Today I'm chatting with Squeaky. That's right, the very weasel of website fame and influence. He's a little brown and whiskery fellow, and when I figure out how to upload a photo, he'll be making a regular appearance on this page. (He's already up at stlbloggers.com if you're anxious to put a face to the name.) For now, he's agreed to an off-camera interview so you can get to know him as intimately as I do.
Interviewer: So, you're a weasel then?
Squeaky Weasel: That's right.
I: Is this something you'd always wanted to be, or did the decision come to you later in life?
SW: Well, I never felt like I had much choice in the matter. Ever since I was a pup I've been around weasels. My father was one, and well, my mother was too for a while, until she had us kids. Then I think she kind of gave it up and became something of a stoat. But me, I've had a lot of positive weasel influences and you might say that pushed me in a certain direction. I certainly don't have any regrets.
I: Squeaky isn't your given name, is it?
SW: (Laughs) Now, how did that get out? Actually, you're right. My real name is Mustela Frenata, which I believe is Latin for "long-tailed weasel." Only my mother calls me that. Squeaky is a nickname I picked up with some of the boys from Long Island, and I felt like it suited me.
I: What's a typical day like in the life of a weasel?
SW: I can't speak for every weasel, because I do have my quirks. But me, I'm definitely a night person. I'll sleep most of the day in my burrow, then stalk and kill a small mouse or a bird. I come in to the office at least once a day to check my email and follow up on phone calls. Other than that, you know, I keep to myself. I hang out. Occasionally mate.
I: Is there someone special?
SW: I have a few females who are very special to me, but I still haven't met that special weasel. The girls I meet are mainly raccoons, marmosets. One of my closest friends is a squirrel named Bushie. We go way back. But we both know it could never work between us because we want different things out of life. Her whole world is trees. Now, I like to climb a tree occasionally, but I also swim, dig, and kill things. She doesn't want any part of that.
I: I'm sensing some sadness there, am I right?
SW: I suppose so. (Pause.) There's a part of me that wonders what life would be like with Bushie. She's a real family squirrel, real nurturing. She's going to be a great mom someday. That's something I haven't thought much about yet for myself.
I: That was going to be my next question. Where do you see yourself in five years?
SW: I try not to think about that. My great-grandfather lived to be 11, but toward the end he didn't have much quality of life. Most weasels in my family give it up around age 6. I think I'll retire to a quiet lumber pile outside of a subdivision in a few years.
I: Squeaky, thank you so much for meeting with us this morning.
SW: It's been my pleasure!
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
With apologies to husband for using his blog as a springboard for free associative thought...
it occurs to me that once you've been burned on making a reservation, the next reservation you make will be made with reservation.
You might further assume that the act of "making a reservation" is not referring to the act of actually placing the desired item on reserve, of picking up the phone and reserving that item for your exclusive use, so much as it is about creating in your own mind a reservation, a concern that the item you desire might not be available at the specific time you are requesting.
In fact, one might say that in phoning to request a reservation at all, you are tipping off those karmic forces that work to thwart you, and you might have been better off keeping quiet about the whole thing, showing up at the place at an unspecified time, and crossing your fingers for availability.
Absolute secrecy is required. All parties involved should be kept informed on a strict need-to-know basis.
it occurs to me that once you've been burned on making a reservation, the next reservation you make will be made with reservation.
You might further assume that the act of "making a reservation" is not referring to the act of actually placing the desired item on reserve, of picking up the phone and reserving that item for your exclusive use, so much as it is about creating in your own mind a reservation, a concern that the item you desire might not be available at the specific time you are requesting.
In fact, one might say that in phoning to request a reservation at all, you are tipping off those karmic forces that work to thwart you, and you might have been better off keeping quiet about the whole thing, showing up at the place at an unspecified time, and crossing your fingers for availability.
Absolute secrecy is required. All parties involved should be kept informed on a strict need-to-know basis.
Friday, July 26, 2002
It's a gloomy and overcast day outside, and as such it is the perfect day for a brilliant compilation of Radiohead that a certain person was good enough to compile for me. There's an art form to burning a CD, and it's an art that I'm not ashamed to admit I have never mastered. My husband is one who, if you mentioned a passing interest in a certain band or genre of music, would create an epic audiatory experience such that you begin to feel as if you not only grew up with each of the band members, you'd also like very much to bear their children.
My husband is a musical missionary. He seeks out the nonbelievers and takes them under his wing, i.e. those who think Brian Wilson wrote nothing of interest beyond Help Me Rhonda, or who feel that Elvis Costello's music is boring. These people become his projects, his converts, and I am among them. He taught me that music can therapy, spirituality, escapism, expression, and personal connection.
