The Sun Also Rises

Up until today, if pressed, I would have said that my favorite book is East of Eden. But I read that about ten years ago and since my tastes have changed with my age, I don’t think I can rightfully make that claim any longer. So I am proud to report that a new contender has taken the blue ribbon in my little library. I just finished Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and have never felt so connected to a piece of literature.

It’s safe to say that its narrator, Jake Barnes, is as close an approximation to myself as I’ll ever find in the pages of a book (minus the fact that he A.) is a guy and B.) suffers from war-inflicted impotence). He is a longsuffering but eternally pleasure-seeking borderline alcoholic, an American expat savoring the remains of his youth in post-WWI France and Spain. Joining him for the ride are a colorful and equally intoxicated cast of characters. Brett, also known as Lady Ashley, is a central figure. A British beauty in her mid-thirties, it seems that every man she encounters swoons, and she systematically uses and discards them – Jake included. Jake’s friends Richard Cohn, a Princeton-educated Jewish boxer, and Mike Campbell, a bankrupt Scot, fall for her as well, as does a 19-year-old bullfighter named Romero. New Yorker Bill Gorton brings some levity to the plot, with his impeccably dry humor, and acts as Jake’s iron-livered drinking buddy.

In my estimation, there are three central themes:

1.) Alcohol.
The book in its entirety is one long, hilarious, heartbreaking, fantastic drinking scene. They don’t just drink. They DRINK. Three bottles of wine for a single man is just your average Tuesday afternoon. Four rounds of absinthe? Let’s make it happen. And the hangovers are gloriously few and far between. A friend of mine once very wisely surmised that life is all about distractions, and The Sun Also Rises is a testament to that very idea. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Life is short, and meaningless, and painful, so why the hell not?

2.) Bullfighting.
Not my favorite part of the book, but we’re all aware by now that E.H. was obsessed with bullfighting (and fishing, which offends me much less but which is featured only briefly in Sun). The bulk of the novel takes place during the running of the bulls in Pampalona - a city made famous in large part by this very book – and the subsequent fiesta and bullfights, which are described in weepingly graphic detail. Hemingway idolizes the bullfighters, and while I can’t quite wrap my head around torturing an innocent animal for sport, I do love the way he manages to convey these disturbing goings-on in detail that is at once both exhaustive and succinct.

3.) Unrequited love.
One of the greatest things about Hemingway’s writing is that he mastered the art of implication. He says so much with his terse, unembellished sentences. Jake never explicitly expresses his infatuation with Brett, but the writing makes it clear that his below-the-belt war injury was at least partly to blame for Brett’s unwillingness to be with him. They engage in long embraces and drunken kisses, an unrealized romance of roaring ’20s proportions. But Jake never lashes out in frustration or says the wrong thing. Of course, this is easier in fiction than in real life. A writer can spend days or weeks, even years, crafting an absolutely perfect dialogue. When Jake speaks, he nearly always says exactly what should be said, and he’s silent when he ought to be silent. He watches as Brett takes on lover after lover and drinks away his feelings in an enviable sort of solitude. The final page sums it up best:

“Oh Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”

Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.

“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Jake Barnes, I love you.

Ivy League Reject

A few months ago, my husband and I drove to Estes Park, Colorado, for a weekend camping trip. We live near Dallas, so the drive is a bit of a hike. It was a great trip. We’d gone to Estes Park on our first ever trip together eight years ago, so it’s sort of near and dear to us.

But I digress. On the long twelve-hour drive back to Dallas, we commenced a conversation, the ultimate effects of which I only really experienced this past week. Allow me to explain. We were talking about our vague, naive, wide-eyed plans for the future and somehow came to the decision that I should continue my education and pursue a Ph.D. in English. But it would only be worth it if I could pursue said Ph.D. at one of the ivy-bedecked Holy Trinity institutions: Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. Thus began my downward spiral into unspeakable depression, self-loathing, and hopelessness, the likes of which few have ever known.

