Brides and Sex: A Tale Of Two Madonnas

I'm deeply disturbed by this article I just read, "MySpace Generation Brides Go For Sexy, Not Virginal." And it's not just the incredibly upsetting comments at the bottom of the page (from the sexist pig who thinks men are smarter than women, from the prissy snot who says she's a "Christian" and wouldn't be "filthy" enough to have sex before marriage, because it would bring "shame on [her] family")— it's just the judgmental tone of the article overall.

Presenting the facts is one thing; setting the facts up as a comparison that puts women in an unfair position is another. Like this sentence: "More vamp than virgin, [brides are] having bachelorette parties that are as raunchy as their fiancés' sendoffs." Here, the insinuated problem is not that the raunchiness is occurring, but that it is occurring EQUALLY— that brides are daring to expect the same experience as their fiances. Or how about this quote from Stephanie Coontz, some social historian who decided to write one of those pop-history books that publishers so love to issue: "I worry that [sexualization] can take over. The message you're sending about your appearance can override other conversations you should be having about your future." The unspoken assumption in this sentence is that sexuality sends a NEGATIVE message about one's appearance, never a positive one.

Did I miss something? Did we somehow warp ourselves back into the 1890s? Why the hell would anyone care if a bride wants to look sexy?

I didn't want a particularly vampy look at my wedding, but that's just not my style. I DID wear a strapless dress, though, with a lace-up bodice. Does that make me, the minister's wife, a whore?

The strange thing about this article is how it seems to draw some sort of parallel between the sexualization of children and the sexualization of brides. It's almost as if the article conflates the two states, and presents this image of child brides standing at the altar in corsets and fishnets.

I understand the line of thinking they're presenting— that the sexualized behavior that children learn in adolescence can manifest itself in adulthood— but I don't agree that this way of analyzing the subject draws a reasonable conclusion. This line of thinking assumes a pre-existing condition that hasn't existed since the 1800s, at least: that there is no time gap between childhood and marriage. It's as though they expect women to move directly from girlhood to wifedom without any mitigating non-married adult life in between. Obviously, people haven't done marriage that way for a good long time— why can't we acknowledge that brides are grown-up women, not Disney characters or Barbies, and that they have every right to be in control of their sexuality?

Bizarrely enough, the article even acknowledges that the gap between childhood and marriage exists, saying that women are getting married later and later (as though this were a bad thing!), usually around 28 or so. But somehow it still attempts to make this connection between teen sexiness and grown-up sexiness: "In American society now, you see little girls being sexed up...You can't disconnect that from the way the wedding industry is going. We have 13-year-olds getting makeovers and having oral sex." (A quote from another pop sociologist— geez, they just let anyone major in sociology these days, don't they?)

Wait...you don't get to justify your logic by using the word "can't." This woman is pretty much just saying that you "can't" ignore the connection between teen sex and sexy weddings because teens have sex and women get married in sexy dresses. That's not the way an argument works, my dear. That's like if I said: "Obviously, eating mangos can give you a heart attack. You can't ignore the connection; people eat mangos, and people have heart attacks. It's simple."

Y'know, I hate to tell you, but my generation— the generation I assume they're discussing— ISN'T THE MYSPACE GENERATION TO BEGIN WITH. Didn't the author do any research? The "MySpace generation" is my fifteen-year-old sister's generation, and they're not getting married yet; my generation was ALREADY GROWN UP when MySpace and Facebook came around. Guys, that's like calling forty-year-olds the "Pruis generation" just because they happened to be alive when Pruises were invented. That doesn't even make sense.

Furthermore, the article grossly exaggerates the degree to which exhibitionism contributes to bridal sexualization. The author, while mentioning in passing that boudoir photos are usually only taken as a gift to the groom, seems to deliberately mislead the audience into imagining that such personal pictures would be displayed at the ceremony or posted in public forums. Boudoir photos (a recent movement that I found confusing in my bridal days, but which seemed to genuinely empower some women) are almost always intended to be given privately to the husband-to-be after the ceremony, almost as a dual bridal gift— the wife has fun shooting the pictures, and the husband enjoys looking at them. It's not my cup of tea, but if other people want to do these things privately, who's to tell them they're wrong? It's not like they're forcing family and friends to stare at their thong-clad behinds. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that the real exhibitionism comes with virginity rings and purity balls and all the other silly ways women have come up with to broadcast the fact that they enjoy commodifying their virginity.

It's this weird fusion of the feminine and the childish that bothers me. So does the article's way of repeatedly contrasting sexualized brides with Disney princesses. The piece never actually explains why its author seems to imagine that grown women would WANT to look like princesses when they get married. We're not nine years old, are we? So why would we want to look like Prom queens instead of healthy, happy, sexual women?

This fusion also bothers me because it intimates that one cannot be opposed to teen sex without also being opposed to grown women having sex. Let's go over this concept again, shall we: there are some things that are good (or at least acceptable) for adults and bad for children. Drinking, for example. Having babies. Owning homes.

It's like cosmetics— grown women use them, but kids shouldn't. I don't think kids should wear makeup— not even teenagers— because I think you need time during your teen years to become comfortable with how you look. If you've been wearing makeup constantly since you were twelve, you won't have any idea what you truly look like— or how you truly feel about your natural, naked self— when you're, say, eighteen. I had a friend in high school who once told me, when we were both sixteen, that she couldn't fathom the idea of walking out the door without makeup. "I feel so ugly without this stuff on my face," she said. "I don't want people to see what I really look like." She was a smart, straight-A student who is now studying law at UPenn, so it's not like she was a shallow creature. She just hadn't learned, at age sixteen, to like herself for herself. I've lost touch with her, so I don't know if she ever found out how to do that.

That's what I think sex is like— having it too young means that you prevent yourself from learning important things about who you are. In order to learn the right lessons about your sexuality, you first have to reach that state of comfort in your identity, even if you don't fully understand that identity. And while I've never met a teen who didn't think they were perfectly comfortable with themselves and who didn't assume that they could handle anything the world could throw at them, I've also never met a teen who was right about those assumptions.

But just because it's not a good idea to do it before you graduate from high school doesn't mean it's not a good idea at all. That's just silly, folks. I mean, my sister is fifteen, and I don't think she should be having sex at her age. But if, when she graduates from high school and she's at least eighteen years old and she's begun college, she comes to me and says, "Should I have sex with my boyfriend?" I wouldn't necessarily say no. I'd probably say, "You should think about it, and you should make the best decision you can. I can't tell you what to do, because you're an adult now, and you have to make these choices yourself." And then I'd offer to take her to get some birth control, and I'd tell her everything I know about the pill and condoms and STDs and abstinence and the emotions and consequences associated with sex. Teen sex and grownup sex are different, and I think, in our hysteria over the supposed "culture wars," we're forgetting that.

Furthermore, why aren't we MORE disturbed by women who want to live the "Disney princess" fantasy instead of exploring their sexuality in a healthy way? I'm more disgusted by that phenomenon, because that really IS trying to conflate childhood innocence with virginal purity in adulthood. And even then, why does it have to be a choice between these two extremes? On such an important and meaningful day, why does a bride have to choose between the Madonna and the Madonna? Why are there only two paths— Cinderella or Roxanne? What's wrong with being sexy AND proud— moral AND empowered?

I guess, when it comes down to it, I'm disappointed that this article even exists. If the whole piece had been written as one of those fluffy, look-at-this-month's-fashion-trends type of things, I wouldn't have even cared. But I felt as though this piece was written with a certain agenda, under certain assumptions, and with a certain disdain for women in general. The whole time I was reading, I felt vaguely insulted.

Why is it still news when a woman is unafraid of sex?

