Stereotypes and generalizations

Yesterday I wrote about why I find France, and French men irresistible. And everything I wrote was true – to me. As for the stereotypes and generalizations about French men? I stand by them, as examples that are essentially true. I consider that I have enough information to acknowledge the realities in the stereotypes, and to sum up my own observations, and generalize. After all, with 35 years of travel back and forth, as well as staying for very extended periods, I’m not speaking without some knowledge. I lived there, I studied there, I worked there, and at various points in my life – in Paris, Nice, Provence, Normandy and elsewhere.

Does that make me an expert? Surely not! There are a hundred destinations in France (at least) that I’ve never seen and would love to visit. And even more spots where I’d like to take up residence for a time, in a rented flat or small house.  It’s clear that I adore the culture, that it suits me, and when I spend time in France I bring that positive energy to the experience. Who doesn’t enjoy a guest who is thrilled to be there, respectful of cultural traditions, and speaks the language?

As for my stereotyping, don’t we all use stereotypes, and therefore are potentially biased? More specifically – my generalizations? I consider that I have enough experience (beyond the superficial) to stand by my opinions. When stereotyping slides into judgment (or even prejudice), is that always a problem? Is judgment necessarily bad? Isn’t it just another form of opinion, and aren’t we entitled to our opinions?

Are stereotypes inherently bad?

Stereotypes are based on elements of truth, on attributes that are observed and then used to classify. We use those stereotypes to make quick assessments. It’s natural for people to form opinions (judgments) from the information we have on hand. As for stereotypes – we’ve got millions! There are stereotypes about America and Americans, just as there are about France and the French, Italy and Italians, Germany and Germans, Canada and Canadians, and so on.

We also routinely generalize about men and women, ethnic groups, religious groups, and political groups. We toss out careless statements about kids, old people, nerds, preppies, stoners, jocks, ladies men, cougars – and so much more.  We adhere to our stereotypes (until something changes them), and we ascribe judgments, often simplistically: good versus bad, like versus dislike.

Yet stereotypes offer no shades of gray, provide no narration, no explanation, and certainly no exploration.

When you judge an individual based upon a stereotype, do you know his inner world? The stories of his upbringing? His talents? His choices? His constraints? The psychological and intellectual terrain that comprise his experience to date?

Traveling at a young age

I have been fortunate in that I traveled a great deal internationally, and from the time I was 15. I’ve dabbled in many languages, speak a few, and have been chameleon-like in my ability to adapt to new countries and cultures. As I’ve lived in or wandered through France, Russia, Poland, Greece – or as I vacationed in Aruba, Jamaica, or Guadeloupe, I found elements of truth to the cultural stereotypes I held in each country. And I found just as many surprises, as I got to know individuals.

Stereotypes are partial truths about groups, generally without context; they are as false as they are true, when it comes to individuals. So, judgments based upon stereotypes (with little to no additional information) will tend to be unreliable. Might that be what makes our judgments less than a good idea?

• If you generalize based on one experience, by definition, that is not a generalization.
• If you rely solely on “stereotype” of an ethnic or cultural group, a religion, or a political affiliation based on limited experience, you’re as likely to be wrong in your assessments, as you are right.

We all make judgments. Constantly. They are opinions that occasionally slide into prejudice. They are conclusions that sometimes serve to assuage us in some way. They are justifications for behaviors or actions. Judgments, in my judgment, are not inherently bad. What is problematic is the way in which we make them, wield them to damage others, or rely upon them inappropriately.

My world view on short men (or Napoleon?)

I generally prefer tall men, romantically speaking. Ridiculous, considering I’m barely five feet tall. But c’est la vie.

Once, I was involved with a short man. About 5′4″ tall, with elements of the dreaded “Napoleon Complex.” Being a petite woman, I’m very aware of the special difficulties in our world which seems to worship physical stature. So I understood the origin of some of his (over)compensation.

The gentleman in question was wildly funny, incredibly smart, spoke four languages, and… well… he knew a good deal about how to treat a woman. Yes, he was French.

He swept me off my feet, carried away my heart, painted us a delicious future, then dropped me out of nowhere. Piecing things together some months later, apparently there were several of us who had succumbed to his charms. No, he wasn’t married, but one of the women found out, and that was that.

Did he break my heart? Well, let’s say he bruised it badly. He was a Frenchman in the US (so I stand by my French men are irresistible remarks). But seriously – does this mean I should never be involved with a short man again? From one experience, can I say that all short men are not to be trusted?

Latvia

No, it wasn’t Colonel Mustard in the closet. It was our Latvian student, the 17-year old who came to stay with us, brimming over with a number of preconceived notions. About Americans, about the region we live in, and about the religion that we “sort of” practice. He was quite vocal about his ideas, which came from ignorance and stereotypes, based largely on stories he’s heard growing up, along with music and media.

Yesterday afternoon, he boarded a plane for home. I suspect he returned to Latvia with some impressions confirmed, and others irrevocably altered. I know he returned to Eastern Europe with the knowledge that he made two American friends, and one of them is my son.

