Posts Tagged ‘satire’

A Bystander’s Guide to the Five Things Pregnant Women Love Most

April 3, 2013

Let me start out by saying that I’ve never been pregnant, but that these foolproof tips are borne of years of observation and conversation. So give them a read and then go make a pregnant lady’s day.

1) Being touched by strangers

Did you resent learning to keep your hands to yourself in kindergarten? Well, you’re in luck. Look at that businessman on the train, wearing a suit and tie and frowning at his smartphone. Would he like it if you suddenly embraced him or caressed his tummy? No, of course he wouldn’t. But pregnant women are different.  As soon as the bulge of that fetus is visible to you and me, her body is fair game, from the bathroom to the boardroom to the bus. Hands on!

2) Temporal judgments

A pregnant woman is particularly attuned to the passage of time – just listen to her obsess about the first, second and third trimesters. That means she’s also anxious to hear your unsolicited time-related verdicts. For example, feel free to ask her how old she is, and then follow up with any conclusions you may have on whether she is very young or rather old to be a mother. If you think she looks older or younger than she is, make sure she knows it. And remember, once you’ve spotted her belly, what month and day that baby is supposed to emerge is information that you are entitled to. The mother-to-be will also appreciate your comments on whether her current size matches the current duration of her pregnancy. Does she look rather slim for 7 months or “ready to pop” at 6 months? Make sure she knows it!

3) Personal questions

Imagine that man on the train again – his tasteful striped tie and black leather shoes. Would he want you to sit down next to him and ask him his age, whether he feels sick to his stomach, and whether he has children, whether they’re boys or girls, when their birthdays are and what their names are? No, he probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but here again is the magic of pregnancy: gestating women love answering your personal questions. Remember: the propagation of the human race is every person’s business, and that includes morning sickness, the baby’s sex, due date and name, birth plans, and anything else you can think of. Remember: when a woman can no longer conceal the fact that she’s carrying a fetus, she owes you these answers.

4) Horror stories of labor and delivery

That pregnant woman sitting next to you wants to bond with you. Once you’ve ascertained that her due date is just a few weeks away, the best way to cement your relationship is to tell her about your sister-in-law’s cousin’s 43-hour labor and episiotomy during the blizzard of ‘93.  Pregnant ladies enjoy these narratives, which fortify them for their own deliveries.

5) Your projected body image woes

Pregnant women are always ready to soothe your anxieties about their bodies. The last thing they want is for you to be stuck wondering if they’re pregnant or if they’re just packing some extra belly pounds, so feel free to ask them. If, because you were afraid they were simply fat, you’re relieved to find out that their rotund figure is due to an impending birth, make sure they know it. They love being reminded of their ungainly figures, and carrying a baby is the difference between hoping others mind their own business, and having an appreciation for being the subject of strangers’ bodily speculations.

Is there anything else pregnant women love? If I’ve missed something, please add it in the comments.

The FDA Will Dupe You Til the Cows Come Home

March 7, 2013

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milk5

It’s true.

In their recent application to the Food and Drug Administration, “Flavored Milk: Petition to Amend the Standard of Identity for Milk and 17 Additional Dairy Products,” the International Dairy Foods Association and the National Milk Producers Federation ask for the ability to produce and market products containing aspartame without any notice on the carton (except for the fine print ingredients) to inform customers of that fact. Here’s a brief NPR story on the controversy.

It is as if Coca-Cola decided it wanted to begin putting its aspartame-sweetened Diet Coke and its corn syrup-sweetened Coke in identical cans – all in the name of helping their customers.

From the petition:

“Petitioners state that milk flavored with non-nutritive sweeteners [like aspartame] should be labeled as milk without further claims so that consumers can more easily identify its overall nutritional value.”

In other words, the less you know about what’s really in your food, the better you’ll be able to make good choices about what to eat.

You have until May 21st, 2013 to visit the public petition online and register your comment about the proposed change to the “Standard Identity” of milk.

 

 

 

White Pundits, Black History: oh, the pain of my privilege.

February 27, 2013
From "Borderless News and Views," where Monica A. Gamble asks, "how do we cement the idea that Black history is American history?"

From “Borderless News and Views,” where Monica A. Gamble asks, “how do we cement the idea that Black history is American history?”

Chris Menning wants to blow your mind. All you have to do is tune into his site, Modernprimate.com, and watch his talking-head video “examining the concepts of equality, privilege, and economic class in terms that even the most ignorant should be able to understand.”

“You’re welcome, fellow white people,” he declares before he’s even made any of his points.

Menning is annoyed because, just like they do every February, there are white people complaining that Black History Month is a needless, biased institution. Menning explains why we do not, in fact, need to institute White History Month: the pervasive white privilege that is often invisible to those who benefit most from it.

He makes several good points, including scrapping the concept of “reverse racism” (i.e., blacks’ racism against whites). That’s not reverse racism: “It’s just racism.” Plus, Menning demonstrates the true and troubling racial disparities in America’s poverty rates, and the originally intended meaning of “all men are created equal”: that was actually “white men of English descent who owned a certain amount of property.”

He also directs us to Peggy McIntosh’s thought-provoking “White Privilege Checklist” and Debra Leigh’s worthwhile “28 Common Racist Behaviors.”

But Menning’s own story, and, apparently, his qualification to expound on the topic of racial injustice, begins when he went shopping, somehow set off a shoplifting alarm, and was allowed to walk out of the store without the clerk so much as checking his bags because (as Menning surmises in the video) he is white.

“Being a white guy has its perks,” he says, waving a half-eaten chocolate bar.

Menning points out that he’s made an awesome video.

“Now what I’m about to say is going to be a no-brainer for a lot of you, and it will mind-blowing for some others,” he says.

(Is there a third option? Like, irked by his slightly narcissistic expressions and non-diversifying insights?)