OK, I’m exaggerating. But suffice to say, the past six months have sucked, like, a lot.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Well, I had an idea, I just didn’t have the right idea, evidently. My perilous journey toward Ivy League Rejection was comprised of the following: taking and achieving high scores on (99th percentile) the GRE and the (f*%&ing impossible) GRE Subject Test in Literature; securing recommendations from professors with whom I haven’t spoken in years; and writing both a ground-breaking 25-page scholarly paper and a brilliant, gut-wrenching, convincing personal statement. These are the things that the applications TELL you are required. But don’t be fooled. There are a number of things that are required that they DON’T tell you about. First, you should be on a first-name basis with members of the faculty at the Ivy to which you are applying. Second, you should have  a stack of very dull and obtuse published works under your belt. And third, your father should be a Kennedy. Ok, not really, but I will divulge that Harvard’s financial aid “application” is little more than a series of questions about who you’re related to. Specifically, is your surname Baxendale, Downer, Hudson, or Thayer? Are you a descendant of a member of the class of 1889 or 1902? Incestuous bastards.

Let me preface the details of this exercise in masochism by saying that I had no delusions of actually being accepted to one of these schools. Sure, a secret, infinitesimal part of me dared to dream of what it might be like to stroll through Harvard Yard on a crisp October morning, the smell of coffee, cash, and unwarranted success wafting through the invigorating air. But I also calculated my odds of getting in at about one in 50 — at best. So I let the dejection settle in my gut, even while I was working furiously to study, write, and charm my way into their exclusive little club.

Here’s how it all went down. I studied as best I could for the Subject Test in Literature. It is an accutely cruel exam. They can literally ask you anything about any piece of literature ever writtern. Ever. I scored in the 55th percentile and was surprised I did even that well. And now I know more than I ever wanted to about Shakespeare and Homer and all the writers I made a point of avoiding in undergrad. Next stop: the GRE. I really did study hard for this one. I memorized around 500 vocabulary words with obsequious attentiveness! Alas, my verbal score was in the 91st percentile — nothing to sneeze at, but I needed to be in the 99th. I wept when I got the results.

As for my writing sample, each of the three schools conveniently requested a different page requirement: 25 for Princeton, 15-20 for Harvard, and 10-15 for Yale. So I wrote a 25-page paper for Princeton and then pared it down for the other two. The topic was supposed to be in the area you wished to study for your Ph.D. I’m interested in creative non-fiction, so I chose to write about Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. The title of the resulting masterpiece was “Anatomy of the Nonfiction Novel: An Examination of Plot Structure and the Truth as Art in Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.” I was pretty proud of it, all said and done, but I knew deep down that it wasn’t convoluted enough to wow the admissions committees.

Then there were the recommendations. I mean, who doesn’t love groveling to almost-strangers and requesting significant favors? Fortunately, I was able to reestablish contact with some of my grad school professors. They were all extremely kind and obliging, but in the same breath advised me to consider NYU, or a state school, or getting a few things published. I couldn’t have agreed with them more, but that wasn’t my dream. “The Ivies. THE IVIES!” my heart cried thunderously. OK, I’m exaggerating again, but I really did feel that the best schools were the only ones that were worth it. And that sentiment was compounded by this nagging urge I’ve felt of late to do something important with my life before I turn 30.

Last of all came the statement of interest, a well- but hastily-written diatribe in which I painted myself as a self-made girl for whom acceptance would change the course of future generations of Stephanies. Lost in a haze of doubt and resignation, it was really the best I could do.

And then, two days after Christmas, it was done. After about a thousand dollars, a few dozen glasses of wine, and bucket or so of tears, I submitted all three applications. My husband and I jetted off to Spain and France for New Year’s, so I didn’t have much time to think about everything right away. But when we got back, it was always, at the very least, lurking in the back of my mind. Most of me was dreading the inevitable rejections, but part of me was hoping for that thick, satisfying envelope to show up in the mail box one day, and I knew that I wouldn’t even open it, I’d just rush out to pick up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and let the celebrations begin.

Princeton came first. It showed up in an email with a benign but unpromising subject line: “Princeton University Graduate Admission Decision.” Ah yes. I see. Though there are many excellent applicants who apply each year (though they made a point of not implying that I was among said applicants), there are only a small number of spaces available (and you’re not getting one of them, sucker!). Great. I spent the day in a depression deeper than what I’d anticipated, that kind of sadness that you can feel all the way into your toes.

