Real. For Real?

Okay, I am going to confess a deep, dark, embarrassing secret. And this one is REALLY bad: I watch "The Real Housewives of New York City".

Similarly, I tune into the gals in Orange Country and occasionally the nut jobs in New Jersey and Atlanta. And I am as addicted to them as I was to "Knott's Landing" in the 80's.

So how is it possible, you may ask, that a person of any reasonable intelligence or character (I'm talking about myself, in case you're wondering) could waste precious time soaking in the shallow ups and downs of such a ridiculous group of people? Well, I'll tell you. I don't know. But I have more fun at 10:00 p.m. on Thursday nights than nearly any other viewing hour of the week. What fun is there, you may ask, watching such a large group of women roam the streets freely, parading their stupidness with such pride? Lots.

If you are one of those who do not watch (but admit it - you do watch, don't you?), these "reality" shows follow the lives of women of alleged means who run in circles of some loosely defined "society", such as it is. And clearly, many of the women they focus on do have wealth, sometimes considerable wealth. And they all "love" their lives. And they all love themselves. But they recognize their duty to "give back". So they raise money by hosting charity benefits that honor themselves. They remind each other and the viewing public as often as possible that they are of a different cloth. One is a "Countess" (by marriage) and is quick to inform anyone who is even semi-conscious that after her husband divorced her last year for some other thing, she will always retain her "title". (What the hell is a countess today, anyway?) It is absolutely bizarre that they allow a camera to follow them - clearly with the intent of showing them at their hypocritical worst - and completely not be in on the joke! (Although there is always one within the group who seems to have a glimmer of integrity - but then why are they in the mix?) They kiss each other's cheeks and then do little individual interviews on camera and rip each other apart as though what they "really think" is going to be just between themselves and the cameraman. As if their friends will never see the show! I guess the fun is in watching people so utterly offensive that you just want to slap their faces. Shame on me. But...

These girls are so outrageous - regardless of their city or county - that one even suspects that the entire series is a gag. Except I know someone who knows someone who had an honest-to-goodness "housewife sighting" at a Starbucks in Orange County. This particular "celeb-u-wife" came in insisting that the barista create something special and off the menu for her. When told they could not accommodate such a request, she proceeded to throw a fit asking loudly: "Don't you know who I am?" (Now wouldn't you have just loved to have been there?) I am told that one of the patrons, having heard enough of her tantrum, turned to her and said "Lady, get out!" and then, the story goes, everyone applauded. Love that! Do I have better things to do with my time than watch this show and lap up all the dreck? Indeed I do. But...

Add to that the uproarious fact that every one of them has used the word "classy" to describe themselves or their posse of friends with no clue as to the irony that anyone who uses a word like "classy" genuinely has none. (Think gangster moll: "Hey! I'm a classy dame, you son-of-b*tch!") So when they sit in front of the camera and justify themselves by stating "I'm a classy lady", I just roll. To say nothing of the fact that "lady" is not a word that I conjure when I think of them. But...

But then again, if I had any class, I probably wouldn't watch.

On the Subject of the Big Blah. (blah blah...)

My new office (which by the way still looks like Amanda's bedroom with a desk and file cabinet) looks out over our backyard. Now I would like to say what a glorious view it is but I can't. It is true that the roses are starting to bloom and they will be gorgeous but we have no creative landscaping here and so I am looking at a neat row of rose bushes against a wall that needs paint. And uneven green grass with random smatterings of dead patches and holes. And the roof the neighbors house. And tree tops. And today it is very overcast and silvery outside and it is contributing to a mood that is scarily close to that black hole precipice.

I have my iTunes going on my computer to inspire but I cannot get on board with the day. I feel empty and bored and lacking in everything. I remind myself that "this is the day the Lord hath made" but my mind finishes the phrase with "but I'd just as soon take a pass".

Every weird ache and pain is accentuated, opening the door to health obsessions to fill my day (and probably night.) I have recently had all the annual checks - but maybe they missed something. Like I'm dying from some strange, rare disease that they never check for because no one ever gets it. Except me. Vertigo is a weird new malady I have acquired. The fun never ends.