I guess you could boil my beef down to the fact that in the guise of addressing racial inequality, a white man is talking expressly to white people about white people’s internal troubles.

Yes, it is important to shine a light on white privilege. But too often, the obsession with examining our privilege becomes a way of turning the spotlight back on ourselves and shifting the conversation away from the voices of people of color, as if combating your own “privilege” is a drama on par with the struggle of those who suffer under racism.

Menning has lots more to say about what he’s learned from his own privileges:

“I’ve never been turned down for a job that I’ve interviewed for.  Every single time that I’m called in for an interview, do you know what happens? When I walk in there, I meet a white guy, much like myself…I answer some questions about why I want to work there, and I almost always walk out of there with a job.”

A 100% job-nabbing rate in this shitty economy is quite a feat – though Menning does admit that maybe it’s not all due to his skin tone: “The fact that I’m six feet tall helps, or the bass-y undertones in my voice,” he adds.

Or maybe the subtext of this career revelation is that, as a person, Menning is just as mind-blowing as his videos.  (“You’re welcome.”)

But let’s get off the ad hominem wagon.

Bear with me while I set my own quick scene.

This week, I was heading towards a city transit entrance when I noticed a middle-aged man loitering by the doors. He was hollering at a pair of young women half a block away, about how they were so pretty they had to stay and talk to him. They linked arms as they hurried away. I saw the taut, rueful expression on their faces and I swerved towards another entrance, walking an extra two blocks in the freezing weather because I wasn’t in the mood to be bothered, as long experience has taught me I probably would’ve been.

Now imagine that a silent male bystander witnessed this scene and then went home to expound online, pointing out to his intended audience of fellow men how well he recognizes his male privilege – blowing his viewers’ minds on the problem of sexism with his profound experience of…using whatever door he wants without fearing harassment.

Compelling stuff.

Menning says a lot of white people don’t recognize their own privilege simply because they’ve never been in a position to really observe and think about it.

“Every now and then when I stop to look around, I realize that I’m not constantly surrounded by other white men,” Menning says.

Fascinating – when did you first notice this phenomenon?

When this video popped up in my Facebook feed via Upworthy, billed as “The Definitive Response to Jerks Asking, “But What About White History Month?”, it was hard to put my finger on what bothered me about it. Shouldn’t we just applaud anyone who disdains racism and candidly discusses white privilege?

Part of the problem is that despite his apparent goal of a nuanced, modern discussion, Menning holds up an easy stereotype of prejudice. In his video, he’s the lanky, lucid New York hipster versus the bellowing, finger-jabbing, middle-aged Rush Limbaugh type.

I wish racist attitudes were really that easy to indicate and externalize.

Listening to Menning, I hear that a world dominated by one race is a pretty poisonous proposition – at the same time that he perpetuates an image of an all-white professional and social world.

“He probably sees me as someone he’d like to hang out with in some capacity,” Menning says of all those white male interviewers.

Yes, statistics tell us that you won’t find non-white, non-male managers in every building. But given my experience as journalist, in which I’ve interviewed many non-white (and female) executives, directors and researchers in fields from medicine to filmmaking, I’m surprised that Menning’s work experience has been so racially limited – especially since we’re both in major mid-Atlantic cities.

Menning recognizes his shortcomings. “My attitudes toward other people are largely affected by how much interaction I’ve had with them,” he says. “I can see my own ignorance. It’s not actually that hard.”

The trouble is, I don’t think you should rest on your laurels (or pontificate) for simply realizing that your attitude towards people of other races is affected by how little time you spend with them, patting yourself on the back for admitting what you don’t know and easily landing all those plum jobs in the meantime.

I know times are tough. But, “fellow white people,” you don’t have to work in a place where you sense that accolades come easily because of your white skin.

When a colleague’s boss once advised me to remove my married name, “Mabaso,” from my resume because hiring managers would assume I was black and throw my application in the trash, my first response was why would I want to work for someone who would trash a person’s resume just because of his or her race?

To borrow Menning’s phrase, “It’s not that hard” to get out of your own head and live an inclusive life in the 21st century.

I choose diversity in my professional life by writing for publications which hire and feature all voices – not just white male ones – where I can pitch stories that feature these voices.

And if you really haven’t got friends or family members of a different race (the 2010 US Census found that 10 percent of hetero married couples – a stat that grew 28% in the last decade – are interracial or interethnic, and 18 percent of non-married hetero partners and 21 percent of gay unmarried partners are interracial/interethnic) I honestly wonder what century you’re in.

My sister-in-law and I. The world has gone global. Get over it.

My sister-in-law and I. The world has gone global. Get over it.

Of course the world needs more racial harmony.  But it’s not the anomaly that Menning implies it is. And recognizing your privilege, or simply noticing, as Menning puts it, that “there are people of every race, gender and class all around me,” should not be a goal in itself. It should be the first step in the active work of not just noticing others, but understanding them.

Does that mean Menning’s points about white privilege aren’t worthwhile, that he isn’t a cool smart guy, or that I’m always aware of my own white privilege?

No.

He comes from his own perspective.  This is my take. No-one can make a comprehensive or “definitive” survey of racial problems in one web post – especially if he or she is white.

“So white people, this Black History Month, instead of wondering why black people get their own history month, let’s just take a little time to reflect on how good it is to be white,” Menning finishes, while text flashes on the bottom of the screen: “Clarification: How good we have it. NOT how good we are.”

Or, instead of generating another white-initiated, white-centered discussion about thoughts and attitudes instead of action (“Black History Month for White People”), ignore the dolts who whine about Black History Month, be they Limbaugh or the hot girl down the hall, and just appreciate some black history, preferably more than one month out of the year.

What do you think?

