A Dog's Life

The day before Thanksgiving, my 12 year old dog - the love of my life, the scruffiest and kindest little mutt ever spat from what was likely a schnauzer mix getting it on with a terrier mix - suddenly became ill and died. It seemed impossible. He had a sore back. That was all that was wrong with him. The vet said it was a sore back and he needed some doggie aspirin but he was in fine shape. He did seem that way. Even on the day he died, he took a vigorous walk, ate a hearty breakfast, climbed up to his place on the couch, stretched out his skinny legs, and looked at me with his big, brown intelligent eyes, as if to say, what are you worried about? He slept for a few hours, the informal nap he liked to get in before his more important afternoon nap.

Then he woke up, and he was sick. He was very sick, very quickly. He jumped on and off the couch and walked into the walls. He tried to scootch himself behind the sink, into the corners, and around the backyard fencing. And then he howled and panted and no amount of petting his sweet little nose or fluffing his gray head would comfort him. I admit it, I snapped at him to calm down. I was scared. I begged him to sleep. Instead, he paced the house as though he'd never been there. He looked lost. And so I knew. I knew in that cold dark place that is never wrong. H. drove through the icy streets to the Emergency Vet, who had the quiet strength of a man used to giving bad news. He told us quietly that my sweet little dog, a dog so robust that his only previous illness concerned soft poo, that most likely he had a brain tumor. There was every sign of a brain tumor, but if I wanted he could put my poor guy [who could be heard whimpering from the exam room] through a number of unpleasant tests, but that the end result would surely be the same.

I had promised myself that I was not going to let him suffer for me just because I couldn't bear to lose him. I would never be ready to lose him. What about his sweet black nose, and the way his hair stood up in a mohawk, and his double dew claws and his arrooooo when he was happy? What about the way he ate the air if I blew in his face? It was too soon. I wanted more time. I wanted to curl up with him in his favorite blanket and tell him again the story of the day we met when he sat at the back of his cage and looked at me as if all hope was gone. I wanted to kiss his little face a thousand times. I wanted him with me forever, and that was not possible.

H. talked to me, but I'm not sure I heard a word he said. I knew what had to be done. Such a hard, hard thing to do. They brought my sweet, hurting little boy into the too bright room, and he whined softly because he was scared. All the sedative they had given him had not calmed him at all. We told each other in our own way - me with words, he with his eyes - how much we loved each other. No one had ever loved a dog quite as much, I told him. Then the vet inserted the needle, and we held him and while we told him what a very good boy he was [and he was], quicker than I ever imagined, he was gone.

Gone. The scruffy little mutt that I adopted from a shelter in Santa Fe, New Mexico. When I took him home we both looked at each other and thought, "What do we do now?" He had never been owned, I had never owned a dog. I fed him, tentatively. I walked him, tentatively. We learned together. I discovered that he had a sensitive stomach and that he thought if I let him he could catch a squirrel [he never did]. He learned that I was a soft touch, and in a week, he was not only sleeping on the bed but under the covers. In the morning I would sometimes find him, head on the pillow, paw on the blanket - snoring. He had many fine qualities that were not instilled by me but were simply his nature. He loved children. He loved people. He slept late in the mornings, in fact, I had to wake him for breakfast. He arroooooed with joy. He was funny. He was independent. He knew when to curl up alone, and when to lick my face when I was sad.

In our years together, I had three long term boyfriends, and each loved him passionately. S. taught him a complicated game with tennis balls that they played intently every night [S. a bit peeved when the dog beat him]. R. looked for a brindle dog to adopt just like him when we broke up. H. wept with me when he died. He was the kind of dog who grew on you like that. He was homely. He wasn't flashy. He wore a little blue raincoat when it rained, but I could tell he would have preferred a gray one.

I think because loving a dog is so primal and so passionate, the loss feels unbearable. It's a love without any hurtful memories to soil the absolute joy of connection. I mourned my mother terribly, but I also remembered our failings with each other. There are no failings with a dog. There is simply - and eternally - love. I will always remember the little boy separated from his dog, Snowball, during Hurricane Katrina. The little boy boards the bus, but he howls and howls for Snowball. I knew instinctively that no matter what that little boy went through after that - homelessness or hunger or desperation - the very worst thing that happened was the loss of Snowball. For a long time, I followed the news in hopes that they were reunited. I don't think they ever were.

When the winter is over, I will take my little dog's ashes and scatter them at Green Lake, a place he loved best. Now I don't know that all dogs go to heaven [for one thing, I don't believe in heaven, and for another -what about the dogs that say, bite children? Is there a tribunal on them?] but if there is a place where old dogs go to be happy, then my dog is definitely there. He had no other job in his life than to be a wonderful companion, a trusted friend, the one being that I could always count on to cheer me up and make me smile. Who among us succeeds in their life's work so brilliantly?

Goodbye, my sweet friend. I'll never forget you. As it turns out, I didn't own you after all. You owned me, and in passing, you took my heart.

Why I Write & Other Self-Important Platitudes That Aren't Really Important

So last night an old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer sent me an essay by another old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer [when you've been to two creative writing graduate programs you tend to know a few], an essay that is making the rounds, and by this I mean shared on Facebook, twitted / tweeted, and for all I know - photocopied and distributed in those Freshman Creative Writing Workshops that seek to instill in young minds the value of Finding Your Voice and Creating an Arc and the Importance of Literature - even when said students are in reality typing the sort of vampire stories that makes Twilight look like Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

I won't reproduce the original essay here, but suffice to say it contained many, many paragraphs with many, many words. Let me sum it up: Once you're on your third or fourth or fifth novel, why keep doing it? What's the point? I'm an outsider so I know my experience is valid, but isn't it enough already? Yadda yadda Is it important? Yes, it must be to us but it's so hard and it makes me unhappy So why do we keep putting ourselves through it when it's so hard? Why? Why? Why, God, why?

The essay was followed by comments ranging from "shut up, whiner" to "OMG, that is so beautiful and so true and all that I believe...thank you." In short, they got all fired up, and doubtlessly fired up their Macbooks with new intent and purpose and belief in the healing power of the word and all that.

However, my primary thought was: "Why not? What else do you have to do?" I mean, American Idol is only on a few weeks a year, and despite my best efforts, I just can't get that worried about Project Runway. I'm deeply puzzled by the newly emerging sub-genre of Why I Continue to Write in 5000 Words or Less, as it is merely a tiny piddle from the wide river of Why I Write essays / books/ treatises that has flowed forth from the very gifted Anne Tyler to the stupendously mediocre Stephen King [who, in my opinion, should not be encouraged to add any more crap to his endless and annoying stream of idiotic non-books]. I've seen countless interviews about Why I Sit Down in Front of That Computer Every Day with women writers and men writers and African American writers and Indian American writers and Jewish writers and lapsed Catholics and even one I can recall with a half Brazilian / half Icelandic writer who theorized that she needed to "embrace all of her hot and cold culture." Fair enough, embrace away. But the sad truth is that I don't care why anyone writes. I care about what they write. In the immortal words of a great Nike copywriter who was probably underpaid for this line: Just. Do. It. Why you write is really only important to you.

How do I know this? Because a few years ago I decided to stop writing. Oh I know, earthshaking news! Except not really. There is more to the story, of course, and I'd be happy to retell it but frankly it makes me nod off. You know, failed novel, enviable awards to finish the failed novel, inability to get it right, pressure from teachers, fellow writers, friends - that humorless Death March to Publication that buzzes in your ear like the Great Gazoo: "how's that novel coming?" I hated it but I felt I didn't have a choice. I was an artist, I had to create. They said. They all said. Well pooh on that, I decided. I didn't have to do a thing but pay taxes and die. I moved to Seattle and met my wonderful Hapa Boy. I enjoyed life. I learned about video games. I went to movies in English. That's right, Dear Readers. I shucked the Mantel of Misery from my bowed shoulders and set forth to meet the world as a proud Un-Writer.