As for us? We were the ideal environment for this very outspoken young man, in a relatively conservative part of the country. We are not “typical” in many ways. We’re culturally hybrid, reflecting two religious traditions, a single parent situation, and we mix our languages for pleasure. We get mad when we’re mad, we laugh when we find humor, and we take each day more or less as it comes. Study, learning, respect, and an open mind are the essential values in our particular family circus.

We are not stereotypical Americans. Yet we are the essence of America.

If this young man “judges” based on us, will that be a bad thing?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Deep crimson color. Full-bodied taste. What could be better than a wonderful Côtes du Rhône in hand, and conversation shared with a friend in France?

That friend is a journalist who writes with a refined eye and wicked wit on all things stylish and oh-so French. And what subject comes up? Paris Fashion Week? It’s a reasonable guess. Mais non. The proper temperature for a Chateauneuf-du-Pape? Not exactly. Something even better. Eh oui, we speak of French men. And as she is married to one (her Reason-for-Living-in-France), she understands my need to set the record straight. I mean no disrespect to the many remarkable gentlemen in my own country, but I feel compelled to express why French men are utterly irresistible.

And so, I made a delightful excursion to Tish’s place, A Femme d’un Certain Age, where I offer my thoughts on this subject. And here, I permit myself a slightly racier version. No objections, I imagine?

Are French men irresistible?

Are French men really irresistible?

We certainly have examples among our cinematic icons. There’s Charles Boyer and Maurice Chevalier if you’re a fan of old films. And surely you recall the debonair Louis Jourdan alongside Leslie Caron in Gigi.

Perhaps you prefer a dashing Alain Delon (divine). Maybe your style is more Jean Réno (less pretty, but ruggedly scrumptious). And I confess there’s definite appeal to the likes of Romain Duris (for the younger crowd) or Jean-Marc Barr (for any age). I’d best stop there, or I could go on, and on.

As for the myth of the French man? Isn’t there at least a kernel of truth to every stereotype? And won’t you always encounter a bit of the good, the bad, and everything in between when you get down to the reality?

I’ll bet you know exactly which (good and not-so-good) myths I mean.

The good:

• French men are romantic
• French men are seductive
• French men are charming and witty

And the not-so-good:

• French men smoke too much
• French men are serial seducers
• French men believe their own myth

French men: A matter of taste?

Where myth and reality meet is a matter of individual taste, naturellement. A matter of personal assessment, based upon whomever you might encounter, and within the context of what you find usual.

As for me? I am an American by birth, was married to a European (not French), and while I won’t claim to have a statistically representative sample (I’m a busy woman, after all), I have lived and worked in France at various points in my life. And as a woman of a certain age, I’ve experienced my life on both sides of the Atlantic.

Might I add that I consider myself very discriminating? Sélective – shall we say? Yet I have many reasons for adoring French men. Let me share a few of them with you.

My top ten reasons French men are irresistible

1. Flirtation is part of the language and the culture. Possibility is always in the air. And the air sizzles, whatever the season, and whatever the circumstance. It is innocent, delicious, and needn’t lead anywhere. Unless you want it to.
2. Conversation sparkles like champagne (and flows like foreplay). It may dance along for hours – through the arts, then into history, through political scandals and on to the latest non-fiction you picked up at the FNAC. French men love to discuss and dissect, and what’s sexier than humor and intelligence while sipping a fine Bordeaux?
3. And speaking of Bordeaux, savoring is the name of the game. Savoring food, wine, a fragrance, a glorious day – and your company as a woman – all of which makes for the most elegant of preludes to amour, and after all, isn’t lovemaking the ultimate pleasure to be savored?
4. A small, romantic gesture (un geste) – or simply a show of attentiveness and good manners – is the rule, rather than the exception. It may have been German-American architect and designer Mies van der Rohe who made this line famous – “God is in the details” – but it is surely the French man who lives it, and the woman in his life who benefits. 
5. Compliments are paid – and not just for parts of the body (a lovely smile, an engaging curve, your overall appearance), but with great nuance, and to you, as a woman. Those compliments are bestowed with eye contact (the very best kind), and are always sincere.
6. Real women aren’t discarded quite so easily as in the States. Nip, tuck, or a nubile physique is not required for a real man of any culture. But my experience with French men in particular reflects that this is true. Perhaps it is that notion of savoring. A woman of a certain age, with all her… knowledge, is a treasure to be revered and cherished. And if a younger man is in the mix? No labels or judgments. Ah, Chéri … Surely Colette isn’t the only one deserving of a Chéri in her life?
7. Senses are never, never neglected. Eye contact, the register of your voice, the responsiveness in his… And French men find our accents adorable. Taste? Mais oui. Along with touch, scent, and body language, all of which are of the utmost importance. And speaking of the sensual, that brings me to French lingerie. Is it any wonder that Aubade, Lise Charmel, Chantelle, Simone Pérèle and so many of the finest luxury lingerie designers are French? These lovely bits of satin and lace (and Eiffel-worthy engineering) are luxe, but also necessity. For women of every age. And French men are most appreciative.
8. Now that we’re dressed (for undressing?) let’s touch – tenderly – on that topic. I won’t say that I’ve never had enchanting encounters in the country of my birth (it wouldn’t be true), or that every French man is a spectacular lover. But I will venture that a French man who isn’t responsive, curious, playful, and attentive – in all things shared – has been the exception, in my experience. I will admit to a certain bias; my pheromones appear to function best on French soil. (Doesn’t everyone need a Parisian adventure?)
9. French men take the Green Movement very seriously. While the men I’ve known love their showers and baths, in the name of saving on natural resources, they generously invite their women to join them. Friendly and socially responsible. Now what could be better than that?
10. Games, and laughter are welcome. (And dare I say toys as well?) Open minds make for splendid fun when it comes to the boudoir, or anywhere else around the house in the name and game of amour. And frankly, all of life’s precious moments. From wordplay to role play, French men excel in this arena. It’s all about quality, mutual enjoyment, and respect for what is healthy and natural with far fewer taboos.

