Dear Fashion Designers:
About those mermaid dresses--please stop. Every two years they appear, and every two years they suck. Unless your name is Ariel and you hang out with a talking jamaican crab, you have no business doing mermaid chic. So save us all some time and stop with the mermaid dresses. Please? My retinas are begging you.
Love,
Big Arm Woman
Okay, so I get this email yesterday to the Big Arm account, talking about an upcoming book, provocatively entitled "The 7 Myths of Working Mothers, Why Children and (Most) Careers Just Don't Mix." It includes an invitation to review the book or email the author, and mentions that she (the author) will be appearing on Fox News' DaySide to pimp the book. At first I am intrigued. A free book? That might be interesting. Then I check out the endorsements, you know, the blurbs from folks who just lurved the book, and I notice that Dr. Laura, she of the no sympathy or empathy for anyone, ever, unless you live EXACTLY THE WAY SHE DEEMS BEST, is prominently featured. Those alarm bells? Woah. Ring-a-ling, people.
Look, I'm savvy enough to realize that the Trauma of Motherhood is a multi-billion dollar beast, and that the beast feeds primarily on conflict between working and stay-at-home moms. Hell, they've even turned calling yourself a "working" mom into a slight against stay-at-homes, because it implies that they don't work. Um, no, but thanks for once again addressing an issue by getting self-righteous about terminology, you stupid bastards. But I digress.
Am I the only person in America who's tired of this crap? The DaySide program will feature little miss "careers kill children's souls" alongside little miss "oh, woe is the stay-at-home mommy," the whiny authoress of the correctly much-mocked Newsweek piece. And to what end, beyond ratings and self-flagellation fodder for people who are incapable of making decisions without the approval of some invisible other?
As a third-generation working mom, I must be frank and tell you that I have noticed exactly zero difference between my own levels of self-esteem and socialization and those of my peers whose moms stayed home. And when I was a kid, my mom was the exception to the rule in the middle-class suburban enclave where I lived, so all those feelings of inadequacy that I should suffer from and the resulting mental deficiency should be fairly well pronounced. Strangely enough, they aren't. So I'm a tad sceptical of the studies and scare tactics telling me what will or won't happen to my kid if he is or isn't in daycare.
Hublet and I made choices when we decided to reproduce. He's a teacher, which works well for him both in terms of what he was born to do and having a schedule that will coincide with The Boy's when he starts Kindergarten. I chose a job at a university, because it's a hell of a lot more flexible in terms of getting time off than a comparable job in the corporate world. We use a daycare that I am comfortable with. We made some sacrifices and some decisions and we have a pretty happy kid as far as I can tell. If he turns into a psycho killer in another 15 years, feel free to beat me up with a copy of "The 7 Myths of Working Mothers." Until then, Dr. Laura, the author, DaySide and Newsweek can conveniently store said book somewhere that the sun don't shine.
Look, I was sceptical of the whole Rovian superpowers thing. But I can admit when I'm wrong. Karl Rove is a freaking evil genius. All he's lacking is the sharks with freaking laser beam helmets, seriously.
What, you still doubt? Doubt no longer, small padawans, for I bring you the ultimate proof:
Author Regrets Secretly Taping Bush Talks
Do you see? The man releases "scandalous" tapes that only enhance Bush's image, the White House gets all "hurt and betrayed," while reaping the benefits of this "scandal," and then the fellow recants and vows to donate proceeds to charity:
But he said he canceled plans to be on "Hardball" on MSNBC Tuesday night to talk about his regrets because "it would only add to the distraction I have caused to the president's important and historic work."
"Contrary to a statement that I made to the New York Times, I have come to realize that personal relationships are more important than history," Wead wrote in a letter to the show's host, Chris Matthews, that MSNBC released to the public on Wednesday. "I am asking my attorney to direct any future proceeds from the book to charity and to find the best way to vet these tapes and get them back to the president to whom they belong. History can wait."
Connect the dots, people. Connect. The. Dots. At this rate, Bush will be nominated for sainthood and Rove will rule the world! Well, he already rules the world, so I guess I should just say he'll rule it longer, or rule it more, or, or, well, he'll be all Rove-happy or something. But you can bet it'll be evil!
Woah. I can only hope to someday attain this level of strategery. And evil!
