I'll be the first to admit that I don't exactly live on the cutting-edge of technology. I was very slow to embrace online social networking until I discovered the addictive joy of cyber-stalking people via Facebook. I still don't really know how to work the four remotes that are mysteriously required to operate our one TV. I didn't own an iPod until a year ago. Hell, until about 2002 I was dragging a Walkman with me to the gym. Not even a Discman, people. A WALKMAN.
So it might just be the non-techie in me talking here, but I just do not get this new Kindle contraption. Apparently, the great appeal of the product is that it's a wireless, hand-held electronic reading device that's approximately as small and lightweight as...wait for it...a book! Books, I might add, are also wireless, hand-held reading devices.
According to Amazon, it can instantly access more than 90,000 titles and store up to 200 books at a time, which I admit would be pretty handy for traveling. But it also costs $399. I mean, think about how many actual books you could buy for $399! For someone who reads at a steady pace of about a book a month, it will take at least a couple of years for the Kindle to start being cost effective. (Hey, I just did math!)
Who knows. Maybe digitizing books is what it will take for people to start reading again. The AP reported a few months ago that 25 percent of adults didn't even read A book last year, which is sort of horrifying. Maybe it's all that archaic paper and exhausting page turning that has been holding the literary world back.
Still, I have my doubts. In my experience, book lovers tend to hold onto their favorite tomes like treasures. As Jo March from Little Women once said, "Some books are so familiar, reading them is like being home again." (She might have just said that in the movie version, but it doesn't make it any less true). It's hard to imagine a Kindle evoking the same kind of response. Books are meant to be loved and dog-eared and displayed on shelves. And let's face it, if you slogged your way through Ulysses or The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire than, dammit, you want everyone who visits your home to know it!
And then there's the whole issue of the name. I'm not quite sure what they're going for by calling it "Kindle." Does it mean that they're hoping to ignite the general populace's love of reading? Or that we should all run out and burn our old books now that the Kindle has arrived?
It's hard for me to imagine it really catching on, but I've certainly been wrong before. It could be that in a few years almost everyone will be reading by Kindle-light, while the remaining holdouts cling to our outdated paper and wait for books to come back as retro-chic---like people in the 70s who hung on to their vinyl and swear it still sounds better.
I guess I'm just a retro kind of girl.
Showing posts with label Rants and Raves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rants and Raves. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
In Which I Make Al Gore Cry Non-Biodegradable Tears
A few days ago, I read an article in the New York Times about how Portland has become a super bicycle-friendly city and has the nation's highest percentage of workers who commute by bike
After I read it, I felt a pang of guilt about the fact that I live in the most car-centric city in the world. The moment passed quickly, however, when I remembered that I love my car, and hate bicycle riders.
Yes, driving in Southern California can be torturous. It's ALWAYS rush hour here, and when it rains people completely forget that their vehicles come equipped with brakes. Sometimes when I'm sitting in traffic on the freeway I momentarily lose my mind and scream at the cars around me, "JUST MOVE ALREADY. MOVE! LUCIFER'S BEARD, WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?!"
But the point is that I can scream. I'm safely tucked away in my own little temperature-controlled cocoon of steel and glass, where I can listen to NPR or sing along with my awesome mix CD as loudly as I want. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help it. As much as I miss living in a pedestrian-friendly city, I do NOT miss public transportation. I do NOT miss standing outside in sub-zero temperatures in the middle of winter, waiting to cram myself into a jam-packed train full of people with questionable personal hygiene.
(For those who may not know, Los Angeles does actually have a subway. This is something I often forget, but I was reminded the other night when I caught the last 20 minutes of "Speed" on cable. I have yet to meet anyone in this city who has ever actually ridden it, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that someone built it for the sole purpose of filming a movie scene and then just decided it was easier to leave it there.)
As for my general dislike of cyclists, well the truth is that they just bother me. They pedal along, blithely unaware of all the disgruntled drivers behind them, and seem to believe that their two-wheeled dexterity exempts them from following the rules of the road. The run-ins I've had with bicycle riders over the years have done nothing to dispel my prejudice. Back in college when I was Rollerblading (remember Rollerblades?), a man who was riding behind me accused me of somehow causing him to crash and fall of his bicycle. And because I stupidly gave him my real name, he sued me for $2,000 worth of damage to his bike. Another time, while jogging, a cyclist running a red light smacked into me and sent me sprawling into the middle of the busiest street in Boston.
Need another example? My friend Neetu (who is an avid cyclist, but I forgive her because she has many other admirable qualities) once took a nasty spill while riding her bike around the college town she lives in. While she was lying prostate on the sidewalk, a man with a hook for a hand attempted to administer first aid to her. Which just goes to show you that nothing good ever comes from riding a bike.
So, my apologies to Al, the lovely, outdoorsy people of Portland and Plant Earth. On this particular issue we're just going to have to agree to disagree. When it comes to my little blue Toyota, my attitude isn't very green. In fact, it's more of a smoggy gray.
After I read it, I felt a pang of guilt about the fact that I live in the most car-centric city in the world. The moment passed quickly, however, when I remembered that I love my car, and hate bicycle riders.
Yes, driving in Southern California can be torturous. It's ALWAYS rush hour here, and when it rains people completely forget that their vehicles come equipped with brakes. Sometimes when I'm sitting in traffic on the freeway I momentarily lose my mind and scream at the cars around me, "JUST MOVE ALREADY. MOVE! LUCIFER'S BEARD, WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?!"
But the point is that I can scream. I'm safely tucked away in my own little temperature-controlled cocoon of steel and glass, where I can listen to NPR or sing along with my awesome mix CD as loudly as I want. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help it. As much as I miss living in a pedestrian-friendly city, I do NOT miss public transportation. I do NOT miss standing outside in sub-zero temperatures in the middle of winter, waiting to cram myself into a jam-packed train full of people with questionable personal hygiene.
(For those who may not know, Los Angeles does actually have a subway. This is something I often forget, but I was reminded the other night when I caught the last 20 minutes of "Speed" on cable. I have yet to meet anyone in this city who has ever actually ridden it, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that someone built it for the sole purpose of filming a movie scene and then just decided it was easier to leave it there.)
