I’m wondering if anybody reads my blogs… you know, other than my husband and friends who are simply blog victims; commissioned into service by guilt. It is pleasurable to write them, but more pleasurable to write them for an audience…however captive.
I know one person, Anonymous, read one of them because he/she kindly left a comment. Got so riled up that Anonymous couldn’t restrain his/herself and purged a reprimand. Initially, I felt shame and then I thought, people actually read this?? And then I thought, who? How? Why? And… Cool.
So hey, if you are not my husband, family or close friends (and even if you are) and you like what you read, get torqued off by what you read, or simply have wisdom or observations to make—related or unrelated to anything you’ve read here—please feel free to comment. It’ll encourage me to be more prolific, knowing I’m not just writing to the vacuum of space and also help me focus on what works and what doesn’t.
Question for the day:
What makes a blog good?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
On Holidays and Baguettes…
Summer has gone by quickly, the leaves are turning, and I’m giving thought to the upcoming holiday season. Almost time to go into the attic and drag down the decorations, cook the traditional foods, let someone know you care… Yes, before we know it, it’ll be Black History Month (BHM) again and, I confess, I’m not at all prepared.
This probably has something to do with the fact that I’m, well, White. So, imagine my dismay when, last year, I began to receive office emails from the “Department Employees of Color Committee” announcing the BHM noon-time potluck and inviting the whole office to participate. The menu? Soul food.
Oh man. I don’t really cook much anyway, but the things that I do cook involve pizza and sometimes, when I’m feeling really crazy, burritos. The unifying factor is, of course, olives. I cook dorky White-girl food and the last thing I wanted to do was prepare something I guessed was “soul food.” I mean, way too much danger of food stereotyping.
I engaged myself in a debate about my participation. If I don’t go, what would people think? Is it offensive not to participate in BHM potlucks? Then, if I did go, how on earth would I ever come up with a politically correct contribution? In undergraduate women’s studies classes, I learned that associating certain foods with African-Americans is racist.
Or worse, would people think I was some sort of food opportunist who doesn’t give a fig about BHM but just wants to score a free lunch?
I’d pretty much decided to opt out, the pressure too intense and the chance for BHM blunders too high. However, a few days later, a Caseworker of Color handed me the sign up sheet. “What are you going to bring?” she asked expectantly. I tried to get out of it, sighting my poor cooking ability, but she said, “Oh, just bring something easy.”
I looked at the list. Sweet potato pies, collard greens, beans and rices…But then I found a category I could live with: Bread. I wrote (in my typical descriptive way) “tasty baguette” and trotted the list to other co-workers. One of them (who happens to be Black) looked at the list and said, “Tasty baguette? What’s that?” (she speaks in italics) The women of color surrounding her chortled.
I stuttered, “Uh, you know, bread…” One of them said, “Hey, yeah, just make sure it’s brown bread…” More laughter at my expense.
I bought the bread; a freshly baked (brown) 5 grain and some Toby’s Spread (It’s tofu based, OK? Deal with it) and arrived back at my office right at potluck time. I intended to go in, I really did, but walked right on by the densely packed masticating crowd of multicultural participants; directly to my cubicle and sat down limply.
I chickened out. The cultural and culinary pressures paralyzed me. In addition to being a White girl, I am, apparently, a ninny. I opened up the spread, found my butter knife, unwrapped my paper bag and proceeded to eat my tofu-laced bread of color.
Maybe I’ll just stay home this year…You know, a nice quiet BHM without all the hoopla and commercialism...
This probably has something to do with the fact that I’m, well, White. So, imagine my dismay when, last year, I began to receive office emails from the “Department Employees of Color Committee” announcing the BHM noon-time potluck and inviting the whole office to participate. The menu? Soul food.
Oh man. I don’t really cook much anyway, but the things that I do cook involve pizza and sometimes, when I’m feeling really crazy, burritos. The unifying factor is, of course, olives. I cook dorky White-girl food and the last thing I wanted to do was prepare something I guessed was “soul food.” I mean, way too much danger of food stereotyping.
I engaged myself in a debate about my participation. If I don’t go, what would people think? Is it offensive not to participate in BHM potlucks? Then, if I did go, how on earth would I ever come up with a politically correct contribution? In undergraduate women’s studies classes, I learned that associating certain foods with African-Americans is racist.
Or worse, would people think I was some sort of food opportunist who doesn’t give a fig about BHM but just wants to score a free lunch?