Organic Fast Food? Really?

Did you know that there's such a thing as organic fast food?

Well, apparently there is.

The good news is that at least one of these companies is located in each of the cities in which I could potentially be living soon— so no matter where I live, I could possibly be able to check some of these places out for myself!

Has anyone actually ever had any food from these chains (excluding Chipotle, which even exists here in Y-town)? Is it any good?

Reflections on Friendship

Someone posed an interesting question at work today:

What is a friend?

I mean, the answer seems obvious at first— so obvious that you might not even be able to give a verbal definition because you can’t believe it’s the kind of thing you’d have to explain. But when you think about it, the idea of what constitutes a “friend” (instead of, say, an acquaintance, or a colleague, or “the guy who makes my daily latte and usually talks to me about interesting things while he’s making it”) isn’t all that simple, especially today.

If I were a character in a Jane Austen novel, I’d know exactly what a “friend” is. Back then, friends were people with whom you visited, with whom you attended parties, whom you would invite to dinner at your house. Being friends with a person wouldn’t be that hard— you would meet, you would enjoy one another’s company, and then you might make plans to meet again. As a result, people didn't have many friends— or if they did, their friends were all in the same social circle, and they rarely befriended people who lived differently than they did.

But since then, things have changed. In the era of constant contact via Twitter and Facebook and cell phones and AIM and email and voicemail— who are your friends?

It’s not so simple to figure that out, sometimes.

I mean, no definition of friendship today can reasonably attempt to introduce the subject of face time. The world has gotten smaller; we make friends in one part of the world, and then before we know it, we’re living in a new part. I went to boarding school with people from 88 different countries, and while some of those people moved to America after they graduated, plenty more did not. Of those who did move to America, most didn’t move to my neck of the woods in Ohio. I can’t see those friends on a regular basis; I haven’t seen my dearest friend from UWC, Margarita, since my wedding nine months ago (and I NEED to call her, because I’ve been meaning to do that for weeks now…). None of my Vassar friends live in Ohio, with the exception of Erin— who lives just far enough away from me that frequent visits aren’t possible. But I still consider those people I loved in college to be my friends, even if I haven’t seen them since graduation.

More and more, I find myself trying to invent new titles for people I would like to consider friends: “This guy I know” or “someone I met in film class” or “Linda, who sits two desks down from mine at work.” The girl I mentioned in my sexy brides post, the one I knew in high school, the one to whom I haven’t spoken in perhaps four years— I still think I’d like to be her friend, if it were at all possible. I’m her Facebook friend, anyway, and I see from her profile that she’s become a skilled, interesting, and erudite young woman with whom I’m sure I could have a large number of stimulating conversations. From her photos, I know she’s also still fun and humorous, and I think we’d have a good time if we got together and talked about old times.

But there’s that distance there— you know, that gap that opens up after you haven’t spoken to someone in a long time. You don’t want that gap to keep getting wider, because the wider it gets, the less able you’ll be to rekindle the friendship. And yet, because the gap exists, you don’t know whether or not it can be crossed.

What would happen if I wrote on her Facebook wall? What would happen if I sent her an email? What would happen if I asked a mutual friend, a friend with whom we are both still in contact, if I could have her number, and called her on the phone?

We’d probably hit it off again. We’d probably talk for a while, and enjoy the shared memories. We’d probably make plans to meet and talk in person. We’d probably drift apart again, after a few years, but we might make some sort of effort to keep a comfortable, distant correspondence going.

But the possibility will always exist that she won’t write back, that she’ll ignore the post, that there will be silence on the line, followed by a loud click. And my pride won’t let me risk it. Or maybe it’s not my pride— maybe it’s something a little more sentimental and silly than that. Maybe I don’t want to confront the very real possibility that I let a friend become a stranger simply because I was lazy and busy and not really acting the way a good friend would act.

And I’m wondering if that’s not really a lot of what's so appealing about Facebook. With social networking applications and websites, we never have to admit to ourselves that our friendships have died. Even if we haven’t spoken to someone in years, even if we haven’t invited them to our weddings or parties or even over to our houses, even if we don’t know the names of their now-husbands or faceless children— we can still comfort ourselves with that slender Facebook connection: we’re still friends on the internet. Even if we don’t talk, even if we don’t share secrets, even if we’ve become completely different, even irreconcilable, types of people in the months or years or even decades we’ve been apart— we can still see each other’s faces, in the form of profile pictures, every day. We can still click on a link and see inside our “friend’s” apartment in Chelsea, and learn that our “friend” is working at IBM, and know that our “friend” voted for John McCain or Barack Obama or Ralph Nader.

It’s a sense of false intimacy, really. If all I know about you is your name and what you look like, or what you used to look like, then we couldn’t really be friends. But if I know you’ve joined a group dedicated to environmentalism, and I can see pictures of you bathing your one-year-old son in the kitchen sink, and I know what you’re doing ever moment of every day, even the mundane nuances of your humdrum existence— “Philosophy is having dinner,” “Philosophy is missing her husband!” “Philosophy loves watching TV”— then how could we ever be strangers?

Even if we barely remember what it was like to hear one another’s voices, how can we claim to be indifferent to one another, knowing and experiencing the things we do?

Reality Check

Okay. I don't know what was said or written to make everybody all pissy this week. To be frank with you, I usually avoid the personality conflict drama that goes on here; I'm a lot more interested in talking about, y'know, important stuff. So I have no idea what's gone down this week, and I have no idea why everyone's gotten all defensive, or why some people have been rumored to be leaving the site, or why everyone seems to be sniping at one another like teenagers on MySpace.

But I DO know that it better stop RIGHT NOW.

I think we need to keep a few things in mind as we move forward here on PNN:

1. This is not a message board.

Guys, this is a blog site. A blog site hosts many different blogs— some personal, some professional— and creates a loosely bound community of different people with different interests. Dialogue is one aspect of a blog site, but it is not the ONLY aspect.

My mother frequents some silly message board site called "Moms Who Think," and she's always talking about the drama that ensues there. One person gets pissy, and all of a sudden it's like they're all back in high school— name-calling and accusations and gossip and rumors. This is the natural state of message boards; they're intended for people to hold anonymous conversations, and having petty dialogue with someone you've never met can get real ugly, real fast.

But, uh, that's not really how this whole PNN thing is supposed to work. See, on a blog, the author writes a post, and then the reader takes time to read the post, to reflect upon it, and then (perhaps, if he or she finds some of the content particularly laudable or offensive) to write a respectful, insightful, and USEFUL comment below. The way it does NOT work is for a person to come on, half-heartedly skim the post, and then write some hip, disaffected bullshit about the author. If you don't want to participate by engaging the issue at hand in the post, then DON'T. You have the power to walk away. You have the power to click on a different website.

This is not a place for personal attacks, and it is ALSO not a place for childish antics. This is a blog site. If you would LIKE to find a silly, mean-spirited message board on which to mock others, here's the site for you.

2. This is not highschool.

I was under the impression that the vast majority of us on PNN are adults. We are no longer in highschool— ergo, we are no longer permitted to act in the way teenagers act.

This means we are prohibited from doing the following: name-calling, gossiping about other people, posting nasty things about particular people, engaging in "popularity contests" or making others feel left out or ignored, acting or behaving petulantly, making comments anonymously in order to be absolved from the responsibility of justifying those comments, and otherwise belittling or putting others down for no other reason that it makes the belittler feel good about him/herself.

3. This is not an exclusive website.

Anyone who wants to sign up for PNN can do so. Anyone who wants to write for PNN can do so. Anyone who wants to leave PNN can do so. There are no restrictions (other than, I believe, the usual age guidelines regarding the privacy rights of minors).