My personal tour of the French landscape: from Paris to Provence

Of course there are wonderful men and women everywhere, and likewise, more than a few who won’t be your type. Or mine. But the French men I’ve called loved ones, lovers, and friends are so delectable, wry, charming, genuine, and sexy – hélas, I simply haven’t enough adjectives to do them justice.

Another mention, if you’ll allow? The French do adore a good argument. So if you love your language skills, get ready for some serious attention to linguistic intention. And a little friction never hurts now and then. After all, you will have to kiss and make up.

As for the dénouement – if and when a love affair comes to a natural end, my French men remain friends. What could be better? And having had long distance relationships, French-American style – I’ll just say they were transcontinentally divine, and the friendships that remain, even more sublime.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I even took an hour to actually enjoy the web, buzzing with all manner of pleasurable and intriguing vibes. I read about how Stone Fox was outed. I grinned when Sarah at Momalom played a happy song, and I wandered my housebound head space, returning to Lindsey’s ruminations on (among other things) what feeds the imagination.

I spent time at T’s place, as she touched on disappointment, thinking about institutions that have disappointed me, rather than people. And I thought about writing, which never disappoints. The act of writing, the energy of writing, the full force of writing as it reinterprets recollection, and teases the senses. Writing is friend, family, lover, counselor. Writing is my co-conspirator in mischief-making, my didactic dealer in discovery.

Then I thought about Natalie Goldberg, and Writing Down the Bones, a book given to me by a painter friend 15 years ago. Goldberg, and her lessons on specificity. On the necessity of writing practice.

And it hit me.

It’s just another day

In my mind it is morning. I am standing in Starbucks, leaning against a glass barrier, counting down the minutes until doors will be unlocked so I may enter the adjoining bookstore. I’m eyeing an older gentleman at a seemingly simple task: he lingers at the counter after picking up his coffee, fiddling with the cap. This is the spot that is covered in crumbs and spills, where we rarely register the standard choices of whole milk or Half and Half, Splenda or Sweet ‘N Low, spices, stirrers, raw sugar, refined sugar.

The man can’t decide between the shaker of chocolate or cinnamon. He picks up each, one at a time, sprinkles a bit, then stirs, then sips. He hesitates next over the two sorts of milk, labors to pour from the closest pitcher, then stirs and sips.

And he begins again.

His air is placid. A broad, irregular scar fans out across his forehead. Whatever caused it, the wound is recent; it is only partially scabbed. He’s seventy, perhaps older, and he appears unfazed as he goes through a third round of the very same set of steps. I wonder if he fell and hit his head. If a surgical procedure took place. If he needs a hand, though he seems unbothered by those who come and go. He’s nodding and smiling as he repeats the cycle of sprinkling, tasting, stirring, and pouring. He wears a wedding ring. Someone, somewhere, loves him.

All the while, I’m watching. I’m making mental notes. I’m writing, in my head.

The writer in the corner

I see the woman in the corner in my peripheral vision. She looks up, then down, then types a little.

What if the woman in the corner is watching me, as I’m watching someone else? What if she is tapping out her commentary on the disheveled little woman staring rudely at the old man? Is she observing the observer? Writing about the writer?

What if another writer at the far table is now describing her, as she in turn practices her daily act of  writing? Is this the age-old conundrum of two mirrors, and the strange effects of the reflection perpetually bent back on itself? Is it nothing more than navel gazing ad nauseum, or is this an exercise – or imagery – worthy of mention?

• If all is fair in love and war, what about writing?
• Is writing on writing always self-indulgent?
• Is any observation potentially of interest?
• What about “Blog not, lest ye be blogged?”

I have no answers; I only know there is a line, and also a wide berth. My boundaries will not be your boundaries. My wonderment will not be your wonderment.

Lindsey’s question returns: what feeds the imagination, anyway?

I am keenly aware of my need for observation, participation, participation in observation, and equally – for thinking, feeling, and thinking about feelings. When I can, I live more fully through adventuring – in other languages, other selves, other places.

In the meantime, there are two-way mirrors, when we are aware, and watchers and writers, even when we are not.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

This year, the Academy Awards sparkled with women of style and accomplishment, along with prizes of historic significance. I loved the color palettes, and I loved Mo’Nique’s nod to Hattie McDaniel in her blue dress and white flower in the hair.

