(This is actually a re-run from 2009, but I'm feeling sentimental.)
My son got his first tick sometime in the past few days; I removed it last night, smothering the poor little bloodsucker (the tick, not my son) in isopropyl alcohol and gently tweezing it out at the head, as directed in the Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Manual (by the way, the cat lives indoors and has never had a tick). Then I placed the little tick corpse in an empty spice jar (curried tick, yum!), filled it with more isopropyl, and handed it to my son.
I hadn't realized the firestorm the first tick would provoke.
"Mom had ticks when she was little," Bennett gloated to Madeleine. (Yes, but I wouldn't call it a badge of honor, and certainly not a highlight of my childhood experiences.)
"Can I play with Bennett's tick?" asked Madeleine (the answer from Bennett was a resounding "No! it's MY tick!")
Of course, being a reasonable parent - and one who completed a nasty four-week course of antibiotics four years ago for suspected Lyme disease (oh, the distinctive target rash, funnily enough, right around my belly button) - I am completely paranoid about the tick. It looks too big for a Lyme-disease carrying deer tick - they are about the size of a pinhead and a different color, and the main common thread among people who get Lyme is that they don't remember having the tick because the darn tick is so miniscule. Of course, as this tick had just eaten and was correspondingly larger, perhaps it was simply a mammoth among deer ticks. And then, there's Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever to worry about. Tuleremia. And ehrlichiosis. I don't even know what ehrlichiosis is, but cattle and dogs get it too.
So the tick sits on the dining table, between the candlesticks, at the bottom of its little bottle of alcohol. More bad tick jokes ensue:
"Is that tick-ila?"
And finally, the best for last, with an optimistic smile:
"Mom, is there a tick fairy?"
No.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Mom, How COULD You?
The following list of seemingly innocuous statements and questions that cause ballistic tweens is by no means complete. Every day, I inadvertently find something new that sends them into an angry fit, complete with dramatic wails and moans, screams, and cries of torment. I feel as though I am living in a soap opera, complete with demonic possessions, memory loss, violent confrontations, a possible subversive criminal network, and an arch-villainess in the Form of Me.
1.) "Dinner is ready!" Of all the things that should bring joy to the hearts of hungry, growing-by-leaps-and-bounds sprites, you would think this would be high on the list. You'd be wrong. "But, Mo-o-om," (please note that when "Mom" has three or four syllables, it invariably means trouble) "I'm just the most important part of my homework/video game/piano practice!"
Just ten minutes ago, they were about to starve to death, now there is hot food on the table, and they can't be bothered. And it is worth noting that, very likely, 45 minutes previously, the following was the question that provoked yet another histrionic display:
2.) "Is your homework/piano practice done?" (See? First you can't get them to do it, then you can't get them to stop.) This is phrased as a question, not a command. I can see why telling them to do their homework might raise some hackles, but this is merely asking for a progress report. It is inevitably followed not by a clearly articulated response of "yes" or "no," but by a series of angry grunts and whines. My son, in particular, makes sounds that perfectly mimic a moose in the throes of extreme, potentially fatal, emotional distress.
Then, once the noise dies down, there are other roadblocks: "I can't find a sharp pencil" (we have pencil sharpeners at every desk in the house), "I need your computer" (fine, go for it...), "Who put my music books somewhere I can't find them?" (You did), "Don't you know I DID that already, Mom!" (If I already knew, I wouldn't have asked).
3.) "Please be sure to brush and floss your teeth." It is difficult to argue with the common sense of that request, or so you might be tempted to think. "Mo-o-om, I can't, I have a loose tooth, and it might bleed!" (My ears might start to bleed too, from all the screaming), "Do I HAVE to floss?" (Yes, for better gum health and potentially preventing heart disease), "Why do I have to brush all my teeth every night?" (You don't have to brush them all - only the ones you want to keep).
In a few years, I may be required to make that heart-wrenching choice between helping subsidize their college educations and giving the gift of beautiful, perfectly aligned teeth. If the sprites can't be bothered to brush those teeth, that decision is going to be much, much easier.
4.) "I can help with the math homework if you don't understand something." I barely make it to the "if" part before the aggravated howls start. "I hate math!" (I'm offering to help, not threatening you with the formula for the standard deviation from the mean), "Why is the answer 31.5?" (Because the question was "what is 567 divided by 18"), "Who decided that a negative number times a positive one equals a negative one?" (Not me, but I wish I knew, it would make for excellent cocktail party chatter). The suggestion of using scratch paper is dismissed with a contemptuous shrug and rolled eyes.
Fortunately, this one won't be a problem for much longer, my memory of math is solid only through inequalities and the formula for the standard deviation from the mean. Soon, when I am asked about a math problem, I can simply shrug, claim early onset dementia, and suggest they Google it.