I’d pretty much decided to opt out, the pressure too intense and the chance for BHM blunders too high. However, a few days later, a Caseworker of Color handed me the sign up sheet. “What are you going to bring?” she asked expectantly. I tried to get out of it, sighting my poor cooking ability, but she said, “Oh, just bring something easy.”
I looked at the list. Sweet potato pies, collard greens, beans and rices…But then I found a category I could live with: Bread. I wrote (in my typical descriptive way) “tasty baguette” and trotted the list to other co-workers. One of them (who happens to be Black) looked at the list and said, “Tasty baguette? What’s that?” (she speaks in italics) The women of color surrounding her chortled.
I stuttered, “Uh, you know, bread…” One of them said, “Hey, yeah, just make sure it’s brown bread…” More laughter at my expense.
I bought the bread; a freshly baked (brown) 5 grain and some Toby’s Spread (It’s tofu based, OK? Deal with it) and arrived back at my office right at potluck time. I intended to go in, I really did, but walked right on by the densely packed masticating crowd of multicultural participants; directly to my cubicle and sat down limply.
I chickened out. The cultural and culinary pressures paralyzed me. In addition to being a White girl, I am, apparently, a ninny. I opened up the spread, found my butter knife, unwrapped my paper bag and proceeded to eat my tofu-laced bread of color.
Maybe I’ll just stay home this year…You know, a nice quiet BHM without all the hoopla and commercialism...
On Dark Sides and Lolly Pops...
Recently I posted a blog expressing my frustration, one hectic morning, about peanut butter—specifically that my daughter was suddenly not supposed to bring her own peanut butter sandwich (which I found out just as I’d made one, just before rushing out the door and with no back-up, non-perishable foods on hand, after years of peanut butter being OK) due to another child having a peanut allergy (who incidentally seemed to tolerate peanut butter proximity in the past).
It was a rant blog… an expression of those deep dark places we all have but we rarely reveal because people become offended and worked up when you show your dark side. Everyone must be sunshine and lollypops—inside and out—right? Ever patient, understanding, accommodating…always.
I confess, I’m not always sunshine and lollypops. Sometimes I get selfish. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I’m not PC. Sometimes I’m stubborn. Sometimes I’m unreasonable… Later, I generally do the right thing, but for a moment I’m downright naughty inside.
I wrote about one of these times. An anonymous commentator found it offensive and assumed that I’m universally insensitive. I guess Anonymous doesn’t have dark moments like I do, and God bless her/him for that.
I’ll tell you, most of the time, I’m doing my best to play well in the sandpit…probably to a fault. I follow the rules, say please and thank you, yield to others… I’m ever courteous…even a bit of a pushover. In the “big city” I live in, courtesy is rare… Occasionally I do tire of being nice all the time… occasionally I wanna be bad to the bone.
It occurred to me that writing about my dark side may be too intense for some viewers. (Without going overboard with mitigations, ala “of course I won’t really try to harm Neb by sending peanut butter…” “of course I’m not really that insensitive and I’ll probably figure out a way to send something else if it’s absolutely necessary…” “Of course I’m a total weenie who’d never really be this obnoxious…”)
So, OK, I take it back. You are right, Anonymous, Neb’s needs are very important and I’m a bad dog for writing an absurd blog about my own petty frustrations. In the future, when I rant, I’ll make every effort to soften it and indicate that it is only a rant and not intended to be taken seriously…that way, nobody gets hurt.
We’ll group hug. I’ll serve peanut-free organic vegan foods that don’t spoil without refrigeration in the hot sun…when I find them. I’m, as ever, open to suggestions.
It was a rant blog… an expression of those deep dark places we all have but we rarely reveal because people become offended and worked up when you show your dark side. Everyone must be sunshine and lollypops—inside and out—right? Ever patient, understanding, accommodating…always.
I confess, I’m not always sunshine and lollypops. Sometimes I get selfish. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I’m not PC. Sometimes I’m stubborn. Sometimes I’m unreasonable… Later, I generally do the right thing, but for a moment I’m downright naughty inside.
I wrote about one of these times. An anonymous commentator found it offensive and assumed that I’m universally insensitive. I guess Anonymous doesn’t have dark moments like I do, and God bless her/him for that.
I’ll tell you, most of the time, I’m doing my best to play well in the sandpit…probably to a fault. I follow the rules, say please and thank you, yield to others… I’m ever courteous…even a bit of a pushover. In the “big city” I live in, courtesy is rare… Occasionally I do tire of being nice all the time… occasionally I wanna be bad to the bone.
