Category: Explaining the Strange Behavior

Explaining the Strange Behavior

…as a doornail

the outside lane

When I die (I am not planning on dying anytime soon, I’m just saying) I don’t care about funeral arrangements*.  If my people need to have a funeral for closure, so be it.  Me?  I’d rather they take the money they would spend and go on vacation–do something nice for themselves.  I’ll be dead.  Why on earth would I want my family to spend upwards of $20k (and probably far upwards of that by the time I get around to croaking) on my corpse? 

Just cremate me–because you have to do something with the body, and I’m creeped out by the idea of being given to science–do what you will with my ashes, and go do something fun.  Remind each other of how much I loved you, and get a suntan–something I’ve never been able to do!  My legacy will live on in the people I have loved, and they’ll be taking a little piece of me wherever they go.  I hope they go somewhere with good food.

There are days when I miss my grandparents with the same intensity of the first few weeks they were gone.  I don’t think a day goes by without me thinking of them at least once, and usually because I am thinking, “Oh Grandma/Boom/Granny/Grandaddy would have loved that!”  Or because I can hear one of their voices in my head, advising, or needling, or encouraging me.

I think that is the sweetest aspect of memory–having known someone so well that you can “remember” what they would have said in any given situation.  Maybe you don’t know the exact words, but you know the spirit of where their thoughts would land.  I know just what my grandparents faces would have looked like if they were seeing Thor.  I can easily imagine what about him would have delighted them.  And, in some small way because I can do that, I can share them with him. 

It occurs to me that one day I will be a wizened old crone.  In absence of any looks worth vanity, I wonder what I’ll wind up preening?  When I am too old to bother with makeup outside of a little lipstick, and too arthritic to fool with my hair, who will I be?  I hope I’ll still be me, finding joy in the youth and decoration of others.

*If my people must have a funeral, I’d like it arranged so that during the visitation, my eyes are open.  Pop in some glass eyes if necessary.  If people are going to come stare at me, I ought to be able to look back at them.  A trip wire that triggers calliope music whenever anyone gets too close would also be appreciated.

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Philosophy

Why I Laughed at Seth MacFarlane’s “Boobs”

the outside lane

Short Answer:  I thought it was funny.

Long Answer: 

You know that feeling, where you are standing in the middle of the room, laughing at a joke, and you realize that you are the only one laughing?  Erg.  I had that feeling Oscar night.  See, I laughed and laughed at Seth MacFarlane’s jokes.  I am still giggling about the We Saw Your Boobs song.

Most of MacFarlane’s jokes were lazy, and puerile, and at the expense of some group or another, but that didn’t stop me from laughing.  I laughed at the Rihanna/Chris Brown joke.  I laughed at the John Wilkes Booth joke.  I laughed at the Flying Nun gag so much that I missed part of it.  Because I thought it was funny.

You know why I found them funny?  Because, for most of them, my honest first impression was that MacFarlane was mocking the status quo by telling its jokes.  If Hitler is goose stepping, and you’re goose stepping beside him, exaggerating the motions, exaggerating the facial expressions, mocking his voice and his mannerisms, you aren’t walking like Hitler–you’re making fun of him.  I thought MacFarlane was making fun of Herr Hollywood. 

I wouldn’t call MacFarlane a brilliant satirist.  I would call him a brilliant Fool.  A professional Boob.  He is a capering court jester, not a sleek satirist.  He isn’t Jon Stewart.  He isn’t Steven Colbert.  He is smart, but he isn’t smooth.

When MacFarlane sang the Boob song, I thought he was poking fun at how Hollywood undresses its actresses and makes boobs the focus of their careers.  Remember what a huge deal it was when Halle Berry was going to expose herself in Blowfish?  There’s always this major media explosion when an actress is going to bare her chest for the first time, and I thought MacFarlane was mocking that.  I thought Scarlett Johansson got thrown in there because the media exposed her, since she has refused to expose herself.  I thought these things because that’s what hosts do at the Oscars, they make fun of Hollywood and the media.  It’s like a roast for the entire entertainment industry as a whole, where the talent gets to make fun of the industry standard, while getting rewarded for playing along with it.  It didn’t even occur to me that he was being a sexist tool until I opened my Twitter feed and saw the outrage.

