The 25 Days of Giving Challenge: Day 5

WELCOME BACK

December 5, 2012

I want to preface this whole post by proudly stating that I love Amazon.com.  I have managed to accomplish a lot of my own Christmas shopping from the warm, quiet comfort of my own home this year, thanks to Amazon's great selection and even greater prices (and reasonable shipping and return rates.)  And though this may seem like a "Shop Amazon!" commercial for which I am being paid some hefty commission (Don't I wish?  Because, yes, I will write for money.), this post was actually inspired by the reaction I had to Amazon's advertising tactics when I opened my email, titled "Gift Ideas by Relationship" this morning.  Clearly, this type of advertising isn't Amazon-specific by any means.  It's just part of the "for sale" world in which we live, especially at this time of year.  So I'll just present you with the following visual and give you a moment to process:

Your Amazon.com Today's Deals See All Departments

Gift Ideas by Relationship See more

Mom

Dad

Someone with Everything

Co-worker

Girlfriend/Wife

Boyfriend/Husband

Teenager

Family Friends

Grandma

Grandpa

Kids

College Student

And there it is. Make-up brushes for mom and tools for dad. (La Cage aux Folles this is not!)
But wait, it gets better. Because while the girlfriend/wife and the boyfriend/husband both need jewelry, clearly the girlfriend/wife is more interested in decorating herself, while the boyfriend/husband will be getting the new watch -- probably so he'll have something to tap anxiously while girlfriend/wife threatens to make him late for the party with Family Friends. And speaking of Family Friends, we will all be gifting
those Generic McNobody's with a "candy crate" this year. Something that admits: "We don't know you that well, so we thought we'd raise your blood sugar and add to your cholesterol numbers while contributing a donation in your name to the worldwide obesity fund. Happy holidays."

Of course, we can't forget our grandparents, those wise and lovely elders. I mean, don't we all have meek little grandmothers who live in curlers and aprons, and who long only for more picture frames? Because the infinite number of collages and portraits we've given them for the past twenty Christmases don't cover enough wall and coffee table and china hutch space already. And of course, our grandmas need something to stare at while our stereotypical grandfathers watch sports, right? After all, dad and boyfriend/husband will surely be over on Christmas day (hopefully on time, if mom and girlfriend/wife's beauty regimes and primping sessions don't take too long). And while the dad/boyfriend/husband contingent use their new tools to assemble and hang Grandma's picture frames, mom/girlfriend/wife can apply makeup and covet one another's jewels and marvel over ... the kids, who sit covered in Play-Doh gifts of their own. Because all kids lovvvveeee to smush gooey, sticky stuff between their fingers ... before they eat it. Even though mom/girlfriend/wife has repeatedly told the kids not to put anything in their mouths before threatening: "Wait til I tell dad/boyfriend/husband. Then you'll be sorry." Because mom/girlfriend/wife doesn't punish children, after all. It wouldn't be ladylike. And because dad/boyfriend/husband is the keeper of the tools and the recipient of the new timepiece -- and isn't that the place where all power actually lives?

Of course, the "extras" in the Amazon ad deserve some small mention, if only to pull me toward my final point - which, I realize, seems a long time coming. But can we really do no better for the "Someone with everything" than a fondue pot? Which, let's be honest, is probably what they got from all their "Someone with everything" friends last year. The very same friends who received (and likely regifted) the Candy Crate. At the same time, even for those of us who prefer to keep the personal out of the workplace, can we really do no better for our coworkers than a contraption with little metal balls attached to strings that bang into one another when plucked? Aside from inducing a rather problematic sort of workplace hypnosis, what is this thing supposed to do? What is its function? I see many missed deadlines and unproductive days in the futures of any coworkers who receive this confusing little distraction. Though, as always, I am willing to be educated on this one.

