Friday, June 17, 2011

The Day My Momma Stuck it to the PTO

There is a country song...actually, there is always a country song...that is still dead on when it comes to today's "parent organizations." I am speaking specifically about the PTO (or PTA depending on what state and era of misogyny you live in). Now, to be fair, I have never actually been to a PTO meeting so I can only tell you what my experience has been "on the outside" of this highly stealth, relentless fundraising machine that seems to run on the fumes of guilt coming from the "other" parents, us supposed non-involved folks who refuse to buy friggin' mail order cookie batter and strudel cakes for $900 a piece and sit back and wonder why the hell all the kids are getting fat.

Now I'm getting started.

This blog would not have happened, I would've kept silent for the next 10 years of wrapping paper, danishes, cookies, sh*tty candles, cheap body lotions and stale pies if I hadn't gotten an email this week basically telling the parents of the children in the school that we all suck for not being able to push through a June 18 carnival. Apparently, we, in our presumed apathy and lack of love for our own children, suck for not wanting devote an entire Saturday at the ass end of a difficult school year to some crappy ring toss in the gym and maybe a pocket lady with lead infused toys in her apron.

I think you get where I'm going with this. Who are these people, the Gestapo? Am I supposed to feel guilty that whenever a fundraiser packet, actually make that two fundraiser packets because I have two kids, comes home with stock photos of chocolate or pies that the moment I pull it out of the book bag, I sigh and chuck it in the recycling? Neither I nor my family (specifically the grandparents of these children, who by the way, in order to be fair would have to get something from each of the 9 grandchildren) can afford to buy any of this sh*t, which is exactly what it is. If I'm going to spend 40 bucks on pastry items, I will head to the local bakery and get it fresh, thanks. And if I need wrapping paper for the hundreds of Christmas presents I have to buy every year, then, Dollar Store, here I come.

And may I gently remind you that in addition to the set of two packets that come home, the individual classrooms also conduct fundraisers and can drives and presentations and parties, etc. This means, for me, a single parent, who really is only worried about groceries and shelter and happiness at this point, that I have to keep track of two sets of permission slips, field trip fees, last minute "mom I need you to make 6 dozen cookies" or, most recently, a purchase of 4 bags of veggie chips (to the tune of $4 a bag), oh and, can you take FOUR hours off of work for a school picnic.

What has happened to reality? And on top of all this pressure, you're going to send me a "You suck" email because I simply don't have another 6 hours and $30 to spend on some stupid carnival on the one day I have off this week. Ever think that maybe I'd like to take my kids out for a friggin' ice cream, or maybe sleep in, make some pancakes, go for a nice hike?

And here's another tip, oh uberparents who are clearly better somehow than the rest of us, if you're going to gossip maliciously about other parents don't do it in the school lobby. We all can hear you, even amid the throng of children being corralled to the buses. I may not have the cash for the raw cookie dough or the Tiffany's wrapping paper, but I know what class is. You can't sell that in a shiny booklet.

Oh, and FYI, maybe if some of you got a job you wouldn't have time to think about how crappy the rest of us are for trying to keep our heads above water.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The End of the Affair

I'm sorry, but with the latest "Weiner" news, I am convinced now that 1)men, all men (save for like 3 that I know) lead with their dicks and 2) Have you ever heard of woman in politics, making major decisions for people, f*cking around with internet porn and specialty hookers and god knows what else?! Can you imagine Hilary Clinton deciding that on her lunch break she's gonna take a picture of her "nethers" with her phone and then post it?! WTF?!

And yes, there are women who cheat. In fact, 45% of married women in this country are unfaithful. I think the percentage for married men is roughly the same, maybe a few percentage points higher, but close. So, then the issue, especially in this age of social media, isn't that men cheat more than women. It's that everybody's cheating (and that male politicians are really friggin' bad at it!).

That sound about right? Fair? And furthermore, social media is making it a lot easier, A LOT easier to "cheat" right in front of your spouse. I guess I should define my idea of cheating, because nowadays moral flexibility is a very handy tool to have. So, cheating, in my mind, is anything that makes you feel guilty, anything that you wouldn't tell your spouse because somewhere in there you know it would cause some waves. Major waves in most cases.

Based on that definition, how many of us cheat? Better yet, how many of us have "cheated" within the last 24 hours?! No need to raise your hands, but just think about it. I told my "domestic partner" the other day that I think the computer and texting is ruining good ol' fashioned love. It is melting boundaries that were once very clear and it is creating mistrust and suspicion within even the most adoring relationships. In fact, I'm willing to bet that Facebook was partly responsible (partly) responsible for the breakdown of my marriage. I didn't know who all these women were that he was friending and apparently a "friend" emailed him through FB and said that "your wife" (i.e. ME!) was "getting close" with people at grad school that summer. Of course, I have no idea to this day who the guy was that said that, and I still have no idea who all the women friends are that my ex "friended" that summer. As for me, the only "close" relationships I had were with the ticks, the bears, the moose, a newly married Ukrainian woman and my friend Lyd, who was writing great poetry AND counting points for Weight Watchers.

Pretty risque, eh? But, once that seed is planted in the mind, the roots grow pretty quick. I don't even think I had a chance after that email was sent.