5.) "If you clean your room, you can have a sleepover." In this case, I am offering them something they really want in exchange for meeting their personal obligation to the household. There is no threat of punishment if they do not do it, no yelling; simply the offer of a reward for engaging in the right behavior. Like when you train the dog with treats. And that is what I may have to resort to, following the sprites around with a bag of chocolate chips and giving them one every time they remember to turn off the light when leaving the room, put a piece of dirty laundry in the hamper, help empty the dishwasher, or take out the garbage.
"My room isn't THAT bad!" (I can't see the floor), "Not all those books are mine, Bennett/Madeleine was in my room and left some of them out" (Backstabbing weasels!), "I was going to wear those clothes again..." (All at once? two dresses, a pair of pants, four and half pairs of socks, three shirts, and a skirt?), "Can't we just sleep in the office?" (No, the miracle of life that is occurring in your dirty socks may become ambulatory and sentient, and will be able to creep into the office and devour you and your unlucky friend while you sleep. Don't go thinking the cat is going to protect you either, she knows I feed her.)
I don't despair - instead I look to the future and hope each of them is blessed with triplets.
1.) "Dinner is ready!" Of all the things that should bring joy to the hearts of hungry, growing-by-leaps-and-bounds sprites, you would think this would be high on the list. You'd be wrong. "But, Mo-o-om," (please note that when "Mom" has three or four syllables, it invariably means trouble) "I'm just the most important part of my homework/video game/piano practice!"
Just ten minutes ago, they were about to starve to death, now there is hot food on the table, and they can't be bothered. And it is worth noting that, very likely, 45 minutes previously, the following was the question that provoked yet another histrionic display:
2.) "Is your homework/piano practice done?" (See? First you can't get them to do it, then you can't get them to stop.) This is phrased as a question, not a command. I can see why telling them to do their homework might raise some hackles, but this is merely asking for a progress report. It is inevitably followed not by a clearly articulated response of "yes" or "no," but by a series of angry grunts and whines. My son, in particular, makes sounds that perfectly mimic a moose in the throes of extreme, potentially fatal, emotional distress.
Then, once the noise dies down, there are other roadblocks: "I can't find a sharp pencil" (we have pencil sharpeners at every desk in the house), "I need your computer" (fine, go for it...), "Who put my music books somewhere I can't find them?" (You did), "Don't you know I DID that already, Mom!" (If I already knew, I wouldn't have asked).
3.) "Please be sure to brush and floss your teeth." It is difficult to argue with the common sense of that request, or so you might be tempted to think. "Mo-o-om, I can't, I have a loose tooth, and it might bleed!" (My ears might start to bleed too, from all the screaming), "Do I HAVE to floss?" (Yes, for better gum health and potentially preventing heart disease), "Why do I have to brush all my teeth every night?" (You don't have to brush them all - only the ones you want to keep).
In a few years, I may be required to make that heart-wrenching choice between helping subsidize their college educations and giving the gift of beautiful, perfectly aligned teeth. If the sprites can't be bothered to brush those teeth, that decision is going to be much, much easier.
4.) "I can help with the math homework if you don't understand something." I barely make it to the "if" part before the aggravated howls start. "I hate math!" (I'm offering to help, not threatening you with the formula for the standard deviation from the mean), "Why is the answer 31.5?" (Because the question was "what is 567 divided by 18"), "Who decided that a negative number times a positive one equals a negative one?" (Not me, but I wish I knew, it would make for excellent cocktail party chatter). The suggestion of using scratch paper is dismissed with a contemptuous shrug and rolled eyes.
Fortunately, this one won't be a problem for much longer, my memory of math is solid only through inequalities and the formula for the standard deviation from the mean. Soon, when I am asked about a math problem, I can simply shrug, claim early onset dementia, and suggest they Google it.
5.) "If you clean your room, you can have a sleepover." In this case, I am offering them something they really want in exchange for meeting their personal obligation to the household. There is no threat of punishment if they do not do it, no yelling; simply the offer of a reward for engaging in the right behavior. Like when you train the dog with treats. And that is what I may have to resort to, following the sprites around with a bag of chocolate chips and giving them one every time they remember to turn off the light when leaving the room, put a piece of dirty laundry in the hamper, help empty the dishwasher, or take out the garbage.
"My room isn't THAT bad!" (I can't see the floor), "Not all those books are mine, Bennett/Madeleine was in my room and left some of them out" (Backstabbing weasels!), "I was going to wear those clothes again..." (All at once? two dresses, a pair of pants, four and half pairs of socks, three shirts, and a skirt?), "Can't we just sleep in the office?" (No, the miracle of life that is occurring in your dirty socks may become ambulatory and sentient, and will be able to creep into the office and devour you and your unlucky friend while you sleep. Don't go thinking the cat is going to protect you either, she knows I feed her.)
I don't despair - instead I look to the future and hope each of them is blessed with triplets.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Looking For The Perfect Job
I've long felt that my ideal job would be to name paint colors, or, failing that, naming the various shades of lipstick and nail polish. Long gone are the days of "cobalt blue," "hunter green," and "true red." Now the names tell you nothing about the actual hue, rather the names evoke a phenomenon or a mood - "twilight," "passionate," or "celestial," or perhaps "soporific..." I could name a shade of bluish mauve "procrastination," an angry red could be "blister," high resale value off-white could enjoy a new vogue as "ennui," and that yellowy-chartreuse could be "dystopia."