But then a funny thing happened. I realized that I was becoming kind of unhappy and restless. I was blogging, for heaven's sakes. What's up with that? I was writing long emails. I was, in short, doing every kind of writing except, uh, writing. Which why was I not doing again? Oh.

So I started working on a book, and I'm about halfway there. I won't say I can see clearly now the rain is gone I can see all obstacles in my way - I mean, I live in Seattle - but I can say why I forge ahead without musing about community and art and culture and what I have to share with humanity or a publisher waiting with baited breath for my incredible debut.

It's simple: I write because I'm happier when I write than when I don't write. That's why all writers write. We like it. I like the little clickity clack of my typing fingers. I love when I get that lift, that energy, that orgasmic buzz that comes from writing a really sharp little sentence. That's cool, I think. I wrote that. Look how cool I am, writing a little sentence like that! Nifty. Then I like taking out a word and then putting it back. It's fun. I imagine when I finish this book - whether I publish it or not - I'll start something else. But first I'll probably enjoy the same feeling of accomplishment that my mountain climber friend had when he summited Everest. I mean, the best thing about a long climb up is when you get there, you're there. And what the hell, it's a pretty nice view.

The New Blog Order

For reasons that are still mysterious to me, my blog - which began as musings on my relocation to Seattle from Santa Fe and all that happened (love) and all that didn't happen (regret) - transformed into musings about something that I regard with - well, let's call it puzzlement. That would be religion - specifically, Fundamentalism (and I use the word to include the Chabad-like Fundamentalist Jews as well. I'm just as aghast at the ideas that spring from the blog of Mrs. Anna T as any Christian. ).

Although, I'll say this: It seems all those women have some mighty clean homes. It's like a modern day version of The Little Flower, my all time favorite Catholic saint. Cleaning for Jesus! Although my vision of Old Jerusalem isn't particularly spotless, what with all those rope sandals. But I digress.

More and more I'm stunned that anyone cares what I think about anything. I'm just a nice Jewish girl & opinionated writer whose dog apparently will be shipping off to Heaven without me. The point is that I'm stopping this train and getting off. My reasoning is that after more than a year of reading pretty much every single Bloggy housewife and Warriors for Christ mommy, I'm resigned that I'll have as much impact on anyone's belief system as a mosquito had at stopping D Day. It's only fair to point out that the reverse is also true: Not a single comment, claim, or religious vision and/or supposition has swayed me one iota to the conclusion that there is a God or that He/She has a "plan for my life." In fact, all my reading has done more to push me from measured Agnostic to enthusiastic Atheist. You know, in my youth, the Moonies tried to recruit me from Civic Center in San Francisco with an invitation to enjoy a lecture with grilled cheese sandwiches and buttered popcorn. I happen to love grilled cheese sandwiches and buttered popcorn. I left their house laughing hysterically at the lecture (okay, I was asked to leave), and this was at the lonely and tender age of eighteen. As a personality, I'm a Brazil nut. I don't crack easily, you see. It was never going to happen, folks. Don't weep over this one.

Also, I can't pretend that homophobia under the banner of righteous isn't stupendously annoying. I don't like the way some of these bloggers talk to each other, let alone me. I don't understand the rigidity that guides them. I don't understand the eternal childhood of religious faith. I really don't, and please dear readers, do not try and explain it to me. Please. I've tried my best to be open-minded, but every time Voddie Baucham opens his mouth, I am once more horrified that people are actually listening to his simple-minded ditherings. Listening! Repeating! Saying Amen! A woman I know to be intelligent warned her readers about a children's book wherein she discovers "two mommies." Well, here's the thing. You are casting aspersions against people I love and respect, people who have suffered a great deal because they happen to be gay. Which is how they are, and if you believe in a God, how God made them. Which is - to be blunt - ain't none of anyone's beeswax. So shut it, Bible Bearing Christians. If it's so easy to decide to be straight, lemme ask you something. If your God decried it, would you go and have sex with the same gender? I mean, who cares if you're attracted or you want to or anything, GOD SAID. No, I didn't think so. Like I said, shut it.

But there is so much more. There's the insistence that there shouldn't be separation between Church and State. That being a Stepford Mommy is the only thing your daughters should become and see how good she is with the babies! We do all come one size fits all, I guess. Or that's a dream killer. (Although it's awfully nice when those FEMALE nurses help you with your birth! I know, it's like using Social Services. It's okay when you need it. I understand.)

My blood curdles when I read that women are encouraged to have painful, dangerous births because the Scripture says we should suffer. Really? Suffer this, beeyotch.

I won't even go into evolution. It's all too much and I don't have the energy to weed through it anymore. Pretty soon I'm going to kick my computer across the room, and I can't afford to kill Mac the Knife. I'm declaring my Great Experiment is over.

We now return this blog to our regularly scheduled blitherings.

NOTE: Okay, so I've obviously stirred the pot here, and I do want to clarify. I had some lovely emails and I will publish those that will allow me to, but I see I've been misunderstood. My post below was about why I decided to stop reading the blogs. I'm not about the hate, folks. It was just raising my blood pressure too much, and I happen to know that there are some percentage of readers who come here to (car wreck, I know) read my rants about those blogs. It seemed fair to warn them that my rants are over. People certainly have a right to public discourse. I really have no problems with different worldviews. It would be a dull world if we all thought alike. But last night I read yet another "keep those dreaded homosexuals away!" post (and it was not on Breathing Grace, by the way), and I kind of snapped. So there you go.

I think Christianity, like any religion, can be a force for good. I'm rather fond of my own (and just for the record, the fact that I'm aghast by some of Mrs. Anna T's beliefs does not mean that I don't find her a terrific and intelligent writer. I do.) But in summation, I think religion can also be a force for the well, not good. And the more I read, the more I fear this. The path narrows and narrows. Fundamentalism is punishingly rigid, and if people choose it, best of luck. But I want you all to know that my sweet and wonderful friend J. cried when he told his mother he was gay, and he still can't tell her large Baptist family. It was painful. I cried with him.

I want you to know that I am lucky enough to count among my friends two lovely and intelligent lesbians who married and hope to have children who will indeed have "two mommies."

So, in short, these are not concepts. These are people. Which is why I'm stepping off.

MOD

From the Mixed Up Files of Ms. Yadda-Yadda BusyBody

I was thinking this week about how the American Public is starting to remind me of those mothers from my childhood who pulled up folding chairs in front of the garage, drank endless cups of coffee, watched the kids bike up and down the street, and picked apart everyone who wasn't sitting on the folding chairs with them. Which is to say, those mothers just knew that Mr. SoandSo-stein was probably fooling around with a secretary in Manhattan * and that Mrs. Soandso-stein never cleaned her kitchen. (No wonder her husband was fooling around with a secretary, a phrase my six year old mind converted into throwing a baseball back and forth with her, as in, "you kids stop fooling around out here, you'll break a window.")

In the interest of full disclosure, my mother frankly sneered on the Koffee Klatch. She wouldn't have been caught dead on one of those incredibly uncomfortable folding chairs. She had better things to do, like say, cleaning the kitchen.

[Dear Readers, the most wonderful words in the world according to my mother was "your house is so clean!" Closely followed by, "My, your children are well-behaved!" There is nothing and I repeat NOTHING my mother wouldn't do to hear those words. She started at the top of the house on Monday, and worked her way down. Every week, even after she went back to work when I was in junior high. To say that I grew up in a clean house and that my current state of lackadaisacal would cause her to turn in her grave is not an exaggeration. I seriously believe she would have sentenced me to ten years in a Federal Penitenary if she could have had a strict promise from the Governor that I would keep that cell really clean. I comfort myself with the knowledge that Hapa Boy is so uber-neat that he once gently chided me about leaving a spoon in the sink. But I digress. ]

Anyway, this week I came across an online poll about that bewildering couple known as Jon & Kate and their plus eight. Now, I have actually never seen this show because frankly, I don't understand why anyone watches this. I mean, they feed the children and change diapers and for a really fun day, go to the water park. Riveting. Look, I'm not above reality TV. I'm many things, but snob is not one of them. I despise when people tell me in that snooty tone that they "don't have television." I'm not injecting it into my vein, folks. I have been known to watch multiple episodes of classics such as What Not to Wear, Project Runway, America's Next Top Model and - when I'm really under the weather or desperate - I Want to Be a Supermodel. [Yes, I'm 5'3". Why do you ask?] But watching a couple fight and feed a passel of admittedly adorable children falls under the category of reading the Christmas Newsletters of complete strangers. I'm stumped.

