Sigh. I can't believe I'm doing this. I feel as though I've sunk to new lows in the blogosphere of writing. Yes, I am going to write about Twilight. Yes, I realize there is probably nothing new to say about the phenomenon but I just have to add my two cents. Bear with me or move along. Your choice.
I've read the books. I -- against my will -- suffered through the movie (I use the term lightly). I am not going to write about Bella's struggles or Edward's virtues or the fact that the guy playing James in the movie far surpassed Edward on the hotness scale. No. I simply need to comment on this photo a friend sent to me.
No, this woman is not the new Bella and this darling little baby is not Renesmee. The story is that this mom showed up on the set of New Moon, baby in tow. She had a chance to meet a few of the actors and asked Robert Pattinson to pose as Edward biting her baby.
Um. What?! Back up. Wait a minute. Can we do a reality check here? Has every female on the planet lost touch with real life? Checked it at the door as they entered the realm of fantasy land? I think I see Tattoo....
Twilight is a book. The characters are not real.
I will be the first to admit that I loved Stephenie Meyer's story. It was compelling and romantic and dangerous -- a heady concoction that clearly spoke to millions of other young girls and women across the globe. I longed for Edward. I loved him. I agonized over what I would have done, had I been in Bella's shoes. I think every woman who has read the book (and enjoyed it) has projected herself into that role. And, I will also admit, it broke my heart just the tiniest bit that he wasn't real. He was a fabulous male, dreamed up in the imaginative mind of a great storyteller, and he did not exist.
Not once have I thought of the actors who portrayed the Twilight characters as real. Not once have I looked at Robert Pattinson and thought of Edward (sorry, ladies who love him...he was never my Edward). And not once have I had any desire to meet or drool over -- or offer my children in sacrifice -- to any of the actors who portrayed the bloodthirsty-but-restrained vampires from the books. My husband works for a company that sponsored a Twilight tour last fall and he did meet three of the characters from the movie. He had the opportunity to work one of the locations with Robert Pattinson -- and I could have gone, too, dragging my own three children along -- but he opted not to. And I never even considered it.
Because, see, I know that the pasty-faced guy with the smoldering amber eyes and the super-human speed and strength is made up. His face is caked with powder and cream and his own (presumably) beautiful eyes are covered by contacts. And his strength and speed are the result of really bad special effects, at least in the first movie. But there are clearly thousands, if not millions, of people who forget that this is an actor, a young actor who, in all honesty, is probably nothing like the character he is portraying on screen.
I feel sorry for these actors. My husband relayed a story from one of the Twilight signings last year in Chicago, told to him by a co-worker who was on site. The mob of teenage girls and adult women clamoring to meet "Edward" was out of control -- thousands of people waiting for a few hundred wristbands. Once inside, people began to shriek and sob as they saw him. Girls slipped him notes and hotel keys. One young woman asked him to marry her. Another unabashedly told him, "I love you." To this, Mr. Pattinson responded, "Why? Why do you love me? You don't even know me!"
There you have it, straight from the horse's mouth.
For those of you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, wondering how this is different from groupies that have stalked musicians and bands for decades, I'll offer this: at least they are playing their own music (unless, of course, they're Milli Vanilli...). They are writing their songs or playing their instruments or putting on amazing shows that compel people to fall in love with something they have created. An actor, on the other hand, is playing a role... a Dr. Frankenstein breathing life into a character that has already been created and defined by its maker. Nothing more.
I know, I know. The picture was done in jest, in fun. I should lighten up, right? And I'm sure the woman really did just want to visit the set and thought posing for said photo would be funny. And it is...kind of. But, if it had been me, I think I would have wanted a regular picture, one after the make-up was scrubbed clean and the scorching eyes were removed...a photo of me with a smiling Robert Pattinson. A picture of me and an actor. Of me appreciating the fact that, after it was all said and done, I was honored to be in a photo with him, not the character he was portraying. And, you know what? I think he would have appreciated that, too.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Hopping on the Twilight Train...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Piercing the Double Standards
My eight year-old approached me the other day with a request. "Mom, I want to get my ears pierced."
"Oh." I was stumped as to what to say. "Um...why?"
"Because they look nice. Cool."
I hesitated. "I don't know...."
"Hayley got them when she was six. I'm eight."