And speaking of nods, pop over to A Femme d’un Certain Age across the Atlantic. Enjoy the words and images as my fashion and style guru (merci, Tish) points out the elegance of some very special women:

Les Très Belles Femmes d’un Certain Age (Very Beautiful Women of a Certain Age).

And personally – I thought Bullock, Bigelow, Winslet, and Mirren looked spectacular!

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Let’s be clear. Avoidance is not the same as procrastination. Avoidance is a fine art unto itself. A coping strategy. No 12-step program required.

• I am avoiding the email account I use for “dating.” Thus, I don’t have to deal with the issue of Date Night Guy.
• I am avoiding calling the company where I had the project lead, because the ball is in their court.
• I am avoiding harassing my doctor’s office over test results, because I get cranky, and it isn’t helpful.
• I am avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, since it affirms that it’s been a rough few months.
• I am avoiding another load of laundry. Just because.

See? Coping strategies. Not head in the sand exactly. Just a handful of the many opportunities for annoyance, disappointment, and bewilderment that I don’t need to deal with. Just now. Okay. The “just now” indicates cousinship to procrastination. So here’s a clarification – I’m waiting until the last possible moment to make four sandwiches, wash apples, dig out bags of chips and bottles of water, and bag them up, and listen to moaning as I knock on assorted doors.

That is procrastination.

Shouldn’t it be considered a sign of good health and stability to avoid negative experiences, or for that matter, to put them off?

Avoidance is healthy

I also avoid my ex (my blood pressure shoots through the roof), I avoid rooms full of people coughing (wouldn’t you, unless you’re a medical professional?), and I’d avoid my own home if I could – on certain days. Who in their right mind enters an adolescent infested storage unit, filled with stacks of books and wacky art? Okay, okay. I like my art…

As for procrastination, I think it’s gotten a bad rep. It’s another coping strategy that’s as easy as pie (which isn’t easy – and who came up with that expression?), so maybe procrastination is the more evil of the two relations. Its consequences are more likely to catch up, and smack you in the face later.

• What do you avoid doing, saying, or looking at – that helps you get through the day?
• Whom do you avoid, to stay sane or healthy?
• How did avoidance become such a “bad guy” in the bouquet of adult behaviors?
• And what about its cousin, Procrastination – always a problem?

Avoidance and Procrastination as life strategies

I can’t say these are highly advertised life strategies, but I’m sure I’m not the only one practicing them (flawlessly) in our troubled times. When searching out a sense of control over one’s environment (not actual control, mind you – but dare I dream??) – these particular behavioral tendencies may be just the thing to help squeak through another day.

Avoidance, procrastination, yes – there’s morning coffee. And chocolate. And a dose of mindless television, old movies on cable, new movies on cable (the free ones), and a tiny bit of warm and fuzzy when you see that it’s going to be a sunny day.

Frankly, I think we need a support group. You know. Those of us who survive on avoidance. Mostly to stand up to the others, who would insist that we deal with every grueling reality of adulthood on our overflowing plates (of crazy). And honestly, that’s unhealthy. So I’ll just say no.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Parenting Tips for Stress Busting

Parenting tips? Sure. I’ve got a boatload. And thus far, without pharmaceuticals.

• One petite padded room, with shelves for my designer footwear
• One power strip for my laptop and heating pad
• One Mr. Coffee One-Cup, oh go ahead – make it a 4-cup, for my glorious inches of Italian Roast
• One sampler of Espresso, and Ethiopian Harrar
• One book of poetry
• One week to myself – no phones allowed!

Now really. Am I serious? Wouldn’t I have my always-at-the-ready guidebook filled with stress-busting parenting tips? My cheat sheet penned on my palm? Words of wisdom after all these years?

I could use any of the above after the past few days and nights. But I long ago tossed the prescribed shoulds and milestones in favor of intuition and taking cues from my kids. I go with the flow (within reason), and hang by the skin of my teeth most of the time. Or by my fingernails, off the precipice. (Both images are quite amusing when you actually picture them. And both neatly illustrate my daily life!)

Real world parenting chaos

Real world parenting? That means juggling your own “stuff” (which covers a great deal) along with a houseful of kids (some of whom are yours). And for a single parent, you’d never survive if you didn’t live by the “Don’t sweat the small stuff” rule. Still, with the arrival of my firstborn from college Friday night, the chaos level has ratcheted up a notch, as expected. And it isn’t all him; my younger son is a social creature as well. It’s been Grand Central Home-Sweet-Home, complete with arguments over taking my car keys and going out until the wee hours, Latvian friends of Latvian guest, one kid on his Spring Break while the other is studying for midterms, and a confluence of conflicting commitments, schedules, and school work.

Repeat after me: Raw. Nerves. All. Round.

It’s been wild, wearing, and only 48 hours since the increased onslaught. But the commotion (normally fine) has both drained and annoyed me – which says much about me these days, and not so much about the teen behavior. My sons and their cohorts are acting as they always do. What is different is me, my stress load already nearing the red zone.

