I was told by a good friend, who shares in the joys of shopping, that New York is the mecca of the Sample Sale. Most of us forget the entire American fashion industry is, for the most part, centered in this city, namely between 36th and 30th. It makes sense all these designers would sell their wares at prices just above wholesale before shipping off the leftovers to the discount designer stores where patience is a must when shopping.
Since coming to the city, I've combed the New York Magazine for upcoming sales, imaging all the beautiful items to hang in my teeny closet. Shopping, for most women, is an activity that seems to release a special endorphin of pleasure. I know so few women who claim, notice the use of the word claim, to not enjoy shopping. When they make such a claim, they might mean they don't draw pleasure in shopping for clothes, shoes, bags, but instead spend their time shopping for the many other items that are purchasable. So, to claim they didn't get the same high from an outing to Target as some of us experience at Bergdorf's is a false claim, indeed. The same act of selecting, your imagination heightened as you picture, said, item in your cabinet or on your body, and then handing over credit card, ATM card, or cash for the item is all the same. The same hormones get released whether you've just purchased the perfect Chanel bag or a bunch of household items at Target.
For me, and some of my friends, shopping is more sport than anything else. There is an element of the endurance training involved in becoming an expert shopper. I was, even in LA, a fast, expert shopper. I would trod off to sales, collecting bargains as expertly as finding the shoe of the season, which I would buy at full price. To be an expert shopper is to know when some things will go on sale and when certain items will not, thereby enabling you to make decisions prudently. Lord knows what a crisis it is when you've been eying a pair of perfect sumptuous pumps, only to find your size is gone because you'd deliberated just a tad too long. That, of course, would mean hours spent scouring websites, of which there are so many now, rooting out these perfect shoes.
I thought sales, like Neiman's First Call and Ron Herman's, were top notch. But since being in New York, I've now realized what I'd been missing out on. Sample Sales are a whole subcategory of sales and shopping. I've now attended four such sales, each one more surprising in what was available at discount prices. The perception that such sales are attended only by those who can't afford these designer goods at full prices is what is most delightful about all of this. Each time I arrive at a sale, finding the line of women snaking its way around a city block, I notice how each woman is someone who can afford to go to Barney's or Bergdorf's and hand over their Platinum card for whatever their heart desires. Each woman is perfectly coiffed--a whole blog could be devoted to the art of dressing in this city--from head to toe, a beautiful hand bag slung over their shoulder, their cell phone pressed to their ear as they give their girlfriend a run down of what the scene looks like, all ravenous in their pursuit of a bargain.
Once you enter the sale, you see racks and racks of clothing, no different than what's available at any of the top notch department stores. It is as if you've entered Bergdorf's 5th Floor without the music, the solicitous sales help, the mannequins styled just so. It is just clothes on metal racks. After a few of these sales, I've become expert in figuring out how to maneuver it all to maximize my time.
It is as you lug your findings in the nondescript black plastic bag that the endorphin settles in your brain, shutting out all the realities of sires wailing and the crush of people on the city streets. I've now come to accept it is as much about the hopefulness of each purchase that brings me such pleasure. Each new item is a signal to events attended, dinner dates out with your husband, lunches with girlfriends, an outing the excuse to play dress up, hoping to transform your every day blahness to something memorable. Sometimes for me, making that extra effort makes me reconnect to the woman I was before I became a mother when my life was full of so much expectation. Whatever the reasons, like most of my female peers, the art of getting dressed is something that becomes another aspect of the expression of self. A scarf tied just so can make another woman eye your efforts appreciatively. That is the way of the world of women, something my husband finds baffling. So, onward and upward as more designers put out notices for their sample sales, and I fit in an hour or two out of my work day to stand in line along with all the others, each of us searching for that intangible thing that will transform us into swans. Or simply a great deal on a cashmere sweater or designer handbag.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What is originality?
I've been listening to Alicia Keyes new album. I've always heard the influence of Prince in her music, someone she does credit as inspiration. On that one song, "If I Ain't Got You," it sounded like she was channeling Prince in every cadence of that song. It sounds more like a Prince than Prince's new music. This is not to acknowledge what a formidable talent she is, when compared to her contemporaries, namely, Brittany Spears.
This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.
This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.
For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.
So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.
This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.
This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.
For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.
So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Keebler Cookie Elf
It was usually at this time of the year when I would start buying quantities of butter only fit for the "Two Fat Ladies." See, the Keebler Cookie Factory of Ambrose Avenue would be churning to get ready for the bonanza, otherwise known as the holiday cookie frenzy. I don't know when I started this tradition that had devolved into sheer spectacle. As I bought pounds of butter and quantities of sugar reserved for most restaurateurs, the swell of the holiday spirit would propel me from one humongous warehouse store to another. This spirit of giving would last as I set up my kitchen for endless hours of butter being whipped in my stand mixer. I would, of course, have purchased an endless array of tins, scoured in, yet another, discount store that requires much patience. All this preparation usually took over a week, the break or the 'quiet before the storm,' as the cliche goes.
Once the imminent day arrived, I would wait until my kitchen cleared of kid and husband, getting dressed in sweats and t-shirt. The Ipod, the ever trusty companion, would be cranked on 10, the oven on to 350 degrees, butter on the counter for it to be room temperature, and all other accouterments on the ready. I usually started the day by baking an easier cookie like chocolate chip. But since this is me, I would bake five dozen chocolate chip cookies, so that by the time I was finished with this particular kind of cookie, I had enough storage boxes stacked full of cookies to start resembling a Mrs. Field's outpost. I would then move through my repertoire, honed over many years of this madness, baking for a full 8 hours.
The first day was always cheery--this living of some domestic fantasy I must have harbored underneath all that feminist outrage. My son would arrive home happy the house was full of aromas that would always be the stamp of the holiday season. He would be only too happy to sample a cookie or two before eating the takeout Chinese dinner I ordered since cooking a meal in my factory was out of the question. My churlishness and outright antagonism didn't start until about day three of this lunacy. It was usually the last day of baking, or let me say, the last night as I scrambled to finish the last batch of nut balls that my rage about having started this ridiculous tradition started to spill out into my French country kitchen. My husband, thankfully with a sense of humor, would note that the angry elf was now in residence, having replaced the earlier happy elf.
Once the factory was officially closed, every stick of butter used in one recipe or another, I would count the large plastic containers laden with cookies--a number that is too embarrassing to write down for public consumption. All of this hard work, truly inexplicable, would result in the fun part of packaging cookies into the tins for distribution to neighbors and friends, some of whom counted on the arrival of these tins as surely as watching the rerun of "Frosty the Snowman" on ABC.
As I organized our move, I packed enough baking utensils to do a mini-version of the cookie baking bonanza. It is inconceivable for my son that I wouldn't bake for the holidays. I don't know if subconsciously I've done some number insuring he, my son, would forever be looking for some nouveau, postmodern, Martha Stewart in a future spouse. If so, I offer my mea culpa ahead to all the possible candidates--this from the French, Deconstructionist, Marxist, Feminist, and cookie elf.
Once the imminent day arrived, I would wait until my kitchen cleared of kid and husband, getting dressed in sweats and t-shirt. The Ipod, the ever trusty companion, would be cranked on 10, the oven on to 350 degrees, butter on the counter for it to be room temperature, and all other accouterments on the ready. I usually started the day by baking an easier cookie like chocolate chip. But since this is me, I would bake five dozen chocolate chip cookies, so that by the time I was finished with this particular kind of cookie, I had enough storage boxes stacked full of cookies to start resembling a Mrs. Field's outpost. I would then move through my repertoire, honed over many years of this madness, baking for a full 8 hours.
The first day was always cheery--this living of some domestic fantasy I must have harbored underneath all that feminist outrage. My son would arrive home happy the house was full of aromas that would always be the stamp of the holiday season. He would be only too happy to sample a cookie or two before eating the takeout Chinese dinner I ordered since cooking a meal in my factory was out of the question. My churlishness and outright antagonism didn't start until about day three of this lunacy. It was usually the last day of baking, or let me say, the last night as I scrambled to finish the last batch of nut balls that my rage about having started this ridiculous tradition started to spill out into my French country kitchen. My husband, thankfully with a sense of humor, would note that the angry elf was now in residence, having replaced the earlier happy elf.
Once the factory was officially closed, every stick of butter used in one recipe or another, I would count the large plastic containers laden with cookies--a number that is too embarrassing to write down for public consumption. All of this hard work, truly inexplicable, would result in the fun part of packaging cookies into the tins for distribution to neighbors and friends, some of whom counted on the arrival of these tins as surely as watching the rerun of "Frosty the Snowman" on ABC.
As I organized our move, I packed enough baking utensils to do a mini-version of the cookie baking bonanza. It is inconceivable for my son that I wouldn't bake for the holidays. I don't know if subconsciously I've done some number insuring he, my son, would forever be looking for some nouveau, postmodern, Martha Stewart in a future spouse. If so, I offer my mea culpa ahead to all the possible candidates--this from the French, Deconstructionist, Marxist, Feminist, and cookie elf.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Recession? Schmession!