Good point, I thought. And for those of you reading this, you might be thinking: Gee, what is wrong with this woman? Why would she allow one kid to pierce their ears at age six but is hedging over the eight year-old's request?
Because the eight year-old is a boy. That's why.
I have never allowed my children's interests to be dictated by gender stereotypes. My daughter will be the first to admit that she loved playing with Matchbox cars when she was little (still does sometimes) and my son is always ready to sit down and play Barbies with the three year-old. Nail polish adorns the fingers and toes of all three children in our household and it doesn't faze me in the slightest.
But earrings? I hated to admit it, but I just wasn't sure. Not because I didn't think he was ready for them or because he wasn't old enough; no, I was concerned about what people might think. If he would be teased. If people would think he was too feminine...too soft. But this was something he really wanted. My greatest hope for my kids is that they remain happy and true to themselves, regardless of what others might think, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to put these thoughts into action.
Still,I decided to ask for opinions. After all, I thought, who better to turn to than family and friends? Family and friends who have their own kids, or who are still kids themselves. I was ready for a wide range of opinions but what I wasn't prepared for was the vehemence of those views, the passion with which people expressed their opinions. I had no idea one small hole could create such a stir.
Some people said to just tell him no. Because I said so, because he was a boy. Those responses didn't sit well with me. I have never been the type of mom to say "Because I said so!" when my kids asked for a reason why. Well...not very often, anyway. And for a decision of this magnitude, it was definitely not an option. I looked at the second choice: Because he's a boy. Hmmm. I didn't like that one, either. Why do there have to be double standards for boys and girls? Why is one thing considered acceptable (by society's standards) for girls but not for boys, and vice versa? Because, I realized, this is what I was dealing with. Not whether or not he was old enough, or responsible enough to take care of them. His sister got earrings when she was six; why shouldn't he be able to? Why should it be any different for him?
A friend of mine said double standards are a fact of life. He was quick to ask, "If he wanted to wear make-up or put on a dress, would you let him?" Actually, I would. And he has. He has two sisters and a mom who adore make-up; what kid wouldn't want to emulate the people he's around all day long? For me to deny him the fun of reddening his cheeks or dabbing on sparkly eye shadow seemed like an unnecessary cruelty. It was harmless fun, as far as I was concerned. Does he wear make-up outside of the house? No. If he did, would I allow it? Sure.
Other people emailed me about how ridiculous they thought earrings looked on boys, or if I'd given any thought to the fact that people might (gasp!) think he was gay. Aren't looks a matter of opinion, I thought? I mean, I see boys with shaved heads or girls coming back from Caribbean vacations, their hair twisted into hundreds of mini braids, and I cringe. I don't like those particular looks but other people clearly do. I would never think to tell someone not to do it, simply because it wasn't my cup of tea.
As for the gay comment, my first thought was, "So what?" I love my kids as whole beings -- regardless of their gender, sexual orientation, IQ,...you name it. If a person chooses to judge someone simply by what they think their sexual orientation might be, I don't want to spend much time with said person. Close-mindedness is the biggest turn-off I can think of. Besides, does wearing an earring make a man gay? Is it some universal symbol of gayness I'm not aware of? Um, last time I checked, it wasn't. So if straight men can wear earrings, can't boys wear them too?
Still others pointed out that, at age eight, how can he really know if this is something he wants, if an earring is something he'll want to wear forever? Well, unlike tattoos, earrings aren't exactly permanent fixtures on a person's body. They can be taken out. And, again, it went back to the double standard: what if a girl changed her mind? Did any parent ask their daughter to think carefully about her decision to pierce her ears, to ponder the ramifications of not wanting them years later, to mull over the fact that she might have scarred lobes for the rest of her life? No parent I knew did that; in fact, I knew more moms who marched their daughters in to the nearest Piercing Pagoda to get the deed done, regardless of what that child wanted. So what if he changed his mind later? I was fine with that.
To balance the scales, there were several supportive family and friends, people who said there was nothing wrong with earrings on boys, who said he would look cute, who urged me to support him and to thumb our noses at society's decree of what was considered "acceptable." And I was grateful.
In fact, I was grateful for all of the responses I received because it really helped me define my role as a parent. I am here to support my children, to help them along on the precipitous path toward adulthood. There are some decisions I am going to have to make for them -- they obviously cannot eat cookies for every meal of the day, or skip brushing their teeth altogether, or watch R-rated movies -- but there are other decisions they will have to make for themselves. I can offer advice and I can offer my opinion but, ultimately, the choice will be theirs. I decided my son getting his ears pierced was going to be one of them.
