands promptly at 10:15 in Newark, which puts me home and in my bed before midnight. Not great but not horrible. The horrible times are when it’s delayed in Dallas and lands around 1 or 2 am in New Jersey.
This week was not one of those late nights. In fact, our flight landed at 9:30 pm. Yes, 45 MINUTES early. I don’t get it. I’m guessing the pilots follow the same flight plan every night from DFW to Liberty International but who knows. It’s obviously that weird airline ‘time warp time’ that makes no sense to me: a three and a half hour flight really takes just two hours and forty-five minutes. Except when it doesn’t. Okay, fine. That must have been some tailwind.
Two things are starting to get to me these days, every time I board a plane. First: what’s with the passengers who decide to store their bags nowhere near their seats? This makes no sense to me. I’ve watched many men – it’s always been men in my experience – store their bags above row 5 or row 6 or row 7 and then walk back to row 20 or row 21 or row 22 – passing empty aisle after empty aisle - to take their seats. Then the people seated in row 5 or row 6 or row 7 get aboard. They look around and despite no one sitting in their rows, the overhead bins are full. Is this a power thing? A guys-taking-charge thing? Whatever.
But this week, I guess I was extra tired or something. As is customary these days, once the first class passengers boarded the flight, the Elite, Silver Elite and Gold Elite passengers were invited to board. I’m not kidding: nearly everyone stood up and clustered around the gate. (Here’s where I started to get aggravated.) Once they had checked in, that left about 20 people in the gate area, including me. (My Elite status has somehow disappeared or expired despite numerous trips on this airline annually. I can’t explain it.)
As the Elite passengers handed over their boarding passes, I couldn't help but size up the various pieces of luggage they carried with them. Very few met the height and width “requirements” Continental displays front and center at each gate. They were nearly all huge suitcases, mammoth garment bags and over sized soft-sided luggage. And I thought: this is annoying. Why does an airline bother having a “your bag must fit here” display if they refuse to enforce it?
The best news of the night was that as the rest of us walked down the jetway, one of the gate attendants joined us and announced she had to tag and check all our bags. (Our bags that fit within the stipulated requirements, by the way. I know. I looked around when she said she had to check them.) Surprise! The overheads were full. Well, I wasn’t at all surprised. I saw the size of those 100 bags those 100 Elite passengers carried on board. Everyone left at the gate could have told them they were too big for the overheads. It’s not that they didn’t fit; they did. But each one took up two or three spaces. Super.
So, I had to do what I NEVER do: check my bag. And then wait at the carousel for it to appear, while I watched all the Elite passengers on my flight walk by, nearly every one of them carrying a bag the size of an ottoman.
I called Continental the next day and voiced my complaint to a lovely passenger service person who listened politely. She agreed that especially in very full flights, attention should be paid to the size of the luggage accompanying passengers on board and promised to convey my displeasure to the gate crew in Dallas.
Will she? I don’t know. I don’t think it will make a difference anyway. Apparently, Elite passengers follow different rules than the rest of us. But as I said, I take this flight regularly. I’m sure I’ll get the chance to find out.
* You may want to read two other in-flight adventures, here and here.
Here’s the story. Dallas / Fort Worth to Newark; the 5:45 pm departure. I’ve taken this flight many times and it often lands promptly at 10:15 in Newark, which puts me home and in my bed before midnight. Not great but not horrible. The horrible times are when it’s delayed in Dallas and lands around 1 or 2 am in New Jersey.
This week was not one of those late nights. In fact, our flight landed at 9:30 pm. Yes, 45 MINUTES early. I don’t get it. I’m guessing the pilots follow the same flight plan every night from DFW to Liberty International but who knows. It’s obviously that weird airline ‘time warp time’ that makes no sense to me: a three and a half hour flight really takes just two hours and forty-five minutes. Except when it doesn’t. Okay, fine. That must have been some tailwind.
Two things are starting to get to me these days, every time I board a plane. First: what’s with the passengers who decide to store their bags nowhere near their seats? This makes no sense to me. I’ve watched many men – it’s always been men in my experience – store their bags above row 5 or row 6 or row 7 and then walk back to row 20 or row 21 or row 22 – passing empty aisle after empty aisle - to take their seats. Then the people seated in row 5 or row 6 or row 7 get aboard. They look around and despite no one sitting in their rows, the overhead bins are full. Is this a power thing? A guys-taking-charge thing? Whatever.
But this week, I guess I was extra tired or something. As is customary these days, once the first class passengers boarded the flight, the Elite, Silver Elite and Gold Elite passengers were invited to board. I’m not kidding: nearly everyone stood up and clustered around the gate. (Here’s where I started to get aggravated.) Once they had checked in, that left about 20 people in the gate area, including me. (My Elite status has somehow disappeared or expired despite numerous trips on this airline annually. I can’t explain it.)
As the Elite passengers handed over their boarding passes, I couldn't help but size up the various pieces of luggage they carried with them. Very few met the height and width “requirements” Continental displays front and center at each gate. They were nearly all huge suitcases, mammoth garment bags and over sized soft-sided luggage. And I thought: this is annoying. Why does an airline bother having a “your bag must fit here” display if they refuse to enforce it?
The best news of the night was that as the rest of us walked down the jetway, one of the gate attendants joined us and announced she had to tag and check all our bags. (Our bags that fit within the stipulated requirements, by the way. I know. I looked around when she said she had to check them.) Surprise! The overheads were full. Well, I wasn’t at all surprised. I saw the size of those 100 bags those 100 Elite passengers carried on board. Everyone left at the gate could have told them they were too big for the overheads. It’s not that they didn’t fit; they did. But each one took up two or three spaces. Super.
So, I had to do what I NEVER do: check my bag. And then wait at the carousel for it to appear, while I watched all the Elite passengers on my flight walk by, nearly every one of them carrying a bag the size of an ottoman.
I called Continental the next day and voiced my complaint to a lovely passenger service person who listened politely. She agreed that especially in very full flights, attention should be paid to the size of the luggage accompanying passengers on board and promised to convey my displeasure to the gate crew in Dallas.
Will she? I don’t know. I don’t think it will make a difference anyway. Apparently, Elite passengers follow different rules than the rest of us. But as I said, I take this flight regularly. I’m sure I’ll get the chance to find out.
* You may want to read two other in-flight adventures, here and here.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Thanks for the fantasy....
As my own special tribute to Patrick Swayze, here is the first piece of writing I ever did that earned me a paycheck. (It's nearly ten years old so forgive the anachronisms.) For that reason, and because of the responses it drew from all kinds of readers (including a number of men), it will always remain very special to me. You may want to choose your own favorite Patrick moment, but for me, it will always be that final scene. Enjoy.
If you have a VCR and a little time to spare, you have everything you need to understand women. In just two hours, you'll learn the secret to what makes women run, disguised as a sleeper hit from the mid-eighties. Its title has true "guy" appeal: Dirty Dancing.
No matter what, no matter when, I have to watch the final scene of Dirty Dancing whenever I come across it on TV. The goofy end-of-season resort talent show, the disgruntled dancers scowling in the back of the room because their leader was unceremoniously ousted from their ranks, the awkward table for three where Baby (Jennifer Grey) and her parents self-consciously sit and watch the entertainment.
It doesn't matter that I've seen it - oh, let's call it 50, 60 times - I have to watch it. Not because it's great cinema. Not for the awful singing of the older, less engaging sister. Not even because I have to hear that infamous line from Johnny Castle (Swayze): "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," before he hauls her up on stage.
No. Because deep down inside, I know and believe with all my heart that with just a few turns around the floor, I could learn the number from Patrick, wear the flow-y dress like Jennifer and do an unbelievable job with that final dance.
If you're surprised, it's because you're a man reading this. If you're a woman, you're nodding your head saying, 'Yes! Yes!" Am I right? Of course I'm right! Any woman worth her strappy, high-heeled sandals would say so. There but for the grace of a good dance partner go I.
So what does this have to do with understanding women? Try just about everything.
The teaching and the learning of the dance steps throughout the picture. The early challenges of Baby and Johnny's partnership. The first time they appear in public at a nearby resort, ultimately building up to that final ballroom scene where they put it out there for the world to see, is a road map for what women want.
What does Baby get from Johnny that she hasn't gotten from other men in her life? She gets exactly what all women want from their lovers: patience, dedication, and decisiveness, confidence in themselves and their partner, the good sense to share the spotlight - even step into the shadows occasionally - and finally, strength.
Think about it. Ever notice the way women stare at couples on a dance floor? Try wedding receptions. At the last one you attended, I guarantee you every woman at your table commented on a terrific couple on the dance floor and every other woman at the table nodded in knowing comprehension. We are all fascinated with the way they anticipated each other, the light touch on her back that commanded so much, the casual way they moved apart without ever really leaving each other.
Did Baby feel good about her first few turns around the room with Johnny? No. Did he believe he was quite possibly making an enormous mistake? Yes. Does that sound like countless first dates? Or maybe the first few years of your marriage?
But they made it through the toe-squashing and the missed moves. Somewhere along the line, Johnny's patience as an instructor paid off. His confidence helped Baby polish her own natural abilities and they became each other's perfect partner.
(Politically correct alert: Yes, Baby taught Johnny a few things, too. But that's another article.)
And the climax of the previously mentioned, never-to-be-missed, final scene? The lift! The scary, you-better-hold-on-tight-and-not-drop-me, I'm-not-sure-I-can-do-this, lift! With grace, trust, and a look of exquisite joy, Baby flings herself into Johnny's waiting arms and is...what? Elevated above and beyond, truly basking in the glow of her own pride and confidence, nurtured and encouraged all along the way by her lover and trusted friend.
So what's the secret? Arthur Murray? Maybe. But if you're not ready for the "take 12 lessons and the 13th is free" route, tuck these rules away and refer to them often.
Hold her. Hold her tight, hold her lightly, hold her passionately. Never think your touch is old and unwanted. When you stop holding her, you start missing even the easy steps together.
Let her go. A woman is nothing if not contradictions. She'll need to take some solo steps from time to time, and it will help to know you're in the wings, cheering her on, watching her make her own moves.
Pay attention. Dedicate yourself to getting it right. These "man / woman" steps get complicated sometimes. When you make a mistake, even a pretty bad one, move on together. Try real hard not to make it again.
Lift her up. When the rest of the world tries to defeat her, remind her through your indefatigable confidence in her that she's a goddess who can soar above mere mortals.
Look her in the eye. Fancy footwork will get you so far, but look into her eyes and confirm, "I want to take these steps with you for the rest of my life."
You'll get distracted: jobs, kids, life. You'll slow down in the years ahead, maybe even forget a step or two.
But your commitment to each other will make all the difference in your pas de deux. Like the couple dancing at the wedding, you'll fall into a comfortable, semi-private place every time you reach for each other, moving together like couples did so naturally, so many years ago in the Catskills.
If you have a VCR and a little time to spare, you have everything you need to understand women. In just two hours, you'll learn the secret to what makes women run, disguised as a sleeper hit from the mid-eighties. Its title has true "guy" appeal: Dirty Dancing.
No matter what, no matter when, I have to watch the final scene of Dirty Dancing whenever I come across it on TV. The goofy end-of-season resort talent show, the disgruntled dancers scowling in the back of the room because their leader was unceremoniously ousted from their ranks, the awkward table for three where Baby (Jennifer Grey) and her parents self-consciously sit and watch the entertainment.
It doesn't matter that I've seen it - oh, let's call it 50, 60 times - I have to watch it. Not because it's great cinema. Not for the awful singing of the older, less engaging sister. Not even because I have to hear that infamous line from Johnny Castle (Swayze): "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," before he hauls her up on stage.