I rather think there is a correlation between paint colors and nail polish anyway, because when I lived in San Francisco, there was a house that clearly had been painted a violent shade of hot pink because the owner had looked at the color on her fingernails, loved it, and not considered what that color might look like if it were big.
L'Oreal actually has a lipstick shade called "Sunset Angora," which is, I suspect, what happens naturally when a person wearing lipstick kisses their long-haired cat. Names based on delicious foods seem to be popular, and I can see the anticipation of putting something on one's mouth called "raspberry ice" or "hazelnut mocha" is far more appealing than using a shade called "bitter melon" or "ricin red."
Or how about pharmaceuticals? The names of drug companies are hilarious. "Astra Zeneca" does not sound the least bit like a biopharmaceutical company, instead it evokes (for me) the deity that should be the antagonist to the Zoroastrian deity Ahura Mazda. I can certainly imagine a myth in which Ahura Madza and Astra Zeneca are locked in eternal mortal combat.
Through the miracle of mergers and acquisitions, GlaxoSmithKline now sounds like a hyphenated last name of a serial marriage addict. There used to be a Wellcome, a Beecham, and a Beckman associated with this one as well, but Glaxo-Smith-Kline-Wellcome-Beecham-Beckman doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
The names of the drugs themselves: Levitra - of course it sounds "uplifting," it's for erectile dysfunction. Lipitor ought to be the name of a Pokemon. The slightly exotic "Yazmin" - birth control pills. How about Dammitol? Someone ought to invent that, we've all had days when we need that one. In fact, I could use one now.
I rather think there is a correlation between paint colors and nail polish anyway, because when I lived in San Francisco, there was a house that clearly had been painted a violent shade of hot pink because the owner had looked at the color on her fingernails, loved it, and not considered what that color might look like if it were big.
L'Oreal actually has a lipstick shade called "Sunset Angora," which is, I suspect, what happens naturally when a person wearing lipstick kisses their long-haired cat. Names based on delicious foods seem to be popular, and I can see the anticipation of putting something on one's mouth called "raspberry ice" or "hazelnut mocha" is far more appealing than using a shade called "bitter melon" or "ricin red."
Or how about pharmaceuticals? The names of drug companies are hilarious. "Astra Zeneca" does not sound the least bit like a biopharmaceutical company, instead it evokes (for me) the deity that should be the antagonist to the Zoroastrian deity Ahura Mazda. I can certainly imagine a myth in which Ahura Madza and Astra Zeneca are locked in eternal mortal combat.
Through the miracle of mergers and acquisitions, GlaxoSmithKline now sounds like a hyphenated last name of a serial marriage addict. There used to be a Wellcome, a Beecham, and a Beckman associated with this one as well, but Glaxo-Smith-Kline-Wellcome-Beecham-Beckman doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
The names of the drugs themselves: Levitra - of course it sounds "uplifting," it's for erectile dysfunction. Lipitor ought to be the name of a Pokemon. The slightly exotic "Yazmin" - birth control pills. How about Dammitol? Someone ought to invent that, we've all had days when we need that one. In fact, I could use one now.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Memorial Day Death March
Memorial Day weekend is nearly upon us, and with it come the most vibrant memories of childhoods spent hiking in the Sierra Back Country with my family, memories indelibly stamped on my subconscious with the glaring incongruence of a 300 pound linebacker dressed as Dolly Parton in a drag revue. For while indeed the Sierra Back Country is lovely in the springtime, backpacking with my father was anything but.
Father would plan the trip weeks in advance of Memorial Day, for Memorial Day, late spring, was the Garden of Eden in the Sierras; the weather, he said, would be warm, but not not hot; the evenings cool, but not cold. The risk of late season rain or snow would be minimal, and the snowfields would be melted so that we could easily traverse the shale slopes beneath. The mosquitoes would not have hatched. The crowds would not come to the John Muir Trail until later in the season. The altitude would be too high for rattlesnakes.
The last was cause for some concern, for while "no rattlesnakes" was certainly a cause for rejoicing, the fact that rattlesnakes found the altitude discouraging was somewhat alarming. If the altitude was too high for rattlesnakes, hardy little venomous beasties that they are, was there not also the possibility that it would be too high for my sister and me? My mom was a nurse, my parents outdoor enthusiasts. We read all about those people who died on Everest. And K-2. And Lhotse, and Nanga Parbat, and Annapurna. And we read about those poor souls who died on the lesser ascents of Mount Whitney and Mount Rainier, all due to complications of altitude, ice fields, and those euphemistically named "uncontrolled rope descents," - or, in layman's terms - fell off the side of the mountain. Pulmonary edema, or cerebral edema; between the allergic cough, fatigue from the unusual exertion, and the dehydration headache, how could you distinguish the early symptoms of a more serious ailment from those lesser common complaints?