I approached him the next day about the earrings. I told him my concerns: he would have to take care of them and leave them in for at least six weeks; he might get teased by kids and grown-ups; they might get infected and he would have to deal with that. All of this was told in a very matter-of-fact voice; I did not judge and when he asked for my opinion, I told him I thought he would look just fine with earrings. Cute.
"So," I said, standing up from the couch. "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"To get your ears pierced." I glanced at my watch. "We've got three hours before soccer starts. We can make it to the mall and back."
"But --"
"Come on," I said. "Let's go."
He balked. "Wait. I think I want to think about it." He frowned at me. "This is a pretty big decision, you know."
I did know. But, I thought as I smiled to myself, at least it was going to be his.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Lessons from the Fair
I survived the fair. There really should be a bumper sticker for this -- or at the very least, a flair button on Face Book. You know, a badge to wear proudly, to stick on my dirty, sweat-dampened shirt as testament, proof positive that I did it.
Each year, my kids become more involved with fair activities which translates to more time spent at the fairgrounds. This year it was Five. Days. Straight. Uh-huh. They entered 4-H projects. They worked the Children's Animal Barn (3 times). They performed in the 4-H musical (7 times). They participated in Performing Arts. They worked the 4-H Food Stand.
So, after spending more hours than I ever thought possible at our county's fairgrounds, I have decided to compile my experiences, to share my words of wisdom, lest you find yourself in the same position I was in (poor fools....)
#1. If you think an event will take one hour, plan for two. Or three. Or better yet, all day. The kids had several 4-H projects they turned in, all of which needed to be judged. Some of the lines were long -- you'd think there was a free screening of the newest Harry Potter movie. Actually it was better. See, each 4-H project translates into something every kid wants -- free money. Premiums. In our county, each completed project was worth anywhere from $2.00 - $3.00. Since the number of projects each kid could turn in was almost limitless, well...you do the math. It didn't matter how much money we parents had to shell out for tag board, glue sticks, ink cartridges, colored duct tape, printer paper, etc. (in our household, this easily topped out at almost a hundred dollars). I did, in fact, inquire what percentage of premiums I would be receiving from Hayley's profits....met by thin-lipped silence, of course.
But, I digress. The lines were long. Really, really long. So long that Hayley couldn't turn in all of her projects (a huge travesty since I'd already spent the money on supplies -- we weren't even going to make any money back on it! I suggested she save it for next year...) because we had tennis lessons to get to....and we'd already missed the first one a few days earlier....
So, don't plan any other scheduled activities for Judging Day and plan to be there all day. Truly.
#2. There is no such thing as healthy fair food. Oh, sure. There are stands that sell corn on the cob and fresh veggies, grilled meat and bottled water. Our 4-H food stand was one of them. And, believe me, I tried to eat healthy. I ordered the veggies and dip -- and gasped out loud at the quart of fat-laden ranch dressing that accompanied it. How am I supposed to resist that? It's sitting right next to my cauliflower and broccoli, practically begging me to eat it, daring me to dip those veggies in. As if I could resist. I salivated over the corn on the cob and was sorely tempted to order one -- until I saw Theresa drench those babies into a bath of melted butter. So much for healthy.
Another thing. Eating those healthy options lulls you into a false sense of security. As in, "Well, all I had for lunch was a tiny tray of veggies and dip. I can splurge on this ice cream cone. And cookies. And mini cinnamon donuts. And fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie. Come on, it has fruit in it!"
The better option is to just give in. Know, going into fair, that you will gain weight. And then eat those forbidden foods -- dive into the deep-fried funnel cakes and corn dogs, gorge yourself on cheese curds and ice cream floats. Hey, the fair only comes around once a year, right? You have the remaining 360 days to eat healthy (as long as you're good during birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas...)
#3. Choose your stance on the safety of carnival rides prior to the fair...and stick to it. Every year, there is some God-awful story about a child being flung from the ferris wheel or crushed by a runaway roller coaster. I'd never given it too much thought in relation to my life. I mean, yes, it's awful and I feel terrible for the families involved but they are, in fact, horrible freak accidents, not something to compulsively worry about. And even though I am prone to worrying obsessively over things that are unlikely to happen (sharks lurking at my feet every time I step into the ocean, anyone?), I am actually OK with rides. At least I was until we took a walk around the fairgrounds while the carnies were setting up.
