I had my first job interview in ten years. I had to dress up, show up on time, be charismatic and answer all questions with a cheerful demeanor. Not so hard. I am pretty sure these skills are like riding a bike, once you have them, you don’t lose them. In my twenties I changed jobs frequently, moving up the ladder of success, giving me ample opportunity to polish my interview skills and perfect my modus operandi, my performance, if you will. Still, nothing makes a good interview like knowing the job and really wanting it, in a word, enthusiasm. The best part about teaching art for me is, when you do what you love, you never have to work.
So, the good news is I got the job, which meant I had to scale back on some of the part time positions I was considering elsewhere. I am still finishing up my MFA, and was going to teach a 2D design class at the university, but had to let them know that I was taking on a full time position at the community college, and with the studio hours I need to complete for the degree and family time, I was going to be maxed out. They were as sympathetic as you might expect.
On my way out of the office I ran into one of my professors and told him about my situation. We began talking about the graduate program, and the personalities involved. The art department hired a new department head over the summer and the interim director of the art program had stepped down. He was also the chair of my graduate committee. When I commented about having to find a new chair now, the professor said, “It is probably for the best.” The former director, he continued, wasn’t really my biggest supporter. We continued to talk about how my chair had spoken of me in the past and how change could really help me.
Still, It took a minute for his initial comment to sink in. About a year ago I sat down with my chair and asked him rather directly if, regardless whether he liked my work or not, if he could support me. If he could be the kind of chair that could be honest with me and tell me what I needed to move forward in this program. He had agreed that he could; only now I discovered that that had not been the case. Far from being my advocate, this guy had worked behind the scenes criticizing me to the other faculty. Betrayed, I wanted to punch him in the nose.
I suppose if he hadn’t held me back with his actions, I might be in a very different place right now. Who knows, I might have been working on my final thesis and would have had to pass on this job opportunity. In which case we wouldn’t have the extra money and the benefits. What with the baby coming, those benefits could be really nice right now (though after watching “Sicko” benefits begin to look less and less helpful) and after not having had steady employment in seven years, the extra income is always welcome.
I don’t know if you noticed, but I just did something here, that I frequently catch myself doing. Looking at the events of my life from point A to point C, and surmising that if it hadn’t happened this way, it most certainly would have been different. (Of course) I think it is interesting too that this kind of thinking, while it can be used pessimistically, usually creates a kind of optimistic syllogism (“certain things having been supposed, something different from the things supposed results of necessity because these things are so.") Optimistic, I guess, because I get a certain amount of comfort from this kind of thinking that keeps me from punching noses or beating my head against the wall. That, and its fun, when your not completely stressed out, to look back at your life and see all the funny twists and turns, the successes and failures that amount to the total of your experience.
Interestingly, I always seem to ascribe some kind of unconscious force to these results that seems to have little to do with me. That or I am just being superstitious. That my mind is just making these scenarios up to make sense of things I couldn’t otherwise look at. But I believe there is something valuable in seeing these little lessons unfold. I am guilty of thinking, “God has a plan for me,” or “the universe has a way of unfolding.” Call it kismet, call it karma, call it divine intervention, (god looks out for children and fools) if I look at my life in this way, I invariably see these gentle lessons, that you have to fail in one place to succeed in another. I find these lessons peaceful, because they make me understand why it is important to experience the setbacks, the disappointments and the suffering. Not just because I will appreciate the good times more, but because there is no difference between them, good and bad, they are materially part on each other, and I can’t imagine the one without the other. So I see these stories of my life unfold, I see the consequences, the joys of a new job and the setbacks of my degree plan and realize that they are all just part of the unfolding narrative that is my life.
I guess the challenge then is to unfold your own myth.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
The intercultural temple of the body
I had the funniest conversation at my gym the other day. I was talking to one of my Hindu friends, a retired doctor. He has been encouraging me to try the vegetarian lunch buffet at the local International Buddhist Temple just a few blocks from my home. (Cleverly disguised as a three story office building) I told him I haven’t been feeling well, so I haven’t made the trip, but that I did make some samosa’s for dinner the other night.
Chorus: “Who had samosa?
“I made them for dinner?”
“Your wife made samosa for dinner?” (Repeat these three lines three times)
So, you made them with eggroll paper from the store?
“No I just mixed up a bit of flour and yogurt and salt for the dough, cooked up the vegetables and seasoned them”
Repeat Chorus
“You should really try the food at the Buddhist temple.”
“I am going to go the first chance I get.”
“I am sure they have very good samosa”
“I know, I love samosa, that’s why we made them at home.”
Repeat Chorus
J. and I have been going to the same gym now for 6 years. In that time the gym itself has changed owners and gone through about a dozen complete staff changes. There are only a few of us now who still brandish our original Q club cards. In that time I have made a few casual acquaintances, some lingered for a while, then disappeared, others quit the gym but maintain a cursory contact, and a few, like ourselves, seem to be permanent fixtures.