I would also like us to keep in mind the way PNN was ORIGINALLY set up. I've been writing for PNN since April of 2008; I first became a paid feature writer on May or June of that month. Therefore, I've been with PNN for more than a year now, and I remember how PNN was originally set up.

PNN was not "the global water cooler for women" then. That tagline came much, much later. PNN was a blog site about telling one's story; the name "Personal News Network" implies, after all, a sort of broad cross-section of society, a gathering place where people from all different backgrounds could share their stories and discover the stories of others. This is why I joined PNN, at first— because I loved the idea that people in all different parts of the world were writing and communicating together.

I have been skeptical of the the move from "Personal News Network" to "PNN: the global water cooler for women" for a multitude of reasons, most significantly because I think the phrase "water cooler" implies a certain fluffiness that was not an original component of the site. When standing around the water cooler at work, I might discuss important issues (politics, religion, marriage) or unimportant ones (who won America's Next Top Model, the chick in accounting who brought in a wicked cute puppy last week, the number of phone calls we've been getting in the office that day), but no matter what I talk about, it's surface chatter, designed to pass the few minutes of my break time but not intended to move beyond those minutes.

When we write on PNN, I would hope that we attempt to comport ourselves in a respectful manner that does not in any way minimize the importance of the topics we're discussing. Sometimes we talk about elections, and sometime we talk about babies; sometimes we vent about our jobs, and sometimes we vent about sexism. But I think we should treat each poster's topic the way we would treat a post on a major, syndicated blog— not only with respect, but with a certain attention to audience. When you comment on a post, everyone who reads the blog, not just the original poster, can access your comment. I feel like some of us have forgotten this.

I've also become unsure about the "water cooler for women" change because I think some of us use it as an excuse to shunt out the men who come here looking for new perspectives. I think it's important to remember that when this site started, there were an equal number of men and women writing here; when the site's tagline changed, however, the men began to disappear, and I really HAVE missed their perspective on things. I'm also discouraged that it's so hard to convince my male friends to read my blog, or to start their own blogs on PNN; it seems unfair to claim to be open to all perspectives and then to blatantly discourage half the planet from participating. I don't mind the focus on women— but I think that men might have some perspectives on women and women's issues that they should be able to share. After all, it's clear from our blogs that we women have plenty of things to say about men, right?

I only know that I would be hurt and offended if I felt I had something valuable to say on a men's-themed site, and I was told to go away because I'm a woman. Obviously, women have a certain authority on issues that deal with them exclusively, but I don't think you have to be a woman to discuss friendships, boyfriends, girlfriends, politics, books, or any of the vast number of topics we exhaust in even a day.

This is really my main point, in summary: we seem to be forgetting why we came here, and what PNN has meant for us, and why other people may have come to the site. And I think we need to sort of get back to basics, in a way— to remind ourselves why we first started writing in this excellent place. Perhaps we should all go back and look at some of our original posts and remember what we said then.

I looked at some of my first posts just now. I wrote so much about weddings and relationships back then! And with the big election coming up, I wrote much more about serious political topics, and got a lot of serious comments in return. Some of the comment-leavers are long gone— like Lori, an uber-conservative lady who left before many of you had ever even heard of PNN. Others have remained to this day— chitown, and cereals (now known as welshgrl), and many more.

For the first time ever, I'm disabling comments on a post— not because I don't want to hear from you (you can send me a message if you want), but because I fear that I'll just provide yet another space for people to hash this thing out. I don't want to perpetuate the whole brouhaha, so I'm going to ask that you not use my other posts for comments relating to this one. I did not write this post in order to provoke either praise or controversy, so I don't want to court either by starting yet another comment-based argument.

I just felt that maybe we've all gotten a little bent out of shape, and that it might be high time to get a grip and remember what drew us all here in the first place.

The End of Cool

Today I realized that I’m never going to be cool again.

Adam’s teenaged cousin and her friend were over at his grandparents’ house, which is where we’re staying until we go to Florida. I walked into the room wearing blue striped pants and a giant orange men’s hoodie with the logo of the Cleveland Browns on it (it was Adam’s, as I’m sure you can guess). Clearly, I was not attired fashionably.

“I like your hoodie,” the friend said.

“Oh, thanks,” I said. “It’s my husband’s, actually. He likes the Browns.”

“Good for him,” she said, giving me a Teenager Look. And then I realized that she thought I was ridiculous.

And after that, I suddenly knew: no matter how young or how inexperienced a person may be, when that person’s friends are suddenly all wives/husbands and mothers/fathers and lawyers/linguists/doctors/graduate students/activists/politicians, that person is no longer cool. When your friends’ status messages on Facebook are now about closing on houses and getting PhDs and weddings and ultrasounds and med schools, you have passed your “cool” expiration date.

I always thought I’d be able to hang on to my cool until at least my late thirties. I’m smart, I’m sassy, I’m cute, I’ve got wicked-cool glasses, and I certainly look youthful. I know plenty of people who are cool at any age— I mean, my grandma, at age 85, always seemed cool to me, even as a teen.

Now, though, I realize that my cool went out of style with the word “cool.” The other day, I was talking with my sisters, and I said something was “totally cool.” As the words came out of my mouth, they sounded like our parents did when they told us something was “hip” or “rad” or “far out”— I sounded dated.

And I am dated, in a way. I’m still young, but I’m a young grown-up, and as soon as you become a grown-up (which happens at different times for different people; I’ve known people who were grown up at seventeen, and people who, at forty, still hadn’t grown up) you suddenly begin to lose your cool. One day you look in the mirror, and you realize that something is different— your physical beauty no longer comes from the blush in your cheeks or the hard lines of your figure, but rather from the depth in your eyes and from the pre-Raphaelite softness of your body as it settles into itself. (The older I get, the more I feel that older woman are far more beautiful than younger ones— that there really is something far more lovely in the curve of laugh lines than in smooth, unblemished, uninteresting skin.)

My priorities have shifted so drastically over these past few years, and my wants and needs have changed so much, that sometimes I wonder if my seventeen-year-old self— dreamy and pink-haired— would even recognize this new woman, a woman who is learning to cook and to be patient and (sometimes) to not tell everyone everything about her life. I know that when we tell my sister Sarah that she’s going to change a lot between now and her twenties, she just rolls her eyes, but I wish I could explain to her just how true that is— the people with whom she is currently friends will probably be Facebook memories, the classes she hates now will have been completely forgotten, and she’ll have new friends, new crushes, new dreams. When I was her age, I wanted to be a lawyer, and I wanted to move to Thailand, and I wanted to adopt a baby and parent it all by myself. And now I’m married to a future priest and I’m working as a writer and I don’t want any babies right now and I couldn’t be happier with the person I’ve become. I also know that I'll keep changing, and I can't wait to meet 30-year-old Philosophy— a Philosophy who might have a steady job and a big apartment and maybe even a daughter or a son.

My seventeen-year-old self would laugh at my now-self. My seventeen-year-old self would think that my now-self is silly, and boring, and totally uncool.

And in that case, I think “uncool” is the best thing to be. Because I’m so happy being me— knowing who I am, and what I want, and getting the hang of responsibility and making good choices. I’d trade cool for comfortable in a heartbeat.

It turns out that the person I want to be isn’t cool. The person I want to be is fun, and smart, and kind, but she’s not cool.

Goodbye, cool. And good riddance!

Less Driving, More Walking!

I was interested to see this article, entitled "The End of Car Culture?" While the data suggesting that Americans are gaining more weight alarms us all, we can at least be excited that Americans are apparently driving less and less.

