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Tuesday, November 30, 2004

desperate idiots

Fair warning: I'm about to rant. For the last week or so, my favorite radio morning show, "The Bert Show" on Q100, has been chatting with people regarding the new hit show, "Desperate Housewives". Seems some people are having a hard time understanding the decidedly dark humor of the series that is sooo clearly tongue-in-cheek you'd have to be a freakin' idiot not to see it. But, that doesn't stop some of those same idiots from calling into the radio show to bitch. First, it was the newly-published, former corporate exec decrying the show's depiction of women, stating that it sets us as a gender back in the race with men to the top. Then, even worse, another pseudo-feminist sets forth her objection that the show should not be aired because it depicts unrealistic stereotypes of housewives, and she's battling enough of that already.

Oh my God, where to start? First, I am so sick of the intelligence of the American public being insulted in this way. In his argument for pornography, Peter Byrne astutely argues that most men are smart enough not to let erotic films define women as a species. Adding to his argument, I would propose that the public in general has enough sense to know that what we see on television is NOT reality. Since when do we ban TV shows because they portray stereotypes? In that scenario, many of our best-loved shows would never have been. Think "All in the Family," "Married with Children," "The Dukes of Hazzard," and, more recently, "Will and Grace" (please understand I am not personally recommending any--or most--of the aforementioned shows--I'm just making a point) These shows thrive on stereotype, and much of the humor is derived from it. I daresay none of us is looking to prime-time TV to define our morals and our prejudices.

Quite frankly, I love "Desperate Housewives," first of all, because it is NOT reality television. I get to follow a plot, watch characters evolve, and enjoy the deliciousness of immersing myself in something that ISN'T real, that is absolutely nothing like my life. And having followed the series from the beginning, I have to say, I don't see what the big objection is. These are so clearly NOT typical housewives that the show really can't be accused of exploiting stereotypes. I haven't heard of too many "stereotypical" moms addicted to Adderall. I'm also not aware of any whose husbands routinely hand out $15,000 diamond necklaces. I do appreciate, however, the fact that the series dares to suggest that being a stay-at-home mom can be far more challenging than (and, the show hints, not ALWAYS as rewarding as) succeeding as a corporate executive. How exactly does such a depiction hurt the image of women?

But the other aspect of this that has always confused me is that people take themselves so seriously and don't see the positive implications such a series suggests. For example, I used to truly enjoy the David E. Kelly series, "Boston Public." Amazingly, I am a teacher. And with regard to the daily goings on in a public school, I have to say the series was often laughable. From the hip, unprofessional (and often COMPLETELY inappropriate) attire of the teachers AND students, to the outlandish plot twists, the show did not paint an accurate picture of how a school works. Believe it or not, it is highly unlikely that a history teacher would be ripped mid-semester, MID-DAY, from her classes and reassigned to teach delinquents say, math. Or that the choral director would also serve as the orchestra director in addition to teaching AP English in her spare time. Or that a teacher could shoot a gun in the middle of his class, "just to get their attention," and not be summarily fired. You get my point (I hope). Bottom line, the show was not realistic. But still, I (and many of my colleagues) liked it. Why?

Because the show hinted at a deeper truth that goes beyond the details. In spite of the outlandish goings on, in the end the show relayed an important message that actually belied some of the stereotypes: most teachers really care. School can be a crazy, even scary place, but it's the best chance teenagers have of connecting with that special someone, a teacher, who can guide them to their dreams. The show put a spotlight on a profession that is so often ignored, insulted and devalued and it dared to suggest that teachers, however human, however flawed, can still be heroes.