However, in line with my belief that Hapa children are too cute for words (although they are technically Quapa), there seems to be endless marathons of this fluffernutter stuff, with Kate's bizarre rooster hair on every magazine cover. Which brings me - finally - to the poll I saw this week. It went something like this:

Will Jon and Kate get a divorce? Vote here.

Wait, what? How do we know? And exactly how is it your business if they do? Sure, they're trotting out the squeedorable children and their marriage difficulties. I grant you that. But what is the mileage on voting on this? On having an opinion about someone else's relationship? It's not like being for Obama or McCain you know. Your opinion actually carried some weight there. This is not -not - a situation that calls for a vote. There are only two votes on this issue, and one of them will be cast by a woman with rooster hair.

What's worse is that following the poll is a long, long, long list of comments. Yes, it seems everyone has an opinion on how those "darling little blessed angels from God" should be raised. Everyone wants to weigh in on whether Jon is cheating or Kate is cheating or she's a harpy or he doesn't communicate. Is anyone cognizant of the fact that no one commenting has actually met them? No? Well, you haven't. So shut it.

Seriously, what is this sudden mania for commenting? When did news sites jump the shark and add commenting to them? When Miss California - truly a world class non-event - lost her uh, crown there were something like 786 comments on one blog. 786! Let me ask you something - who cares? It was bad enough seeing her petulant face everywhere, do we have to pull up chairs in front of the garage and comment on her inane little problems with a Beauty Pageant too? Shouldn't we be cleaning our kitchens?

My Hapa Boy has often pointed out to me the obvious fact that it is nearly impossible to change anyone's mind by a post on the internet. True. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I'm guilty of this myself. I keep thinking that someone actually cares about my opinion in matters that are actually none of my business. [Which is essentially why I blog, and why I love comments on here - even the ones that scold me and tell me that I should mind my own business. It's true. I love them all]. But I can't help feeling this mania for deciding on the lives of celebrities is a harbinger of something else. We have the answers if anyone will just listen. We know the best way to get wax from clothing and we know what teachers should teach. We are such a culture of know it alls that if you're a Christian, you know the right way to be a Christian, and if you're a homeschooler - well, there's a DVD that will help YOUR children. And of course, everyone knows if Brad Pitt is still in love with Angelina Jolie. And boy, do they want to tell you about it.

Is it possible that we could get back to the science of actually living our own lives? And let Miss California get her breast implants or not get her breast implants?

Although Kate should definitely call me. She really should fix that hot mess of hair. I'm just sayin'. :)

* Apparently he was fooling around, because that couple got divorced a few years later. I have no idea why this is relevant.

On Not Being a Christian & Other Tales of Sisterly Love

So after the election last year I noted that I hoped Liberals wouldn't get obnoxious about their victory. It started me thinking about what kind of Liberal I was. And so, Dear Readers, I embarked on my Great Experiment (also known as The Enlightenment). I decided to put aside my typical blog fare, and read the most conservative of blogs in the blogosphere. I'm not talking Michelle Malkin here. (Because I'd rather not under any circumstance.) No, I'm talking real people, real stories. I'm talking declared Christians who go for guidance to the Vision Forum, where they never met a patriarchal sentiment they didn't instantly embrace, and the supremely irritating Voddie Baucham, who has an odd penchant for yelling "Dunkirk!" or "Hitler!" every time he disagrees with something. I can only hope that Jesus in His Infinite Wisdom sees fit to place him in the section of Heaven where those dreaded Sinner Homosexuals always get to pick the music in the Celestial Jukebox. Eternity and techno. Let the punishment fit the crime, right? Here's a taste of Voddie's wisdom - listen up, My Children:

Hence, sodomites, who who are in large part responsible for the introduction and spread of the HIV/AIDS epidemic are praised for responding to this plague in an attempt to avoid annihilation (by the way, I know you don’t have to engage in sodomy to get HIV, but that doesn’t change the facts... see the book, And the Band Played On for an honest look at this issue).

Or let's go look at Africa, shall we, where apparently anal sex is all the rage! Or just, you know, dirty needles.

But I digress.

Yep, I visit with homeschooling Christian moms who don't go in for birth control (apparently it's all about giving God control over your womb as if He didn't have enough to do without worrying about filling billions of wombs - and for some reason, I always think of cream puff factories when this comes up.) And you know, some of those bloggers are pretty interesting people. Some are extremely funny and bright like my personal favorite, Terry at Breathing Grace, who I nearly always disagree with and yet continue to commend her lovely writing and depth of character and intelligence. Or Authenticallyme, who courageously tries to understand how to continue to be devout after her "toxic" church led her astray, or Molly at Adventures in Mercy who has found herself Born Again in an utterly new sense of the phrase, or Elizabeth, who manages to be fervently pro-life and hilariously funny simultaneously. Some of them assure me that they really do have a sense of humor (and they do) like the fabulous Civilla. Some of them I have a strange affection for, like my sweet gummy bear Deanna, who once wrote me this about me - right after she told me what a nasty heathen so-and-so I was:

Perhaps somebody will tell her she has great value and God desires a close and personal relationship with her...He'd like her to actually know the meaning of love. A love that will never and I mean never leave her.
He'd like her to know that she's not an animal, never has been, but she's precious in His sight.
He'd like her to know that she has an eternal soul that needs a touch from Him to complete her.
He'd like her to know that at this time in her life, she's in want and she needs to crawl up into His lap and weep til there are no more tears.
Abba Daddy, tell me about Jesus

Well, this was fascinating. Call me crazy, but I had no idea Abba could tell me about Jesus. I thought they were singing about some dude named Fernando. Are there more secret messages like this? Is Paul dead?

Anyway, after a year of actually reading and considering everything, I can only give myself a B on the Great Experiment. Because a lot of what I read still makes me scream, "dude, you're wrong!" (And I occasionally do in the comments section, although it really is kind of exhausting since not everyone has Civilla's sense of humor):

* "Teaching kids to share is encouraging Socialism." Hey, you learn something new every day. Here I thought it was to make sure they didn't conk each other over the head with the others' toys. Apparently though, it is a demonic plot to bring Socialism to this country:

We believe that the concept of “sharing” is all wrong. The Bible doesn’t tell us to share.

We are teaching our children ownership.... Of course, we then teach kindness also “it would be very kind for you to let your brother play with that because he really wants to." We want it to be a heart thing.

After all, “sharing” is kind of like socialism. And do we “share” our house, our car etc with anyone who decides they like it and want to use it? No, we keep it for our family.

We do go back and forth on the sharing thing because I keep having thoughts from Scripture…”If someone asks you for your cloak, give him your tunic also”…it can be confusing

Why is that confusing? That seems pretty clear, as the scriptures go. I believe this is roughly translated as "give them the shirt off your back." Well, you know, as long as it's a "heart thing." Because Socialism is coming, I tell you what. Right here in River City, in a country, mind you, that thinks nothing of charging an extra $15 to bring a traveling bag on a plane when you're uh...traveling. Or boarding people by dint of being rich ("Welcome aboard, Gold Platinum Card Holding Rich People! We aren't going to let those disgusting faux people back in steerage use your personal bathroom, don't worry!"). But, never mind that, we are rapidly becoming Socialist. Which is bad! Because....you know, it is! We should do away with Medicare and a post office and a library system. But please, Mrs. W., enlighten me as to where this mythical Socialist country is located, that place where your home can be taken from you and given to the State. Is that Sweden or is that Canada? Because I could totally get behind a share on some seaside property.