No. Because deep down inside, I know and believe with all my heart that with just a few turns around the floor, I could learn the number from Patrick, wear the flow-y dress like Jennifer and do an unbelievable job with that final dance.
If you're surprised, it's because you're a man reading this. If you're a woman, you're nodding your head saying, 'Yes! Yes!" Am I right? Of course I'm right! Any woman worth her strappy, high-heeled sandals would say so. There but for the grace of a good dance partner go I.
So what does this have to do with understanding women? Try just about everything.
The teaching and the learning of the dance steps throughout the picture. The early challenges of Baby and Johnny's partnership. The first time they appear in public at a nearby resort, ultimately building up to that final ballroom scene where they put it out there for the world to see, is a road map for what women want.
What does Baby get from Johnny that she hasn't gotten from other men in her life? She gets exactly what all women want from their lovers: patience, dedication, and decisiveness, confidence in themselves and their partner, the good sense to share the spotlight - even step into the shadows occasionally - and finally, strength.
Think about it. Ever notice the way women stare at couples on a dance floor? Try wedding receptions. At the last one you attended, I guarantee you every woman at your table commented on a terrific couple on the dance floor and every other woman at the table nodded in knowing comprehension. We are all fascinated with the way they anticipated each other, the light touch on her back that commanded so much, the casual way they moved apart without ever really leaving each other.
Did Baby feel good about her first few turns around the room with Johnny? No. Did he believe he was quite possibly making an enormous mistake? Yes. Does that sound like countless first dates? Or maybe the first few years of your marriage?
But they made it through the toe-squashing and the missed moves. Somewhere along the line, Johnny's patience as an instructor paid off. His confidence helped Baby polish her own natural abilities and they became each other's perfect partner.
(Politically correct alert: Yes, Baby taught Johnny a few things, too. But that's another article.)
And the climax of the previously mentioned, never-to-be-missed, final scene? The lift! The scary, you-better-hold-on-tight-and-not-drop-me, I'm-not-sure-I-can-do-this, lift! With grace, trust, and a look of exquisite joy, Baby flings herself into Johnny's waiting arms and is...what? Elevated above and beyond, truly basking in the glow of her own pride and confidence, nurtured and encouraged all along the way by her lover and trusted friend.
So what's the secret? Arthur Murray? Maybe. But if you're not ready for the "take 12 lessons and the 13th is free" route, tuck these rules away and refer to them often.
Hold her. Hold her tight, hold her lightly, hold her passionately. Never think your touch is old and unwanted. When you stop holding her, you start missing even the easy steps together.
Let her go. A woman is nothing if not contradictions. She'll need to take some solo steps from time to time, and it will help to know you're in the wings, cheering her on, watching her make her own moves.
Pay attention. Dedicate yourself to getting it right. These "man / woman" steps get complicated sometimes. When you make a mistake, even a pretty bad one, move on together. Try real hard not to make it again.
Lift her up. When the rest of the world tries to defeat her, remind her through your indefatigable confidence in her that she's a goddess who can soar above mere mortals.
Look her in the eye. Fancy footwork will get you so far, but look into her eyes and confirm, "I want to take these steps with you for the rest of my life."
You'll get distracted: jobs, kids, life. You'll slow down in the years ahead, maybe even forget a step or two.
But your commitment to each other will make all the difference in your pas de deux. Like the couple dancing at the wedding, you'll fall into a comfortable, semi-private place every time you reach for each other, moving together like couples did so naturally, so many years ago in the Catskills.
Contrary to the title, I guess it is me.
Quick: who is Stephanie Courtney? Don't know her?
Well, how about Eric Violette?
Oh, come on. If you're alive and in America, you know them. I guarantee it.
Stephanie is that supremely annoying woman on the Progressive Insurance television commercials. Not only that, you see her face every single time you open your home page. Eric is the male version of Stephanie: he's the guy featured in the ubiquitous free credit report commercials.
Honest to God, I would never ever consider buying - or even investigating - Progressive Insurance because I find their spokeswoman cloying, insipid and patronizing. And as far as my credit rating goes, I've never ever wondered about it - not once - and there is not one thing about hopping online to get a credit report that appeals to me, free or not. (Years ago, a financial advisor I know mentioned that the new found feeding frenzy over credit reports or "knowing your credit score" was something of a financial canard. In other words, if you need to know your number, you can assume it's probably too low.)
The reason I've titled the post this way is that apparently, at least when it comes to Stephanie, I'm in the minority. According to Stuart Elliott who writes about media and advertising for The New York Times, many viewers LOVE Stephanie. They call her "breezy." Progressive Insurance even reports that people have called the company, and expressed their desire to buy insurance, but only if they can purchase it from Stephanie.
Whatever. I can only hope these callers deep down understand she's an "actress," playing a role of some kind, although I can't quite figure out what exactly she's supposed to be. To me, she's aggravating, not approachable. She's unctuous and smug. I'd run in the other direction if someone with her style and manner tried to talk to me about insurance.
But again, that's me. Maybe I am mostly alone in my perspective here. She does seem to keep getting work so there must be some return on this investment for Progressive. More troubling is the report of people calling the company and asking to speak to Steph or have her work up a policy for them. Could any of them be serious? Even just some of them?
Sometimes, I wish I were that clueless. Sometimes I feel too mean to live. Maybe therapy would help. I wouldn't mind getting some counseling, but only if I could sit across the room from Dr. Paul Weston for an hour or so every week. OK, so Paul is really Gabriel Byrne, playing a psychologist on television. What's the difference? The same people who buy policies from a TV spokeswoman would also call HBO and try to find out where Dr. Weston's Brooklyn office is located.
And we worry about securing healthcare coverage for everyone in the country. We should be more concerned about the number of citizens who think they can buy insurance by calling an actress who appears in a television commercial. I'll bet for every one who called, there are ten at home who believe the same thing. We're doomed.
Well, how about Eric Violette?
Oh, come on. If you're alive and in America, you know them. I guarantee it.
Stephanie is that supremely annoying woman on the Progressive Insurance television commercials. Not only that, you see her face every single time you open your home page. Eric is the male version of Stephanie: he's the guy featured in the ubiquitous free credit report commercials.
Honest to God, I would never ever consider buying - or even investigating - Progressive Insurance because I find their spokeswoman cloying, insipid and patronizing. And as far as my credit rating goes, I've never ever wondered about it - not once - and there is not one thing about hopping online to get a credit report that appeals to me, free or not. (Years ago, a financial advisor I know mentioned that the new found feeding frenzy over credit reports or "knowing your credit score" was something of a financial canard. In other words, if you need to know your number, you can assume it's probably too low.)
The reason I've titled the post this way is that apparently, at least when it comes to Stephanie, I'm in the minority. According to Stuart Elliott who writes about media and advertising for The New York Times, many viewers LOVE Stephanie. They call her "breezy." Progressive Insurance even reports that people have called the company, and expressed their desire to buy insurance, but only if they can purchase it from Stephanie.
Whatever. I can only hope these callers deep down understand she's an "actress," playing a role of some kind, although I can't quite figure out what exactly she's supposed to be. To me, she's aggravating, not approachable. She's unctuous and smug. I'd run in the other direction if someone with her style and manner tried to talk to me about insurance.
But again, that's me. Maybe I am mostly alone in my perspective here. She does seem to keep getting work so there must be some return on this investment for Progressive. More troubling is the report of people calling the company and asking to speak to Steph or have her work up a policy for them. Could any of them be serious? Even just some of them?
Sometimes, I wish I were that clueless. Sometimes I feel too mean to live. Maybe therapy would help. I wouldn't mind getting some counseling, but only if I could sit across the room from Dr. Paul Weston for an hour or so every week. OK, so Paul is really Gabriel Byrne, playing a psychologist on television. What's the difference? The same people who buy policies from a TV spokeswoman would also call HBO and try to find out where Dr. Weston's Brooklyn office is located.
And we worry about securing healthcare coverage for everyone in the country. We should be more concerned about the number of citizens who think they can buy insurance by calling an actress who appears in a television commercial. I'll bet for every one who called, there are ten at home who believe the same thing. We're doomed.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
WWJD?
I need to start paying attention to the annual rhythms of my life. It seems to me I go through similar kinds of feelings from season to season, from year to year. Not that much gets resolves, mind you. But it does feel kind of cyclical.
Example: like a lot of people, I usually find myself re-examining my life about mid-January every year. Once the holidays are behind us and a new year is underway, I spend a great deal of non-productive time thinking about my life and how exactly it has progressed to this point. I rethink my job, my personal life, my activities, my resolutions, my plans...just about anything you can think of and every single year I come to no reasonable conclusion and make no startling changes about anything. I've worked at the same place for more than twenty years, I've been married for almost twenty-three years and have no taken up a new hobby in forever. (I'm not sure I have any hobbies if I think about it.)
But it's too early for all that; this isn't the new year and the post-holiday brooding I engage in annually. No, it's the start of fall and if my personal history means anything, I'm entering into my Jane-Austen-is-a-goddess phase. I've started re-reading Pride & Prejudice , I've already watched Sense and Sensibility, and the Masterpiece Theater version P&P as well, all four hours, with the most perfect Mr. Darcy ever conjured up by a casting director, Colin Firth. There must be something about the fall, the coziness of a room with a blanket, a cup of coffee or tea and a great story from Ms. Austen that just cries out for some attention. I just don't think I could ever read P & P on the beach. It's a fall book, requiring a blanket and fading afternoon light.
As I engage in all this Austen overload, I think about my life and ask myself the logical question: WWJD? (What would Jane do?)
Let's consider the incomparable Elizabeth Bennett in P & P. In Elizabeth, we discover a woman who seemingly didn't spend a lot of time questioning her life. (Well, maybe she did in some ways but let's face it, her choices were somewhat limited.) Even so, I admire her resolute behavior, her independence, her intelligence and her feistiness. I wish I had more of her (and Jane) in me. I doubt she ever spent one single second considering the shape of her thighs or her weight. She didn't regret her abs, her roots, or her wrinkles. She didn't buy product after product to address the size of her pores. In fact, if she felt insecurity about her appearance, she kept it to herself.
She never once seemed envious of anyone around her, although it could be reasonably said that many possessed more and had more opportunities afforded to them in life. She enjoyed the company of her friends and was attracted to particular men, but she never lost herself in her pursuit of friends or lovers. I have to think that was mostly unheard of in actual life for Jane and the women who surrounded her. Pride & Prejudice character Charlotte Lucas alludes to as much, when she talks of marriage and how love is a luxury many women can ill afford.
I need to be channeling a little more Jane and Elizabeth. For god's sake, at this point in my life, the insecurity is getting a little tiresome, even for me. Maybe if I pose the WWJD? question every time I want to succumb to the daily assaults on my self-esteem, I'd feel better. Like the next time I see that "one simple rule to lose your belly fat" or whatever that ever-present ad is every home page I visit, I'll close it without so much as a pang of regret. Maybe I won't click through another ad that will tell me how to get effective butt-shaping moves. And maybe I won't develop Michelle Obama's arms. I'll live. I might not look my best, but I'll live. The question is: WWJD? She would note them with polite interest and move on. Okay, it's not much. But it's a start.
Example: like a lot of people, I usually find myself re-examining my life about mid-January every year. Once the holidays are behind us and a new year is underway, I spend a great deal of non-productive time thinking about my life and how exactly it has progressed to this point. I rethink my job, my personal life, my activities, my resolutions, my plans...just about anything you can think of and every single year I come to no reasonable conclusion and make no startling changes about anything. I've worked at the same place for more than twenty years, I've been married for almost twenty-three years and have no taken up a new hobby in forever. (I'm not sure I have any hobbies if I think about it.)
