"How can I be a writer when nothing has happened to me yet?"
I asked myself this in my journal September 10, 2006 while in my hovel of a studio in New York. Today, this question means more to me than I could have imagined when I wrote it. At the time, I had just returned to New York from Toronto, where I'd attended a party thrown by the One Organization. I wrote in my journal that I wanted to finish school early and go to Africa to "help out," a vague dream, but one I made in earnest, very much inspired by what I had recently seen. I thought that if I went to Africa, I could do some good and then write about it. Get one of those "life experiences" people always think they need.
This question struck me because it seems almost ridiculous to me now, since I have learned that writing is not entirely about subject matter, but how one handles his or her material. At that point in my writing life (about a month in, officially, if I count the beginning of grad school as a starting point), I had no instruction on craft, or what story really is. What it can be.
Not that I am a wise old writer two years and change (ooh, double meaning) later, but, because I have learned that pretty much everything that happens to us is fodder for writing, I look back on this question almost ruefully. So much tangibly happened to me already when I wrote that question: milestones like my parents' divorce and moving across the country, associations with certain groups and activities like belonging to a sorority, going to an eccentrically-run summer camp, and working at an entertainment magazine.
While I lived in New York, I was too caught up in trying to build some kind of idealized life. I always looking for the next job, the next trip, even the next day, so much so that I think missed much of what was in front of me on a daily basis. So much did happen, even in those seven months in the city, but it took me some time to realize what actually took place.
I also wrote this when I was in New York: I don’t want waste each day by just trying to get through it. We can’t always worry about tomorrow, next week, next year—feverishly churning the gears in our brains to calculate the what-ifs. Envisioning realities that may or may not materialize. It’s too hard to just try to get through each day until the goal is reached, because goals, and dreams, fade, leave, and die. If I always live for tomorrow, yet tomorrow depends on today, how can tomorrow even happen?
It's almost like I have to just live, accept what comes at me, and write down everything that seems important. Then, unearth it later. As I have learned from my professors and classmates at USC, story is not simply what happens to us, but what we think about what happens to us. It is how we relate to that material with the tools of distance, time, and maturity that give us the deeper meaning and understanding. So that we can see, through writing, what it all really means. So we can understand what happened.
Video: Making Love in this Chuck E. Cheese Club
Happy Friday!!!!
This video has been cracking me up all week. Enjoy :)
This video has been cracking me up all week. Enjoy :)
Love and Memory
I love writing. I love writing memoir. Which is great because I am currently working on a project about my past relationships, in a crazy attempt to find patterns and meaning. I'm writing to find out what I think, as Patricia Hampl once wrote--both what I think of the guys I have dated and what those relationships were really about, as well as what I think of myself, my often romantic notions of love, and, the ultimate question: What does it all mean?
For example, I'm the girl who never had a "type," so I'm hoping that through this process, I will discover what makes me fall in love (or lust) and why I have chosen or been selected by the boys/men I've had relationships with, from kindergarten (when my first marriage took place) to today.
But the thing about dredging up old memories and emotions is that it puts me in a weird fog where I become immersed in whatever moment of time I am writing about. If I write about a frat party, I once again become that carefree sorority girl who actually enjoyed the taste of Jungle Juice, in a way reverting to that past self for a handful of hours, or even days.
Because last semester I basically wrote about getting wasted, guys who disappointed me in bed, and, in contrast, my prowess at certain bedroom activities, this semester I decided I would focus solely on the memories that were not so fun to reenter. For example, I am currently writing about how my ex-boyfriend cheated on me four days after I moved to New York City for grad school. Oddly, the memory is more painful than the experience because I am finally seeing what it all meant.
In memoir writing, there are two characters--the you who experienced the moment you are writing about and the you who is writing about it. In this case, when I recount the night that my boyfriend at the time instantly changed from the love of my life to a guy I could never marry, I can't help but feel empathetic for my younger self. Not in a pitying way, but because I see her as a girl who didn't have choices. She (me) was in a new city, scared of further change, and pretty much trapped. From there, she (me) thought that if she tried really hard, she could erase the memory entirely, focusing not on how she really felt about the infidelity, but how she could find a way to get her boyfriend to propose marriage. My rationale at the time was that if I could get my boyfriend to marry me, the cheating didn't matter. After all, if he wanted to spend his whole life with just me, he must really love me.