Make ‘Em Cry Scriptwriting with Julian Fellowes; or, Why I Love Carson

February 20, 2013

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Alright. Wipe your eyes. It’s not too soon to discuss this.

“You know this is a soap opera, right?” my husband Lala said that time he watched five minutes of Masterpiece Theater’s “Downton Abbey.”

“Yes,” I said.

Sometimes my South African husband calls British period dramas “racist” just because they’re wall-to-wall white people. I used to protest, but then again, that was pretty much the same reason I scoffed at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

But Lala says it’s ok because these dramas – also known as “your English crap” – are my heritage. He’s right – my mom’s dad’s family is British and many of my distant relatives live in England today.

I won’t lie – I haven’t missed an episode of the entire series (written by Julian Fellowes), whose season three finale just aired in the US a few days ago.

For the uninitiated, the show is about the fictional Earl of Grantham and his family and staff, who live on a massive estate in early 20th-century Yorkshire. The story follows the insufferable entitlements, infighting and romances of the noble Crawley family, and the below-decks machinations of their (mostly) loyal servants. It’s worth watching just for the glorious costumes.

I’m going to continue now; if you’re not familiar with the show, I will neither entreat you to watch nor explain the plot and characters further – feel free to ditch this post if you haven’t already, and come back next time (I promise the blog isn’t becoming a TV rehash zone).

Does anyone else wish that Mr. Swire had kept his money in the family? I really would have enjoyed watching the Crawleys sell out and move to a smaller house, which, as Lord Grantham dolefully points out, would require a staff of just eight.

Imagine living with only eight servants.

The fact that I actually felt sorry for Lord Grantham is the biggest reason I hate to love Downton Abbey.

Besides, as the Crawleys bemoaned the imminent loss of their ancestral home, wondering what their identity could possibly amount to without Downton Abbey, I couldn’t help thinking that if their home is an abbey, it’s only belonged to Lord Grantham’s forebears since Henry VIII dismantled England’s Catholic institutions to enrich himself and his allies. Talk about rightful ownership.

Season three had a goodly shock for us midway through, when we lost the saint-like Lady Sybil to eclampsia. She was mourned as one of Downton Abbey’s best-loved characters, but to me, she was also one of the least interesting.

Lady Sybil

I understand about actors departing and all, but Sybil’s dabbling in progressive politics had been eclipsed by her chaste, patient and wholly disinterested romance (disinterested in the Austen sense, you know what I mean), and then Tom Branson joined the Crawley fold without bloodshed. Other than that scandalous Aladdin-pants incident, Sybil was goodness itself, and the only other drama her character could conceivably create (no pun intended) was to die in childbirth.

Besides, if you ask me, Anna Bates has the steady, uncomplicated angel vibe covered, along with her limping, faithful, crinkly-eyed husband.  In a true soap opera, there’s only so much room for these types.

Now blow your nose – we’re coming to it.

All of Edith’s lovers are desperately affable yet unavailable middle-aged men. But have you noticed that everyone who hits the sheets with Mary ends up dead?

Yes, Matthew survives WWI and the Spanish flu, recovers from paralysis and (surely worst of all) the threat of inheriting a smaller house with only eight servants, only to die in a freak car accident just after his wife gives birth to a son.

Hearts stopped all over the world as season three ended with a wide-eyed Matthew crushed beneath his car, blood pooling out of his ear.

Hanging was too good for Fellowes.

Women expressed grief at Matthew’s death as if he was a real person – except worse, because with real grief, much as we’d often like to lay blame somewhere, even if it’s God, there’s really no point when it comes to truly coping with death. But in this case, we can rail against actor Dan Stevens, who refused to renew his contract for the tacked-on season four, or writer Julian Fellowes, who (perhaps in a fit of pique over losing this golden boy) devised a graceless, gruesome death as clichéd as it was shocking.

I’ve been doing my best to process this in the twenty-four hours since I watched the episode, and you may hate me for this, but I think it’s the Sybil syndrome all over again.

Yes, Matthew’s blue eyes were more beautiful than glaciers lost to global warming, and his voluminous blond bangs were so well-sculpted that Alfred, had his arm grown tired, could’ve rested a dish of hollandaise sauce on them. But the only thing bigger than Matthew’s torch for Mary was his moral fortitude. Now that the whole thing with Lavinia and the inheritance was put to rest, how much blissful connubial nuzzling could one audience take?

Many people knew some kind of demise for Matthew was in the works. News had broken of the actor leaving the series before the final episode aired in the US, but I was totally out of the loop.

I still knew Matthew was going to bite the dust, though.

The first clue was the end of the penultimate episode of season three. Lord Grantham joyously embraces his two sons-in-law on the cricket green in a closing scene more sticky and golden than the jar of honey in my cabinet.

Fellowes couldn’t have spelled it out any clearer: he was about to break our hearts.

The second clue was Matthew’s season three dialogue.

When Matthew wasn’t declaring his undying love for his wife every time they turned back the sheets, he was sticking up for Edith, Tom, the whole Downton estate, and that new floozy, Cousin Rose.

When Mary gave birth to a son, Matthew was so happy he felt as if he’d “swallowed a box of fireworks.”

Some commentators argued that Fellowes punished Dan Stevens with the nature of Matthew’s death because the actor had the gall to leave the hit show. But if the writer really was trying to stick it to Stevens, I think the best evidence is the truckload of sappy lines that characterized Matthew in season three.

Fellowes knew that such a stream of unadulterated goodness and progressive wisdom could only be matched by our tears.

But I’m willing to forgive him, because of my favorite moment in the final episode.

“Downton is safe,” Mary sighs as she cradles the estate’s new heir. The entire family is likewise in raptures because her baby doesn’t have a vagina. But Carson, the butler, a terminal traditionalist and the biggest snob in the building, loves Mary so much that when he gets news of the birth by phone, he’s the only one in town who completely forgets to ask if it was a boy or a girl.