Perhaps the oddest Amazon gift recommendation of all - at least in my opinion - is the College Student coffee maker. Now, on some level, this one actually makes sense to me - college students drink coffee. Lots of it, in some cases. And a coffee maker is pretty gender neutral, which I appreciate. But don't most college students already have a coffee maker if they do, indeed, drink that much coffee? And what about mom/girlfriend/wife, or dad/boyfriend/husband? I bet some of them drink coffee, too. Maybe they would actually like a new coffee maker (perhaps to replace the one their college student son/daughter "borrowed" for the dorm and never returned.) As far as the grandparents are concerned, Grandma probably drinks tea anyway - since that's what all grandmothers do - and Grandpa probably sticks to scotch - since everyone knows that "the war" (Any war. All wars. Even the ones that happened before Grandpa was born) drives him to the bottle, which he now only drinks from when watching sports. Which is why he's always watching sports. And why people buy him more sports for Christmas and then complain that he drinks too much, especially on Christmas day.

I share all this to make one very self-serving Christmas gift recommendation that will deliver happiness and joy to anyone who receives it. It is my holiday pick this year, and my Hasky.com gift recommendation. It is gender neutral, ageless, ranges in price from free up to $1 million (I imagine, though I've never personally seen one that expensive), and will last forever if cared for and talked about and shared as widely as possible. The gift to give this Christmas, my friends, is the gift of books! Words. Stories. Lives. We all live them. We all read them. A few of us even try to write them.  And, after all, nothing says "I know you" better than the perfect book. Nothing says "I wanted to get you something you would enjoy and share and appreciate " like the perfect book. Nothing says "I listen to you when you talk to me about your interests" like the perfect book. And nothing says "You're not a generic, stereotypical Mom/Dad/Someone with Everything Coworker Girlfriend/Wife Boyfriend/Husband Teenager Family Friends Grandma/Grandpa Kids College Student" like the perfect book.

So while I love - and will continue to shop at - Amazon, I encourage you to give the people in your life at least one gift that acknowledges how much they mean to you this year. Give each of them a book! And if you need a book recommendation for the Moms/Dads/Someones with Everything Coworkers Girlfriends/Wives Boyfriends/Husbands Teenagers Family Friends Grandmas/Grandpas Kids College Students in your life -- ask them. I bet most of them will be only to happy to help you give them something they will love.

Happy holidays -- and happy reading!!

Til next time,

~ Hasky

A timely re-post of "Santa isn't coming this year!"

Happy holiday season, everyone.  As the stress of shopping and baking and decorating and running around threatens to take over our holiday cheer and interrupt our peace and joy, I thought this piece (which I originally shared on December 12, 2011) was a timely re-post.  And some necessary food for thought.  Enjoy!

"Santa isn't coming this year!" 

(12/12/11)

Last year at this time, life was very much the same as it is today: It was just before Christmas. Red and green decorations erupted all over stores and offices and front lawns while lyrics intended to make me smile and glow (i.e. "Born in a stable" and "I am a poor boy, too") generated tears of sorrow and angst rather than celebratory smiles and endless joy.  They always do.  I'm not sure why, exactly.

I should probably clarify right away that, overall, I am not anti-Christmas.  I even love the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, not because he is an angry, nasty little miser, but because he eventually sees the beauty of humanity that often comes alive at this time of year - and more importantly, he realizes his own capacity for growth and compassion in the process.  I love that, despite the anger and hatred that often seem to permeate our world on a daily basis, this time of year inspires people to give  -- and not just material gifts, but time, and service, and genuine human connection.

But last year at this time, something out of the ordinary did happen, and I have found myself thinking about it over the last week or so, amidst all the twinkling and sparking and jingling.  I was in Plattsburgh visiting my family a few days before Christmas, and while my parents were at work and my brother was busy, I sat at Panera enjoying a hot coffee, an internet connection (much faster than my parents' dial-up), and a two-hour block of time to write.  The restaurant was packed, but I had been fortunate enough to find a corner table by an electrical outlet - my own little pre-Christmas miracle.  And since I was trapped in a writer's nightmare - time to write and nothing to write about - I was happy to watch groups of people parade by with their packages and their soup/salad combos and their animated conversations.  Something would give birth to an idea if I just sat.  And sipped.  And observed.  Patiently.