Sometimes it's hard to see the line between the man and his passions. Then again, I don't think there is a line. You are what you love.
My husband is a musical missionary. He seeks out the nonbelievers and takes them under his wing, i.e. those who think Brian Wilson wrote nothing of interest beyond Help Me Rhonda, or who feel that Elvis Costello's music is boring. These people become his projects, his converts, and I am among them. He taught me that music can therapy, spirituality, escapism, expression, and personal connection.
Sometimes it's hard to see the line between the man and his passions. Then again, I don't think there is a line. You are what you love.
Wednesday, July 17, 2002
Sales meeting: A time of unspeakable psychological horrors.
Sales meeting is a gathering of marketing managers and sales representatives to unveil new titles, discuss strategy, and outline objectives. In the weeks leading up to the sales meeting, marketing comes to advertising with requests for nine hundred brochures, eighty flyers, and six thousand little one-page "product guides" to use in their presentations to the sales force.
Sales meeting projects are like gnats. Small, unassuming, and easy to handle -- until they all come at you at once, swarming and biting and crawling into the corners of your eyes until you are finally driven mad, pleading for death upon your knees.
In years past, I've always taken a certain amount of pride in being able to produce whatever marketing needed, because they seemed so desperate. "For the love of Christ!" they'd plead, "Please! Can I get this in time for the sales meeting? We NEED this for the sales meeting!"
And so I imagined my brochure in a spotlight at the front of an auditorium, glowing with impeccable writing, being held aloft by a marketing manager for all the eager reps to see. "The textbook itself is not as well written as this brochure!" he'd cry, the end of his sentence drowned out by thunderous applause and cheers.
Last year, sales meeting was held in town, so the creatives were able to attend. I brought along an extra pen in case I was asked to autograph any of the brochures I'd written, and I kept my sunglasses with me in case I was mobbed by admiring reps and needed to make a quick, anonymous exit.
So I picked up my name tag at the front desk of the hotel, Hi, my name is... Squeaky Weasel, Copywriter, and proudly fastened it to my sweater. As I turned around, I nearly bumped into a tall, skinny, designer-suit-wearing girl who nudged past me and announced her name to the front desk clerk, who handed her a name tag. As she was pinning it, she glance up at me and smiled broadly. "Isn't this fun! I don't think I saw you at the bar last night. I'm Shana, west-central region. What's--" At that moment, her eye fell on my tag and her entire demeanor seemed to step up onto an invisible pedestal so she could conveniently look down her nose at me. Her smile turned to plastic. "Oh, you're with marketing?" she patronized, and then turned on her heel and Prada-ed off toward the meeting rooms.
I soon learned that it was even worse that she'd assumed. In the sales meeting pecking order, I was even lower than marketing. I was advertising, barely worthy of more acknowledgement than the hardening edges of the cheddar cheese cubes on the veggie platters in the lobby.
But the final blow came during the strategy sessions, where I'd been told my brochures would illustrate all the features of the new textbooks. I took my place in one of the chairs lining the wall (my "place" -- out of the way) in a room where marketing and sales gathered around a long conference room table. The marketing manager flipped through some notebooks, talked about numbers, then finally -- finally -- I saw her reach into a binder and withdraw what I recognized as my beautifully written brochure. She tossed it down on the table in front of her and continued to talk. No one so much as glanced at it. No one opened it, no one read it, no one used it. It laid forgotten on the table until the end of the meeting, when the marketing manager said, "Okay, that's it! I have a brochure you can look at if anyone's interested. Otherwise... thanks, people!" The brochure was summarily tucked back into her binder and everyone crowded out toward the exits.
Later, I caught up with my fellow creatives, all huddled in a tight circle in one of the hallways passing around copies of each other's work and trading kudos. "I got copies from marketing of everything we did!" said my boss, as if that made our presence there worthwhile. She handed me one of mine. "This one was a real hit!"
By "hit" I assumed she meant that no one had actually thrown hardened cheddar cheese cubes at it. I took it and held it up in front of me, trying to see whether it looked more impressive in a hotel setting than it had in my office the day before. I imagined a spotlight on it, applause, congratulatory pats and handshakes. It was still just a brochure. I opened it and read through the familiar copy.
Good copy should be invisible. Its job is to create a picture in the reader's head without the reader even being aware of the words that put it there. If that's the case, my invisible brochures do their job, and I just have to slip on my sunglasses every now and then to the roar of imagined applause.
Sales meeting is a gathering of marketing managers and sales representatives to unveil new titles, discuss strategy, and outline objectives. In the weeks leading up to the sales meeting, marketing comes to advertising with requests for nine hundred brochures, eighty flyers, and six thousand little one-page "product guides" to use in their presentations to the sales force.
Sales meeting projects are like gnats. Small, unassuming, and easy to handle -- until they all come at you at once, swarming and biting and crawling into the corners of your eyes until you are finally driven mad, pleading for death upon your knees.
In years past, I've always taken a certain amount of pride in being able to produce whatever marketing needed, because they seemed so desperate. "For the love of Christ!" they'd plead, "Please! Can I get this in time for the sales meeting? We NEED this for the sales meeting!"
And so I imagined my brochure in a spotlight at the front of an auditorium, glowing with impeccable writing, being held aloft by a marketing manager for all the eager reps to see. "The textbook itself is not as well written as this brochure!" he'd cry, the end of his sentence drowned out by thunderous applause and cheers.
Last year, sales meeting was held in town, so the creatives were able to attend. I brought along an extra pen in case I was asked to autograph any of the brochures I'd written, and I kept my sunglasses with me in case I was mobbed by admiring reps and needed to make a quick, anonymous exit.
So I picked up my name tag at the front desk of the hotel, Hi, my name is... Squeaky Weasel, Copywriter, and proudly fastened it to my sweater. As I turned around, I nearly bumped into a tall, skinny, designer-suit-wearing girl who nudged past me and announced her name to the front desk clerk, who handed her a name tag. As she was pinning it, she glance up at me and smiled broadly. "Isn't this fun! I don't think I saw you at the bar last night. I'm Shana, west-central region. What's--" At that moment, her eye fell on my tag and her entire demeanor seemed to step up onto an invisible pedestal so she could conveniently look down her nose at me. Her smile turned to plastic. "Oh, you're with marketing?" she patronized, and then turned on her heel and Prada-ed off toward the meeting rooms.
I soon learned that it was even worse that she'd assumed. In the sales meeting pecking order, I was even lower than marketing. I was advertising, barely worthy of more acknowledgement than the hardening edges of the cheddar cheese cubes on the veggie platters in the lobby.
But the final blow came during the strategy sessions, where I'd been told my brochures would illustrate all the features of the new textbooks. I took my place in one of the chairs lining the wall (my "place" -- out of the way) in a room where marketing and sales gathered around a long conference room table. The marketing manager flipped through some notebooks, talked about numbers, then finally -- finally -- I saw her reach into a binder and withdraw what I recognized as my beautifully written brochure. She tossed it down on the table in front of her and continued to talk. No one so much as glanced at it. No one opened it, no one read it, no one used it. It laid forgotten on the table until the end of the meeting, when the marketing manager said, "Okay, that's it! I have a brochure you can look at if anyone's interested. Otherwise... thanks, people!" The brochure was summarily tucked back into her binder and everyone crowded out toward the exits.
Later, I caught up with my fellow creatives, all huddled in a tight circle in one of the hallways passing around copies of each other's work and trading kudos. "I got copies from marketing of everything we did!" said my boss, as if that made our presence there worthwhile. She handed me one of mine. "This one was a real hit!"
By "hit" I assumed she meant that no one had actually thrown hardened cheddar cheese cubes at it. I took it and held it up in front of me, trying to see whether it looked more impressive in a hotel setting than it had in my office the day before. I imagined a spotlight on it, applause, congratulatory pats and handshakes. It was still just a brochure. I opened it and read through the familiar copy.
Good copy should be invisible. Its job is to create a picture in the reader's head without the reader even being aware of the words that put it there. If that's the case, my invisible brochures do their job, and I just have to slip on my sunglasses every now and then to the roar of imagined applause.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
I am taking some time off from blogging until such time as "work day" no longer means 12 hours of mindless, pointless, grueling, thankless writing for the publisher's catalog. Although my boss did come into my office this morning and present me with a plastic tiara that made me feel like Becky Queen of Carpet on a somewhat less grand scale.
But don't worry! The archives aren't going anywhere.
And I fixed my email link. For those of you who may have been traumatized by a 404 upon clicking it in the past. Fear no more, my little friends. Fear no more.
But don't worry! The archives aren't going anywhere.
And I fixed my email link. For those of you who may have been traumatized by a 404 upon clicking it in the past. Fear no more, my little friends. Fear no more.
Monday, May 27, 2002
Friday, May 24, 2002
An email landed in my in-box. Subject line: Dress Code
My jeans looked up at me in alarm. My tennis shoes started to whimper. I told everyone to calm down, this happens every year. It's the summer crack-down on our rampant abuse of the term "business casual."
Our company has a strange relationship with image. We run the spectrum from tailored suits, to sweat pants, to those like me who get dressed in the dark by feeling around in a drawer and praying to god that there are clean clothes in there that fit. Jeans and a t-shirt are "business casual" to me because, well, I'm casual and I work at a business.
I understand that they have to at least make an attempt. If they didn't send a reminder every now and then that maybe tube tops aren't appropriate office attire, someone would wear them. And it wouldn't be the cute, skinny girls with big booyas wearing them, either. It would be the 300-pound, cellulite-riddled woman whose arms you never wanted to see outside of a tapioca pudding cup.
But that doesn't mean I want to give up my half-assed corporate stylings. I don't have to! The good folks in the fashion industry have provided us with a ready arsenal of terms to be used in our defense.
"You," I reassured my grey tank top, "are what we call a sleeveless shell." The tank sighed with relief.
"Don't worry, shoes," I told them. "You're nothing as crass as tennis shoes. You are leather-enhanced athletic footwear."
"And you," I said to my well-worn, comfortable blue denim jeans, "certainly don't have holes. Those are wear-imprinted fashion accents. The frayed hems are what's known as distressed edging. And denim? Bah! You consist of blue multi-toned, micro-woven cotton fabric."
My clothing sat up a little straighter, trying on their new, expensive identities, and I clicked the offending email right into the trash.
My jeans looked up at me in alarm. My tennis shoes started to whimper. I told everyone to calm down, this happens every year. It's the summer crack-down on our rampant abuse of the term "business casual."
Our company has a strange relationship with image. We run the spectrum from tailored suits, to sweat pants, to those like me who get dressed in the dark by feeling around in a drawer and praying to god that there are clean clothes in there that fit. Jeans and a t-shirt are "business casual" to me because, well, I'm casual and I work at a business.
I understand that they have to at least make an attempt. If they didn't send a reminder every now and then that maybe tube tops aren't appropriate office attire, someone would wear them. And it wouldn't be the cute, skinny girls with big booyas wearing them, either. It would be the 300-pound, cellulite-riddled woman whose arms you never wanted to see outside of a tapioca pudding cup.
But that doesn't mean I want to give up my half-assed corporate stylings. I don't have to! The good folks in the fashion industry have provided us with a ready arsenal of terms to be used in our defense.
"You," I reassured my grey tank top, "are what we call a sleeveless shell." The tank sighed with relief.
"Don't worry, shoes," I told them. "You're nothing as crass as tennis shoes. You are leather-enhanced athletic footwear."
"And you," I said to my well-worn, comfortable blue denim jeans, "certainly don't have holes. Those are wear-imprinted fashion accents. The frayed hems are what's known as distressed edging. And denim? Bah! You consist of blue multi-toned, micro-woven cotton fabric."
My clothing sat up a little straighter, trying on their new, expensive identities, and I clicked the offending email right into the trash.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
Hmm, seems that my bout with food poisoning must have actually been the work of a virus, the downside of this being that my husband is now in the clutches of the black death. And yet the kids have escaped unharmed, so far. I hope their immunities hold out. The older one will probably get it just so that her drama will have an outlet. It's tough keeping so much drama potential pent up for so long. It gets to the point where every sneeze deserves its own stage and spotlight.
"MOM!" Gasp! Cough! SNEEZE! "Ahhhhhhhhh! Mom! I need a kleeeeeeenex!!!! Mom, HELP!" Collapse on carpet, reaching out pathetically toward the box of kleenex on the table, a mere four feet from her outstretched fingertips.
The child has allergies, which means this scene is repeated throughout the afternoon a minimum of six times. Apparently at school she's able to simply get up and sneeze into a tissue all on her own, without the Academy's eyes upon her.
"MOM!" Gasp! Cough! SNEEZE! "Ahhhhhhhhh! Mom! I need a kleeeeeeenex!!!! Mom, HELP!" Collapse on carpet, reaching out pathetically toward the box of kleenex on the table, a mere four feet from her outstretched fingertips.
The child has allergies, which means this scene is repeated throughout the afternoon a minimum of six times. Apparently at school she's able to simply get up and sneeze into a tissue all on her own, without the Academy's eyes upon her.
Tuesday, May 21, 2002
I'm going to keep my proverbial mouth shut today because A) I'm too busy, and B) you should be reading this post instead from Mr. O'Brien about our wee daughter. It's far better than anything that could come out of my proverbial mouth. Trust me!
Monday, May 20, 2002
Today's fun and random exciting news: I have food poisoning!
Consequently, I have sworn off meat forever. Also all solid food. And possibly liquids as well, unless they can think of a way to get back on my good side. I'm currently discussing this with an icy glass of Gatorade that my husband fetched for me (such a good man), questioning whether its claims to replace electrolytes are worth risking another three hours in the little girls' room.
My kidneys hurt. Blinking red lights and dials show our hydration level perilously low.
Regardless, if I were the Pollyanna type (which I'm not, but I might be similar to a Polyanna -- more than one anna...) I would see this not as an affliction but an opportunity. With nothing but antimatter in my system, my traditional Monday Diet starts fresh! And I can consider myself weaned from coffee, soda, chocolate, sushi, and... dear lord, not all at once! What are you thinking?
Ah hell, typing hurts my brittle, ill fingers.
Consequently, I have sworn off meat forever. Also all solid food. And possibly liquids as well, unless they can think of a way to get back on my good side. I'm currently discussing this with an icy glass of Gatorade that my husband fetched for me (such a good man), questioning whether its claims to replace electrolytes are worth risking another three hours in the little girls' room.
My kidneys hurt. Blinking red lights and dials show our hydration level perilously low.
Regardless, if I were the Pollyanna type (which I'm not, but I might be similar to a Polyanna -- more than one anna...) I would see this not as an affliction but an opportunity. With nothing but antimatter in my system, my traditional Monday Diet starts fresh! And I can consider myself weaned from coffee, soda, chocolate, sushi, and... dear lord, not all at once! What are you thinking?
Ah hell, typing hurts my brittle, ill fingers.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Thursday, May 16, 2002
Disturbed.
I was blog-hopping, and I happened to land on someone's intensely personal and painful stuff. I won't even link to it, because as soon as I was done reading I felt wrong for having read it at all. Even though it was a public blog, with a public link inviting traffic in.
I admire the person for writing so openly. It makes my own blog seem extremely trivial and superficial. And even if I ever touched on anything deeper, it would only be so that I could shrug and laugh, in the casual, between-us sort of self-admonishing way that people confess bits and pieces of themselve to friends after a few too many drinks.
It's a mystery to me how some people are able to talk about troubling things as easily as if they were discussing politics or a sale on rutabega at the local market. Maybe I'm not wired that way. To me, everything uncomfortable is off limits. It's packaged up and tucked into neat, hermetically sealed boxes that can be easily stacked and organized in an out-of-the-way corner.
(That sound you just heard was the Pandora metaphor being nipped in the bud.)
It frustrates my husband, and of course I understand why. If I tell him that a box contains "shoes," he wants to know what kind of shoes -- Red ones? Heels? Army boots? Little white, size-one baby sneakers with velcro straps?
Shoes. Just shoes.
That's all I have to say about that.
I was blog-hopping, and I happened to land on someone's intensely personal and painful stuff. I won't even link to it, because as soon as I was done reading I felt wrong for having read it at all. Even though it was a public blog, with a public link inviting traffic in.
I admire the person for writing so openly. It makes my own blog seem extremely trivial and superficial. And even if I ever touched on anything deeper, it would only be so that I could shrug and laugh, in the casual, between-us sort of self-admonishing way that people confess bits and pieces of themselve to friends after a few too many drinks.
It's a mystery to me how some people are able to talk about troubling things as easily as if they were discussing politics or a sale on rutabega at the local market. Maybe I'm not wired that way. To me, everything uncomfortable is off limits. It's packaged up and tucked into neat, hermetically sealed boxes that can be easily stacked and organized in an out-of-the-way corner.
(That sound you just heard was the Pandora metaphor being nipped in the bud.)
It frustrates my husband, and of course I understand why. If I tell him that a box contains "shoes," he wants to know what kind of shoes -- Red ones? Heels? Army boots? Little white, size-one baby sneakers with velcro straps?
Shoes. Just shoes.
That's all I have to say about that.
I'll stand up right here in front of all the world and admit it. I'm a sushi junkie.
It's funny, but as I wrote that I was reminded of a really poorly drawn "Say No to Drugs" comic book attempt that was handed out to my 2nd-grade Catholic school class of sheltered 8-year-olds. We leafed through it at recess trying to figure out the big words like mariuana (some girl's name, probably the bleary red-eyed girl who kept talking about a "hit." Hitting was bad, we knew that. We guessed she was the bully.) and heroin (the hero, also a girl).
But my drug of choice these days is sushi. I started experimenting with it a few months ago and now I can't get the sushi monkey off my back. There's a supermarket down the street that deals, and they make it cheap, plentiful, fresh, and tasty.
I think about it all the time. Even after I've just scored and I'm dipping the last piece into a bit of wasabi, I'm already planning the next run.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of making my own sushi. It can't be that hard. Others have done it. But is that a bit too much like setting up a meth lab in my basement? Will the next step in the downward spiral involve renting a trailer to hold all the equipment and the austere, finely laquered Japanese-style serving dishes? Will the government start tracking my movements due to unusually large purchases of eel and salmon?
It's a sickness.
It's about to get worse, too. There are plans to open a new sushi bar just minutes from work.
It's funny, but as I wrote that I was reminded of a really poorly drawn "Say No to Drugs" comic book attempt that was handed out to my 2nd-grade Catholic school class of sheltered 8-year-olds. We leafed through it at recess trying to figure out the big words like mariuana (some girl's name, probably the bleary red-eyed girl who kept talking about a "hit." Hitting was bad, we knew that. We guessed she was the bully.) and heroin (the hero, also a girl).
But my drug of choice these days is sushi. I started experimenting with it a few months ago and now I can't get the sushi monkey off my back. There's a supermarket down the street that deals, and they make it cheap, plentiful, fresh, and tasty.
I think about it all the time. Even after I've just scored and I'm dipping the last piece into a bit of wasabi, I'm already planning the next run.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of making my own sushi. It can't be that hard. Others have done it. But is that a bit too much like setting up a meth lab in my basement? Will the next step in the downward spiral involve renting a trailer to hold all the equipment and the austere, finely laquered Japanese-style serving dishes? Will the government start tracking my movements due to unusually large purchases of eel and salmon?
It's a sickness.
It's about to get worse, too. There are plans to open a new sushi bar just minutes from work.
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
I wonder just how common cross-dressing is in this part of the country. I don't want to out anyone, but there's a woman working here who I'm convinced has got to be a man.
She has man elbows. She has man ankles. She has man hands and a manish gait. And I heard her cough; she coughs like a man.
Just how common is it, really? If Jerry Springer were a cross-section of the population, none of us would be wearing gender-appropriate clothing. But in the day-to-day interactions with people in your community, how often do we say hello to our dear, sweet neighbor Mrs. Williams and her daughter Jacqueline, who was born Joseph Michael?
It makes me thankful that my own gender is rightly aligned with my sense of girl-ness. One less thing to worry about. And I think daughter #1 is pretty well-established as a boy-chasing, dress-wearing female. We'll have to wait and see with daughter #2. I think she may invent her own gender. At least 85% monkey.
She has man elbows. She has man ankles. She has man hands and a manish gait. And I heard her cough; she coughs like a man.
Just how common is it, really? If Jerry Springer were a cross-section of the population, none of us would be wearing gender-appropriate clothing. But in the day-to-day interactions with people in your community, how often do we say hello to our dear, sweet neighbor Mrs. Williams and her daughter Jacqueline, who was born Joseph Michael?
It makes me thankful that my own gender is rightly aligned with my sense of girl-ness. One less thing to worry about. And I think daughter #1 is pretty well-established as a boy-chasing, dress-wearing female. We'll have to wait and see with daughter #2. I think she may invent her own gender. At least 85% monkey.
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
House Husband: A Female's Fantasy
I have several problems with this article. One being the fact that CNN thought it was newsworthy to write a bit about a man who does housework. That's insulting. It's insulting to the men who do participate in family life and think nothing of washing a floor when it's dirty. And it's insulting to women of every generation past who have been washing floors thanklessly, whom CNN would never think to call "God's gift to men: a house wife."
I also think it's kind of sad that this man is scrubbing the kitchen floor on his hands and knees every night, as if he's looking so hard for a sense of achievement that he thinks he might find some gummed into the corners of the grotty kitchen tile. And that he's hanging with the lawyer's wives at cocktail parties because the successful men snub him.
On the other hand, playground moms do have that kind of "what are you doing here" attitude toward playground dads, which husband has been seeing a lot of these days. They are the ones who want to keep that pecking order in place, those don't-need-to-work wives of high-powered men.
I think these are the same women who might spend an evening on their knees scrubbing the floor and never get a word of thanks for it. Maybe she abandoned whatever it was she wanted to be when she grew up. As she's grinding away at a particularly stubborn spot, she mentally congratulates herself for being this dedicated and talented at what she does, building herself up with the idea that her husband, successful lawyer/doctor/whatever that he may be, certainly couldn't get a floor this clean. A man certainly would find some way to botch the job. A man could never clean so well, shop so well, dress the children so well, clip coupons so well.
Maybe the sight of a man at the store with a happy, well-dressed child at his side, competently rifling through a stack of coupons, threatens to poke holes in her carefully constructed delusion. If this man can do my job, maybe my husband could too. Maybe I am worthless.
Even more sad than the cold glares of playground moms is the little girl's attitude in the article: "I like having a Dad at home; it's almost like having another Mom."
Another mom? Is that the best a dad can aspire to be?
I have several problems with this article. One being the fact that CNN thought it was newsworthy to write a bit about a man who does housework. That's insulting. It's insulting to the men who do participate in family life and think nothing of washing a floor when it's dirty. And it's insulting to women of every generation past who have been washing floors thanklessly, whom CNN would never think to call "God's gift to men: a house wife."
I also think it's kind of sad that this man is scrubbing the kitchen floor on his hands and knees every night, as if he's looking so hard for a sense of achievement that he thinks he might find some gummed into the corners of the grotty kitchen tile. And that he's hanging with the lawyer's wives at cocktail parties because the successful men snub him.
On the other hand, playground moms do have that kind of "what are you doing here" attitude toward playground dads, which husband has been seeing a lot of these days. They are the ones who want to keep that pecking order in place, those don't-need-to-work wives of high-powered men.
I think these are the same women who might spend an evening on their knees scrubbing the floor and never get a word of thanks for it. Maybe she abandoned whatever it was she wanted to be when she grew up. As she's grinding away at a particularly stubborn spot, she mentally congratulates herself for being this dedicated and talented at what she does, building herself up with the idea that her husband, successful lawyer/doctor/whatever that he may be, certainly couldn't get a floor this clean. A man certainly would find some way to botch the job. A man could never clean so well, shop so well, dress the children so well, clip coupons so well.
Maybe the sight of a man at the store with a happy, well-dressed child at his side, competently rifling through a stack of coupons, threatens to poke holes in her carefully constructed delusion. If this man can do my job, maybe my husband could too. Maybe I am worthless.
Even more sad than the cold glares of playground moms is the little girl's attitude in the article: "I like having a Dad at home; it's almost like having another Mom."
Another mom? Is that the best a dad can aspire to be?
Monday, May 13, 2002
Not that I'm prone to procrastinating or anything, but... ah hell. I'll write about that later.
I think it's lunch time. I think I'm hungry, but I'm reluctant to commit one way or another.
On the one hand, it's noon and the Noontime Lunch Clique has already left for whatever exotic destination they've decided on this time. I wouldn't know, as I am not One of Them.
On the other hand, I left home without lunch today so I have to come up with some way to go and get food if I want it. So much trouble... I mean, just because everyone is eating lunch around me, does that mean I actually want lunch, or is it just peer pressure?
Mmmm. McDonalds....
Ahem.
The main problem with deciding whether or not to eat lunch is much more complex than the simple question of whether or not one is hungry. It's a gamble, a game of trying to judge -- based on all variables and known information -- whether this current disinterest in food will hold out until dinner, or whether a blood sugar crash at 3:30 will send one streaking in a panic toward the nearest McDonalds drive-thru. Or a vending machine.
At that point it's no longer "lunch" anymore. It's not quite dinner. It doesn't count. It doesn't count as a meal, as food, as calories, as nutrition, as anything. It's non-food. Twilight sustenance, crammed into one's mouth at a weird in-between time while no one else is looking (or at least one hopes not) that lacks all forethought and enjoyment.
All right, I just realized that I've spent 42 minutes thinking about food, and I'm bordering on unhealthy obsessiveness. And so McDonalds it is! Possibly to be followed by a 3:30 streak toward the vending machine. I wouldn't want him to feel left out.
All neuroses contained herein may be blamed upon blood sugar instability.
I think it's lunch time. I think I'm hungry, but I'm reluctant to commit one way or another.
On the one hand, it's noon and the Noontime Lunch Clique has already left for whatever exotic destination they've decided on this time. I wouldn't know, as I am not One of Them.
On the other hand, I left home without lunch today so I have to come up with some way to go and get food if I want it. So much trouble... I mean, just because everyone is eating lunch around me, does that mean I actually want lunch, or is it just peer pressure?
Mmmm. McDonalds....
Ahem.
The main problem with deciding whether or not to eat lunch is much more complex than the simple question of whether or not one is hungry. It's a gamble, a game of trying to judge -- based on all variables and known information -- whether this current disinterest in food will hold out until dinner, or whether a blood sugar crash at 3:30 will send one streaking in a panic toward the nearest McDonalds drive-thru. Or a vending machine.
At that point it's no longer "lunch" anymore. It's not quite dinner. It doesn't count. It doesn't count as a meal, as food, as calories, as nutrition, as anything. It's non-food. Twilight sustenance, crammed into one's mouth at a weird in-between time while no one else is looking (or at least one hopes not) that lacks all forethought and enjoyment.
All right, I just realized that I've spent 42 minutes thinking about food, and I'm bordering on unhealthy obsessiveness. And so McDonalds it is! Possibly to be followed by a 3:30 streak toward the vending machine. I wouldn't want him to feel left out.
All neuroses contained herein may be blamed upon blood sugar instability.
Saturday, May 11, 2002
I am not the only one.
www.squeakyweasel.net
I don't know whether to feel validated or deflated. I think that instead of either I will feel... orchestrated! Or perhaps, misappropriated!
I hope my squeaky doppelganger doesn't think I lifted his identity. I've been "weasel" since I was 8. Squeaky came later. Like a teenage rite of passage for nicknames.
Maybe this is my opportunity to reinvent. Let's see...
Slinky Weasel
Sneezy Weasel
Smurfy Weasel
Shifty Weasel
Sleepy Weasel
Spooky Weasel
Soupy Weasel
Sticky Weasel
Smiley Weasel
Smarmy Weasel
Sneaky Weasel
Slippery Weasel
Shiny Weasel
I think I'm kidding, but let me know if you think of one that's really amusing.
And no, I'm not going to be known as "Sleazy Weasel". I know you were thinking it.
www.squeakyweasel.net
I don't know whether to feel validated or deflated. I think that instead of either I will feel... orchestrated! Or perhaps, misappropriated!
I hope my squeaky doppelganger doesn't think I lifted his identity. I've been "weasel" since I was 8. Squeaky came later. Like a teenage rite of passage for nicknames.
Maybe this is my opportunity to reinvent. Let's see...
Slinky Weasel
Sneezy Weasel
Smurfy Weasel
Shifty Weasel
Sleepy Weasel
Spooky Weasel
Soupy Weasel
Sticky Weasel
Smiley Weasel
Smarmy Weasel
Sneaky Weasel
Slippery Weasel
Shiny Weasel
I think I'm kidding, but let me know if you think of one that's really amusing.
And no, I'm not going to be known as "Sleazy Weasel". I know you were thinking it.
Friday, May 10, 2002
The pink coffee cup on my desk is huddled between two stacks of file folders, sighing deeply. It's been 48 hours.
I look up from my work and she avoids eye contact. "You want some Folgers latte?" I offer. I keep it on hand for emergencies.
She shrugs and shifts her weight, making an attempt at casual. "'S okay..." She tries to be brave. But I know it's getting rough, and we're not even through the worst of it yet. I can see her eyeing my travel mug with a kind of wild jealousy rearing just below her studiously calm demeanor, and I make a mental note to keep all paper clips and blades off my desk for the time being.
I look up from my work and she avoids eye contact. "You want some Folgers latte?" I offer. I keep it on hand for emergencies.
She shrugs and shifts her weight, making an attempt at casual. "'S okay..." She tries to be brave. But I know it's getting rough, and we're not even through the worst of it yet. I can see her eyeing my travel mug with a kind of wild jealousy rearing just below her studiously calm demeanor, and I make a mental note to keep all paper clips and blades off my desk for the time being.
Wednesday, May 08, 2002
Sweet Jesus... WE ARE OUT OF COFFEE.
I have just taken the last cup.
I had to. If I left it, someone else would have taken it. And I would have been forced to compensate through other addictive behavior patterns, such as pen-nibbling, or the Tourette's-like muttering of profanity paired with the Rain Man-like pacing and head smacking.
In the meantime, I'm going to Starbucks. Anyone want anything?
I have just taken the last cup.
I had to. If I left it, someone else would have taken it. And I would have been forced to compensate through other addictive behavior patterns, such as pen-nibbling, or the Tourette's-like muttering of profanity paired with the Rain Man-like pacing and head smacking.
In the meantime, I'm going to Starbucks. Anyone want anything?
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