The economic news hasn’t been so good lately. It seems the American consumer is finally not responding to the urgent cries to spend, spend, spend. Chuck used to say that it’s impossible to spend oneself rich. He was referring specifically to me when I’d come home with my “bargains” from the sales. But he was right. Only the government benefits when we spend. They get the taxes, we get the bill. Yet only by spending do we keep the multiple and overlapping businesses that support our supposed need for “choice.”
I was reminded of this the other day when I went to the supermarket to buy ice cream. I found myself confronted by a freezer case of choice that stretched from the front of the store to the rear. It’s not a small store, so you get the idea.
Walking down the freezer cases was like watching a procession of precedence. First came the big boys. The Ben and Jerry’s and the company with the nonsensical name of Haagen Daas. These gourmet ice creams justify their cost by butter fat, fancy names for the flavors, and a hovering air of exclusivity. They are competing not only with each other but with the 38 flavors of Baskin Robbins.
Then came the middle brands, things like Meadowgold and Breyers. Their marketing strategy is basically the same. They have the same basic flavors (bland) and try to differentiate themselves in one of the two ways. They either try to underprice one another or second guess America’s current dietary preoccupations be they for light, fat-free, or even for sorbet or frozen yogurt. In the case of the latter, it's to the point that I can't predict whether something will be there the next time I go in. Sid says that one way to know if something's working is that the next time you look for it, it's been changed. It's also the mark of something that's not working. Innovation rules.
The result of all this "choice" and innovation is a conglomeration of brands with little to choose between them except for the huge difference between the full cream brands and the ones that imply we can enjoy the product without paying for it in calories. This is a case where the idea of choice has gone mad--at least I think so.
I know I could be writing about almost any other product and I know that the principle of competition is supposed to hold prices down. But how many brands of anything do we need? Especially when some of those brands are made in some central place out of state and come laden with preservatives so they don't harden, dry out, thicken, or go stale before they reach our supermarket shelves? Someone once told me that they use the same preservatives for food as they do to embalm bodies. To be very British, that proper put the wind up me.
I suppose that I’m remembering Forte’s Café on the Hove Seafront. We had the choice of vanilla, vanilla with fruit, and strawberry. The ice cream was great. I’m not at all sure that having ice cream in the flavors of mango fruitie-tootie, latte frappaccino, and walnut parfait, has made my life richer. The older I get, in fact, the less I am entraced with choice.
I imagine that all these ice cream producers may become victims of America’s slow down in spending. Ice cream is, after all, somewhat expendable. If that’s the case, I look forward to not going in to the supermarket and feeling like a predator looking at a school of fish when I go down the ice cream section.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Every Purpose Under Heaven
As most of you already know, I’m doing the final edit for my second novel, Every Purpose Under Heaven. It deals with a dying man who is afraid to move on. Now it is done, I can say it’s been a long personal journey for me. It’s made me confront myself and what I do or don’t believe about life and death.
The dying man, whom I call Bill del Vecchio, is based in part on what happened when my husband, Chuck, died. We were giving Chuck morphine on an as-needed basis so he was in and out of consciousness. When he was out, he seemed to be talking to people we could not see. We asked him about it once when he woke. He told us that he was in the Civil War trying to get supplies out to troops dug in along a road. He remembered moving his arms protectively because he was running from tree to tree to dodge bullets. He described the scene so vividly it made me think of the battlefield at Manassas. When he went back to sleep, his arm movements started again, so we assumed he had gone back to that dangerous place.
I was reminded about Chuck’s experience by the media reports surrounding Pope John Paul’s death in 2005. The officials around him reported that the pontiff said, “You have come for me. I thank you,” shortly before he died. No explanation was offered about whom he was talking to. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he was talking to the saints and his predecessors, the people he would have expected and wanted to see. Since he was in a coma, as I understand it, he was never asked.
If I was right, and the dying pontiff saw whom he wished to, I have to ask myself why Chuck wanted to be on a Civil War battlefield during the height of a battle. Why ever would he have wanted or expected to go to such a place? Not having any answer made me curious about what happens at the time of death.
I had no time to answer my own questions at first. After his death. I went out on another quest to find my father. He had been killed in a Halifax bomber during 1944. It took me time and travel to three continents to find his family and the survivor of his crew. The result was my first book, Extraordinary Things, based loosely on my own experience and heavily on that of the WWII aircrew veterans I met along the way. Once that book was done. I turned back to trying to understand what might have happened to Chuck.
