News of note

Here is a conglomeration of headlines and tidbits I think are interesting from the last week or so.

First is up is this research, which concluded that people who look happy in their senior yearbook pictures are more likely to be happily married. I hope it's not true in our case, because I would be waking up blissfully happy every morning next to a love-starved, Mr. Grinch wannabe.

In case I was a fan of Janeanne Garofolo before, I'm not now, thanks to this tirade. And Jackie Chan isn't winning any points with me either!

I also thought it was interesting how Miss California got raked across the coals for (gasp) answering a question. One more reason I'll never go to Perez Hilton's Web site. But I thought this commentary articulated the real issue here.

And finally, I'm glad to see Jake Plummer is picking up the pigskin again. I love that he's doing it because he wants to and not because he couldn't stay away -- he doesn't even miss the NFL. Good luck, Jake the Snake!

Endangered species

I plan to write soon on the slow death of real American journalism. But in the meantime, I thought the opening paragraphs of this movie review articulate my sentimentality quite well.

License to Wed

A few weeks back I was watching the panel show Oprah does every Friday. Her special guest was Jenny McCarthy, who had some thoughts about marriage, mainly that it should be treated like a driver's license: expiring every four years with the option to renew.

Well shoot. Looks like I'll have to abandon my "Do Whatever Jenny McCarthy Does" life philosophy.

Right off the bat, I gotta say this advice would seem a lot more interesting if it came from someone who was -- oh, I don't know -- married? But honestly, what a fun idea! No muss, no fuss marriages. Just stay as long as you like and as long as it "works." Sounds like a good deal to me!

I find this idea particularly mystifying coming from a mother, which McCarthy happens to be. She's been seriously involved with Jim Carrey for some time now and often beams about how good he is with her young son. I wonder how that little guy would feel if the men in his mother's life entered and exited every few years?

And therein lies the problem. No man is an island -- especially no parent. The fact of the matter is that marriage (or at the very least some kind of Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russel arrangement) has been and continues to be the best model for raising children. That doesn't mean other can't succeed with flying colors or that some marriages are kind of a joke. Obviously there are circumstances beyond our control that prevent this arrangement. I get that. But what's wrong with it being an ideal?

Deciding whether we want to mate for life is one of many things that separates us from the animals. It should come as no surprise to you that I pull for the lifetime thing. I realize it is an ideal and that it's not for everyone. But if you are married with children (and barring abuse or wanton infidelity) I believe you should do everything in your power to stay that way. Everything. Why? Because what people in this day and age refuse to acknowledge is that your mate is your family -- no more and no less than your own children. Your mutual flesh and blood created their flesh and blood. You are all connected.

Just because we choose our mates doesn't make them any less related to us and thereby easier to abandon. What if we only left our spouses for the same reasons we'd disown our own siblings? In my opinion, that's how it should be.

And in the words of Tim Gunn, "Make it work."

Dry well

I lack creative inspiration and motivation right now. Could you tell? I fear I must take a (hopefully) brief hiatus from blogging. I'm tired and busy and unfocused...none of which are great excuses. But who wants to read lame posts? No I. And likely not you, either. Of course I'll still be surfing in on your blogs, but mine will be static for awhile.
P.S. Happy 2009 :)

A recognition he never craved

Here are 10 things you may not know about Saint Nicholas (also known as "Good Nicholas"):

• He lived almost 1,700 years ago
• He didn't know when everyone was sleeping or awake
• He lived in Turkey
• He never owned a single reindeer
• He was a bishop
• He was imprisoned for his devout Christianity and exonerated by Constantine
• He never set foot in the North Pole
• He believed deeply in helping the needy
• It is said his "do-gooding" was often done in disguise because of his modesty. And this is what we've turned him into:

What a pity that the man himself represented the true meaning of Christmas far better than the myth -- that blessing is doled out not according to one's naughty-or-niceness, but out of mercy. Let us all reflect on the event 2,000 years ago that still stands as the ultimate gift of mercy.

Merry Christmas!

Good shoes

My husband and I got into the strangest "discussion" awhile back. It was one of those where you start off on one thing and end up on another, inconsequential topic that puts someone on the defensive. The issue at hand was whether I would even want high-quality, expensive shoes when all I buy are Payless fare (not that there's anything wrong with that).

I like shoes just fine, but a Carrie Bradshaw I am not. I certainly don't display my shoes in a place of honor (you all remember my "ode to piles"). But one needs shoes to tromp about outside and keep one's toes warm, so shoes are necessary above all. The trouble comes when I have to budget for a new pair and can't justify paying a half-month's spending money on them. Yes, I'm one of those people who raise their eyebrows at a price tag of more than $15 or $20. And because I rarely go shoe shopping, I get so obsessed with finding the one perfectly versatile pair, that I drive myself crazy and leave the store empty-handed.

Quality is more important than quantity -- it's not like I have that mixed up. The number of shoes I own wouldn't turn anyone's head. But I run into a wall when it comes to buying shoes.

This is where the conversation took us, harmlessly enough. But for some reason I started acting upset, even wounded. It's not that what my husband pointed out wasn't painfully obvious. I just suddenly became very melancholy at the prospect of never needing "good" shoes again.