Our gym sits on an interesting crossroads, and, having been a member for so long, I have discovered that from moment to moment it is a place constantly in flux. Early in the morning, (I am told by J. who used to go before work at 6 a.m.) the place is awash with the young urban professionals, eager to get a head start on the day. Next come the septuagenarians, the Indians and the Pakistani, the soccer moms at noon, a smattering of every group in the afternoons, more business professionals from four to seven, and an assortment of people from the Asian community in the evening. (The gym turns into something of a Korean bathhouse after 9 p.m.)
Yes, our gym is awash with cultural diversity. Reflecting, for the most part, the community at large. We have sizable Asian and Indian community centers on either side of the interstate nearest our house that accounts for the large number of members from these communities. Put that in the mix with demographics of the area: married, same sex, with kids, African American, Caucasian, Hispanic, employed, retired, Russian, Jewish, Christian, Purple, Poke-a-dotted, and tattooed, and you have our gym, a little cross section of our corner of the world. Apparently, in the world of intercultural dialogue, the language of exercise is universal.
On a side note, I remember the first time I had a samosa, was at a little bakery a few blocks from the college in Cambridge. They were absolutely delicious. I’d always pick up a few for breakfast, and eat them as I walked to class. The novel nature of these little veggie filled pockets was the succulent sauce that made them so endearing. (That and the 5 shillings apiece they cost) The vapor that rose out of them as you sunk your teeth into one would fill the air and surround you and implant itself into your pores so that you would smell of cumin and coriander all day long. Compared to most of the fodder we were asked to eat in England, these were incomparably scrumptious. (This reminds me of the story of the first time I had Falafel, but that for another time)
Chorus: “Who had samosa?
“I made them for dinner?”
“Your wife made samosa for dinner?” (Repeat these three lines three times)
So, you made them with eggroll paper from the store?
“No I just mixed up a bit of flour and yogurt and salt for the dough, cooked up the vegetables and seasoned them”
Repeat Chorus
“You should really try the food at the Buddhist temple.”
“I am going to go the first chance I get.”
“I am sure they have very good samosa”
“I know, I love samosa, that’s why we made them at home.”
Repeat Chorus
J. and I have been going to the same gym now for 6 years. In that time the gym itself has changed owners and gone through about a dozen complete staff changes. There are only a few of us now who still brandish our original Q club cards. In that time I have made a few casual acquaintances, some lingered for a while, then disappeared, others quit the gym but maintain a cursory contact, and a few, like ourselves, seem to be permanent fixtures.
Our gym sits on an interesting crossroads, and, having been a member for so long, I have discovered that from moment to moment it is a place constantly in flux. Early in the morning, (I am told by J. who used to go before work at 6 a.m.) the place is awash with the young urban professionals, eager to get a head start on the day. Next come the septuagenarians, the Indians and the Pakistani, the soccer moms at noon, a smattering of every group in the afternoons, more business professionals from four to seven, and an assortment of people from the Asian community in the evening. (The gym turns into something of a Korean bathhouse after 9 p.m.)
Yes, our gym is awash with cultural diversity. Reflecting, for the most part, the community at large. We have sizable Asian and Indian community centers on either side of the interstate nearest our house that accounts for the large number of members from these communities. Put that in the mix with demographics of the area: married, same sex, with kids, African American, Caucasian, Hispanic, employed, retired, Russian, Jewish, Christian, Purple, Poke-a-dotted, and tattooed, and you have our gym, a little cross section of our corner of the world. Apparently, in the world of intercultural dialogue, the language of exercise is universal.
On a side note, I remember the first time I had a samosa, was at a little bakery a few blocks from the college in Cambridge. They were absolutely delicious. I’d always pick up a few for breakfast, and eat them as I walked to class. The novel nature of these little veggie filled pockets was the succulent sauce that made them so endearing. (That and the 5 shillings apiece they cost) The vapor that rose out of them as you sunk your teeth into one would fill the air and surround you and implant itself into your pores so that you would smell of cumin and coriander all day long. Compared to most of the fodder we were asked to eat in England, these were incomparably scrumptious. (This reminds me of the story of the first time I had Falafel, but that for another time)
Saturday, July 26, 2008
The Blog of all things Scout
The other day I left Scout alone in the kitchen for a minute with a bowl of yogurt. Apparently a minute is all the time that is needed for a two year old to make free associations. We have been taking the kids to the pool a lot lately and really it is all Scout talks about. “Pool? Pool? Pool?” Evidently, cherry flavored yogurt looks and smells a lot like sunscreen, and a minute was all it took for her to liberally spread the gooey stuff over the entire surface of her body. It was then that the nucleus of my new blog began to form: The blog of all things Scout.
Scout has an amazing propensity for mischievous trouble. Whether it is mainlining ranch salad dressing, scattering her mother’s craft beads throughout the house, or simply displaying the charming cognitive developments that are so unique to a two year old, Scout is an imp. albeit a very, very sweet imp.
IMP: (I’mp’eh) fairies frequently described in folklore and superstition that are somewhat mischievous similar to a demon but smaller and less powerful; a mischievous child.
