I just read an interesting op-ed in the NY times - recommended by my most excellent friend - about the possibility of a female Viagra. It's a longish article and all very fascinating (No sex please, we're middle class), but the part that truly stuck out to me was about how American actresses have "desexualized" themselves. Rather than having voluptuous bodies, (think Beyonce), they chose 'efficient....sterilized athleticism" instead. As the author cites, Madonna has become scrawny and bourgeois, versus her more curvy look back in the '80's. What also struck me was the description of these women as "taut and over tense". I got to wondering....why would you want to look like that? (Why do I worry that I don't?) I mean, we all apparently feel taut and over tense, but not because our Pilate's instructor got us so lean or our private chef prepared so much grilled fish and bok choy. No, I am tense and taut because I think our lives are on speed. I keep trying to work out if all women have felt like this for years and years....or if we are truly trading achievement for ourselves (and our children, if we have them), for enjoyment, pleasure, and time spent soaking up the world, instead of trying to bend it to fit our busy schedules. I want to stop. I want to get out of that rat race. I want my family to be able to. But I don't know what the alternative is. Not taking up pilates and elimating all fun foods apparently. All that would happen then is what I felt inside would be written all over me...! Oh, just without the boob job.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I went to a charity function downtown last night. I have to admit that I was a little nervous, since last year the crowd was distinctly younger than yours truly. (I was only 35 last year, but being post-baby made me feel like a decade was an eternity.) I decided to forgo the shorter, admittedly more fun sundress, for a longer, more classic style. I couldn't face being around 25 year olds in short dresses all the while being the 36 year old in a short dress. However, I had a pleasant surprise. The younger crowd were not all that. (This blog is not completely superficial.) I mean, there were some short dresses. Some tight dresses. And some short all-in-one shorts outfits. (Very Carrie Bradshaw, but definitely not Sarah Jessica Parker in them.) We had gone with some very dear friends of ours. Of these friends, a lot of them we just don't see enough, and those we do see, we could always see more of, in my opinion. I just kept thinking how the women that I were with are all, in their own way completely wonderful, all over 30, and fabulous.
The other thought that struck me as I watched the chippies gyrating, desperately trying to impress the boys they were with, and barely being able to bend over without the whole city of Chicago seeing their knickers (maybe they don't wear any these days?), I thought how happy I am not to be 25 anymore. There are so many reasons why. But in particular because recently, I have felt like my over -thinking has taken on a whole new level....to the point where I feel a little crazy sometimes. I have felt like I don't have a minute to myself (this is true) and while I love my boys, the warnings and raised eyebrows I got when people found out I had three of the little buggers have now become reality. But still, after last night, I wouldn't trade it for the world. While my life is a little more chaotic, messy, and downright insane at times, it is precious. All the goofy things that I worry about, that those young women probably have no clue about, are not glamorous or trendy, they are in fact cliched. But the source of those worries are irreplaceable. I may not be 25 anymore but I have three amazing boys who make me laugh and smile at least ten times a day. They help bring a richness to my life that wasn't there before. (Don't get me wrong, I also look forward to the day when they are all off to college and I could go and get cocktails with my husband....alone!)
The other thought that struck me as I watched the chippies gyrating, desperately trying to impress the boys they were with, and barely being able to bend over without the whole city of Chicago seeing their knickers (maybe they don't wear any these days?), I thought how happy I am not to be 25 anymore. There are so many reasons why. But in particular because recently, I have felt like my over -thinking has taken on a whole new level....to the point where I feel a little crazy sometimes. I have felt like I don't have a minute to myself (this is true) and while I love my boys, the warnings and raised eyebrows I got when people found out I had three of the little buggers have now become reality. But still, after last night, I wouldn't trade it for the world. While my life is a little more chaotic, messy, and downright insane at times, it is precious. All the goofy things that I worry about, that those young women probably have no clue about, are not glamorous or trendy, they are in fact cliched. But the source of those worries are irreplaceable. I may not be 25 anymore but I have three amazing boys who make me laugh and smile at least ten times a day. They help bring a richness to my life that wasn't there before. (Don't get me wrong, I also look forward to the day when they are all off to college and I could go and get cocktails with my husband....alone!)
Thursday, June 17, 2010
On Grandad Self and Marmalade
I found Dundee marmalade at Trader Joe's. I made toast sliced from fresh bread, I smeared some Irish butter on it, and then thickly spread the marmalade on top....and I was in heaven. Toast and marmalade is, I think a very British thing. I missed it like crazy when I first lived here. Fortunately, like so many other things, I can get marmalade here and I don;t have to wait for my parents to bring it over. marmalade reminds me of Paddington Bear, a wonderful character in a children's story, who is found at Paddington station in London, taken home by a loving family, and who happens to keep marmalade sandwiches under his hat. You know, emergencies might arise, and a marmalade sarnie could be just the thing.
