Tuesday, July 31, 2012

What I need to know...

I just got an e-Blast from Oprah a few days ago. Yes, I do get the magazine every month. For the record, it was a gift subscription and I like reading the book reviews. I would not ever, in my friggin' life, however, pay $845 for chandelier earrings, which have somehow made it into the "Steals and Deals" section of the mag. Unless they mean I'd have to steal the cash to buy the fashion and than cop a deal with the po-po after I got arrested for armed robbery.

So, yes, the book reviews are great. And I did discover some great cajun recipes and a story about a 50-something trapeze artist who likes going to the farmer's market. That was cool.

Back to the e-blast. The piece that caught my eye was entitled "8 Life Skills Every Person on the Planet Needs to Learn." That's a big claim. On the planet? Like every man, woman and child, even those living in poverty-stricken, war-torn nations? OKaaay. I read on, expecting the list to at least include how to find/make clean drinking water, how to perform CPR, how to grow sustainable food, how to not get hit by a hail of gunfire when travelling to Syria, how to quietly kill your abusive husband/boyfriend...anyway, you get the point. You can imagine my complete disgust and disappointment when I read life skill #1: "The ability to listen to what you least want to hear."

I don't know about the rest of y'all but I hear shit every day that I really don't want to hear. For instance, how much these presidential campaigns are costing, how women the world over are being ravaged in one way or the other, how drought is killing farmers. And on a more personal note, which is what I think this rule means, yeah, I listen to what I least want to hear from my kids. "Ma, your arms are jiggly in the back." Or "I'm almost as tall as you," Or, my personal favorite, "You look like hell in the morning." Do I cry? No. Do I scream and yell and deny? No. Just quietly sip my coffee and wait for the little fly to flit away and tell me something I don't already know.

I think #3 on the list was supposed to be a cute little foodie quip. Sadly, "the ability to cook one thing with cheese" isn't, in my book, an abiliity, let alone an essential one to get you through friggin' life. Can you imagine being a young woman in Afghanistan reading this swill, hoping to find something of value? Cheese?! Where? We don't even have schools or shoes at this point! As for me, who lives in rural America, cheese is a staple. I have never struggled with how to use cheese. EVER. Get a grip. Now, if you can make cheese, I'd be impressed.

Oh my god, the list goes on. Something about the "power whisper," and some vaguery about listening to one's inner voice. I listen to it all right, and I usually tell it to "shut the hell up! Can't you see I'm trying to write?!" It was all so cheesy, so shallow, so, well, it'd be perfect for Pinterest.

There is one skill listed that I agree with. "The abilility to whistle with your fingers." The author's justification for this is simply because "it's sexy." Um, yeah, honey. It's really sexy when you've just screamed your head off through the window trying to get the kids to come in for dinner then break out the whistle. Or when you've tried everything short of heroin to try and get the attention of a room full of teenagers. Nope, this whistle is a necessary part of life. It is a warning, a call for help, a powerful tool for negotiation. Everybody on the planet should know how to whistle with their fingers. And laugh at themselves. And stage a protest. And physically defend themselves against violation. And roll a cigarette. And figure out due North. And sharpen a knife. And treat an infection and a broken heart. And to take help and give help.

And to swim. Everybody should know how to swim.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

'Til the photographer does us part

While I have not become completely addicted to Pinterest, it does give me a certain amount of joy looking at unique cactii, delicious meals and other strange, one-of-a-kind delights. I am not the crafty sort, so seeing what other people do with, say, painted pebbles and wine corks is pretty inspiring. Basically, it's girl porn. It also saves me a lot of money because I can get my fix just looking at the pictures of food and beautiful dresses and torquoise platform heels and call it a day.

I still want a huge cactus garden on my porch, but that's gonna be awhile. Maybe when I finally make the move to Taos, and my house is surrounded by a sea of sand and scrub brush. For me, paradise. My mother doesn't understand the whole dry, hot, landlocked thing.

"I would move to the ocean," she said. "Right on the beach."

"I like the ocean, too," I said. "But it's not scrappy enough. Nobody builds an adobe on the ocean. And what sense would a cow skull make hanging above the door on a seaside cottage, or on a skiff?"

More quizzical looks.

While I am waiting to find my desert house and live my independent Georgia O'Keefian life, complete with leathered skin, motorcycles and white, button up shirts, I will continue to drool over Pinterest images.

Yesterday, I ventured outside of my usual categories of Travel, Gardening, and Food and peeked at the "Wedding and Events" category. I can't say that it was a big mistake, but it 'got me to thinking.' The pictures were gorgeous, everything from elaborate, drapey cakes to soft light boudoir shots of the bride under her veil. Herringbone braids and big tropical flowers in the bride's hair. Slate gray bridesmaid's dresses, over the top cream-colored, gilded shoes for the bride, beach weddings, snazzy adorable invitations...you get my drift. It all looked so fun and pretty and happy. But what struck me the most, were the pictures of the actual "proposal." That seems to be a trend right now. The groom-to-be hires a professional photographer to be there when he proposes to the unsuspecting bride (maybe). Wanting to capture the moment, I guess?