What is it about the weather that can so influence the day? I want to accomplish something. But I can't get excited about what to accomplish. What would make me feel better? A pristine house to be sure. But I just can't face a toothbrush and clorox and the grout just now. Travelzoo.com! Oh yes! I'll plan a trip. Oh yeah - not in the budget just now.

I just closed the first issue of my new magazine - I made my goal and beat my quota and yet, "so what?"

I was invited to be a regular contributor to a blog group called 50somethingmoms.com, a division of a fairly prestigious blog community (Katie Couric writes for it too!), and they would like me to contribute at least two original posts a month which seems like nothing at all - considering how easy it is for me to drone on about nothing - but now that I have to, I am blocked. Plus, I have been asked to be a guest speaker on Mother's Day at church - a scant two weeks away - and "I got nothin'".

And then, I just read something by some woman who is facing "getting old" for the first time. She's really struggling with the reality of it all. She's 38. Oh to be able to reach through the computer and slap someone.

Yeah, yeah. Waah, waah. Blah, blah.

A Whole NEW Kind of Stupid

Okay. So it's taken me the half a day to pry myself off the ceiling so that I could write this. But I'm ready now. I think.

This afternoon, having made a turkey and avocado sandwich for lunch (in my own kitchen) to take back to the office - down the hall (I know, I'm gloating) I sat down at my desk and decided to check my emails while I ate. Yahoo had a news feed that caught my eye. Something about "no-schoolers". I clicked. I died.

It was a report that evidently aired on Good Morning America today about a small but growing number of families who opt out of any kind of "formal" education at all. These are "parents" (and I use that term loosely) who let their children "find their passion" by allowing them to do - and I mean this is a very literal sense - whatever they want. There are no textbooks. No grades. No classes. No rules. No discipline. The children are allowed to do whatever they please. Period.

You know what? I'm still not ready to be calm. I'll have to come back to this.

(Three hours later.)

Back again, a couple of hours later and still reeling from from the subject at hand. I watched the video reel of two seemingly normal looking people, sitting at their kitchen table with Juju Chang (her mouth open with disbelief) as they talked of how their children followed their passions wherever they might find them. Among the hiding places: the television and video games. They admitted that their children had no knowledge of algebra but were quick to defend. "If they decide they want to know about algebra, they will find it". Juju asked the parents (a better word may be "breeders") if the fact that their daughter stays up all night long isn't counter-productive. "No" says mom. "Because she manages to get done whatever it is she wants to get done".

As the interview continues, we find our two unschooled (for the past 6 years!) kids following their passion for hitting each other with cardboard swords in the front yard. And I was struck by what a meaningful learning experience that had to have been. The boy was 13 and hadn't been in a real school since first grade. His sister had no idea what grade she would be in currently (it turns out she would be a junior in high school). Evidently there are no college aspirations as they themselves admit they are unprepared for college not having any experience with textbooks. But - we're assured by the I-don't-know-what-grade-I'm-in teenaged daughter - if they wanted to go to college they would just a get textbook and "learn it".

Yeah. Good luck with that.

Later, Juju asks the children if they feel they have missed anything by not going to school. The boy reponds "Not really. They were teaching things I really wasn't interested in there." "At seven?" Juju responds incredulously.

Another family was also interviewed for this story. Their children (who looked to be somewhere between 4 and 7) had "no boundaries". They were free to make every single one of their own decisions. "There is no hierarchy in our home", mom gushed. "Which means no boundaries, nor rules, no punishments." She spews on: "My children choose whatever they want to do. They go and get what they choose to eat at breakfast (donut) and hygiene was the last of the things we let go of" she remarks as she walked into a child's bedroom asking "are you going to brush your teeth today?"

So there are only two explanations for this phenomenon. 1) Aliens have landed and are taking over the minds of otherwise normal people, or 2) Morons had babies and realized "Oh. No one told me I was supposed to take care of them". And science tells me that the later is the more likely scenario - in which case, we are talking sheer negligence and child abuse. Except that it is perfectly legal, at least in Massachusetts (and a few other states I might add, that have NO educational requirements for home schooling). And the only good thing about the interview is that there will be such a backlash from the airing of it that these children will likely be taken from their homes and given a chance in life.