Lending a Hand To Disaster

February 17, 2013
Our parking lot after Hurricane Sandy: I noticed something strange in the leaves.

The morning after Hurricane Sandy hit Philadelphia, I noticed something  strange in the leaves that coated the parking lot.

I was still the new girl in the 15th-floor center city office when the Digital Integration Specialist stuck his head into my cubicle.

“Fire drill today at ten o’clock,” he said.

I was oddly pleased to carry this ritual of my elementary school days into my career – the welcome break from the day’s work, the shuffling in line through the hallways with our ears plugged against the alarm, the waiting on the grounds while our teachers counted us, and the knowledge that should disaster befall the school, we’d know what to do.

But about ten minutes before ten o’clock, everyone in the offices and cubicles around me began putting on coats.

The assistant account executive on my left explained. Fire drills happen every six months, and since the elevators are out of service during the drill, instead of walking down fifteen flights of stairs, everyone flocks to the elevators and goes out for coffee about ten minutes beforehand.

Once we crowded into the hallway outside the office suite, the company president took charge of loading the elevators. After I stepped out of the building and crossed the street, I watched the entrance, which was teeming like a flooded anthill. Twenty floors of office dwellers had done exactly what we had. Soon the faint, totally unheeded screech of the fire alarms could be heard over the noise of the city.

After the fire drill (such as it was) concluded and the workers crowded back into the elevators, I stayed behind to ask the concierge about it.

He said that he is a former fire marshal, and he shook his head with helpless, long-lived frustration at our response to the drills.

He explained that they have actually made some recent progress by setting the alarms to ring throughout the exercise, as the firefighters check each floor. Previously, office workers would refuse to interrupt their work for the drills, and simply stay at their desks throughout. Now, the prolonged, ear-shattering noise drives them out.

Once I returned to my floor, I asked our office manager what he thought of our studious avoidance.

He shrugged and eyed me with what could have been a hint of annoyance. “I think anyone who’s sane would make sure to go down in the elevator,” he said.

I wondered how sane we’d all feel if a fire we explicitly refused to prepare for caught us in the middle of a meeting.

But sometimes, one man’s disaster preparedness is another man’s disaster.

As Hurricane Sandy approached last fall, my apartment complex’s superintendent was determined to protect the four-story building he manages. According to one of my neighbors, he noticed a tiny old chimney of sorts in the building’s roof and worried that the rain would get in. So, as tree-snapping winds approached, he chained a ten-pound metal gym barbell to a piece of wood and used the contraption to block the hole in the roof.

This storm is no match for a ten-pound weight...right?

A storm like this is no match for a ten-pound weight…right?

The weight flew right off the roof on the wings of the storm, and demolished the windshield of a car belonging to a resident who is handicapped. The hurricane blasted into her vehicle all night, filling the interior with broken glass and soaking the dashboard, before the accident was discovered. I’m very sorry my neighbor’s car got smashed. But I’m thrilled that the weight hit an empty car, and not any of the people, including my husband and me, who frequent that parking lot in all weathers.

I’d hazard a guess that disasters are defined by our perennial unwillingness to anticipate them in any reasonable way.

In 2011, my computer crashed, and I lost a majority of my files.  I wept with rage. But had I anticipated this fairly common occurrence by backing up all my documents, the crash would have been an inconvenience instead of a crisis.

I know – it’s crass to compare the loss of my files to something like a tsunami or a tornado. And of course, many true disasters are wholly unpredictable. But if my former office building were to catch fire, the episode would hardly be called a calamity if well-practiced staffers filed quickly and calmly out the door. If panic and ill-informed escape routes led to injuries or deaths, it would be a different story.

Having totally failed to visualize the reality of hurricane-force winds, my superintendent’s notion of preparedness was placing an unfastened barbell on the roof. My subsequent sense of intellectual superiority probably could have powered my fridge, had my electricity gone out (I’m convinced it didn’t because of my ready stash of batteries, flashlights, charged gadgets, water and non-perishable food). But when I followed everyone else in the office to exit the building by elevator ten minutes before the fire drill, did that add up to a smarter way to prepare for disaster?

Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off: The Case Against Weddings.

February 1, 2013
My own wedding reception, in July of 2007.

My own wedding reception, in July of 2007.

I’ve got an idea.

High school and college freshmen should all get a party. The night before their first classes, they should celebrate with a big cake, gifts and gift-cards, toasts and a dance party for all their friends. Their intention to finish their diploma or degree merits a big bash.

And why should anyone have to wait until they’re 65 to enjoy the professional accolades of all their friends and colleagues over a catered dinner and plenty of cocktails? If they intend to give a career their best shot, we should encourage them with a lavish celebration before their first day on the job.

If all that actually sounds foolish to you, then why don’t extravagant weddings seem equally unwise?

I don’t want to minimize the boundless suffering of badly-clad bridesmaids, slighted mothers-in-law, and the aftermath of champagne-induced sexual debaucheries.  But a recent New York Times article examines one of the true plagues engendered by our cultural wedding fetish. It’s called “Married to the Plan. Still Looking for a Possible Groom.” It’s about young American women who have their weddings planned all the way down the napkins – even though they don’t even have a boyfriend.

In a stroke of truly incisive and creative reporting, this NYT piece reveals that there are drawbacks to planning your wedding as if the groom is a last-minute prop stitched into a tux.

“First, what some single women imagine may not be feasible and may actually be a waste of effort,” writer Alyson Krueger explains.  She turns to the owner of a wedding trade show company, who says that brides, for example, might dream of guests sipping pumpkin soup. But then, if they get married in, say, Miami, in, say, February, the chef might announce, “I know you love pumpkin soup, but it’s not in season right now.”

Horrors.

