I frequently apologize and/or make excuses for my old-fashioned tastes, limited understanding of current trends and cluelessness as regards popular culture. I could never be mistaken for a person who knows what's new, what's hot, what's in. I'm pretty stagnant in my interests and don't usually explore "the latest" of anything.
And I'm usually satisfied being out of the pop culture loop. I'm okay not knowing who is the latest favorite on American Idol, or what color is the new black, or the wedding plans of Brangelina.
The only niggling doubt I have is when it comes to books. Sometimes I just can't resist the urge to read the latest bestseller that everyone is talking about. I almost always regret that decision. I know what I like - why do I let myself get talked into reading something that doesn't interest me?
That's what happened this week. I finally broke down and bought Fifty Shades of Grey for my Kindle - at $9.99, the most expensive e-book I've bought - and began reading immediately.
Many of my friends have enjoyed this book, I assumed I was just being a stick-in-the-mud and missing out on a good story.
Note: What follows is purely my opinion. I am not trying to influence anyone. It's just a rant.
What a complete waste of my time! I'd give anything to be able to get back the hours I spent trudging through this juvenile, redundant, predictable excuse for a novel. I'd rather have a refund on the time than the money, and if you know how cheap I am, you know that's saying something.
The narrator and ingenue, Anastasia Steele, is only fractionally more likeable than Twilight's Bella Swann. She's a about to graduate from college with honors, is a dutiful daughter, a Brit Lit devotee', shy, gorgeous and a virgin. If she had ever 1) made one single intelligent decision during the course of the story or, 2) pulled the plug on her continuous stream-of-consciousness narration, I may have been able to find something about her to like or admire. But Ana quickly changes the very core of her character in order to be able to become sexually involved with Mr. Hottie Hot Hot Rich Gorgeous Stud. She's about as admirable a role model for women today as a certain aspiring Dallas Cowboy cheerleader named Debbie was to my generation. Completely unbelievable character development, in my opinion.
The male love interest - I cannot call this character a hero with a straight face - is Christian Grey, a 26-year old self-made telecommunications billionaire who is frequently described by his physical beauty (redundantly and ad nauseum). He is also an accomplished pilot, classical pianist, has impeccable manners and speaks like he reads Lord Byron for breakfast. He's a bona fide sex god, whether indulging in his obsession with BDSM or just dabbling in "vanilla" carnality. In other words, he's off-the-chart implausible, which made it very difficult for me to give a rat's derriere what his emotional problems stem from.
I wish I'd listened to my own "inner goddess" and skipped this tripe. I'm doomed to remember this sub-par story and these annoying whiners for years, until the inevitable dementia sets in and I can hopefully forget this book. Meanwhile, I can't escape them in my head. I can't un-read the story or erase the memory of their kinky goings-on.
Let me be clear: I'm not opposed to the sexy aspects of the novel. It's just that the writing was so bad, the characterizations so infantile and the narrative so annoying that I can't see how anyone could enjoy any aspect of the story - sex, dialog, "inner goddess," what have you. I was warned that it is poorly written, but I couldn't believe that something selling millions in hardback could be as bad as all that. I was mistaken.
Next time, if I think I don't want to read what everyone is reading, watch what everyone is watching or go where everyone is going, I hope I can remember this experience. I'm a boring, middle-aged woman, the perfect candidate for this mindless titillation, but I pray that next time a "can't-miss" opportunity comes along that truly doesn't appeal to me, I have the sense to save my limited time, money and brain space for finer, worthier things.
On the bright side, I'm feeling much more confident and ambitious about my own writing!
Showing posts with label girlfriends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girlfriends. Show all posts
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Friends with Gifts
I've been blessed with an amazing assortment of friends. Some are in my neighborhood, others are on far continents. Some friends are also family members, while others came into my life serendipitously. Some friends share my values, my generational frame of reference and or aspects of my upbringing, but I have lots of friends with whom I have very few life experiences in common.
Here are some of the gifts my friends give me:
One friend cries for me when I cannot summon tears.
