Art Girl versus Money Girl

A couple of weeks ago, I was scrolling through my Facebook news feed and saw a link to a video. The title caught my eye . . . “What if money was no object?” I was intrigued because, let’s face it, money is, in fact, almost always an object. I decided to watch. The video was a series of images set to a portion of a lecture by the late British philosopher Alan Watts. It was aesthetically pleasing, interesting, and enjoyable to watch. It was thought-provoking, as you would expect words of wisdom from a greatly respected philosopher to be. But beyond all that, it got under my skin.

The video keeps playing in my head because it stirred a pot that is always bubbling and brewing in my mind. It provoked another battle in a war I've long been waging with myself. The adversaries in this conflict are Art Girl and Money Girl. They’re both nice gals; it’s just that they’re almost always at odds with each other. Art Girl loves to dance and write. Money Girl likes to go on vacations and have a house that isn't falling down around her. She likes to shop for pretty things and send her kid to a good school. Money Girl isn't ridiculously materialistic. She's not talking about month-long vacations on an estate in the South of France or a private Caribbean island (not that that wouldn't be lovely). She just likes a few relaxing days with her family once or twice a year – preferably somewhere warm.

The “What if money was no object” video is one perspective on how to handle the conflict between Art Girl and Money Girl – a struggle I’m guessing is common for many of us. For some people maybe it’s Outdoor Guy or Sports Girl or Craft Guy who is battling Money Guy, but the essence of the struggle is the same. Alan Watts’ advice on the issue is this: Figure out how you would really enjoy spending your life and do that. Forget about the money. Chasing money will cause you to live a life you don’t like and that is stupid. Watts suggests that if you do what you truly desire, you will become a master at it and the money will follow. Watts definitely sides with Art Girl.

I like Watts’ advice; I really do. It’s beautiful and idealistic, and I’d like to believe he’s right. Unfortunately, I’m not sure he is. Maybe money can’t buy you happiness, but it certainly can help! What if you like the things money buys? What if you live in (and love) an expensive city? What if vacations and fast cars and fine dining make you happy, but you love doing something that holds very little promise for significant or even reasonable compensation?

Some fields, no matter how successful you become, just don’t pay a lot. Sure, a preschool teacher could rise through the education ranks into a more lucrative administrative position or become such an expert in some aspect of early childhood education that he or she could write a book and go out on the lecture circuit. But then the teacher isn’t teaching anymore, are they? Teaching was what the teacher really loved.

Watts suggests that our society doesn't teach people to do what they love, but I’m also not sure I agree with that. My parents, teachers, and career counselors doled out quite a lot of “do what makes you happy” guidance. In fact, my friend Marla and I have spent a great deal of time discussing how frequently we heard that advice as we were growing up. We always come to the conclusion that young people really ought to also hear the other side of the simple and clichéd “do what you love” and “happiness is all that matters” refrain.

Human beings are multifaceted creatures; there are a variety of things that bring us satisfaction and make us happy. Some of these things are, quite possibly, at odds. Given that, it feels simplistic and confusing to say “just do what you love doing.” I suppose this is where prioritization comes in – of course there are lots of things that make my life fulfilling and genuinely happy. If I had to pick just one, it would be my family. Sadly, spending time with my family does not pay well. In fact, having a family REQUIRES money.

I have a friend who recently shared a story about his adult son, who always wanted to be an artist. He pursued that dream, often barely making ends meet and living on next to nothing. He was okay with that because he was doing what he really wanted to do. Well, time went by and he got a little older, as we all tend to do. He met a nice girl, got married, and started a family. He still loves making art – that’s what he wants to do and he’s good at it, but you can probably guess that he also loves his family and being a “starving artist” isn't really working out now, no matter how much he enjoys it. He was whining excessively about the unfairness of it all and his dad’s response was: “If you really wanted to be an artist, you shouldn't have gotten married and had a kid.” Harsh? Definitely. True? I’m not sure. Maybe.

What I've tried to do – in my battle between Art Girl and Money Girl – is combine the two. I've been fairly successful at it; I work in the arts, but not as an artist. I’m an arts administrator, which is a pretty good attempt at making both Art Girl and Money Girl happy. Sometimes it feels like a good compromise, but a lot of times it feels like the result of trying to appease both is that neither one ends up happy. Trying to feed Art Girl and Money Girl ultimately leaves them both hungry. Doing something meaningful is great; I really appreciate that about my job. I believe in it. But, at the end of the day (actually many, many days), it’s still a job. When I explain to people what I do, they often say, “Your job sounds so fun!” Yes, parts of it are fun, but the vast majority of the time, it’s deadlines and budgets and stress and crazy customers just like everybody else’s job. It often has me working long hours away from other parts of my life that make me very happy. I don’t make as much money doing it as I likely could in another field, and I don’t have the opportunity to fully exercise the creativity I feel.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe that happiness really is the most important thing, but it’s more complicated than that. Don’t we need to honestly consider WHAT makes us happy? It’s great if someone loves teaching preschool, but what if the same person also loves going on luxury vacations and wearing couture fashion? He or she is never going to be able to do that on a preschool teacher’s salary. Some people are totally inspired by doing social work and helping members of society who need special assistance. That’s fantastic, unless they have an expensive hobby that brings them great joy. They’re probably not going to be able to fund horseback riding or yacht racing with a social worker paycheck. We need to consider these things before we make major life decisions. Maybe we end up deciding it’s more important to do something we truly love and we can stand letting yachting or Chanel bags or whatever it is go. Maybe we don’t. The point is, either way it should be a conscious decision, made with obvious consequences taken fully into consideration.

What do you think? Who is more powerful, important, and/or reasonable – Art Girl or Money Girl? How do you reconcile the two in your life?

For the LOVE of PINK pants!

Can we talk about the sweat pants that have the word “LOVE” or “PINK” (or both) emblazoned across the butt? Every time I leave the house, I see at least half a dozen women displaying some spangled, sequined, glittered version of “LOVE PINK” on their asses. (Why never “GRACE GREEN” or “JUSTICE PUCE” or “LIBERTY CHARTREUSE”?) I can’t make a trip to the ATM or grocery store or coffee shop without being nearly blinded by butt-bling. I don’t understand this phenomenon.

I should start out by admitting that I’m extremely logo averse – I don’t like Louis Vuitton bags or the Coach purses with big Cs all over them. I think the last time I wore something with a giant logo on it was in sixth grade when I had a multi-colored sweater that prominently featured a giant Jordache horse, or maybe in junior high when I most definitely had some Esprit and Vaurnet France t-shirts. Sometime during high school, I got uncomfortable with the idea of being a human advertisement. I do not see myself as a walking billboard – my ass included. Are some people so brand loyal that they willingly and happily turn their butts into billboards (some larger than others)?

 No, thank you.

And maybe I’m weird, but I have this crazy notion that words, and their placement in the world, mean something. I don’t understand the point of “LOVE” or “PINK” or “LOVE PINK” across the butt. Are these women suggesting that others should love their butts? Are they proudly communicating that they love their own butts? Do they love butts in general? Do they love pink? Are they making sure, in case we’re color blind, that we know their sweat pants are, in fact, pink? (What about when the pants aren’t pink?!) See how confusing this is? Is their enthusiasm for the pants so great that they need to announce it to the world? Are they trying to accentuate their butts? (This last possibility seems like a bad idea seeing as the vast majority of the wearers really should not be calling any extra attention to their asses.)

Maybe if you’re a twelve-year-old girl, having a sweet word like “love” or “pink” displayed across your posterior seems cute and crazy, and especially irresistible when it’s rendered in pink sequins and makes you think you’re an “Angel” a la Gisele. My recollection is that girls of that age are just discovering that their asses are of interest to others and therefore useful for more than sitting on. Beyond the early teens though, I can’t think of any reasonable excuse. There are more sophisticated ways of calling attention to your feminine assets than affixing a sparkly sign to your ass.

No Subtlety here.

Gone Away

My mom always told me, “You will be able to count the true friends you have in your life on one hand.”

I’ve thought about this a lot over the years and I’m still not sure exactly how to interpret it. Is it a depressing commentary on how few people will genuinely be your friends? Or, is it a beautiful statement about the meaning of friendship and the depth of emotion, loyalty, and attachment that comes along with it? Either way, I’ve found it (along with most things my mom ever told me) to be pretty true.

I say you can count your true friends on both hands instead of one (I’m more of an idealistic dreamer than my practical, realist mom), but the basic theory is the same. Acquaintances come and go, and some “friends” are really something more like buddies – people who hang out with you for a certain period and then fade away. The point is, the true friends, the people you really love and that love you back, the ones who are there for you through thick and thin, those people with whom you just keep getting closer no matter the time or distance, are few and far between.

