The Whispering House by Rebecca Wade is an eerie, creepy story about a house inhabited by a 14 year old girl, Hannah, her parents, and the ghost of a little girl who died almost 200 years ago. The house seems normal enough, until Hannah starts having dreams and visions that cause her to investigate the off-limits rooms in her new Victorian house. Her best friend, Sam, helps her unlock doors, and inside they discover a (voodoo?) doll. This leads them on an adventure to uncover the truth about this little girl's death and the family member who may have murdered her.
I had moments of spine-tingling, hair-raising terror during parts of this book, as Hannah becomes more and more involved with investigating this ghostly presence. I'm easily scared, and Wade does a good job of drawing out some of the more suspenseful plot points.
That said, I had two concerns with the novel. First, Hannah and Sam are written to be fourteen, and they just didn't ring true to the narrative at all. Though the line is blurry between children's and young adult literature--marketing? audience?--this was certainly children's literature, and Hannah and Sam could have been ten or eleven and the story wouldn't have been much different.
Second, though Hannah is the main focalizing character, when the going gets tough there at the end, with all of the clues sort of falling together and the mystery seems to be coming to a close, it is Sam who does most of the acting and solving. He sort of takes over while Hannah just kinda...fades into the background. There is a somewhat legitimate reason plot-wise for this to be happening, but honestly, I was more just annoyed that the guy took over even though the girl had done most of the work up until that point.
This isn't the greatest horror story ever told, not even for kid, and part of the resolution is a little too simple, but the haunted house piece was interesting enough to keep my attention.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Harper Collins Review--Halloween edition (Part 2)
How exactly did I miss reading and seeing Coraline before now? Seriously. Luckily for me, HarperCollins sent me the 10th anniversary edition to Gaiman's book.
Gaiman's prose is poetic, even while describing some pretty horrific scenes. While not exactly "Halloween" themed, this story is creepy, both physically and psychologically (mostly the latter). Coraline finds herself trapped in an "other" world--other mother, other father, other room, other flat. An adventurer by nature, she sets off on a challenging quest to get herself--and her parents--home. Coraline is a great character--scared but brave, mature but a child, stubborn but willing to accept help. I liked her relationship with the cat. (Of course.) The supporting characters also living in the divided-up house are interesting, and add some British quirk to the novel.
This is short but exciting, written well even if a bit simplistically at times, and a sort of horror version of the home-away-from-home tale. Gaiman taps into one of childhood's most common secret desires: "why can't I just have different parents--then my life would be so much better!" and spins it on its ugly head.
It was also interesting reading the interviews at the end of the book. The original Q&A is included along with one for this edition. It's neat to read Gaiman's response before and after the success of Coraline.
Gaiman's prose is poetic, even while describing some pretty horrific scenes. While not exactly "Halloween" themed, this story is creepy, both physically and psychologically (mostly the latter). Coraline finds herself trapped in an "other" world--other mother, other father, other room, other flat. An adventurer by nature, she sets off on a challenging quest to get herself--and her parents--home. Coraline is a great character--scared but brave, mature but a child, stubborn but willing to accept help. I liked her relationship with the cat. (Of course.) The supporting characters also living in the divided-up house are interesting, and add some British quirk to the novel.
This is short but exciting, written well even if a bit simplistically at times, and a sort of horror version of the home-away-from-home tale. Gaiman taps into one of childhood's most common secret desires: "why can't I just have different parents--then my life would be so much better!" and spins it on its ugly head.
It was also interesting reading the interviews at the end of the book. The original Q&A is included along with one for this edition. It's neat to read Gaiman's response before and after the success of Coraline.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Harper Collins Review--Halloween Edition (Part 1)
Invisible Inkling: Dangerous Pumpkins by Emily Jenkins and Henry Bliss is a cute, fun read about a fourth grade boy with an invisible friend. Unlike the typical invisible friendship, however, Hank's companion is a bandapat, a strange creature that hails from the redwood forests of Cameroon. (No, really, they exist!) Bandapats like Inkling--I have an inkling, get it? This joke is likely lost on the target audience, but no matter--needs a particular food for sustenance. One that is in abundance around Halloween, but that often serves as decoration and artwork. What happens to Hank when his furry friend starts in on all of the gorgeous jack o' laterns in the neighborhood?
Hank's situation is pretty unusual, but Jenkins does a great job of not making the fantastic seem too ridiculous. Amidst all the drama with Inkling, Hank is just a regular fourth grade boy trying to handle life's complications--fights with friends, a bossy older sister, parents who don't seem to understand him, if they pay attention at all. A lot of Hank's narration is quite funny (his teacher has "complicated hair" and is "not [his] favorite person"), but he's also sincere without being too mature. Kids will identify with Hank's reliance on his invisible pal, even when he's stirring up trouble that Hank has to deal with himself.
This is the first book in a series, and so far, Hank has not revealed Inkling's existence to anyone. Fantasy frequently involves a confidant or two that accepts the truth of the situation without question. Stay tuned to find out whether Hank lets people in on his secret.
Hank's situation is pretty unusual, but Jenkins does a great job of not making the fantastic seem too ridiculous. Amidst all the drama with Inkling, Hank is just a regular fourth grade boy trying to handle life's complications--fights with friends, a bossy older sister, parents who don't seem to understand him, if they pay attention at all. A lot of Hank's narration is quite funny (his teacher has "complicated hair" and is "not [his] favorite person"), but he's also sincere without being too mature. Kids will identify with Hank's reliance on his invisible pal, even when he's stirring up trouble that Hank has to deal with himself.
This is the first book in a series, and so far, Hank has not revealed Inkling's existence to anyone. Fantasy frequently involves a confidant or two that accepts the truth of the situation without question. Stay tuned to find out whether Hank lets people in on his secret.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
How I Met My Sister
Most people do it in the hospital. Some have done it on Oprah or Dr. Phil. I did it at Harrah's Casino.
Let me back up.
When people ask the rather common getting-to-know-you question "so, do you have any siblings?" I give them the short answer. "No. I'm an only child." (Statistically, only children are rare--at least in the Western world, though this is changing--and in addition to being the short answer, it also makes me feel a little unique, which is nice.) If the conversation progresses, or if I get to know that person better, I give them the long answer. "Well, I was raised an only child, but I actually have four half siblings...whom I've never met." This generally prompts conversation, as one might expect, so I tend to shy away from going there because it makes my family life sound like a pretty solid episode of Jerry Springer. It doesn't bother me--I'm not embarrassed by any of this; I don't have to defend anyone--but most people, at least in casual conversation, want the short version. I get it. But, to be fair, the long version is pretty interesting. I mean, most people, even with divorced parents, have at least met their siblings--step, half, whatever. Here's the quick version of the long story:
1. Biological Dad marries Wife One, has two kids. They divorce when the kids are small.
2. Biological Dad marries Wife Two, has me. He leaves when I'm an infant, and Mom moves back to her hometown, which is way the hell across the country from where they lived/I was born.
3. Biological Dad marries Wife Three, has two kids. They are together until his untimely death as a result of an accident in April, 2008.
I know that maybe it makes Biological Dad look like a commitment-phobic, serial husband or something equally as awful. (Culturally speaking anyway, since the preference is to Marry Once for Life, even though the statistics indicate this is clearly not The Norm; multiple divorces is still frowned upon, though it does make you perfectly eligible to run for president on the GOP ticket with a strong "family values" ideology.) Regardless of how it makes him look--and without getting into everything, it's all water under the bridge; no one harbors ill will--the result is the same. I have four half siblings.
I always knew about them, so this isn't some big Lifetime Television event. I had seen pictures of the older two as kids--my mom was their step-mom for a while, remember--though we'd never had contact since I lived so far away and had no relationship with Biological Dad. Because of things like child support, Mom knew about Biological Dad's new marriage and family, though again, the details were pretty vague: names, rough ages, etc. In college, I got it in my mind to try to find my older brother--as the only boy, he was the one whose name couldn't have changed--to no avail. I gave up, though Mom always encouraged me to seek them out somehow.
Fast forward to 2009. I join Faceook. Lo and behold, there they are. All four of them.
Through Facebook messaging, the one sister--the youngest of all five of us--and I start to sort of have a relationship. Her husband is a flight attendant for a popular airline (read: they fly a lot because it's free), and his family is from Philly, so we had a couple of chances to meet up that didn't work out for one reason or another. They offered to fly me and ExH to Vegas for their daughter's baby naming ceremony; we had a wedding in Vermont that weekend. They were going to come to Philly for Passover; she got sick. They were going to stop in Columbus on their way home from Philly last year; it fell through. When I found out last December I had gotten accepted to a conference in Vegas, the first (ok, second) thing I did was text her even though we'd been out of touch for quite a while. They graciously gave me a plane ticket, and we chose a time during my stay when we'd both be free to meet.