But it's too early for all that; this isn't the new year and the post-holiday brooding I engage in annually. No, it's the start of fall and if my personal history means anything, I'm entering into my Jane-Austen-is-a-goddess phase. I've started re-reading Pride & Prejudice , I've already watched Sense and Sensibility, and the Masterpiece Theater version P&P as well, all four hours, with the most perfect Mr. Darcy ever conjured up by a casting director, Colin Firth. There must be something about the fall, the coziness of a room with a blanket, a cup of coffee or tea and a great story from Ms. Austen that just cries out for some attention. I just don't think I could ever read P & P on the beach. It's a fall book, requiring a blanket and fading afternoon light.
As I engage in all this Austen overload, I think about my life and ask myself the logical question: WWJD? (What would Jane do?)
Let's consider the incomparable Elizabeth Bennett in P & P. In Elizabeth, we discover a woman who seemingly didn't spend a lot of time questioning her life. (Well, maybe she did in some ways but let's face it, her choices were somewhat limited.) Even so, I admire her resolute behavior, her independence, her intelligence and her feistiness. I wish I had more of her (and Jane) in me. I doubt she ever spent one single second considering the shape of her thighs or her weight. She didn't regret her abs, her roots, or her wrinkles. She didn't buy product after product to address the size of her pores. In fact, if she felt insecurity about her appearance, she kept it to herself.
She never once seemed envious of anyone around her, although it could be reasonably said that many possessed more and had more opportunities afforded to them in life. She enjoyed the company of her friends and was attracted to particular men, but she never lost herself in her pursuit of friends or lovers. I have to think that was mostly unheard of in actual life for Jane and the women who surrounded her. Pride & Prejudice character Charlotte Lucas alludes to as much, when she talks of marriage and how love is a luxury many women can ill afford.
I need to be channeling a little more Jane and Elizabeth. For god's sake, at this point in my life, the insecurity is getting a little tiresome, even for me. Maybe if I pose the WWJD? question every time I want to succumb to the daily assaults on my self-esteem, I'd feel better. Like the next time I see that "one simple rule to lose your belly fat" or whatever that ever-present ad is every home page I visit, I'll close it without so much as a pang of regret. Maybe I won't click through another ad that will tell me how to get effective butt-shaping moves. And maybe I won't develop Michelle Obama's arms. I'll live. I might not look my best, but I'll live. The question is: WWJD? She would note them with polite interest and move on. Okay, it's not much. But it's a start.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
I think this is what it means to come full circle.
Something about my activity this last week feels very familiar. I walk into a neat, clean, welcoming room; a room that looks absolutely perfect but for the absence of its owner. I wander in and out of it from day to day, puffing up a pillow there, smoothing out an already smooth bedcover there. The pictures are in place, the curtains hang neatly, and the little touches that make it unique remain intact from day to day.
I know what this feels like. The last time I spent this much time looking around a child’s room, just taking it in, was during the last stages of my pregnancies. I remember sitting in a rocking chair, anticipating who would eventually live in that room, first cradled in my arms as we both swayed in that glider rocker, day after day, night after night. I remember how much I loved creating that baby space, anticipating my newborn. I’d change diapers, nurse babies, dress children and read books in those nursery and boyhood rooms. I’d eventually watch each of my sons climb out of my lap, literally and figuratively, and walk out the door.
So here I am, some eighteen years later, having witnessed three little boys who are not so little anymore leave their rooms behind. All three are enthusiastically making new homes for themselves in a college apartment or a dorm room this fall. Only the glider rocker remains from all those years ago, but its former occupants are otherwise occupied. Well, not me, not really. I suppose I could take a seat as I survey the room, but I don’t.
The primary-colored plastic toys and stuffed animals are long gone. The X-men, Power Rangers, Street Sharks, Pokemon, Gargoyles, Disney characters and Star Wars vehicles are also either long gone or packed far, far away. Over these last few days, each of the boys’ rooms has taken on the undeniably attractive look of a crisp, clean, perfectly organized space. There is not even one cash machine receipt crumbled up on a desk, not one soggy towel draped on the floor, not one food wrapper or empty snack bag to be found. After housing years and years of living and laughs, years of sadness and tears, shouts and whispers, hugs and kisses, slammed doors and raucous debate, the rooms are strangely and unnaturally quiet. Each room has survived nicely, still standing after the challenges and missteps that define childhood. I can only hope the same is true of their owners.
I realize not every mother (or father) does this kind of nightly stroll down memory lane in what are now unoccupied bedrooms at home. It sounds sort of pathetic and I can’t really explain it other than to say it makes me feel closer to my boys somehow. Just standing in each room, looking around, quietly tells me each of their stories one more time. Sure, the rooms look more pristine than they have in more than a decade but the stories remain.
Now I spend some time anticipating my sons in a new way; imagining who and what they will be, this time as adults, not as my children. The rooms have their past; I’m not sure how much of their future they’ll hold. Yes, the school breaks, the vacations, sure; the next several years – maybe more than that - will find us with at least part time occupants in those rooms again.
Like the toys and games, our days of sitting in the glider rocker together are also long gone. What I hope remains, lingering in some way in those rooms and beyond those walls within each of us, is the familiar, comfortable feeling of home, of connection, of love.
I know what this feels like. The last time I spent this much time looking around a child’s room, just taking it in, was during the last stages of my pregnancies. I remember sitting in a rocking chair, anticipating who would eventually live in that room, first cradled in my arms as we both swayed in that glider rocker, day after day, night after night. I remember how much I loved creating that baby space, anticipating my newborn. I’d change diapers, nurse babies, dress children and read books in those nursery and boyhood rooms. I’d eventually watch each of my sons climb out of my lap, literally and figuratively, and walk out the door.
So here I am, some eighteen years later, having witnessed three little boys who are not so little anymore leave their rooms behind. All three are enthusiastically making new homes for themselves in a college apartment or a dorm room this fall. Only the glider rocker remains from all those years ago, but its former occupants are otherwise occupied. Well, not me, not really. I suppose I could take a seat as I survey the room, but I don’t.
The primary-colored plastic toys and stuffed animals are long gone. The X-men, Power Rangers, Street Sharks, Pokemon, Gargoyles, Disney characters and Star Wars vehicles are also either long gone or packed far, far away. Over these last few days, each of the boys’ rooms has taken on the undeniably attractive look of a crisp, clean, perfectly organized space. There is not even one cash machine receipt crumbled up on a desk, not one soggy towel draped on the floor, not one food wrapper or empty snack bag to be found. After housing years and years of living and laughs, years of sadness and tears, shouts and whispers, hugs and kisses, slammed doors and raucous debate, the rooms are strangely and unnaturally quiet. Each room has survived nicely, still standing after the challenges and missteps that define childhood. I can only hope the same is true of their owners.
I realize not every mother (or father) does this kind of nightly stroll down memory lane in what are now unoccupied bedrooms at home. It sounds sort of pathetic and I can’t really explain it other than to say it makes me feel closer to my boys somehow. Just standing in each room, looking around, quietly tells me each of their stories one more time. Sure, the rooms look more pristine than they have in more than a decade but the stories remain.
Now I spend some time anticipating my sons in a new way; imagining who and what they will be, this time as adults, not as my children. The rooms have their past; I’m not sure how much of their future they’ll hold. Yes, the school breaks, the vacations, sure; the next several years – maybe more than that - will find us with at least part time occupants in those rooms again.
Like the toys and games, our days of sitting in the glider rocker together are also long gone. What I hope remains, lingering in some way in those rooms and beyond those walls within each of us, is the familiar, comfortable feeling of home, of connection, of love.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
This confounds me. It really does.
As I stood at the checkout counter at a local bookstore, I came across a People magazine cover featuring a headline that confounded me. Here it is: Kate Strikes Back!! You won't be surprised to hear I didn't purchase it.
There she was, the ubiquitous Kate Gosselin. The subheads exclaimed: She's mortified about his affair with Hailey, feels like 'it's a fifteen-year-old I'm getting divorced from,' and finally, her explanation for Jon's behavior? 'Aliens have taken him away.'
I have never once watched an episode of this horrifying "reality" show featuring the Gosselin family. I can't think of anything that would compel me to do so. But even though that's the case, the media has done a bang-up job educating extraordinarily disinterested parties like me about every move the unhappy couple makes. At this point, I have to wonder: leaving people like me out of the equation, aren't even the fans of this show sick of these people yet?
I wondered what exactly Kate was striking back at these days. Could it be "the media?" The same media she invited into her home, her marriage and her family life; the media that has taken over her life and splashed it across the tabloid pages, not unlike the magazine cover she herself posed for this week? I'm sorry, but I have no sympathy for any of the adults in this little melodrama. The kids yes, the parents, no. Unfortunately, my feeling is that the kids don't have enough hours left in their lives for the therapy they're going to need with these two chuckleheads for parents.
The part that really, really gets to me, though, is Kate's best-selling book. Remember that? Just eleven months ago, this horror show found its way to the printed page and her fans snapped it up. Where do you start with something like this? Let's go to the logical place: the dedication.
Kate dedicated this to her husband: "...Now I know you meant it when you said in your vows that you would be here 'through new and challenging experiences.'" Charming. The introduction talks about God's plan for them and how fulfilled they are as parents. Published by Zondervan, a Christian publisher, each chapter opens with a quote from the Bible. (I'm sure the Zondervan folks are wondering what the heck happened in the past few months.)
Let's recap. The book pubs in October, 2008 and by June, 2009, the couple has separated. I don't know about you, but that sounds a bit like fraud to me. To your publisher and to the book-buying public, you are a Christian, spiritual, loving couple. Eight months later, the marriage is over and the husband has a girlfriend?
Let's go back a little further and consider the marketing savvy of this couple. Their sextuplets arrived in May, 2004. Fifteen months later, Discovery Health taped a few television "specials" about the family and by October 2006, production had begun on a regular television show. The show films three days a week and has been on the air regularly for more than two years. All this, while Kate was apparently drafting a book where they thank Jesus for the gifts he gave them and the strength to raise them.
I know we like to watch misery. We wait for the car crashes at a race track. I think Kate and Jon and the rest of them have shared enough of their own particular type of train wreck with us, don't you? Time to move on. Time to let someone else take the reins and gallop into our collective consciousness with their own particular kind of crazy. I'm sure there are lots of them out there, just waiting for that camera crew to show up.
There she was, the ubiquitous Kate Gosselin. The subheads exclaimed: She's mortified about his affair with Hailey, feels like 'it's a fifteen-year-old I'm getting divorced from,' and finally, her explanation for Jon's behavior? 'Aliens have taken him away.'
I have never once watched an episode of this horrifying "reality" show featuring the Gosselin family. I can't think of anything that would compel me to do so. But even though that's the case, the media has done a bang-up job educating extraordinarily disinterested parties like me about every move the unhappy couple makes. At this point, I have to wonder: leaving people like me out of the equation, aren't even the fans of this show sick of these people yet?
I wondered what exactly Kate was striking back at these days. Could it be "the media?" The same media she invited into her home, her marriage and her family life; the media that has taken over her life and splashed it across the tabloid pages, not unlike the magazine cover she herself posed for this week? I'm sorry, but I have no sympathy for any of the adults in this little melodrama. The kids yes, the parents, no. Unfortunately, my feeling is that the kids don't have enough hours left in their lives for the therapy they're going to need with these two chuckleheads for parents.
The part that really, really gets to me, though, is Kate's best-selling book. Remember that? Just eleven months ago, this horror show found its way to the printed page and her fans snapped it up. Where do you start with something like this? Let's go to the logical place: the dedication.