“Another problem [as bad as the soup debacle, d’you think?] is the not-quite-bride is not taking into account a future partner and what his needs and considerations might be.”

The trade-show maven goes on.

“‘Even though you have all these ideas and you’ve done your homework and you are prepared as a single girl,’ she said, ‘you have to understand that marriage is a union and you have to take your other half into consideration.’”

But the single girls obsessed with their as-yet-unscheduled weddings weren’t worried.

As one woman explained, “if she met someone she wanted to marry, she doesn’t think his input would matter.”

Krueger does her homework and quotes a clinical psychologist:

“‘I think for anybody it’s much easier to plan a wedding than it is to form a meaningful relationship that is going to lead to a fulfilling marriage.’”

Stop the world, I want to get off.

Not only are women spending untold hours of their lives planning weddings to non-existent grooms. The New York Times finds it necessary to inform us that this one-sided, superficial obsession does not prepare anyone for a real partnership.

I’d like to shake the hand of whoever came up with that angle. I mean, really, thank God for clear-eyed psychologists.

Image from Postsecret.

Image from Postsecret.

It seems to me that lavish weddings are an irresistible incentive for people who have no business embarking on a lifelong emotional, sexual, reproductive, practical and financial partnership.

Imagine a world of marriages, but no weddings.

We would have been spared the whole Kim Kardashian/Kris Humphries fiasco: without the promise of a televised fairy-tale netting millions, these two probably would have forgotten the meaning of the word “marriage” altogether.

Picture it: no Katy Perry/Russell Brand shambles. The world was a grayer place when we all learned that two elephants on a red carpet at a luxe Indian resort does not a marriage make. No acres of tabloids speculating on the wedding of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, when they already have forty-two children together. No millions of pounds for security measures for the wedding of William and Kate when the rest of Europe is rioting over austerity measures.

True, if we abandoned big weddings, it’s not only the wedding industry that would suffer – advice columnists would see a 75% drop in their mail volume, as all those questions about bridesmaids who dare to get pregnant, guests who demand vegan dinners, and deplorably late thank-you cards would cease to exist.

But if, as the American Psychological Association says, 40-50% of all married couples in the US end up divorced, shouldn’t we consider de-incentivizing marriage itself?

My home church produces a pamphlet about the importance of marriage, and it irks me, because the picture on the cover is of a beautiful young couple in a wedding gown and a tux scampering away together on an idyllic beach.

To avoid giving the wrong impression to those who are selfish enough to believe that their future spouse should have no say in what his own wedding is like, I vote for a different wedding pamphlet image.

I could volunteer the image of my husband and me on the morning we had to get up together before dawn so that we could both go to the insurance-mandated mechanic to hand over our totaled car and sign for a supremely ugly rental before we had to be at work. Or the time my husband got raging tonsillitis while we were on our only vacation of the year. Or the time we bought a couch and then realized it wouldn’t fit in the narrow, angled stairwell to our second-floor apartment.

Sorry, you dewy-eyed lovers, but once the last dance is over, the last congealed canapé is scraped into the caterer’s trash bags, and that new Waterford crystal pitcher is stashed in the closet, that’s marriage.

Did I say I regret it? Of course not. I love my husband and we’ve had many good times. But as the years go by, from coping with grief together to disputes over household chores, marriage can be a mammoth challenge.

And I worry that legions of young people are getting duped into it because of lifelong bridal-gown fantasies.

from Postsecret.

from Postsecret.

I don’t want to you think that my own wedding wasn’t lovely. I argued with my mom about the live goldfish centerpieces, the outdoor July ceremony was wiltingly hot, and I didn’t have time to eat anything during the reception, but it was a wonderful day.

However, it seems that the only thing to match our culture’s divorce rate is our obsession with weddings. At what other time do we lavishly reward people for beginning what is meant to be a difficult lifelong endeavor? (Baby showers, maybe, but giving birth is an even bigger commitment than getting married – you can’t divorce your child and pick a new one.)

The problem with weddings is that they affirm the easiest part of your union (no, that consuming drama over what kind of shrimp you’ll serve or whose estranged aunt should be excluded from the list does not mark the most stressful time of your relationship). You’re young (for the most part – I do realize a greater number of folks are getting married later in life) and you may still be in the giddy infatuation phase of your relationship, when you just can’t get enough of each other. And this – when it all looks so simple and rosy – is when we launch websites to showcase our romance (and disseminate material wish-lists), and spend ourselves into oblivion so all our friends can bear witness to the fantasy.

Maybe we should clear away the sequined gowns, the cummerbunds, the towering cakes with their tasteless marzipan mortar, the lavish gift registries, and the rented parquet, and let marriage stand for what it truly is.

I know many folks from my own family’s church and maybe yours would protest that the beginning of a marriage should be marked with public celebrations, to uphold the value of marriage and help others aspire to it.

But it seems to me that the US at least is already rife with incentives to marry. In fact, countless government benefits bestowed on married couples are a major reason that American gays are still truly second-class citizens in a majority of states.

From taxes, immigration and insurance to inheritance and adoption proceedings, government, social and business policies often favor married couples and their children.

Do we really need fancy weddings, too?

I’m in my late twenties, so of course our fridge is dotted with save-the-date magnets, and I’m happy for my friends. But I’d love to go to a big party for a couple who married modestly and then successfully weathered ten, fifteen, or twenty-five years together. I’d like to toast their love, and, instead of listening to speeches about how much they will mean to each other all their lives (fingers crossed), applaud what the couple has actually achieved and the example they’ve set.

But the reality of marriage is not nearly as sexy and romantic as what we imagine over a new diamond ring. So I fear we’ll continue to wallow in weddings, and hope the rest works out.

Have you been to a wedding (or watched a marriage) that convinced you, one way or the other?