Needless to say, as the time got closer, I was pretty nervous. Was it going to be awkward? What if we hated each other? Or had nothing to talk about? What if hearing about growing up with Biological Dad made me upset? What if talking about him made her upset, since he has passed away? Was it going to be this big, emotional, tear-inducing moment? (I put on mascara and instantly regretted it, though it ended up not to be a problem.) As she and I were texting back and forth on that day, I had major butterflies and had to call a friend to talk me through it. I normally have no problem meeting people--Dates? Easy. New classmates? Fine.--but this was totally different. I was ready about 20 minutes early, and spent my time pacing back and forth in the lobby of Harrah's.
Finally, Sister arrived with her husband and daughter in tow, and there was hugging all around. (We easily recognized each other from pictures, so we didn't have that awkward Blind Date moment of "is that you?" to deal with. Also, see above: I was the one pacing in the lobby. This probably clued her in.) We quickly decided to go across the street to get lunch in the mall, making some small talk about the wackiness of Vegas and their upcoming move (back) to Santa Fe on the way. Her husband was really good about being the Parent In Charge so that Sister and I could talk without being interrupted by their (super cute) toddler. Once we navigated walking through the casino and crossing the street, we were able to talk about more important things, like, you know, family, genealogy, Biological Dad, the fact that we were each currently meeting a sibling, and how the other siblings might feel about this. (She, obviously, grew up with her full sister, but has also spent significant time with the first two.) We joked that we'd make great fodder for reality television and looked around for a film crew in jest. We sat down at a table after a short wait (perfect for a photo op) and continued to "catch up"--that phrase seems inadequate--in between ordering, eating, and moving everything away from grabby toddler hands.
It was a mix of both of us asking questions and taking turns volunteering information. I learned some fascinating--often scandalous--family history, as well as some of the more mundane aspects of Biological Dad's personality that, obviously, I didn't already know. (Previously, I could name a couple of facts about him and that's it.) We touched on the potentially sensitive topics with grace, both of us likely over-compensating with regard to the other's feelings. We tried to figure out weird things we had in common, having the "nature versus nurture" debate alongside each new revelation. I knew we were related when we were talking political commentary and she said "seriously, if I were a lesbian, my first choice would be Rachel Maddow." (Some idiotic study did find that politics were partially genetic, after all.)
As the afternoon wrapped up, we tried to figure out whether we'd have more time before I went home, talked about how nice it was (though weird) to have finally met, and encouraged the other to keep in (better) touch. Seeing each other a few days later was a possibility, though it never came to fruition. I hugged her and her husband goodbye, gave their daughter (my niece!) a squeeze, and watched as they walked away through the smoke of the casino toward their car. It had finally happened. I had met my sister.
Given the time difference, I was able to call my mom and relay the events of the afternoon almost immediately. I told her all about the rather juicy family goings-on; each juicy tidbit was met with a "no kidding!" on the other end of the phone, especially those concerning my genetic makeup. (These parts are particularly interesting.) Some of the information I passed along were facts that differed from her personal experience having been married to Biological Dad, or things she had forgotten about, or things she probably should have known and didn't. Regardless, she was completely intrigued about the experience and so, so happy for me. You know, how Moms get. Then she probably told me to be safe in Vegas. You know, how Moms get.
I tend to be guilty of Setting My Expectations Too High, so, like many other Big Things I've experienced in life, this felt a little anti-climactic, though I fully understand the significance of the event. As I said above, the mascara didn't turn into a streaky mess on my face because there was no crying. I'm not sure what I was looking for--the skies to open and chorus of angels to sing, perhaps?--because this is something almost no one else I know has gone through. It's one thing to reunite with an old friend or family member, even one you haven't seen in over two decades, but it's quite another to meet a sibling. I mean, by definition, you cannot meet a friend you've never met. When I learned that Biological Dad had passed away, I wept in a brief storm of convulsing sobs--poor ExH had no idea what to do in this moment--but I was mourning the chances that could never be; I was grieving a ghost more than the loss of an human being. Did I think that meeting Sister would be the emotional mirror of that? Were we supposed to run at each other, embrace and cry happy tears at our new found sisterly bond? I'd be lying if I didn't admit to hoping for a little of that despite the unrealistic nature of the scenario. No matter the outcome, however, it was something I had wanted to do for years, and I get to live in a world where a little wish came true.
There is a cloying phrase often found on decorative knickknacks and needlepoint pillows sold in kitschy general stores and catalogs for sorority girls: "Chance made us sisters; hearts made us friends."
I need a bigger pillow.
Let me back up.
When people ask the rather common getting-to-know-you question "so, do you have any siblings?" I give them the short answer. "No. I'm an only child." (Statistically, only children are rare--at least in the Western world, though this is changing--and in addition to being the short answer, it also makes me feel a little unique, which is nice.) If the conversation progresses, or if I get to know that person better, I give them the long answer. "Well, I was raised an only child, but I actually have four half siblings...whom I've never met." This generally prompts conversation, as one might expect, so I tend to shy away from going there because it makes my family life sound like a pretty solid episode of Jerry Springer. It doesn't bother me--I'm not embarrassed by any of this; I don't have to defend anyone--but most people, at least in casual conversation, want the short version. I get it. But, to be fair, the long version is pretty interesting. I mean, most people, even with divorced parents, have at least met their siblings--step, half, whatever. Here's the quick version of the long story:
1. Biological Dad marries Wife One, has two kids. They divorce when the kids are small.
2. Biological Dad marries Wife Two, has me. He leaves when I'm an infant, and Mom moves back to her hometown, which is way the hell across the country from where they lived/I was born.
3. Biological Dad marries Wife Three, has two kids. They are together until his untimely death as a result of an accident in April, 2008.
I know that maybe it makes Biological Dad look like a commitment-phobic, serial husband or something equally as awful. (Culturally speaking anyway, since the preference is to Marry Once for Life, even though the statistics indicate this is clearly not The Norm; multiple divorces is still frowned upon, though it does make you perfectly eligible to run for president on the GOP ticket with a strong "family values" ideology.) Regardless of how it makes him look--and without getting into everything, it's all water under the bridge; no one harbors ill will--the result is the same. I have four half siblings.
I always knew about them, so this isn't some big Lifetime Television event. I had seen pictures of the older two as kids--my mom was their step-mom for a while, remember--though we'd never had contact since I lived so far away and had no relationship with Biological Dad. Because of things like child support, Mom knew about Biological Dad's new marriage and family, though again, the details were pretty vague: names, rough ages, etc. In college, I got it in my mind to try to find my older brother--as the only boy, he was the one whose name couldn't have changed--to no avail. I gave up, though Mom always encouraged me to seek them out somehow.
Fast forward to 2009. I join Faceook. Lo and behold, there they are. All four of them.
Through Facebook messaging, the one sister--the youngest of all five of us--and I start to sort of have a relationship. Her husband is a flight attendant for a popular airline (read: they fly a lot because it's free), and his family is from Philly, so we had a couple of chances to meet up that didn't work out for one reason or another. They offered to fly me and ExH to Vegas for their daughter's baby naming ceremony; we had a wedding in Vermont that weekend. They were going to come to Philly for Passover; she got sick. They were going to stop in Columbus on their way home from Philly last year; it fell through. When I found out last December I had gotten accepted to a conference in Vegas, the first (ok, second) thing I did was text her even though we'd been out of touch for quite a while. They graciously gave me a plane ticket, and we chose a time during my stay when we'd both be free to meet.
Needless to say, as the time got closer, I was pretty nervous. Was it going to be awkward? What if we hated each other? Or had nothing to talk about? What if hearing about growing up with Biological Dad made me upset? What if talking about him made her upset, since he has passed away? Was it going to be this big, emotional, tear-inducing moment? (I put on mascara and instantly regretted it, though it ended up not to be a problem.) As she and I were texting back and forth on that day, I had major butterflies and had to call a friend to talk me through it. I normally have no problem meeting people--Dates? Easy. New classmates? Fine.--but this was totally different. I was ready about 20 minutes early, and spent my time pacing back and forth in the lobby of Harrah's.
Finally, Sister arrived with her husband and daughter in tow, and there was hugging all around. (We easily recognized each other from pictures, so we didn't have that awkward Blind Date moment of "is that you?" to deal with. Also, see above: I was the one pacing in the lobby. This probably clued her in.) We quickly decided to go across the street to get lunch in the mall, making some small talk about the wackiness of Vegas and their upcoming move (back) to Santa Fe on the way. Her husband was really good about being the Parent In Charge so that Sister and I could talk without being interrupted by their (super cute) toddler. Once we navigated walking through the casino and crossing the street, we were able to talk about more important things, like, you know, family, genealogy, Biological Dad, the fact that we were each currently meeting a sibling, and how the other siblings might feel about this. (She, obviously, grew up with her full sister, but has also spent significant time with the first two.) We joked that we'd make great fodder for reality television and looked around for a film crew in jest. We sat down at a table after a short wait (perfect for a photo op) and continued to "catch up"--that phrase seems inadequate--in between ordering, eating, and moving everything away from grabby toddler hands.