Kate dedicated this to her husband: "...Now I know you meant it when you said in your vows that you would be here 'through new and challenging experiences.'" Charming. The introduction talks about God's plan for them and how fulfilled they are as parents. Published by Zondervan, a Christian publisher, each chapter opens with a quote from the Bible. (I'm sure the Zondervan folks are wondering what the heck happened in the past few months.)
Let's recap. The book pubs in October, 2008 and by June, 2009, the couple has separated. I don't know about you, but that sounds a bit like fraud to me. To your publisher and to the book-buying public, you are a Christian, spiritual, loving couple. Eight months later, the marriage is over and the husband has a girlfriend?
Let's go back a little further and consider the marketing savvy of this couple. Their sextuplets arrived in May, 2004. Fifteen months later, Discovery Health taped a few television "specials" about the family and by October 2006, production had begun on a regular television show. The show films three days a week and has been on the air regularly for more than two years. All this, while Kate was apparently drafting a book where they thank Jesus for the gifts he gave them and the strength to raise them.
I know we like to watch misery. We wait for the car crashes at a race track. I think Kate and Jon and the rest of them have shared enough of their own particular type of train wreck with us, don't you? Time to move on. Time to let someone else take the reins and gallop into our collective consciousness with their own particular kind of crazy. I'm sure there are lots of them out there, just waiting for that camera crew to show up.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I need to know if this is me. But no one thinks it's them, right?
I admit I am mostly unskilled when it comes to "social networking," including something seemingly as simple as Facebook. I have mental block about which tab is my home page and which one is the public page people see. No matter how many times my boys try to tell me, I don't absorb the information.
I find my way around, albeit with little confidence. And then, just as I started to feel a tiny bit comfortable, I read this.
Honestly, it sums up what I've felt for a while about Twitter, less so about Facebook but still. I don't update my Twitter feed because I have never really felt the need to inform the world at large about one single thing I'm doing at any given time. In fact, I don't think I've ever done one single thing worth recording for posterity in my entire life, even if that record appears only via a Twitter 'tweet.'
But according to the WSJ article, some of us are treating our Facebook pages like Twitter feeds and posting pointless updates that inexplicably draw "comments" from friends and the cycle continues. I've often read posts of friends that are followed by dozens of comments that make little sense to me. And I wonder, why was the update posted in the first place and more important, why did so many people find it fascinating and worth a comment? It wasn't.
My favorite line in the article comes from Patricia Wallace, a psychologist at Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth. As she poetically puts it, "Online, people can't see the yawn." That's just about perfect. Maybe Facebook needs a yawning icon. Would anyone be bold enough to use it???
Like the author of the article, I love my Facebook connections. Some are quite a bit more active than others though. Some of them may even be guilty of the kind of mindless posting that leaves me wondering, why would anyone want to know that?
I like to read posts that make me laugh or make me think. Plenty of friends post that sort of news and I'm grateful. I also like the real life updates, but not all of them. Life changes, major events, good news, bad news and family updates all work for me. But I'm not particularly fond of reading messages about waking up, oversleeping, going to sleep, taking a nap, wanting to take nap, heading out to an appointment, coming home from an appointment, doing laundry, not doing laundry, writing out checks, buying stamps to mail out bills, or any number of everyday events not one of us felt compelled to share before we all had Facebook accounts.
So maybe this makes me cranky and not the sort of person who does well in a Facebook environment. It's very likely that my posts are as prosaic as any and people reading them rightly think: yes, your posts are pointless. You are exactly like the people profiled in the WSJ piece. Welcome to the world.
But like boring people around the universe, no one recognizes when they're boring right? The worst that can happen in that case is that I unknowingly find myself boring a room full of people. In a forum like Facebook, I have the opportunity to bore possibly hundreds of people at once.
There's just no end to the delights of the Internet.
I find my way around, albeit with little confidence. And then, just as I started to feel a tiny bit comfortable, I read this.
Honestly, it sums up what I've felt for a while about Twitter, less so about Facebook but still. I don't update my Twitter feed because I have never really felt the need to inform the world at large about one single thing I'm doing at any given time. In fact, I don't think I've ever done one single thing worth recording for posterity in my entire life, even if that record appears only via a Twitter 'tweet.'
But according to the WSJ article, some of us are treating our Facebook pages like Twitter feeds and posting pointless updates that inexplicably draw "comments" from friends and the cycle continues. I've often read posts of friends that are followed by dozens of comments that make little sense to me. And I wonder, why was the update posted in the first place and more important, why did so many people find it fascinating and worth a comment? It wasn't.
My favorite line in the article comes from Patricia Wallace, a psychologist at Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth. As she poetically puts it, "Online, people can't see the yawn." That's just about perfect. Maybe Facebook needs a yawning icon. Would anyone be bold enough to use it???
Like the author of the article, I love my Facebook connections. Some are quite a bit more active than others though. Some of them may even be guilty of the kind of mindless posting that leaves me wondering, why would anyone want to know that?
I like to read posts that make me laugh or make me think. Plenty of friends post that sort of news and I'm grateful. I also like the real life updates, but not all of them. Life changes, major events, good news, bad news and family updates all work for me. But I'm not particularly fond of reading messages about waking up, oversleeping, going to sleep, taking a nap, wanting to take nap, heading out to an appointment, coming home from an appointment, doing laundry, not doing laundry, writing out checks, buying stamps to mail out bills, or any number of everyday events not one of us felt compelled to share before we all had Facebook accounts.
So maybe this makes me cranky and not the sort of person who does well in a Facebook environment. It's very likely that my posts are as prosaic as any and people reading them rightly think: yes, your posts are pointless. You are exactly like the people profiled in the WSJ piece. Welcome to the world.
But like boring people around the universe, no one recognizes when they're boring right? The worst that can happen in that case is that I unknowingly find myself boring a room full of people. In a forum like Facebook, I have the opportunity to bore possibly hundreds of people at once.
There's just no end to the delights of the Internet.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I think this is getting out of hand. There's probably an official name for that.
I can't quite explain why, but somehow I've become a fan of other people's misfortune. It's not exactly schadenfreud because I don't take pleasure in it; I just don't mind witnessing it.
There's no other way to understand why I watch Intervention and Obsessed on A&E TV. If you haven't seen them, the shows are exactly what they sound like. Intervention follows the addictions of one or more subjects over the course of an hour, including interviews with his or her family and friends, and glimpses into their daily lives. (Subjects believe they are participating in a documentary about addiction.) Each episode concludes with an intervention, and the person profiled faces a choice about going to some sort of rehabilitation facility or rejecting the offer for help. The closing minutes usually feel a little too game-show-ish for such a serious problem but I watch it anyway.
Obsessed follows a similar formula, but instead of someone addicted to drugs or alcohol, the show profiles someone dealing with an addictive behavior that is debilitating and often bizarre. Unlike Addiction, the people profiled on Obsessed receive counseling throughout the episode. The effectiveness of that counseling is debatable from show to show and person to person.
A&E must believe they're onto something. They've just launched a new show called Hoarders. According to their website, "Each 60-minute episode of Hoarders is a fascinating look inside the lives of two different people whose inability to part with their belongings is so out of control that they are on the verge of a personal crisis."
I've watched this show a few times and have a one word review to share: wow. The episode that showed the clean up crew removing something like 40 + cat skeletons they discovered in a woman's home and in her garage just about did me in. A number of the live cats they removed from her "care" suffered from fatal illnesses and other were poorly nourished and in questionable health.
Okay, let's recap then. Addicts of different kinds, people dealing with some kind of OCD and people who have a problem letting go of possessions. What's next? What's the next "disorder du jour" that can attract a national audience?
Personally, I think it's time for A&E to lighten up a bit, or at least take this in a new direction. Here are some suggestions for a couple of new shows:
Walk Away from Facebook: This show profiles people who can't seem to stop updating their Facebook pages on at least a twice-an-hour basis. On the show, experts will explain to those suffering from this affliction that not one of their friends or acquaintences has spent so much as one minute wondering what they ate for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Other topics explored include: how many Facebook quizzes can you take before it starts to feel like too many? How many "status updates" can you cut and paste into your own profile in the name of solidarity without looking like a mindless automaton?
Apology Wednesday: An unending series of apologies coming from an unending stream of prominent people who should know better but don't. This show may actually need to air twice a week, once on Tuesday (to gather up all the weekend mayhem and put it to rest) and again on Friday to clean up the bad behavior that took place all week. Viewers can vote of who gave the lamest apology that week and who gave the most heartfelt, with the "winners" from each week continuing on to an apology faceoff at the end of the season. There could also be a regular segment called "Great Apologies in History," and include John Lennon explaining his "more popular than Jesus" comment, Jimmy Swaggert's tearful admission of adultery, and the complete Oprah episode featuring writer James Frey.
Blogger's Block: In a series of interviews, this show will profile several bloggers, whose readership is questionable at best, and uncover the many ideas they scribbled down, the articles they've saved, and the web links they've bookmarked all in the name of "writing about them tonight."
I have one more show idea to pitch, I just need to figure out a title for the condition that combines soaring confidence with relentless self-doubt, spurts of energy with bouts of inertia and inexplicable optimism with brooding discontent. A perfect description of my daily life.
There's no other way to understand why I watch Intervention and Obsessed on A&E TV. If you haven't seen them, the shows are exactly what they sound like. Intervention follows the addictions of one or more subjects over the course of an hour, including interviews with his or her family and friends, and glimpses into their daily lives. (Subjects believe they are participating in a documentary about addiction.) Each episode concludes with an intervention, and the person profiled faces a choice about going to some sort of rehabilitation facility or rejecting the offer for help. The closing minutes usually feel a little too game-show-ish for such a serious problem but I watch it anyway.
Obsessed follows a similar formula, but instead of someone addicted to drugs or alcohol, the show profiles someone dealing with an addictive behavior that is debilitating and often bizarre. Unlike Addiction, the people profiled on Obsessed receive counseling throughout the episode. The effectiveness of that counseling is debatable from show to show and person to person.
A&E must believe they're onto something. They've just launched a new show called Hoarders. According to their website, "Each 60-minute episode of Hoarders is a fascinating look inside the lives of two different people whose inability to part with their belongings is so out of control that they are on the verge of a personal crisis."
I've watched this show a few times and have a one word review to share: wow. The episode that showed the clean up crew removing something like 40 + cat skeletons they discovered in a woman's home and in her garage just about did me in. A number of the live cats they removed from her "care" suffered from fatal illnesses and other were poorly nourished and in questionable health.
Okay, let's recap then. Addicts of different kinds, people dealing with some kind of OCD and people who have a problem letting go of possessions. What's next? What's the next "disorder du jour" that can attract a national audience?
Personally, I think it's time for A&E to lighten up a bit, or at least take this in a new direction. Here are some suggestions for a couple of new shows:
Walk Away from Facebook: This show profiles people who can't seem to stop updating their Facebook pages on at least a twice-an-hour basis. On the show, experts will explain to those suffering from this affliction that not one of their friends or acquaintences has spent so much as one minute wondering what they ate for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Other topics explored include: how many Facebook quizzes can you take before it starts to feel like too many? How many "status updates" can you cut and paste into your own profile in the name of solidarity without looking like a mindless automaton?
Apology Wednesday: An unending series of apologies coming from an unending stream of prominent people who should know better but don't. This show may actually need to air twice a week, once on Tuesday (to gather up all the weekend mayhem and put it to rest) and again on Friday to clean up the bad behavior that took place all week. Viewers can vote of who gave the lamest apology that week and who gave the most heartfelt, with the "winners" from each week continuing on to an apology faceoff at the end of the season. There could also be a regular segment called "Great Apologies in History," and include John Lennon explaining his "more popular than Jesus" comment, Jimmy Swaggert's tearful admission of adultery, and the complete Oprah episode featuring writer James Frey.