At about 2pm, a frazzled mother walked by with two very young, very tired children.  While the little boy screamed and cried, the little girl pulled on her mother and threw herself into chairs and tables to relieve the indescribable stress of childhood. Suddenly, without a word, the children switched roles - the little boy began slapping himself and falling into walls and garbage cans while the little girl started screaming and pleading for toys and cookies and princess shoes.  And then there was mom - loaded down with bags and soup bowls and sippy cups and a very large, ergonomically destructive purse.  She threatened to topple as she lumbered past me, and she almost seemed to prefer lying face down on a Panera floor to dealing with her very normal-for-their-age-and-situation kids.

As a childless woman of 37, I sympathized with the mom on some level, even as I wondered what would possess anyone to trek around town on the Friday before Christmas with two little ones who should have eaten lunch (and probably taken a nap) hours ago.  But I get it - daycare isn't always an option.  And isn't this, at least theoretically, supposed to be part of the seasonal joy?  Shopping and lunching with one's children, surrounded by the splendid wonder of Christmas tidings and lightly falling snow?

I'll save you some time on this one: The answer is No.

But I didn't realize it before that moment. Not really.  Let me be clear here  - I am generally not a "grass is greener" kind of person - only because I have found that, from afar, weeds tend to be greener than grass. It isn't til you are up close and personal with the lovely shade of "greener" that you realize it's non-grass, often covered in fertilizer, or waiting to be plucked and discarded from someone's carefully manicured lawn.  That being said, I do have a habit of romanticizing parenthood.  I've often wondered whether I made a mistake by choosing not to have children.  And then, something like this plays out in front of me and reminds me of the reality: Children are wonderful, beautiful miracles - a good thing since they are exhausting, and expensive, and an unending litany of needs and demands and anxiety-provoking behaviors.  They are, after all, human beings.

Of course, none of this logic hit me at that moment.  I was too caught up in the scene unfolding, the mother's eyes beginning to water, the children exploding in a cacophony of wails, the eyerolls and speedy exits of the other diners whose "tsk tsk" nods further condemned the already defeated mother as she plopped first the boy, then the girl into red, plastic booster seats and shoved them as close to the table as possible.  I didn't think things could possibly get worse, until I watched the little girl pick up her mother's bowl of soup and turn it over on top of the table.

Time stopped.  Noodles and chicken hit the floor, landing in puddles of their own broth.  The green ceramic bowl sat, inverted, in front of the victorious little girl whose Grinch-like grin curled her mouth upward and forced her eyebrows into a sinister arch.  I couldn't move.  I didn't know whether to help or look away or leave.  And shamefully, I admit, I was most curious to see how mom intended to handle a maneuver that would have paralyzed me.

And that was when it happened.  Mom yanked her little girl's arm, looked directly into the child's face, and screamed through the tears leaping two at a time out of her eyes: "SANTA ISN'T COMING THIS YEAR!"

All I could do was join in the collective gasp as everyone in the restaurant (who hadn't already retreated to the quiet parking lot) recoiled and immediately slapped a "Worst Mother of the Year" label on this woman's soul.  How could a mother say such a thing?  How would these children ever enjoy Christmas now?  What about a simple "Time Out" or going to bed without dessert?  Or what about feeding these children lunch at a decent hour and navigating the crowds with two children in tow a little more strategically?

But as I sat in judgment, another thought arrived, replacing the all-too-familiar critical voice of a non-parent:  This woman, this tired, overwhelmed, vilified woman, was Santa.  And she didn't get to go away to a toy shop and hang out with elves and show up once a year to be adored and idolized.  She was Santa every day.  Unless she was busy playing the role of Tooth Fairy.  Or Easter Bunny.  Or Nurse/Taxi/Chef/Coach/Teacher/Housekeeper/All-knowing, Never-sleeping, Rarely-eating ... Mom.

For a moment, I met her eyes and tried to tell her, with the nonverbal glance of a non-mom who would never speak her language, that I understood.  Not her situation, of course.  But her defeat.  And her desire to give up.  She glared at me as if to scream "What the hell do you know about my life?!" and she was, of course, very right.  I knew enough to know that I knew nothing. Not about her life, anyway.