It was a mix of both of us asking questions and taking turns volunteering information. I learned some fascinating--often scandalous--family history, as well as some of the more mundane aspects of Biological Dad's personality that, obviously, I didn't already know. (Previously, I could name a couple of facts about him and that's it.) We touched on the potentially sensitive topics with grace, both of us likely over-compensating with regard to the other's feelings. We tried to figure out weird things we had in common, having the "nature versus nurture" debate alongside each new revelation. I knew we were related when we were talking political commentary and she said "seriously, if I were a lesbian, my first choice would be Rachel Maddow." (Some idiotic study did find that politics were partially genetic, after all.)
As the afternoon wrapped up, we tried to figure out whether we'd have more time before I went home, talked about how nice it was (though weird) to have finally met, and encouraged the other to keep in (better) touch. Seeing each other a few days later was a possibility, though it never came to fruition. I hugged her and her husband goodbye, gave their daughter (my niece!) a squeeze, and watched as they walked away through the smoke of the casino toward their car. It had finally happened. I had met my sister.
Given the time difference, I was able to call my mom and relay the events of the afternoon almost immediately. I told her all about the rather juicy family goings-on; each juicy tidbit was met with a "no kidding!" on the other end of the phone, especially those concerning my genetic makeup. (These parts are particularly interesting.) Some of the information I passed along were facts that differed from her personal experience having been married to Biological Dad, or things she had forgotten about, or things she probably should have known and didn't. Regardless, she was completely intrigued about the experience and so, so happy for me. You know, how Moms get. Then she probably told me to be safe in Vegas. You know, how Moms get.
I tend to be guilty of Setting My Expectations Too High, so, like many other Big Things I've experienced in life, this felt a little anti-climactic, though I fully understand the significance of the event. As I said above, the mascara didn't turn into a streaky mess on my face because there was no crying. I'm not sure what I was looking for--the skies to open and chorus of angels to sing, perhaps?--because this is something almost no one else I know has gone through. It's one thing to reunite with an old friend or family member, even one you haven't seen in over two decades, but it's quite another to meet a sibling. I mean, by definition, you cannot meet a friend you've never met. When I learned that Biological Dad had passed away, I wept in a brief storm of convulsing sobs--poor ExH had no idea what to do in this moment--but I was mourning the chances that could never be; I was grieving a ghost more than the loss of an human being. Did I think that meeting Sister would be the emotional mirror of that? Were we supposed to run at each other, embrace and cry happy tears at our new found sisterly bond? I'd be lying if I didn't admit to hoping for a little of that despite the unrealistic nature of the scenario. No matter the outcome, however, it was something I had wanted to do for years, and I get to live in a world where a little wish came true.
There is a cloying phrase often found on decorative knickknacks and needlepoint pillows sold in kitschy general stores and catalogs for sorority girls: "Chance made us sisters; hearts made us friends."
I need a bigger pillow.
Monday, March 5, 2012
If on a winter's night...
Every year, I think it will be different.
No, wait. That's not exactly true. Each year, I forget about it until it's too late. Until it's already here, until I'm already mired in it. I can't explain why or how I forget, but I do.
Or, rather, I suppose it's even more honest to say that I don't forget it will happen; I forget what it's really like.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, be thankful. It means you can spend all year, all four glorious, changing seasons, feeling like your "normal," typical self. The change in weather, the first few months of the calendar year don't affect you. You barely notice them, maybe, save for the extra moments you pad into your morning routine in order to scrape ice off your windshield, or that giddy feeling we've all had waiting to see if school is canceled. Hell, lots of people even enjoy this time of year, smiling as they unearth the gloves and thermal long john underwear in order to head even farther North into the wild, white yonder.
Not me.
This isn't just some sort of "oh, I don't like sweaters and boots and snow" kind of feeling. I actually enjoy sweaters and boots and snow. This isn't just an annoyance with the trivial difficulties that come with living in the relative North or a preference for warmer weather. This is a temporary, annual game changer. For about three months, I'm not me. I am, as they say, a shell of my former self.
I can only assume that many people don't believe that Seasonal Affective Disorder is real, or that it's all in my head. I assure you, it is not. I was actually diagnosed six years ago and participated in a clinical trial for a new treatment method. I'm very, very lucky, I realize: this only invades my world for a few months; it's quite unpleasant, but not crippling (though for some, it is); I live alone, so it doesn't impact anyone else these days. (Morris actually benefits.) But still. Seasonal or not, the symptoms are the same.
I'm not the most eloquent person, but a friend described it as "feeling like you're walking around in a cloud of grey cotton." (Or something similar. I'm sure I've forgotten his words verbatim.) That makes it sound sort of nice: clouds and cotton are both cozy; grey is a classy neutral. Unfortunately, I don't feel like I'm living in a world of over-washed Gap t-shirts, though the general point is well taken. Let me try to explain it, though really, a quick Wiki would do the trick.
I lose interest in everything, including--especially--those things that usually bring me joy, like reading, the gym, going out with my friends, food, sex (when I'm having it, which isn't now), and shopping. I have to drag myself to social events or my beloved gym class. I'm tired all the time. I go to bed early. I sleep late. When I can't sleep late, I'm more exhausted than usual as a result. My first thought every morning is going back to bed. I'm hungry, but I don't want to eat. Or, conversely, I eat without being hungry. I burst into tears for no reason, or in inappropriate places. My mind feels foggy, like my brain exists outside my skull, hovering in some sort of ether. I'm not motivated to do anything. I lose patience (even more) quickly. I'm irritable. I am, generally, just miserable to be around.
Good grief, even I can't stand me.
One of the odd-yet-typical results of all of this is that I tend to fixate on two things: a certain kind of food and a TV show. One year it was rice pudding and That 70's Show. Another was Raisinettes and Everybody Loves Raymond. I'd race home from work, take a two hour nap, wake up, get a tub of rice pudding and a spoon and turn on one of those channels that only shows syndicated sitcoms. I'd sit there in the dark, watching admittedly terrible television with an empty Kozy Shack container/bag of Raisinettes in my hands until my eyelids got heavy and then go to bed. Those things, pudding and Hyde, chocolate raisins and Robert Barone, were all I looked forward to all day. Well, and sleep. (Looking forward to Everybody Loves Raymond? I know, right? I must be sick!) This year, the objects of my pathetic affection are MSNBC and Basic 4 cereal. I'd like to think that this is an improvement in both directions.
I know I'm not alone. Lots of people suffer from seasonal (or clinical) depression. I know I could take medicine, do light therapy, or up my vitamin D intake. (I do that, actually, when I remember. Which isn't often. See above: foggy brain.) And I'll reiterate that I am very, very thankful that while this is annual, it's also temporary. My regularly scheduled self will return after these cold-weather messages. Others aren't as lucky.
But seriously, in our evolution as a species, why did we get rid of hibernation?
No, wait. That's not exactly true. Each year, I forget about it until it's too late. Until it's already here, until I'm already mired in it. I can't explain why or how I forget, but I do.
Or, rather, I suppose it's even more honest to say that I don't forget it will happen; I forget what it's really like.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, be thankful. It means you can spend all year, all four glorious, changing seasons, feeling like your "normal," typical self. The change in weather, the first few months of the calendar year don't affect you. You barely notice them, maybe, save for the extra moments you pad into your morning routine in order to scrape ice off your windshield, or that giddy feeling we've all had waiting to see if school is canceled. Hell, lots of people even enjoy this time of year, smiling as they unearth the gloves and thermal long john underwear in order to head even farther North into the wild, white yonder.
Not me.
This isn't just some sort of "oh, I don't like sweaters and boots and snow" kind of feeling. I actually enjoy sweaters and boots and snow. This isn't just an annoyance with the trivial difficulties that come with living in the relative North or a preference for warmer weather. This is a temporary, annual game changer. For about three months, I'm not me. I am, as they say, a shell of my former self.
I can only assume that many people don't believe that Seasonal Affective Disorder is real, or that it's all in my head. I assure you, it is not. I was actually diagnosed six years ago and participated in a clinical trial for a new treatment method. I'm very, very lucky, I realize: this only invades my world for a few months; it's quite unpleasant, but not crippling (though for some, it is); I live alone, so it doesn't impact anyone else these days. (Morris actually benefits.) But still. Seasonal or not, the symptoms are the same.
I'm not the most eloquent person, but a friend described it as "feeling like you're walking around in a cloud of grey cotton." (Or something similar. I'm sure I've forgotten his words verbatim.) That makes it sound sort of nice: clouds and cotton are both cozy; grey is a classy neutral. Unfortunately, I don't feel like I'm living in a world of over-washed Gap t-shirts, though the general point is well taken. Let me try to explain it, though really, a quick Wiki would do the trick.