The one career-oriented goal I had seems like an old faded picture. And the fanciest place I go is to church. Not that I'm complaining; I love being a mom and spending the bulk of every day in a thick pair of socks. I'm simply looking at my life now and squinting down the road ahead, trying to imagine an occasion for which I'd need a really good pair of shoes -- except for perhaps sneakers (my go-to footwear for running errands).

Will I never need an excellent pair of sleek, black pumps again? Will I venture into some outing that requires tough, waterproof sandals? Does it matter?

Why it's probably good that I don't have too much time/money on my hands

'Tis the season

You and what army?

I'm not a stupid person. I like to think I'm even a bit smart. But I have yet to grasp exactly what the construction sign to my left fully means. I see it in a construction zone on the Interstate. "DO NOT FOLLOW TRUCKS." OK. Shall I just slam on my breaks if I find myself behind one? Or should I flip a U-ie and start driving the opposite direction? What are these mysterious trucks I'm not supposed to follow? And what precisely does "follow" mean? Perhaps that Darigold semi yesterday was just a form of entrapment by the local PD.

Heart (and soul and all your insides) on your sleeve

The hardest part about being a new parent isn't the stark change of lifestyle that has you pre-planning a five-minute trip to the gas station. It isn't the amount of patience it takes to get up from and go back to bed five times in one hour. The hardest part about being a new parent (or "old" parent I suspect) is the complete and utter vulnerability that instantly becomes you.

Every time I lift my child from his crib, it washes over me, this rawness and exposure: I wonder how I'll react if one day he looks at me and that light in his eyes is gone; I try to imagine how we'll afford the lawyer who has to defend me for what I'll do to the person who hurts him; I think if I loved him any more, the lump in my throat would travel down to my heart and explode it.

The gravity of parenthood is scary at times. You try not to let your mind wander to worse-case scenarios in an effort to keep your sanity.

This vulnerability isn't all that different from what comes with falling in love. In romance, you trust another person with some of your deepest emotions; you show them parts of who you are and believe they won't look away. Talk about risk. It's hard, and it's a wonder we ever do it all! I kind of get why people become hermits and close up their hearts. The sting of loss is a deep one, and sometimes "It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all" sounds more promising the other way around. Yet the majority mankind continues to expose itself in this way because the reward outweighs the risk.

And so it is with my baby. For every moment of intense, irrational anxiety, there is a stronger moment of joy when I see the huge smile on his face that I and I alone put there. There's nothing like the crazy, boundless bliss of holding that tiny body that's half-me and kissing his warm head. It's intoxicating -- intoxicating enough to overwhelm the crippling anxieties. Every wonderful moment I've had in my life comes pouring out in a moment, like Champaign that's just been uncorked.

But to get there, I had to expose myself.

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
{Elizabeth Stone}

On with the show

No matter what side of the aisle you found yourself on at the polls yesterday, I think the image below is what stuck with me last night. This is very cool.

Heavy heart

Who hasn't said this presidential campaign's made them tired or even stressed? There are some passionate candidate supporters out there, so it's no wonder. But it's more than that for me; this election season (or is it decade?) has made me sad.

There is something exciting and attractive about the idea of getting gung-ho for a horse in the race. There's a spark, an invigoration that comes with pulling for one side and cheering your little heart out for someone you believe in. Unfortunately, I lack said spark, invigoration and pom-poms. Part of it comes from not being as political as I was when I was younger, and part of it comes from not being enamored with the options at hand.

Over the past month or so I've grown literally sad as I channelsurfed to cable news networks, read magazine covers and sifted through politically-charged e-mails among my family -- sad because of the conflict, derision and downright nastiness. The sadness has even brought me to tears at times.

For whom should I vote? Should I vote? Sometimes I really like what he has to say. Sometimes I don't think there's much to his platform. Sometimes I think he's really earned this. Sometimes I think there's something to all this his hype. Sometimes I think I can sacrifice some important issues to me for others. Sometimes I think there's no room for me to compromise.

The stress began to take its toll. I ate more and breathed less. I struggled to find the real root of it all. I'm not sure I accomplished that, but I came close. See this year, my family is divided politically and I don't remember the last time that happened. It's put me in a mental and emotional tailspin. Not because I poll my family before casting a vote, but because there used to be more idealogical unity. And like some kind of decoder toy from a cereal box, this election has revealed yet another way my family has changed and moved further apart -- like the tektonic plates shifting.

So I hope people don't think I'm un-American for not wanting to vote at all (though I think I finally found the will to). It has more to do with family ties and less to do with citizenship. I've been to loyal to each my whole life, and this is the first time they've gotten all jumbled up together. Should I be able to separate them in my mind? Probably. So pray that I can. As I'm praying that blood is thicker than ink on a scantron sheet.

Funniest complaint heard about toilet tissue yesterday through the wall of a Shopko restroom stall:

"Ugh. It's paper-thin!"

When you're right, you're right

Remember my posts here and on Girlfriday? I knew I wasn't crazy:
McCain getting hammered on late-night TV