For the past few days, I've felt the burden of this memory clinging to me. All the "if onlys" that cannot be changed. But in a way, I also feel a little better about this moment. By writing about what happened to me, to my relationship, injecting it with new meaning from my perspective now (over two years since it occurred), I can see my growth and maturation from that point in time. The memory still stings, but the writing can soothe.
For example, I'm the girl who never had a "type," so I'm hoping that through this process, I will discover what makes me fall in love (or lust) and why I have chosen or been selected by the boys/men I've had relationships with, from kindergarten (when my first marriage took place) to today.
But the thing about dredging up old memories and emotions is that it puts me in a weird fog where I become immersed in whatever moment of time I am writing about. If I write about a frat party, I once again become that carefree sorority girl who actually enjoyed the taste of Jungle Juice, in a way reverting to that past self for a handful of hours, or even days.
Because last semester I basically wrote about getting wasted, guys who disappointed me in bed, and, in contrast, my prowess at certain bedroom activities, this semester I decided I would focus solely on the memories that were not so fun to reenter. For example, I am currently writing about how my ex-boyfriend cheated on me four days after I moved to New York City for grad school. Oddly, the memory is more painful than the experience because I am finally seeing what it all meant.
In memoir writing, there are two characters--the you who experienced the moment you are writing about and the you who is writing about it. In this case, when I recount the night that my boyfriend at the time instantly changed from the love of my life to a guy I could never marry, I can't help but feel empathetic for my younger self. Not in a pitying way, but because I see her as a girl who didn't have choices. She (me) was in a new city, scared of further change, and pretty much trapped. From there, she (me) thought that if she tried really hard, she could erase the memory entirely, focusing not on how she really felt about the infidelity, but how she could find a way to get her boyfriend to propose marriage. My rationale at the time was that if I could get my boyfriend to marry me, the cheating didn't matter. After all, if he wanted to spend his whole life with just me, he must really love me.
For the past few days, I've felt the burden of this memory clinging to me. All the "if onlys" that cannot be changed. But in a way, I also feel a little better about this moment. By writing about what happened to me, to my relationship, injecting it with new meaning from my perspective now (over two years since it occurred), I can see my growth and maturation from that point in time. The memory still stings, but the writing can soothe.
Back in My Pan
"out of your pan": (verb) state of mind or manner of being, to go crazy in a non-psychotic way, typically due to alcohol, sugar, lack of sleep, or combination thereof. (History: see "The Gingerbread Man" nursery rhyme, Meagan and Natasha's Facebook wall-to-wall circa February 2009)
So. I had a little too much fun Friday night on the ol' quarter century birthday...
I've needed some fun. I'd been on what I would call a fun drought. So, since early December, I've been making up for some lost time. I've made friends with amazing people I was too busy to get to know, pretty much sure that there was no point in adding new friends in the mix because I would likely never see them anyway since I was basically attached to my long-time boyfriend. I've found my other fish (my roommate/life coach, Meagan, is a fellow Pisces), embarrassed myself more times than I'd like to remember, over-shared to roomfuls of people, drank too much, stayed up too late (that's just how I roll now), attended costume parties, crashed parties (okay, just one), and managed to actually write some good stuff as well--in short, it's been fun. Lots of fun.
But. Now that I am twenty-five, and both very wise and old, I've got to tone it down a little. I've had my three months. Naturally, I'm still going to stay up way too late, embarrass myself, and go out with my new crew of cool kids, but I was so far out of my pan this weekend that it's more than appropriate for me to crawl back in (and duct-tape the lid shut, as Julie suggested).
I mean, I just can't harmlessly flirt with/hang on every one of my guy friends at seedy dive bars (thanks again for dancing with me, helping me stand up, and simply making me look cool by showing up), sing karaoke blacked-out, and fall head-first into my own bathtub more than once a quarter-century. I'm done with the Gaslite. That's for sure.