I have a handful (maybe two handfuls) of those friends and I am extremely thankful for them. Unfortunately, none of them live where I live, which doesn’t mean much except that I miss them and don’t get to see them as often as I’d like. I’m jealous of people who have close friends in close proximity. One of the great things about true friends is how you can go weeks, months, even years without seeing them and, then, when you do, you start right back in like you haven’t missed a beat. Still, it would be nice to be able to spontaneously meet after work for a drink or get together for lunch or have them just a hop, skip, and a jump away if you needed emergency dressing room advice.

I wasn’t always true-friendless in Seattle. In fact, some of my closest friends lived here before moving away. The impending departure of good friends has gotten me thinking about my string of former Seattleite friends and the trend of them leaving and me staying. Interestingly, these friends seem to correspond to each distinct period of my life.

At this point, I’ve been living in Seattle for almost half my life. It is my home. It’s where I became the adult person I am today. When that journey began nearly twenty years ago, my best childhood friend, Marla was living in Seattle as well. (Marla and I met on the bus to a volleyball away-game in 7^th grade. I was still pretty new in town, having just moved in 6^th grade, and was settled into a seat all by myself. Marla came along, scanning the rows for a place to sit. She looked at the empty spot beside me a bit cautiously and asked, “Can I sit there?” “Sure,” I shrugged, and by the end of that trip, we were best friends. Once we started talking, we never really stopped.)

Me and Marla - 1989

(You can tell we're good friends because we're happy here despite the dreadful blue, shiny unitards that were our freshman year dance team uniforms.)

After graduating from Oregon State University, we both moved to Seattle, and while we lived in different neighborhoods and were doing different things – me working and Marla attending graduate school – we saw each other quite a bit. Marla was the lone person who knew me, in a brand new, big huge sea of people. I always felt like a big city girl trapped in a small town growing up, so I was more than ready to immerse myself in urban life, but it was nice having somebody from my hometown just beyond the ship canal bridge. Marla helped me look for my first apartment – and understood how hilarious it was when the apartment manager tried to romanticize a tiny first floor unit by suggesting the tree outside the window made it “just like living in the country.” It makes me laugh now to think of what small town girls we were – bumbling along in the city, meeting new people and trying to figure out the oddities of urban life. We found a new pizza place (nothing could replace our hometown Pizza Deli of course, but we did our best) and discussed strange people like the guy with the implanted vampire fangs, who routinely stared at Marla on the bus. One evening, at what was probably the height of our small town girl naiveté, we stopped by the Safeway on Broadway to pick up some drinks to accompany our take-out Thai food. We were standing in the check-out line, chatting away, completely oblivious to the fact that a pair of police officers were pepper-spraying some hoodlum into submission on the floor not ten feet away from us. We both starting coughing – subtly at first, and then a little harder. We looked at each other in confusion as our eyes began watering and we noticed people clearing out.

“Hmmm . . . why are we the only ones still standing at the register?”

“Oh look, the police have that man down on the floor! He’s struggling . . . Huh. Weird.”

We finally figured it out – but I think it took the checker yelling something very obvious like “PEPPER SPRAY!” at the top of his lungs at us. Ah, city life! Well, Marla finished graduate school in no time and moved to the Portland area for a great job in her field and to be closer to her then-fiancé, soon-to-be husband Steve.   

(Marla and I recently took a trip together to celebrate a big birthday year. (Yes, we’re both 30! It’s hard to believe, isn’t it!?) We spent eight glorious days exploring Boston and Cape Cod – doing whatever we wanted and talking the entire time. It was the most time we had spent together since high school and it felt exactly the same – no beats missed.)

Me and Marla in Nantucket - May 2012

(We're happy here both because we're really good friends and because we're having a fabulous time in Nantucket.)

So suddenly, Marla was gone. Fortunately for me, by the time Marla moved away, Amy (who I met when we were both summer interns) finished college and moved to Seattle. Amy is hands-down one of the most fun people I’ve ever met. She’s smart, and hilarious, and refreshingly blunt, and rolls with the punches with such grace and efficiency, it never ceases to astonish me. Being with her is a guaranteed great time. It doesn’t matter if we’re sitting in our sweats watching TV, or having martinis for lunch, or getting lost in the middle of the night in the Eastern Washington desert, or carrying a pitch-covered Christmas tree twelve blocks from a tree lot to a tiny apartment. And so, with Amy by my side, my fun, and crazy, and sometimes painful, but never lonely, 20s ensued. For a brief period, she moved to California where her then-boyfriend, eventually-to-be husband Larry was still finishing college. It wasn’t too long before they both returned to Seattle and Amy moved into an apartment right around the corner from mine. Most Monday nights, we had dinner and watched TV at Amy’s apartment, and, once a week, we did our laundry over beers at the now defunct Sit & Spin. Much analysis of our budding careers and love (or lack-thereof) lives occurred over those laundry nights.

Amy and I had as much fun as a couple of 20-somethings should – going out and having fun, and staying in and bemoaning that our lives were not yet what we hoped they would be. It was perfect . . . until Larry got into medical school in Chicago and suddenly, Amy was gone. Amy and Larry are settled in Yakima now, which is certainly closer to Seattle than Chicago, but with kids and busy lives, we don’t see each other nearly enough.

After Amy left Seattle, it took quite a while for my next really good, true friend to come along. I was busy with work and graduate school (both of which provided lots of distractions in the way of professional and academic challenges, as well as a number of friends). At some point during all of that, Wil and Grisell moved to Seattle from Miami and Wil began working with my husband, Matt. The relationship began as a professional connection, but quickly turned to friendship. Wil and Grisell made requisite work-related social events much more fun and it wasn’t long before we were doing lots of things together outside of the work realm. We rang in the New Year together, we camped and dug for oysters together, we gathered for dinner parties and Super Bowl parties. We even witnessed Janet Jackson’s famous wardrobe malfunction together! One of our dinner parties devolved into what was most certainly the most drunken badminton game of all time.

Our sons Chester and Roman were born 6 weeks apart during the summer of 2006 and Grisell and I spent that summer and fall taking walks with the babies, conducting research on whether strollers or front-carriers made them cry the least, meeting for coffee with the babies, figuring out how in the world to get them to sleep, and basically propping each other up during those scary and difficult early parenting months. I’ll never forget the first time we laid Roman and Chester down together on a blanket at Green Lake – they turned their little heads toward each other and stared as if to say “Well hello there, I guess we’re going to be friends!” (Miraculously, neither one of them was crying at that moment.)

Me and Grisell - August 2006 - New Moms

We’ve spent six wonderful years sharing parenting milestones– birthday parties, play-dates at parks, trick-or-treating, Easter egg hunting, and treks to the zoo. We’ve gone through Thomas the Train, Buzz Lightyear, Beyblades, and Batman together. Our dinner parties look quite a bit different now – instead of playing falling-down-drunk badminton, our bourbon comes in much more responsible quantities and we’re typically playing tag with the kids in between sips. Our idea of a fantastic evening is walking to the park after one of Wil’s delicious grilled dinners, watching Chester and Roman alternate between racing each other and sweetly holding hands – friends since birth.

Well, you know what they say . . . The only constant is change, or something like that. (I’m not really sure who “they” are, but “they” are infuriatingly right about these sorts of things.) Now Wil and Grisell and Roman and baby brother, Lorenzo are going away too – moving back to Miami to be closer to family. I know we’ll always be friends with them (and now we have a great excuse to visit Florida) – just like I’ll always be friends with Marla and Amy. This friends-going-away business has happened before and I know distance doesn’t really mean much when it comes to true friends, but it does feel like the end of an era – of another phase of my life.

So here I am, true-friendless in Seattle once again. Sometimes I wonder why I always stay while everyone else goes. I wonder if maybe I’ll ever be the one to leave. I’ve certainly had chances and have always chosen to stay. I’ve cited financial or other practical reasons each time, to myself and to others, but deep down I know it’s because I’m really connected to this place.  

I’m left wondering what and who the next phase will bring. Maybe my mom is right – maybe I’ve already been blessed with as many true friends as one can expect to have in life and my one handful is complete. Or maybe there will be more – perhaps the mom of one of Chester’s elementary school classmates? Maybe someone I meet through my own adventures? At any rate, I’m looking forward to it, as well as to plenty of visits to and from Marla and Amy and Wil and Grisell.

Agreed?