Maybe because I actually laugh at The Family Guy, I feel like I am in on the joke with MacFarlane.  That doesn’t mean I found all his schtick amusing.  I didn’t think Ted was funny (or offensive, just egregiously stupid.)  I didn’t like the Don Cheadle joke, which was lazy and boorish.  I didn’t think it was appropriate to make the joke about Qvenznicantspellit becoming a sex object “soon enough” in front of her because she’s 9, and 9 isn’t the right age for that joke.  But, I’d be lying if I didn’t look at every child actress and think, “I couldn’t do that to my daughter.  She’s going to be someone’s sex object before she’s hit puberty.”  Making fun of the Countdown to Legal clocks is always appropriate–doing it in front of the children being counted down isn’t.  I didn’t laugh at his joke introducing Hoffman and Theron.  I didn’t laugh at the closing number.  I thought the closing number was ridiculous.

I don’t know.  It’s all a matter of taste, isn’t it?

I do know this:  The women who were offended have the right to be, and they ought not be called humorless.  I find a great deal of mainstream humor to be offensive.  I can’t stomach Sarah Silverman, for one.  Even my beloved Tina Fey walks a fine line at times.

Comedy is hard because humor is entirely subjective.  Drama, we can pretty much agree upon.  Death is sad.  Loss is sad.  Triumph is good.  It’s easy to to write a love song.  No one is going to complain about that.  But where my son thinks farts are the height of hilarity, he doesn’t have any idea why I laugh so hard at Parks and Recreation.  Where I love a good, dark WWII joke (see Jeremy Clarkson’s faux commercial about Volkswagon, with everyone fleeing Poland because of a “German” invasion), I don’t find rape jokes funny at all.  I will laugh at Countdown to Legal Clock jokes, but I will break up with your sorry ass the very first time you ever tell me a joke about pedophilia (just ask that one guy–I have no sense of humor where that is concerned.) 

I do not think Dumb and Dumber, or Something About Mary were funny at all, but Drop Dead Gorgeous is #1 on my comedy hit parade.  Subjective.

Was Seth MacFarlane a good Oscar host?  I thought so.  Would Tina Fey and Amy Poehler have been better?  Duh.  Yes. 

But can’t you say that about just about anything?

A Day in the Life, Beauty, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Friends of Mine

It Girl

the outside lane

I can’t sleep.  Part of it is the snoring that was coming from beside me, and part of it was the coughing coming from the other room, and part of it was good old fashioned insomnia.  I tried to entertain myself with fantasies of being on the X Factor.  I can usually tell myself stories to sleep–generally, I would zonk out halfway through my audition fantasy, but tonight I made it all the way up to my Top 3 song choice before giving up and getting out of bed.  By the way, my Top 3 consisted of a really hot girl who sang like Whitney Houston, and a cutie patootie boy band.  I was eliminated in that round, but not before Simon Cowell said I was his favorite contestant ever, and had a hissy fit that I’d been voted out.

So, I looked down tonight, after I’d gotten into my pajamas, and I thought, “Good lord!  My boobs used to be a lot higher!  When did they fall down there?!”  You would think that having read and/or listened to so many women talk about the changes time and gravity bring, I would have internalized some expectation of it.  Not so.  Time and Gravity continue to be startling shocks to my system.  I know where things were.  I know where I think things should still be.  Joke’s on me.  They ain’t there no more.