Which brings me to texting, and still emails. Being the jaded, thirty-something woman I get antsy when my "gentleman friend" gets a text. Not antsy-crazy, but just a sick feeling in my guts like "What the hell is he up to?" And I'm pretty sure that he feels the same way to a degree. So immediately, we have slushy trust issues which can be used against us at any time. Does it mean that I can't get texts from my guy friends, not necessarily, but then the issue comes down to "managing content" and what you should or shouldn't be saying in a text to someone who you are not in a relationship with...

It's messy people. I'm trying to stick to some basic rules to keep things simple. Oddly, it's not that simple. First off, I'm thinking if I would feel weird showing the text (or email, or tweet or picture) to my "partner" then its not an appropriate conversation to be having. And if I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach then, again, it probably isn't right and I should deflect.
That said, every time I casually ask my boyfriend "oh, who's that?" he rarely tells me. And since he doesn't ask me, I don't tell him...

This soapbox is getting mighty crowded.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Eve's Curse is Not Her Own

I was just watching a brief lecture on advertising and body image and, of course, how these evil images and concepts demoralize women. I know, you've heard it all before--models who weigh less than the shoes they display, photo shopping gone mad on the sides of buses, women turned into objects and violated before our very eyes--all in the name of money.

Nothing new, really. Unless you are raising a girl, who will be subject to the same stresses and internal angst that you experienced for not ever being perfect...not even coming close, actually. Even today, when we look at women, brains and personality are not the first items on the checklist of perfection (I burned that list a few years ago, and continually find myself throwing other unrealistic versions of it in the fire). It is ALL about how a woman looks, and that message is being passed on to the innocent minds of girls who still have no concept of what sex is, or love, or pressure. They think horses are beautiful and that the most beautiful woman they've ever seen is a family member, probably Mom or Nana or a vibrant aunt.

These girls know the truth all along, that is, until, the world gets hold of them and rips their childhood, and the honest bubble they live in, into tiny jagged pieces--all lies, of course. But who knew?

I look at my gorgeous 4th grader and I cannot fathom what she will endure at the hands of impossible perfection. She is nearly 5 feet tall, her hair is a brilliant mass of black coils that shoot straight out of her skull, she has broad shoulders, legs up to her neck, the beginnings of what will be a sizeable...um...booty and thick athlete's thighs. She is a powerhouse with a very big smile and even bigger brown eyes. Of course, I think she is the epitome of all things beautiful. She needs no adornment, no modification. A pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt is her uniform of choice. Yet, I can feel her doubt, even disgust, when she tells me she weighs 90 pounds. I can see her face harden when she looks at the trash magazines in the grocery store (why the fuck do they put those things there, anyway?!).

"Do you think I'll look like you when I grow up?" she asks, and I can't tell what my answer should be. Does she want to look like me? Is she horrified that she will look like me? Who knows?

"I think, Anna, that you will look a little like me but be a lot taller and more confident than I was."

At least, that is what I am hoping. The confidence part, I mean. That is where a crucial mistake was made in my raising. My mother is a tiny woman who has always been very into fashion. She has great taste and she and I would look at Vogue together commenting on the clothes, the models, etc. As I got older, Vogue became more a point of anxiety for me than inspiration. I remember reading an article about Cindy Crawford, I was about 16, and it said that she was 5'9" and 128 lbs, which by runway standards is monstrous. I nearly cried into the pages. I was only 5'5" and 135 lbs. And so, I didn't eat for weeks...drank black coffee, played soccer, and felt like shit the whole time. Did I lose weight, sure, but I was miserable.

I never want my beautiful daughther to know that side of me ever existed. I am ashamed to this day by how, when I catch a glimpse of a Victoria's Secret layout, I feel instantly unsexy and undesirable. How could an educated woman with a good career and two beautiful children ever be self-conscious? Or doubt that she, because her hair isn't tousled enough, her thighs aren't small enough, her stomach isn't anywhere near flat enough, is worth her weight in gold? Literally?

We have no fashion magazines in this house. Anna reads the New Yorker, mostly the comics. I compliment her whenever I can without being insincere, she returns the favor--saying that my arm flab really isn't that bad and that I have nice white teeth.

But even now, I can feel a little bit of the doom of adolescence coming our way. She will doubt herself, just as I continue to get mean little jabs in at my own appearance. Last night, in jest, my "gentleman friend" said that it was a good thing he didn't have a foot fetish.

"Why," I asked.

"Because you have man feet. That wouldn't work at all."

I looked at my wide, unpainted, calloused garden feet, my relaxation instantly ruined by the comment. I laughed when I felt like puking. And my first thought went to the weakest part of my brain.

"What else does he not like about me?" I should've told him to "f*ck off" which I did, but not before the needle entered the unprotected, soft tissue of my self-confidence. The heart part. If he doesn't like my feet, then, my god, what does he think of my legs? And my crazy hair and my big teeth and the giant scar across my abdomen? And my farmer's tan?

That's how I fell asleep last night. Worrying that I would wake up and someday soon it would all vanish because my shell wasn't pretty like the other turtles.

I prefer to burst out of mine, I hope Anna does the same.