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’.

What to do with five snow days in a row: A documentary and guide

It started snowing in Seattle on Sunday, January 15. Oddly this snow came just as meteorologists forecasted it would. (If you’ve spent any time in Seattle, listening to Seattle weather forecasts, you know why I say “oddly.”) Now it is Thursday, January 19 and we are on Snow Day #5 or “Nearly to the Bottom of the Descent into Insanity” as I’m calling it and it’s STILL snowing. Don’t get me wrong, I love snow – it’s beautiful and fun and generally a magical deviation from the doldrums of ordinary, day-to-day, winter life. I especially love getting a little snow now and again in Seattle since we so rarely do. The key words here are “a little” and “now and again.” Being home-bound for nearly a week, with a five year old and a ton of work piling up at the office, ceases to be fun, magical and beautiful, and starts to become boring and insanity-inducing. At least it’s still beautiful, with the neighborhood blanketed in white and the trees covered in icy crystals. In fact, yesterday when I suggested shoveling our driveway and sidewalk, Chester looked at me incredulously and sadly asked, “But Mommy . . . don’t you want it to be beautiful?” The answer was, yes, I did want it to stay beautiful, especially considering that’s about all we’ve got at this point.

With the exception of a failed attempt at a school and work day on Tuesday, (Seattle schools opted for a late start and then decided two hours later to go with an early dismissal) we’ve been home – either in our house or neighborhood – for five days now. Five days. And you can only build so many snowmen. Overall I think we’re doing a pretty good job of keeping ourselves entertained. So, as a future reference for myself and anyone else who finds themselves snowed in for the better part of a week, I’ve prepared this list of entertainment suggestions.

1. Engage in typical snow activities

This one is a no-brainier. Of course you should immediately get out in the snow – especially when it’s still super fluffy and fresh. Go for a walk around your neighborhood; you never know what you might discover. We found this brilliant and exquisite skull sculpted out of snow!

Check out the park, have a snowball fight, build snowmen, construct an igloo, go sledding, and make snow angels.

Making snow angels works especially well when you are an adorable child.

As for sledding, it turns out we have a particularly sweet run in our neighborhood – a steep length of side street that is out of the question for cars and therefore quickly claimed by throngs of sledders. Southwest Olga Street, between 37^th and Admiral, has been home to tiny toddlers on itty-bitty sleds, tubing teenagers careening off self-fashioned jumps, middle-aged dads reliving their luge glory days (whether real or imagined, I’m not sure), and people of all shapes and sizes on sleds of all shapes and sizes. Our sledding experience these past few days has been an arctic communal utopia with everyone gathering at the local Starbucks to warm up.

As fantastically fun as snow activities are, they only last for so long. For one thing, you get cold and, as I said earlier, you can only make so many snowmen, which leads me to the next suggestion.

2. Make some new friends                                                 

Hard to believe, but snow storms create a perfect environment for making new friends. Literally. Here’s how to do it: Form a small ball of snow. Roll it around in the snow to make it larger. Repeat until you have three balls in decreasingly smaller sizes. Stack them one on top of the other. Now you have the body of your newest friend! (Yeah, yeah, I know I already talked about making snowmen, but now you’re making FRIENDS. That’s totally different.) Add arms and a face, and style as you see fit. Do you want a super hip, cutting edge friend? A classic, tried and true kind of friend? A preppy friend? Maybe you are feeling rebellious and could use a punk rock friend? A funny friend? A serious friend? You get the idea – style away. Don’t hold back; just think how great your snow friends will look standing in your front yard, mocking the less awesome neighborhood snowmen. The creation of your new posse of pals is the fun part. Unfortunately they aren’t terribly dynamic once they’re complete. Truth be told, they’re kind of dull; they mostly just stand around and act cool . . . super cool.

Super cool friends

3.  Exercise

By day three you are dying from gym and yoga withdrawals. You can’t get there and all the classes are probably canceled anyway. It’s too slippery and slushy to go for a run, and push-ups, wall-sits and ab crunches in your living room are about as boring as it gets. But who needs those things when you’ve got a 50+ pound kid who wants nothing more than to yell “YAH!” and “MUSH!” mercilessly as you pull him around your hilly neighborhood on the sled?

4. Play games

Play lots of games. If you get bored with the games you have, I recommend putting your kid on that sled and pulling him or her to the closest store to invest in some more. For the five-year-old set, allow me to recommend: Sorry, Cars Monopoly, Connect Four, Old Maid, Go Fish, Operation, Toy Story Yahtzee, Crazy 8s, Junior Scrabble, Battleship, Checkers and Jenga. Yeah, like I said, LOTS of games.

 Lots of Games

5.  Work puzzles

Work lots of puzzles. Yes, this is similar to #4, but with puzzles instead of games. Try Toy Story puzzles, Disney puzzles, dinosaur puzzles, map of the United States puzzles, rare tropical frog puzzles. Lots of puzzles.

6. Watch movies

Watch lots of movies. See numbers 3 and 4. Substitute movies and snuggling. Mr. Popper’s Penguins and Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The Squeakquel worked well for us. Warning: Side effects involve relentless quoting of the movies which may include, but not be limited to, your child saying, “Hey, Pecky Peckerton!,” pointing at you in the Starbucks line while mouthing “Nimrod,” and even repeatedly singing Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” in a chipmunk voice.

7. Stage an epic battle

Gather your army men, create a brilliant military strategy (or a formation that looks kind of pretty – whichever works for you) and head into battle. This is good for at least an hour of entertainment, especially if your child, like mine, is fond of creating his own games with lengthy, complex rules. Below is a historical photo of the famous Battle of the Toy Snowldiers. Can’t tell what’s going on? Neither could I. It involved rolling two army men like dice and employing some sort of complicated mathematical formula to devise what to do, depending on how they landed. All I know is we lost a lot of good men that day.

 Snowpocalypse Now: Battle of the Toy Snowldiers

8. Build a fort

By now you’ve discovered that building an igloo is a lot of work, the roof is nearly impossible to engineer and it’s too cold to play in for long. So why not build a fort inside? It will take you forever to re-fold every blanket in your house and reassemble all your furniture, that is true, but you should tell that reasonable, tidy, organized voice inside your head to hush up. Twenty minutes of entertainment is well worth the forty minutes it will take you to clean up. In a stunning display of how big an impact a very small person can make, the entire first floor of my house (granted it’s not that big) became . . . well, I’m not exactly sure what it became. I’m going with fort/maze combo. 

My house is not usually arranged like this.

9. Make construction paper monsters

Why? Because it takes up a good two hours, that’s why.

10. Read a book

Opt for a book you might actually enjoy or use the home confinement to compel yourself to get through something less pleasant.  I have Snow Day #5 to thank for forcing me to finally finish Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” – easily one of the least enjoyable books I’ve ever read. I know it’s a classic, by a literary giant (that’s why I forced myself to read it) and my criticizing it is akin to a person who can’t make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich disparaging a five-star restaurant chef, but I can’t help it. I hated it. I know Hemingway “did more to change the style of English prose than any other writer in the twentieth century.” I know he won a Nobel Prize for Literature. I know “A Farewell to Arms” is considered the “best American novel to emerge from World War I.” But despite all that, I hated it. For those of you who haven’t read it, here is my synopsis (spoiler alert): The main character is Lieutenant Henry, an American ambulance driver serving on the Italian front in World War I. He meets a British nurse named Catherine. They don’t really like each other, but then randomly decide they do. There are mountains. The mountains are big and gray and covered with snow. There are rivers that are clear and blue and filled with pebbles and boulders and rocks that are jagged and rough and smooth and wet. There are lots of soldiers marching. They march through mud. It is brown. It is frozen. Lieutenant Henry gets hurt and ends up in a hospital. Nurse Catherine is there and they fall in love. Sort of, I guess. It doesn’t really seem like they’re in love. Their dialogue goes like this:

Catherine: Oh darling, I love you so much. Don’t we have a grand life together?

Henry: Yes, it is very grand, especially at night.

Catherine: I’ll be a good wife for you won’t I? I’m a good girl.

Henry: Yes, you are.

Catherine: Oh, I’m so foolish and stupid and ridiculous. You should go away from me.

Henry: Do you want me to go away?

Catherine: No, I’m nothing without you.

Henry: Good. I don’t want to go away.

This nurse Catherine has some serious self-esteem issues. Anyway, whether or not they’re actually in love, they make love and (surprise) she gets pregnant right about the time his leg is healed and he has to return to the front. There are mountains and farm houses and marching soldiers described in excruciating detail. Soldiers are killed matter-of-factly and their friends barely notice, much less care. Lieutenant Henry goes AWOL and hops a train back to Catherine. They escape the country together via a row boat to Switzerland, where they live for several months.

Catherine: Oh darling, don’t we have a grand time together?

Henry: Very grand.

Catherine: I’m so silly and stupid. And now I’m fat and not at all appealing to you.

Henry: You are more beautiful than you have ever been.

Catherine: Oh, you sweet boy. You are so good to me. You should grow a beard.

Henry: Do you want me to grow a beard?

Catherine: Yes, I think it would be lovely. Oh, I’m so stupid, but I’ll make you a good wife, won’t I?

Henry: Yes, let’s get married now.

Catherine: Oh no, not now while I am so fat. When I am skinny again, then we will get married and I will cut my hair. You will let me, won’t you?

Henry: Yes, I think it will be exciting.

That goes on for a few months. They go on carriage rides and picnics and try to enjoy themselves as much as they can before the baby comes. They fear the baby will ruin everything. Foreshadowing abounds. Finally Catherine goes into labor. It goes on forever. The baby dies. Catherine dies. (You really don’t care.) Lieutenant Henry goes back to the hotel. The end. Seriously, that’s the book. Now you don’t have to read it. Thank you notes are appreciated, but not necessary.

So, there you have it, my top ten ideas for never-ending snow storm entertainment, and not a moment too soon because I just found out school is canceled again on Friday. Snow Day #6 (aka Official Arrival at Insanity) here we come!

Everyone Poohs

We’ve been watching a lot of Winnie the Pooh at our house lately. Santa brought the new movie to Chester for Christmas and it is delightful. It makes Chester giggle uncontrollably, which makes me happier than I ever imagined I could be. All week, I’ve been humming and silently singing, “Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, tubby little buddy all stuffed with fluff, he’s Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, willy nilly silly ol’ bear.” You’d think it would be annoying to have the Winnie the Pooh song on a constant loop in your head, but amazingly it’s not. I can’t be in a bad mood or get too upset about anything with the line “willy nilly silly ol’ bear” running through my mind, and believe me when I tell you that has come in quite handy this week.

It occurred to me a few mornings ago that Winnie the Pooh is sort of the original Toy Story. When the first Toy Story movie came out and rocketed Pixar into mega-super-domination of the animation world, I remember thinking what a great and unique idea it was to base a story on the toys in a child’s room coming to life. I certainly mean no disrespect for Pixar or the Toy Story franchise (I’m a huge fan), but I guess the concept wasn’t really all that new. Chester was watching Winnie the Pooh as I was getting breakfast ready and I was enjoying overhearing the part where Balloon (the red balloon that lives in Christopher Robin’s room) wins the prize for finding a new tail for Eeyore. Rabbit presents the award with a monologue about what a loyal, wonderful friend the winner is. He gets Pooh’s hopes up before excitedly announcing that Balloon wins the pot of honey – much to Pooh’s chagrin. The stuffed animals treat Balloon as an equal member of their Hundred Acre Wood community and why shouldn’t they? He is, like all of them, a beloved toy in Christopher Robin’s room.

I loved Winnie the Pooh as a child and cherished my own stuffed animal versions of the characters that my mom sewed herself. My old Kanga and Roo currently watch over Chester’s room from prime real estate on his dresser and my favorite, Eeyore greets me (gloomily, of course) every day from atop the armoire in my closet. I find it fascinating that the Pooh characters are still so relevant these many years later (A. A. Milne’s first book of short stories about Pooh Bear was released in 1926) and resonate as much (if slightly differently) with me as an adult as they did when I was a kid.

My beloved stuffed Eeyore.

A. A. Milne’s characters masterfully depict common human character traits. I’m certainly not the first person (nor the most articulate) to notice and write about that. The humble little bear and his friends have been used by many authors and academics to illustrate complex philosophical ideas. Benjamin Hoff explains Taoism in The Tao of Pooh and The Te of Piglet. Frederick Crews retold Pooh stories in obscure academic jargon in Postmodern Pooh and The Pooh Perplex, and John T. Williams uses Milne’s characters to illustrate the works of philosophers including Descartes, Kant, Plato and Nietzsche.  

I’m a big believer that, as human beings, our weaknesses can also be our strengths and vice versa. I remind myself of this whenever Chester is being stubborn and argumentative and a general pain in my ass. I take a deep breath and think to myself “This kid will never be anybody’s doormat. He’s going to be persistent and tenacious and will always stand up for what he believes in.” The Hundred Acre Wood characters are so meaningful to generations of people of all ages partly because they beautifully illustrate the somewhat strange but true dynamic that our strengths and weaknesses can be, and often are, one and the same.

Winnie the Pooh is a loyal friend with a pure heart. Unfortunately, he often underestimates himself. Despite being “a bear of very little brain,” he is frequently quite astute and makes great efforts to utilize his limited smarts. Christopher Robin summarizes Pooh well when he eloquently and lovingly reminds him, "You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Eeyore is gray in color with an outlook to match. He is intelligent, but his melancholy mood and cynical wit keep him complaining constantly. He is somewhat of a loner in the forest, often getting left behind, assuming no one wants him around or simply preferring some peace and quiet. Despite his gloomy nature, Eeyore values his friends and, while he certainly never expects kindness or takes favors for granted, he truly appreciates the goodness extended to him.

Piglet is small in stature and timid. He tends to mistake fear for lack of courage. "It is hard to be brave when you're only a Very Small Animal," he says. Piglet’s strengths are kindness, compassion and generosity.

Rabbit is the bossy one of the bunch. He is high strung and strives to create order, as evidenced by his dedication to perfecting his garden, as well as his tendency to make lists, create agendas and generally order the rest of the characters around. Rabbit is clever and knows how to get things done.

Tigger is exuberant; perhaps overly so. He loves nothing more than to bounce – sometimes he bounces his friends in greeting, sometimes on accident, but he always wreaks havoc. He is boastful and overestimates his abilities. Despite his annoying traits, Tigger is so fun-loving and sweet, he is hard not to love. As he is fond of saying, “The wonderful thing about Tiggers is I’m the only one!”

Owl is brainy and immerses himself in intellectual pursuits such as knowing and spelling long words. He can be impatient with the less intelligent characters and often bores them with long-winded stories. While Owl is genuinely smart, he isn’t necessarily as knowledgeable as he leads the others to believe. He occasionally bluffs his way through lack of expertise to maintain his reputation of being wise.

Kanga is the only female of the forest’s core characters and gets along well with everyone. She is nurturing, practical, level-headed and motherly.

Roo is the youngest forest resident. He has the cheerful, optimistic outlook of a child, with an untarnished belief in himself and the world around him. He is bright and brave, but can be a bit of a show-off in his efforts to win praise from his mother and friends.

Milne’s characters have been so beloved, for so long because we all see a little of each of them, in varying degrees, in ourselves. In fact, a quick internet search turned up all sorts of sites that offer descriptions of the characters’ personalities and at least half a dozen “Which Winnie the Pooh character are you?” quizzes. I took a few of the quizzes and interestingly, but not so surprisingly to me, came up with a different character each time. My guess is that it would be difficult for most people to choose only ONE character that represents them. The beauty of Winnie the Pooh is that we can identify with all of them.

A dear friend and colleague of mine had a great product idea based on this concept: Pooh Totems. Totems are usually an animal or other natural figure that spiritually characterizes a person or group of people. In this case, the animals would be Pooh characters and people could construct their own, unique “totem pole” of the characters that represent them best. The objects themselves could take a variety of forms. The characters could be plastic – like pop beads for kids or rendered from precious metals and made into some sort of jewelry concept. They could be key chains or paperweights or any number of things, and they would be appealing to all ages, because honestly, who (besides someone really evil) doesn’t love Winnie the Pooh?  

So, for example, my Pooh Totem is Eeyore-Pooh-Rabbit. I’m cynical on the surface, but ultimately believe in the goodness of people and the world. I’m intensely loyal to and have unwavering confidence in my family and friends, but almost always underestimate my own abilities. I’m nothing if not organized. I could easily give Rabbit a run for his money in the creation of lists department, and while I undoubtedly drive a lot of people crazy in the process, I absolutely get things done.

It’s fun and even somewhat addictive to contemplate what the Pooh Totems of friends and family would be. I’m pegging my husband’s Pooh Totem as Pooh-Roo-Piglet (the compassionate part of Piglet, not the small in stature part), with a touch of Eeyore. My five-year-old son is Tigger-Rabbit-Roo (mostly Tigger at this age!)

I’ve even amused myself in particularly boring meetings or kept myself calm in contentious ones by mapping the Pooh Totems of my colleagues. As annoying as that naysayer is, it’s somehow easier to tolerate when I imagine them as a Piglet who finds it hard to be brave. Who hasn’t come across know-it-all Owl types who use meetings and projects as vehicles to create a perception that they are a whole lot smarter than they actually are? And there always seems to be a Tigger – that person who operates with such a lack of finesse and utter disregard for policy, hierarchy and general professionalism that they leave a trail (or a conference room, as the case may be) full of people who literally feel like they’ve been bounced upon. When I want to strangle these people, I try to see them as good-natured Tiggers who are simply unable to contain their enthusiasm.

                                                                                                 

See how fun and useful Pooh Totems are! Give it a try . . . which Pooh are you?

 

Christopher Robin's "Winnie-the-Pooh Character Guide". Winnie-the-Pooh FAQ. http://www.lavasurfer.com/pooh-faq.html. (January 6, 2012).