At that moment, a Panera employee showed up with a broom and a pile of napkins - he could have been a knight on a white horse for all the fuss this mother made. She wept and thanked him and apologized over and over while she helped him clean her messy life off the table and floors.  Her children simply watched in silence.

It took me a year to write about this  - probably becase I felt some sense of voyeuristic shame as I watched it happen, refusing to look away, unable to walk away.  But as the holiday season continues to envelop us day by day, I am reminded that the spirit of Christmas is really what we make it.  Some of us play Santa.  Some of us play Scrooge.  Some of us bake and shop and wrap.  Some of us sing and party and travel.  But no matter what our roles and regardless of our beliefs, we all want Santa to show up with gifts.  And it is my hope that whether you are a four year old child in need of a nap, or a forty year old mother in need of a break, or even a kid from 1 to 92, that your Santa Claus knows where to find you.  My guess is, your gifts have already arrived, you just haven't gone looking for them yet.

May your holidays and your new year ahead be filled with happiness and peace ... and perhaps a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Love, Hasky

Wordless Wednesday Post

Happy Wednesday!  

And welcome to your weekly opportunity to do all the talking.

Use the image below to talk about absolutely anything that comes to mind.  

Until next Wednesday,
~ Hasky

Wordless Wednesday Post

Happy Wednesday!  

And welcome to your weekly opportunity to do all the talking.

Use the image below to talk about absolutely anything that comes to mind.  GO!

Until next time,
~ Hasky

Thank you Jennifer Livingston

Few topics lend themselves to a "Lighten Up" theme as obviously as weight.  Body weight.  That thing we all measure on a little square box - otherwise known as the bathroom scale.  While some people profess to have not a single care about body image and express no concerns or anxieties about what or how they eat, what they weigh, or how their jeans fit, the reality is, for a lot of us, body weight and body image are heavy issues, and it doesn't help that we live in a world that prioritizes physical appearance over physical (and mental) health and wellness.

When the video of Wisconsin new anchor Jennifer Livingston went viral this week, the collective reaction seemed to be one of praise and gratitude. Yet a few days later, it became clear that there were just as many negative feelings about Ms. Livingston's response as there were positive ones.  After a viewer sent Ms. Livingston an email in which he referred to her as "fat" and "obese" and "a poor role model" -- an assessment he based purely on her physical appearance, with no regard to her profession or her status as a mother, wife, and professional --  Ms. Livingston used her on-air access to the public audience to respond to what she defined (and correctly so) as bullying.  And, more specifically, cyberbullying. On a personal level, I was grateful that she turned a discriminatory and disparaging email into a lesson - for her own young daughters, and for anyone who was watching.  And hopefully listening.  Ms. Livingston herself was the first to admit that though she is overweight, and that on a doctor's chart she would likely even fall into the "obese" category, this unsolicited email did nothing but state the obvious and seemed motivated by nothing more than an intent to harass and harm.  

Yet her response to it all was inspiring.  Rather than stay self-focused, she turned this moment into an opportunity to remind us all that October in the United States is both National Anti-Bullying Awareness Month and National Cyber Security Awareness Month. Finally, it seemed that someone - and a strong, articulate woman, at that  - was standing up not only to bullying, but to weight discrimination which, as someone recently pointed out to me, "is the last acceptable bigotry."  I would even argue that if "Fatism" isn't yet an accepted (though certainly not acceptable!) term, it should be.  Because it exists in ways that oppress and victimize millions of people every year, regardless of the numbers on their bathtoom scales or sewn into their clothing tags.  Fatism is at the root of many forms of violence and abuse, and even employers have admitted to hiring thin people more often than their overweight counterparts. What's more, shows like The Biggest Loser, while they seem well-intentioned, are so poorly titled, as if word play could somehow erase that deeply engrained societal message that fat = loser. And I don't buy arguments about "taking the word back to make it less damaging."  The day Oprah tried to do that with the word "Bitch" I vowed to never watch her show again. In the same way,  I believe that the word "loser" is always negative, no matter how much money you attach to the biggest loser of all at the end of the season.