Blogger's Block: In a series of interviews, this show will profile several bloggers, whose readership is questionable at best, and uncover the many ideas they scribbled down, the articles they've saved, and the web links they've bookmarked all in the name of "writing about them tonight."
I have one more show idea to pitch, I just need to figure out a title for the condition that combines soaring confidence with relentless self-doubt, spurts of energy with bouts of inertia and inexplicable optimism with brooding discontent. A perfect description of my daily life.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Revisiting some emotions - with an update to come.
** For readers of now defunct column in The Morning Call, this post may feel familiar. The departure (in six days) of my younger sons for college started me thinking about how this experience felt a year ago. What follows is the piece I wrote last September. For all parents sending someone off to school for the first time, I hope it speaks to you. **
One of our annual rituals during our summer vacation is kite-flying on the beach. We arrive just as dusk is on its way out and nightfall is on its way in. For years, we guide the kites our boys held in anticipation. Sometimes we found the perfect mix of wind, string and nylon that resulted in soaring specks of color in the night sky. Other times, we couldn't seem to catch the wind, or we pulled too tightly on the string and crashed the kite into the sand, or we somehow lost the string altogether and watched it drift away.
We still carry on that ritual, mostly for my niece who is younger than her cousins and enjoys our mini-kite festival every year. (Lately, my boys, their dad and their uncles toss around a football while my sister and I wrestle the kites into the air.) The thing is, even when we’re successful, and one or more of our kites have reached a high point, we turn to each other and ask: now what? Hold that thought.
Last week, we moved our oldest child into college. Because I can’t seem to relax about managing all the details about situations like this, I spent a lot of time leading up to moving day checking off lists and times and logistics about the process. I spent almost no time checking on myself and the new place I would move into once our son left home.
So we packed and then unpacked. Plugged in and wired up everything, made a bed, hung up clothes and found a new place for the bits and pieces of his life that he carried with him. We met the young man - the stranger - who would share the dorm room and possibly share a lifelong friendship with him. We met his parents, too, and tried to answer, in a matter of twenty minutes, these questions: who they were, what they believed, how they raised their son and whether or not they were people of character and principles. (I told you I couldn't relax about stuff like this.)
Thankfully, my first impressions told me the following: friendly, approachable, bright people, who held the same values in terms of education and love of the arts. They raised a polite young man, who was clearly dedicated to his studies, and they were committed to supporting him to help him succeed.
As the moving in ended and the moving on began, my son and I hugged goodbye – and spent an extra couple of seconds hanging on while we did. Then, just eighteen and half years after he arrived, my oldest son walked away in one direction and I in another.
A few months ago, I received an email from a friend who read a column I wrote about my children growing up. In it, Joanne artfully expressed the challenge we all face in raising our children. She reminded me that raising children is kind of like flying a kite: hold on too tightly, and a kite doesn’t get very far. Give it too much slack too soon, before the wind has really caught hold and it can move freely without danger, and it comes crashing to the ground. But when you can find that perfect ratio of give and take while holding the string that connects you and the kite, it soars effortlessly into the sky.
I experienced the “too much slack vs. too tight” ratio last week during the move into college. In fact, it almost felt like I dropped the string. I gave my son a generous amount of freedom. He was ready for it; it was the right time to set him on his own path. He took off; maybe with a bit of shakiness at first, but he’s soaring now.
The kite is airborne. Which brings the inevitable question: now what? I don’t have that answer yet. Maybe we just enjoy the flight. We watch the kite flutter, even dive a bit from time to time, help keep it moving ever higher, and let that string out even more, more than I would have believed was possible. But never let it go.
One of our annual rituals during our summer vacation is kite-flying on the beach. We arrive just as dusk is on its way out and nightfall is on its way in. For years, we guide the kites our boys held in anticipation. Sometimes we found the perfect mix of wind, string and nylon that resulted in soaring specks of color in the night sky. Other times, we couldn't seem to catch the wind, or we pulled too tightly on the string and crashed the kite into the sand, or we somehow lost the string altogether and watched it drift away.
We still carry on that ritual, mostly for my niece who is younger than her cousins and enjoys our mini-kite festival every year. (Lately, my boys, their dad and their uncles toss around a football while my sister and I wrestle the kites into the air.) The thing is, even when we’re successful, and one or more of our kites have reached a high point, we turn to each other and ask: now what? Hold that thought.
Last week, we moved our oldest child into college. Because I can’t seem to relax about managing all the details about situations like this, I spent a lot of time leading up to moving day checking off lists and times and logistics about the process. I spent almost no time checking on myself and the new place I would move into once our son left home.
So we packed and then unpacked. Plugged in and wired up everything, made a bed, hung up clothes and found a new place for the bits and pieces of his life that he carried with him. We met the young man - the stranger - who would share the dorm room and possibly share a lifelong friendship with him. We met his parents, too, and tried to answer, in a matter of twenty minutes, these questions: who they were, what they believed, how they raised their son and whether or not they were people of character and principles. (I told you I couldn't relax about stuff like this.)
Thankfully, my first impressions told me the following: friendly, approachable, bright people, who held the same values in terms of education and love of the arts. They raised a polite young man, who was clearly dedicated to his studies, and they were committed to supporting him to help him succeed.
As the moving in ended and the moving on began, my son and I hugged goodbye – and spent an extra couple of seconds hanging on while we did. Then, just eighteen and half years after he arrived, my oldest son walked away in one direction and I in another.
A few months ago, I received an email from a friend who read a column I wrote about my children growing up. In it, Joanne artfully expressed the challenge we all face in raising our children. She reminded me that raising children is kind of like flying a kite: hold on too tightly, and a kite doesn’t get very far. Give it too much slack too soon, before the wind has really caught hold and it can move freely without danger, and it comes crashing to the ground. But when you can find that perfect ratio of give and take while holding the string that connects you and the kite, it soars effortlessly into the sky.
I experienced the “too much slack vs. too tight” ratio last week during the move into college. In fact, it almost felt like I dropped the string. I gave my son a generous amount of freedom. He was ready for it; it was the right time to set him on his own path. He took off; maybe with a bit of shakiness at first, but he’s soaring now.
The kite is airborne. Which brings the inevitable question: now what? I don’t have that answer yet. Maybe we just enjoy the flight. We watch the kite flutter, even dive a bit from time to time, help keep it moving ever higher, and let that string out even more, more than I would have believed was possible. But never let it go.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Are there really people waiting to read this?
** NOTE: I realize I'm writing a blog and therefore probably guilty of exactly what I'm about to discuss here but so be it. I prefer to think of it as being complex, not contradictory. **
I admit I have a completely irrational streak about publishing. I LOVE great writing, both fiction and non-fiction, but I HATE what feels like indulgent, pretentious, entitled, annoying writing and publishing of same. I suppose that has been going on forever but over the past few years, its feels like this whole "listen to me, I've discovered myself and now I want you to discover me, too" genre has taken on a new level of aggravating. It also seems inordinately populated by women who simply must tell their stories to the rest of us.
Make no mistake: I don't loathe first person writing that's clever, surprising, different or engaging. To slice this even thinner, I don't hate memoirs as a class of writing. But I am opposed to memoirs that make the reader [me, in my case] feel like a loser. I guess the difference between an enjoyable first person memoir and a painful one is just that: how the reader feels during and after reading the book. When I read a good one, I find the storyteller interesting, oftentimes admirable, but even if they're less than likable, they're never condescending. When I read one I end up hating as I finish the last page, it usually comes down to the fact that the writer makes me feel like a failure.
Which brings us, almost inevitably, to this. Several years ago I wrote a column that questioned the appeal and popularity of a best-selling memoir titled Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. Without reiterating the column here, suffice it to say I couldn't figure out the point of the book. It depressed me because I am about seven lifetimes away from being able to escape my life to spend time - in Italy, India and Indonesia - discovering myself. And getting an advance from a publisher to do it and then write about it by the way.
Whatever. Plenty of women seemed to take some joy and comfort and inspiration from Gilbert's memoir about her own personal growth and the lessons she learned about herself as she traveled around the world for one full year. That's super. God bless. Couldn't that be the end of it?
Well, no, it couldn't be. At least not if you think like a publisher. One successful book deserves/requires a sequel (another reason I love Salinger). So Gilbert's upcoming book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage will give us all a glimpse into the courtship and events that led to Gilbert's seemingly blissful second marriage to the man she feel in love with while they both were living in Bali. The story behind the story is that Gilbert wrote her follow-up to EPL, then couldn't even read through it, because she realized it was all wrong. Now what? Well, like most of us do when faced with a problem that needs a solution, she took six months off, and then decided she could write again.
I don't know about you, but lots of times when I don't know how to solve a problem, I take six months off. To think about things. Six months. Off. To think about what to do next and decide whether or not I can do it.
God help me how can any of us relate to this? Despite my tirade up until this point, I don't begrudge anyone happiness. I wish Elizabeth and her husband nothing but a lifetime of joy and fulfillment in each other's company. But at the rate we're going here, in about 24 months we'll be reading about something as unique and astonishing as Gilbert's pregnancy, followed by a delightful and heart-felt book about her whirlwind experiences as a mother, and if everything plays out beautifully, stories about her amazing grandchildren.
Please, please, please. One of my favorite aphorisms goes something like this: "Never miss the opportunity to shut up." How I wish more people followed that advice.
I admit I have a completely irrational streak about publishing. I LOVE great writing, both fiction and non-fiction, but I HATE what feels like indulgent, pretentious, entitled, annoying writing and publishing of same. I suppose that has been going on forever but over the past few years, its feels like this whole "listen to me, I've discovered myself and now I want you to discover me, too" genre has taken on a new level of aggravating. It also seems inordinately populated by women who simply must tell their stories to the rest of us.
Make no mistake: I don't loathe first person writing that's clever, surprising, different or engaging. To slice this even thinner, I don't hate memoirs as a class of writing. But I am opposed to memoirs that make the reader [me, in my case] feel like a loser. I guess the difference between an enjoyable first person memoir and a painful one is just that: how the reader feels during and after reading the book. When I read a good one, I find the storyteller interesting, oftentimes admirable, but even if they're less than likable, they're never condescending. When I read one I end up hating as I finish the last page, it usually comes down to the fact that the writer makes me feel like a failure.
Which brings us, almost inevitably, to this. Several years ago I wrote a column that questioned the appeal and popularity of a best-selling memoir titled Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. Without reiterating the column here, suffice it to say I couldn't figure out the point of the book. It depressed me because I am about seven lifetimes away from being able to escape my life to spend time - in Italy, India and Indonesia - discovering myself. And getting an advance from a publisher to do it and then write about it by the way.
Whatever. Plenty of women seemed to take some joy and comfort and inspiration from Gilbert's memoir about her own personal growth and the lessons she learned about herself as she traveled around the world for one full year. That's super. God bless. Couldn't that be the end of it?
Well, no, it couldn't be. At least not if you think like a publisher. One successful book deserves/requires a sequel (another reason I love Salinger). So Gilbert's upcoming book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage will give us all a glimpse into the courtship and events that led to Gilbert's seemingly blissful second marriage to the man she feel in love with while they both were living in Bali. The story behind the story is that Gilbert wrote her follow-up to EPL, then couldn't even read through it, because she realized it was all wrong. Now what? Well, like most of us do when faced with a problem that needs a solution, she took six months off, and then decided she could write again.
I don't know about you, but lots of times when I don't know how to solve a problem, I take six months off. To think about things. Six months. Off. To think about what to do next and decide whether or not I can do it.
