I come from a long line of girlie-girls. And when I say long, I mean maybe 4. But still. It's in my genetics!
Hard-wired into my brain is the love of ruffles. Not the chips, although the cheddar and sour cream flavor is delightful. No, I am referring to frills! Lace! Pink! Tea parties, Jane Austen, unicorns, glitter, make up, nail polish, rainbows, hair bows, jewelery, kitty cats, ballet tutus, and what not! I simply cannot get enough of that stuff! I don't know why. It is just how it is. How I am.
And God, in His infinite sovereign benevolence, gave me not only a girlie mom and a girlie sister, but also a girlie daughter. My soul swells with joy! To exemplify the girliness of said daughter, yesterday she saw a shoe commericial on TV and squealed at the sight of high heels. Upon which my husband declared "she is her mother's daughter".
But here is where, dear reader, you must realize a truth about girlie girls: we are not characatures! For example, I love to be dirty. I love to go camping. In a tent. (Would I prefer my tent to be pink? Of course. But have not seen one yet.) I despise cleaning my house. Husband mostly does that. I love really messy buffalo wings, tacos, and football food. ( Just the food. Without the sport part.) I love to laugh loudly. I want to go on adventures. (Just not lead them.) I have lots and lots of opinions. And I am intelligent.
But the most irksome stereotype, one that I have applied to myself at times even, is that girlie girls are not strong. THIS DOES NOT HAVE TO BE TRUE. Just like the Puffs that adorn my nightstand, girlie girls can be soft, gentle, comforting, yet strong enough to deal with the snot life blows at us. (See? Wasn't snot an ungirlie thing to say? Surprised you!)
And while I am on this particular soapbox, is is not easy to pigeon hole all categories of people? To assume they possess a certain list of qualities simply because they qualify for a certain type? I think yes. I fall into this thinking, I confess. But I don't want to. I want to view each human being as a unique, never before encountered creature. One that has never been and never again will be duplicated. Therein, I believe, lies acceptance, appreciation, and LOVE.
Says the girl in the ruffly blue polka dotted jammies.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The wrong century?
British period dramas. I adore those movies! Give me hoop skirts, gowns, and bonnets. Give me manors, castles, and moors. Give me afternoon teas, letter readings, balls, and musical soirees. And above all, give me poetic, articulate, intelligent language!
My affinity for these types of movies (and novels) has raised this wonderment: perhaps I was born in the wrong century? (That would also explain my disdain for driving and my lack of tech-y skills.) Perhaps I was dropped into history in 1976, when the correct time address should have been 1876. Perhaps I would have flourished then, and would have felt like a fish in the ocean instead of a fish in a plasic cup at a carnival.
When I envision myself in 1800's England, I am wearing an exquisite gown of palest silk. I have just sipped a perfect cup of Earl Grey while discussing the evening's upcoming ball. And said ball will include a long curving staircase, of which a dashing suitor will be waiting at the bottom. He will request all the dances on my dance card, but I will need to refuse due my mistaking his principle and character for pompousness. Several months later, after 5 articulate, impassioned conversations, all confusion will be cleared up and he will, of course, offer his hand in marriage. His grand manor, called Sturbridge Downs, awaits us, as does a life of refined fulfillment.
Pleasant, yes? I think so.
Until I remind myself of a few easy-to-overlook facts.
Like the fact the I always assume I would have been aristocracy, when most Brits of my preferred century were impoverished sufferers.
And the fact that I, as a woman, would have been denied an education, a career, the right to vote, the right to own property, and the dignity of being considered more than a decorative object who bears babies.
Add to that this prevailing belief, summed up so well on my lastest obession "Downton Abbey": "When you are single you do not have an opinion, and when you marry, your husband will tell you what your opinion is."
Um. Okay. That changes things a bit.
I have a master's degree. I have had 2 different careers that have fulfilled me. I got married because I wanted to, to a man I loved and was compatible with. I had a child because I wanted to. My name is on the deed to my house. I vote. It is considered socially acceptable for me to state my opinions and thoughts, and even expected that I will.
(On top of all this, I have cool make up. Inconsequential, perhaps, but very fun and very enhancing to a woman of little pigment. Just another blessing I would have been denied in my preferred century.)