Well, maybe not an imp, but she is a wonder. She'll dance to literally any tune she hears, will spontaneously burst into song, will pause to pet the kitty then turn and pinch her sister. There is something really fascinating about watching children grow and develop. For example, the other day we were putting in a new bookcase, as we have grossly outgrown our old ones, and jenny was making irregular piles of books on the floor divided into the usual categories, cookbooks, poetry, harlequin romances, epistemological philosophy, ancient heresies of religion… when scout wandered over to the littlest pile, pointed, and said “Baby.” Jenny looked at the pile of books and, not seeing what Scout was referring to, replied “What baby Scout?”
Scout repeated her gesture “Baby.” She said, then, as if to clarify, she pointed at a slightly larger pile of books and said “Mama.” Then to the largest pile of books “Papa.”
I can’t even begin to tell you how cute this was. Jenny was astounded at Scout’s seemingly new capacity for abstract thought. Needless to say, we have the cutest two years old in the universe! (Which is the universe’s way of protecting her when we discover permanent marker on our 19th century end table)
Scout has reached that formative age when free associations come naturally; it’s that point in life where most of artist, poets, designers, and us creative types in general strive to return. I think the true wonder of the age is that the associations are so simple, this pile of books resembles a family, that bowl of yogurt resembles sunscreen. There is no pretension, because the artifice of pretension doesn’t exist. These are the association free of judgment. That is what makes them so beautiful, so elegant, and really, so darn funny. Now to capture it in pictures so I can make my new blog…
Scout has an amazing propensity for mischievous trouble. Whether it is mainlining ranch salad dressing, scattering her mother’s craft beads throughout the house, or simply displaying the charming cognitive developments that are so unique to a two year old, Scout is an imp. albeit a very, very sweet imp.
IMP: (I’mp’eh) fairies frequently described in folklore and superstition that are somewhat mischievous similar to a demon but smaller and less powerful; a mischievous child.
Well, maybe not an imp, but she is a wonder. She'll dance to literally any tune she hears, will spontaneously burst into song, will pause to pet the kitty then turn and pinch her sister. There is something really fascinating about watching children grow and develop. For example, the other day we were putting in a new bookcase, as we have grossly outgrown our old ones, and jenny was making irregular piles of books on the floor divided into the usual categories, cookbooks, poetry, harlequin romances, epistemological philosophy, ancient heresies of religion… when scout wandered over to the littlest pile, pointed, and said “Baby.” Jenny looked at the pile of books and, not seeing what Scout was referring to, replied “What baby Scout?”
Scout repeated her gesture “Baby.” She said, then, as if to clarify, she pointed at a slightly larger pile of books and said “Mama.” Then to the largest pile of books “Papa.”
I can’t even begin to tell you how cute this was. Jenny was astounded at Scout’s seemingly new capacity for abstract thought. Needless to say, we have the cutest two years old in the universe! (Which is the universe’s way of protecting her when we discover permanent marker on our 19th century end table)
Scout has reached that formative age when free associations come naturally; it’s that point in life where most of artist, poets, designers, and us creative types in general strive to return. I think the true wonder of the age is that the associations are so simple, this pile of books resembles a family, that bowl of yogurt resembles sunscreen. There is no pretension, because the artifice of pretension doesn’t exist. These are the association free of judgment. That is what makes them so beautiful, so elegant, and really, so darn funny. Now to capture it in pictures so I can make my new blog…
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Waiting for Blogot
The other day, after reading one of my posts I asked J. what she thought. “It’s great,” she replied “ I just don't understand why you sound so surprised about it.” Ever since then I’ve been thinking about “the voice” of my blog, and while not dissatisfied, I have been pondering ways in which I can make the blog more interesting.
I told J. “I think I need to create some kind of dialogue. You know, break up the imperious voice of indignation with a character that resembles reason. Sort of a Waiting for Godot blog if you will.”
What would that look like? I’ve been pouring over the headlines and found a topic that interested me almost straight away, the Trial of Max Mosley, the FIA Formula One race car president who sued for invasion of privacy after the Sunday tabloid had falsely accused him of taking part in a "sick Nazi orgy".
O.K. So I have my Gogo, but who to play Didi? Hmmmn. Then it struck me. Bill Clinton is my Didi. Why? Because I never understood why an investigation into a fraudulent real estate development got tied to an entirely separate investigation into a political sex scandal and led to the eventual Impeachment of a President. The so-called Starr Paper that should have highlighted the prosecutorial investigation into the real estate debacle, instead hardly made mention of it. Instead it turned out to be a brief on sex and the abuse of power. There is no question that Bill Clinton perjured himself. There is some question whether it was cause enough to impeach a president, and as Chelsea Clinton pointed out to a reporter not long ago, ultimately whether it is any of our business in the first place.
There in lies the rub, so to speak, for poor old Slick Willie. Not that he could have cried "foul!" adn claimed it was no ones business but the truth remains that America has very differing standards when it comes to privacy (defined by a series of differing laws (torts)) while the Europeans have come to understand privacy as a Human Right, so defined in the articles of the European Convention on Human Rights.
So, I’ve got my Brit. and my American, my, Gogo, who is preoccupied with his physical aches and pains, the lash of the whip and the speed of the car and my Vladimir, whose pain is primarily mental anguish, what the lawyers will argue and his cunning bits of logic used to persuade and delude. Now all I need is my dialogue.