I lose interest in everything, including--especially--those things that usually bring me joy, like reading, the gym, going out with my friends, food, sex (when I'm having it, which isn't now), and shopping. I have to drag myself to social events or my beloved gym class. I'm tired all the time. I go to bed early. I sleep late. When I can't sleep late, I'm more exhausted than usual as a result. My first thought every morning is going back to bed. I'm hungry, but I don't want to eat. Or, conversely, I eat without being hungry. I burst into tears for no reason, or in inappropriate places. My mind feels foggy, like my brain exists outside my skull, hovering in some sort of ether. I'm not motivated to do anything. I lose patience (even more) quickly. I'm irritable. I am, generally, just miserable to be around.
Good grief, even I can't stand me.
One of the odd-yet-typical results of all of this is that I tend to fixate on two things: a certain kind of food and a TV show. One year it was rice pudding and That 70's Show. Another was Raisinettes and Everybody Loves Raymond. I'd race home from work, take a two hour nap, wake up, get a tub of rice pudding and a spoon and turn on one of those channels that only shows syndicated sitcoms. I'd sit there in the dark, watching admittedly terrible television with an empty Kozy Shack container/bag of Raisinettes in my hands until my eyelids got heavy and then go to bed. Those things, pudding and Hyde, chocolate raisins and Robert Barone, were all I looked forward to all day. Well, and sleep. (Looking forward to Everybody Loves Raymond? I know, right? I must be sick!) This year, the objects of my pathetic affection are MSNBC and Basic 4 cereal. I'd like to think that this is an improvement in both directions.
I know I'm not alone. Lots of people suffer from seasonal (or clinical) depression. I know I could take medicine, do light therapy, or up my vitamin D intake. (I do that, actually, when I remember. Which isn't often. See above: foggy brain.) And I'll reiterate that I am very, very thankful that while this is annual, it's also temporary. My regularly scheduled self will return after these cold-weather messages. Others aren't as lucky.
But seriously, in our evolution as a species, why did we get rid of hibernation?
Saturday, March 3, 2012
We're Probably Both in Violation of Copyright...
I am part of a closed group on Facebook dedicated to Childfree adults. This should not shock anyone who knows me well: I do not want children and have taken "pretty serious measures" to make sure I don't have any. (The scare quotes are how my mom describes it.) The threads in this group range from political ranting--so easy these days, what with the batshittery going on about access to birth control, transvaginal ultrasounds and the like--to little moments of glee that we "poor" adults have when confronted with friends/coworkers with kids, to just chatty getting to know you type questions. While I can't really call any of these strangers friends, I have told them about things in my life--like the aforementioned "pretty serious" measures--that still some of my "real" friends don't know about.
Someone on the forum posted this link yesterday: http://choosingkidfree.wordpress.com/2011/12/08/i-do-not-like-them-on-a-plane/
For those of you unlikely to click on it, it's a post on a CF blog that rewrites Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham to be about not having or wanting children.
I'm (mildly) incensed.
I did the exact same thing. Last winter.
Not to be outdone--ok, ok, it's not a competition--mine is below. (Segel and Seuss? Good grief. You're lucky I haven't posted my political limericks--yet. I've only written three, and I'm waiting until I have a few more.) Also, the spacing is a little weird, but I don't have the time, energy or patience to work on it because I have to finish writing a paper. SIGH.
I won't get appointed the Poet Laureate for this (or the Segel, or the limericks...) but I kinda dig it, especially the bits at the end.
Someone on the forum posted this link yesterday: http://choosingkidfree.wordpress.com/2011/12/08/i-do-not-like-them-on-a-plane/
For those of you unlikely to click on it, it's a post on a CF blog that rewrites Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham to be about not having or wanting children.
I'm (mildly) incensed.
I did the exact same thing. Last winter.
Not to be outdone--ok, ok, it's not a competition--mine is below. (Segel and Seuss? Good grief. You're lucky I haven't posted my political limericks--yet. I've only written three, and I'm waiting until I have a few more.) Also, the spacing is a little weird, but I don't have the time, energy or patience to work on it because I have to finish writing a paper. SIGH.
I won't get appointed the Poet Laureate for this (or the Segel, or the limericks...) but I kinda dig it, especially the bits at the end.
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids,
I must admit.
You don’t want
A cute round belly?
And to swear off
Booze and meat from a deli?
I do not want
to grow a fetus
I much prefer my
Margaritas.
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids,
I must admit.
You don’t want
To go through birth?
And add another
to this earth?
Delivering a child
Seems awfully gross
And overpopulation
Makes me quite morose
Would you want one as a baby?
I would not want one as a baby,
The answer’s no,
not even maybe.
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids,
I must admit.
You wouldn’t like one
when it’s small?
to watch it grow up
big and tall?
I wouldn’t like one
When it’s small,
I wouldn’t care
if he were tall
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids,
I must admit.
But she’d be cute,
And smart-so bright!
Would that make
Having kids alright?
A brilliant kid
That would be best,
But not enough
To deal with the rest.
But you’d make
Such a lovely parent!
Not having children—
That’s quite aberrant!
I’m never one
To follow crowds;
I make my own choices
(I am allowed!)
But in life,
There’s nothing grander!
Than to raise a family,
This is liberal slander!
I can think of things
Much better,
Kids, to me—
A human fetter.
But the Bible says
To reproduce!
To me that’s a made up,
insane excuse.
But it’s not natural!
Not what nature designed!
And what if it’s too late
And you’ve changed your mind?
Many things aren’t “natural”
That we don’t forbid.
And I’d rather regret that I didn’t
Than regret that I did.
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids
I must admit.
But won’t you be lonely-
When you’re old and alone?
And shouldn’t your mom
Have grandkids of her own?
Lots of adults
Have kids who ignore them
Is that also behavior
You’d like to condemn?
And yes, my dear mother
Would like being a Gran,
But she’s also aware
It’s not part of my plan.
Listen--I know
That having kids is the norm.
And women, especially,
Are supposed to conform.
But I’m just not interested
In having a child,
And the reasons above
Are just some I’ve compiled
This doesn’t make me selfish,
Unstable or mean
I just know who I am
And there’s no in between
You can’t have a kid
And then change your mind later,
And to me a life without them
Seems exceptionally greater!
I do not want them,
Not one bit.
I don’t want kids,
I must admit.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Dealbreaker, Ladies--or, The Return to Dating, Part 2
Do you remember that episode of 30 Rock when Liz Lemon sort of accidentally becomes a relationship advice expert? In response to hearing about minor relationship conflicts on a talk show, she tells women they have "sexually transmitted crazy mouth" and "fruit blindness," which might be two of the best phrases in the English language.
She diagnoses relationship dealbreakers with a sort of gusto that, like most of what Liz Lemon does, eventually backfires despite her best intentions. While Tina Fey might be mocking the uber-strict dating rules that women (and Seinfeld) often employ, there is something to be said for having a few--Dan Savage argues for no more than five--substantive issues on which we will not budge. These aren't the things that will attract me to you inititally--intellect, sense of humor, dimples, height, etc.--but the requirements that dig deeper into that long term (or hell, short term) relationship compatibility.
My favorite weekly podcast does a segment about movie mistakes called "Shit That Should Not Be." Let's call this entry "Shit that HAS to be."
In no particular order...
1. Must love dogs is a movie title for a reason. You, Guy, have to love animals. Dogs. Squirrels. Birds. Horses. Cows. Cats. Whatever. (Lizards, snakes and other creepy crawlies are exempt.) I see dogs and cats as furry family members, not four-legged accessories for your living quarters. I spent 6 hours one night this summer rescuing a feral kitten who needed to see a vet and then cried when I dropped it off at the clinic like she was my biological child. I adore my old, feeble, deaf cat, Morris, and we're a package deal. Being allergic is something I'm willing to work with--you can't help that--but I plan to have pets for the rest of my life, and you need to be on board. I would love to have a goat for the backyard. Maybe a bunny. I will feed the birds, help the injured wildlife, and always get excited at the zoo. I dream of going on a safari (despite some post-colonial guilt I'd likely experience being a Westerner invading the land), and watch the Puppybowl, dog shows, silly videos on youtube...you get the idea. If you dislike animals or merely tolerate them? No thanks. Indeed, my mom has always told me "the only two things I care about in your boyfriend/husband are that he loves animals and will dance with you." My mom is a bit of a wacko, but this is some of the best advice I've ever gotten. And on that note...
2. You, Guy, have to be willing to dance. If you're not good, that's ok. We can take lessons. We can not care. But you have to be willing. I don't need you to come to "da club" with me and my girlfriends, but weddings and other events where dancing is likely to occur, yes. I don't want to have to fight about being the only person on the dance floor whose date won't join in every time. Every song? No. But we're at the point age-wise where there aren't a lot of single guys at these things and I don't want to be a forced wallflower. Willing, of course, is the minimum. Your market value increases in direct relationship with how good you are/how much you like to dance. (Even if this requires a beer or two.) I don't want you to be the show-stopping scene-stealer, but you get the idea. I think this "willing" attitude can be applied to lots of activities, but dancing is something I really enjoy, so it matters more than, say, hiking, bungee jumping or any other kind of athletic activity.