Since the closest we ever get to the experience of death comes from those people with near-death experiences, most of the literature and research deals with them. Their reports are fairly consistent. They report a tunnel and light and seeing dead loved ones. That was a comforting thought, but it still didn’t explain what Chuck saw. Then I started reading books about things like soul purpose and incarnations. Most of them argued that we are all part of a spiritual universe that seeks perfection. Well, no one I knew was likely to be perfect anytime soon, but I began to see what the books were getting at. I asked some further questions. What if Chuck were being shown something to help him learn what he was meant to? If so, it couldn’t just be him. What if all of us go through this process to learn something from having lived our lives? I found that idea intriguing. But do we all have to go through this? Some of us may be self-aware enough to see our lives as leading to some purpose. On the other hand, what if someone were not self-aware, or even more, was deliberately un-self-aware. What then? I began to see the kernel of an idea for a story. What if a modern man started "remembering" something from the past? Could what he discovers say something about life and death that would be hopeful and ultimately even joyful.
Immediately, I ran into a problem. I needed to find a historical time similar to ours yet separated enough to provide a perspective on ours. After some false starts, I settled on the Italian Renaisssance, a time when fundamentalism clashed with reason. I thought of a scholar named Aonio Paleario. No one much has heard of him now, but in his time he was as famous as Erasmus or Bruno. He was brilliant, scholarly, stubborn, and arrogant, and very modern in his independence and demand for freedom. He deliberately martyred himself to oppose the Catholic Church and when they predictably executed him, he left behind a trail of broken family members who were punished along with him. If such a man were to “come back” in modern times, would he have learned something? Would he try to do things differently? What if some of the same people “came back” with him--would he try to make amends to them? Or they to him? That’s what Every Purpose Under Heaven tries to explore.
I have to admit I’m attracted to the ideas of symmetry and accountability, so I like the idea that our untidy lives are not the end. I particularly like the idea of purpose and that maybe surviving and amassing material goods is not the ultimate reason for existence. That leaves open, of course, what the purpose is. Some years ago, I remember reading reports about a Neolithic cave burial. The skeleton was of a deformed man who had grown into adulthood. The remains of shriveled flower garlands were found, suggesting that he had been mourned. That was an epiphany for me. With all the bad press our supposedly “brutish” ancestors had been given through our media, here was evidence that they cared for one another, had compassion, and regardless of what the anthropologists care to tell us, were human beings. Surely our purpose all these thousands of years later cannot be much different—to love and have compassion for those around us—those, if you choose to believe—who have agreed to come back with us and link their lives with ours.
I do not know if any of this is true. But, after writing the book, I hope so.
The dying man, whom I call Bill del Vecchio, is based in part on what happened when my husband, Chuck, died. We were giving Chuck morphine on an as-needed basis so he was in and out of consciousness. When he was out, he seemed to be talking to people we could not see. We asked him about it once when he woke. He told us that he was in the Civil War trying to get supplies out to troops dug in along a road. He remembered moving his arms protectively because he was running from tree to tree to dodge bullets. He described the scene so vividly it made me think of the battlefield at Manassas. When he went back to sleep, his arm movements started again, so we assumed he had gone back to that dangerous place.
I was reminded about Chuck’s experience by the media reports surrounding Pope John Paul’s death in 2005. The officials around him reported that the pontiff said, “You have come for me. I thank you,” shortly before he died. No explanation was offered about whom he was talking to. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he was talking to the saints and his predecessors, the people he would have expected and wanted to see. Since he was in a coma, as I understand it, he was never asked.
If I was right, and the dying pontiff saw whom he wished to, I have to ask myself why Chuck wanted to be on a Civil War battlefield during the height of a battle. Why ever would he have wanted or expected to go to such a place? Not having any answer made me curious about what happens at the time of death.
I had no time to answer my own questions at first. After his death. I went out on another quest to find my father. He had been killed in a Halifax bomber during 1944. It took me time and travel to three continents to find his family and the survivor of his crew. The result was my first book, Extraordinary Things, based loosely on my own experience and heavily on that of the WWII aircrew veterans I met along the way. Once that book was done. I turned back to trying to understand what might have happened to Chuck.
Since the closest we ever get to the experience of death comes from those people with near-death experiences, most of the literature and research deals with them. Their reports are fairly consistent. They report a tunnel and light and seeing dead loved ones. That was a comforting thought, but it still didn’t explain what Chuck saw. Then I started reading books about things like soul purpose and incarnations. Most of them argued that we are all part of a spiritual universe that seeks perfection. Well, no one I knew was likely to be perfect anytime soon, but I began to see what the books were getting at. I asked some further questions. What if Chuck were being shown something to help him learn what he was meant to? If so, it couldn’t just be him. What if all of us go through this process to learn something from having lived our lives? I found that idea intriguing. But do we all have to go through this? Some of us may be self-aware enough to see our lives as leading to some purpose. On the other hand, what if someone were not self-aware, or even more, was deliberately un-self-aware. What then? I began to see the kernel of an idea for a story. What if a modern man started "remembering" something from the past? Could what he discovers say something about life and death that would be hopeful and ultimately even joyful.