Meanwhile, said parents (or possibly aliens) claim that aside from no education, their children are very mainstream. (Which may sadly be true.) Had I been interviewing I do not believe I could have refrained from slapping their stupid faces. Oh! For the days of tar and feathering.

Final words came from the kids. "We may not know everything other kids know but we know stuff they don't know."

Of course they do. They know what it's like to live in the same home as their parents and not be loved by them.

The Sad Road from Copeland to Coachella

I had to get Grace from school today and as I started the descent down our hill I turned on the radio. Happily, it was on the classical station - which I love - and it was in the middle of playing"Appalachian Spring" by Aaron Copeland. I hadn't heard that in years and I was immediately taken back to when I was a really good mommy - about 18 years ago.

I had recently become a mom and the five of us were living in a tiny little house (under 1,000 square feet) in Van Nuys. Bob was on the road a lot back then and I was left to take care of three little girls - babies really - on my own. I was never much good at playing dolls and blocks and mud pies - to say nothing of the fact that I was exhausted, but I did try to get them excited about music.

As it happened, one of my favorite pieces of music was "Appalachian Spring". It had been "given" to me by a former boyfriend on my 32nd birthday. He was insanely romantic but he turned out to be a d-ck* - forgiven over time, but a d-ck nonetheless. (Note* I struggled over the right adjective but for the sake of accuracy, this was the only word that fit - please forgive my use of it.)

Anyway.

This amazing piece of music had become central to my collection. It is a sweepingly epic piece (nearly half an hour) and you truly can close your eyes and get lost in the images it evokes - a whole musical story. I noticed that my girls would listen and at certain parts, would take flight. So I started a little musical play time. We renamed the piece "The Bunny Song" and I would move the furniture as far back as possible and we would begin the music as different forest animals waking up to start the day, acting out, hopping, galloping, jumping, hiding, chasing, eating, nesting and dancing through the piece until we had completed our little animal day nearly a half hour later. And then we all took a nap. If ever the girls were bored I would say "Let's play the Bunny Song" and they would cheer and assume their little animal roles, such as they were.

Alternately, I tried to enlighten them to the thrill of great musical theatre scores. I remember lifting each one of them, in turn, on to my hip and polka-ing up and down the hallway to "Shall We Dance" from the King and I. I remember their faces clearly - mouths fully open with exhilaration, heads thrown back at each turn, eyes lit up. No sooner would I put one down than the other two were climbing my legs to be next. And I kept this up until I nearly plotzed. I sung them to sleep every night with a slightly altered version of "Soliloquy" from Carousel ("But my little girls get hungry every night and they come home to me..."). They learned all the words and would sing it with me at bedtime and I loved the fact that they were learning to love this music.

Except the didn't learn to to love it. In fact, it bores them senseless and in fact, it is awful enough to them that they will leave the room, if not the house, to avoid it.

It occurs to me right now that I used to play music constantly. A friend of mine even remarked on it stating that he never knew a time that he came over that I didn't have the stereo on. I had scores and scores of my favorite music - usually classical or show tunes with a couple of jazz artists (Cleo Laine anyone?) and pop stars (the eternally sexy Sting). I even had some scratchy old 78s - like Eartha Kitt from the 50s (my mom's) and Russ Columbo from the 1930s (my grandmother's)! But I played them all the time. I rarely listen to music anymore because the kind of music that took over my house is very unappealing to me.

This weekend, my now grown daughters and their friends are all spending a bloody fortune to go to something called the Coachella Music Concert - an annual pilgrimage they make to listen to an endless stream of bands that are clones of one another with singers droning on with under-developed voices, singing of how everything is sad or how everything sucks or sex and love to the same three chords forever and ever amen. Or to rap singers who, with the familiar rythyms and universally-impossibile-to-understand raps, spill out phrases in monotone, on and on - about women who are b-itches or for a change of pace, about all the money they made rapping about women who are b-itches.

And I. Do not. Get. It. At all. But I was a good mommy for trying.