Respect the Husband, Love the Wife: Methods of Ending Marital Strife

December 7, 2012

Because I am a solitary wife this month, with he of the dreadlocks away for awhile in Johannesburg, I thought I’d dedicate this week’s post to the vagaries of marriage – or rather, marriage advice.

A recent Huffpost article titled “It’s the Intimacy, Stupid: 6 Steps for Women to Stamp Out Divorce” cropped up in my Facebook feed last week. In it, marriage help empire-builder Laura Doyle has good tips like adequate self-care, relinquishing controlling tendencies, being vulnerable and practicing gratitude. Unfortunately, she also tills that bizarre ground of so-called “submissive wives” who advocate Bible-based obedience to their 21st-century husbands.

From an earlier post called “How To Stop Your Wife from Having Tantrums at Costco, and Other Christian Marriage Tips.”

“Lack of respect causes more divorces than cheating does because for men, respect is like oxygen. They need it more than sex,” Doyle announces.

This is right in line with “submissive” wives and their pastors who claim that women need love, but men need respect.

Here’s a novel idea. Quit looking at your spouse as another species. Some things I read about man/woman differences make me feel like I’m watching an over-produced Animal Planet special about monkeys of the world.

In my opinion, manuals telling us how to navigate the differences between men and woman have everything to do with what society trains us to think and do, and little to do with the messy work of being humans who share the same duvet.

I think many of my friends are happy  with the view that catering to, or, as my friend put it, “leverag[ing]” gender differences is key to happy marriages.

They posted comments on the Doyle article link like “chances are good that husbands will be better served by ‘I’m proud/impressed at how you dealt with…’ and wives will be better served by ‘you make my world go round.’” Another friend, the author of the worthwhile book Marriage Moats, added that studies have proven 80% of women value love over respect, while 80% of men value respect over love.

For my part, beyond the questionable wisdom of stereotyping people by gender, I wonder what use there could possibly be in separating the practice of love from the practice of respect in a marriage. And how do you quantify such emotional terms into gender-defining statistics? And how do you know that two individuals wouldn’t view the same act, and one call it a gesture of love, and other call it a sign of respect? And even if most men do value respect over love, and most women would do without an equal measure of respect if they could just get some love, does that mean this preference is innate to men and women, or is it a pressure of cultural expectation?

And, as Doyle suggests, can most husbands really shrug off infidelity by thinking “well, at least she’s respectful”?

To me, the dogma that says respect your man but love your woman is just another way to reinforce active roles for men and passive roles for women: men get acclaim for what they do, while women are valued for their lovey-dovey state of being.

Don’t respect your husband because men need respect. Respect him because your husband is a person, and people need respect. Of course the same goes for respecting your wife. Try listening carefully to her opinion or complimenting her work ethic, and see if she doesn’t appreciate it as much as a kiss.

Or deride her expertise and ignore her hard work, and then get her to believe it when you say you love her.

Maybe if my marriage matched the stereotypes, I’d enjoy waving man/woman distinctions like 16th-century peace treaties sealed by royal betrothals.

But between my husband and I, one of us loves shopping and babies and the unrestrained verbal airing of daily events. The other is an emotionally bottled workaholic who can sit for hours in silence and abhors the mall. Guess who is who?

Devotees of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus would probably guess wrong.

Whatever self-help books and seminar leaders would have you believe, there’s no doctrine, statistic or gender-gap road map that ensures marital bliss, and one marriage should never be used as the metric for another. That might be the kind of secular millennial relativism that makes older generations’ hair stand on end, but with a grand total of five years of married life, and zero New York Times Bestselling relationship books to my name, my advice on marriage is this:

Think about what makes you feel loved and respected as a human being. Then, every day, imagine your spouse as a human being, too.

 

Four Insufferable Things About Books

July 31, 2012

A few of the cubbies in my apartment.

The last thing I want you to think is that I hate books. I love books, especially when they’re books and not text on a digital device. But here are four things that I think authors, designers and publishers really need to quit doing.

1)      Ill-chosen rave review quotations

Any book cover worth its salt has a prominent excerpt from some critic or notable reader who just loved the book. Newcomer authors are likened to somebody famous, with a few juicy adjectives thrown in.

See Jonathan Lethem on the cover of one of my favorite essay books, Sloane’s Crosley’s “I Was Told There’d Be Cake”:

“Sloane Crosley is another mordant and mercurial wit from the realm of Sedaris and Vowell.”

That’s how it should be done.

I read a lot of essays and non-fiction, and if I had my say, there is one word that should be permanently struck from all book covers. That is the word “readable”.

Observe the quotation on the book jacket of “Over Here: How the G.I. Bill Transformed the American Dream” by Edward Humes, one of my favorite nonfiction writers:

“An immensely readable account of one of the smartest, most workable projects our government ever thought up.”

To me, putting the word “readable” as praise on a book jacket is akin to beginning your cover letter with this phrase:

“I believe I am a good candidate for this job.”

Of course you believe that – why else would be sending your resume in? Why don’t you start by telling me something I don’t know?

Similarly, if you have written and then published a book, why oh why would you give space on the jacket to a reviewer saying that your book was “readable”? Of course the damn thing is readable, how else was it selected for publication, marketed and printed?

As a nonfiction enthusiast, I come across the word “readable” on a lot of book jackets. To me, it’s code for “yes, this topic is a slog, but somehow this writer makes it bearable.”

What, you thought a long travel memoir about the peripatetic 14th-century Moroccan, Abu Abdulla Muhammad Ibn Battuta, might be tough going? Nope, never fear: according to the cover, it’s quite “readable”!

2)      Cheap 19th-Century Classics With Ugly Paintings on the Cover

I understand they’re probably trying to keep the budget to a minimum on the design of these editions, and I’m happy they are – should my copy of “Jane Eyre” fall apart on my fifth or sixth reading, it’s good to know I can pick up a solid new one for seven or eight bucks.