3. You, Guy, have to be able to communicate. About your day. About your feelings. About my feelings. About sex. About money. About the stupid bits that make up life. I'm nearly thirty-three, and I need to be with someone who can talk to me. Mad at me? Tell me. Love me? Tell me. If I am mad at you, I want to be able to have a discussion about it without fearing that you're going to turn into a 17 year old who can't use his words. Is fighting fun? No. But avoiding conflict is a sure-fire way for things to fall apart. Not being able to express how you feel about me/us--the good things, I mean--is, too. It might be hokey pop psychology, but there is something to be said for the Five Love Languages. Every single time I've taken the stupid quiz, my highest score is "words of affirmation." Communication builds intimacy, and without it, we're toast.
4. I won't get overly TMI for this one, but I'd be lying if I left it out. You, Guy, need to know what you're doing in bed. Yes, we all need to sort of tweak our technique to adjust for a new partner, but you need to have a pretty solid understanding of it all before we cater to individual preferences. A large portion of this is covered in the aforementioned communication bit, but it also stems from a general enjoyment of all things sexual. A guy who doesn't like sex, you might be thinking? I am certainly not only referring to intercourse. I am talking about all the other stuff--stuff that is equally, if not more, important--to the long-term sexual health and happiness of a couple. No, not a couple. This couple. With me. Like cars, there are certain things that should come standard on all models, and without them, I'm returning you to the lot. And, much like the dancing, willingness coupled with basic skills is the minimum. Enjoyment racks up your market value. Dan coined the term GGG--Good, Giving, Game--and I'm going to demand it of you as a partner, just like you should demand it of me. Demand too harsh a word? Maybe. But not by much. I'm making my mother blush as I type this, but sex is important to me, and I refuse to compromise on it. (I can practically see her eyes rolling as she wonders aloud how it is that I'm her kid.)
5. Christians want to date Christians, usually. Jews want to date Jews, usually. Me? I need to date a liberal. Although I've had a rather unusual religious trajectory in my life, my political beliefs have remained quite steady, or more accurately, become more intense as I've gotten older. I need to be with someone whose worldview aligns with mine as much as possible, because I think--no, have found--that it really affects one's interaction in the world, and I want to be with someone who is facing the same direction. If you're a pro-life, gun-toting, anti gay marriage social conservative who believes in trickle-down economics? Yeah, we're not going to make a life together, in the same way that an Evangelical born-again Christian wouldn't want to be with an atheist. Some of my friends have argued that this is even more ridiculous than my height preferences, but I disagree completely. I don't want to be at each other's throats every election season. (Which, these days, seems to be all the time.) Are we going to agree on every single teeny issue? No. But our overall approach to how we humans should interact with each other in a social, political world should be pretty damn similar. The social issues are far more important to me than the fiscal ones, but they tend to go together. I'm passionate about this and want us to be on the same team. Do I have friends, even close friends, with whom I disagree about politics? Sure. But I don't have to live with them every day. This is about more than who you vote for--it's about your general philosophy. Opposites may attract in other areas, but this isn't one of them. Not for me.
Ok, Dan says to keep it to five. I'm adding one.
6. While I'm not 100% on this, I really don't think I could be with an addict, even a clean or sober one. I don't think I'd ever really believe that the other shoe wasn't about to drop, or that if I didn't keep life super perfect and wonderful that you wouldn't relapse. I know that makes me sound like I have no faith in people, which I absolutely do. I'm just suggesting that, if it's something I could control for, I'd certainly prefer to. Although he was no where near in danger of having an actual problem--let me reiterate that: no where near in danger of having a real problem--I still worried about ExH's drinking. That was on me, not him, but it lead to some ugly encounters at times. The slope with drinking is quite slippery, and it makes me nervous for reasons I'm not entirely sure of. Other addictions--hard drugs, gambling, etc.--would also not fly. Smoking cigarettes is also an absolute turn-off, and I would never knowingly date someone who labeled himself a "smoker." I know that sometimes the social setting--having a few too many, being around certain friends--lends itself to wanting one, and that's something I can deal with, though to be perfectly honest, I'd really rather not. Dan claims that our bodies are ours to use and abuse if we so desire, but I think at some point you have some sort of obligation to others--your partner, etc.--to not purposefully do too much that will decrease your lifespan. I value a healthy lifestyle, and hope you do, as well. I'm not talking about an abstemious teetotaler--that would be a turn-off, too--just someone who has his vices under control.
Will the real animal-loving, liberal, sexually-competent dancers who can communicate please stand up?
She diagnoses relationship dealbreakers with a sort of gusto that, like most of what Liz Lemon does, eventually backfires despite her best intentions. While Tina Fey might be mocking the uber-strict dating rules that women (and Seinfeld) often employ, there is something to be said for having a few--Dan Savage argues for no more than five--substantive issues on which we will not budge. These aren't the things that will attract me to you inititally--intellect, sense of humor, dimples, height, etc.--but the requirements that dig deeper into that long term (or hell, short term) relationship compatibility.
My favorite weekly podcast does a segment about movie mistakes called "Shit That Should Not Be." Let's call this entry "Shit that HAS to be."
In no particular order...
1. Must love dogs is a movie title for a reason. You, Guy, have to love animals. Dogs. Squirrels. Birds. Horses. Cows. Cats. Whatever. (Lizards, snakes and other creepy crawlies are exempt.) I see dogs and cats as furry family members, not four-legged accessories for your living quarters. I spent 6 hours one night this summer rescuing a feral kitten who needed to see a vet and then cried when I dropped it off at the clinic like she was my biological child. I adore my old, feeble, deaf cat, Morris, and we're a package deal. Being allergic is something I'm willing to work with--you can't help that--but I plan to have pets for the rest of my life, and you need to be on board. I would love to have a goat for the backyard. Maybe a bunny. I will feed the birds, help the injured wildlife, and always get excited at the zoo. I dream of going on a safari (despite some post-colonial guilt I'd likely experience being a Westerner invading the land), and watch the Puppybowl, dog shows, silly videos on youtube...you get the idea. If you dislike animals or merely tolerate them? No thanks. Indeed, my mom has always told me "the only two things I care about in your boyfriend/husband are that he loves animals and will dance with you." My mom is a bit of a wacko, but this is some of the best advice I've ever gotten. And on that note...
2. You, Guy, have to be willing to dance. If you're not good, that's ok. We can take lessons. We can not care. But you have to be willing. I don't need you to come to "da club" with me and my girlfriends, but weddings and other events where dancing is likely to occur, yes. I don't want to have to fight about being the only person on the dance floor whose date won't join in every time. Every song? No. But we're at the point age-wise where there aren't a lot of single guys at these things and I don't want to be a forced wallflower. Willing, of course, is the minimum. Your market value increases in direct relationship with how good you are/how much you like to dance. (Even if this requires a beer or two.) I don't want you to be the show-stopping scene-stealer, but you get the idea. I think this "willing" attitude can be applied to lots of activities, but dancing is something I really enjoy, so it matters more than, say, hiking, bungee jumping or any other kind of athletic activity.
3. You, Guy, have to be able to communicate. About your day. About your feelings. About my feelings. About sex. About money. About the stupid bits that make up life. I'm nearly thirty-three, and I need to be with someone who can talk to me. Mad at me? Tell me. Love me? Tell me. If I am mad at you, I want to be able to have a discussion about it without fearing that you're going to turn into a 17 year old who can't use his words. Is fighting fun? No. But avoiding conflict is a sure-fire way for things to fall apart. Not being able to express how you feel about me/us--the good things, I mean--is, too. It might be hokey pop psychology, but there is something to be said for the Five Love Languages. Every single time I've taken the stupid quiz, my highest score is "words of affirmation." Communication builds intimacy, and without it, we're toast.
4. I won't get overly TMI for this one, but I'd be lying if I left it out. You, Guy, need to know what you're doing in bed. Yes, we all need to sort of tweak our technique to adjust for a new partner, but you need to have a pretty solid understanding of it all before we cater to individual preferences. A large portion of this is covered in the aforementioned communication bit, but it also stems from a general enjoyment of all things sexual. A guy who doesn't like sex, you might be thinking? I am certainly not only referring to intercourse. I am talking about all the other stuff--stuff that is equally, if not more, important--to the long-term sexual health and happiness of a couple. No, not a couple. This couple. With me. Like cars, there are certain things that should come standard on all models, and without them, I'm returning you to the lot. And, much like the dancing, willingness coupled with basic skills is the minimum. Enjoyment racks up your market value. Dan coined the term GGG--Good, Giving, Game--and I'm going to demand it of you as a partner, just like you should demand it of me. Demand too harsh a word? Maybe. But not by much. I'm making my mother blush as I type this, but sex is important to me, and I refuse to compromise on it. (I can practically see her eyes rolling as she wonders aloud how it is that I'm her kid.)