I'm ready to officially start my 25th year. Back in the pan, but still having fun. I think I just forgot what fun was. Seriously. And once I got a taste of it, I was kinda addicted. But like too much tequilla, say, too much fun can be, well, too much. (Saturday morning? Nope, not fun. Though, Norms' bacon cheeseburgers are pretty much the best post-out-of-the-pan food ever.)
Besides, I'm more of an intimate dinner kinda gal than a crazy party one--still that goody-two-shoes at heart, I guess. And, really, what's the point of having fun if you can't remember it?
Anyway, just trying to find balance. It's a process. And I'm learning to loving it.
So. I had a little too much fun Friday night on the ol' quarter century birthday...
I've needed some fun. I'd been on what I would call a fun drought. So, since early December, I've been making up for some lost time. I've made friends with amazing people I was too busy to get to know, pretty much sure that there was no point in adding new friends in the mix because I would likely never see them anyway since I was basically attached to my long-time boyfriend. I've found my other fish (my roommate/life coach, Meagan, is a fellow Pisces), embarrassed myself more times than I'd like to remember, over-shared to roomfuls of people, drank too much, stayed up too late (that's just how I roll now), attended costume parties, crashed parties (okay, just one), and managed to actually write some good stuff as well--in short, it's been fun. Lots of fun.
But. Now that I am twenty-five, and both very wise and old, I've got to tone it down a little. I've had my three months. Naturally, I'm still going to stay up way too late, embarrass myself, and go out with my new crew of cool kids, but I was so far out of my pan this weekend that it's more than appropriate for me to crawl back in (and duct-tape the lid shut, as Julie suggested).
I mean, I just can't harmlessly flirt with/hang on every one of my guy friends at seedy dive bars (thanks again for dancing with me, helping me stand up, and simply making me look cool by showing up), sing karaoke blacked-out, and fall head-first into my own bathtub more than once a quarter-century. I'm done with the Gaslite. That's for sure.
I'm ready to officially start my 25th year. Back in the pan, but still having fun. I think I just forgot what fun was. Seriously. And once I got a taste of it, I was kinda addicted. But like too much tequilla, say, too much fun can be, well, too much. (Saturday morning? Nope, not fun. Though, Norms' bacon cheeseburgers are pretty much the best post-out-of-the-pan food ever.)
Besides, I'm more of an intimate dinner kinda gal than a crazy party one--still that goody-two-shoes at heart, I guess. And, really, what's the point of having fun if you can't remember it?
Anyway, just trying to find balance. It's a process. And I'm learning to loving it.
Oh, Life...
In honor of my 25th birthday this week, I felt it might be apt to jot down 25 things I have learned over the course of my quarter-century on earth, if only to assure myself that, yes, I am a functioning, maturing human being, not merely the totally awkward spaz I feel like 99% of the time. Enjoy...
1. No one could ever embarrass me more than I continually humiliate myself. Also, if I ever want to stop embarrassing myself, I need to abstain from alcoholic beverages of all kinds.
2. If you want a guy to buy you a drink, proclaim you have never tried one of the following: an Irish Car Bomb, a Jager Bomb, a Flaming Dr. Pepper (careful with this one), or a Red Headed Slut. Or find out what his favorite drink is and say you've never tried it. Typically, the guy will be so amazed that you haven't had the drink, he will have to get one for you. It's kinda like taking your virginity, right there in the bar. (Just to note, to the guys who have bought me drinks this way, I'm pretty sure I've always been honest about not having tried something. I hope so, at least.)
3. Certain songs have the ability to teleport me back to a certain time and place, no matter how many times I have heard them, not matter the change in context.
4. I love giving blood. And I feel like it's my duty to do it as often as I can because I don't have issues with needles and/or blood-letting, even if I have to lie and say that I weigh enough. (Plus, its so worth the Famous Amos cookies you get when you're done.)
5. My expectations of myself are high, but I don't always arrange my life to meet them. I am scared of failure, but also terrified of success.
6. Just as parenthood shouldn't be measured by biology, friendship shouldn't be measured solely by how long you have known a person. These relationships need nurturing and, like trust and respect, are earned, not given.