Yale came about two weeks later, also by email: “Yale University Graduate School Application Decision.” They too had received many applications from excellent candidates (again, of whom they did not suggest I was one) but had a limited number of spaces available. This one hurt less for some reason. Now I was just waiting for the big H.

I guess they have a bigger postage budget, or they just get a kick out of inflicting that singular brand of pain that only a pathetic, flacid, unbearably flat envelope bearing their crimson seal can command. I received this one just this past Saturday. I really hadn’t expected to get in, especially after Harvard’s lesser brothers had already denied me. But it really hit me hard. A big. Fat. No. After opening, reading, and quickly discarding the letter, I went to my room, sat down in my closet, and cried for about 20 minutes. Then I thought I should pull myself up off the ground and grow a pair. But I only made it to the living room where I crumpled onto the carpet again and cried for another hour or so. I didn’t even feel like drinking. I just wanted to sit and be sad.

The thing is, it’s not just Harvard. Or Princeton or Yale. It was everything that went with it. I could finally get out of Texas. I would be doing something huge and important. I would have a more definite career path. In short, I could be proud of myself.

And that’s really all I have to say about it right now. It’s difficult not to feel like the whole endeavor was a huge waste of time, energy, and money. I don’t have a tidy summation of the experience or some trite, bullshitty moral I’ve taken away from  it all. It was an ego-crushing experience of epic proportions and I don’t quite see the point of it. Not that I think everything in life has to have a point. I gave it a shot and it didn’t work out, and frankly, it sucks. And no, I don’t necessarily feel like there’s something better waiting for me. Let’s call a spade a spade — what could be better than Harvard? Well, I’d like to think that I’m better than Harvard, but so far, I’m clearly not. So I guess that’s something to work toward.

Peyton Place

I recently finished reading Peyton Place, the 1956 novel by Grace Metalious. What a fabulous piece of Americana I have unearthed. When published, the book claimed a spot on the New York Times best seller list for 59 weeks, but it seems to have slowly lost its popularity, notoriety, and novelty over time. It only crossed my path because I have an unhealthy obsession with all things New England. But the passage of nearly six decades has in no way diminished the magnitude of Metalious’ work. It is transportive, seedy, salacious, perceptive, and – the dirtiest of all dirty words in a tight-lipped, closed-shuttered small town - revelatory.

By today’s standards, the topics discussed in Peyton Place are benignly commonplace, but in the unforgiving social climate of the 1950s, such things were not spoken of openly. Peyton Place lifts the lid on everything – rape, murder, incest, suicide, bastard children, repressed sexualtiy, death and dismemberment, the guarding and surrendering of virginity. Shades of Freud from the first page to the last.

While the writing itself is wanting for Nabokovian lyricism (though there are a few poetic moments: “The snow against her small-paned bedroom window made a tiny sound, like sugar sprinkled over the surface of hot coffee, and it piled itself up quietly, beautifully, so that it was hard to look at it and think of danger.”), it’s the tightly woven plot of Peyton Place that makes it a masterpiece of American literature. Its soap-operatic opening of closed doors satisfies a certain human need for voyeurism, and the author paints for us a fully omniscient and uninhibited portrait of mid-twentieth-century New England. She takes us through the back seats of convertibles where lusty teenagers hungrily paw at each other; into “the shacks,” where poverty and alcohol coalesce with disastrous consequences; to the darkest recesses of marriage and its unspeakable secrets; and into the lonely, complicated, bittersweet adolescence of the endearing main character, Allison MacKenzie.

Throughout the book, Metalious draws numerous parallels between the tiny New Hampshire town and bustling New York City, surmising that the sins and judgments of each are identical. In this regard, Peyton Place is an exploration of the human condition, in which the struggle to balance one’s conscience with one’s desires is universal. The characters live in fear of one another, never daring to stand out lest they subject themselves to the scrutiny of their all-seeing neighbors. Today, sixty years later, we can still see the hand of this invisible but powerful institution of public opinion in our daily lives, and I think that many Americans live in their own versions of small, stifling, well-intentioned Peyton Place. For that reason, Metalious’ work is both timeless and relatable, a fascinating study in the comforts of conformity, the perils of ipseity, and the relentless tension between the two.