Father would watch the weather report for weeks in advance, even though in the 1970s weather science was far less advanced, without the nifty computer generated graphics and models, and anything longer than a three day forecast was roughly as reliable as a Sylvia Browne predication for which celebrities would die in the coming year. Not that he would have canceled the trip if rain were in the picture. No, backpacking was about building family closeness through shared suffering and indignity, not about having fun. Bad weather would simply amplify the intimacy effect.
The day came, we arose early and drove for hours to "Base Camp," and emerged from the car needing to pee. Inevitably, within minutes - and probably behind the dismally reeking hole-in-the-ground that stood in for a toilet - we would spot our first rattlesnake. Yes, in retrospect I am certain it was a nauseated, dehydrated, rattlesnake in the throes of pulmonary edema, but nonetheless the first indicator of the fallibility of parental knowledge.
That Garden of Eden atmosphere generally proved elusive. The days were blistering, the nights freezing. Not all the snow had melted, just enough to transform the meadows into swamp lands. Shale slopes are not actually "easily traversed," in fact, the only thing that is easy to do when traversing a shale slope is to precipitate a minor rockslide or fall and sprain one's ankle. The mosquito convention was in full force, and I was evidently particularly tasty. And the John Muir Trail was well populated with serious hikers who had come early to avoid the crowds, and Father, with his underlying goal of demonstrating his athletic prowess through his children, expected my sister and me to out-hike them all.
Father always planned a six day trip, and optimistically expected us to hike seven miles per day. This is a reasonable expectation for a well conditioned adult. It is not a reasonable expectation for an eight year old, particularly not at a high altitude. We were lucky to put four miles under our belts on the first day. Then I would inevitably throw up at the campsite the first night, usually exactly where my father had selected as the ideal spot to pitch the tent. What can I say, my sense of placement has always been impeccable.
Six days, however, is all too long for soap-and-water addicted small children to survive in the wilds. By the third day, my sister and I were determined to hike the entire remaining distance in order to get back to modern plumbing, delicious food, and comfortable sleeping accommodations. Usually, the weather would oblige, with a hearty storm blowing in on the third night. In the morning, awakening to a cold breeze and black clouds, Father would curse the weatherman for being wrong, and the Gulf Stream for doing what comes naturally. "We have to hike out today," he would say, angrily shaking his head, and talking to himself, "Fine, fine, fine...and the kids were having such a good time."
As a side note, this is how parents induce mental illness in their children - they subject their children to the most miserable of conditions, and then tell the kids how much fun it is. "Kids, let's read Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' - isn't it fun?" - "Let's do quadratic equations for a few hours - it'll be fun!," "Let's hike 20 miles in the blistering sun at 9000 feet with mosquitoes sucking the Type A out of every square inch of exposed skin! That'll be fun!" Yeah, right. NO. No, it won't be fun, and don't try to convince your child otherwise, or they won't think that fun means fun, and they will grow up equating "fun" with such things as tax season and lower back pain.
It was amazing what a good dose of misery did for my sister and me in terms of our stamina. The reward of a nice warm car, a nice warm bath, and a nice warm bed was adequate for us to perform prodigious feats of athleticism, climbing over boulders, miles of switchbacks, and using flashlights as the sun set to keep track of where the trail was. Day four, we were done, and I think we maintained a perfect record on that. In honor of that feat, Happy Memorial Day. Make it a day hike. Or stay home.
Father would plan the trip weeks in advance of Memorial Day, for Memorial Day, late spring, was the Garden of Eden in the Sierras; the weather, he said, would be warm, but not not hot; the evenings cool, but not cold. The risk of late season rain or snow would be minimal, and the snowfields would be melted so that we could easily traverse the shale slopes beneath. The mosquitoes would not have hatched. The crowds would not come to the John Muir Trail until later in the season. The altitude would be too high for rattlesnakes.
The last was cause for some concern, for while "no rattlesnakes" was certainly a cause for rejoicing, the fact that rattlesnakes found the altitude discouraging was somewhat alarming. If the altitude was too high for rattlesnakes, hardy little venomous beasties that they are, was there not also the possibility that it would be too high for my sister and me? My mom was a nurse, my parents outdoor enthusiasts. We read all about those people who died on Everest. And K-2. And Lhotse, and Nanga Parbat, and Annapurna. And we read about those poor souls who died on the lesser ascents of Mount Whitney and Mount Rainier, all due to complications of altitude, ice fields, and those euphemistically named "uncontrolled rope descents," - or, in layman's terms - fell off the side of the mountain. Pulmonary edema, or cerebral edema; between the allergic cough, fatigue from the unusual exertion, and the dehydration headache, how could you distinguish the early symptoms of a more serious ailment from those lesser common complaints?