* "Homosexuality is unnatural and against God's commands." That must be why gay people have to kidnap small children and force them to be gay because that's where gay people come from. No? Maybe gays are just born with that horrific inclination? Yes, they seem to be from all accounts and purposes. But why? Why would God create people that way? (Since he has control of your womb and all.) Well, He has a plan, that's why. We don't know what it is, and we'll never know because who can understand the Great I Am and His plan, but it involves fighting down all your natural urges and replacing them with the unnatural urge to mate with a member of a gender of whom you're not remotely attracted.

There is no Constitutional Right to sodomy. Moreover, homosexuals are not deprived of their Civil Rights in marriage, because they have the same rights in that regard as every American. That’s right... HOMOSEXUALS HAVE THE RIGHT TO MARRY! What they don’t have the right to is same-sex marriage.

Thank you for clarifying that, Voddie. Now I get it. God wants you to live a lie! Let's not be sinners. Let's follow the principles of the Bible Based Marriage:



* Dr. Tiller is like Hitler. Oh, and anyone for abortion is also like Hitler!" Personally, I'm still amazed and appalled that anyone can come up with a good reason to shoot a man in cold blood in a church, no less. And yet they can. I can't tell you how many blogs I went through conflated Obama's words about how this death was a tragedy with "but so were all those tiny dead babies!" Like this:

"Dr. Tiller was no innocent bystander in a driveby shooting. He chose a life to live, by the same free will most of us believe the Bible teaches, and there are consequences for all of us. His murder is as disgusting as his own acts, but the only surprise is how surprised everyone is. Sadly, this man has lost his life, and his murder is going to be exploited in order to encourage more death. I truly hope he’s with God."

Oh, I'm sure you hope he's with God. I think what you mean to say is - he got what he deserved. How about this one:

"They cannot convince me that they had abortions for “life-threatening” reasons. They say they would die if they delivered a baby. BUT…to have a partial birth abortion you HAVE to give birth to the baby, so why kill it once it’s out? They were obviously “medically able” to birth the legs and the body, so birthing the head really wouldn’t have been that much of a big deal. So really, all they wanted to do is kill the baby in the first place."


Come on, you know how it is. Around about the eighth month you just feel fat so it's tempting to do what those danged Liberals tell you to do. Go ahead! Kill that baby. You know you want to!

These sweet Christian sentiments above ignore the fact that Tiller in the face of every threat imaginable continued what he was doing because he felt that giving birth to a severely deformed child and slowly and painfully watching that child die in agony might be kind of a problem for some women. That according to state law in Kansas, it takes two independent doctors to determine if a woman can seek a late term abortion. That in some cases the fetus was already dead or dying and the mother beginning to suffer complications that could prove fatal but they had trouble getting an abortion performed. That it is extremely difficult to be allowed to have a late-term abortion, a feat that is not accomplished by waltzing into Planned Parenthood, twirling your hair around your finger, and asking if you'll be finished before Happy Hour.

Yes, Tiller was totally like Hitler. You can barely tell those two apart, except for the different moustaches. Just read these stories from women who visited his clinic.

You know, let's just say that Roe vs. Wade is overturned (it won't be.) Are you taking in all the crack babies? The ones that aren't so cuddly? The children born who have lifelong difficulties that parents can't afford the lifelong medical expenses associated with them. Are you going to pay for all that? Or are you going to complain that "you pay too many taxes?" Or are you going to say that Socialism is terrible and people should learn to fend for themselves! Although, oddly enough, it's okay in some circumstances, I mean when True Christians really need it and all:

"There is no legitimate argument to be made with regard to physical circumstances. The stigma of single motherhood no longer exists, for better or worse, and social services are hardly drying up. If you need help with that area, please email me. I would be happy to help you get whatever information you need in order to provide stability for your family."

Really? I thought that we wanted them to dry up? You know, bootstraps and all? I guess not, if you listen to the Kelly at Generation Cedar:

"Social services? Not a big fan anymore; but, if you pursue it, it’s there–I know lots of people on it right now, and I used Medicaid when I was [a single mother and] pregnant–hardly had to fill out a paper."

Wait...you did? So it was okay to use Social Services when you needed it, but we should cut out the programs that might decrease the abortion rate? Ah. Now I understand!

I could go on, but I won't. It makes the blood boil at times, but then that's the Internets for you. On the plus side, Terry@Breathing Grace gave me a Blogger Award for being open-minded. Thank you, Terry! So for the most part, I think my Great Experiment has succeeded. I read everything and consider now, nothing kneejerk about it. After all, there are some ideas in those blogs that I do agree with, like giving stay at home mothers more respect, and teaching children discipline. It's possible that the visitors on this blog have also reconsidered their long held beliefs, and embraced them again through my postings.

I guess I've either been an example of how a heathen can be an upstanding moral human being, or I've been an irritating thorn in the rose patch that is Biblical Womanhood.

I'm going to say thorn. ;)

[By the way, my Hapa Boy is truly the most open-minded person I have ever encountered, a man who constantly asks himself "why" he believes what he does - as this continuing conversation attests. Thank you Hapa Boy for modeling this behavior, and of course, for everything. *Smooch*]

My Seattle-versary!

Dear Readers, it's been a year since I arrived in Seattle - and what a wonderful year I've spent in these green pastures. Last night Happa Boy served me salmon on his glorious deck, and we watched the sunset ooh and ahh over Green Lake. Really, what could be bad? So in honor of our rare week of sunshiny goodness, I give you Bobby Sherman serenading our fairish city (Where did they find all that hairspray in the 1800's?):

Your Special(ly Expensive) Day

While I may be a singleton, I have a keen interest in what is usually referred to as the Bridal Industry. The name alone gives me the cold chills. It typically entails a lot of hoopla about The Dress, The Venue, The Flowers, and Registering For Things Like Toaster Ovens You Should Already Have Since You're An Adult, Right? To be followed by tears and fighting between the happy couple and/or the friends and parents of the happy couple and on one memorable occasion my formerly sane friend spent an hour on the phone with me about to never talk to her poor mother ever ever again for the mortal sin of - are you ready for this? - sealing the invitations wrong. Then there are $7000 dresses you seal up and never wear again, and the engraved matches for people who don't smoke and a big formal sit down dinner you'll never eat for the grand total of $20,000. Trust me on this, I've been sashayed down aisles as a bridesmaid wearing a pee-yellow dress and pinchy shoes and ears bearing the Official Pearl Earrings, the only ones sanctioned by the bride after two hours of intense cross-examination.

I just don't get it. Am I missing an X chromosone or two?

Mind you, I was raised by a thrifty French Jew, and I am a thrifty woman. I live value. I like knowing that my dollars are going somewhere. Although I am a self-admitted fashionista, I do not want those dollars to go to a wear-once outfit that is going to make piddling before the ceremony an experience requiring two bridesmaids holding up my train in their own pee-colored dresses. I do not want a giant party that costs as much as a new Honda Accord, or if it means planning endlessly, writing lists on yellow legal pads, and worrying about whether the violets will make it through to Tuesday because the florist is out sick and it's too late to get into the flower mart and everything happens to me. About the only good part as far as I can see is sampling the wedding cakes. Now that I can get behind. I'm sure I speak for Hapa Boy on that one aspect as well. We are both happy to do any tastings necessary.

But I digress.