Our Narcissistic Generation

A recent study conducted by Paul Harvery of the University of New Hampshire (go Wildcats!) found that members of Generation Y (the best definition I could find is those born between the mid-’70s and the mid-’90s) make for employees who demonstrate an excessive degree of entitlement. They don’t handle criticism well, they tend to blame others or outside circumstances for their failures, and they don’t like to perform tasks that won’t lead to praise or rewards.

When I heard about this study, it got me thinking. I believe we really have become the most narcissistic generation. Social networking sites allow us to disseminate the inane minutiae of our mundane lives, and we believe people want to read it, that we’re truly interesting. And Twitter has exacerbated this epidemic by allowing us to microblog about what we’re doing at any given moment; people seem to abuse this priviledge, announcing such legendary milestones as, “Great workout today!!!” My writing of this very blog is executed under the assumption that someone out there will be riveted by what I have to say.

Reality television has convinced us that every Average Joe out there is but a dormant super star, which in turn waters down the talent pool. For example, we don’t watch American Idol for the good singers, right? We watch it for the trainwrecks, who are now becoming famous in their own right (I’m looking at you, William Hung). And since anyone looks good compared to a trainwreck, we deem mediocre singers and dancers “talented.” Hence the Adam Lamberts of the world. 

And then there’s YouTube, a site which is built on collecting anything and everything that anyone anywhere wants to broadcast for the world, and somehow, there are people out there who have developed successful careers out of this.

So what does this heightened narcissism amongst the general population mean for celebrities? Hugely inflated egos and an off-the-charts sense of entitlement. They partake in the Twitter fest, using it to bolster their fame under the guise of “connecting with the fans,” and we’re supposed to get excited that Kim Kardashian is at another fabulous photo shoot, or that Ashton Kutcher thinks his wife’s ass is hot. Please. We don’t need to be reminded that their lives are better than ours.

All of that said, I present an examination of Hollywood’s most infuriatingly, unjustifiably, bafflingly narcissistic egomaniacs:

Exhibit A: Miley Cyrus
It’s our fault, really. Well, not me personally. I’m a bit older than the Ms. Montana target deomgraphic. But her meteoric success at an early age can’t have helped in the humility department. With her gruff smoker’s voice and slapped-with-a-frying-pan face, I literally cannot fathom why her popularity seems to be growing exponentially. Forever in the limelight, the media cling to her every word and action, and we stand in awe of her disdain for musicals and her predilection for Big Macs and genital-grazing hotpants. She just seems so damn cocky. A word of advice, Miley: dressing like a slut doesn’t make you more of a grown up, it makes you more of a slut. And enough with the f***ing peace sign already.

Exhibit B: The Entire Twilight Gang
I haven’t read any of Stephanie Meyer’s books. I’m sure they’re great, but I loathe massive popularity. My theory is that if something is hugely appealing to the general public, and I have a great disdain for the general public, then it stands to reason that I probably won’t share in their enthusiasm for things like The DaVinci Code or Grey’s Anatomy or expensive frozen yogurt shops or sandwiches that have meat where the bread is supposed to go. So the whole Twilight frenzy just annoys me, no thanks to these kids they hired for the movies. Kristen Stewart is the primary culprit here. She’s another case of someone trying desperately to look and act older than she is, all while coming off as too-cool-for-school. She tried to be nonchalant when accepting her MTV Movie Award this year, but she was really just glib and awkward. And this Robert Pattinson kid – it seems the insane fandom hasn’t gone to his head, but have you seem him in an interview? Not much between the ears. He’s not a real vampire, ladies! He’s not!!! Then of course there’s Taylor Lautner, whose narcissism is hard for me to define, but it’s clearly there. That’s what happens when someone is a terrible actor in a highly successful film: they think their skills played some part in the triumph when really it only did well because a million lonely virgins have a thing for fangs.