But most of all, marmalade toast makes me think of my grandad. Grandad Self (my dad's father) was an old East Londoner through and through. He had a thick London accent and knew cockney rhyming slang, which would keep me entertained for hours. (Apples and pears; stairs, "I'm going up the apples." Butchers hook;look, "I'll go take a butchers." Syrup of figs; wigs, "that blokes wearing a syrup!") Anyway, Grandad was the youngest of 7 or maybe more kids and was born in 1909. The only photo I ever saw of him as a baby was one where he wore a dress (i guess they used to?), but as a little girl, I thought that was bloody hilarious. Grandad had wonderful stories to tell. About going to school, the three "R's', rulers rapped on knuckles, and how young he was when he didn;t go to school anymore! But the best stories I ever heard, and the ones that have stuck with me, where ones about his wife (my Nan). Violet was the oldest of 7 or so kids, and was out walking one afternoon with her sister, Lil. They bumped into my Grandad (John) and his brother. (Percy maybe?) Grandad takes one look at Violet and decides he wants to ask her out. (Did I mention Grandad was a bit cocky?) So, he does, and they start courting. After two weeks, two weeks, my Nan asks my Grandad, "John, do you want to see me again?" And John replies, "See you? I want to marry you...." So they got married (I remember that photo too. My Nan with one of those really long, straight veils pre- World War 2) with none of my Grandad's family there. He had fallen out with them, over the family business, which was a furniture moving company. Grandad has sold the moving truck (I think to have extra money to start married life maybe?) without asking his brothers....they had a big fight. grandad wouldn't admit he was wrong, so his family didn't come to the wedding. (Did I mention the Self's were stubborn?) Anyway, my grandparents adored each other. During the War, Grandad was a mechanic on the army trucks. He was based in London for a time, and all the men were under strict orders not to leave the base. Well, my nan and my Dad (who was little), had stayed in London during the war, so my Grandad just leaves the base without permission and goes to see them in secret. He told me that nothing could keep him away from seeing his wife and only son. Of course he got caught, but I remember him telling me the story and chuckling the whole time, as he remembered his punishment (cleaning offices at night on the base) and how he managed to talk some other bloke into doing it for him. (Did I mention that John was very rascally?) Grandad had all kinds of stories about what he used to get up to and I was a willing listener. I used to badger him constantly to tell me more. After my nan died, he used to take the coach from East Ham in London to come and stay with us. It used to be the highlight of my summer. He taught me how to play cards, and perhaps the best of all, how to ride a bike. Every morning, I would get up and plead with him to come into the back garden and teach me how to ride my bike. He would have barely had time to eat his weetabix cereal and marmalade toast, washed down with PG tips tea, before I would come tugging at his sleeve. I remember it took me a week, until I was ready to show the whole family that I could ride my bike, on the grass, all by myself.
My sister, brother and myself were his only grandchildren. So we were spoiled. Not like kids are today. Our spoiling consisted of being allowed custard and ice-cream on your dessert. Or being able to have a choc ice (kinda like those blocks of vanilla ice-cream with a thin layer of chocolate on), and a twix bar in the afternoon. He and my Nan called me Baby, long after I stopped being one. I'd get all huffy. But secretly, I think I liked it. Now, the boys and I call my Grandad, Grandad John Robert. Otherwise they'd get confused since they have a Grandad in England now. JP liked that he shared the name John with him. I have so many memories, of his house in London, of his tiny garden that was the size of our kitchen, but filled with beautiful flowers and vegetable anyway, of how his tobacco smelled when he filled up his pipe, and how he always wore suspenders. John loved a joke, loved a pint of beer and a ploughmans lunch, and loved to tell you exactly how something should be done. (Did I mention that he kinda acted like he knew it all?!) It's odd how he is gone, been gone for a while now, and all I can pass onto my children are snippets of my memories of him. Thank god for Dundee marmalade for helping me remember him all the more.