7. My intuition should always be trusted.
8. While I am pretty open, adventurous, etc, there are certain things I refuse to do and no one's gonna make me.
9. Say what you need to say. My uncle Ken, who has cancer, says that the one thing he has learned from living with a terminal illness is to be free with his emotions--basically, don't hold back. If you knew you would die tomorrow, what would you say to the person you love, someone you had a falling out with, etc? Why not just say it anyway?
10. Never put files on someone else's hard drive.
11. Dirt. Don't. Hurt.
12. Lying to my mom is the worst idea ever. Especially because she is the one person I know I can always depend on, anytime, anywhere. She's is, without doubt, my best friend.
13. It's possible to have a heart-pounding crush after the age of thirteen. (In fact, having a crush on someone when you're older is better because there is an added potential for sex.)
14. Thank God I didn't peak in high school. It's way better to be the nerdy, bra-stuffing awkward kid in elementary/middle/high school and then get to be at least semi-okay for the rest of your life.
15. I have accepted that I will always have a little stomach pooch, that my inner thighs will always touch, and that puberty did not (and will not) leave it's womanly mark on my body. Also, giving up carbs is impossible and regular candy consumption is necessary.
16. My 818 cell phone area code rocks.
17. The prospect of death doesn't get less scary, or more real, as I've aged.
18. I'm gullible, which can be both good and bad, but not always trusting.
19. I'm easily disappointed by men--they are often never as wonderful as I hope they are. But, maybe the problem is me? I hope for too much? If I learn to communicate what I want or expect in a relationship--focus on my needs instead of being a people-pleaser--I can perhaps shield myself from disappointment. I hope.
20. I'm not ready to get married, have kids, or really believe I am an adult. But I really wish I was. I wish sometimes I could be one of those girls who wants the huge, fluffy wedding and can breeze through life not thinking too much about it. (This is probably because I used to be one of those girls.)
21. Getting my belly button pierced was totally cool, in 2001, but I'm glad I let it close up.
22. I never have anything to wear. Which is convenient because buying clothes makes me happy.
23. Relationships are not easy. But. Don't stay in a relationship thinking the other person will change, or that two years of pretty consistent fighting/unhappiness is simply a "rough patch." Life is too short to be with the wrong person. Life is way too short to live without passion.
24. Guacamole is delicious. (On that note, the act of trying new foods, such as the guac, often yields no negative effects. However, if someone wants me to try ranch dressing or cream cheese, forget it. At 25, I have decided I will never eat either of those. I don't care how good people say they are.)
25. Life makes no sense sometimes. But, like art, it can pay off in its weird, wonderful way.
1. No one could ever embarrass me more than I continually humiliate myself. Also, if I ever want to stop embarrassing myself, I need to abstain from alcoholic beverages of all kinds.
2. If you want a guy to buy you a drink, proclaim you have never tried one of the following: an Irish Car Bomb, a Jager Bomb, a Flaming Dr. Pepper (careful with this one), or a Red Headed Slut. Or find out what his favorite drink is and say you've never tried it. Typically, the guy will be so amazed that you haven't had the drink, he will have to get one for you. It's kinda like taking your virginity, right there in the bar. (Just to note, to the guys who have bought me drinks this way, I'm pretty sure I've always been honest about not having tried something. I hope so, at least.)
3. Certain songs have the ability to teleport me back to a certain time and place, no matter how many times I have heard them, not matter the change in context.
4. I love giving blood. And I feel like it's my duty to do it as often as I can because I don't have issues with needles and/or blood-letting, even if I have to lie and say that I weigh enough. (Plus, its so worth the Famous Amos cookies you get when you're done.)
5. My expectations of myself are high, but I don't always arrange my life to meet them. I am scared of failure, but also terrified of success.
6. Just as parenthood shouldn't be measured by biology, friendship shouldn't be measured solely by how long you have known a person. These relationships need nurturing and, like trust and respect, are earned, not given.
7. My intuition should always be trusted.
8. While I am pretty open, adventurous, etc, there are certain things I refuse to do and no one's gonna make me.
9. Say what you need to say. My uncle Ken, who has cancer, says that the one thing he has learned from living with a terminal illness is to be free with his emotions--basically, don't hold back. If you knew you would die tomorrow, what would you say to the person you love, someone you had a falling out with, etc? Why not just say it anyway?