It occurred to me that writing about my dark side may be too intense for some viewers. (Without going overboard with mitigations, ala “of course I won’t really try to harm Neb by sending peanut butter…” “of course I’m not really that insensitive and I’ll probably figure out a way to send something else if it’s absolutely necessary…” “Of course I’m a total weenie who’d never really be this obnoxious…”)
So, OK, I take it back. You are right, Anonymous, Neb’s needs are very important and I’m a bad dog for writing an absurd blog about my own petty frustrations. In the future, when I rant, I’ll make every effort to soften it and indicate that it is only a rant and not intended to be taken seriously…that way, nobody gets hurt.
We’ll group hug. I’ll serve peanut-free organic vegan foods that don’t spoil without refrigeration in the hot sun…when I find them. I’m, as ever, open to suggestions.
Monday, August 28, 2006
On Mooving to Montana...
Montana had been a fantasy life. A place of wonder, freedom, and independent living. When an opportunity to move there arose from a contract job offer, we jumped at the chance to experience Big Sky Country. At last, I could be a mountain girl, a frontier woman, a hardy lass who wore turquoise and laughed at danger. I’d dance under the wild Montana skies!
At least, that was my little delusion. In reality, I’m an Oregonian who grew up with two seasons—wet and not-as-wet. My fashion sense depends largely on name-brand rain gear, layered over drab sweaters and khaki pants. My idea of severe weather involves an inch of snow or a single rumble of thunder, and my truck has anti-hydroplane tires.
Clearly, I had much to learn about living there and I make a confession about my primary handicap. I did not understand steak. I couldn’t tell a good petite sirloin from a package of “reduced for quick sale.” When necessary, I select beef cuts based on price: anything under $2.99 is fair game for my George Foreman grill. I’m mostly used to poultry; simple, small portions of boneless, skinless delicacies.
Not that I have anything against beef. In fact, some of my fondest memories include cow flesh in one form or another…I’m sure of it. I mean, you know, Arby’s Beef’n’Cheddar. I’m no vegetarian.
And yet, when dining at “The Oasis,” a famous local steakhouse in Belgrade, Montana; I wondered what, exactly, it was an oasis from? Certainly not cow. I faced a menu rife with beef options, and experienced a strange sort of protein anxiety. Filet mignon, porterhouse, T-bone, flank, tips, tops, bottoms… rounds… I became lost in the shear range of bovine portions and found myself searching desperately for something familiar; something with feathers. It felt easier that way; safer. I know a good bird breast when I see one. Appreciate a juicy thigh marinated in some tangy herbal rub.
I panicked. I did. My heart beating, my mouth dry, my eyes clouding, the waitress waiting… I meant to order steak, it was all about the steak, and at the moment of commitment, I uttered quietly, “Um, I’ll have the broasted chicken…with…ah…Jo Jo’s.”
At that moment, I realized my faux paus. The steak house quieted, eyes rolled, throats cleared, and someone sipped a clink of ice water. The waitress paused, wrote quickly on her pad, swallowed and asked if that was all. Yes, yes, what else could I say? Damn you, familiar chickens.
John Denver did not prepare me for this.
Maybe Montana was just too much for me. Perhaps I’m not the redneck I’d always thought I was…We’re back in Oregon now and I sure do miss those skies and the live and let live philosophy; but I admit the chicken here is delightful and nobody holds my poultry preference against me… Well, you know, except vegans.
mln
At least, that was my little delusion. In reality, I’m an Oregonian who grew up with two seasons—wet and not-as-wet. My fashion sense depends largely on name-brand rain gear, layered over drab sweaters and khaki pants. My idea of severe weather involves an inch of snow or a single rumble of thunder, and my truck has anti-hydroplane tires.
Clearly, I had much to learn about living there and I make a confession about my primary handicap. I did not understand steak. I couldn’t tell a good petite sirloin from a package of “reduced for quick sale.” When necessary, I select beef cuts based on price: anything under $2.99 is fair game for my George Foreman grill. I’m mostly used to poultry; simple, small portions of boneless, skinless delicacies.
Not that I have anything against beef. In fact, some of my fondest memories include cow flesh in one form or another…I’m sure of it. I mean, you know, Arby’s Beef’n’Cheddar. I’m no vegetarian.
