Idiot Parade

Trolling around the interwebs, I discovered this op-ed. Elizabeth Stewart, the author, is pissed off. She’s pissed off because she works a full day, just like her husband, and works her ass off at home as well. She feels underappreciated and at her wits end: “It’s a constant struggle to meet the demands of my various roles as wife, mother, daughter, colleague, lover, friend. I feel as if I short-change everyone all the time.”

By the time I read to the end of the piece, I felt a very close connection with Elizabeth. That may sound pretentious, because I don’t have an impressive or stressful career with an ad agency, nor do I have a husband and child to care for. But I admire her ability to juggle everything in her life, and feel her anger is justified. If I had crawled into bed just four hours earlier, while my husband was at home for most of that afternoon, I would hope that he would volunteer to be the one to get up and clean up our child’s vomit. It’s not out of resentment for the child, and it’s not because I wouldn’t be concerned and want to take care of my sick baby. There has to be an equal division of labor, that’s all.

I scrolled down to the comments, expecting to see more angry women in a little show of girl power. What an unpleasant surprise it was to read the following:

So give up your job and stop whinging. You say you need two jobs to keep a roof over your head? Downsize to a smaller roof and you’ll be just fine on your husband’s salary. And you can ditch the nanny then too and care for the child you brought into the world yourself. Son at boarding school? You chose to put him there, your problem if you miss him. Sorry, honey, but my guess is you’re not short of a bob or two – you’ve just grown acustomed to a certain standard of living and are damned if you’re going to give it up. Fine, but you’re smart enough to know you cannot have it all.
Click to rate Rating 250- Anna, London, 22/2/2009 16:40

Yes, she has a nanny. Yes, her son is in boarding school. Those both cost quite a bit of money. I choose not to begrudge her those things, because she can’t very well leave the youngest at home by herself, and if she can give her son a chance at a better education and future, more power to her.

You need to stop working and let your man take over all fiscal responsibilities until you are out of the weeds. Best of luck, girl. You have simply overcompensated.

Sigh. That one doesn’t need my commentary.

Why do women feel so angry? Glad you asked.
Well of course the irrational (and incorrect) explanation is to blame men. But in fact anger is a disease which starts to seriously inhibit women after the age of about 33. This is the age when the waning interest in them from men finally serves as confirmation that they are losing their looks. It is also the time that they reluctantly come to the realisation that ‘having it all’ is a cruel, feminist perpetuated myth.

That was the tone of most of the feedback, divided about equally between men and women. There were also a number of scoffs at this woman daring to get a bikini wax. How dare she do something that makes her feel attractive.

Obviously, she could be much worse off. There are plenty of single mothers who would die for a dual income and a nanny. I appreciate that, and I’m sure Ms. Stewart does as well. What troubles me here is the amount of people who are so sure that a woman should not have both a family and a career. I want both. I want to go to work, I want to put my education to good use, I want to teach, and I want to enjoy it. I also want to have a baby and raise her to be a loving, intelligent, and all-around wonderful human being. My mother did both. She worked in the morning, my father worked at night. We needed both incomes, and they both wanted to be with their baby. My father was ridiculed by other men for wanting to stay at home with me, and change my diapers, and clean up my sick. Not a glamorous line of work, and I’m sure there were times when the stress from work and from a child drove both of my parents insane. But they managed, and I lost nothing in the end. Two working parents. Daughter who never felt neglected.

It can be done. We can do it all. It’s shouldn’t be a question of whether or not a woman is capable of having a family and a job. It should be a question of whether or not we have the support system to do so, be it friend, boyfriend, husband, or our own parents. Wanting everything includes wanting some help from time to time…and we shouldn’t have to feel guilty about asking for it.

I frequently have people popping up in IM windows, asking why the hell I’m sitting at home on a Friday/Saturday night. I should be out at a party, with friends, beign social, whatever. The truth is, though, acting like a normal twenty-year-old woman doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I was considering going to The Key Club to see a couple bands I like, as well as a special appearance by Dane Cook. Instead, I opted to come home and go out to dinner with my parents. Plans for my 21st, only five months away? No big party. Forget Vegas. More than anything, I just want my Dad to buy me a drink at Molly Malone’s.