Et finalement,  Exhibit C: Justin Bieber
Ummmmmm…why is this kid rich and I’m not? He’s friggin’ 16! I understand that his renown is primarily with the “tween” (a word that makes me queasy) set, but I can’t imagine my 13-year-old self giving this guy a second look. Have you heard one of his songs? My Great Dane is a better singer. And it all started with YouTube. His mother uploaded some videos of him singing and he caught the attention of someone who will no doubt suffer serious consequences in the afterlife. Now the Bieb-ster is an astronomical success with an ego to match. He’s fond of posting his picture with celebrities online and seems to run the talk show circuit on a continuous loop, throngs of screaming girls waiting for him at every turn. And he laps it all up with a smug grin and a lesbian haircut. I’m sorry. I just can’t harbor any respect for someone when the crux of their career involves the words, “baby baby baby.” Someone please make him stop.

I think we all could use a healthy dose of Tyler Durden:

“Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else…You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.”

My remedy for a raging case of narcissism? I’m not going to argue that we all need to be more others-centered and altruistic. I’m not out there feeding homeless people or teaching kids to read. But the recognition that we are not that great, that no one cares about our every thought, that true talent is rare and hard to come by, would make the world an infinitely better place to live.

My Girl Crush on Audrey Tautou

Ahhh, Audrey Tautou. She is so many things that I wish I could be. French. Diminutive. Classy. Quirky. Flawless. I am smitten.

We’ve all seen Amelie, but I recently watched two movies that are less well-known “aux Etats-Unis”: Priceless (Hors de prix) and He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not (A la folie, pas du tout).

From what I’ve read around the interwebs, Priceless is loosely based on Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and who better to reprise the role of Holly Golightly than Audrey Tautou. She plays Irene, a girl who’s made a career of seducing well-to-do men and living off their lustful generosity. When she meets lovestruck Jean, she takes him for a ride and eventually must choose between a life of diamonds and fancy hotels or a life of blissfully impoverished love. Tautou was just so damn likable in Amelie that it’s almost hard to watch her play the part of a selfish and conniving ne’er do well. But I loved this movie nonetheless, if for no other reason than to drool over the tres chic parade of designer duds she slips her enviably tiny frame into (she has that kind of flat-chested elegance that makes me feel a lot better about my Lilliputian cup size).

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not is a departure for Tautou. It’s not at all lighthearted or fun, but I did enjoy it. As with Priceless, she plays a character that you can’t really like. The story is divided in two. In the first half, we watch as young Angelique desperately tries to separate her lover, Loic, from his pregnant wife. It seems that Loic is cruel to her, wholly disregarding the endless stream of gifts she sends him and forever failing to show up at their planned assignations. But in the second half, we learn the Loic has but a passing knowledge that Angelique even exists, and their elaborate relationship is merely in her head. As she spirals out of control, it is revealed that all of Loic’s apparent callousness was simply the result of an imagined affair, and there are deadly consequences for all parties involved. The best part of this movie is the intricate plot. It is clever and well-written and delivers no shortage of brilliant “ah ha” moments. Also, Loic (played by Samuel le Bihan) is pretty easy on the eyes.

Great movies to check out if you need a francais fix!

Going on 30…

I’ve been feeling more than a little lost lately. At 27, I am charging at full speed toward 30 and it’s got me asking myself some difficult questions. Am I proud of what I’ve accomplished or have I fallen short? Do I like the person I’ve become? In short – am I happy with my life?

Sadly, no, I’m not entirely proud of what I’ve accomplished, and I do think I’ve fallen short of all the lofty goals I had in mind 10 years ago. There are lots of things I could be proud of, like putting myself through college and grad school, living in different parts of the country, a couple of pretty epic vacations, marrying my best friend, and the acquisition of two amazing Great Danes whom my world revolves around. But professional success has always been elusive. Four years into my current job, I haven’t really learned much or taken on any hefty new responsibilities (despite an elevated job title). I’m paid accordingly, but my paycheck does make me wonder if all that expensive education was really worth it.

More than anything, I’m disappointed in myself for being content with 9-to-5 mediocrity. I should be doing something bigger, something on my own. But what?

Spending some time with my family this weekend reaffirmed my fear of turning into my parents, who I truly believe would be happiest sitting on the couch in front of the TV or with their noses shoved in a Bible all day, every day. For them, even 9-to-5 is an irksome burden, and it always has been. Sometimes I see a bit of their – well, let’s just call a spade a spade – LAZY ways in myself, and it’s terrifying. I’m better than that. I’ve risen from the ashes of lower-middle America and the whole world is mine for the taking. But it’s growing less oyster-like by the day.

So I’ve drawn the following conclusion: Seeing what we don’t want to be should help us realize what we do want to be.

My parents’ fatal flaw is that they externalize everything. They sincerely believe that all of their problems lie beyond the realm of their control. Things happen to them, not because of them. This is faulty logic in the extreme. I’m a firm believer that most things in life come at our own hands. But I do have “poor me” moments when I blame outside events or other people for my failures. I have to consciously and proactively fight that way of thinking and take responsibility for every aspect of my life. I must be the unmoved mover of my destiny, uninfluenced by the people who raised me.

Furthermore, if I can recognize in other people the qualities that have led to a less-than-desirable lifestyle, then it stands to reason that striving for the opposite qualities in myself may lead to the life that I want. So if they sit on the couch all day, I should be constantly moving, constantly doing. If they have the TV on all the time, I should shut mine off. If they depend on others to figure things out for them, I should figure things out for myself. The list goes on and on.

I can see 30 there at the end of the tunnel. I don’t want to look back and wish I’d spent my time differently. There’s much to do in little time, and I want to make myself proud. When I was younger, my father was forever touting a “seize the day” philosophy on life, and yet I don’t think he has ever once carpe-ed his diem. I choose to be different. I’m going to claw my way out of this suburban malaise if it kills me. At least I’ll have tried.

Why Do We Have Children?

One of my Great Danes, Buddy

Whenever I’m around children for an extended (read: more than 10 minutes) period of time, and then I come home to my dogs…well, it makes me realize just how much I love my dogs.

Society dictates that children are a good thing, that they are wee miracles (though I would argue that if there billions of something, it’s no miracle). And now that I’ve been married for two years, there seems to be a certain expectation that the pitter-patter of tiny feet will soon follow. But with seven billion people on the planet, ever-increasing life expectancies, and our departure from an agrarian society in the Western world, one has to ask: Why do we have children?

I recently read this fascinating New York Times editorial by Peter Singer, titled Should This Be the Last Generation? He poses some excellent philosophical questions. Quoth Singer:

“Have you ever thought about whether to have a child? If so, what factors entered into your decision? Was it whether having children would be good for you, your partner and others close to the possible child, such as children you may already have, or perhaps your parents? …very few ask whether coming into existence is a good thing for the child itself.”

He goes on to point out that human activities are destroying the world we live in, and while some of us do small things to reduce our carbon footprint (walking to work, becoming a vegetarian, etc.), perhaps we should consider thwarting said destruction by not having the children who will experience the fallout of our careless ways (and, I might add, who will likely perpetuate the cycle). ”Why don’t we make ourselves the last generation on earth?” he asks. This question is posed largely in jest, of course, as it would be impossible to get the entire global population to agree to mass sterilization. But it does make me think that we should all find a damn good reason for having children before we have them.

Makes celibacy look tempting...

When I consider the idea of having a child, I think my reasoning is 50/50 – half about how it will affect me, and half about what kind of life I would be able to give a child. But in my experience, most of the parents I know have had children more for their own happiness (as in exclamations of ”Awwwww,  I want a baby!” upon seeing a particularly cute one) than anything else; to fill a void in an otherwise dull and unfulfilling life. And there are without a doubt many, many people who have children and then fail to provide them with a decent life.

Following are the reasons for which, in my estimation, people have children:

1.) Because they are cute and it will be fun. FAIL
2.) Because you want to see what kind of spawn you and your mate would produce (vanity project). FAIL
3.) To legitimize your own existence; to create a human version of “So-and-So Was Here” graffiti. FAIL
4.) So you can leave your fortune to someone. WIN if you are a good person; FAIL if you have ever appeard on reality TV
5.) Because the condom broke. FAIL
6.) So someone will take care of you in your eventual senility. FAIL (nursing home fund instead of college fund)
7.) Because you have an amazing life that the future child could take part in and be roughly sheltered from the world’s greatest miseries as a result. WIN!