Nearly every single bride I've ever been around has been some variety of knife-wielding maniac. I grant you, this is sometimes amusing from a distance. Take the spellbinding television show: Say Yes to the Dress. In this brilliant social satire, young and youngish brides go to the ginormous bridal emporium, Kleinfeld's, where they try on dress after expensive dress, helped in this heartstoppingly important endeavor by some heavily accented New Yawk women who seem to have cornered the market on both platitudes and lip liner. You can hardly blame them for going in for the kill, uh I mean sale - the cheapest of the dresses will snap $2500 from your bank account. You know, if I'm going to give someone $2500, I'd like to wear it not once but daily. In fact, it leads to a totally different understanding of why Miss Havisham never took her wedding dress off in Great Expectations - maybe she wasn't psychotic, she was just trying to get her money out of it. Obviously, the women on this show are more concerned with their Special Day and their Happy Ending (and I hope their grooms are getting some Happy Endings because I would not want to spend more than twenty minutes around most of their lovely brides, as witnessed below:



But it isn't really the money that gets me about the Bridal Industry. It's the way it packages happiness and expectations. It's about how being a Beautiful Bride equals making everyone around you miserable and buying dresses that cost the equivalent of six months at a private school and having professional makeup done and your hair all poofed up in a way you'll never wear it again. It's about the effect on a marriage when the inevitable letdown occurs when you are no longer a Princess, you're shuffling along inside your life and your relationship like everyone else. It's about the way America insists that all life events must be marketed and budgeted for and expensive to be memorable. It's not the fault of the brides that they go insane, it's the pressure that comes from living up to society's idea of The Day and all the Save the Date cards and engraved invitations. As my lovely friend A. puts it: What's wrong with an Evite? It's environmentally friendly. I can promise that if Hapa Boy and I tie the proverbial knot, I'm going to supply great bread, some lovely cheeses, and a mess of fruit and cupcakes. That's my favorite food, people. Does anyone really want to eat the chicken? I'm going to put out a few bottles of cheapish wine to toast a lovely outdoor setting and the fact that I'm proud to travel through life with the best man I've ever known. And because it's His Day too, he can have the day that he wants. He can wear dark jeans or an old suit because I would plan to wear the prettiest dress I can find at a price that won't make me gasp or feel pinched at the waist and my normal messy hair and some bright red lipstick.

Unless, of course, my sister gives me her designer wedding dress. That one has already been paid for.

It's Spinster-ific!

My post the other day on remaining child-free and loving it got a couple of panties in a bunch, didn't it? I'm not married either, which continues to be shocking to those that are. As it happens, my friend the Dee-light-ful Lady M. wrote the Manifesto below when she was *gasp* single. Lady M blogs on, although now she is married - and one of the funniest and most amazing people I know. Okay, it's true that Hapa Boy has made me a happy woman. But there's no ring on my finger that isn't from the Lady M's talented hubby at Dave Sheely Designs (go ahead, buy one), so the Manifesto still applies, and in my opinion, it can't be said enough. In fact, I once said a much less witty form of it here:

The Spinster Manifesto

(c) 2001 Mary T. Helmes/halfmadspinster.com (that URL now defunct)

We have a right to be female, over 30, and single.

We have the right to be female, over 30, and single, without being considered in possession of some fatal character flaw.

We have the right to make male friends.

We have the right to keep male friends even after they are married.

We have the right to make male friends even if they are married.

We do not have the right to sleep with married men.

We have the right to express genuine interest in and knowledge of other human beings without it being automatically interpreted as some kind of desperate sexual interest.

We have the right to have protected sex with a consensual partner without being married.

We have the right to own cats.

We have the right to express love for our friends, nieces, nephews and pets without it being construed as some pathetic attempt to replace the children we do not have ourselves.

We have the right to have our own children.

We have the right to buy our own furniture, clothing, china, electronics, cars and trips without being looked upon as selfish, frivolous, or boastful.

We have the right to rent whatever movie we wish.

We have a right to shower for as long as we want, unless there’s a water shortage on.

We have the right to break up with people we deem unsuitable without being admonished to not be so “picky” at our age.

We have a right to be picky.

We have the right to look our age.

We have the right to not act our age.

We have the right never to hear the expressions “How come you’re not married?” or “Tick tick tick tick tick tick.”

We have the right to express our wish to someday have a marriage, children or any combination thereof.

We have a right to proudly reclaim the word Spinster, to uphold and forge this brave new identity, to embrace our singleness, to live our lives fully, and to never let our human expression be characterized as a paraphrased offshoot of the male experience with words such as “bachelorette.”

We have a right to live wherever we want, even if it’s somewhere where it “might not be easy to meet someone.”

We have a right to stay home on Friday night.

We have a right to go out any night we choose.

We have a right to turn down dates.

We have a right to stay single forever.

We have a right to get married whenever we want.

We have a right to live as valid human beings, no matter what the choice.

The Learning Curve

As Judy Collins once sang in her weirdly haunting soprano, there are places I remember all my life though some have changed. The change is this case is equal to extinction: the College of Santa Fe, a small liberal arts school in the least charming neighborhood of my very charming ex-city is about to close its doors. You could call it a victim of the recession, but that wouldn't be the whole story. The whole story is a a whole bunch of fiscal mismanagement and bad debt and missed opportunities. Still, the end result is the same. Unless something happens in the 11th hour (and this is New Mexico, so you never know, right?), there will be no more College of Santa Fe.

In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't attend the College of Santa Fe. I taught there. I traumatized countless students with my martial law attempts to teach them how to write stories and novels. ("Dialogue does two things, people - it reveals character and furthers action. If it doesn't, it isn't dialogue. It's conversation. Conversation is great for the dinner table, but not in a book. Repeat that after me, please.) Oh me and the College of Santa Fe - we were tight. I went to readings on the campus, and I briefly dated a professor (although the less said about that, the better). I was good friends with those who had passed through those gates. Sure, I once suggested that the motto of the school should be changed to: College of Santa Fe: We're Everyone's Safety School! Just kidding, CSF. We had our ups and downs, but the college and I shared what might be defined as a typical long-term relationship: Time together, laughter, memories. Even after we broke up and I moved away, I never thought of a final goodbye. Colleges don't die.

Apparently they do. But the real question is whether CSF and other schools that are hurting in these economic times really deserve to live. I mean, what is a small liberal arts college for, anyway?

When I taught at the University of Arkansas, I was often bemused by the grade groveling that went on. "I need a B+ to get into the Accounting program because if I don't I'll never be able to get a job and feed my family and y'all will have the death of a half-dozen little starved babies on your head!" You know, that kind of thing. I didn't fall for it. My job was to teach them how to write. Getting into the Accounting program was out of my jurisdiction. Let's face it, I had a funny idea about education. I thought they were there to learn. I know, right? Weird.

They didn't know what to make of me. One of my student evaluations actually said: "She does not know God." (Well, not personally. But I'm sure She's very nice.) How about this one, burned into my memory: "I don't like the big black boots she wears to class. She needs to dress up more female. Also she gives too much homework. She never lets us leave early. She grades too hard." On the other hand, many years later I discovered an old student was my friend's husband's brother in law. (Are you getting that?) After talking at a Christmas party, we realized that he had been in my class. How? He remembered my clunky black boots. I'm not making this up, people. Oh, and he also remembered one of the stories that he had read in my class. So although I "never let them leave early" and "I graded too hard" at least one of my student's could talk intelligently about a story he had read fifteen years ago. That's evidence that I actually participated in a liberal arts education - whether they dropped out or became accountants. I bet one or two might have picked up some books not written by Danielle Steele or Steven King just to see what I was forever yapping about in class.

See, along with the bizarre idea that the removal of a baby foreskin should be celebrated with deli platters and some nice corned beef at a Bris, my culture truly values learning. That's learning and not "advanced degrees." I have them. So does my sister. But we were not only honor students, we were dragged through every museum within a 500 mile radius. We were supposed to ask questions. We are both critical thinkers. As far as I'm concerned, whether you plan to be a stay at home mother or a marine biologist, there's no mileage in ignorance.

Which brings me back to: What is a small liberal arts college for? Why slap down all that tuition? Why send your children there when they want to get dumb degrees in English or History or Art or Film that won't lead into good paying jobs immediately after graduation? I'll tell you why. Because a liberal arts education, wherever you find it, is not about a career - it's about learning. It's about waking up a sleeping mind, and getting excited about intellectual discovery. I'm not saying that the College of Santa Fe is the best example of this, but as far as I'm concerned the idea is pretty valid. I don't want that concept to vanish into big universities where the object is high grades and higher pay. Call me crazy, but I want my tax dollars to go into higher thoughts.

So College of Santa Fe, I'm sorry for all those fights we had and the times I didn't appreciate you. I'm sorry for ribbing you about the way the film students always dressed in black and smoked. I apologize for the way I complained about drafty classrooms and that time I had to teach in a basement room with no windows. You were a good egg, CSF.