But most of all, marmalade toast makes me think of my grandad. Grandad Self (my dad's father) was an old East Londoner through and through. He had a thick London accent and knew cockney rhyming slang, which would keep me entertained for hours. (Apples and pears; stairs, "I'm going up the apples." Butchers hook;look, "I'll go take a butchers." Syrup of figs; wigs, "that blokes wearing a syrup!") Anyway, Grandad was the youngest of 7 or maybe more kids and was born in 1909. The only photo I ever saw of him as a baby was one where he wore a dress (i guess they used to?), but as a little girl, I thought that was bloody hilarious. Grandad had wonderful stories to tell. About going to school, the three "R's', rulers rapped on knuckles, and how young he was when he didn;t go to school anymore! But the best stories I ever heard, and the ones that have stuck with me, where ones about his wife (my Nan). Violet was the oldest of 7 or so kids, and was out walking one afternoon with her sister, Lil. They bumped into my Grandad (John) and his brother. (Percy maybe?) Grandad takes one look at Violet and decides he wants to ask her out. (Did I mention Grandad was a bit cocky?) So, he does, and they start courting. After two weeks, two weeks, my Nan asks my Grandad, "John, do you want to see me again?" And John replies, "See you? I want to marry you...." So they got married (I remember that photo too. My Nan with one of those really long, straight veils pre- World War 2) with none of my Grandad's family there. He had fallen out with them, over the family business, which was a furniture moving company. Grandad has sold the moving truck (I think to have extra money to start married life maybe?) without asking his brothers....they had a big fight. grandad wouldn't admit he was wrong, so his family didn't come to the wedding. (Did I mention the Self's were stubborn?) Anyway, my grandparents adored each other. During the War, Grandad was a mechanic on the army trucks. He was based in London for a time, and all the men were under strict orders not to leave the base. Well, my nan and my Dad (who was little), had stayed in London during the war, so my Grandad just leaves the base without permission and goes to see them in secret. He told me that nothing could keep him away from seeing his wife and only son. Of course he got caught, but I remember him telling me the story and chuckling the whole time, as he remembered his punishment (cleaning offices at night on the base) and how he managed to talk some other bloke into doing it for him. (Did I mention that John was very rascally?) Grandad had all kinds of stories about what he used to get up to and I was a willing listener. I used to badger him constantly to tell me more. After my nan died, he used to take the coach from East Ham in London to come and stay with us. It used to be the highlight of my summer. He taught me how to play cards, and perhaps the best of all, how to ride a bike. Every morning, I would get up and plead with him to come into the back garden and teach me how to ride my bike. He would have barely had time to eat his weetabix cereal and marmalade toast, washed down with PG tips tea, before I would come tugging at his sleeve. I remember it took me a week, until I was ready to show the whole family that I could ride my bike, on the grass, all by myself.
My sister, brother and myself were his only grandchildren. So we were spoiled. Not like kids are today. Our spoiling consisted of being allowed custard and ice-cream on your dessert. Or being able to have a choc ice (kinda like those blocks of vanilla ice-cream with a thin layer of chocolate on), and a twix bar in the afternoon. He and my Nan called me Baby, long after I stopped being one. I'd get all huffy. But secretly, I think I liked it. Now, the boys and I call my Grandad, Grandad John Robert. Otherwise they'd get confused since they have a Grandad in England now. JP liked that he shared the name John with him. I have so many memories, of his house in London, of his tiny garden that was the size of our kitchen, but filled with beautiful flowers and vegetable anyway, of how his tobacco smelled when he filled up his pipe, and how he always wore suspenders. John loved a joke, loved a pint of beer and a ploughmans lunch, and loved to tell you exactly how something should be done. (Did I mention that he kinda acted like he knew it all?!) It's odd how he is gone, been gone for a while now, and all I can pass onto my children are snippets of my memories of him. Thank god for Dundee marmalade for helping me remember him all the more.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Thank God for my brother. Today, after taking care of a very sick 20 month old (with a high fever), I was still able to dial and hear a family member with an British accent. When it is way past the time that I can call my Mum or my sister (I hate that 6 hour difference), I can always call him in Indianapolis. I know it sounds daft, but around 5 or 6pm, I just want to ring someone and talk about my day, their day, world peace, British politics or just about anything under the sun...something my family is really good at doing.
When I first moved here, I had accepted that I would be the only person from my family that lived state-side. I jokingly asked my Mum one day before I flew off over the Atlantic, would she ever move to America? No! I will never leave England, she fiercely told me. I understood. I love England. However, I had lived here for about 7 years when my brother moved to Indy. How fucking happy am I? And consequently, I have that person to unload on (sorry!) at the end of the day. I have the bloke that I can call on St Patrick's Day and we both bitch about the unfairness of it all...(another blog). I can call and ask, will you build us a shed this year? (Did I mention that he is amazing with constructing and building stuff). Oh, and he taught me every sport I ever played....even ones that were totally girly and he had never played. (Field hockey, hurdles, basketball, and then soccer when I played on a co-ed team here a few years ago.)
I have an easier time being honest with him than anyone else ('cept Kyle of course). And when I think how he never had a brother, (he was just sandwiched between two girls) he never complained. he never made me feel like I should have been a boy so that he could, you know, teach me boy stuff. He did that anyway, and he let me be a girl when I needed to. be He still does...he just calls me a goat if I go too far.