Father would watch the weather report for weeks in advance, even though in the 1970s weather science was far less advanced, without the nifty computer generated graphics and models, and anything longer than a three day forecast was roughly as reliable as a Sylvia Browne predication for which celebrities would die in the coming year. Not that he would have canceled the trip if rain were in the picture. No, backpacking was about building family closeness through shared suffering and indignity, not about having fun. Bad weather would simply amplify the intimacy effect.
The day came, we arose early and drove for hours to "Base Camp," and emerged from the car needing to pee. Inevitably, within minutes - and probably behind the dismally reeking hole-in-the-ground that stood in for a toilet - we would spot our first rattlesnake. Yes, in retrospect I am certain it was a nauseated, dehydrated, rattlesnake in the throes of pulmonary edema, but nonetheless the first indicator of the fallibility of parental knowledge.
That Garden of Eden atmosphere generally proved elusive. The days were blistering, the nights freezing. Not all the snow had melted, just enough to transform the meadows into swamp lands. Shale slopes are not actually "easily traversed," in fact, the only thing that is easy to do when traversing a shale slope is to precipitate a minor rockslide or fall and sprain one's ankle. The mosquito convention was in full force, and I was evidently particularly tasty. And the John Muir Trail was well populated with serious hikers who had come early to avoid the crowds, and Father, with his underlying goal of demonstrating his athletic prowess through his children, expected my sister and me to out-hike them all.
Father always planned a six day trip, and optimistically expected us to hike seven miles per day. This is a reasonable expectation for a well conditioned adult. It is not a reasonable expectation for an eight year old, particularly not at a high altitude. We were lucky to put four miles under our belts on the first day. Then I would inevitably throw up at the campsite the first night, usually exactly where my father had selected as the ideal spot to pitch the tent. What can I say, my sense of placement has always been impeccable.
Six days, however, is all too long for soap-and-water addicted small children to survive in the wilds. By the third day, my sister and I were determined to hike the entire remaining distance in order to get back to modern plumbing, delicious food, and comfortable sleeping accommodations. Usually, the weather would oblige, with a hearty storm blowing in on the third night. In the morning, awakening to a cold breeze and black clouds, Father would curse the weatherman for being wrong, and the Gulf Stream for doing what comes naturally. "We have to hike out today," he would say, angrily shaking his head, and talking to himself, "Fine, fine, fine...and the kids were having such a good time."
As a side note, this is how parents induce mental illness in their children - they subject their children to the most miserable of conditions, and then tell the kids how much fun it is. "Kids, let's read Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' - isn't it fun?" - "Let's do quadratic equations for a few hours - it'll be fun!," "Let's hike 20 miles in the blistering sun at 9000 feet with mosquitoes sucking the Type A out of every square inch of exposed skin! That'll be fun!" Yeah, right. NO. No, it won't be fun, and don't try to convince your child otherwise, or they won't think that fun means fun, and they will grow up equating "fun" with such things as tax season and lower back pain.
It was amazing what a good dose of misery did for my sister and me in terms of our stamina. The reward of a nice warm car, a nice warm bath, and a nice warm bed was adequate for us to perform prodigious feats of athleticism, climbing over boulders, miles of switchbacks, and using flashlights as the sun set to keep track of where the trail was. Day four, we were done, and I think we maintained a perfect record on that. In honor of that feat, Happy Memorial Day. Make it a day hike. Or stay home.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Tackling the Size Wars
And now, I'm going to go stick my foot in my mouth by tackling a serious issue.
You're either too fat or too thin. Weight is a polarizing issue, no matter which side of the scale you are on. Fat women are called lazy, even when they exercise daily and eat a healthy diet; unless they are subjected to that other stereotyped comment, "real women have curves." And for the thin women, there is the famous maxim, "you can never be too rich or too thin," being accused of having eating disorders, or simply not ever being permitted the luxury of feeling insecure about their appearance because they are slender.
I know beautiful women in all sizes, shapes, and colors. Beauty is not a number, health is not a number; size 0 is not the one and only ideal, and size 18 is not the kiss of death. There is no "ideal" weight for everyone, even those who are the same height. Everyone has different bone structures, different muscles, and we all have different expectations of what our bodies need to do for us - an athlete who exercises four hours a day is going to have a different body than someone who takes the dog for a brisk walk for 30 minutes a day - but both can be beautiful and healthy.
I've managed to err on both sides of the weight spectrum, having been somewhat "overweight" in my teens and early 20s, and somewhat "underweight" in my 30s and 40s. I got a great deal of grief in the heavier years as I danced semi-professionally, and I had to lose weight in order to get better roles - and although it was difficult, I did. When I thinned out in my 30s, there were compliments - and also I was told I looked sick, that I needed to eat more. When my marriage disintegrated, my weight dropped to 98 pounds. I looked tired and attenuated, but was frequently asked, somewhat enviously, how I managed to stay so thin after having had two children. How many pounds is an unfaithful spouse and a ruined marriage worth?