This is exciting to me for a variety of reasons, most of which relate to my extreme dislike of driving in general. I only just got my driver's license this past fall— in fact, I managed to rearrange two coming-of-age benchmarks in my life, as I actually got married before I learned to drive. Even now, I hate being behind the wheel of a car— it makes me sweat and shake just thinking about it. I've actually had nightmares about driving. In fact, yesterday and today I had to drive myself around, since my husband was out of town, and I ended up invoking Jesus' name in a pathetic plea for my life at least twice while driving to my mother's house to return a carpet cleaner. Seriously, I thought I was going to die. Today, I was so nervous about driving myself to work that my grandparents-in-law (with whom we are staying for about three days until we go down to Florida) finally just drove me there so I wouldn't stress so badly.

I also hate to drive because I feel silly doing it. I'm always looking for ways to incorporate physical activity into my day, and I'm always looking for ways to be eco-conscious— so why would I drive more than I have to? I'd rather walk to the store and enjoy the day, or take my bike to the library and get some fresh air. (Although when I do that, I frequently get hit on by high school football players, who seem to mistake me for a sixteen-year-old ingénue instead of a twenty-four-year-old preacher's wife.) I suppose it's easier for me than for most people, though— growing up, my mother didn't drive, so she made me walk EVERYWHERE, and now I'm used to it.

So the fact that people are driving less is great for me, because maybe this'll mean that public transportation will be important to more and more people. One of the things I've missed here is public transportation— and I know that a subway or light rail system probably isn't possible in a place like this, but why couldn't we have buses that run on actual schedules?

Ever since last summer, I've noticed more and more people on bicycles. Before that, I only ever saw children riding bikes; now I see people of all ages riding them, and not just in the park— they ride to the store, or to the hair salon, or sometimes even to work. And while I know that's not possible in these frigid Ohio winters, it's still nice to see people making an effort in the summer months.

So hats off to you, America! Thanks for driving less. I sure do appreciate it.

Keep The Faith, My Brave Companions!

Adam and I are, as you have probably noticed, in the process of moving. In fact, right now I'm getting ready to go to sleep on an air mattress, surrounded by boxes and piles of clothes.

So I wanted to warn you that I might not be able to post as regularly as usual for the next few days. Before leaving the state entirely on the 6th, I'll be at my grandmother-in-law's house, so my internet access may be limited.

But please don't stop reading! I promise that, in about two or three days, I will update on a host of awesome topics, including (but not limited to) a thrilling press release on where exactly we'll be attending seminary! (Hint: expect the news around Thursday.)

So I beg of you: do not lose hope. A New Philosophy shall forge bravely onward, make no mistake!

Moving Day

Tomorrow is moving day, which means Adam and I will be spending most of our evening (after I get home from work, anyway) packing up the rest of our stuff.

I hate packing.

To be sure, I've been waiting for this day for the past year. I’m used to picking up and leaving; I’ve done it since I was little, and I hope to keep changing my location around for a long time to come.

But I don’t like the process of packing.

For one thing, you never realize how much STUFF you have until you try and put it all into cardboard boxes. I like to think of myself as a fairly non-materialistic person, so it’s always a nasty shock when I realize just how much crap I have accumulated over the years.

Books and clothes are especially problematic— I tend to accrue those two types of items in excess. I have too many books, both for the obvious reason that I just graduated from college, and for the less obvious reason that I have a sentimental attachment to certain novels and poetry anthologies. The reasons for my huge clothing stash, however, are more varied, and more complicated:

1.) I haven’t changed in size or shape much since I was twelve, so I haven’t really outgrown my clothes in quite a bit;

2.) I’m pretty small in general, so lots of people give me their old hand-me-downs when they (or their kids) have outgrown them;

3.) I hardly ever buy new clothes, but prefer to shop at Salvation Army or Goodwill, which means I have access to very cheap clothes in large quantities (i.e., instead of buying a new pair of jeans for $30, I’ll buy three pairs of used jeans for $10); and:

4.) I never ever ever throw clothes away, because it is possible that I might want them in the future (i.e., I would never throw away the hugely oversized tee-shirt I got for free from a church youth group mission trip when I was thirteen, because I could use it in the future as a paint smock, or as maternity sleepwear [waaaay in the future…], or I could cut it up for rags).

My packrat tendencies are probably a result of the Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder; I’m told that it can manifest itself in hoarding, if not properly treated. I don’t hoard, exactly, but I keep things that I don’t need to keep: old birthday cards, copies of some of the better essays I’ve written, shoes that haven’t fit me since ninth grade, old copies of Cosmopolitan. And while every move does cause me to shed a few of these relics, I usually just tote most of them around from city to city, state to state, even country to country (I still have an old mini-purse that my host mom gave me in France; I don’t even like it, but I don’t want to throw it away!)

And it’s not just the stuff: I hate how your apartment or house or room looks so bare after everything’s gone. You’ve been living here for months; when you picture “home,” you see this place, comfy and lived-in, with your favorite slippers under the bed or your teakettle whistling on the stove. And now that everything is gone, it’s just a stupid bare space, and you once again don’t have a real image of “home” in your head.

I hate how everything smells when it comes out of storage— musty and kind of old, and you don’t know whether you should wash everything or just Fabreeze it to death. I hate how you have to pack dissonant items together in one box or bag— like, in order to save space, how you have to put the towels with the clothes, or the dishes with the silverware, or books alongside knickknacks. I hate how you always try to pack so strategically— write the contents on the side of the box, wrap breakable things in newspaper, pack the important stuff last so you’ll have it first when you get to your new place— and then you always end up having to unpack certain things and then repack them again in a different way.

Like I said, I hate packing.

But I keep reminding myself of all the stuff I love about moving: opening the door for the first time in your new home, learning all the ins and outs of the neighborhood, finding new places to eat, to take walks, or just to hang out. I love unpacking each item, placing it carefully where it belongs, and enjoying the neatness and organization of a newly occupied home (a neatness which, by the way, is ephemeral, and only lasts a few days at the most).

So even though I hate packing, I’m excited about this move. I can’t wait to find a job, to meet some new friends, to catch up with old friends (no matter where we move, I’ll finally be near to some of my friends from college!), and to see my husband in a place where he is appreciated and respected (I’M LOOKING AT YOU, YSU).

Really, even though this whole time is really stressful, it’s also kind of an adventure. And I love adventure!

What do you love/hate about moving?

On Partnership and Priorities

I’m confused and annoyed by this article, “On Marriage: Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off,” in which the author seems convinced that a happy marriage is impossible.

The problem, of course, is that the author is presupposing that the conditions under which she maintained her marriage are unavoidable; they are not, however, and they really explain a lot about the dissolution of her relationship.

See, her marriage broke up because she took on an extramarital affair; when she disclosed the affair and went with her husband to counseling, she began to lament the “work” that goes into a relationship. She then listed all the chores she deals with everyday, including picking the kids up from school, sorting mail, waiting for the cable guy, and feeding the dog. She ends that paragraph with this forlorn conclusion:

“Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance.”

My issue here is that she seems to feel that the institution of marriage is responsible for her inability to take on this new “project.” I posit, however, that this failure results from the way in which she has prioritized her life.

“I’m busy” seems like everyone’s greatest defense these days. Life is fast-paced and everyone knows it, so not having the time for something as fundamental as your relationships with other people is a pretty much a given now. But I wonder how many people realize that putting money and hobbies and responsibilities before these relationships is a CHOICE, and has little to do with the strength of the marriage (or friendship) itself.

Put more bluntly: if this chick is more willing to include “wait for the cable guy” than “fix my relationship with my husband” on her to-do list, why is she blaming the institution of marriage for her divorce? Why isn’t she scratching “wait for the cable guy” off of her list first?