Act I
Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting.
E: (giving up again). Nothing to be done.
V: (advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I'm beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I've tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven't yet tried everything. A cigar tube, a little oral sex under the desk. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to Estragon.) So there you are again.
E: Am I?
V: I'm glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.
E: Me too.
V: Together again at last! We'll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get up till I embrace you.
E: (irritably). Not now, not now. I don’t swing that way.
V: (hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?
E: In a ditch.
V: (admiringly). A ditch! Where?
E: (without gesture). Over there.
V: And they didn't beat you?
E: Beat me? Certainly they beat me.
V: The same lot as usual?
E: The same? I don't know.
V: When I think of it . . . all these years . . . but for me . . . where would you be . . . (Decisively.) You'd be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.
E: And what of it?
V: (gloomily). It's too much for one man. All those women, and for Five hours??? (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand what's the good of losing heart now, that's what I say. We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.
E: Ah stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing.
V: Hand in hand from the top of the Eiffel Tower, among the first. We were respectable in those days. Now it's too late. They wouldn't even let us up. (Estragon tears at his boot.) What are you doing?
E: Taking off my boot. Did that never happen to you?
V: Boots must be taken off every day, I'm tired telling you that. Why don't you listen to me?
E: (feebly). Help me!
V: It hurts?
E: (angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
V: (angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don't count. I'd like to hear what you'd say if you had what I have.
E: It hurts?
V: (angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
E: (pointing). You might button it all the same.
V: (stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.
I told J. “I think I need to create some kind of dialogue. You know, break up the imperious voice of indignation with a character that resembles reason. Sort of a Waiting for Godot blog if you will.”
What would that look like? I’ve been pouring over the headlines and found a topic that interested me almost straight away, the Trial of Max Mosley, the FIA Formula One race car president who sued for invasion of privacy after the Sunday tabloid had falsely accused him of taking part in a "sick Nazi orgy".
O.K. So I have my Gogo, but who to play Didi? Hmmmn. Then it struck me. Bill Clinton is my Didi. Why? Because I never understood why an investigation into a fraudulent real estate development got tied to an entirely separate investigation into a political sex scandal and led to the eventual Impeachment of a President. The so-called Starr Paper that should have highlighted the prosecutorial investigation into the real estate debacle, instead hardly made mention of it. Instead it turned out to be a brief on sex and the abuse of power. There is no question that Bill Clinton perjured himself. There is some question whether it was cause enough to impeach a president, and as Chelsea Clinton pointed out to a reporter not long ago, ultimately whether it is any of our business in the first place.
There in lies the rub, so to speak, for poor old Slick Willie. Not that he could have cried "foul!" adn claimed it was no ones business but the truth remains that America has very differing standards when it comes to privacy (defined by a series of differing laws (torts)) while the Europeans have come to understand privacy as a Human Right, so defined in the articles of the European Convention on Human Rights.
So, I’ve got my Brit. and my American, my, Gogo, who is preoccupied with his physical aches and pains, the lash of the whip and the speed of the car and my Vladimir, whose pain is primarily mental anguish, what the lawyers will argue and his cunning bits of logic used to persuade and delude. Now all I need is my dialogue.
Act I
Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting.
E: (giving up again). Nothing to be done.
V: (advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I'm beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I've tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven't yet tried everything. A cigar tube, a little oral sex under the desk. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to Estragon.) So there you are again.
E: Am I?
V: I'm glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.
E: Me too.
V: Together again at last! We'll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get up till I embrace you.
E: (irritably). Not now, not now. I don’t swing that way.
V: (hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?
E: In a ditch.
V: (admiringly). A ditch! Where?
E: (without gesture). Over there.
V: And they didn't beat you?
E: Beat me? Certainly they beat me.
V: The same lot as usual?
E: The same? I don't know.
V: When I think of it . . . all these years . . . but for me . . . where would you be . . . (Decisively.) You'd be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.
E: And what of it?
V: (gloomily). It's too much for one man. All those women, and for Five hours??? (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand what's the good of losing heart now, that's what I say. We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.
E: Ah stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing.
V: Hand in hand from the top of the Eiffel Tower, among the first. We were respectable in those days. Now it's too late. They wouldn't even let us up. (Estragon tears at his boot.) What are you doing?
E: Taking off my boot. Did that never happen to you?
V: Boots must be taken off every day, I'm tired telling you that. Why don't you listen to me?
E: (feebly). Help me!
V: It hurts?
E: (angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
V: (angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don't count. I'd like to hear what you'd say if you had what I have.
E: It hurts?
V: (angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
E: (pointing). You might button it all the same.
V: (stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Television Man
I’ve had a bit of stomach trouble the past few days, the kind that makes for a good pepto commercial, and in true man-flu fashion I found myself laying on the couch, groaning a bit, staring vacantly into the television, my thumb reflexively toggling the remote’s channel button. Normally the man-flu doesn’t allow for self-reflective thought, but I found myself getting offended and angry. What is the deal with the sitcom dad? I realize I am a bit of a Johnny-come-lately to this issue, but um, well, T.V. dads are not the brightest lampposts on the street. It is a bit aggravating, so you will pardon my incredulity.