One time a complete stranger in the dreaded bathing suit department actually suggested I should get breast implants so I would look "less bad" in a bathing suit. It wasn't as though I'd come out of the fitting room in a suit for all to see and evaluate - she just sized up my bosom, and opened her mouth. But I suppose if good, fair, or middling are out of range for my appearance in a swimsuit, "less bad" would at least be a baby step in the right direction. Hey! Check it out - I look less bad now!
The infamous "body mass index" is a poor tool for determining anything about one's health or ideal weight. Should my delicate boned, tiny framed, 5'6" friend "Anna" weigh the same as friend "Bella" - of the same height, but with shoulders roughly 4 inches wider across, and a pelvic girdle at least that distance broader? Of course not. What nincompoop came up with the BMI as a be-all and end-all of estimating acceptable weight ranges?
I think fashion models should come in all sizes, not just "regular" (5'8" and 110 pounds) and "plus" (5'8" and 185 pounds). I want an entire range of models from XXS to XXL: clothes are made to fit a variety of sizes, women are made in a variety of sizes, and the representations in advertising should reflect that reality. I think real women are real women because of traits other than their weight and the distribution of it on their frames.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say - and I hope with all my heart that when the women I know see themselves in the mirror, they see themselves as beautiful no matter what size they are. Common sense is crucial. Eat what makes you healthy, don't eat to fill an emotional need, exercise enough for fitness but don't go crazy with it unless you love doing it, and go to your doctor regularly to make sure your systems are all in good working order. Never let ten pounds, or 20, or more, ruin having a great day at the pool, a fun night out, or letting you like your appearance and feel good about yourself. It isn't worth it.
You're either too fat or too thin. Weight is a polarizing issue, no matter which side of the scale you are on. Fat women are called lazy, even when they exercise daily and eat a healthy diet; unless they are subjected to that other stereotyped comment, "real women have curves." And for the thin women, there is the famous maxim, "you can never be too rich or too thin," being accused of having eating disorders, or simply not ever being permitted the luxury of feeling insecure about their appearance because they are slender.
I know beautiful women in all sizes, shapes, and colors. Beauty is not a number, health is not a number; size 0 is not the one and only ideal, and size 18 is not the kiss of death. There is no "ideal" weight for everyone, even those who are the same height. Everyone has different bone structures, different muscles, and we all have different expectations of what our bodies need to do for us - an athlete who exercises four hours a day is going to have a different body than someone who takes the dog for a brisk walk for 30 minutes a day - but both can be beautiful and healthy.
I've managed to err on both sides of the weight spectrum, having been somewhat "overweight" in my teens and early 20s, and somewhat "underweight" in my 30s and 40s. I got a great deal of grief in the heavier years as I danced semi-professionally, and I had to lose weight in order to get better roles - and although it was difficult, I did. When I thinned out in my 30s, there were compliments - and also I was told I looked sick, that I needed to eat more. When my marriage disintegrated, my weight dropped to 98 pounds. I looked tired and attenuated, but was frequently asked, somewhat enviously, how I managed to stay so thin after having had two children. How many pounds is an unfaithful spouse and a ruined marriage worth?
One time a complete stranger in the dreaded bathing suit department actually suggested I should get breast implants so I would look "less bad" in a bathing suit. It wasn't as though I'd come out of the fitting room in a suit for all to see and evaluate - she just sized up my bosom, and opened her mouth. But I suppose if good, fair, or middling are out of range for my appearance in a swimsuit, "less bad" would at least be a baby step in the right direction. Hey! Check it out - I look less bad now!
The infamous "body mass index" is a poor tool for determining anything about one's health or ideal weight. Should my delicate boned, tiny framed, 5'6" friend "Anna" weigh the same as friend "Bella" - of the same height, but with shoulders roughly 4 inches wider across, and a pelvic girdle at least that distance broader? Of course not. What nincompoop came up with the BMI as a be-all and end-all of estimating acceptable weight ranges?
I think fashion models should come in all sizes, not just "regular" (5'8" and 110 pounds) and "plus" (5'8" and 185 pounds). I want an entire range of models from XXS to XXL: clothes are made to fit a variety of sizes, women are made in a variety of sizes, and the representations in advertising should reflect that reality. I think real women are real women because of traits other than their weight and the distribution of it on their frames.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say - and I hope with all my heart that when the women I know see themselves in the mirror, they see themselves as beautiful no matter what size they are. Common sense is crucial. Eat what makes you healthy, don't eat to fill an emotional need, exercise enough for fitness but don't go crazy with it unless you love doing it, and go to your doctor regularly to make sure your systems are all in good working order. Never let ten pounds, or 20, or more, ruin having a great day at the pool, a fun night out, or letting you like your appearance and feel good about yourself. It isn't worth it.