The problem is that people think you can have it all: money, power, love, stability, freedom. You can’t have everything you’ve ever wanted, folks. That’s pretty much the big lesson of growing up: that you have to pick which things are important to you, and then you have to prioritize them. This is what’s important to me: my family, my friends, learning, discovering. Here are the things that I would like to have, but which are much less important: fame, wealth, beauty, popularity. Therefore, I put that first list ahead of the second one; in a showdown between family and money, say, family will win. I will always turn down that high-paying job because it requires too much travel or because it would keep me away from my family. And this is what makes me happy: knowing that the things that are important to me will always come first. There's nothing wrong with having priorities that are different— say, money over family— but then you don't get to be surprised when your marriage doesn't work out, just like I don't get to be surprised when I'm dirt poor. If marriage comes after other things, then you'll be more successful in those other things than in marriage.

If the author had gone for a genuine defense of polyamory, I might have bought it. I believe that, for some people, polyamory can be a healthy way to build relationships. It’s not for me, but then again, neither is online dating or bungee jumping— just because it’s not my thing doesn’t mean I disapprove of it. But the author isn’t really arguing that she should feel free to love more than one person. She even dismisses the possibility of sexually open marriages, saying that they’re just too “icky” to most people. Really, she just thinks she should be free to have sex with someone else while her husband provides shelter and stability, all the while not really pursuing love with anyone:

“If high-revving women are sexually frustrated, let them have some sort of French arrangement where they have two men, the postfeminist model dad building shelves, cooking bouillabaisse, and ignoring them in the home, and the occasional fun-loving boyfriend the kids never see. Alternately, if both spouses find life already rather exhausting, never mind chasing around for sex. Long-married husbands and wives should pleasantly agree to be friends, to set the bedroom aglow at night by the mute opening of separate laptops and just be done with it. More than anything, aside from providing insulation from the world at large, that kind of arrangement could be the perfect way to be left alone.”

Maybe she’s being sarcastic, and I just don’t get it. Maybe she’s being trendy and clever, and I don’t understand.

But that sounds like an awfully lonely way to live.

Perhaps it’s her closing paragraph that most acutely demonstrates why I think she’s wrong:

“In any case, here’s my final piece of advice: avoid marriage — or you too may suffer the emotional pain, the humiliation, and the logistical difficulty, not to mention the expense, of breaking up a long-term union at midlife for something as demonstrably fleeting as love.”

There we have it: love. Love is part of a marriage, to be sure— but it is ONLY ONE PART. You also need affection, kindness, patience, compatibility, compassion, and trust.

Even ignoring the elitist, yuppie suppositions and attitudes that ran throughout the piece (for example, she maintains a sort of subtle distaste for men who cook and clean, especially with her description of how a friend discussed her husband’s pursuits: ““Ian has his Cook’s Illustrated…And his — his men’s online fennel club”), most of this article was a real crock. Maybe the part about how today’s couples are strangely drawn to the 1950s model of a marriage was kind of interesting, but the rest was pretty self-absorbed and silly.

Marriage certainly isn’t for everyone— but it’s not useless to EVERYONE. I mean, to be honest with you, I don’t know a whole lot of divorced people. Well, I have one uncle who got divorced, but that’s it. Everyone else in my family and my circle of friends is happily married or happily unmarried— no divorce needed. We have happy, healthy marriages in my family, and it doesn’t seem like any of us are “staying for the kids” (in fact, some of us don’t even have kids— a thought that never seems to occur to this article’s author). How does she explain us? Her assumptions only seem to work in her world, not in mine; they only work with her set of values, not the values I share with my family.

I don’t think divorce is some sort of horrible thing, to be honest with you. People grow apart, and lives diverge, and sometimes personalities change. I think the freedom to seek divorce when you want it is a great thing, and I don’t disapprove of people who divorce— divorce is just as much of a right as marriage.

But I think this woman is championing divorce for the wrong reasons, and is condemning marriage for the wrong reasons. And that makes me sad.

Road Trip Madness!

When I was little, we almost always took vacations by car. Planes were too expensive, trains didn’t go where we wanted, and besides— who doesn’t want to spend three days looking at billboard advertisements from over the top of a younger sister’s head? :P

But we had a lot of fun on those trips, and it was always so cool to plan for them beforehand— to get out the old National Geographic atlas (oh, the pre-MapQuest days!) and trace out our route with a highlighter, to get travel guides from the library (what did we do without the internet then?), to gather up new books and tapes and snacks and get ready to see America. There was always a surprise along the way— an unexpected vista or photo op, a dime-store puzzle book from my mother to keep me occupied, a game to invent with my sisters (many of which ended in tears for them, which was half the fun for me!), and a hotel pool, some cable TV, and a continental breakfast to be thoroughly appreciated.

The last long car trip we took wasn’t all that long ago—my parents and sisters drove from Ohio to New Mexico to see me graduate from high school, and then we all drove back again. And while there were a few squabbles (“She’s listening to her music too loudly!” “She’s eating in an annoying way— make her stop!”) it was still a trip I’ll never forget.

Which is why I’m so eager to start our adventurous trip down to Florida! I’ve been doing some research, and I came up with some cool info for car trips:

-Road snacks don’t have to be greasy! In order to save money on food, Adam and I are planning to make some meals and snacks beforehand and then eat them on the road. I liked this site’s suggestion of veggies, roasted nuts, and string cheese, and this site has got me interested in making ANZAC biscuits, which sound both yummy and able to withstand two days in a hot car.

-Even with the free continental breakfast at our South Carolina hotel, we’ll probably have to break down and have at least one fast food meal (and who can afford to go to sit down restaurants anymore? Pfffff!). So I’ve been researching which fast food places are the healthiest; while I’ve never actually seen a few of the listed restaurants here in Ohio, they might exist down South, so we may be able to find them there, after all.

-I have a lot of trouble with car sickness. Maybe it’s a defective inner ear issue, or maybe it’s because I’m just sort of a whiner, but I often get queasy on long trips— although this will be my first time actually sharing the driving responsibilities on one of these trips, so maybe that will help.

Anyways, I liked this little blurb on how to avoid car sickness. Blech…hopefully I can skip over it this time around.

-I found these general tips, which included some small stretches to do at rest stops, pretty helpful.

Oh goodness, I’m so excited! Let’s do this!

Anyone have some road trip advice/experiences/tips to share with me?

Wine Is Fine!

I'm so pleased to have been awarded the wine gift certificate at last night's Girls' Night Out!

It was a fun night— made all the more fun by the fact that I now get to purchase some wine. I've already decided how to spend the booty: half will go to purchasing a birthday gift for my mom, and half will go to a birthday gift for my husband! And that's good news, because we're pretty poor right now and I was getting all worried about being able to give people gifts this coming month. I love to do the present thing (and I get SO EXCITED when people open presents!), so it'll be like a present for me, too!

Thanks for contributing to my peace of mind (a frail thing these days), and lifting my spirits in general, my fellow PNNers (and especially our wonderful Leigh!). I really do appreciate how kind and generous you all are.

The War On Popsicles

Every field has its crackpot, right?

Well, meet MeMe Roth, the most horrible promoter of heath I have ever come across.

This woman is out of her mind. She kidnapped sprinkles from a YMCA in 2007, attacked Santa Claus for being fat, and is the creator of the Wedding Gown Challenge, which says that women should strive to be the same size as they were on their wedding day throughout their ENTIRE LIVES. (Yeah, that doesn't sound at ALL like advocating a starvation diet).

Ooooh, and the best part was where she said (and this is a quotation from the Wedding Gown Challenge blog entry), "But whether you agree with his every utterance or recoil, there’s one thing we all can admire about Bill O’Reilly: The guy keeps himself in shape."