And then there’s that fridge!

Little kids, little worries (coffee, please)

When your children are little, your worries are new, plentiful, but generally around basics: health, safety, their sense of self, providing tools for learning. When another parent or educator makes a comment about your child’s development, you flip furiously through the parenting books, comparing his or her performance to age and gender appropriate guidelines. You furrow your brow, or you breathe a sigh of relief. Until the next reason to worry.

And those “little kid worries” are many indeed.

• He’s 12 months old, but isn’t walking yet. (All the others in daycare are!)
• Your sister’s son is potty trained at two; you’re still having issues at three.
• Is she old enough to cross the street? (You practice for weeks.)
• Why isn’t he tying his shoes yet? (All the other first-graders can.)

That list? I know. It doesn’t scratch the surface. But when you add a second child or a third (or more), you’ve fallen into the rhythm of a veteran – or delirium. You’re so tired that you take it all in stride, and realize the developmental timetable of every child is different. And as for worries? Suddenly the little ones really are little, and the basics return to a more manageable size.

My only real tips? Go with your gut, get as much sleep as you can when you can, and lock the door if you want some privacy. (More on the privacy tip in a moment.)

Big kids, bigger worries (coffee, please)

By the time you hit the “tween” and teen years, the worries are gargantuan in comparison to the days of toddlers and tantrums. Sex, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, peer pressure, hormones – they all raise the worry level considerably. Then there are those driving lessons – teaching your teens about highway safety, the no cell phone while driving rule, and anticipating “the other guy.”

That’s the one that is the hardest. Adolescents feel they are invincible and immortal. Remembering to drill into our kids’ heads that it isn’t about not trusting their skills or judgment, but it’s about the other guy who may be drinking while driving. Or on the cell phone and not paying attention.

Parenting teens and adult children (martini, please)

I haven’t hit the “adult child returning home” stage yet. But does my college teen qualify?

He’s 18, very independent, and used to it. He’s respectful as I request the whereabouts of his comings-and-goings (especially since he takes my car), but there have been a few scuffles in the past 48 hours, albeit mixed with humor and a sizable dose of patience on his part. Yes, I said on his part.

In the past two years I’ve told both of my sons: I recognize that you are maturing and more responsible, but please remember that I’m used to you being little kids, and needing to watch out for you. So be patient with me as I adjust to your maturing.

And I’ve been fortunate with that exchange. They roll their eyes in exasperation over seemingly simple reminders, but also exercise patience with my questions, respond appropriately, and things are more or less manageable. But manageable doesn’t mean without worry. And I admit – any time one, both, or an entire crew take the car in the evening I’m worried. And waiting until everyone is accounted for.

Empty Fridge Syndrome

This next week will be a doozie. The three teens, each with a different mission and a different schedule. A birthday to celebrate (no, not mine; I’m sticking at 42, thanks). More comings-and-goings, a party, midterms, job and project leads to follow up, even a few “guest posts” to finish. Sleep? I guess I’ll get some eventually. If this last worry doesn’t do me in: the dreaded Empty Fridge Syndrome.

Did I mention that this morning is the fifth time in ten days that I’ve strutted my stuff at a Kroger’s, Publix, Target, or Trader Joe’s for food? Have you experienced that irritating (and wallet whittling) habit that teenagers have of standing on two hollow legs attached to perpetually empty stomachs?

And yes, we’ve also availed ourselves of Domino’s Pizza (the non-Latvian combo), and take-out Chinese. Yet every time I turn around – the refrigerator is flapping its fatuous gums at me and whining that it needs to be filled up.

And did I mention they’re even drinking my Italian Roast, my Espresso Roast, my fresh-ground Ethiopian Harrar??

Parenting tip for any age: Lock your door for privacy

Privacy with a small house and round-the-clock teens? Say what??

I’m going to have to haul out my own advice on giant cue cards, and remind myself of fundamentals. Every adult needs a small amount of time for himself or herself. And sometimes, that means locking the door and simply saying “I’m off duty.”

It may mean a soak in a tub (except I’m too tired to fill it), an hour with a book (too frazzled to concentrate), or just lying quietly on the bed, breathing, and imagining an exotic beach (I think I can manage that one).

Other than that? I’m open to suggestions. But sorry. Can’t stay. I’ve got groceries in the car, yet to unload. And I need to brew another pot of coffee.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Hell, I’d empty the sperm bank if I had one around and thought it would help me crack a smile. I’d shake shake shake as much as I could from any of those vessels, to collect a clinking coin or drizzly drop of humor. More specifically, good humor. And today, I can’t seem to do it. I can’t find “the funny.” And that worries me.

Bad days, good humor

Even on my worst days, somewhere, somehow, I can usually find the funny. You know – humor in all things, positive attitude, laughter makes the world go ’round, laughter is the best medicine, etcetera, etcetera. But this morning, I can’t find the funny.

And the fact is – I really do believe that laughter is excellent medicine. I know it lowers stress. I know it reduces pain. I know it’s good for the heart, and superb for the emotional aura we give off – and give to ourselves.