It's that same kind of light that I think is possible with "Desperate Housewives," though to a lesser degree. First and foremost, the show is meant to be funny, and it is. It spoofs the very concept of housewife, playing with its exaggerations and the titular "desperation" the main characters display. But it also dares to suggest that housewives, in and of themselves, are worthy of notice. That their plight is difficult, complicated and important. And guess what? We're all suddenly paying attention.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

art and life

I don't know exactly what's going on with me lately. Seems I've become increasingly sentimental and much more prone to tears than ever before. I've just read two very worthwhile books, both of which had me tearing up and sometimes spilling over. Now I don't generally do that too often with books. I can only remember a few that have so affected me, the most recent being The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (a truly excellent novel that I highly recommend). These last two culprits, while both very good, are not of quite the same calibur, although I would recommend both as enjoyable and fulfilling (translation: some literary merit, more than guilty pleasures). The Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler is a poignant look at those marriages we've all witnessed--the ones that endure even though both parties seem pretty well miserable. My own parents' marriage could easily have been described in that way until the last ten years when things have taken a decided turn for the better. The other is The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson. The story is told through letters from Olivia Hunt, a Hollywood executive wanna-be, who is struggling with every aspect of her life, including work, romance and her sister's sudden battle with leukemia. as its title promises, it rings true, and the adventurous are outstanding, and, at times hilarious, at times heartbreaking. Both novels made me reconsider the things that I value and the way I am living my life. In my humble opinion, that makes them art and well worth the last several days of my time.

Last night hubby and I went to see Angie Aparo at Smith's Olde Bar. We had first discovered him as the opening act for Edwin McCain (we're not really fans--a friend had extra tickets, so why not?) What was most impressive was how Aparo's crystalline voice with its incredible range and emotion actually SHUT UP the usual chatty crowd at Chastain. For those unfamiliar with this long-time venue in Atlanta, Chastain is a social event. People bring tables, candles (some candlelabras), gourmet take-out, and fine wine. Conversation is pretty much a constant throughout any performance (so much so that many a performer has refused to perform there after his/her first taste). I had never seen the entire place go hush, and I have been many times. But for Aparo, it did (McCain was not so lucky).

Back to last night. Smith's is the complete opposite of Chastain in many ways--it is indoors, it caters to a generally younger crowd, no food (at least not where the music is) though plenty of drink if you're willing to pay top dollar for your alcoholic beverages. Just a shabby little place with duct tape on the carpeting that claims to seat 300 but only sports chairs for about 30. Still, we were excited at the prospect of seeing Aparo again, having been blown away by his voice at Chastain. What we didn't realize was that Chastain Aparo is very different from Smith's Aparo.

The first few songs were a shock. Loud, in-your-face rock, with drums crashing and guitar screeching, so loud, in fact, that often Aparo's voice was lost in it all. After only 4 songs, hubby was ready to go, but I insisted that we tough it out a bit. After all, we'd already endured the retro (but to what real purpose?) noise of Red Letter Agents, Aparo's opener. They played a full 11 songs (yes, I counted). We owed Angie at least as much.

I am happy to report that our diligence paid off, as Aparo gradually came back to the style that had so endeared him to us before. With songs like "Springtime," his haunting and superior version of Elton John's "Rocket Man" (still our favorite), "Wonderland" and "The American," we saw glimpses of the affecting vocal stylist that had wowed the crowd at Chastain. My question is, if it is so very clear what you are good at (i.e., Aparo's gifted songwriting and vocals, sans heavy metal), why insist on doing that which makes you even more of a conformist and which, in fact, detracts from the very talent that makes you special? Ah well--still, a good time was had by all (except perhaps the young couple hubby had to chastise as they loudly flirted through the acoustic and mesmerizing "Rocket Man" while, once again, everyone else was silent).

Saturday, November 27, 2004

thankful

Now that we have eaten the turkey and the ham and the dressing with gravy, is it too late to give thanks and acknowledge that which makes us oh so lucky? I think not, so here goes:

I am thankful for my husband and our life together. Our first year of marriage was difficult, but this second one seems to be making up for all those hard times.

I am thankful for my parents. I feel so lucky that they have worked through all their many differences and are still together, and still in love.

I am thankful for my beautiful nieces and nephews. I feel fortunate to have spent much of my Thanksgiving cuddling, tickling, and giggling with my lovely four-year old niece Katie.

I am thankful for my stepchildren, the only children I will ever have.

I am thankful for my home, which is beautiful and far more than I ever expected.

I am thankful for my health and my metabolism, and the fact that I don't have to work out everyday to maintain a size 6.

I am thankful that I have a steady job, which isn't always fun, but IS challenging and worthwhile.

I am thankful for my friends, especially J., who has been there through the best and the worst of times (and there were A LOT of those worst of times).