OK. Did you know that those rides come apart? I'm not talking about four or five pieces -- some of them looked like Tinker Toy sets, waiting to be reassembled. And, honestly, I'm not sure the men putting those back together had the instructions. They were hauling out concrete bricks to position the kids coaster, duct taping parts of the Kamikaze together, wrapping rope around the banister to the steps of the Magic Slide. After I picked my jaw up off the ground, I turned to the kids and told them, in no uncertain terms, that rides were out this summer. Off limits. We'd be going to Disneyland in October, I told them. Far better to go on rides that didn't have to be disassembled every five days and hauled half-way across the country. Besides, I felt much better putting my trust in Cast Members and Disney Imagineers. I don't know why, but there is something...comforting...safe-feeling...about men who don't have facial hair and multiple piercings. You know, the Disney dress code.
Of course, my eight year-old son -- mini-lawyer in training and Disney fan extraordinaire -- was quick to point out recent Disney catastrophes. Monorail, anyone? Thunder Mountain crash a few years back? Was I just going to make everything off limits, he demanded? Driving in a car was dangerous -- people were injured in accidents every day. Would it be safer to walk to the fair? But then we might get hit by traffic. Maybe we should just stay home from the fair, he suggested.
I could only suffer through so much of his logic. I gave up. Gave in. One ride only. And next time, the Midway was off limits. We wouldn't even walk through that section of the fair. I would stand firm, be stern. Right.
I'm sure there's more. I'm sure there are other lessons I could share, other sage advice and words of wisdom I can pass on. But I'm too tired. I just spent Five. Days. Straight. At the fair.
Friday, July 10, 2009
A Grand Adeventure
My cousin walked into the wilderness the other night, shunning society and all of its comforts and conveniences, leaving her family and friends behind.
OK, it wasn't quite as dramatic as all that. She didn't really disappear into the woods...she got on a bus. And she didn't go off alone, per se...there were fifty-some other kids who decided to embark on the same journey. Alycia took part in a Voyageurs trip, a month-long adventure into the wilds of Canada. She was going to spend the next month canoeing across lakes and hiking through forests, learning about teamwork and commitment, about endurance and survival.
The kids and I were invited to her Last Supper, a gathering for family and friends to bid their Voyageur farewell, to see them receive their Voyageur necklaces and t-shirts, to marvel over the paddles they'd decorated -- paddles they would use to navigate the lakes and rivers in the waters that straddled northern Minnesota and southern Canada -- and to reflect on all that this journey would entail.
As I watched her pose for pictures and chat with family and friends, I thought back to when I was her age. Seventeen, the summer before my senior year. Would I have done what she was about to do? No. Why not? My choice would have been dictated by a lot of reasons but, if I was honest with myself, the dominant reason that would have sealed my decision would have been fear.
Fear of what lurked in those woods and lakes and fear of the feelings and actions of the people I was surrounding myself. Most importantly, though, was the fear of the feelings I would harbor within. Would I be homesick and miserable the entire time? Would I be resentful of people not pulling their weight....or ashamed that people were thinking those thoughts about me? Would I be rejoicing at the beauty and splendor of the wilderness that surrounded me? Would the experience be so moving, so profound that it changed the very essence of who I was? I wouldn't know...because I was too afraid to find out.
I asked Alycia how she was feeling. Nervous and excited, she said. Not afraid. That word never crossed her lips and this amazed me. It inspired me. If she was afraid, she wasn't going to admit it. And if she wasn't - well, she was braver than I was at her age. Probably braver than I am now.
Family and friends were encouraged to pen a letter to their departing Voyageur. These would be carried by their adult guides and given to the kids at some midpoint in their travels. What follows is the letter I wrote to Alycia.
Safe travels, Alycia. I'm thinking of you every day. And I'm not afraid. Leia Mais…
Thursday, July 9, 2009
My Love Affair With....Fishing
I like to fish. No, wait. That isn't exactly true. I love to fish. Adore it. If I were to go up to the lake and spend the entire weekend fishing, that would be just fine with me. My cousin thinks I'm crazy. We talked about it on a recent visit up north. She lounged in a chair, book in hand, while I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, waiting for the men to ready themselves. You know, gather the poles and load up the tackle boxes...and grab the cooler full of beer.