It may not be Weird Science, but it’s real science for sure. And while humor is a mask, it’s also great for what ails you. So could someone pass a plate of funny, please? I seem to be running low, and they don’t dish it out at my local pharmacy.

Waking to “reality bites”

No nightmares. No earth shattering news. Just waking as usual, to a gray morning and the daily worries. Yes, pain. (Damn those restless legs to hell! If I’m going to kick through the night, could I at least dream myself a tango??)

And the mind is spilling over with networking activities pursued most of yesterday, and well into the evening, including connecting to wonderful old friends with whom I worked 20 years ago. It was another life, a kinder life, a so-called “normal life.” And their voices (as young and vibrant and warm as ever) were as good as time travel and a tasty tonic.

Yet sleep gave way to waking and reality. To the knowledge that reality bites. Shouldn’t I be able to drum up the funny? Besides – the Academy Awards are this evening – complete with Joan Rivers, snarky commentary on the Red Carpet, and that’s always fun. Surely I can talk myself out of this mood, and find a chuckle, a chortle, niggle a giggle out of a tormented teen wiggle??

Laughter is the best medicine

Do you find that humor makes you feel better – about everything? I do. And I’m throwing open the door this Sunday morning to the Good Humor Man. Come on. You’re out there somewhere. And sometimes a gal just needs to put on her pedal pushers and sidle up to Tall-Dark-and-Offering-Ice-Cream. So swing on by with the ding ding ding of your bountiful bell, your merry tuneful truck, your array of goodies. Open up the cooler to sweets and recollections. Innocent times. Fewer stresses. Creamsicles and conversation.

Maybe I just need to be zapped back a few decades, for a brief stay. You know – to neighborhood play, running through the sprinklers in adjacent yards. To the 50 cent movie on Wednesday nights. To snow cones at the corner pharmacy, a game of jax on the floor with my dad, Mel Brooks records on the phonograph as I listen to him laugh, and I laugh because he seems happy. Maybe I need to dip my emotional toes in a time of believing in the future. A quick trip. A tantalizing taste. To return the errant funny.

The funny bone’s connected to the…

So where, exactly, is that funny bone anyway? Or at the very least, where’s mine? Has it been stolen by extra-terrestrials? Gone rogue? Just out to lunch? Hooked on phonics?

Wherever it may be connected in this great thread of mind to soul human fabric, my funny bone seems to be unraveling and unhitched. Well, for today. Yes. I retain my right to perspicacity (isn’t that a fabulous word?) – acutely aware that moody today may still give way to mah-velous tomorrow. I hope. And maybe if I make a nice dinner tonight, and coax with a gooey dessert, the funny will return to my house of cards and horse around without bringing it down. I need that flinty splint to brace me up and do its duty: laughter to beat back worries, laughter to ease aching, laughter to calm the commotion of teen comings-and-goings, and to slam a smile on my pouting puss.

Raw humor, rogue humor, halcyon health

We’re all about a good guffaw around here. Amusement in a word, a retort, a situation, a story. From the proverbial sublime to the ridiculous, it gets us through. That, and my occasional recall of halcyon days when life was simpler, and not so frightening.

The gist of this non-jest? When “the funny” goes missing, I’m concerned.  

• Do you rely on humor to make it through your tough moments?
• Do you prefer raw humor or raw oysters for an mmmm-mmm mood shift?
• Rogue humor or rogue politics, to take your mind off your troubles?
• Is humor part of your daily dose of denial – or a helping of health for whatever life dishes out?
• What do you do when you can’t find “the funny?”

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

It’s that time again – Oscars – and we’ve all got our picks, our faves, our popcorn at the ready, our DVRs set if we can’t be present for the overly long telecast, and those impromptu speeches and stumbles.

But we’re glued to our images, mesmerized by the glitz and glamor. Or at very least, wondering if our preferred stars and films will get the nod. And naturally, there’s the Red Carpet fashion parade beforehand, for those of us who willingly admit we adore seeing what the stars are wearing.

What’s not to love about a little hoopla and bountiful bling?

And the ceremony itself – we’re into that, too. Come on. Admit it. We watch our film icons as they wait for the envelope please, and enjoy the satisfaction of a win we approve of, and the annoyance when an admired actor is passed over.

This morning, I was cruising my usual online media sources – Yahoo, Huffington Post, MSN, and assorted variations in French. It’s Saturday! I don’t want hard news! I was in the mood for celebrity stylings with my small cup of most excellent java. And I came across this article on the snubbing of Meryl Streep when it comes to Academy Awards, and I have to say, my jaw dropped.

I had no idea how many times this superb actress had been nominated, and yet hadn’t taken home the golden statue itself. Dare I mutter – shocking?

Meryl Streep’s Academy Award record

This extraordinary actress has been nominated for something like 17 awards, and has only won two: for Best Supporting Actress in 1979 (Kramer vs. Kramer), and for Sophie’s Choice (1982) as Best Actress. Of course, having seen Julie and Julia, I was blown away by her performance as Julia Child, as I have been impressed by virtually every performance I’ve ever seen from the woman who is arguably “America’s greatest living actress.”