Immediately, I ran into a problem. I needed to find a historical time similar to ours yet separated enough to provide a perspective on ours. After some false starts, I settled on the Italian Renaisssance, a time when fundamentalism clashed with reason. I thought of a scholar named Aonio Paleario. No one much has heard of him now, but in his time he was as famous as Erasmus or Bruno. He was brilliant, scholarly, stubborn, and arrogant, and very modern in his independence and demand for freedom. He deliberately martyred himself to oppose the Catholic Church and when they predictably executed him, he left behind a trail of broken family members who were punished along with him. If such a man were to “come back” in modern times, would he have learned something? Would he try to do things differently? What if some of the same people “came back” with him--would he try to make amends to them? Or they to him? That’s what Every Purpose Under Heaven tries to explore.
I have to admit I’m attracted to the ideas of symmetry and accountability, so I like the idea that our untidy lives are not the end. I particularly like the idea of purpose and that maybe surviving and amassing material goods is not the ultimate reason for existence. That leaves open, of course, what the purpose is. Some years ago, I remember reading reports about a Neolithic cave burial. The skeleton was of a deformed man who had grown into adulthood. The remains of shriveled flower garlands were found, suggesting that he had been mourned. That was an epiphany for me. With all the bad press our supposedly “brutish” ancestors had been given through our media, here was evidence that they cared for one another, had compassion, and regardless of what the anthropologists care to tell us, were human beings. Surely our purpose all these thousands of years later cannot be much different—to love and have compassion for those around us—those, if you choose to believe—who have agreed to come back with us and link their lives with ours.
I do not know if any of this is true. But, after writing the book, I hope so.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Guest blog: Vertical and horizontal revisited
Here's another take on the difference between the male and female perspective--this time from the younger set. Deb can be found at dweeb@stetser.net
I'd be hard pressed to find anyone over the age of 40 who doesn't know who Felix Ungar and Oscar Madison are. The Odd Couple was a 60's Broadway play about two divorced men living as roommates, complete opposites in most ways, most notably their lifestyles. Tony Randall and Jack Klugman did a superb job of bringing life to these two characters in the 70s sitcom of the same name. I was going to entitle this "Men Are From Mars" but I think Felix and Oscar can do more justice to the story.
This morning while getting ready to show our condo to another potential buyer, I reached under the sink to pull out the "good" towels. We aren't allowed to use them; they serve ONE purpose only, to make our bathrooms look like everything in them actually coordinates. As I extricated the towels from the crowded cabinet, I knocked over my husband Dan's bottle of Listerine. The cap had not been screwed on and the contents gushed onto the carpet, soaking right in. I let out a string of expletives, sighed and grabbed a towel to blot up the mess. No time to pull out the carpet cleaner to suck up the liquid, so I tossed a small hand towel which could also pass as a throw rug over the spot and hoped no one would step on it.
As I finished tidying up, one of my favorites shows, The Odd Couple came to mind and I realized how very similar Dan and I are to those two guys. I recalled our 13 years together and my struggle to reach some sort of a compromise on upkeeping our home. Once long ago when I proclaimed Dan a huge slob, he accused me of being compulsive about germs because I worked in an operating room. Admittedly, he's come a long way from the days when I caught him dropping food on the kitchen floor and leaving it and the time I saw him toss a handful of potato peels over his shoulder (without looking), aiming in the general direction of the trash can behind him. NOW I understood why the side of the refrigerator was always dotted with specks of food - Dan used it to bank scraps into the trash.
Listerine aside, his transgressions are now less severe. Either that, or I'm so immune to 'em I barely notice. I still find his habit of leaving the kitchen cupboards open annoying, or the way he leaves lights on after he's left the room, but he has stepped up in helping maintain the illusion that our home always looks like it does when we have a showing. Just this morning, he cleaned the majority of the mess up before he left for work and there wasn't much left for me to do...except deal with the catbox. And mouthwash.
My girlfriend Annette and I lament over the way WE view "clean and neat" and our husbands do. We've both noticed the maddening habit of Scott and Dan's kitchen clean up routines. Wash all the dishes and leave grease on the stove, food and crumbs on the counter then act bewildered when we point out the kitchen is not clean.Annette recounted a funny exchange she had with Scott over chores. She complained "you don't do anything". He countered "I do things" and she countered with "Well, you don't do ENOUGH!"
Are Dan, Scott, Annette and I typical in our experiences? Are men just a different breed? I remember my grandfather being in charge of the housework. Every weekend he would vacuum, dust, polish and clean while my grandmother did whatever it was she did. He also was responsible for cooking most of their meals. My Dad liked to cook also, but that happened after he retired. He never was interested in housecleaning, but he was pretty neat in his own right.Dan's brother (a former slob) has some issues with neatness and the like. I was horrified when we visited his new home one day to find he had bought his wife a carpet rake, which she gleefully demonstrated while proclaiming how much she loved raking the carpet. ??? !!! Yikes, can you say Stepford Wife?