As for my general dislike of cyclists, well the truth is that they just bother me. They pedal along, blithely unaware of all the disgruntled drivers behind them, and seem to believe that their two-wheeled dexterity exempts them from following the rules of the road. The run-ins I've had with bicycle riders over the years have done nothing to dispel my prejudice. Back in college when I was Rollerblading (remember Rollerblades?), a man who was riding behind me accused me of somehow causing him to crash and fall of his bicycle. And because I stupidly gave him my real name, he sued me for $2,000 worth of damage to his bike. Another time, while jogging, a cyclist running a red light smacked into me and sent me sprawling into the middle of the busiest street in Boston.
Need another example? My friend Neetu (who is an avid cyclist, but I forgive her because she has many other admirable qualities) once took a nasty spill while riding her bike around the college town she lives in. While she was lying prostate on the sidewalk, a man with a hook for a hand attempted to administer first aid to her. Which just goes to show you that nothing good ever comes from riding a bike.
So, my apologies to Al, the lovely, outdoorsy people of Portland and Plant Earth. On this particular issue we're just going to have to agree to disagree. When it comes to my little blue Toyota, my attitude isn't very green. In fact, it's more of a smoggy gray.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Climb Aboard The Funship
I've been thinking a lot lately about the paths we choose in life--probably because I recently underwent a career shift and am also going back to school for the first time in more than four years (scary).
In college, I majored in journalism. It's hard to remember now whether I chose that because I deeply wanted to be a journalist, or because I wanted to get paid to write and reporting seemed like the best way to accomplish that. Either way, that's what I did and eventually--after a prohibitively expensive undergraduate education, a few non-paid internships and a brief stint of unemployment--I landed a real reporting job at a newspaper in Southern California.
Journalism is one of those jobs that look extremely glamorous and interesting on television and in the movies, but which in reality consists of more drudgery than you could possibly imagine. I'm sure it's quite a fabulous life if you're a New York Times columnist or spend your days in the White House press room, but I was a city reporter at a mid-size regional newspaper, and therefore spent most of my time at city council meetings listening to officials harangue over land use zoning and whether to allow another Wal-Mart in town.
Not to say that the job was all bad. Even the most ordinary lives and places have extraordinary moments, and occasionally a story would come along that was truly interesting and inspiring. But after a while I just burned out on it--the long hours, the crappy pay, the nightly deadlines, living in the burbs and wearing my car into the ground by chasing down stories through two counties.
So a few months ago I took a new job and went in a different direction. I still work in media and still write for a living, but it's a totally different experience. Now, my days are structured and relatively low-stress. I work with great people who promote a healthy work-life balance and bring in a salary that keeps me above the poverty line.
Day-to-day, I'm so much happier and less bitter than I used to be. But there's this small, nagging part of me that wonders if maybe I've robbed myself of something by taking a path that's smoother and, in some ways, less challenging.
My friend Susannah has this great word for experiences that suck while you're going through them, but which you remember fondly once they're over. She calls it "funship," which I assume is an amalgam of Fun and Hardship. Funship is the trip you take where everything goes calamitously wrong, but which provides you with the best stories to laugh over and share for the rest of our life. (And really, who remembers the trips where everything goes swimmingly?) Funship is the battle scar you end up being grateful for, even thought it hurt like hell at the time.
I realize, in hindsight, one thing that I do miss about the daily news grind is the funship--like the time shortly after I started the job that I was sent into the mountains to cover a wildfire while wearing open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. (What I learned from that experience is that a reporter always carries jeans and an extra pair of sneakers in his or her car). Or the afternoon I spent staking out a goat farm where the father of a wanted man was purported to be living. Or when, as a lowly intern, I was sent out in the middle of the night to investigate the reported appearance of the Virgin Mary in a hospital window.
At the time, I cursed the job and the gods of news for putting me in such ridiculous situations. But now that I have a little distance I'm grateful for those years at the newspaper, even if I have no real desire to go back to them. They challenged and shaped me; at times they pushed me out of my comfort zone and tested my limits.
It seems like sometimes we try so hard to insulate ourselves from funship--not just in our jobs, but in our lives as a whole. I guess it's natural to crave security and a life free of frustration. But why is it that, when we look back, it's the unexpected adventures and the minor catastrophes that enrich our lives and make us more interesting dinner conversationalists?
Whatever path lies ahead of me--whether it's straight or crooked, rocky or well-paved--I both hope, and fear, that it's full of funship.
In college, I majored in journalism. It's hard to remember now whether I chose that because I deeply wanted to be a journalist, or because I wanted to get paid to write and reporting seemed like the best way to accomplish that. Either way, that's what I did and eventually--after a prohibitively expensive undergraduate education, a few non-paid internships and a brief stint of unemployment--I landed a real reporting job at a newspaper in Southern California.
Journalism is one of those jobs that look extremely glamorous and interesting on television and in the movies, but which in reality consists of more drudgery than you could possibly imagine. I'm sure it's quite a fabulous life if you're a New York Times columnist or spend your days in the White House press room, but I was a city reporter at a mid-size regional newspaper, and therefore spent most of my time at city council meetings listening to officials harangue over land use zoning and whether to allow another Wal-Mart in town.
Not to say that the job was all bad. Even the most ordinary lives and places have extraordinary moments, and occasionally a story would come along that was truly interesting and inspiring. But after a while I just burned out on it--the long hours, the crappy pay, the nightly deadlines, living in the burbs and wearing my car into the ground by chasing down stories through two counties.
So a few months ago I took a new job and went in a different direction. I still work in media and still write for a living, but it's a totally different experience. Now, my days are structured and relatively low-stress. I work with great people who promote a healthy work-life balance and bring in a salary that keeps me above the poverty line.
Day-to-day, I'm so much happier and less bitter than I used to be. But there's this small, nagging part of me that wonders if maybe I've robbed myself of something by taking a path that's smoother and, in some ways, less challenging.