Yes, if I ever have children, it will be in part for my own happiness. But I won’t consider having any until I know, with a great degree of certainty, that I’ll be able to provide them with a fantastic life. Perhaps the world wouldn’t be bursting at the seams in every possible way if more people put some thoughtful consideration into this decision. I like the idea of having my grown children coming home for Christmas, but those first five to 10 years seem to be a real bitch (pardon mon francais). For now, wine trumps formula; sleeping in trumps 3a.m. crying; and European vacations trump Disney World.

Indeed, life can be fabulous without bringing new people into the mix.  Vive la joie de vivre!

Eating Animals

“You have just dined, and however scrupulously the  slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity.”  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’ve never been much of a meat-eater. I didn’t have anything against it, I just didn’t crave it the way some people do. In the past, when my husband has been out of town, I would eat little or no meat without even consciously thinking about it. But I recently watched the movie Food, Inc. and it pushed me over the edge. I’ve been mostly vegetarian for three months now (I say mostly because I have eaten some fish), and I wish I had converted years ago. I made the decision by and large for moral reasons, and the health benefits are a welcome side effect.

 In an effort to not be seen as one of those people who is dramatically swayed by a single documentary, I’ve been trying to do my research, so I was thrilled to discover that one of my favorite authors had recently written a book on this very subject. Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals is a fascinating and convincing examination of factory farming in America. As someone with a background in journalism, I prize objectivity, and while Foer clearly has a point he’s trying to prove, he does a good job of presenting both sides while maintaining his stance.

The crux of Eating Animals is not a puritanical argument for vegetarianism. It is, the author makes clear, an argument for vegetarianism, but more than anything else it is an argument for knowing where you food comes from and working to effect change in the way it is produced. The devastating consequences of factory farming are manifold, but Foer tackles three in particular: the cruel and inhumane treatment of animals, the environmental toll, and the compromised health of those who both eat factory farmed meat and who merely live in a world where it exists.

Learning how animals are handled and slaughtered had the greatest impact on me personally. One reason I gave up meat was that it occurred to me that I couldn’t, in good conscience, love one animal so much that I let it sleep in my bed (I have two Great Danes whom my world revolves around) and then cook another one for dinner.

Chickens are kept in cramped quarters, often having their beaks seared off, and they’ve been genetically altered to grow bigger and faster, to the extent that many of them buckle under their own weight and are unable to walk. Two kinds of chickens are bred: broiler chickens for their meat, and layer hens for their eggs. What bothered me most (and is pushing me further toward a vegan diet) was learning that male layer chicks aren’t good for meat and are thus useless, so they are ALL killed, sometimes through a sort of wood chipper for chickens. And that goes for all eggs – the cheapest Wal-Mart eggs, cage-free eggs, and free-range eggs – which for me means that there is no such thing as an ethical egg. (Also, the terms “cage-free” and “free-range” are very misleading and don’t necessarily imply that the chickens are faring any better than those in cages.)

The story is similar for pigs. Pregnant sows are kept in cramped gestation crates without enough room for them to even turn around. Piglets that are sick or too small are killed by “thumping,” a horrific practice in which workers literally hurl them at the ground to knock their skulls. Piglets that escape thumping are castrated and have their tails cut off without anesthesia (could you conceive of having your dog or cat neutered without anesthesia?). Cows have it somewhat better, but they too experience their own brand of horror, often making it to the slaughter line partially or completely conscious as they’re skinned.

As someone who has already decided against meat, Eating Animals was preaching to the converted to some extent, but it solidified my decision. My one critique would be that it didn’t really touch on the dairy industry, and I wish the author had explained why he chooses the label “vegetarian” and not “vegan,” as eggs and dairy are also products of factory farming. But those details aside, the book was riveting and thought-provoking. Will it convert a die-hard omnivore like my husband? Probably not. A compassionate and open-minded person on the fence? Certainly.

Food, Inc. makes an excellent point: through preparation, packaging, and presentation, we are as separated from the origins of our food as is humanly possible. Chicken nuggets and tidy little rectangles of ground round seem perfectly innocuous. But if your butcher played a reel of slaughterhouse footage on a continuous loop, you might not want pork chops for dinner. Have you ever seen on the news when someone gets a fried chicken head in their bucket of KFC? They flip out, because we don’t like any reminders that what we’re eating used to be alive, used to have a pulse and a brain. Perhaps we would make different decisions if we really knew what we were putting in our bodies. And the movie makes another good point: every time you buy your food, you are voting. Voting for what you want to see in the store or the restaurant. Voting for the factory farm or the family farm. What are you going to vote for?