5. Christians want to date Christians, usually. Jews want to date Jews, usually. Me? I need to date a liberal. Although I've had a rather unusual religious trajectory in my life, my political beliefs have remained quite steady, or more accurately, become more intense as I've gotten older. I need to be with someone whose worldview aligns with mine as much as possible, because I think--no, have found--that it really affects one's interaction in the world, and I want to be with someone who is facing the same direction. If you're a pro-life, gun-toting, anti gay marriage social conservative who believes in trickle-down economics? Yeah, we're not going to make a life together, in the same way that an Evangelical born-again Christian wouldn't want to be with an atheist. Some of my friends have argued that this is even more ridiculous than my height preferences, but I disagree completely. I don't want to be at each other's throats every election season. (Which, these days, seems to be all the time.) Are we going to agree on every single teeny issue? No. But our overall approach to how we humans should interact with each other in a social, political world should be pretty damn similar. The social issues are far more important to me than the fiscal ones, but they tend to go together. I'm passionate about this and want us to be on the same team. Do I have friends, even close friends, with whom I disagree about politics? Sure. But I don't have to live with them every day. This is about more than who you vote for--it's about your general philosophy. Opposites may attract in other areas, but this isn't one of them. Not for me.
Ok, Dan says to keep it to five. I'm adding one.
6. While I'm not 100% on this, I really don't think I could be with an addict, even a clean or sober one. I don't think I'd ever really believe that the other shoe wasn't about to drop, or that if I didn't keep life super perfect and wonderful that you wouldn't relapse. I know that makes me sound like I have no faith in people, which I absolutely do. I'm just suggesting that, if it's something I could control for, I'd certainly prefer to. Although he was no where near in danger of having an actual problem--let me reiterate that: no where near in danger of having a real problem--I still worried about ExH's drinking. That was on me, not him, but it lead to some ugly encounters at times. The slope with drinking is quite slippery, and it makes me nervous for reasons I'm not entirely sure of. Other addictions--hard drugs, gambling, etc.--would also not fly. Smoking cigarettes is also an absolute turn-off, and I would never knowingly date someone who labeled himself a "smoker." I know that sometimes the social setting--having a few too many, being around certain friends--lends itself to wanting one, and that's something I can deal with, though to be perfectly honest, I'd really rather not. Dan claims that our bodies are ours to use and abuse if we so desire, but I think at some point you have some sort of obligation to others--your partner, etc.--to not purposefully do too much that will decrease your lifespan. I value a healthy lifestyle, and hope you do, as well. I'm not talking about an abstemious teetotaler--that would be a turn-off, too--just someone who has his vices under control.
Will the real animal-loving, liberal, sexually-competent dancers who can communicate please stand up?
Saturday, February 4, 2012
All the Good Ones--or, The Return to Dating, Part 1
Over winter break, I had a delicious dinner and wine with one of my closest girlfriends. (We did the same thing last year, so this may be turning into an annual occurrence, which sounds good to me. This time, though, I'm glad I didn't get pulled over on the drive home. Yeesh.) Anyway, as girls are wont to do, after dessert, we sent her kids and husband out of the living room--nicely, of course--refilled our wine glasses, and settled onto the couch for some serious gossip and girl talk. And, as girls are also wont to do, this talk turned to boys and dating and relationships and sex.
At some point (fueled only partially by my second glass of pinot grigio), I lamented "all the good ones are gay, taken, or Jason Segel" and began a minor treatise on the perils and apparent bullshit of dating in the 21st century as a 32-year old (divorced) woman, followed by a rant on what is and is not worthy of looking for in a man and how these have changed over the course of my adult dating life. When I finally paused to take a breath--me, loquacious?--this wonderful friend said "you should blog about this." So here I am. And, since I am recently Back to Dating, at the risk of coming across as a wannabe columnist for a women's magazine, I'm going to make this a series.
We'll call this entry: All the Crap Men Think We Care About but I Don't Because they're Dumb
1. Guys--I don't care what kind of car you drive. Other than an H3--gross, ick, terrible for the environment--or a rather obvious mid-life crisis/penis compensation mobile, like a canary yellow Corvette or something, I don't care. Guys care a lot about their cars--so "they" say--but it's dumb. Whether it's the red '98 Mustang you bought yourself during high school and haven't gotten rid of, a Saturn made out of plastic, or a BMW, it likely won't matter to me. When I started dating Real World Boyfriend #1 (RWBF1), I, for some dumb reason, found it unattractive that he drove a nice, new pickup truck. I think I even said to a friend "I can't date a guy who drives a truck!?!!?" What an idiot I was. (I did date him for 2 good years, and you know what? That truck came in frigging handy when I had to move.)
What does matter? Keep the inside clean, so I don't have to clear off the passenger seat when you pick me up for a date. Be responsible enough to maintain it--oil changes, tire rotations etc.--don't risk running out of gas (ExH did that once, and I nearly killed him), and, most importantly, don't drive like a jerk: use your turn signal; brake for squirrels; let people into your lane; don't speed too much. (Ok, I admit I am guilty of this one...) Are some cars nicer looking than others? Sure. Do some cars have features that make life more comfortable? Um, two words: heated seats. And yes, our society relates "success" with "car," so the guy who picks me up in the 2010 Volvo might, in theory, make more money than the guy who picks me up in the 2001 Civic. Or, that guy might be obsessed with appearances and in debt in order to pay for that Volvo, while the guy in the Civic has a good savings account and retirement fund. Also? If we can't pick up fast food from a window and eat it in your car because we might mess it up? Forget it.
2. With some exceptions, I don't particularly care what you do for a living. I probably wouldn't get along with a hedge fund manager because our worldviews likely differ with regard to other issues, and jobs that involve a ton of travel--gone for most of the week, say--isn't going to be a good way to build a relationship at the start, at least, but if you like your job and work hard, it's probably ok. Doing something I found philosophically reprehensible--defending big tobacco, lobbying for socially conservative organizations, etc.--would be a dealbreaker for the aformentioned worldview problem, and if you were working by choice at something far below your educational background or intelligence level, that would probably signal a lack of ambition or stick-to-itiveness or perhaps apathy or arrogance--none of which is attractive to me.
In this economy, I recognize that many people are under-employed or stuck in a job they hate. As long as you're working to correct it and are trying the best you can to make the best of the situation--that tends to be my disposition--I get it. It matters far more to me how you manage your money than how much you make. Again, I know that people find themselves in fiscal situations that are beyond their immediate control, but financial recklessness, like still living like you make your old salary even though you've taken a significant pay cut, or racking up credit card debt with no concern for the future would probably raise a red flag for me, because I don't want to constantly fight about money or worry that if we had a future, we'd never be financially secure.
Of course, money is also "speech" (or so our Supreme Court believes, anyway), and how you spend your money "speaks" to your values. Begrudging the cost of a few drinks out on a date even though you just bought yourself an iPad2 because you feel compelled to keep up with the latest gadgets--turn off. I don't need gifts or jewelry or for you to whisk me away to 4-star hotels, and I am a firm believer in splitting the cost of dates--going Dutch or rotating or whatever--but if spending a little bit now and then to take me out or spend time with me is going to irritate you and be a source of friction, it will make me feel, pun intended, undervalued, which isn't a good way to start--or continue--a relationship.
3. I don't care in any sort of a priori sort of way what you look like. Sure, I have preferences and I'm not blind, but I have always, always gone for personality over looks. I wouldn't consider any of my exes to be ugly, of course--I wouldn't have dated them if I didn't find them physically attractive, duh--but only one of them, College Boyfriend #3 (CBF3), was, as they say, "hot." Even most of my celebrity crushes are of the slightly-off-kilter good-looking variety; Ryan Gosling aside, the rest are sort of quirky looking, or at least, not "traditionally handsome." Jason Segel? Andy Samberg? Let's be real. I'm not hot, and don't "demand" that the guy on my arm be, either. This could be a result of my own insecurities, I realize--because I'm cute/pretty without being hot and not at all curvy, the super-hot won't like me back, maybe?--but the end result is the same.
I do care about some things. My friends think I'm totally unreasonable, but you, Guy, need to be tall. Quite tall. I say 5'10" is my cut-off, but my actual preference is at least 6 feet. I don't exactly know why this is. I'm pretty small, and I don't wear heels all that often, but...I just want to feel slight and tiny in your arms, and that's much easier done when the guy is taller. I don't need a big body-builder type--ExH was quite slender and all lean muscle--but height matters to me, even if this seems ridiculous, whereas body type does not. Got a few extra pounds? Dress it well, and it hardly matters. Though all but hot CBF3 have been brunettes--do you call boys "brunettes" I wonder?--I'm not opposed to blonds on principle, but I do like shorter, clean cut hair. (Unlike my mother, who has this odd penchant for men with ponytails. Weird.) Facial hair works on some people--indeed, it is better than clean-shaven on some men--but keep it neat and trim. My newest thing is that I really dig glasses, but not in that Weezer, big, black plastic frame sort of way. I tend to like blue or green eyes over brown, though it doesn't actually matter, and melt for straight-teethed, easy-going smiles. (My high school friends used to joke that I would be a dentist someday, because I frequently remarked "oh, he has nice teeth!") Dimples are a swoon-worthy bonus. One dimple? Ohmyword--you might as well peel me off the floor right now. Oh, and fingernails. Untrimmed fingernails on men freak me the hell out. Even a little bit of that "moon" gives me the willies. *Shivers.*
The most important thing, though, is to work your strengths, care enough about what you look like to put in effort in how you present yourself without being an obsessive jackass, stay on top of personal hygiene--moisturizer, gentlemen, moisturizer--and figure out a way to dress. My personal preference is a sort of relaxed preppy/classic outdoorsy casual combo deal, but the guy who can dress with a sense of versatility is probably the sexiest thing in the world. A tshirt, jeans and flip-flops while drinking a beer at a baseball game? A button-up, loosened tie and dress slacks for a date? Be still my beating heart. Be aware of the environment and dress accordingly. And if you don't know, ask for input and take advice.