Monday, April 29, 2013
A Quarter of a Century, and Still Kicking
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| The Fabulous Decobelles |
There was a slight problem, the Rockettes have this annoying thing called a "height requirement," and height is one thing in which I am sorely lacking. I'm one of those people who knows her height to within an eighth of an inch, and that's never a good sign. I've never been smacked on the head by a low hanging tree limb, risked decapitation by a crop dusting plane, had to dodge a chandelier, or hit my head on a doorway. Tall people are asked if they play basketball, people look down at me with a mixture of sympathy and pity, and ask if I've ever tried miniature golf. Sure, when I was 20 years old, I could kick a 180 split up over my head. That would put my foot about shoulder level on a normal-sized person.
I am not the only person to be disappointed by this requirement for America's most famous ladies' dance chorus, there is a Facebook page dedicated to lowering the height requirement for this prestigious institution of high kickers, indeed, self-explanatorily (if that wasn't a word before, it is now) entitled "Lower the Height Requirement for the Radio City Rockettes."
But I was lucky to find a better option, and I didn't have to engage in any fiendish elongating operation combining medieval torture with orthopedic surgery to add three - and 7/8ths - inches to my height. Nor did I have to move to New York and give up the California climate. With an artistic vision and motivation from event coordinator and photographer Laurie Gordon, and combining the large dance numbers from the great musicals of the 20s, 30s and 40s, some choreographic inspiration from Busby Berkeley, and the talents of numerous Bay Area high kickers and tappers, the Decobelles came into being about a quarter of a century ago. I was lucky enough to be there at the beginning, and 25 years later, after two children, a few pulled muscles and strained ligaments, a subluxation here, a dislocation there, I am lucky to still be kicking up my heels with a new generation of dancers.
And the lineup includes dancers between five foot nothing and six feet tall!
https://www.facebook.com/DecoBelles
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Suburban Jungle
When we moved to the suburbs in 2003, I was pregnant. And on bedrest. I didn't get unpacked until 2005, much less start to get the house in the order I wanted it in. In 2013, I'm still - not - quite - there.
One of my priorities was the garden: it had been a quiet haven for the previous owners, with a large water feature known to me as the toddler death trap - until the pump broke, and it also became the main West Nile Virus Mosquito Breeding Facility of Danville, CA; abundant flowering plants, all of which were extremely decorative and deadly poisonous; and a brick patio which unfortunately slanted toward the house rather than away from it, leading to considerable puddling during the rainy months, and a certain paranoia on my part that perhaps the foundation of the house was being undermined. Well, we haven't slid down the hill yet.
(Oleander. Lovely and lethal.)
I'm not much of a gardener. I'm still surprised that the local garden center rings up my purchases as "perennials," they should know by now that anything I purchase is going to live out life as an annual. I've committed agapanthicide in the front yard, over-watered the lavender to a sodden mess, and under-watered the ferns to a nice, crunchy consistency. The euphorbia hung on for two or three years, I am convinced it did so mostly out of spite - I put it in the wrong location and it looked horribly out of place. Feral invasive weeds thrive under my inattention, domestic species wither and dry out, or succumb to mold and bugs under my not particularly watchful eyes.
But in 2005, I persevered, for a while. I removed the giant water feature, the first and most urgent priority, and set to work taking out all the plants that had died from neglect. I removed bricks, stacked them off to one side, and set to work leveling the ground.
After two or three weeks of dedicated hard work, I felt positively ill. Complete with a fever. And I had a funny bulls-eye rash around my naval. I was aware that Lyme Disease was a problem in Danville, but had showered and checked for ticks regularly on my arms and legs - but not, unfortunately in my belly button - which frankly hasn't ever been the same since having two children, but that's another post and not for those with weak stomachs. Those deer ticks are tiny.
Four weeks of tetracycline tempered my enthusiasm for gardening, as well as for eating anything more exciting than yogurt, and it was well over six months before I ventured out again to tackle the garden again. All the plants were gone, I was starting from scratch, a tabula rasa, my partially shady blank slate with one sunny stripe, on which I was destined to plant the right plant in the wrong corner...
This time, my daughter, a precocious toddler, wanted to help. (My son, at nearly five, already knew better.) We turned over soil, broke up lumps, and worked the euphemistically named "soil amendment" in to the ground. One afternoon, my daughter asked what was in that soil amendment, because it smelled bad. I explained that it included steer manure, and that was likely what presented the unpleasant aroma. That explanation initially satisfied her, but about a half hour later, she asked, "Mommy, what's manure?" I told her. She looked at me quietly for a full minute, contemplating the magnitude of the betrayal, then set down her little shovel, and announced somberly that she was going back in the house now, and wanted a bath immediately.
(The source of her discomfort)
My then-husband - now known as the ES (Estranged Spouse) offered his help when it became apparent the job was too big for one relatively small woman to complete single-handed. He finished leveling the area where the bricks had been, and put down weed cloth. That was enough for him. He was done - and just as well. If I am the Mussolini of murderously bad gardening, the ES is the Stalin, and outdoes my black thumb by a factor of hundreds. In spite of my admonitions and advice, I've caught him liberally spraying Round Up on the carefully planted azaleas and creeping thyme, along with the knotgrass and invasive puncture vine. If it has pollen or seeds or drops leaves in the fall, his goal is complete eradication. I suspect the ES's ideal garden involves a large concrete slab, a grill, and a small potted fern.