And yet, when dining at “The Oasis,” a famous local steakhouse in Belgrade, Montana; I wondered what, exactly, it was an oasis from? Certainly not cow. I faced a menu rife with beef options, and experienced a strange sort of protein anxiety. Filet mignon, porterhouse, T-bone, flank, tips, tops, bottoms… rounds… I became lost in the shear range of bovine portions and found myself searching desperately for something familiar; something with feathers. It felt easier that way; safer. I know a good bird breast when I see one. Appreciate a juicy thigh marinated in some tangy herbal rub.
I panicked. I did. My heart beating, my mouth dry, my eyes clouding, the waitress waiting… I meant to order steak, it was all about the steak, and at the moment of commitment, I uttered quietly, “Um, I’ll have the broasted chicken…with…ah…Jo Jo’s.”
At that moment, I realized my faux paus. The steak house quieted, eyes rolled, throats cleared, and someone sipped a clink of ice water. The waitress paused, wrote quickly on her pad, swallowed and asked if that was all. Yes, yes, what else could I say? Damn you, familiar chickens.
John Denver did not prepare me for this.
Maybe Montana was just too much for me. Perhaps I’m not the redneck I’d always thought I was…We’re back in Oregon now and I sure do miss those skies and the live and let live philosophy; but I admit the chicken here is delightful and nobody holds my poultry preference against me… Well, you know, except vegans.
mln
Friday, August 18, 2006
On the Brevity of life and Water Toys…
My family is relatively young. We’ve been through hardships, individually and together… and good times too. Most recently—like many Americans—we endured the lay-off experience (ugh) but now have arrived at some (however momentary) stability.
We are pragmatic and practical people. Our purchases are thought-out, we buy things on sale, we wear drab neutral-colored shoes (and clothes for that matter…they all go together that way. Of course we end up looking like depressed socialists.)… There is nothing flashy about us, nothing extravagant; just simple, middle class, public worker values.
However, we have one dream. One luxury we can no longer live without. We’ve decided it’s time for a boat.
We want a 2007 Yamaha SX230 High Output (bowrider/jet propulsion) and it’s luscious. The Yamaha folks aren’t releasing official information about it until 8/21 at 9:00AM PST—not that I’m paying attention, ahem… We’re told they’ve added a head (porta potty…but it’s way more fun to say “head”) compartment to the model which I—as a mother and a female—am quite giddy about. (Ok, there is still some shopping and research to do and a boat show to attend… but we’re strongly leaning toward this boat).
Here's the link to their website and the 2006 models:
http://www.yamaha-motor.com/boat/products/lifestylehome/home.aspx
And a link to the 2007 preview:
http://www.motorboating.com/motorboat/photogallery/article/0,26512,1224122-26,00.html
Now, we live in a land of kayak, canoe and sail boaters who develop this appalled look when I show them our dream. They insist upon the peace and quiet of their water toys and abhor the loud ruckus of the power boat… This is primarily because they are not in one at the time. But, I tell you what, I’ll put any one of them in the Yamaha, tell them to hold on, and I’ll tear it up. Watch the grins appear.
I’ve always wanted a power boat. My parents borrowed one for a summer and I fell in love. I recall sitting in the bow, fully underway, with my little boombox playing Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms… transported to another universe. My dad let me drive it and I stood in “Miami Vice” ecstasy… I knew then I must have one of my own someday.
Fortunately, I married a man with the same intense desire for boat utopia and we have our priorities straight. Essentially, should we buy one? Of course not. Is it a good financial investment? Nope. Would responsible people pour their money into an oversized water toy? Nah.
Do we care? Hell no. Here’s where we are. Life’s too damned short and there are no guarantees. We could be the most frugal people on earth, make all the wise financial investments, pay off our debts, never go out to eat and save save save… But you never know how much time you have and all that sacrifice and waiting just might not pay off. What good is all that financial investing and conserving if you end up folding before you get to any reward? I’m not willing to gamble our youth and enthusiasm on this ideal of total financial security when we are too old to enjoy it…I’ve learned that even if you play the game by all the “rules,” you can still end up on the bottom.
My child will be 8 in November. She adores us, she loves spending time with us, she’s a daredevil and she loves the water. Our boat is not a sound financial investment but it’s an investment in memories. When I’m 90 (assuming I make it that long), sitting on my back porch…worn out and used up. Am I going to reminisce about the property I bought and sold, or the bank account I plumped up, or the credit card I finally paid off? Or would my mind wander instead to Cassie bouncing on some ridiculous inflated toy…screaming her head off and my lovely husband at the helm.