God help me how can any of us relate to this? Despite my tirade up until this point, I don't begrudge anyone happiness. I wish Elizabeth and her husband nothing but a lifetime of joy and fulfillment in each other's company. But at the rate we're going here, in about 24 months we'll be reading about something as unique and astonishing as Gilbert's pregnancy, followed by a delightful and heart-felt book about her whirlwind experiences as a mother, and if everything plays out beautifully, stories about her amazing grandchildren.
Please, please, please. One of my favorite aphorisms goes something like this: "Never miss the opportunity to shut up." How I wish more people followed that advice.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Reason # 576 that baby boomers are needy, pathetic losers.
I know. I AM a baby boomer but that doesn't stop me from realizing we are a generation of whiny, entitled brats. That has to be true; otherwise there is no explanation for something like this.
Yes, I've been posting several pieces about my own misgivings and fears about having all my sons out of the house this fall for the first time. But that doesn't mean I'm inclined to sign up for an "empty nest workshop." How is it that our parents were able to send their children off without the "benefit" of counselors who promised to help them cope? Were they just that much smarter or just that much more sensible?
There are choices here. You can attend a seminar in person; you can take a course on how to overcome your angst. One of the couples teaching a course just happens to have a book ready to sell you, one conveniently titled 10 Great Dates for Empty Nesters. It gives a couple helpful little exercises to do together in what I'm guessing is an effort to reclaim their couplehood. Fun, right? Sure, if confronting each other about money, sex and anger is your idea of a good time. And if that doesn't sound like quite enough fun packed into a date for you, you can spend time reassigning the tasks that seem to be going undone since your children left home. Sounds like a dream date to me.
This entire article is aggravating on a lot of levels but one of my favorite parts discusses a phone service empty nest moms (particularly "stay-at-home empty nest" moms, the most tragic figures in this scenario) can call for some help. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not opposed to therapy; I am opposed to elitist, exclusionary therapy that seems directed toward a certain demographic (women with considerable disposable income.) Their pain must be more acute than the loss and anxiety experienced by other women. If you take this article at face value, it would seem that lower middle class or women living right on the poverty line do not seem to experience a moment or two of the empty nest syndrome. And if they do, they're out of luck. I guess they don't have the resources to take advantage of this "counseling." After all, this is how the service is described (bold my own):
Empty Nest Support Services offers private phone sessions and seminars that rely on art therapy and journaling. "This is a grieving process for some parents," says Caine, who in October will counsel empty nesters at a spa retreat in California. "They can't just 'get over it.' " (One suggestion for moms in mourning: throw a party and ask the guests to bring a card on which they've written what their empty-nester pal would be "fabulous at giving the world now.")
I'm almost speechless. Turning to artistic pursuits sometimes helps people navigate a new chapter in their lives. (I'm threatening my own "Mommy's ceramic period" to distract and engage me this fall. Everyone will get a lopsided candy dish for Christmas. They'll look at it fondly years many from now and remark: Remember when Mommy took those art classes when we all moved out, bless her heart? And remember when she gave us each one of us these?") As far as "journaling" - well, it's called blogging. You get no argument from me about putting your feelings down to try to understand them. But the rest? Honestly, you have to be living on another planet in order to even conceive the idea of throwing a party where women gather to hand each other cards about what each one of the would be "fabulous at giving the world right now."
Here's my very favorite headline from the article. Take a moment before you read it because it may shock you. Here it is: turns out, parents who "feel good about the way their children have turned out" are less inclined to get all worked up about the whole idea of an empty nest. ('Turned out?' Kind of like they're a room being redecorated or a backyard deck being completed?) Parents with a little less confidence in their children are a little more worried. I'm stunned. That's very, very surprising, isn't it?
Who researches this stuff? Who writes it with such conviction? Fact: I'm having a hard time about my boys leaving because I'll miss them! Fact: I really like them! Fact: I think they "turned out" pretty darn well but that doesn't stop me from feeling sad.
Headline to anyone even thinking about taking one of these courses: not everything requires a support group. Not everything is a seminar for God's sake, complete with a workbook and exercises. I can't say exactly how I'll move through this stage but ultimately, I feel like it will all be okay. I'll turn to friends and family, and yes, I'll call the boys once in a while, and we'll all be okay. You can do the same, in your own way, with your own circle of friends and family. Without having even one private phone counseling session.
Yes, I've been posting several pieces about my own misgivings and fears about having all my sons out of the house this fall for the first time. But that doesn't mean I'm inclined to sign up for an "empty nest workshop." How is it that our parents were able to send their children off without the "benefit" of counselors who promised to help them cope? Were they just that much smarter or just that much more sensible?
There are choices here. You can attend a seminar in person; you can take a course on how to overcome your angst. One of the couples teaching a course just happens to have a book ready to sell you, one conveniently titled 10 Great Dates for Empty Nesters. It gives a couple helpful little exercises to do together in what I'm guessing is an effort to reclaim their couplehood. Fun, right? Sure, if confronting each other about money, sex and anger is your idea of a good time. And if that doesn't sound like quite enough fun packed into a date for you, you can spend time reassigning the tasks that seem to be going undone since your children left home. Sounds like a dream date to me.
This entire article is aggravating on a lot of levels but one of my favorite parts discusses a phone service empty nest moms (particularly "stay-at-home empty nest" moms, the most tragic figures in this scenario) can call for some help. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not opposed to therapy; I am opposed to elitist, exclusionary therapy that seems directed toward a certain demographic (women with considerable disposable income.) Their pain must be more acute than the loss and anxiety experienced by other women. If you take this article at face value, it would seem that lower middle class or women living right on the poverty line do not seem to experience a moment or two of the empty nest syndrome. And if they do, they're out of luck. I guess they don't have the resources to take advantage of this "counseling." After all, this is how the service is described (bold my own):
Empty Nest Support Services offers private phone sessions and seminars that rely on art therapy and journaling. "This is a grieving process for some parents," says Caine, who in October will counsel empty nesters at a spa retreat in California. "They can't just 'get over it.' " (One suggestion for moms in mourning: throw a party and ask the guests to bring a card on which they've written what their empty-nester pal would be "fabulous at giving the world now.")
I'm almost speechless. Turning to artistic pursuits sometimes helps people navigate a new chapter in their lives. (I'm threatening my own "Mommy's ceramic period" to distract and engage me this fall. Everyone will get a lopsided candy dish for Christmas. They'll look at it fondly years many from now and remark: Remember when Mommy took those art classes when we all moved out, bless her heart? And remember when she gave us each one of us these?") As far as "journaling" - well, it's called blogging. You get no argument from me about putting your feelings down to try to understand them. But the rest? Honestly, you have to be living on another planet in order to even conceive the idea of throwing a party where women gather to hand each other cards about what each one of the would be "fabulous at giving the world right now."
Here's my very favorite headline from the article. Take a moment before you read it because it may shock you. Here it is: turns out, parents who "feel good about the way their children have turned out" are less inclined to get all worked up about the whole idea of an empty nest. ('Turned out?' Kind of like they're a room being redecorated or a backyard deck being completed?) Parents with a little less confidence in their children are a little more worried. I'm stunned. That's very, very surprising, isn't it?
Who researches this stuff? Who writes it with such conviction? Fact: I'm having a hard time about my boys leaving because I'll miss them! Fact: I really like them! Fact: I think they "turned out" pretty darn well but that doesn't stop me from feeling sad.
Headline to anyone even thinking about taking one of these courses: not everything requires a support group. Not everything is a seminar for God's sake, complete with a workbook and exercises. I can't say exactly how I'll move through this stage but ultimately, I feel like it will all be okay. I'll turn to friends and family, and yes, I'll call the boys once in a while, and we'll all be okay. You can do the same, in your own way, with your own circle of friends and family. Without having even one private phone counseling session.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
and another musical light flickers out....
I can't quite explain why I feel so sad about the death of Willy DeVille, who passed away of pancreatic cancer at the age of 58. If you don't know who he is (like me, you may have missed the defining acts and a couple of the future legends who played at CBGB's circa 1978), or think you're unfamiliar with his music, you may be wrong about that.
If you're a fan of Mickey Rourke, you may recall one of his earliest movies, The Pope of Greenwich Village. One of my favorite scenes in that movie - in a film full of favorite scenes and memorable dialog - shows two characters, Charlie and Diane, enjoying a balmy summer night in a New York City park, dancing lovingly in each other's arms to the soft alluring music coming from the local band playing nearby, who was none other than Mink DeVille featuring Willy. They played "Just to Walk that Little Girl Home" and as I watched the scene for the first time - and every time ever since - it struck me as such a gorgeous, simple, sweet little melody full of desire and love.
It's possibly the perfect combination of piano, accordian, guitar, violin, harmony and lyrics. As a woman, you want to be the woman in the song because she sounds confident, loving, and approachable. As a listener, you want the guy singing to "get the girl" and walk off into the night, arm and arm with the woman he loves.
Skip ahead a few years. The Princess Bride? A little film that may just be a touchstone for a generation? While Mark Knopfler may have performed the song that has become synonymous with ROUS's, six-fingered men, vengeful Spaniards, vile Sicilians and kind-hearted giants - and oh yes, true love - Storybook Love, the title song was another of Willy DeVille's masterpieces. Who doesn't love this song??? Who doesn't find himself or herself at least humming along, at least during the chorus???
I know. This post makes me sound like the least committed fan ever since I have almost no reference points beyond DeVille's music in films. No, I don't own his catalog and I can't claim I danced to his punk songs in the late '70s. If that prevents me from being a true DeVille fan, so be it.
His music brought me joy. Isn't that enough?
Somehow, my sense of the man and his music is that everyone is welcome, that all that mattered were the songs. That he never missed nor craved the enormous fame and everything that accompanied it; the kind of fame that found its way to contemporaries of his during his lifetime.
Just weeks after the world nearly stopped on its axis to mark the death of Michael Jackson, we have another extremely talented musician leave us with barely a minor chord struck in the media. So celebrate DeVille's life and work more quietly. Listen to "Storybook Love" or "Just to Walk That Little Girl Home" and sway in the dark with someone you love tonight. Now that's a real tribute.
If you're a fan of Mickey Rourke, you may recall one of his earliest movies, The Pope of Greenwich Village. One of my favorite scenes in that movie - in a film full of favorite scenes and memorable dialog - shows two characters, Charlie and Diane, enjoying a balmy summer night in a New York City park, dancing lovingly in each other's arms to the soft alluring music coming from the local band playing nearby, who was none other than Mink DeVille featuring Willy. They played "Just to Walk that Little Girl Home" and as I watched the scene for the first time - and every time ever since - it struck me as such a gorgeous, simple, sweet little melody full of desire and love.
It's possibly the perfect combination of piano, accordian, guitar, violin, harmony and lyrics. As a woman, you want to be the woman in the song because she sounds confident, loving, and approachable. As a listener, you want the guy singing to "get the girl" and walk off into the night, arm and arm with the woman he loves.
Skip ahead a few years. The Princess Bride? A little film that may just be a touchstone for a generation? While Mark Knopfler may have performed the song that has become synonymous with ROUS's, six-fingered men, vengeful Spaniards, vile Sicilians and kind-hearted giants - and oh yes, true love - Storybook Love, the title song was another of Willy DeVille's masterpieces. Who doesn't love this song??? Who doesn't find himself or herself at least humming along, at least during the chorus???
I know. This post makes me sound like the least committed fan ever since I have almost no reference points beyond DeVille's music in films. No, I don't own his catalog and I can't claim I danced to his punk songs in the late '70s. If that prevents me from being a true DeVille fan, so be it.