Yes. Because the most important thing about a political pundit is HIS APPEARANCE.

This woman is utterly insane. Just do a Google search and find out for yourself.

I understand that we don't want to encourage obesity any more than we have to. But honestly, a lot of the factors she attacks aren't factors that are actually responsible for obesity. Santa Claus? Seriously? The "fat" version of Santa has been around since 1823. If Santa's obesity is such a bad influence on kids, why is the obesity epidemic so recent? She actually causing more people to scoff at fitness and healthy eating, not less.

This chick needs to chill, yo.

The Plan

You guys know this about me: I love to plan. I like figuring things out before I do them, considering every scenario so that I'm not blindsided when things go wrong or when surprises pop up (because they ALWAYS do). I'm flexible with my plans— it's not like I'm horribly upset if they don't go down the way I'd hoped— but I enjoy making them. It's kind of like how I like to make lists (to-do lists, grocery lists, lists of weekend activities, etc.)— it's a way for me to remind myself of how much potential my future holds, and how many blessings I've received in my life. "Be prepared" is my motto!

So lots of people have been asking about our plans, now that Adam is out of school and seminary looms near. Here's the skinny on what we're planning for the rest of the summer:

July 1-2: Adam's interviews for seminary (For General Theological— if Virginia Theological would ever ANSWER OUR EMAILS AND VOICEMAILS, we might know when they want to do interviews, too).

July 4: My last day at work. Yes, I have to work twelve hours on the Fourth of July. Such is the reality of the recession, my friends.

July 6: A New Philosophy goes on the road! We're driving from Ohio to Florida in two days, but luckily, our cheap-o hotel room provides free internet access (and, thankfully, a free breakfast) so I can update from Columbia, SC! We'll be staying with my grandmother Dorris in Florida and enjoying the sun, sand, and fishing opportunities!

Late August/early September: We return to Ohio for a week— staying with family, saying some farewells, and getting all of our crap out of storage.

One week later: We move to seminary. Unless Virginia stops playing mind games, it looks like it might be NYC for us.

So the blog will be undergoing some changes, much like our lives here will be changing. I can't wait to start looking for jobs and getting ready to live my life in a real city! Yay!

I Need Help

Guys, I need a favor.

You know how sometimes you might have a bad day? Well, I'm having a bad week. Well, maybe a bad month.

I've been grumpy, mean, and controlling. I've been picking fights with my husband, and then, when he finally loses his temper, I've been crying uncontrollably. In fact, I've just basically been crying uncontrollably a lot.

I have to avoid Facebook, because it hurts me to look at how many of my UWC classmates are at prestigious grad schools or doing volunteer work in Sri Lanka or winning awards or working awesome jobs that actually utilize their skills and higher education degrees.

I've been whining and eating large amounts of grease and experiencing weird sleeping patterns. I've been angry at myself all the time, for no reason. I've been doing things that I don't like and that are out of character for me, and I don't enjoy it.

So this is your mission, should you choose to accept it: cheer me up. I don't care how you do it, but I need a smile. A funny story, a cute link, words of encouragement or friendship or kindness— anything will do.

Please help me. I'm very sad, and being sad is terribly boring.

Video Games and Exercise

A few months ago, my parents got a Wii. Needless to say, I visit them frequently. :)

The Nintendo Wii is a wonderful video game system (particularly for gamers like me— people who can’t devote themselves to a soul-sucking game like World of Warcraft, but who would like to occasionally become obsessed with, say, Final Fantasy XII), and I think that where it really excels is in its ability to incorporate, and even encourage, physical movement instead of couch-potatoing. And this is most eloquently apparent in the number of very popular exercise games that have been developed for the Wii.

The first one was the most famous: Wii Fit, a game that sought to unite fitness, fun, and adorable cartoonish figures in one family-friendly experience. Wii Fit came packaged with a bathroom scale-like device called the Wii Balance Board; the board could both measure your weight and respond to minute changes in your stance, making it a cool accessory that has applications even beyond the fitness game world. (For example, my mom and I like to play this fun party game that uses the Balance Board to simulate skiing, flying, and riding a tractor!)

Wii Fit was relatively gentle, though, with more of a focus on yoga and posture and “digestive health” than on cardio workouts. Enter EA Sports Active, a game that specifically targets those who complained that the Wii Fit was too easy or not efficient enough at encouraging real weight loss.

Instead of a complicated peripheral, EA Sports Active comes with two low-tech accessories: a leg strap (which is used to store the Wii nunchuck so that lower body motion can be tracked) and a resistance band that aids in certain strength-training exercises. As a result, EA Sports Active is cheaper than Wii Fit by almost $40 (although I’ve seen about a dozen complaints that the resistance band tends to break easily, so maybe the price is deceptively low, since you’ve got to go out and get a better band eventually, anyways). And instead of some of the mellow yoga and balance games, EA Sports Active focuses on traditional exercises and cardio workouts.

I’ve been enjoying these games immensely whenever I visit my parents, and I think they’re a great idea— they even cater to different types of people, as Wii Fit seems to be geared towards people who hate working out, while EA Sports Active is intended for people who DO want to work out but who don’t want to go to a gym. I think it's fabulous that gamers are interested, not just in having fun, but in staying healthy, too.

And apparently, you can find a fitness game for the Playstation 2, as well— good news, as we’ve actually got one of those at our place (although it’s a loaner, so we might not have it that much longer).

More and more, and I think people are realizing that exercise doesn’t have to be restricted to the gym. There are so many clever ways to work physical activity into your life.

Anyone else have a cool way to get moving?

The Pride of Youngstown

It's been a week of terrible firsts for the Mahoning Valley: we had our first swine flu case and our first local Catholic priest molestation scandal.

But we had one first this week that was a lot more cheerful— our first gay pride festival!

Adam, my sister Tatiana, and I all drove over to the celebration in downtown Youngstown. It was pretty small (it IS the first gay pride festival here, and these things need time to grow), but it was still a good time. There were a few food stands, some organizational booths (the ACLU, the Unitarians, and First Federated Church were all there— if I'd have known about this sooner, I would've put together an Episcopal booth!), and a stage where drag queen performers battled it out for Miss Gay Pride Youngstown. (My favorite was Brittany Cheers, who did actual cartwheels and splits and even had backup dancers! She won, of course.)

We only saw one protestor— a sour-faced man carrying a poorly made green sign with the words "Remember Sodom" scrawled in a childlike hand— and as we were entering, the police officers at the event were ejecting him. I overheard the police officer saying something to the effect that the guy was blatantly trying to start fights and intimidate people, so he could go "protest" somewhere else. According to the Vindicator article above, though, the rest of the ten or so protestors who had been there before we arrived had left after the organizers reminded them that, while it was their right to protest, gay people had just as much of a right to picket the protesters' churches with signs. Apparently, the thought of having their tactics turned against them made them think twice about what they were doing.

I had my face painted (I got whiskers and a little pink nose— and consequently had a lot of gay guys walk up to me and whisper, "Meow!") and gazed lovingly at a tie-dyed, rainbow pair of underwear that I simply couldn't afford. The dancers were all fabulous, of course, and they inspired Adam to promise to take us to Utopia, one of Youngstown's few gay bars, where many of the dancers regularly perform in drag shows. And if you read the above article, you'll know what I'm talking about when I say that I got to pop Maxine Factor's bubblewrap dress!

The cutest part of the day was when we picked my sister up from my parents’ house to go to the festival, and as we were leaving, my mom shouted at us, “Be loud! Be proud! Be Youngstown!” with the air of someone telling her children, “Now, remember to put on a sweater, and take your umbrellas, my dears!”

I have the coolest family in the world.