So in summary, is there a part of my heart that longs for a time and culture I'll never know? Yes. A small part. But the greater part of my heart is grateful, so grateful, that of all the places and times God could have dropped me into existence, He chose this age and this country. Oprah has said that those of us women born in this age and this country are the luckiest women in history, and I heartily concur with that!
And I'll content myself by filling up that small, yearning part of my heart with movies....
My affinity for these types of movies (and novels) has raised this wonderment: perhaps I was born in the wrong century? (That would also explain my disdain for driving and my lack of tech-y skills.) Perhaps I was dropped into history in 1976, when the correct time address should have been 1876. Perhaps I would have flourished then, and would have felt like a fish in the ocean instead of a fish in a plasic cup at a carnival.
When I envision myself in 1800's England, I am wearing an exquisite gown of palest silk. I have just sipped a perfect cup of Earl Grey while discussing the evening's upcoming ball. And said ball will include a long curving staircase, of which a dashing suitor will be waiting at the bottom. He will request all the dances on my dance card, but I will need to refuse due my mistaking his principle and character for pompousness. Several months later, after 5 articulate, impassioned conversations, all confusion will be cleared up and he will, of course, offer his hand in marriage. His grand manor, called Sturbridge Downs, awaits us, as does a life of refined fulfillment.
Pleasant, yes? I think so.
Until I remind myself of a few easy-to-overlook facts.
Like the fact the I always assume I would have been aristocracy, when most Brits of my preferred century were impoverished sufferers.
And the fact that I, as a woman, would have been denied an education, a career, the right to vote, the right to own property, and the dignity of being considered more than a decorative object who bears babies.
Add to that this prevailing belief, summed up so well on my lastest obession "Downton Abbey": "When you are single you do not have an opinion, and when you marry, your husband will tell you what your opinion is."
Um. Okay. That changes things a bit.
I have a master's degree. I have had 2 different careers that have fulfilled me. I got married because I wanted to, to a man I loved and was compatible with. I had a child because I wanted to. My name is on the deed to my house. I vote. It is considered socially acceptable for me to state my opinions and thoughts, and even expected that I will.
(On top of all this, I have cool make up. Inconsequential, perhaps, but very fun and very enhancing to a woman of little pigment. Just another blessing I would have been denied in my preferred century.)
So in summary, is there a part of my heart that longs for a time and culture I'll never know? Yes. A small part. But the greater part of my heart is grateful, so grateful, that of all the places and times God could have dropped me into existence, He chose this age and this country. Oprah has said that those of us women born in this age and this country are the luckiest women in history, and I heartily concur with that!
And I'll content myself by filling up that small, yearning part of my heart with movies....
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Gabba yearning
Today while watching "Yo Gabba Gabba" with my sweet 3 year old, it hit me: a yearning.
No, it was not for DJ Lance Rock. Although I am sure some women find spindly-limbed black men with fuzzy orange hats appealing.
It was a yearning for a world I do not live in.
See, on Yo Gabba Gabba, as on all preschool shows, gentleness reigns. So does cooperation, kindness, fun, optimism, courtesy, and lots of singing and dancing. On top of that, problems will simply and assuredly be solved by the end of the 23 minute program.
Utopia.
As I watched the characters on YGG respond to each other with enthusiasm that only comes from never experiencing pain, I pondered. When will my daughter discover that some people are unkind? Even cruel? My heart shudders at the thought.
And then I thought of my own natural friendliness, which I have toned down over the years in an effort to avoid cold responses.
I yearn, I long for a world like Gabba Land. For an optimistic, gentle world. I will take Blue's Clue's, Angelina Ballerina, Sesame Street, Thomas, Dora, Diego, the Backyardigans, and yes, I will even take Barney. Just feed me with kindness!
It takes just a short while for preschool gentility to fade away. TV shows and movies for the elementary school set, from what I have observed, are full of snarky & sassy talk, bullying, and adults portrayed as buffoons. How quickly the emphasis of innocent enthusiasm, consideration for others, and gentleness evaporates!
Some would say that's preparation for "real world".
I don't want the real world. I endure it because I must, but I yearn for something purer.
Someday, which will be the day I see my Daddy again, I will know the fullness of purity. But until then, I will not stifle my yearning. I will cherish every glimpse of kindness, gentleness, enthusiasm, respect, and happiness that I find.
Even if it comes from Yo Gabba Gabba.
No, it was not for DJ Lance Rock. Although I am sure some women find spindly-limbed black men with fuzzy orange hats appealing.