Yet with all this talk about weight and speaking up and bullying and fighting the bully, I think the most disappointing thing to come out of this story has been the criticism of other media outlets and countless viewers who believe that Ms. Livingston blew this man's email out of proportion, misused her position as a public figure, and/or is simply in denial about the reality of her size.  When I hear comments like this, I often wonder if I am even watching and reading the same versions of things that other people appear to be referencing.  But clearly, we are all reading the same page, we just don't happen to all be on the same page
.

But here's the deal:  This woman is in a position of power.  And yes, she used that position to shed light on a serious issue that is neither about her nor about "fat" per se.  It is as much about the destructive power of words as it is about their empowerment. It is also about the fact that we live in a world often dictated by fears - some of which we can't even identify or define.  We are just fearful, on a global scale, of anything we do no understand or anything that feels personally threatening, either because it is so different from our own lives, or because it is too close for comfort and is forcing us to confront what we judge in ourselves.

But my ultimate question is this:  How many people, when given the chance, use their access and their power to speak about issues - whether or not they, themselves, are directly impacted - and how many of them choose the politically safe, non-boat-ricking alternative of silence and complacency instead?

So my only response to Ms. Livingston, after all this, is a very simple "Thank you."

Just something to think about until next time -

~~ Hasky

A Non-parent's Dilemma

I am a non-parent.  "Non-parents" are very different from "people who choose not to have children" or "people who have decided to remain childless."  The non-parent identity (a hybrid adjective/noun/verb that reeks of "lack") clings to those of us who define ourselves (or are defined by others) according to the white space in our lives rather than by the tangibles.  Given my non-parent status, it is safe to say that I am not qualified to assess "good parenting" versus "not so good parenting" or "appropriate discipline" versus "way too lenient" non-discipline.  Which is why I try (though admittedly sometimes fail) not to offer parenting advice, engage in parenting discussions, or compare the behavior and disposition of one child to another.  Essentially, how others choose to navigate parenthood -- and sometimes even survive it -- is none of my business.

That said, I often struggle with how to respond when a child's behavior rises to a level that I find unacceptable.  This is especially challenging when said child's parents are present and seem indifferent to - or worse, amused by - the very behavior I consider problematic.  As a non-parent, I tend to think that these moments are nothing more than overreactions on my part.  I get that parenting is often a "pick your battles" kind of world, and I assume that the battles become less and less pickable over the years, until finally only the wars are worth fighting, and only the big stuff generates any kind of parental response.

This is all to say that, over the past few weeks, I have become aware of a new family in my apartment complex.  I usually see the mother and all five of her very young children walking and playing and splashing around in their kiddie pool when I pull into the parking lot or walk to my mailbox at the end of the day. The children are adorable - dark hair, big beautiful eyes, full of life and excitement ... the kind of life and excitement that often presents itself in the form of yelling. Everything. REALLY LOUD.  No matter what time of day or what level of urgency (i.e. "I'M SITTING ON THE SWING!" warrants the same volume level as "I FELL AND I'M BLEEDING!")  At these moments, mom is always - without fail - talking on the phone or buried in an Ipod or a book while her kids experience life right in front of her, yet so far removed from her presence.  I often wish she would just sit and watch them, but then the "non-parent" in me yells "It's none of your business.  Move on. There is nothing to see here." And on I go.

But last night was different.  Because last night, as my dog Beckett and I strolled through the parking lot, one of the children, the littlest girl who looks to be about four years old, screamed "CAN I PET THE DOGGIE?!" as we passed their driveway. 

"Of course you can," I responded quietly, modelling the volume level I hoped she would imitate. "I'm going to hold his harness, though, because he's very playful and I don't want him to jump," I added.  Yet before I could grab Beckett's harness, the child came bounding toward us with her arms stretched wide screaming "DOGGIE! DOGGIE! DOGGIEEEEEEEE!" which, of course, resulted in a barking, cowering Beckett.