Oh, and one more thing: boxer briefs. I mean, honestly.
At some point (fueled only partially by my second glass of pinot grigio), I lamented "all the good ones are gay, taken, or Jason Segel" and began a minor treatise on the perils and apparent bullshit of dating in the 21st century as a 32-year old (divorced) woman, followed by a rant on what is and is not worthy of looking for in a man and how these have changed over the course of my adult dating life. When I finally paused to take a breath--me, loquacious?--this wonderful friend said "you should blog about this." So here I am. And, since I am recently Back to Dating, at the risk of coming across as a wannabe columnist for a women's magazine, I'm going to make this a series.
We'll call this entry: All the Crap Men Think We Care About but I Don't Because they're Dumb
1. Guys--I don't care what kind of car you drive. Other than an H3--gross, ick, terrible for the environment--or a rather obvious mid-life crisis/penis compensation mobile, like a canary yellow Corvette or something, I don't care. Guys care a lot about their cars--so "they" say--but it's dumb. Whether it's the red '98 Mustang you bought yourself during high school and haven't gotten rid of, a Saturn made out of plastic, or a BMW, it likely won't matter to me. When I started dating Real World Boyfriend #1 (RWBF1), I, for some dumb reason, found it unattractive that he drove a nice, new pickup truck. I think I even said to a friend "I can't date a guy who drives a truck!?!!?" What an idiot I was. (I did date him for 2 good years, and you know what? That truck came in frigging handy when I had to move.)
What does matter? Keep the inside clean, so I don't have to clear off the passenger seat when you pick me up for a date. Be responsible enough to maintain it--oil changes, tire rotations etc.--don't risk running out of gas (ExH did that once, and I nearly killed him), and, most importantly, don't drive like a jerk: use your turn signal; brake for squirrels; let people into your lane; don't speed too much. (Ok, I admit I am guilty of this one...) Are some cars nicer looking than others? Sure. Do some cars have features that make life more comfortable? Um, two words: heated seats. And yes, our society relates "success" with "car," so the guy who picks me up in the 2010 Volvo might, in theory, make more money than the guy who picks me up in the 2001 Civic. Or, that guy might be obsessed with appearances and in debt in order to pay for that Volvo, while the guy in the Civic has a good savings account and retirement fund. Also? If we can't pick up fast food from a window and eat it in your car because we might mess it up? Forget it.
2. With some exceptions, I don't particularly care what you do for a living. I probably wouldn't get along with a hedge fund manager because our worldviews likely differ with regard to other issues, and jobs that involve a ton of travel--gone for most of the week, say--isn't going to be a good way to build a relationship at the start, at least, but if you like your job and work hard, it's probably ok. Doing something I found philosophically reprehensible--defending big tobacco, lobbying for socially conservative organizations, etc.--would be a dealbreaker for the aformentioned worldview problem, and if you were working by choice at something far below your educational background or intelligence level, that would probably signal a lack of ambition or stick-to-itiveness or perhaps apathy or arrogance--none of which is attractive to me.
In this economy, I recognize that many people are under-employed or stuck in a job they hate. As long as you're working to correct it and are trying the best you can to make the best of the situation--that tends to be my disposition--I get it. It matters far more to me how you manage your money than how much you make. Again, I know that people find themselves in fiscal situations that are beyond their immediate control, but financial recklessness, like still living like you make your old salary even though you've taken a significant pay cut, or racking up credit card debt with no concern for the future would probably raise a red flag for me, because I don't want to constantly fight about money or worry that if we had a future, we'd never be financially secure.
Of course, money is also "speech" (or so our Supreme Court believes, anyway), and how you spend your money "speaks" to your values. Begrudging the cost of a few drinks out on a date even though you just bought yourself an iPad2 because you feel compelled to keep up with the latest gadgets--turn off. I don't need gifts or jewelry or for you to whisk me away to 4-star hotels, and I am a firm believer in splitting the cost of dates--going Dutch or rotating or whatever--but if spending a little bit now and then to take me out or spend time with me is going to irritate you and be a source of friction, it will make me feel, pun intended, undervalued, which isn't a good way to start--or continue--a relationship.
3. I don't care in any sort of a priori sort of way what you look like. Sure, I have preferences and I'm not blind, but I have always, always gone for personality over looks. I wouldn't consider any of my exes to be ugly, of course--I wouldn't have dated them if I didn't find them physically attractive, duh--but only one of them, College Boyfriend #3 (CBF3), was, as they say, "hot." Even most of my celebrity crushes are of the slightly-off-kilter good-looking variety; Ryan Gosling aside, the rest are sort of quirky looking, or at least, not "traditionally handsome." Jason Segel? Andy Samberg? Let's be real. I'm not hot, and don't "demand" that the guy on my arm be, either. This could be a result of my own insecurities, I realize--because I'm cute/pretty without being hot and not at all curvy, the super-hot won't like me back, maybe?--but the end result is the same.
I do care about some things. My friends think I'm totally unreasonable, but you, Guy, need to be tall. Quite tall. I say 5'10" is my cut-off, but my actual preference is at least 6 feet. I don't exactly know why this is. I'm pretty small, and I don't wear heels all that often, but...I just want to feel slight and tiny in your arms, and that's much easier done when the guy is taller. I don't need a big body-builder type--ExH was quite slender and all lean muscle--but height matters to me, even if this seems ridiculous, whereas body type does not. Got a few extra pounds? Dress it well, and it hardly matters. Though all but hot CBF3 have been brunettes--do you call boys "brunettes" I wonder?--I'm not opposed to blonds on principle, but I do like shorter, clean cut hair. (Unlike my mother, who has this odd penchant for men with ponytails. Weird.) Facial hair works on some people--indeed, it is better than clean-shaven on some men--but keep it neat and trim. My newest thing is that I really dig glasses, but not in that Weezer, big, black plastic frame sort of way. I tend to like blue or green eyes over brown, though it doesn't actually matter, and melt for straight-teethed, easy-going smiles. (My high school friends used to joke that I would be a dentist someday, because I frequently remarked "oh, he has nice teeth!") Dimples are a swoon-worthy bonus. One dimple? Ohmyword--you might as well peel me off the floor right now. Oh, and fingernails. Untrimmed fingernails on men freak me the hell out. Even a little bit of that "moon" gives me the willies. *Shivers.*
The most important thing, though, is to work your strengths, care enough about what you look like to put in effort in how you present yourself without being an obsessive jackass, stay on top of personal hygiene--moisturizer, gentlemen, moisturizer--and figure out a way to dress. My personal preference is a sort of relaxed preppy/classic outdoorsy casual combo deal, but the guy who can dress with a sense of versatility is probably the sexiest thing in the world. A tshirt, jeans and flip-flops while drinking a beer at a baseball game? A button-up, loosened tie and dress slacks for a date? Be still my beating heart. Be aware of the environment and dress accordingly. And if you don't know, ask for input and take advice.
Oh, and one more thing: boxer briefs. I mean, honestly.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
One is a perfectly contented number
Back in August, I posted this, about some uncanny similarities between my late great-grandmother and me. Below is another one of her journal entries my mom found and copied, typed verbatim.
My mother bade me love the good things of life. I now understand in my aloneness I am never lonely--when I am tired of reading, I practice. When I exhaust my slight repertoire of music, I dabble with paints or pencil. The days are full of children and friends--the nights might well be nightmares but for the memory of beautiful words, heroic deeds, heart-breaking melodies, a joyous harmony of colours. Let us impress upon our children the importance of self-resourcefulness, the beauty of sounds and colour, the need of peace and leisure to enjoy what my mother believe were the good things in life.
Ok, so I don't dabble with paint or pencil--stick figures anyone?--and have long given up any musical instrument (singing in the shower/car/kitchen/public probably doesn't count, though I really do miss singing with a group), but my mother taught me the same lessons, generally. It may have something to do with the fact that I am an only child and she a single parent, yes. I spent a lot of time as a kid entertaining myself--I was kind of a weirdo (shocking!), didn't live near too many other kids, and while my mom certainly did her best with our situation, she didn't have a lot of time or energy to expend at the end of the day. I think I probably resented it then, but I'm glad for it now. I spend a lot of time alone. And I kinda like it most of the time, because I can, for the most part, entertain myself and am happy to do so. That self-resourcefulness thing? Yeah, got that down.