It's been over a year since he moved out, and time to add on to what little has survived my sporadic attentions. I have kept the new lavender alive for nearly three years, and day lilies are blooming. The thyme hasn't quite given up, and the Japanese maple, after threatening for several years to join the deceased azalias, seems to have staged a remarkable recovery. The daffodils and crocuses bloom in late winter, and the gophers seem to have gifted me with freesias, because I didn't plant any, but my neighbor thought she had and then nothing came up on her side of the fence.
I spent an entire 90 minutes in that yard today, and I am please to announce that I am done for now - not because all the weeds have been pulled, not because I planted anything new, not because it looks good, and not because I am tired. But the green garden waste bin is full, so I have an excuse to put any further work off until at least Wednesday.
One of my priorities was the garden: it had been a quiet haven for the previous owners, with a large water feature known to me as the toddler death trap - until the pump broke, and it also became the main West Nile Virus Mosquito Breeding Facility of Danville, CA; abundant flowering plants, all of which were extremely decorative and deadly poisonous; and a brick patio which unfortunately slanted toward the house rather than away from it, leading to considerable puddling during the rainy months, and a certain paranoia on my part that perhaps the foundation of the house was being undermined. Well, we haven't slid down the hill yet.
I'm not much of a gardener. I'm still surprised that the local garden center rings up my purchases as "perennials," they should know by now that anything I purchase is going to live out life as an annual. I've committed agapanthicide in the front yard, over-watered the lavender to a sodden mess, and under-watered the ferns to a nice, crunchy consistency. The euphorbia hung on for two or three years, I am convinced it did so mostly out of spite - I put it in the wrong location and it looked horribly out of place. Feral invasive weeds thrive under my inattention, domestic species wither and dry out, or succumb to mold and bugs under my not particularly watchful eyes.
But in 2005, I persevered, for a while. I removed the giant water feature, the first and most urgent priority, and set to work taking out all the plants that had died from neglect. I removed bricks, stacked them off to one side, and set to work leveling the ground.
After two or three weeks of dedicated hard work, I felt positively ill. Complete with a fever. And I had a funny bulls-eye rash around my naval. I was aware that Lyme Disease was a problem in Danville, but had showered and checked for ticks regularly on my arms and legs - but not, unfortunately in my belly button - which frankly hasn't ever been the same since having two children, but that's another post and not for those with weak stomachs. Those deer ticks are tiny.
Four weeks of tetracycline tempered my enthusiasm for gardening, as well as for eating anything more exciting than yogurt, and it was well over six months before I ventured out again to tackle the garden again. All the plants were gone, I was starting from scratch, a tabula rasa, my partially shady blank slate with one sunny stripe, on which I was destined to plant the right plant in the wrong corner...
This time, my daughter, a precocious toddler, wanted to help. (My son, at nearly five, already knew better.) We turned over soil, broke up lumps, and worked the euphemistically named "soil amendment" in to the ground. One afternoon, my daughter asked what was in that soil amendment, because it smelled bad. I explained that it included steer manure, and that was likely what presented the unpleasant aroma. That explanation initially satisfied her, but about a half hour later, she asked, "Mommy, what's manure?" I told her. She looked at me quietly for a full minute, contemplating the magnitude of the betrayal, then set down her little shovel, and announced somberly that she was going back in the house now, and wanted a bath immediately.
My then-husband - now known as the ES (Estranged Spouse) offered his help when it became apparent the job was too big for one relatively small woman to complete single-handed. He finished leveling the area where the bricks had been, and put down weed cloth. That was enough for him. He was done - and just as well. If I am the Mussolini of murderously bad gardening, the ES is the Stalin, and outdoes my black thumb by a factor of hundreds. In spite of my admonitions and advice, I've caught him liberally spraying Round Up on the carefully planted azaleas and creeping thyme, along with the knotgrass and invasive puncture vine. If it has pollen or seeds or drops leaves in the fall, his goal is complete eradication. I suspect the ES's ideal garden involves a large concrete slab, a grill, and a small potted fern.
It's been over a year since he moved out, and time to add on to what little has survived my sporadic attentions. I have kept the new lavender alive for nearly three years, and day lilies are blooming. The thyme hasn't quite given up, and the Japanese maple, after threatening for several years to join the deceased azalias, seems to have staged a remarkable recovery. The daffodils and crocuses bloom in late winter, and the gophers seem to have gifted me with freesias, because I didn't plant any, but my neighbor thought she had and then nothing came up on her side of the fence.
I spent an entire 90 minutes in that yard today, and I am please to announce that I am done for now - not because all the weeds have been pulled, not because I planted anything new, not because it looks good, and not because I am tired. But the green garden waste bin is full, so I have an excuse to put any further work off until at least Wednesday.
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