The MSN Entertainment article goes on to suggest that Streep may be beyond the need to win at this point, genuinely comfortable in her talent and accomplishments, and thus, the obvious esteem in which she is held. Perhaps those nominations – not to mention her box office – are sufficient.

But I wondered about that. Who, after all, doesn’t love to win?

The importance of winning

Don’t we all thrive on awards and recognition?

• Wouldn’t you prefer to be the winner, rather than second place or among those “honored” and considered?
• How important to you is recognition among your peers, your community, or your inner circle?
• In your profession, do awards matter for getting ahead – and do they matter to you, personally, perhaps more than you let on?
• Is it disingenuous when someone says “I’m just happy to be nominated?”

Prizes, awards, and recognition are increasingly part of popular culture. We relish our celebrities as they sashay down the Red Carpet in vintage Valentino and Harry Winston, in Dior and Cartier. Many of us eat up all the press we can on these star sightings and cutting edge couture, and of course the actual awards and ceremonies themselves. And in the performing arts, it seems like a growing stream of publicly flaunted accolades, including the standards: the Golden Globes, the Emmys, the assorted music industry awards, and of course, the Oscars.

Then there are all the other prizes and honors (many with far more gravitas): the Nobel, the Pulitzer, and others. We also celebrate a slew of championships in athletics with trophies and titles, and all of this seems to trickle down through industries, professions, and right into our earliest experiences in the classroom, in our American culture of “winning.”

Money, recognition by peers, or 15 minutes of fame?

Let’s be honest. Winning feels good! And when you’re talking the Big Time (Oscars and Golden Globes and any Red Carpet sort of event – much less a Nobel or Pulitzer), money and publicity go along with the honors. Naturally, there are also additional opportunities (theoretically), as well as validation by one’s peers.

You have achieved. You have arrived.

You also have your 15 minutes of fame, and then some. Your time in the spotlight. The all-powerful sensation of celebrity. And we are nothing, if not a celebrity obsessed culture; we manufacture celebrities of so-called real people, after all. (Hello, Reality TV?)

From the world stage to the kindergarten classroom, just how important are the awards we bestow? Sure – we have the grand-daddies like Oscar, and prizes help children feel good about themselves. But how much is too much in a culture that rings its need to win at all cost louder and louder? Is it inevitable? Is it good for us? Is it human nature to want winners and losers, comparisons to make us feel better about ourselves?

Or is it all so much noise and distraction?

Oscar fashions

One distraction I’ll cop to – openly – is the love of the fashions. And from Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn to Julia Roberts and Halle Berry, I love the parade of style, elegance, and art in revisiting Oscar fashions and seeing what floats down the Red Carpet and up onto the stage.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking forward to more than the flawless fashions and designer details to take place Sunday night. I’ll be hoping for another much-deserved win for Meryl Streep as Julia Child.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

How to determine your dating prowess

Care to know if you, too, suck at dating? It’s not rocket science. Here are a few clues:

• Friday nights and Saturday nights you breathe a sigh of relief, put furry slippers on your tootsies, and settle in with your laptop, a DVD, a good Bordeaux, a favorite book, or silence. And it feels wonderful.

• Match.com is still filling your “dating” mailbox addressed to that quirky pseudonym you came up with three years ago, and you hope you actually canceled your subscription.

• The box of Trojans you bought for your teens is long gone. (Party balloons?) The one you bought for yourself is still in “the goodie drawer,” and the date has expired. Incidentally, that particular drawer is now stuffed with bills. And I don’t mean greenbacks.

Proof that you’re losing your touch or your mind

This is a matter of socializing skills erosion, romance radar on the fritz, and sometimes referred to as Weird Date Syndrome.

• You agree to go out even though you feel like crap. After all, it’s a fine French restaurant, you anticipate sparkling conversation, an excellent wine, and culinary delights. Mostly, even after all these years, you still don’t know how to say “no.”

• You actually go on the dinner date, and all body language indicators flash “Danger, Will Robinson,” i.e. absolutely zero interest. From him. Naturally, you therefore assume zero interest. Consequently, you don’t check email for three days, only to find several messages waiting from aforementioned gentleman who says you’re sexy, he enjoyed dinner, and he wants to go out with you again. (It’s nine in the morning, but you’re opening the Pinot Noir.)

• Date Night Guy calls, unexpectedly, and you still can’t figure out how to say “no thank you, don’t wanna.” So you chat about films and France (you both like both), while simultaneously stunned and annoyed, when suddenly, he goes quiet. You say Have I fatigued you? and you’re joking. He says “yes” and he’s not.

• The only logical conclusion is that pod people inhabit your body (a) during phone calls, (b) during email exchanges, or (c) over dinner with Motrin and Côtes du Rhone. Or, perhaps he is the pod person, as 90% of those you’ve dated, at one point or another, reveal themselves to have pod parentage. Except (of course) in France.

Wine, women, and song

Netting things out: six years of on-again-off-again internet dating have racked up a handful of hot-hottie-hot memories (excellent fodder for storytelling), a few foreign friends, and a reminder that I basically have a healthy heart. Furthermore, I have been a good citizen in that I certainly boosted GNP, as I estimate (to my chagrin) some $2,000 spent over that period on various sites.

