Tuesday, December 29, 2009

The Denouement

For me, the period between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve is irremediably sad. All the hoopla, preparation, and scented sentimentality fades to black and we're left with a shedding pine. I suppose one should feel renewed after The Big Day, ready to venture forth armed with goodwill and peace toward all. That certainly is the goal. Perhaps because my personal Christmas has become, unintentionally, increasingly secular, I feel a noticeable absence in the wake of the baby's birth. A sort of post-partum depression sets in; the build-up has climaxed, festivities go quiet and bills find their way back into your mailbox instead of colorful cards.

When my children were younger, of course, I experienced the holiday anew, alive with excitement over the marvelous journey of Advent, and heady anticipation of Santa's arrival. However cliched, it's a universal truth that the wide-eyed wonder in a believing child's face on the Ultimate Morning is worth a million. But today I have two adults and one teenager who no longer nestle close to me while reading The Polar Express on Christmas Eve. Now it's time to undress December's gilded mannequin, time to de-trim the tree. Much like the great satisfaction one takes at the sight of a plate full of favorite foods, the aftermath--a bloated stomach--is not so pretty. Taking each of those memory-laden tokens off O Tannenbaum, branch by branch, is a task I dread.

There are at least a dozen receptacles devoted to housing my seasonal trappings, having expanded over the years with art class mementos in triplicate. Photos of my then-elementary or pre-school boys adorn various ornaments and other yuletide trinkets, from bells and reindeer to laminated placemats and luminaria. It's an exercise in facing the aging process, among other things, lingering over frosted stained glass more than a half century old. I remember hanging that fragile fixture when I was a kindergartner. Today I remove a cloth bearing the foot and handprints of my youngest son, designed to approximate, with it's bauble red nose, the unforgettable Rudolph. Snowmen, St. Nicks and silhouettes, stamped with their signatures, abound. All to be taken down and buried in boxes labeled stockings, calendars, wreaths. Virtually an entire room of my basement, along with a moldy refrigerator, is earmarked for this purpose. There is so much stuff that in recent weeks we couldn't find vital Christmas chachkas till the last minute.

Perhaps it was Martha Stewart, that diva of all things decorative, who suggested leaving some items untouched each December, so as not to unnecessarily clutter the Magi motif. But I suspect I'll continue to drag out every last vestige of the Nativity and its accompanying glitter for decades to come. After all, it's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year and we only go around once, right?

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Thanks & Giving

Do we really need a giant hunk-o-bird and a Honeybaked ham? The latter costs a small fortune and the former will set you back at least ten bucks. Imagine if we declared one meatless Thanksgiving and feasted on stuffing, vegetable casseroles and potatoes, white and sweet? A humongous, colorful salad? Mac & Cheese? Would it be so unthinkable to take the money you would spend on slaughtered animals and give it to hungry humans? Such a minor menu adjustment would help feed the neediest and generate the thanks inThanksgiving. So when you pass that Salvation Army bellringer on the way into the grocery store, think about taking what you would have spent on a salmonella kitchen alert and slip them more than loose change. Or donate to your charity of choice. Contribute to Hosea Williams' vision of feeding the homeless. Volunteer. In the spirit of the Pilgrims, deny thyself something, anything. It's a good way to prepare for the real season of giving around the corner.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Leery of Cheery

It seems the ghost of the Smiley Face is rearing it's silly head again. Even in the midst of debilitating economic gloom and doom, people are insisting that we all "have a happy day." Maybe this trend has its roots in the dictum every parent is expected to follow: build your child's self-esteem at all costs. I'm so relieved that the days of playground political correctness are behind me, a venue for mothers to literally or figuratively applaud their child's every gesture with the repetitive, "Good job!" While encouragement and praise are appropriate for some occasions, junior needn't be constantly reminded that he's done well. Nor does he need a trophy for each athletic team he participated in, just for showing up. This incessant optimism has filtered into the adult world over the past couple of decades, to the point that I wonder if the general populace walks around expecting a pat on the back multiple times a day.

The prevailing wisdom suggests that we all join in the self-congratulatory, affirmation business, regardless of whatever bad, sad or unfair event occurs. Barbara Ehrenreich has written a new book on this subject, "Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America." Ehrenreich was moved to write about the keep-your-chin-up-no-matter-what philosophy after learning she had breast cancer. The pink-ribboned, teddy-beared world felt oppressive to her. She argues she was made to feel guilty and gutless for the natural reaction any of us would have to such a diagnosis, i.e., dread and fear. The implication appeared to be one should welcome the disease as an opportunity for growth and refuse to entertain any dark, conflicted emotions.

While I believe a possibly fatal illness should be met with strength and a desire to fight, I doubt many people are boundlessly enthusiastic when the doctor finds the Big C. Ehrenreich's experience is a worst-case scenario. What about those of us who are simply having a bad day and don't feel like grinning and bearing it? I'm not advocating lamenting your woes and crying in your beer, but there's nothing wrong with the obvious conclusion, "this sucks" either. I'm reminded of an episode from the classic TV series, The Twilight Zone, in which an ordinary young woman refuses to conform to being physically remade into a perfect, beautiful model. When her mother expresses concern over her melancholy mood, she advises her daughter to take "a sunshine pill." The girl protests that she doesn't want to artificially blot out her state of mind, any more than she wants plastic surgery to turn her into a replica of all the other beautiful, identical people around her. In 2009 we are living in Rod Serling's futuristic world, bombarded by drug commercials during the evening news, leaving us wondering if we have a host of ailments from depression to restless leg syndrome to erectile dysfunction.

I for one am irritated by internet postings from perpetually upbeat types who share their personal strivings for the poorman's nirvana. These comments wish everyone a splendiferous day full of blessings and harmony, followed by an unforgivable number of exclamation points. I'm equally perturbed by people who feel the need to instruct me to "smile" when I'm wearing a neutral expression appropos of nothing, except boredom or a vague longing for something I can't quite articulate. Isn't it acceptable to feel the way you feel, without having the thought police chastise you for not getting with the program and eradicating emotions which may serve a vital purpose along the path? How can we appreciate elation and happiness if we haven't suffered some slings and arrows? There would be no frame of reference for joy were it not for the experience and acknowledgment of some measure of pain.

A few days ago my Facebook status complained of yet another soggy Georgia day. Someone posted the comment, "This rain is awesome. It's God's calling card." Nonsense. Rain is welcome in times of drought. After weeks of record rainfall one can hardly call a day of non-stop precipitation, "awesome." Tell that to the flood victims. Rejoicing over all the Fates have handed out strikes me as a disconnect from reality. Yes, we should try to make the best of things and convert those lemons to lemonade. But to go blithely into that gentle day and night, pretending we don't have a care in the world, is a recipe for a homogenous, monochromatic world screaming for diversity and color.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Sex Sells

Have you seen the new Reebok commercial? In it a great-looking girl wearing ultra mini-shorts pretends to hawk sneakers while the camera pans along her upper thigh and derriere. When I asked my husband what the spot was actually pitching he couldn't remember. Which is precisely the point. I can't remember either, because I was so incensed by the nature of the ad I was grabbing a pen and making a note to fire off a scathing post to the Reebok Corporation. We're all familiar with sexist content in the world of television advertising, be it subtle or unabashed. Luscious-lipped models sell cosmetic cures. Laundry detergent is peddled by women agonizing over how white they can get those dirty tube socks. Married couples are depicted as trim, attractive women teamed with schlumpy guys. Have you ever seen a commercial pairing a heavy, unattractive female and a good-looking, fit male?

What made the shoe ad especially disconcerting was how flagrantly it breached the line between sexy and sexist. The girl in the ad is in on the joke, happily flaunting her body with a wink and a nudge. Have we gone so retro that Madison Avenue thinks it's OK to regress to Mad Men era mores? Having grown up during those years, I recall the National Airlines ad campaign that was met with derision by the then-embryonic women's movement. It featured stewardesses introducing themselves by name followed by an irresistible invitation: "I'm Eileen. Fly me." Feminists were enraged. National reported a 23% hike in passengers, nearly twice that of the industry as a whole.

That was over thirty-five years ago. We need a Peter-Finch-in-Network-moment here. Are we going to turn back the clock and ignore the enormous strides made in the name of equal rights since then? Let's flood the CEO of Reebok with angry letters and boycott the brand. As the poster I once carried in a Washington, D.C. march read, "We won't go back." When they start selling men's underwear by showing hunks in tight briefs parading down a runway a la' Victoria's Secret, I'll stop complaining.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Job-hunting


One year into the Great Recession, the title begs the question: is this a futile exercise in grandiose thinking? The jury's still out, since everyone I know engaged in the aforementioned quest is coming up empty. Regardless of age, gender, race, socio-economic status (rapidly changing with each failed attempt) friends and acquaintances are striking out every day. A fifty-something female with a master's degree worked at a 7-Eleven for one year, earning just enough to scrape by. About a month ago, while opening up in the early morning hours, a speeding car swerved into the parking lot, a guy in a ski mask jumped out and she found herself in a caught-on-video-cam nightmare unfolding like a Lifetime movie, the perpetrator holding the gun to her head and threatening to blow her brains out if she didn't cough up the cash. She survived and I reiterated a parental plea: Don't ever work in a convenience store.

My twenty-two-year-old nephew graduated with honors last spring from an elite university. Faced with student loan bills and raring to plunge into the job market--virtually an oxymoron in 2009--he just returned home from a two month stint in Chicago applying for scores of positions. This bright, academically-accomplished, motivated young man never got a single interview.

As for me, I'm job-hunting after a two-decade lapse. I've been gainfully employed in the theater during that time and managed a little task known as stay-at-home mothering, but I haven't collected a paycheck in the Real World since 1988. Folks with hiring power aren't exactly vacuuming the red carpet. In terms of job experience, I'm a creature of the copy machine, landline and, yes, that archaic cast-off, the typewriter. In other words, a dinosaur. In the fashion world they say the eighties are back, in which case I'm your girl. I can hover over customers in a retail environment, humming Madonna and Cyndi Lauper hits with the best of them.

This search reminds me of our tribal origins; all these years my husband has been doing the hunting while I did the gathering. Him, Tarzan. Me, Jane. Gathering is my specialty, especially in the clearance section of Marshall's or the lower shelves at the Flea Depot. I'm so good at it I qualify for the cable show "Hoarders", where hapless clutterers stare at ten-year-old magazines wondering if they'll ever need the article about how to de-claw your cat at home. Metaphorically speaking, my email inbox is full of memos I failed to get, i.e., the Transition From Housefrau and Child-Herder To Second Act. If F. Scott Fitzgerald was right and there are none of the latter in American lives, I should have paid more attention to the wiles of Betty Grable, Marilyn Monroe and Lauren Bacall in How To Marry A Millionaire.

So one reinvents oneself, reshuffles the deck, spruces up the promo and self-publicizes. As a song about being a successful stripper (from the Broadway show Gypsy) put it, "Ya Gotta Have a Gimmick." Thus, the birth of yet another blogger, me, itching for a following, you. And speaking of stripping, I hear the soft-core porn world actually welcomes Cougars who've hit the mid-century mark. If this economy doesn't improve soon Mommy may consider plying the trade.




Sunday, November 1, 2009

Premiere issue

After seeing a trailer for the new movie "Motherhood" I decided I was late to the party of mommy blogs. The movie stars Uma Thurman as a blogging stay-at-home Manhattan mother. Original concept, huh?

Well, this is one mother of three sons who doesn't fit the mold; I write about anything and everything. Politics, fashion, pet peeves, paranoia, obsessions, trends, news of the nanosecond, pop culture addicts and the long, strange trip of every 24 hours. I'm a first-generation feminist, a writer, actor, singer and former humor columnist who can't get through the day without a sardonic twist or subversive behavior. Have a taste for an offbeat, off-her-game, zany domestic engineer who dispenses endless commentary about what's happening at the moment? Stick around and see what develops.

"There once was a girl who had a curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very good. And when she was bad she was horrid." That's me in a nutshell. The Lewis Black of Mothers: Andy Rooney on estrogen with a dash of Dorothy Parker on the rocks. So join me in teetering on The Edge. Tomorrow's topic? It'll probably come to me in a pychotropic-infused dream, complete with cinematic sweep, celebrity cameos, mayhem and aliens running in the streets of New York. And that's a normal night's sleep...