So folks are dragging out the tired old "why aren't there more women bloggers blogging on bloggity goodness" meme. Again. I guess this is in response to Susan Estrich's hissyfit about "female voices" on the op-ed page.
As usual, the discussion is much more revealing about the biases of the folks participating in it than it is revelatory about the causes of the dearth of the wimmin.
Which brings me to Ted Rall, whose latest column can be summed up thus: "I thought blogging was cool, but then I saw that all those bloggers don't think exactly like I do, therefore they are EVIL! EVIL! EVIL! I shall hurl meaningless invective through poorly constructed sentences and then pat myself on the back as I cash my paycheck. And oh yeah--McCarthy! Hitler! AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Connection? Well, one of the ideas put forth in the discussion about female bloggers is that women, poor delicate flowers that they are, don't have the chutzpah to make bold, inflammatory statements (either online or on the op-ed pages) and then get into a screaming match with the trolls--or Chris Matthews, whichever--who subsequently show up.
Folks, if Rall's column is an example of the kind of writing you need to do in order to be a successful op-ed writer/blogger, well sign me up. I can be crazy, and I can be crazy in a fair and balanced way. Samples? I'm so glad you asked.
Here's a teaser for a column I wrote for The Guardian:
Karl Rove totally framed Dan Rather! And invented time travel so that he could create the atomic bomb, paving the way for the Cold War and Ronald Reagan! Plus he shoots laser beams out of his eyes, has Scanner powers, and bathes in the blood of infants to ensure his immortality! AAAAAAAHHHHHH! And did I mention that SUVs totally suck and will DESTROY THE WORLD!?!?!? KYOTO NOW! But I totally support the troops, even though if they die they deserve it for murdering babies and shit. Not that they're actually murdering shit, it being not alive, but you know what I mean. And, um, YAAAAAHHHHHHH!
And I'm ghostwriting Ann Coulter's next op-ed, too:
There is a name for evil in this world, and that name is Liberal. While I am firmly pro-life, I am willing to make an exception for these folks. And did I mention that liberals are stupid? 'Cause yeah. So let's all grab our AKs and kill everything that moves! And that's liberal! And, um, YAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Now bring on the trolls! Or Chris Matthews! Or any other spittle-flecked screaming teevee head! I'll kick all y'all's asses! OOH-RAH!
Sigh. It is truly tragic, the way my genius goes unrewarded. If I had known sooner that all I needed to do was lower my standards; well, The Boy's college fund would be complete, is all I'm sayin'.
And happy reading. After an evening spent with a Boy who ate his weight in foodstuffs (including a chicken breast, 8 large broccolis, mashed potatoes, 2 chicken nuggets--on a plate with ketchup!--some animal cookies, a banana and 2 full glasses of milk) and got massive indegestion, my creative juices are at a somewhat low ebb.
So here are other folks doing a great job of posting about the topics I would be posting about if I were posting. Oh, and to those of you who sent me links recently--thanks a ton! Sorry I've not been able to write about what you sent, but don't think I don't appreciate it, 'cause I do. Good reading there.
Now on to the linky-dinky-dos.
Curious about how the Ward Churchills of the world get hired in the first place, with little-to-no attention paid to things like, oh, actual credentials? Here's a nice account of academic reality that pretty much mirrors what I know of the process.
Speaking of horses' asses, here's exactly the eulogy I would have written for Hunter S. Thompson, were I drunk and Californian. I used to use both Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test in my Freshman Comp classes, to demonstrate that informative writing could take many colorful forms. But I never idolized Thompson, because I've never appreciated the allure of violent, depressed, drunk and drug-addled writers, I guess. Explains why I'm no big fan of Hemingway, either.
Arguments for home-schooling? You betcha!
And finally, remember the Tard Blog, a blog by special ed teachers about their charges? There's a new teacher on the block, and a companion blog, Slow Children at Play, that will certainly increase your appreciation for the folks who really work in the trenches. I couldn't do their jobs, that's for damn sure.
UPDATE: Links work now--sorry!
Me: Hello?
(Tinny Voice): Hey hon, it's mom.
(Other Tinny Voice): And dad.
Me: Where are you?
(Tinny Voices): Can you hear us okay?
Me: You sound like you're calling from inside a toilet bowl.
Mom: We're in the car.
