Whooof. That was a lot. But it feels good to get it out.
On to other matters. I think J is right, there is a lot of cosmic shifting going on out there, and the resistance to it is pretty incredible. It's present on the national level with the health care debate, it's at the micro level with personal relationships, and I think it might even have something to do with the rather extraordinary number of deaths in the past six months or so. I have never had seen so much loss in so many areas of life, so quickly. Add to that the fact that if you make a conscious choice to live your life in a certain way, the forces that resist will show up that much more. People erupting without just cause (or provocation), people running away from connection in utter terror, people hunkering in their own shallow grasp of the systems around them, afraid to dive below the surface and find that there is richness and abundance. To go there is to open and to be too vulnerable, and no one wants to soften that much. I think that women tap more easily into this intuitive energy, and they see beyond the obvious more willingly. At least, that's what I'm telling myself in an attempt to understand the outrageous behavior of one who ran in panic last week. I know, I know, it's useless to fathom the motives of others; it's information we'll never have. And honestly, I've (mostly) come to accept that about this person. But it's hard not to wonder, because I KNOW I didn't misread him this summer. I KNOW what I saw and felt was real, and all the signs leading up to that awful night reinforced what I'd read in him previously. My bullshit meter has been wrong before, but I don't think this is a case of well-disguised buillshit. It's a case of fear, distilled to crystalline perfection.
In other news, it's time for a move. And the one good(?) side effect of the imploded economy is the lowered rent in the neighborhood in which I want to live. Which is good, because despite being a girl of very modest means, I'm pretty choosy. Lots of natural light (and decent non-natural light, I cannot STAND shitty lighting, nothing kills a mood in a room faster than terrible lighting!), a generous bathtub, no upstairs neighbors, and woodwork, if possible. I know. I'm not easy. But would I be any fun if I was?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Kind of like when I put my hand through the window
The shards have to come out. The sooner they're out, the sooner we can put in the stitches. (Actually, I think I'll refrain from medical analogies for awhile; doctors are not high on my list right now. And every time I see an ambulance I snort in disgust and force myself not to think about THAT MAN.) But anyways. I have to get it out. It will take awhile, but I have to process it somehow. And I'll do it MYSELF, emergency medicine, thank you very much. I do not need you to save me, thank you. Not that you were worried about that when you just abandoned me in Manhattan in the middle of the night. God, what a testosterone-charged branch of medicine. A bunch of problem-solving jocks, getting an adrenalin fix as they stabalize someone, and then they get to pass off the real suffering to another physician, the doctor who gets to know the patient and helps them through the crisis in the longer term. As professionals, emergency doctors have all sorts of qualities that I admire immensely. As relationship material, they SUCK.
So as if it wasn't galling enough to be in New York the DAY of the victory parade, as if it wasn't enough to come out of the subway near city hall and see the wreckage from the parade and the celebration and the gigantic baseball-shaped sign with 27! in huge numbers, as if all that wasn't enough, I apparently needed to be totally sandbagged that evening.
I had prepared for every contingency, every possibility. Except, of course, the one that showed up. The one that included a lovely dinner, a walk through Times Square, cocktails and live jazz, sparkling conversation, all of it. Right up until the sheepish, scared admission that there is someone else, and thus we cannot be anything. And then to be left there, alone in a strange city, under the influence of two generous martinis, heartbroken and lost, at one in the morning. If it hadn't been for the nice motherly woman walking her airedale, god knows how long it would have taken for me to actually find the 7 train. And what kills me is how I didn't see any of this coming. My alarm system has clearly been disconnected, because I was TOTALLY unprepared for that bombshell. However, I don't see how I COULD have seen it coming, seeing as this was NEVER eluded to, not ONCE in three months of correspondence, the days leading up to my time in New York, or the entire evening, until the very end. How do we put ourselves out there, how do we make our selves vulnerable, knowing we have the potential to be devastated each and every time, and are powerless to prevent it? It does not seem like a good bargain. The possibility of love is so promising, it feeds that yearning that everyone has for connection and intimacy, someone who really GETS you, but my god. I would very much like to know why the universe gave me THIS experience, because I cannot see any lesson in it for me, other than 'if you are open and honest and respond to the cues and information given to you, a man can still trample our heart, even when you thought he was in your bucket. Just an FYI.'