Every financial forecast seems to be more dire than the last. The housing sector is in a free fall, the credit debacle is starting to take on the disastrous proportions of the Titanic sinking, the dollar is now worth less than the Canadian dollar, the market, as in stock, saw a descent in the last few days that echoed the historic crash where men jumped from buildings in this very city, oil--the all so precious commodity--is now at an all time high, consumer spending is down, unemployment on the rise, and it seems the entire entertainment industry is at a standstill with the Writers' strike taking place on both coasts. With such cheery news on every evening broadcast, well, it sure makes me want to go out and spend some money to boost the sagging economy.
The gloom and doom of each financial report is cause for concern. Yet, the effects of this downturn (the euphemism used by the Fed) will surely be noticed slowly. It will not be as dramatic as the stock market crash of the 20's where entire families were forced out on to the streets. But there is no denying that there will be some casualties.
The Economist reports Los Angeles County will, if not already, be in a recession faster than the rest of the country. Since this is the Economist reporting, it was loaded with facts, statistics, and lots of gloom. I don't know why I've gotten hooked on this magazine, but I do find it endlessly fascinating to be reading about the world as told through the purview of the Brits. And not to mention the incredibly articulate, well written editorial responses that start with the salutation of: Sir.
Most of the this news about company profits and the economy on the macro level (all those economic classes have taught me, if not much else, the language of economics) will fail to report on the human casualty. It will not focus on families having to decide between petrol for home and automobiles versus the endless Christmas lists amassed by their children. Or the senior citizens on fixed incomes having to decide between heating or medications. Speculators, who are driving up oil prices, have no ability to see how their profiteering is affecting whole swaths of the population. So, with the holiday season in full stampede, every forecast paints a picture bleaker than the last. Surely, there will be a Dickensian resolution for us all. And a Tiny Tim, who will declare, "and a Merry Christmas for all."
The gloom and doom of each financial report is cause for concern. Yet, the effects of this downturn (the euphemism used by the Fed) will surely be noticed slowly. It will not be as dramatic as the stock market crash of the 20's where entire families were forced out on to the streets. But there is no denying that there will be some casualties.
The Economist reports Los Angeles County will, if not already, be in a recession faster than the rest of the country. Since this is the Economist reporting, it was loaded with facts, statistics, and lots of gloom. I don't know why I've gotten hooked on this magazine, but I do find it endlessly fascinating to be reading about the world as told through the purview of the Brits. And not to mention the incredibly articulate, well written editorial responses that start with the salutation of: Sir.
Most of the this news about company profits and the economy on the macro level (all those economic classes have taught me, if not much else, the language of economics) will fail to report on the human casualty. It will not focus on families having to decide between petrol for home and automobiles versus the endless Christmas lists amassed by their children. Or the senior citizens on fixed incomes having to decide between heating or medications. Speculators, who are driving up oil prices, have no ability to see how their profiteering is affecting whole swaths of the population. So, with the holiday season in full stampede, every forecast paints a picture bleaker than the last. Surely, there will be a Dickensian resolution for us all. And a Tiny Tim, who will declare, "and a Merry Christmas for all."
Monday, November 26, 2007
Fasting---Holiday overdone
This year's holiday was especially fraught with anticipation since it was our first Thanksgiving with my entire extended family in a long, long time. In actuality, it was my husband's first sojourn to my family home. What can one say about the terrible deeds family exact on each other? It is as if blood, or rather, the sharing of blood gives you license to behave in ways that would be unheard of with strangers. This family gathering was, to say the least, highly charged. And since this is my family, that meant lots of wine, probably enough wine to have cleaned out an entire winery.
The emotional toil on my husband and me was overwhelming, which meant we dealt with it by laughing at ourselves, the situation, and my family. The best part of the weekend was my son's first meeting of his half-cousins. So, after so many years, we are now part of my entire family--the dysfunctions, the rivalries, the grudges, and the guilt. It was easier to manage this part of our history when we were so far away. I could ignore I was part of this family that is a bit like the Sopranos in drama and emotionality, if the Korean version. But now that we are here, so close to it all, we are now fully enmeshed. Whether I will regret this move is still to be determined after a few more holiday gatherings where we go out of our way to be as crazy, eccentric, and emotional as a family of mental institution patients.
My son said he had a great time, and wanted to come often to his grandparent's. This declaration more than made up for the emotional baggage adults carry from their past, present, and future. If I can't provide him nothing beyond these family experiences, most of which will surely end up with him spending ample time on a couch, then I've done my job as a mother. Isn't that what life is about? The passing of the torch, so to speak, except the torch is laden, not only with flames of hope, but the pain of each family's secrets and their past?
The emotional toil on my husband and me was overwhelming, which meant we dealt with it by laughing at ourselves, the situation, and my family. The best part of the weekend was my son's first meeting of his half-cousins. So, after so many years, we are now part of my entire family--the dysfunctions, the rivalries, the grudges, and the guilt. It was easier to manage this part of our history when we were so far away. I could ignore I was part of this family that is a bit like the Sopranos in drama and emotionality, if the Korean version. But now that we are here, so close to it all, we are now fully enmeshed. Whether I will regret this move is still to be determined after a few more holiday gatherings where we go out of our way to be as crazy, eccentric, and emotional as a family of mental institution patients.
My son said he had a great time, and wanted to come often to his grandparent's. This declaration more than made up for the emotional baggage adults carry from their past, present, and future. If I can't provide him nothing beyond these family experiences, most of which will surely end up with him spending ample time on a couch, then I've done my job as a mother. Isn't that what life is about? The passing of the torch, so to speak, except the torch is laden, not only with flames of hope, but the pain of each family's secrets and their past?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Travel Day
After another tour of, yet, another school for next year, I'm headed to Penn Station to hop on an Amtrack train bound for Philadelphia. This year, our first, will be spent at my family's home where the rituals of families torturing one another, all in the name of love, will be begin in earnest tomorrow. I know every family in this country can outdo one another on the chart of dysfunction and family love. My family, I'm afraid, is no better or worse than the rest.
I am relieved to be heading home, or rather, heading away from our apartment for the next three days. It seems our neighbors, who share a wall the entire length of the apartment with us, has somehow managed to stuff four more people into their apartment. Aside from the sheer feat of such a thing, there is the mind numbing noises of kids (theirs) screaming and banging about that is making me long for the suffocating attention and adoration of my parents.
I know each part of the travel will be full of stress as everyone else along the eastern corridor heads to a train station or airport. I'm so grateful to not have to get on an airplane to get somewhere. This was the time of year when we would head to LAX for the five hour flight to DC. This year's shindig at my parents is sure to be filled with Feliniesque moments for my husband. But that is the joy of living so close to your family.
I am relieved to be heading home, or rather, heading away from our apartment for the next three days. It seems our neighbors, who share a wall the entire length of the apartment with us, has somehow managed to stuff four more people into their apartment. Aside from the sheer feat of such a thing, there is the mind numbing noises of kids (theirs) screaming and banging about that is making me long for the suffocating attention and adoration of my parents.
I know each part of the travel will be full of stress as everyone else along the eastern corridor heads to a train station or airport. I'm so grateful to not have to get on an airplane to get somewhere. This was the time of year when we would head to LAX for the five hour flight to DC. This year's shindig at my parents is sure to be filled with Feliniesque moments for my husband. But that is the joy of living so close to your family.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Radio City Music Hall
We took our son to participate in the New York tradition of seeing the Rockettes' holiday extravaganza. My husband, who had never seen the show, bought tickets as much for our son as for me. My own parents used to take me to see the shows at Radio City Music Hall when I was a child as part of our monthly sojourn to the city from suburban Philadelphia. I have no real memories of the shows themselves, but just the sense of wonder, magic, and awe these trips inspired in me as a young child. So, we shuttled into a cab to take us the short distance to Radio City. The streets are already brimming with tourists and people, flocking to the city for shopping and all these traditions that make New York the real capital of our country.
Our son's cries of awe upon seeing the Christmas tree dangling from the ceiling, bedecked in crystals, was validation enough for us to endure crowds of people from New Jersey, Connecticut, and other far flung places. People posed their kids, dressed in holiday attire, in front of the wooden nutcrackers, hoping for that holiday photo to send as their holiday cards to family and friends. Since this is America, there were kiosks on every level selling Rockette dolls and t-shirts. And a bar for the adults where an eggnog martini arrived with a stirrer that lit up in the dark. On one hand the whole experience was kitsch in its truest form. And were it not for our son, I would have found it all a bit too much.
But they say one must have a child to re-experience life again. And how true that is. Christmas after the age of 16 feels less magical and more a time for families to torture one another, so that each holiday season's arrival is met with a certain dread by all. That is until you have a child. The cynicism and dread are replaced by the more pure emotions of hope, expectation, and magic--all that the holidays are supposed to be if we weren't so tired, cranky, and full of disappointment. Our son found the show magical, even with the incessant questions he asked during the entire hour long production. For me, when Santa made us put on the 3-d glasses to go on his sleigh through New York, my ears welled up. Again, it's hard to believe we are here, not as visitors but as residents.
Both my husband and I have such moments of incredulity as we go about our life here now. We went to see a movie at the Angelika theater in Soho, stopping for a cup of tea before our dinner date with friends. As we sat by the window, nursing the hot drink, each of us admitted how surreal this is, still.