O.K. I know the white male=bad, right? Nobody is going to buy a t-shirt that says “have you hugged your white male today?” White men are the privileged class. We have all the best jobs, so we can afford the best cars and houses. Right? Not according to television. Then we are the deadbeat dads, the racist hillbillies, and the gigolo yuppies. Worse than this (much, much worse) we are the ineffective caregivers who cannot make a single decision about the welfare of our children without the approval of the ill-tempered, dictatorial wife who is constantly looking over T.V. dad’s shoulder and correcting his every faux pas.
Honestly, women should be as, or more offended by this then men. I just watched an AT&T commercial of a Mother chastising her husband because he was throwing away “milky rollover minutes. ” Far from being the shrewd businesswoman making money in the world of big finance, she is just the shrew. The husband, the bumbling oaf of the home, dismisses her concerns with an offhand and demeaning remark.
At first I thought that this was perhaps some kind of role reversal on television, from weak helpless female, to inept insincere male. But the more I think about it, the more I realize, nothing has changed. It is just more of the same. Perpetuating the message that women should be at home, where they belong, and men have no place in America’s kitchens. Far from members of a healthy relationship, women are still depicted as the guardians of the home, where they are constantly having to correct the husband on what should be some simple chore.. The identities of women are even more closely associated with home and family than that of June Clever.
The interesting thing about this formula is just how little television producers have to risk. With the myriad of channels offered it is more difficult for sitcoms to find wide audience appeal, as a result Sitcoms now target more defined niche audiences on a range of channels. It may even be more difficult for a sitcom to ‘tap into’ contemporary issues since a varied audience is not watching. This means that producers can, with very little deviation, choose between either the matronly housewife or the Jessica Simpsonesque sex kitten without having to challenge the status quo. Nothing changes. Well, except that now men are depicted as the soul of ineptitude.
I like to think of art as somehow imitating life, becoming the social mirror by which we can examine ourselves. That is why I believe learning to look at the media critically is such an important and essential skill for people to develop. Much attention has been made of the fact that most young women read and look at magazines that objectify and exploit them while the images are subconsciously inserted as desirable. I suspect much the same thing is going on for men. Men Depicted as incapable of taking care of their children are thus excused from parenting responsibilities, they are not trusted to take their children to the doctor, or be left alone at home with the children for long periods while the wife is out of town.
I find that even when I know what is going on, when I am being sold a bill of goods by stereotypes on television, it is hypnotic, I can’t look away. Worse, because too often these concepts become less about who we are and more about who we should be and what we should look like to fit in and be accepted and prized in this culture. Unfortunately these images are seldom little more than window dressing on the regurgitated offerings of societies ills. We should be wary and heed the cautious tone of Oscar Wilde. "Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life."
O.K. I know the white male=bad, right? Nobody is going to buy a t-shirt that says “have you hugged your white male today?” White men are the privileged class. We have all the best jobs, so we can afford the best cars and houses. Right? Not according to television. Then we are the deadbeat dads, the racist hillbillies, and the gigolo yuppies. Worse than this (much, much worse) we are the ineffective caregivers who cannot make a single decision about the welfare of our children without the approval of the ill-tempered, dictatorial wife who is constantly looking over T.V. dad’s shoulder and correcting his every faux pas.
Honestly, women should be as, or more offended by this then men. I just watched an AT&T commercial of a Mother chastising her husband because he was throwing away “milky rollover minutes. ” Far from being the shrewd businesswoman making money in the world of big finance, she is just the shrew. The husband, the bumbling oaf of the home, dismisses her concerns with an offhand and demeaning remark.
At first I thought that this was perhaps some kind of role reversal on television, from weak helpless female, to inept insincere male. But the more I think about it, the more I realize, nothing has changed. It is just more of the same. Perpetuating the message that women should be at home, where they belong, and men have no place in America’s kitchens. Far from members of a healthy relationship, women are still depicted as the guardians of the home, where they are constantly having to correct the husband on what should be some simple chore.. The identities of women are even more closely associated with home and family than that of June Clever.
The interesting thing about this formula is just how little television producers have to risk. With the myriad of channels offered it is more difficult for sitcoms to find wide audience appeal, as a result Sitcoms now target more defined niche audiences on a range of channels. It may even be more difficult for a sitcom to ‘tap into’ contemporary issues since a varied audience is not watching. This means that producers can, with very little deviation, choose between either the matronly housewife or the Jessica Simpsonesque sex kitten without having to challenge the status quo. Nothing changes. Well, except that now men are depicted as the soul of ineptitude.
I like to think of art as somehow imitating life, becoming the social mirror by which we can examine ourselves. That is why I believe learning to look at the media critically is such an important and essential skill for people to develop. Much attention has been made of the fact that most young women read and look at magazines that objectify and exploit them while the images are subconsciously inserted as desirable. I suspect much the same thing is going on for men. Men Depicted as incapable of taking care of their children are thus excused from parenting responsibilities, they are not trusted to take their children to the doctor, or be left alone at home with the children for long periods while the wife is out of town.