One friend tells me I am amazing for doing the most mundane, unremarkable things.
One friend kindled the spark in me to write, then surrounded me with protective praise until the spark could grow to a self-sustaining blaze.
One friend lets me brag openly about my kids without apology.
One friend will not allow me to criticize my husband without demanding I think of something equally important to compliment about him.
One friend pretends she only cleans her house for me, so I won't be feel ill-at-ease in her spotless home.
One friend never cleans for my visits, and makes no excuses, proving her trust in my love of her for herself.
One friend, who is devoutly religious in a different faith from me, always closes our conversations with the statement: "I am praying for you," and I'm thankful that she does.
One friend praises my daughters for things I forget to appreciate in them myself.
One friend maintains a "no whining" policy, no matter my complaint.
One friend encourages me to exercise in the most everyday ways; not to get her perfect body, but because she knows I feel so much better mentally after gardening, or rearranging furniture or walking the dog.
One friend knows just by looking at me that I need a hug.
One friend shares her costly professional knowledge with me and my family freely, because she loves to be of service.
One friend lets me hang out with her small children whenever I want to.
One friend calls me from her yacht on a Caribbean island to tell me that she misses me.
One friend constantly inspires me with her amazing powers of compassion.
One friend's dedication to helping underprivileged children feeds my faith in mankind each time I speak with her.
I may not call as much as I should, I may forget to send school pictures and Christmas cards, but wanted my friends to know that I appreciate the many gifts the give me, just by being part of my life.
Here are some of the gifts my friends give me:
One friend cries for me when I cannot summon tears.
One friend tells me I am amazing for doing the most mundane, unremarkable things.
One friend kindled the spark in me to write, then surrounded me with protective praise until the spark could grow to a self-sustaining blaze.
One friend lets me brag openly about my kids without apology.
One friend will not allow me to criticize my husband without demanding I think of something equally important to compliment about him.
One friend pretends she only cleans her house for me, so I won't be feel ill-at-ease in her spotless home.
One friend never cleans for my visits, and makes no excuses, proving her trust in my love of her for herself.
One friend, who is devoutly religious in a different faith from me, always closes our conversations with the statement: "I am praying for you," and I'm thankful that she does.
One friend praises my daughters for things I forget to appreciate in them myself.
One friend maintains a "no whining" policy, no matter my complaint.
One friend encourages me to exercise in the most everyday ways; not to get her perfect body, but because she knows I feel so much better mentally after gardening, or rearranging furniture or walking the dog.
One friend knows just by looking at me that I need a hug.
One friend shares her costly professional knowledge with me and my family freely, because she loves to be of service.
One friend lets me hang out with her small children whenever I want to.
One friend calls me from her yacht on a Caribbean island to tell me that she misses me.
One friend constantly inspires me with her amazing powers of compassion.
One friend's dedication to helping underprivileged children feeds my faith in mankind each time I speak with her.
I may not call as much as I should, I may forget to send school pictures and Christmas cards, but wanted my friends to know that I appreciate the many gifts the give me, just by being part of my life.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thoughts from the Cave, Installment One
I'm the female equivalent of a curmudgeon when it comes to electronics. Relative to my friends, at least, I see the cutting edge of technology and immediately head in the opposite direction. I'm not against technology, or advancement, per se, but the pace of change is much too swift for my feeble mind to grasp. I'm such a cavedweller, I actually only use my cell phone to make calls.
That said, there are some pretty nifty gadgets out in the big, wide world. As I illustrated in a previous blog, some of these gadgets are so darn cute, they are virtually indistinguishable from other cute gadgets. (If you didn't see my ground-breaking investigative piece on this vital issue, click here.)
By far the most ubiquitous piece of modern gadgetry is the cell phone. We are fast approaching the day when the term "cell" in "cell phone " is an unnecessary modifier. I racked my brain for a full 15 seconds, and I cannot think of one person over the age of 18 who doesn't have a cell phone. I suppose you could argue the case that these devices are considered a necessity by today's standards.