10. Never put files on someone else's hard drive.
11. Dirt. Don't. Hurt.
12. Lying to my mom is the worst idea ever. Especially because she is the one person I know I can always depend on, anytime, anywhere. She's is, without doubt, my best friend.
13. It's possible to have a heart-pounding crush after the age of thirteen. (In fact, having a crush on someone when you're older is better because there is an added potential for sex.)
14. Thank God I didn't peak in high school. It's way better to be the nerdy, bra-stuffing awkward kid in elementary/middle/high school and then get to be at least semi-okay for the rest of your life.
15. I have accepted that I will always have a little stomach pooch, that my inner thighs will always touch, and that puberty did not (and will not) leave it's womanly mark on my body. Also, giving up carbs is impossible and regular candy consumption is necessary.
16. My 818 cell phone area code rocks.
17. The prospect of death doesn't get less scary, or more real, as I've aged.
18. I'm gullible, which can be both good and bad, but not always trusting.
19. I'm easily disappointed by men--they are often never as wonderful as I hope they are. But, maybe the problem is me? I hope for too much? If I learn to communicate what I want or expect in a relationship--focus on my needs instead of being a people-pleaser--I can perhaps shield myself from disappointment. I hope.
20. I'm not ready to get married, have kids, or really believe I am an adult. But I really wish I was. I wish sometimes I could be one of those girls who wants the huge, fluffy wedding and can breeze through life not thinking too much about it. (This is probably because I used to be one of those girls.)
21. Getting my belly button pierced was totally cool, in 2001, but I'm glad I let it close up.
22. I never have anything to wear. Which is convenient because buying clothes makes me happy.
23. Relationships are not easy. But. Don't stay in a relationship thinking the other person will change, or that two years of pretty consistent fighting/unhappiness is simply a "rough patch." Life is too short to be with the wrong person. Life is way too short to live without passion.
24. Guacamole is delicious. (On that note, the act of trying new foods, such as the guac, often yields no negative effects. However, if someone wants me to try ranch dressing or cream cheese, forget it. At 25, I have decided I will never eat either of those. I don't care how good people say they are.)
25. Life makes no sense sometimes. But, like art, it can pay off in its weird, wonderful way.
From the Archives: Mark Brickman, Camp Heartthrob
This may only be funny to me, but I decided to read through my old diaries yesterday in an attempt to figure out what to write about next and found myself in the depths of pre-high school boy-craziness. Powerful stuff. Take this passage, from August 4, 1998, in which I describe a moment between myself and the guy I had a crush on, who was the other counselor-in-training in my camp group. (I made up the boy's name, to spare him any embarrassment):
"And then...highlight of the day...I got to hold Mark's hat while he drove a go-kart. It kinda smelled though."
To steal my favorite Jo Ann Beard line: Thus spake eighth-grade Natasha.
The next day, I recorded yet another moment of minutia: "At the meeting tonight, I talked to Mark for the longest time I have ever talked to him before, and I learned he is afraid of bees. Oh! How cute! I know I'm pathetic, but oh well!"
Well, at least I was self-aware. And, of course, these two entries are signed: Heart, Natasha Brickman. (Mark's last name, duh.)
I was going to end this post with that, but then, the next entry disclosed that something major happened, so major it was billed as "the most exciting part of my day....drum roll please..." which seems more significant than the aforementioned "highlight." Here it is:
"MARK CALLED ME! When Mom picked up the phone and said, 'Natasha, it's Mark,' I almost died, my veins like ran cold and I was like aaauuugggghhhh!"
First of all, can we note the written use of the word "like"? Gotta love the Valley. Second, the reason Mark called was because he needed to borrow something for his counselor-in-training test (we needed to run an activity with our group of kids). Naturally, I helped him set up and clean up his activity, already the perpetually ready-to-please gal. I knew I was a little crazy, but I certainly was not that self-aware.
And, again, I was going to end this post with that, but then I read on and found out that I got someone at camp to find out if Mark liked me back, and, sadly, he did not. Though, my little 14-year-old self decided that maybe, just maybe, the best course of action was not to give up (too rational!), but instead write Mark a letter "telling him EVERYTHING." I sure had a lot to learn.