The boat will be our waterfront property… Our parlor… our family therapy…our social director…our amusement park…our escape… We’ll watch Cassie grow up on it, bring her girlfriends…andher boyfriends on it… through it we’ll keep her engaged and get to know her. We’ll have an outlet for forming new friendships…something to invite new people to do. We’ll bring old friends on it and watch them laugh… Jim and I will take moonlight cruises together…let our stress and responsibilities float away…reconnect when “real life” gets out of hand.
We work hard, we’ve achieved things nobody thought we could. We don’t make a ton of money and we don’t expect to be rich and famous. However, of all the luxuries or creature comforts… this is what we want. Cars, fancy homes, trips to Paris, in-home theaters…? Nah.
We’ll be at the January boat show and with luck, next spring, you’ll find us on some patch of water…tearing it up or laying around like happy sea lions.
We are pragmatic and practical people. Our purchases are thought-out, we buy things on sale, we wear drab neutral-colored shoes (and clothes for that matter…they all go together that way. Of course we end up looking like depressed socialists.)… There is nothing flashy about us, nothing extravagant; just simple, middle class, public worker values.
However, we have one dream. One luxury we can no longer live without. We’ve decided it’s time for a boat.
We want a 2007 Yamaha SX230 High Output (bowrider/jet propulsion) and it’s luscious. The Yamaha folks aren’t releasing official information about it until 8/21 at 9:00AM PST—not that I’m paying attention, ahem… We’re told they’ve added a head (porta potty…but it’s way more fun to say “head”) compartment to the model which I—as a mother and a female—am quite giddy about. (Ok, there is still some shopping and research to do and a boat show to attend… but we’re strongly leaning toward this boat).
Here's the link to their website and the 2006 models:
http://www.yamaha-motor.com/boat/products/lifestylehome/home.aspx
And a link to the 2007 preview:
http://www.motorboating.com/motorboat/photogallery/article/0,26512,1224122-26,00.html
Now, we live in a land of kayak, canoe and sail boaters who develop this appalled look when I show them our dream. They insist upon the peace and quiet of their water toys and abhor the loud ruckus of the power boat… This is primarily because they are not in one at the time. But, I tell you what, I’ll put any one of them in the Yamaha, tell them to hold on, and I’ll tear it up. Watch the grins appear.
I’ve always wanted a power boat. My parents borrowed one for a summer and I fell in love. I recall sitting in the bow, fully underway, with my little boombox playing Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms… transported to another universe. My dad let me drive it and I stood in “Miami Vice” ecstasy… I knew then I must have one of my own someday.
Fortunately, I married a man with the same intense desire for boat utopia and we have our priorities straight. Essentially, should we buy one? Of course not. Is it a good financial investment? Nope. Would responsible people pour their money into an oversized water toy? Nah.
Do we care? Hell no. Here’s where we are. Life’s too damned short and there are no guarantees. We could be the most frugal people on earth, make all the wise financial investments, pay off our debts, never go out to eat and save save save… But you never know how much time you have and all that sacrifice and waiting just might not pay off. What good is all that financial investing and conserving if you end up folding before you get to any reward? I’m not willing to gamble our youth and enthusiasm on this ideal of total financial security when we are too old to enjoy it…I’ve learned that even if you play the game by all the “rules,” you can still end up on the bottom.
My child will be 8 in November. She adores us, she loves spending time with us, she’s a daredevil and she loves the water. Our boat is not a sound financial investment but it’s an investment in memories. When I’m 90 (assuming I make it that long), sitting on my back porch…worn out and used up. Am I going to reminisce about the property I bought and sold, or the bank account I plumped up, or the credit card I finally paid off? Or would my mind wander instead to Cassie bouncing on some ridiculous inflated toy…screaming her head off and my lovely husband at the helm.
The boat will be our waterfront property… Our parlor… our family therapy…our social director…our amusement park…our escape… We’ll watch Cassie grow up on it, bring her girlfriends…and
We work hard, we’ve achieved things nobody thought we could. We don’t make a ton of money and we don’t expect to be rich and famous. However, of all the luxuries or creature comforts… this is what we want. Cars, fancy homes, trips to Paris, in-home theaters…? Nah.
We’ll be at the January boat show and with luck, next spring, you’ll find us on some patch of water…tearing it up or laying around like happy sea lions.
Friday, August 11, 2006
On Lightheartedness and Tupperware...