Some of my friends know the features and specs of smart phones in the same way as previous generations knew about cars. They don't just know about their phone, they know phones. And many people are not just dependent or attached, they are downright affectionate toward their device. I know a grown man who names his phones, and routinely refers to them by their moniker. As in, "Has anyone seen Bridgette? I thought I left her on the charging station, but she's not here!"
When I was a little girl, my granddaddy had a 1959 yellow Chevy Impala that we called "Old Yeller," which doesn't seem silly at all to me. After all, naming a 4000 pound piece of machinery, or a yacht, or a mansion seems acceptable; but giving a name to a 4.8 ounce device that becomes obsolete 15 minutes after you leave the mall? Silly. Ounce for ounce, it seems like a cell phone couldn't measure up to a muscle car for inspiring adoration and pampering. But what does a cavewoman like me know about such things?
When I was young, I remember my dad and uncles holding car conversations that went something like this:
The glazed-over eyes, the dreamy, wistful look, the poetic phraseology: every age/generation has that one special item to worship. I've come to the conclusion that I'm living in the age of cell phone worship.
Recently, I was sitting in a restaurant with a large group of women, and a similar discussion arose regarding someone's new phone. Unlike our cars, which were scattered around the parking lot and fairly difficult to compare, most phones were either sitting out on the table or held in hand, like a fashion necessity.
Again, here are some genuine, made-up conversational highlights:
My humble little phone has a special pocket in the Red Bag of Splurge. It's safe and protected in there, and I almost never lose it, but it's hard to hear through the excellent sound-dampening qualities of Vera Bradley quilting. Fortunately, I get few calls, because, as a non-texter, you have to TALK to me on my phone. It's an old-fashioned custom, difficult for some to master, a quaint holdover from those bygone days of land-lines and home phones.
So I enjoy making life difficult for my tech-savvy friends, like purposely misusing tech terms to get on their nerves. I've learned that people don't like it when you call their iPhone a Blackberry, or vice-versa. But a few months ago I acquired my own device that turned me into one of those geeky gadget-worshippers: I got a Kindle e-reader. It's possible I may love it too much. In fact, the next installment of blog is dedicated to my sweet little Kindle, Jane.
Until then, I'm crawling back in my cave for a little light reading...
That said, there are some pretty nifty gadgets out in the big, wide world. As I illustrated in a previous blog, some of these gadgets are so darn cute, they are virtually indistinguishable from other cute gadgets. (If you didn't see my ground-breaking investigative piece on this vital issue, click here.)
By far the most ubiquitous piece of modern gadgetry is the cell phone. We are fast approaching the day when the term "cell" in "cell phone " is an unnecessary modifier. I racked my brain for a full 15 seconds, and I cannot think of one person over the age of 18 who doesn't have a cell phone. I suppose you could argue the case that these devices are considered a necessity by today's standards.
Some of my friends know the features and specs of smart phones in the same way as previous generations knew about cars. They don't just know about their phone, they know phones. And many people are not just dependent or attached, they are downright affectionate toward their device. I know a grown man who names his phones, and routinely refers to them by their moniker. As in, "Has anyone seen Bridgette? I thought I left her on the charging station, but she's not here!"
When I was a little girl, my granddaddy had a 1959 yellow Chevy Impala that we called "Old Yeller," which doesn't seem silly at all to me. After all, naming a 4000 pound piece of machinery, or a yacht, or a mansion seems acceptable; but giving a name to a 4.8 ounce device that becomes obsolete 15 minutes after you leave the mall? Silly. Ounce for ounce, it seems like a cell phone couldn't measure up to a muscle car for inspiring adoration and pampering. But what does a cavewoman like me know about such things?
Daddy: Did you see Bubba Junior's got a new Plymouth Fury Rally Sport QE2 with the Dorsalfin package and separate tailpipes for black and white smoke?
Uncle: Yup. Did you get a look at the wingspan on those tires? And he got the over-and under shifter with the clutch in the glove compartment. Those 14 V-8 cylinders hum like a beehive.