My friend Susannah has this great word for experiences that suck while you're going through them, but which you remember fondly once they're over. She calls it "funship," which I assume is an amalgam of Fun and Hardship. Funship is the trip you take where everything goes calamitously wrong, but which provides you with the best stories to laugh over and share for the rest of our life. (And really, who remembers the trips where everything goes swimmingly?) Funship is the battle scar you end up being grateful for, even thought it hurt like hell at the time.
I realize, in hindsight, one thing that I do miss about the daily news grind is the funship--like the time shortly after I started the job that I was sent into the mountains to cover a wildfire while wearing open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. (What I learned from that experience is that a reporter always carries jeans and an extra pair of sneakers in his or her car). Or the afternoon I spent staking out a goat farm where the father of a wanted man was purported to be living. Or when, as a lowly intern, I was sent out in the middle of the night to investigate the reported appearance of the Virgin Mary in a hospital window.
At the time, I cursed the job and the gods of news for putting me in such ridiculous situations. But now that I have a little distance I'm grateful for those years at the newspaper, even if I have no real desire to go back to them. They challenged and shaped me; at times they pushed me out of my comfort zone and tested my limits.
It seems like sometimes we try so hard to insulate ourselves from funship--not just in our jobs, but in our lives as a whole. I guess it's natural to crave security and a life free of frustration. But why is it that, when we look back, it's the unexpected adventures and the minor catastrophes that enrich our lives and make us more interesting dinner conversationalists?
Whatever path lies ahead of me--whether it's straight or crooked, rocky or well-paved--I both hope, and fear, that it's full of funship.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Perfect Wives Club
I've always had mixed feelings about marriage.
When I was 18 I declared, rather impetuously, that I would never get married. But I've grown up a little since then, and I think it's a fine institution. I've been to about eight weddings in the past year-and-a-half, and all the couples seem very happy together. I'm sure that one day I'll join their ranks, and I'll like it just fine.
But there's something about the word "wife" that seems so foreign to me. How could I be a wife? It's a role that seems fraught with all kinds of cultural expectations and stereotypes. Wives cook nutritious meals, drive small children around in giant SUVs and hem things. I don't do any of those things. In fact, I have made a point of actively rejecting such practices, a decision that could probably be traced back to college when I took a class called "Psychology of the Family" to fulfill my minor requirement.
In this class, we learned about how married women are more likely to be depressed than unmarried women. One study showed that while unmarried couples who live together tend to share household responsibilities equally, married women take on about 70 percent of the household chores and child-rearing--even when both spouses work full time. So horrified was I by this bleak picture of matrimony, I determined it was in my best interest just to never learn to do these things. The result is that I'm a 26-year-old woman who can barely make spaghetti, but I'm ok with that. Fortunately, I found myself a guy who's ok with that too.
But there are moments when I wonder if I'll ever be marriage material--particularly after a recent run-in with the dreaded Perfect Wives Club.
Here's the back story: A couple of months ago, in an effort to recapture his high school glory days, Matt joined a baseball league. Every Sunday there is a game that consists of much manly back patting and yelling of things like "Atta Boy." Last Sunday was the first time I actually attended one of these games, mainly because they always take place at some ungodly hour of the morning somewhere in the Valley. (If you're not from Los Angeles, it's hard to imagine the amount of scorn that can be infused into the word "valley.") Sunday's game was also in the Valley, but at least they had the decency to schedule it in the afternoon, so off I went.
Matt had already informed me that there is a small cadre of wives and significant others who go to almost every game. Not only do they go to every game, but they bring snacks for the team and keep score and hand out candy bars to the guys who make the best plays. I encountered two of them on Sunday. They walked up to the stands--where I was busy leafing through the latest In Style magazine--carting lawn chairs, a portable stereo and a cooler full of Gatorade and candy bars.
"Oh hi," Perfect Blonde Wife said. "It's nice to meet you...finally."
Chagrined, I put my magazine aside and attempted to follow what was happening on the field. For the next eight innings, I listened to Perfect Blonde Wife and Perfect Brunette Wife discuss the following topics:
1. Who made the best offensive play (Matt, yay!)
2. What decorations to have at the upcoming end of season party (baseball themed, of course)
3. What snacks to prepare (rice krispie treats in the shape of baseballs)
4. How hard it is to get to baseball uniforms clean
At this point, Perfect Blonde Wife turns to me and says, "was it hard to clean Matt's uniform that one time it got really dirty?"
What I was thinking at that moment went something like this... How do you remember the time it got really dirty? He spends three hours a week rolling around in the dirt with it. It's always really dirty. And why would I be washing his uniform for him? Neither of his arms are broken. Even though we now cohabitate, we're still individuals capable of cleaning our own clothes as we have been doing for the past decade or so of our lives, thank you very much.
Instead of saying all this, I smiled serenely and said, "it wasn't a problem."
So maybe I'll be never a Perfect Wife. But I sat through the whole game, and even let Matt pick the movie we watched later that night--which I think makes me a Pretty Good Girlfriend.
When I was 18 I declared, rather impetuously, that I would never get married. But I've grown up a little since then, and I think it's a fine institution. I've been to about eight weddings in the past year-and-a-half, and all the couples seem very happy together. I'm sure that one day I'll join their ranks, and I'll like it just fine.
But there's something about the word "wife" that seems so foreign to me. How could I be a wife? It's a role that seems fraught with all kinds of cultural expectations and stereotypes. Wives cook nutritious meals, drive small children around in giant SUVs and hem things. I don't do any of those things. In fact, I have made a point of actively rejecting such practices, a decision that could probably be traced back to college when I took a class called "Psychology of the Family" to fulfill my minor requirement.
In this class, we learned about how married women are more likely to be depressed than unmarried women. One study showed that while unmarried couples who live together tend to share household responsibilities equally, married women take on about 70 percent of the household chores and child-rearing--even when both spouses work full time. So horrified was I by this bleak picture of matrimony, I determined it was in my best interest just to never learn to do these things. The result is that I'm a 26-year-old woman who can barely make spaghetti, but I'm ok with that. Fortunately, I found myself a guy who's ok with that too.