I read. A lot. Partly for school--ok, these days, almost entirely for school--but it's a hobby I enjoy nonetheless. I work out--and am joining a new gym so I can get back to yoga. Sure, there are some days that go by in which I do not have any meaningful human contact, and then there are weeks that are packed with activities with friends. Yes, I watch too much tv, but I am also comfortable going to the movies--or dinner, lunch, shopping, a museum--alone. Last week, I took myself on two movie dates, sneaking M&Ms and a bottle of caffeine free Diet Coke into the theater in my oversized purse. My days aren't "full of" friends, but I'm also not lonely. (And my days will never be full of children, thankyouverymuch.) I'm trying to be creative as much as time allows--I've started an adorable poem to my celeb crush to "tweet" him on his birthday; I have an idea for at least one YA novel and children's book; I woke up with an idea for a screenplay the other morning. With a pet, a book, a good snack, and friends to text to stave off boredom, my life is otherwise full and rich.
Living alone certainly has its benefits. I get to decide what to eat for dinner, and if it's crockpot vegetarian chili for 8 nights straight, so be it. (This week it's shiitake-beef stew.) I decide when to go to bed and, four days a week at least, have a say when to get up. My morning routine--breakfast, tea, Rachel, Jon, Stephen--doesn't bother anyone else. My mess is my mess. Though, of course, it's my mess to clean, too. (I've decided to stop hand-washing most of my dishes because it's a chore I can pawn off on something else--the dishwasher--without too much trouble, and I do everything else to maintain cleanliness and order that I can eliminate this task without too much guilt.) When I've had enough of the world and its people, I can escape to the 760 square feet I call home and not get out of my 15 year-old Camp Fowler sweatpants for days. Nice, right?
Sure, I get lonely and miss living with someone sometimes. Last week, I woke up from a wretched nightmare at 1:30 in the morning and wished I could have woken up a body sleeping next to me to help calm me down. I jinxed myself by bragging "I never get sick!" and got knocked on my ass with a cold earlier this week; it would have been nice to send someone out for tissues and gingerale rather than walking around Walgreens in a watery-eyed, congested fog. And, holy crap, am I "touch deficient." I don't mean sex--though sweetjesus, that too--but human, physical contact. A massage. A footrub. Getting my hair played with. (I could, in theory, pay for those first two--not that I can afford this--but honestly the hair thing is my favorite. And these are stupid.) Even sitting close to someone on the couch would be nice. I went on a shopping spree last weekend and brought my bag of fabulous finds over to a friend's house just to show them off because I miss that "look what I got!" mini fashion show you can give a partner or even roommate. (Five dresses, a great sweater and a top for $100. I mean, seriously!) Some moments are better with another human in the house, no question.
My jackass of an ex-stepdad once accused my mom of "ruining men for me" in the sense that she was/is so "damn independent", I might not ever be able to acclimate to a relationship or marriage or whatever based on her model. Or something. (Ironically, the fact that he was a complete and utter asshole did not seem to be part of his consideration for how men might be "ruined" for me. But I digress.) Maybe he's right, though I'm pretty skeptical of this theory. I am capable of sharing my life and living quarters with a partner who respects my need for space and independence. Going to the movies or dinner alone isn't a preference, I just don't mind. (I do prefer to work out and shop alone, though; I doubt too many men would cry that I wouldn't "make" them come shopping with me.) And, when in doubt--there's always Starbucks for me to escape to. Hey--he might need space, too.
Without sounding all New Agey about it, I do believe that the universe tries to teach us lessons. Screw the universe--just we as people need to learn lessons. I needed to learn that I can be on my own--and happily so. And I can. My mom didn't ruin anything for me with her "damned independence;" I just didn't appreciate it until the past year.
Now, where are those paints? Hmm, I have crayons...
My mother bade me love the good things of life. I now understand in my aloneness I am never lonely--when I am tired of reading, I practice. When I exhaust my slight repertoire of music, I dabble with paints or pencil. The days are full of children and friends--the nights might well be nightmares but for the memory of beautiful words, heroic deeds, heart-breaking melodies, a joyous harmony of colours. Let us impress upon our children the importance of self-resourcefulness, the beauty of sounds and colour, the need of peace and leisure to enjoy what my mother believe were the good things in life.
Ok, so I don't dabble with paint or pencil--stick figures anyone?--and have long given up any musical instrument (singing in the shower/car/kitchen/public probably doesn't count, though I really do miss singing with a group), but my mother taught me the same lessons, generally. It may have something to do with the fact that I am an only child and she a single parent, yes. I spent a lot of time as a kid entertaining myself--I was kind of a weirdo (shocking!), didn't live near too many other kids, and while my mom certainly did her best with our situation, she didn't have a lot of time or energy to expend at the end of the day. I think I probably resented it then, but I'm glad for it now. I spend a lot of time alone. And I kinda like it most of the time, because I can, for the most part, entertain myself and am happy to do so. That self-resourcefulness thing? Yeah, got that down.
I read. A lot. Partly for school--ok, these days, almost entirely for school--but it's a hobby I enjoy nonetheless. I work out--and am joining a new gym so I can get back to yoga. Sure, there are some days that go by in which I do not have any meaningful human contact, and then there are weeks that are packed with activities with friends. Yes, I watch too much tv, but I am also comfortable going to the movies--or dinner, lunch, shopping, a museum--alone. Last week, I took myself on two movie dates, sneaking M&Ms and a bottle of caffeine free Diet Coke into the theater in my oversized purse. My days aren't "full of" friends, but I'm also not lonely. (And my days will never be full of children, thankyouverymuch.) I'm trying to be creative as much as time allows--I've started an adorable poem to my celeb crush to "tweet" him on his birthday; I have an idea for at least one YA novel and children's book; I woke up with an idea for a screenplay the other morning. With a pet, a book, a good snack, and friends to text to stave off boredom, my life is otherwise full and rich.
Living alone certainly has its benefits. I get to decide what to eat for dinner, and if it's crockpot vegetarian chili for 8 nights straight, so be it. (This week it's shiitake-beef stew.) I decide when to go to bed and, four days a week at least, have a say when to get up. My morning routine--breakfast, tea, Rachel, Jon, Stephen--doesn't bother anyone else. My mess is my mess. Though, of course, it's my mess to clean, too. (I've decided to stop hand-washing most of my dishes because it's a chore I can pawn off on something else--the dishwasher--without too much trouble, and I do everything else to maintain cleanliness and order that I can eliminate this task without too much guilt.) When I've had enough of the world and its people, I can escape to the 760 square feet I call home and not get out of my 15 year-old Camp Fowler sweatpants for days. Nice, right?
Sure, I get lonely and miss living with someone sometimes. Last week, I woke up from a wretched nightmare at 1:30 in the morning and wished I could have woken up a body sleeping next to me to help calm me down. I jinxed myself by bragging "I never get sick!" and got knocked on my ass with a cold earlier this week; it would have been nice to send someone out for tissues and gingerale rather than walking around Walgreens in a watery-eyed, congested fog. And, holy crap, am I "touch deficient." I don't mean sex--though sweetjesus, that too--but human, physical contact. A massage. A footrub. Getting my hair played with. (I could, in theory, pay for those first two--not that I can afford this--but honestly the hair thing is my favorite. And these are stupid.) Even sitting close to someone on the couch would be nice. I went on a shopping spree last weekend and brought my bag of fabulous finds over to a friend's house just to show them off because I miss that "look what I got!" mini fashion show you can give a partner or even roommate. (Five dresses, a great sweater and a top for $100. I mean, seriously!) Some moments are better with another human in the house, no question.
My jackass of an ex-stepdad once accused my mom of "ruining men for me" in the sense that she was/is so "damn independent", I might not ever be able to acclimate to a relationship or marriage or whatever based on her model. Or something. (Ironically, the fact that he was a complete and utter asshole did not seem to be part of his consideration for how men might be "ruined" for me. But I digress.) Maybe he's right, though I'm pretty skeptical of this theory. I am capable of sharing my life and living quarters with a partner who respects my need for space and independence. Going to the movies or dinner alone isn't a preference, I just don't mind. (I do prefer to work out and shop alone, though; I doubt too many men would cry that I wouldn't "make" them come shopping with me.) And, when in doubt--there's always Starbucks for me to escape to. Hey--he might need space, too.
Without sounding all New Agey about it, I do believe that the universe tries to teach us lessons. Screw the universe--just we as people need to learn lessons. I needed to learn that I can be on my own--and happily so. And I can. My mom didn't ruin anything for me with her "damned independence;" I just didn't appreciate it until the past year.
Now, where are those paints? Hmm, I have crayons...
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