His music brought me joy. Isn't that enough?
Somehow, my sense of the man and his music is that everyone is welcome, that all that mattered were the songs. That he never missed nor craved the enormous fame and everything that accompanied it; the kind of fame that found its way to contemporaries of his during his lifetime.
Just weeks after the world nearly stopped on its axis to mark the death of Michael Jackson, we have another extremely talented musician leave us with barely a minor chord struck in the media. So celebrate DeVille's life and work more quietly. Listen to "Storybook Love" or "Just to Walk That Little Girl Home" and sway in the dark with someone you love tonight. Now that's a real tribute.
Well, I guess I can earn a living titling things.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Q: When is a triangle not a triangle? A: When it becomes another way to question yourself.
I spend a lot of time on the phone every day. Not only do I work very closely with colleagues in another location, I also speak to clients in different parts of the country all day. Many times I'm actually involved in a conversation; but almost as often, I'm on a conference call with the mute button activated. And while I'm sitting, listening and trying to stay alert, I often find myself doodling in pencil (always in pencil) in my spiral notebook.
I've done this for years and years, mostly to pass the time and keep myself awake during sometimes tedious calls that I'm positive mean almost nothing to me, professionally or personally. Always - always! - I doodle triangles. The other day, because I like to torture myself with information that will likely cause me anxiety, I had to look up the meaning of doodling, particularly doodling triangles.
I checked out http://www.ruthgraphology.co.uk/doodle.html.
You ready for this? Here's how the site describes the personality of someone who doodles triangles: an aggressive personality; highly competitive. That's just super. Then I wondered: is there something inherently wrong with this definition? Is there something absolutely negative about the word "aggressive?" And what about the phrase "highly competitive?" In the following context, you would call the person being described as admirable and praiseworthy: "Her aggressive approach to pursuing those who commit crimes against children is legendary." Or what about this? "Her highly competitive streak consistently served her clients well as she aggressively pursued a fair deal for them."
Sure, those sound positive. But I was still not all that pleased. Maybe it's the idea of an "aggressive personality" that was so off-putting. Does that sound like code for a nasty, in-your-face person? And does "highly competitive" really describe someone who is an ambitious climber who kicks you out of the way as she climbs the corporate ladder? Maybe that's me being too sensitive to nothing but words.
But if I were really someone who is too sensitive to stuff like this, wouldn't I be doodling something other than triangles? Like hearts or flowers or circles? Seems to me, the proper response to an assessment like this would be "You said it! That's exactly what I am!" And since I didn't react that way, I'd guess that maybe I'm doodling triangles under false pretenses. Maybe I used to be aggressive and highly competitive and the triangles are lingering from that point of my life. Maybe I hit a certain age and all the aggression in me disappeared as completely as my original hair color.
So what do your doodles say about you? I'd love to know, But I'll bet mine are better than yours. (Can't help myself. That competitive streak, you now?)
I've done this for years and years, mostly to pass the time and keep myself awake during sometimes tedious calls that I'm positive mean almost nothing to me, professionally or personally. Always - always! - I doodle triangles. The other day, because I like to torture myself with information that will likely cause me anxiety, I had to look up the meaning of doodling, particularly doodling triangles.
I checked out http://www.ruthgraphology.co.uk/doodle.html.
You ready for this? Here's how the site describes the personality of someone who doodles triangles: an aggressive personality; highly competitive. That's just super. Then I wondered: is there something inherently wrong with this definition? Is there something absolutely negative about the word "aggressive?" And what about the phrase "highly competitive?" In the following context, you would call the person being described as admirable and praiseworthy: "Her aggressive approach to pursuing those who commit crimes against children is legendary." Or what about this? "Her highly competitive streak consistently served her clients well as she aggressively pursued a fair deal for them."
Sure, those sound positive. But I was still not all that pleased. Maybe it's the idea of an "aggressive personality" that was so off-putting. Does that sound like code for a nasty, in-your-face person? And does "highly competitive" really describe someone who is an ambitious climber who kicks you out of the way as she climbs the corporate ladder? Maybe that's me being too sensitive to nothing but words.
But if I were really someone who is too sensitive to stuff like this, wouldn't I be doodling something other than triangles? Like hearts or flowers or circles? Seems to me, the proper response to an assessment like this would be "You said it! That's exactly what I am!" And since I didn't react that way, I'd guess that maybe I'm doodling triangles under false pretenses. Maybe I used to be aggressive and highly competitive and the triangles are lingering from that point of my life. Maybe I hit a certain age and all the aggression in me disappeared as completely as my original hair color.
So what do your doodles say about you? I'd love to know, But I'll bet mine are better than yours. (Can't help myself. That competitive streak, you now?)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
In this case, no...it is you.
Unlike Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, I am not an alcoholic, or a "drunk" as Joe Queenan so perfectly terms it.
Stefanie is the celebrated mom blogger (I never head of) who apparently developed quite a following among mothers who can't wait to pop that cork or unscrew that cap everyday around cocktail hour, even with the care of their young children still front and center in their lives. Today's article in the Times informed me that there are plenty of mostly stay-at-home women out there who find motherhood dull or boring or stressful or ceaselessly repetitive and without that daily fix from a bottle, they couldn't quite bear it.
I don't know what makes me more aggravated - the fact that these poor women are acting like victims, or the fact that the title of Wilder-Taylor's upcoming book, It's Not Me, I's You, is also the title of this blog, and also the book I wrote many years ago that unfortunately remains unsold.
I'm not completely heartless about problem drinking. In fact, I'm more attuned to it than many, having grown up with too many demons and too much alcohol in my house and in my life. I have girlhood memories I prefer not to dredge up because about forty years later, they are still very painful.
But poor Stefanie. She found success writing about her motherhood angst, celebrated her "I'm me..I'm more than my children's mother!!" outlook with her online happy hour blog, surrounded by like-minded women, and now she has had her come-to-Jesus moment and confessed she has a problem with alcohol. And, like all good moralistic tales, her loyal readers are now writing to her, thanking her for inspiring them to quit, too.
God help me I can't stand this. As noted in the article, her blog "now includes passages of her sobriety related tenderness." That's just charming, isn't it? In other words, "Whoops kids! I guess it's no fun to have mommy laying around with a hangover or passing out for the night in the living room." Excerpt: "On May 23, I awoke on the couch dressed. [Note: I interpret 'awoke on the couch dressed' as 'passed out the night before.'] I thought, 'I have these kids who are depending on me," she said, weeping on the phone, 'and I have a bad problem...' "
Well, thank god. Just in time for her third book to be published, she figured it out. But won't that put her in the category of every other mother on the planet who publishes a book [and it is every other mother on the planet, except me] about just how darn fun and rewarding it is to be a mother, sans alcohol? Wasn't her belief in the sanctity of 'mommy and merlot' the platform upon which she built her printed and virtual empire? What now?
She admits as much. "It's embarrassing to be all rah Rah Rah! Goooo BOOZE! only to zip off with my tail between my legs saying, 'never mind, I've joined the other team,' but that's what I had to do."
Excuse me? It's embarrassing? That's what it is? I'd call it pathetic. Or self-indulgent and narcissistic. Or entitled and selfish. You're 'embarrassed' because you've realized that drinking and being a mom are probably not a great combination? (I'm sure you still cash those royalty checks from your publisher, though, right? Or is that embarrassing, too?)
And what do you mean: the other team? The team of moms who don't get drunk every night to ease the idea of staying home with their children by having "cocktail play dates?" The ones who don't cheer each other on and have their own private jokes about the stupifying yet uplifting effects of alcohol?
If I know publishing, which I probably don't, given my unpublished book, we can count on a follow up where she slips back into her former celebrated bad habits and how she deals with that whole episode in her life.
I don't have the stamina to actually go online and read her blog. I'm too aggravated right now. But I wonder how her kids are doing. I wonder what they thought about their mother and how what they did factored into her daily drinking and the panic she felt if she didn't have chilled bottle waiting for her every night and instead she "had to grit her teeth and wait until [her] husband came home at 8..."
I have a guess: maybe it wasn't so fun for them. Maybe leaving play dates with a mommy who is a little less attentive than when they arrived was slightly disconcerting. Maybe they've started to equate a wine bottle sitting on the kitchen counter at 4 pm with an evening that's not going to end well. I don't know, as I said, I'm guessing.
Maybe "It's Not Me, It's You" will find the perfect audience. Assuming they're all sober enough to crack it open and read it one night.
Stefanie is the celebrated mom blogger (I never head of) who apparently developed quite a following among mothers who can't wait to pop that cork or unscrew that cap everyday around cocktail hour, even with the care of their young children still front and center in their lives. Today's article in the Times informed me that there are plenty of mostly stay-at-home women out there who find motherhood dull or boring or stressful or ceaselessly repetitive and without that daily fix from a bottle, they couldn't quite bear it.
I don't know what makes me more aggravated - the fact that these poor women are acting like victims, or the fact that the title of Wilder-Taylor's upcoming book, It's Not Me, I's You, is also the title of this blog, and also the book I wrote many years ago that unfortunately remains unsold.
I'm not completely heartless about problem drinking. In fact, I'm more attuned to it than many, having grown up with too many demons and too much alcohol in my house and in my life. I have girlhood memories I prefer not to dredge up because about forty years later, they are still very painful.
But poor Stefanie. She found success writing about her motherhood angst, celebrated her "I'm me..I'm more than my children's mother!!" outlook with her online happy hour blog, surrounded by like-minded women, and now she has had her come-to-Jesus moment and confessed she has a problem with alcohol. And, like all good moralistic tales, her loyal readers are now writing to her, thanking her for inspiring them to quit, too.
God help me I can't stand this. As noted in the article, her blog "now includes passages of her sobriety related tenderness." That's just charming, isn't it? In other words, "Whoops kids! I guess it's no fun to have mommy laying around with a hangover or passing out for the night in the living room." Excerpt: "On May 23, I awoke on the couch dressed. [Note: I interpret 'awoke on the couch dressed' as 'passed out the night before.'] I thought, 'I have these kids who are depending on me," she said, weeping on the phone, 'and I have a bad problem...' "
Well, thank god. Just in time for her third book to be published, she figured it out. But won't that put her in the category of every other mother on the planet who publishes a book [and it is every other mother on the planet, except me] about just how darn fun and rewarding it is to be a mother, sans alcohol? Wasn't her belief in the sanctity of 'mommy and merlot' the platform upon which she built her printed and virtual empire? What now?
She admits as much. "It's embarrassing to be all rah Rah Rah! Goooo BOOZE! only to zip off with my tail between my legs saying, 'never mind, I've joined the other team,' but that's what I had to do."
Excuse me? It's embarrassing? That's what it is? I'd call it pathetic. Or self-indulgent and narcissistic. Or entitled and selfish. You're 'embarrassed' because you've realized that drinking and being a mom are probably not a great combination? (I'm sure you still cash those royalty checks from your publisher, though, right? Or is that embarrassing, too?)
And what do you mean: the other team? The team of moms who don't get drunk every night to ease the idea of staying home with their children by having "cocktail play dates?" The ones who don't cheer each other on and have their own private jokes about the stupifying yet uplifting effects of alcohol?
If I know publishing, which I probably don't, given my unpublished book, we can count on a follow up where she slips back into her former celebrated bad habits and how she deals with that whole episode in her life.
I don't have the stamina to actually go online and read her blog. I'm too aggravated right now. But I wonder how her kids are doing. I wonder what they thought about their mother and how what they did factored into her daily drinking and the panic she felt if she didn't have chilled bottle waiting for her every night and instead she "had to grit her teeth and wait until [her] husband came home at 8..."