I find that even when I know what is going on, when I am being sold a bill of goods by stereotypes on television, it is hypnotic, I can’t look away. Worse, because too often these concepts become less about who we are and more about who we should be and what we should look like to fit in and be accepted and prized in this culture. Unfortunately these images are seldom little more than window dressing on the regurgitated offerings of societies ills. We should be wary and heed the cautious tone of Oscar Wilde. "Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life."
Friday, July 18, 2008
Spinach in the meatball
So I am flipping through one of these parenting magazines and I spy an article on how to get kids to eat their vegetables. This piqued my interest on multiple levels. One. I am always looking out for a good recipe. Two. Preparing kids meals should be the soul of brevity. Personally I don’t think that any meal that takes more than a half an hour to make is worth its salt. I have several years worth of half-hour long programming from the food network to prove my point that a half hour is more than enough time to prepare several delicious dishes. This goes doubly for children’s meals. Three. My kids hate to eat, or at least seem to do so. In fact, their propensity to eat is inversely proportional to my expectation that they will enjoy whatever it is I have made them. Sure they are going to like chicken nuggets? Come to find that today chicken nuggets are an anathema.
So, what was the sage advice that this parenting article offered? Disguise your food. Not with funny little masks or hats, but to transform the ordinarily disgusting vegetable into something that appears to be a delicious treat for the ages. Don’t like spinach? Chop it up and hide it in a yummy meatball. Don’t like Cauliflower? Fry it up to look like popcorn. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I can’t even begin to tell you the myriad reasons that this strategy will never work. First of all small children are able to detect despised vegetables the way bloodhounds detect scents, like a shark smells blood in the water, like an eagle spies, oh you get the point. You put one single leaf of minced up spinach in ten gallons of hamburger, they will know it is there, and don’t even get me started on why the cauliflower thing is just nonsense.
Believe it or not though, none of this compared to the incredulity I felt when I read the last item on the list. Don’t like Broccoli? Puree it up to look like guacamole and, and, (wait for it) serve it with pita chips. Now I know you are gasping with disbelief. But, for the uninitiated, I will spell it out. Never mind the complete dishonesty and misrepresentation that you are perpetrating on your child. Forget the years of psychotherapy the child will grow to require. Imagine for a minute the larger picture. What are they asking us to do to broccoli? I am on a bit of a rant here, so bare with me. Why would you take something perfectly good and wholesome, like a simple tree of broccoli, and puree it? The very adjective “tree” should tell you everything you need to know about broccoli. Broccoli already looks like something else. If this isn’t enough to convince a child to eat it, then surely nothing else will. Needless to say, I have yet to meet a child that would eat guacamole anyways, certainly not any that tasted like broccoli.
No, the truth is, this article simply did not make any sense. But it did remind me of something I learned a long time ago with my first child that I have come to forget. Disguising a food aside, there is something to the idea that foods can look like something else that can capture the imagination of a child in a way that spinach in a meatball has failed to grasp. That the very resemblance of a thing can and often does challenge the imagination of a child in a way that can make eating more enjoyable, dare I say fun. Why not have fun with it. Allow your broccoli to be a tree.
A few years ago, D. was looking through a cookbook for kids that suggested transforming the ordinary everyday hot dog in a bun into a crocodile simply by adding a few carefully placed kernels of corn to resemble teeth. She loved it. I shared this with my neighbor, who also has children, and she suggested that a few simple lengthwise cuts halfway along the length of a hot dog are all that is needed to ensure that the hot dog will resemble an octopus when it comes out of the boiling water. Kids want to be engaged. They want to see the world from new perspectives. This is the core of their cognitive development, and we, as parents, have only a small window of time in which to lay down simple differences, let alone allow them to see the world from completely new perspectives. Why not give it to them.
Now I realize that some of you will cry foul. I am a vegetarian (yes who likes fish) and I do like vegetables and, more importantly, I like food to look like the stuff it came from. (The exception being sushi, or, well fish in general. Fish should never look like fish) I suspect some of you are rethinking my dislike of beets and saying "a ha! So it isn't just the beets!" But, we are deceived so much of the time. In advertising, in spam and craigslist scams and on the used car lot. It seems to me that children will get enough of this “spinach in the meatball” kind of treatment all too soon. I wonder how I perpetuate this kind of thinking in my own life? I suppose I can think about it on my way to the grocery store. I guess we are having hot dogs (or smartdogs) for dinner.
So, what was the sage advice that this parenting article offered? Disguise your food. Not with funny little masks or hats, but to transform the ordinarily disgusting vegetable into something that appears to be a delicious treat for the ages. Don’t like spinach? Chop it up and hide it in a yummy meatball. Don’t like Cauliflower? Fry it up to look like popcorn. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I can’t even begin to tell you the myriad reasons that this strategy will never work. First of all small children are able to detect despised vegetables the way bloodhounds detect scents, like a shark smells blood in the water, like an eagle spies, oh you get the point. You put one single leaf of minced up spinach in ten gallons of hamburger, they will know it is there, and don’t even get me started on why the cauliflower thing is just nonsense.