Daddy: That 7000 BTU engine has major pickup for a small car. He outran a Fish & Game Warden at the State Park and made it across the Causeway in 8 minutes flat. And he gets damn near 10 miles to the gallon! Damn fine car.
Uncle: He said the trunk holds 2 deer carcasses, 7 tackle boxes and a full keg. Guess that makes it a true multi-purpose vehicle, too.
Daddy: Damn straight.
Daddy: Damn straight.
The glazed-over eyes, the dreamy, wistful look, the poetic phraseology: every age/generation has that one special item to worship. I've come to the conclusion that I'm living in the age of cell phone worship.
 |
| http://www.writingforums.com/visual-arts/123144-iphone-worship-d.html |
Recently, I was sitting in a restaurant with a large group of women, and a similar discussion arose regarding someone's new phone. Unlike our cars, which were scattered around the parking lot and fairly difficult to compare, most phones were either sitting out on the table or held in hand, like a fashion necessity.
Desperate Housewife #1: Did you see Prissypants Hotshot's new phone? The new LGAT&TG&Y Canteloupe with the built-in teleporter? It's nice, but why did she put it in that tartan plaid sleeve then plug in fuchsia earbuds? Gag.
Desperate Housewife #2: I saw it, but it hurt my eyes so I pretended I didn't. Why didn't she wait for the new Blueberry with the Eartooth? It comes pre-loaded with 10 million apps, including one that warns you when your botox is wearing off. She needs that feature.
DH1: I told her to wait for the new generation of the HI-Phone, the one that reads your mind so that all you have to do is say "hi" to activate the psychic chip, then it carries the conversation for you. So you can something useful while you drive, like a manicure touch-up. But she said she couldn't possibly wait 2 weeks for it to hit the stores. Her last phone was, like, 6 months old, and she felt like it was on borrowed time.
DH2: Look at poor Esther Cavedweller...she's too ashamed to even put her old phone on the table. It has a visible antenna! I think it was handed down by some relative who came over on the Mayflower! Once, we were having lunch at The Snooty Soup & Bread Emporium and it started making a noise in her purse. The ringtone was like, so Wilma Flintstone. She pretended not to hear it, but people stopped slurping just stared and snickered at the odd, blipping noise. It was so awkward.
DH1: I know, bless her heart. You just want to hug her and say, "Here, you can hold mine for a minute, until you feel better."
DH2: I did that once, but she screwed up my turn on Words with Friends, so I locked her out with the retina scanner. I mean, I'm sympathetic up to a point, but don't go messin' with my phone!
My humble little phone has a special pocket in the Red Bag of Splurge. It's safe and protected in there, and I almost never lose it, but it's hard to hear through the excellent sound-dampening qualities of Vera Bradley quilting. Fortunately, I get few calls, because, as a non-texter, you have to TALK to me on my phone. It's an old-fashioned custom, difficult for some to master, a quaint holdover from those bygone days of land-lines and home phones.
So I enjoy making life difficult for my tech-savvy friends, like purposely misusing tech terms to get on their nerves. I've learned that people don't like it when you call their iPhone a Blackberry, or vice-versa. But a few months ago I acquired my own device that turned me into one of those geeky gadget-worshippers: I got a Kindle e-reader. It's possible I may love it too much. In fact, the next installment of blog is dedicated to my sweet little Kindle, Jane.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Letting March slip through my fingers
If I died today, the most truthful thing that could be chiseled on my tombstone would be:
I mean, today is the last day of March, and for reasons I can't explain, I still have roughly the same to-do list as I did at the beginning of this month. Where did the time go?
I don't watch much tv, I'm not having an affair, I don't drink (during the day, anyway), I'm not a therapeudic shopper, I don't have a month's worth of dinners in the freezer...what the heck have I been doing this month?
Answer: Internet.
I can lose an entire morning looking at the antiques for sale on craigslist Chicago.