I don’t think I’m especially boring, and it’s not that I’m lazy. I do like to get all dressed up to go out. But the club scene, bars, whatever…I dunno. If I’m with people, I want to be *with* people; not performing some activity where other people happen to be joining in. I like conversation. The highlight of next week, for me, will be going to AllisonandAdam’s, having a drink, and playing Scrabble in my pajamas. Exotic, no…not so glamorous either. And I’ve had the opportunity to be both of those things. It’s just not my deal. Am I missing out on an important part of my adult life?

While we’re on the subject of what kind of girl I am…according to Stoner Philip (I actually have no idea if he smokes…sweet kid in a couple of my classes, looks a bit dazed all the time), I “don’t look like the kind of girl who’d be into comics.”

Me: (looks up, slightly annoyed that Watchmen is being interrupted) What does that even mean?
SP: (shrugs)
Me: Well, what do I look like?
SP: Like…not a dork.

When I informed that I am indeed a dork, one who plays D&D and can tie Doctor Who/Firefly into most conversations, he shook his head in disbelief…and went back to his nap.

Guess I’m full of surprises.

Play behavior is well-developed in North American river otters. Play is made up of sliding, chasing one’s own tail, swimming, juggling sticks or pebbles, rolling around in the grass or snow, wrestling, and playing with captured prey or with other river otters. Playful behavior was found in only 6% of 294 observations in a study in Idaho, and was limited mostly to immature otters.[11]

Otters can juggle. Seals can bounce balls. Dogs save people from snow drifts and fires. Gorillas and parrots can understand and comprehend human speech.

Comparitively speaking, human beings seem a little lame.

“Osteosarcoma is the third most common cancer in young people, yet during the past 20 years little research has been carried out into developing improved therapies, and survival rates have remained unchanged with only 54 per cent of patients alive after five years, says Robert Grimer, a consultant orthopaedic oncologist at The Royal Orthopaedic Hospital NHS Trust in Birmingham.”

A few other sites have quoted 65% as a survival rate, but I have yet to find anything higher.

If or when this blog generates any kind of income, I’m going to divide it evenly between the Pediatric Cancer Foundation and the Sam Loeb College Scholarship Fund.

The lovely Rebecca Woolf of GirlsGoneChild, one of my favorite ‘Mommy Blogs’, has recently undertaken a new project entitled “Portraits of an Economy“. People from all over the country are sending in pieces, describing how the economy has and is affecting them. It’s a brilliant idea, and Rebecca was sweet enough to post my entry.

I just wanted to encourage everyone to check this site out. It’s heartbreaking and inspiring, and I think anyone would benefit from sharing in these stories.

Love.

See that sidebar over to your right? I have a list of 43 things that I’m wanting/trying to accomplish.

11. Sing without being self conscious.

When I was very small, I sang all the time. Made up my own little melodies; just like I thought “why walk when you can dance?”, it followed “why speak when you can sing?” My best friend felt the same way. Her dad was a musician, made some money from it, so we both assumed that she was the daughter of a rock star. Apparently, this gave her the monopoly on vocal stylings, because whenever I’d start to sing, she’d tell me to shut up. After a while, I did. When I got older, I would sing when I had to…for an audition or a class or something…or if it was just me and my mom. We sing when we cook, drive, shop, whatever (I still sing in the car, and I love when I see other people doing it too). As it turned out, I could blend very easily, making me good for a big ensemble. I could contribute without standing out. It’s only in the last couple years that I’ve grown to enjoy being noticed….for everything except my voice. I don’t know what it is or why it still bothers me, but it always makes me feel small and vulnerable.

Seeing as I have so many musical friends, I’ve grown very weary of this phobia.

I have a very long road ahead of me. It’s always harder to believe the bad things about yourself, right? But I’ve taken the first step:

Myspace Karaoke

I apologize to any hardcore Norah Jones fans.

Next step…real live karaoke. I’ll need a drink first.

Last night, I:

Was told in no uncertain terms that dating is not an option, but we can still be friends
Offered to set up the guy who, until I broke it off very recently, was my only lover
Discovered that some people only consider me when it’s convenient for them to do so

Three little pinches, three different people.

So I went a little overboard. Had a bit too much cider and things on in a short space of time, as well as on an empty stomach. This is not something I ever, EVER do, because I’m a person who believes in solving one’s own problems by attacking them head-on, and because alcoholism runs very heavily in my extended family. But these are problems I don’t know how to solve. They aren’t even my problems, not that that’s ever stopped me in the past. I opted for the warm and fuzzy feeling in my legs and my head, instead of banging my tiny, ineffective fists against immovable forces.