Here are some pictures from the event:

(From top: a view from the curb; Adam dances to the music; a drag queen performs.)

 

Of Presidents and Poetry

Hey— did you know that Jimmy Carter, the ex-president, wrote POEMS?

Not just one or two, mind you. An entire book of them!

Well, I didn't know that, so I thought I'd share one with you. It's surprisingly humorous, and surprisingly spare, and surprisingly...good!

Progress Does Not Always Come Easy

by Jimmy Carter

As a legislator in my state
I drew up my first law to say
that citizens could never vote again
after they had passed away.

My fellow members faced the troubling issue
bravely, locked in hard debate
on whether, after someone's death had come,
three years should be adequate

to let the family, recollecting him,
determine how a loved one may
have cast a vote if he had only lived
to see the later voting day.

My own neighbors warned me I had gone
too far in changing what we'd always done.
I lost the next campaign, and failed to carry
a single precinct with a cemetery.

Philosophy: By The Numbers

GPA: 3.6
IQ: 159
Height: 5'2''
Weight: 98 lbs.
Favorite numbers: anything even (but especially 10 and 20)
Languages spoken: 2
School systems attended (from Kindergarten to college): 4
Cats: 5 (4 in permanant residence at my parents' home, one temporarily crashing at their place until I become truly employed)
Foreign countries visited: 5
Jobs applied for: 0
Grad schools applied to: 2
Grad schools accepted at: 1
Grad schools attended: 0
Chance of life failure: 67.2%

Keeping Clean

Many of you have remarked that I have not yet posted photos of my lovely PNN mug. In response to your queries, I shall provide the following explanation:

My house is a STY.

Okay, here's the problem. Normal people keep their houses clean by picking up a little every day. Normal people are able to do one or two small chores— vacuuming and doing a load of laundry, say, or cleaning the bathroom mirror and then doing the dishes— without feeling the need to clean everything in the house.

Unfortunately for me, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder has made such an ability inaccessible.

See, when I clean, I CLEAN. Anything could make me go clean-crazy— it could be something as simple as thinking to myself, “Gee, this coaster has something sticky on it.”

As soon as this thought occurs, this chain of events will unfold: I will pick up the coaster, but when I go to wash it in the sink, I realize there’s a mug in there, as well. So I’ll wash the mug and the coaster, but then I won’t be able to set them on the counter to dry, because there’s a crumb on the counter. Out comes the disinfectant; when I go to replace the dishrag near the sink, though, I’ll notice that the whole sink might need cleaned. After cleaning the sink, the spigot looks dirty, so I’ll shine that up, too. Having finally made it out of the kitchen, I can’t place the coaster back on the coffee table, because the coaster is dirty and the coffee table is clean, so the coffee table will need to Pledge and a soft cloth. This will require the removal of EVERY SINGLE THING from the coffee table. After I’ve shined it up, I’ll need to organize everything back on the table, and while doing this, I’ll realize that I’ve pushed some dust and crumbs onto the carpet (note: even if no dust and or/crumbs were actually deposited, I will firmly believe that this has occurred). So here we go with the vacuum, except I’ll have to vacuum the entire living room, since it seems horribly strange to have a singular clean space in the room. Since my living room, my dining room, my foyer, my kitchen, and my hallway are all connected (there are no doors between them, since we live in an apartment), I’ll have to vacuum everywhere. And then while I’m down there, I’ll realize that the carpet smells slightly musty, so I’ll get the Fabreeze, except then I’ll have to use it on the couch, and the chairs, and my bed…

I can’t clean unless I clean PERFECTLY. If I can’t clean perfectly, says the little voice in my head, I may as well let everything go to seed.

Except then everything DOES go to seed, and the clean freak inside me feels sick. And this happens in a horribly vicious cycle.

So right now, my home looks like squatters live there, and I am unable to do anything about it, because I'm incapable to doing a little at a time— and if I did it all at once, it'd probably take me two days straight.

Of course, the fact that we're moving in three weeks kind of puts a damper on my efforts, as well. Why bother organizing things if we're just going to un-organize them again very soon?

I've considered using Chore Buster— but of course, I bet Adam wouldn't be very enthusiastic about implementing a new plan this close to moving, anyways.

ARGH. How do you keep your place clean?

"Body" of Evidence

The political world never ceases to amaze and astound me.

First it was the election of Barack Obama as president— something I never even dared to hope that my country would be capable of doing. Then it was the idea that people— rational, educated American adults— would take seriously any political statement that came out of the mouth of Miss California.

And now?

Jesse "The Body" Ventura— former wrestler, infamous governor of Minnesota, and dubious movie actor— just talked intelligently about torture.

Wow.

And the more I read about him, the more I feel like I might have been wrong about him. As a teenager, I remember laughing when he was elected, and thinking, "Are these the sorts of people I want making decisions in my government— brainless former wrestlers?" To me, the election of Ventura stood for what I thought was wrong about elections in general: the emphasis on celebrity and personality instead of positions on issues and actual qualifications.

But y'know, maybe he got a bad rap. I've been reading up on him tonight, and I completely disagree with him on fiscal issues and unions...but I like that he didn't seem fazed about standing up for minorities. He supports gay rights, abortion rights, and the separation of church and state; he made public transportation (including light rail) a priority, and he vetoed a bill requiring the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance in public schools, which I think was pretty brave.

I dunno— I still think he was under qualified, but at the same time, I'm hesitant to define that necessary qualification. I mean, isn't that issue always at the heart of our democracy? Aren't we all secretly hoping, deep down inside, that the next great leader will come, not from law school or the business sector, but from the unremarkable masses?

Ah, well. It's a confusing thing to think about; that line of thinking brings us to a sense of egalitarianism that we sorely need nowadays, but it also gave birth to the presidency of George W. Bush. The problem, perhaps, is that we need not confuse obscure origins with general mediocrity. Great men can live amongst us, can work beside us, and we might never know it unless they could be given a chance to lead. That just doesn't mean that men who are mediocre at heart will one day turn great.

Anyways...I wish I'd been old enough to really research him properly when he was governor. He seems like an interesting (but strange) person.

Babbling About Babies and Birth

Did an amateurish documentary produced by Ricki Lake just make me completely change my opinion on natural childbirth? Why yes, yes it did.

I am such a weak-minded sheep.

But the film I just watched, The Business of Being Born, really DID change my outlook. About three hours ago, I was completely in favor of drug-laced, hospital-located, voluntary-C-section-having birth plans. When considering my own childbirth experience— upon which, thankfully, I have another nine years to reflect— my motto was generally: “Gimme the drugs, cut me open, and make sure I don’t remember ANYTHING."

But now I’m not so sure. Did you know that, in both Europe and Japan, midwives attend over 70% of births? In America, only 8% of births are attended by midwives. America is one of the countries with the highest voluntary C-section rates, and the highest rates of pregnancy hospitalization.

And really, the point that the film made about the interests of doctors (who, while they are good people, don’t necessarily have the time to stick around for twelve hours of labor, and generally want the procedure to be over quickly) was pretty valid. Childbirth is a natural event, not an emergency. Do I really need to go to a hospital?

Plus, I was very intrigued by the footage of home births I saw where the husband could hold and snuggle with and caress the wife. If I have a baby, I don’t want Adam sitting over a metal railing, holding my hand from afar— I want him all up in my business, I want him holding on to me, I want his arms around me. I also like the idea that, if you use a birth center or home birth midwife, you can get up and walk around, or get into the shower, or play music, or do whatever the heck you want. Hey— it’s my birth experience, bitches. If I’m gonna be in that much pain, I wanna damn well do what I please.