I spend valuable hours chasing down k-cup deals on ebay, effectively canceling my minuscule cost savings in lost time.
And facebook - well, facebook has become a problem for me.
Once I get caught up on everyone else's business, I jump on a word game and blow another hour. It's inexcuseable, and I'm preparing to disentangle myself from all but the most cursory involvement on that site. I'll check in on my kids' activity and a few friends who are far away and not available for regular conversation, but I need to quit posting the status of my laundry on that site. And the local weather. And my complaints about the length of whatever season I happen to find myself in today. I truly don't care about your laundry or your weather - what makes me think you care about mine?
Like many in these parts, the long winter, cold temps and long-lived snow made it very easy to commune via laptop, Ipad, etc., for months on end. I'd go from facebook to craigslist to ebay to Land's End Overstocks to various news and blog sites before the kids were even on the bus. Fire off a few emails, play a few games of Word Drop, glance at the clock and it's noon. Time loses all meaning when you get caught up in surfing, shopping, catching up on stuff. But when I look up and and entire month is gone, it's time to take my time more seriously, while taking a vacation from OPS (other people's stuff) shopping.
So I'm setting this goal for myself - wean self from facebook over spring break (next week). I still want to publish my blog posts there, because frankly, I don't think anyone besides my mother would read Polite Ravings if I didn't smear it all over facebook and Google Buzz. So I'll stay plugged in, but I'm going to attempt to severely limit my visits to the virtual party room and try to see and talk to people the old fashioned way - in person, or on the phone.
That's right, I'm going to waste more time and precious natural resources dropping by your houses, calling you during dinner, sending silly cards with dogs in sunglasses for no reason, and emailing hilarious recycled jokes and videos to you. I know you can't wait until I stop using facebook for my social hub. Now I'm going to be bothering you from multiple communication platforms.
It's going to take some planning, but I'm committed to rediscovering social networking without the aid of a computer. Today I already talked to 3 people on the phone, and visited two at their homes. It felt good, and I even got hugs.
And there is no doubt that hugs beat
Here lies Michele Arnett, who never ran out of excuses.
I mean, today is the last day of March, and for reasons I can't explain, I still have roughly the same to-do list as I did at the beginning of this month. Where did the time go?
I don't watch much tv, I'm not having an affair, I don't drink (during the day, anyway), I'm not a therapeudic shopper, I don't have a month's worth of dinners in the freezer...what the heck have I been doing this month?
Answer: Internet.
I can lose an entire morning looking at the antiques for sale on craigslist Chicago.
I spend valuable hours chasing down k-cup deals on ebay, effectively canceling my minuscule cost savings in lost time.
And facebook - well, facebook has become a problem for me.
Once I get caught up on everyone else's business, I jump on a word game and blow another hour. It's inexcuseable, and I'm preparing to disentangle myself from all but the most cursory involvement on that site. I'll check in on my kids' activity and a few friends who are far away and not available for regular conversation, but I need to quit posting the status of my laundry on that site. And the local weather. And my complaints about the length of whatever season I happen to find myself in today. I truly don't care about your laundry or your weather - what makes me think you care about mine?
Like many in these parts, the long winter, cold temps and long-lived snow made it very easy to commune via laptop, Ipad, etc., for months on end. I'd go from facebook to craigslist to ebay to Land's End Overstocks to various news and blog sites before the kids were even on the bus. Fire off a few emails, play a few games of Word Drop, glance at the clock and it's noon. Time loses all meaning when you get caught up in surfing, shopping, catching up on stuff. But when I look up and and entire month is gone, it's time to take my time more seriously, while taking a vacation from OPS (other people's stuff) shopping.
So I'm setting this goal for myself - wean self from facebook over spring break (next week). I still want to publish my blog posts there, because frankly, I don't think anyone besides my mother would read Polite Ravings if I didn't smear it all over facebook and Google Buzz. So I'll stay plugged in, but I'm going to attempt to severely limit my visits to the virtual party room and try to see and talk to people the old fashioned way - in person, or on the phone.
