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. ;)