After this entry were some loose-leaf pages falling out of my diary. I opened them up to find the (hopefully unsent) rough-draft version of my love letter to Mark Brickman. And because I have recently learned that I am pretty much immune to humiliation (desensitized might be the better way to phrase it), here is some of what I said:
"Remember when I kept you company on the playground? If not, let me refresh your memory. We talked a little about camp and you demonstrated how well your knee pads worked by sliding around on the basketball court. While I drooled. Remember when I was dared to hold the scorpion? It was all for you."
To quote someone who once commented on one of my particularly embarrassing Facebook status updates, "Wow. Really, Natasha? Wow." And this isn't even the worst of it. I would also like to note that at the end of this letter, after I signed my name (the regular way, thank the Lord), I wrote: "P.S.: At your high school you will have so many girls after you, your height won't even matter." (Mark was about 4' 11" max.)
Anyway, if there is a lesson to be learned in rediscovering what I dork I was, it's this: I haven't changed that much since the eighth grade. Sure, I don't write about smelly hats in my journal, but I do get that excited when a certain guy calls. My current journal is filled with details I don't want to forget, but will probably laugh at in ten years in how important they are to me now. And yes, I still write stupid letters like the one I wanted to send to Mark, only now I jot them down within the confines of my head so there's no hard evidence.
I guess I should say that if you aren't the journaling type, maybe take a stab at it. While I spent most of yesterday cringing (I could not have been more embarrassing if I tried. And my verbs were so repetitive! And so many cliches!), having my younger self immortalized on paper is truly priceless.
O.M.F.G. Levi Johnston Needs to Grow a Pair
Well, here's yet another GMA gem, this time of Levi Johnston, the poor kid stupid enough to get Sarah Palin's daughter Bristol pregnant.
Typically, anything having to do with Sarah Palin floats past my consciousness along with other topics that shouldn't be given any attention whatsoever, like hate crimes against Neo-Nazis or endangered pigeons, but I could not ignore this one. Levi, apparently, has decided he is not ready to be a dad. Hmm. That's funny, considering he ALREADY HAS A KID, WHO WAS BORN IN DECEMBER. Anyway, this interview isn't particularly revealing, mostly because Levi seems to have donated most of his brain cells to hockey, but it really pissed me off and I felt compelled to share.
This is just another way young women get completely f-ed over. More so, how we can't avoid being f-ed over simply because of our biology. Bristol, while clearly responsible for sleeping with Levi and having their baby, is now a single mom and can't do anything about it. She is unable to leave her baby, as the child depends on her for nourishment. Levi, on the other hand, was found by GMA on his way to the gym, just living his life. Both teens made some huge mistakes (forgetting a condom would be number one, I think), yet Bristol is the one who's paying for them. No one said life was fair, but I feel for the girl. Even if she is Palin's daughter.
Oh, and I like how Levi says he wants to marry Bristol "some day." What does that mean? When he feels old enough to be a dad? When the kid's out of diapers and is easier to take care of? Hopefully Bristol has the good sense to tell that boy to get a life.
Ungrateful Wife Slams Mr. Mom Hubby on GMA
In a moment of procrastinatory weakness this afternoon, I went over to Jezebel.com to get my media/feminist fix and came upon this clip from Good Morning America about a couple experiencing a role reversal due to the financial crisis. And I realized why I can't read Jezebel because then I get all huffy and have to climb up on my soap box.
Basically, the clip demonstrates why couples get divorced. Or why they kill each other. The husband lost his job and now plays the "Mr. Mom" role of taking care of their child, while his wife works long days in sales and comes home after the kid is in bed. The couple now sleeps in separate bedrooms because of this arrangement.
However, while the husband says he is grateful to be at home, to spend time with their daughter, etc, the wife disclosed that she has lost respect for her husband (especially when she comes home to find him donning "her apron") because she always dreamed of a life where a man put a roof over her head and took care of her.
When I watched this, I wanted to freakin' strangle this woman. First of all, hello, it's 2009. Roles of men and women are changing to accommodate the new views of masculinity and femininity that the women's movement in particular works tirelessly to advocate. In fact, when we put men and women into binary roles (men are the breadwinners, women are the housewives), people become extremely dissatisfied and anxious, according to some studies. Part of living in an egalitarian society is that the gender roles are flexible and, as a result, men and women can operate on a more even ground.