Me: I figured. You only both talk at once when you're using the OnStar. Where are you going?
Mom: We aren't going anywhere.
Me: Where are you?
Mom: In the garage.
Me: At home?
Dad: Yep.
Me: You are both sitting inside the Buick in the garage calling me on the OnStar.
Mom: Well, we had a few minutes left over and they were just going to expire and they were expensive.
Me: Ah. Do you want me to send you five dollars so you don't have to do weird stuff like call from the car in the garage or call while squished into the doorjamb of the front door because that's the only place in the house that gets decent cell phone reception? 'Cause, you know, I can spare a few bucks.
Dad: No, we just don't want to waste the money. The car is very comfortable.
Me: You guys just get weirder as you get older, you know that, right?
Mom: That's our perogative, dear. Can we speak to our grandson now?
Oh, goody. Looks like as my generation approaches the 40 mark it's our turn to kvetch, complain, hyper-analyze and hand-wring about The Trauma of Being A Woman. Let me take a moment to feel the pain of my sisters...wait. I feel no pain. None. Nada. Zilch. Because I have a hard time getting on the pity train with a bunch of educated, middle-class women in their mid-thirties who are just now figuring out that life is not the freaking Brady Bunch. That maybe there's more to life than getting your kid into a preschool--PRESCHOOL--with tougher admissions requirements than Dartmouth. That the world will not come to a screeching halt if you feed your kid chicken nuggets more than once a week. That dust mites are not the same as E Coli in terms of health hazards. And that your toddler does not give shit one about the color-coordination factor of the art supplies at his Enrichment Program.
Ladies? The fact that you are stressed out and "feeling unfulfilled" has nothing whatever to do with a lack of support by society at large. It has everything to do with the fact that you are so obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses that you are incapable of being your own person. So what if Muffy McDuff of the Mercedes SUV dresses her darling child in Pulitzer and Prada and looks askance at your Subaru wagon filled with bulk buys from BJs? Do you like your kid? Do you like yourself? Do you take the time to just lie on your somewhat dusty floor and wrestle with a giggling toddler? Does your kid laugh a lot, or does he have that pinched, drawn look that you see when you look in the mirror? Kids are pretty easy to deal with. Kick them outside and let them run. Feed them a few times a day. Keep them clean and read them bedtime stories. Tell them you love them. And when they screw up, be honest about what they did, then tell them you love them again. It's not about Quality Time Quotas, Brain Enrichment, or all that other crap. It's called Getting On With It. My grandmother, she of the sixth-grade education and the 14 hour days in the cotton mill and mother of three happy middle-class kids, would laugh in your face for complaining and tell you that these things are NOT HARD. Of course, if you're a status-conscious twit who can't unclench enough to understand that dashing off to K-Mart in your sweatpants is not a sign of abject failure in motherhood, then I imagine things get a lot harder for you.
But don't blame me for your inability to deal with reality. And don't blame society. And for the love of all things holy, spare me your cheap auto-therapy. Because I have no time for you. I'm too busy getting on with it.
Went to see Hide and Seek this Friday. You know that movie, Secret Window, with Johnny Depp? Have you seen it? Then you've seen Hide and Seek. Seriously. They are the EXACT SAME MOVIE, even down to the good old fashioned "hit 'em with a shovel" method of removing the plot obstacle. And you don't even get the cold comfort of Depp cheekbones to make up for the blatant rip-off, either.
Netflixed Friday Night Lights and Resident Evil: Apocalypse. Guess which one Hublet watched with me and which one I watched alone? Friday Night Lights was good, but it's weird seeing Lucas Black as a high schooler. I'm still in Sling Blade mode with him. Resident Evil was refreshing, in that "I'm literally watching the movie of the video game, right down to the cut scenes" kind of Mortal Kombat I way. Stuff blew up real good, and people died horribly at a respectably brisk clip. A nice capper to a too-short weekend.
After following a vehicle that was so thoroughly covered with those stick-on "cause" ribbons that its paint job was completely obscured, I came to a realization: I am sick to death of ribbons: red ribbons for AIDS or heart disease, yellow for troops, weird star-spangled ones for God knows what, pink ones for breast cancer--seriously, people. Do we need to have stupid pieces of fabric pinned to our chests or stuck to our cars before we can officially be supporters of a cause? Plus there are so many now I have no idea what they even mean. Perhaps I shall begin sporting a ribbon in tartan, and when folks ask me what cause I support I'll just answer, "Oh, just freaking PICK ONE!"