But when this New York Times article about 21st-century teen-friendly updates to the covers of Austen and Brontë novels caught my eye, I was finally able to express what’s been bothering me about the old covers.

Sure, it’s neat to pair the book with a painting of a woman from roughly the same era as the book’s publication, give or take fifty years. But why must publishers consistently pick the strangest, dullest, homeliest ones possible?

A Barnes and Noble edition of “Pride and Prejudice”.

Who are these wan and dour ladies? Not Lizzie and Jane, surely. Who’s lurking behind them? Mr. Darcy? I think not.

A Dover Thrift edition of Jane Eyre

Who’s this? Bertha Mason? Jane has a bit more verve, as I recall.

A Barnes and Noble edition of “Persuasion”.

The pragmatic but sensitive Anne Elliot falls in love with a dashing young man, but her rude and foolish friends and family pressure her out of the marriage. Years later, the former lovers meet again and resolve not to pay any attention to each other…

A woman in what looks like a maid’s uniform slouching on the couch, reading a book by herself? Really, Barnes and Noble? You couldn’t come up with anything else to hint at Anne’s story?

These poorly-chosen images isolate their subjects from any greater context besides the visual message that This Story Is Old-Fashioned.

3)      Novels whose covers have a picture of an elegantly coiffed woman with her face turning away from the viewer.

“Who is this woman? She looks beautiful but I can’t quite see her face. Why is she turning away? She’s inscrutable yet dramatic. I will read this book to find out more about her.”

I bet these are the thoughts running through the minds of the buyers of the first fifty or so books which were published in the last few years with this type of image on the cover.

Can’t we think of something else?

Same goes for chick-lit historical fiction with cover art showing a lavishly dressed woman whose face is only one-third visible.

What, is it illegal to show a woman’s entire face on a book cover?

4)      “With a Preface by the Author” Fiction Editions

I just bought your book – why would I carp about your writing a preface?

Because you’re a successful novelist, not some Open Mic Night singer-songwriter regaling the audience with the story of How He Got The Idea For This Song while he tunes his guitar. I didn’t pick up your novel so I could spend the first chapter reading a self-indulgent mini-memoir about how nobody thought this book would come to be and lo and behold, it’s a best-seller.

I should note that I take less issue with an epilogue or concluding Author’s Note, should you feel that the story of how your novel was written merits some space between the covers. At least then I can finish the story and decide if I want to wade into your commentary, instead of facing a superfluous, mildly pretentious essay by you right off the bat, not knowing if it offers important context or if I can just proceed to the good stuff.

I’m looking at you, Ken Follett in “Pillars of the Earth”: a nine-page preface on how you conceived, researched and sold this novel, concluding with the insight, “Publishers, agents, critics, and the people who give out literary prizes generally overlooked this book, but you did not. You noticed that it was different and special, and you told your friends; and in the end the word got around”?

Your book is already long enough. I came here for some good fiction. Get on with it.

What annoys you about the books on your shelf?

 

 

How To Put Me Off Chicken Salad Forever

May 30, 2012

The following image, snapped and stored in my phone, has haunted me for almost two years.

Some well-meaning designer of signage at the take-out breakfast and lunch chain known as Au Bon Pain, contrary to the restaurant’s intentions, has seriously dampened my craving for chicken salad. And I love chicken salad.

There is so much wrong with this sandwich board.

First, it violates my personal objections to restaurant logos that cheesily anthropomorphize the food they serve. For example, if you specialize in seafood, don’t have a cartoon of a grinning, waving crab on your signage. The crabs aren’t happy about being eaten; pretending otherwise doesn’t make me more likely to eat at your restaurant.

Not helping my appetite, Dixie Crossroads Seafood Restaurant.

Better.

Second, for unknown reasons I’ve always been bothered by the artistic license that turns birds’ wing-feathers into hands.

Creepy.

But worst of all, I’m assuming that the marketers of Au Bon Pain want me to purchase their chicken salad based on the endorsement of a giant molting chicken who, with evident relish, is about to eat a sandwich made of its own flesh.

Who’s hungry?

Lay Off Pastor Worley! You’ve Misunderstood This Man of God.

May 25, 2012

Every time someone in America so much as farts in the direction of a liberal cause, I get a mass e-mail with a petition from a human rights organization faster than you can say “social media”. The outraged letter is already written for me. It even says “Sincerely, Alaina Mabaso” at the bottom. All I have to do is click once to open the e-mail, click on the link to the letter, and click again to add my name to the petition.

Saving the world has never been easier.

So it was that when Pastor Charles L. Worley of Providence Road Baptist Church in Maiden, North Carolina preached in a recent sermon (filmed and put on YouTube) that he’d figured out a way to get rid of the queers and gays and lesbians forever, my e-mail inbox and Facebook feed began to hum with rage.

As the Huffington Post puts it in its headline, Pastor Worley wants to “Put Gays and Lesbians In [An] Electrified Pen To Kill Them Off.”

“NC Pastor calls for concentration camps for gays” announced the e-mail I got today from the Human Rights Campaign (HRC).

“I was simply sickened to hear you advocate for LGBT people to be rounded up and killed off behind electrified fences,” the HRC says in the letter it so kindly wrote for me. “Your despicable remarks did not channel a message of faith, but instead a message of hate…I hope you will learn from this egregious error in judgment.”

Facebook comments were no less disturbed.

“He isn’t fit to pastor any church,” said one. “I say let’s hog tie his ass and kick the S@#T OUT OF HIM,” added another.

My cousin Jim is gay, and he lives in North Carolina (FYI, international readers: NC recently passed an amendment to its state constitution banning gay marriage and denying legal recognition of any civil unions and domestic partnerships, whether the partners are gay or straight – henceforth, the only partnerships recognized by the NC government will be heterosexual marriages). Jim penned an open letter to Pastor Worley, struggling to reconcile Worley’s hate with Christianity’s true call for mercy and not casting stones.