If I could, would I change Dan into a neatnik? Would I want him buying me gifts like a rug rake? HELL NO! One might find it hard to believe there is an up side to living with someone who has more on his agenda than a spotless house. If I don't feel like cleaning, straightening or otherwise attending to the house, it's not a big deal to Dan. He's never once complained about my messes (and believe me, I can make messes with the best of 'em). If I don't want to clean, wash dishes, or do laundry, Dan couldn't care less.There's something to be said for living with Oscar. You'll have to ask Dan what it's like to have Felix for a roommate.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Shrink Wrapped Mutiny
When I was a child, we used to shop for groceries daily. Bradshaw’s grocery was just up on George Street, the old village market street, perhaps five minutes from the house. In bombed out Britain, many people were living crammed into rooms and fridges were a luxury. We’d buy two ounces of butter (a treat), a quarter of tea, and a couple of eggs (always fun to see them candled) that Mum would put on the window sill overnight. My favorite peppermint humbugs were sold in two ounce bags and nothing was prepackaged. All would be deposited into a wicker basket. Wrapping was reserved for soft goods and was generally brown paper wrap and string, except for fish and chips which came in waxed paper wrapped in newsprint.
Nothing was wasted because there was so little. My mother had a rather large ball of string and the brown paper was regularly reused for posting things. Anything larger was collected by a man with a cart who came through the street yelling, “Any old rags, any old bones.”
Today I can hardly come home from the market without a garbage can full of discarded wrapping materials. It is so overdone that I have conceived an absolute hatred of opening packages.
My animus toward packing materials begins with milk cartons. Supposedly easy to open and “hygienic” because fingers wouldn’t touch the spout, these cartons are the Edsels of the milk world. You have to push open the top, which never goes back far enough to clear the adhesive, then pull it forward to form the spout, except that it invariably tears, leaving a jagged edge through which the milk escapes on the sides when you try to pour it out.
My ire continues with anything pressure sealed. Potato chips (never mind that I shouldn’t be eating them), small ketchup packages, “freshness” pouches inside cereal boxes—anything that says “tear here.” Invariably it doesn’t and when I resort to my teeth the package disgorges its contents all at once and usually on me.
My particular fury, however, is saved for shrink wrap and for the thick plastic fortresses that electronics—even the cheapest stuff—come encased in. I bought a headset for my cell phone the other day. I brought it home and began the assault. I tried my kitchen shears which can cut through chicken bones. Didn’t make a dent. Then I tried to pry the edges apart with a kitchen knife. No way. I took a screwdriver and tried to punch a hole. The screwdriver glanced off the package and sent the headset onto the floor where it nearly hit the cat. I finally decided the only way to get into it was to put it in a vise and use an electric drill to start and then enlarge a hole. Even then it pulled apart reluctantly and left jagged and very sharp edges.
Opening this headset has confirmed my mutiny. I have resolved that if I buy any further things encased in this type of package that I am not going to leave the store before they open it. If they don’t want to open it, they can do without the sale. I haven’t yet put my policy into place, but I am now looking forward to the opportunity. Best Buy, watch out.
As another part of my mutiny, I’ve also resolved to do without as much wrapping as I can, not for the sake of the environment (although I feel virtuous) but for the sake of sending a very strong message to manufacturers that if they want sales from us older folks—or anyone else for that matter—that their convenience does not trump ours. I had a vise and I know how to use an electric drill. Others don’t. Manufacturers can choose to package that way and I can choose not to buy. I now take my own bags to the grocery store. I’ve found that I can reuse even the clear bags that vegetables and fruit come in. I’ve cut my plastic trash to an absolute minimum. My green reusable grocery bags are the modern equivalent of Mum’s wicker basket. They may not be as quaint but they work just as well.
I feel good about my mutiny. Perhaps if others take a similar stand we can make some sort of difference. Now if only I could do something about the masses of foam peanuts used to fill the standard boxes that the post office has begun forcing us to use.
Nothing was wasted because there was so little. My mother had a rather large ball of string and the brown paper was regularly reused for posting things. Anything larger was collected by a man with a cart who came through the street yelling, “Any old rags, any old bones.”
Today I can hardly come home from the market without a garbage can full of discarded wrapping materials. It is so overdone that I have conceived an absolute hatred of opening packages.
My animus toward packing materials begins with milk cartons. Supposedly easy to open and “hygienic” because fingers wouldn’t touch the spout, these cartons are the Edsels of the milk world. You have to push open the top, which never goes back far enough to clear the adhesive, then pull it forward to form the spout, except that it invariably tears, leaving a jagged edge through which the milk escapes on the sides when you try to pour it out.
My ire continues with anything pressure sealed. Potato chips (never mind that I shouldn’t be eating them), small ketchup packages, “freshness” pouches inside cereal boxes—anything that says “tear here.” Invariably it doesn’t and when I resort to my teeth the package disgorges its contents all at once and usually on me.