And speaking of stupid pieces of fabric, I am over the politics/pubic area thing completely. Yes, our president's last name is Bush. And yes, we have a senator named Boxer. Do I have to point out that the attendant jokes are, how do I put this--beyond puerile, stupid, jejune and gauche? (Yes, I could probably use some more French there, but I made my point). Or that no one takes you seriously if you sport underwear with your favorite politician or your "fighting of the power" consists primarily of twat references? My grandmother would have been out there pimp-slapping some people for that sort of behavior, and I would have proudly held her cane while she did it.
No, I haven't fixed the comments. No, I don't have time right now. Them's the breaks.
Last night was the big faculty/student basketball game at Hublet's high school. I am pleased to report that Hublet is alive and fairly mobile today. Of course, they say that Day 2 is the worst day for recovery, so we'll see how mobile he is tomorrow.
After a mammoth battle, which got noticeably slower on hublet's side after the first half, the faculty were victorious, 49-41!
As you may imagine, the sixteen year olds were a bit put out at being beaten by a bunch of "old men," and so the hacking was especially fierce. For those of you keeping track, here are "The Road Warrior" Hublet's stats:
10 points
3 assists
5 rebounds
50% from the free throw line
and the bonuses:
a fat lip
a deep tissue bruise to the elbow
a blister-covered foot
various abrasions
affirmation of status as "middle-aged."
The best part? The Boy screaming, "Is Daddy beating his students?" from the front row of the bleachers.
What. a. week.
Highlights include:
So my apologies for the lack o' posts. And no, I still haven't upgraded the blog to fix the comments. DayQuil. NyQuil. Need I say more?
In other news, Hublet will be playing in the faculty vs students basketball game at his high school today. My only advice to him: "Don't die." This isn't necessarily a sure thing.
And for those of you who are following these things, the cover of this month's Atlantic features Actual Human Remains. I'm thinking of sending the entire staff a gross of Wellbutrin.
God created the Island of Sodor. Imagine my surprise. The Boy had whipped out his Toddler's Illustrated Bible, complete with highly sanitized Old Testament (nothin' like the OT for some serious blood, gore and intrigue, but the kiddie version glosses over unpleasant facts about the patriarchs, such as who was a murderer, adulterer, etc), and was looking at the simplistic cartoony drawings of Genesis.
"Look! There's Thomas!" The Boy pointed at an illustration of some random biblical city. "And Sodor!" He pointed at an illustration of Adam, naughty bits tastefully obscured by blobs of green foliage. Hublet and I exchanged a glance. "Well," said Hublet, "Now we know what God was up to on that mysterious Day Eight."
And frankly, Sodor is remarkably free of the type of shenanigans that got the earth in trouble with God. Sir Topham Hatt hasn't ever orchestrated the murder of an engineer in order to sleep with his wife, no one seems interested in golden calves, and trains don't eat fruit. As earthly paradises go, we could do a lot worse than an island inhabited by a bunch of anthropomorphic steam engines.
NOTE: Still haven't fixed comments. Email is bigarm at doorstopkitty dot com.
Okay, so he's a fake Indian. Real Indians are justifiably pissed off. Holy cow.
You know, the more time I spend with scientist types who are actually producing research that affects the way we live, the less proud I am of my humanities degree. Seriously folks, what are English departments producing nowadays? Other than reams of ponderous, self-absobed post-modern angst-o-grams that appear in the New Yorker's fiction section, or incomprehensible babblings about the incomprehensible babblings of some French guy who enjoyed fisting? Maybe the constant complaints about the politicization of academia are the natural result of decades spent segregating and hair-splitting and condemning a body of literature until the beauty of the canon is buried under a pile of "issues." Well, when there is a "canon." We're too busy arguing about the validity of privileging one special interest group over another to even agree on what that is anymore. I'm not feeling the fluffy lit-crit love, people. Seriously.
I apologize in advance for the comment wonkiness. I suppose I need to just bite the freaking bullet and upgrade to the latest version of MT and TypeKey comments. As I have no idea when this will happen, you'll just have to send your flaming flame-o-grams to my email, which I really suck at answering.