When I first moved here, I had accepted that I would be the only person from my family that lived state-side. I jokingly asked my Mum one day before I flew off over the Atlantic, would she ever move to America? No! I will never leave England, she fiercely told me. I understood. I love England. However, I had lived here for about 7 years when my brother moved to Indy. How fucking happy am I? And consequently, I have that person to unload on (sorry!) at the end of the day. I have the bloke that I can call on St Patrick's Day and we both bitch about the unfairness of it all...(another blog). I can call and ask, will you build us a shed this year? (Did I mention that he is amazing with constructing and building stuff). Oh, and he taught me every sport I ever played....even ones that were totally girly and he had never played. (Field hockey, hurdles, basketball, and then soccer when I played on a co-ed team here a few years ago.)
I have an easier time being honest with him than anyone else ('cept Kyle of course). And when I think how he never had a brother, (he was just sandwiched between two girls) he never complained. he never made me feel like I should have been a boy so that he could, you know, teach me boy stuff. He did that anyway, and he let me be a girl when I needed to. be He still does...he just calls me a goat if I go too far.
Friday, June 4, 2010
On my mind
My mind is a scary place to be. It's full of pictures (possibly signifying I'm a bit on the spectrum?), half remembered conversations, feelings, smells (usually linked to a picture), worries, concerns, obsessions, partially read articles, and half listened to NPR radio segments.
Is every-one's brain like this? It seriously needs to get unplugged sometimes. For example, I get home from the zoo today, baby won't nap, big boys watching a movie, and I am talking to my mum in England. I have so many stupid, unimportant, trivial kinda crap that I share with her, that I am sure she is in her living room in the house that I grew up in, doing that hand motion to my Dad that basically indicates that the person that you are talking to is talking FAR too much and you wish that they would shut up. But my brain keeps bouncing from one topic to the next, to the next, to the next, and to the next. (See what I mean?)
I watched the HBO movie about Temple Grandin (the animal scientist who is autistic.) It got me thinking how my brain thinks in pictures. (Obviously not like hers.) So,I tried to explain to Kyle how my brain thinks of a calendar. I think he thought I was fucking nuts. I asked him how he pictured a calendar and he didn't seem to know. (Or he just didn't feel the need to explain. that happens alot.) I think he is far more linguistic than I, and he hears more than I do, whereas I see. And I feel. I don't think in words, unless I see the word. I have told him numerous times that I would love to plug my brain into his, just so he could understand what the heck it was I was trying to explain. But honestly, I think he would get totally freaked out. It's not even that it's smart. It's not, especially. It's just a constant. I wish I could turn it off. Maybe that's why I love to sleep at night SO much. It's heavenly to not think for 7 hours. People I love keep telling me that I just need to get back to my classes at grad school and I will be able to have something more significant to occupy my thoughts with. (This has worked before, and actually was a huge reason that I started my Masters. I was spending a tremendous amount of time being homesick. The chaos of four hour night classes took care of those superfluous thoughts.)
So, that plan could work again. Or it could just create more for my brain to soak up and for me to obsess about. See, that's the pessimistic part of my mind. Never fails.
Is every-one's brain like this? It seriously needs to get unplugged sometimes. For example, I get home from the zoo today, baby won't nap, big boys watching a movie, and I am talking to my mum in England. I have so many stupid, unimportant, trivial kinda crap that I share with her, that I am sure she is in her living room in the house that I grew up in, doing that hand motion to my Dad that basically indicates that the person that you are talking to is talking FAR too much and you wish that they would shut up. But my brain keeps bouncing from one topic to the next, to the next, to the next, and to the next. (See what I mean?)
I watched the HBO movie about Temple Grandin (the animal scientist who is autistic.) It got me thinking how my brain thinks in pictures. (Obviously not like hers.) So,I tried to explain to Kyle how my brain thinks of a calendar. I think he thought I was fucking nuts. I asked him how he pictured a calendar and he didn't seem to know. (Or he just didn't feel the need to explain. that happens alot.) I think he is far more linguistic than I, and he hears more than I do, whereas I see. And I feel. I don't think in words, unless I see the word. I have told him numerous times that I would love to plug my brain into his, just so he could understand what the heck it was I was trying to explain. But honestly, I think he would get totally freaked out. It's not even that it's smart. It's not, especially. It's just a constant. I wish I could turn it off. Maybe that's why I love to sleep at night SO much. It's heavenly to not think for 7 hours. People I love keep telling me that I just need to get back to my classes at grad school and I will be able to have something more significant to occupy my thoughts with. (This has worked before, and actually was a huge reason that I started my Masters. I was spending a tremendous amount of time being homesick. The chaos of four hour night classes took care of those superfluous thoughts.)
So, that plan could work again. Or it could just create more for my brain to soak up and for me to obsess about. See, that's the pessimistic part of my mind. Never fails.
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