It's all so staged, even from the first humble moments of the proposal, it seems to me that the current trend in marriage is not focused on the marriage itself, but on the "big day." And, of course, the amazing photography. Let's capture this moment together while we picnic in Central Park (smooch, smooch). Look how happy we are on this rooftop when he proposes. Look at my ring, look how much he loves me. Look, look, look...

The camera eventually gets put away, the pictures are stuffed into albums and posted on Facebook by the hundreds. And then what? It's over? Not quite. Then you actually have a marriage on your hands that is as real as the sun rising and setting. Is that one photo albumn of contrived memories gonna carry you through the sleepless nights of parenthood? Is that image of you two on the picnic blanket gonna keep you from leaving in a fury of broken dishes when you have your 1000th knock down, drag out in the kitchen at 2 a.m.? How about the ring? How much ground do you think that will cover when you find a pair of margarita glasses in the sink and you've been away for two weeks...

Where is the photographer then? Oh, right, you don't want to capture those moments.

Shouldn't the focus be more on the marriage itself. Not planning, necessarily for the day, but for the rest of your lives? Perhaps the camera should start flashing when the crappy car dies on the highway and you discover that your "man" doesn't know how to change a tire, or when you both wake up with a stomach flu and still have to make breakfast for the kids.

I have a lot of memories of being married. Many of them good, many of them bad. I choose not to sort through all the mental photographs and frame the ones that are pretty and burn the others. That's not how marriage works. A picture is worth a thousand words, only if you get the shot.

Sifting through the years, I don't need a photo to remind me of how he proposed. It was before 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning in August. I was hovering by the coffee maker and he said, out of the blue, "I think we should get married." I nodded my head and pulled the cream out of the fridge. "Sure," I said. "Sounds like a plan. Let me tell my mother."

Monday, July 2, 2012

Fifty Shades of Crap

My literary tastes are, not surprisingly, dark as the winter sky. I'm a "No Country for Old Men" kinda girl who loves violent, underbelly stuff. You know, real Annie Proulx material. I write that way (in my fiction life) and think that way, and have lived that way in many circumstances.

So, when I was basically coerced by a friend into letting me borrow her unmarred copy of "Fifty Shades of Gray" I was practically giddy to crack that baby open. You can stop shaking your head in Puritan disgust, you know you wanna read it, too. It is touted as a dark novel, an erotic novel, exploring the secret world of Doms and Subs in urban Seattle. A struggling college grad meets Mr. Filthy-f*cking-rich with a dark side. Like leather bed, chains and riding crops dark side. I was sold.

I was sold until I started, about 3 pages in, hating the protagonist. Meet 21-year-old Anastasia Steele, who narrates the entire story in the first person. Which I don't generally like or use in my fiction.

OK, fine, I'll get over it...or will I. Miss Steele is a total chump. I glower at her weakling character. She trips over everything, literally, she bites her lip like a 5-year-old child, she stutters, she doesn't exercise or eat much, she doesn't know a good wine from a bad beer, the list is exhausting. I tried to relate to her, you know, you gotta get close to your characters right?

Yeah, right. This snivelling little sh*t is ridiculous. And you know what's more ridiculous, apparently she is the perfect woman. At least according to the New York Times bestseller list. Wanna know why?

She's a virgin. That's right. Miss Steele has never been tapped, or kissed, or felt up, or anything like that. A supposed bookworm swimming in a sea of sadists. It's grating on the nerves. What is this, a middle-school slumber party? And yet Mr. Gray thinks she's perfect for the "claiming" so to speak, and claim he does.

Did I mention she's never had an orgasm? Yeah, not one. But, miraculously, with every sexual encounter she has with Mr. Gray, she is "shattered" by her body's response.

I almost stopped reading when the old "blood on the sheets" scene came up. You know, due to her purity. Give me a goddamn break.

This is not a real woman. Not even close. She possesses no control, no confidence, and no brain. Her vulnerability borders on hilarious. My son has more street smarts than her.

Oh, but when it comes to giving "oral pleasure" to Mr. Gray, she is a freakin' pro, first time out.

Sure she is.

Where are the real heroines who earn their own cash and don't need their rich boyfriends to buy them iMacs, Audis and Blackberries (swear to god)? I can remember back to my college days. If a guy came at me with a riding crop he'd either be dead or handcuffed to a bed wearing my underwear! And if some snotty dipshit tried to educate me on the merits of a good wine, I'd take him down to my basement and show him what a real vintage was made of.

So much for standing on your own two feet. She bats her eyelashes, has slumber-party conversations with her best friend and apparently isn't bothered that some sick-o insists on having a private doctor screen her for sexual diseases before they "commence" their S&M party, at his leisure, of course.

Why am I still reading the novel? NO. But, I do wanna know why and how this man became so messed up. And then I want him to staple her thoughts shut and end the "little-girl-lost" crap with a taser.

And if you are a man who dreams of debasing a virgin as your penultimate sexual goal, then you better steer clear of girls like me. I could have you for breakfast.