Because I'm sure you just can't get enough of this story, the latest on the Churchill imbroglio (I love using "imbroglio" in a sentence, hackneyed as it is. It is second only to "boondoggle" in my lexicon of "words I love but that have been beaten to death by journalists, damn them all").
While still a professor, he has stepped down from his position as department chair. Official college statement here.
NY Times article here. Predictable statements from predictable sources saying predictable things.
Frankly, the entire trajectory of this story has been predictable, except for the resignation as chair thing. If I had been laying odds, I would have put money on Colorado using the "academic freedom" argument to keep him in his post. Most likely some nervous admins figured the best way to deflect the heat was to bump him from chair and keep him on staff--demonstrating their committment to both "academic freedom" and "common decency."
But then, I'm cynical that way.
And just a note to academics looking to "shake things up" on campus by inviting "controversial" speakers: do your research. And here's a good rule of thumb: even though it's 2005, it's still not cool to compare dead innocents to dead Nazis.
The Boy spent the latter portion of last week with my parents. Cue dining out! Cue movies! Cue unlimited video gaming! It was a wonderful time for everyone involved, particularly for The Boy, as my folks plan fun outings for every single day of his stay. Spoiled much? My only instruction to them was as follows: Do NOT purchase any trains. Seriously. We've recently instituted the chores/allowance system at our house, so that The Boy can begin to understand the concepts of earning what you want and delayed gratification. For a toddler whose primary reading material is the Thomas Yearbook, these concepts are key to his and our future happiness. I think you know where I'm going with this, so here's the conversation I had with my mom and dad not one day after The Boy's triumphant arrival at their home:
Me: What did you do today?
Mom: We went out to eat at the K&W, then to the Nature Science Museum and then to AC Moore.
Me: Why did you go to AC Moore?
Mom: Oh, The Boy wants to talk to you!
The Boy: Hey mommy. I went to AC Moore and got power James!
Me: You SAW power James?
The Boy: And we bought some new track!
Me: You got new track?
The Boy: And power James!
Me: Let me speak to your Poppa.
Dad: Hey.
Me: Dad, did you buy him power James? The battery operated James? That costs $24?
Dad: Well, his power Thomas wasn't working right. I think he managed to break the contacts on it. We replaced the battery, but it's not making contact.
Me: You could have just replaced the Thomas.
Dad: Well, he didn't want Thomas.
Me: Well then he could have just gone without, then, couldn't he? He isn't supposed to get any new trains, what with him being completely spoiled and having no concept of things having value...
Dad: And that James is really more powerful than Thomas. I can put all the other train cars behind him and he pulls them right up the big hills!
Me: Dad...
Dad: We've had a lot of fun with James today!
Me: Dad, you wanted the train, didn't you?
Dad: Here, your mother wants to speak to you.
Me: DAD! Mom? What are you doing?
Mom: Well, he broke his Thomas...
Me: What part of "DO NOT BUY HIM ANYTHING" did you not get?
Hublet (who has been listening to my part of the conversation): What did they do?
Me: (to Hublet) What do you think?
Hublet: (sighs in defeat) Unbelievable.
Mom: He's still doing his chores and getting his smilies here--we'll give him his allowance on Saturday.
Me: That's not the point...
Mom: You didn't send any videos with him.
Me: I know, I told you that if you had some uncontrollable urge to buy him something, you could get him Aladdin. Or there's, you know, movie RENTAL. It's not unheard of to view something and not keep it forever, especially when the viewer has the attention span of a gnat.
Mom: He didn't want Aladdin.
Me: WHAT DID YOU BUY.
Mom: Well, we were at K-Mart...
Me: Before or after the AC Moore buy-a-thon?
Mom: He wanted that Thomas movie, you know, the one with Alec Baldwin?
Me: Oh, dear God, no. Not that one.
Mom: It's a cute movie. Peter Fonda's acting, though, leaves something to be desired.
Me: Just...no more buying. Or I'm going to make you return everything.
Mom: We've already opened it.
Me: Or I'm going to run over it with my car. You're the one always saying he's spoiled, and look at you! You're enablers, that's what you are!
Mom: He's eating well.
Me: (deep, despairing sigh) Great. See you Monday.
Mom: We'll call you tomorrow.
Me: Great.