It was a yearning for a world I do not live in.
See, on Yo Gabba Gabba, as on all preschool shows, gentleness reigns. So does cooperation, kindness, fun, optimism, courtesy, and lots of singing and dancing. On top of that, problems will simply and assuredly be solved by the end of the 23 minute program.
Utopia.
As I watched the characters on YGG respond to each other with enthusiasm that only comes from never experiencing pain, I pondered. When will my daughter discover that some people are unkind? Even cruel? My heart shudders at the thought.
And then I thought of my own natural friendliness, which I have toned down over the years in an effort to avoid cold responses.
I yearn, I long for a world like Gabba Land. For an optimistic, gentle world. I will take Blue's Clue's, Angelina Ballerina, Sesame Street, Thomas, Dora, Diego, the Backyardigans, and yes, I will even take Barney. Just feed me with kindness!
It takes just a short while for preschool gentility to fade away. TV shows and movies for the elementary school set, from what I have observed, are full of snarky & sassy talk, bullying, and adults portrayed as buffoons. How quickly the emphasis of innocent enthusiasm, consideration for others, and gentleness evaporates!
Some would say that's preparation for "real world".
I don't want the real world. I endure it because I must, but I yearn for something purer.
Someday, which will be the day I see my Daddy again, I will know the fullness of purity. But until then, I will not stifle my yearning. I will cherish every glimpse of kindness, gentleness, enthusiasm, respect, and happiness that I find.
Even if it comes from Yo Gabba Gabba.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Cinnamon Jumbles
Cinnamon Jumbles.
That was the name of the first recipe I ever made. It produced soft, cake-y vanilla cookies with a cinnamon & sugar crust. Simple cookies. Simple preparation. But significant in my life.
Why? Because that first baking experience, at about age 7, began a life long passion for preparing and eating food. And more importantly, those Cinnamon Jumbles taught me how food can cement and deepen relationships.
You see, my Grandma taught me how to make those cookies. Her name was Rebecca Helena Fisher--my mom's mom. Grandma was a thin, gentle, and feminine woman. Everything about her was kind--her soft voice, her attentiveness, her laugh. Her hands were soft, yet skilled. She was an excellent seamstress and a good cook. A hard worker who partially raised 3 children by herself in an era when single moms were unheard of. She loved life, loved people, loved pretty things, and loved to travel.
And she loved me.
I loved her back. It was easy to do.
It's been almost 20 years since Grandma left the earth. I think of her from time to time, and when I do, the strongest memory is that of her lovingly teaching me to make Cinnamon Jumbles. That was our thing. Our bonding activity. We enjoyed the activity, and we enjoyed each other in the midst of it.
To me, food is relational. It beckons families to spend an hour or two together. It summons girlfriends to dump their hearts onto a table along with some tea and cake. It calls generations to use their hands in common effort to produce a result that will not only gladden, but also nourish. It sings to the younger as the older teach lessons and traditions.
Today, with my 3 year old daughter on a stool beside me, I followed a recipe. It wasn't Cinnamon Jumbles, for that recipe has been unfortunately lost. (Plus, my tastes have refined over the years....Would I even like them today?) It was angel food cupcakes with strawberry buttercream frosting. Matching aprons were worn. Powdered sugar flew. Beaters were licked. Lessons were taught.
And love was deepened.
Thank you, Rebecca Helena Fisher--Grandma--for Cinnamon Jumbles, and all they have come to mean to me.
That was the name of the first recipe I ever made. It produced soft, cake-y vanilla cookies with a cinnamon & sugar crust. Simple cookies. Simple preparation. But significant in my life.
Why? Because that first baking experience, at about age 7, began a life long passion for preparing and eating food. And more importantly, those Cinnamon Jumbles taught me how food can cement and deepen relationships.
You see, my Grandma taught me how to make those cookies. Her name was Rebecca Helena Fisher--my mom's mom. Grandma was a thin, gentle, and feminine woman. Everything about her was kind--her soft voice, her attentiveness, her laugh. Her hands were soft, yet skilled. She was an excellent seamstress and a good cook. A hard worker who partially raised 3 children by herself in an era when single moms were unheard of. She loved life, loved people, loved pretty things, and loved to travel.
And she loved me.
I loved her back. It was easy to do.