But there are moments when I wonder if I'll ever be marriage material--particularly after a recent run-in with the dreaded Perfect Wives Club.
Here's the back story: A couple of months ago, in an effort to recapture his high school glory days, Matt joined a baseball league. Every Sunday there is a game that consists of much manly back patting and yelling of things like "Atta Boy." Last Sunday was the first time I actually attended one of these games, mainly because they always take place at some ungodly hour of the morning somewhere in the Valley. (If you're not from Los Angeles, it's hard to imagine the amount of scorn that can be infused into the word "valley.") Sunday's game was also in the Valley, but at least they had the decency to schedule it in the afternoon, so off I went.
Matt had already informed me that there is a small cadre of wives and significant others who go to almost every game. Not only do they go to every game, but they bring snacks for the team and keep score and hand out candy bars to the guys who make the best plays. I encountered two of them on Sunday. They walked up to the stands--where I was busy leafing through the latest In Style magazine--carting lawn chairs, a portable stereo and a cooler full of Gatorade and candy bars.
"Oh hi," Perfect Blonde Wife said. "It's nice to meet you...finally."
Chagrined, I put my magazine aside and attempted to follow what was happening on the field. For the next eight innings, I listened to Perfect Blonde Wife and Perfect Brunette Wife discuss the following topics:
1. Who made the best offensive play (Matt, yay!)
2. What decorations to have at the upcoming end of season party (baseball themed, of course)
3. What snacks to prepare (rice krispie treats in the shape of baseballs)
4. How hard it is to get to baseball uniforms clean
At this point, Perfect Blonde Wife turns to me and says, "was it hard to clean Matt's uniform that one time it got really dirty?"
What I was thinking at that moment went something like this... How do you remember the time it got really dirty? He spends three hours a week rolling around in the dirt with it. It's always really dirty. And why would I be washing his uniform for him? Neither of his arms are broken. Even though we now cohabitate, we're still individuals capable of cleaning our own clothes as we have been doing for the past decade or so of our lives, thank you very much.
Instead of saying all this, I smiled serenely and said, "it wasn't a problem."
So maybe I'll be never a Perfect Wife. But I sat through the whole game, and even let Matt pick the movie we watched later that night--which I think makes me a Pretty Good Girlfriend.
Friday, March 09, 2007
The IKEA Effect
Since there has been such a clamor for me to return to my regular scheduled blogging program (ok, just from Neetu, but still), I think it’s time for me to get back on track. The only excuse for my posting hiatus is that moving, decorating and starting a new job sucked up way more of my creative energy than I anticipated, besides leaving me Internetless, cableless and generally cut off from the world for the past three weeks.
The biggest problem with being a nomad for the first half of your twenties is that when you finally settle on a place where you plan to stay for a while you find that the only things you’ve managed to accumulate in the last four years are a bed and a toaster. And eight boxes of VHS movies your significant other has been collecting since he was ten and refuses to part with.
So most of my time has been occupied with how to fill an 800-square-foot apartment on a 400-square-foot budget. This project can be pretty much summed up in two words: Target and IKEA.
These twin titans of moderately priced home furnishings have become my second home over the past few weeks. And while Target remains my favorite one-stop shopping destination, I’ve recently discovered that IKEA might actually be the unhappiest place on earth. Some could probably make an argument for Iraq, Guantanamo Bay or the Department of Motor Vehicles. I say it’s a toss-up.
I grant you that IKEA is, in theory, an inspired idea. Those crafty Swedes sought to create a big box Xanadu of affordable faux-wood furniture that even the most boneheaded among us can assemble with relative ease. The reality is that IKEA is actually some kind of brain fever-inducing Hell mouth.
Think I’m exaggerating? Spend a Saturday afternoon wandering around their cavernous showroom and you’ll observe hundreds of hitherto completely sane people screaming at each other over items with elfish names like “Mumsig” and “Ektorp.” I witnessed no less than three couples descend into outright name-calling, and Matt and I barely avoided a brawl of our own when we realized we had left the room measurements back at the apartment. I wonder how many relationships have been destroyed over whether the extra-wide bookshelf will look unwieldy in the living room.
Fighting your way through the hordes of would-be bargain decorators and screaming children, you can actually feel your sense of decency and order disintegrate into a kind of primal survival instinct. Suddenly, your desire to pick out a damn coffee table already and get the F out of there overrides any other consideration. You find yourself grabbing at the first things you can get a hold of and wandering aimlessly through Media and Storage for the fifth time because Bedrooms seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
And finally--once you’ve made it through the unending labyrinth of furniture and home décor--you grab a cart and lumber through a giant warehouse stacking up large boxes of unassembled wood like a little worker ant. You wait in line to pay, and then push your laden-down cart to the loading area where one of you guards the haul while the other pulls the car around. The most horrifying moment of all comes when you realize that you’d gladly back your car over a family of four if it meant they’d get out of the loading zone faster.
Then you get back home, hoping to banish all thoughts of the previous four hours of your life, and realize that the birch veneer you thought would complement the couch perfectly is all wrong and that those fire engine-colored curtains that you grabbed in a frenzied haze not only don’t match your lovely dark red accent pillows, but they make the entire room look like a giant stop sign.
So, this weekend we're going back into the fray armed with receipts and a new mental toughness. Furnishing our apartment with the perfect combination of style and thrift has become my white whale, and I remain undeterred in my quest.
Call me Mumsig.
The biggest problem with being a nomad for the first half of your twenties is that when you finally settle on a place where you plan to stay for a while you find that the only things you’ve managed to accumulate in the last four years are a bed and a toaster. And eight boxes of VHS movies your significant other has been collecting since he was ten and refuses to part with.
So most of my time has been occupied with how to fill an 800-square-foot apartment on a 400-square-foot budget. This project can be pretty much summed up in two words: Target and IKEA.
These twin titans of moderately priced home furnishings have become my second home over the past few weeks. And while Target remains my favorite one-stop shopping destination, I’ve recently discovered that IKEA might actually be the unhappiest place on earth. Some could probably make an argument for Iraq, Guantanamo Bay or the Department of Motor Vehicles. I say it’s a toss-up.
I grant you that IKEA is, in theory, an inspired idea. Those crafty Swedes sought to create a big box Xanadu of affordable faux-wood furniture that even the most boneheaded among us can assemble with relative ease. The reality is that IKEA is actually some kind of brain fever-inducing Hell mouth.
Think I’m exaggerating? Spend a Saturday afternoon wandering around their cavernous showroom and you’ll observe hundreds of hitherto completely sane people screaming at each other over items with elfish names like “Mumsig” and “Ektorp.” I witnessed no less than three couples descend into outright name-calling, and Matt and I barely avoided a brawl of our own when we realized we had left the room measurements back at the apartment. I wonder how many relationships have been destroyed over whether the extra-wide bookshelf will look unwieldy in the living room.
Fighting your way through the hordes of would-be bargain decorators and screaming children, you can actually feel your sense of decency and order disintegrate into a kind of primal survival instinct. Suddenly, your desire to pick out a damn coffee table already and get the F out of there overrides any other consideration. You find yourself grabbing at the first things you can get a hold of and wandering aimlessly through Media and Storage for the fifth time because Bedrooms seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
And finally--once you’ve made it through the unending labyrinth of furniture and home décor--you grab a cart and lumber through a giant warehouse stacking up large boxes of unassembled wood like a little worker ant. You wait in line to pay, and then push your laden-down cart to the loading area where one of you guards the haul while the other pulls the car around. The most horrifying moment of all comes when you realize that you’d gladly back your car over a family of four if it meant they’d get out of the loading zone faster.
Then you get back home, hoping to banish all thoughts of the previous four hours of your life, and realize that the birch veneer you thought would complement the couch perfectly is all wrong and that those fire engine-colored curtains that you grabbed in a frenzied haze not only don’t match your lovely dark red accent pillows, but they make the entire room look like a giant stop sign.
So, this weekend we're going back into the fray armed with receipts and a new mental toughness. Furnishing our apartment with the perfect combination of style and thrift has become my white whale, and I remain undeterred in my quest.
Call me Mumsig.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
When a Donkey Becomes an Ass
Democrats have been ticking me off lately.
First off, there was that ridiculous controversy a couple of weeks ago over Bush referring to the “Democrat majority” during the State of the Union address. Apparently, some Democrats found this horribly offensive. Why, I don’t know. Maybe Bush did mean it as an intentional dig, but come on. This is a guy who has access to all the nuclear launch codes, but can’t pronounce the word “nuclear.” I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt since it seems like we should have slightly more important matters to worry about.
And anyway, who cares if Bush neglected to put the “ic” in Democratic when we’ve got the fellows mentioned below to do it for him:
Let's start with Joseph Biden's comments about Barack Obama. Just in case you missed it, the Delaware Senator announced he was running for President last week and then proceeded to describe his rival for the Democratic nomination as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.”
Now, sometimes—maybe because we pride ourselves on being the party of inclusion or because of our need to feel everybody’s pain--I think we liberals can be a tad oversensitive. This is not one of those times.
I’ve seen Biden appear on The Daily Show a couple of times, and previously found his frankness and candor rather refreshing. But what the hell? You think Barack Obama is such an impressive candidate because he manages to be both black AND clean—is that what we’re supposed to take from your comments? This is how you choose to introduce yourself to the nation?
I thought no prospective presidential candidate could commit a bigger gaffe than accidentally calling American soldiers stupid, but clearly I was wrong. To quote Billy Madison (and the recent Kazzie awards): “I award you no points, may God have mercy on your soul.”
And, finally, Gavin Newsom. Gavin, Gavin, Gavin. I left my heart in San Francisco back in 2004 when you opened city hall to all those happy same-sex couples seeking marriage licenses. And while your bold act of civil disobedience may have contributed to a heap of reactionary anti-gay laws being passed a few months later, I adored you for being a man of principle. You’re still much better eye-candy than, say, Ted Kennedy, but get it together, man!
Still, I haven’t lost faith. I believe that this will be a banner year for the Democrat-ic Party, and that the 2008 election is ours to lose. But perhaps our venerable leaders need a gentle reminder that with great power comes great…something.
First off, there was that ridiculous controversy a couple of weeks ago over Bush referring to the “Democrat majority” during the State of the Union address. Apparently, some Democrats found this horribly offensive. Why, I don’t know. Maybe Bush did mean it as an intentional dig, but come on. This is a guy who has access to all the nuclear launch codes, but can’t pronounce the word “nuclear.” I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt since it seems like we should have slightly more important matters to worry about.
And anyway, who cares if Bush neglected to put the “ic” in Democratic when we’ve got the fellows mentioned below to do it for him:
Let's start with Joseph Biden's comments about Barack Obama. Just in case you missed it, the Delaware Senator announced he was running for President last week and then proceeded to describe his rival for the Democratic nomination as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.”
Now, sometimes—maybe because we pride ourselves on being the party of inclusion or because of our need to feel everybody’s pain--I think we liberals can be a tad oversensitive. This is not one of those times.
I’ve seen Biden appear on The Daily Show a couple of times, and previously found his frankness and candor rather refreshing. But what the hell? You think Barack Obama is such an impressive candidate because he manages to be both black AND clean—is that what we’re supposed to take from your comments? This is how you choose to introduce yourself to the nation?
I thought no prospective presidential candidate could commit a bigger gaffe than accidentally calling American soldiers stupid, but clearly I was wrong. To quote Billy Madison (and the recent Kazzie awards): “I award you no points, may God have mercy on your soul.”
And, finally, Gavin Newsom. Gavin, Gavin, Gavin. I left my heart in San Francisco back in 2004 when you opened city hall to all those happy same-sex couples seeking marriage licenses. And while your bold act of civil disobedience may have contributed to a heap of reactionary anti-gay laws being passed a few months later, I adored you for being a man of principle. You’re still much better eye-candy than, say, Ted Kennedy, but get it together, man!