"It's ok," I assured her.  "He just gets scared when it's too noisy or when you move too quickly."  I looked at the mom, who stood half watching, half reading whatever on her Ipod was more important than her barely-out-of-toddlerhood child.  "Here, I'll hold him so you can meet him if you'd like," I added.  By now, the little girl stood rigid in front of me, both arms folded, a dirty look on her face, a glare beaming out of her big, brown eyes.  She didn't seem scared at all.  She seemed ... angry?  Was that possible? 

"NO!" she snapped suddenly, answering my silent question.  "Now I don't WANT to pet him!"

Yup, she was angry.

"He's a stupid doggie and I hope he dies," she hissed before pivoting on her tiny flip flops and storming back up to her mother, who by now was looking at me with a "Kids ... what can you do?" kind of expression, complete with exasperated shoulder shrug.  Here's the thing: Don't ask questions - not even in the form of nonverbal facial expressions - that you don't want answered, lady. 

"Um, excuse me," I was more official now as I walked up the driveway toward mom and her suddenly-less-cute tot.  I bent down to the little girl's level and addressed her directly, in front of her mother, who was now, finally, completely engaged in the situation, and looking both worried and curious about how this rare confrontation of her child was going to play out.

"I'm sorry if my doggie scared you when he barked.  But he is a doggie, and he likes it when people are gentle with him and come up to him slowly." The little girl was quiet now, staring at me as if I  had several heads, none of which she cared to look at, and none of which she dared to look away from. 

"But calling him names and saying you wish he was dead are not going to stop the doggie from barking or jumping.  Only talking to him softly will help him do that."  And then I finished with: " And I would be very sad if anything happened to my doggie."  Then I waited.  I don't know what I was waiting for.  Part of me was waiting for her to tell me she wished I would die.  Part of me was afraid that, even in my attepmt to be gentle, she would start crying because someone had finally taken an interest (in the unfamiliar form of adult authority) in her behavior.

After a few minutes of staring at one another, the child looked away as I stood to walk back to my apartment, saddened by how effortlesly she had laid a death wish on my dog, because I knew she had no concept of what that even meant and no understanding of the power of words or the finality of what she had said. 

As I clicked my signature "Come" noise in Beckett's direction, I heard a soft voice ask "Does he like little girls?"  I spun to face the child again, because I couldn't believe she was capable of producing such a bearable volume level or such an innocent, genuine question.

"You know what?" I asked, as I bent back down and looked directly at her.  "I don't know.  He is never around little girls.  Or little boys.  It would be really nice if he could meet you and have a little girl friend, though.  What do you think about that?"

At that moment, even as a non-parent, I saw what parents mean when they describe a child's smile as "lighting up the world."  She smiled the biggest, brightest smile and walked over to me, put her hand on top of my hand, which was resting on Beckett's back, and said "I could be his first friend."  And then, before I could respond, she bent down and kissed Beckett's head.

As I got up to leave, I noticed that mom hadn't blinked in almost five full minutes, though she, too, was smiling.  I don't know if she was smiling because the little girl was finally calm, or if she was as touched as I was by the ability of a child, of her child, to show compassion, to admit that perhaps she had been wrong, and to open herself to the possibility of connecting to another living being (in this case both Beckett and me).  But whatever it was, I allowed myself to step into this unknown mother's world for just a moment - not as a parent, or as someone who had earned a full time membership in that world, but as someone who had seen a child in need of guidance and who had, despite mom's presence, provided what guidance I could.

I imagine the little girl and all her siblings will be out playing tonight when I take Beckett for his post-dinner walk.  Mom will probably be engaged with something electronic while her kids have once-in-a-lifetime experiences right in front of her distracted eyes.  But I also know that Beckett and I will stop by just to say hello to his new little friend, because even as a non-parent, I know that sometimes life isn't about picking the battles or fighting the wars.  Sometimes, life can be as simple as E.M. Forrester's suggestion: "Only Connect."