Believe it or not though, none of this compared to the incredulity I felt when I read the last item on the list. Don’t like Broccoli? Puree it up to look like guacamole and, and, (wait for it) serve it with pita chips. Now I know you are gasping with disbelief. But, for the uninitiated, I will spell it out. Never mind the complete dishonesty and misrepresentation that you are perpetrating on your child. Forget the years of psychotherapy the child will grow to require. Imagine for a minute the larger picture. What are they asking us to do to broccoli? I am on a bit of a rant here, so bare with me. Why would you take something perfectly good and wholesome, like a simple tree of broccoli, and puree it? The very adjective “tree” should tell you everything you need to know about broccoli. Broccoli already looks like something else. If this isn’t enough to convince a child to eat it, then surely nothing else will. Needless to say, I have yet to meet a child that would eat guacamole anyways, certainly not any that tasted like broccoli.
No, the truth is, this article simply did not make any sense. But it did remind me of something I learned a long time ago with my first child that I have come to forget. Disguising a food aside, there is something to the idea that foods can look like something else that can capture the imagination of a child in a way that spinach in a meatball has failed to grasp. That the very resemblance of a thing can and often does challenge the imagination of a child in a way that can make eating more enjoyable, dare I say fun. Why not have fun with it. Allow your broccoli to be a tree.
A few years ago, D. was looking through a cookbook for kids that suggested transforming the ordinary everyday hot dog in a bun into a crocodile simply by adding a few carefully placed kernels of corn to resemble teeth. She loved it. I shared this with my neighbor, who also has children, and she suggested that a few simple lengthwise cuts halfway along the length of a hot dog are all that is needed to ensure that the hot dog will resemble an octopus when it comes out of the boiling water. Kids want to be engaged. They want to see the world from new perspectives. This is the core of their cognitive development, and we, as parents, have only a small window of time in which to lay down simple differences, let alone allow them to see the world from completely new perspectives. Why not give it to them.
Now I realize that some of you will cry foul. I am a vegetarian (yes who likes fish) and I do like vegetables and, more importantly, I like food to look like the stuff it came from. (The exception being sushi, or, well fish in general. Fish should never look like fish) I suspect some of you are rethinking my dislike of beets and saying "a ha! So it isn't just the beets!" But, we are deceived so much of the time. In advertising, in spam and craigslist scams and on the used car lot. It seems to me that children will get enough of this “spinach in the meatball” kind of treatment all too soon. I wonder how I perpetuate this kind of thinking in my own life? I suppose I can think about it on my way to the grocery store. I guess we are having hot dogs (or smartdogs) for dinner.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
O fridge, my fridge
When we bought our first home in Austin, we didn’t really know what we were getting into. Fortunately we had a very sweet realtor who walked us, baby steps, through the process and was very patient. Much to our surprise, we discovered that one of the hidden costs of buying a first home is buying a refrigerator. In fact there should have been several of these appliance related costs, but the previous owners abandoned their washer/dryer. The washer gave us a couple of years of good service, but we replaced it as soon as we moved to Dallas. Amazingly the dryer lasted a full ten years before being “updated” with another used hand-me-down dryer we picked up from our neighbors. But the refrigerator is special. I love our refrigerator. I think you can tell a lot about a person by their fridge. Are they sufficiently adapted to the modern world? Do they partake of all the modern conveniences, or are they simply sufficiently utilitarian? Is the fridge cluttered? Is it clean? Does it have enough space within? Is it appropriately decorated with the proper amount of photographs, magnetic poetry, shopping lists and assorted bric-a-brac? I would go so far as to wager that no other single household item can tell you as much about the occupants of the home as the fridge, not even the personal computer.
Ours is a freezer on the bottom variety refrigerator. A bottom freezer refrigerator puts the fresh food you need to access most often right where you need it -- at eye level. This is particularly true for those of us over six feet. The less frequently accessed freezer section is moved to the bottom of the unit. This seems perfectly natural as frozen foods are those foods that are meant to be stored for longer and are thus accessed less often. The decision to purchase a bottom freezer refrigerator really depends on how important it is to you to have fresh food in a more accessible, easily viewable area. (Again, the desire to eat fresh food, and to have it readily available tells you a lot about a person.)
A good refrigerator withstands the changing family dynamic and its use evolves over time. When we bought our fridge J. was still expecting, the fridge catered to the two of us, but today our little family grown, we buy in bulk, and we store excess frozen foods in the freezer more frequently. Our diet has changed somewhat, and while the children for the most part eat what we eat, they also eat more frozen, prepackaged foods. This is what a freezer is for, after all. Since he introduction of the home freezer in the 1940’s, frozen foods have made the transition from a luxury to a necessity, an integral part of our daily lives. The best part? Our freezer (the freezer on the bottom variety) once again shows its versatility in that adult foods are at adult levels, while children’s foods are at children levels. Though the two year old quickly discovered the means of obtaining and thereby forming a four Popsicle a day habit.