Still, I haven’t lost faith. I believe that this will be a banner year for the Democrat-ic Party, and that the 2008 election is ours to lose. But perhaps our venerable leaders need a gentle reminder that with great power comes great…something.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Critical Mass
It seems that high fashion models—those gazelle-like creatures that Tyra Banks keeps trying to bring back to relevancy—may now have to follow rules other than “Don’t leave your blow on the toilet seat” and “If you’re going to abuse your assistant by chucking a phone at her head, make sure you offer a generous settlement.”
A few weeks before the start of New York’s Fashion Week, a council of fashion designers have cobbled together a list of “guidelines” aimed at keeping their human clothes hangers from looking like, well, human clothes hangers. The geniuses who decided that it was high time to bring leggings and skinny jeans back to the masses have put forth mind-blowing suggestions such as placing nutritious snacks backstage and requiring models identified as having an eating disorder to receive professional help.
In a stunning act of hypocrisy, great avatars of fashion like Anna Wintour and Diane von Furstenberg actually came out in favor of a so-called crackdown, apparently realizing that the jutting clavicle beast they’ve created has spun out of control. When models become so distractingly thin that they pull the attention away from the couture, it’s a problem. When five Brazilian modes die in quick succession from anorexia, that’s just bad P.R.
The recommendations fall short of the more drastic measures taken in Milan and Madrid, where fashion show organizers banned models whose body mass index fell below World Health Organization standards. And in an even less promising sign, several elite clothing brands have announced the advent of a new size—the double zero.
Downsizing seems inevitable since “zero became the new two and two became the new four.” So says Stanley Tucci to Anne Hathaway in a scene from “The Devil Wears Prada”—a film that mirrors our own schizophrenia by simultaneously skewering and revering the fashion world. Although it’s played as satire, hearing Anne Hathaway’s slender but healthy body derided throughout the film strikes a nerve. It hits us where we live, knowing that no matter how thin we are, we’re never thin enough. (Six is the new fourteen, didn’t ya know?)
Granted, we live in an obese nation where the associated health risks rightfully receive a great deal of attention. America needs to put down the chicken wing and lose some weight. But the skinny obsession has a lot more to do with status than with health consciousness, and weight has become emblematic of the growing divide between the haves and have nots. Americans are fat and getting fatter every day. Kids are fat and getting fatter every day. But as the average mortal expands, the standard of beauty has shrunk to literally deadly proportions.
The recent backlash against models and actresses with negative body fat might be a sign that toothpick-chic has officially outlasted its welcome. Or it could be a signal that we’re squarely trapped in the Catch-22 being played out daily on tabloid covers, where slim frames are celebrated and celebrities who gain weight are splashed unflatteringly across the pages. However, celebs who lose too much weight—as Nicole Richie and the Olsen twins have learned the hard way—become the unhappy recipients of even more derision.
True, outright revolt is always an option. Like peasants storming the Bastille, we could hurl carb-loaded breadsticks at models strutting the New York runways and shout to the heavens, “I’m hungry as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” But it’s hard to fight against a cultural ideal that’s slowly ingrained and then re-enforced a thousand different times a day. Logic and reason seems like insufficient weapons against such a stealth campaign.
The only comfort is that every cultural pendulum eventually swings back. By the time it does we will have likely found a new and more ingenious way to wreck ourselves in the name of fashion. But someday, maybe sooner than we think, six might once again become the new six.
A few weeks before the start of New York’s Fashion Week, a council of fashion designers have cobbled together a list of “guidelines” aimed at keeping their human clothes hangers from looking like, well, human clothes hangers. The geniuses who decided that it was high time to bring leggings and skinny jeans back to the masses have put forth mind-blowing suggestions such as placing nutritious snacks backstage and requiring models identified as having an eating disorder to receive professional help.
In a stunning act of hypocrisy, great avatars of fashion like Anna Wintour and Diane von Furstenberg actually came out in favor of a so-called crackdown, apparently realizing that the jutting clavicle beast they’ve created has spun out of control. When models become so distractingly thin that they pull the attention away from the couture, it’s a problem. When five Brazilian modes die in quick succession from anorexia, that’s just bad P.R.
The recommendations fall short of the more drastic measures taken in Milan and Madrid, where fashion show organizers banned models whose body mass index fell below World Health Organization standards. And in an even less promising sign, several elite clothing brands have announced the advent of a new size—the double zero.
Downsizing seems inevitable since “zero became the new two and two became the new four.” So says Stanley Tucci to Anne Hathaway in a scene from “The Devil Wears Prada”—a film that mirrors our own schizophrenia by simultaneously skewering and revering the fashion world. Although it’s played as satire, hearing Anne Hathaway’s slender but healthy body derided throughout the film strikes a nerve. It hits us where we live, knowing that no matter how thin we are, we’re never thin enough. (Six is the new fourteen, didn’t ya know?)
Granted, we live in an obese nation where the associated health risks rightfully receive a great deal of attention. America needs to put down the chicken wing and lose some weight. But the skinny obsession has a lot more to do with status than with health consciousness, and weight has become emblematic of the growing divide between the haves and have nots. Americans are fat and getting fatter every day. Kids are fat and getting fatter every day. But as the average mortal expands, the standard of beauty has shrunk to literally deadly proportions.
The recent backlash against models and actresses with negative body fat might be a sign that toothpick-chic has officially outlasted its welcome. Or it could be a signal that we’re squarely trapped in the Catch-22 being played out daily on tabloid covers, where slim frames are celebrated and celebrities who gain weight are splashed unflatteringly across the pages. However, celebs who lose too much weight—as Nicole Richie and the Olsen twins have learned the hard way—become the unhappy recipients of even more derision.
True, outright revolt is always an option. Like peasants storming the Bastille, we could hurl carb-loaded breadsticks at models strutting the New York runways and shout to the heavens, “I’m hungry as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” But it’s hard to fight against a cultural ideal that’s slowly ingrained and then re-enforced a thousand different times a day. Logic and reason seems like insufficient weapons against such a stealth campaign.