Thanks, universe. Seriously. And while we're at it, thanks for all the socially awkward men that you keep tossing into my life...the ones who make it painfully obvious that they are attracted to me, but are incapable of normal polite conversation, thus making everyone involved very ill at ease. And while I feel compassion towards these men, I cannot help but wonder...the cannot speak to me, so what on earth makes them think dating me would work? What is going on in their heads that makes them think that would be anything like an equal partnership? I am noisy, opinionated, gregarious, and extroverted. This is not a good match for the shy, socially nervous, introverted men out there.
I am flummoxed. And already starting to envision myself at sixty, living in a gigantic old house with house rabbits and a big cage full of brightly colored finches, with my massive gardens in the backyard, and the Twins blaring on the radio because I'm too cheap to pay for cable. Le sigh. It doesn't sound like a bad life, but there would be a gaping hole in it that I'd have to willfully ignore every single day.
In other news, Gomez is gone. Thank god. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Seriously, I'm SO GLAD we traded away the best pitcher in the universe for that adolescent. Can we just get to work on signing Joe Mauer for the rest of his life? I'd be satisfied with that this offseason. It would help water down the horrid Yankee flavor I'm still trying to spit out.
So as if it wasn't galling enough to be in New York the DAY of the victory parade, as if it wasn't enough to come out of the subway near city hall and see the wreckage from the parade and the celebration and the gigantic baseball-shaped sign with 27! in huge numbers, as if all that wasn't enough, I apparently needed to be totally sandbagged that evening.
I had prepared for every contingency, every possibility. Except, of course, the one that showed up. The one that included a lovely dinner, a walk through Times Square, cocktails and live jazz, sparkling conversation, all of it. Right up until the sheepish, scared admission that there is someone else, and thus we cannot be anything. And then to be left there, alone in a strange city, under the influence of two generous martinis, heartbroken and lost, at one in the morning. If it hadn't been for the nice motherly woman walking her airedale, god knows how long it would have taken for me to actually find the 7 train. And what kills me is how I didn't see any of this coming. My alarm system has clearly been disconnected, because I was TOTALLY unprepared for that bombshell. However, I don't see how I COULD have seen it coming, seeing as this was NEVER eluded to, not ONCE in three months of correspondence, the days leading up to my time in New York, or the entire evening, until the very end. How do we put ourselves out there, how do we make our selves vulnerable, knowing we have the potential to be devastated each and every time, and are powerless to prevent it? It does not seem like a good bargain. The possibility of love is so promising, it feeds that yearning that everyone has for connection and intimacy, someone who really GETS you, but my god. I would very much like to know why the universe gave me THIS experience, because I cannot see any lesson in it for me, other than 'if you are open and honest and respond to the cues and information given to you, a man can still trample our heart, even when you thought he was in your bucket. Just an FYI.'
Thanks, universe. Seriously. And while we're at it, thanks for all the socially awkward men that you keep tossing into my life...the ones who make it painfully obvious that they are attracted to me, but are incapable of normal polite conversation, thus making everyone involved very ill at ease. And while I feel compassion towards these men, I cannot help but wonder...the cannot speak to me, so what on earth makes them think dating me would work? What is going on in their heads that makes them think that would be anything like an equal partnership? I am noisy, opinionated, gregarious, and extroverted. This is not a good match for the shy, socially nervous, introverted men out there.
I am flummoxed. And already starting to envision myself at sixty, living in a gigantic old house with house rabbits and a big cage full of brightly colored finches, with my massive gardens in the backyard, and the Twins blaring on the radio because I'm too cheap to pay for cable. Le sigh. It doesn't sound like a bad life, but there would be a gaping hole in it that I'd have to willfully ignore every single day.
In other news, Gomez is gone. Thank god. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Seriously, I'm SO GLAD we traded away the best pitcher in the universe for that adolescent. Can we just get to work on signing Joe Mauer for the rest of his life? I'd be satisfied with that this offseason. It would help water down the horrid Yankee flavor I'm still trying to spit out.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Not quite like last summer
I'm a little in the mud right now...lots of exciting things happening, and really not quite the drive I had earlier this summer. Part of it is the long, frustrating recovery from laryngitis, I think...it's so hard to just shut up and let the edema in the cords just go down. Particularly when you like to talk. A lot.
Another part is the continuing drought of my people...they are scattered to the four winds right now, and it's rather lonesome here at home. I need people who GET me, and they are few and far between this summer.
But the biggest influence has probably been the loss of my uncle. We all knew it was coming, or at least we had the vague idea that it would happen. But when someone gets ill and recovers so repeatedly, you just get used to the pattern, and when that terrible day comes you are that much more devastated. My mom is taking it hard, and it's hard to know that your parent is suffering, particularly one who made so much effort in helping my uncle become well. And the thing that really enrages me is the attitudes of the morbidly curious or the tactless ignorance of those who have never dealt with either loss or addiction. The former are the ones who actually call my mother under the guise of support and sympathy, when all they really want are the sordid details about the death. I want to yell at them: "If the only thing you want is gossip, go to the telephone tree like any busybody with a teaspoon's worth of sense. I know you're all disappointed it wasn't suicide, so you don't have something REALLY juicy to discuss. Now leave my mother the fuck alone, you jackals." And to the latter group, I am torn between contempt and pity. Most of the time they are good-hearted people, simply trying to say the right thing when it's exactly the wrong thing. And for those who have never dealt with the loss of someone close, their ignorance is to be pitied, because sooner or later they will lose someone and will be in the same place we are in, and will then know what to say. I can't say I really wish that on anyone. But it's hard for me to swallow the acidic words I have for those who don't understand the disease of addiction. We don't need your opinions, thank you, seeing as you speak about what you don't understand. This is an illness that does not discriminate...all ages, tax brackets, IQ levels, social sets, it can take hold anywhere. And like mental illness, it has nothing to do with strength of will or quality of character. It is a horrible, crippling disease that claims so many every year, and I will not tolerate blithe, stupid remarks about it. "Why don't you just stop? How can you just not quit if it's killing you?" My god, don't you think they WOULD if they COULD?! Jesus fuck.
The upshot of all this is, a gentle, sensitive person was taken by a terrible illness that plagued him for most of his life, and my heart aches for the him and for my mom. I had forgotten how long and hard grief is. And it is this that has taken my unqualified joy this summer. I still find happiness in my gardens, but performing is hard, and may be for some time.
Time to go bake some muffins.
Another part is the continuing drought of my people...they are scattered to the four winds right now, and it's rather lonesome here at home. I need people who GET me, and they are few and far between this summer.
But the biggest influence has probably been the loss of my uncle. We all knew it was coming, or at least we had the vague idea that it would happen. But when someone gets ill and recovers so repeatedly, you just get used to the pattern, and when that terrible day comes you are that much more devastated. My mom is taking it hard, and it's hard to know that your parent is suffering, particularly one who made so much effort in helping my uncle become well. And the thing that really enrages me is the attitudes of the morbidly curious or the tactless ignorance of those who have never dealt with either loss or addiction. The former are the ones who actually call my mother under the guise of support and sympathy, when all they really want are the sordid details about the death. I want to yell at them: "If the only thing you want is gossip, go to the telephone tree like any busybody with a teaspoon's worth of sense. I know you're all disappointed it wasn't suicide, so you don't have something REALLY juicy to discuss. Now leave my mother the fuck alone, you jackals." And to the latter group, I am torn between contempt and pity. Most of the time they are good-hearted people, simply trying to say the right thing when it's exactly the wrong thing. And for those who have never dealt with the loss of someone close, their ignorance is to be pitied, because sooner or later they will lose someone and will be in the same place we are in, and will then know what to say. I can't say I really wish that on anyone. But it's hard for me to swallow the acidic words I have for those who don't understand the disease of addiction. We don't need your opinions, thank you, seeing as you speak about what you don't understand. This is an illness that does not discriminate...all ages, tax brackets, IQ levels, social sets, it can take hold anywhere. And like mental illness, it has nothing to do with strength of will or quality of character. It is a horrible, crippling disease that claims so many every year, and I will not tolerate blithe, stupid remarks about it. "Why don't you just stop? How can you just not quit if it's killing you?" My god, don't you think they WOULD if they COULD?! Jesus fuck.
The upshot of all this is, a gentle, sensitive person was taken by a terrible illness that plagued him for most of his life, and my heart aches for the him and for my mom. I had forgotten how long and hard grief is. And it is this that has taken my unqualified joy this summer. I still find happiness in my gardens, but performing is hard, and may be for some time.
Time to go bake some muffins.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Birds and words
There is something wrong with my computer. I think it has some noxious infection, but I am ignoring it because a) it's recital week and b) my ignorance frightens me and makes me reluctant to truly find out what the fuck is happening in the bowels of my PC. Why, oh WHY did I not get a Mac to begin with?!!! So I am just avoiding buying things online or entering in anything scarily personal, until I have the time and inclination to find out what it amiss...