Rest in Peace.

Where His Seed Can Find No Purchase

So like everyone else apparently, my Facebook page is now populated by people I knew in high school. Yes, good old JFK (the alma mater, by the way, of Amy Fisher: Long Island Lolita - and no I didn't know her or anyone in a call girl ring or wasn't overly fascinated not by sex or drugs but by the scores on our SAT exam) has once again emerged from the deepest cells of my memory to haunt me once again. It's like an eternal reunion over there, people. Frankly, it puzzles me. I mean except for a couple of old friends that it's been nice to catch up with, it's not like we've been breathlessly looking for each other over the years - why so much enthusiasm?

But I digress.

One of the byproducts of this fascinating exercise is finding out how many kids my old classmates have popped out. Average count: Three. Average first question when they catch me online: How many do I have?

Answer: Well, none. No kids. A dog. A Hapa Boy. But no kids.

This is usually greeted by stunned pity. OMG! How did that happen?

It happened because I didn't want it to happen, you see. I know, it's hard to understand when children are at the center of many of my friend's lives. It's difficult to explain in an age where motherhood has pretty much reached Victorian levels of obsession how I never, ever wanted to be one. Let's say that I never wheeled a doll around in a baby carriage. Let's say that I remember insisting on having a divorced Barbie when I played with my friends - and this was an era where divorce was far more unusual. Let's say I didn't particularly like being a child. It's not that I was abused in any way - unless you want to count being raised on Long Island as abuse, and I agree it's borderline - I just disliked the powerlessness of it. I like being an adult, and I like living an adult life. I'm delighted to note that I will never, ever be forced to visit LegoLand, wipe chocolate off every surface, or sit through parent-teacher conferences. Also, babies scare me. I prefer puppies. The upshot is that I never saw myself as a mother. Mind you, I like everyone else's kids very much. I am appropriately enamored with my awesome nephew, Little B, and I am deeply curious and loving towards my friends offspring. It just wasn't an experience that I wanted.

So it's kind of stunning the sort of thing people feel comfortable asking me. Could I not conceive? (Didn't try) Is it because I'm just a selfish little so and so who didn't want to be tied down? (Trust me, Dear Readers, dogs tie you down plenty), or my favorite - Perhaps, poor me, I didn't meet the right man at the right time? No. In fact, during my salad days, the man nibbling at my tender leaves would have loved to be a Daddy. It's always been my call, and happily I feel no biblical obligation to be fruitful (although I eat at least three apples a day) and multiply (I can't do fractions either.)

Now I'm not denying that raising children might be a remarkable roller-coaster ride of thrills and spills (definitely spills from my observation). But here's the thing. On our recent trip to Las Vegas, Hapa Boy pointed out the roller coaster on top of one of the casinos that wrapped around the fiftieth floor outside the building.

You know what? I didn't want to get on that one either.

Hapa New Year!

I know, I know. But I couldn't resist.

By the way, I actually purchased that sweatshirt from someone who makes them. That's right, dear readers, there is an artist who makes sweatshirts that say Hapa Boy and Hapa Girl and Hapa Baby, if it comes to that. (Need I add, it will not come to that.)

Can you blame me for putting it on his Chrismukkah list? ;)

A good 2009 to all.

It's a Festivius Miracle!

As bad luck would have it, my darling Hapa Boy had to travel the week before Christmas, when outside the house, not a creature was stirring except oh, an unexpected Seattle blizzard dropping twelve inches of snow over our sleeping heads.

Are you getting this? A blizzard. In Seattle. It doesn't snow here. It snows in Santa Fe, which is, as a matter of fact, one of the reasons I moved away. Yes, it's all white and fluffy and Santa's Coming and reindeer and jingle-jingle until there's a pound of the stuff on your windshield every morning and tracking in the house, and making you slip slide out of every side street. Dear Readers, I do not like snow. I do not like shoveling it. I do not like removing the tiny snow balls that embed themselves in my dog's paws. I do not like the icy pathways. I do not like not wearing my suede boots from November through March. I have never and will never ski or snowboard, as it combines the two things I am most afraid of - height and speed - into one terrifying package. I don't get snowboarding. You go up, you go down. In between, you're cold and wet and scared. It's all fun and games until someone gets decapitated.

But I digress.

Here, a major storm, in Los Angeles and then San Francisco, my darling Hapa Boy. It would seem that the Seattle-Tacoma Airport did not have much in the way of cleared runways or de-icing equipment. Shocker, huh? You wouldn't believe the irritated population of Seattle, complaining that Seattle was not prepared for a snow storm. We're also not prepared for serpents to fall from the sky. Both are equally likely, people.

Overbooked flights were delayed and delayed and then canceled. (It would have been much worse to have been stranded at Sea-tac. Trust me on this one.) His Sunday arrival looked like it would be Boxer Day (also, his birthday.) More snow was coming. And Christmas! (I know, I know. I'm Jewish. Shut up. ;)

But I am nothing if not determined. I am dogged by nature, unless it is about digging out my car from a foot of snow, in which case I am content to give up. Moments before Hapa Boy was trying to decide whether to bunk down in San Francisco or the Oakland La Quinta Motel, I decided to re-check the flights on Orbitz/Expedia/Zippydodo if anything had opened up. And lo and behold, a space on a 9:30pm flight out of San Francisco. Yay!

So I should have my Hapa Boy back tonight, making the cold a little warmer. The moral of this story is never let your boyfriend out of your sight.

Wait, that's not the moral.

The moral of this story is all's well that ends well. Except when it costs you an extra $500 and a mad dash from airport to airport and another mad dash down the LA freeways on the Sunday before Christmas and a lot of assorted aggravation and bad food and whining from your girlfriend capped by an icy I-5 drive home at midnight.

Still, it's not every guy that would do the above to come home as quickly as possible - because he missed me. I feel pretty lucky, all in all.

Happy Holidays and God bless everyone. No exceptions. *

UPDATE: Hapa Boy has landed in Seattle. We will skip the Airing of Grievances, and progress to Feats of Strength - including trudging through the sludgy snow.

*Not even Alaska Airlines.

Let's Get Her Barefoot and See If She Likes it Then.

Click here to see the book cover "What to Do When Your Daughter Hates Being in the Kitchen."

Yes, "this is a great little e-book for parents that need fresh ideas to help their daughter realize the impact of serving others with our time and skills from the kitchen."

There are those that believe the impact of my serving others with my skills in the kitchen is equal to that of a comet hitting Manhattan. But don't you love the look on that girl's face? I'm totally ordering this. Come on, what a great stocking stuffer for the rebellious female adolescent on your gift list. (And who doesn't know one of those?) This will learn her.

Now I personally think buying this ebook is too easy. What you should do with a daughter like that is put that traitor to her gender in the stocks for a few hours, throw old tomatoes at her head, and let the preacher try to fire and brimstone her out of being a FEMALE not interested in COOKING. Yeah, then she'll go whip up some fudge like a good girl.

But that's me. ;)

I Hate My Hair (Salon)

I may be a girly-girl, but I have always hated being fussed at. I hate massage, manicures, pedicures over twenty minutes and featuring older issues of People magazine. I hate facials, shopping at big department stores with obsequious sales people, and haircuts. I can't get my head around anything beyond a morning shower and a little strategic lip gloss. I mean, consider the inexplicable appeal of the brazilian wax. Wait - you're asking me to pour molten lava over my most tender areas so that I can be the girl of Humbert Humbert's dreams? And I have to pay for that experience? Oh hay-ell no.

But because I've been cursed with hair that is both fine and thick, hair that looks best in layers, hair that I let grow long, even though every magazine has urged me to cut it off, hair that refuses to do anything I ask it to do, well, every few months I have to get myself to someone who can wiggle the old Scissorhands over me.

I hate that.