The only comfort is that every cultural pendulum eventually swings back. By the time it does we will have likely found a new and more ingenious way to wreck ourselves in the name of fashion. But someday, maybe sooner than we think, six might once again become the new six.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Viva la Revolucion!
So this New Years, I’m crossing “Get Organized” off my list of resolutions.
Because the New York Times told me that I don’t have to. An article last week extolled the virtues of disorganization, encouraging readers to embrace clutter as the mark of creativity and individuality. One particularly insightful paragraph stated:
But contrarian voices can be heard in the wilderness. An anti-anticlutter movement is afoot, one that says yes to mess and urges you to embrace your disorder. Studies are piling up that show that messy desks are the vivid signatures of people with creative, limber minds (who reap higher salaries than those with neat “office landscapes”) and that messy closet owners are probably better parents and nicer and cooler than their tidier counterparts. It’s a movement that confirms what you have known, deep down, all along: really neat people are not avatars of the good life; they are humorless and inflexible prigs, and have way too much time on their hands.
Vindication is mine!
Suck it, Container Store! Always taunting me with your empty promises that color-coded files and a well organized shoe rack will lead me to a happier and more productive life. I always knew that you were a false prophet!
Turns out the stacks of paper strewn across my desk, the phone numbers I can never find and the appointment book I’m always losing are just the signs of a nimble mind at work. I don’t have time to alphabetize, I’ve got important thinkin’ to do!
According to the NY Times website, the article has been at the top of most frequently e-mailed story list for days. I’m sure that loads of important international news has been overlooked as throngs of Type B personalities celebrate our newfound validation. What a novel idea that perhaps we shouldn’t feel ashamed of our hapless closets and our unmade beds. That it’s acceptable—nay healthier—to have other priorities for how we choose to spend our free time.
I’ve always felt that neatness, or lack thereof, is beyond our control anyway. Our level of organization is something that’s hard wired into us, like being right or left-handed or the ability to roll our tongues. Sure I could teach myself to write and peel bananas with my left hand, but what’s the point? It would never feel natural. Likewise, my boyfriend--who only half-jokingly lives by the motto that if it’s not a right angle, it’s a wrong angle—could force himself to throw his laundry on the floor with reckless abandon. But for him, this would be a miserable, unfulfilled life.
(For the record, he’s a very creative and funny guy, not an inflexible prig as the New York Times would have you believe. Perhaps it’s because his neatnik tendencies only apply to his bedroom and office, and not his bathroom or kitchen. However, if he ever buys a label maker, I’m leaving him.)
As thrilling as it is to be let off the hook for messiness, it calls into question a number of other so-called shortcomings for which we routinely beat ourselves up. For instance, who says that procrastination is the wrong way to approach tasks? That people who go to bed early and wake up with the sun are more virtuous than those of us who choose to greet Saturday afternoon in a horizontal fashion. That watching TV will make you stupid? (People who say this have clearly never seen an episode of The Daily Show or Veronica Mars.)
This is not to say that we should all become useless slugs, wiling the days away in front of the TV surrounded by our unfolded laundry. All I’m suggesting is that we should stop feeling so guilty for the short periods of the day we spend in blissful unproductiveness. There will always be jobs, errands to run, meals to prepare and gym memberships to justify. But wouldn’t it be amazing if the time we waste turns out to be the most valuable part of our days?
In light of this revelation, I’ve revamped my list of resolutions for the New Year:
1.) Start looking for new, more fulfilling job/ figure out what I want to do with my life
2.) Learn to speak Spanish
3.) Go to gym at least twice a week
4.) Learn to cook actual meal not involving plastic wrap or microwave
5.) Eat more vegetables
6.) Don’t hate myself if I fail to accomplish #’s 1,2,3,4 or 5.
Because the New York Times told me that I don’t have to. An article last week extolled the virtues of disorganization, encouraging readers to embrace clutter as the mark of creativity and individuality. One particularly insightful paragraph stated:
But contrarian voices can be heard in the wilderness. An anti-anticlutter movement is afoot, one that says yes to mess and urges you to embrace your disorder. Studies are piling up that show that messy desks are the vivid signatures of people with creative, limber minds (who reap higher salaries than those with neat “office landscapes”) and that messy closet owners are probably better parents and nicer and cooler than their tidier counterparts. It’s a movement that confirms what you have known, deep down, all along: really neat people are not avatars of the good life; they are humorless and inflexible prigs, and have way too much time on their hands.
Vindication is mine!
Suck it, Container Store! Always taunting me with your empty promises that color-coded files and a well organized shoe rack will lead me to a happier and more productive life. I always knew that you were a false prophet!
Turns out the stacks of paper strewn across my desk, the phone numbers I can never find and the appointment book I’m always losing are just the signs of a nimble mind at work. I don’t have time to alphabetize, I’ve got important thinkin’ to do!
According to the NY Times website, the article has been at the top of most frequently e-mailed story list for days. I’m sure that loads of important international news has been overlooked as throngs of Type B personalities celebrate our newfound validation. What a novel idea that perhaps we shouldn’t feel ashamed of our hapless closets and our unmade beds. That it’s acceptable—nay healthier—to have other priorities for how we choose to spend our free time.
I’ve always felt that neatness, or lack thereof, is beyond our control anyway. Our level of organization is something that’s hard wired into us, like being right or left-handed or the ability to roll our tongues. Sure I could teach myself to write and peel bananas with my left hand, but what’s the point? It would never feel natural. Likewise, my boyfriend--who only half-jokingly lives by the motto that if it’s not a right angle, it’s a wrong angle—could force himself to throw his laundry on the floor with reckless abandon. But for him, this would be a miserable, unfulfilled life.
(For the record, he’s a very creative and funny guy, not an inflexible prig as the New York Times would have you believe. Perhaps it’s because his neatnik tendencies only apply to his bedroom and office, and not his bathroom or kitchen. However, if he ever buys a label maker, I’m leaving him.)