I ponder the missed opportunities inherent in such a sum. For example, two cases of a saucy, capricious little red wine with peppery undertones, a few bottles of vintage tawny port, and ten days on the Left Bank. To enjoy as I please. Is this yet another realization that perusing Paris would perk up my failing female pheromones?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Women, health, and well-being

“Bound to the tides and moon” is a romantic notion, isn’t it? Still, there’s no question that women are subject to distinct rhythms. Sure, our monthly cycles are powerful stuff, but it’s something more – emotional, physical, and social needs that seem to ripple through our organs and our moods, as unrelenting as any hormonal surge.

When we listen, and act on these signals concerning health and well-being, we feel upbeat and energized. But too often, we are finely tuned into the emotional needs of those around us – in the workplace, out in public, and certainly at home. We give those messages precedence, and when it comes to the emotional and physical requirements of our own bodies, we ignore them in favor of worrying about what others think, what others feel, and quite simply – nurturing others without nurturing ourselves.

And so we exist: eating too little, too much, or just poorly; living on caffeine, sugar, pills, or alcohol to “get through;” sleeping restlessly, engaging mechanically, or feeling pulled in so many directions that we are rarely content with our capacity to manage any of them.

Parents – of either sex – know this dynamic all too well, certainly when children are young. But women suffer from an additional culturally conditioned response: we feel guilty if we pay attention to what our bodies whisper, especially if those whispered words suggest something to do with the self. I know this has always been my case, and I still struggle with this tendency.

Women’s health: hunger, fatigue, and other basics

Do you know your rhythms, but ignore them? Do you shush your body’s signals?

When you’re hungry, do you set your hunger aside if you’re busy at the office, caring for a child, or in the midst of a project to help out the boyfriend?

When fatigue sets in, do you grab for coffee, a coca cola, chocolate, or a cigarette – so you can keep going?

Do you let your morning run fall by the wayside when your 12-year old forgot his homework and you make a second trip to school? Or does evening time on the treadmill slide, if the science fair presentation isn’t complete, and you find yourself at midnight, gluing papers to a project display board?

Do your children always come first? Your spouse or significant other, second? And yourself, third on the list? Or perhaps your spouse and children “tie” for top billing in the whatever-it-takes department, and then you’re next?

If you need more help, shouldn’t you speak up? Do you?

Women’s health: sleep, eating patterns, reduced stress all fuel dreams and positive attitude

I’ve been wrestling an old demon these past months, a lifelong challenge (a night’s sleep), but one that I’ve managed until recently. Adequate sleep has become exceptional. And not because I’m up in the wee hours caring for an infant. Not because I’m working two jobs and dealing with kids in the single mother’s whirlwind schedule.

Extreme stress kicked a sleep disorder into overdrive, and it’s been months since I’ve felt “normal” on five or six hours of sleep a night. Further complicated by other pain, exercise disappeared from my daily routine along with a general drop-off of quality of life.

For about two weeks now, I am back to five hours of sleep a night. My mind is clear, and my attitude is growing more positive. I attribute the sleep change to seeing a good physician about two weeks ago (still waiting on results), and that alone relieved some stress. The result – just enough more sleep to dramatically improve my cognitive abilities, and alter my sense of well-being. I still have issues of stamina and pain, but I feel optimistic. “Entertaining” dreams are retaking some prominence, and the possibility of entertaining my dreams and desires is resurfacing.

Women’s health: exercise, sex, socializing

In addition to eating well and sleeping sufficiently, like most of us I need:

• Regular exercise
• Regular sex
• Socializing

The first two are out for now (there’s only so much we can control!), but social interaction is something I believe we all need. The extent of that need (like exercise, libido or anything else) varies. But when we spend our days and nights caring for children, or we live and work in isolation, socializing is critical. Human beings need contact, communication, touch. Energy exchanged with others.

As I write this, I am fully aware that our Latvian guest has upped the dynamism in our home with talk talk talk and laughter. He has injected a jolt of vitality we needed around here.

When your body speaks, do you listen?

Women tend to acquire behaviors that involve physical and emotional self sacrifice. At times, we have no choice. At other junctures, we do, but putting ourselves last on the list becomes habit, and is detrimental for the long haul. I believe we sense it, even as we set aside our bodies’ rhythms, not paying them the respect they are due. Isn’t this benign neglect not only of the child in each of us, but of the deserving adult?

• Shouldn’t we give ourselves permission to listen, and not feel guilty about doing so?
• Shouldn’t we attempt to balance a portion of our needs with the needs of those we love?
• Why does this remain so difficult for many of us – across age brackets?

It isn’t easy to change a lifetime of conditioning or habit, reinforced by media, peers, and family. It means learning and unlearning. Listening closely, to our bodies. And at times, it means challenging choices when it comes to those who inhabit our most tender spaces of the heart. Carefully chosen “yes” and equally so, “no.” So we may attend to our own health and well-being, and possibly our dreams.

Isn’t that what we want for our children? Shouldn’t we “own” it, and therefore teach by example?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy