What Were They Thinking? (Stars Earn Stripes Edition)

NBC is a network that I try to avoid bashing due exclusively to my love for their Thursday night comedy line up. I mostly held my tongue during impressively bad moments of their Olympics coverage. I have even been willing to overlook Grimm. I cannot, however, give them a pass on this miscarriage they are calling Stars Earn Stripes.

Mind you, I have not seen this show. It is possible they have stumbled upon something breathtaking and cathartic that will change the way we look at war. But I doubt it.

The concept of the show is that a host of "celebrities" are assisted by special operatives from various military branches in executing tasks based on actual combat missions. The celebrities include Peekaboo Street, Nick Lachey, and Todd Palin. None of the contestants is anything to get excited about, in my opinion.

I expect that, throughout the episodes on this show, the contestants will repeatedly and emphatically state how difficult war is and how they have gained new found respect for actual servicemen. I know those comments will be coming from a good place, but it seems to me that they are insulting. To imply that playing games on TV is anything like actual war is insulting to us as a general population that has largely been complacent during the over-a-decade-long conflict in the Middle East, and to servicemen and women especially.

The veterans and current military men and women I have asked about this show seem to feel the same way. Trivializing the physical and emotional demands that war entails by comparing celebrity war games to the real thing makes them angry.

I am surprised that General Wesley Clark agreed to host this show. As someone who spent a career serving with men and women like the ones I spoke to, I can't imagine that he wouldn't anticipate the reactions I discussed above.

The one redeeming quality that this show has, as far as I can tell from previews alone, mind you, is that the contestants are playing for a sum of money to be donated to a veterans' charity of their choice. Still, NBC, maybe next time just give the money and keep the D-List celebs to yourselves.

Adam Carolla and Unfunny Women

The internet is abuzz right now over some comments that Adam Carolla (a man I don't find to be particularly funny) made regarding women's senses of humor, and I would like to briefly respond. Basically all he said was that women don't tend to be the funniest people in the writing room. While he admitted that some very funny women exist, citing Sarah Silverman and Tina Fey, he said that if you are playing the odds, you don't pick women out as funny people.

Other comedians like Doug Stanhope went on to defend him on twitter, claiming that men develop better senses of humor because they need to be funny in order to get laid. While this is true, it's not the whole story AT ALL.

Girls are funny TO EACH OTHER. We don't have to make men laugh in order to get to touch their dicks. They don't even have to like us to let us touch their dicks. However, we do have to use humor to disarm eachother, because women in our social structure are naturally aggressive and resistant towards each other. So, while we may laugh real hard at guys' jokes, we get each other's humor more, typically. Also, any time you see a girl claiming that women aren't funny, she is doing it for bullshit guys' benefit, i.e., "Look how much of a guys' girl I am! I like strip clubs and video games and don't think women are funny." These also tend to be the girls who will blow your boyfriend for a meal or a bottle of whipped cream vodka, or for fun.

Where was I... ok, guys feel threatened by the idea of funny women, because they view their own senses of humor as this super unique development they have achieved in order to get laid. Funny women threaten that. I guess they are scared we are all just gonna scissor if we become funnier than them, idk. So ladies, next time a guy tells you women aren't funny, just touch his penis and don't engage in the argument, because what's the fuckin point?

A Quick Note About Lady Periods

I think "gender equality" issues are really tricky because some degree of inequality and mystique is necessary in our social structure. That said, I will try to keep this brief. Sometimes things that, on the surface, seem empowering for females backfire hard, and I've got a pretty swell example for you today.

I guess it seems like it's about damn time that men knew exactly how trying and taxing and goddamned annoying our periods are, right? Particularly in the wake of all this discussion about birth control, a faction of women has emerged that feels that it is necessary to shout to the world how bloated and crampy and grouchy and miserable they are when Aunt Flo comes around.

All this does is support the ridiculous notion that women are incapable of being productive, rational members of society literally a quarter of the time. Furthermore, it makes it ok for asinine guys to say things like, "Wow! She must be on the rag!" when we get upset about legitimate things. So quit it.

That is all.

An Open Letter to People Who Tell Me I'm Not Using My Brain Enough

Dear well-intentioned person telling me I'm not using my brain enough these days:

    I know. First, let me compliment you on being the 75,000th person to tell me this. You've won this blog post.
     I understand that what you are trying to say is that I am smart and I could do a lot with those smarts, so one one hand, thank you. In some alternate universe, I have a few degrees and I am advising some schmoozy Democratic candidate for a state-level office while feeling bad for his wife because she doesn't know about one shady thing or another.
    In this universe, I have a kid. Kids require time. Someone has to watch them and make sure they don't run into traffic or fall off of a table or drown themselves in the bath tub. Someone has to read to them and hug them and teach them how to point at their nose when you ask and sing the itsy bitsy spider 100 times a day. That person is me.
    I LOVE being a mom. I don't want strangers to raise my kid. I want to be the one to kiss his boo boos and teach him the ABCs. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for working and student moms. It's not easy to balance children and other things, and I imagine it is emotionally complicated as well. All the supermoms out there deserve mad props. I am not that woman, though. The thought of trying to be a mom and work and go to school all at once gives me hives. I'm lazy.
     This brings me to the "go back to school" crowd. Let me assure you that aside from in my family's presence, a classroom is the first place I want to be. I miss school. DESPERATELY at times. I plan to go back to school. My husband and I have discussed it. It is not going to pay for itself. When we figure out how to finance and schedule it, it will happen. Let's leave it at that.
     While I understand that it is in a complimentary spirit that you are telling me these things, you are not telling me anything I don't already know. There is something profoundly frustrating about being told things you know by numerous people. It starts to make you feel like your flaws are more pronounced than they are. It makes you question things. I don't want to question things.
     I have heard that happiness is less an emotion than an absence of other emotions. That if you can comment on how happy you are, you probably aren't all that happy, because true happiness is something you don't have to reflect on. Most days I don't have to reflect. I simply enjoy the day-to-day and laugh at little things like babies dancing and pugface. Would I change some things, looking back? Sure. But I am relatively content, and I'm optimistic about getting my brain back in the game at some point in the future. For now, my kid is my number one priority by a mile or two. So for now, chill out.

Deal? Deal.
Love, Julia

A Letter to the Adult Version of My One Year Old Son

Dear Charles,
     As I write this, you are 17 months old, you have 12 teeth, and you are covered in bruises because you refuse to accept your physical limitations. I think you will have grown up to be a brave man, and that makes me glad.
     I believe that some degree of bravery is necessary in any life. Everyone has to face challenges throughout his life that are much more easily overcome with a bit of tenacity and the unwillingness to back down. I hope that any obstacles you have encountered so far, you have stood face to face with and stared down. I further hope that you have done so with class, respect, and a bit of panache.
     Every generation worries that their children will have it harder than they did while striving to make the opposite true. My generation is just now taking the reins on many issues all over the world, and I am hopeful that we can steer this crazy planet in the right direction. I will do my best to make sure we do not fail you, but I fear there is only so much I can do.
    You were born almost ten years after the largest terrorist attack in American History, an event that occurred on September 11, 2001, which is a day that changed everything and nothing at the same time. I still woke up the next day and attended tenth grade. I still rode my horses and fought with your Uncle Ben and giggled about the boys in high school. But the world had changed, and it continues to change today.
    I am thinking about this on this particular day because today is the 68th Anniversary of D-Day. D-Day was a crucial turning point in a war that clearly pitted the forces of good and freedom against the forces of evil. It was a war that encompassed two continents and took millions of lives and broke an unfathomable number of hearts. Still, it was a war with clear moral purpose. Thus did the Greatest Generation save the Planet from Hitler and certain misery.
    America is fighting a war now, too, but it is a more amorphous war than the one your great grandfathers fought. It is a war against anti-freedom ideology and theology. It has fuzzy lines and requires shaky alliances with questionable governments in the pursuit of sneaky, evil men who sometimes hide in caves. Even the smartest, bravest men and women in the world can't agree how to win this war, if it is winnable. A lot of good men have given their lives in pursuit of safety for Americans and their allies, and more will certainly do the same. We as free and good people do not have the advantage of a clearly defined enemy lining up in battlefields like those D-Day soldiers did. As I said, the world is changing.
     I fear that it will continue to change and become more complicated in your lifetime. You are growing up at a time when computers are capable of serving as weapons, not in the sense of being physically harmful, but in many other senses. Information is exchanged in milliseconds these days, sometimes when the information is not meant to change hands. Hoards of money are susceptible to electronic attack. Privacy may become a thing of the past.
    I have every confidence that your generation will adapt to these changes. You are growing up in a plugged-in world, and you will never remember a time when information was not immediately available and at the tip of your finger. Practically all of mankind (except North Korea, but I hope they have gotten it together by now) is only a button click away. It's remarkable. Still, I suspect it will create unique challenges, particularly as technology continues to march ever forward in the rest of your lifetime.
    So be brave. I'm sure the world is more complicated than ever, but let your life be simple sometimes. Find love. Don't look forward to the next big thing without enjoying what you already have. Visit your mom a lot. More than anything, take advantage of the information and opinions that are available to you. Information is power, and power changes the world. Think critically, but speak kindly, and always, always look forward.
Best of luck.

Love,
Mommy

Why Don't More Teens, like, omg LOVE Poetry?

     I remember in high school when our English classes would begin poetry units, many of my classmates would groan in misery. Poetry was considered inaccessible, boring, and pointless. When my husband spent a year teaching Freshman and Senior English at his alma mater, he seemed to have a similar experience with his students.
     I'm so confused by this phenomenon. These are the same humans who will listen to one song on repeat all day for a week because the lyrics, like, so sum up how they are feeling. I can probably summarize my emotional journey throughout my four years of high school using the lyrics of maybe twenty songs, all of which I listened to incessantly at some point between fall of 2000 and spring of 2004.
     This explains the success of artists like Taylor Swift, who despite being a country artist, has massive trans-genre appeal. She captured this level of success not by being the best singer or songwriter in the world, but by telling teenagers' stories. Her songs are generally sweet and clever or sassy and vindictive, but they are always young and relevant. Teenagers love her.
     Teenagers' emotions are amazing things. They are thinly walled, tremulously controlled, and passionately volatile. One could say the same thing for the emotions conveyed in basically any form of art. Like musical lyrics, though, poetry is one of the few forms of art that conveys these emotions through words. Many times English words. That you can read. Out loud if need be.
     This is inaccessible how? I understand that some poetry is rife with complex metaphor or antiquated language and to a poetic beginner might as well be in a foreign language, but much of it is not. Many poems are just as straight forward and just as lovely, or vindictive, or sassy as a Taylor Swift song.
     Just as I still have songs that I fell emotionally in love with during high school, I still have many favorite poems that grabbed me at that age. I am not saying this to make myself sound better or smarter or more versatile or worldly or arty than anyone else. I'm saying this because I wish more young people could have the kind of relationship with poetry that I had at that age.
     There are poems out there that can mend hearts, inspire boldness, and save lives. (There are also many, many, many poems to break a heart, but no matter.)  There are poems to fill the massive, seething voids that teenagers sometimes find in themselves. Given recent news full of bullying and teen suicide, it seems that some void filling is in order. So if you are a teenager, please give poetry a chance. If you know some teenagers, buy them a simple volume or two for their birthdays. You never know when a stanza or two might fix someone.

This is a poem-a-day website run by the Library of Congress and specifically aimed at teenagers: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/
 

A love story for someone's parents' 30th anniversary

     I once had a fever so severe that no one could say with any certainty whether I would live or die. My father was an anthropology man, and we were living in a place with lovely people who did not speak a word of my language, and a pack of gangly dogs who begged for scraps, and far too many mosquitoes. I was nine years old.
     A woman in a brightly colored shawl came to see me during one of my bouts of foggy consciousness, and she lay hands on me and spoke in a mumbling, lilting tongue that made me feel as if she were a sorcerer from a Disney film. Afterwards, I heard my parents arguing loudly outside of our 3 room shack. My mother was accusing my father of witchcraft and false hopes while my father rebuked her, gently, humbly, but with a vague threat of limited tolerance.
     The shack was charming in its own way, full of mosquito nets and clay pots. It suited us fine, with my parents sleeping on a pair of cots in one room while I slept in the room that acted as whatever it needed to be to suit our moods. There was a fairly inviting outhouse, as far as outhouses go, and a spacious kitchen with a wood stove and an oven. An ice box kept the limited meat we could find cold. We often ate with the locals who dined on bizarre things like insects and frogs, but sometimes my father would drive to town in his 1961 Jeep and come back with a leg of lamb or even some steaks.
     I lay on my living room cot and stared at a mosquito net, sweating so profusely that I could feel the liquid pooling in the small of my back. It had been days since I could draw a clear distinction between wakefulness and sleep, but my parents' voices, moving in and out of earshot, were sucking me into a very clear reality.
    "--never been here in the first place!" my mother snarled.
    "No one asked you-- couldn't stay-- good for her anyway," my father replied in an even tone brimming with unreleased viciousness.
    "--Tommorow!" my mother finished before her angry footsteps faded away.
    "Good luck getting her on a plane in this state," mumbled my father to himself as he entered the shack. He spotted my open eyes and came to sit beside my cot. He folded his legs under himself and brushed my hair from my eyes.
     "You're awake," he said. "How do you feel?"
     "Better, a little, I think," I responded. My father wiped hair from my forehead again, and his hand came away dripping.
     "I can tell what's real now," I told him.
     "I guess you heard your mom and me out there, huh?" my father said.
     "I don't want to leave," I said. "I can't go home without you."
     "You won't need to," my father told me. "Your mom is scared, that's all."
     "Scared of what?" I asked.
     "Of losing you," he said, simply, while wrapping a coil of my long, blond hair around his wrist. "She couldn't live without you."
     "She loves me a lot," I said.
     "She does, and so do I."
     "You could live without me, though," I insisted.
     "I couldn't," my father replied. "I couldn't even when your mom asked me to. That's why you're here. I couldn't leave you, so I convinced your mom to come here with you, and oh god--" He was sobbing now. He buried his face in my hair and cried. "I'm sorry," he heaved. "I'm so, so sorry."
    "Dad?" I said. He sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
    "What baby?" he asked, his voice sounding all weird and wobbly from crying.
    "Go tell mom," I said.
     And he did.