Lately, I am coming to realize I need reading glasses, too.  My optometrist has been telling me this was coming.  The past few eye exams, the doctor has said something like, “After 40, vision changes rapidly, and you may find yourself needing reading glasses.”  I guess I thought I was special, or impervious, but the other day a client loaned me her readers “just to see” and it was like–  Well, it was like I need reading glasses.  I’ll have to find a chic pair so that my transformation into Little Old Lady isn’t quite so sudden.

I’m not complaining about aging.  I am enjoying my age.  I wouldn’t turn back time at all.  I like where I am, who I am, and who I have around me.  The little niggling changes are all worth the exchange.  I don’t like the wrinkles, but I really don’t mind the wrinkles either.  Some of the people I love most in the world have a whole lot of them, and it doesn’t change how I feel for them one bit.  The people who love me feel the same way.

Isn’t that lucky?  I think it is.  I feel very fortunate to be surrounded by, and loved by people who see past my flaws.

I feel about bodies, the way I feel about houses.  Curb appeal only really matters if a) you intend to sit outside in your front yard a lot, or b) you’re trying to make a sale.  Of course you want your exterior to be in good shape, and as attractive as is feasible to maintain because the health of the exterior is what protects the health of your interior, but it’s what you find past the front door that makes a house a home.  How comfortable are you inside?  How good does it feel to just kick back and relax?  How happy are you when it’s just you and the clock ticking?

I’m pretty happy.  Happy enough to get myself through to the Top 3 on X Factor!

It's been a few years since I've hit the stage, but I still plan performances.
It’s been a few years since I’ve hit the stage, but I still plan performances.

 

 

A Day in the Life, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family

Teen Angst

the outside lane

You know, there are a thousand little indignities suffered by teens every day.  It is a testament to the will to survive that so many of them DO make it to graduate from high school.  They deserve more than diplomas.  They deserve medals.

I don’t know what made me think of it, but I remembered this horrible span of about 6 weeks out of my Senior year (during which I hid in various places around the school–or off campus, but you didn’t just see that, Dad–during the lunch hour because I was dodging the well-orchestrated vendetta of a boy I had dated briefly.) and thought, “Not for the faint of heart.”  Teenagers are such twits.  I was a twit anyway.

I’ve said before that whenever I run into someone I knew between ages 15 and 23, I feel like the first thing I need to do is apologize for having been that age.  I was awfully sanctimonious and eye-rolly.  How do high school and undergraduate professors manage all those horrible children?

(Side note, has anyone else ever noticed that the guitar riff from Under my Thumb sounds a lot like the bassline to Bang a Gong?  That would make a great mash-up.  Someone do this for me, please.)

A friend of mine was talking about one of her teenaged rituals of watching a specific video documentary every day, and said this: “[It] would make me cry sometimes.  It was just so intense and pure and even though I couldn’t really process it with [my] little brain, I knew in my bones that was what life was really about: getting out there and doing something.  So I’d just cry [because] I didn’t know what else to do as a teenage girl.”

I think that sums up the teenage experience beautifully.  These kids know in their bones that there is a life out there for them, but the slow reveal of adventure and adulthood is always just beyond their grasp.  It is frustrating, and it is a deep, pure anguish of desire–they can’t put their hands on it, and they can’t quite understand what it is they are trying to grab hold of.  So they act like teenagers.  What else is there for them to do?

1989. Boom Pa and me. I was a teenaged turkey.
Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Friends of Mine, parenting, Thor

What Kind of Pizza do You Like?

the outside lane

I see pizza a something of a perfect food.  You can eat it with your hands, or with utensils.  You can load it with veggies, with meats, with cheeses, with sauces of all variations and nutritional values.  It’s easy to cook.  It’s easy to serve.  And, as a bonus, most people really enjoy it.  Nothing in the world wrong with a pizza.