I encourage everyone to visit www.meat.org and watch the video “Glass Walls,” featuring Paul McCartney. Also check out “Meet Your Meat” on YouTube.  Yes, I’m on my soapbox, but more than anything I am an advocate of independent thinking. Read what’s out there. Watch a few documentaries. Maybe even get your cholesterol checked. And then decide for yourself.

“Truely man is the king of beasts, for his brutality exceeds theirs.  We live by the death of others:  we are burial places!  I have from an early age abjured the use of meat, and the time will come when men such as I will look on the murder of animals as they now look on the murder of men.”  ~Leonardo da Vinci

Lunch in Paris

I can’t decide whether it’s infuriating or inspiring to read about someone who is living your dream life (or a very close approximation). I suppose it’s both at once. Elizabeth Bard seems to have it all – an Ivy League education, a handsome and loving husband, enviable culinary prowess, an idyllic expat life in Paris – and now she’s written all about it in a fun, chocolate truffle of a book: Lunch in Paris.

Granted, it’s not Dostoevsky, if that’s what you’re look for. But I happily gobbled this book up in a couple of days and enjoyed every page. Lunch in Paris chronicles Bard’s successes and failures as she acclimates to life in the City of Light, interspersing her escapades with French recipes both traditional and invented (I haven’t tried any of them myself yet, but I dog-eared at least a dozen of them for future reference).

On the surface, the book is a classic “American Girl Abroad” tale of romance,  joie de vivre, and the occasional faux pas, but I also found it utterly relatable in that Bard is tackling something larger – the struggle to figure out who she is, what’s important, and what she wants and how to get. It’s a great read for the 20-30 set, a study in the fine art of silencing everyone around you and listening to yourself.

So yes, Elizabeth Bard is everything I hope to be – a writer living in a city she loves intensely – and I hate her for that. But I love her for sharing her rose colored life with us, and I hope to hear more from her soon.

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

I recently read an article with an accompanying slide show depicting male heart-throbs over the years. It was blindingly obvious that the preferred traits are trending toward  a more boyish – one might even say female – aesthetic. Which leads me to wonder: where have all the cowboys gone?

Now, I consider myself a fairly ardent feminist. I don’t need a burly guy to open doors for me or unstick stubborn jar lids, and I’m actually pretty handy at putting furniture together. But when it comes to my taste in men, I think it’s our differences, the yin and the yang of male and female, that create all the chemistry. I want a man whose physical strength compliments my slight build, whose five o’clock shadow makes a kiss extra tingly, whose hands are a little rough against the softness of my skin, who can order a Belgian beer with a certain degree of expertise. I don’t want a Nair-faced Peter Pan who steals my hair products and sips on chai tea or anything that comes in a martini glass. And then at the other end of the spectrum are the equally disturbing metrosexuals and Jersey-Shore-esque girly men whose obsession with physical appearance makes them even less attractive than they would be without the T-shirt-stretching steroid muscles.

Luckily, I managed to find and marry one of last remaining real men in existence. He is equal parts manly acumen (I have literally never encountered a broken anything that he couldn’t fix) and romance (surprise proposal along the banks of the Seine). But I fear for my sisters (in the general sense). I found myself momentarily caught up in an episode of The Bachelorette last night, and not one of the gorgeous girl’s suitors looked capable of fighting a bull or, at the very least, successfully changing a tire. They were (with maybe one or two exceptions) a waxed and manicured bunch of euniched cuckolds. I like a man who looks like he could make Mt. Everest his bitch…not some putz who’s gonna cry about a f-ing rose.

And here’s an interesting question: Is it that our tastes in men have changed so men have made adjustments to suit those preferences? Or have the men changed on their own? And if so, why?

All of that said, let’s take a look at the men of yesteryear and she-boys of today…

Then: Cary Grant

Now: Justin Bieber

Then: Clark Gable

Now: Taylor Lautner

Then: Robert Redford and Paul Newman

Now: The Situation and Pauly D

Then: Warren Beatty

Now: Zac Efron

Ahhhhh...a dying breed...