I have a guess: maybe it wasn't so fun for them. Maybe leaving play dates with a mommy who is a little less attentive than when they arrived was slightly disconcerting. Maybe they've started to equate a wine bottle sitting on the kitchen counter at 4 pm with an evening that's not going to end well. I don't know, as I said, I'm guessing.
Maybe "It's Not Me, It's You" will find the perfect audience. Assuming they're all sober enough to crack it open and read it one night.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
and another thing....
On Sunday, I met up with a friend of the family after Church and we chatted on our walk down the center aisle as we left. Like our family, he and his wife have children leaving for college this fall, children that are only one year apart in age. Their older daughter started last fall; their younger girl starts in a few weeks.
We joked about our kids being gone and I couldn't help it; I admitted I was brooding about it and would soon begin a deep depression. Without missing a beat, he said, "That's because you have sons. Every mother of daughters I know is absolutely ready for them to leave."
Hmmm. As the mother of not one daughter, I have no idea if that's true. I do know many women who have confirmed that as their daughters trudged through that horror show called adolescence, they drove them "spare," to borrow a word favored by British a colleague of mine. I do think that despite their own unique challenges - like when they claim that they've been showering for weeks and weeks but the bar of soap in their shower never seems to get any smaller, like the incomprehensible fact that the same boys who can see a flash of light lasting one millisecond and indicates an enemy about to attack in Halo 3 are blind to a single, unblinking green "finished" light on the dishwasher, and like having no clue about things like checking in with prospective roommates to see who has a mini fridge and who has a TV - boys seem much less complicated than girls. (The girls I know who are about to leave for college have color-coordinated their dorm rooms with the roommates they haven't yet met.) These kind of quirks make me crazy. Can you imagine what I'd be like if I had daughters? Exactly. That's why I was positive I'd never make a good mother for girls and have endless admiration for mothers who have raised delightful young women. God bless.
But I wonder: could what Tom said be true? Are most mothers of daughters absolutely ready to give them a hug and then kick them out the door? Are most mothers of sons quietly weeping into the towels they find in heaps all over the bathroom floor?
How could that possibly be true if you believe in that sad old saying: "A son is a son until he takes a wife; a daughter is your daughter all her life." Believe me, that also gives me pause. I picture scenes ten years from now. Some woman - okay, my daughter-in-law - somewhere is sitting next to one of my sons while he gives me a call: "We're going to ___'s mom's house for the Thanksgiving...we'll see you soon though, alright?" My friend Mary and I joke about spending holidays together in the years ahead - she also has a son. Just bracing for the inevitable, I guess.
That's the thing about parenthood. It promises to delight you but mostly confounds you. You read about breast-feeding, and end up expressing milk into the bathroom sink one night to relieve the pressure and then live through thrush. You get over three rounds of chicken pox in a matter twelve weeks and then face something called Fifth Disease, whatever that is. Yesterday's banged up skateboard turns into the car with a dented front end that will run about $1800 to straighten out.
So now what? You spend almost two decades raising your kids and they make you nuts and make you cry and make you proud and then all of a sudden they're moving out. You're staring into space, trying to remember that this is all good, it's all as it should be, it's all just super.
Maybe. Ask me in about ten years.
We joked about our kids being gone and I couldn't help it; I admitted I was brooding about it and would soon begin a deep depression. Without missing a beat, he said, "That's because you have sons. Every mother of daughters I know is absolutely ready for them to leave."
Hmmm. As the mother of not one daughter, I have no idea if that's true. I do know many women who have confirmed that as their daughters trudged through that horror show called adolescence, they drove them "spare," to borrow a word favored by British a colleague of mine. I do think that despite their own unique challenges - like when they claim that they've been showering for weeks and weeks but the bar of soap in their shower never seems to get any smaller, like the incomprehensible fact that the same boys who can see a flash of light lasting one millisecond and indicates an enemy about to attack in Halo 3 are blind to a single, unblinking green "finished" light on the dishwasher, and like having no clue about things like checking in with prospective roommates to see who has a mini fridge and who has a TV - boys seem much less complicated than girls. (The girls I know who are about to leave for college have color-coordinated their dorm rooms with the roommates they haven't yet met.) These kind of quirks make me crazy. Can you imagine what I'd be like if I had daughters? Exactly. That's why I was positive I'd never make a good mother for girls and have endless admiration for mothers who have raised delightful young women. God bless.
But I wonder: could what Tom said be true? Are most mothers of daughters absolutely ready to give them a hug and then kick them out the door? Are most mothers of sons quietly weeping into the towels they find in heaps all over the bathroom floor?
How could that possibly be true if you believe in that sad old saying: "A son is a son until he takes a wife; a daughter is your daughter all her life." Believe me, that also gives me pause. I picture scenes ten years from now. Some woman - okay, my daughter-in-law - somewhere is sitting next to one of my sons while he gives me a call: "We're going to ___'s mom's house for the Thanksgiving...we'll see you soon though, alright?" My friend Mary and I joke about spending holidays together in the years ahead - she also has a son. Just bracing for the inevitable, I guess.
That's the thing about parenthood. It promises to delight you but mostly confounds you. You read about breast-feeding, and end up expressing milk into the bathroom sink one night to relieve the pressure and then live through thrush. You get over three rounds of chicken pox in a matter twelve weeks and then face something called Fifth Disease, whatever that is. Yesterday's banged up skateboard turns into the car with a dented front end that will run about $1800 to straighten out.
So now what? You spend almost two decades raising your kids and they make you nuts and make you cry and make you proud and then all of a sudden they're moving out. You're staring into space, trying to remember that this is all good, it's all as it should be, it's all just super.
Maybe. Ask me in about ten years.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
the myth of the empty nest
We're at T-minus something like 18 days until my younger sons leave for college. (My older son started at a university last fall and I'm still not quite over that but I took enormous comfort in continuing daily hugs with my younger boys who remained under our roof for one more year of high school.)
Part of the problem I'm having is the age difference in our children. Our older son is only 16 months older than his twin brothers. Even to us, it feels almost like all three of them have always been around. As a result, I have no "buffer," no adjustment period and no "new normal" we all live for several years before the next life stage change takes place under our roof. The closeness of our children's ages means we covered a lot of baby and toddler stages in a matter of only a few years, not a decade, before moving onto the next stage with all our children at once. Sure, we had a lot of diapers for a few years but the good news was that almost all at once, that same closet of diapers was empty, never to get refilled.
That kind of "speed-parenting" worked nicely when it came to Amoxicillin, training wheels and Tiger Cubs. It doesn't work so well right about now, when it feels like the boys are "speed-growing" out of my life. Their impending departure for college this fall means that in something like T-minus 19 days, I will very likely find myself in a coma. I know I'm not the first mother to experience the "empty nest" - a title I despise by the way - it just feels like I am.
Empty nests conjure up images of determined mother birds nudging their tiny birds over the edge and into flight, encouraging them to soar into a welcoming sky. Wonderful; good for them. I guess they know what they're doing but what if they don't? How many baby birds just fall to their death because they weren't ready to fly? I'll bet we never read that statistic in Nat Geo.
I looked up the story on Mourning Doves - plentiful in our backyard - and found that the baby birds spend all of 12 - 15 days in their nests. Newly hatched Robins spend 13 days in their nests before taking off. Crows are much more inclined to hang around home, for something like 20 - 40 days.
I also found this little snippet on All About Birds.com: "People tend to think of nests as safe, cozy little homes. But predators have a pretty easy time finding a nest full of loud baby birds, and nests can be hotbeds of parasites. So parent birds work from sunrise to sunset every day to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."
Honest to god: "...from sunrise to sunset to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."
So much for security and warmth and togetherness. Turns out that birds aren't encouraging bravery and self-reliance when they push their offspring to fly away. They're trying to offload their babies as quickly as possible to protect them and help live longer lives. Exactly why most mothers I know try to keep their children close to home.
I guess I wouldn't make a good mother bird. I don't want to nudge my boys "out of the nest" as quickly as possible. I can't imagine them not being here. But I will admit that I'm confused. Theoretically anyway, I love the concept of their self-reliance and confidence, but wow it's really difficult to watch myself become irrelevant.
Okay, even I know that's a harsh way to view this whole thing but in my worst moments, it feels very true. (More to come on this as I try to find the positive in it.) Sure, I'm hopeful this new stage will lead to wonderful and rewarding new experiences for the boys. The last thing I want for them is regret and disappointment. And yes, it's easy to conjure up images of a bathroom that never has towels scattered on the floor; bedrooms that remain fresh and clean and a sink that stays empty of a dozen juice glasses at once.
Tonight, those moments of order feel insignificant. What feels much more significant tonight are those flapping wings around me. They're beating just a little stronger, and sound just a little louder than they did just yesterday.
Part of the problem I'm having is the age difference in our children. Our older son is only 16 months older than his twin brothers. Even to us, it feels almost like all three of them have always been around. As a result, I have no "buffer," no adjustment period and no "new normal" we all live for several years before the next life stage change takes place under our roof. The closeness of our children's ages means we covered a lot of baby and toddler stages in a matter of only a few years, not a decade, before moving onto the next stage with all our children at once. Sure, we had a lot of diapers for a few years but the good news was that almost all at once, that same closet of diapers was empty, never to get refilled.
That kind of "speed-parenting" worked nicely when it came to Amoxicillin, training wheels and Tiger Cubs. It doesn't work so well right about now, when it feels like the boys are "speed-growing" out of my life. Their impending departure for college this fall means that in something like T-minus 19 days, I will very likely find myself in a coma. I know I'm not the first mother to experience the "empty nest" - a title I despise by the way - it just feels like I am.
Empty nests conjure up images of determined mother birds nudging their tiny birds over the edge and into flight, encouraging them to soar into a welcoming sky. Wonderful; good for them. I guess they know what they're doing but what if they don't? How many baby birds just fall to their death because they weren't ready to fly? I'll bet we never read that statistic in Nat Geo.
I looked up the story on Mourning Doves - plentiful in our backyard - and found that the baby birds spend all of 12 - 15 days in their nests. Newly hatched Robins spend 13 days in their nests before taking off. Crows are much more inclined to hang around home, for something like 20 - 40 days.
I also found this little snippet on All About Birds.com: "People tend to think of nests as safe, cozy little homes. But predators have a pretty easy time finding a nest full of loud baby birds, and nests can be hotbeds of parasites. So parent birds work from sunrise to sunset every day to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."
Honest to god: "...from sunrise to sunset to get their young grown and out of the nest as quickly as possible."
So much for security and warmth and togetherness. Turns out that birds aren't encouraging bravery and self-reliance when they push their offspring to fly away. They're trying to offload their babies as quickly as possible to protect them and help live longer lives. Exactly why most mothers I know try to keep their children close to home.
I guess I wouldn't make a good mother bird. I don't want to nudge my boys "out of the nest" as quickly as possible. I can't imagine them not being here. But I will admit that I'm confused. Theoretically anyway, I love the concept of their self-reliance and confidence, but wow it's really difficult to watch myself become irrelevant.
Okay, even I know that's a harsh way to view this whole thing but in my worst moments, it feels very true. (More to come on this as I try to find the positive in it.) Sure, I'm hopeful this new stage will lead to wonderful and rewarding new experiences for the boys. The last thing I want for them is regret and disappointment. And yes, it's easy to conjure up images of a bathroom that never has towels scattered on the floor; bedrooms that remain fresh and clean and a sink that stays empty of a dozen juice glasses at once.
Tonight, those moments of order feel insignificant. What feels much more significant tonight are those flapping wings around me. They're beating just a little stronger, and sound just a little louder than they did just yesterday.
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