So, we sat and watched this show that is as much propaganda about this holiday as it is about New York city. I held my disbelief and critical theorist hat in check, soaking up our son's bewilderment and awe of this spectacle. After the final 'Joy to the World' we rushed from the theater, trying to dodge the crush of people. We stopped to get a hot pretzel on the street before hailing a cab ride home.
Our son's cries of awe upon seeing the Christmas tree dangling from the ceiling, bedecked in crystals, was validation enough for us to endure crowds of people from New Jersey, Connecticut, and other far flung places. People posed their kids, dressed in holiday attire, in front of the wooden nutcrackers, hoping for that holiday photo to send as their holiday cards to family and friends. Since this is America, there were kiosks on every level selling Rockette dolls and t-shirts. And a bar for the adults where an eggnog martini arrived with a stirrer that lit up in the dark. On one hand the whole experience was kitsch in its truest form. And were it not for our son, I would have found it all a bit too much.
But they say one must have a child to re-experience life again. And how true that is. Christmas after the age of 16 feels less magical and more a time for families to torture one another, so that each holiday season's arrival is met with a certain dread by all. That is until you have a child. The cynicism and dread are replaced by the more pure emotions of hope, expectation, and magic--all that the holidays are supposed to be if we weren't so tired, cranky, and full of disappointment. Our son found the show magical, even with the incessant questions he asked during the entire hour long production. For me, when Santa made us put on the 3-d glasses to go on his sleigh through New York, my ears welled up. Again, it's hard to believe we are here, not as visitors but as residents.
Both my husband and I have such moments of incredulity as we go about our life here now. We went to see a movie at the Angelika theater in Soho, stopping for a cup of tea before our dinner date with friends. As we sat by the window, nursing the hot drink, each of us admitted how surreal this is, still.
So, we sat and watched this show that is as much propaganda about this holiday as it is about New York city. I held my disbelief and critical theorist hat in check, soaking up our son's bewilderment and awe of this spectacle. After the final 'Joy to the World' we rushed from the theater, trying to dodge the crush of people. We stopped to get a hot pretzel on the street before hailing a cab ride home.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Holidays are upon us
The holiday season has begun, or so the Today Show reports, since this day is apparently the start of the travel weekend. The city hasn't dressed itself up for its role as the most romantic place to be during the holidays. Rockefeller's humongous tree will be lit next weekend with festivities taking place before the big moment when someone, some celebrity, will switch on the thousands of lights. Lord and Taylor's windows are already a glow, readying itself for a bleak shopping season by all the analyst reports. The retailers are hoping all the Europeans will come to New York for a shopping extravaganza, if only JFK weren't the world's worst airport and delays surely to be one of the worst of the year.
For our family we started a tradition, of sorts, a few years ago with our son. Instead of making our young child put pen to paper, creating a shopping list for Santa, we encouraged him, or he took it upon himself, to take the endless flurry of catalogs from toy companies and circle items that took his fancy. When he was three, the circles were challenging enough since his fine motor skills were in the nascent stage. But today, well, this has become a whole new endeavor for him.
They say kids adopt the behavior of their parents, whether consciously or unconsciously. For those families where parents read very little, if at all, it is pretty much guaranteed your children will not become big readers, no matter how much you encourage and threaten. Or worse, send them to the Sylvan Learning Center. And in truth, there is a bit of hypocrisy in parents imploring their little ones to read--because we know all the benefits of reading for educational, as well as soul enriching purposes--when they don't read a lick, other than the directions on some box.
If this is true, our children picking up our habits, then our little one is doing a bang up job of mimicking life in our household. He, like his parents, has a stack of books on his bedside table, along with his cup of water. The catalogs, collected during the pre-shopping season, is stacked along with a pen. It struck me, as I straightened his room, how similar his bedside table looked like ours.
Since he still believes in Santa Claus, and despite our cynicism, we haven't done anything to dispel his belief (I guess if we did, that would border on child abuse), it has been my job to snoop in his catalogs to see what it is he's circled as items his little heart covets. This anthropological study, of sorts, has been illuminating and hysterical. Since we hadn't set any parameters about what is acceptable, he has felt free to circle to his little heart's content. In each of the eight or so catalogs, he had circled some type of pirate ship. I suppose a pirate ship of one brand or another is bound to end up under the tree. There are the walkie talkie sets, which I know will be fun for one round of play, will end up broken and collectiong dust in the bottom of his endless toy bins. He circled the Harry Potter Legos thing, which is gargantuan and sure to bring about copious drinking for us after helping him put it together. Needless to say, that will not end up under the tree.
Despite my initial thought that the entire magazine would be circled, our son has been discriminating in his wants and desires. This is encouraging, if not a bit unsettling since he is a mere five years old. Somehow, despite his youth, he understood Santa, that most benevolent of characters, would know when a child was being gluttonous. Each day, taking a break from my work, I enter his room to gather the stack to see what more he circled before sleep overtook him. Each new item will mean another day for me, browsing the shelves at the Container Store, trying to figure out how to organize his stuff. His belief in the myth of Santa may only last this year--the day when he'll demand to know the veracity of what his friend had told him about Santa being made up. And with that demand will be the start of the slow unraveling of his childhood innocence.
In no time, I will be snooping in his room for other purposes, more serious, I'm sure. So, I enjoy this new break in my day when I can get inside my child's head, getting a peak into this little person. Some of what he circles sometimes gives me a glimpse, a very quick one, of the man he may become. Aside from chuckling at his grandiose plans to turn his room into a battleship, I also struggle with a sadness of how fleeting this time is for us all. It is usually to keep this sadness from settling into my chest that I sit down at my computer, not to work, but to shop online, ordering items that will, hopefully, bring about shouts of "that's so cool," from one little person--much beloved by his tired parents.
For our family we started a tradition, of sorts, a few years ago with our son. Instead of making our young child put pen to paper, creating a shopping list for Santa, we encouraged him, or he took it upon himself, to take the endless flurry of catalogs from toy companies and circle items that took his fancy. When he was three, the circles were challenging enough since his fine motor skills were in the nascent stage. But today, well, this has become a whole new endeavor for him.
They say kids adopt the behavior of their parents, whether consciously or unconsciously. For those families where parents read very little, if at all, it is pretty much guaranteed your children will not become big readers, no matter how much you encourage and threaten. Or worse, send them to the Sylvan Learning Center. And in truth, there is a bit of hypocrisy in parents imploring their little ones to read--because we know all the benefits of reading for educational, as well as soul enriching purposes--when they don't read a lick, other than the directions on some box.
If this is true, our children picking up our habits, then our little one is doing a bang up job of mimicking life in our household. He, like his parents, has a stack of books on his bedside table, along with his cup of water. The catalogs, collected during the pre-shopping season, is stacked along with a pen. It struck me, as I straightened his room, how similar his bedside table looked like ours.
Since he still believes in Santa Claus, and despite our cynicism, we haven't done anything to dispel his belief (I guess if we did, that would border on child abuse), it has been my job to snoop in his catalogs to see what it is he's circled as items his little heart covets. This anthropological study, of sorts, has been illuminating and hysterical. Since we hadn't set any parameters about what is acceptable, he has felt free to circle to his little heart's content. In each of the eight or so catalogs, he had circled some type of pirate ship. I suppose a pirate ship of one brand or another is bound to end up under the tree. There are the walkie talkie sets, which I know will be fun for one round of play, will end up broken and collectiong dust in the bottom of his endless toy bins. He circled the Harry Potter Legos thing, which is gargantuan and sure to bring about copious drinking for us after helping him put it together. Needless to say, that will not end up under the tree.
Despite my initial thought that the entire magazine would be circled, our son has been discriminating in his wants and desires. This is encouraging, if not a bit unsettling since he is a mere five years old. Somehow, despite his youth, he understood Santa, that most benevolent of characters, would know when a child was being gluttonous. Each day, taking a break from my work, I enter his room to gather the stack to see what more he circled before sleep overtook him. Each new item will mean another day for me, browsing the shelves at the Container Store, trying to figure out how to organize his stuff. His belief in the myth of Santa may only last this year--the day when he'll demand to know the veracity of what his friend had told him about Santa being made up. And with that demand will be the start of the slow unraveling of his childhood innocence.
In no time, I will be snooping in his room for other purposes, more serious, I'm sure. So, I enjoy this new break in my day when I can get inside my child's head, getting a peak into this little person. Some of what he circles sometimes gives me a glimpse, a very quick one, of the man he may become. Aside from chuckling at his grandiose plans to turn his room into a battleship, I also struggle with a sadness of how fleeting this time is for us all. It is usually to keep this sadness from settling into my chest that I sit down at my computer, not to work, but to shop online, ordering items that will, hopefully, bring about shouts of "that's so cool," from one little person--much beloved by his tired parents.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Green in the City
I never saw "Inconvenient Truth," because I knew it would be too distressing for me. This avoidance of the movie doesn't mean I'm not a believer in the dangers of what global warming will mean to our world and for our children. When I lived in LA, the idea of recycling was one I didn't take too seriously. This seems odd since Angelenos are so 'hip' about anything green. Or so they say.