The warm and fuzzy feeling is gone now…but I have some lingering joy. These three people…well, two; that second occurrence was my own doing, but it comes with a nice little sting anyway…cut me a little, deep inside. But in each of them, there’s something for me to love. The first one, I love the fire in his eyes, because it means that no one’s killed his spirit. The second one, I love his touch and the kindness in it. And the third…I love that he really does try to be good. He’s usually successful. Just does dumb things sometimes. What I’m getting at here is that I think I can overlook my own pain and embarrassment, because those things are fleeting and unimportant. Those details about the people in my life, the kernels and sparks I love to find in people, especially when no one else notices them…those are worth staying around for. It’s more than just finding the good in everyone; it’s making a point to know why they’re special to me. Like the Little Prince and his rose, his rose that was unique in all the world because she was his. That’s enough to make me keep trying.

Today, I:

Will write a love letter to no one
Will get some balloons for a glamour bomb which hasn’t been completely planned out yet.
Will dance in the rain

I know that, in blogosphere land, 10 days = forever…sorry I’ve been absent. Things are a bit mad right now, and I’m trying to sort through all of it to find some clarity.

When does this get easier? I’m not asking out of any kind of desperation; I’m not feeling especially down or emo or whatever you want to call it. God, I hope it’s not emo. I can’t stand that word. I don’t even really know what it means, except that it’s usually attributed to those who have an excessive amount of self pity, and I really don’t think I’m ever that. Anyway, no, not depressed or anything. I’m just tired. Classes are great, most of the time. Half of the time. I love two out of the four, but I feel like such a twit. I’m one of the younger people in there, and I have the distinct feeling that everyone knows something I don’t. Like…there was a class when the teacher explained the Almighty Answer, but I was home that day with an exceptionally awful case of chicken pox, and no one bothered to take notes that I could copy. My personal life….I don’t know, sometimes I don’t think I’m a very good friend. I know that people drift in and out of each others lives, because that’s just the way of things. I just wonder if I could be doing something differently. And it’s not that I don’t love the people I do have. It’s just a complicated dynamic. I’m still obsessing about my weight, but that’s nothing new. Work….work is fantastic, actually. I love the kids. I love the families. The parents are all very sweet to me. It’s so nice, seeing everyone there together. I know that no one’s family is perfect, and I have no idea what happens when they’re all at home. But for a few hours, I get to watch mothers and fathers with their babies, completely content with each other. All happy to be there. A normal, happy family. It’s so rare. Most people seem all fucked up and broken in one way or another. I mean, we all are, in our own little ways. I guess I like that an hour or two with bubbles and parachutes can make us forget.

I was going to wait until after I saw RENT to post about this next bit, because there’s a kind of thematic relevancy, but it’s been pressing on my mind more and more. The closer I get to some people, the more I feel like Mark. For those of you who don’t know the show, he’s the one of the few characters without AIDS. Which means that he has to watch his friends die. Death has always been a big part of my life. All four of my grandparents were dead before I started kindergarten, and some of my earliest memories are of funerals. Been to two wakes, because I’m Irish and that’s what we do. So it’s not like death is anything that freaks me out. But there are some times when I remember that almost all of my close friends are at least ten years older than me. Mostly male. Which means, unless something happens to me first, I will probably be the last one. I’m going to have to watch these people, whom I love beyond all time and space and reason…this isn’t a responsibility that I signed up for. And I know normal people don’t think about this kind of thing, and it’s probably very sick and morbid, but I KNOW that each and every person has wondered at least once about who’s going to show up at their own funeral. So if I’m the last one…you get the gist. That right there? That’s my biggest fear. Also the only real secret I had left. Fancy that.

I’ve written almost 700 freaking words in about half an hour. Why can’t I ever do that for an assignment? Someday, a professor is going to tell me to be all dark and twisty and creepifying for five pages, and then I’ll be absolutely GOLDEN.

One last thing, so as not to end on a completely horrific note. I have this adorable box that I bought at Sidecca ages ago. It’s a mini trunk, about the size of an old-school lunch box, with a Bettie Page pattern on it. I adore the thing, but I haven’t the slightest idea what to put in it. Any thoughts?