My particular fury, however, is saved for shrink wrap and for the thick plastic fortresses that electronics—even the cheapest stuff—come encased in. I bought a headset for my cell phone the other day. I brought it home and began the assault. I tried my kitchen shears which can cut through chicken bones. Didn’t make a dent. Then I tried to pry the edges apart with a kitchen knife. No way. I took a screwdriver and tried to punch a hole. The screwdriver glanced off the package and sent the headset onto the floor where it nearly hit the cat. I finally decided the only way to get into it was to put it in a vise and use an electric drill to start and then enlarge a hole. Even then it pulled apart reluctantly and left jagged and very sharp edges.
Opening this headset has confirmed my mutiny. I have resolved that if I buy any further things encased in this type of package that I am not going to leave the store before they open it. If they don’t want to open it, they can do without the sale. I haven’t yet put my policy into place, but I am now looking forward to the opportunity. Best Buy, watch out.
As another part of my mutiny, I’ve also resolved to do without as much wrapping as I can, not for the sake of the environment (although I feel virtuous) but for the sake of sending a very strong message to manufacturers that if they want sales from us older folks—or anyone else for that matter—that their convenience does not trump ours. I had a vise and I know how to use an electric drill. Others don’t. Manufacturers can choose to package that way and I can choose not to buy. I now take my own bags to the grocery store. I’ve found that I can reuse even the clear bags that vegetables and fruit come in. I’ve cut my plastic trash to an absolute minimum. My green reusable grocery bags are the modern equivalent of Mum’s wicker basket. They may not be as quaint but they work just as well.
I feel good about my mutiny. Perhaps if others take a similar stand we can make some sort of difference. Now if only I could do something about the masses of foam peanuts used to fill the standard boxes that the post office has begun forcing us to use.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Belgians and Pinots
When I was younger, I could eat anything. For that matter, I could drink pretty much anything as well. I suppose you might say I was indiscriminate—except for beer, which I hated. If someone told me that a certain wine was a good vintage I took their word for it. I had to. Unless it was sweet, I couldn’t tell much in the way of subtle differences. Lost on me, I’m afraid.
I learned to like beer as a defense mechanism when I was in graduate school. After class, the group went down to a pub right on Lake Union (I went to the University of Washington) for discussions and arguments around a pitcher. I’m not even sure that the pub had much beyond hard liquor and beer. It must have, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to be the only one asking. The first beer I liked was Coors, which is about as close to drinking air as possible. Once I had the taste, though, I could drink the others and even went so far as Nut Brown Ale. There it stopped and still does. I can’t bring myself to try Guinesss.
Same thing happened with wine. When I was an undergraduate at the University of Hawaii, lots of students were drinking things like Apple wine, sort of a fruit juice with a kick. We did have our standards though. We never drank Ripple—that was reserved for liquor store clients with brown paper sacks. But we did drink stuff that was so sweet that even now I cringe when I think of it.
I graduated to more subtle stuff through margaritas. I remember one day going to a Mexican restaurant in Honolulu with my best friend Kimi and downing a pitcher of margaritas between us. We walked straight when we left too. I doubt that my liver has forgiven me for that even now although I take guilty pride about having accomplished it even as I suspect that the margaritas were watered down. But there’s no way I could do that today. I was never a heavy drinker anyway, but I know what will happen if I try to drink even one glass.
But it’s not just my capacity for alcohol that has changed with the years. It is also my taste. I don’t like sweet things as much as I once did. I also don’t like lots of competing flavors. I want smooth and subtle tastes now. My doc told me this a natural part of aging—sort of a rearrangement of body functions like the arthritic knobs on my fingers. To me it is an inconvenience of major proportions because what I enjoy now inevitably costs much more. I like the Belgium beers, which cost about as much for one bottle as for a domestic six pack. Same thing with wine. If I drink the cheaper stuff, I get a headache. My local wine shop says it’s the sulfites in the mass produced wines. The owner now points out to me bottles of wine around $15 with the assurance that they have been “made as if they are more expensive.” Sigh.
I hadn’t thought that getting old was going to be so expensive and discouraging. And it’s not only wine. Through the years I have developed intolerance for rice, preservatives, and peppers. Consider the tragedy when you love Asian food, cannot eat most breads except for the (expensive) artisan breads, and live in the midst of some of the best Tex-Mex food in the country. Add to that the need to avoid cholesterol and fats. And I’m sorry—fake eggs just don’t taste the same. Occasionally I mutiny and have green chili stew. That night I listen to subterranean rumbles and gobble Tums for the heartburn. Sigh again.
Just listen to me! Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m turning into my worst stereotype of people my age: finicky, querulous, and self-absorbed. I guess when one of those thoughts crosses my mind, I’d better go have a glass of Belgium beer or a glass of subtle, smooth Oregon pinot noir.
I learned to like beer as a defense mechanism when I was in graduate school. After class, the group went down to a pub right on Lake Union (I went to the University of Washington) for discussions and arguments around a pitcher. I’m not even sure that the pub had much beyond hard liquor and beer. It must have, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to be the only one asking. The first beer I liked was Coors, which is about as close to drinking air as possible. Once I had the taste, though, I could drink the others and even went so far as Nut Brown Ale. There it stopped and still does. I can’t bring myself to try Guinesss.
Same thing happened with wine. When I was an undergraduate at the University of Hawaii, lots of students were drinking things like Apple wine, sort of a fruit juice with a kick. We did have our standards though. We never drank Ripple—that was reserved for liquor store clients with brown paper sacks. But we did drink stuff that was so sweet that even now I cringe when I think of it.
I graduated to more subtle stuff through margaritas. I remember one day going to a Mexican restaurant in Honolulu with my best friend Kimi and downing a pitcher of margaritas between us. We walked straight when we left too. I doubt that my liver has forgiven me for that even now although I take guilty pride about having accomplished it even as I suspect that the margaritas were watered down. But there’s no way I could do that today. I was never a heavy drinker anyway, but I know what will happen if I try to drink even one glass.
But it’s not just my capacity for alcohol that has changed with the years. It is also my taste. I don’t like sweet things as much as I once did. I also don’t like lots of competing flavors. I want smooth and subtle tastes now. My doc told me this a natural part of aging—sort of a rearrangement of body functions like the arthritic knobs on my fingers. To me it is an inconvenience of major proportions because what I enjoy now inevitably costs much more. I like the Belgium beers, which cost about as much for one bottle as for a domestic six pack. Same thing with wine. If I drink the cheaper stuff, I get a headache. My local wine shop says it’s the sulfites in the mass produced wines. The owner now points out to me bottles of wine around $15 with the assurance that they have been “made as if they are more expensive.” Sigh.
I hadn’t thought that getting old was going to be so expensive and discouraging. And it’s not only wine. Through the years I have developed intolerance for rice, preservatives, and peppers. Consider the tragedy when you love Asian food, cannot eat most breads except for the (expensive) artisan breads, and live in the midst of some of the best Tex-Mex food in the country. Add to that the need to avoid cholesterol and fats. And I’m sorry—fake eggs just don’t taste the same. Occasionally I mutiny and have green chili stew. That night I listen to subterranean rumbles and gobble Tums for the heartburn. Sigh again.
Just listen to me! Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m turning into my worst stereotype of people my age: finicky, querulous, and self-absorbed. I guess when one of those thoughts crosses my mind, I’d better go have a glass of Belgium beer or a glass of subtle, smooth Oregon pinot noir.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Domestic Goddesses
There’s an e-mail going round the world right now with a copy of an article from Housekeeping Monthly of May 13, 1955. It’s entitled “The Good Wife’s Guide,” and I assume it’s authentic because it sounds about right. Basically, it advises the woman to not ask her husband questions about his actions or question his judgment because he knows best and because she has “no right to question him” and that, as a good wife, she should “always know her place” because his “topics of conversation are more important.” Behaving in this way, the article assures the reader—presumably women—will provide “immense personal satisfaction.”
To his enduring credit, Sid read it and laughed. He said he’s never seen anyone’s marriage like that and thought the article had to be satirical. I knew differently. Like most other young women during the fifties, I was bombarded by these stereotypes and I saw firsthand the awakening caused by books such as Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, which suggested that being a domestic goddess (remember Marabel Morgan and fascinating womanhood?) was not only unrewarding but also soul-deadening.
The idea of submissive women, a particular favorite of evangelical Christianity, made absolutely no sense after WWII, when women discovered that the domestic goddess within them could produce ships, aircraft, and armament. They worked full days, raised children, and made their own decisions. Hence all the propaganda right after the war about trying to reestablish domestic relations. But even in the face of reality, the traditional view was seductive probably because it was familiar. Even my mother, fiercely independent and competitive as she was (she once advised me not to clean my husband’s boots or press his trousers under the mattress??), she who had nursed during the war under bombing and blackouts used to talk contemptuously about women who got beyond themselves, all the while going her own wayward way. Oh Mum. Then as now the evangelical ideal produced hypocrisy.
I had a personal run in with it as an undergraduate at the university. I went to an honor’s seminar presentation by a professor of education who read from his unpublished book. He couldn’t understand why no publisher wanted it. His thesis was that women wanted a strong man to make all the decisions for them. He asked for a show of hands from the women: how many women really wanted a man like that? Some hands went up. I was amazed. He saw that mine hadn’t. So he asked the reverse question: who didn’t? I put up my hand. I could see he was annoyed. He asked me what I wanted. “I want a partnership” I replied. Now he was contemptuous. “If you find an apartment that you like but he doesn’t, who makes the decision?” He smiled smugly. He thought he had me. “Money,” I replied crisply. The room—full of students and faculty—erupted in laughter. I found out later that the professor’s wife was definitely not a domestic goddess.
In the early years of my marriage, I tried to be a domestic goddess in my own way. Except that I’d call it more like trying to be super woman. I did the cleaning and housework, took care of my baby, and was a full-time student. I thought that was what I was supposed to do because my husband was “allowing” me to continue my schooling. I don’t know how I still managed to get good grades. Then one day I came home from school, picked up my boy from the babysitter, and had a major attitude adjustment session with my husband. I credit that moment with the real start of a partnership that lasted thirty-eight years. I don’t blame him for his assumptions. I blame his upbringing. He thought that’s what women did. The “ideal” of womanhood had turned me into a servant and held him in a state of perpetual adolescence.
I look around me now and marvel at the progress women have made since the 1955 article for wives. Two-salary families are often a necessity, studies show that domestic duties are more nearly shared, and while there are traditional families where the woman stays home to raise the children, there are options open to her. Universities are now composed of over half women and they are making their way in professions that have been seen as traditionally male. They are doing so well that I feel sad for the remaining societies that repress women because they are losing half of their brainpower. One of these days, a woman will lead this country because it is part of the inevitable progression from the 1950s and the Women's Liberation movement, which was never just about women but also about freeing men as well.
I will concede one thing to that 1955 article though. When anyone—male or female—comes home from work, it’s nice to find dinner waiting and someone glad to see him or her. It's even better, however, when both of them work together to make it.
To his enduring credit, Sid read it and laughed. He said he’s never seen anyone’s marriage like that and thought the article had to be satirical. I knew differently. Like most other young women during the fifties, I was bombarded by these stereotypes and I saw firsthand the awakening caused by books such as Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, which suggested that being a domestic goddess (remember Marabel Morgan and fascinating womanhood?) was not only unrewarding but also soul-deadening.
The idea of submissive women, a particular favorite of evangelical Christianity, made absolutely no sense after WWII, when women discovered that the domestic goddess within them could produce ships, aircraft, and armament. They worked full days, raised children, and made their own decisions. Hence all the propaganda right after the war about trying to reestablish domestic relations. But even in the face of reality, the traditional view was seductive probably because it was familiar. Even my mother, fiercely independent and competitive as she was (she once advised me not to clean my husband’s boots or press his trousers under the mattress??), she who had nursed during the war under bombing and blackouts used to talk contemptuously about women who got beyond themselves, all the while going her own wayward way. Oh Mum. Then as now the evangelical ideal produced hypocrisy.
I had a personal run in with it as an undergraduate at the university. I went to an honor’s seminar presentation by a professor of education who read from his unpublished book. He couldn’t understand why no publisher wanted it. His thesis was that women wanted a strong man to make all the decisions for them. He asked for a show of hands from the women: how many women really wanted a man like that? Some hands went up. I was amazed. He saw that mine hadn’t. So he asked the reverse question: who didn’t? I put up my hand. I could see he was annoyed. He asked me what I wanted. “I want a partnership” I replied. Now he was contemptuous. “If you find an apartment that you like but he doesn’t, who makes the decision?” He smiled smugly. He thought he had me. “Money,” I replied crisply. The room—full of students and faculty—erupted in laughter. I found out later that the professor’s wife was definitely not a domestic goddess.
In the early years of my marriage, I tried to be a domestic goddess in my own way. Except that I’d call it more like trying to be super woman. I did the cleaning and housework, took care of my baby, and was a full-time student. I thought that was what I was supposed to do because my husband was “allowing” me to continue my schooling. I don’t know how I still managed to get good grades. Then one day I came home from school, picked up my boy from the babysitter, and had a major attitude adjustment session with my husband. I credit that moment with the real start of a partnership that lasted thirty-eight years. I don’t blame him for his assumptions. I blame his upbringing. He thought that’s what women did. The “ideal” of womanhood had turned me into a servant and held him in a state of perpetual adolescence.
I look around me now and marvel at the progress women have made since the 1955 article for wives. Two-salary families are often a necessity, studies show that domestic duties are more nearly shared, and while there are traditional families where the woman stays home to raise the children, there are options open to her. Universities are now composed of over half women and they are making their way in professions that have been seen as traditionally male. They are doing so well that I feel sad for the remaining societies that repress women because they are losing half of their brainpower. One of these days, a woman will lead this country because it is part of the inevitable progression from the 1950s and the Women's Liberation movement, which was never just about women but also about freeing men as well.
I will concede one thing to that 1955 article though. When anyone—male or female—comes home from work, it’s nice to find dinner waiting and someone glad to see him or her. It's even better, however, when both of them work together to make it.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
In a Lonely Place
Through the years, I’ve watched older people deal with the realities of a corrosive loneliness. Some join a community or move in with family (if they are willing) because they have lived communal lives. Others, those who have lived more alone, often seem to retreat into a private, quiet world. I suspect that becoming a joiner or a recluse has a lot to do with personality.
Sid’s sister, for example, is a joiner. She is in her mid-eighties and lost her husband about six years ago. For several years she hung on to the family apartment until she accepted that she needed to be closer to her children. She is a gregarious soul, active and in good health, so she rented an apartment in a retirement complex where the meals are provided, the residents play Wii games, and they get together for bridge and excursions. Connecting with others is a logical extension of who she has been all her life: she has always volunteered and participated in community activities. Predictably, she has made friends quickly and I expect that she will soon be volunteering on residence committees.
My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was an extreme recluse. She had always been a difficult, somewhat demanding personality, but it was exacerbated by the loss of first her son (my husband) and then her own husband. She withdrew from the world and blamed her loneliness on her children. She complained constantly about what she saw as their lack of attention. When they did make the long trek out to see her, the visits were so laced with her bitterness and recriminations that she drove them further from her life. Curiously, she incurred the very thing that she so much resented. In the end, and very sadly, she died alone in her bed, having driven everyone away.
I suppose I am some form of a modified joiner. When I lost my husband ten years ago, I went into the wasteland. At first, I numbly focused on getting through the day. I hung on for the first anniversary of his death when I expected things to get better. In fact, they became worse. I was forced to redefine myself in that second year as single. I was no longer part of a couple and I was treated differently. People moved on with their lives and expected me to move on with mine. Couples who had been friends slipped away as they preferred activities with other couples. No one wanted to hear about how it was difficult sometimes for me to even get out of bed. They wanted to hear about fresh starts and new beginnings and how well I was coping. Finally in the third year, I realized that I was desperately lonely and forced myself to reach for life. I had to. I was still too young to sit waiting for the phone to ring. It was then that I was fortunate to find a good man and to have the courage to start another relationship. I imagine that people who know me well expected that this is what I would do. My choices in life have always been to take action—not always well considered, I will admit—but to surge forward nonetheless. I suppose I joined up again with life.
I wouldn’t have thought much about loneliness if I had not been forced to by being widowed. Loneliness the last issue many of us will deal with and yet it is the one we think about the least. We buy insurance for long-term health care should we become incapable of taking care of ourselves. We buy life insurance to leave something to our heirs. But we do not think about what we should do if we are one day left on our own and grateful for a few words of conversation from the cashier at the supermarket. I hope never again to have to deal with being by myself in the terrible way that life was stripped from me after a marriage of thirty-eight years. But if I am, I can only hope that I will once again reach out for life, valuing the great gift that life is and not squandering whatever remains of it.
Sid’s sister, for example, is a joiner. She is in her mid-eighties and lost her husband about six years ago. For several years she hung on to the family apartment until she accepted that she needed to be closer to her children. She is a gregarious soul, active and in good health, so she rented an apartment in a retirement complex where the meals are provided, the residents play Wii games, and they get together for bridge and excursions. Connecting with others is a logical extension of who she has been all her life: she has always volunteered and participated in community activities. Predictably, she has made friends quickly and I expect that she will soon be volunteering on residence committees.
My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was an extreme recluse. She had always been a difficult, somewhat demanding personality, but it was exacerbated by the loss of first her son (my husband) and then her own husband. She withdrew from the world and blamed her loneliness on her children. She complained constantly about what she saw as their lack of attention. When they did make the long trek out to see her, the visits were so laced with her bitterness and recriminations that she drove them further from her life. Curiously, she incurred the very thing that she so much resented. In the end, and very sadly, she died alone in her bed, having driven everyone away.
I suppose I am some form of a modified joiner. When I lost my husband ten years ago, I went into the wasteland. At first, I numbly focused on getting through the day. I hung on for the first anniversary of his death when I expected things to get better. In fact, they became worse. I was forced to redefine myself in that second year as single. I was no longer part of a couple and I was treated differently. People moved on with their lives and expected me to move on with mine. Couples who had been friends slipped away as they preferred activities with other couples. No one wanted to hear about how it was difficult sometimes for me to even get out of bed. They wanted to hear about fresh starts and new beginnings and how well I was coping. Finally in the third year, I realized that I was desperately lonely and forced myself to reach for life. I had to. I was still too young to sit waiting for the phone to ring. It was then that I was fortunate to find a good man and to have the courage to start another relationship. I imagine that people who know me well expected that this is what I would do. My choices in life have always been to take action—not always well considered, I will admit—but to surge forward nonetheless. I suppose I joined up again with life.
I wouldn’t have thought much about loneliness if I had not been forced to by being widowed. Loneliness the last issue many of us will deal with and yet it is the one we think about the least. We buy insurance for long-term health care should we become incapable of taking care of ourselves. We buy life insurance to leave something to our heirs. But we do not think about what we should do if we are one day left on our own and grateful for a few words of conversation from the cashier at the supermarket. I hope never again to have to deal with being by myself in the terrible way that life was stripped from me after a marriage of thirty-eight years. But if I am, I can only hope that I will once again reach out for life, valuing the great gift that life is and not squandering whatever remains of it.
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