It's been almost 20 years since Grandma left the earth. I think of her from time to time, and when I do, the strongest memory is that of her lovingly teaching me to make Cinnamon Jumbles. That was our thing. Our bonding activity. We enjoyed the activity, and we enjoyed each other in the midst of it.
To me, food is relational. It beckons families to spend an hour or two together. It summons girlfriends to dump their hearts onto a table along with some tea and cake. It calls generations to use their hands in common effort to produce a result that will not only gladden, but also nourish. It sings to the younger as the older teach lessons and traditions.
Today, with my 3 year old daughter on a stool beside me, I followed a recipe. It wasn't Cinnamon Jumbles, for that recipe has been unfortunately lost. (Plus, my tastes have refined over the years....Would I even like them today?) It was angel food cupcakes with strawberry buttercream frosting. Matching aprons were worn. Powdered sugar flew. Beaters were licked. Lessons were taught.
And love was deepened.
Thank you, Rebecca Helena Fisher--Grandma--for Cinnamon Jumbles, and all they have come to mean to me.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
here we go...
I have been considered blogging for...oh...several months. Why? Because all day long thousands of thoughts, ideas, questions, comments, and opinions roll around in my head, and I feel compelled to put them somewhere. Sometimes I put them on my husband, who patiently listens most of the time. Sometimes I put them on the pages of my journal, but that could be problematic when, after my death, the journals are found and scandal ensues. Sometimes I put them on my fabulous girlfriends, who listen intently, get enraged with me at just the right moments, and then sweep in with comfort and affirmation. (Girlfriends are brownies to my soul. Not chicken soup--especially not chicken soup from a can.) But ulimately, after spewing forth these words onto aforementioned husband, journal, and girlfriends, I am still left with approximately 7, 853 words a day (rough guesstimate) that have nowhere to go. Hence, a blog.
Wow. I feel relieved already just getting these words out.
So, off I go! (That's sounds British, doesn't it? I love those Brits, their emphasis on tea, and their period dramas. I do not care for their teeth, however.)
What can one expect from my blog? I shall tell you immediately. One can expect many adjectives, for those I love. One can expect food, for the prepation and consumption of food is one of my life's chief joys. (That love was passed to me from my precious late father, who consumed food in the manner of Bill Murray's character from "What About Bob?") One can expect talk of my swarthy Italian husband, my exhuberant little daughter, and my charming & naughty cat. One can expect talk of movies, artsy things, and celebrities. Because, you know, the Oscars are my Superbowl. One can expect analytical, psychological talk, because I have a couple of degrees on that stuff, it's what I do for a living, and I find the human psyche endlessly fascinating. One can expect opinions on many exhilerating topics, because, well, I have opinions on most stuff. Sometimes they are scandalous. (Well, like twice in my life I have posted scandalous opinions on Facebook.) So those are the main topics.
I vow that my blog will include no discussion of sports (except for how bewildering they are), cleaning (because I don't really do that. Scott Ticen does.), politics (because I just don't wannoo.) or...well that's it. All else is fair game.
Eeek! I am uber excited to spew forth the weighty words that swirl around homeless in my head all day! Onward!
Wow. I feel relieved already just getting these words out.
So, off I go! (That's sounds British, doesn't it? I love those Brits, their emphasis on tea, and their period dramas. I do not care for their teeth, however.)
What can one expect from my blog? I shall tell you immediately. One can expect many adjectives, for those I love. One can expect food, for the prepation and consumption of food is one of my life's chief joys. (That love was passed to me from my precious late father, who consumed food in the manner of Bill Murray's character from "What About Bob?") One can expect talk of my swarthy Italian husband, my exhuberant little daughter, and my charming & naughty cat. One can expect talk of movies, artsy things, and celebrities. Because, you know, the Oscars are my Superbowl. One can expect analytical, psychological talk, because I have a couple of degrees on that stuff, it's what I do for a living, and I find the human psyche endlessly fascinating. One can expect opinions on many exhilerating topics, because, well, I have opinions on most stuff. Sometimes they are scandalous. (Well, like twice in my life I have posted scandalous opinions on Facebook.) So those are the main topics.
I vow that my blog will include no discussion of sports (except for how bewildering they are), cleaning (because I don't really do that. Scott Ticen does.), politics (because I just don't wannoo.) or...well that's it. All else is fair game.
Eeek! I am uber excited to spew forth the weighty words that swirl around homeless in my head all day! Onward!
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