Sadly our refrigerator is beginning to show its age, and here is the thing. Once something is broken, is it ever the same? Now, the ice-maker broke. Parts were brought in, specialists were summoned, and as if by magic (and a hefty check) ice began to once again grace our freezer compartment. Next was the seal, or gasket. The thin, membrane-like lip of plastic that runs around the inner part of the freezer door that forms the hermetic seal between inner and outer. It began to bubble. It began to crack. Soon things were not as they should be. Cold air no longer flowed gracefully from bottom to top bringing freshness and crispness to leafy vegetables. Lettuce began to wilt prematurely and milk soured. Specialists were call and prices were quoted. We balked. We found the part online we enlisted the aid of a few well-intentioned websites that offered do-it-yourself tips and we repaired our freezer. Freshness was restored.
Then of course it failed again. Hands were wrung. Questions of competency and expense were raised and we tried again. Today everything seems to work, though there does seem to be a bit of excess moisture forming on the ceiling of the refrigerator. Suggesting that, despite our best intentions, we are going to have to eventually do something else.
I think my fridge has a lesson or two to teach me about aging gracefully. I’ve decided to adopt a wait and see attitude about my fridge. I don’t have any fear of its eventual success or failure. I suppose my love of my fridge allows me to embrace its flaws with loving acceptance. When something breaks, is it even the same? Nothing lasts forever. Everything eventually shows signs of age. But will those signs be the salt and pepper dusting of gray that begins to peek out between visits to the barber, or is it the annoying flatulence that seems to strike somewhere between midnight and two in the morning? Worse, is it the annoying back pain that signals a system failure deep from within? I suppose time will tell. J. says refrigerators aren’t supposed to last much more than ten or fifteen years and I shoot back a withering glance and whisper “not in front of the fridge.” For now I gently wipe the sweat of age and exertion from the brow of my dear refrigerator as I pour myself a glass of OJ.
Ours is a freezer on the bottom variety refrigerator. A bottom freezer refrigerator puts the fresh food you need to access most often right where you need it -- at eye level. This is particularly true for those of us over six feet. The less frequently accessed freezer section is moved to the bottom of the unit. This seems perfectly natural as frozen foods are those foods that are meant to be stored for longer and are thus accessed less often. The decision to purchase a bottom freezer refrigerator really depends on how important it is to you to have fresh food in a more accessible, easily viewable area. (Again, the desire to eat fresh food, and to have it readily available tells you a lot about a person.)
A good refrigerator withstands the changing family dynamic and its use evolves over time. When we bought our fridge J. was still expecting, the fridge catered to the two of us, but today our little family grown, we buy in bulk, and we store excess frozen foods in the freezer more frequently. Our diet has changed somewhat, and while the children for the most part eat what we eat, they also eat more frozen, prepackaged foods. This is what a freezer is for, after all. Since he introduction of the home freezer in the 1940’s, frozen foods have made the transition from a luxury to a necessity, an integral part of our daily lives. The best part? Our freezer (the freezer on the bottom variety) once again shows its versatility in that adult foods are at adult levels, while children’s foods are at children levels. Though the two year old quickly discovered the means of obtaining and thereby forming a four Popsicle a day habit.
Sadly our refrigerator is beginning to show its age, and here is the thing. Once something is broken, is it ever the same? Now, the ice-maker broke. Parts were brought in, specialists were summoned, and as if by magic (and a hefty check) ice began to once again grace our freezer compartment. Next was the seal, or gasket. The thin, membrane-like lip of plastic that runs around the inner part of the freezer door that forms the hermetic seal between inner and outer. It began to bubble. It began to crack. Soon things were not as they should be. Cold air no longer flowed gracefully from bottom to top bringing freshness and crispness to leafy vegetables. Lettuce began to wilt prematurely and milk soured. Specialists were call and prices were quoted. We balked. We found the part online we enlisted the aid of a few well-intentioned websites that offered do-it-yourself tips and we repaired our freezer. Freshness was restored.
Then of course it failed again. Hands were wrung. Questions of competency and expense were raised and we tried again. Today everything seems to work, though there does seem to be a bit of excess moisture forming on the ceiling of the refrigerator. Suggesting that, despite our best intentions, we are going to have to eventually do something else.
I think my fridge has a lesson or two to teach me about aging gracefully. I’ve decided to adopt a wait and see attitude about my fridge. I don’t have any fear of its eventual success or failure. I suppose my love of my fridge allows me to embrace its flaws with loving acceptance. When something breaks, is it even the same? Nothing lasts forever. Everything eventually shows signs of age. But will those signs be the salt and pepper dusting of gray that begins to peek out between visits to the barber, or is it the annoying flatulence that seems to strike somewhere between midnight and two in the morning? Worse, is it the annoying back pain that signals a system failure deep from within? I suppose time will tell. J. says refrigerators aren’t supposed to last much more than ten or fifteen years and I shoot back a withering glance and whisper “not in front of the fridge.” For now I gently wipe the sweat of age and exertion from the brow of my dear refrigerator as I pour myself a glass of OJ.
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