First of all, I don't like the salon experience. It makes me feel like I'm desperately fiddling while Rome is burning. People are losing their jobs and the polar bears are eating each other, so the angle of a razor cut seems a little less earth-shaking. I mean, my hair isn't that interesting to me, so don't pretend like you're all up in my grill about it too. You know, this kind of thing:

What are we going to do with your hair today?
Well, I imagine you'll cut it. Right?
Have you thought about going any shorter?
I'm 5'3" - there really isn't that much shorter to go...oh my hair. Let's just say the last time someone whacked it to my neck, I cried for three days and considered joining the Peace Corps - Congo region.
A bob would really draw attention to your face.
I don't want to draw attention to my face! I want to hide my face!
Let's cut it to here and see what you think.
Please put down the scissors and back away from the hair. That's right....nice and slow. Put your hands where I can see them.

Here in Seattle, there are at least many many tattooed and pierced young men and women who cut and clip and trim. Every salon seems equally outfitted with blue-streaked cutters and small Asian girls who wash your hair so carefully, it seems to be happening strand by strand. You wait amidst all the overpriced shampoos for your turn in the Chair of Transformation. It is a long wait at times. I don't like this, because I also hate woman's magazines. I hate walking around with wet hair in a stupid looking plastic bib. These bibs are always eggplant-colored. I don't know why that is.

I hold out as long as I can, but then I fall to the seductive siren call of the Expensive Haircut. Here's how it ended up a couple of days ago, cut by Erika at Vain (I know, right?)



Fluffy: check.
Wavy: check.
No maintenance: check.
No blowdrying required: check.
Long suffering expression on my face: check.
Ungodly amount of money paid: check.

Here are some other things I hate about my super-pricey cut:

I hate spending so much money.
I hate going to a place called Vain.
I hate noting that I have the same haircut my sister had in 1978, for which she paid $12 at SuperCuts.
I hate the way the cashier at Vain, after giving him the equivalent of the down payment on my first car, asks me "how much I'd like to tip Erika today." At this rate, my house sale is going to go directly to my head.

Yes, I keep thinking I will not go back, I will find something less annoying and expensive, and then I remember how truly bad my hair is capable of looking, and I cave.

Hair junkies are sad people, dear readers. We need your compassion, not your judgment.

Speaking of dear readers - I'm sure you're wondering if I always take such terrible pictures. I'm sure you're thinking, "why was I so hard on her when the issue is not her relationship with God - it is clearly her inability to take a decent photo. I mean, she can't always look so...so...you know." But yes. Yes I do. The moment a camera hits me, I shut my eyes, squint, or start to look like someone with a cardboard sign by the end of freeway. Compare me, if you will, to my cluelessly handsome Hapa Boy (a man with no idea how good-looking he is, you understand), who sat in front of my Mac and took this on the first try - in an attempt to look like a mug shot. Are you getting this? Here he is trying to look as pathetic as I look without trying, at his worst:



I know. I know. You see the issue.
Clearly, we must never be photographed together.

Or I best give more thought to upkeep.

Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream

In February, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique will have been published 45 years ago. I'm pretty sure that if you ask most women on the street what The Feminine Mystique is about, she'll probably guess it's about picking out sexy underwear for your boyfriend. It isn't. Here's the introduction:

Over and over women heard in voices of tradition and of Freudian sophistication that they could desire--no greater destiny than to glory in their own femininity. Experts told them how to catch a man and keep him, how to breastfeed children and handle their toilet training, how to cope with sibling rivalry and adolescent rebellion; how to buy a dishwasher, bake bread, cook gourmet snails, and build a swimming pool with their own hands; how to dress, look, and act more feminine and make marriage more exciting; how to keep their husbands from dying young and their sons from growing into delinquents. They were taught to pity the neurotic, unfeminine, unhappy women who wanted to be poets or physicists or presidents. They learned that truly feminine women do not want careers, higher education, political rights--the independence and the opportunities that the old-fashioned feminists fought for. Some women, in their forties and fifties, still remembered painfully giving up those dreams, but most of the younger women no longer even thought about them. A thousand expert voices applauded their femininity, their adjustment, their new maturity. All they had to do was devote their lives from earliest girlhood to finding a husband and bearing children. (You can read the entire excerpt- if you're interested- here. )

Yes, feminism started as a way to approach the "problem with no name," the fact that women were not only unhappy, they felt invisible in their homes. They felt becoming a doctor was less "feminine" than choosing to be a nurse, and math was something boys needed to do. They went off to college for an M.R.S, and hoped for a nice husband to support the 2.5 offspring when they went to live in a big house where the grass was so much better really for the children. It was monumental and revolutionary when Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem pointed out that maybe women could have other choices. If you know, they wanted them.

It started from such a benign place I'm puzzled exactly when it became a dirty word. Back when I was teaching in Arkansas, I never had a female student make a single comment about their lives without looking around nervously and mumbling, "I'm not a feminist or anything but..."

I mean, there they were, in their little skirts, drinking their Big Gulps of Diet Coke, beaming with artfully rendered makeup and tiny diamond earrings and long blonde locks wrapped around their freshly tanned fingers, earnestly declaring that Lawd, the last thing they would ever ever ever ever ever want to be as a card-carrying University of Arkansas co-ed is a feminist. What if that got out around the campus? I know, that would just be like you know so uncool! OMG! But let me ask you now: Why? What horrible thing did Betty Friedan do by suggesting that maybe maybe some women wanted to do something else? Be a physicist? Become Sally Ride? Run for office? That maybe biology wasn't destiny?

To my memory, there were no police raids at that time forcing women into taking jobs outside the home. No one dragged anyone kicking and screaming from the washer-dryer. No one said, for heaven's sakes, give those pesky children of yours up for adoption and be a realtor! Hey, there's no doubt there's been a huge backlash from 60's style feminism, but it wasn't from what the feminists were asking for. They were just asking for more choices. It was from a kind of media hysteria which happily proclaimed that well, if you're more powerful than men, no man will want you! You'll be alone! But that wasn't true. Most of my friends married very nice men who liked that they were strong and interesting and diverse. So why, as Susan Faludi once wrote, is "fear and loathing of feminism is a sort of perpetual viral condition in our culture?" Check out this newly minted thought from Generation Cedar:

One of the feminist lies is that a woman can only be truly free in a career outside her home.

Wait - what? Who said a woman can only be free that way? Betty Friedan didn't. Gloria Steinem didn't. I know I didn't. Why is this crusading judgement suddenly ascribed to feminists, who I'm sure appear in their nightmares with dirty hair and unshaved armpits? At what point did anyone tell anyone this?

As far as I can tell, some of my friends with young children stopped working for awhile to be home with them. They didn't hire a baby nurse and go back to the office on the Tuesday after labor. They like being moms. And the ones that did get back to the office after awhile because they take pride in what they do in the world seem to be raising very nice little beasties. I mean, having a mom that has priorities in addition to mothering isn't a death sentence - say what you will, but clearly Hilary Clinton was a terrific mother. She and Chelsea are very close, and unlike *cough* certain presidential *cough Bush* children, she has yet to have one embarassing drinking binge in public.

Nothing is perfect, and we haven't worked out all the kinks - but do we really want to throw the baby out with the bathwater after all that? Look, I shave my legs. I even wear mascara when I remember to which isn't terribly often, but still. I like to buy clothes. I've read the entire Jane Austen. Three times. I'm kind of a girly-girl, in fact. Ask anyone. The fact that I want to hold on to the idea that I can choose a thousand different ways to live from finishing a book to finding a great job to trying to make Hapa Boy a happy camper and that I equally admire the job that Michelle Obama and Hilary Clinton have done with their families as much as I admire their fire and intelligence and place in the working world doesn't make me someone who argues with anyone else's choice to stay home and raise children or learn to bake or make fancy dinners.

It just makes me a feminist. That's all.