As thrilling as it is to be let off the hook for messiness, it calls into question a number of other so-called shortcomings for which we routinely beat ourselves up. For instance, who says that procrastination is the wrong way to approach tasks? That people who go to bed early and wake up with the sun are more virtuous than those of us who choose to greet Saturday afternoon in a horizontal fashion. That watching TV will make you stupid? (People who say this have clearly never seen an episode of The Daily Show or Veronica Mars.)
This is not to say that we should all become useless slugs, wiling the days away in front of the TV surrounded by our unfolded laundry. All I’m suggesting is that we should stop feeling so guilty for the short periods of the day we spend in blissful unproductiveness. There will always be jobs, errands to run, meals to prepare and gym memberships to justify. But wouldn’t it be amazing if the time we waste turns out to be the most valuable part of our days?
In light of this revelation, I’ve revamped my list of resolutions for the New Year:
1.) Start looking for new, more fulfilling job/ figure out what I want to do with my life
2.) Learn to speak Spanish
3.) Go to gym at least twice a week
4.) Learn to cook actual meal not involving plastic wrap or microwave
5.) Eat more vegetables
6.) Don’t hate myself if I fail to accomplish #’s 1,2,3,4 or 5.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Inconvenient Truth...About Penguins?
I guess it was only a matter of time before they went after the penguins.
The loveable, Antarctic-dwelling creatures have marched their way into our hearts and minds. They’re the most popular animals that Louis Vuitton has yet to create an over-priced carrying case for. Unless you’re a conservative commentator like Neil Cavuto with lots of air time to fill. In that case, a cheerful animated movie about singing and dancing penguins is nothing more than left-wing propaganda aimed at indoctrinating youth into—gasp—caring about the environment.
Now, I haven’t seen Happy Feet, so maybe the movie was made by the Leni Reifenstahls of tree-hugging. How effective that will be with kids is questionable. After all, I watched the Smurfs for much of my youth and didn’t become a Communist. But if tap-dancing penguins actually are a thinly disguised indictment of the havoc we humans have wreaked on the earth and our feathered friends, than I ask…What’s wrong with that? Any good parent tries to instill basic values into their kids--things like respect for fellow human beings, tolerance and generosity. Why would we assume that respecting the earth would be beyond a child's realm of understanding?
I get that there’s a debate in this country about global warming. What I don't understand is why. The extent of the damage may be debatable, but the evidence—such as reports that frozen sea areas in the Arctic Circle will be completely gone by the summer 2040—is pretty sobering. At least that’s what scientists from the National Center for Atmospheric Research, the University of Washington and McGill University say. And they are much smarter than I am. The fact that the brain trust of Cavuto and Co. write it off as a liberal agenda is less than comforting.
I understand that the glory of this great nation is that everyone is free to espouse whatever kooky theories they like. But why should they merit equal time and consideration? Why aren’t global warming naysayers relegated to the societal fringes reserved for alien abductees and people who see leprechauns in trees? Which, incidentally, happened in Alabama.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nda_OSWeyn8
The point is that the longer we continue to treat global warming like a robust debate instead of a foregone conclusion, the longer it will take to enact any real changes.
And on a related subject, I did recently see An Inconvenient Truth, and it was as impressive and downright scary as everyone has said. How is that Al Gore put me to sleep during a presidential debate, yet managed to keep me on the edge of my seat for an hour-and-a-half long power point presentation?
Actually, I think it would very interesting to see him run for President again in 2008. At least he's demonstarted that he has the ability to look at an issue in broader terms than the next election cycle, and he now tells jokes that are actually kind of funny. (Hearing him refer to himself as "the former next President of the United States" never gets old.) Plus, I'm pretty sure he'll get the penguin vote.
The loveable, Antarctic-dwelling creatures have marched their way into our hearts and minds. They’re the most popular animals that Louis Vuitton has yet to create an over-priced carrying case for. Unless you’re a conservative commentator like Neil Cavuto with lots of air time to fill. In that case, a cheerful animated movie about singing and dancing penguins is nothing more than left-wing propaganda aimed at indoctrinating youth into—gasp—caring about the environment.
Now, I haven’t seen Happy Feet, so maybe the movie was made by the Leni Reifenstahls of tree-hugging. How effective that will be with kids is questionable. After all, I watched the Smurfs for much of my youth and didn’t become a Communist. But if tap-dancing penguins actually are a thinly disguised indictment of the havoc we humans have wreaked on the earth and our feathered friends, than I ask…What’s wrong with that? Any good parent tries to instill basic values into their kids--things like respect for fellow human beings, tolerance and generosity. Why would we assume that respecting the earth would be beyond a child's realm of understanding?
I get that there’s a debate in this country about global warming. What I don't understand is why. The extent of the damage may be debatable, but the evidence—such as reports that frozen sea areas in the Arctic Circle will be completely gone by the summer 2040—is pretty sobering. At least that’s what scientists from the National Center for Atmospheric Research, the University of Washington and McGill University say. And they are much smarter than I am. The fact that the brain trust of Cavuto and Co. write it off as a liberal agenda is less than comforting.
I understand that the glory of this great nation is that everyone is free to espouse whatever kooky theories they like. But why should they merit equal time and consideration? Why aren’t global warming naysayers relegated to the societal fringes reserved for alien abductees and people who see leprechauns in trees? Which, incidentally, happened in Alabama.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nda_OSWeyn8
The point is that the longer we continue to treat global warming like a robust debate instead of a foregone conclusion, the longer it will take to enact any real changes.
And on a related subject, I did recently see An Inconvenient Truth, and it was as impressive and downright scary as everyone has said. How is that Al Gore put me to sleep during a presidential debate, yet managed to keep me on the edge of my seat for an hour-and-a-half long power point presentation?
Actually, I think it would very interesting to see him run for President again in 2008. At least he's demonstarted that he has the ability to look at an issue in broader terms than the next election cycle, and he now tells jokes that are actually kind of funny. (Hearing him refer to himself as "the former next President of the United States" never gets old.) Plus, I'm pretty sure he'll get the penguin vote.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