While I understand that the heinous woman in the clip was just being honest, I can't help but hate her. How dare she put that kind of pressure on her husband, who is doing the best he can. The guy probably feels awful enough already having lost his job. And then to belittle him for being fulfilled by his role of a caretaker/stay-at-home Dad? This woman's warped perception of the way things "should" be sends a horrible message to her daughter (who clearly isn't benefiting from her mother's inability to get with the program and realize that she's the problem, not her husband), and it perpetuates a system that divides men and women based on out-dated, gender-centric stereotypes.
Anyway. Watch the clip. Interested to hear what other people think about this. I, for one, will gladly take a husband who enjoys being a dad and can cook/clean/do laundry. But maybe that's just me...
Basically, the clip demonstrates why couples get divorced. Or why they kill each other. The husband lost his job and now plays the "Mr. Mom" role of taking care of their child, while his wife works long days in sales and comes home after the kid is in bed. The couple now sleeps in separate bedrooms because of this arrangement.
However, while the husband says he is grateful to be at home, to spend time with their daughter, etc, the wife disclosed that she has lost respect for her husband (especially when she comes home to find him donning "her apron") because she always dreamed of a life where a man put a roof over her head and took care of her.
When I watched this, I wanted to freakin' strangle this woman. First of all, hello, it's 2009. Roles of men and women are changing to accommodate the new views of masculinity and femininity that the women's movement in particular works tirelessly to advocate. In fact, when we put men and women into binary roles (men are the breadwinners, women are the housewives), people become extremely dissatisfied and anxious, according to some studies. Part of living in an egalitarian society is that the gender roles are flexible and, as a result, men and women can operate on a more even ground.
While I understand that the heinous woman in the clip was just being honest, I can't help but hate her. How dare she put that kind of pressure on her husband, who is doing the best he can. The guy probably feels awful enough already having lost his job. And then to belittle him for being fulfilled by his role of a caretaker/stay-at-home Dad? This woman's warped perception of the way things "should" be sends a horrible message to her daughter (who clearly isn't benefiting from her mother's inability to get with the program and realize that she's the problem, not her husband), and it perpetuates a system that divides men and women based on out-dated, gender-centric stereotypes.
Anyway. Watch the clip. Interested to hear what other people think about this. I, for one, will gladly take a husband who enjoys being a dad and can cook/clean/do laundry. But maybe that's just me...
A Writerly Morning
7:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I grunt, listen to see if my roommate is up, then press snooze.
7:15 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I grunt, reason I should wake roommate up like I promised so we can actually get some work done. My apartment is freezing. Roommate and I trade gravelly "Morning"'s. I make a pot of coffee.
7:30: a.m.: Morning walk to the beach with roommate. We are trying to be economical. She drinks her coffee from one of our plastic cups and I sip from our tall ceramic mug with a daisy on it. We discuss the following: 1) What we will write today, 2) Our respective love lives, or lack thereof, 3) How much we love Janet Fitch and Dinah Lenney, 4) How funny we think we are.
8:35 a.m.: I pull the covers over my bed and plop on top with my laptop. I should start writing but my students have been emailing me, so I better answer their questions. Also, I need to write a colleague a recommendation for a job. And I have to schedule traffic school for that ticket I got in November. I should also check Craigslist for writing jobs, Facebook to see what I missed in the past 12 hours, and my horoscope (as well as those of my close friends, just in case).
8:50 a.m.: My room is freezing. I set up my space heater and switch it on before crawling back into bed.
9:00 a.m.: Those Bernard Cooper articles Dinah sent out are supposed to be really good, so I read those.
9:30 a.m.: Roommate leaves to teach yoga. I'm exhausted. And depressed over Bernard and Brian. I should probably shower. I also need to exfoliate, shave my legs, and apply lavish amounts of body lotion, as well as brush and floss my teeth.
10:00 a.m.: I pull on sweats and I'm about to get back in bed to write but I can't concentrate with wet hair, so it's time to blow-dry.