I need a Johan moment. Is it ever going to stop hurting? Is there ever going to be a time that I see him and don't feel a spasm of pain? He just keeps getting more magnificent. I mean, I'm a fairly astute observer of the game, but I'm not that great at recognizing pitches offhand. I always have a rough idea of what a pitcher is throwing, (unless it's Tim Wakefield or a gigantic Barry Zito curve or something else that's pathetically obvious.) But a fastball with motion versus a hard slider? I am sometimes lost (and it's kind of embarrassing, because I feel like I should know them instantly.) It's one of my goals for this season. But with Johan, I always know. I can recognize almost without fail which pitch he's throwing, and they're all equally beautiful. Watching Johan Santana pitch is like being in an aviary full of small and beautiful exotic birds. They move quickly, effortlessly, and it's impossible to know what you'll see next, but each one is a jewel-bright marvel, more lovely than the last. In fact, if I ever have my own aviary full of tiny exotic finches, I might name them after Johan Santana's pitches. Circle change, Four Seam, Slider...good names for small, quick-moving, beautiful things.
And just to be clear, having finches does not make one a Bird Person. They are quiet and active things, only to be looked at. They are NOT big screechy stinky parrots that need to bond to someone for life and try to bite everyone else they see. Ah yes, yet another step on my path to being That Lady on the block. Though I think I may have a good decade or so left before I fully embrace that role.
And it finally, finally rained, which means I can really start getting excited about the growing season. I have at least two yards to create, and am already fantasizing about tomatoes and peppers and sweet pea vines and moonflowers and evening primrose and about nine thousand other things that I'll get to sell people all summer long. Now, if only the rabbits and I could reach some sort of understanding...
I need a Johan moment. Is it ever going to stop hurting? Is there ever going to be a time that I see him and don't feel a spasm of pain? He just keeps getting more magnificent. I mean, I'm a fairly astute observer of the game, but I'm not that great at recognizing pitches offhand. I always have a rough idea of what a pitcher is throwing, (unless it's Tim Wakefield or a gigantic Barry Zito curve or something else that's pathetically obvious.) But a fastball with motion versus a hard slider? I am sometimes lost (and it's kind of embarrassing, because I feel like I should know them instantly.) It's one of my goals for this season. But with Johan, I always know. I can recognize almost without fail which pitch he's throwing, and they're all equally beautiful. Watching Johan Santana pitch is like being in an aviary full of small and beautiful exotic birds. They move quickly, effortlessly, and it's impossible to know what you'll see next, but each one is a jewel-bright marvel, more lovely than the last. In fact, if I ever have my own aviary full of tiny exotic finches, I might name them after Johan Santana's pitches. Circle change, Four Seam, Slider...good names for small, quick-moving, beautiful things.
And just to be clear, having finches does not make one a Bird Person. They are quiet and active things, only to be looked at. They are NOT big screechy stinky parrots that need to bond to someone for life and try to bite everyone else they see. Ah yes, yet another step on my path to being That Lady on the block. Though I think I may have a good decade or so left before I fully embrace that role.
And it finally, finally rained, which means I can really start getting excited about the growing season. I have at least two yards to create, and am already fantasizing about tomatoes and peppers and sweet pea vines and moonflowers and evening primrose and about nine thousand other things that I'll get to sell people all summer long. Now, if only the rabbits and I could reach some sort of understanding...
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Smells like spring
Gracious me, I didn't do my usual rhapsody for Opening Day!! (Well, not that the game was anything to write home about anyways, but that's fine, seeing as we SLAUGHTERED the Bitch Sox last night, meh heh.) But it is past time to get into plant talk and such, spring gives me the ants in the pants, though never really any urge to do my grad school assignments. This may be due in part to the fact that they're useless, aggravating, and remind me of profs that are full of misconceptions and biases that run utterly opposite of the principles they think they're teaching. Yep, that's about it. Only a month more of the S.O.M madness....
But my recital is going to kick ass. Kick. Ass. Wolf is my bread and butter, the man loooooves the richness and complexity of the mezzo voice. Smart guy. And the Argento has so much character (and Even rocks the guitar part, great musician and a very steadying presence onstage. We work well together.) The French is the first French I have really connected with since Poulenc...why is it I love to listen to most French art song but don't want to sing it? I went through Debussy, Faure, Chausson, Duparc, Ravel (which would have been great, besides needing a chamber orchestra), and Bizet before I finally found Reynaldo Hahn. The French was the hardest set to choose, but I am most deeply connected to it now that I have. And the Turina is just hot Spanish music. Why don't people do more Spanish song? Is it another midwest thing? Too sensual and scary for us here? Wouldn't surprise me.
And OperaBob is in FULL SWING, we are getting fundraising plans in motion for the Fringe. God, to work with people who share the same artistic philosophy and don't try to do anything beyond bring out the drama in the music. I feel like we can show the world that honoring the composer's dramatic intentions is exciting and moving. And speaking of, I was so pleased with the performance the other night. Anna and I were both on our game, and it felt good to share the stage with someone I respect. More to come.
Just think. All summer, all I'm doing is singing, working in a fledgling opera company founded on the principles that we all believe in, getting audition arias in place, and getting paid to mess around in the dirt. Shaping up to be another excellent summer.
Healing up nicely from the painful end to the budding romance. Left a letter in his box, saying a) coming up to me and chatting is not only horrifyingly awkward, it's painful, selfish, and utterly ridiculous, seeing as I explicitly said I need time and distance, and b) this is the consequence of choices we make. You picked her, so you don't get me. At all. And thus far, he's complied...he's been a ghost at school, I haven't seen him since. Feels good to stick up for yourself.
But my recital is going to kick ass. Kick. Ass. Wolf is my bread and butter, the man loooooves the richness and complexity of the mezzo voice. Smart guy. And the Argento has so much character (and Even rocks the guitar part, great musician and a very steadying presence onstage. We work well together.) The French is the first French I have really connected with since Poulenc...why is it I love to listen to most French art song but don't want to sing it? I went through Debussy, Faure, Chausson, Duparc, Ravel (which would have been great, besides needing a chamber orchestra), and Bizet before I finally found Reynaldo Hahn. The French was the hardest set to choose, but I am most deeply connected to it now that I have. And the Turina is just hot Spanish music. Why don't people do more Spanish song? Is it another midwest thing? Too sensual and scary for us here? Wouldn't surprise me.
And OperaBob is in FULL SWING, we are getting fundraising plans in motion for the Fringe. God, to work with people who share the same artistic philosophy and don't try to do anything beyond bring out the drama in the music. I feel like we can show the world that honoring the composer's dramatic intentions is exciting and moving. And speaking of, I was so pleased with the performance the other night. Anna and I were both on our game, and it felt good to share the stage with someone I respect. More to come.
Just think. All summer, all I'm doing is singing, working in a fledgling opera company founded on the principles that we all believe in, getting audition arias in place, and getting paid to mess around in the dirt. Shaping up to be another excellent summer.
Healing up nicely from the painful end to the budding romance. Left a letter in his box, saying a) coming up to me and chatting is not only horrifyingly awkward, it's painful, selfish, and utterly ridiculous, seeing as I explicitly said I need time and distance, and b) this is the consequence of choices we make. You picked her, so you don't get me. At all. And thus far, he's complied...he's been a ghost at school, I haven't seen him since. Feels good to stick up for yourself.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Over. All over. It was awful and painful and unfair and confusing. He didn't get angry, I didn't get nearly as angry as I had hoped. We both just hurt and it was very, unfortunate and sad. I've gone over it so many times with others that I just don't have the energy to do it again. But it's done. We aren't dating, we aren't friends, we aren't anything. For my own sanity, we can't be. And it's a damned shame, but not one I have any control over...you can't force people to see things before they're ready.
At least I have closure and can begin moving on. And I am, surprisingly well. Maybe because we'd been effectively breaking up all week, last week. I still haven't run into him yet, which is inevitable. And I still don't know if I want him at my recital. And I still might take Janet's advice and write him a letter, with everything I didn't say (or said poorly.) But in any event, it's done.
At least I have closure and can begin moving on. And I am, surprisingly well. Maybe because we'd been effectively breaking up all week, last week. I still haven't run into him yet, which is inevitable. And I still don't know if I want him at my recital. And I still might take Janet's advice and write him a letter, with everything I didn't say (or said poorly.) But in any event, it's done.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Bears
Forgot to publish this one, from mid-February when I was home with the plague, just before Valentine's Day.
So I was under quarantine at home and was momentarily between movies, and for a brief second, CNN was on. Well, commercials on CNN were on, anyways. And normally I just mute it while the DVD figures itself out and then I'm happily watching Planet Earth. But the snippet I heard was enough to make me stop swigging tea and hacking long enough to witness something so bizarre and heinous that I nearly choked on my own phlegm (though that's been happening a lot today anyways.)
It was a commercial for the Vermont Teddy Bear Company, attempting to peddle its teddy bears as legitimate Valentine's gifts for women.
Let me preface what I am about to say with this: I am not here to hate on Valentine's Day. I do think it's primarily a figment of the commercial imagination, designed explicitgly for the purpose of drumming up some business in the barren months of late winter, before Easter and the spring fashions truly hit their stride. We all get that. And for awhile, yes, I was an ardent Valentine's Day basher. But over the past couple of years, I have come around, and not because I've tumbled into a romantic heap of my own. I've come around because with so much chaos and fear and hatred and indifference in the world, a day to celebrate love, in any form whatsoever, simply cannot be as toxic as we cynical singles would like it to be. A day that carries any hope of more love or friendship or faithfulness or commitment or anything of that nature is really only a decent thing, in my opinion. (And the whole single-on-Valentines-Day spitefest is just too exhausting. To generate that much bile toward that many people, one has to practically be a gladiator, as well as entertain the notion that all the lovebirds in the world are out to rub their us-ness in the faces of everyone else. I just can't believe that, I know too many nice couples.) So while it's still a slightly silly holiday, I just embrace the best of the intentions behind it, connect with those I love, and leave it at that.
But there is one thing I simply cannot ignore or condone, and that is the giving of teddy bears to women.
STUFFED ANIMALS. For grown women. I can honestly say that I cannot find any witty way to say the following, because the whole thing is so outrageous and embarrassing to me: No grown woman wants a stuffed animal as a gift. There is no occasion for which a teddy bear is a thoughtful and special token of affection. None. It's insipid, denigrating, and downright creepy.
I mean, let's just think about the logic, shall we? In fact, that's probably the best tack to take, seeing as the main objectors to my argument, the guys most likely to see women and teddy bears as perfectly compatible components, are the ones who also subscribe to the male brain being the province of the rational, the objective, and the concrete-sequential. Even if we were to entertain this notion of male superiority in the field of the rational (a hilariously constant theme throughout history), what boggles me is how such logical, concrete-sequential creatures would decide something so utterly useless would make a suitable gift for their lover. Because seriously, what would I DO with a teddy bear? What function does it serve? I am not going to set it on my mantle, I am not going to carry it around with me, I am certainly not going to sleep with it (that, presumably, is what the male companion is for, is he not?) There is no appreciable function for a teddy bear in my life. None. Because teddy bears are for CHILDREN.
Which brings me to my next point...why would a man get a gift for a woman that is clearly more appropriate for a child? The kindest answer would be that said man underestimates the woman's intelligence, which is a widespread and well-documented phenomenon. But the other explanation is that it's another manifestation of the male obsession with taking and possessing young women. And forgive me, but if a man seriously believes that a woman will genuinely enjoy a teddy bear, there's some sort of Lolita thing going on. I honestly think that Vladimir Nabokov could have given the Vermont Teddy Bear Company seed money. Seriously.
And the third problem (perhaps the most disturbing in a chain of unsettling things) is that I saw this bilge on CNN. In prime time. CNN!!!! I would expect this trash from a third-or-fourth-rate cable network at four in the morning. But this was 6:30 on a weeknight, on CNN. And it was a revolting MINUTE LONG ad--not even a THIRTY-SECOND, no, there was SIXTY FULL SECONDS of this claptrap.) The fact that the Vermont Teddy Bear Company would assume that its target audience is watching CNN in PRIME TIME (and is willing to pony up to get a time slot) is so beyond horrifying to me. Either they're wrong and need to seriously re-evaluate their target audience, or I'm wrong and things are a lot worse than I thought.
If I ever, EVER get a TEDDY BEAR from a man I am seeing, for any reason (except maybe as a toy for my future Great Dane), I think that would be egregious enough to give him his walking papers. Not even kidding. I would rather receive lingerie in a totally inappropriate size, I would rather get a box of generic and disgusting chocolate, I would rather get a cable subscription that allows me to see EVERY NFL GAME ALL SEASON, than get a teddy bear.
You've been warned.
So I was under quarantine at home and was momentarily between movies, and for a brief second, CNN was on. Well, commercials on CNN were on, anyways. And normally I just mute it while the DVD figures itself out and then I'm happily watching Planet Earth. But the snippet I heard was enough to make me stop swigging tea and hacking long enough to witness something so bizarre and heinous that I nearly choked on my own phlegm (though that's been happening a lot today anyways.)
It was a commercial for the Vermont Teddy Bear Company, attempting to peddle its teddy bears as legitimate Valentine's gifts for women.
Let me preface what I am about to say with this: I am not here to hate on Valentine's Day. I do think it's primarily a figment of the commercial imagination, designed explicitgly for the purpose of drumming up some business in the barren months of late winter, before Easter and the spring fashions truly hit their stride. We all get that. And for awhile, yes, I was an ardent Valentine's Day basher. But over the past couple of years, I have come around, and not because I've tumbled into a romantic heap of my own. I've come around because with so much chaos and fear and hatred and indifference in the world, a day to celebrate love, in any form whatsoever, simply cannot be as toxic as we cynical singles would like it to be. A day that carries any hope of more love or friendship or faithfulness or commitment or anything of that nature is really only a decent thing, in my opinion. (And the whole single-on-Valentines-Day spitefest is just too exhausting. To generate that much bile toward that many people, one has to practically be a gladiator, as well as entertain the notion that all the lovebirds in the world are out to rub their us-ness in the faces of everyone else. I just can't believe that, I know too many nice couples.) So while it's still a slightly silly holiday, I just embrace the best of the intentions behind it, connect with those I love, and leave it at that.
But there is one thing I simply cannot ignore or condone, and that is the giving of teddy bears to women.
STUFFED ANIMALS. For grown women. I can honestly say that I cannot find any witty way to say the following, because the whole thing is so outrageous and embarrassing to me: No grown woman wants a stuffed animal as a gift. There is no occasion for which a teddy bear is a thoughtful and special token of affection. None. It's insipid, denigrating, and downright creepy.
I mean, let's just think about the logic, shall we? In fact, that's probably the best tack to take, seeing as the main objectors to my argument, the guys most likely to see women and teddy bears as perfectly compatible components, are the ones who also subscribe to the male brain being the province of the rational, the objective, and the concrete-sequential. Even if we were to entertain this notion of male superiority in the field of the rational (a hilariously constant theme throughout history), what boggles me is how such logical, concrete-sequential creatures would decide something so utterly useless would make a suitable gift for their lover. Because seriously, what would I DO with a teddy bear? What function does it serve? I am not going to set it on my mantle, I am not going to carry it around with me, I am certainly not going to sleep with it (that, presumably, is what the male companion is for, is he not?) There is no appreciable function for a teddy bear in my life. None. Because teddy bears are for CHILDREN.
Which brings me to my next point...why would a man get a gift for a woman that is clearly more appropriate for a child? The kindest answer would be that said man underestimates the woman's intelligence, which is a widespread and well-documented phenomenon. But the other explanation is that it's another manifestation of the male obsession with taking and possessing young women. And forgive me, but if a man seriously believes that a woman will genuinely enjoy a teddy bear, there's some sort of Lolita thing going on. I honestly think that Vladimir Nabokov could have given the Vermont Teddy Bear Company seed money. Seriously.
And the third problem (perhaps the most disturbing in a chain of unsettling things) is that I saw this bilge on CNN. In prime time. CNN!!!! I would expect this trash from a third-or-fourth-rate cable network at four in the morning. But this was 6:30 on a weeknight, on CNN. And it was a revolting MINUTE LONG ad--not even a THIRTY-SECOND, no, there was SIXTY FULL SECONDS of this claptrap.) The fact that the Vermont Teddy Bear Company would assume that its target audience is watching CNN in PRIME TIME (and is willing to pony up to get a time slot) is so beyond horrifying to me. Either they're wrong and need to seriously re-evaluate their target audience, or I'm wrong and things are a lot worse than I thought.
If I ever, EVER get a TEDDY BEAR from a man I am seeing, for any reason (except maybe as a toy for my future Great Dane), I think that would be egregious enough to give him his walking papers. Not even kidding. I would rather receive lingerie in a totally inappropriate size, I would rather get a box of generic and disgusting chocolate, I would rather get a cable subscription that allows me to see EVERY NFL GAME ALL SEASON, than get a teddy bear.
You've been warned.
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