The city's recycling program was a joke, really. Most of my friends, even those who are more left than not, were not committed to recycling. How could they recycle bottles and plastic when their cars guzzled enough gas on an annual basis to fuel a small jet? This strange hyper talk about the importance of the environment was just that: talk. There was little evidence among Angelenos they were really going 'green.' I will say I don't blame the people as much as the lack of incentives offered by the state government. Solar panels, in a city sun-drenched 11 months out of the year, would seem like a no-brainer. But ask me how many people I knew who put solar panels up? Right, somehow those panels didn't take precedence over the satellite dishes on the roof of every house in my neighborhood. Then there is the dependence of everyone on the bottled water. No one ever used filtered water, instead opting for water out of bottles, plastic bottles at that.
I don't know why, but since I've come to New York I've been obsessed with recycling. Our apartment complex has recycling bins in the basement that allows for the sorting of paper, bottle, plastic, and refuse quite as easy as dumping everything into one bag and throwing it down the trash chute. Initially it started with the recycling of the newspaper and empty bottles after a night of drinking. Then I realized how much stuff comes in plastic containers, all of it recyclable. I'm now at the stage where I'm collecting items as I cook to take down to sort into their proper bins. Somehow my obsession has not stopped at the sorting of trash. No, it's now on to light bulbs, replacing all our bulbs with the long lasting kind. I've now forbidden my husband to stop running the dish washer unless absolutely full. If only I could get my hands on a compost bin for the city...
Perhaps it's living in a city where trash, or the sight of trash on sidewalks, makes this awareness an inevitability. Or perhaps it's the extreme weather occurring with greater frequency all over the world that's given me pause. But it seems this new focus on being green is, knowing my obsessive tendency, bound to get worse rather than better as time goes on. I know I'm going to get a compost bin in Martha's Vineyard. It seems the state of Massachusetts offers incentives by selling these bins cheaply to residents willing to compost their garbage. Of course this means I will have to have a vegetable garden since I will be making compost. No worries about me moving up to Vermont to really live among my people. I like urban life much too much to go to such an extreme.
But I do think about how a little effort could make a difference in whether or not we will have such things like wines out of California instead of Vancouver--notice my concerns about the wine making business. I know oil, our dependence on it, is something far worse than whether or not I recycle the plastic container the Chinese delivery came in. But then, isn't it all the same concern? If I disregarded how every little act or negligence adds to an increasing problem, aren't I no better than that Suburban-driving-mom with one child in some suburban town? And despite the conservatives claim that global warming is some hyped up call from the left, isn't it our moral duty to do what we can to preserve our planet? Don't I sound like all those annoying people who drive hybrid cars and are so sanctimonious about being green?
The city's recycling program was a joke, really. Most of my friends, even those who are more left than not, were not committed to recycling. How could they recycle bottles and plastic when their cars guzzled enough gas on an annual basis to fuel a small jet? This strange hyper talk about the importance of the environment was just that: talk. There was little evidence among Angelenos they were really going 'green.' I will say I don't blame the people as much as the lack of incentives offered by the state government. Solar panels, in a city sun-drenched 11 months out of the year, would seem like a no-brainer. But ask me how many people I knew who put solar panels up? Right, somehow those panels didn't take precedence over the satellite dishes on the roof of every house in my neighborhood. Then there is the dependence of everyone on the bottled water. No one ever used filtered water, instead opting for water out of bottles, plastic bottles at that.
I don't know why, but since I've come to New York I've been obsessed with recycling. Our apartment complex has recycling bins in the basement that allows for the sorting of paper, bottle, plastic, and refuse quite as easy as dumping everything into one bag and throwing it down the trash chute. Initially it started with the recycling of the newspaper and empty bottles after a night of drinking. Then I realized how much stuff comes in plastic containers, all of it recyclable. I'm now at the stage where I'm collecting items as I cook to take down to sort into their proper bins. Somehow my obsession has not stopped at the sorting of trash. No, it's now on to light bulbs, replacing all our bulbs with the long lasting kind. I've now forbidden my husband to stop running the dish washer unless absolutely full. If only I could get my hands on a compost bin for the city...
Perhaps it's living in a city where trash, or the sight of trash on sidewalks, makes this awareness an inevitability. Or perhaps it's the extreme weather occurring with greater frequency all over the world that's given me pause. But it seems this new focus on being green is, knowing my obsessive tendency, bound to get worse rather than better as time goes on. I know I'm going to get a compost bin in Martha's Vineyard. It seems the state of Massachusetts offers incentives by selling these bins cheaply to residents willing to compost their garbage. Of course this means I will have to have a vegetable garden since I will be making compost. No worries about me moving up to Vermont to really live among my people. I like urban life much too much to go to such an extreme.
But I do think about how a little effort could make a difference in whether or not we will have such things like wines out of California instead of Vancouver--notice my concerns about the wine making business. I know oil, our dependence on it, is something far worse than whether or not I recycle the plastic container the Chinese delivery came in. But then, isn't it all the same concern? If I disregarded how every little act or negligence adds to an increasing problem, aren't I no better than that Suburban-driving-mom with one child in some suburban town? And despite the conservatives claim that global warming is some hyped up call from the left, isn't it our moral duty to do what we can to preserve our planet? Don't I sound like all those annoying people who drive hybrid cars and are so sanctimonious about being green?
Only in LA
For those long time residents, most are familiar with the sight of a man dressed in black tights, usually shirtless, dancing to a boom box in front of an antique shop on Robertson Boulevard just south of Third, across the street from Michel Richard. Sometimes he uses skates, although the outfit never varies. His body, from the excessive dancing, is sinewy and tanned. His strange dancing didn't seem to cause much concern for the shop owner or anyone else on the street. Most of us assumed he was homeless, for whatever reason. The urban myth, something all of us promoted, was that he was a wealthy man, who happened to be crazy and loved to dance. I, as most can imagine, have been fascinated with him all the years I lived there. When driving down Robertson, I would always look for him, a human signpost to a life that doesn't change much despite its big city pretensions.
When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.
The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.
What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...
For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.
The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.
When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.
The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.
What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...
For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.
The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Friends from LA
Someone said if you live in New York people will always come see you. How true that is. It seems, not an exaggeration, we've had friends arriving for visits (not staying with us) to the city every week since moving here. I've found my calendar full of lunches, dinners with friends that I knew from LA. December, a magical time here, seems to be a busy month for us as more people arrive to the city.
This continued connection with our former life is nice in a sentimental way. It's allowed us to feel less cut off from a life that had been our entire existence until just a short time ago. It is as if both doors, the one of our current life, and the one of our past, are both open, revealing to us our future and past simultaneously. What's been amazing is how these old relationships are being re-imagined with this physical distance. Longtime friendships, those that extend beyond ten years, feel more anew, a different intimacy getting established. It's as if this physical distance has each of us reevaluating the importance of the bond, thereby making the relationship a priority. The usual empty promises of, 'let's get together,' are now becoming a thing of the past as each realizes such casual assurances about a future bond is not so assured anymore. Why hadn't we made such concerted efforts when we the distance separating us was a mere few miles and not the thousands?
I see how this new focus to old relationships will chart a course much different than if we had stayed nearby. These relationships that may not have survived the affection and annoyances of daily contact will now remain intact, insuring a longevity that neither of us may have imagined. My old friendships are just another layer to the many layers that make a life feel whole. New friends, those becoming more familiar every day, are now the calls that come more often. Those calls from out west are the happy surprises on those days when you need such a call to lift you up.
As another friend arrives this week, and we head to a dinner to see them this weekend, I marvel at our luck in having friends that would make a trip to this magnificent city, and call us out for dinner.
This continued connection with our former life is nice in a sentimental way. It's allowed us to feel less cut off from a life that had been our entire existence until just a short time ago. It is as if both doors, the one of our current life, and the one of our past, are both open, revealing to us our future and past simultaneously. What's been amazing is how these old relationships are being re-imagined with this physical distance. Longtime friendships, those that extend beyond ten years, feel more anew, a different intimacy getting established. It's as if this physical distance has each of us reevaluating the importance of the bond, thereby making the relationship a priority. The usual empty promises of, 'let's get together,' are now becoming a thing of the past as each realizes such casual assurances about a future bond is not so assured anymore. Why hadn't we made such concerted efforts when we the distance separating us was a mere few miles and not the thousands?
I see how this new focus to old relationships will chart a course much different than if we had stayed nearby. These relationships that may not have survived the affection and annoyances of daily contact will now remain intact, insuring a longevity that neither of us may have imagined. My old friendships are just another layer to the many layers that make a life feel whole. New friends, those becoming more familiar every day, are now the calls that come more often. Those calls from out west are the happy surprises on those days when you need such a call to lift you up.
As another friend arrives this week, and we head to a dinner to see them this weekend, I marvel at our luck in having friends that would make a trip to this magnificent city, and call us out for dinner.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Weekend in Brandywine Country
A group of writers I met at Juniper have been getting together annually for the last three years. The last two years we have been meeting at a charming Bed and Breakfast in the Brandywine country outside Philadelphia, a pastoral property owned by Grace Kelly's nephew. This annual get together with writers, but more importantly women writers, has become an event I look forward to with greater anticipation. This year's meeting was no less enjoyable, all of us settling into the ebb and flow of conversation, meals and drinking wine in front of a fire place.
This year, unlike last year's red eye flight, I traveled on Amtrack from Penn Station, the entire trip taking just over an hour. It was remarkable to see how dramatically my life had changed within this one year since last year was spent, aside from discussing the writing, with my ceaseless complaints about living in LA, yet again. And how I felt exiled, marooned in this place that was so foreign to me.
On the train ride down, I noticed the splendor of leaves that had turned color without the notice of any of us. The vista of reds, orange, and yellow was a startling splash of color amid the gray of the day as the train chugged its way down the short corridor from New York City to Philadelphia.
This year I was able to catch the train at 30th Street station, a place I know as well as any after so many years traversing the Northeast corridor by train, for Penn Station. Before I could get truly comfortable, the train was pulling into the city. A quick cab ride later, I was putting my key into our front door where my son and husband were waiting. Again, I couldn't help but be taken back by the dramatic difference of our lives within a few short months.
This year, unlike last year's red eye flight, I traveled on Amtrack from Penn Station, the entire trip taking just over an hour. It was remarkable to see how dramatically my life had changed within this one year since last year was spent, aside from discussing the writing, with my ceaseless complaints about living in LA, yet again. And how I felt exiled, marooned in this place that was so foreign to me.
On the train ride down, I noticed the splendor of leaves that had turned color without the notice of any of us. The vista of reds, orange, and yellow was a startling splash of color amid the gray of the day as the train chugged its way down the short corridor from New York City to Philadelphia.
This year I was able to catch the train at 30th Street station, a place I know as well as any after so many years traversing the Northeast corridor by train, for Penn Station. Before I could get truly comfortable, the train was pulling into the city. A quick cab ride later, I was putting my key into our front door where my son and husband were waiting. Again, I couldn't help but be taken back by the dramatic difference of our lives within a few short months.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Heartbreak
As a parent, you think your job is to love (not really a job but a condition), nurture, encourage, protect, and to take care of your child(ren). Most of us take on the multitude of duties this role requires, the new fragility of your life and your child's making your earlier invincibility a distant echo. The world becomes fraught with potential danger for your young one, your spouse, and for you. No one told me becoming a parent would make me so afraid of so much in the world. But the other secret, the one no one ever divulged, is the heartbreak of a parent when your child faces the childish rejection that comes so frequently in the world of elementary school.
All of us have many heartbreaks, wounds healed or simply scabbed over with time. Most of us can recall the first time a peer, or friend, made you cry, your heart breaking as this person you thought liked you now decided you were no longer likable. It starts as early as memory itself, the heartbreaks of childhood.
Your personal aches are unbearable, becoming bearable only with time and distance. Each of those tear-filled afternoons, holed up in your room, wishing you lived somewhere far from whatever town, city, or neighborhood are easily recalled. They become the thread of your personal quilt of memories.
But to see your child's heartache, a certainty for any child, is something no one can prepare you for. It is doubly more painful than your own woeful rejections. Today was a day I realized how emotionally fragile I was to the many heartbreaks my child will surely face. It was no longer an abstraction, something I had steeled myself for, but was happening in front of my eyes. The look of pain and sadness I saw flit across my little boy's face was enough to make me want to snatch him from his classroom, keeping him home, protected from such things in the future. Each of these moments will aid in his ebullience and sense of wonder become just a bit more fragile, so that one day that sheer delight in being five will be replaced by all the reserve of having to protect yourself from others.
Walking home after witnessing, unbeknown to my son, his rejection from his 'best friend,' I thought how unprepared I was for all of the messiness of life. I projected to a future where his aches and disappointments will be wounds that linger, leaving traces of its existence beneath the skin and bones the world only sees. And how I have to love him enough to let him experience each of these moments, never standing in the way of them, no matter how difficult that is for me. These thoughts stayed with me all day, bringing on moments of panic. I waited to see him at the end of the school day, trying to see what damage that rejection would have. When he rushed into my arms, still exuberant, I knew that moment was simply that--a moment. And tomorrow would surely bring others.
All of us have many heartbreaks, wounds healed or simply scabbed over with time. Most of us can recall the first time a peer, or friend, made you cry, your heart breaking as this person you thought liked you now decided you were no longer likable. It starts as early as memory itself, the heartbreaks of childhood.
Your personal aches are unbearable, becoming bearable only with time and distance. Each of those tear-filled afternoons, holed up in your room, wishing you lived somewhere far from whatever town, city, or neighborhood are easily recalled. They become the thread of your personal quilt of memories.
But to see your child's heartache, a certainty for any child, is something no one can prepare you for. It is doubly more painful than your own woeful rejections. Today was a day I realized how emotionally fragile I was to the many heartbreaks my child will surely face. It was no longer an abstraction, something I had steeled myself for, but was happening in front of my eyes. The look of pain and sadness I saw flit across my little boy's face was enough to make me want to snatch him from his classroom, keeping him home, protected from such things in the future. Each of these moments will aid in his ebullience and sense of wonder become just a bit more fragile, so that one day that sheer delight in being five will be replaced by all the reserve of having to protect yourself from others.
Walking home after witnessing, unbeknown to my son, his rejection from his 'best friend,' I thought how unprepared I was for all of the messiness of life. I projected to a future where his aches and disappointments will be wounds that linger, leaving traces of its existence beneath the skin and bones the world only sees. And how I have to love him enough to let him experience each of these moments, never standing in the way of them, no matter how difficult that is for me. These thoughts stayed with me all day, bringing on moments of panic. I waited to see him at the end of the school day, trying to see what damage that rejection would have. When he rushed into my arms, still exuberant, I knew that moment was simply that--a moment. And tomorrow would surely bring others.
Radiohead
Radiohead experimented by offering their music online, allowing the public to set the price for how much the music should be worth. It was an intriguing offer, upsetting a long established method where the music labels sold the goods--this case being the music created by artists as varied as Annie Lennox and Bjork. When the news first broke about Radiohead's offer, there was a sense of gloom and doom in the world of music labels, a business model that has to clearly be reinvented in this era of downloads.
For me, I was certain the public would rise to the test set forth by Radiohead, where the music label, the middle man in any transaction, would become obsolete as more and more musicians offered their goods directly to the public. It was a tremendous moment for change in a long held practice where the middle person made a ton of money off of something they had no hand in producing, and the producer got pennies on the dollar for every record or CD sold. And as an artist, the whole intellectual property question in an era where anything is accessible from a computer was compelling since our laws don't seem to keep up with the rapid changes technology creates.
And on a personal human level, I thought the generosity of the human spirit would show the music labels that people are capable of doing the right thing by paying fair prices, perhaps not the $15.00 currently the price for a new CD, but something that would not cheat the musicians. Well, how wrong I was, or rather, how naive I was to assume that people would do the right thing. It seems most of those downloading the albums did it without offering any money, whatsoever. And the average price offered by those, who did pay, was in the $6.00 range. The price may still be fair if the artists are getting the money directly. Considering how little it must cost to mass produce the actual CD's, I would say this price is fair.
The real shame in this experiment's failure is that other artists may never join in by doing the same. And most are pissed, rightfully so, because so much of their music has been downloaded for free. Being the Miss Goody Two Shoes that I am, or the guilt-ridden Catholic, I could never get into the whole free download phenomenon. As the old saying goes, "There's no free lunch," and so I always assumed someone would pay, either the consumer or the creator. Since I'm a creator it shouldn't be surprising I'm more sympathetic to the artists.
So, this moment has passed, and in a way, we, collectively have failed miserably. It would have been interesting to see if they could have done some sort of demographic poll of who paid versus who didn't. If there is a distinction in generation. It's safe to assume no other artists will do the same, even if Prince recently offered up free copies of his CD in London. But until the laws get wiser, or the industry creates a new model, this tension between artist and consumer will exist. And as artists see few real dollars in CD sales, but only in the touring end, well, there may be a time when they will only release albums at concert venues. That would be, for this musicphile, a real shame since concert tickets cost as much as a mortgage, in some cases. If that becomes the new method to procure new music, I may have to join all the other on line thieves and start downloading for free.
For me, I was certain the public would rise to the test set forth by Radiohead, where the music label, the middle man in any transaction, would become obsolete as more and more musicians offered their goods directly to the public. It was a tremendous moment for change in a long held practice where the middle person made a ton of money off of something they had no hand in producing, and the producer got pennies on the dollar for every record or CD sold. And as an artist, the whole intellectual property question in an era where anything is accessible from a computer was compelling since our laws don't seem to keep up with the rapid changes technology creates.
And on a personal human level, I thought the generosity of the human spirit would show the music labels that people are capable of doing the right thing by paying fair prices, perhaps not the $15.00 currently the price for a new CD, but something that would not cheat the musicians. Well, how wrong I was, or rather, how naive I was to assume that people would do the right thing. It seems most of those downloading the albums did it without offering any money, whatsoever. And the average price offered by those, who did pay, was in the $6.00 range. The price may still be fair if the artists are getting the money directly. Considering how little it must cost to mass produce the actual CD's, I would say this price is fair.
The real shame in this experiment's failure is that other artists may never join in by doing the same. And most are pissed, rightfully so, because so much of their music has been downloaded for free. Being the Miss Goody Two Shoes that I am, or the guilt-ridden Catholic, I could never get into the whole free download phenomenon. As the old saying goes, "There's no free lunch," and so I always assumed someone would pay, either the consumer or the creator. Since I'm a creator it shouldn't be surprising I'm more sympathetic to the artists.
So, this moment has passed, and in a way, we, collectively have failed miserably. It would have been interesting to see if they could have done some sort of demographic poll of who paid versus who didn't. If there is a distinction in generation. It's safe to assume no other artists will do the same, even if Prince recently offered up free copies of his CD in London. But until the laws get wiser, or the industry creates a new model, this tension between artist and consumer will exist. And as artists see few real dollars in CD sales, but only in the touring end, well, there may be a time when they will only release albums at concert venues. That would be, for this musicphile, a real shame since concert tickets cost as much as a mortgage, in some cases. If that becomes the new method to procure new music, I may have to join all the other on line thieves and start downloading for free.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Vacation Days
I've been joking of late about our dire need to get our son into a very conservative religious school, the kind that is not inclusive. Why you may wonder for such a reactionary statement? In our time of uber political correctness, public schools, and even religious schools that are inclusive, celebrate every holiday--with the exception of Kwanzaa and Hindu celebrations--which offers schools an excuse to close its doors. Closed schools only mean one thing for parents--hellish days of trying to keep the little ones occupied. And since we know the two most dreaded words in my lexicon is play date, that means a day off will surely bring a play date or two to keep our little one engaged. And since I don't have the luxury of working outside the home in the traditional sense, I am the one left to fend for our child's limited attention span.
Yesterday was election day, which meant the schools closed their doors. Our son had to take the ERB test for admittance into a New York City private school, so the morning was filled with that appointment. As a way to entice him to take this test, which he didn't know was a test, I promised him a visit to Toys R Us on Broadway. Right, you can imagine.
One thing about our son is his ability to accept the cruelty of his parents. Since he was very young, I've enforced the promise rule, which means he is allowed one thing, and one thing only, on visits to Target, bookstores, and toy stores. The one remarkable thing about our son is his ability to understand that the one item rule is really a rule. Therefore the process of picking the item is one long torturous event since it has to be the absolutely perfect thing he has wanted forever and ever.
Patience, a virtue, and a requirement for parenthood, is something that is needed in spades on such outings. My son, determined to get the exact, perfect toy, perused every aisle of this mammoth store with the ferris wheel in its lobby. After our third go round in the Star Wars section, my patience had worn thin and I was threatening the two minute rule, which translates into 'you have two minutes or else you don't get anything.' In all fairness, he did have items he wanted, but they were either too large for the apartment or they bordered on the violent play things that boys gravitate toward like moths to a flame, but is not allowed in this house. Yes, you can see how we torture him with such rules. So, this careful selection process was guided firmly by me telling him what was not acceptable or too big, hence, one can argue the prolonged, agonizing process.
After some final threats from me, he finally picked a Pokemon thing. It is usually when he's clutching his one item with not a peep about something else that my heart breaks for our rule-following kid. And that is when I break my own rule and throw in something else, something small to make this day even more special for him. Yes, he's spoiled. But when you see a five year old in a place that is nirvana for any child, satisfied with his one choice, well, such restraint makes a parent proud. He's not whining about something else, showing signs of a gluttony that could foretell a future filled with the need to satisfy an ever growing need for things.
Having paid for his items, we stepped out on to Broadway to make our way to 32nd for a Korean lunch. He prattled on about his new items, begging, of course, I open them on the bus or the subway. I know this innocence, the ability to make him so happy with a $12.00 plastic toy, will too quickly come to an end. And that whatever our hopes and wishes for him will mean nothing as he grows into the man he will become. The sense of how fleeting this time is for him and for me hits me in those moments when his hand is clutched in mine, his ever flowing chatter rising above the honks of car horns and ambulances shrieking. Too soon, he will be too old and independent to want to hold my hand, his chatter now staccato one word responses to my desperate attempts to connect with him. So, no matter what a nuisance it is that schools seem to close their doors every other week. In truth, I will, no doubt, look back to this time with more than wistfulness as our house stills and he goes out to seek a life wholly his own.
Yesterday was election day, which meant the schools closed their doors. Our son had to take the ERB test for admittance into a New York City private school, so the morning was filled with that appointment. As a way to entice him to take this test, which he didn't know was a test, I promised him a visit to Toys R Us on Broadway. Right, you can imagine.
One thing about our son is his ability to accept the cruelty of his parents. Since he was very young, I've enforced the promise rule, which means he is allowed one thing, and one thing only, on visits to Target, bookstores, and toy stores. The one remarkable thing about our son is his ability to understand that the one item rule is really a rule. Therefore the process of picking the item is one long torturous event since it has to be the absolutely perfect thing he has wanted forever and ever.
Patience, a virtue, and a requirement for parenthood, is something that is needed in spades on such outings. My son, determined to get the exact, perfect toy, perused every aisle of this mammoth store with the ferris wheel in its lobby. After our third go round in the Star Wars section, my patience had worn thin and I was threatening the two minute rule, which translates into 'you have two minutes or else you don't get anything.' In all fairness, he did have items he wanted, but they were either too large for the apartment or they bordered on the violent play things that boys gravitate toward like moths to a flame, but is not allowed in this house. Yes, you can see how we torture him with such rules. So, this careful selection process was guided firmly by me telling him what was not acceptable or too big, hence, one can argue the prolonged, agonizing process.
After some final threats from me, he finally picked a Pokemon thing. It is usually when he's clutching his one item with not a peep about something else that my heart breaks for our rule-following kid. And that is when I break my own rule and throw in something else, something small to make this day even more special for him. Yes, he's spoiled. But when you see a five year old in a place that is nirvana for any child, satisfied with his one choice, well, such restraint makes a parent proud. He's not whining about something else, showing signs of a gluttony that could foretell a future filled with the need to satisfy an ever growing need for things.
Having paid for his items, we stepped out on to Broadway to make our way to 32nd for a Korean lunch. He prattled on about his new items, begging, of course, I open them on the bus or the subway. I know this innocence, the ability to make him so happy with a $12.00 plastic toy, will too quickly come to an end. And that whatever our hopes and wishes for him will mean nothing as he grows into the man he will become. The sense of how fleeting this time is for him and for me hits me in those moments when his hand is clutched in mine, his ever flowing chatter rising above the honks of car horns and ambulances shrieking. Too soon, he will be too old and independent to want to hold my hand, his chatter now staccato one word responses to my desperate attempts to connect with him. So, no matter what a nuisance it is that schools seem to close their doors every other week. In truth, I will, no doubt, look back to this time with more than wistfulness as our house stills and he goes out to seek a life wholly his own.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Procrastinate--A Lifetime worth
It's well known most writers fight their own inner demons and find many ways to distract from the work at hand. This act of avoiding the work can take the form of the mundane to the creative. Some are known, including this writer, to clean their desks, organizing papers, receipts, contact lists, ipod music libraries, photo files, basically anything that can be categorized or organized.
There is nothing worse than sitting at the desk, the computer on, your hands on the keyboard, and your mind stuck on a particular word, a word that would make whatever sentence perfect. What's interesting about this process is how hard the work actually is, even if you aren't literally breaking a sweat. People assume writing to be this passive ephemeral act where inspiration will strike and a writer will type away furiously as if possessed by divine intervention. This may happen in Joyce Carol Oates' office, but I'm pretty confident when I say most writers work sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word. It is a process that can be exhilarating but also excruciating.
I have been, for the past five days, working on a particular passage of my book, chapter two in fact. It has been a laborious process of making sure the right words are used to evoke the mood and emotional landscape of the world I've created. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which happens a great deal, I switch over from my book to any number of shopping sites. It can be a dangerous distraction, indeed, as I browse the sites of Net a Porter, salivating over the latest designs by some of my favorite designers. But of late, with the holiday season fast upon us, I find myself shopping on line for holiday cards (yes, we are those annoying people who send out adorable photos of their child), toys from Santa for our son, and just general holiday gear. I wonder how I procrastinated before high speed DSL and before the advent of the plethora of shopping sites. I mean, what did I do before Ebay?
When the mental blockage is really bad, it is better to get up and simply read. Read anything from cookbooks to a 'how to' manual. Sometimes the mere act of reading words put together by someone else can unlock whatever it is that had prevented your own mind from unleashing all of those stopped up words. Or it can serve as a way to pass the remaining hour of your work day. When I had my entire library at hand, I used to browse my own collections, usually taking down a collection of poetry. This was not always a good thing since I would get so caught up in whatever collection I'd taken down for perusal that a few hours would slip by, unnoticed by me. Yes, a lifetime of fine tuning the ways to procrastinate can certainly take the reading of one poem to a few hours wasted.
One of the most amazing things about being here is the limitless opportunities to go hear some of the great writers of our age read their own work. John Ashberry, whose poetry is sublime or simply obtuse, is reading down the street from us tomorrow. I'm astounded he will be down the street, this poet whose work is discussed, dissected, misunderstood in many writing programs across the country. Perhaps today when I am stuck, which will surely happen, I will find a John Ashberry collection, if only I had my library.