10:15 a.m.: Officially sitting in bed, propped up on three pillows, laptop in lap, cell phone on silent. I'm kind of hungry but it's too early for lunch. Check email one more time. And Facebook, because I got a wall post. I debate writing something on roommate's wall but can't think of anything super funny so I decide it's not worth it. (After all, I have an image to uphold.)
10:20 a.m.: I stare at my closet doors.
10:25 a.m.: And...I'm writing.
10:40 a.m.: I get an email. My phone is still on silent, but I keep it next to me, so when it blinks to signal I have a message, I can see it out of the corner of my eye.
10:45 a.m.: I'm writing. And answering email.
11:15 a.m.: Ok, now I am really hungry. I make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and bring it back to my bed on a green plate.
11:20 a.m.: I'm writing
11:45 a.m.: I get an email.
11:50 a.m.: Noticing how little work I have gotten done since waking up nearly five hours ago, I decide to write a blog post about what writers actually do. I'm also thinking about writing some more.
7:15 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I grunt, reason I should wake roommate up like I promised so we can actually get some work done. My apartment is freezing. Roommate and I trade gravelly "Morning"'s. I make a pot of coffee.
7:30: a.m.: Morning walk to the beach with roommate. We are trying to be economical. She drinks her coffee from one of our plastic cups and I sip from our tall ceramic mug with a daisy on it. We discuss the following: 1) What we will write today, 2) Our respective love lives, or lack thereof, 3) How much we love Janet Fitch and Dinah Lenney, 4) How funny we think we are.
8:35 a.m.: I pull the covers over my bed and plop on top with my laptop. I should start writing but my students have been emailing me, so I better answer their questions. Also, I need to write a colleague a recommendation for a job. And I have to schedule traffic school for that ticket I got in November. I should also check Craigslist for writing jobs, Facebook to see what I missed in the past 12 hours, and my horoscope (as well as those of my close friends, just in case).
8:50 a.m.: My room is freezing. I set up my space heater and switch it on before crawling back into bed.
9:00 a.m.: Those Bernard Cooper articles Dinah sent out are supposed to be really good, so I read those.
9:30 a.m.: Roommate leaves to teach yoga. I'm exhausted. And depressed over Bernard and Brian. I should probably shower. I also need to exfoliate, shave my legs, and apply lavish amounts of body lotion, as well as brush and floss my teeth.
10:00 a.m.: I pull on sweats and I'm about to get back in bed to write but I can't concentrate with wet hair, so it's time to blow-dry.
10:15 a.m.: Officially sitting in bed, propped up on three pillows, laptop in lap, cell phone on silent. I'm kind of hungry but it's too early for lunch. Check email one more time. And Facebook, because I got a wall post. I debate writing something on roommate's wall but can't think of anything super funny so I decide it's not worth it. (After all, I have an image to uphold.)
10:20 a.m.: I stare at my closet doors.
10:25 a.m.: And...I'm writing.
10:40 a.m.: I get an email. My phone is still on silent, but I keep it next to me, so when it blinks to signal I have a message, I can see it out of the corner of my eye.
10:45 a.m.: I'm writing. And answering email.
11:15 a.m.: Ok, now I am really hungry. I make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and bring it back to my bed on a green plate.
11:20 a.m.: I'm writing
11:45 a.m.: I get an email.
11:50 a.m.: Noticing how little work I have gotten done since waking up nearly five hours ago, I decide to write a blog post about what writers actually do. I'm also thinking about writing some more.
New Blog!
A little shameless self-promotion (ugh, cliche, I know)...
My roommate Meagan and I started a site called The Little Black Blog of Big Red Flags. We'll be posting anonymous stories from women about all the weird things we let slide when we're dating a guy that typically turn out to contribute to what went wrong when the relationship is over.
If you have a red flag you want to share, please email us at BigRedFlags@gmail.com (no names will be used) or just head on over to the site by clicking here. Enjoy!
My roommate Meagan and I started a site called The Little Black Blog of Big Red Flags. We'll be posting anonymous stories from women about all the weird things we let slide when we're dating a guy that typically turn out to contribute to what went wrong when the relationship is over.
If you have a red flag you want to share, please email us at BigRedFlags@gmail.com (no names will be used) or just head on over to the site by clicking here. Enjoy!
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