"What on earth can you possibly find enjoyable about fishing?" She was not coming with us. No way, no how.
"What do you mean?" I demanded, my eyes wide. "What isn't there to love?"
She stared at me. "Hmm, let's see...baiting the hook?"
I grimaced. No, actually, I hated that part. We fished with all kinds of bait -- minnows, night crawlers, beaver tails, leeches. I tried to bait my own hook...I really did. I could get as far as taking the lid off the Styrofoam container of leeches. But touch them? I got shivers just thinking about them attaching, vacuum-like, to my fingers. No way. And the minnows -- well, it was sympathy that prevented me from scooping them out of the water-filled plastic bag and skewering them on the fish hook. I mean, they watched me with their massive, bulbous eyes and I could almost hear their tiny voices shrieking, Nemo-like, "Not me! Not me!"
I was slightly better with night crawlers and beaver tails (both worms -- betcha didn't know that, huh?). These I could actually dig out from their nest of brown earth and hold them in my hand. But pierce them with a sharp metal object? Nope. Couldn't do it.
So my choices, if I wanted to fish and hold out any hope of catching something, were limited to two: (1) suggest in a hopeful voice which bait I'd like to try and wait for Dad or some other brave male to offer BAS (Bait Assist Services) or (2) settle for the fake bait -- you know, the neon pink gelatinous blobs that resembled worms and reeked of fish guts. I could put these on with ease; the trouble is, and contrary to popular belief, fish are smart. They know when you're trying to pull a fast one...and they usually don't bite on smelly gummi worms.
"OK," I conceded. "I don't like to bait my hook. So what? I still love to fish."
She gave me the stare again, this time incredulous. "And when you catch a fish? You like taking them off?"
I chewed my lip. No, I didn't relish that part, either. I thought of the tiny sunnies and crappies that were drawn to my bait like bees to honey, too big to keep as bait themselves and too small to fry up. If left to me, they'd die a slow and painful death, gulping deadly gill-fulls of suffocating air as they waited for me to work up the gumption to wrench the hook free from their mouths. And the keepers? The larger pan fish, the bass and the elusive walleye (I'm convinced there is only one actual walleye in each of Minnesota's lakes) that, when you click your heels, clap three times and wish for a fish, magically appear on the end of your line? Yeah, I couldn't get those off, either. And don't even get me started on Northerns, which I know would, in fact, bite me with their razor-sharp teeth if given the chance. Don't even try to tell me otherwise. Vile creatures.
"OK. I don't really like that part. But -- "
She interrupted me. "And you get seasick, Beth. Even on the lake."
She had me there, too. If I could get sick on my honeymoon cruise, green in the face on an unsubmerged submarine and violently ill on a massive Navy destroyer, a pontoon bouncing over the wakes of speedboats and jet skis was bound to make my skin turn green and my stomach roll. And, if the wind wasn't blowing and the sun was too hot and the water was either too still or too rough, I did.
"Yeah..."
My cousin frowned. "So, what's left? What exactly is it that you love about fishing?"
I pondered this. What did I love about fishing? Clearly, it was not the mechanics of bait on, fish off. I wasn't much of a caster, either. I spent more time untangling my line from all of the obstacles I encountered -- boat cushions, the anchor, and the weeds I thinned from the bottom of the lake -- than casting out. I was slightly better at reeling in, except when there was a fish attached. A nibble that caused my bobber to disappear under the water created a knee-jerk reaction in me; usually, I reeled in too quickly or jerked on my line too hard and the fish would slip off, a close call averted.
So, what was left? I thought about this as the guys hauled the massive cooler across the lawn and shoved poles into the back of the truck. I closed my eyes and pictured me on the boat, sitting in the sunshine, looking out on the blue water of the lake, a blue so vivid it almost hurt my eyes to look at. I thought about my bobber dancing rhythmically along those blue waves, a slow, beautiful waltz. Fishing for me was calm. Peaceful.
Time stood still on the lake. I didn't have to remain focused on any one particular thing. If my gaze strayed from my bobber, a tug on the line would tell me a fish was nibbling. My mind was free and, like the bobber in the waves, I could dance from thought to thought, idea to idea. There were no demands on me, there was nothing I needed to do or respond to or think about. I could just be. Exist.
In those surroundings and in that frame of mind, I could fall in love with anything. Even fishing.