I am thankful that I still take some time to write, that I still have the urge even if I don't always give into it.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

bonfire of the vanities

Okay, here goes.

I'm getting old. OLD. I don't like it. It's not pretty. In fact, it pretty much sucks.

I've known it was coming--after all, I turned 40 in September. But I now have photographic evidence and it's not good.

Lately I'd been trying to have fun with it--buying a new wardrobe, enjoying all the shopping, all the sophisticated "What Not to Wear"-approved attire, avoiding the bathroom scale by keeping my eyes trained to just 2 feet above it as I step into the shower each morning.

But that ended this week when I saw THE PHOTOGRAPH.

At first, I didn't even recognize myself. In the photo, I am leaning over a student at her computer, earnestly helping her. My hair (far too short and matronly I now realize) falls forward, and almost, but not quite obscures the truly awful truth--the beginnings of my droop, my fleshy not-quite-double-but-definitely-not-single chin.

I bought a scarf.

rainy days and wednesdays

"I thought the rain would never stop." I used to give that stem as a story starter to my seniors, and now I seem to be living it. On the plus side, I am home, happily tapping away at my keyboard, and not at school, breathing in chalkdust while I not so happily tap away at my keyboard. On the downside, J is out on the road, pulled over to the side at the moment, because the rain is too dense to drive in. Yuck. Happy Thanksgiving-eve.

I don't know what to write here but I find myself wanting to. I want to create something hip and flip and witty, like I see on posthipchick. I want to create something meaningful, something with truth like I see on myvoice. But instead, I find myself just rambling, just searching through the fog of suburbia and plenty for something, anything that isn't obvious and banal.

It's odd that I live in a house with three other people now, and still find myself to feel distant, like there is so much --I can't find the right word--space? around me. I can't get at what I mean. It's like there's some invisible something in between us all--every now and then it disappears with J, but rarely with the kids. It's not necessarily bad, but just there. Maybe I'm just impatient. Things are more comfortable than they were. Gradually, we draw closer. I guess it just takes a lot of time to build a family.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

stepmom

What is there to write? I'm not sure, and not sure why I insisted on using this slow and annoying laptop of all things, but here I am. I just want to feel something resembling writing coming off the tips of my fingers. I think of the weekend, all laid out before me with no real work that must be completed, and suddenly I realize, I could be writing. The thing that concerns me is my lack of subject, of inspiration in the last few years. Words don't call to me as they once did. I don't even seem to notice the interesting turns of phrase, or the compelling images that must surely surround me on a daily basis.

Now my stepdaughter has moved in. I have pushed for this for a while, because I know deep down it is what is best for her. But still. I'm scared. I'm scared of what it will do to us as a family. How it will impact my relationship with J. How it will impact the relative harmony we've achieved in this house. She can be so volatile and unpredictable, like her mother. Why am I scare of a teenage girl with no self-confidence, no direction and no ambition? Hmmm….perhaps I just answered my own question.

I truly know that his family, now my family, could be my subject, but I don't know where to start. How to distill art from this mess is baffling to me. It seems too much, too soap opera, too over the top for fiction. I find myself wanting to capture moments, to pull it into poetry somehow, but I feel lost in how to accomplish that. It's as though I've lost the secret somehow--Used to be able to do this, and now--it just feels like I'm an eighty-year-old lady who was once a gymnast contemplating a back handspring.

I wonder at stepdaughter's feelings about all this. Surely, she must be scared to death. But she hides it so well. Of course, maybe she'd think the same of me. I doubt it's even occurred to her that I am scared. Why would I be? From her perspective, my life is orderly and makes sense. How could she possibly suspect that I don't know what I'm doing here in this role of stepmother, that I'm winging it every day, every hour, every minute, that I am simply pretending?

stepson

His hair
Burnished bronze
Glows
In lamplight warm and affectionate
Your fingers slide through its silkiness
His tender cheek pressed against your chest,
Thin body curled awkwardly–
Angular as a bird's–
Yet perfectly fitted into your side
Your breaths echo each other's
A rhythmic symmetry
You are complete

I watch from across the room
Spellbound
Like a traveler from a distant land
Seeing snow for the first time.