I've been a blog grouch lately and feel it's time for some lighter fare.
On Tupperware…
There exists an unfortunate misconception that women actually enjoy Tupperware parties; or any “product-parties” for that matter. A woman can attend a “party” for anything: lingerie, candles, baby toys, small tropical lizards—it doesn’t matter—someone, somewhere, is giving a “party” for it and women are blindly ordering a half-dozen mauve geckos with a matching service tray.
Though these almost ritualistic gatherings carry the “party” moniker, they are frankly little more fun than experimenting with that home liposuction system you ordered from Candi of the shop-at-home network after staying up way too late eating Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby…that’s just really fun to say… Chubby Hubby.
Theoretically, someone—a man—decided the word “party” would convince people—women—to crowd onto someone’s lumpy sectional, drink generic coffee, purchase overpriced plastic gizmos (all major credit cards accepted) and have “fun.” Though it worked for the first Tupperware fete; those pioneering women quickly realized, from the ditzy Tupperware Lady’s first ice-breaker torture activity, that they were in for hours of unadulterated hell.
Given that these gatherings are unpleasant, one might wonder why this method of marketing prevails. The primary reason is free stuff. When you attend these “parties” you are told that, if you then host a “party,” you’ll receive free stuff when your guests order products. This is how the product “party” survives. Other women, who want free stuff, sign up to be a future hostess in the hopes she’ll score piles of free stuff; or at least obtain the miniature sandwich saver keychain, offered by the desperate Tupperware Lady, to anyone who’ll agree to have a party--whether she has a home or not.
Now the gullible new hostess inherits the problem of coercing women (who have just incidentally attended the previous party) to attend her “party.” Several major research institutions have studied the process by which women are enticed to attend these events, but they could never pin it down; likely because men conducted the research and there’s no way a man could possibly understand this phenomenon.
Allow me to explain. Predictably, the first invitees are a hostess’s close friends and relatives because they are compelled to attend by an ancient sacred Code. Prehistoric women developed The Code long ago when a Rocks-That-Happen-To-Be-Shaped-Like-Bowls “Party” ended in a riot because the hostess’s sister no-showed (with some pathetic excuse like having her arm torn off by a saber-toothed tiger, or something). Somewhere near Duluth, one can visit the historical landmark where blood and coffee stains forever grace the cave walls.
The new hostess also invites some lesser-friends. While these women do not fall under The Code, they will likely attend to “be nice,” get away from the kids, and pick up that Effortless Egg-Cracker, introduced last month. Ms. Hostess knows the lesser-friends will invite their own close friends, or relatives—relying on The Code—to go to the shindig with them so they don’t have to be at a “party” where they “don’t know anyone.” Now, 10 to 100 women have agreed to gather in someone’s living room for an event from which everyone will leave with a headache the approximate size of Guatemala.
To be fair, I must note that one positive thing did transpire from my attendance at a “party.” I won a serrated grapefruit spoon in a drawing and it is excellent for eating kiwi fruits. Thus goes the first basic law of Tupperware: You never use the items for what they were originally intended. Like, if it is a Deviled Egg Caddy, you’ll use it to knead bread.
The second law is: Food will taste better if it is removed from its original container and stored in expensive plastic gizmos that’ll give your cupboard or fridge and “elegant yet functional sense of style.” For example, a Pickle-Keeper is offered in an attempt to keep you from making the grave mistake of leaving your sweet gherkins in the obsolete glass jar, whereby you may have to use a time-consuming fork to get them out.
The third basic law, and likely the most vital, is that Tupperware must be burped so that it doesn’t spit up before you put it down for a nap.
The sellers of Tupperware claim that it will restore order to your kitchen. In reality, everyone has one cupboard dedicated to the renegade polymer containers, where they are organized carefully via chaos theory. No one wants to venture into the recesses of the cabinet, so the most available unit is used for everything. A juice pitcher may serve as both an Egg Scrambler and a Chip-n-Dip tray. The other Tupperware is quite happy with this arrangement because it can hang out, play poker, and taunt the Rubbermaid.
On Tupperware…
There exists an unfortunate misconception that women actually enjoy Tupperware parties; or any “product-parties” for that matter. A woman can attend a “party” for anything: lingerie, candles, baby toys, small tropical lizards—it doesn’t matter—someone, somewhere, is giving a “party” for it and women are blindly ordering a half-dozen mauve geckos with a matching service tray.