Is there nothing we can all agree on? In this season of ramping up for the big presidential election in the fall, polarized media coverage, and heated debates on everything from insurance to immigration, I’m wondering if there is anything we can all agree on anymore. There used to be the Golden Rule – do unto others as you would have them do unto you – but even that seems to have gone by the wayside, judging by out of control greed, rampant individualism, and random acts of violence.

Well, call me a dreamer, but I’m holding out hope that there must be SOMETHING. If not the serious issues like economics, politics, or religion, perhaps the more mundane and trivial details that come up as we navigate day-to-day existence. Here are just a few examples of things we should all be able to agree on:

1) Katy Perry sucks. She does. Can we please agree that Katy Perry’s fifteen minutes of fame should have been up a long, long time ago? Why does she continue to assault us with her overly-produced, ridiculously rhyming, formulaic “music” and her tits and ass, sexualized shtick? You can’t go to the gym, grocery store, or gynecologist these days without hearing some form of Katy Perry – either blasted over the sound system or “muzaked” into an elevator or waiting room. I can’t take my child to the new Pixar movie without Katy Perry popping up in preview form. Who could watch a full, feature-length “documentary” about Katy Perry?! I could barely make it through the preview – Katy’s pink hair, blue hair, no wait, its pink again hair; rotating peppermint candies on Katy’s pointy bra; Katy astride a giant phallic gun shooting whipped cream or some sort of foam onto a stadium full of preteen girls; Katy hunched over in emotional agony as her divorce from Russell Brand is announced. The mind-numbing, faux drama is bad. The twisted combination of preteen girl fan-base and overtly sexual messaging is bad. It’s like Hustler magazine meets Candyland the preschool game.

2) Hair should not be striped. Ladies, let’s agree that bad highlights have got to go. What is it with the striped hair? It was trashy a decade ago, now it’s just ridiculous. It actually makes me angry when I see it. Why is it so prevalent? Who are the hair stylists who commit this atrocity? I am declaring bad highlights, lowlights, and the “lights” you can’t even make sense of a crime against humanity, and all that is good and beautiful in the world. Subtle variations in color are one thing; they provide texture and depth, but hair is not meant to be striped. Let’s all agree to say “NO!” to bad highlights.

3) 99.9% of the time, despite what commercials would have you believe, women do not have an orgasm when they put on moisturizer, apply makeup, or shampoo their hair. Can we agree that this is true? I’ll admit I have not checked this statistic or put it to any kind of scientific test (OK, I just made it up; isn’t that what everyone does with statistics these days?), but I’m going out on a limb based on personal experience as a moisturizer using, makeup applying, hair shampooing female. These personal grooming activities exist on a scale of “tedious chore” to “mildly enjoyable” simply because you’re devoting some attention to yourself for two minutes. And let’s face it . . . even if putting on moisturizer felt that good, the 20 seconds it takes to do it certainly wouldn’t get you there. So, men of the world, stop wondering why your girlfriend/wife doesn’t look like that when she puts on her makeup and women of the world, stop wondering if something is wrong with your products because they don’t seem to be working like they’re supposed to.     

4) If a platypus could sing, it would sound like Adam Levine. This is my own personal theory, but I’m pretty sure it’s right on the money. Try this . . . when you hear a Maroon 5 song, close your eyes and imagine a platypus. Go ahead, I’ll wait . . . it shouldn’t take long seeing as a Maroon 5 song is on any given radio station pretty much every five minutes . . . take your time . . . There! See! It works, doesn’t it?

So what if we can’t agree on immigration policy or childhood immunization? Who cares if we can’t see eye to eye on religion or reproduction? Let’s get on the same page with the simple, frivolous, day-to-day details. Please? Can we pretty, pretty please at least agree Adam Levine sounds like a platypus? If we can’t get on board with that, there’s no hope.

How about agree to disagree? I guess that’s something.

America the Ugly

While I was heartened by the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision to uphold the Affordable Care Act yesterday, I was extremely disheartened by the disgusting wave of anger, hatred and ignorance that swelled around the issue. It’s ugly; just plain ugly. (I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m left-leaning in my political ideology and I do believe everyone should have access to health care, but my comments here are NOT about the pros or cons of the Affordable Care Act; They are about the shameful reactions of so many that make me depressed and embarrassed.)

Of course I don’t expect everyone to agree with President Obama’s health care solution or to agree with the Supreme Court’s decision to uphold it. We are a large, complicated nation of 313 million diverse people with widely varying circumstances, ideologies and opinions. And the health care issue is enormously complicated. I absolutely understand differences of opinion and support each person’s right to have and express their own thoughts on the issue. What I can’t accept is the vitriolic, hateful, selfish, and downright ignorant manner in which it is being done – in the news, in social media, and in conversations from the water cooler to radio talk shows.

The health care system is broken. Fixing it isn’t going to be easy and with our widely diverse population it isn’t going to be perfect for each and every individual right out of the gate, if ever. That’s not the way big, societal change works. I’m not anywhere close to an expert on the health care issue, nor am I a constitutional scholar, but understanding that large scale societal change is incremental, difficult, and often painful seems like simple common sense to me.

Perfection is the surest way to prevent progress. If what we’re looking for is a perfect solution – perfect for every individual, perfect for every circumstance – before we implement anything, it will never happen. Progress has to start somewhere and that starting point is never perfection.

I’m not a Rah-Rah-Sis-Boom-Bah Obama fan. He wasn’t my first choice for a candidate in 2008. I always felt his promises of cure-all hope and sweeping change were unrealistic. But I am pleased that he has managed to begin to affect change in an area of society that really needs it. We could do with more elected officials who are willing to make unpopular decisions if it means getting something done. Of course elected officials are suppose to represent their constituents, but again, those constituents vary widely and elected officials can’t expect or be expected to please everyone all the time. They should see, and respond to, a bigger picture than each individual. I don’t think they always do the best job, but that’s the idea. I want my elected officials to make the best decisions for our society, not just for ME, ME, ME.

Obama certainly isn’t winning any popularity points for his health care solution, so I can’t image he’s sticking with it for political gain. That leads me to believe he’s committed to it because he truly believes we need change and he’s doing his best to start the process of making that painful, incremental change happen. Is it perfect? No. Does it need all sorts of examination and changing and tweaking to make it better? I’m sure it does. So let’s get on with it; at least the ball is rolling.

There are those who will, at this point, site statistics and stories about how terribly and unjustly certain individuals and groups of people will be “punished” by the mandate. Perhaps there is some truth to those claims, but there are just as many statistics and stories that not only dispute those claims, but tell of countless people who will benefit. So what if you’re not one of them? This democracy isn’t about individuals – it’s about the good of the whole and sometimes individuals have to make sacrifices for that. Why have we lost touch with that concept?

So many of the comments I’m hearing and seeing around this issue have nothing to do with the real issue of fixing the health care problem. It’s as though people are so self-centered and nasty these days, they seize upon any opportunity to be as pissed-off and mean as possible.

I’ve got news for these people: calling the President “a worthless piece of shit” isn’t doing anything to help solve any problem. It doesn’t make you smart or powerful or remotely useful. It makes you negative and ugly and part of a very sad problem. I’m sure I’ll get crucified for being an “over-educated, liberal elite” for saying this, but if you can’t string a few words together in your native language well enough for me to understand what you’re talking about, I can hardly be expected to assume you have credibility on anything, much less something as complicated as the national health care issue.

I’ve seen a form of this one a few times over the past 24 hours: “I’ll quit my job before they get one cent of tax money from me to support all the worthless people that choose not to work.” Well, if that isn’t an example of cutting off your nose to spite your face, I don’t know what is; very mature and productive. If you have the luxury of quitting your job so you don’t have to pay taxes, great, go for it, but please don’t drive on the roads my tax dollars pay for or send your kids to the socialist schools I support.

As for all the incredibly insightful “Fuck Obama” comments and variations thereof (including but not limited to, “Go fuck yourself, Obama,” “Fuck you, Obama,” and “Obama can fuck himself”), seriously, if that is the most intelligent thing you can think of to say, you need to go back to something far more remedial than the health care issue.

You don’t need to agree with the Affordable Care Act. You don’t need to like Obama. You don’t need to support his policies or politics, but what I do expect from my fellow Americans is to respect each other as human beings. Didn’t we all learn that valuable lesson in preschool? I teach my son not to call names – it doesn’t matter how much you disagree with someone or how angry they make you, you don’t hit them or bite them or call them names. That’s not a productive or acceptable way to exist in society. In fact, it’s mean and counterproductive. So, for those who didn’t grasp that lesson at age four, here it is one more time: You don’t call any other human being a “worthless piece of shit.” I don’t want my country to be ugly like that, so stop it.

You can't please everyone

“You can’t please everyone” – it’s a well-known and oft-repeated saying, probably because of its absolute truth. I imagine every human being, no matter who they are, where they live, or what they do has direct experience with the reality of “you can’t please everyone.” You really can’t.

 Any field that requires working with “the public” promises lots of experiences with the “You Can’t Please Everyone” – let’s call it YCPE for short – phenomenon. I just wrapped up another season of performing arts events – the 15^th since I founded the series – and if being a performing arts presenter has taught me anything, it’s the truth of YCPE. Even though a decade and a half seems like it should be plenty of time to accept a life-lesson, I still have trouble making peace with YCPE.

I’m a pleaser. I like getting the figurative gold star, the pat on the head, the “Way to go,” the “Atta girl,” the “Thank you, I really appreciate that.” I take my job seriously, and I very much want what I do to be meaningful and to make people happy. I appreciate feedback when it is constructive, but the vast majority of the time it isn’t. Even though I know the wisdom of YCPE, I still take each catty complaint and nasty nitpick personally. I’ve heard many crazy complaints over the years; these are some of the best (and by that I mean the worst):

Bad Jeans

Occasionally I get negative comments about the wardrobe choices my staff and I make on show days. This “fashion feedback” is one of the most annoying examples of work-based YCPE. (If I lodged a formal complaint every time I saw someone wearing something I didn’t think looked particularly good or flattering or appropriate, I wouldn’t have time to feed myself.)

Typically, these complaints focus on how “tacky,” “unprofessional,” and “offensive” it is that my assistant and I wear jeans to our shows. Do we sometimes wear jeans? Yes, we do. Are they dirty, faded, ripped, frayed, or even bedazzled? No, they are not. The jeans we wear are always nice, dark-rinse, tailored styles (which, I might add, are probably twice as expensive as the ill-fitting polyester pants the complainers are likely wearing) and paired with nice blouses and professional blazers. It isn’t like we’re throwing on a pair of ripped up Carhartts with a stained work-shirt or Cabo-Wabo tank top.

The other thing I hate about these complaints is that they are always anonymous. If you are upset enough to complain about something – you better be willing to own it. I hate anonymous complaints because they don’t give you an opportunity to respond and let the complainer know the perfectly logical reasons behind what they are complaining about. But a nice, reasonable explanation isn’t what they’re looking for is it? If they understood something, they wouldn’t be able to complain about it anymore. Since I never have the chance to explain why we often wear dressed-up jeans to the people who complain about it, here is what I would tell them: “You may not see us until we’re sitting down at the box office to issue your tickets or until I step onstage to introduce the performers, but we’ve been working for many hours prior to that – loading in equipment, setting up and taking down catering, running performers back and forth, to and from airports, and venues, and hotels. We don’t have the time or a place to do costume changes between each duty. It isn’t practical for us to get gussied up. And honestly, is it really hurting or offending you that I’m wearing nice jeans and a blazer?” Oh, the horror.

I say “subversive,” they read “heart-warming”

I find it truly stunning how often people either do not read the description of a show they are buying tickets for, or are somehow able to read it and completely disregard everything it says. Several years ago, I received a handful of complaints after presenting “Santaland Diaries” – a theatrical adaptation of writer David Sedaris’ holiday stories. People described it as “heartless and sarcastic.” Someone deemed it “gross” and “not appropriate for the holidays.” Clearly these folks were not familiar with the work of Mr. Sedaris, which is nothing if not sarcastic and dark, and never mind that I consistently described the show as “subversive, anti-holiday, and for mature audiences.”

Dear God, It’s me, Ronda

Please, God, help people to stop being so uptight. Each year we present an installment in the Late Nite Catechism series of shows. They are interactive, comedic theater pieces, intended to be entertainment – NOT religious events. These shows are among our most popular – typically selling out. While the shows are set in a parochial school “classroom,” performed by a “Sister” (who is really an actress in nun’s clothing), and respectfully poke fun at some elements of Catholic faith and education, they do not promote or even seriously cover any religion or religious teachings. Nevertheless, I can count on complaints every time – always from people who didn’t bother to attend the show. These complainers simply see the description in our season brochure, or on our website or, who knows maybe God sends them a vision of it, and are incensed. And this is an especially good example of YCPE because some of them are angry because, by presenting the show, I am obviously making fun of God, the Catholic Church, and everything that is good and holy. The other camp of complainers is ready to sick the ACLU on me for using public money to “promote” the Catholic faith. I really can’t win for losing with this one. Fortunately, normal, non-complaining people of all ages and spiritual persuasions attend these shows each year and always request return engagements. Thank you, God, for creating some people who aren’t hard-wired to complain. Please make more.

While there have always been complainers – those people who will, no matter what you do, come up with a reason to bitch about it – I am convinced the complaints are becoming more frequent, more outlandish, and, most disturbing of all, more angry. I had more people than ever complain about music volume this year. In fact, I seriously thought one man was going to resort to physical violence he was so upset about it. His face was red and about two inches from mine as he yelled at me that I was single-handedly causing hearing loss for every one of the audience members. (I believe he missed the irony of complaining that something was too loud by yelling.) I calmly explained that the artists tend to be particular about setting their own sound levels, but it was no use, I was personally causing the instantaneous deafness of hundreds of people. Had the angry, yelling man stayed past the first two songs, he would have noticed a decrease in volume. It was an R&B vocalist; of course she’s going to come out raising the rafters.

At a concert of Zydeco dance music, a woman sternly lectured me about the volume: “It’s louder than an average hairdryer in there and everyone knows hairdryers permanently damage your hearing!” I certainly value my hearing and don’t want to purposely damage it. I have a dad who is, due to a lifetime of loud work and accidents, nearly deaf, so I know how bad hearing loss can be, but for goodness sake, when did the people at my shows become so overly obsessed with hearing damage? I really want to follow these same people over to the concession stand and smugly inform them the cookies and chips they are so eagerly ingesting will cause heart disease and kill them. “Everybody knows Pringles kill you,” I want to say.

I’ve had people storm into the lobby, greatly upset that the lights are reflecting off the guitars into their eyes. They seem convinced that there is a plot against them. People routinely request refunds because they got lost and couldn’t find the venue, even though directions are clearly posted on our web site and included on our phone recording. And you wouldn’t believe how often I get chewed out because some woman drug her husband to a show, he didn’t like it, and now it’s my fault she’ll never get him out of the house to do anything fun in the future.

Whenever these instances occur, I take deep breaths and silently tell myself over and over again, “you can’t please everyone, you can’t please everyone, you can’t please everyone.” I remind myself to look around at all the happy, smiling audience members who are on their feet in standing ovations; the ones who thank and congratulate me on their way out. The fact is they outnumber the negative people. But I think the negativity and self-absorption has gotten worse and more frequent over the years. And it is particularly stunning to me that the negative people don’t seem to notice how happy everyone else is. 

I believe we have a terrifyingly pervasive trend of self-centeredness going on in our society. “If I don’t like it, it doesn’t matter if a zillion other people do, I get to bitch and complain and stamp my feet and throw a little tantrum because it’s obviously all about me.” Another one that drives me nuts is: “If I didn’t like it, I shouldn’t have to pay for it.” Really? There are plenty of horrible, miserable airline flights I’ve taken and I’ve never gotten a refund because I didn’t enjoy myself. Who are these people? I quite frequently find myself in situations where I’m less than thrilled with a product or service or event – especially when it is something new I’m trying. If I don’t like it, I typically shrug my shoulders, decide it isn’t my “cup of tea,” congratulate myself on being adventurous and open to new experiences, and move along. I don’t storm into the office of the event producer and demand a refund, I don’t call a company and whine and complain about how much I disliked their product. I don’t freak out when a portion of my tax dollars are directed to a service I don’t personally use. I live in a big society and I expect that it isn’t all about me. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly have “Ronda as Fascist Ruler” fantasies about how fantastic the world would be if I was calling every single shot (it would be), but I recognize those for what they are – FANTASIES. Do you know how unbelievably unjust or ridiculously awful something would have to be for me to lodge a complaint or write a letter? I’ve written one complaint letter in my life if that tells you something. It isn’t that I’m super easy-going and love everything either. It’s just that I have a grasp on the very real fact that there are a lot of other people in this world and they have wants and needs that are different from mine. Why is that getting harder and harder for people to understand?

After being hurt, and then angry, my emotional-response-to-negative-person cycle usually ends with feeling a little sorry for them. I want to ask, “Do you really expect to be perfectly, completely happy with every single experience and situation you find yourself in?” And, “If you do, how disappointed must you be all the time?” If someone practically has an anger-management meltdown over a performance being too loud, what do they do when something happens that really is worth getting angry about? I fear we are seeing the answer to that question in examples of bullying, senseless shootings, vicious name-calling, and violently polarized politics.

There is probably no clearer example of the YCPE phenomenon than in our current political realm. I was browsing on Facebook the other day and stumbled upon a group called Smart Girl Politics. (After reading a few posts and the ensuing comments, I came to the conclusion that “smart” could only be used to describe these gals if we were living in “opposite world”, but that’s an aside.) Their Facebook page was a perfect reminder of the YCPE principal. One person commented that she would not be able to agree with Debbie Wasserman Schultz, U.S. Representative for Florida’s 20^th congressional district and Chair of the Democratic National Committee, if she said the sky was blue. Not being a member or fan of “Smart Girl Politics”, I kept my mouth shut, but what I wanted to say was, “Really? You’re THAT polarized and close-minded and full of being angry at everything that isn’t exactly as you think it should be, you’re willing to cast aside logic, scientific fact, intellect, reason, and any shred of open-mindedness, not to mention kindness?” These are the “complainers” that make YCPE a reality, and there is no pleasing them. Ever. God help you if you try.

You can’t please everyone, it’s true, and it’s important to keep in mind. It’s important to realize something else too – You can’t expect to be pleased by everything and everyone all the time. This is my message to the complainers of the world: It is not your unalienable birthright to be 100% satisfied and content, 100% of the time. Accept it.

Hunger Games

I have a confession to make, but first I need to offer an apology. Participants at Emerald City Comicon, “the largest comic book and pop culture convention in the Pacific Northwest,” I am sorry. I apologize for calling you freaks and for publicly making fun of your really bad haircuts on my Facebook page (although in all seriousness, not a single one of you had a decent haircut) and for wanting to rip your ridiculous animated superhero costumes off and strangle you with them. I truly am sorry. (That is not to say I don’t still think of you as freaks. Adult human beings who spend time dressing up as Superwoman and Pokémon characters, have way too much time on their hands and need serious help, as well as our pity.) 

Okay, apology made, on to my sordid confession, but first, a brief disclaimer: This blog post is not about the wildly popular, over-hyped series of books with which it shares a title, nor is it about the recently released “major motion picture.” In fact, I know nothing about the books or the movie. Well, that’s not entirely true; I know a few things – the books are “young adult” fiction featuring a main character named Catnip. (I know it’s actually Katniss; you’d have to be dead to not hear Katniss-this and Katniss-that and “Go, Katniss!” every two seconds. I like Catnip better though because it makes me laugh, so that’s what I’m calling her.)

Back to my confession: Sometimes I get hungry. Yes, that’s right, I get very hungry. I suppose that, in and of itself, isn’t unusual. Everyone has to eat so naturally, we all get hungry when our bodies need food. The odd, and unsavory, thing is WHAT happens to me when I get hungry. It’s ugly. I know a lot of people admit to getting cranky when they’re hungry, but when I get overly hungry, it’s as if the fiery gates of Hell open and all the evil held therein comes gushing out into the world . . . through me.  It’s true. Just ask my husband. A high percentage of our fights happen when/because I am hungry. With the exception of the really epic ones, which everyone knows happen when you’re both drunk.

When I get really hungry and can’t get food immediately, I become a volatile combination of a petulant toddler, a sullen teenager, and the Wicked Witch of the West. I am Meryl Streep’s Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada – cruel, ruthless, and sarcastic. I am one of the Heathers from the 1989 dark comedy of the same name, ruling all I survey with ridicule and contempt. Hunger brings all of them together in an epic bomb of nastiness on a hair-trigger. I’m aware of it and I try to mitigate it, but I can’t. It’s like I’m possessed by particularly tenacious hunger demons.

Compounding this unfortunate problem are two facts:

1) I am somewhat picky about what I eat. OK, that’s an understatement; I’m actually very picky about what I eat, which makes it impossible to scoot into a fast food joint, select a less busy restaurant, or purchase something out of a machine or convenience store to appease the hunger demons.

2) I get hungry a lot. Unless I eat pretty much all day – something at least every two hours – I cross over into really hungry territory. Medical procedures that require fasting terrify me. I live in constant fear that my doctor or dentist or hair stylist will require me to report to a midday appointment with an empty stomach. (I’ve never heard of partial foils and a cut requiring a fasting period, but I worry about it nevertheless.) With my 40^th birthday quickly approaching, the specter of a colonoscopy looms over me like an ominous storm cloud. It’s not the procedure itself that alarms me (although it certainly doesn’t sound pleasant), but the necessary pre-procedure fasting. The healthcare professionals who will be required to interact with me on that fateful day before I am drugged will surely suffer my hunger-induced wrath whether or not they have nice haircuts and the good sense not to dress like Pikachu.

I don’t understand people who “forget” to eat or skip meals entirely. “I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day,” they genteelly explain with a blasé wave of their hand. This is stunning to me. Let me tell you, if I hadn’t eaten all day, we wouldn’t be sitting in a restaurant, nonchalantly waiting for a table over chit-chat about our day. Quite the contrary; everyone would be diving for cover (if the place was still standing) and I would be zooming around on my broom overhead, cackling and screeching, “I’ll get you, my pretties, and your little dogs too!”

I know I should carry emergency food with me like people with allergies carry an EpiPen, but how inconvenient is that? I’m quite fond of my handbags and I really don’t want a banana turning to mush in the bottom of one or a forgotten apple rotting amongst my lipsticks and car keys. The last time I checked, broccoli doesn’t slip into a wallet very easily. Nutrition bars are the obvious solution – they don’t spoil quickly, are housed in handy and cleanly wrappers, and can typically withstand some jostling about, but one can only eat so many of them and, like I said, I run into these little hunger episodes quite a lot. 

Saturday was a perfect example. My family ventured downtown to complete some specific errands, which needed to be achieved in an efficient and timely manner to maintain control, or at least the illusion of control, over our busy weekend. In the interest of said efficiency, it seemed like a no-brainer to obtain lunch at a downtown sushi restaurant that is typically deserted on weekend afternoons. Sadly, it was not a typical weekend: It was Comicon weekend. The gigantic Freak (oops, I mean Comic Book) Conference was being held at the Seattle Convention Center, which just happens to be a block from the sushi restaurant. The place was packed. Realizing that every other nearby restaurant was going to be just as busy and being hungry, bordering on very hungry, we decided to put our names on the list and wait.

At first I was fine – only mildly annoyed with the 16 year-old video game geeks trapped in out-of-shape 45 year-old men’s bodies who were displaying their Comicon laminates like they were Rolling Stones backstage passes or White House Press Corps credentials. But then it happened. I felt it coming on; I got really hungry – ruthlessly, cruelly, sarcastically, evilly hungry. While my five year old waited with the patience of a saint (“It’s OK mommy, it won’t be that much longer, our name will be up soon.”), I glowered at the man standing next to me in a crazy scientist outfit and imagined how satisfying it would be to crack open the glow stick posing as a test tube full of toxic potion in his lab coat pocket and pour the contents down his throat. I hoped that the half-naked Wonder Woman’s cape would get caught in the door, pulling her off her gold platform boots backwards by the neck.

I sent my husband to look for a less crowded restaurant, which he happily set off to do because I’m sure it was much more pleasant than being around me. I sneered at the three fifty-something women getting their pictures taken with the guy dressed as a floppy-eared blue character. One of them looked more ridiculous than him, having cinched her Sleepless in Seattle sweatshirt with a neon-colored skinny belt. I formed a mean-girl-like alliance with the gay bus boy. We snickered openly when some guy ordered Irish whiskey and made catty comments when he was taken aback that they didn’t have it. “Wow, a Japanese sushi restaurant that doesn’t have a specific brand of Irish whiskey? That’s weird!”

Finally, we got our table and, the instant I got some edamame in me, I was a different person. As the evil drained from my body, I rubbed my eyes, looked around and wondered, just like always, “what happened just then?!” Suddenly the aging gaming geeks and the bad skinny belt ladies seemed sort of sweet – still freaks, but sweet. Crazy Scientist and Wonder Woman seemed like they were probably just regular people having a good time – still freaks, but regular people freaks having a good time. And the floppy-eared blue character seemed like an intelligent and creative professional engaging in a worthwhile hobby. Oh, who am I kidding, there is simply no excuse for a grown man dressing in a blue, fur, full-body suit with floppy ears. That’s just fucked up.

I said I wasn’t hungry anymore, not that I was instantaneously transformed into a saint. 

The Happiest Place on Earth

When I was five, my parents took me to Disneyland. Some of my memories of the trip are vague, others are vivid, all of them are happy. I still recall the vacation as an idyllic time for my family. In fact, it was the first time I remember feeling thoroughly happy, confident and surrounded by love in a way I was conscious about – I not only felt that way, but had some realization of how wonderful it was to feel what I was feeling.

As I mentioned, many of the memories from my first time at Disneyland are fuzzy – the kind of memories that are like snapshots; you’re never sure if your memory is of the experience itself or of the photo. I think I remember having my picture taken with Winnie the Pooh, but the memory is all about visuals – my red and white outfit, my pigtails, and me laughing. I remember how I looked, not how I felt, so perhaps the memory was constructed from seeing the photo again and again in my family photo album over the subsequent years.

My favorite memory of the trip – and one of my favorite memories of my life for that matter – isn’t of a Disney character or a ride or anything about the park. It’s a memory of playing with my dad in our hotel room. It was probably the first time I stayed in a hotel as opposed to a motel and it seemed pretty luxurious. (We did quite a bit of road trip traveling when I was a kid, but my mom and dad were definitely more Motel 6 and Travel Lodge than Hilton or Four Seasons.) So there we were in our fancy accommodations, and my parents must have really been in the vacation spirit because they were uncharacteristically letting me bounce on the beds and even jump back and forth between the two. Five year old bliss! Not one to sit on the sidelines, my dad was participating in the rough-housing and, at one point, “stole my nose.” He had me somewhat convinced that his thumb poking out between his first two fingers was, in fact, my nose, disconnected from my face. I may have been only five, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to go through life without a nose, so I was frantically trying to get it back. I almost had it too . . . before he threw it out the window. This did not sit well with me and I made him go all the way out to the parking lot to retrieve it. I remember watching from our window and can still see him making his way out into the lot, pretending to pick up my nose and waving back up at me to signal that he had it. 

On the way back to the room, my dad stopped at the gift shop and got some Nerf balls. We may have already had one and he thought we needed more to really play with them properly. I’m not sure about that, but I do know it led to the most joyful, epic Nerf ball, bed-bouncing battle ever. Unlike the memory of having my picture taken with Winnie the Pooh, this memory is almost entirely about how I felt. I remember a blue Nerf ball and an orange one, and I remember how my dad looked, which despite the fact that he is now 35 years older, is exactly how I still see him today. The real content of the memory is the sense of being completely happy and present right there in the exact moment I was in – the feeling of thoroughly loving and being thoroughly loved.

With such good memories of my own childhood visit to Disneyland, I could hardly wait to take my son there. My husband, having grown up in Chicago, far away from any Disney land or world, had never been himself. While he certainly thought a trip to the Magic Kingdom sounded fun, he didn’t have the same childhood-memory-fueled drive to go that I did. As Chester’s fifth birthday came and went, I became increasingly adamant that we needed to make the trip while he was still at an age where it would be magical (although Disneyland has been magical to me at every age) and he would have an experience similar to mine, complete with dreamy memories. So, we finally did it. Budgets and logistics be damned, we headed to Disneyland over Chester’s mid-winter school break.

We took an early morning flight to LAX and by 10 a.m., were in our rental car heading for Anaheim. Everybody was excited to be on vacation and going to Disneyland, but one of us was definitely the most excited. (Here’s a hint – it wasn’t Chester or Matt.) By the time we checked into our hotel room overlooking the park, I could barely contain myself. Only because we were all starving did I consent to obtain lunch before we headed into the park.

The Happiest Mommy and Kiddo on Earth

Since our hotel had a direct entrance to California Adventure – the amusement park directly adjacent to Disneyland, which didn’t exist when I was a kid – we went there first. With no plan in mind, we wandered toward the giant rollercoaster – California Screamin’. Matt and I love rollercoasters, the line was short and Chester was tall enough to ride so we figured “why not?” The closer we got to the front of the line, the more we noticed there weren’t very many kids Chester’s age waiting to ride. By the time they secured us into our cars, I was a little nervous. Chester had been on little kid rollercoasters and loved those, but it occurred to me, as we shot out of the boarding station, that this was going to be more than a few steps up from kiddie coaster. I held Chester’s hand tightly and made lots of “yay, this is fun!” comments and noises as we sped through plunging drops, hairpin turns and a 360-degree loop. His little face was frozen in an expression halfway between terror and delight. As the ride ended, I hoped as hard as I could that we hadn’t traumatized him for the rest of the trip or even worse, for life. I kept the constant stream of “That was awesome! That was SO fun!” declarations coming as we exited, and Matt asked “What did you think, Chester? Was that fun?” He thought for a moment before cautiously answering, “Yeah, it was fun . . . scary fun!”

As it turns out, Chester is an extreme-ride rock star. He did California Screamin’ right out of the gate and didn’t stop there. He went on everything (an advantage of being a tall five year old) including Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain Railroad, Soarin’ Over California, and the Haunted Mansion. He even did the Tower of Terror, which is a repetitive free-fall, in the dark, with a horror/Twilight Zone theme. After it was over, he said, “Mommy, I think I want to be a little bit older next time I go on that one.” Apparently “a little bit older” meant two days older because that’s when he decided he wanted to go on it with me again rather than wait with daddy. The only thing that scared him so much he didn’t want to go near it again was Sleeping Beauty’s castle, which makes sense when you know Maleficent lurks inside. Who doesn’t she scare, turning into a dragon and summoning “all the powers of hell?”

After our California Screamin’ rollercoaster trial by fire, we proceeded to “A Bug’s Land” which is an area actually designed for small children. Chester enjoyed the familiar Pixar and Disney themes throughout the parks and liked all the rides, but he never did take to the costumed characters. He was mildly interested when Buzz Lightyear strolled by or when we pointed out Mickey Mouse, but if we suggested meeting them, getting their autographs or, God forbid, being photographed with them, he informed us, in no uncertain terms “THAT is for babies.” Fair enough.

His favorite ride was Splash Mountain – the Brer Rabbit-themed log ride with an enormous plunging, splashing drop coupled with woodland critters singing Zipadeedoodah. We rode Splash Mountain four or five times and, with each consecutive ride, Chester became more of an expert and served as the “tour guide” for our log, telling other riders what was coming up: “OK, there’s going to be a drop, but this isn’t a big one, this is just a baby one,” and when to prepare for the big drop: “Yeah, OK, this is the big one, here it comes, we’re going to get weeeeettttt!” Fortunately, everyone seemed to agree that his commentary was cuter than it was annoying.

We even had the unique experience of getting stuck on Splash Mountain when it broke down one afternoon. We sat in our log, enjoying the sunny day, listening to “cast members” tell us our ride was experiencing some “log jams” and “should continue shortly” for about fifteen minutes. Finally it did, but only for a minute or two. Our second “log jam” occurred inside the mountain, surrounded by singing, animatronic characters. When the singing stopped and the lights came on, we knew the ride was over, and sure enough, a “cast member” came along to escort us out of our logs. It was fantastic to walk through the mountain, amongst the Brer Rabbits, Bears, and Foxes, frozen mid-doodah. We took every opportunity to discreetly pet the animals and see how everything worked. It was like having our very own behind-the-scenes-exclusive tour of Splash Mountain, followed by a nice apology and a “fast past” to come back later. 

The underbelly of Disneyland fun is, of course, Disneyland fatigue. Long days of walking and standing in line definitely leave your dogs barking; and by dogs barking I mean feet aching. Apparently a common saying in Matt’s Chicago up-bringing, “my dogs are barking” was a phrase I had never heard before. I thought it was pretty funny when I first heard it and Chester thinks it’s hilarious. One night, after letting him stay up way past his normal bed time to go swimming after an already very long day, we climbed into bed complaining about our “barking dogs” – complete with canine sound effects. I’m not sure who got the giggles first but Chester and I couldn’t stop laughing. Just about the time we would start to calm down and drift off to sleep, somebody would burst out laughing again, or barking, or both.

Disney Fatigue

So, our days at Disneyland became filled with making jokes about “barking dogs” and creating elaborate strategies to take advantage of opportunities to rest them. Chester began asking us to take turns holding him in particularly long lines – “I’ve got to save my dogs!” he would plead. One evening, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep in Matt’s arms waiting in line for the interactive Toy Story ride – one of his other favorites. It truly is a cool ride and, consequently, always had one of the longest lines. Everyone around us was completely smitten by how sweet he looked, snoozing peacefully. The only thing more adorable was watching him wake up to discover he was, “like magic,” at the front of the line.