That's right, I'm going to waste more time and precious natural resources dropping by your houses, calling you during dinner, sending silly cards with dogs in sunglasses for no reason, and emailing hilarious recycled jokes and videos to you. I know you can't wait until I stop using facebook for my social hub. Now I'm going to be bothering you from multiple communication platforms.
It's going to take some planning, but I'm committed to rediscovering social networking without the aid of a computer. Today I already talked to 3 people on the phone, and visited two at their homes. It felt good, and I even got hugs.
And there is no doubt that hugs beat
by a country mile.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving Eve
On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am grateful for many things, but tonight I want to mention one particular group who contribute daily to my happiness and sanity: my Granger girlfriends.
They are such an amazing group of ladies, and I am not just saying that because I drank half a bottle of ChiChi's premixed Long Island Ice Tea tonight. They are also amazing because no matter how much of the aforementioned Tea I drink, they let me talk and talk and talk and dispense advice as befits a grand dame of my advanced years.
Tonight we had a mini-gathering at Susan's house; she managed to chase her family off on the pretense of "working" as a "nurse" on the "labor and delivery floor" tomorrow - what a scam! She had lovely snacks and some wine; note to self: how did I come to be overserved? She runs a very lax establishment and I don't recommend it for lightweights. We also played bananagrams (I won) and Querkle, a delightful shape- and color-matching game for ages 5 and up, and I lost. Stupid baby game.
Anyway, I have to spend tomorrow cooking and cleaning before Eric's mother and brother come for lunch, so tonight's get-together was a pleasant way to relax before the big day. Some people experience much more pressure from family and holiday obligations than I do. I keep the expectations pretty low - I just basically state my willingness to perform a minimum of traditional jobs, and that's that. If I screw up, a grand total of 5 people will know about it. Fortunately I'm not required to please two sets of parents, siblings and siblings-in-law and their kids. I don't know if I could stand all that pressure.
So I'm very thankful that our Thanksgiving is a small, low-key affair. After several recent trips to the local food bank/soup kitchen/homeless shelter, I'm not much in the mood to overdo for us fortunate folk. My family is blessed in so many ways, the list could go on and on. That itemized list is a subject for another installment - when I get all sappy and serious. Tonight I'm simply offering up a prayer of gratitude for my girlfriends, near and far.
Thanks for always filling my empty glass.
They are such an amazing group of ladies, and I am not just saying that because I drank half a bottle of ChiChi's premixed Long Island Ice Tea tonight. They are also amazing because no matter how much of the aforementioned Tea I drink, they let me talk and talk and talk and dispense advice as befits a grand dame of my advanced years.
Tonight we had a mini-gathering at Susan's house; she managed to chase her family off on the pretense of "working" as a "nurse" on the "labor and delivery floor" tomorrow - what a scam! She had lovely snacks and some wine; note to self: how did I come to be overserved? She runs a very lax establishment and I don't recommend it for lightweights. We also played bananagrams (I won) and Querkle, a delightful shape- and color-matching game for ages 5 and up, and I lost. Stupid baby game.
Anyway, I have to spend tomorrow cooking and cleaning before Eric's mother and brother come for lunch, so tonight's get-together was a pleasant way to relax before the big day. Some people experience much more pressure from family and holiday obligations than I do. I keep the expectations pretty low - I just basically state my willingness to perform a minimum of traditional jobs, and that's that. If I screw up, a grand total of 5 people will know about it. Fortunately I'm not required to please two sets of parents, siblings and siblings-in-law and their kids. I don't know if I could stand all that pressure.
So I'm very thankful that our Thanksgiving is a small, low-key affair. After several recent trips to the local food bank/soup kitchen/homeless shelter, I'm not much in the mood to overdo for us fortunate folk. My family is blessed in so many ways, the list could go on and on. That itemized list is a subject for another installment - when I get all sappy and serious. Tonight I'm simply offering up a prayer of gratitude for my girlfriends, near and far.
Thanks for always filling my empty glass.
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