Though these almost ritualistic gatherings carry the “party” moniker, they are frankly little more fun than experimenting with that home liposuction system you ordered from Candi of the shop-at-home network after staying up way too late eating Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby…that’s just really fun to say… Chubby Hubby.
Theoretically, someone—a man—decided the word “party” would convince people—women—to crowd onto someone’s lumpy sectional, drink generic coffee, purchase overpriced plastic gizmos (all major credit cards accepted) and have “fun.” Though it worked for the first Tupperware fete; those pioneering women quickly realized, from the ditzy Tupperware Lady’s first ice-breaker torture activity, that they were in for hours of unadulterated hell.
Given that these gatherings are unpleasant, one might wonder why this method of marketing prevails. The primary reason is free stuff. When you attend these “parties” you are told that, if you then host a “party,” you’ll receive free stuff when your guests order products. This is how the product “party” survives. Other women, who want free stuff, sign up to be a future hostess in the hopes she’ll score piles of free stuff; or at least obtain the miniature sandwich saver keychain, offered by the desperate Tupperware Lady, to anyone who’ll agree to have a party--whether she has a home or not.
Now the gullible new hostess inherits the problem of coercing women (who have just incidentally attended the previous party) to attend her “party.” Several major research institutions have studied the process by which women are enticed to attend these events, but they could never pin it down; likely because men conducted the research and there’s no way a man could possibly understand this phenomenon.
Allow me to explain. Predictably, the first invitees are a hostess’s close friends and relatives because they are compelled to attend by an ancient sacred Code. Prehistoric women developed The Code long ago when a Rocks-That-Happen-To-Be-Shaped-Like-Bowls “Party” ended in a riot because the hostess’s sister no-showed (with some pathetic excuse like having her arm torn off by a saber-toothed tiger, or something). Somewhere near Duluth, one can visit the historical landmark where blood and coffee stains forever grace the cave walls.
The new hostess also invites some lesser-friends. While these women do not fall under The Code, they will likely attend to “be nice,” get away from the kids, and pick up that Effortless Egg-Cracker, introduced last month. Ms. Hostess knows the lesser-friends will invite their own close friends, or relatives—relying on The Code—to go to the shindig with them so they don’t have to be at a “party” where they “don’t know anyone.” Now, 10 to 100 women have agreed to gather in someone’s living room for an event from which everyone will leave with a headache the approximate size of Guatemala.
To be fair, I must note that one positive thing did transpire from my attendance at a “party.” I won a serrated grapefruit spoon in a drawing and it is excellent for eating kiwi fruits. Thus goes the first basic law of Tupperware: You never use the items for what they were originally intended. Like, if it is a Deviled Egg Caddy, you’ll use it to knead bread.
The second law is: Food will taste better if it is removed from its original container and stored in expensive plastic gizmos that’ll give your cupboard or fridge and “elegant yet functional sense of style.” For example, a Pickle-Keeper is offered in an attempt to keep you from making the grave mistake of leaving your sweet gherkins in the obsolete glass jar, whereby you may have to use a time-consuming fork to get them out.
The third basic law, and likely the most vital, is that Tupperware must be burped so that it doesn’t spit up before you put it down for a nap.
The sellers of Tupperware claim that it will restore order to your kitchen. In reality, everyone has one cupboard dedicated to the renegade polymer containers, where they are organized carefully via chaos theory. No one wants to venture into the recesses of the cabinet, so the most available unit is used for everything. A juice pitcher may serve as both an Egg Scrambler and a Chip-n-Dip tray. The other Tupperware is quite happy with this arrangement because it can hang out, play poker, and taunt the Rubbermaid.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
On Meeting in the Middle...
I’m afraid I’m scaring off my Liberal friends. I don’t mean to, but I live in a largely Liberal city with very Liberal ideals and I confess I’m not exactly Liberal myself. Apparently, non-Liberals are perceived by Liberals as being Conservative. Conversely, when I lived in Montana among Conservatives, they considered me Liberal because I am not Conservative.
Apparently it’s difficult to see a middle ground when one hangs out in extremes and is pushed by our two-party system (and a frenetic media) to embrace polarity. But I, like many other invisible Americans, hang out in the middle…on a patch of middle real estate. I’m a Moderate, or possibly a Libertarian—depending on the definitions.
Check these out—when you have some time to spare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moderate
and
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libertarianism
In a nutshell, I’m socially liberal and economically conservative. My political philosophy could be loosely summed up as “Live and Let Live.” I believe strongly in personal responsibility and my biggest frustration with Liberals and Conservatives is how both wish to control and judge others; while making the assumption that people can’t (or won’t) look after their own selves.