The trip was definitely all I hoped for. We had a great time and came home with lots of happy memories. I can’t help but wonder what Chester will remember many years later – the “scary fun” rollercoaster, his Splash Mountain adventures, the magic of falling asleep and waking up in the front of the line, or the late night hotel room giggling? I don’t think I can pick a favorite memory – I love and will remember them all. I do have a favorite souvenir though – it’s one I got after we returned home. When I arrived to pick Chester up from school after his first day back, he handed me a piece of paper, all folded up and taped tightly. I carefully opened it and slowly read his “best guess” spelled note. It took some deciphering but I figured out what it said with his help:

I love you with all my heart. Thank you for bringing me to Disneyland.

Chester

He pointed to the bottom of the page, where he had drawn three hearts – a big one, a medium one and a small one – all with smiling faces. “That’s us,” he said proudly. I hugged him tight, kissed the top of his head, closed my eyes, and silently expressed profound gratitude for my beautiful son, my family, and our successful trip to “The Happiest Place on Earth.”

Speaking of gratitude, I don’t know if I ever thanked my parents for my five-year-old Disneyland trip as wonderfully as Chester thanked us. In case I didn’t, and even if I did, it certainly bears repeating . . .

Mom and Daddy, I love you with all my heart. Thank you for bringing me to Disneyland.

Ronda

What's hot, what's not

In my last blog post, I wrote about things on Facebook that irritate me and identified a continuum ranging from mild annoyance to substantial aggravation.  Well, I forgot a level. Every so often, Facebook irritation moves beyond annoyance, blows past aggravation and takes me straight to anger. These are the things that get me so fired up I go to sleep fuming about them, wake up thinking about them, and feel compelled to write about them.

This montage of photos makes me angry. Maybe you’ve seen it; it has been making the rounds.

 

As you can see, the image juxtaposes photos of bikini-clad modern day celebrities, looking thin, with photos of retro starlets looking not as thin. The tag line asks, “When did THIS become hotter than THIS?!”

I am puzzled that this image is getting such play. Is it crying out “repost me, repost me, repost me!”? If it is, I can’t hear it. Haven’t we figured out by now, with the richly diverse world we live in, that what is and isn’t “hot” is very much in the eye of the beholder? I’m not sure I get the point of this image and the incessant reposting of it, unless it is simply to elevate one type of woman, based on how her body looks in a bathing suit, by tearing down another type. This is a lose/lose situation, and that’s what makes me angry.

Almost every time I’ve seen this image, it has been posted by a woman. The comments that inevitably follow are also largely made by women, and they always have the same tone: “Amen, Sister!” “It never has been or will be hotter!” “They look like skeletons – gross!” I get the sense these women think they are celebrating “real” women’s bodies and advocating for accepting women’s bodies as they are. Oddly, they seem completely blind to the fact that they’re doing the exact same thing they claim to be against – judging women based on their physical appearance.

Since when are thin women not “real”? I know plenty of women who are thin. In fact, I’m fairly thin myself. I think I’m real. I feel pretty real. I have a job, a husband, a kid. My days are filled with the challenges of balancing work, family and personal time and interests. I get tired; I sleep. I get hungry; I eat. Am I real? It seems run-of-the-mill real to me. Here’s another thing about me: I don’t like being judged based solely on what my body looks like anymore than the fat girl, or the super tall girl, or the short girl, or the girl with freckles.

I don’t think my body is perfect, but I do love it. It takes me from point A to point B in the world pretty effectively. It runs, it does yoga, it plays with my son. It brought my son into the world and that’s pretty amazing. We all have things we like about our bodies and things we don’t like as much. The fact that we put so much focus on physical appearance is the problem.

Objectifying any woman or group of women is objectifying all women. The more women post photos of skinny girls with catty comments or spend precious time and energy criticizing Angelina Jolie or celeb du jour for being too thin on the awards shows, the more women are making it okay for someone else to criticize Adele or any woman for being fat. Media is brutal on all women – they’re equal opportunity objectifiers. One tabloid headline blasts Jessica Simpson for looking fat in her high-waist jeans and the very next is all over Keira Knightly for being too thin. “Is starlet X expecting? It looks like a baby bump! Does Starlet Y have an eating disorder? She looks awfully skinny!” We all know how it goes.

I recently saw Miss Representation, a 2011 documentary film directed by Jennifer Siebel Newsom. The film explores how mainstream media contribute to the under-representation of women in positions of power, influence and leadership by portraying women in narrow and often disparaging roles. “You can’t be what you can’t see,” is a major theme of the movie, and our society’s media is not providing positive role models for women and girls to see.

Rarely are women the protagonists of mainstream movies (only 16% of film protagonists are female). Apparently it is a firmly held belief in Hollywood that people want to watch movies about white men and aren’t interested in watching movies about women, particularly strong women who talk to each other about something other than men. What about Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, Catwoman, Charlie’s Angels? Yes, there seems to be a whole new genre of action movies featuring women as heroes. Unfortunately, these female protagonists are even more sexualized than the traditional love-interest-of-leading-man roles. Caroline Heldman, a Professor of political science at Occidental College, calls this trend the “Fighting Fuck Toy,” which is an image that is both sad and hilarious; a cross between an action figure and a blow-up doll. “Press the button on my back for badass karate-chop motion!” “Squeeze my thigh for realistic hip-grinding action!” “Pull my hair and I say more than 20 phrases: ‘Take that!’ ‘You’ve been a very bad boy!’ ‘Oh, baby!’ and more!”

I was also shocked by a statistic the film shared about the ages of women in mainstream media. I don’t recall the exact percentages, but the gist was this: the majority of women on television are under the age of 31, while the majority of women in this country are over the age of 45. One of the academics interviewed for the film said something to the effect of “judging by what you see in media, women might as well cease to exist when they turn 40.” Upon hearing this, I clutched my husband’s hand and gave him a panic-stricken look out of the corner of my eye. Yes, I’ll be turning the big 4-0 this year and I will admit I’m a little distraught about it. Now I think I know why: Growing up around media that doesn’t show many examples of women over 40 makes it feel a little like I’m going to cease to exist. I’ve begun to, tongue-in-cheek, call 2012 my “cease to exist year.”

While I consciously know I won’t vanish into thin air when I hit 40, I do know I’ll continue struggling with the results of media’s disparaging and limited depictions of women. That has been going on my entire career. I’ve blogged before about the scarcity of women in highly influential leadership positions in my chosen field – one that is generally thought to be “dominated” by women, at least in terms of sheer numbers. It amazes me to hear people say we’ve gotten past sexism. Are they just not paying attention? When I returned from my three month maternity leave, a high-ranking employee of my organization asked me how I was enjoying motherhood. I told him it was wonderful and I was enjoying it more than I ever imagined I would. He shook his head and said, “Yeah, I’ll never forget what one of my first mentors told me: ‘Never hire a woman of child-bearing age.’” In addition to being sexist, his sentiment doesn’t even make sense. I’m still at my job, working as hard as ever. Besides that over the top example, I notice I am frequently interrupted by men in professional settings and my ideas are disregarded more often than the ideas of men. I know it isn’t just me, as plenty of female colleagues share similar experiences. A friend who is in a high-level leadership position talks about having everyone at a meeting dismiss her suggestions, only to embrace the exact same ideas when they are brought up by a man later in the same meeting.

My friend Llysa Holland recently shared a fascinating article called How the sex bias prevails by Shankar Vedantam. It describes the experiences of two transgendered Stanford University scientists, both of whom underwent sex changes fairly late in their lives – one from man to woman and one from woman to man. The experiences they shared in the different ways they were treated before and after their sex changes are striking. The article posits that perhaps we cannot truly see sexism at work in our society and how it impacts our lives without women being able to experience life as men and vice versa. The scientist who went from being a woman to a man had this to say: “By far, the main difference that I have noticed is that people who don't know I am transgendered treat me with much more respect: I can even complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man." (The italicized emphasis is mine.) The scientist who transitioned from man to woman said this about the differing interpersonal dynamics: "You get interrupted when you are talking, you can't command attention, but above all you can't frame the issues.” This sounds all too familiar.

When smart, successful women can’t get through a sentence in a professional setting without being interrupted, why do we, as women, spend so much time adding our voices to the dull roar portraying us as nothing more than bodies – either too fat or too thin, love-interests, and “Fighting Fuck Toys?” We’ve been well-trained to objectify ourselves and other women; that’s why. We’ve grown up in a media-saturated world that surrounds us with images of how women are “supposed” to look and learned that our value is dependent on whether or not we meet that standard.