The Heart of the Matter

So recently I've had some visitors of the, shall we say, fundamentalist Christian mindset. Most have been extremely nice and engaging, and I kind of welcome their different sensibility. As I've said, sometimes Liberals can be a might heavy-handed. However, some of you might wonder - why exactly is a nice Jewish girl getting traffic from Christians? Well. This is mainly because I've felt compelled - at times foolishly - to comment on a very Hyper Christian blog. (Say what you will, the woman gets a lot of hits. )

Here a homeschooling mother of seven lets forth on such riveting subjects as why public schools are like the Nazi regime for Christian children, how birth control is against God's plan, why homosexuals are sinners and how homosexuality should be illegal and - thereisnosuchthingasevolutionhowdareyoumentionityounastyliberal. She is a firm proponent of something called Biblical Womanhood. Here's a little tutorial:



Should women submit to men? Apparently, they should (I want to point out that the very smart and devout Terry @ Breathing Grace explains that most Christians believe that women should submit to their husbands, and not to ALL men. Fair enough. Not having a husband, this hasn't come up exactly. Thank G-D):



Yes Kelly over at Generation Cedar just f'loves this guy's preaching. Oh, and don't send your children to public schools! They are a breeding ground for Marxism:



I know, right?

But I think in general I've been a little unfair. You don't get overnight to the point where you tell a stranger that homosexuals should spend their lives celibate and safe from sin. That's a long indoctrination. I wasn't raised by Fundamentalist Christians - I wasn't raised by Christians at all. And curiously, all my years of Hebrew School didn't have much to do with, well, God's Wrath. Let's face it, fear of Brimstone is not the primary motivator in my life, because as I've pointed out, I was more afraid of my mother - and she was a lot scarier than Brimstone. In fact, I'm sure the Archangels are asking her right now how she inspired so much respect from us.

But I digress.

Remember that famous passage where Anne Frank - living in an attic and soon to die in a Concentration Camp - said that she still believes people are basically good? I've always thought that if she can think it, I can think it. And so I do believe people are basically good. With a few bad apples, of course. I believe that being nice to each other is kind of what every religion is getting at. I believe that faith is a personal matter, and you have to find your own way. I believe that everyone is in charge of their own destiny because if there is a Deity up there, She's kind of busy, you know? I believe in forgiveness, although I often fail to be forgiving.

Mostly I believe if we let go for even a moment of why everyone should have the same rights to love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we will lose those rights.

What can I say? I was raised by Heathen Liberals. :)

The No, Thanks Post

And....Thanksgiving, that celebration of gluttony and killing a whole bunch of Native Peoples (sadly without writing down any recipe that doesn't involve dry turkey.) Why do we celebrate this again? And don't even get me started on the two years I watched S. baste his Tofurky, an eating experience that can only be likened to toasting cardboard and dipping in butter. I'm still repulsed by the pleasure he took in woofing down those tasteless brown pieces of vegetarian goo.

But Blogger that I am, I am duly sucked into the blogosphere of The Thankful Post where unknown people offer up a list of unfamiliar items and/or people for which they give thanks. Mothers thank Diaper Genies (and despite my long list of child-bearing friends, I still don't know what a Diaper Genie is), wipeables, and toddlers that finally take to toilet-training, students thank teachers for that easy class, and partners gush about each other. I've always had a problem with those sappy dedications in books to wives and husbands. I happen to know that not every writer has an astounding, completely supportive marriage/relationship so why all the "And finally, to my husband Earl WhippedCream, without whom I would not only not have written this book, I'd have stopped breathing and walked into a river with heavy stones in my pockets." I'll go with "Once Again to Zelda" if only because sweet old F. Scott copped to plagarizing from her.

But I digress.

Anyway, forgive me for grousing, but I thought a list of what I wasn't thankful for might change things up a bit. So here are a few things I'd like to offer my No, Thanks for:

• Employers that have laid off friends.
• Employers that haven't hired friends.
• The s**t Obama is about to have to deal with.
• Tiny Seattle parking lots.
• Dog hair explosions.
• Moths in my best cashmere sweater.
• People who still believe they get to say who gets to marry.
• People who don't get that playing an Ipod really loud on a bus means that I get to hear frackin' Justin Timberlake along with them.
• All those women on the View who seem to think yelling is entertaining.

Ahhhh. Can't we do this at Thanksgiving dinner? I think we'd all feel better to have a day when we're invited to complain. But then I'm Jewish. It's practically a sport in my family.

In all fairness, I do have a lot to be thankful for, particularly this year. I'm grateful that Obama is in office, that Michelle Obama can dress with mad skillz, that my dog(s) are healthy and happy and poop regularly, that I live in this wonderful city with great friends, that I still have work, and that I spent a month in Wyoming. Oh and that I bought a Kara Janx dress for $20 on Ebay.

Of course I'm very thankful for my lovely, sexy Hapa Boy and all his many kindnesses. I'm thankful every day I wake up next to him that he is such a good man, and that I am lucky enough to have such a good man in my life.

I hope he's thankful for me.

The Ghost of Relationships Past

You know how in Dicken's The Christmas Carol the Ghost of Christmas Past comes down and scares Scrooge straight with what can only be called Pre-1900's Talk Therapy? You remember. Scrooge realizes - with the help of some slightly iffy tactics that would not meet with approval in today's psychiatric community - that if he doesn't shape up, he's going to be the miserable old codger that he is through eternity. Cut to lonely grave, hellfire, damnation, all that sort of thing that Dickens doesn't spell out, but hey, it's the 1800's, right?

But Dickens is an old softie because Scrooge gets a second chance to buy a big ham and some fixings, serve it up and maybe get a good doctor to look at Tiny Tim, who I've read, most likely had rickets. God Bless Us, Everyone. That Tiny Tim is an optimistic little guy, because I've always suspected that Scrooge went back to his old miserable codgerness once the bills came in on his AMEX. Fear, while a great motivator, may not be the most reliable source of generosity.

Now it goes without saying that I do not believe I'm going to burn through eternity. I didn't get that sort of programming from the rabbi at Oneg Shalom when I was a kid because essentially Jews don't believe in hell, or as I like to say, we believe hell is two weeks with your parents in South Florida. (Seriously, that is close enough people. If a Ghost of Hanukah Past threatened me with two weeks at my father's assisted living facility in Boynton Beach, I'd shape up faster than Scrooge.) In fact, we don't really have a rollicking view of heaven either. When my mother was dying (this is a true story), my sister and I asked the rabbi at the hospital if there's heaven in Judiasm. All the poor guy could come up with was that we "all become energy." I'm sure if my sister had already had my nephew the rabbi would have said added something about how my mother would live on through him. (And I do wonder what my mother would have said about how often he skips bedtime. She ran a tight ship, my mother. So there could be truth to the idea she lives on through him.) Still, all of those lovely sentiments don't suggest that she might be peeking down from the clouds smiling beautifically now does it? So I'm not going to debate the theology of heaven and hell, I'm just going to say - I don't buy it. Maybe, like a taste for Vegemite, you have to be raised with it.

But I digress.

The point is that I kind of believe that most people make their heaven and hell right here on earth. I've noticed most women do this via relationships that tend to be hellish more often than heavenly. I've worshipped at that particular church you know. I've cried, I've ranted, I've been supportive. I've helped boyfriends get jobs or get out of jobs, I've rented cabins and made reservations, I've flown across the country to meet them, I've even arranged nebulous meetings at the airports themselves - once missing a flight and spending Christmas eve in Dallas where I was forced to listen to endless renditions of What Child Is This by a group of sadistically tone-deaf carolers.

Yes, it was hell. But upon moving to Seattle, I was - like old Scrooge - scared straight by the Ghost of Relationships Past. It came to me, albeit slightly belatedly, that I was doing all this to myself. I was going to have to change or spend the rest of my days a miserable old codger - and that Dear Readers is possibly a worse fate than eternal damnation, because there is only so much reality television you can watch, and ANTM and Project Runway won't be on forever you know.

I bring all this up because I woke up this morning with a funny feeling and I couldn't place it. It wasn't anxiety or sadness or sleepiness or regret. Oh, I thought when we were sitting at Grateful Bread, sharing a sesame bagel and some tomato soup, I'm happy.

You know, maybe that was what Scrooge felt. Although let's face it, it's hard to be sure because no one had yet invented the Ipod.