Another thing about Moderates; we don’t swallow every party line, every statistic, every news story as if they are absolute truths. We question everything. Everything. Yeah, even global warming, recycling, racism, and “One Nation Under God” are up for debate. Bring it on.
If I have any political mission, it’s to get people to think critically…not just blindly following the herd. If your position is sound and you stand by your beliefs, there should be no need for defensiveness, scorn, or avoidance. It should be OK to look at all angles.
My husband tells a story about a guy who couldn’t do this:
“I took an undergrad supply & logistics class at PSU and one of my group mates was from Yemen. He was Muslim and I remember that he also played Spanish guitar. Anyway, at some point we were discussing electives and philosophy class came up. He said that he signed up for philosophy class and enjoyed it for a while but then realized that it was causing him to question his religious beliefs and it made him uncomfortable so he dropped it…He didn’t want to expose himself to these other ways of thinking.”
How sad to be so threatened by information that one is afraid to even look at differing beliefs or challenging questions. How sad to be so caught up in one way of being that you simply can’t allow yourself to open up to other ways…or even to just understand them.
Aren’t you sick of polarity? Aren’t you sick of being the puppets of rich politicians and lobbyists who love to make you hate each other (Red vs Blue: The Uncivil War)? Don’t you think it benefits powerful people & businesses (including powerful foreign interests) to have you so divided into two opposite factions who rely on stereotypes and hearsay; rather than cold hard reason? Do you really believe half of the US is evil or stupid? Common… Stop being sheep, stop categorically hating each other, and start talking (and listening)… calmly, rationally, without defensiveness and name-calling.
The middle is messy. The middle does not have a clear purpose, agenda or assumptions. The middle takes energy and requires effort. The middle requires you to open up and explore...to believe in the good intentions of others and try to understand other points of view. Come roll around with me in the middle…get dirty and let go.
Apparently it’s difficult to see a middle ground when one hangs out in extremes and is pushed by our two-party system (and a frenetic media) to embrace polarity. But I, like many other invisible Americans, hang out in the middle…on a patch of middle real estate. I’m a Moderate, or possibly a Libertarian—depending on the definitions.
Check these out—when you have some time to spare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moderate
and
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libertarianism
In a nutshell, I’m socially liberal and economically conservative. My political philosophy could be loosely summed up as “Live and Let Live.” I believe strongly in personal responsibility and my biggest frustration with Liberals and Conservatives is how both wish to control and judge others; while making the assumption that people can’t (or won’t) look after their own selves.
Another thing about Moderates; we don’t swallow every party line, every statistic, every news story as if they are absolute truths. We question everything. Everything. Yeah, even global warming, recycling, racism, and “One Nation Under God” are up for debate. Bring it on.
If I have any political mission, it’s to get people to think critically…not just blindly following the herd. If your position is sound and you stand by your beliefs, there should be no need for defensiveness, scorn, or avoidance. It should be OK to look at all angles.
My husband tells a story about a guy who couldn’t do this:
“I took an undergrad supply & logistics class at PSU and one of my group mates was from Yemen. He was Muslim and I remember that he also played Spanish guitar. Anyway, at some point we were discussing electives and philosophy class came up. He said that he signed up for philosophy class and enjoyed it for a while but then realized that it was causing him to question his religious beliefs and it made him uncomfortable so he dropped it…He didn’t want to expose himself to these other ways of thinking.”
How sad to be so threatened by information that one is afraid to even look at differing beliefs or challenging questions. How sad to be so caught up in one way of being that you simply can’t allow yourself to open up to other ways…or even to just understand them.
Aren’t you sick of polarity? Aren’t you sick of being the puppets of rich politicians and lobbyists who love to make you hate each other (Red vs Blue: The Uncivil War)? Don’t you think it benefits powerful people & businesses (including powerful foreign interests) to have you so divided into two opposite factions who rely on stereotypes and hearsay; rather than cold hard reason? Do you really believe half of the US is evil or stupid? Common… Stop being sheep, stop categorically hating each other, and start talking (and listening)… calmly, rationally, without defensiveness and name-calling.
The middle is messy. The middle does not have a clear purpose, agenda or assumptions. The middle takes energy and requires effort. The middle requires you to open up and explore...to believe in the good intentions of others and try to understand other points of view. Come roll around with me in the middle…get dirty and let go.
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