My cousin writes that he was “humbled” after working through his anger at Pastor Worley and realizing that no-one is perfect, including himself. “The judgment of Mr. Worley is not mine,” Jim says. “I am trying my best to love Mr. Worley in spite of his stones. I am going to drop my stones and let the Lord judge Mr. Worley.”

Poor Pastor Worley. If you guys would all just listen carefully to the recording itself, you’d see that we’ve misinterpreted the guy.

Yes, Pastor Worley opposes equal rights for gay people. “The Bahble’s agin’ it,” he says, “God’s agin’ it, Ah’m agin’ it, if you’ve got any sense, you’re agin’ it!”

This is greeted by hoots and amens from his congregation.

But why is everyone saying that Pastor Worley wants to round gays up in a concentration camp and murder them behind an electric fence?

Clearly, that’s not the point of what he’s actually saying.

Yes, it’s true he doesn’t want to share the world with gays. “Ah figured out a way to git rid of all the lesbians n’ queers but Ah couldn’t git it past Congress,” he says mournfully.

But how does he want to get rid of them? With an electric fence? No! He would simply use the gays’ own true nature against them.

Here’s what he says.

“Build a great big large fence, fifty or a hunnerd miles long. Put all the lesbians in there. Fly over and drop some food. Do the same thing with the queers and the homo-sexuals. And have the fence electrified so they can’t git out. In a few years they’ll die out. D’ya know why? They cain’t reproduce.”

What are we all getting so upset about? Clearly Pastor Worley is not looking at the gays’ isolation behind the fence, or even the electricity of said fence, as a fatal force. After all, he advocates feeding the gays by aerial deliveries. Fifty or a hundred miles is a lot of space – that’s hardly a “pen”, Huffington Post! Presumably the gays could forage, build shelters or even start a farm. They wouldn’t die at Pastor Worley’s hand.

Instead of calling for death camps, what he’s trying to call to our attention is a simple biological reality. Surely what he wants to point out is that there’s absolutely no merit in gays helping parent relatives’ children, adopting children, or even conceiving their own children through advances in reproductive science. Gays cannot reproduce, and their confinement behind the electric fence would simply serve to demonstrate this unavoidable fact to the public.

The gays would live out the rest of the current generation behind the fences, noshing on the food so generously air-dropped by Pastor Worley, and failing to replenish their ranks.

Of course, like any plan that seems flawless at face value, there could be glitches here and there. Yes, through the work of nature, we could rid ourselves of the current generation of American gays – but since it sometimes happens that gay children are born to heterosexual parents, even good, Godly ones, what then? Would these children be removed to join their compatriots behind the fence? That would bring up the problem of prolonging the gay population after all, especially if it turned out the gays were capable, in their way, of parenting these abandoned children.

We also would have to face the fact that some gays might not regard the air-drop of food supplies as sufficient incentive to relocate behind the fence. This might even make them want to conceal their homosexuality.

There’s also the chance, however small, that some of the gays, after being fenced, could escape. But if we can do such a good job of keeping the Mexicans out, surely a 100-mile electrified fence for the gays could be effectively guarded (current government funds for enforcement of anti-discrimination laws could be redirected to pay the guards).

These are all small problems that can surely be overcome for a greater cause.

So it isn’t clear to me why the media has denounced Pastor Worley as a bigot and a would-be mass murderer. We haven’t listened properly to the man. He doesn’t want to kill the gays any more than we want to kill endangered mollusks when we dam rivers for our own necessary uses. The gays would simply die out as a natural side-effect of a bigger agenda: to protect us all from the gays’ nefarious plan to love somebody.

The electric-fence proposal isn’t the only part of the sermon the media has insisted on denigrating, but again, they’ve completely missed the point.

“God have mercy, it makes me pukin’ sick to think about,” Pastor Worley says, wondering out loud if he can even say it at the pulpit. “If you imagine kissin’ some man…” his voice trails off in disgust.

While the media has assumed that Pastor Worley means to paint gays as people who collectively make the nation puke, I think this is secondary to his true meaning. The crux of his argument here is that we can sometimes get caught up in debating the social and civil aspects of gays’ quality of life – the right to visit partners in the hospital, take custody of partners’ children, obtain domestic partners’ health insurance, or work without fear of being fired for their gayness – when the important thing is to fixate on gay sex acts, just as it’s our God-given responsibility to dwell on the nighttime activities of every heterosexual couple we pass in the street.

And on a related note, I’m not ashamed to say that, as a married heterosexual woman, I completely agree with Pastor Worley on this. I wouldn’t want to kiss “some man” either – I want to kiss my spouse! Imagine kissing just anyone when you love someone else – yuck. Surely Pastor Worley, too, would like to point out the damage of kissing strangers all willy-nilly.

So that’s why I think we all owe Pastor Worley an apology. As so often happens in the hurricane of fury that passes for American news, we’ve misjudged the true facts of the situation. Even the Human Rights Campaign has gotten it dead wrong, calling for Pastor Worley to regret his “error in judgment.”

I find that Pastor Worley’s sermon is more of an exercise in gut feeling, rather than reason. Just another way the media misrepresents him.

So I hope you can all join me in spreading Pastor Worley’s word. I could’ve just signed that letter from my in-box, but there was so much more I wanted to say.

In case anyone is in any doubt, and it seems from the comments that they are, the reason I signed up with the Human Rights Campaign in the first place is that I strongly oppose statements like those from Pastor Worley. It’s a pretty sad reflection of the world that religiously-justified bigotry like Worley’s is so prevalent that some people didn’t know I was joking. However this piece strikes you, you’re welcome to leave a comment. 


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