There is nothing worse than sitting at the desk, the computer on, your hands on the keyboard, and your mind stuck on a particular word, a word that would make whatever sentence perfect. What's interesting about this process is how hard the work actually is, even if you aren't literally breaking a sweat. People assume writing to be this passive ephemeral act where inspiration will strike and a writer will type away furiously as if possessed by divine intervention. This may happen in Joyce Carol Oates' office, but I'm pretty confident when I say most writers work sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word. It is a process that can be exhilarating but also excruciating.
I have been, for the past five days, working on a particular passage of my book, chapter two in fact. It has been a laborious process of making sure the right words are used to evoke the mood and emotional landscape of the world I've created. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which happens a great deal, I switch over from my book to any number of shopping sites. It can be a dangerous distraction, indeed, as I browse the sites of Net a Porter, salivating over the latest designs by some of my favorite designers. But of late, with the holiday season fast upon us, I find myself shopping on line for holiday cards (yes, we are those annoying people who send out adorable photos of their child), toys from Santa for our son, and just general holiday gear. I wonder how I procrastinated before high speed DSL and before the advent of the plethora of shopping sites. I mean, what did I do before Ebay?
When the mental blockage is really bad, it is better to get up and simply read. Read anything from cookbooks to a 'how to' manual. Sometimes the mere act of reading words put together by someone else can unlock whatever it is that had prevented your own mind from unleashing all of those stopped up words. Or it can serve as a way to pass the remaining hour of your work day. When I had my entire library at hand, I used to browse my own collections, usually taking down a collection of poetry. This was not always a good thing since I would get so caught up in whatever collection I'd taken down for perusal that a few hours would slip by, unnoticed by me. Yes, a lifetime of fine tuning the ways to procrastinate can certainly take the reading of one poem to a few hours wasted.
One of the most amazing things about being here is the limitless opportunities to go hear some of the great writers of our age read their own work. John Ashberry, whose poetry is sublime or simply obtuse, is reading down the street from us tomorrow. I'm astounded he will be down the street, this poet whose work is discussed, dissected, misunderstood in many writing programs across the country. Perhaps today when I am stuck, which will surely happen, I will find a John Ashberry collection, if only I had my library.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Writers on Strike!
I can only imagine how the news must be assiduously covering this Hollywood Crisis! I'm sure they must have reporters decamped to Paramount and other studios, getting sound bites of people, writers, holding up picket signs and chanting for more money.
I am usually a supporter of unions, having had to join one as an adjunct at SMC. But somehow mustering up sympathy for Aaron Sorkin, Darren Starr, or Dick Wolf seems a bit, well, against the principles of what unions are supposed to do: protect the worker. If, in this case, the worker earns millions of dollars does that mean our sympathies should be any less fervent than our sympathies for, say, the auto workers union? The New York Times reports the average paycheck for the union membership is $200,000, while the average earnings for a family in LA is $52,572.
The writers' are also grumbling about being treated poorly by the big bad studio and television networks. Somehow this whining for respect seems, again, just a bit like the baby whining about not getting another sweet treat. Hollywood's abuse of writers is well documented in many, many books. F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful, heartbreaking memoir, "The Crack-Up," documents his mental break down while in Hollywood, getting paid as a studio writer. This industry's abuse of writers is not new and is on par with its abuses of all workers in its own industry.
Everyone has heard about the legendary screamers in this business, those bosses who scream at their underlings because their Latte didn't arrive with enough foam. This is the only industry where such unorthodox behavior is not ignored, but in some cases applauded as some masochistic machoism. Don't get me wrong, some of the power brokers, who happen to be women, are as notorious as their male counterparts for all sorts of abusive behavior, behavior that would in any other industry be grounds for major lawsuits and firings.
I've often wondered why this particular business--key word since those 'creative types, who like to delude themselves into thinking they are in a creative industry should check their naivety at the door once entering the business--seems to draw out such meanness. After living in LA, it started to dawn on me that those attracted to this business were, most likely, those kids ignored or picked on by their classmates in high school. (I'm talking about those behind the scenes since most of those in the higher profile end tend toward the super jocks, cheerleaders, and beauty queens.) Instead of licking their adolescent wounds in private, they set their sights on HOLLYWOOD where they lick the bottom of every boss's shoe until one day they are, ta da, the bosses themselves.
It is once they are in this position of power, sycophants at every turn, that their true misanthropic tendencies get free reign. They then set out to seek revenge, think, "Revenge of the Nerds," on all those that had somehow done theme wrong. From the parent company's perspective, well, who cares when this abusive, pathological person is making them money, that being the only thing they truly care about.
The entire industry, much like else in life, is high school redux. The caveat being more money, more toys, and meaner games being played out. There are those who are popular--think George Clooney--, those who are most likely to succeed--think Ang Lee--, the class clown--think Steve Carrell--, etc.
So, forgive me as writers go on strike if my compassion for their plight is not there. Again, just as it was difficult for me to muster up a great deal of sympathy for those Malibu beach front properties in danger during the fires, the same applies here. Perhaps with television shows in reruns, people will spend more time reading or talking to their family instead of zoning out on that black box that seems to take up so much room in any house.
I am usually a supporter of unions, having had to join one as an adjunct at SMC. But somehow mustering up sympathy for Aaron Sorkin, Darren Starr, or Dick Wolf seems a bit, well, against the principles of what unions are supposed to do: protect the worker. If, in this case, the worker earns millions of dollars does that mean our sympathies should be any less fervent than our sympathies for, say, the auto workers union? The New York Times reports the average paycheck for the union membership is $200,000, while the average earnings for a family in LA is $52,572.
The writers' are also grumbling about being treated poorly by the big bad studio and television networks. Somehow this whining for respect seems, again, just a bit like the baby whining about not getting another sweet treat. Hollywood's abuse of writers is well documented in many, many books. F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful, heartbreaking memoir, "The Crack-Up," documents his mental break down while in Hollywood, getting paid as a studio writer. This industry's abuse of writers is not new and is on par with its abuses of all workers in its own industry.
Everyone has heard about the legendary screamers in this business, those bosses who scream at their underlings because their Latte didn't arrive with enough foam. This is the only industry where such unorthodox behavior is not ignored, but in some cases applauded as some masochistic machoism. Don't get me wrong, some of the power brokers, who happen to be women, are as notorious as their male counterparts for all sorts of abusive behavior, behavior that would in any other industry be grounds for major lawsuits and firings.
I've often wondered why this particular business--key word since those 'creative types, who like to delude themselves into thinking they are in a creative industry should check their naivety at the door once entering the business--seems to draw out such meanness. After living in LA, it started to dawn on me that those attracted to this business were, most likely, those kids ignored or picked on by their classmates in high school. (I'm talking about those behind the scenes since most of those in the higher profile end tend toward the super jocks, cheerleaders, and beauty queens.) Instead of licking their adolescent wounds in private, they set their sights on HOLLYWOOD where they lick the bottom of every boss's shoe until one day they are, ta da, the bosses themselves.
It is once they are in this position of power, sycophants at every turn, that their true misanthropic tendencies get free reign. They then set out to seek revenge, think, "Revenge of the Nerds," on all those that had somehow done theme wrong. From the parent company's perspective, well, who cares when this abusive, pathological person is making them money, that being the only thing they truly care about.
The entire industry, much like else in life, is high school redux. The caveat being more money, more toys, and meaner games being played out. There are those who are popular--think George Clooney--, those who are most likely to succeed--think Ang Lee--, the class clown--think Steve Carrell--, etc.
So, forgive me as writers go on strike if my compassion for their plight is not there. Again, just as it was difficult for me to muster up a great deal of sympathy for those Malibu beach front properties in danger during the fires, the same applies here. Perhaps with television shows in reruns, people will spend more time reading or talking to their family instead of zoning out on that black box that seems to take up so much room in any house.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Marriage--True Test of Character
Marriage is, next to parenting, the hardest undertaking of any individual. I don't believe the institution of marriage was created to survive the years we now live. The daily negotiation of marriage means you are part lawyer and part therapist. I've always said if my husband dies (God forbid, right?) or we divorce, I shall never, ever get married again. The thought of entering into another union where compromise is the constant theme seems downright crazy. When I say this, people laugh (usually uncomfortably), and then probably assume my marriage is profoundly unhappy.
Our marriage is no more unhappy or happy than the average marriage. My feelings, rather strong ones at that, have always percolated underneath my seemingly naturalness at domesticity. Most people know I didn't really want to get married. This resistance was not a comment on my husband, but rather the institution. I felt, and still do feel, women lose much more in marriage than men. Statistics are always coming out with figures that show men's longevity improving in marriages, whereas wives seemed to suffer all sorts of ailments when married. The new murkiness of gender roles has made it all the more difficult for women and men to maneuver expectations of this long held institution.
A new obsession in our house is a show called, "Mad Men." It is set in the world of advertising in the late 50's. The show could be a metaphor for any of the financial industries today where people are constantly hedging their morals and ethics for the bottom line. What's disconcerting about this show is how little marriage, or rather the strains between the two genders, has changed since this past era. Or let me rephrase by saying, how little these roles for husbands and wives have changed in certain sectors of our society--namely the upper-middle class. Yes, we have a viable female candidate for the Presidency. But within the walls of most gated homes, these deeply entrenched roles for men and women still persist. And in truth, I saw these traditional roles being played out ad nauseum in LA.