My mother had me and my sister Tatiana in hospitals, but my youngest sister Sarah was born in a “birth place,” where midwives presided and the rooms were like homes instead of cells. And she said she really liked the experience— they didn’t take the baby away from you immediately, they kept the baby in the room the whole time after it was born, and they didn’t make you stay after the birth if it was clear you were ready to go. My mom had my sister in the early morning (like, I think it was 1 or 2 am, maybe?) and then she left later in the morning and came home.

The whole time I was watching the movie, I kept thinking, “Well, yeah, sure, the experience might be better, but what about PRICE? If it’s expensive, I’ll never consent to do it.” But actually, the film points out that hospital births cost around $13,000, while a home midwife charges about $4000 (and that includes pre- and post-natal care). Plus, I did some research, and a lot of insurance companies will cover births done at birth centers (although I’m still unsure about their general policy for home birth).

I know this is a long ways off for me, but I think it’s something I’ll definitely have to be thinking about and considering as Adam and I move along in our relationship, and as we continue our dialogue about the sort of parents we’d want to be (or even whether or not we want to be parents at all). It’s an interesting thing to think about, anyways, and the documentary was pretty entertaining, too.

Any moms out there want to share their experiences?

Experiencing Planned Parenthood

I’ve always been a big fan of Planned Parenthood in theory, but before today, I’d never needed any of their services. Now, though, I can thoroughly recommend them as an excellent and affordable health center!

I’m on the Pill. I’d rather have an IUD (which is specifically recommended for monogamous women who don’t want to have babies for a long time but who might want to have them eventually), but they’re too expensive up front, and I’m sure our piss-poor, fly-by-night insurance wouldn’t chip in for it. So I take the Pill every day, and I’ve been on it since my sophomore year in college.

Well, before I left college last year, I had my annual exam (Pap smear, breast exam— gals, you know the drill) and got a prescription for a year’s worth of Pills. See, back then, I was on my parents’ insurance, which meant that getting my packs from the pharmacy only cost TWO DOLLARS (and apparently, since then, the price for generics has fallen to NOTHING. Zip. Zero. Be jealous of college professors, my friends. :P)

When we got married, Adam's insurance paid for some of the cost of my birth control, bringing it to a respectable $10 per month. But when Adam lost his job and we signed up to purchase crappy insurance that basically is only useful in emergencies, my Pill price went waaaay up— to almost $30 per pack. Boo.

I figured that Planned Parenthood might gimme a break, so I got online and signed up for an appointment. That’s right— you can make an appointment at a Planned Parenthood clinic near you OVER THE INTERNET. No need to talk to a human being— just fill out the form, and you’ll get an email in your inbox confirming the location, time, and date of your appointment.

As a bonus, Planned Parenthood asks you how you’d like them to identify themselves if they need to call you on the phone (to confirm or change the appointment, to give you test results, etc). You can choose “Planned Parenthood” (I picked that one— what do I have to hide?), “the doctor’s office,” “Cory” (??), or “other”— and if you pick that latter option, you can fill in the blank with any name or title you want. This way, if you’re in a position where you don’t want roommates or family members to know your business, you can keep things on the DL.

I expected a big, hospital-esque place, but the Youngstown Planned Parenthood building is just a cosy remodeled house. No protesters, no clinical wallpaper— just a nice house, with a parking lot and a waiting room. I had to wait quite awhile to get my appointment, but that was okay— I needed to fill out some paperwork anyways.

The nurses and the doctor were so so so nice. I explained what I needed, and they told me (with the air of someone breaking tragic news to a close friend) that they didn’t carry my current brand, but that they could write me a prescription if I wanted to get it at the pharmacy. “How much for the brand you DO have on hand?” I asked. “Oh, we’ll give you three packs of this low-dose, monocyclic kind (which should be just like your current brand) for $36,” the nurse said.

Thirty-six bucks. Three months on my old stuff would’ve been $80.

Part of the reason I got it so cheap was that they allowed me to apply for financial aid AND use my crap-tastic insurance! The aid covered half the cost of the birth control, and the insurance company MIGHT pay for at least part of the clinic visit. Maybe. We shall see.

And don’t forget— Planned Parenthood does provide services for BOTH sexes. Several guys came into the clinic during the course of my visit. And you don’t even need an appointment if you want some emergency contraception or if you need a pregnancy test; walk-ins are welcome in those cases. Adam says that when I was being seen, two different people came in to get some Plan B.

All in all, it was a pleasant visit, and it felt nice not to be treated like a dirty whore for wanting to prevent my husband and I from having unwanted rugrats. There were all sorts of people there— moms with their little kids, boyfriends looking for info for their girlfriends, teenagers, office workers, even other nurses. Everyone was treated kindly and respectfully, and no one was turned away.

Gals, if you need private girl stuff, consider Planned Parenthood! :D

DIY: Mozzarella!

Until recently, I’d always thought that making cheese would be too hard for me. But it turned out that cheesemaking is surprisingly simple— and definitely fun!

My mom and I purchased a kit from the fabulous New England Cheesemaking Supply Company, a great company dedicated to teaching the art of cheesemaking. Owner and cheesemaker Ricki Carroll sells books, DVDs, supplies, and even cheesemaking lessons from her Massachusetts headquarters.

Our “Starter Special” kit was $50, but it included a DVD, a book on home cheesemaking, and almost all of the supplies we needed to make both mozzarella and ricotta: citric acid, cheese salt, vegetable rennet (so my sister can eat the cheese we made!), a dairy thermometer, some butter muslin (for straining), and a little instruction booklet. I’d heavily recommend getting this kit and watching the DVD; it made each step very clear and obvious, and helped us to understand what our cheese should look like during each part of the process.

Surprisingly, decent milk wasn’t hard to find. You need local milk that isn’t “ultra-pasteurized”— and that was easily obtainable at the supermarket two blocks down the road. The water was a little more difficult— you can’t use tap water, because you need it to be completely chlorine-free— but we got a gallon of distilled water from the same grocery store for less than a dollar.

First we dissolved the rennet in water; then we dissolved the citric acid in a separate container with water. The dissolved citric acid was slowly added to the milk in our large saucepan, and then the milk was heated to 90 degrees while we stirred it slowly.

After this, we stirred in the rennet, then let the pot sit for 8 minutes while the curds formed.

We cut the curds into cubes with a long knife, then slowly stirred them around in the whey while we heated the whole thing up to 105 degrees. Then we removed it from the heat, stirred it a bit more, and sloughed off the floating whey into a container (because my mom is going to use it to make whey bread later). We popped the curds into the microwave for 1 minute.
And then…it got tricky. The booklet said we should be able to gently fold the curds into one mass and squeeze out the remaining whey, but the curds were too small and fine, and they wouldn’t separate from the whey properly. Plus, the whole mass was so hot that it was kind of hard to handle.

So we strained the curds through the muslin. The muslin was really supposed to be for the ricotta (which we’re going to make next time), but it actually worked perfectly for separating the mozzarella curds from the rest of the whey. We squeezed the curds together into a ball and microwaved them again, first for thirty seconds, then for a succession of ten-second periods, until they reached 135 degrees.

The best part comes next— stretching the mozzarella! You get to pull it like taffy, and it’s all shiny and stretchy. Then, as you work it in your hands, it gradually gets firmer and firmer. Then put it into a bowl over ice water, and…ta-da! A ball of mozzarella!

It tastes yummy, too. We’re going to use it in a yummy salad tomorrow. Mmmmmmmm!

I’d highly recommend making this cheese— it’s easy and fun, and it tastes really good for relatively little effort. Plus, it’s a versatile cheese, and it keeps pretty well.

Next we’ll be doing ricotta…and I’d also like to try yogurt before we leave for Florida!