How can we get past being critical of ourselves when we apply the same judgmental eye (with the standards simply flipped) to other women? We can’t pick our brand of beautiful and then disparage the rest without opening ourselves up to the same kind of criticism. Let’s stop obsessing about whether Fergie’s tummy-pooch means she’s expecting or if Katie Holmes has an eating disorder. Let’s stop circulating images that compare and judge women based solely on their physical appearance and start concentrating on framing the issues, shall we? That would be hot.

Facebook Irritation: A Continuum

Humor is the greatest thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place. ~Mark Twain

I have a lot of pet peeves (don’t we all) that span various facets of my life and Facebook is no exception. For the most part, I love Facebook. It allows me to stay connected with colleagues. It provides entertainment, ideas, and even inspiration. It has given me the delightful opportunity to reconnect with friends from as far back as elementary school. For all these reasons, I appreciate Facebook and tolerate the endless irritation it also inflicts.

Facebook irritation comes in varying degrees of severity ranging from mild annoyance (Category One) to substantial aggravation (Category Two), with the vast majority falling at the mild annoyance end of the scale. These are the things that elicit nothing more than an eye roll or a head shake. They happen so often that several recurring examples have emerged during my time with the social networking giant. (Before I go any further, yes, I am aware that I probably annoy plenty of people myself. In fact, I may annoy some with this very post. I apologize in advance.)

Just Sayin’

A perfect example of the mild annoyance brand of Facebook irritation is the epidemic overuse, and nonsensical use, of the phrase “just sayin’.” As best as I can ascertain, when employed appropriately, the phrase means the speaker is good naturedly pointing out or calling attention to something the listener might disagree with or be sensitive about. For example:

Person one: I’m tired of doing all the work on this project.

Person two: You don’t do all the work. I did that one thing that one time.

Person one: (glaring)

Person two: I’m just sayin’.

Or . . .

Person one: Do you think I look fat?

Person two: Well, you did eat all that pizza last night.

Person one: (looking crestfallen)

Person two: Just sayin’.

As if “just sayin’” isn’t overused enough in its appropriate context, why do so many people these days find it necessary to insert the phrase at the end of anything and everything they say? It’s stating the obvious at best (if you’ve said it, of course you’re saying it) and completely pointless.

The grocery store was packed tonight. Just sayin’

I hate Mondays. Just sayin’

Baby, I love you so much. Just sayin’

Honey Bunny

It is annoying (and sometimes gag-inducing) when people share the graphic details of their out-of-a-bad-teen-movie romance with the Facebook world.

I wuv you, honey.

Oh baby-waby, I wuv you too.

I can’t WAIT to see you tonight.

Oh really?

Really.

What are you gonna do?

Oh, don’t you worry, you’ll like it . . .”

STOP! Please stop it right now! Don’t you people have private emails? Phones? Public Facebook walls are not for “sexting” or writing your very own Harlequin romance novel. You think it’s adorable when your significant other calls you honey bunny and hilarious that you call his penis Burt. No one else finds it remotely cute or amusing. I promise you.

Today I did upper body at the gym

Why do people feel compelled to share the most detailed minutia of their day-to-day existence in the blandest way possible? This is serious Category One irritation.

I went to the gym.

Uh, okay, thanks for sharing, but that isn’t terribly interesting. In fact, it isn’t interesting at all. It isn’t that you can’t share a status about having gone to the gym but try to spice it up a little. Tell us about how you were on the treadmill next to a guy who was singing along to Britney Spears on his iPod at the top of his lungs. Regale us with a story about how the new yoga teacher’s left boob kept popping out of her tank top with every downward facing dog. Tell us something remotely interesting. Please. For the sake of all your friends who end up reading about it on their news feeds. Friends don’t subject friends to brutally boring statuses.

Re-post unless you hate your own children and want baby animals to be tortured

You’ve seen these statuses. They exist for depression, autism, cancer and every other imaginable disease and disorder:

Cancer is terrible. It claims the lives of (insert statistic here) people each year. More research is needed to find a cure. If you know someone who is fighting or fought a battle with cancer, post this as your status for one hour as a symbol of respect and remembrance. Only some of you will do this, and I know who you are. I hope I’m right about the people who will honor this request.

Cancer sucks. No question. Depression is a real sickness; not good. We need more information about and understanding of autism; absolutely. We all know people who have been affected by these things and we all agree that finding cures for them would be wonderful. So go ahead, post about opportunities to raise funds for medical research, share links to your favorite organizations that are involved in finding solutions and providing assistance, but please, please, please don’t demand that I copy your status and imply that I’m an awful person if I don’t. This is like those bad chain letters (and now emails) that threaten you’ll have bad luck for a zillion years or die a painful and instantaneous death if you don’t pass them on.

Another variation is the statuses that ask you to repost if you are a “true friend”:

If you are a true friend and would be there for me no matter what, then copy and paste this. (I bet not one of my Facebook friends will repost this, but I’m counting on a true friend to do it!)

Hey, guess what, if I’m a true friend who would always be there for you, no matter what, I’m going to pick up the phone and call you, or meet you for lunch, or make sure I’m actually THERE for you. I don’t think reposting a meaningless status on Facebook gets you “true friend” points.

Other statuses demand you repost if you have a sister, mother, brother, father, daughter, cousin, step-aunt-twice-removed, dog, goldfish, or pet rock that you love:

I’ll always need my son no matter what age I am. My son has made me laugh, made me cry, made me proud. He’s hugged me tight, cheered me up, kept me going strong, and driven me crazy at times. But my son is a promise from God that I will have a friend forever. Put this on your status if you have a wonderful son that you love with all your heart.

Here’s the deal: I have a son. He is the joy of my life; truly and completely. For me, the sun rises and sets because of Chester. My life is centered on him in a way I was unable to comprehend before he existed and I’m certain my love for him will continue to expand and deepen in ways I can’t begin to imagine now as he grows into a man. My feelings for my son are so powerful, so heart-rending that I can’t begin to express them. A generic Facebook status sure as heck isn’t going to cut it. I shower him with love and affection in all sorts of ways to make sure he knows how loved he is. There isn’t anything wrong with the sweet sayings, they just aren’t my style. We all love our kids; if a quote or saying resonates with you, by all means, repost it, but don’t imply that if I don’t, I must not love my son.

The “put-this-on-your-status-if” sentence is unnecessary and irritating. If you like something and believe in it and feel compelled to post it, knock yourself out. If people agree with you and want to repost it, they will. You don’t need to be all bossy and judgmental about it.

Those are just a handful of my Facebook pet peeves; the little things that annoy me on a day-to-day basis. Not a big deal. Category One; I just roll my eyes and move along. But sometimes my irritation level rises above mild annoyance and into Category Two – substantial aggravation.

I live and work in a very liberal, urban setting where I am surrounded by people who are a lot like me. My Facebook world, on the other hand, includes many people who are quite a bit different from me. The most typical cause of substantial aggravation on Facebook is a post that represents a political ideology or religious philosophy I do not share. Depending on the topic and delivery, these instances either stay in the realm of mild annoyance or move into substantial aggravation, which means I not only disagree, but feel strongly enough to make a comment and engage in discussion about the issue. The lovely thing about getting this irritated is that it can, when handled productively by both parties, transform a negative reaction into a positive outcome.

In fact, one of my favorite things about Facebook is that, in a highly polarized world where we all gravitate more and more to people, activities and news sources that are like us and support our current views, I have connections with people who think and feel differently than me. When I take the time to engage with someone on an issue, I usually learn a lot. I begin to understand where people with differing thoughts, opinions, and beliefs are coming from, and I realize that we are, in general, more the same than we are different. I love having an intense debate via Facebook and then sharing cute kid pictures or laughing over the trials of parenting.

Of course Category Two irritation doesn’t always turn out so well. It can definitely go wrong when the source of my irritation isn’t willing or able to engage in an intellectual and respectful discussion. I’ve had Facebook “friends” turn disagreements into personal attacks. (Not cool.) And I’ve been “unfriended” by people who apparently do not appreciate, in the same way I do, interacting with someone who disagrees with them. (Sad.)

So, that concludes my rant about things I find irritating on Facebook. Come to think of it, Facebook isn’t so different from the rest of the world. It can be wonderful and it can be irritating. You take the bad with the good and it ends up being worth it. Repost if you agree, honey bunny. If you don’t, you’re a terrible friend. Just sayin’.