That said, I won’t touch one that has sausage on it.  I hate sausage.  I’m weird about meat, and if there is any potential for gristle, or fat, or anything that resembles where the meat comes from (like tendons, veins, you get the idea), I won’t eat it.  Sausage is a gristle fest.  So, no matter how good it smells, how much the gooey cheese makes my mouth water, I won’t touch it.  I don’t even want to pick the sausage off because inevitably there will be a little ball of it hidden somewhere under all that delicious cheese, and I will be the one to bite into it, and it will be a hidden ball of gristle, which will ruin the entire experience for me.  I just-say-no to sausage pizza.

One of my sweet friends called the other night, worried that her daughter was dealing with a pre-school mean girl.  Meangirl was taunting our Princess, saying she hated her, didn’t want to play with her because she didn’t like her, and (more worrisome, even though they are all 4 year olds) that she’d like to kill her.  She asked me if I would tell the Princess to confront and challenge the Meangirl, or if I would tell the Princess to try to come to some peaceful understanding with the Meangirl.  My advice was to tell that little Princess about pizza.

When Thor was about that age, he had a boy he wanted to play with, and that boy kept telling Thor he hated him and insisting that Thor go away.  When I was trying to figure out how to approach it, I wanted to do a few things:

  1. Explain to Thor that there was nothing wrong with him and help him maintain his self-esteem and self-confidence.
  2. Explain to Thor that other people have the right to avoid contact if they want to.

The first because he is my boy, and I want him to feel good about himself.  I want him to be able to make good choices in the future, and good choices start with healthy self-esteem.  The second because I never want to get a phone call saying that my son has forced himself on someone–get my drift?  So I’ve wanted him to understand that no-means-no from an early age.  He has the right to say no, and so does everyone else.  I talked to him about pizza.

We all like pizza, I told him, but we all like different flavors.  We laughed about my sausage issues, and how he hates veggies on his, but we agreed that any pizza is ultimately good pizza–just sometimes the toppings get in the way.  I said that people are like that.  We’re all good and worthwhile, but some of us have toppings that others of us don’t care for.  You can’t argue with taste.

I told him that if Little Johnny didn’t want to play with him, that was okay.  Little Johnny liked cheese pizza, and Thor was a pepperoni pizza.  I told him that he should leave Little Johnny alone, to stop trying to force him into friendship (or trying to change to be what Little Johnny wanted in a playmate), and to go find himself some people who are into pepperoni*.  And, I told him I bet if he left Little Johnny alone, Little Johnny might see that pepperoni pizza isn’t so bad, and maybe Little Johnny would want to come play later.

Imagine my surprise–and I’m being honest here–when that worked.

Imagine my surprise when I realized it worked for me, too.

In Dianne Brill’s book, Boobs, Boys, and High Heels, she talks about the art of creating the perfect social donut.  Everywhere you go, there are cliques, or donuts of people.  At the center of every donut is the social cream.  The idea is to make friends with the center of every donut so that you end up as the social cream of the most awesome donut in the place–and end up as friends of all the donut rings by proxy.  You can’t be that awesome donut cream if you are a follower, if you are easily led astray by peer pressure, or if you lack self-confidence.

I want Thor to always be confident in his worth as an individual, and not seek to find his validation through the approval of others.  That’s why it is important for him to understand that it is okay if someone else doesn’t like him**.  That’s normal.  That’s the world.  He doesn’t have to conform.  He doesn’t have to change.  All he has to be is respectful of other people, respectful of himself, and 100% Thor.  The same goes for that Princess.  All she needs to be is herself.  It’s okay if Bullygirl doesn’t like her–Meangirl probably just doesn’t think she likes pineapple on her pizza.

What kind of pizza are you? 

(I am a half cheese, half pepperoni with pineapples and green olives.)

 

*Note that this isn’t a situation where another child was actively seeking to hurt Thor.  It was just a kid who didn’t want to play with him, and only became vocal when Thor tried to insert himself.

**It’s okay if people don’t like you because you just aren’t their taste.  That is normal.  If you never meet anyone who likes you, then there might be a greater issue at hand.