It was quite enlightening for me to see smart women, who had accepted this role of 'wife' so readily. The question of equality and why women's roles have, or have, not changed didn't seem to be of concern to most of these women. Those discussions and fights were for 'others,' not for their PTA crowd. They were only concerned dinner get on the table, and that their kids were chauffeured to their various after school activities. It was distressing to see their days relegated by driving and feeding duties, their entire intellectual life put away, if they ever had one.
My husband and I struggle constantly with the shifting roles of husbands and wives. It is something we address each time one of us gets pissed off at the other for some oversight of a household responsibility. We are, despite me working from home, a two career household, which creates all sorts of complications. I don't view my career of writing any less important than my husband's. If I were to say his career more important, well, I might as well give up writing entirely and succumb to motherhood, wivehood, and every other 'hood.' Re imagining marriage, or the roles within a marriage, takes courage and a certain cavalier attitude that what we create will, more than likely, be frowned upon or misunderstood by most people.
I've thought a great deal about these differences, and in context of how they seem to differ between what I witnessed in LA and here. I do find more women in NY who are professionals. I have not met many women of the 'those who lunch' crowd here. Most of the mothers at my son's school seem harried, tired, juggling working and taking care of their family--a true modern woman. And the ones who are not working seem to view motherhood as their job, so that they don't have a retinue of nannies to help them. But then I don't live on the Upper East Side where this may be more prevalent, women with help who shop and lunch as their main profession. Perhaps this has to do with the Protestant work ethic being such a foundation of life on the Eastern seaboard. Or perhaps it has to do with the expense of hiring nannies, which is not an issue in LA where cheap illegals can be exploited at a very affordable price, making what used to be mainly an upper-middle class option now an option for everyone.
I've also been thinking about marriage a great deal since I've been reading a book that looks into Post Victorian Marriages of writers in England. This book focuses mainly on the unique unions of writers and intellectuals as they try and redefine gender roles post-Victorian era. And how miserably they fail despite their efforts to redefine this institution. What's striking from reading this book is how far we've come and how little has changed, really. So, this balancing act that I am always living will hopefully become easier over time. Or it may not and I will still be grousing about the inequities between the genders, particularly within the confines of married life.
Our marriage is no more unhappy or happy than the average marriage. My feelings, rather strong ones at that, have always percolated underneath my seemingly naturalness at domesticity. Most people know I didn't really want to get married. This resistance was not a comment on my husband, but rather the institution. I felt, and still do feel, women lose much more in marriage than men. Statistics are always coming out with figures that show men's longevity improving in marriages, whereas wives seemed to suffer all sorts of ailments when married. The new murkiness of gender roles has made it all the more difficult for women and men to maneuver expectations of this long held institution.
A new obsession in our house is a show called, "Mad Men." It is set in the world of advertising in the late 50's. The show could be a metaphor for any of the financial industries today where people are constantly hedging their morals and ethics for the bottom line. What's disconcerting about this show is how little marriage, or rather the strains between the two genders, has changed since this past era. Or let me rephrase by saying, how little these roles for husbands and wives have changed in certain sectors of our society--namely the upper-middle class. Yes, we have a viable female candidate for the Presidency. But within the walls of most gated homes, these deeply entrenched roles for men and women still persist. And in truth, I saw these traditional roles being played out ad nauseum in LA.
It was quite enlightening for me to see smart women, who had accepted this role of 'wife' so readily. The question of equality and why women's roles have, or have, not changed didn't seem to be of concern to most of these women. Those discussions and fights were for 'others,' not for their PTA crowd. They were only concerned dinner get on the table, and that their kids were chauffeured to their various after school activities. It was distressing to see their days relegated by driving and feeding duties, their entire intellectual life put away, if they ever had one.
My husband and I struggle constantly with the shifting roles of husbands and wives. It is something we address each time one of us gets pissed off at the other for some oversight of a household responsibility. We are, despite me working from home, a two career household, which creates all sorts of complications. I don't view my career of writing any less important than my husband's. If I were to say his career more important, well, I might as well give up writing entirely and succumb to motherhood, wivehood, and every other 'hood.' Re imagining marriage, or the roles within a marriage, takes courage and a certain cavalier attitude that what we create will, more than likely, be frowned upon or misunderstood by most people.
I've thought a great deal about these differences, and in context of how they seem to differ between what I witnessed in LA and here. I do find more women in NY who are professionals. I have not met many women of the 'those who lunch' crowd here. Most of the mothers at my son's school seem harried, tired, juggling working and taking care of their family--a true modern woman. And the ones who are not working seem to view motherhood as their job, so that they don't have a retinue of nannies to help them. But then I don't live on the Upper East Side where this may be more prevalent, women with help who shop and lunch as their main profession. Perhaps this has to do with the Protestant work ethic being such a foundation of life on the Eastern seaboard. Or perhaps it has to do with the expense of hiring nannies, which is not an issue in LA where cheap illegals can be exploited at a very affordable price, making what used to be mainly an upper-middle class option now an option for everyone.
I've also been thinking about marriage a great deal since I've been reading a book that looks into Post Victorian Marriages of writers in England. This book focuses mainly on the unique unions of writers and intellectuals as they try and redefine gender roles post-Victorian era. And how miserably they fail despite their efforts to redefine this institution. What's striking from reading this book is how far we've come and how little has changed, really. So, this balancing act that I am always living will hopefully become easier over time. Or it may not and I will still be grousing about the inequities between the genders, particularly within the confines of married life.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Halloween in the Big City
The area where we are living was built for returning war veterans, one of the few affordable housing left in this city. It is a massive footprint, large enough to warrant designation on any given city map. This community of buildings and green space is where young families live side by side, underneath, and on top of older long-time residents, whose days are now measured by the smaller details of life. It is strangely like living in a suburban spread, yet in the middle of the city. For our first year here, it has been the ideal choice. In some ways, it resembles Park LaBrea except the property is not cut off to the rest of the city by gates. Instead, the property blends into the landscape of the East Side, open, inviting, and easily accessible. Even the lack of gates doesn't deter you from feeling safe here as you walk around, noticing the older residents sitting on park benches, enjoying the fresh air.
The large green space held a Halloween festival for the plethora of kids, who call this home. There was an impressive corn maze in the middle, games along the edges, and a dance floor where loud music blared from speakers. My son, who had been beyond excited about this day, soon joined in the fracas of playing games for candy and trying to get through the maze. We took a break from the festivities by heading to a friend's house for pizza, and wine for the adults. Then we went 'trick or treating' city style. We rode the elevator up the top floor of our friend's building and made our way down by walking down the stairs of the fire escape.
Each time a door opened to welcome our gang of kids, you couldn't help but glimpse the life inside. Older people, some with live-in aides, still opened their doors, eager to give out the sugary confections, perhaps nostalgic about former lives when they were the ones knocking on doors with their young ones behind masks. Each opened door also revealed the way people imagine spaces that are all identical to their neighbors. You could see how a bookshelf in one corner changed the way the room flowed. Or the way long-time residents hung chandeliers over dining areas. It was illuminating for each of us adults as we wound our way down 14 flights. The kids' bags full, we headed to our building and to our apartment. The adults continued drinking wine as all the kids played, or rather, destroyed our son's room. Every so often, the doorbell would ring, signaling another round of 'trick or treaters,' who had ventured to our door that had been covered in fake cobwebs.
My son didn't comment on the differences of trick or treating in apartment buildings versus his old neighborhood in LA. Instead, he was concerned he have the 'right' costume this year and for the next year. His friends left with their tired parents behind. My husband and I put our young boy to bed, relieved to have survived this first Halloween in the city.
The large green space held a Halloween festival for the plethora of kids, who call this home. There was an impressive corn maze in the middle, games along the edges, and a dance floor where loud music blared from speakers. My son, who had been beyond excited about this day, soon joined in the fracas of playing games for candy and trying to get through the maze. We took a break from the festivities by heading to a friend's house for pizza, and wine for the adults. Then we went 'trick or treating' city style. We rode the elevator up the top floor of our friend's building and made our way down by walking down the stairs of the fire escape.
Each time a door opened to welcome our gang of kids, you couldn't help but glimpse the life inside. Older people, some with live-in aides, still opened their doors, eager to give out the sugary confections, perhaps nostalgic about former lives when they were the ones knocking on doors with their young ones behind masks. Each opened door also revealed the way people imagine spaces that are all identical to their neighbors. You could see how a bookshelf in one corner changed the way the room flowed. Or the way long-time residents hung chandeliers over dining areas. It was illuminating for each of us adults as we wound our way down 14 flights. The kids' bags full, we headed to our building and to our apartment. The adults continued drinking wine as all the kids played, or rather, destroyed our son's room. Every so often, the doorbell would ring, signaling another round of 'trick or treaters,' who had ventured to our door that had been covered in fake cobwebs.
My son didn't comment on the differences of trick or treating in apartment buildings versus his old neighborhood in LA. Instead, he was concerned he have the 'right' costume this year and for the next year. His friends left with their tired parents behind. My husband and I put our young boy to bed, relieved to have survived this first Halloween in the city.
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